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thewnchstrs · 5 years

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Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Pairing: eventual DeanXReader

Summary: sparring practice with Dean turns into something much more

Disclaimers: none :)

Word Count: 1.4K

M A S T E R L I S T

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I would’ve been lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little ecstatic when Dean said he wanted to spend more time training me. For the past three years all I’d done was try to find ways to get to spend more time with him and if it meant having to get thrown around on a sweaty gym mat for that to happen, I’d take it.

“Why are we doing this again?” I asked, watching him from across the room where he was hooking a punching bag onto a hook from the ceiling. He shook it once, ensuring it was on.

“Things are getting worse out there,” he said. I knew what he was referring to. For whatever reason we couldn’t exactly put our fingers on, the monsters we were hunting were starting to go haywire. Nowadays we had to look at every hunt, no matter how simple some of them used to be, as a life or death hunt. “You need to learn how to defend yourself.”

I scoffed, slightly offended, crossing my arms over my chest, “I do know how to defend myself.”

“Yeah, with a gun. We can’t have what happened on our last hunt happen again,” he said, his voice turning serious. “You could’ve died.”

I subconsciously rubbed at my still-healing ribs at the mention of our last hunt. Last month was the first time I’d been able to stand up straight since the incident.

“Alright, fine. Where do we start, Mr. Miyagi?” I smirked, “Headlock? Little WWE, jump from the turnbuckles action?”

“First of all, WWE is fake,” he said. “Second, before we get into putting each other in choke holds, you need to learn the weak spots.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Weak spots?”

“Starting at the head,” he began, taking a few steps closer to me, closing the gap between us, “eyes, nose, neck and throat. If someone’s got you pinned, digging your fingers into their eyes will surprise them.”

I grimaced slightly at the thought of pushing my thumbs into some monster’s eye sockets, “Sounds pleasant.”

“If you can reach their nose, use the heel of the palm of your hand and hit upward,” he grabbed my hand, holding it palm up. I willed my heartbeat to slow down as he held it. His eyes darted up to mine before quickly looking back down at my hand, demonstrating the motion.

“Heel of palm to nose,” I said, swallowing roughly as he let go of me. “Got it.”

“Now if someone’s behind you, your elbow’s the best bet,” I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he came to stand close behind me, his chest nearly touching my shoulder blades. He held gently onto my elbow, pulling it backward as he showed me how to maneuver it in the mirror in front of us, “Hit hard, don’t hesitate. If you really want to knock ‘em back, a throat punch will buy you more time, but only if you can reach them.”

Dean was looking into my eyes in the mirror. The sight of us like this together made my heart leap, him behind me, towering over me, his giant hand swallowing my arm. I nodded, trying to memorize everything he was telling me, but it was hard to focus when the harsh lighting of the training room made the sweat on his bare chest shine like the sun’s rays.

“Alright, now let’s try some fighting,” he said after letting a beat pass between us as we stared at each other in the mirror. He cleared his throat as he crossed the room to a metal closet, fiddling with the lock on it. I tried my hardest not to stare at his back, the way his muscles moved together, the way his shoulder blades moved up and down. I pushed my hair back from my face, letting out a steady breath as he threw me a pair of boxing gloves. I caught them before they could hit my chest, I raised my eyebrows, eliciting a smirk from him, “Don’t worry, I’m not the one throwing the punches.”

“You want me to…hit you?” I asked.

“Honey, I’ve had worse,” he said.

I challenged him, pulling the gloves on, “You don’t think I can take you down, huh?”

Dean smirked playfully, raising his hands, “Hit me with your best shot.”

Dean flicked on the radio that was sitting next to the closet, a familiar song playing through the speakers that were mounted high on the training room walls. I squinted slightly, listening as Cherry Bomb by the Runaways filtered through the room, “Cherry Bomb? Really?”

Dean shrugged but smirked nonetheless as he met me in the middle of the mat, bending his knees slightly.

I took in a breath, squaring my hips. I held my gloved hands up in front of me. I stepped forward, trying my best to hook Dean across the cheek but he stepped back, my fist slicing through air. I brought my fist back in front of me as I tried again, but he dodged it that time, too.

I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb!

“Don’t step forward,” he said over the music, placing his hands on my hips, making my heart stop momentarily. He pulled me closer to him. “Stepping forward’s your tell. Let’s me know exactly when to step back.”

I nodded, letting out a puff of air as he let go, getting back into his stance. We moved in circles, watching each other’s every move. When I figured I had a clear shot, I reared my arm back, sending it flying only for it to be blocked by Dean’s arm.

I dropped my hands to my sides, panting. My hair stuck to my sweaty forehead as I pushed it back with my forearm. It felt like I was only getting worse.

It was as if Dean could read my mind. Not wanting me to give up, he beckoned me forward, wiggling his fingers toward me, “Try again.”

I huffed, bouncing on my toes slightly as I brought my hands back up. This time, I tried hooking him again across his right cheek, trying to catch him by surprise. However, instead of dodging my punch he grabbed me by the wrist before squatting down and throwing me over his right shoulder, pinning me to the mat. I stared up at him, wide eyed as he smirked, his face only inches from mine.

My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could feel it. Dean Winchester, on top of me. My instincts quickly set in as I jutted my hips upward, sending Dean to catch himself, his arms on either side of my head. I reached up, pulling one of his arms down as I flipped him over onto his back.

Dean stared up at me in surprise, “How’d you do that?”

I stumbled, shaking my head, slightly breathless, “I- I don’t know.”

A beat passed between us as we just watched each other, our eyes scanning each other’s faces. I found myself slowly inching toward Dean. His tongue darted in between his lips as his eyes jumped down to my lips before coming back up to my eyes. He reached forward, his hand resting at the base of my head, pulling me closer, closer, until our noses were almost touching.

The kiss was soft and quick, dipping our toes into the water. We both looked to each other, a silent conversation as if asking the other if this is what we really wanted. I closed my eyes again as I sunk into another kiss, my whole body relaxing as if it’d finally let out a breath it’d been holding since the day I met him.

When we pulled away, I felt the pull of my heart aching for more. I looked down at him, neither one of us sure of what to say. For a moment, I thought I blew it. My one chance with Dean Winchester was being flushed down the drain right in front of me. My mind began to run a million miles an hour until finally he spoke, a smile spreading across his face, “We should train more often.”

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@mccartneywinchester | @resanoona | @blackglitteroldsoul

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sabraeal · 5 years

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Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Obiyuki AU Bingo Post-Apocalypse AU

There is no worse sound than the sirens.

Science agrees: every day, papers pile up in her queue, every last one of them tagged with the word kaiju and trauma. Everything from former Rangers to survivors of those first attacks to the children who still live in the cities along the coast, growing up in the looming shadow of the kaiju threat -- every single one of them has a lasting, ingrained reaction to the noise. Siren Anxiety, some papers call it, sanitized from the PTSD of other papers. Worse are the epigenetic ones; the endless articles speculating about what the alarms have done to the human psyche, calling it the next great epigenetic event in human history, not tired to any one ethic group or restricted region, but instead the entire coast line of four continents, none of them able to bear the whoop and moan of the evacuation siren.

Shirayuki isn’t sure how much of that she believes; she believes in science, not divination, and the plasticity of the human mind is far beyond their understanding. Still, it’s a sound that certainly has a starring role in her nightmares.

Along with, she’s coming to realize, the Marshal wants to see you.

“Doctor.” His voice is clipped, terse, but still polite as he stands, gesturing for her to take a seat. He’s a busy man by any standard, but no one can say his mother didn’t teach him his manners. “I’m glad you could take the time to see me.”

It’s not as if she had much of a choice; she might be one of the few civilians here, but as far as the Pan-Pacific Defense Corp is concerned, he’s her boss. Garack might be the head of K-Science, but in the shatterdome, the Marshal’s word is law.

Someone else might not know the extent of that power, might think that a summons sent to the civ division of the dome was just a polite ask, but Izana --

Well, if there was anything like royalty left on this coast, it would be the Wisterias. Three generations of Marshals since the first kaiju ransacked San Francisco, and it could be said, with little exaggeration, that his grandfather practically built the PPDC from the ground up. If anyone knows the power behind that title, it’s him.

“It’s no problem,” she chokes out, sinking into a chair. Beside it sits a steaming mug -- her mug, she realizes with a jolt -- filled with green tea and muddied up with cream. Just the way she likes it. “I had time.”

He nods, hand hooked over the back of his chair, gaze fixed to the wall. The one that would look out over the Pacific, if they weren’t underground. She’s been here six months, and training up to take Garack’s place hasn’t left her much time, but --

She’s been in this office a few times, in an official capacity. And every time she can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be here. That he belongs in some high-rise, looking out a fortieth floor window, surveying his domain, crunching numbers and worrying about stocks. Not down here, half-buried beneath what’s left of LA, talking to her about monsters.

None of them should be here, really, but that’s just the way things have panned out. For now. There’s no accounting for who they would have been, if not for --

“You’re settling in?”

Shirayuki nearly scalds herself on her tea, only just clamping her lips around her teeth to keep it from spilling out. She take a moment to swallow, liquid burning all the way down. “Ah, yes. It’s been...slow, but I think the rangers are acclimatizing to the shift.”

Finally, she wants to add. And only because of your brother.

It’s a mistake to say any of that. Bringing up Zen, here, right now --

Probably not career ending, but she’ll certainly approach the limits of Izana’s current goodwill. She may be the psychologist in this room, but he is the one who could sit back in his chair with that enigmatic smile of his and flay her alive. There’s no amount of insisting that will get him to believe that Zen is only her patient, and --

And, with the way Zen acts, she can’t say she blames him. She’s a professional, but no matter how much she swears to herself that she would never cross that line, would never make a patient more than that --

Well, she’s read the papers. Everyone living under one roof like this, never a day’s rest when kaiju don’t believe in filing for paid time off, civilian and military alike -- it’s a recipe for disaster. Zen wouldn’t be the first ranger to read something more in his sessions.

And she wouldn’t be the first PPDC psychologist to encourage it, if she did --

Which she doesn’t. She’s told Izana all this before, shoulders straight and stance stoic. But he’d only smiled that infuriating smile of is, and asked, but if he wasn’t your patient...?

She didn’t have a good answer to that. And the Marshal wasn’t one to miss a detail like that.

They’d been...at an impasse since then. Zen still takes his sessions with her, and she keeps her distance.

Well, as much as he allows. Which is quickly trending towards not enough and also too much.

“Good.” His fingers tap idly at the leather of his chair, expression uncomfortably thoughtful. “Garack speaks highly of your skills, you know. Best investment I’ve forced you to make.”

It’s useless to hide her blush. She knows she’s well-regarded -- there’s not many psychologists clamoring to get into the PPDC, and even less rangers wanting to talk to one -- but still. Garack practically invented the idea of trauma therapy for pilots. It’s not only a compliment -- it’s a reinforcement of her whole life’s work to date. There’s no point in hiding that she’s happy about that.

“And my brother, of course,” he mentions mildly. “Not a day goes by where he doesn’t sing your praises.”

Oh, so -- so he is going to bring this up.

“Studies have shown that having a mental health professional available to pilots has decreased the likelihood of risk behaviors as well as nearly all forms of self-harm.” Her cheeks heat, and oh, how she wish they wouldn’t when she talked about this. “A-and it isn’t unusual for pilots under stress to believe they’ve formed and intimate bond with support staff. As long as the professional--”

Izana holds up a hand with a huff of a laugh. “You don’t have to preach to me Doctor. I think we are both tired of that particular conversation.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug, and she grimaces at the pinch. “Then I must admit that I’m at a loss for what we need to discuss.”

She only just manages to bite off, if I’m not here to defend my professional credentials. By his look, he still hears them, loud and clear.

His eyebrows raise, but she’s not one of his rangers; there is no pressing need, in her mind, for her to call him sir. Some of the other civilians here might fall in line -- lord knows Suzu trips over himself to do it -- but she’s not some lab scientist, taught military hierarchy in a day’s orientation. Oh no, she’s written papers about the long term effects of the military complex under martial law, and --

“I have need of your expertise, Shirayuki.”

All her protests dry up in her mouth. She hadn’t expected that.

“Oh,” she replies eloquently. She lifts the mug to her mouth and takes a long, meditative sip, trying to buy herself some time to come to terms with -- with this. “I, uh, well...”

“I’m bringing in a new ranger,” Izana continues, graciously ignoring her sudden inability to form coherent sentences. For once, it’s a mercy she can appreciate. “I think he might present a...unique challenge for you.”

“A ranger?” The room feels off-kilter now, tilted. Izana may make this announcement so casually, but a shatterdome is a complex ecosystem of egos, an exquisitely delicate biome that can collapse into total anarchy with a single breath. And now he wants to upset that balance. “When?”

“Soon.” His mouth quirks, gaze distant. “I’m flying out today, in fact, as soon a we’re done here.”

Pressure pulses threateningly just behind her eyes. “Who would you--?”

Her mouth shuts with a click. Most of the pilots here were experienced teams, working together for years, but there was one -- one -- jaeger that has been lying in wait for half a decade, stuck in shatterdome purgatory until his single pilot managed to find a partner --

And it just so happened to be the single ranger that Izana Wisteria, prince of the Pacific, would burn half the world for, if it meant finding someone drift compatible.

She twists the mug in her hand, anxious. “Does he know?”

A stupid question, when she already knows the answer.

“No.” An easy answer for a complex situation. “And he won’t.”

She bridles in her seat, mouth pulling thin. “You called me in here to ask me to lie? Is this some sort of test of loyalty, because I don’t appreciate mind games, Marshal.”

“No. I asked you in here because I have...concerns.” He grimaces, as if it physically pains him to admit it. “About...reintegration.”

“You should be more concerned about what this will do to the dynamic of your pilots,” she tells him, setting aside her tea. “You should be telling him that --”

“Doctor, you have been here long enough -- and privy to my brother’s thoughts long enough -- to know there is only one copilot he will accept.” Izana looks at her now, and he seems so -- weary. Not even thirty, and here he is, shouldering the hopes of the world. “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for him to be reasonable about this. I would rather he had less time to plan his objections than make a misguided attempt at trying to appeal to his logic.”

Her lips press together, annoyed. She wants to fight on this point, to tell him he needs to prioritize Zen’s comfort --

But unfortunately, she agrees. Were this a mediation between two brothers about a family legacy, she could counsel caution, could recommend respect -- but this is a dispute between soldier and commander, and in this, she’s loath to say Izana has the right of it. It had taken hardly a handful of sessions to see where, precisely, Zen’s hang up lied in regards to the drift.

It’s her job to provide support, to empathize, but oh, sometimes she wishes it included telling someone they were being belligerent, ridiculous. That they were risking lives for pride, for a reward that had never been promised and would never come.

“I still think he should know,” she insists stubbornly.

“Of course you do.” Izana mouth curls in that infuriating grin of his, too knowing. “You are eminently fair, even to a fault. It’s part of why you are so good at your job.”

She frowns at the compliment. Kind words, but she knows the Marshal too well to believe a kiss won’t come with a sting.

“However,” he drawls, “you won’t tell him.”

“No,” she agrees begrudgingly. “I won’t.”

“I won’t lie to you, Doctor,” Izana says, suddenly serious, fixing her with a look so intense that it’s almost a burden to bear. “This is a very...unorthodox situation.”

“I think you’ll find that I’ve seen nearly everything the PPDC has had to show me,” she said, forcing a smile. “There’s very little left that can surprise me.”

His mouth twitches, smile turning to something almost self-deprecating. “So you might think.”

Her office is empty when she returns to it, dark. The offices along the entire hall are empty, probably for dinner.

Good. She’d rather do this without anyone around to see.

It’s not as if this isn’t in her purview; Zen is her patient, and this, inarguably, will have a direct impact on his current mental health. It’s only...

There’s a difference between hearing trauma from a patient, freely given, and finding it out through a dispassionate report that is more date than substance. She’d sworn she would wait -- Zen was neck-deep in trust issues, and if flying blind would make him feel more comfortable, make their relationship seem more natural, it was a small price to pay.

But now with Izana talking about a new ranger, about reintegration --

Shirayuki may not be fluent in the Marshal’s particular dialect of doublespeak, but she’s able to read between the lines: he’s bringing someone back, someone’s from Zen’s past, someone no one will be happy to see. She only knows one ranger that fits the profile.

She flips further in Zen’s file than she’s ever let herself: far past his current benching, far past Kiki’s unexpected and upsetting arrival at the dome, even flipping through Mitsuhide’s all-too brief tenure as his co-pilot --

Right to the hole in Rex Tyrannis’ pilot history, to the year that every ranger talks around: Atri.

She doesn’t have access to his file, so she’s only gets half the story -- an endless string of appeals filed by Zen, insisting that some unexplained petty crimes could not have been perpetrated by his co-pilot. A run of misconduct charges that are strenuously sanitized. A laundry list of official complaints lodged at about Izana’s enthusiastic reprimands, Zen passionately insisting Atri was being singled out by the Marshal because of his background. And then, finally, the removal of Zen from the duty roster.

Absence of Drift Compatible Personnel, it reads. A simple way to name the gaping wound he still carries with him.

She knows the specifics of this part at least; Mitsuhide kept Zen’s past close to his chest, but he’d slipped on this, tongue lubricated by a few after hours beers. Court Martial In Absentia was what it would read on Atri’s file, since he’d been long gone with his stolen goods before Zen had caught wind of his plan. Mitsuhide had recovered the parts before they went to market, but Atri himself had never been found.

And now here he was, about to waltz back into Zen’s life, complicating the peace she’s worked so hard to maintain.

Shirayuki sits back, rubbing at her temples. If only that would be the worst of it. Having a man most of the pilots thought of as a traitor slink back under the shatterdome would be hard enough, but --

But if Izana could find Atri, that meant he knew where he was. And no matter what the Marshal would say about it, Zen would never believe he hadn’t known the whole time, that Izana hadn’t just let Atri get away with some awful proviso where Atri never contacted Zen again.

Her head tips back with a sigh. Knowing the Marshal, he probably had, too.

She reaches out, grasping to catch the handle of her mug, meaning to take a sip of the tea she inevitably had cooling in there, but --

But her hand swipes at air. It isn’t here, it’s back in Izana’s office. Or rather, in the kitchen, where he doubtlessly sent it after she left it there with half a cup of cold tea.

Shirayuki rests her head in her hands and groans. There’s nothing she can do about this now -- the Marshal will do what he thinks is best. That’s his job.

And it’s hers to deal with the fallout.

There’s only one room in the dome with windows: the mess.

Curved glass wraps around the rounded outer wall, gazing fearlessly out over the Pacific, as if daring the kaiju to come, inviting them. It’s PPDC pride at it’s finest; making a grand show of defiance when it was all just an illusion -- the glass was engineered at Shao Industries, able to withstand anything just short of a nuclear blast.

It’s always easy to tell who is new in the mess; no one but experienced personnel ever sit facing the windows. It was a game the rangers played sometimes, making the newest recruit sit on the bench opposite the window, waiting and watching for them to break, for the anxiety to overcome them and send them bolting out of the room, meal wasted.

Shirayuki’s mouth thins. Those had been some of her first patients here -- the recruits who couldn’t stop shaking long enough to eat their food.

“It’s the math.”

She jolts out of her reverie, gaze scrambling up to meet Suzu’s, hoping he hasn’t noticed that her attention drifted. He’s always been a bit sensitive about things like that, about being dismissed. A common problem, when your thesis is about trying to apply algorithms to kaiju attacks.

There’s no need to worry, of course; she tries to look attentive, but he’s too busy attempting to eat the sloppy joe spilling out over his fingers to appreciate it. “It’s worrying me.”

Yuzuri lets out a groan load enough to make a kaiju rethink an approach. “Are you on about this again?”

“When am I not on about this?” he snips around his bun, circling around for another bite. Ground meat drops down to his tray, splattering sauce everywhere. Shirayuki has met a lot of people, but until she met Suzu, she’d never known one with a splash radius. “It’s important, even if you don’t think so--”

“Me, Marshal Wisteria, everyone with a brain--”

“Hey,” Shirayuki murmurs. “Do you hear that?”

The Formica shakes under her hands, gentle at first, and she can feel the collective breath of the mess stop, every body going tense. The rangers two tables over are half out of their seats, heads twist over their shoulders.

Shirayuki follows suit, watching the waters churn at the edge of the flight deck, ripples slapping hard against the metal. Kaiju don’t typically come this far down the coast -- just the once, just that first time when Yamarashi rose up on Long Beach. The most recent, most deadly attacks have been on the other side of the rim, Russian and Japan and China, all fighting off more kaiju every month --

But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen here. That things can’t change. They all learned that lesson well, after the kaiju came.

“Chopper,” Suzu says with a sigh, settling back into his seat.

He’s the only one; already there’s bodies crowded along the windows, faces pressed eagerly to the glass as the helo swings down to the flight deck, skids bouncing once, twice before settling flat.

“I guess His Majesty had returned,” Yuzuri observes dryly, mouth ticking up in a grin. “I wonder who he’s with.”

Izana alights from the chopper first, hair whipping out in a golden banner behind him. It’s no wonder everyone is jostling to see; he cuts a striking figure on the tarmac, Marshal blues neatly pressed, golds stars shining along both shoulders. Angel of the Pacific, they’d called him right out of training. The name had stuck, though it came out with more irony now.

He half turns, gaze swinging back to the helo as a man slides along the seats. Shirayuki holds her breath, jaw clenched tight. His head is ducked, hair a wild black hedgerow, but for a moment he looks up, and --

Ah, that’s -- that’s not Atri at all.

She refuses to run.

Shirayuki is a professional, a doctor. Unless her life is on the line, she walks briskly, with purpose. Her pace this time might leave her breathless, might leave her feet aching in what she would have called sensible flats this morning, but it’s still not a run.

She gets there just in time to see it happen.

Zen’s waiting in the hangar, Kiki and Mitsuhide flanking him to either side. This is an ambush, she knows; Izana couldn’t have has enough time to officially page him, but the rumor mill works fast inside the dome. It wouldn’t have escaped him what purpose his brother’s guest would serve.

The man himself is calm, preternaturally so for a one walking into a room with hostility so thick it’s practically a wall. His mouth is curled up at a corner as he looks around, taking in the view, hands hooked in his pockets, casual. Cocky, even.

She hesitates as she draws closer, as she finally able to see his eyes, and she amends her assessment. He mimics calm, exudes it, but his eyes are half-wild, darting around the deck like he thinks the jaegers might come off the wall and stomp on him. They’re nearly all pupil, she can see it even from twenty paces away, but as they stop, as they catch on her --

She could swear his eyes are gold.

His gaze jumps away, and by then Izana has rallied, that he’s already started to speak. She can’t hear a thing, close as she is. With the whirring of drills and growls of machinery, she’d have to be nearly on top of them, part of the conversation itself. She wants to be, she should be, but --

It’s too late. Zen’s jaw sets with just one look at the man, and she knows -- that’s it. He’s done. There won’t be any drifting with what’s washed up on the deck.

No matter how angry he is, Zen keeps his head, giving Izana a tense nod as he makes introduction, as he clearly tells him this man’s purpose in the dome. She knows the exact moment it happens; Zen clenches his jaw so hard she’s surprised he doesn’t crack a tooth. His gaze shifts to the other man, forbidding, but --

But the pilot slips one broad hand out of his pocket, holding it out to him. A peace offering.

Zen stares at it like he’s been offered trash.

The man’s smile goes sharp as he pulls it back, hooking his thumb on the loop of his jeans. He doesn’t seem surprised, just -- amused.

Zen spins on his heel, stomping away, Kiki and Mitsuhide trailing behind him. The man’s mouth slants into a smirk.

“Well,” he says, easy to hear over the sudden lull, “I think that went well, don’t you, Marshal?”

No one knows who this mystery man is, but it takes no time as all for them to divine why he’s here -- another ranger for Zen Wisteria to fail to drift with, another pilot to be shown the marvel that is Kain Wisteria’s legacy and fall short. There used to be a betting pool about how long it would take to find someone compatible, someone Zen would accept, but it’s long since dried up. No one thinks Rex Tyrannis will be coming out of its box anytime soon.

Shirayuki wants to believe it will, that Zen will find someone to be his copilot, even if no one else does, but --

She doubts it will be this one.

“He’s a jackass,” Zen grumbles, head tilting against the back of her couch. A mug steams in front of him, filled to the brim with a coffee more cream than bean. “He keeps on showing up everywhere, saying ‘don’t forget, master, we have a drift to fail.’ Last time he followed it up with, ‘come on, I want to get home already.’ Just, you know...asshole stuff.”

Shirayuki nods, sympathetic, and sips at her tea. She’s good at that; it’s her job to listen, to withhold judgement. Zen’s comfortable with her like this, with a drink in front of both of them, pretending this is a social call and not an appointment, pretending that she’s the one person in his life that doesn’t need to give her opinion on every thought that passes through his head.

It’s easy to do, mostly. She has practice at non-interference, at knowing the precise time to chime in with an observation that will be heard, instead of dismissed. Trust is the most important bond she can forge with a patient; if she needs to voice a scathing remark, she can always save the impulse for her actual friends, for when she steps out for dinner and listens to Suzu talk about numbers with steadily increasing incredulity.

After all, she doubts Zen would appreciate being told that he is making this man wait, that his whole life has been put on pause until Zen gets over himself enough to decide he’s ready to try.

She presses her lips together, biting down on the impulse to speak. It’s easy to forget that he isn’t a friend, most of the time, that he isn’t some handsome ranger that she just happened to meet at work and hit it off with. But sometimes --

Sometimes it’s not.

His eyes roll up to the clock, and he starts. “Aw, sh--oot,” he mutters, throwing a wary glance at her. “Our time’s up.”

“I don’t have anyone after you today,” she says lightly, busily straightening her notes. He doesn’t have to know that’s how she usually plans it, just so she can make this offer. “You can linger, if you want.”

“Nah, I have to go.” His cheeks flush ruefully, and he gives her a shy glance from the corners of his eyes. “Izana wants to meet with me. You know, about this guy.”

Of course he does.

“Oh, go ahead then,” she tells him with a smile, swirling the last dregs of tea in her mug. “I can finish up alone.”

He hesitates, and this is the problem, this moment here, where he looks like he was to protest, like he wants her to never feel alone, but --

But instead he just nods, giving her a tense smile and a murmured see you before walking out the door.

The tea goes cold.

Shirayuki sticks out her tongue at the sour taste. She’s been working a while, knee deep in catching up on the papers weighing down her queue, but she’d thought -- only for an hour, maybe two.

Her stomach growls. Okay, maybe four.

She gets up, wandering down to the mess with a limp in her walk, foot still half asleep from being tucked under her for so long. She takes a step through the doors -- and blinks.

It’s nighttime. Well, she certainly didn’t mean to read that long.

Dinner sits in chafing dishes, rubbery and unappetizing, but it’s better than the nothing she’ll have if she turns her nose up at it. She takes a plate in hand, picking what seems the most edible and taking it to a table by the window.

It’s quiet this time of night; everyone is on-shift or sleeping. She has nothing to do besides go over her notes and eat, looking out over the Pacific and wondering about Suzu’s numbers.

“Anyone sitting here?”

She blinks, and suddenly there’s a man in front of her, mug of coffee steaming in one hand, and an equally unappetizing plate in the other. It’s the new ranger -- Obi. The asshole.

He’s not wearing the uniform. She’s not sure he ever has.

“Ah, no!” She moves her papers, stacking them on the seat next to her to make room. “Just -- thinking.”

He smiles, the kind that doesn’t bare teeth, and -- well, it’s not a bad look on him. “Thanks. Didn’t think I’d find a place to sit down. This place is packed.”

She turns, taking in the ocean of empty tables, and when she looks back, he’s grinning, trying to hide it behind a sip of his coffee.

“I haven’t seen you around,” he says, and for a moment, she wonders if he remembers her, remembers that moment their eyes met on the deck. He doesn’t seem like the type. “Not part of the jaeger crews, I take it?”

“No.” It’s annoying how her cheeks flush under that stead gaze of his. This close, she knows for certain: his eyes are gold. Even if she can’t seem to manage to meet them. “I’m mostly...below decks.”

“Ah,” he hums, eyes lighting. “Scientist?”

“Psychologist.”

His smile pulls tight, eyes crinkling with strain. “You don’t say.”

Ah, she should have known. Military personnel aren’t usually...fond of her position. Not at first, at least.

“You know,” he says, voice still thin, “I think His Majesty is going to tell me to see--”

“What are you doing here?” Zen demands, just over her shoulder.

“--you more often,” Obi finished, taking a long drag from his mug. “Just having some coffee, taking a break. Making friends, since you’re so happy to keep me here.”

“Oh, I see. If you can’t bug me, you’ll come bug my -- Shirayuki?” Zen’s cheeks flush an angry red, like he’s been slapped on both cheeks. Still, he keeps up is glare. “Can’t you just go away already?”

Obi’s eyebrows twitch, the rest of his body going still as he looks at him. “Love to. Just set the date, master.”

The flush spreads all over his face, eruption immanent. “I--”

“Did you need something, Zen?” she asks, pointed. It’s more than she means it to be, but still less than this sort of behavior deserves.

She takes a breath, calming. She’s not here to take sides.

“Yeah, I--” Zen casts a nervous look around the room, and that when she sees Kiki and Mitsuhide lingering at the door with amused and concern expressions, respectively. “I left my jacket here. After dinner.”

“It is over there?” She points to another table, one with a vest slung around the back of a chair.

“Oh.” He coughs, scooping it up. “Yeah.”

Still, he lingers.

“Is that all?” she asks innocently. “We were just going to finish up dinner.”

“Yeah. Right,” he bites out, glare sweeping in Obi’s direction. “Sure. See you.”

It’s silent as he walks out, as Kiki and Mitsuhide fall in behind with only a lingering look. Shirayuki sighs, heavy, and turns back to her plate.

Obi’s mouth bows with concern. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She sits, staring at her food, barely seeing it. She really, really didn’t. It was a mistake, a trip-up that might have cost her some of her hard-won trust with Zen, but --

“I know,” she says, spearing a noodle. “But I did.”

She doesn’t add, and we’ll both have to live with it. By the steady gaze he sets on her, he hears it anyway.

“Yeah,” he coughs after a moment, eyes skittering to look anywhere else. “You did.”

#obiyukibingo2019 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #pacific rim AU #my fic #ans #guys i am not even gonna lie I'm not sure when in the Pac Rim timeline i'm placing this #i mean i think i want to keep it 2024 but clearly there's a lot of rangers here #but also I used Shao industries #whatever guys you're just gonna need to trust me here and be foggy on everything following the movie #i mean clearly since i actually put a psychologist in here #though i think there's mention they exist in the domes?#i forgot #whatever you all know you want psychologist shirayuki

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junkyard-lambs-blog · 6 years

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JD Faith, Junkyard Lambs, and #MeToo

TW: Sexual assault and abuse

I have decided to share my experiences with JD Faith anonymously for several reasons. I believe it is a moral imperative to make abusive men known in their communities, and this is especially true in industries like comics that rely primarily on freelance labor—women in creative fields don't have the safety net of a human resources department to turn to, and men in creative fields often exploit the lack of accountability and structure their work entails. While I believe wholeheartedly in forgiveness, I also believe in the responsibility we all have to hold abusive men accountable for their actions. This has become even more pertinent given the publication of Joshua’s work Junkyard Lambs—a work that draws directly from my own life experiences, without my consent.

From 2014 to 2016, I lived in Portland, Oregon with Joshua aka JD Faith. When we met in 2014, we had both just moved to the city, lived down the street from each other, and didn't really know anybody. We met at a bar and hit it off—so much so that we quickly became each other's best friends. The friendship built when he'd come over and work on Virgil—I modeled for some of the action shots, and we bonded over favorite music and movies. The friendship turned into a relationship—albeit a flawed one—but the problems seemed small enough that we could work through them.

Of course, what I considered to be minor problems should have been major red flags. After romantic potential became clear, but before we started dating, Josh told me that he "didn't want to settle" for me. When we went out, he would compare me to other girls and tell me I'd be more attractive if I looked like them. He had a tendency to snap and get angry at me for nothing, too—but he always apologized and promised to be better. One day he was so angry that he balled his fist and hurled it at me, stopping just short of my face. He was shaking and grimacing as he melodramatically pulled his fist back but left it hovering a few inches away from my chin. I flinched away and promised that we would be done if he ever did it again.

Despite this incident and the other warning signs, things progressed. For the first year of our relationship, these problems faded, or I ignored them, and we were mostly happy. Things changed when Josh stopped working and couldn't pay his rent. We'd been together for a year and already spent every day together, so he moved into my tiny Portland apartment and promised to split my $600 share of rent once he started getting comic work again.

Portland was already more expensive than I could afford, and with the responsibility of supporting Josh, the financial pressure eroded my mental and physical health. He never regained his income, and I learned that this was not an unlucky break as he'd consistently presented it. In fact, he was actively turning down jobs and income as I worked two full time jobs, plus part-time freelancing and donating plasma, in order to pay our rent, buy our groceries, and cover our bills. He stayed at home and played video games while I worked 16-hour days, but when I tried to explain how unsustainable this was, he told me I was cruel for making him feel like a burden.

It was around this time that sex changed and became more violent. If I ever made a request for my own physical safety and comfort, he ignored it or deliberately did the opposite. At one point, in the midst of consensual sex, he initiated a different painful sex act by asking "are you ready?" I was confused and asked "ready for what?" Without warning, I was in agony, begging him to stop. "It'll only take a minute," he said, and kept going.

Joshua habitually demanded sex at times when I couldn't accommodate. When I was freelancing with a tight deadline and requested that he not bother me, he would interrupt and tell me I had to provide sex "or else"—though these threats were made playfully, when I didn't comply, the joke was over and he became violent and angry. For a long time, it felt normal when he told me "you have to." It felt normal when he couldn't have sex without a violent or nonconsensual pretense. It felt normal when he did things to my body that I explicitly asked him not to. It felt normal that we only had sex when I didn't want to.

Another time he initiated sex, I told him no, used the safe word, told him no again. He got on top of me and proceeded anyways. I cried afterwards and he asked me to be quiet so he could sleep. I tried to talk to him about it the following evening when I got home from work. Explaining why it felt so terrible was difficult when I couldn’t fathom using the word rape to describe the act—still, I told him: I didn’t want to have sex last night. He said I’d indicated otherwise. He told me my no’s didn’t sound serious. I was insistent until he finally wore me down and I accepted that it’d all been a big miscommunication.

He turned it into a joke and said that I should spread false rape accusations to get him publicity and boost his career. He joked that a rape accusation would at least make him known in the comics industry, so it might be a smart move. Still unable to accept the events as rape, I agreed with the ridiculousness of these suggestions, and somehow that night’s events faded into a joke.

His abuse permeated every part of my life. He encouraged me not to eat, and I lost 60 pounds. I talked about going to grad school, and he told me I "should probably just stick to an office job." He once threw a PS4 controller at my face, and I still flinch in fear at objects in my periphery. If ever I questioned his behavior or objected to the way he treated me, he knew exactly what to say. He cried and turned on a façade of timidity—the only side friends and acquaintances ever see. "I don't know why you want to make me feel like a monster," he'd say. "I don't understand why you love fighting so much." "You know I didn't mean to make you upset, so why are you making me feel bad?" "It just feels like you don't love me anymore."

On June 7th 2016, he threw a punch that stopped just short of my face. This time, I bought him a train ticket home and told him to move out. For the better part of a year, he'd made me believe that he would be homeless if I didn't support him, and I was selfish for asking him to contribute financially. He made me feel like I was cruel for asking that he treat me better. Worst of all, he convinced me that I truly had no other options—that living with and supporting him was my only choice in life.

Joshua continues to violate my consent to this day—his comic Junkyard Lambs features a protagonist working two jobs in addition to donating plasma. In one of the opening scenes, she is turned away from donating because her blood pressure is too high. This is, in fact, an event lifted directly from my experiences. I might not be so violated by Joshua's inclusion of this were it not for the context. I was donating plasma and working two jobs to support both of us while he refused to work.

Contrary to the way Josh has characterized me, I am not evil or crazy or vengeful. It has been over two years since we broke up, and I have no motive to share these experiences beyond a sincere hope that holding one man accountable can contribute to making creative spaces like comics a safer environment for women. This can only be accomplished when men who harm women are named and their abuse is exposed.

#metoo #graphic novel #comics #portland #pdxcomics #pdx #image comics #vertigo comics #fantagraphics #jd faith #virgil comic

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lucanogis · 7 years

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fanfic: tender matters such as life

Title: tender matters such as life Fandom: Gakuen Alice Length: 5.2k Summary: Aoi Hyuuga has what she always wanted: A relationship, an apartment, a good job. Yet somehow, memories of her past can’t seem to let her go. And running into Rei Serio in front of a grocery store only makes matters worse. Set after Ch. 180, written for day 2 of ga-party’s May prompts: childhood trauma.

{ao3} , {ffn}

She doesn’t remember much, but she knows he is her protector. He promised her that and why shouldn’t she believe his words? He was there when she woke, he is there still. He shows her how to use her hands to grasp her surroundings: The wooden floor that leaves tiny splinters in her skin and the metal bars that keep her inside, no, safe. The small bathroom and the shower, her table and her bed. The air is cool, always cool. No fire reaches her skin, no ash tickles her nose. Everything beyond the room and her protector is blurry. Sometimes she reaches for it but always, always there is a wall. But the wall is good, he says. There is no joy beyond the wall. The outside world, he tells her, will not treat her kindly. Sometimes, solitude is protection. She can hear he speaks the truth, the kind of aching, painful truth one cannot learn, only experience. She believes him. He is her protector, after all, and no fire will burn her, no darkness terrify her, as long as he is by her side.

Aoi Hyuuga spots Persona while she’s out buying milk and cornflakes. The night before was rough, as most nights are, lately. She spent a good three hours fighting with Paige about...honestly, she hardly remembers what they were fighting about. Life is strangely cyclical these days. Hours blur together until they become weeks and one argument over their future bleeds into the next. Maybe that’s why she goes out to buy cornflakes - her girlfriend likes them and watching her wolf down three bowls will restore peace to their tumultuous relationship, until the next day at least.

It’s October and the air outside is freezing already, as though winter is stretching out its fingers to have just a little bit more time to wreak havoc. Aoi shivers and burrows her face into her jacket. She’s crossing the street when she sees him. His hair is dark but shorter than she remembers and he’s putting groceries into a car. She’s heard about the whole thing, of course. It’s not like it hasn’t been years since the Elementary School Principal of the Alice Academy in Japan fell and Rei Serio left the school to pursue a better life. But in all those years he never sought her out. Her brother told her Serio got married, had a baby. Back then, her stomach twisted at the thought.

He sees her, she knows he does, even as she tries to hurry into the store. “Miss Hyuuga,” he says.

His voice makes her breath quicken. It’s the same voice, slightly rough around the edges, the same voice she remembers hearing throughout the years she spent living in darkness. Right now, however, shock tints his words and she doesn’t remember that, doesn’t remember him sounding anything less than perfectly in control. She bites down on her lips, anticipating his next words.

“Please, can I...can we talk?”

Aoi pauses in her steps and answers without turning to face him. “I’d rather not,” she says hurriedly, her tongue stumbling over the words. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”

Three more steps and the doors of the store open. She passes shelves, employees, customers before stopping in between two racks of fruit. Her heart is pounding hard enough to escape from her chest and she can’t quite seem to catch her breath. Aoi lets fear push her down and falls to her knees, the granite floor cool under her legs. He’s just a person, she thinks. Just one person.

She thinks about calling her brother, too, but her fingers won’t listen to her so she leans her head back to look at the ceiling. Above her, fluorescent light bulbs gleam and she stares at them until small dots start dancing in front of her eyes, lets their brightness chase away any lingering memories. Breathing, her therapist taught her, is the most important thing. She breathes for a while, even as her body tells her that she is dying dying dying dead. The panic fades eventually. It doesn’t leave but then it never does. Aoi thinks that maybe it’s just a part of her now - like her bones and her blood and her skin, something life has knitted into her body. She can sense it rising and falling as she goes to buy the cornflakes she came for, incessant tiny waves forever crashing against her mind.

Her brother never quite understands why she chooses architecture as her career. “You would make a great teacher,” he tells her once. “Or a doctor. Something like that.” But architecture offers her the opportunity to make things that will outlive her - buildings that will house humans for decades. After a childhood of leaving buildings behind and burning them down, it feels like absolution to construct them now. Whatever she tore down, whatever was taken because of the fire in her veins, she will rebuild. And the homes that rise up now from the ashes of her own mistakes will be five, no ten times stronger than what came before them. Robustness, that’s what it is about. Nothing fanciful, nothing wasteful, something that will last. “Doesn’t sound like fun,” her brother says. He looks at her with serious red eyes so she forces a smile. “It’s what I want to do,” she tells him. “It’s who I want to be.”

Paige is waiting for her when she unlocks the door to their shared apartment. “Where have you been?,” she demands. There’s an edge to her voice. Aoi stretches out her arm to present the bag she’s carrying. “I got you some cornflakes,” she says, keeping her voice light, her lips curved into a smile. “We didn’t have any left so I thought-”

“You should have told me you were going somewhere,” Paige interrupts. “I called you a dozen times, can’t you at least pick up the phone?”

Aoi slips out of her shoes and hangs up her jacket. “I didn’t hear the ringing,” she answers truthfully. “You know I always keep it on mute.”

Paige’s face twists into a grimace of anger. Inwardly, Aoi sighs. “Look,” she says, trying to sound as calm as she can. “I’m sorry. Let’s not fight, alright?”

“Suit yourself,” Paige hisses. She shakes her head, her reddish curls bouncing up and down as she does, and grabs the bag Aoi’s still holding before stomping off without a word. Aoi can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen and closes her eyes. Breathe, she thinks. Just breathe.

There were days, many months ago, that being with her girlfriend felt less like a chore and more like a blessing. She’d been single for as much as a year at that point, watching from the sidelines as her brother got engaged to his long-time girlfriend. Her own previous relationship had imploded - she’d loved Ahn, but her ex had been so independent that it was difficult to hold onto her in a romantic way. Paige was the complete opposite: Ready to move in with Aoi, ready to settle down. Stability. Until she switched jobs and started coming home tired and irritated, filled with stories about an industry Aoi knows nothing about.

Maybe this is normal, she tells herself as she walks up the stairs to her laptop. The endless repetition, the dullness, the fighting. As much as the arguing exhausts her, at least she knows Paige won’t leave. Aoi can’t exactly say the same about anyone else in her life. Natsume may always manage to come back, but that doesn’t change the fact that he disappears all the time, dropping of the face of the earth to save the world with his friends. He has their mother’s blood, her spirit, Aoi thinks.

She isn’t made for saving the world. She just wants to have her relationship, her home, her job. She’s an architect, mostly responsible for making structural plans for factories and it’s good, honest work. Every time she presents her clients with a plan, their smile makes the geometry and endless planning worth it. Well, almost. Lately not even her job has made her smile. Factories are...robust, redstone and metal, but they’re not places people live in. Still, they’re what her firm specializes in and being self-employed is too high a risk to take.

But when she checks her laptop after getting upstairs, she doesn’t immediately delete a mail her brother forwarded her, about some rich guy looking for a freelance designer to draw up plans for his new home. The guy seems to want a lot, perhaps more than any architect can give him. He is well-known, so any architect who does give him what he wants can expect much needed exposure. Aoi leans back in her chair. Above her head, the first building plans she ever made are pinned to the ceiling. They are...ambitious, a colossus of sturdy metal and glass. They got her into her desired architecture program, they got her this far. She looks back down to read the email again. “Free-standing, ambitious, cutting edge” it says.

“Sounds like anyone but me,” she mutters to herself and pushes her chair back to get up. But as she walks downstairs, the words echo in her mind and her fingers itch for a pen. Maybe, her mind whispers, maybe, maybe. It won’t quiet down, not even as she sits down next to her girlfriend, not even after the two of them watch a sitcom in awkward silence. Maybe, maybe, this is something she can do.

Her father is the one who convinces her to see a therapist. He says her weight loss worries him, almost as much as the way she never quite laughs with her eyes anymore. He doesn’t make her tell him what’s wrong, but he does tell her about her mother, how she was beautiful and strong but sometimes felt so sad and lost that she didn’t care about life or love or her future. The therapist talks to her about the fear monster, which is what she has started to call the lingering memories from her time at the Academy, talks to her about her dreams for her life and her job. It doesn’t fix everything but it helps, the same way turning on the light helps one find scattered items on the floor. At the same time, it makes Aoi’s skin crawl. Why does she need help? Has the school damaged her so badly, has it made her weak? Or, even worse: Was she weak from the start?

“How do you feel about today’s fight,?” her therapist asks her. Aoi shrugs. She’s sitting on the leather couch in her therapist’s office. The sun is shining through the trees outside, throwing leaf-like shadows onto the wall. It’s a peaceful day, far too peaceful to discuss the intricacies of her relationship.

“It was the same as all the other fights,” she says. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.” Her attempt at a hopeful smile clearly falls short, because her therapist raises her brows.

“That may be true, but do you want to figure it out?”

Aoi frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Are you happy, Aoi?”

“Sure I am,” Aoi says, the answer more a reflex than the truth. “I love my girlfriend, this is just a rough patch.”

Her therapist nods. “I see. It just seems as though every day, she does something that upsets you. Sometimes people just aren’t compatible. It’s not weakness to walk away from someone who isn’t right for you.”

“What we have between us is good,” Aoi insists. She fiddles with her thumb. “Once we’ve put this behind us, we might even get married. Why not, we already have an apartment. You know, my brother was engaged when he was my age.”

“Why is it you want to get married? Why do you want a life with her?”

“Well, I love her. Obviously.”

Her therapist’s questions are starting to make her uncomfortable and Aoi glances at the clock. There’s still ten more minutes before the session is over.

“Look, does it really matter why I want to get married?,” she says impatiently. “It’s the normal thing to do.”

Normal. She stares at her therapist, who is now wearing a quiet, almost expectant smile. Normal. Is that a reason to want to be with someone? Aoi doesn’t know, but it’s certainly better than the void she slipped into during some of the months she spent being single. The darkness then was almost as bad as the darkness in the Academy’s cage, only it whispered even crueller things into her ears and took away all her motivation. She couldn’t even make herself get out of bed in the morning, let alone do her job. Compared to that, compared to the things she has experienced, her daily fights are a walk in the park and marriage, God, marriage seems like heaven.

“Do you think you deserve no better than that?,” her therapist asks. “No better than a relationship with someone you don’t really get along with? Do you think you won’t find anything in the world that makes you happier?”

Happiness, a loaded word. Aoi was happy once, the innocent kind of happy only children can really feel. And she still is happy now, in some ways at least. She is happy when she sees her brother and his fiancee, her childhood friend Luca, she is happy when she sees the lives they have built. She is happy when she finishes a project.

“I am happy,” Aoi says out loud. The words feel hollow in her mouth.

When she climbs into her car after her session, Aoi feels strangely lonely, so she does what she usually does when that particular emotion creeps up on her. She dials her brother’s number, puts him on speaker and starts her drive home. He picks up after the first ring.

“What’s up?,” Natsume asks.

“Oh you know,” she says. “Just so bored that even talking to you seems preferable to doing nothing.”

Natsume laughs. “Yeah right.”

“Hey, have you picked a wedding venue?”

His audible groan makes her smile.

“Please, don’t you start, too. Luca and Mikan have decided that planning weddings is their calling or something and they won’t stop pestering me about it. I want one second of peace. Just one second! Can’t a guy have at least that?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, Mr. Groom-to-be,” she teases gently. “It is your wedding, after all.”

“If it were up to me, we’d get married a week from now in Imai’s workshop or something. But that sadistic witch won’t let me,” he complains. For a while, they're both silent as she weaves her way through the traffic. Eventually, he asks: “Hey, are you ok?”

“I saw Persona today. I mean, Serio. Whatever.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No,” she says. “I was...busy.”

“Oh,” he says. Again, silence stretches between them. Aoi gnaws on her bottom lip. She can practically hear her brother’s worried thoughts pile up inside his head. She realizes that although they both know Rei Serio, they know different versions of him. She knows the man who trapped her yet treated her with kindness. He knows the man who kidnapped his sister and hurt him and his friends.

“How can you stand to even look at him?” The words burst out of her unwillingly.

“I don’t know,” Natsume answers. She overtakes another car and stops at a red light before he answers. “I guess one day I just looked at him and realized that hating him would never make me a better person. Part of me will always feel those feelings but...he saved Mikan. I can’t ignore what he did to you but I can’t ignore that either. He seems like he’s trying to change and he better be because if he ever hurts anyone ever again, I’ll kill him.” She knows her brother well enough to understand he’s serious. “But until then,” Natsume continues. “Until he hurts someone, I’ll let him be. Let him try to be better, I guess.”

Aoi is still pondering his words when she pulls into her driveway.

“Hey….Do you have his number?,” she asks before she can stop herself.

“I...Yeah. Mikan gave it to me. Why?”

“Tell him to meet me,” Aoi says. “Tomorrow morning, at the Starburst cafe. Tell him not to be late.”

“Alright,” Natsume says. “I will. Love you, sis.”

“I love you, too.”

And she does, even more than she already has, loves him so fiercely it makes her smile despite her thudding heartbeat. Perhaps some of her mother’s liquid fire courage is finally stirring inside of her, or maybe it’s just the craziness her brain can never quite shed, but whatever it is, it’s pushing her forward, pushing her to meet the man who shaped her past.

Everything comes back to her after her brother frees her. Colors, feelings a sense of purpose. But he sends her away after a few precious days and she feels lost. Her Alice is still gone and the darkness may have a different form now but it’s still there. She makes her father leave the lights on when he tucks her in before sleep, because she is afraid of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling helpless once more. The children at school smile at her and they don’t ask questions. She is thankful and smiles back, thinking that maybe this could be a new beginning. Freedom is exhilarating and wonderful and more, much more than she could have imagined. She dreams of her brother and her mother, of seeing them again. Time, she believes in her heart, will bring all of them together one day. For a while the fear vanishes entirely, but then her brother dies and it flares up, blazes like a flame. Freedom is cruel and terrifying and more, much more than she can handle.

They meet in a small cafe. He’s already there and she can see him through one of the windows, sitting at a table for two and staring straight ahead. For just a few seconds, Aoi wants to turn and and leave. It would be the easy thing to do, it would make the panic disappear again, for a few moments at least. The life she has now, the life she has built, has survived without Rei Serio’s interference. She doesn’t need a resolution to this story, never has. But her reflection in her car window looks back at her through big, deep red eyes and she remembers her mother, beautiful and fierce, the mother she has never known but who maybe, just maybe, is just as alive inside of her as the fear is. Aoi gets out of her car, grabs her keys as tightly as she can and walks forward.

He raises his head when she enters. The shock is back except this time she’s familiar with it. When she sits down on the other side of the table, she scoots back with her chair back, widening the space between them. “So,” she says. “What did you want to say?”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Serio says. He glances at the gap between her and the table and then up to meet her eyes. “I don’t think I would have, if I were in your position.”

“Well, we’re not the same person,” Aoi says forcefully. All the words she has swallowed before, all the thoughts her session with her therapist has reawoken spill forth now. The smile she usually wears feels impossible to accomplish and so she lets kindness drain from her features as she presses her shaking fists into her legs. She forgets to breathe, lets the anxiousness wash over her, lets her feelings carry the words out of her mouth. “We were never the same, you and me. I don’t care what happened to you, what sadness they put you through. You took my life and you twisted it around and you had no right to do that, none.”

Her voice becomes louder with each word and a waiter approaches their table. She waves him off with one impatient gesture before focussing on her companion once more.

To her surprise, Rei Serio nods. “You’re right,” he says. “I don’t expect forgiveness for the things I have done. I just wanted to-”

His words are interrupted when his phone starts ringing. The paleness of his skin makes it easy to spot his embarrassment as his ears go slightly red. He peeks at his phone screen and curses softly under his breath. “Do you mind if I….” He gestures towards his phone. Aoi shrugs.

“Go ahead,” she tells him.

With a grateful nod, he picks up. Immediately, as though someone flicked over a switch, the anxiety disappears from his face and a hint of a smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“Nobara,” he says, “Are you ok?”

His wife, Aoi thinks. The girl who somehow fell in love with a guy who hurt children, who threw them in a cage and lied to them. She doesn’t understand it, their relationship, doesn’t understand how anyone could just forget the blood on Rei Serio’s hands. But her former captor seems so non-threatening all of a sudden, so hopelessly smitten. It’s a startling transformation that reminds her of the way her brother looks at the people he loves. He, too, is lethal in a fight but there are more sides to him than the death she knows he has rained down upon others. In front of her, Serio laughs and Aoi averts her eyes. He never used to laugh when he visited her in her cage. Back then, his voice was heavy and the smell of death clung to his skin. Everything he had witnessed as a child, the horrible things her brother told her about, had twisted him into a monster.

“Does she make you better?,” she asks, after he has finished his call. The question surprises him.

“Yes,” he says, quietly at first and then again, adoration tinting every word. “Yes, she does. But...not in the way you think. She tried to change me, yes, but she did more than just that. She loved me enough to believe I could change. Like maybe all the bad things weren’t what had to define my life, like I could chose to be more than what happened, even after...even after everything.”

“I see,” Aoi says. The gap between the table and her chair lets her see her own hands. They’re laying on her legs, fingers outstretched, palms relaxed. Somewhere in between entering the cafe and listening to Rei Serio talk, fear released its grip on her heart. “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to tell you….I’m sorry. All those months you had to spent in that cage, they’re on me. If I’d been a stronger man, a braver one, I could have gotten you out. But I only ever knew the darkness as a protector. I thought… I thought it might protect you, too. From me and the school and the whole damn fucking mess that was being an Alice back then. But as you said, we’re not the same person. Far from it. You were smart enough to take the hand that tried to save you. It took me a lot longer to do the same.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Aoi says. It feels important to make that clear, to make him realize that understanding him doesn’t erase the past, just puts it into perspective.

“I don’t expect you to,” Serio clarifies. “I just wanted...I wanted you to know that you were never to blame for that fire, or the cage, or your blindness. You never walked into that darkness by your own volition, I pushed you in.”

“I know,” Aoi counters almost automatically. Of course she knows. Right? Of course she has never spent the entire night imagining all the people who got hurt in that town fire or those many many months she never once tried to escape from her cage. Of course she never agonized over her own weakness and wondered how much faster her brother would have gotten away from Persona. Of course she knows. She breathes in and out and looks at him, her heated emotions replaced with pity.

“I never want to see you again,” Aoi tells Rei Serio.

He nods mutely. She thinks that this might be what endings feel like.

She feels lost when she isn’t in a relationship. Before, her father was always there but now she’s living alone and it makes her feel frail. It becomes harder and harder to stay positive, to keep going. Then, one day, she sees a girl with dark hair and dark eyes. They meet, they talk, they fall in love. It’s overwhelming and crazy and life-changing but the girl is like a bird, always ready to take flight and Aoi wants nothing more than for her to stay stay stay. The girl doesn’t want to stay and suddenly Aoi is alone again. She finishes her degree, she starts working. Possibilities are endless, are a chasm opening up in front of her to swallow her whole. She takes the first job she is offered and immerses herself in it. This is right, she tells herself. This is a great opportunity. This is who she is now, even if it feels nothing like the girl she was before and nothing like the girl she set out to be.

They part ways soon after that but she doesn’t go back to her car right away, instead opting to take a walk in a nearby park before sitting down on a bench. Rei Serio is a different man. It doesn’t change the fact that a long time ago, he was a bad one, but it does make her question other things. Perhaps it is possible to shed her skin. Perhaps it is possible to leave the familiar form of her body behind, to slip out of it like one would slip out of a dress and become something, become someone new.

At home, Aoi pulls her first architectural plans from the wall and stares at them. She’s been doing this job for years now and so she can spot all her small mistakes, her miscalculations, the moments where she got lazy. Still, something about the building is magical in the way only beginnings can be. It reminds her of her university days, of meeting her first girlfriend and sneaking kisses from her between classes.

“Free-standing, ambitious, cutting edge”. She picks up a pencil and turns the plans upside down. Her old drawings are still visible but less defined, not a finished product but the first buds of a new idea. Kneeling in front of her plans, she starts drawing. The metal is replaced with wood but she keeps the glass. Aoi draws a building that is floating, balancing walls of windows on poles of wood. One forest fire and the whole thing would come down, she thinks, and the thought makes her feel giddy not scared. She adds steel to the wooden poles, a hidden core of strength. She wants a building that both blends into its surroundings and enhances them, something that looks time and obscurity in the eye and gives both a defiant middle finger.

Her dark hair falls into her forehead, her fingers become smudged and her back hurts. But the house she is building keeps growing, takes on a life of its own. It isn’t a factory, it’s not made to be sturdy but it’s strong in structure as well as in character. Being blind for a few months has granted her the ability to feel materials as well as see their beauty, and now she can imagine it all, the coolness of the steal and the smoothness of the polished wood, the warmth of the sun shining through the enormous windows. The house is new and good and it has character, spirit, a genuine fire her other houses lacked.

Steps on the staircase make her turn around. Paige is there, her hair still tied back from a long day at work. She looks tired and for the first time Aoi wonders whether perhaps her girlfriend dislikes the fighting just as much as she does, dislikes what they’ve become and how they’ve trapped one another in a tight ball of expectations and fear.

“Hey,” she says tentatively.

“Hey,” Paige says. She stares down at the plans on the ground before sinking to the floor to sit next to Aoi. “You’re building something,” she says, less question, more statement of a fact.

“Yes,” Aoi says. “It’s a design for an architecture competition. Do you like it?”

Paige stares at it for a while.

“It’s beautiful,” she says eventually. “I didn’t know you wanted to design houses like that.”

“Me neither.”

They sit next to each other and Aoi scoots over until she can slip her hand into her girlfriend’s. The skin feels strange to her, unfamiliar.

“I think….I think this is over,” she says at length.

It’s strange that the words come to her now, when they aren’t fighting or yelling at each other. It’s almost peaceful to sit next to Paige, to feel the warmth of her body. But it isn’t romance, not anymore. Maybe the lack of anything between them is something only silence could reveal or maybe Aoi has seen it the whole time but really was too scared to search for something better.

“Yeah,” Paige says. She looks down at their clasped hands, squeezes them once and lets go. “I think so, too.”

They end up not having to fight over who gets the apartment. Paige owned it before they got together, it’s only fair she gets to keep it now. Aoi packs her things and leaves. It’s early morning so she drives to a copy shop to scan her design blueprint before forwarding it to the rich guy’s address. Then she climbs back into her car and drives two hours to her brother’s house.

He opens the door after the first knock and doesn’t seem all that surprised when he sees her belongings in boxes. He just picks them up, carries them into his home and then turns around to hug her.

“Hey, sis,” Natsume says.

“Hey idiot,” Aoi answers.

She falls asleep next to him that night, nestled between him and Mikan and it’s the best sleep she has gotten in months. Aoi doesn’t end up staying with them long, only two weeks or so. The money she receives when the rich guy tells her he wants to commission her to design his house is enough for her to rent out a small apartment, one filled with no one but her. She quits her job, too, and it’s easier than she expected. At night, she still sleeps with her lights turned on and sometimes the emptiness of her apartment is a terrifying thing.

The fear inside her never leaves and the memories don’t do either. She still sees her therapist, too, and it helps, even if it sometimes makes her question her own strength. But her life is all of it - the fire that destroyed her home town, her lost eyesight, her time in the Academy with Rei Serio, her brother’s love and her mother’s death. It’s a crazy life, and a good one and more than anything, it is hers.

#gakuen alice #alice academy #galice fanfic #aoi hyuuga #rei serio #natsume hyuuga #ga-party #wooo i wrote another thing i other news my hands are dead my shoulder is dead my everything is dead!#but i did want to try and talk about mental health and aoi so have a fic i guess??#manga: gakuen alice #m*#mine: fanfic #mine: writing

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writeouttaluck · 6 years

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Wrote this out of boredom. No It didn't happen, but it features one of my best friends.

“So, I heard you've been talking shit about me…”

“Yeah? Well you heard right.”

“Do you know who you're fucking with here?”

This guy has his face a few inches from mine, obviously trying to use intimidation on someone twice his size. I can feel his breath near my lips. It smells of monster and probably dick. I make direct eye contact, not about to shy away from this little shitstain. My heart is picking up the pace at the prospect of a fight.

This motherfucker has no idea what he is about to unleash here.

Excited interior, calm exterior. I am cold.

I take another drag of my cigar, making sure to blow the smoke out in his face. He grimaces and out of the corner of my eye, he balls his fists. I watch his eyes scowl into mine.

Looking beyond him, I see Dalton talking to someone else across the street. Even though they are both invested in conversation, Both of them keep glancing over to the situation.

I answer.

“An asshole in an Aero-Crombie shirt and a dick in cargo shorts”

The guy shoves me a little, hardly getting me to budge. I shove him hard and he stumbles back until he can catch himself on the wall. His friend comes in from the side swinging. I charge in and grab him by his shirt. I use my mass and throw the little fucker to the ground. As the other steps over him and charges towards me, He lands a few punches to the gut area. He grazes my head a few times. I put a hand behind his head and use all my strength, running him straight into the brick wall behind me. As I have my back turned, The other one gets up and jumps on my back. I lose grip on the first one’s head as I stumble back. He starts punching me in the head. The blows land hard. I start squinting from the pain.

Suddenly I hear a yell close to my ear and feel a weight off my back. I look to the ground and see a small cloud of dust around Dalton as he stands on one knee and throws punches into this kid’s head. He tries to catch his breath from the wind that Dalton had knocked out of him, but dalton keeps the hands coming down.

I run up and kick the other guy as he attempts to stand up. He drops to his chest and I kick him again.

And again.

I see a man across the street start running into the situation. Instinctively, I put a foot behind me and cock my fists into place. This was about to get hairy. These two punks were some skinny little shits from the Rez, this guy running at me looks like a cornfed farm boy, well equipped with the muscle it would take to fuck me up.

He stepped foot in the alley, nothing indicating he was about to slow down.

He got close and I had no time to react. The first punch hit hard. It was enough to send me to the floor, but I stood in a dizzy daze at my opponent. I dont have time to recover as the second blow comes to my jaw.

Motherfucker.

I fell to my back, Too dazed to keep balance but too much adrenaline to feel the pain. As I glance up, I can hardly make out Dalton.

He has a wood pallet raised high above his head as he runs at the large man. The man covers his head as my friend slams the bound 2 x 4’s into his body. Dust explodes as the boards break away from each other. The man yells in pain.

I shake my head and the dizziness slows a bit. I start to stand, keeping my eye on the large man.

Dalton takes the 2 x 4 that still hangs in his hand and swings it into the mans leg, putting him into a kneel.

The loud slaps of skin against skin are heard from the blows Dalton lands. He holds nothing back.

Finally I gain the ability to stand up straight once more. The world spins but slower.

I see the large man is actually taking the hits like a champ and is about to stand again.

I crouch low and start running, just barely keeping myself upright.

I dive at the man with all my weight. We collide and he gets sent onto his back with me on top of him. I sit up on my knees, straddling the beast of a man, and I start driving hammer fists into his face with all I can muster. I see Dalton on the side of me landing a few punches now and again.

At this point, Im too far gone for words. I keep hitting, punching, hammering, and occasionally slapping his face with no sign of stopping. The man cant even open his eyes from the swelling and im STILL smashing and smashing and smashing some more. Dalton stops and disappears from my view.

I feel a sudden grip around my waist and on impulse, I land a solid elbow to whoever is behind me.

“FUCK!!” I hear someone yell.

The grip comes back, two arms wrapped tight around me.

“RAND. STOP. YOU'RE GONNA KILL HIM” He yells.

“IM GONNA KILL HIM” I yell, one arm trying to stop the person behind me, the other still trying to land hits to the guys face.

“NO RAND. GOD DAMN IT”

And suddenly, Im being lifted backwards off the man. I shift my weight back and forth like a bull under a cowboy. I get pulled off my feet all together and, having no purchase left, I fall back on my attacker.

Im immediately trying to pull the arms off my waist. As soon as I remove the tight grip, I turn myself around to find Dalton staring back at me.

At the sight, I feel my heart beat slow. Im huffing and breathing hard like a train moving uphill.

Dalton doesn't look scared, not at all, but more like he is about to regret kicking my ass.

After more then a few seconds of hilariously awkward eye contact, I start to chuckle a bit.

He chuckles back. I fall to my side on the ground beside him and we both start laughing our asses off. We laughed and chortled and snickered with the little energy we had left.

…

We sat on the curb outside country yankee about 30 minutes later. It was dark and the store was closed. We both pitched money together to buy some soda cans from the vending machine outside. Dalton sat beside me in blood stained jeans and a roughed up sweater. He came out mostly fine saved for some bruised knuckles and scuffed knees. I had really suffered the most damage with the bruises along my chin and eye and a few near my scalp.

“Now that pallet work, that was fucking art right there…” I found myself saying as I held the coke can to my swollen eye.

“Youre not giving yourself enough credit there. I watched you handle those first two quite well. They even landed some solid blows. You came out like a fucking tank!” He said laughing in triumph as he held an orange soda to his knuckles, occasionally rubbing the sweating can up and down to soothe the nerves.

I laughed a bit. “Maybe so, but if you hadn't gotten involved, Im pretty sure Beefcake there would have killed me.”

“Jesus!” Dalton expressed, “Im surprised you took a hit from that guy and still stood up!”

“Aw, thanks babe” I said as I tried to avoid smiling because of the pain.

He rubbed his hand against my thigh emitting a high pitched “MMMMMMMM” sound.

I smacked his hand away with a laugh.

“Get the fuck off me”

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