David/Griffin: Pagliacci Chapter 1/?
Title: Pagliacci Chapter 1/?
Author: _ryouseiteki_
Rating: Hard R (rating may possibly change to NC17 if things get out of hand or if I can get Griff to stop trying to murder Dan and instead try to get into his pants)
Word count: 1737/?
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Steven Gould and 20th Century Fox, no profit is being made from this work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious products of the fan-writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Characters: Griffin-centric, David/Griffin
Summary: After being left behind-supposedly to die, trapped in Chechnya, Griffin closes himself off even further from human contact mentally whilst simultaneously drowning himself in it physically. Anything to survive. Anything to get his revenge on Roland. Can David save Griffin from the righteous paladin? Can he save the British Jumper from himself? And, betrayed and carrying more grudges than is healthy, will Griffin let him?
Warnings: A/R, Violence, Language ,Disturbing Imagery, Bloodplay, Bondage, Dubious Consent
A/N: I haven’t read Griffin’s Story, so I’ll be taking liberties with his past a bit: hence the A/R warning. Oh, and I haven’t written fic like, ever. A few years ago I rped a bit, but that’s really all the creative writing I have under my belt. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated! Yell at me if I suddenly change tenses or if I switch names around or if I go crazy with commas or anything like that, please. Apologies ahead of time if it’s too confusing, disjointed, or stream-of-conscience-ey.
Alrighty, here’s where I attempt to write a “Gratuitous Break-It fic with Porn.” It’s like a fix-it fic except not, you see. Explanation below:
So, in the past few weeks I’ve seen the movie Watchmen 3 times with different people in different theaters. I’m one of the oldbies who read the comics at least a few years before it was announced that there was a movie in the making. Anywho, I was greatly attracted to the overall dark, almost helpless tone. The story is overall very gritty and down to earth and I reveled in it. After wiping the dust off lj in order to go Watchmen community hopping I saw jumperslash and totally remembered that I joined it back when it was practically first created and how I was planning on doing so much with it and instead just kind of got sucked up by real life and forgot the place existed.
I’ve bounded through all that I’ve missed, which seems like it was such fun and makes me sad I missed it all, and decided that: yes. I want to write fanfic for this couple. So I re-watched the movie (skipping through most major plot points that involved Millie and the Paladins and such instead of David or Griffin) and got crackin’. Although, since I’ve just recently been so immersed in the Watchdom, this fic may come out darker than the other fics floating around the comm… sorry about that.
Title taken from this quote from GN Watchmen, “Heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says ‘Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.’ Man bursts into tears. Says ‘But, doctor...I am Pagliacci.’ Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.” -Rorschach.
Griffin grinds his teeth as another wave of electricity crackles through his system, his entire body forcibly tensing in shuddering ripples that threaten to undo him. He can no longer hear the gunfire or feel the tremors of the earth after particularly strong explosions around him. He’s been suspended between two transformers in Chechnya for a half hour, a day, a year, forever.
A dry sob forces it’s way past cracked, chapped lips as the current diminishes-and it’s just that, retreating only a little, as if regrouping for another assault. It never ceases completely. He can feel little spiders of current traveling up and down his arms, legs, back. Causing his abused muscles to clench and release in such rapid succession that he feels as if he’s caught in a perpetual seizure.
He had tried jumping himself, had tried jumping the whole goddamn pylon he was snagged in. He had pulled, pushed, prodded. Cursed, screamed, raged. Cried, pleaded, begged-
Griffin instinctively senses the change in the electric whine from the wires around him, can feel the metal burn hotly against his skin, and draws in a ragged breath to scream...
The waves pass, again, and god forbid; he’s not used to the pain, could never get used to the feel of his body trying furtively to rip itself apart at the seams, but he can feel the resignation settle upon his shoulders. A weight of responsibilities shunned coming back to bite him in the ass. Fucking karma.
He hangs limply in his bonds, his chin resting against his chest in what would be defeat if he wasn’t too stubborn, too proud to admit it. A hot wetness dribbles from the edge of his mouth and great, just great. Just what he needed: he’s bitten his tongue.
He works up the energy to spit and it’s hard, too hard. How long has he been trapped here, that he has already become so weak? Anger builds within him, a hot iron ball of rage curling in his chest, at himself, at Roland, at David, at the whole goddamned world.
David. He’s the one who trapped him here! And all to save a girl that the scrub had brought danger to in the first place. Griffin had warned him that this would happen, and the idiot didn’t listen! Had the gall, even, to ask for Griffin’s help. Help that he unwillingly agreed to give. He trusted that son of a-
Another rush of electricity tries to interrupt his fury, but he welcomes the influx of pain this time as an outlet for his outrage. Griffin roars with pain that is not wholly physical-in despair, in defiance-and the edges of his vision darken with the strain. His emotions are causing his body to attempt a jump, even when he’s becoming so weak it’s an effort just to breathe.
He can feel the air pressing against him before whooshing away in a crushing vacuum as space warps and morphs around him ineffectively, his form flickering in his cage of steel surrounded by deadly ropes of electricity. The current lessens once again but still he struggles, cursing the focus of his anger, David, in several languages under the deafening crackle of static.
An explosion goes off surprisingly close, but Griffin barely notices even as bits of rubble land nearby. Suddenly he’s falling and, bewildered, instinctively stops trying to jump. He’s so drained that he’d probably end up in a wall somewhere. The blast must have toppled the one standing tower or snapped one of the wires and good ole gravity pulled him free.
Griffin twists midair to land in a crouch, remaining stoic for all of 2 seconds before crumpling to the ground in a heap, scraping his elbows through gravel and tiny shards of shrapnel as he collapses. The gunshots and explosions that he hadn’t noticed before are banging around his head full force now that he isn’t distracted by his torture, his head pounding mercilessly.
Trembling with aftershocks, he curls inwards a little and gags at the distinct smell of burnt meat. Under it is the scent of urine and pure, unadulterated terror. Griffin’s stomach rebels and dry heaves wrack his small frame.
They pass soon enough, and he’s annoyed at the sound of broken whines and whimpers-the noises not helping the pounding in his temples, before he realizes that the pathetic sounds are coming from him. Tears of frustration dampen his cheeks as he tries to stifle the sounds and finds that he cannot.
He does not know for how long he lays there on his side in the fetal position, his muscles too tight to stretch out more comfortably on his back. Griffin can’t sleep, but finds that large stretches of time pass that he is unaware of. Perhaps he became unconscious without realizing it. He scowls, not liking how weak and vulnerable that made him. A small blessing though, he concedes as he absent-mindedly watches the sky lighten, he doesn’t remember it becoming freezing night but it must have come and gone since morning is obviously dawning.
Cold sweat has dried in uncomfortable places, and Griffin shifts with a wince as pain echoes dully throughout his protesting body. He sits up with herculean effort, trying not to speculate about what’s happened to David or that chic, what’s her face, Minnie? A day has passed, and whatever heroics the other Jumper had tried to pull were long over by now, whether or not they ended in complete failure.
Griffin reaches up gingerly to wipe at the trickle of blood dripping sluggishly down his chin, grunting as the movement of his arm stretches sore muscles mercilessly. He takes a deep breath and tries to think, but it's difficult. His thoughts are fuzzy and he aches all over. It's not the good ache after a battle with a paladin or a romp with some no-face one night stand; it's a bone-deep, weary ache that makes him want to lie back down and surrender once more to the darkness of slumber.
Even though he's at less than top form at the moment, it still dawns on him that he needs to get out of the area. Now that morning has arrived, he's sure that some bumbling idiot is going to overcome his fear of the two battling demons that had appeared and vanished with sounds not unlike a gunshot and peek over the crest of the hill. Fat lot of good it'd do him to get caught by deserters out here when he's too weak to jump back to...
He inhales sharply. Back to? Back to where? Thanks do David, and just thinking the other Jumper's name makes a growl rise unbidden in his chest, his lair has been discovered. By now it's probably been ransacked by lackey paladins, the only proof of his existence once more wiped clean from the earth in the wake of burnt sketches and crushed videogames. He has other places to stay, yes. But they're not his lair. Not covered in observations and weapon tinkerings, not messy with empty beer cans, dirty clothes, and the odd dried blood splatter of an unlucky paladin or two... not lived in.
Griffin shakes his head gently to clear his mind of such thoughts, and grimaces at the invoked wrath of his returned headache. He attempts to get up, but regrets it immediately as his stomach churns and he can hear a faint ringing in his ears that he's pretty sure isn't natural. Cussing up a storm under his breath, he deigns to crawl away from the goddamned pylon, hoping that he doesn't tumble right into someone's camp as he turns a corner of a decimated building.
Not so much luck. Griffin silently curses karma again as he stares blankly up into the startled face of a patrolling guerrilla. Adrenaline immediately pumping through his veins, he lurches to his feet unsteadily and backpedals around the corner, a gunshot rings out in the silence of early morning. Teeth bared in an animalistic snarl, he startles as another gunshot rings out, not understanding that it came from further away-an acknowledgment, his mind is moving too fast for his lagging body to keep up. He clutches at the jagged remains of the wall as he turns and makes to flee, already panting from the exertion, stumbling every few uncertain steps and clawing desperately at the brick and mortar as if begging it to save him.
He hears the crunch of gravel behind him approaching steadily, and this bastard isn't even rushing in pursuit, is taking his sweet ass time and panic is shoved away by Griffin's returning anger that begins to pool in jerky swirls in his gut as he growls under his breath and fights the sudden breathtaking urge to turn around and throttle the man.
He doesn’t realize that he's stopped, fists clenched so tightly that he's breaking the skin of his palms in little crescent moons that sting incessantly on top of his other injuries, until he feels the cool metal of a revolver settle calmly against his left temple. A smidgen of panic returns for a moment and he hisses between grinding teeth, the icy cold of the steel a slow burn against the side of his face. The fear passes quickly and Griffin is enraged that this one mother fucker thinks he’s all that just because he’s caught the extremely weakened boy between a metaphorical rock and hard place.
Shaking now with both fatigue and the repressed force of his fury, he almost misses the slight nudge of the gun against his temple. He glares at the man from the side of his eyes, his lips rising in obvious distaste. The guerilla’s mouth is open as if he was about to say something-interrogate, order perhaps, he hesitates at the obvious hate rolling off the seemingly defenseless teen (lol wrong word) in front of him in waves. And in that moment of hesitation Griffin gathers himself and lashes out with all the force of a vengeful puma, catching the man full in the face with his fist. He feels a satisfying crunch of impact and grins, playful and terrible and he is about to lay into the man with more bone-jarring punches when a shot once more rings out in the echoing quiet of a morning in war-torn Chechnya. The accompanying shriek of agony is likewise ignored.
Author: _ryouseiteki_
Rating: Hard R (rating may possibly change to NC17 if things get out of hand or if I can get Griff to stop trying to murder Dan and instead try to get into his pants)
Word count: 1737/?
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Steven Gould and 20th Century Fox, no profit is being made from this work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this story are fictitious products of the fan-writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Characters: Griffin-centric, David/Griffin
Summary: After being left behind-supposedly to die, trapped in Chechnya, Griffin closes himself off even further from human contact mentally whilst simultaneously drowning himself in it physically. Anything to survive. Anything to get his revenge on Roland. Can David save Griffin from the righteous paladin? Can he save the British Jumper from himself? And, betrayed and carrying more grudges than is healthy, will Griffin let him?
Warnings: A/R, Violence, Language ,Disturbing Imagery, Bloodplay, Bondage, Dubious Consent
A/N: I haven’t read Griffin’s Story, so I’ll be taking liberties with his past a bit: hence the A/R warning. Oh, and I haven’t written fic like, ever. A few years ago I rped a bit, but that’s really all the creative writing I have under my belt. Constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated! Yell at me if I suddenly change tenses or if I switch names around or if I go crazy with commas or anything like that, please. Apologies ahead of time if it’s too confusing, disjointed, or stream-of-conscience-ey.
Alrighty, here’s where I attempt to write a “Gratuitous Break-It fic with Porn.” It’s like a fix-it fic except not, you see. Explanation below:
So, in the past few weeks I’ve seen the movie Watchmen 3 times with different people in different theaters. I’m one of the oldbies who read the comics at least a few years before it was announced that there was a movie in the making. Anywho, I was greatly attracted to the overall dark, almost helpless tone. The story is overall very gritty and down to earth and I reveled in it. After wiping the dust off lj in order to go Watchmen community hopping I saw jumperslash and totally remembered that I joined it back when it was practically first created and how I was planning on doing so much with it and instead just kind of got sucked up by real life and forgot the place existed.
I’ve bounded through all that I’ve missed, which seems like it was such fun and makes me sad I missed it all, and decided that: yes. I want to write fanfic for this couple. So I re-watched the movie (skipping through most major plot points that involved Millie and the Paladins and such instead of David or Griffin) and got crackin’. Although, since I’ve just recently been so immersed in the Watchdom, this fic may come out darker than the other fics floating around the comm… sorry about that.
Title taken from this quote from GN Watchmen, “Heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says ‘Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.’ Man bursts into tears. Says ‘But, doctor...I am Pagliacci.’ Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.” -Rorschach.
Griffin grinds his teeth as another wave of electricity crackles through his system, his entire body forcibly tensing in shuddering ripples that threaten to undo him. He can no longer hear the gunfire or feel the tremors of the earth after particularly strong explosions around him. He’s been suspended between two transformers in Chechnya for a half hour, a day, a year, forever.
A dry sob forces it’s way past cracked, chapped lips as the current diminishes-and it’s just that, retreating only a little, as if regrouping for another assault. It never ceases completely. He can feel little spiders of current traveling up and down his arms, legs, back. Causing his abused muscles to clench and release in such rapid succession that he feels as if he’s caught in a perpetual seizure.
He had tried jumping himself, had tried jumping the whole goddamn pylon he was snagged in. He had pulled, pushed, prodded. Cursed, screamed, raged. Cried, pleaded, begged-
Griffin instinctively senses the change in the electric whine from the wires around him, can feel the metal burn hotly against his skin, and draws in a ragged breath to scream...
The waves pass, again, and god forbid; he’s not used to the pain, could never get used to the feel of his body trying furtively to rip itself apart at the seams, but he can feel the resignation settle upon his shoulders. A weight of responsibilities shunned coming back to bite him in the ass. Fucking karma.
He hangs limply in his bonds, his chin resting against his chest in what would be defeat if he wasn’t too stubborn, too proud to admit it. A hot wetness dribbles from the edge of his mouth and great, just great. Just what he needed: he’s bitten his tongue.
He works up the energy to spit and it’s hard, too hard. How long has he been trapped here, that he has already become so weak? Anger builds within him, a hot iron ball of rage curling in his chest, at himself, at Roland, at David, at the whole goddamned world.
David. He’s the one who trapped him here! And all to save a girl that the scrub had brought danger to in the first place. Griffin had warned him that this would happen, and the idiot didn’t listen! Had the gall, even, to ask for Griffin’s help. Help that he unwillingly agreed to give. He trusted that son of a-
Another rush of electricity tries to interrupt his fury, but he welcomes the influx of pain this time as an outlet for his outrage. Griffin roars with pain that is not wholly physical-in despair, in defiance-and the edges of his vision darken with the strain. His emotions are causing his body to attempt a jump, even when he’s becoming so weak it’s an effort just to breathe.
He can feel the air pressing against him before whooshing away in a crushing vacuum as space warps and morphs around him ineffectively, his form flickering in his cage of steel surrounded by deadly ropes of electricity. The current lessens once again but still he struggles, cursing the focus of his anger, David, in several languages under the deafening crackle of static.
An explosion goes off surprisingly close, but Griffin barely notices even as bits of rubble land nearby. Suddenly he’s falling and, bewildered, instinctively stops trying to jump. He’s so drained that he’d probably end up in a wall somewhere. The blast must have toppled the one standing tower or snapped one of the wires and good ole gravity pulled him free.
Griffin twists midair to land in a crouch, remaining stoic for all of 2 seconds before crumpling to the ground in a heap, scraping his elbows through gravel and tiny shards of shrapnel as he collapses. The gunshots and explosions that he hadn’t noticed before are banging around his head full force now that he isn’t distracted by his torture, his head pounding mercilessly.
Trembling with aftershocks, he curls inwards a little and gags at the distinct smell of burnt meat. Under it is the scent of urine and pure, unadulterated terror. Griffin’s stomach rebels and dry heaves wrack his small frame.
They pass soon enough, and he’s annoyed at the sound of broken whines and whimpers-the noises not helping the pounding in his temples, before he realizes that the pathetic sounds are coming from him. Tears of frustration dampen his cheeks as he tries to stifle the sounds and finds that he cannot.
He does not know for how long he lays there on his side in the fetal position, his muscles too tight to stretch out more comfortably on his back. Griffin can’t sleep, but finds that large stretches of time pass that he is unaware of. Perhaps he became unconscious without realizing it. He scowls, not liking how weak and vulnerable that made him. A small blessing though, he concedes as he absent-mindedly watches the sky lighten, he doesn’t remember it becoming freezing night but it must have come and gone since morning is obviously dawning.
Cold sweat has dried in uncomfortable places, and Griffin shifts with a wince as pain echoes dully throughout his protesting body. He sits up with herculean effort, trying not to speculate about what’s happened to David or that chic, what’s her face, Minnie? A day has passed, and whatever heroics the other Jumper had tried to pull were long over by now, whether or not they ended in complete failure.
Griffin reaches up gingerly to wipe at the trickle of blood dripping sluggishly down his chin, grunting as the movement of his arm stretches sore muscles mercilessly. He takes a deep breath and tries to think, but it's difficult. His thoughts are fuzzy and he aches all over. It's not the good ache after a battle with a paladin or a romp with some no-face one night stand; it's a bone-deep, weary ache that makes him want to lie back down and surrender once more to the darkness of slumber.
Even though he's at less than top form at the moment, it still dawns on him that he needs to get out of the area. Now that morning has arrived, he's sure that some bumbling idiot is going to overcome his fear of the two battling demons that had appeared and vanished with sounds not unlike a gunshot and peek over the crest of the hill. Fat lot of good it'd do him to get caught by deserters out here when he's too weak to jump back to...
He inhales sharply. Back to? Back to where? Thanks do David, and just thinking the other Jumper's name makes a growl rise unbidden in his chest, his lair has been discovered. By now it's probably been ransacked by lackey paladins, the only proof of his existence once more wiped clean from the earth in the wake of burnt sketches and crushed videogames. He has other places to stay, yes. But they're not his lair. Not covered in observations and weapon tinkerings, not messy with empty beer cans, dirty clothes, and the odd dried blood splatter of an unlucky paladin or two... not lived in.
Griffin shakes his head gently to clear his mind of such thoughts, and grimaces at the invoked wrath of his returned headache. He attempts to get up, but regrets it immediately as his stomach churns and he can hear a faint ringing in his ears that he's pretty sure isn't natural. Cussing up a storm under his breath, he deigns to crawl away from the goddamned pylon, hoping that he doesn't tumble right into someone's camp as he turns a corner of a decimated building.
Not so much luck. Griffin silently curses karma again as he stares blankly up into the startled face of a patrolling guerrilla. Adrenaline immediately pumping through his veins, he lurches to his feet unsteadily and backpedals around the corner, a gunshot rings out in the silence of early morning. Teeth bared in an animalistic snarl, he startles as another gunshot rings out, not understanding that it came from further away-an acknowledgment, his mind is moving too fast for his lagging body to keep up. He clutches at the jagged remains of the wall as he turns and makes to flee, already panting from the exertion, stumbling every few uncertain steps and clawing desperately at the brick and mortar as if begging it to save him.
He hears the crunch of gravel behind him approaching steadily, and this bastard isn't even rushing in pursuit, is taking his sweet ass time and panic is shoved away by Griffin's returning anger that begins to pool in jerky swirls in his gut as he growls under his breath and fights the sudden breathtaking urge to turn around and throttle the man.
He doesn’t realize that he's stopped, fists clenched so tightly that he's breaking the skin of his palms in little crescent moons that sting incessantly on top of his other injuries, until he feels the cool metal of a revolver settle calmly against his left temple. A smidgen of panic returns for a moment and he hisses between grinding teeth, the icy cold of the steel a slow burn against the side of his face. The fear passes quickly and Griffin is enraged that this one mother fucker thinks he’s all that just because he’s caught the extremely weakened boy between a metaphorical rock and hard place.
Shaking now with both fatigue and the repressed force of his fury, he almost misses the slight nudge of the gun against his temple. He glares at the man from the side of his eyes, his lips rising in obvious distaste. The guerilla’s mouth is open as if he was about to say something-interrogate, order perhaps, he hesitates at the obvious hate rolling off the seemingly defenseless teen (lol wrong word) in front of him in waves. And in that moment of hesitation Griffin gathers himself and lashes out with all the force of a vengeful puma, catching the man full in the face with his fist. He feels a satisfying crunch of impact and grins, playful and terrible and he is about to lay into the man with more bone-jarring punches when a shot once more rings out in the echoing quiet of a morning in war-torn Chechnya. The accompanying shriek of agony is likewise ignored.