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itsclydebitches · 3 years

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RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Witch”

Happy Saturday, everyone! Well, it's perhaps happier provided you didn't watch today’s episode lol. Getting through these 18 minutes felt like watching an extended version of a CinemaSins vid. I heard a little 'ding!' every time something nonsensical, contradictory, or just downright stupid happened. My mind became a pinball machine.

Which, in the interest of being fair as opposed to just snarky, only matters if you're looking for something resembling emotional depth in this show. RWBY, for all its faults, is enjoyable as a mindless spectacle. It's when you expect — or simply hope — for anything more that this very fragile house of cards comes tumbling down.

If it’s not clear already, today’s recap contains copious amounts of salt. Fair warning.

With that disclaimer out of the way, let’s dive in. Episode nine is titled "Witch," which is fitting since many members of our group go toe-to-toe against Salem herself. The narrative issues inherent in having your heroes fighting their final boss years before the series is meant to end might have been avoided if it weren't for Oscar's ridiculous, sacrificial attack... but we'll get to that.

We open with a sweeping shot of the Atlas battle, as hundreds of dead soldiers segue into endless grimm. Hold onto that image for a bit. At the end of this carnage is, of course, the mouth of the whale. We cut to Jaune, Ren, and Yang already safely inside.

"Well," says Yang, "that was harrowing."

I'm on the fence about this choice. On the one hand, yes, it's good that RWBY knows it can skip over extraneous scenes. We have NINE characters to keep track of and develop, fourteen if you count Ozpin, Maria, Winter, Ironwood, and now Whitley. Plus villains. There simply isn't time to show every insignificant moment... but was this insignificant? Obviously finding Oscar and escaping Salem's clutches is the true hurdle of this mission, but that doesn't mean getting through an entire army of grimm is in any way a cake walk. I'd be more willing to ignore this time skip if it weren't likewise presented as such a challenge for Winter's team. They have to "clear a path" to the whale, but our trio got there unscathed and unnoticed? The obvious implication here is that Ren just masked them the whole way — supported by his aura breaking later in the episode — but it still feels like we missed an important chunk of this task.

I'm nit-picking though. As said, I’m straddling the fence on this one and, given that, I'm inclined to settle on a, "Good job, RWBY. You're keeping the writing tight," if only because I don't have much else to praise about this episode. Throw the poor, struggling show a bone lol.

Now that they're inside, they realize they haven't the slightest idea how they'll find Oscar. “Like finding a needle in a giant…whale… why did we think this was a good idea?!” Because you and your friends are idiots who no longer bother to think about a situation before throwing yourself straight into it? This isn't me being mean to Yang, she literally says as much later on. Our heroes no longer get by on intellect, strategy, and skill, but rather plot armor and a staggering number of coincidences. For example, Ren.

Yang: Wow, it sure is lucky for us that on our way to this incredibly dangerous mission Ren inexplicably developed a new part of his semblance. Now he can not only mask peoples' emotions, see the true emotions that someone is feeling, pull thoughts out of their head about what they believe about a situation, but can also track someone across long distances through their emotions alone. Even that doesn't actually help us find Oscar, we just got lucky again when, in this maze of a whale, he ran right into us!

Me: So what were you going to do if this meta-world stopped giving you the most contrived solutions in Remnant history?

Yang: Die gloriously, I guess.

What Yang actually says is, "Okay. That's new!" and they enter the literal belly of the beast wielding a shield of convenience.

Jaune is also being awkward again because remember, RWBY doesn't know when to incorporate humor and when to treat a situation seriously. He reminds Ren not to "drain [himself]," he'll help him, and it's clear the scene is hinting at their earlier fight. There's a lot to unpack there, but I want to save it for the second conversation.

For now, we cut to Oscar, curled up in his cell, repeating stories to comfort himself. Yeah that's fine. I could use a broken heart right before Valentine's Day.

“She brushed off her bumps and bruises, for nothing hurt worse than the loneliness in her chest." It's a line from The Girl Who Fell Through the World, which Ozpin recognizes given that he's "lived through" a fair number of fairy tales. He immediately asks how Oscar is holding up — because he's a caring person! — and Oscar admits that he never understood why the girl of the tale was sad upon reaching home again. Now he does: she wasn't the same person anymore. I don't think the fact that Oscar has had both a metaphorical fall — leaving his farm to 'fall' into this war — and a literal one — falling through Atlas to unlock his magic — is lost on anyone. This is a nice allusion to our themes. Yang's speech to Salem later on? That’s something else entirely.

Storytelling done, Ozpin says he thinks "this plan to divide might have run its course” and it's time to try and find a way to leave. I'm sorry, I love my farm boy, but what plan? He didn't do anything. At least nothing that could remotely be termed an intellectual plot. Oscar convinced Ozpin to try and turn Hazel by telling him the world would end under Salem's rule and the only reason that worked is because the story decided to chuck out Hazel's entire character. You know, the one that hates Ozpin above all others, wants the world remade into a non-Academy horror show, can't understand that people make their own choices, is terrified of Salem, and has no reason to trust a prisoner he's currently torturing. Oscar's "plan" hinged on his writers erasing a great deal of work to build a new story that fits said “plan.” He didn't even get Emerald involved, she just — again, conveniently — eavesdropped outside their door at just the right moment.

To be clear, I'm not against a story being written to work in the hero's favor. Of course things are going to be convenient in a happy-ending tale. Someone manages to hold out just as long as they need to, a sword is lying just within reach, you, yes, happen to run into the one person you're desperate to find. This kind of stuff is reassuring, telling its audiences that sometimes things do work out for the best. It's enjoyable... but only provided the hero's entire success doesn't hinge on fate being shockingly kind to them. That's what RWBY has become. A world where Salem doesn't attack Mantle, Amity Tower is suddenly finished, the group can charge into any deadly situation they want to and bank on destiny twisting around itself to ensure they come out of it safely. A hero finding a convenient weapon nearby to defeat their enemy with is only reassuring after we've seen them implement a brilliant attack, struggle, nearly win, but then suddenly be faced with failure, necessitating that little push from coincidence. They earned it. The hero doesn't get to run in blindly and find a Defeat Bad Guy plot point gift wrapped for them at the first sign of trouble. They just die.

RWBY used to be a better written show because that's precisely Pyrrha's story. She charged a Maiden unprepared, without a single plan or hope for success, and she died. That's what happens in a dangerous, internally consistent world, but RWBY has since lost the second half of that formula.

I'm harping on this because this entire episode is built on that foundation of coincidence, something that shouldn't be happening at all, but especially not when you're pitting the heroes against Salem herself.

So yeah, it just gets worse from here.

Back to Oscar. Without the cane magic is the only weapon they have at their disposal, but he's reluctant to use it because every time he does, they merge more quickly.

They... do?

Okay, there are three major problems with this announcement:

I'm pretty sure we've only seen Oscar use magic once: creating that barrier to survive the fall through Atlas. That was the point of his near death experience, to unlock something that had previously been unavailable to him. Yet if he's only used it once, why is he so sure that it hurries the merge along? What's this "every time" business? This confusion could have easily been avoided if the show had just let Oscar use his magic this volume, tackling some other questions and gaps in the process. Let him use it to fight off the grimm in Mantle, giving him the opportunity to admit to at least Jaune, Ren, and Yang that Ozpin is back. He could have used some magic against the Hound with Ozpin's encouragement, answering the question of why he was entirely silent while the two of them got their ass beat. Give us a moment where Oscar uses his magic against Hazel, nearly escaping in the process, but is captured again at the last moment. Basically, his line makes it sound like magic has been this ongoing resource with an established downside when... it hasn’t.

Coinciding with all of the above, how is it that Oscar can suddenly use magic at will? Yeah, yeah, he unlocked it during the fall, but really? You open up the magic gates and from then on out it's as natural as breathing? This is the same issue with Ruby's silver eyes. The story gives these characters incredible powers, but never has them talking about how they work, let alone training them. They just exist, perfect in execution, as soon as the plot needs them. (See: the final shot of this episode.) At least Weiss had to practice her summoning for multiple volumes.

Finally, the question of how Oscar instinctively knows how to use magic could easily be answered with, "Well, he's kind of Ozpin now," but that would require the story to actually explain what the merge is. "We merge faster," Oscar says, but what does that mean? The Ozpin and Oscar we see in this scene are fundamentally indistinguishable from the Ozpin and Oscar who existed at his aunt's house, four whole years ago. They're still separate people, with one controlling the body and the other existing as a consciousness he can talk to. Nothing has changed. The show keeps insisting that Oscar is going through this deep and painful arc of losing himself to Ozpin... despite the fact that he has yet to lose a single bit of Oscar-ness. Has he changed? Well of course, but anyone going through these experiences is going to change. Remove the "merge" aspect and Oscar's confidence or power up is likewise indistinguishable from any of the other characters' developments. Nora is becoming more of an individual this volume. Ren is becoming more powerful in his semblance. Neither have an Ozpin to force that change, it just happens on its own. So what separates Oscar from every other character going through a formative experience? When is “I’m not the same person anymore” due to unnatural magic vs. just growing up?

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy our boy is getting more screen time — and that the cast is actually being kind to him now — but overall his arc is objectively terrible. He bought some clothes, told Ironwood he was as bad as Salem, told Hazel how to access the Relic, and then asked him not to be a villain anymore. Somehow these things are presented as significant moments of growth while the real questions surrounding his merge go unanswered.

“Honestly, I think you’re doing just fine on your own," Ozpin tells him, but he's not. God knows our boy is trying, but this is a moment where Ozpin's self-hatred (and the story's insistence that the younger generation is intrinsically better than the older) is blinding him to the situation. Oscar has made terrible decisions lately, in as much as he's been able to decide anything at all, and now he's rejecting escaping captivity because he's terrified of a concept he doesn't even understand yet. None of that is fine. Reassurance is one thing, but painting this situation as Oscar making better choices than he would with Ozpin's input is insane. He literally just decided to keep them in Salem's clutches indefinitely because something something magic is scary, I guess. Oscar doesn't need a, 'You're better than me' speech, he needs a reality check so they don't both die. Remember back in Volume 5 when Oscar, a brave but idiotic 14 year old, insisted on fighting someone entirely out of his league and Ozpin was like,

then saved him from getting his head crushed in like a cantaloupe? We need more of that. Our teenage heroes need guidance, but because RWBY keeps insisting that every adult they encounter is corrupt or incompetent, that hasn't happened in three volumes. They're just aloud to decide things like, “Let's tell our captor the Relic's password because UwU ~trust~” and then the story bends over backwards to make that work. Instead we could, you know, let characters learn that they can be wrong.

The snow scene was the beginning, but RWBY really went off the rails the day it let Qrow warn the group against stealing from and attacking an allied city, only for them to call him an idiot for doubting them. Now, Ozpin doesn't even get to warn Oscar about stupid decisions, he just agrees with them, reassuring and passive. Never mind the complication of whether Ozpin is even emotionally capable of providing guidance after they labeled him the worst thing to ever happen to them.

Why does RWBY keep ruining my faves 😔

Anyway, we’ve got to stay on track. Oscar has decided to just lie there but, luckily for him, Hazel's redemption — I use that term so loosely — has begun. He drags Oscar out of his cell before we cut to Winter.

She's leading a portion of Ironwood's army, trying to get things ready for when the bomb arrives. Neon and Flynt are a part of her team, sharing scared glances and trying to remain optimistic. It's a legitimately hard-hitting moment, striking that balance between horror and hope. Funny though, I wonder that RWBYJNOR would think of their friends fighting for evil Ironwood...

Marrow, continuing the tradition of insisting that our heroes be both adults and kids simultaneously, looks sadly at the soldiers heading into battle and goes, "But... they're just kids." I would like to remind everyone reading that Ruby is younger than them. Anyone who thinks that these teenagers shouldn't be fighting grimm — the thing they have been training to do as their professional career, during an unprecedented attack on their home — should not simultaneously be looking to the girl who is two years younger as his savior. (Something that, while not overt yet, is very much where Marrow is heading as he continually doubts the Ace Ops and looks to RWBY's group as his new, moral leaders.) I'm glad that, for once, this perspective is firmly called out. Elm arrives to tell him point blank that he needs to figure out his personal ethics later. It doesn't matter because there's an army of grimm out there and monsters aren't going to spare anyone, adult or child. Quit philosophizing and kill some already.

Back to Hazel where we get the doorway shot from our trailer. He's taken Oscar to the Relic, because of course he has. Do I really need to list how convenient this is too? Apparently, "the moment we move that thing, this place goes on high alert," but there’s no alarm for when Oscar is taken from his cell, they enter the Relic's room, or when they use it. What does a movement alert matter if someone can just waltz in and waste the last question themselves? Put some of those endless grimm in the room to guard it, Salem!

Just assume that I am, at any given point in this episode, letting out the longest sigh my lungs are physically capable of.

Emerald shows up, demonstrating both the convenience of everyone arriving when they need to, and the very real danger that Salem herself could come in and discover what they're up to. Hazel has Oscar summon Jinn, only to immediately say that “Actually, I think all my questions are answered now.”

I'm sorry, how does this answer any of Hazel's questions? His driving question was not, "Is the Relic actually a magical object capable of doing magical things?" but rather "Are you telling me the truth about Salem's plans to summon the Gods and destroy all of Remnant in her quest to finally die, thereby changing who I'm going to support in this war?" Seeing a naked, blue djinn does not answer that question.

Hazel's "redemption" is non-existent. He — we — learned about Salem's death wish despite how that contradicts previous lore, then he trusted Ozpin despite that contradicting his entire character, now he joins the heroes because, literally, he sees Jinn floating there. It’s bad enough that Hazel goes from clear villain to sacrificial hero in a matter of in-world hours, but we don’t even get a reason for why that change occurred.

Oh, there's also this:

So Jinn doesn't come out of her lamp unless someone intends to ask a question, but does it for Ruby because she's special, yet still reiterates that this won't happen again. Then Oscar summons her without intending to ask a question, she comes out anyway, confirms that none of them seek knowledge from her, and happily pops back inside her lamp because eh, it’s whatever.

If RWBY had any courage the three of them would be cursed now for toying with a powerful, magical object. Remember the days when Jinn was a little terrifying because it felt like she was warping her answers and we had no idea what she might do to someone who used her carelessly? When she felt like a djinn? Good times.

Or better times, at least.

So Good Guy Hazel and Good Gal Emerald promise to get Oscar out. Never mind all the horror they caused, the people they killed, and that for Hazel, at least, this defection is coming out of nowhere.

Anyone remember that Emerald orchestrated Penny's death? No? Just me?

As they leave it turns out Neo was camouflaged against the wall, because she was also precisely where she needed to be. Does everyone just periodically pop into the Relic room to see what’s going on? At least this time it's not working in the heroes' favor. Remember when I said it's beyond idiotic for Oscar to just hand out the Relic information to known enemies currently holding him captive and torturing him?

Yeeeeaah.

So Neo's got the Lamp. Funny how all of this could have been avoided if Ruby had just put it in the vault like she came to Atlas to do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

We return to our trio where Jaune and Ren need to rest because their aura is giving out. Good! These guys fought a battle, fought Neo, fought more grimm, fought the Hound, traipsed through the tundra, presumably fought through more grimm to get to the whale, and have been using both their semblances to look for Oscar. It's about time their reserves started to falter.

Jaune decides to scout ahead a bit, leaving Yang and Ren to talk about nothing of importance. I mean that seriously. Remember a few days ago when I spoke about how, if the snow conversation does come back up, Ren's points would be entirely ignored for a nonsensical “I’m glad we’re friends” speech? Remember how I also spoke about how every emotional beat now is entirely generic and you could replace any character with another and not a single thing would change? Yeah. This is both those arguments in one. Nothing is said about the points Ren made. His problems with how the group has been acting lately and the very real, very deadly consequences it has had are flat out ignored. We went from

"But these aren't the kinds of decisions we should be making because we have no idea what we're doing!"

"Forward, no matter what!"

in a matter of hours, with precisely zero insight into how Ren went from one perspective to the exact opposite. Kind of like Hazel. Because see, RWBY doesn't write arcs, it just writes one thing until it decides to switch it up for something else, with the opposite idea presented as a “resolution” or a “twist.” Our creators writes scenes they know the fandom is begging for without considering how to get a character to that place, let alone how to get them out of it. That's all Ren's speech was, the equivalent of moral fan service. Here's a glimpse of actual character depth and a morally gray situation... now forget it ever happened because we're back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Instead of working through the laundry list of issues Ren raised, Ren instead accepts Jaune's aura help — something they've been doing since Argus — and tells Yang it's okay to be scared. These moments are meaningless and, as said, could have been between anyone in our cast. Ren could have told Nora she doesn't have to use jokes to cover up that she's scared. Jaune could have reminded Ruby that she can depend on him. Yang could have tried to keep Blake and Weiss' hopes up. This scenes ignores the individuality of the characters, like the fact that they just fought over very different world views, to instead favor any dime-a-dozen moment of support. The number of times this volume has rejected the conflict and resolution the group needs for bland, generic reassurances staggering.

Also, apparently Jaune isn't scared at all? I don't think that's as good a thing as Ren seems to think...

Then Jaune immediately rounds the corner, terrified lol.

One of the seer grimm is on its way and he tells Ren to mask them. Apparently he had been masking them before — one of the reasons he's so tired now, trying to do two things at once — but it's only here that they go black and white again. Ren manages to keep it up for a little while, but his aura breaks before the seer passes and they're spotted.

Hark! A consequence!

That was well done. It makes sense and it adds to the stakes. We've seen the insane amount of fighting the group has done since Volume 7, we just established that they're at their breaking point, and then Ren's aura fails him right when he needs it the most. Add this to the miniscule pile of things that were well done this episode.

Salem runs into Emerald and Hazel, the former of which is acting very suspicious when asked if he's made any headway with Oscar. The seer's alarm interrupts them though and... okay. Was I the only one who cackled during this moment? Between Salem's voice acting and the fact that she just yeets herself down the hallway, it came across as really funny to me.

Either way, it is a bad situation. Our trio is trying to figure out what to do, to which Yang responds, "Do what we do best… charge blindly into danger!!”

Ren's aura is broken. Jaune barely has any left and it’s unlikely he could heal right now even if Ren had any aura to amplify. If Ren takes a single hit anywhere important he is dead.

Me, on my knees, surrounded by the ashes of the Hound, the last bit of serious storytelling we had: "For the love of God, the kingdom is on fire and simultaneously dying of cold. There's a grimm army decimating hundreds outside. Half their group is missing and they're wandering lost inside a devil whale, about to have the most powerful being Remnant has ever known personally try to kill them — can we please have their attitudes reflect that?"

The answer, in case you were wondering, is no.

Back to the bomb. Whatever scientists were given this task have completed it and Marrow watches as it's flown out towards the whale. "Come on, Juan" he whispers and I'm all, "Juan?" Apparently it's a callback to last volume when Marrow couldn't remember Jaune's actual name, but it took me hopping onto the RWBY wiki to remember that.

As death via explosion inches closer, the trio runs into Hazel and Emerald. Turns out though that Hazel is really Oscar, disguised through Emerald's semblance. Nice trick! Jaune immediately drops both weapons to hug Oscar and, while that's nice and all, it's also the stupidest thing he could possible do in enemy territory. Also, Oscar has been beaten up by the Hound, tortured with magic, and likewise beaten bloody by Hazel. I was hoping for a tender hug like the one Nora gave him, not a giant squeeze for more comedy purposes. It just feels like RWBY has no idea how to manage the tone of this volume, let alone the torture of a child...

There's the obligatory, "Why should we trust you?" from Yang regarding Emerald joining the team, to which Ren responds, "Because she's scared, just like us."

That doesn't prove anything. Literally everyone is scared right now. There is a war going on. I really cannot emphasize enough how RWBY throws out Deep™ sounding lines that are, upon inspection, absolutely nonsensical. Nora reminding Penny that there are different parts to her personhood, Hazel saying that all his questions have been answered, Ren announcing that Emerald is scared... it's all worthless chatter that has no bearing on their problems: How do I keep from being hacked? How do I know you're telling the truth? How do we know you're trustworthy after you spent years trying to kill us? But of course, because it's RWBY, Ren's announcement is treated as some sort of secret truth that everyone accepts. Emerald joins up.

As they head for an exit we return to Marrow who, frankly, is getting on my last nerve. I know the fandom loves him because he's clearly leaning towards Team RWBY, but does anyone actually listen to what he says? He starts yelling at Winter for sending in the bomb because the trio might still be alive in there, despite:

Seeing for himself the hundreds of soldiers that have fallen trying to keep Atlas safe

Knowing and hearing again from Winter that the only way to stop this carnage is to take out the whale. Given more time, the whole city falls

Sadly announcing to the world that children shouldn't have to fight in a battle, rather than just joining the fray and helping to keep those kids safe

How does Marrow think those kids are going to be able to stop fighting? How does he think he'll get a city to return to? It's no wonder that he's drawn to Ruby because both characters stand around twiddling their thumbs, mourning that things are bad, and blaming others for imperfect solutions rather than doing something to make the situation better. Marrow's disgust at Winter over the bomb is precisely the same as Ruby's disgust at Ironwood over Mantle: how dare you not have a plan that results in both victory for us and zero sacrifices? They want perfection which, yes, is an admirable trait, but their problem is they refuse to do anything until that perfection appears. They’re paralyzed, a trait that’s particularly dangerous when your story insists that perfection will never appear: it’s not a fairy tale. So they just continue to get mad at others for the fact that they live in an unfair world. You want that perfect solution? Think it up yourself. Otherwise, stand aside and let those coming up with something do what they can to make things better.

Marrow goes so far as to drag Weiss into things, trying to guilt Winter with the knowledge that she'll have to relate the death of her sister's friends back to her. Winter, because she's a badass who isn't in denial over the situation, tells him that yes, she will shoulder that responsibility. To Marrow's credit he backs off then, but man. RWBY has legitimate moral questions here — when is holding out for a few worth risking the many? — but they go about exploring it in the most frustrating way possible. I personally have no respect for the guy who wants to announce that Children In War Is Bad instead of, you know, using the power he currently has to protect those kids already neck deep in a battle.

Because John Mulaney remains relevant:

"There shouldn't be a horse in the hospital :( "

"We're WELL PAST THAT."

Marrow is the one going, "There shouldn't be kids in a war :( We shouldn't have to kill a few to save the whole kingdom :( " and everyone around him is like, "No shit, dude! But this is the hand we were dealt! You going to help us, or what?"

Literally all of these characters could have been so much more than what they currently are.

Except Winter. She's doing great.

Now for the final scene. Our group nearly manages to escape the whale, but is incapacitated by some sort of screechy power that Salem employs.

She contorts her body, stretching out her arms to snag Emerald, and the others have a brief, but intense skirmish. Jaune manages to block a blast of magic aimed at Ren with his shield — nice — and Yang dots Salem's face with a bunch of bombs before blowing her sky-high — double nice. Oscar shoots out some magic of his own because, yeah, I guess he can just do that now? It really feels like it came out of nowhere after eight episodes of being the punching bag.

Of course, Salem immediately reforms. She traps the group with grimm arms that come out of the whale, interrogating Ozpin about why he bothers to keep coming back. There's a very sad answer there of, "I don't," referring to his lack of choice in reincarnating to fight her.

Yang interrupts their little tet-a-tet to throw the question back in Salem's face, calling her out on her choices. A great idea but, as always, execution: "because something bad happened to you once upon a time? No one gets a fairy tale ending."

I’m sorry, but that dialogue had me cringing. Like I said before, way too on the nose. There's keeping with the fairy tale theme, and then there's shoving the viewer's face in it. More of Oscar's musings on how he relates to the protagonists of fairy tales, blurring the lines between storytelling and reality, which in turn encourages the viewer to consider how they see themselves in the RWBY cast. Less... whatever this is.

Yang goes on to talk about how many people Salem has taken from her, which upon reflection makes a certain amount of sense if you toss in all the people who are here, but changed somehow due to Salem's influence, as well as acquaintances who died as a result of her meddling: Raven is scared off, Tai suffers as a result, Pyrrha dies, Penny dies, Yang loses her arm and her school. I think the dialogue could have been revised to reflect that better though because what Yang implies is that Salem has killed countless of her loved ones, yet what she says is, "Summer Rose. My mom." Honestly, for the few seconds this exchange was happening my thoughts weren't even on Summer. Yang calls Salem out for killing loved ones and my brain went, "Pyrrha??"

That's how little they've done with Yang and Summer. I know in the past I've argued that RWBY has a "better late than never" situation going on, that I would praise them for making the right writing choices even if they arrive years too late... but now that we're here, I find that it's a hard problem to overlook. Summer is Yang's mom? When's the last time we heard that? Volume 2? Whenever the conversation with Blake was. Since then Yang has called Raven "Mom," focused on that emotional connection (or lack thereof), was excluded from the conversation with Qrow, comforted Ruby after she was blindsided by Salem's taunt, and otherwise hasn't mentioned Summer at all. There is no foundation for this accusation except a few lines about getting cookies as a child and the fact that we're tossing references in now makes me worried that we'll indeed get a grimm!Summer reveal. Better remind the audience that she exists before the twist arrives! Honestly, as much as a part of me wants to praise RWBY for trying to get things back on track, moments like this just ring hollow now. They waited years and now it’s too late. It doesn't help that this is the episode where we shrug off Ren's speech. What will Yang's cutting admission amount to based on this trend? Probably nothing. Summer will become Yang’s mom again in another six seasons.

Salem, obviously, doesn't care. The real Hazel arrives and she orders him to take Oscar back to his cell. Instead, he gives him his cane with a whispered, "No more Gretchens, boy."

Behold, another meaningless line. Hazel hates Ozpin for "forcing" Gretchen on a mission and "getting" her killed. The whole point of his villainy is that he doesn't understand the concept of choice and that bad things can happen to good people with no one able to prevent it. Not every loss has a responsible party attached (outside of, you know, Salem/the grimm). So what is he even demanding here? No more huntsmen schools? That's what you wanted Salem for. No more "forcing" people to fight for you? Ozpin never did that in the first place. Or is it just a strange promise that no one else will die here? RWBY seems to be under the impression that they can just name drop dead family members — Summer, Gretchen — and that's that. Emotional depth created, never mind a lack of buildup or clarity.

Then Hazel punches Salem across the room and she releases every single hero from their bonds. See the theme of this episode: convenience. Hazel shoves a whole bunch of dust crystals into his shoulders and yells that he's doing what Gretchen would have wanted, clearly sacrificing himself so that the others can escape. The battle between him and Salem is pretty decent. I enjoyed the dust vs. magic creativity and the sheer damage Salem can take before reforming. This fight really showcases how not human she is.

It does, however, bring into question Hazel's reveal about her needing an hour to heal at the longest. I mentioned how unlikely it would be that our heroes would get the chance to "kill" her multiple times, yet here we are, just a few episodes later. They got that opportunity and... does it matter? Salem's reforming doesn't appear to slow down at all, despite her head getting obliterated at least three times, so at what point does she need longer than a few seconds to heal? If this was meant to be a potential weakness the group would eventually exploit, we needed to see it here, both for that setup and to keep it consistent with Hazel's story.

Regardless, they fight and at first it looks like a pretty straight-forward sacrifice on Hazel's part, giving the group their chance to escape. Except... Oscar.

"She'll just come after us," he tells Jaune, turning away from him to fight.

I need a list for this:

Of course she's going to come after you. This is not some shocking revelation. At no point has anyone thought that escaping the whale is the answer to all their problems, it just creates one less problem to deal with. Namely, the problem of "Our ally is captured, being tortured, and may give up important intel to the enemy. Oh, also he's about to be blown up with a bomb." Salem coming after them doesn’t matter. What matters is making her plans as difficult as possible as you work to come up with more solutions of your own. This is just a smaller version of the Ironwood conflict: “Well, Salem will just follow Atlas into the sky so it’s useless to attempt escape, or to buy ourselves time.” It’s really not. I know I’ve used this ridiculous comparison before, but if you’re ever chased by a horror movie serial killer hell-bent on your destruction and your reaction to this problem is, “Why run? He’ll just chase us. The only possible choice is to fight him with a 99% chance of our death,” then I beg you to re-evaluate things.

What was the point of coming to rescue Oscar if he was just going to stay behind? The whale is about to be blown up by a bomb and the trio risked their lives ten times over to get to him. If I were them I would be pissed. We went through all that to get you out and now you’re refusing to leave when we have a chance? Thanks for that.

Same with Hazel. Not that I care about the guy, but if I was sacrificing myself for others to escape I'd be pretty annoyed at them randomly deciding not to do that.

What does Oscar even think he's going to do? Kill the immortal witch? The entire point of our series is that they can’t do that (yet).

However, if he is able to do something significant via Ozpin's magic, why didn't Ozpin do that generations ago? Somehow I don't think a younger Ozma closer to the height of his power was in a worse position to attack Salem than a tortured, aura-less kid who unlocked his magic yesterday. The more RWBY reveals about Salem, the more I go, “Okay, but why didn’t his happen [insert any number of years] ago?”

Did Jaune actually leave? I assume he's just grabbing an airship or something before coming back to drag Oscar away, but seriously where did he go?

There's no way I can approach this scene without throwing up my hands and going, "What? WHY?" Which is a real shame because we finally get to see a bit of what the cane does and it’s... precisely what Ozpin's magic has always done? I mean, we saw that green shield five years ago and now there's a giant white beam. Okay.

If the beam just hits Salem with Generic Magic Power then there was never anything secret about the cane, it’s just, you know, Ozpin’s weapon. If the cane does something significant to hurt her we're left with the question of why it took literal generations to use it. Nothing is making sense to me and the only way I can think to salvage this scene is if Jaune runs back in, snags Oscar like a sack of potatoes, and runs out yelling about how he's clearly suffering from a concussion because what are you trying to accomplish here?

It doesn't help that this moment feels... final. Hazel has managed to hold Salem in place. Oscar has unlocked his cane and lands some mega hit right before Hazel passes out and looses his hold. Not only does this feel like a scene that should be at the end of the volume (we've still got five episodes), but also the end of the series. RWBY is building Salem into an unbeatable enemy by giving her more and more powers, and simultaneously eliminating the stakes by having our currently weakest character (in terms of exhaustion/injuries/aura/training) landing a shot like that. Why would you nerf Salem's threat level like that in the middle of a volume? Especially with a tool our group has had available from the start? If the cane does damage, maybe lead with that in the, “Here’s why we should stay and fight” office conversation.

I assume that Oscar's hit will obliterate Salem to the point where both he and Hazel have time to escape, or he obliterates both of them (“Do it”) and that's somehow presented as a better choice than just running while Salem is captured, or the bomb will interrupt things somehow... but it's just so shoddily done. At the very least, if they were going to have Oscar refuse to let someone fight alone, have it be an actual friend he's staying to assist. Having Oscar refuse his own rescue to help Hazel has more than one problem attached to it. We can say what we want about RWBY's themes of forgiveness, but this guy was torturing him just a few hours ago while serving Remnant's version of the devil. Just let him sacrifice himself and move on.

And that's where we end. Oscar powering up, the cane getting all magic-y, and him shooting a crazy big blast that engulfs both Salem and Hazel. I can't believe how not excited I am about my farm boy doing something badass, but here we are.

Overall I think this episode was way worse than last week's. We absolutely had problems in "Dark," particularly when it came to the Hound and the group's blind devotion to Ruby, but at least those moments were cushioned by an otherwise decent episode. "Witch" felt like I was watching something closer to a parody of RWBY, one deliberately poking fun at the fandom's desires: erase all conflict for awkward silly times, your favorite villains are instantly good now, the heroes go toe-to-toe with the main antagonist because why not, throw a bunch of magic in there for good measure, and wrap it all up in some over the top "this isn't a fairy tale" lines. I can see the pieces of a much better episode here — Emerald sneaking Oscar out with her semblance, Neo snagging the relic, Flint and Neon, Hazel attacking Salem — but it simply didn't come together.

I know I said this last time, but I have no idea what we're going to do for another five episodes. Salem slowly reforming from bomb damage as the group tries to keep Penny from opening the vault? The grimm attack halted with the whale gone so Qrow can go after Ironwood? The longer this volume runs, the more I think it was a mistake for them to introduce Salem as a fightable antagonist now. RWBY doesn't know what to do with her besides have her inevitably fall in the final season, so until then she's left being stupid (Relic), passive (Mantle), or, likely, written out of the story temporarily so the heroes can turn their attention towards smaller conflicts and weaker foes. They literally can’t beat Salem yet, but they can’t focus on other problems when she’s around without coming across as negligent, so if you have to find ways to erase her to make room for that... what was the point of bringing her here in the first place? We could have established that Salem is bound to her realm and had her send the Hound and whale to attack Atlas. There, all the fun parts of the volume without her complicated presence.

Well, the next five weeks will certainly be interesting, at the very least...

Until next time 💜

[Ko-Fi]

#rwby #rwby spoilers #rwby volume 8 #rwby witch #mymetas #rwby recaps

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thepetulantpen · 3 years

Text

Two Librarians in Armageddon

(Day 5 of @shadowgastweek! Only had time for one fic this week, but after I read this prompt my brain said Pacific Rim AU and would not leave me alone until I wrote this. It’s pretty long, so here’s the ao3 link.)

(Pacific Rim AU, featuring the wizards as scientists!)

Caleb would not say he’s fond of working with others, let alone sharing his lab.

Solitary work is more in his nature, but after years of sharing close-quarters with Veth- and after getting adjusted to Jester, in general- he’s learned to tolerate, even enjoy, having company while he’s working. His friends have more than prepared him for anyone else he’ll have to work with; they’ve ensured that he’ll be hanging onto his habits of keeping anything important secured, in the event of an unexpected explosion, and of guarding his coffee with his life, in the event of poorly-timed pranks.

He does not think his new lab partner will be bringing any unstable explosives, or sugary abominations to replace his coffee with.

From what he’s been told, the new addition to their little pre-apocalypse team is a physicist working on tech for a competing company, someone far outside Caleb’s scope. The fact that they still have competing companies of mech-developers while there are aliens bursting from the sea to eat them is a nightmare all its own, but the writhing horrors of capitalism are a beast that science, and the Kaiju guts strewn across the table before him, has proved ineffective against.

The truce between them, in the interest of allowing powerful Jaegers to work together, is an uneasy and temporary one. Caleb, personally, doesn’t think it’ll last beyond one or two failures. He just hopes they won’t fall back into the slew of sabotages that plagued them at the beginning of their downward spiral, before everyone realized the world may actually be ending.

The rather small detail of imminent Armageddon has made his preference, or lack thereof, for company inconsequential. In the long run- or short, if they don’t manage a major breakthrough soon- his opinions as an introvert are insignificant.

It’s not all bad- as an innately curious person, the opportunity to meet someone just as experienced as him in the field of Kaiju is fascinating. Particularly considering that their specialization is so different; he’s almost looking forward to the new insight. He’d even be excited if it wasn’t for the subject matter.

It can be challenging to be enthusiastic about the driving force of the apocalypse.

He digs deeper into the partially collapsed chunk of Kaiju ribcage in front of him, no longer bothered by his poor choice of distraction. It’s a misnomer to call it a ribcage, given that the Kaiju do not have bones in the classical sense, but it’s close enough in location to approximate. He’d rather have a brain to work with, though he’ll settle for what he can get. Storing Kaiju is difficult, with their accelerated rate of rot once exposed to the air- if he’s not careful, his work could be reduced to ash in an hour.

He needs to catalogue the differences between this corpse and the last, pinpointing patterns in organ placement. The work is dull, while still requiring his full concentration to avoid puncturing any of the many, many inexplicably acidic organs. If he wasn’t already good friends with the base’s medics, he would’ve been taken off this job long ago.

Once he’s elbow-deep in a Kaiju, he stops paying attention to the door. He does not notice the knocking, nor the quiet greeting, nor the faint whir of machinery as his new colleague hovers through the doorway.

“Should you be touching that? It looks toxic.”

Caleb jumps at the voice beside him and the scalpel in his hand jerks, cutting into the mystery organ he’d been considering removing. Something vaguely liquid hits his wrist above the glove and he waits two seconds to see if it’ll burn, before deciding he probably doesn’t need to run screaming to the nearest med station.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, partially in response and partially to himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

He looks down, towards his new colleague, who, at first glance, is thoroughly unimpressed at that lie.

He sits in a wheelchair- minus the wheels, as it hovers gently off the ground, coming to about the same height the wheels would give it. Clearly a new model- hovering technology aside- it’s a sleek, minimalist white, matching his equally sleek, swept back white hair. The high turtleneck and overly formal coat allow Caleb to immediately peg him as somewhat uptight. Near-apocalypse has made formality rare.

Caleb hurries to wash his hands, finding the nearby sink labelled for nasty, potentially lethal chemical disposal. “I was told you’d arrive today, but,” he glances up at the dingy lab clock, the glass cracked from Veth’s last visit, “I didn’t imagine it’d be so soon. It’s, uh, a bit of a mess.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, unconvincingly, and changes track, “That desk is mine, yes?”

There’s only one other desk in the room, moved there sometime yesterday after Caleb, under threat from his superiors, managed to shift away some of the boxes that line the walls. It’s only a small space, but it’s the cleanest part of the room.

The question, he reasons, is rhetorical, but Caleb nods anyway. He considers that answer enough- though the other man doesn’t move, staring at him expectantly. He’s oddly expressive, his attempts to keep a completely straight face only making any slipups, like the annoyed twitch of his eyebrow, more obvious.

It makes it easy to see the exact moment his patience runs out.

“I’m sure you were informed, but,” here, he looks to the side, dodging Caleb’s returning attention, “for the sake of introductions, I am Essek Thelyss.”

Ah, so that’s what he’d forgotten. Caleb thinks it’s unfair that he had to fail miserably at one of the last introductions he will have made before the end of the world- surely, he could’ve had just one go smoothly.

“Oh- I’m Caleb,” he reaches out a hand, meeting Essek’s already extended one for a brief shake- his hands may be clean now, but Essek doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of touching Kaiju guts, even indirectly, “Caleb Widogast.”

Something unidentifiable passes over Essek’s expression- disappointment or judgement, perhaps, at not recognizing the name. Widogast is not printed on any books, nor is it associated with anything high-profile like Thelyss; strictly, it doesn’t exist at all.

That, or the smell of the rotting Kaiju getting to him.

As he watches Essek pause halfway across the room to clear his path, and again to widen the space around his desk, Caleb is hit with the vivid realization that this isn’t going to be an enlightening, academic experience, nor an uncomfortable few days of socialization. It’s going to be more than a bump in the alien-fueled crisis that is his current existence.

This is going to be a disaster.

…

“Widogast, do you have any idea where my notebook’s gone?”

It has only taken Caleb three days to be able to identify the various tones for annoyed in Essek’s voice. There’s this is a minor inconvenience and this is a major inconvenience and this is one of many annoying things I haven’t pointed out yet today, including, but not limited to, the ever-present stench of Kaiju flesh.

He can say, with relative confidence, that this falls into the latest category.

“Have you tried all your desk drawers?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing the question is unnecessary but stalling for time as he heaves the last of the Kaiju parts- partially burned and fragmented limbs, today- onto his work table.

Essek, unlike Caleb, is meticulously organized, never misplaces anything and files according to system that escapes Caleb, no matter how many times he tries to decode it. From Essek’s perspective, the rest of the lab is a dangerous no man’s land of abject chaos- though Caleb has never lost anything. He knows, precisely, where everything is, no piece of preserved alien fading from his memory. An organization system is pointless, when one has a photographic memory.

That is, until one has to share a lab with someone who bothers to keep track of their belongings.

He doesn’t wait for a response, already able to picture Essek behind him, sitting with his arms crossed and looking deeply disappointed by Caleb’s suggestion, which amounts to did you turn it on and off again? Leaving the still sealed Kaiju parts where they are, he turns back to his own desk.

After exonerating himself and Essek, the list of suspects for meddling with their desks is very short. The base, these days, is not the hub of activity it used to be, back when there were far more Jaeger pilots alive and far better morale. Their lab is typically empty, aside from Caleb and Essek, as few people are inclined towards the smell of dead Kaiju. Even the corporals, some of the rare higher-ups with clearance, can’t be bothered to visit more frequently than their mandatory check-ins.

He can only think of two people who clearance would not be an issue for.

“Is he handsome, Caleb?”

“I don’t think it would be professional—”

“He definitely is, Jessie.”

Before today, he’d thought that Jester and Veth hadn’t gotten around to the visit they’d been threatening; clearly, they’d taken the liberty while he wasn’t in. Veth knows better than to steal notebooks- she wouldn’t be interested in them, anyway- and Jester isn’t in the habit of taking things, only misplacing them.

Caleb hardly ever uses his own desk, preferring to leave his notebooks scattered over the lab tables, in easier reach. Only the older ones are still perched on his desk, in a precariously tall pile- but one notebook stands out from the rest, not quite as ratty and overstuffed as his own.

“Ah, here it is,” he holds it up, gesturing Essek over and trying not to look too sheepish- it is not, after all, his fault. As he hands it over, and quickly turns back to his work, he can only hope that Jester hasn’t doodled anything too embarrassing inside. “Jester must have misplaced it, while exploring the lab.”

“Jester?” Essek asks, eyebrows furrowing in something that would be irritation, if his expression wasn’t trained to be so stoic, “Is she supposed to have clearance here?”

“The medical staff have free reign, in case of incidents with hazardous material.” He glances back at Essek, who still looks confused, and remembers that not everyone is on a first-name basis with the medics. “Jester Lavorre. You might know Caduceus- that is, Mr. Clay- better. He’s the more… healing inclined, of the two.”

“Jester Lavorre,” Essek starts, slowly as he unpacks his own question, “regularly comes here to… explore? What, she just, rifles through your things?”

He is not sure how to explain the idea of Jester to someone who doesn’t know her.

Essek already looks delightfully confounded- a considerable a departure from his typical stern concentration. Caleb almost wants to thank Jester for pulling Essek away from the handheld chalkboards he spends his days bent over, lines of nearly indecipherable equations appearing and disappearing with only the smudge of chalk on Essek’s hands as evidence of their existence. Distracting Essek has proved to be a challenge- even the sounds of saws and the number of other unpleasant devices involved in Kaiju dissection don’t get Caleb so much as a glance.

He does not try to explain Jester, opting to shrug, instead. “She knows she can find me here, so she stays until I show up. Sometimes she gets bored.” It occurs to him that other people haven’t been prepped for company in the same way he has. It occurs to him that it is abnormal to brace for a scavenger hunt every time he enters the lab. “I suggest you leave your important documents in a locked drawer.”

He refrains from telling Essek that Veth can pick locks and that Jester has broken open desk drawers before (there was an incident involving a prank war, smuggling, and increasingly desperate hiding places). None of it seems particularly reassuring.

Essek gives him a strange look, but nods. “I will keep that in mind.”

“You might also find things that aren’t yours by your desk.” Caleb looks over his shoulder to see Essek still watching him. “Consider them gifts.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Caleb pauses, realizing that none of the things he was about to list are work-appropriate, “Well, it could be anything.”

Caleb’s starting to worry that he might end up causing the rift between companies that leads to the end of the world- with his terrible first impression, and equally bad secondary impressions- but when a parasol shows up at Essek’s desk a day later, he does not ask Caleb where it came from.

He does, however, quietly ask Caleb to send along his thanks to Jester.

…

“I am not imagining that it smells particularly bad today, yes?”

Caleb has acquired, in part thanks to Veth, partial halves of two Kaiju hearts. Partial is the best they could manage, on account of the massive holes blown in the beasts’ chests. Nonetheless, he’s ecstatic- an opportunity like this, for a direct comparison, is rare.

Kaiju barbecue, as it turns out, does not smell very appetizing. It is what he would think a bucket of cleaning supplies set on fire would smell like, though it leaves the air with the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap fruit snacks.

“They’re a little charred,” he says, hiding a smile- they are far more than a little charred, “Veth’s testing out different chemical combinations for the Jaeger ammunition. I don’t think she’s quite nailed it yet.”

Essek scoffs, cautiously approaching the table with one hand over his nose and mouth, the other resting on the chair’s controls. “How many people of wildly different departments are you on a first-name basis with?”

“Just a few.” Thoroughly distracted with cutting away the burnt pieces, Caleb doesn’t look up. “There’s also, uh, Fjord. He captains one of the boats, works on deployment.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” A soft whir, as Essek hovers a few inches higher, putting him at a better height to peer over the table with Caleb. “Do you need any help?”

Caleb blinks, surprised, and almost drops the scalpel he was sanitizing. “Aren’t you busy?”

Essek, with his old-fashioned chalkboards in the place of far more convenient holograms, never leaves his desk, never so much as turns around to bounce a theory off of Caleb. It seems like there’s a new pack of chalk and fresh notebook on his desk every other day- clearly he’s making progress, but the bubble of focus around Essek is too intimidating for Caleb to investigate.

“I’ve reached a stopping point,” Essek frowns when Caleb looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and sighs, “I’m stuck on the particle displacement we’ve detected at the mouth of the rifts, which only seems to effect the Kaiju, not the pilots. It’s- I don’t think you’d be interested. I need something else to do, while I brainstorm.”

Caleb manages to bite back his disappointment at not getting to hear the rest and points towards the sink- the one safe for normal use, that doesn’t currently have corrosion scars from caustic acids. “I can definitely give you that.”

Essek, unsurprisingly, is incredibly helpful. He might not fully understand the process, but he’s precise in following Caleb’s instructions and doesn’t complain when he has to touch the gross, slimy parts. He generously interprets Caleb’s just put them over there to mean place them very carefully in straight lines. It only takes him a few minutes to get the hang of it, effortlessly following Caleb’s lead as they work in parallel on their respective halves of the hearts.

“I can’t say I understand the appeal,” Essek starts, after many minutes of silence, “but there’s certainly something to working with the actual thing, rather than theory.”

Caleb is working at a particularly tough piece- the Kaiju are, if nothing else, heavily armored, inside and out- the exposure to oxygen making everything harder to pull apart, to cut up and catalogue. He doesn’t look up at Essek’s words, but finds his attention easily split.

“It’s all about,” Caleb pushes down, again, and the muscles finally give, “manipulating the body, finding what makes it tick. From there, we can change it.”

“Like,” Essek pauses, hesitating, “change it from living to dead, you mean.”

Caleb huffs, almost under his breath, “In this circumstance, perhaps.”

To his side, he sees Essek’s hands still, briefly, and feels eyes on him as Essek looks up. Essek has this way of looking at him, like he’s waiting for something, until an invisible tell gives him away. He feels both studied and seen through.

Caleb can’t say he hates it.

“You don’t sound as happy about that as I’d expect. Normally, people are thrilled at the thought of dead Kaiju,” Essek gestures, with one gloved hand, over the table, “More for you.”

Caleb looks firmly down at the heart, imagining the many cross-sections and pieces still unmapped, in the burned away absence. “I just think that more can be done.”

“I suppose that’s one thing we can agree on.” Essek is already looking at him when Caleb looks up, so their eyes meet, “The other side of the rifts are far more interesting. There’s no telling what we could find, how we could progress- but we need those doors closed, if we’re going to be alive to enjoy that progress.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as leaving them open or closed.”

Essek leans back over the heart, having found what he was looking for in Caleb’s expression, and mutters, almost to himself, “You might be right about that.”

Caleb doesn’t say anything else, just watches as Essek finishes with his portion of the heart. Essek’s hands, even with the borrowed plastic gloves, do not look like they belong amongst the controlled carnage of the lab table. Made for spinning chalk between fingers, and gliding across the holograms.

He lines up the scalpel again, just a bit off-target, just a bit too close to the arteries. “Ah, don’t—”

Caleb grabs Essek’s hand, stopping him before he pierces something he shouldn’t- the faint burns on his own hands are proof of this lesson learned. Essek freezes, startled by the contact, and grips the scalpel a little tighter before he catches up to what’s happened and pulls back.

Caleb lets him go, with some reluctance. “The blood is, uh, acidic. You have to cut around carefully, or it– you get the picture.”

“It’s good that you were watching, then,” Essek doesn’t smile, but his face suggests that he might have, if he possessed less self-control, “I owe you one, Widogast.”

Caleb does not possess that same control- he’s not sure what Essek hears in his voice as he says, “It’s no trouble.”

He thinks, in the end, he may have been more successful in distracting himself from his work, than he was in distracting Essek.

…

Caleb has reached the point where the crick in his neck from leaning over his work, the pages and pages of pieced together neural pathways and conflicting experiments, is threatening to make the hunch of his shoulders permanent. Essek cannot be in a much better place- Caleb glances over to catch him with his head in his hands, again, a half-filled chalkboard laying forlornly on his desk.

Caleb stands with no warning, letting his pen clatter on the table and pushing his chair away with more force than necessary. Essek looks up, alarmed and- unless Caleb’s imagining it- intrigued.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Which is how they’ve found themselves on the steel catwalk above the Jaegers, high up in the hanger and out of sight of people who know they shouldn’t be here. Neither of them are stealthy enough to pull this off for long- the equivalent of two librarians, tiny amongst the massive machines that represent their only hope against Armageddon.

“It’s always weird to see them from up here.” The giant, unpiloted mechs seem to stare back at Caleb as they’re shifted into place. Empty eyes, visors with no life behind them. “Feels like we shouldn’t be looking at them eye-to-eye.”

Essek hums, and leans forward slightly, as close to the rails as he dares. “I’m more used to seeing them in diagrams.”

Caleb had known, in theory, that there must be a tangled web of physics behind the engineering of the Jaegers, but it’s different to know that Essek holds those secrets. He’d love nothing more than to pick his brain about it, even if it’s far outside his field. It’s a shame the hanger feels like an inappropriate place to host a high-detail physics lecture.

“It must be interesting, working with us. Thelyss has been, uh,” he hesitates, unsure if this is rude to point out, “forgive me for saying, rather at odds with Dwendalian interests.”

Essek is quiet for a moment, almost long enough for Caleb to pull the ripcord and apologize, before responding, “It has been interesting. It is… an opportunity, for me, to work for something greater than I have in the past.”

“In the past?”

“We have not been as,” he pauses, searching for the word, “kind as we should have, in sharing our designs. Many have failed to consider the state of the world in our quest for progress.”

Corporate sabotage in the race for mechs is something of a well-known secret. The extent of it is hidden, mostly, behind the veil of the destruction that it coincided with. Trading the right secrets to the wrong person could take you far- it just might mean leaving burning cities in your wake.

Essek, overlooking the last of the Jaegers, the vestiges of hope for the world, suddenly looks so tired, older than Caleb had seen him before now. It reminds of Caleb of his own reflection, at night when the manic layer of end of the world is wiped away to reveal exhaustion. Essek’s formality, the organized face he presents, functions as just another mask.

“I have made many mistakes. I am hoping-” Essek shakes his head, correcting himself, “All I can do is try again. To be better.”

Caleb cannot absolve him, cannot lift the weight of things unsaid, guilt anchored deeply. He can only stand there, at Essek’s side, and carry his own guilt.

“Leave it to the end of the world to show us that we can only move forward, until we run out of road.” Caleb tries for a smile, one Essek doesn’t match. “Sometimes, I’m not sure there’s still road. Feel like I’m drifting over the dirt, these days.”

Essek’s response, agreement or disagreement, is drowned out as they start shifting another of the Jaegers, the dragging of metal and old supports strained to their limits forming a din that has passerby covering their ears. Caleb watches its pilots stare up at it, unflinching in the noise.

He finds himself talking as the noise stops, filling the vacuum of silence, “I was almost one of them, you know.”

After he says it, he immediately regrets it. In one moment, it feels like the thing to do- share something personal, after Essek had taken the first step- and in the next, it feels like an entirely unnecessary can of worms. Because, of course, the next question is-

“Under who?”

Caleb swallows and considers lying. He could do it. He could keep it vague- he should, it should stay buried like his name. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t want to.

“Ikithon.”

He sees it, the second he says it. He sees the recognition, the surprise, the fear. Essek knows that name, more than anyone in passing knows that name. To Essek, he is not simply an unpleasant teacher.

He doesn’t want to see Essek as someone who worked with Ikithon- he doesn’t want to know what it means that he would forgive Essek, in a heartbeat, but can’t do same for himself.

“I wasn’t able to drift,” Caleb continues, and almost believes that’s the whole truth, the entire, uncomplicated reason, “Dropped out of the Academy.” Not before the damage was done.

Essek looks down, studying the grimy floor beneath them. “Probably for the best.”

“I’m starting to think we should’ve put our funding into time machines, instead of Jaegers.” Caleb sighs, and feels a part of himself leave with his breath. He looks to his side, where Essek remains silent. “Should’ve gone into physics, I guess.”

People rush around below them, preparing for another Jaeger to enter. The gate is cleared, the runway lights up, and various maintenance teams stand at the ready. Caleb wonders how they can stand this, how they can keep going through the motions every day, even as less and less pilots return.

He supposes he could say the same about himself, about anyone still coming to work on this base. For the first time in a long time, they’re all working towards the same thing. They’re all looking to the pilots, spending what’s left of their lives to stack the deck in their favor.

“I know a few of them,” Caleb pauses, and clarifies, “The pilots, I mean.”

“You failed to mention that, in your list of people you know.” Essek tries to laugh, though it doesn’t quite come out right, and looks back up at Caleb, “Which ones?”

“I’m not sure you know them.” People in their position don’t generally interact with the pilots, directly. Caleb would say it’s strange for him to have friends in the Academy, but it’s not the weirdest connection he’s made recently. “Yasha and Beau on the Cobalt line. They’re only just out of the Academy.”

Only just out and making a formidable reputation for themselves. He’s only skimmed the statistics, but if there was a leaderboard, he’d say they’re pulling ahead. Knowing Beau, that’s greater motivation than the potential for saving the world.

Essek’s façade falls away completely, showing his surprise. “The two terrifying women in the Expositor?”

“Those are the ones,” Caleb leans against the railing, out of the shadows. A little more bold, now that most of the people below are distracted. A massive Jaeger, with chipping blue paint and massive jets affixed to its back, steps in through the gate, tracking in water around its heels. “Speak of the devil.”

He can imagine Beau and Yasha working in tandem, seamlessly, to bring the mech into the hanger, ducking its head slightly to make it under the doorway. One hand is occupied, clenched around a scaly leg, metal fingers dug into the fallen Kaiju’s flesh. It’s oddly small, not the fully grown beasts Caleb is used to seeing them drag through.

“Is that-“ Essek doesn’t finish his question, perhaps because he can see the answer in Caleb’s expression.

The Kaiju’s head is entirely intact, its skull spared at the expense of a hole in its chest. A full brain, no shrapnel or missing pieces. Exactly what Caleb has been waiting for, exactly what he’s been trying to piece together.

Essek follows at his heels as Caleb dashes for the stairs, stealth forgotten altogether.

…

The whirring of saws and grim, grinding sounds of bone being cut come to an end, at long last. There’s a tube prepped, filled with foul-smelling chemicals intended to preserve and suspend alien flesh. The sound, as the brain is deposited, is somehow worse than the grinding noise.

Essek looks at him, watching silently for a long moment. It is difficult, to feel his eyes on him and not look back, but Caleb manages it, keeping his gaze focused on the mass of nerves before him.

“I understand the temptation.”

Caleb laughs, with no humor. “Do you?”

The headset is light, almost flimsy, in his hands. He passes it between them, running his hands over the familiar metal and wires. It looks like it might fall apart any second now, not at all like it’s made of expensive, stolen equipment. Not all like Caleb’s been thinking about it for months, like it could save them all- if he can pull this off.

The Kaiju’s brain floats in the container in front of him, wires trailing off of it. Essek sits beside it, the filtered green light through the tube casting harsh shadows over his face. He’s not supposed to be here, but Caleb should’ve known that Essek wouldn’t stick to his scheduled breaks.

“I know more about temptation than you, Caleb.”

It’s rare to hear Essek angry- figures that he chooses a time like this to finally call Caleb by his first name.

“Then you should know that I can’t pass up this opportunity.” Caleb clicks the final pieces into place, watching the lights on the headset start to glow. He loses the fight against another temptation and glances over to Essek, who looks to be fighting fiercely not for a neutral expression, but to keep back tears. “I will not have more lives on my conscience. If this could win us the fight, I have to do it.”

He reaches for the control panel, lifting the headset with his other hand. He has to get this over with before he loses his nerve, before Essek decides to find someone who might actually be able to stop him, before Jester or Veth or anyone else stumble upon him

Essek grabs his wrist, stopping him. His eyes are wide, a little surprised at himself, but he meets Caleb’s stare dead-on.

“I don’t want to lose you to this,” he clears his throat, and looks down, away, “We all still need you.”

Even now, they can’t help but lie to themselves.

“I have to do this.”

Essek looks back at him and for once, seems frustrated to be unable to peer behind Caleb’s eyes, to get the answers he always does. He looks to the side with a heavy sigh, and Caleb thinks for a moment that he’s given up, that he’s going to agree, when Essek lets go of his hand to reach behind them, to the lab table still covered in wires and abandoned tech.

Many drafts of the headset sit amongst the wreckage, the results of late nights spent working with a collection born of Veth’s sticky fingers and Caleb’s hoarding. Essek grabs one, easily picking out the most functional of the bunch, and presses it into Caleb’s free hand.

“Fine,” his face sets, not in the neutral that Caleb’s come to expect, but in a determination that feels almost dangerous, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Essek’s eyes are a dare, waiting for Caleb to find a reason to deny him. He knows, as well as Caleb, that two of them would increase their chances of surviving this. He also knows, maybe better than Caleb, that none of that matters. Caleb would always rather take the brunt of it, than allow his friends to hurt.

This feels, distinctly, like an argument Caleb can’t win. Essek looks a few seconds away from hooking it up himself.

Caleb sighs, a faint smile escaping him. “Didn’t think you’d be repaying that favor so soon.”

Essek only pushes the headset more firmly into his hands, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s safe-guarding against Caleb losing his nerve, or losing his own nerve.

Caleb puts Essek’s headset on first, taking longer than necessary to adjust its fit, before putting on his own. They sit across from each other, in the distorted shadow of the brain. Essek’s gaze, fixed on Caleb, doesn’t waver and just before Caleb hits the switch, he holds out his hand.

Caleb takes it and turns on the machine.

The drift hits him immediately, like a weight falling on his brain as something too big climbs into his skull and pushes his mind out to the edges, pressed against bone. Everything else, outside of his mind and Essek’s mind and this new intrusion, disappears entirely. Sensation, apart from a terrible, sourceless pain, leaves him.

Essek’s mind bursts into focus like a searing light in the abyss, a star far above him. Caleb reaches for it, as the mind of the Kaiju, oppressive and all-consuming, threatens to swallow him up.

He feels their connection like entwined hands, before they collapse into each other, blurring into one. Warm and cool colors mix together in threads that wind and wind around until they are one inseparable string. Shared pain is conducted through it, a wire of strange electricity.

He is hearing a city on fire, screaming, and imagines he can pick out familiar voices in the chaos.

He is shaking a hand like a corpse, bony and terrible as its fingernails dig into his skin.

He is on a cold tile floor, aware that he is alone, alone, alone—

Somewhere, outside of himself, he squeezes Essek’s hand.

The Kaiju bears down on both of them and he finds himself standing beside Essek on a destroyed city street, its features a mashed together version of Caleb and Essek’s childhoods. It is too much for either of them, even standing together, but when he looks down at Essek, he sees only his smile, sharp and confident.

Everything begins to dissolve as the mind- the many minds- of the Kaiju falls over them.

…

Waking up is not fun.

Once, in grad school, Caleb stayed up for 52 hours, subsisting on diabolical combinations of energy drinks and pure spite for his professors. After turning in his last assignments, including a paper that served as a major breakthrough in his field but was so manic it was incomprehensible to anyone except Caleb, he crashed hard and did not wake for another day, when Veth checked to see if he was still alive.

He could’ve sworn, at the time, that the headache he felt upon seeing light for the first time that day was the worst he’d ever experience.

This headache easily doubles it.

The lights are, mercifully, left completely off, with only the dim sunlight leaking out from under the blinds turning the infirmary room a dull grey. He’s sat, partially upright, on the thin mattress of the hospital bed, a place he knows well. Outside the room, he can just make out the quiet, constant noise of their busy med station, conversation and machines overlapping.

To his right, similarly propped up, is Essek.

He wakes at the same moment as Caleb and they both turn, surprise mirrored in their faces. At seeing each other, at being alive at all- it’s anybody’s guess.

Objectively, Caleb is sure they both look absolutely terrible, but he can only see the light in Essek’s eyes and his tired smile. There’s a drowsy kind of comfort between the two of them, relief of tension being let go. They lived- they both lived.

“This is not the warm welcome to the land of the living I was hoping for.”

Caleb laughs, even if it hurts, a little. “This feels less like a welcome party, and more like breaking a window and climbing back in.”

There’s no connection between them anymore, no wires or drifts, but he still feels it faintly, a buzzing at the back of his head. Essek’s pain feels like an echo of his own, and his warmth is still there, as if he’s still holding his hand. It’s stable, an anchor to new wakefulness.

“They should’ve known better than to put two of us in the same lab.” Essek shakes his head, and winces at the movement. “It could only ever have ended in disaster.”

Caleb grins and is pleased to see Essek do the same, just as unguarded as he was in the drift.

They only have a few minutes before Jester comes in to yell at him for being stupid- possibly, the whole crew is lined up somewhere outside, lists of grievances in hand. Shortly following that, he assumes there will be a small battalion of military personnel waiting to hear what they’ve discovered.

Until then, he has time to do more stupid things, mostly unsupervised.

He drags himself out of the bed, pretending that he doesn’t nearly collapse as soon as his feet hit the floor, and wheels the bed closer to Essek’s, carefully maneuvering the wires still attached to his chest and arms. Once they’re an arm’s length away, Caleb stops and climbs back in.

This time, he holds his hand out first and knows, without a doubt, that Essek will take it.

#shadowgast week 2021 #caleb widogast #essek #shadowgast #critical role #ahhh this so long #do not have time to edit tonight #but i swear itll be up on ao3 tomorrow #ignore the many times i misspelled physics #im very tired

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Puer Deus: Sustenance

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane

Summary: The girl who could not say no

A/N: 18+ only. Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; dub-con/non-con; choking; drowning -- y’all prob know me by now.

Word Count: 5.6k

Day Three

You slept on the floor where you’d fallen. The cell was chaos, and you were just a speck in the debris. Three days with no food, little water, and two days of strenuous physical activity left you existing on fumes. When Ren departed yesterday, you fell into exhaustion, and that was where you’d remained.

Throughout the night, you drifted through fever, through memory, through darkness. You vacillated between too hot and too cold but made no effort to relieve either. During your conscious moments, you argued with yourself the pros and cons of dying on this floor.

The room, the fabric of reality, was hazy, still littered with smatterings of smoke, dirty air, and the smell of days' old sweat. You weren't convinced it was real when you heard the door hiss open; and so, you made no move to acknowledge it.

“Get up, trader,” Ren demanded.

Your back was to him, but you were certain that you did hear his voice, and you tried to obey knowing it was better for you in the long run if you did. You had enough wits about you to accept that he would do with you whatever he wished, but your compliance could prolong this moment of quiet, this absence of suffering.

Every part of you ached, but you uncurled all ten fingers and smoothed them against the floor, nudging away the glove you'd clutched through the night. Weary, you pushed both hands under your torso and tried to lift yourself up, but you were sapped of all strength and incapable, and you collapsed back onto the floor, head falling down, arms buckling beneath your breasts.

Time stilled. You concentrated only on your breathing and steadying its pace. Forcing open leaden eyelids, you surveyed the wreckage within your line of sight, evidence of the beating he’d inflicted upon you. This was the battlefield, and you were still alive.

Weren't you?

You had to be. He was here, but you could in no way predict what that would mean for you.

You did not try to move again, deciding your preference that he murder you for insolence than to try to will your body past this exhaustion. But you felt an unfamiliar brush against the curve of your back, and you jerked away from it.

The entire span of your body was still throbbing and bristling, and you wanted absolutely no contact with anything. It came again, though, and you cautiously, slowly reached back to feel for it, fingers brushing against the fabric of his cloak.

You could smell his clothes, him, infiltrating the air around you, clean against the detritus, and the stress in your body eased slightly. Knowing where he was in the room grounded you, gave you a focal point. You could prepare if you knew where he was.

Ren crouched down beside you, and his gloved hands reached out to turn you gingerly to your back. His movements were deliberate, almost cautious. How strange, you thought, that he would be concerned for injuring you now. Stranger still, why did he not use the Force as he had previously done?

Both strong arms then slid beneath your body, and he lifted you up as though you were nothing more than cloth.

“Find out who is in charge of this cell. Now!”

He barked the order out into the hallway, and you felt it vibrate through his chest. Inexplicably, you curled into it.

You tried to look around and count the turns as he carried you down numerous corridors, but your brain was still foggy, and you couldn’t retain any of the details. Giving up on figuring out where you were being taken, you tucked your chin down, curled your hands into your throat, and turned your face away from the world, burrowing further into the darkness.

You felt weak, pathetic, and you shrank into yourself, all the way into the quiet dark of your mind, slipping away from him.

When you next awoke, you were lying flat on a smooth floor, and you took in a shaky breath, lips trembling apart, because it was cold against your burning back. Flattening out your palms gratefully, you basked in the coolness licking along the length of your body.

“Open your eyes.”

You didn't know where you were, but you did know that voice, crisp, unyielding. Inhaling a shaky breath, you obeyed and looked up straight at the ceiling until your eyes could maintain focus. Allowing your gaze to travel, you took in the mostly black room, the gloss of it shining odd against the darkness. There was only one light on, and it cast the figure speaking to you in shadow.

“I am told that you have been refusing food. Is this true?”

Your heartbeat froze. Suddenly more parched than you’d ever been in your life, you licked dry lips and stuck your eyes back to the ceiling. What could you say? You hadn't wanted to vomit on his dick, but you had to concede that it was a poor choice.

Lifting your head slightly, you searched for him. Finding him seated in a small chair, presiding over you, you nodded your head once and prayed that he would see your silence as obedience given that he hadn’t specifically told you to speak.

This new proximity, the false familiarity of it, was agitating, and you fidgeted. Even on the first day, with your throat stuffed full of him, he was not this close. Close enough to see you, you thought.

He stood, and you tracked him. You knew Kylo Ren was tall, but he absolutely towered over you where you lay upon the floor. This was the smallest, the most insignificant, you'd ever felt.

Struck dumb, you stared at his back, realizing that even in private, even in stillness, he would want you beneath him to worship.

The thought made your palms sweat and itch. You watched as he began to remove the layers separating him from the world. Gloves were tossed onto the large bed followed by cloak and what looked to be a tunic.

The universe stopped. Your breath hitched, toes curled, because he was going to do it. You were going to see him, your Child God, and you nearly wept for it.

The hiss of the helmet echoed in the near empty chamber, and you fought against yourself to remain still. You wanted, with everything, to sit up and look at him, but you knew better than to try your luck. In agony, you waited for him to turn around, to reveal himself, but he didn’t. He moved away from the bed, from you, further into the room.

You cursed the universe for being a tease, this room for being so damn dark, and yourself for wanting to look upon the monster so badly.

When you finally did see him, he was carrying a square silver tray in one hand, and your heart hammered, eyes rounding into glossy saucers.

He was magnificent.

You willed your addled brain to commit the details of him to memory forever. Your fingers curled into fists with how hard you tried to brand this moment into yourself.

He was beautiful and not at all what you expected. Your mouth fell open as you stared at the long line of his nose, the chisel of his chin, the smattering of dark color dotting his perfect skin. His halo was black but lustrous, and his mouth was inviting rather than grotesque.

How could this man be who he was? Certainly no person this beautiful could be a monster.

Ignoring your stare, he kicked your legs together, and they shook. You could not have stopped your body’s response even if you were Force capable, and you tried to scramble back, away from whatever he was about to do to you, bare feet planting and pushing against the slick floor that granted you no assistance.

“Stop fucking moving.”

His command had bite, and you blanched, battling your body into some semblance of calm. He kicked your hands out of the way and stepped into the empty space created there, his boots massive and heavy. You pictured it on your chest, the weight of his will upon you, and bit your lip at the memory.

Ren bent down, came to rest on one knee, and set the tray on the floor with a slight clatter. It was food, and you nodded once. His question made sense to you now, even if the act of seeming kindness was alien, and you tried to roll to one side so you could eat.

You were shocked to your core when his trunk-like leg swung over your body and he settled his weight onto your abdomen, pressing your tender back harder into the cold tiles. You wheezed, face red and puffy, and your shoulders lifted from the ground. Both of your hands flew to his knees and pushed, but he didn't even acknowledge that you'd moved.

You tensed all over, amazed and afraid for whatever was to come. Why was he suddenly compelled to touch you? Why did your every molecule scream out for him to do so?

You registered now that he was shirtless, and you stared, stupefied, at the freckles drifting down his neck and across his torso. You wanted to trace them, to connect them, and to see how far down his body they truly went.

His knees and thighs squeezed in against your body, ending the roam of your eyes and the spin of your thoughts and bringing you back to the moment. Beneath him like this, you'd never felt so caged, so powerless.

You doubted you would ever feel safe again.

“Open your mouth.”

Remembering the last time he bid you to do this, your teeth sunk into your cheek roughly, and you shook your head, body wiggling in between his legs, trying to inch away like a worm.

You chastised yourself because you fucking knew it was pointless. You had learned enough of Kylo Ren to know you were here for whatever he wished, and it was fucking stupid to protest, but you couldn't stop fighting.

His large hand shot out at your face so quickly it stole your breath. Two fingers pushed past your teeth and wrenched your jaw down, opening your mouth. You vibrated, thighs clenching together, eyes squeezing tight shut. Why did that viciousness awaken you so?

The next thing you felt was cold at the back of your throat, and you coughed and sputtered. He was pouring water into your mouth but bypassing your tongue so that you were not allowed to actively swallow. You lifted up off the floor, gagging and shivering, only for him to push you back down and do it again.

He held you at the chest and filled your mouth so full of water that it ran over the sides of your lips. You shook your head wildly and snorted it, shooting droplets into the air. He was going to drown you, you were certain.

Your fingers scrambled against his thighs and you bucked up against him, swallowing as much as you could before convulsing, heaving, desperately drawing in air.

“Do you want to behave?”

His voice above you was different but no less harsh, no less terrifying. It was steady, absolute, and it twisted your guts, throwing out an order to the most sensitive parts of you that now was the time to throb, to ache, to be ready.

Damp lashes swept against the rouge flaming on your cheeks, but you did not look at him. Stealing as many seconds as you could, you drew in a ragged breath and shifted, attempting to find a place to settle that didn't hurt.

Your body had registered the command; your breasts tightened, your clit pulsed in time to your heartbeat, and the juncture of your thighs was hot and damp.

He was leaning forward, looking down at you as though this was a routine interrogation tactic, as though he wasn't sending you into a frenzy with nothing but five words. You slid your hands back to his knees, unwilling to give back this bit of contact, opened your eyes, and flattened yourself against the floor with a nod.

“Open.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, but you did part your lips slightly. The arch of his brow, however, had you opening your mouth wider. You watched him, trying to glean his plan from his face.

You were taut and ready to fight whatever he was about to do. You knew that he could feel it, but you couldn't make yourself relax, couldn't just let whatever it was happen.

Could you?

You weren’t prepared for the bit of bread that rested against your tongue, and your surprised eyes flew open wider, fixing upon him. He waited for your tongue to tentatively curl around his finger and accept it before his hand slid over your face to cover your mouth.

He didn’t trust you to chew and swallow, you realized.

Ren hovered, one large palm placed on the floor by your head. You could smell his soap, his shampoo, his breath, and you wanted to fist your hands into those long, black waves.

He was watching to be sure that you obeyed and swallowed the morsel down completely. When you'd finished it, he waited with a cocked brow, like before, until you opened your mouth again.

He would alternate between bread and water, forcing the sustenance into your body, covering your mouth each time. He would also pause every few bites to simply slide his bare finger against your tongue, and your gut clenched, the muscle eagerly curling around to savor the taste of him.

“Supreme Leader Snoke tells me that I need to let go of my inhibition. He says that my reluctance to abandon the last shreds of conscience is holding me back.”

His voice rumbled out into the room, equal parts melodic and withering. But you had lost yourself to those dark eyes. They were golden sometimes, chocolate others. When you became distracted and stopped eating, his hand would press down upon your face roughly, forcing your head back into the floor until you came back to attention and chewed again.

“I did not understand how I was meant to do this until you.”

Now, you knew what this was. If you died, he could no longer torture you. You cannot play with toys you destroy. Panic spread across your face because the thought that he had been holding back these last two days sent you careening.

“Hurting you,” he nearly crooned, his voice low and thick, “cleared my mind.”

As though to punctuate this idea, he pressed your face down again, using his pinky to cap off your nostrils, smothering you with the expanse of his heavy hand. You bucked against him until he pressed his other hand down into your sternum, locking you to the floor and constricting your breathing further.

He held you there, staring down at you with that beautiful, vengeful gaze, until your fit abated and you slumped, his hold loosening slightly to grant you a modicum of oxygen.

“I’m going to keep you here, and I’m going to do to you whatever I choose. Do you understand?”

He watched you, searching your face for some glimmer that his words took hold. Tears sprang to your eyes as you searched his face, shaking your head under his palm. Pleadingly, both of your hands came up to circle his arm, holding on with a trembling grasp.

No.

This could not be happening. This could not be your life. You had already belonged to one madman; you could not accept that you would belong to another.

The adrenaline surged through you, and you threw yourself up into him again, crashing your hips up into his. You clawed at his wrist and tried to bring your knees up into his back behind him, desperately trying to throw off his balance, his weight, something.

He released your mouth and chest and leaned back onto his haunches, watching you fight and twitch until you fell back against the floor, hands over your mouth trying to quell the sobs. You tipped your head back as far as possible, putting the only bit of distance between you and him that you could and straining against yourself because you knew this was futile. You were just draining away the bit of strength he’d fed you.

Suddenly, Ren’s hand reached out and grasped your elbow roughly, pulling it to one side. He leaned over you again, pressing his body down against yours to further contain you. His fingers dipped down to turn your face, and you jerked back as though you were on fire.

Shaking your head wildly, you tried to use your free hand to fill the distance between your throat and his eyes, but he pushed your hand away and captured your chin in a harsh grip. Jabbing your head upwards, he bared your throat completely, and your world broke.

With your chin pushed this far up, there was no hiding the damage, the jagged edges of scars stretching across the skin covering your larynx.

His grip slackened slightly, but his gaze remained on your neck, fingers tracing the indentation. There was nothing to hide now, and you broke into a silent, mournful wail, pushing all of the air from your lungs on nothing more than a gravelly wheeze. He watched you descend into sobs, pressing your fists against your forehead.

“No information to share, hm? Or rather, no way to share it?"

He planted his palm on the floor once more and roved his eyes over you, something flashing across his features, something you felt didn't bode well for you.

“Who did this to you? Are there more?”

Ignoring the first question, you nodded your head at the second. You were too far gone to do anything but obey now. Yes, there were more.

Raising himself back up, he tucked his warm fingers into the neck of your catsuit. You shivered at the contact, drawn from your dark mental hole by the touch of his skin. As though it was no more than tissue paper, he tore a long gash into the fabric down the middle of your body.

Ren shifted his weight, lifting his body off of yours to lengthen the tear down into the valley between your legs. Your hands hovered in the air, trembling terribly, but you knew better than to try to cover yourself.

The skin he uncovered was riddled with scars of varying lengths, sizes, and depths. Some were perfectly round; some were long and slender. Some were tally marks etched deep into your skin.

"So they wouldn't hear you scream,” he mused on a murmur.

Your body was jerked against the floor, jostled from side to side as he ripped more of the fabric away to bear arms, hips, legs to his appraising gaze. His fingers brushed against a particularly large scar at your thigh, and your leg jumped.

It had been years since someone had seen the entirety of your body, and you turned away, trying to crawl out from beneath him.

He allowed you to shift but pinned you back down on your stomach, pressing a knee against your bare arm so that he could tear the remainder of the tattered suit away from your backside. You heard his breath hitch as he looked down at the marks he’d left upon you mixing with those he hadn’t noticed yesterday.

You doubted it was pity.

His palm, large and hot, pressed down on your back, holding you in place as he pulled the catsuit off your legs and away from your feet. Pushing your forehead into the sweat-slicked floor, you covered your head with the untrapped arm, shaking with new sobs.

What could he possibly think of you now? What sort of god would want a dirty and broken thing to worship him?

He knelt over you, and you wished the weight of him would return. It was easier to bear his scrutiny, however, when you could not watch him judge you.

Kylo Ren had taken everything from you, even deciding when your secrets would be known.

He moved you again, turning you back over to look up at him. His thumb scraped across your mouth, dipping in for a second, before he stood and lifted you from the floor. You pushed against his chest, but it was an insignificant attempt.

You sniffled and hiccuped when he set you upon the little bench in the bathroom and looked away as he kicked off his boots and socks. You didn’t try to cover yourself while you waited for whatever torment came next. It would have been pointless to do so.

Focusing your eyes upon the wall, you willed the darkness to come take you.

The running shower filled the room with hot steam, and you focused on the sound. Were you to be his maid now? Wash and dry him after he beat you? You snorted and turned your head to the side, disgusted to admit that you were entertaining the idea, that the notion of it electrified you.

Ren threaded his rigid fingers into your hair, yanking you from the bench. Mouth falling open in what should have been a yelp, you pulled against his grip. Steps stuttering, weight askew and toppling, your shoulder crashed into him. Both hands reached out to grip at his hip as he maneuvered you into the little cell and spun you to face the water.

“Put your hands there,” he said, pointing to the wall.

Swallowing your dread, you straightened, slowly reached up, and put your hands on the wall on either side of the water spray. It pulsed down just a fraction from your face, and you understood how easy it would be for him to just tip your head into the water and drown you.

You couldn’t help yourself; the pull of the heat was too strong. You dipped your head forward and sucked in a long breath as the hot water rained down on your head and the back of your neck. You hid inside the curtain the water made around your face, lips parting open to breathe, eyelashes dripping fat drops of salty tears mixed with clean water.

When you felt his hand upon you, your whole body clenched, but you did not lift your head from the cascade, and he allowed you to keep it there. His fingers started at your shoulders, pressing in on your skin and squeezing. He then gripped the muscles beneath your upper arm, separating them and moving his fingers between until you leaned away with a grimace. You wondered if he was looking for further injury or a good place to cause more.

His hands slid up along the length of your arm, grasping along the muscles and the bones. When you would wince or jerk, he would take a second pass over that area, poking and prodding until whatever he was looking for was satisfied.

Ren slid his fingers into the watery curtain and wrapped them around your neck. You held your breath as he felt and squeezed your throat and then pulled your head back out of the water, taking away your hiding spot. Calloused hands traveled down your chest, examining each rib, pressing in at your sides.

Inspection, you thought. This was an inspection.

He turned his attention to the lower half of your body, squeezing hips, thighs, calves, and you bristled, flushing under his hands. You understood now that he was looking for occult injury, anything he couldn’t see plainly.

Why did being evaluated like cattle set you aflame? You were tingling from scalp to soles.

Ren stepped fully into the shower chamber behind you, and your compliance faltered. You took a step forward, away from him. One hand dropped from the wall as you looked over your shoulder, worrying your lower lip. The dark look on his face gave you seconds to right yourself; and somehow, you managed it.

Moving your hair to one side, he ghosted his fingertips over the welts he’d raised with his belt just yesterday. He brushed his thumb briskly against a few spots, and you thought he had to be washing away blood that had crusted there.

He splayed his large fingers over one of the hematomas coloring your ass and squeezed it until you were gasping, hopping onto your toes, and trying to dance away, something of an appreciative sound rumbling in his throat.

Capturing your hips in both hands, he pulled you back flush against him, shifting your ass right and left before finding the spot he wanted you, the round softness of you plastered against the hard expanse of him. He reached to wrap fingers around your throat again, and your breathing quickened, body tense.

He moved you by that choking handle until your head was pressed into his shoulder. You strained to keep your fingertips against the wall because he hadn't told you to move.

Your weight was pressed against him in two wicked points: the back of your head at his shoulder and the swell of your ass tucked into his pelvis. A long shudder worked its way through you; he was hard, and you were ready. Screwing your eyes shut, you tried desperately to banish that thought.

Ren's fingers tightened on your neck until you were on your toes trying to gain a little bit of breathing room. Reaching around you, he slid something from the little shower alcove and held it out for you to take.

“Wash.”

Soap. The man was holding soap, and you knew if you hesitated too long, he would shove it in your mouth. Fumbling, you reached out to take it, trying to move away from him, to lean forward for better balance, but he held you firm. He meant for you to do it pressed up against him like this.

The embarrassment blossomed from your toes to your ears, and your insides wilted. Had you passed inspection? Or was this test part of it?

Every single part of your body reacted to his command and the silent way he simply waited for you to comply. Your breath hitched, and you licked your lips, empty throat swallowing. Your hips twitched against him, and your breasts tightened to hard peaks.

The combination of rushing water at your front and Kylo Ren at your back narrowed your world to the many variations of heat: liquid, pooling, steaming, curling.

Slowly, you turned the soap in your hands to make a lather and tried to focus your senses upon it. The little green bar produced a heady foam, and it smelled so, so good. Was it his soap?

You pressed one sudsy hand to your fire-red chest and began to rub. You washed upwards until your slick fingers nudged his, nestled around your throat, but he did not budge from there. Trading hands, you rubbed the soap into your belly and onto your side, down across your hip.

You needed another hand. Or some leverage. Seeming to understand your struggle, he lifted his empty hand out into the air for you to lay the soap upon, and you sagged against him a little in relief. You’d certainly die if you did a half-ass job, but you were also hamstrung in the current configuration.

Soaping up better this time, you dropped the bar into his open palm and laid both hands against your body, more easily working the lather into your skin. You sighed something of a contented sigh as you worked soap into tight shoulders and down along the length of your sides. An appreciative rumble vibrated against your back when your hands slid up and around your breasts, and you squirmed.

A second pass with the soap, and your hands were rolling low along your abdomen. Your breath came quick and shallow as you dipped both hands between your thighs and rubbed the suds in, hips inching back further, the arch of your body deepening against him.

Catching yourself, eyebrows drawn together harshly, you backtracked and thrust your hands out into the water, washing away the evidence of lust you’d found there.

Ren didn’t miss it, though. He let go of your throat, dropped the soap, and wrapped both hands around your hips, pulling you back into him further. You curved upwards, the very tips of your breasts lifting into the hot water spray and swelling further from the attention. You winced but didn't dare lift your head from his shoulder. He lowered his mouth to the valley of your throat, lips moving against your pulse.

“Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be exactly where you are, shall we?”

He anchored you to him with one arm around your stomach and dropped his thick fingers between your legs, sliding against you with no resistance, but from soap or slick you could not tell. Your breath caught completely, and you stood up further onto your toes, trying to get away.

Languidly, he stroked his fingers between your labia, curling upwards at the very top to graze against your clit each time. Your fingers scraped against his arm, and your hips bucked up into his strokes, earning a low growl into your ear.

“I’m going to keep you, trader,” his voice was thick like honey, and you melted all over his fingers.

“You’re going to fight me every time, aren’t you? But I’m still going to hurt you, break you, fuck you."

He said these things to you as though they were pillow talk, and you writhed against him, his fingers never faltering but never quickening, his pace absolute torture. You hungered for him, hard and pressed against your backside, but you knew that this was another lesson. He was proving what you already knew: You craved him.

Defeated, you nodded. You clung to his arm and shuddered against him. His mouth dipped against your pulse again, and he nipped at the skin there, dragging his teeth along the vein. His fingers pressed more insistently against you, the thick middle finger sliding into just the right groove, the pad of his fingertip then finding the very center of your throbbing clit and pressing slippery circles there.

He reached up to cup and tug at the stiff peak of one breast, and you groaned. He lifted his head from your throat and watched you intently.

"Again."

He tugged once more at your aching nipple, but you could only gasp. Wrapping forward around you, he dropped that hand to slide one finger into your pussy slowly, and you gave him what he wanted, groaning again even though it sounded only like a death rattle.

He pressed a pleased hum into your temple, murmuring that he could feel it when you groaned like that and asking if it felt the same when you screamed, moaned, begged. All the while, his hands never stopped working your cunt. He slowly fucked you with one long finger and rubbed your clit in tight, delicious, wicked circles.

You choked and lurched forwards, spasming under his hand. You reached behind you to clutch fistfuls of his wet pants, rewarded by the flex of a thick, corded thigh. His hips punched forward once, rocking against your ass, and you quaked.

You were edging nearer and nearer to something actually pleasant beneath him, and you arched like a bow for it, your body begging him to please let you have this, pleading that you had certainly suffered enough to deserve it.

“Open your mind to me, and I’ll let you cum,” he whispered it into the shell of your ear, and you went stone rigid.

You felt as though you’d been dumped into ice water, and you turned your face away. Of course, there would be a cost. Shaking your head once, you drew your hands up, clasping them together between your breasts, holding onto yourself. You would not, could not, give him that.

He spun you around so fast that your eyes flew open just in time for your face to be plunged under the shower water. He held your face turned upwards into the spray, and you panicked against him. You clawed and flailed, arched and stomped; all to no avail.

When he drew you forward out of the stream, you coughed and spat, blinking up at him until you registered his cocked eyebrow. He was waiting for you to obey. You were beginning to hate that fucking eyebrow. Pressing your lips into a firm line, you shook your head no.

He forced fingers, tangy with your taste, into your mouth and held open your jaw, one hand wrapped around your neck, and thrust you back under, mouth and throat open, nose turned into the downpour. He was drowning you, just as you’d predicted, and you thrashed against it, but you were inhaling water rather than just swallowing it. It burned your eyes, your nose, your tongue.

As soon as you began to lose consciousness, sagging in his grip, he wrenched you forward and to the side, pounding on your back until you vomited up the water you’d inhaled along with half of the food he’d fed you earlier.

He allowed you to drop into a wretched pile and crouched down, watching you silently. When you finally lifted your head to regard him, your eyes flashed angrily black and you sneered at him.

He was holding the soap for you to take.

And then, he was gone, leaving you crumpled on the shower floor, unsatisfied, starving, and fuming.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo smut #kylo ren x you #kylo fanfiction #adam driver smut #adam driver fanfiction #puer deus

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Note

For the fic prompt "You might have him now, but you can't keep him" for GO or Coldflash please

I wrote this for Good Omens :) I hope you like it

A Mortal Dilemma

“Oh … oh, Crowley … oh Go—mmm …”

“Ya like that, angel?” Crowley whispers, admiring the markshe’s made on his angel’s pale neck, each one sealed with a feather-light kiss, wickedlyproud that this is the fifth time he’s almost gotten Aziraphale to take theAlmighty’s name in vain. Lying beneath his angel on the lumpy sofa in hisbookshop, arms wrapped around him, hands keeping that column of soft skinlocked to his lips, he has his angel at his complete mercy.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Y-yes …” Aziraphale stutters, pushing up on his palms to catcha breath only for Crowley to draw him back into the temptation of his arms.

“Do you want me to continue?”

Aziraphale’s brows soar to the Heavens. “Do you mean to tellme that stopping is an option?”

“Absolutely.” Crowley’s yellow eyes flicker over his angel’sflushed face. “Stopping is always an option. If that’s what you want, we canput the kettle on, read a book, finish a crossword, get plastered …”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, I don’t want that. I don’t thinkI’d ever choose that over this.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’d have to leave you. Leave your arms, I mean.And now that I have you, I don’t ever want to be far from you.��

“Even if that meant never cracking open another book? Just sowe can do this?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can do both at the same time.”

Crowley smirks. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Would you like me to show you?”

Crowley mimics a cartoonish attempt at thinking it over while hoveringclose to Aziraphale’s throat. “Nah. Perhaps another time.” Then he goes back tothe task of marking Aziraphale up.

Airy musical notes tinkle in Aziraphale’s ears but he ignoresit. That normally happens when Crowley miracles in from wherever, but seeing ashe’s here now, it can’t be him. The thought that it might be someone else,manifesting into the room without knocking first doesn’t occur to him.

Because such a thing would be both illegal and rude.

But it’s Crowley who sees, Crowley who takes notice, bumpingAziraphale’s chin gently with his temple to make him look around.

“What in the …?” Aziraphale mutters because stationed not toofar from the sofa they’re sprawled out on is Sandalphon, rocking back and forthon their heels, hands clasped in front of their belly, grinning like thedickens.

“Well, well, well – if it isn’t our little fallen angel andhis demon boyfriend.”

“Sandalphon?”Aziraphale gasps, too stunned by the Archangel’s presence to climb off Crowley’slap and face them properly. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to deliver a message from Gabriel,” they say, pausingafter for obvious dramatic effect.

“Yes, yes, get on with it!” Aziraphale barks. Crowleysnickers, every fiber of his being vibrating from his angel on top of him,desperate to be rid of their intruder so he can go back to being kissed.

“Principality Aziraphale, you’ve been called back to Heaveneffective immediately. I’ve been sent here to deliver you personally.”

This time, Aziraphale launches off his demon’s lap and up ontohis feet, leaving Crowley draped on the sofa, on his guard but unmoving fromthe spot. “I’m sorry you made the trip all the way for nothing but I’m notgoing.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I most certainly do.”

“You may have forgotten, but you aren’t subject to free will.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Free will is reserved for mortals. You, Aziraphale, are subjectto our will.”

“Since when?” Aziraphalesquawks.

“Since the beginning of time. You’re an angel. That makes you property of the Almighty.”

“The Almighty, yes, but not you, not Gabriel, not any of theArchangels.”

Sandalphon makes an irritated noise, smacking the roof oftheir mouth with their tongue. “Same difference.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t think that’s how that works. Even I know that,” Crowley says. “But go off,I guess.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, demon,”Sandalphon says with a steely glare for Crowley.

“Too bad. I’m talking to you, baldy.”

“Crowley …” Aziraphale warns quietly, sitting back down and puttinga hand on the demon’s forearm.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Sandalphon asks.

“You’re probably not. But that just makes you stupider thanyou look.”

“Crowley!”

“We’ve played this game your way for far too long,” Sandalphoncontinues, focused on Crowley as if Aziraphale isn’t sitting right there, “butthat’s not the way this is going to work anymore. You’ve had your fun.” Theireyes shift to Aziraphale’s face, and for the first time, the angel can imaginewhat those poor people in Sodom and Gomorrah saw right before they turned tosalt. “Now it’s time for you to come back to our side.”

“I have no intention of coming back to your side!” Aziraphale insists. “Not until things change upstairs.Even then, the subject is a matter of much debate. Either way, you do not havepermission to be in my shop. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

Sandalphon shakes their head in disappointment. “What do youthink you’re doing, Aziraphale? Do you think this is life? A reject angel shacking up with a reject demon and doing what?Wasting your Divine gifts lazing around in an old, musty bookshop?”

“You pay him no mind, angel,” Crowley says, turning his armover to hold Aziraphale’s. “They’re still sore that they lost. He can’t touchyou. He can’t touch either of us.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong …” Sandalphon pauses, theirexpression changing to discomfort as they smack their mouth open and closed. “ForHeaven’s sake! It’s so damned dry inhere. Probably these dusty books.” Sandalphon reaches into the inside pocket oftheir coat and pulls out a silver flask. “One cinder, the tiniest spark even,and this whole place would go up like a matchbox, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley sits up straighter, his grip on Aziraphale’s armtightening. Sandalphon grins.

“Of course you wouldknow that, now wouldn’t you, demon?”

“My angel said leave!”Crowley makes to stand but Aziraphale keeps him grounded with a gentle squeeze.“So get on!”

“I take it that’s a nothen?”

“That’s a no,”Aziraphale says.

Sandalphon shakes their head, appearing far too amused forsomeone who’s presumably lost an important argument, and that makes Aziraphalewary.

“The two of you …” They tut “… you think you’re so slick. Thatyou’ve got everyone fooled. But just you wait. You might have him now, but thatdoesn’t mean you can keep him.”

Sandalphon wipes their mouth with the back of their hand, thensnaps their fingers, disappearing in a swirl of blue shimmer into thin air. Andas relieved as Aziraphale feels by their retreat, something about how easy thatwas doesn’t sit well in his bones. He’s nervous, anxious over something he’smissing.

And he’s right.

It’s odd. Aziraphale had been so focused on the angel goingaway – and they did just that, they went away – that he never considered theremight be collateral damage.

That flask. It seemed so innocuous. Odd since most angelsdon’t consume or imbibe, but harmless nonetheless. Admittedly, Aziraphaledoesn’t know much about Sandalphon, but if he knows anything about Archangels,there’s a reason behind everything they do. Even the slightest, mostinsignificant gesture is important. Wiping their mouth with their hand, thensnapping their fingers - none of that was necessary. It was posturing.

But why?

And that’s when Aziraphale notices it.

Senses it is actuallycloser to the operative term.

A drop of water flying through the air.

It takes less than a second to travel, between the timeSandalphon snapped their fingers and Aziraphale put two and two together.

Before Aziraphale can move, before he can even think, thewater drop lands on Crowley’s skin.

It only takes a drop. Aziraphale knows that.

He doesn’t need to hear the demon wail to know what it is,what’s happening to him.

Holywater.

Sandalphon had been drinking Holy Water. They wiped it offtheir mouth and flicked a drop in the air, aimed in Crowley’s direction.

And now, Crowley is disintegrating before Aziraphale’s eyes.

“No!” Aziraphale screams. “NO!”

“Azira—!”

“No!”

Like the flying Holy Water, it only takes a second forAziraphale to act.

A second of fire.

A second of fury.

A second of love.

A second of pure rage.

A second where Aziraphale makes a hundred decisions andgambles and negotiations so quickly his body starts working before his mind hascome to peace with what he’s going to do. His hands move fast as lightning, pullingpower from the far reaches of the Universe, combining together from above … andfrom below.

If someone were to ask Aziraphale how he did it, he’d never beable to tell them. He couldn’t repeat it if he tried. If they asked him how heknew he could, that would be a harderquestion to answer. He doesn’t know farther than he can perceive, as if someoneelse were casting the magic for him. With his right hand, he brings down allthe power of Heaven he can rally to his command, and with his left, somehow, inexplicably,he calls upon the power of Hell.

Before the drop of Holy Water can burn through Crowleycompletely, Aziraphale lays hands on him, on his chest over his heart, his celestialflesh a swirling pyre of blessing and damnation. A flash of blistering white fillsAziraphale’s shop, flooding every corner, lighting the whole of the inside tofirework intensity, so powerful it leaves shadowy reliefs of every book, every teacup,every trinket burned onto his walls.

It happens in a second.

One single second.

The light bleeds away.

The Holy Water evaporates.

The fire and flood alive in Aziraphale’s hands subside and theangel’s vision returns. He looks around at the damage that’s been done – thebleached walls, the shadows bearing witness, a few of his books turned to dust.

And on the floor at his feet, stunned but otherwise unharmed –Crowley.

But even as Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief, he knowsthat nothing from this day forward will ever be the same.

“Wha—what did you do?” Crowley looks at his hands, turningthem over and over in front of his eyes, examining them as if they’re strangersto him. He touches his face, fingertips pulling his skin, searching for answerswithin the wrinkles and pores. When he can’t find them, he stares up atAziraphale, wide eyes begging without words to tell him what the Heaven isgoing on. Crowley can’t see the change, but he can feel it, deep within hischest where something new and awesome and excruciating has begun to fill thatvoid … and steadily beat. “Aziraphale!? What did you do!?”

“The only thing I could think of to save you, dear boy.”Aziraphale drops to his knees, cursing himself, cursing Sandalphon and Gabrieland all the Archangels … even cursing God herself. “I made you mortal.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #anon ask #Frankie writes

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 years

Note

I was asking what you think Henry's fate is. Is it a time loop? Is it just a reel playing? Is all of it just a dream on his or Joey Drew's death bed? But you pose an interesting question too, do all the games connect in some way even if BATDR is not gonna be a direct continuation?

I’ve pondered on the nature of the world of Bendy and the Ink Machine for a while now and, after a little bit of digging around, reading theories that people have had, watching theory videos and a few playthroughs, I’ve come to a few conclusions over Henry’s fate and the meaning behind the ambiguous ending we got.

This idea is, as such, a mixture of Game Theory’s Revised BATIM Ending Theory plus expectations for BATDR, SuperHorrorBro’s ideas for who BATDR’s Big Bad might actually be, as well as several other ideas that have consistently popped up through out the Fandom’s existence.

Buckle up, this might get long as heck.

---

To start this off, I’m gonna need to clarify that the Cycle (which is the dimension the first game takes place in, although the origins of this particular world are still debatable as real or fiction within the canon itself) functions in a way that seems to rely heavily on ideas and impossible physics. Not only that, but those who exist within this plane will follow a mixture of Real World and Cartoon World laws, so while death exists in the Cycle it isn’t permanent and things that could usually obliterate you in one go (like massive falls, a hit with an axe, or getting bashed by an out of control fairground attraction) aren’t an instant threat to your overall health. It also appears that people within the Cycle aren’t immediatly aware that they’re following cartoon logic, as Henry (who is supposedly human) doesn’t seem to react all that much to some of the most life threatening moments he faces in the Studio. This in itself already shows something is off about the whole situation Bendy’s original creator has gotten himself mixed up with.

Another thing I need to point out is that the Toonification process doesn’t seem to be reliant of the Cycle itself, and instead happened in the Real World as the events in “Dreams Come True”, and Thomas Connor’s and Joey Drew’s Audio Log on the Ink Demon imply. This, to me, seems to point towards the Cycle having been made some point during Joey’s Toonification experiments as maybe somewhere to hide his twisted creations, so it might be the Ink Machine has the capacity to not only bring things to “life” but to also create other dimensions from templates. Where these dimensions are kept is up to debate, but I assume Joey keeps the Cycle withing the Ink Machine itself. Either way, what I mean to say with these two little notes is that, while Henry appears to be in a fake version of the Studio that doesn’t mean the story of the game is just that, a story. I think everything IS real. But more on that in a bit...

Lets get started with the actual questions you asked:

--Is it a time loop?--

Yes, positively. The Tool clarifies this as soon as we get it. In fact, the iteration of the loop we’re doing as Henry is the 415th, and the following we do with the Tool unlocked is the 416th, meaning Henry (and by extention the other Studio Prisoners) have been at this for quite some time even if we weren’t aware at first. To the point where Henry began trying to establish contact with himself.

--Is it just a reel playing?--

Also yes. The Cycle as I’ve pointed out before, operates on Cartoon Logic. As such it can be compared to an endlessly looping reel of unfinished film. This is made more apparent by the reel Henry uses to “beat” the Ink Demon. “The End” is something of a curiosity as it is a contradiction in of itself. Not so much a final dot to close off an act as an infinity mark. It’s existence within the Cyle is also curious, as it seems unlikely Joey would have physically made a reel to stop the Ink Demon, so it brings the question of whether or not Mr. Drew can alter the Cycle externally (something that’s already hinted at due to the storyboards you can find on his desk at Joey’s apartment).

This to me indicates the Cycle can be altered (which Henry does whenever he tries to communicate, and by Allison Angel discovering the messages), but that bigger changes need to be done from the Real World.

--Is all of it just a dream on Henry’s or Joey Drew's death bed?--

No, I don’t think it’s a dream or just a story Joey is telling a child. I think the happenings of the game are actually happening, but that perhaps “The End” is a series of blank reels Joey feeds into the Ink Machine and that get filled out by Henry’s actions, and that Joey then watches them and recounts the tales to who I can only assume might likely be Henry’s and Linda’s daughter (as Joey pointed out Henry settled down while he did not, and it’s never mentioned if he has siblings).

With these questions out of the way, here’s what I believe happened to Henry and the implications of the game’s ending where Joey’s “niece” requests another story... The fact of the matter is that Henry is dead.

Why do I believe this? It’s like Matpat pointed out in his Revised Theory video (I know, y’all gonna get on my case because “Game Theory is cringy ew”, but seriously have a look yourself instead of going off in my askbox). It all has to do with small details that seem insignificant or just asthetic choices, but that can actually have a lot more hold on the plot.

Two of these details are:

The 5 coffins at the Studio and letters in Joey’s appartment.

The newspaper clipping Joey keeps in the Ink Machine room at the appartment, which was specifically picked and curated to appear in the game despite the player never going into the room to see it up close.

There’s a number of characters you learn about in the game and (by extention) the novel, and quite a few are dead (Such as Buddy’s friends Jacob and Dot who were murdered by an insane Sammy), but surprisingly only 5 have physical coffins at the Studio ingame.

And what do I mean by physical coffins? Well, there’s a 6th unofficial one, that’s what... And where can we find it?

Henry’s cell in chapter 5. He drew it himself even.

This doesn’t confirm anything of course, it could just be that Henry is into dramatics, but then we get to the newspaper clipping that Joey picked out specifically and kept in a room only he likely enters:

“Local Artist Pushed Himself Too Hard, Found Dead at Desk”

And what did Joey say about Henry pushing him to do the right thing? That he should have pushed a little harder... Like somehow Henry is at fault for Joey’s bad choices. Like Henry deserves what comes next... It almost feels like someone dishing out a speech before an execution, justifying why they’re getting killed. It’s a scene that made me inexplicably nervous until I looked into things.

Why bring up the coffins and letters to prove this, you may ask? Well, another thing Matpat points out is that the people who have coffins are people who were put through the Ink Machine, dying in the process and returning as Ink Monstrosities/Imperfect Toons, while people who got a letter from Joey and that replied to him were never lured back to him.

Wally Franks, for example, is living in Florida so he couldn’t make it to New York to fall into Mr. Drew’s trap. Allison and Thomas Connors are also out of the way so they merely exchange formaleties through correspondance (which implies Joey “made up” with them at some point to try to lure them back and has kept the charade up for a while).

So anyway, people who have coffins in the Studio are not only confirmed dead but also became monsters.

Norman became the Projectionist

Grant likely became either the Piper, Fisher, or Striker

Bertrum became the monstrous Carnival Ride

Lacie likely became either the Piper, Fisher or Striker

Susie became the Imperfect Alice Angel

You’re likely asking about Allison Angel and Tom Boris now, to which I raise you another Matpat pointer from the video above: Allison Angel states that she and Tom would dissolve if they were in contact with pools of ink.

Why is this relevant? Well, it means their bodies are made entirely of ink unlike, for example, Norman who is the sculking Projectionist. Why Norman? Well, he wades through a pool of Ink in level 14 and doesn’t dissolve. Heck, he chases Henry through the pool of ink without any trouble whatsoever in catching up. Why is he different from Allison and Tom? Because he has a soul stabilizing his grotesquely altered body.

Creatures that were once human and were transformed don’t just dissolve into ink. Their bodies remain intact after death until they eventually return to the inky abyss (potentially from being ripped apart) or until they’re revived by a Bendy Statue (Like Sammy, as implied by a clever easter egg near the fountain with the respawning Swollen Searcher).

In fact, now that I think about it, out of all the hostile creatures you encounter, Sammy, Susie, Norman, Bertrum and the Butcher Gang are some of the more stable bodied creatures within the Cycle, requiring a lot more hits to die than Searchers and Lost Ones, although Susie does die from a single stab (though the blow itself WAS pretty devastating in itself).

After pondering on this little idea I realized that the presence of Allison Angel and Tom Boris were entirely fabricated at that point. One of many alterations created by Joey to guide Henry through the last leg of his journey towards “The End”, very likely modelled after the real Allison and Thomas who he viewed as hostile, thus portrayed them as initially aggressive towards Henry. I mean, after so many unsuccefful attempts to make creatures entirely of ink (like the Ink Demon), it’s not too farfetched to say Joey eventually got the hang of it. The Mini Ink machines do it flawlessly and even help Henry, so who’s to say Joey didn’t perfect it within the Cycle to create beings not quite as strong as the Ink Demon, but strong enough to kill corrupt humans?

Again why is any of this relevant to how I think Henry’s dead? Simple. People who replied to Joey lived. Henry didn’t reply, instead he was lured in.

I believe that the Ink Machine’s disastrous results in the Real World made Joey realize that making a person into a Toon through passing them through the machine with a template wasn’t gonna cut it to fix the grand mess he’d made out of the Ink Demon. But, I also think he realized passing them through the Ink Machine while living was also the issue. The ink corrupted their souls, left them vulnerable to becoming Imperfect beings like Susie. Having them ingest the ink prior to going through was also not gonna cut it, as it’s connection to the Ink Demon gradually destroyed Sammy’s already frail sanity and changed him into an abomination (that had a pretty strong will for possibly three deaths before he finally lost himself completely and became a soulless Searcher). This left one final method to experiment with on the one person he thought responsible to clean his fuck-ups: Joey had to kill Henry prior to putting him through the machine.

In “Dreams Come True”, Buddy reveals that upon becoming Boris, his body was discarded. A byproduct of his soul enfusing with the ink and rejecting his human flesh. It might be possible that Joey was quick enough in killing Henry in an inconspicuous manner and then putting his body through the machine that Henry’s soul was pulled into the Cycle flawlessly while his body was spat back out for Joey to later deal with (Putting him behind his work desk as if he’d simply died of exhaustion, neatly hiding his crime behind the “suffering of a tortured artist”). This would explain why Henry lacks a shadow or reflection. He’s a ghost. A ghost that’s slowly realizing how hopeless his situation is. What a great pal Joey Drew turned out to be...

Moving on to the ending of the game itself, there’s some very dark implications that come with Henry being dead. For one, Joey Drew doesn’t have a family, yet he’s recounting Henry’s plight to a little girl who affectionately calls him “Uncle Joey”. We know Henry pursued a family over a busy career, so it’s heavily implied that during the 414 attempts of trying to find a way out of the Studio, Henry’s wife has been grieving him, going so far as to leave their daughter with Joey as she tries to provide for the both of them.

Joey being the pathological liar that he is, would likely graciously look afer his old friend’s daughter and maybe offer “emotional support” to a distraught Linda, cementing his innocense, all the while bragging to the child about what really happened to her father without her knowing. That is a pretty twisted theory and I honestly like the idea due to how horrific it is.

But where does BATDR come into play here?

Well, it’s been confirmed to not be a prequel nor a sequel. Matpat suggested it might either be an Alternate Universe or a Side Story. I believe the latter is more likely, thanks to SuperHorrorBro theorizing that the people behind Gent might be the Big Bad/cause of that particular game’s misfortunes. A Side Story about the Ink Machine being recreated and templates re-used to create a familiar yet brand new nightmare.

I believe BATIM and BATDR are a vicious cycle of madness happening at the same time. The same task repeated by people who expect different results. Only with Joey Drew it was an animation studio, with GENT it might be on a larger scale...But who knows?

There will be returning characters, so maybe BATDR will shed new light upon the Ink Machine and the Cycle’s true nature.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Bendy and the Dark Revival #BATDR #Theory #Speculation #Friend Anon

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

Text

A Familiar Face (Part 6)

It’s been a long time coming, but Ryan is finally making an appearance! Just for a quick recap of sorts, something completely unexpected took place in reader’s life, and Ryan was there to help in any way he was able (because that’s just the way our angel musician is). After a delayed dinner, it’s reader’s first night in an unfamiliar place. (This is basically setting the stage for a lot yet to come.) Thanks for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Word count: 3750

Rating: PG (flirting, bedroom eyes)

Tag list: @dylanobrusso @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @ms-delos @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @bicevans @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @ladyofnaps @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes

If you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, feel free to ask!

Dishes were a necessary evil. Ryan had put up a fight after lasagna was eaten and you both had full bellies, insisting that you had made dinner, which gave him automatic dish duty. You’d swatted him away playfully several times, telling him he was overruled and he finally obliged, backing away from the sink.

“Payback in the form of a few songs would be much more fulfilling,” you promised, an almost impish lilt in your tone, and you found yourself smirking as you turned back to the sink. Were you flirting? Your home had just been ransacked, you were offered a new place to stay temporarily, you’d finally had dinner… after all the ebb and flow of disaster versus small miracles, flirting was nothing short of a terrible decision.

Georgie is not present, you reminded yourself. He’s almost guaranteed to stay away for awhile. You are fully alone with this man who you’re inexplicably drawn to and fascinated by, this man who is warm and kind and very, very attractive. Tread lightly around Ryan Brenner. Be careful.

Conversation was easy between the pair of you, even if there were times when Ryan wasn’t very forthcoming. You leaned in the opposite direction, an open book about most things, and it became effortless to learn to fill silences, accustomed to doing so in making small talk with customers at the diner. But with Ryan, there was no need for filler by way of insignificant pleasantries. Silence between the two of you was okay, and you found that Ryan almost communicated with more clarity without words than he did with them. Sometimes, they weren’t necessary. His dark eyes were surprisingly expressive. There was a slight furrow of his brows when he was apprehensive; a look of authority about him as he’d walked with you throughout your apartment… he had been protective yet gentle, inquisitive but never intrusive. Ryan was attentive, in tune with everything around him. He noticed even the tiniest things, the slightest change in tone or mood, a flicker of emotion over someone’s features, small beats passing in hesitation.

You had become lost in your thoughts, and there was no question he’d picked up on the shift from joking about dishes to a stretch of silence. Instantly, he was mulling over possible reasons as to what caused such a stark change in so little time. It was more than what had happened in your apartment, and it was obvious Ryan from one small nuance he’d never seen you indulge in before. You'd started to gnaw on your bottom lip, and it was only when the skin grew raw that you caught yourself and stopped short. You’d barely realized it happening, yet Ryan instantly caught on.

As the sink continued to fill with warm water, you glanced across the kitchen to see Ryan clearing off the table, stacking plates one atop the other.

“Ryan!”

He crossed the room with two long strides, suddenly beside you where you stood by the sink. The plates were sat down onto the counter with a light clatter. Ryan shrugged lightly, but his eyes were trained on your face. You felt a heat creep up and over your cheeks; you were supremely aware of his gaze, unassuming, yet steady. Clearing your throat— a nervous habit you’d had for as long as you could remember—you turned off the faucet, satisfied with the water level in the basin of the sink. There was a layer of soap suds atop the water, reminiscent of a bubble bath; a few wayward bubbles floated into the air only to pop spontaneously into thin air. Promptly, you began washing.

“You okay,Y/N?” Ryan’s voice was soft, but the intonation of his question was clear— he knew the answer already. He studied your profile without a word, and your expression paired with a long moment of silence only confirmed the feeling he had.

Remaining quiet, you scrubbed at a blob of cheese that had melted onto a plate, stubborn and stuck, not budging against your efforts. Dropping the plate to soak in the dishwater, you finally met Ryan’s eyes.

“I will be.”

You smiled softly in appreciation. This man was an angel, you were sure of it. He in turn searched your face for a moment, that slight furrowing of his eyebrows making a brief appearance and vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. You looked away only to battle against the glued-on cheese again, and you felt a small soar of triumphant gratification as a clean plate was revealed with just three swipes of your sponge. Ryan remained standing just a few inches from you, catching the feather light upturning of your lips. Gently, he took the plate from your hand and began drying it. You laughed, snatching the dish towel out of his hand. “Get outta here, Brenner!”

Narrowing his eyes playfully, he handed back the halfway-dried plate in mock defeat, backing toward the threshold of the kitchen. He stopped just short of reaching the corridor and laughed softly.

“I’m stoppin’, you get no more help from me.” He held up his large hands in mock surrender, amusement shining in his warm brown eyes. There was an obvious look of kindness to his expression; the glint of laughter and mischief there had softened to one of genuine fondness. With one small nod, he turned and disappeared down the hallway. You got back to work, and just as you pulled the stopper from the drain of the sink, you heard the squeak of old pipes followed by the distinct sound of the shower running, water pounding against ceramic like rain against a tin roof.

You leaned back against the counter, hands behind you as you braced yourself. You were hyper aware of the knowledge that Ryan was showering directly above you, and you shook your head, forcing yourself to clear your mind and focus… focus on dealing with your disaster of an apartment, of getting your life together and back in order. Those were important things, essential things, not at all related to the kind, gentle, talented, attractive and wonderful man who was currently naked and wet with nothing but the barrier of the ceiling between the two of you.

You shook your head vehemently, firmly reminding yourself that your mission was to focus on significant things. The only problem there was that you kept catching yourself focusing on Ryan, more than you probably should, and he made it so easy to do so-- almost too easy. It was within the ease of his authenticity, the careful choosing of his words and ever-present optimism; in the way he appreciated life’s simplest pleasures that everyone else took for granted; in the genuine kindness of his character, his quiet chuckling and bashful, boyish smiles. You were fascinated, enthralled, and charmed by this man, yet a single thought remained, tarnishing your view: he would soon be gone.

Ryan hadn’t said as much, hadn’t given a date or a time or even mentioned traveling to another location, but you had a striking feeling, and the realization hit you like a freight train. You’d made only a small space for him in your life at first, but you’d easily allowed that space to grow. Without him there occupying a bench in the cold, playing guitar with numb fingers you’d hope to warm up with a cup of coffee; without his presence alone giving you reason to actually make dinner; without the indulgence in pleasant conversation while you closed the diner… You were struck with a heavy ache deep in your chest. Your life would go back to normal to a point, but you had a hunch it would feel a little bit incomplete.

It was a feeling you were used to and thought you’d grown into, barely noticing it over the years, but you knew that this time, it would sting like rubbing alcohol poured over a fresh wound. It would linger.

You found yourself spiraling into a seemingly endless cavern of thoughts, just as you had earlier in the evening. How long would it take for the inevitable loneliness to fade? How many early mornings would be tainted with the memory that Ryan wouldn’t be there tuning his on your way to work, but instead making his way to a new location?

You’d consciously made the choice to live the way you did. When you weren’t working and surrounded by co-workers and customers alike at the diner, your life was one of solitude, and you were content with that. But that was before Ryan appeared and took up residence in your life. You were painfully aware that when he was gone, maybe that contentment would tarnish and corrode. Maybe your solitude would turn bitter with no one else’s voice to replace the slow drawl of Ryan’s, soft like velvet; no distraction from constantly remembering the distinct color and depth of his eyes, always radiating warmth; no substitute for the sound of his guitar-- the music that had brought Ryan into your life, bringing streaks of sunshine and brightness along with him, replacing your shades of grey. Maybe your solitude would shift and transform to loneliness.

How long was it going to take to find another apartment with affordable rent? Where would you even start to look? Was a space with an alarm system really necessary? Were you foolishly making yourself too available to access, and how could you begin to remedy that? Your brain was stockpiled with thoughts, ricocheting against the inside of your skull like bullets, no reprieve between one shot firing before the next one flew your way. Continuing to work, you opened several wooden cabinets until you found where the dishes were kept. You put them away, the soft clattering of stacked plates the only sound in the silent house; the soft pattering of water against the shower walls had stopped.

You located a roll of Saran Wrap, carefully tearing off enough to cover the remainder of lasagna that you and Ryan hadn’t been able to finish. Seamlessly, you covered the dish. It had taken a lot of practice and many, many sheets of Saran Wrap crumpled and thrown angrily into the trash, but since working at the diner, you’d finally mastered the art of winning the fight with cling wrap. The diner. You had to call Sophie, ask her to pick up your shift tomorrow if at all possible. I just need a day. One day.

You opened the refrigerator and placed your glass baking dish inside, disappearing just long enough until you heard footsteps echoing over old, wooden floorboards, accompanied by a creaking once or twice. Closing the refrigerator door, you gave the kitchen one last look. Absentmindedly running your palms over your denim-clad thighs, you exhaled, satisfied. And the anxiety that had been weighing like a heavy stone in your abdomen was all but gone. It was part of the reason why the diner meant so much to you— the routine of your days, the feeling of accomplishment as you wished another satisfied customer a good day and cleared away their dishes— there was a comfort there, and you found that feeling as you stood upright, softly closing the refrigerator door as you did so. The room was still empty.

Though you’d heard Ryan return from the back of the house, you were surprised not to find him there; it was out of character for him to leave you alone unannounced. You recalled the small exchange you’d previously had before he’d disappeared down the hallway:

You okay, Y/N?

I will be.

You would be, and it then dawned on you that a connotation may have been attached to those words, one that Ryan may have taken as your way of saying you’d rather be alone. Hoping desperately that meaning didn’t mistranslate in his mind, you ventured through the kitchen, your steps slowing as you peeked into the next room. Since arriving at Georgie’s, you hadn’t made it past that one small room, You found yourself in the doorway of what appeared to be a den.

The first thing your eyes settled on was an old set of French doors paned with long windows. The old wood that surrounded the windows needed to be stained, but the doors were charming in their own way. You paused to have a quick peek outside; you could barely see a blanket of snow on what seemed to be a back porch. The darkness was so much thicker out of town, tucked away and surrounded by trees. If only the weather was nicer.

You took a few more steps inside, noticing Ryan’s absence, and you frowned. You supposed he wasn’t required to babysit you. It was quite the contrary, actually. He was a grown man who led his own life, and just because he’d been kind enough to offer you a place to stay, his company would just be a bonus.

Even still, you were enchanted by the room you’d found, and decided to allow yourself to wander in farther and explore. On the far wall opposite from where you stood was occupied almost entirely by an archaic wood-burning fireplace, and the vision brought a full smile to your face. Outdated red brick ran from floor to ceiling. The hearth was surprisingly roomy, and a long mantle, solid wood in a warm chestnut shade, adorned the smoke shelf. It was homey, cozy, and you walked to stand in front of it as you noticed assorted picture frames decorating the mantle. You stepped past wainscoted walls, between a tawny, threadbare sofa set, and a bookshelf stuffed with books, not an inch left unoccupied on any of the four shelves. You spotted a set of encyclopedias, gold in your school days. Finally you reached the fireplace, bending at the waist to touch the red brick of the hearth. The brickwork appeared to be dusty from underuse, but in pulling your hand back, palm up, there was nothing dirtying your fingers. Your idea of dust due to neglect was quickly debunked by a small pile of ash in the firebox, soot caking the sharp end of the stoker hanging neatly from a wrought iron tool stand.

Finally getting around to the picture frames that had drawn you to the fireplace initially, you jumped at an unexpected clattering coming from outside the French doors. Spinning to look, you let out an involuntary yell as one of the doors flew open. In stepped Ryan, arms full of logs, his biceps straining from the weight, Kicking the door shut behind him, his eyes widened at the sight of you. Crossing the room in two long strides, he halfway tossed the logs down on the hearth unceremoniously.

“What’s the matter, Y/N?” There was concern in his voice and he was peering down at you with those piercing, dangerously dark eyes. The depth of them had stolen words from your mouth. When you didn’t answer, Ryan reached past the small space between the two of you, the rough palms of his hands calloused from guitar strings and train cars curling around your upper arms, and you yelped again, recoiling instinctively.

“Your hands are freezing!” Heart still pounding at your rib cage, you took a deep breath in in an attempt to steady your breathing. “Holy shit.”

Falling down onto the couch behind you, you started to laugh. You laughed harder the more you thought about the absurdity of the situation, tears pricking behind your eyes and overflowing, leaving tiny, wet rivulets down your cheeks.

You caught Ryan’s glance, eyebrows knitted together in what you could only gathered to be utter confusion. He watched your every move as you wiped the tears from your face with the backs of your hands, blinking quickly and collapsing back against the couch. Your laughter subsided and you managed to find your voice

“I thought I heard you while I was finishing up in the kitchen, but when I wandered in here…” You trailed off with a shrug. “I spotted the pictures on the mantle and was just about to get a closer look when you came bursting through the door. I was not anticipating that.” You let out a short breath of a giggle, and as if trading places, you were now the one watching Ryan’s every move.

His eyes lit up with amusement at your explanation, and by the time you were done, he was all-out grinning, apples of his cheeks rounding. You noticed then that he’d cleaned up his beard, trimmed it closer to his skin. He ducked his head, scratching the back of his neck as he chuckled, the sound deep and melodic. Glancing over at you, smile still there, Ryan just shook his head.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” You caught his gaze lingering on you, and you swallowed a lump that had suddenly popped up in your throat. Like a stupid and inexperienced child, you looked away in a bout of uncertainty, cursing yourself silently.

“Thanks, I think.” You broke the momentary silence as Ryan turned to back to the fireplace, his back to you as he half-grinned into the firebox, arranging a few of the logs there. Afterward, he turned to neatly stack the remaining wood he had dumped onto the hearth. You tried not to think about the way the lean muscle in his back and shoulders shifted as he moved, the bulging of his biceps each time he effortlessly added to the stack. You felt as if your eyes may burn holes through his thin, white t-shirt. Your gaze fell to his lower half, and you allowed yourself the opportunity to appreciate the way his grey sweatpants hung low over his hips, loose-fitting but still highlighting his physique.

It was only as your eyes moved upward from his torso, again drinking in the rippling of his back that you noticed his hair. It was brushed back, away from his forehead, damp with snow. You let your mind wander, wishing you’d caught him a few minutes earlier than you had, fresh out the shower. You imagined him with his whole headful of thick, overgrown hair neatly combed back.

It was different, seeing him this way, his hat and coat abandoned, jeans and hoodie traded for something much more comfortable. It was a good different, one that made you feel oddly secure. You could get used to it far too easily.

Softly smiling to yourself, you settled further into the couch as Ryan paused, standing upright, hand disappearing into his pocket momentarily. Drawing out a lighter, he leaned in toward the firebox, supporting himself with one forearm on the hearth, and if life came with a pause button, you would have used it right then and there. It was a feat, but you tore your eyes away from his physique at the tell-tale crackling of a fire coming to life.

As comfortable as you were lounging on the old couch, you pulled yourself up and to your feet. Raising your arms high above your head, you stretched before dropping your arms back down to your sides. Joining Ryan in front of the fire, you rolled your neck side to side as you turned to warm your front. The fire was quickly roaring to life, and you were so thankful for the warmth.

“This feels amazing. The initial terror was well worth it.” You kept your voice quiet, just loud enough for Ryan to hear over the popping and crackling of the burning wood in flames. Rubbing your hands up and down arms for more warmth, you looked sideways at Ryan and smiled. “Can I ask you something?”

To your surprise, there was no hesitation on his end; no pause as he mulled over whether or not he’d mind answering, no shadow of apprehension over his eyes or pinching together of his features. Ryan simply nodded, made a low humming sound in acknowledgement as he turned his head to look at you.

A chunk of hair fell forward into his eyes and your breath hitched in your throat. You’d never put so much effort into your face remaining neutral, and it was all for nothing, because nothing got past Ryan Brenner. He may not necessarily vocalize as much, but you’d learned how observant and attentive he was.

Forcing yourself to exhale, the corners of your lips turned upward and you put your hands on your hips just for show.. “Why did you go out in the snow with just a t-shirt on?! You can’t go catching pneumonia, Ryan I need you.” Your voice has started with a teasing tone, but all traces of it had vanished as you finished. Underneath everything, you were exhausted and vulnerable, and this incredible man was all you had.

He cocked his head to the side, giving you a once over with no effort put into hiding it. There was no threat, no ill intent or shadow of anything inappropriate but your skin felt like it could burst into flames under the heat you couldn’t swear you glimpsed in his eyes. Ryan locked his eyes with yours, and there was no discerning where his pupils met their iris. You’d never seen his eyes so dark.

“Just didn’t think about needin’ to find dry wood.” His eyes were still trained on you as if you were a rarity, one he wanted to keep as a secret. “I was preoccupied.”

Ryan gave you a meaningful look then, eyes still startlingly dark, and turned to head out of the den. “I think I owe you a couple-a songs, Y/N.”

Your ears were tuned into the rhythm of his footsteps, the way the sound faded the further he walked. Inhaling deeply, your breath was unsteady. You’ve had more than enough action today, you warned yourself. Important things. Focus on important things. You heard Ryan’s footsteps growing louder, and your shoulders relaxed at the sound. Just knowing he was making his way back had already overruled your reminder to yourself, and you couldn’t have cared any less.

As if on cue, Ryan returned, guitar slung over his shoulder and hanging at his back. Important things. Ryan Brenner was an important thing, and you couldn’t change that. You reconciled that fact, and it was so simple to accept. Too simple. So be it.

You watched as Ryan walked across the room, sitting on the couch across from the one you occupied, he adjusted his guitar onto his lap and began tuning. Her tweaked and turned the pegs on either side of the headstock, that chunk of hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes again. You didn’t think Ryan even noticed. He was so focused on his instrument, so intent in getting the tuning right that he was completely absorbed in the matter at hand.

“Do you have any original songs, Ryan? Your covers are wonderful, but I’d really love some authenticity.” Your words were bold and you knew you were asking a lot, maybe too much. You braced yourself for a simple shaking of his head side to side.

“That’s one thing I can give you, Y/N.” With one last, single strum, the old acoustic was tuned to his satisfaction. He looked up from the guitar only long enough to turn his attention to you, giving a soft nod. You nodded back at Ryan, promising him your full and undivided attention, and with that, he positioned his fingers on the fretboard and began to play.

#a familiar face #aff #part 6 #ryan brenner x reader #my writing #fan fiction

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pemfscam-blog · 4 years

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For what reason Isn't My PEMF Device Helping Me Yet?

As I converse with individuals who buy attractive field frameworks I every now and again get asked "when will I probably observe an outcome?" The other inquiry is "the reason is the gadget not making a difference?"

Both of these inquiries are really related. The appropriate responses require a comprehension of how beat attractive fields work when applied for explicit wellbeing conditions, and thinking about the individual body.

PEMFs, of the sort I normally suggest, regularly infiltrate right through the body without being spent by the body. Nonetheless, similar to a light, the force of the light is most grounded rate next of the light and diminishes as you move away from the light. Something very similar occurs with PEMFs - the power drops off as you move away from the implement. That implies that the aspect of the body close to the implement will get the most noteworthy field force and the opposite side of the body away from the utensil will get a low degree of power. This is a significant thought in where to put instruments and will decide frequently what sort of results will be acquired.

Some medical issues require higher field forces. Some medical issues improve lower field powers. A few issues require a more extensive scope of frequencies, while others improve an insignificant number of frequencies. Thus, choosing the correct gadget gets imperative to accomplish the best outcomes. Each attractive framework will create advantages somewhat. The privilege attractive framework for the conditions will in general produce results quicker. Sadly frequently individuals need to settle on buying choices dependent on reasonableness thus the privilege attractive framework may not generally be conceivable to acquire.

If so, at that point it will probably require some investment for advantages to be accomplished and tolerance will be required.

Numerous individuals get enormous outcomes rapidly and are content with their PEMF framework even in the principal week or so of utilization. For certain individuals the outcomes don't occur rapidly. This is the place we can tweak the treatment program to accomplish better outcomes. I regularly need to remind individuals that the body sets aside effort to recuperate once it's given the fitting sign or improvement for that to occur. For instance, a crack will require 8 to 12 weeks to be sufficient for the unresolved issue ready to be utilized. This doesn't mean the recuperating cycle is done, it is only a more usable body part. Attractive treatment can speed the recuperating rate however it won't be immediate. This is an irrational desire.

PEMFs don't sedate the body into being easy or euphoric. I call that "desensitizing and dumbing." Sometimes medicates are significant during the treatment cycle. One of the objectives of PEMFs is to have the option to diminish the utilization of medications on the off chance that one can and achieve less agony and improved capacity.

PEMFs work somewhere down in the tissues to invigorate normal recuperating measures that have stalled out. It is the mending of the tissues that makes a decrease in torment, and improvement of capacity and wellbeing. This is at last the best arrangement and produces the most economical, most drastically averse to relapse, results. Tragically, we didn't arrive for the time being with our concern/s and it will require some investment for the mending to work. In spite of this, simultaneously,how pemf works different advantages start to occur in the body, that were startling. For instance, rest, mind-set or essentialness, or gut work, and so forth, may improve before the first issue improves.

All in all, what are a portion of the approaches to improve results?

1. Setting desires

Having legitimate desires is truly significant. On the off chance that one is discouraged or entirely hopeless in one's life, little enhancements in an issue may appear to be lacking to improve the general nature of one's life. I see this especially in the old who have so numerous medical problems, among others, that it is difficult for them to value the advantages they might be getting. Imperative to setting desires is understanding the idea of the issue the profundity of the harm or brokenness, the tissue in question and its capacity to recover, the presumable time it will take to recuperate even in good conditions, and the age of the person. Unmistakably a 20-year-old will recuperate a lot quicker than a 80-year-old. The body has greater imperativeness and the hereditary qualities will in general help quicker fix and recuperation. 20-year-olds normally don't have the same number of incessant issues thus intense wounds will in general purpose a lot quicker than interminable issues, which have been around for quite a long time. While regularly extensive assets are being spent on PEMFs we have a danger of setting desires that are excessively high for what the innovation can achieve and the capacity of the tissue to recover.

At the point when desires are too high we are sadly regularly liable to look for enchantment slugs, including medical procedure, anticipating emotional advantages. Infrequently, inexplicable things happen rapidly, however this isn't the standard. All things considered, PEMF treatments are a superior arrangement than presenting the body to hazardous systems or possibly poisonous medications/prescriptions. PEMF treatments or a more common arrangement, more often than not. Regularly, people will look for PEMFs as an answer after they have just been exposed to various methods or medical procedures. This sadly turns into somewhat like assembling Humpty Dumpty back once more. I have seen PEMFs work amazingly well and rapidly in patients who have almost no harm in their bodies for numerous strategies. This can happen even in this last circumstance, if the conditions are correct. More often than not, in any case, it takes effort for recuperating to happen that is probably going to be lasting or reliable. Regularly likewise, PEMFs may not fix or converse the issue yet are fundamental on a proceeding with premise to keep up control of the issue. Something very similar clearly occurs with the utilization of prescriptions, exercise based recuperation, knead, and so on.

2. Recognizing the degree of tissue harm/brokenness

This is a basic piece to seeing how long it is probably going to take for advantages to be seen in treating explicit issues. Issues in the body have degrees of contribution and various tissues are engaged with some random injury. The degrees of contribution can be considered as far as layers or levels. One approach to think about these levels is: the enthusiastic level, the physiologic level, the pathophysiological level, and the pathologic level. At some random time there can be cover in the tissues of these levels, and they can even all be all the while present.

Vivacious level

The similarity I use is that of a typical virus. At the point when a virus is initially starting, numerous individuals feel an ambiguous feeling of malady, or uneasiness, with no particular feeling of where or what the issue is. This is in the lively level.

Physiologic level

When a virus starts to deliver an irritated throat, a slight temperature, a runny nose, wheezing, and so on., the contamination has moved to the physiologic level.

Pathophysiologic level

In the event that the disease proceeds in the body and advances, it might start to create bronchitis, rhinitis, a huge hack, mental fogginess, with a green or yellow sputum, and so on. This is the pathophysiologic level. In this level there are components of a physiologic reaction to a contamination and components of cell obliteration (pathology) with shading changes to the sputum showing disease of the nose, sinuses or bronchial sections. When the disease slides further into the body, intense sinusitis or pneumonia is conceivable. Most ceaseless issues are in the pathophysiologic level, with fluctuating degrees of pathology.

Pathologic level

With noteworthy cell or organ harm, this level is viewed as pathologic. A considerable measure of tissue demise can happen before an organ or the body in general will fizzle. At the very least, various cells have passed on. At the outrageous, there is either finished or halfway organ disappointment or passing of the individual.

Reactions to treatment at each level

Medicines coordinated at a difficult that is at the fiery level are substantially more sensational and prone to create reactions quickly, even in minutes. For physiologic level issues, medicines are bound to create reactions in hours to a few days. Once there is some degree of pathology, that is, at a pathophysiologic level, the impacts of treatment for the most part take longer, and can take days to weeks. The pathophysiologic level in these cases can be shockingly influenced by attractive fields, with regularly emotional outcomes. At the pathologic level, medicines have truly unusual outcomes and may take a very long time to years to create results, if at any time. Valid and complete organ passing is probably not going to be reversible with attractive fields. Attractive fields don't make the "Lazarus impact".

When one realizes what the likely degree of harm to the creature is, it's simpler to foresee how long it might take for these treatments to deliver results. Supernatural occurrences, that is, far superior to anticipated outcomes, are consistently conceivable, nonetheless. Treatment might be aimed at a specific issue of intrigue however improvement may initially be seen for an alternate issue, in light of which layers are included. Since more shallow layers will be bound to react rapidly, these issues will react paying little mind to where the MFs might be coordinated first. This resembles stripping an onion; more shallow issues will be "stripped" away first, more profound next, and so on and most profound will be last. This is the reason comprehensive treatment may take a very long time to years to clear all the layers.

As a doctor, I generally endeavor to decide the degree of harm that is available in the individual I am approached to help. When I have a feeling of the levels in question, I have a vastly improved thought of how long it will take to accomplish huge alleviation or improvement or fix. The level and degree of the issue is by all accounts more significant than the quality of the attractive fields applied, or the frequencies utilized or how much time is dedicated to treatment every day. Improving these factors ought to abbreviate the cycle.

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pippafitzamobi · 5 years

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just me

It’s that time of the term when I’m ready to do everything except real work. Here’s the result. All 2158 words of it.

Also can be found on ao3.

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The brisk of fresh air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath and close my eyes leaning against the huge tree. The surface of the trunk scratches my bare arms, and I welcome the sensation. The ache to feel anything except this overwhelming numbness I’m experiencing is taking over me again.

The past few days have been a whirlwind of inexplicable joy and painful revelations. The more I find out about myself the more I realize that there is to lose.

It's no longer just about me, my sanity, my freedom.

It's no longer just about Aaron, his wounds, his obligations.

Somewhere along the way we've made friends, grew attachments.

Something that was once an unfathomable concept for me: a poor, crazy girl destined for nothing but solitude. I am no longer alone. Now, I know the truth or at least a scrap of it. There is still so much to uncover, I can feel it, something escapes me and I’m too afraid to look closer.

We're all connected by the invisible thread of pain and now it's wrapping around our necks trying to strangle us into submission.

I can't let that happen.

I won’t let that happen.

Everyone is counting on me, on us, to end all of this once and for all.

“Chiquitita tell me what’s wrong” a cracked, out-of-tune voice comes from the other side of the tree.

Kenji.

I've been a bad friend lately. So consumed with myself that I did not even once stop and thought about anyone else. I should do better. Kenji deserves better. The best of me, the best of anything really. He has been there for me and with me through it all. And I left him on his own when he was falling apart.

“You really shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”

He ignores me, gazing somewhere deep into the darkness ahead of him. "So, what are we sulking about today, princess?"

My left shoulder rest against the tree as I turn to get a better look at him.

He looks tired, worn. An echo of a lively soul he once was.

What I wouldn't give to put my hands on Nazeera right now – if it wouldn’t be for a fact that my best friend is in love with her.

"I'm sorry."

The wind carries my words through the silence that settles between us as Kenji nods his head in understanding.

I love that about us. There’s no second-guessing, no questioning looks or doubts.

He gets it. Of course, he does. I don't know if there is any other person in the world who understands me as he does.

What Aaron and I have exists on a different level of us. It’s more raw, rugged, soaked with everything we are and what we’ve done.

My connection with Kenji is not something that can be easily explained with words - it needs to be felt. And the fact that I don’t need to explain it to him is the best testimony to that. What we have goes beyond anything familiar, beyond anything romantic. With each other, we can just be. And to people like us, that’s everything.

Especially since lately I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be anymore.

“Look J.” He slings a look down at me from the corner of his eye. ”I’m not angry with you. I could never be angry with for trying to rest and be happy,” he stops to release a loaded sigh, “but yeah..."

A broken laugh escapes him and something breaks a little inside me.

“It’s completely ridiculous when I think about it. I survived two decades of some serious shit without you and...,” he falls quiet for a moment. “I guess I should get used to not having you around.”

At that, I push away from the tree and stand in front of him frowning in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

His lips tug in a small, pitiful smile and I suddenly struggle with an urge to punch him in the face.

“Come on, Jello, don’t be dense. We both know that when all of this is over you will go off to live somewhere far with the pretty boy and have a herd of his tiny megalomaniacal replicants.”

For a second I’m speechless. The sheer force of anger and shock that comes over me almost knocks me back.

“I'm not leaving you.” It’s all I manage to say.

“Oh, that's so sweet. You are so sweet.”

I hate him.

“Tell me: are we going to live in the same neighbourhood? Or maybe even better! The same house. Do you think Prince Discharming would mind if we got a bunk bed, for you and me? He can sleep underneath it, I suppose.”

My hands start to shake. “Kenji…”

“I don't want you to hold yourself back for my benefit. If anyone on this godforsaken world deserves a happy ending it's you. Even if it's with Warner.”

“Stop it. Just stop-p,” my voice cracks, my body shakes, my heart has abandoned me. “Stop saying things, I don’t want your stupid words.”

I shove his hand away as he tries to grab me and get closer to him, so close that I feel his warm breath on my face as I crane my neck to be able to look him in the eye.

I can’t believe him. That he would dare to think something like that. After everything, he thinks I could just get up and leave? Leave him, of all people?

“You listen to me now, you're not getting rid of me so easily. War or no war, we stick together, you understand? You and I have a long future in ahead of us and I expect you to be there.”

Something inside of him is brewing and breaking and mending all at once and I can see the change starting in his eyes, his face softening, his knees bending as he falls on the ground exhausted.

We’ve all been through so much, too much perhaps, that at times I wonder whether surviving it all is within our reach. I start to believe some of us were designed to cruise from one heartbreak to another until there will be nothing of us left, but a road wasted good intentions.

After a while, I join sitting beside him on the greenest grass I’ve ever seen, waiting for one us to speak.

“So, now that we got that out of our system, do you mind telling me what’s up with your sudden need for breathing exercises?”

How can I form into words what I myself don’t understand?

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging me with his shoulder.

“I just feel I haven’t processed everything as well as I thought I have. And the chances that I will get time to do that are substantially small.”

“What’s there to process?”

I raise my eyebrow at him meaningfully, and he smirks in response.

“No, seriously. The only new thing is that you have a sister and are apparently from Australia–”

“New Zeeland, actually”

“...everything else is pretty much the same.”

“Is that so?”

He starts ticking off on his fingers, “Parents? Still shitty. Your taste in men? Still questionable. Superpowers? Unfairly high. The rest is only made of insignificant detail that will make you feel shitty the more you think about it. So...you know, don’t think.”

With a sigh I toss my face up to the sky, “Easier said than done.”

Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he crosses them at the ankles, while folding his arms across his chest, and leans back against the tree. “People put too much value into thinking. Thinking hasn’t changed anything in the world. Sure, sometimes it’s a good thing to do, but most of the time if you want to have something you have to get it done.”

He stops me before I get to say anything.

“And what we want right now is Adam and James back, Anderson dead, and your sister not pulling a plug on all of this,” Kenji points around them at the reminder of what her sister is exactly capable of.

“You make it all sound so simple. But I don’t even know who is supposed to pull it all off.”

“What do you mean ‘who’?” he frowns. “We are. You, me and the rest of them.”

“Yes, but...me as who? Juliette or Ella?”

His mouth opens in silent realization.

“Oh, Jesus, is it what it’s all about? Your name?”

“No, it’s not just that. It’s...what it mean..ugh…”.The frustration sweeps through me cresting in my chest. “I can’t explain it logically.”

“Maybe because it lacks any logic, hm?” he squints his left eye at me as to emphasise his point.

Suddenly, my head starts to feel heavy so I let it rest on my knees. Communicating your problems is difficult when you don’t know what the problem is, or even if there is one. But I keep feeling this pressure in my skull and weight in my heart, so I need to try, try to speak about something I don’t even dare to think about.

“It’s like this,” I close my eyes and let words flow. “I was born as Ella, that’s who I am to Aaron and to my sister, and to many others who knew me since I was a child. But then I became Juliette, not by my own volition, but that’s who I’ve been for over a decade of my life. And it’s Juliette who discovered the true potential of her powers, it’s Juliette who rebelled, it’s her who fell in love and it’s her who made all of those wonderful friends. But Juliette is a creation of horrible design, but then again so is Ella. “

I open my eyes at last. They feel gritty. My throat is so dry I can't swallow the wad that despair lodged inside of it.

“There are times I’m not sure which I am, and which I’m supposed to be.”

It is dark, but I can still see him, looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, noticing something he hasn't before. His expression gentle, understanding, and surprisingly sharp, almost determined.

Kenji knows.

“Your name is just that. A name. Bunch of letters put together that don’t mean a thing. And don’t say a single thing about you.” He leans in closer, pulling me in with his eyes. “What do they mean? Did everything you went through as Juliette became erased when you found out your birth name?”, he shakes his head, “No.”

“Did your family stop exist when you were living as Juliette?”, he shakes it again, “No.”

His hand finds her in the dark. “You’re badass, you know that, don’t you? You survived hell and you keep coming back because you want to help people. It doesn't matter whose daughter you are and who is your sister, not even who are you dating right now. You can’t figure out which name to use? Use both, use neither. Choose a new one. For the first time in your life, you’re free to make a choice for yourself. Do you know how powerful that is, J? To be free? To be you? Because you've got to be you. No one else can.”

He knows he knows he knows

With tears in my eyes I reach for him and he tugs me closer. I don’t need any powers to feel him, the certainty that there will always be at least one person who will understand me.

“Ella!”

Kenji groans against me and glares over his shoulder at approaching Aaron.

“I swear he has some sort of radar when it comes to you. Are you sure he didn’t implant any microchip into your skull? Actually never mind. I’m gonna check myself.”

He continues to work his fingers on my head until I elbow him, laughing.

“Kenji!”

We're standing up, smiling at each other as if we have no other worries in the world, and at this moment I’ve never been more grateful that amidst all the tragedy in our lives we’ve found our ways to each other.

“Thank you,” I say, hoping it conveys all the gratitude and love I feel for him.

He messes up my hair, the way an older sibling might do a younger, to break the tension, but mostly because he knows I hate it when he does that.

Throwing his arm over my much smaller frame, he starts walking towards the camp. “So, how about that plan? How much are we going to make Anderson suffer? I vote extremely much, the Spider-Man 3 level of pain.”

I may not know everything about my past yet, and my future might be even more uncertain than ever, but what I do know, is that this, this is the best side of love. And there’s no chance I’m losing that.

#shatter me #kenji kishimoto #juliette ferrars #ella sommers #reveal me spoilers #small ones...i think #but still #you've been warned #i hope you enjoy

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patty-writes · 5 years

Note

yay another blog who writes for knb!! Can I have Kise having a crush on a girl who doesn't have trust in guys and think kise is the type to not get serious in a relationship and gets bored easily? Thank you so much c:

I mean, she’s not wrong, though.

→ Word count: 1,895

Spotting you in the college cafeteria wasn’t part of his plan (just like noticing how pretty the colour of your sweater suited your hair) and yet, it has quickly became a routine. Everyday, during the lunchtime, Kise Ryōta would wander to the cafeteria and involuntarily look for you—for the face which has been stuck in his mind for the last few days.

Tuesday wasn’t any different—or so he thought until you sat by the table next to his and acting as if he was nothing but the thin air, you began eating your lunch while chatting with friends. It was something so small and insignificant it shouldn’t have been the reason for experiencing a sleepless night, especially considering the photo session he had early in the morning.

“Your skin does look surprisingly dull today, Kise-kun,” stated the girl standing next to him, trying to apply the powder to his cheeks and eyeing him with a careful gaze, the one which allowed her to notice every single imperfection to cover with makeup. “Did you not sleep well?”

“It’s nothing,” he giggled and closed the eyes, feeling the relaxing touch of the soft brush on his skin. “I just had a lot of homework.”

“Homework?” It was hard to contain the laugh hearing such words from him. “I didn’t know you’re so hard-working outside of the job.”

“What can I say?” Kise peeked at her, giving her one of his most charming looks from under the fan of darkened eyelashes. “I’m full of surprises.”

In the end, all he could think about was you and despite his lack of natural interest in anything related to college, he had to admit that it was starting to get rather troublesome. Especially for his beauty.

“Wow, you really look like shit.”

Kise sent a lethal glare at his friend who only shrugged at his reaction and brought a ball of rice to his mouth.

Friday was the day which Kise has spent mostly on dwelling inside his own mind, lost in thoughts and fighting with himself whether it was or wasn’t a good moment to ask you out. He couldn’t recall the last time when he experienced such dilemma, since he could remember girls of all ages were longing for his attention, ripping the hair out of their rivals’ heads only to receive a single glance from him and the smile of his pearly white teeth. How could it be that right now, he was staring at the glass full of orange juice held in the hands and considering if he had a chance.

If he, Kise Ryōta had a chance! What a ridiculous turn of events.

It wasn’t the love-from-the-first-sight kind of thing, on the contrary, he was more than sure that he had missed your presence many times, passing by you on the college halls and not even realizing that you were here. It slowly started to change since the day he saw you sitting there, in the cafeteria, drinking some hot beverage and reading the notes from the lectures.

When he thought about it later, it was somehow inexplicable, the reason why did he even look at your direction remaining a mystery for him. You just were there, your aura drawing him so strongly as if you were shouting at him. And what annoyed him the most was the fact that you weren’t shouting at all. You weren’t even talking to him.

Hell, you weren’t paying the slighest amount of attention to him!

You had to know about his existence, there was no doubt about it. You were present during some matches he played (either by your own will or forced by friends, he couldn’t tell), you looked at him in the eyes when he accidentally brushed your arm on the crowded hallway and apologized after, you saw the magazine cover he was on, so he couldn’t understand—what was he doing wrong? Why weren’t you interested?

“Your princess is going out.” The statement brought him back to reality in an instant, chaotic gaze looking for you between the other students but you weren’t there anymore. “It really hit you hard, didn’t it?”

Kise drank a sip from his glass, wanting to save from time to answer his overly curious friend.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t. You’ve been staring at this girl for the whole two minutes straight, no wonder she left. And you weren’t even blinking, Kise-kun! Like some kind of creepy lizard or something…”

“Shut up,” he pouted crossing the arms over his chest.

“Why won’t you just ask her out?” The question sent shivers down his spine, the one and only question he was so afraid to hear. “I’m sure she won’t decline.”

And I’m not, Kise thought.

For the first time in years, he felt the unpleasant knot in the stomach, the one which appeared before the first casting, leaving the unspoken inquire in his subconsciousness: what if I’m not good enough?

Kise’s pride was built on the very strong foundations—or so he thought until you managed to shatter it to pieces with a barely few words. He knew his value, supported by the thousands of compliments he was receiving during his relatively short career as a model, he wasn’t self-conscious and, most importantly, he wasn’t afraid.

Fear didn’t paralyze him no matter how troublesome the sessions were, how many influential people he was meeting, how big the next challenges were. He could be considered as fearless in some way—a blind oaf in another, but either way, he managed to grow proud and successful. Certain that there was nothing he couldn’t do, nothing he couldn’t accomplish, nothing which could prevent him from achieving his goals.

Seemingly, nothing but winning your heart.

“I’m sorry but I don’t return your feelings.”

Kise was still standing in front of you, speechless and unable to move, completely not expecting this kind of answer. Well, maybe somewhere deep inside he was, but he was trying to convince himself that it was simply an unreasonable anxiety, nothing more, nothing less. Even in his worst nightmares he couldn’t imagine being treated this way, especially not after bringing you the prettiest sunflower he found in the shop and the cup of your favourite drink, especially not by you.

“Huh?” Was his first answer, not the most clever one but he couldn’t think of anything else.

Your eyes were absolutely mesmerizing, taking away his free will and the ability to think straight.

“I said, I don’t return your feelings,” you repeated, not sure whether he didn’t hear you or was just the personification of the stereotypical blonde model, full of perfectly carved muscles and the lack of brain.

“I-I heard what you said,” he smiled cheerfuly with no amount of happiness in the golden eyes. “I just wasn’t expecting that. But don’t worry! I’m not going to push you or anything, but can I ask you: why?”

You peeked at the girl who was passing by through the park, prehaps recognizing Kise and wondering whether you were his girlfriend.

“Because I don’t like you that way.”

“But why?”

You frowned. There was something about his current expression which reminded you of a golden retriver who has just been scolded. Contrary to the popular belief of him being always so confident, the image in front of you was now completely different. Kise wasn’t acting like a jerk, as you expected him to—he looked surprisingly and genuinely hurt.

“And why it’s so important for you?” you passed the buck. “You don’t even know me and there are plenty of other girls waiting in the line.”

“But I don’t want any other girls, I want you.” Kise immediately bit his tongue. “But not in a creepy lizard way, more like I-want-to-love-and-appreciate-you way. No awkward staring.”

“What are you talking about…?”

“I’m talking about my feelings! From the very beginning, I have been talking about it, because damn, I can’t sleep without thinking about you, I can’t eat without thinking about you, I just can’t stop thinking about you and you’re completely right saying that I don’t know you, I won’t deny. But the point is, I wish for nothing more than to get to know you better, to learn what do you like to do, what do you like to eat, what kind of music do you listen, what kind of movies does make you laugh.”

There was a short pause when Kise exhaled deeply, once again lost in the thoughts and wondering whether did he ruin everything by such an free statement.

“I want to see this precious smile of yours more often because you look the cutest then and it’d be even better if I could be the reason for your joy. I want to listen to your voice talking about your day, help to cheer you up when you’re feeling down and bring you flowers—the ones you really like the most because I’m still not sure whether the sunflower was the right choice but—”

“You’ll grow bored.”

The words you said hit him like a sharp slap on the cheek.

“You always do,” you added.

Denying you would be a lie and he had the honest intention to not lie to you. He knew he might have not been acting fair in the past but this time it was different and if he could only prove you that, he would do everything in his will to show you his devotion.

Without further explanation or waiting for his reaction, you turned on the heel and walked away, leaving him alone on the street, the paper cup in his hand not warming his skin anymore.

The sound of incoming message caused Kise to reach for his phone and unlock the screen only to notice the unknown person trying to communicate with him. He truly wasn’t in the mood for any flirts tonight, not after what he had heard from you and the worst part of that was that, he simply couldn’t do anything to change your mind. You wouldn’t believe him either way, considering it as another way of trying to win your heart only to step on it after few months or sooner.

But he would never, ever hurt you. The mere possibility of your crying face made the blood boil in his veins.

Eventually, he turned around so he was now laying on the stomach on his bed, bored gaze wandering through the icons on the phone until it reached the thumbnail from the incoming message which must have been… no, that’s impossible.

Kise sat up, opening the communicator and rushing to check whether it was truly you, your name and surname visible right next to the icon. He could feel himself sweating all of a sudden—and just after he took a shower!—the thoughts exploding in his head, creating dozens of possible scenarios of what could you want to tell him. Were you mad at him? Did you want to permanently dismiss him? Tell him to never approach you again? Or maybe, just maybe, have you made your mind up and…?

He took few deep breathes to calm himself down before mentally preparing for every possibility. He still couldn’t believe it, how did you manage to have such a huge power over him? Over his mind? Over his heart?

With the trembling fingers, Kise opened the message.

#kuroko no basket #knb #kise ryouta #kise #kise x reader #kise ryouta x reader #kise ryōta #kise ryōta x reader #kuroko no basuke #kuroko's basketball #the basketball which kuroko plays #kise imagine #kise ryouta imagine #kise ryōta imagine

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godandanime1104 · 5 years

Text

No Choice - Eyes On Me (A ML and Yandere Sim Crossover)

Sabine Cheng wasn’t surprised when Marinette smiled at dinner that night, her joy too much to contain. Marinette was lost in her thoughts of Adrien, wondering what he was eating for dinner, if he would ever enjoy dinner with her family. Her mother made no comments, but Marinette picked up on it.

It was different now, knowing that her mother was like her. Of course, she couldn’t prove it, but nothing really needed to be said. It didn’t affect Marinette, so she chose to let it be.

Marinette couldn’t dwell on it for too long. She needed to prepare for what was to come.

Adrien would always be in danger. He was a high priority, especially with his close relation to the Bourgeois family. Marinette would have to protect him at all costs, and that meant finding out who was a threat and eliminating them.

The guy who they let go was found to be acting alone, save for the two dead guys. She crossed him off her mental list. Marinete would deal with him if he ever became an issue, but chose not to concern herself with him for now. Next, her partner.

There was no doubt for Marinette that he had some sense of justice in him. She’d gotten away with killing two people the other day, but from his standpoint, he probably assumed it was necessary. If he stuck around, found her doing questionable things, there was no telling what he’d do about it.

If he was the vigilante type as she assumed he was, he was a loose cannon she couldn’t afford to have around. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt for now. If he showed up again, Marinette would have to take care of him.

Emotions or not, Adrien was her only priority. Nobody would be allowed to interfere with that.

Marinette was a talented designer. This wasn’t hard to understand. One look at her room, you’d see the influx of materials and sketches all around. Marinette couldn’t say she liked doing it, only that it was easy. Simple. Useful.

She made quick work of the night hours, giving up sleep in order to be prepared. Marinette would need a mask at the least. Adrien would have a high chance of accidentally seeing her face, and he most likely wouldn’t take kindly to her killing people.

Her uniform would have to do, considering if Marinette had to take care of someone in the school, it would be too hard to hide evidence like a bloody costume. She settled for hiding a backup uniform in her bag. She wasn’t an expert, but this was all she could do for now. As the sun began to rise, what she had would work for now.

At least now the mask wasn’t flimsy, and couldn’t be tracked anywhere. A simple red fabric would work well enough to ease suspicion.

“Marinette, honey!” Her mother pushed the trap door open, and look around at the chaos in the room. “Breakfast is ready. Don’t forget to clean up. Your father won’t like this if he finds out, okay sweetie?”

The threat in her mother’s voice was clear.

“Yes mom.” Marinette packed her bag, uniform hidden under books, and began to clean up the mess. When she headed downstairs, her mother handed her the small knife, cleaned and sharp, along with a small pouch. Inside, Marinette found a string attached to two pieces of wood.

“It’s a garrote wire. Use it wisely.” Her mother informed, pushing her daughters hands down as Tom Dupain entered the kitchen. To anyone else, it would look like she’d smuggled her a sweet instead of a weapon. “Good morning, dear.”

“Morning Papa.” Marinette slipped the items into her skirt pockets and sat down at the table with her father.

“Morning girls. Marinette, are you sure you don’t need me to walk you? It’s right across the street.” Tom looked worried, still on edge that his daughter’s class had been attacked.

“Honey, she can handle herself.”

“It’s okay, dad. I’ll be okay.” They ate their breakfast, Marinette more eager than ever, and talked about insignificant things. When she was done, she practically left skid marks with how fast she left.

She couldn’t wait to see Adrien again.

Marinette wasn’t sure what it was, but stepping into school felt different. She felt like someone was watching her, analyzing her, eating away at her emotional mask. She didn’t think it was a smart idea, whoever was attempting to scare her. She wasn’t frightened.

Alya, joyful as always, met her after a few minutes of waiting around, trying to find out who was staring. Marinette grinned at her, genuinely happy for once since Adrien would be there soon. Her friend noticed the genuineness in the smile, and questioned her. To say she was shocked was a lie. Alya seemed to be an expert in people.

Marinette didn’t mind the playful teasing, choosing to embrace it as part of her new life, and pushed all thoughts of people ogling her aside. Adrien had arrived.

His bodyguard had joined him up the stairs to the entrance, and Marinette quickly memorized his face before allowing herself to swoon over her beloved.

Adrien looked happy, perhaps a little worried after the previous few days events, but happy nonetheless. Marinette felt her shoulders relax, and her heart beat against her ribcage. These new feelings were abstract, so new to her that overwhelming her was easy. Her fingers twitched, a longing in her stomach she couldn’t put a name to.

Alya, ever observant, picked up on her newfound interest within moments. She put a name to the feelings; a crush. It was an incorrect term for her feelings, Marinette felt so much more than just a silly crush, but she couldn’t exactly tell Alya, even if the girl seemed to idolize the two so called heros from the previous attack.

“Adrikins!”

Ah, there she was.

Marinette had waited for this girl to appear, and, like clockwork, there she was.

The Bourgeois girl was a nuisance. Proud, arrogant, judgemental, and spoiled, all were terrible aspects for a person to have. But, the one that was going to get her killed was her inexplicable love of Adrien.

Marinette’s Adrien.

And that, well, that just wouldn’t do.

She couldn’t love him like Marinette could, did.

Alya’s voice yanked Marinette from her inner thoughts, causing her to take notice of her tense stance, her hands tightly wound in her skirt, teeth pressed harshly together. Ignoring the blonde girl, Marinette focused on the object of her affections, and willed herself to relax in the emotions he made her feel.

The bell sent them scrambling to class, Adrien’s mountain of a bodyguard retreating to the car. Marinette would have to do research into his family.

“Dupain-Cheng.” The brat had returned, hand placed on her hip to establish that she felt entitled. Marinette found herself not caring even more than usual. After all, Adrien was looking at her.

Chloé could talk down to her all she liked, but Marinette’s attention was not on her. Instead, her cheeks were flushed and knees had turned to jelly under the gaze of the blonde boy. Alya stepped in, a gesture Marinette valued as it gave her time to sit down behind Adrien and avoid falling under the emotions she felt.

“That’s so rude-!”

“Can it, Bourgeois.” Alya took her seat, hand grabbing Marinette’s to offer a consoling squeeze. “She’s just a bully, don’t let her get in your head.”

Marinette wasn’t paying attention. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and the feeling of being watched seeped into her bones. It was as if someone was looking straight through her, revealing her secrets, and Marinette did not find that amusing.

If someone was trying to threaten her, Marinette would have to show them just who they were messing with. Adrien must be protected. She couldn’t lose him, lose the way he made her feel. She loved him, needed him.

She squeezed Alya’s hand back, smiling weakly, and trying to listen as their teacher stepped forward. Marinette could still see bullet holes in the wall behind her.

Marinette felt a haze fall over her when Adrien left for lunch. She knew she should too, that she would need her strength, but work had to be done.

First, the costume. Marinette sneaked back into the theater room, replacing the costume. She checked around for any sign of the mask her partner had used, finding nothing, and left just as quickly. Next came breaking into Adrien’s locker, which she did efficiently and quietly.

She took pictures, not wanting to alert him that someone had been there. A picture of a woman hung under a magnet on the door. She looked familiar, quite similar to Marinette’s love. Probably his mother. She’d look into it.

Spare clothes, books, and a little pin hidden inside. A ladybug shaped jewel rested at the end. He liked ladybugs. Marinette smiled soft and sweet, feeling the electricity from his skin touching hers as she picked up the pin.

He had touched this. Adrien. Her Adrien.

She placed it back, closing the locker and pressing her cool fingers against the lock. He touched this.

Marinette backed away, hand flying to her knife concealed within a secret pocket of her skirt. Someone was here. She could feel their eyes on her, and waited, silent.

A step, one behind her and to the left. Marinette turned, knife hidden in her palm. “Come out.”

They stepped into view, two eyes staring emotionlessly back into hers. Marinette recognized the look, and flicked out the knife. The other person did the same with their own pocket knife, and stared with that blank look. Marinette found herself thinking of her mother’s eyes, of her own.

~~~~

A/N - I don’t own the characters or Yandere Simulator, just my part of the story plot. Find them at HeyItsHoot on AO3 or owlgirl121 on Wattpad

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #ladybug #tales of ladybug and cat noir #ladybug and chat noir #yanderemarinette #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #adrien agreste #Yandere Sim AU #yandere simulator #yandere sim #yandere #alya cesaire #chloe bourgeois #sabine cheng #tom dupain #crossover

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especially-heinous-ada · 5 years

Text

New Life in New York

“Anonymous request:

Idea: tourist to the city and you get lost and *literally* run into Nevada or Rafael (your choice) and how’d they react to you panicking that your lost and are alone.”

I really liked this one. I didn’t particularly have a plan, I just started writing and let the story take me where it wanted to go haha. I definitely enjoyed writing this, so I hope you enjoy reading it! Thanks for the request! Hopefully it is what you were looking for.

For those who don’t already know, I always keep my requests open, so if you think of anything you’d like to read from me, go ahead and holla at your girl.

“Ugh. Dead already?” You groan at your phone. It was always running out of battery at the most inopportune moments. It was enough to make you wonder why you still carried the stupid thing around. “It’s okay,” you say soothingly to yourself. “Stay calm. You’re fine. People survived in New York City before cell phones existed. I’m sure you can find a way to navigate.”

Then again, the people navigating the streets now seemed like they all knew where they were going. They weren’t affected by the tall buildings and loud noises. They walked around with a bored, blasé affect to them. You assumed they were locals, which you definitely were not.

Time to do those deep breathing exercises you taught the students in your yoga classes. Breathe in. Now out. That’s right. There. Not so bad now, is it? Now if only I could figure out where I was going…

The streets seemed vast and endless, like an ocean of people and movement. Activity and noises. Your head started to hurt. So did your feet. And you could have sworn you’d already walked past this pizza joint twice. It was your first day in New York and you felt as lost as an itty bitty mouse in a big, bad labyrinth. You knew your new apartment was around here somewhere.

When your best friend from high school had invited you to the big city to start a yoga studio with her, you leapt at the opportunity to get out of your boring, small town and away from the memories of a painfully recent breakup. But now that you were here, you questioned whether you’d made the wrong decision. Clearly, you were in over your head.

“Hey, sweetie. You lost?” A guy smirks from where he’s stood, on the same street corner, for the past two hours watching you walk by again and again. He steps close to you and you move away instinctively.

“No,” You lie. “I just like to walk when I need to think.”

“’I think you’re lying to me.” He chuckles, following close behind you. Close enough that he’s able to reach his hands up and run his fingers through your hair. The contact sends a cold, terrifying chill down your spine and you instantly know you need to get away from this guy. Trying not to cause waves in the crowd, you pick up the pace to a brisk walk. Hoping beyond all hope that he takes the hint.

He doesn’t.

You speed up even more. So does he. Finally, you decide that you’d better bolt. He’s clearly intent on a chase.

Maybe I can lose him if I weave through the crowds and confuse him.

You reach another corner and turn the opposite direction of where you had the last time. He follows. By now, you’re downright sprinting.

Oh god, no. Why isn’t someone stopping this maniac?

Suddenly, you see a massive, grandiose building. Outside it are a group of police officers standing with their hands on their hips, discussing something rather animatedly with a man in a three-piece suit.

Police! Your mind cries with relief, darting toward them. Your stalker quickly understands exactly where you’re headed and bolts. The officers head back into the building, which you realize as you draw closer, is a courthouse. You follow, intending to report the incident that just occurred and possibly ask for a ride.

By the time you make it up the stairs, past the intimidating, mountainous columns, the officers are out of sight. Exhausted, you pant audibly, as you tread down the hall. It takes everything in you to ignore the dirty looks you’re getting from men and women striding through the hallway, dolled up in suits and ties. Lawyers, you assume.

“Excuse me.” You call to one. He walks past you without a single look.

“Hmph.” You frown. “Excuse me.” You call to a woman in a sharp-looking pantsuit. “Have you seen a group of police officers come through here?”

“Yeah, which one?” She scoffs, before she, too, click-clacks past you in her expensive-looking heels.

You try several more times, without any luck, to locate the group of officers. Or a security guard. Anyone who could make you feel safe. Hell, even getting someone to look you in the eye seemed near-impossible at this point. Everyone was too busy in their own world to care.

Your feet were practically comprised entirely of blisters at this point, and your legs, gelatin. Your chest ached from the rough, shallow breaths you’d taken while running. Feeling defeated, you thought about walking back toward the entrance of the courthouse. But what would you do when you got there? It’s not like you could just go back out onto the street when you knew that psychopath was out there. On top of all that, you were more lost than ever. And you needed a bathroom.

You roamed the halls searching for a public restroom, but all the doors you came across were locked. Peoples’ offices, you guessed. Maybe courtrooms. Who even knew anymore? Not like it mattered. An overwhelming sense of anxiety overcame you as you continued to walk on your throbbing, burning feet. Your phone was still dead. The halls were beginning to empty. What if you couldn’t find anyone to help you? And you still needed a bathroom.

Why did I ever want to come to this stupid place? You thought. It’s loud and there are people everywhere, and all the streets look the same. How did I think I could make it in a city like this? I’m so stupid. I just want to go home.

You feel a hot, painfully-stinging wetness rise in your eyes.

“I can’t do this.” You sob, clutching at your temples. You slump against a closed door, making a thump before sliding down to the ground. “I still have no idea how I’m getting home. That psychopath could be anywhere. What if I get lost again tomorrow and he finds me, and the second time, I’m not able to get away? I don’t want to get murdered.” You panic, your words becoming more and more loud and frantic.

“And I’m hungry. And I have no clue where I am, or what time it is. I can’t call for help. No one knows I’m in trouble. And I still—have—to peeeeeeee.” You gasp between sobs. It had been less than a day since you’d landed in New York, yet you’d never felt so lonely and afraid in your entire life. So small and insignificant.

Suddenly, the door unlatched and opened, swinging inward, sending you tumbling backward onto the floor behind you.

“Ouch. That huuuuurt.” You whine, feeling like a terrified toddler trapped in a fully grown body. As if you needed any more problems today.

“Hey.” Said a calm, even voice. “Did I hear you say you were lost?” You looked up and saw a handsome man standing above you in a crisp, white dress shirt with black suspenders and a navy, striped tie. You blinked a few times to make sure your eyes weren’t fooling you. He extended an arm and you took it, using it to steady yourself as you sat up, then stood. Your feet cried out in pain, but you ignored them. This man was the first person to express any kind of concern for you since you’d gotten here. You bit your lip to avoid tearing up again.

“Yes.” You say tentatively, feeling rather timid after your last interaction with a local man.

“And you need a bathroom?” You blush, nodding in embarrassment. “Well, luckily for you, I know these halls like the back of my hand.” He smiles kindly, and the warmth reaches from the corners of his mouth to his tranquil, green eyes. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything more soothing. You feel your face grow hot with his gaze and you have to look away for a moment, or you feel like you’ll burst into flame.

“This way.” The man says. You return your line of sight to him and see the direction he’s indicating with an outstretched hand. As the two of you walk down the now-empty hallway, you can’t help but to try and steal quick glances at him. He looks so regal. So eloquent. And somehow, he gives off an inexplicable air of trustworthiness. Is it the warmth of his face? Something in the way he carries himself? Though it couldn’t be described, you felt it. Which is probably what prompted you to unload the story of how you’d come to be in the sad state he’d found you in.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” The man asks. A look of concern paints his features. You shook your head.

“I could tell he wanted to, though, so that’s why I ran.”

“I’m so sorry that this is your first impression of New York. I promise not all men here are predators.” He says, with a serious-but-warm expression. You smile gratefully and feel a sense of appreciation wash over you for this man.

“Here’s the bathroom.” He announces, motioning to a nearby door. You rush to the door, calling a ‘thank you’ to where he stood behind you.

Sweet relief! You think, as you wash your hands. The man’s smile dances through your mind again and you find your face feeling warmer. It seemed like fate that he would come along out of nowhere and rescue you. You pushed the door open to exit the restroom and saw the man, still standing in the hallway outside. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out an exasperated sigh as he bid the person on the other line goodbye.

I’d like to run my fingers through that hair. You think. But out loud, you say:

“Sorry, am I interrupting you at work?” He looks up at you from his phone’s screen and a smile pushes away the strained expression from a moment before.

“No, you’re alright,” he insists. “Is there someone I can call for you? Would you like to make a report of the incident?”

“No, no” you say, “you don’t have to drag the police down here for that. I’m fine. I don’t even know the guy’s name. And I barely got a look at his face.” His eyebrows raise. It seems like he’s heard that before.

“Well, you don’t have to drag them anywhere, they’re right here.” He motions toward the end of the hall, where three officers round the corner in a line, like an old-fashioned detective show. “And you’d be surprised how even the smallest details can solve cases. Especially with great detectives, like them.”

“You know them personally?”

“Unfortunately.” He scoffs humorously, tweaking a brow. He must be a lawyer. The three detectives stop a few feet down the hall from the two of you.

“Barba,” acknowledges an authoritative brunette, nodding to your new lawyer friend. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is…” He looks at you prompting eyes, realizing he never got around to asking your name.

“Y/N.” You finish.

“It’s her first day in New York.” The man named Barba smirks. The sight makes your heart flutter a bit.

“Oh, well, welcome. What are you doing in a courthouse on your first day in New York? I’m sure there are more exciting ways to spend it.” She laughs through a smile.

You start to explain the situation, and it’s not long before the detective insists you come down to the station to make a formal statement.

“We’ve had three similar complaints in the past month. Same description, same M.O. I think we’ve got a repeat offender.”

“And he’s getting more bold.” Says the tall, blonde male detective. After some cajoling, you agree to go down to the station and make a statement. On one condition.

“Can Mr. Barba come, too?” All three detectives raise their eyebrows—but not as high as Barba, himself. You feel compelled to explain, so you clear your throat and meet his eye. “It’s just, you’re the first person to care enough to look out for me here, and—I’d really feel more comfortable with you around.”

“Of course I’ll come with.” He smiles. “Just let me grab my things out of the conference room.”

As you watch him walk away, New York City starts to feel a little less lonely and terrifying. You start to feel hopeful for your new life, and thankful for your new ally. And you also notice how amazing that new ally’s ass looks in his dress pants.

Yeah. I think I’ll like it here, after all.

#rafael barba #barba x reader #svu #fanfic #request

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thisisthedungeonthatneverends · 5 years

Text

Unauthorized Correspondence

Shios: Lunoct, non-con lunardyn

Rating: E

Words: 2766

“Would that I could turn a blind eye to this infraction, my dear Lunafreya. I am a romantic at heart, you know. But you also know the punishment for unauthorized corespondents, yes? How am I to allow such a thing, pray tell?"

Please read all tags and treat them as warnings

If you are going to RB anything that I have tagged TWs on, you MUST tag your reblog with those TWs. I will check.

“There you go, boy,” Luna said gently as she slipped the notebook under Umbras collar. “Carry my love to Noctis.”

Umbra barked enthusiastically in response ans started out the slightly ajar door of Lunas bedroom, nudging it open farther with his snout.

“Well now. What is this?”

Luna looked to the doorway with wide eyes, but quickly trained her face to a bank expression. “Chancellor Izunia,” she greeted as evenly as she could, praying her voice did not betray the shock she felt. He had never visited her hear, always calling her to him when he wanted an audience. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit.”

Ardyn smiled and sauntered through the threshold. “My original intent was to inform you that an insignificant little uprising on the border was abruptly quelled this morning. Minimal casualties, providently. I do so like to keep things tidy. But now I see we have a new matter to discuss.” Ardyn slammed the door behind him in stark contrast to his calm demeanor, causing Umbras ears to perk up. Luna remained steadfast despite her mounting dread. The chancellor reached down toward Umbra, who growled and snarled.

“Calm, Umbra,” Luna warned.

Umbra stopped growling but the snarl remained as Ardyn knelt down and slipped the notebook out from under his collar. He stood fluidly and flipped the book open to a random page.

Luna stoop expressionless watching Ardyn flip through the personal letters between herself and Noctis, fearing the worst but showing no sign of such. Two important things Luna had learned in twelve years imperial occupation were that first, a visit from an officer or high ranking official was never a good thing. Her keen insight as the Oracle told her that this visit in particular was to be particularly unpleasent. Second was that the enemy feeds off of fear, and to show fear was to empower them. So she showed no fear as Ardyn, with a look of intrigue rather than the anger Luna had expected, closed the notebook and laid it on a nearby desk.

“So, you have been using your precious dog as means by which to relay messages with Prince Noctis of Lucis. An enemy of Niffleheim.” He posed this not as a question, but an accusation. He approached the Oracle until he was uncomfortably close.

Luna swallowed hard. “Umbra is no mere dog, Chancellor,” Luna replied. “And those letters are of a personal nature. They contain no intelligence of the respective nations of myself or Noctis, I assure you.”

“Yes, Yes, I Saw enough of your little live notes to be aware of this.”

“Then there should be no harm in allowing Umbra to pass.”

Ardyn shook his head slowly. “Would that I could turn a blind eye to this infraction, my dear Lunafreya. I am a romantic at heart, you know. But you also know the punishment for unauthorizedcorespondents, yes? How am I to allow such a thing, pray tell? A smile crept up on Ardyns face, to wide to be natural and to happy to be trusted. He lifted a hand to Lunas face and trailed a single finger down her jawline. “What have I to gain? Hm?”

Luna could not help the way er jaw tightened at the subtle touch. “What has a captive princess to offer to an official of the nation that imprisons her? She feared she already knew the answer and she could feel her own blood rushing.

Ardyns smile twisted into something malevolent. “Though I am delighted to hear you ask such a question, you ask the wrong one. Put more simply, what has a woman to offer a man?” He paused to allow Luna to dwell on the question, which she refused to do. “The answer is this: you will submit yourself to my corporeal desires and in exchange I will allow you to continue contact with Prince Noctis by way of Umbra. Otherwise,” Ardyn extended his bottom lip in a mock put. “I’m afraid I shall have no choice but to confiscate your contraband.”

Luna stood unwavering even as hear heart sank. “My personal belongings are-”

“Property of Niffleheim,” Ardyn interrupted. “As are you. He placed one hand on her hip and cupped her stern face with the other. “So, my dear. Do we have an agreement?”

Lunas stomach twisted in disgust and for the first time she allowed her lips to twist in kind. “Yes,” she reluctantly agree. “But I am not your ‘dear.’”

“Dear Lunafreya, you are whatever I wish you to be until I am satisfied.”

Ardyns face drew closer, and she braced herself for a kiss that did not come. Instead, his lips met her neck, brushing lightly over her pulse point. He trailed lewd kisses down her neck to her shoulder and his hand slipped behind her to grip her ass. Luna stiffened,

“I’m loath to admit that my fingers are not as nimble as they once were, my dear. Would you be so accommodating as to unzip your dress?”

Luna stepped back to allow herself room as well as distance herself from Ardyn, if only slightly and temporarily. She reached behind herself and first unfastened the hook-and-eye clasp before unzipping the back of her white dress down to the small of her back.

It was a mockery of intimacy how gentle Ardyn was when he slipped the selves down her arms, caressing her skin as he did so. He let the garment fall to the floor with a soft flutter, leaving her in only a simple white bra and panties.

“So stunning, Flawlessly breathtaking, my dear. Almost ethereal, as if magic itself caresses you.”

Lunas face reddened with shame at Ardyns poetic praise. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.

Ardyn took n note of this. “truly radiant, Princess. You do come by your grace and beauty honestly, you know.”

At that, Luna felt rage tingling in her skin and her eyes and ears grew hot. “I will submit myself to you, Izunia, but you will speak no such way of my mother!”

“Fair enough. And please, if we are to be intimate, wouldn’t you simply call my Ardyn?”

“I would call you a deplorable swine,” she retorted without thought.

Ardyn surged forward, moving to quickly for Lunas eyes to follow. He gripped her chin painfully, causing Luna to wince.

“I have been amiable with you, have I not? My aim is not to harm you, however, you may quickly change my mind should you continue to insult me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Luna whispered. She could feel the last of her composure slipping away.

“What was that now?”

“Yes,” she said louder. “Yes, Ardyn.”

“Good.” Ardyn released her and smirked. Just as quickly as he had flown into a fit, he was calm again. “Now come with me to the bed yes?” He extended his hand and Luna begrudgingly took it and allowed herself to be lead across the room.

“Before we make ourselves comfortable, rid me of these excess layers, if you would be so kind.”

Luna silently complied, and with hands she made a conscious effort to steady, pushed off the gaudy coat. Ardyn tossed his own hat and scarf aside while Luna unfastened the clasp of his vest. He rolled his shoulders to allow her to push it down his arms.

“Leave the rest, my dear. I like to leave something to the imagination. Be a good girl and lay down now.”

Luna felt something inexplicable and intangible inside of her break knowing that she was about to be violated in her own bed. With little other choice, she did as instructed.

Ardyn began by caressing Lunas ankles before running his hands up her legs until he reached her inner thighs. “Smooth. Pure. Untouched. How did I come to have such a grand honor, I wonder?”

Luna bit her tongue to stop herself from repeating her earlier mistake by telling Ardyn that he had come to the “grand honor” of defiling her through threats and manipulation. Instead she closed her eyes and willed it to end quickly.

Ardyn, however, was determined to take his time. He slipped his hands under her panties and ran his fingers through her thick curls. “I will, of course, endevor to make this experience as pleasurable for you as possible. I’m no monster, after all.”

Luna almost laughed at the irony of Ardyns claim. Ardyn knew full well that Luna was aware of who, of what he was. Luna knew that he knew, and she knew he had said it to mock her and to remind her of exactly who she was about to sleep with. Luna had always felt pity, even compassion, for the Accursed, but as Ardyns fingers reached out over the top of her underwear and he pulled them down, leaving a tingling trail down her thighs to her calves, that compassion slipped away leaving fury and disgust in its wake.

“Be a dear for me and spread your legs for me, won’t you?”

Ardyn obviously knew just how to phrase his orders so that Luna felt as though she was solely at fault for her position by complying. She had had a choice had she not? She had had a choice albeit an impossible one where no matter her course of action would result in something being taken from her. But in choosing this she would at still have the one thing that brought her hope and comfort, She would still have the notebook. She would still have Noctis for however long it may last until their destinies acted upon them. Perhaps, she mused as she spread her legs for the Accursed, this was part of it all; the destiny she had embraced but never chosen.

She felt the lower half of the bed dip, felt Ardyns presence hovering over her. She dared open her eyes in time to seen him lay front down between her parted legs. She felt his hands on her; her stomach lurched.

Decided to enjoy the view, hm?” Ardyn said looking up at her.

Luna wanted to tell him to get on with it but opted against further antagonizing him.

Ardyn chuckled. “Already I’ve rendered you speechless. With two fingers, he spread her lips apart and hummed in appreciation when he relieved Lunas damp pink womanhood to himself. He brought hes face level with her and licked.

Lunas eyes went wide and she gasped when she felt Ardyns hot wet tongue lap at her clit. She quickly closed her eyes again and consciously turned her attention to her breathing, keeping it steady despite her hearts concerted efforts to beat its way out of her chest. She cursed her body; Ardyns tongue continued to play at the sensitive nub, swirling in patterns and causing hot waves to rush through her body. It felt good. Were she with someone of her own choosing she would have reached down to comb her fingers through her partners hair, whispered their name, and begged them to bring her to completion with their moth alone. But as it was now, with Ardyns face buried in the most intimate part of her, she balled her fists in the sheets and gritted her teeth.

“The longer you esist, my dear, the longer this will last,” Ardyn said. “Give in.”

When Ardyns lips latched onto her clit and he began to suck, Luna snapped. Her legs trembled and a broken cry and a single tear escaped from her when her first orgasm that was not brought on by her own hand forced itself through her.

Ardyn sat up and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Excellent, my dear. You would make a fine bedmate for the lucky man who would take your hand in marriage someday.”

Once again Noctis invaded Lunas thoughts, the one she would chose if she could. Would he want her still, after this? What would she have left to give him?

Ardyn stood and looked down at her while he removed his belt and pulled down his pants just enough to free his fully hard cock. Luna could not bare to look at it and turned her face away. It did not help much; she could still see him casually stroking himself out of the corner of her eye.

“Yell me, Lunafreya. Do you fear me?”

Lunas bloodshot eyes met Ardyns narrowed ones. “No. I will never fear you,” she said without hesitation. It was only half true.

“Good,” He crawled up the bed beside her and sat up against the headboard. “Come here. Sit with your legs across me, my dear.”

It took every last shred of Lunas willpower to sit up, to turn herself toward Ardyn, and so position herself on top of him the way he wanted her, sitting across his lap.

Ardyn guided her hips and adjusted his own. His cock slipped between her thighs. “In this way we will still have the feeling of intimacy while preserving your virginity,” he explained. “Believe me, the Astrals are quite strict about the conduct of their Oracles. I would hate to see them scorn you.”

Ardyns cock slid between Lunas slick thighs with each roll of his hips. One of his arms wrapped around her so that one hand could reach under her bra to fondle her breast while the other disappeared between her legs to massage her clit. Luna had no energy left to control her reactions. Her shame mounted in time with the pleasure that her body felt in spite if her. Her gasps and moans as Ardyn stimulated both her nipple and clit betrayed her. Ardyns thrusts quickened and Luna felt his heave breath on her neck.

“Shall we fall together, my dear?”

Luna nodded. The sooner it was over, the sooner she could be rid of him.

His thrusts between her thighs became erratic and he held her tightly against hi,. Another orgasm took over her and while trembling in its wake she almost missed how Ardyns body went rigid and he spilled his release over her legs.

He held her there for what felt to Luna like hours but was most likely only a minute or so. Her mind screamed for him to release her and leave until, in her, rage, she began to shake.

“Are you cold, my dear?” Ardyn asked, pretending to show genuine concern. If one knew no better, one would think Ardyn was being caring to her. Luna knew better.

It was only then that it occurred to her that she was, in fact, cold. She nodded against Ardyns chest. Ardyn rolled her onto her side, meeting no resistance. He stood and pulled a blanket up over her shoulders.

“There. Let it never be said that I’m not a gentleman to my lovers post coitus.

Luna stared at her own shaking hands and listened to Ardyn get dressed.

“I hate to be the one to ‘love them and leave them’ as they say, but I have official business to attend to in Insomnia.”

Luna froze. Her shaking stopped and her head felt like it was spinning. “What business have you in Lucis?”

“A courier should arrive shortly with the details shortly, but let’s just say for now that I plan to arrange a reunion of sorts between you and your beloved Noctis.” Ardyn opened the door. “Oh look, another friend come to visit you. I’ll take my leave now. Until me meet again, my dear.

“I am not your dear,” Luna said under her breath once the door was closed and Ardyn was finally gone.

Noctis. Luna sighed. To see Noctis again would be Lunas dreams brought to reality. But it would also be their fates closing in on them.

The other friend Ardyn had mentioned was Pryna. The white dog jumped into the bed, curled up in front of Luna, and tucked her snout under Lunas chin. Umbra, who had been there the whole time through the horrible ordeal, joined them in the bed. He laid behind her and rested his head on her shoulder. Luna felt safe hugged in the warmth of her messengers and only companions. She did not cry, though she felt hot tears prickling in her eyes.

“Everything we have waited for is almost at hand,” she whispered to the dogs she knew understood her every word. It was harder than ever to believe it now, but Luna knew that her suffering and sacrifices would be worth it in the end. She prayed for a dream from the Astrals as Umbra and Prynas soft breathing lulled her to sleep.

#dungeon's writing #ffxv #fanfic #tw: rape #lunoct #lunafreya nox fleuret #lunardyn #non-con lunardyn #non-con #ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #I will forever resent the fact that I have to use two tags for that bastard #dead dove do not eat #almost forgot to tag that #oopsies

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yeoldontknow · 6 years

Text

Kilig

Author’s Note: happy birthday @imdifferentshadesofpurple <33 i love you so much. i know weve been talking about this fic since christmas and ive not been able to work on it. but its the mark of your dreams and i love you! mork <3 ↳ Kilig (n. Tagalog): the unstoppable sensation of joy or elation experienced when intensely, madly falling in love; the sudden feeling of inexplicable joy when something romantic occurs Pairing: Mark Tuan x Reader (oc; female) Summary: You’ve weathered so much in your relationship with Mark, and still he makes you twitterpatted. But when you’re moving in together, and choosing the right home to start your life, you start wondering if things will ever feel the same again. Genre: fluff; romance; domestic au Rating: PG-13 Warning: implied sex Word Count: 2,554

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark has told you he loves you with all of him.

The ways have been endless and numerous, sometimes imperceptible to the untrained eye, but for you, they have always been obvious.

It started with this eyes, the way they would find you in a crowded room, seeking you and your shape as a comfort. Without looking, you could feel them on you, a sensuous sort of touch that called you to him and made your skin hurt wherever he was not felt. And when you did dare to meet his gaze, let yourself fall with him, it was the way they were open wide and swimming. Too many colours seemed to pool and gather in his irises, bewildered by you as he was and taking on all the light in the world just to see you in perfect focus.

Then, it was his lips. This is when the ways became both simple and complex, a paradox of sentiment that took you weeks to untangle. His tongue seemed to handle the word differently, gave shape to love as though he were sculpting a monument meant to outlast humankind. To him, the word was delicate, though it was only a fragile thing when it was given to you, asking you to hold it with him, and to cherish it. He spoke the word like it were feathers, but he kissed it on you like wildfire, reckless and with abandon, and demanding that you burn with him.

On you, there was not a single place his lips did touch or taste, greedy in the way he consumed you and unforgiving in the way he weathered you down.

Lastly, came his hands. The holiness of his hands washed over with delay, slowly and overtime, and without the dedication of your thought. Only when you realized he touched you as though you were something sacred, gentle but with the whole of his hand, did you think back on all the ways he had handled the totality of you. In the early days, he clutched your hand as a cross, fingers to your knuckles and unwilling to be parted from you. The flat of his palms rested against your cheeks as he kissed you, holding your head and holding you to him, fending off the oncoming separation with prayers against your skin.

But these were nothing to the way his fingers traversed your spine, your thighs, your breasts, tracing scripture into your pores and hoping they etched into the bone. Nightly, he carved commandments into you, let his love spread until his name and his essence was a mark upon your ribs. It was the same for him, you knew, the way your hands gripped his shoulders and slithered down his back as he moved in you - your touch had been sweared into his spine, a permanent reminder at the base of his cerebellum that dictated his choices, his thoughts, his speech.

You called this unity. He called you his soulmate. Together, you knew it was love.

For as long as you’ve known him, Mark as told you he loves you with all of him.

But now, searching for a home in which you will start your life, the love he gives seems only to be directed towards you and not your future, and you don’t know whether to be offended or exhausted.

Choice was never his strong suit, backing away from options with raised hands and a cock of his eyebrow. It is not that he didn’t have opinions, it’s just that his were never as loud as others, and so he never learned to argue. In choosing you, he is vocal, adamant and determined, and his perpetual choice of you, he felt, absolved him of all the rest.

You thought, perhaps, this would change after four failed house showings and one apartment, each more special than the last. But with each, he seemed only to withdraw further, shrugging at things you felt were important and being vocal about insignificant things, unremarkable things that could be changed.

Today, on your fifth house showing, he stands in the living room admiring the design on the ceiling with a scowl. Arms crossed, he furrows his brow and pouts his lips, aloof and somewhat bored.

‘Mark.’ You say his name in the hopes of bringing him back to you and receiving his focus, but instead his gaze remains fixed. ‘What do you think of the mantle?’

Unmoved, he sighs before speaking. ‘Do you think the circles were what they wanted?’

Thrown by his question, you blink at him before raising your gaze. ‘Probably? It’s in the final design, so I’m sure it was approved.’

‘It just looks so unfinished,’ he muses, turning to assess the design behind him. ��Like wouldn’t they have wanted squiggles...for a ribbon.’

‘We can ask the development manager…’ Your statement fades as you search the pamphlet handed to you at the door, seeking a name. On each page, housing designs and templates greet you, all modern and extravagant, and with customizable kitchens. It says nothing about the ceiling.

‘I’m not saying we have to change it,’ he says, turning to look at you with a small, half smile. ‘Just would be hard to change if we wanted to.’

Briefly, you glance between Mark and the ceiling as you chew the inside of your cheek. Handling Mark when he’s like this is delicate, not because he is tempestuous nor volatile, simply because matching his aloofness will lead him to believe you are not serious - about this home, or any. One, poorly timed comment will send you back on another search and, while it is not that you are serious about this home, it’s merely that any home with him would suffice. And thus, this search has been overwhelmingly tiring.

Every home you have seen has been beautiful, modern, and delightfully within budget. This is a rarity, a magical experience in which choices are abundant and all are wonderful, and so you would be happy with any if he were happy at all. Instead, he’s placid, unmoved by any one house, liking things in one and hating the same in the other, difficult only because he maneuvers around choice.

But this is the first time he’s used the word “we,” implying an us in the space and a future existence. And so you are careful, clutching this word to your chest and hoping it does not sprout wings of hope.

‘Is this,’ you begin slowly, taking a step towards him, ‘something you would want to change?’

Shaking his head, Mark keeps his expression even and placid. ‘No,’ he says, simply. ‘Just saying, it’s hard to change.’

With a sigh, you close your eyes and count to ten.

Staring at the door to the master bedroom, rather than viewing the room’s size and scope, Mark hums. ‘These doorknobs are brass.’

From your position in the entry to the en-suite, you turn your head and regard him. Hands shoved in his pockets, he looks a little lost, and you hate that it makes you smile. ‘Yes,’ you offer, keeping your voice neutral, ‘but that’s much easier to change than a ceiling pattern.’

Mark glances up at you, somewhat aghast.. ‘Why would I want to change these?’

Once again, you find yourself dumbfounded. ‘Brass tarnishes easily.’ Pressing your finger into the knob, you pull it back after a moment to reveal the very clear impression of your print. Satisfied, you regard him patiently, as though this should be enough - the clear display of finger oils eating away at the smooth texture.

‘It gives the house character,’ he says, finally, still studying your fingerprint.

And this is what does it, what sends frustration and irritation to the center of your throat like bile. ‘These give it character?’ There’s a sharpness in your voice you know you will soon come to regret, but the way it feels on your tongue is a release you did not know you wanted to caress. ‘Not the mantle and the enormous fireplace?’

His head snaps up to meet your gaze, eyes searching your expression. ‘When have you ever seen brass knobs in a modern house?’ he tries, tone playful in the efforts of keeping you calm.

But still, you do not give in. He’s had so much of you, you think, and it is unfair he keeps this stage of your life at an arm’s length. ‘These give it character?’ you snap, fully rooted in your anger. ‘Not the mirror over the kitchen sink that faces the picture window to the yard.’

Taking a step back to fully appraise you, he regards you with a soft, worried expression. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Not the crown molding or the built in bookcases?’ you continue, unable to stop now that the flood has been unpinned from your lips. ‘But these, the ugly brass doorknobs, give it character.’

Several seconds pass in which you savor the silence, so unlike the quiet that usually falls between you. This is not the calm silence of knowing your lover enough to know their thoughts, the comfortable silence of partners in which words fail and somehow seem insufficient. This is the silence of realization and understanding, the silence of awareness that this may be your first real fight, and while it would never be enough to break you, it is enough to remind you that love takes commitment, even when commitment is hard.

‘Hey, what’s -’

Mark’s words are cut off as you spin on your heels and walk briskly out of the house.

Immediately, you know it will not be this one, and as you push through the front door a spiteful laugh rises from your throat. At least one choice has been removed, though it is not because there was any particular flaw. Sadness constricts your chest, and you are unsure if it is because you did really like this home or if it is because you have liked all the others, too, and you are unsure you will ever find a home with Mark or if he is just coming with you for the ride.

‘Baby.’

The deep intonation of his voice makes you release a heavy sigh, eyes wide as you cock your head back to stare at the sky.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

At once, you feel him behind you. His eyes, and now the heat from his existence, attuned to it as you are, as though he were magnetic.

‘No,’ you shake your head, keeping your back to him. ‘I’m mad at you.’

At this, he laughs, the sound rich and full, the chocolate you always find yourself craving, and it takes work not to turn to face him, and to see his skin in the sun of high noon.

‘You can be mad at me, but I’d like to know what you’re mad about.’ He takes a few steps towards you, his head radiating into your back. ‘I think that’s only fair.’

Keeping your gaze straight ahead, unwilling to turn or see him because it means you will cave, you sigh. Crossing your arms, you scowl, pretending he can see you. ‘It was your idea to move in together.’

‘I know.’

Digging your heels into the earth your purse your lips. ‘So why don’t you want to?’

‘What?’ he asks, sounding alarmed.

The worry in his voice is real, surprised, and you know you have been unfair. He doesn’t know he’s being difficult, almost never does - so self-aware in every instance except for this - and it’s cruel of you to let him panic.

Turning to face him, you see the way his hands clench at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you. Still, you hold your ground. ‘You fight every house and find random things wrong with it, or pick the most bizarre things just because you don’t want to be involved in the choice.’

‘You think that’s what I’m doing?’ he asks, cocking his head to the side in concern.

‘Isn’t it?’ you laugh in disbelief. ‘You do that with dinner. You shrug every time I offer a choice and you tell me to pick. You let me pick what we watch on Netflix -’

‘But I like what you pick!’ he exclaims.

‘Okay,’ you shrug, shaking your head, ‘but I don’t want to choose anymore.’

‘That’s fine!’ Mark’s laugh is airy, unlike its usual texture. ‘I can pick the next show we watch.’

‘No, it’s not Netflix!’ You don’t mean to shout, but you’re tired. Tired of feeling like you don’t have a partner, and sick with the feeling that, somehow, you don’t have him. ‘It’s everything. I don’t want to be alone in choosing our home.’

At your words, he blanches, the colour fading from his skin even in the sun. ‘You think I don’t want to pick a house?’ he whispers, delicate in the way he handles his words.

‘Clearly, you don’t.’

‘I can see how it would come off that way, and I’m sorry.’ At once, he reaches for you, unable to hold back the need to touch you. He gathers you into his arms, burying his nose into your neck to take the smell of you in, deep into his lungs. ‘Really, I am. I thought you knew.’

‘What are you talking about,’ you murmur, immediately letting your guard down at the feel of his muscles beneath your hands.

Pulling back just enough to see you, he cradles your cheek with his palm. ‘Picking the house is so...not a concern of mine.’

In protest, you open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off.

‘Listen!’ he laughs, eyes wide and imploring you to be calm and to be patient. ‘Picking the house is not a concern because you are my home. As long as I’m with you, I am home. We could be in a hotel or a shed or a mansion, I don’t care. Okay, maybe I care about the mansion because that’s a crazy electric bill, but I don’t care where it is as long as I’m with you. I found home a long time ago, so when I bring up random things on house showings it’s because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Your heart is my home, and it’s the only place I want to be.’

Once more, silence falls between you, but this is the silence in which he tells you he loves you with all of him. The penetrative way he holds your stare moves you, makes you feel him once more taking root in your heart, holding it with his palm instead of your cheek. Silently, his lips shape the words “I love you” over and over, until he stops to smile, knowing that your soul has heard him where your ears could not. And last, he keeps you in his hold, hands burning with the knowledge that being separate from you is painful, terrible, and like this you know he is right.

Neither of you are truly at peace without the other, and so it should not matter what roof shelters you, for you will always shelter each other.

‘Goddammit, Mark,’ you laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder.

‘What now?’

‘You got me so emotional, I’m considering the brass knobs.’

#mark tuan x reader #mark got7 #kpopwonderlandtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #got7 scenario #got7 fanfic #got7 au #mark tuan fanfic #mark taun scenario #mark tuan got7

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jfdrawsheroes-or-not · 6 years

Text

Arthavor goes home

(This is a short story for my girlfriend’s SWTOR character I wrote at her request a few years back. It was never used in the end, but I decided to keep it for posterity.)

A small Republican corvette raced through hyperspace, the undefined mush of light and darkness twirling around the ship as it tore through time and space. Onboard, two Jedi were idle in the ship's lounge as the astronavigation computer handled their course. The middle-aged Jedi was meditating calmly, while the other, a dark-haired teenager, played Dejarik against himself.

“Where are we going master? You've been very cryptic to the Council about it.”, asked the younger Jedi. "They probably would not approve of my choice of destination, that's why. I believe you're ready for a challenge. -A challenge? -We're going to Carida. I have made arrangements for a little stay with your family."

The young Jedi's eyes grew wider. This was highly unusual.

“R... really? Why? I thought this was forbidden?”

The Jedi master nodded.

“It is. That's why I didn't tell the Council. The order believes that contact with a Jedi-in-training's family would put their future as Jedi in peril, or worse, subject them to the Dark Side. I, however, think this will be good for you.”

The Padawan eyed his master with confusion for a while before nodding.

“If you say so, Master.”

They landed at the spaceport of the largest city of the planet, where Arthavor's parents resided. As they approached the Human suburban neighborhood, Arthavor seemed increasingly nervous, but his master did not appear to notice, or chose not to act upon it. They reached the house quickly, having called a taxi speeder, and the Jedi master rang the doorbell. A tall woman opened, and smiled broadly at the two visitors.

“Master Lhovan! I'm glad you could make it! Please come in!”

The two Jedi followed the woman inside.

“Thank you Mrs Eridanus. This is your son, Arthavor.”

The woman extended a delicate hand toward the young Jedi.

“Hello Arthavor. My, look at you! Last time I saw you you were a toddler. Now you look like a man! How old are you?

-Fifteen, ma'am. I mean, mother.

She smiled softly.

-You look nervous. I can't say I blame you. Your father will be home shortly, and then we can all get to know each other over dinner.”

The dinner and the subsequent discussions lasted until late into the evening. Mother, father and son introduced themselves and chatted with one another while the Jedi master watched, occasionally retelling one of his adventures with their son when requested. The experience seemed surreal to Arthavor – his childhood having been spent at the Jedi Temple of Coruscant. In addition to his parents, Arthavor met his younger brother, and a lively toddler who turned out to be his sister.

After the reunion, and well after the sun had set, Master Lhovan stood up and prepared to take his leave. Arthavor followed his master's initiative, but Lhovan stopped him with a motion of his hand. He put a hand on his Padawan's shoulder and spoke softly :

“You are not leaving. At least not yet, Arthavor. I have decided to offer you an opportunity you will never again have in your life, and I believe you are ready for it.”

The young man looked quizzically at his tutor.

“For all your live, your fate has been decided before you. Not today. Today, I offer you the choice few Jedi ever have – the choice to live a normal life, or the life of a Jedi.

-Do you wish me to stay here, master?

-My wish is irrelevant. Listen to me Arthavor. The life of a Jedi is not for everyone. You already know that, but you may not realize it. We protect, we serve, we obey, we lead, often without so much of a thank-you. We believe that the strong must protect the weak, the powerful must serve the helpless. But this is a life of sacrifice we should have the opportunity to choose. I offer you that choice now.”

The young man nodded gravely.

“I give you one week to live with your family and make your choice. I will remain on the ship until then. If you do not join me by nightfall on Benduday, I will assume you have chosen to stay, and I will leave without you.

-Understood master.

-Remember, this is your choice and yours only. There is no wrong or right decision. I won't hold it against you if you decide to stay but know that I will welcome you by my side.”

Arthavor nodded again. The Jedi Master turned toward Mr and Mrs Eridanus and nodded to them.

“You were irreproachable hosts. I thank you for your welcome, your gentleness and your hospitality. I have one more favor to ask, however.”

The two hosts looked at the Jedi Master.

“Please do not try to persuade Arthavor to stay. Let it be his choice.

-We will respect his wish”, answered Arthavor's father.

Master Lhovan nodded and gracefully left the house. Arthavor spent the rest of the evening chatting with his family, and finally retired to the bedroom they had prepared for him. He saw they had even found civilian clothes for him to wear in the morning, which they had neatly folded and placed on a chair next to his bed. He removed his Jedi clothes, put his tactical belt and lightsaber into his dresser and went to bed. He slept little and thought much, uncertain about the motivation of his master and curious about what this new life would bring to him.

The next day went surprisingly smoothly for Arthavor. His father had left to work, as a Chandrila Tech engineer, and his younger brother attended the local academy, which left him plenty of time to spend alone with his mother and sister, and to think. As the hours went by, he started fidgeting from the inactivity and decided to go explore the area.

“Don't go too far!”, his mother said. “We're having dinner at a friend's house tonight.”

He was not going to disobey his mother on his first day as a regular teen, so he was back well before dinner. He followed his family along to a house a few minutes away by speeder, and acted as friendly as he could, even though he thought he would die from the uneasiness he felt about the occasion. He spoke few, preferring to watch and listen to those present, including the family friend's daughter. The young girl was about his age and kept her red hair short. She had not let her wide, green eyes off him since she had heard he was a Jedi and he found he had a hard time taking his gaze away from her as well.

As the evening went on, the grownups had gathered on one end of the table, and Arthavor found himself alone and at the mercy of the inquisitive but very charming red-headed girl. She seemed to want to know everything of life as a Jedi. He felt like he knew very little of it himself, but he gracefully answered her questions, and by the end of the night, the two teens were chatting and giggling as if they had known each other all their lives.

The evening came to an end much quicker than Arthavor had anticipated, and he retired to his bedroom shortly after they returned home. This time, Arthavor slept soundly until the morning after, and spend the day with his family, taking part in every menial task and activity he could around the house. Even the most mundane ones such as tending to the garden or washing dishes filled him with calm and happiness.

Shortly after dinner, the doorbell rang and his mother, who had gone to answer the door, called Arthavor. He joined her at the door and felt inexplicably very happy to see Reylna, the red-headed girl from the night before, at the door. He greeted her with a smile. She smiled to him and squirmed nervously as she spoke:

“Hi! Uh... I was thinking, since you're new and all... perhaps I could show you around?”

He turned to look at his mother - more accurately to beg for help with a gaze, but she had already returned inside. He felt terrified and knew he was blushing furiously but he tried to calm himself.

“I'm a Jedi”, he thought, “Why am I afraid of this girl?”

He gathered his thoughts and nodded.

“I'd love that”, he replied with a smile.

The young Jedi spent the evening trekking around the town with Reylna, who showed him everything she could in the neighborhood, from the most insignificant patch of grass to the most the impressive landmark they had. They stopped in a park, where he proceeded to point every star they could see in the sky and naming it for her. He felt her warmth as she snuggled closer to him to see where he was pointing at, but he didn't need any Jedi telepathy to know she didn't really care about where he was pointing at.

When he returned home, he couldn't hide the grin he had on his face, and both his parents and his brother burst into laughter. Embarrassed, he darted to his bedroom and was not seen until the morning after.

The fourth day, Arthavor seemed a bit darker. He knew the days had passed and that he would have to take his decision by the next evening and he dreaded it. His parents had been the kindest people he had ever met, and accepted him with open arms. He felt his brother was a bit resentful for him having been chosen as a Jedi while he hadn't, lacking Force-Sensitivity, but he had been gracious enough not to express his feelings. His friendship with Reylna was becoming much deeper than anything he had felt before and he feared the effects the attachment would have on him.

That evening, it was he who went to knock at Reylna's door. She beamed when she saw him and immediately joined him outside.

“Hi!”, he said. “I, uh... I really enjoyed last night, so I wanted to see you again.”

She grinned then pondered for a short while.

“Can you drive a speeder?”, she asked.

-Of course!

-Then I have an idea. I know a good spot!

-Okay, but we don't have a spee-

-Let's borrow my parents! We're not supposed to drive until 18 here, but I don't see anyone bothering a Jedi!”

She ran inside and came out with her parents speeder's keycard and hopped into the passenger seat. Arthavor jumped into the driver's seat and used the keycard, still not believing what he was about to do. They drove for well over an hour through the woods, Arthavor following Reylna's directions until they stopped at the bank of a lake. She grinned and leaned back against him.

“I love that spot”, she said. “My parents and I used to come swim here when I was little. I don't think anyone else know of that spot yet.

-It is a beautiful spot. “

She nodded and smiled.

“Not as beautiful as you, though”, he continued, blushing.

She giggled and snuggled closer to him, until their heads could touch, then she sighed.

“Are you going to leave tomorrow?”, she asked.

“I don't know yet.

-Do you want to?”

He remained quiet for a few moments, then replied :

“No, I don't”.

The red-headed girl smiled and deposited a kiss on the young Jedi's lips. He was shocked at first but the warmth of Reylna's lips seemed to drain all of his worries away and after a short while, he could lose himself into the kiss entirely.

They returned the speeder to their former owners late in the night and they were hopping out of the speeder as quietly as possible when Reylna's father came out of the house. He immediately strove toward Arthavor and pointed a finger at him, visibly upset.

“I should have known! What the bantha's arse is wrong with you? Do you think you can just come here, steal my speeder and take my daughter to the Force knows where? What did you do to her?

-What? Nothing! We only went for a ride!

-Like I'll believe that! Your parents will hear about this!

-Dad!” Reylna intervened, “He's telling the truth! And it's all my fault!

-You stay out of this, Raylna. He's probably messed with your mind! I'll make sure he never comes near you again!”

Panicked, Arthavor rose a hand in the air and called upon the Force as he spoke :

“We did nothing wrong”, he said.

“You did nothing wrong”, Reylna's father repeated.

“There's no need to speak to anyone about it.”, Arthavor said.

“There's no need to speak to anyone about it.”, the man repeated again.

“It's late, you should go to bed.”

“It's late, I should go to bed”, said Reylna's father before leaving the two teens outside and walking into the house.

Arthavor let out a sigh of relief while Reylna was staring at him, with her mouth open in amazement.

“I can't believe I did that.

-That was... unbelievable!”, exclaimed the astonished girl.

“That was awful. I'm so sorry. I should go.”

Arthavor dropped the keycard on the ground and ran back home.

The next morning came after a sleepless night. Arthavor sat up on his bed and looked at himself in the mirror hung over his dresser with sigh. There was no need to delay the inevitable any longer, he said to himself, and he donned his Jedi robes. He grabbed his belt and ceremoniously tied it around his waist. He slid his feet into his thick leather boots and put on his gloves. Finally, he took the hilt of his lightsaber and gazed at it for a long time, then activated it. Staring at the blue blade gave him a sense of calm, as if the blue glow reached a part of him more pure than what he could reach by himself. He shut the lightsaber off and attached him to his belt. Finally, his improvised ritual almost over, he put on his Jedi cloak. Gazing at himself on the mirror again, he smiled at himself.

“This is me. The me I know.”

He left his room, and joined his mother in the backyard. She watched him walk out of the house in his Jedi attire and a faint smile drew upon her lips.

“So you've decided?”, she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Yes”, he replied.

“Are you going to stay until tonight?

-I would rather not. But I wanted to say goodbye. And thank you.”

The woman nodded.

“Please tell them for me.”, Arthavor asked.

-I will.

-I'll miss you all.”

Mother and son exchanged a hug, then Arthavor left the backyard, the house, and headed toward the starport. He stopped in his tracks, and went to Reylna's house first. He inhaled deeply and knocked. Reylna was first at the door. She beamed when she saw him, but the smile quickly vanished when she saw his attire. She swallowed before speaking.

“So... you're leaving?

-Yes. I'm sorry.”

She nodded.

“Don't be. I understand. I think.

-I wanted to say thank you. For last night and for everything.”

She smiled and nodded, then moved in to hug him. He held her tightly.

“Will you remember me from out there?

-Always.”, he replied.

The two teens released their embrace and Arthavor made his way to the starport.

The young Jedi arrived at the landing pad where his master's ship rested before mid day. The ramp was already down and his master was standing at the top of it, smiling, undoubtedly having felt his presence through the Force. Arthavor followed him inside the ship.

“What made you decide?”, Master Lhovan asked.

“I'm not sure. My parents are amazing people. My brother was jealous that I'm a Jedi and he's not, but he would have accepted me. I even met the most beautiful girl I've ever seen!

-But?

-I cannot let go of that part of me who's a Jedi. I fear I couldn't restrain myself from using my powers if I left the order. I also remember what you said, about the duty of the strong being to defend the weak, and of the powerful to serve the helpless. It feels like I would abandon them more by staying than leaving”

Master Lhovan smiled and nodded.

“Interesting”, he said. “How do you feel?”

Arthavor thought for a moment, and inhaled.

“I feel light!”, he replied with a smile.

Master Lhovan put a hand on his Padawan's shoulder.

“This is a very cruel thing I put you through. Consider that as part of your trials, a bit ahead of schedule.”

“Did I pass?”, Arthavor asked.

“You aced it.”, Lhovan smiled. “You will be an amazing Jedi.”

Arthavor grinned.

“If you're ready, go to the cockpit and take us off here.

-Where are we going?

-Alc. It's a wild planet, and the pioneers will need extra protection while they build their defenses and their settlement.”

Arthavor nodded.

“The manual labor will do us good.”, concluded the young Jedi as he handled the ship's controls, retracting the ramp and activating the repulsorlifts.

The ship trembled and creaked briefly, then lifted itself off the ground. Arthavor punched in a few more commands and the engines begun to hum, pushing the ship to the skies as it left a trail of ions behind it.

#short story #star wars #swtor #original content

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alycat411 · 7 years

Text

In Defense of Titanic’s Ending

“At the end of Titanic when Rose dies and reunites with Jack in the afterlife, how is it cool that she’s making out with a 19 year old homeless dude that she knew for a few days back when she was a teenager, rather than the father of her children?” A friend of mine asked the above question and I agreed to answer it to the best of my abilities. That said, a fair response deserves a fair question, and the above question is not so. I can’t begin to answer the question by referencing Jack as a “teenage homeless dude,” for he is not that in both (what I’ll call), the “external-movie” and “internal-movie.”

The “external-movie” shall encompass all components that went into making the actual film. So I’m speaking about primarily, the screenplay, but also the conventions that influence the way movies are made. The “internal-movie” shall be seen as the fictional world in which the characters live.

To call Jack a “19-year-old homeless dude” that Rose knew for a “few days” is to negate his characterological purpose in its entirety, and in so, the purpose of Titanic’s emotional plot lines. Unlike most films, Titanic consists of two emotional plot lines: Rose’s love affair with Jack, and her self-actualization towards living a meaningful life.

Jack is a literary device to aid her in that journey, and in some ways resembles the manic-pixie boy archetype. Thus, if his presence in Rose’s afterlife is going to be questioned, it must be questioned taking into account his actual purpose, both within the fictional world of the movie, and outside it. However, once his true “internal” and “external” functions are acknowledged as so, the question itself, is no longer logically necessary to ask.

____________

External-Movie Reasoning What does this mean? Well let’s start with the external-movie. Now, a ‘passable’ screenplay follows Hollywood conventions, and this affects Jack and Rose (and Calvert) in two ways:

Movies are stories. Stories do not include every detail in a protagonist’s life. Instead, the stories told in movies focus on a particular aspect of the protagonist’s life. In Titanic, Rose’s ‘story’ is more abstract when it centers on her romantic relationship with Jack and how his love for her transcends his own life to give meaning to hers.

Since that is the focus of the emotional plot, the screenplay does not spend time describing Rose’s subsequent years of marriage to a man under the name of, Calvert. Consequently, it appropriately avoids wrapping up “Jack and Rose’s” story with a man that the audience has never even met. Imagine instead of Jack welcoming Rose into the afterlife, an unfamiliar face greeted our protagonist. The ending would have never passed screen tests.

The second point in defense of Jack and Rose’s ‘afterlife reunion’ from an external-movie perspective looks at the movie paradigm. The movie paradigm, or “three-act structure,” states that if a character’s lowest moment is on pg. 90 in the screenplay, then he/she will get their happy ending and vice-versa. Well, it’s safe to say Titanic puts all of its characters through a perilous hell, including Jack and Rose throughout the second act. Jack’s death occurs at the “pg. 90 moment” for Rose’s story line, and so according to screenplay law, she deserves a happy ending within that story line.

Again, going back to the above, real-life would argue for the case of Calvert, a life-after-love perspective. But that’s not the story “Titanic” is telling.

To repeat myself, the story “Titanic” is telling, is Jack’s transcendent love for Rose and how it helped create a new life for her. So what sort of endings can be drawn up from that, given that Jack is now dead? An ending that not only depicts how dramatically Jack’s love transformed her life (as seen in her bedside photos), but that is also proportionally equal to the “adversity” they faced earlier in the film. With both Jack and Rose spending the second act fighting for their lives, it only makes ‘screenplay sense’ that in the third act, their love is no longer in threat of sinking ships, and class boundaries. Thus, an ending depicting a ‘Titanic heaven reunion’ directly parallels the film’s rising action of a sinking ship tearing its characters a part.

From the “powers that be” that dictate Hollywood film conventions, it makes the most “external-movie” sense for Jack to welcome Rose into the afterlife.

___________

Internal-Movie Reasoning I’ll preface this part with, I believe the external-movie’s ‘needs’ often trump the internal-movie’s realities. In so, the above segment carries more weight because, “That’s Hollywood, baby.” Additionally, this part naturally lacks information outside of the context of the film’s story, so I cannot speak on behalf of Calvert, or Rose’s marriage and life spent with him. However, we can take a look at why Jack makes the cut for Rose’s afterlife, given the information the film gives us.

Although their actual time spent together was brief, Jack’s impact on Rose had life-long effects because he unconditionally loved her when no one else did, and that love consisted of a natural bond inexplicable by the likes of me, or anyone….because love.

Their relationship launches from a unique situation, which entails Jack saving her life. Prior to Jack, Rose felt so insignificant to those around her it led her to attempt suicide. Therefore, Jack became the first person in her world to care, to see her, and to advocate for her. For a 17-year-old aristocrat in 1912 with no say in her future, Jack promised a future, one with choices, and we have to assume that that was heavily intoxicating and alluring for an impressionable Rose. Anyone who has ever fallen in love can speak to its exhilarating ways. Jack and Rose’s love was merely set against extremes.

When was the last time you attempted suicide, were talked out of it, nearly died going back over the rail, bonded with a complete stranger, fell in love for the first time, lost your virginity, made a conscious choice to leave your family and life behind, fought for your survival on the FREAKING Titanic, had your first love die so that you could live, and then enter New York City with nothing of your own accept the chance of a new start? Phew. It’s exhausting even saying it, I can’t imagine living that over the course of a few days. The point is, none of us can. So if empathizing with Rose on this is actually outside of your scope, I don’t blame you. But it must be noted, this incredibly, rare and unique chunk of time in her life irrefutably influenced her life moving forward.

Jack’s death, as well as the sinking were traumatic events that Rose had to endure. Trauma effects people in different ways, but for Rose, she chose to honor Jack’s life by carrying on his legacy. In Jack’s final plea to Rose, he tells her she is going to have a life beyond the Titanic and beyond him, that she is going to marry and have kids with another man. He does this because he fears if he doesn’t make this clear, she would succumb to her own death beside him. This is depicted clearly when after Rose learns of Jack’s death, she briefly rests her head beside him in surrender. Her eyes only snap open once she remembers that he made her promise she would go on without him. Rose’s trauma then becomes a driving force in her life to honor a man who saved her in more ways than one.

She does presumably find happiness in a relationship with Calvert. Does her relationship with her husband differ from that of Jack’s? Yes. To compare the two would be a mistake. I believe that every single person has a side of him/herself that is unlocked through another person, that different people allow us to express different parts of ourselves. Rose’s husband may have unlocked Rose’s caregiving side, her practical side. Jack unlocked the passionate side of Rose, but primarily, he tapped directly into her soul. If you think that soulmates exist, Jack was her soulmate.

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A Final Word If you only believe in pragmatic love or if you feel incapable of suspending your disbelief, then I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest you don’t bother watching “Titanic,” other romance films, or maybe films in general. All movies ask us to suspend our disbelief in one way or another. Some do it through unlikely chance encounters. As unlikely as it was for the real Titanic to sink, it did. If Jack and Rose’s love did not transcend the living world in Titanic heaven (how epic), would their storyline have carried its own weight against the actual story of an unsinkable ship sinking, taking 1500 lives with it?

I have a theory that we are only capable of taking away from movies, what beliefs and values already reside within us, that we ‘project’ on screen what we want to see. So I ask you, what do you want to see?

#titanic #titanicedit #james cameron #ending #jack dawson #rose dawson #leonardo dicaprio #analysis #screenwriting #kate winslet

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