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emotionallyattachednerd · 8 months

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Atoms Love ❙ TP Ratchet x f!robot reader ❙ NSFW 18+

Word count: 3000+ 😅

Warnings: Smut ( Touching, teasing and spike in valve ). NSFW 18+.

Notes: Been wanting to do one of Ratchet for a while now and was so thrilled to get this finished. I did change the title from the previews I had posted, I just felt this was more suited. Thanks anon for sending in this beauty, I had lots of fun with it. Sorry for the wait.

I'd like to add that when reader use to be Rachet's student she was of age, not underage. Just a simple rule that teachers shouldn't be involed with their students like in our world with collage/university. That's all. Hope you're all enjoy the sexy medic. 🥰

Your arrival on earth is greeted with a warm welcome from team prime. For so long you've been travelling planet to planet, searching for friends and perhaps a place to call home. While you didn't mind the ongoing travel at first, you were eager to settle for good. Earth was your next stop and you felt pretty lucky to find Optimus Prime and his team, but what got you even more excited was that Ratchet was there, your former teacher back on Cybertron way before the war started.

Through the coms of your ship you can hear the ecstasy from Ratchet, and you can't hold back your beaming smile hearing your favourite medic again after so long. Earth is to be your home now, that's what you decided. Sure, decepticons might've been hanging around but you could handle it. Your skills as a medic and through tinkering science will prove to be useful, all thanks to Ratchet who has taught everything he knew.

It's good to have Arcee around, you thought, so you weren't the only femme around, and she admitted that it's good to have another femme to join team prime. She is pretty cool, you thought, and such a skilled warrior. You two were going to get along.

The others were great as well, you even met these interesting humans they had around. Optimus expressed his appreciation to have you join them, and also added that Ratchet hadn't stopped talking about you since the comlink transmission. At first you were flattered, but hearing Ratchet fluster so quickly, struggling to explain himself did make your cheek plating heat up a little trying to hide your smile.

The moment was over, but Ratchet and you did spend a lot of time together, mostly talking about science and even doing small experiments of your own just for fun. The others saw all this but they didn't dare to say anything or interfere. Apparently Ratchet was pretty quick with his wrench if someone was to disturb him.

It's been a few weeks now since your arrival and it was going well. You feel settled and are surrounded by others who are almost like a family. You find yourself with Ratchet again, of course, you do spend a lot of time with him. Later that evening, you are both currently doing some tinkering and small experiments to pass the time together, measuring the right formulas and discussing the old times back on Cybertron.

"Oh but I'm serious. Out of all my students, you were one of the best. Someone with your intelligence deserved to be in the higher ranked classes, and I argued with those lug nuts in the higher grounds, but they didn't see what I saw." Ratchet goes on to say as you listen in.

"Well, it's a good thing that didn't happen, because I would've missed my favourite teacher. I only learned from the best, and it's because of you that I ended up here."

"Me? No, I'm sure there are other reasons." He tries to brush himself off but you shake your helm.

"There was much I believed from you, and I admired you, I still do, and I'm grateful I had a good teacher like you to help guide me through my younger learning time."

Meeting his gaze you saw him staring at you fondly as you return the same stare before he forces himself to break that small trance you thought you felt happening. It was quiet before you heard him vent out heavily and place his tinkering on the bench.

"May I make a confession to you, y/n?" His tone is deep, as if he's still wondering if he should keep talking to you about whatever is going on in his processor. "Just promise not to laugh."

"Of course you can. I've never made fun of you before, and I don't plan on it." You'll listen to him and hear what he has to say.

"Well, when you were my student, I did say a number of times how much I admired you and praised your skills, but what I never told you was that I admired you...affectionately."

This makes you stop what you're doing. He now had your full attention. "Putting it simple, you had a crush on me?"

Ratchet lets out a light hearty laugh but it's not because of what you said, but because of what he was confessing to you after all this time. "Yeah, that's putting it simple." Another vent leaves him, optics cast against the bench as he fiddles with the tinkers to try and avoid your own optics. You wonder if he is ashamed or embarrassed, but you want him to know that he doesn't need to be.

"How come you didn't say anything before?" You already knew the answer to that.

"Because I was your teacher and you were my student, it wouldn't have been right. You would've been kicked out and I would've been demoted from my position. So, I locked away those affections, and continued to be your teacher."

"That sounds sad. Doesn't sound like you wanted to do that, and you are making yourself sound like you haven't been happy for a long time."

"Oh I've been...content." He didn't sound very convincing to you. "Don't you worry, y/n. I might be older but that doesn't mean I haven't been happy. Regrets, yes, but that's only natural for anyone. I'm just pleased that you're here now, that's all that matters."

If only you knew, perhaps things might've been different.

To move on from it he tries to focus on his tinkering as you look down at your own a little, pondering your thoughts. Well, he did it first, you are only going to add more to this with no way out.

"I have a confession." He hears this from you as he locks his optics with your own. "When I was your student, I was...enamoured by you." You decide to use the fancy words like he does and look at the gadget in your servos a little, turning it for a better look and giving Ratchet the moment he needed to let this progress in him.

"You? I-I mean...you?" His confusion makes you feel a little amused. "How come you said nothing?"

"I was your student and you were my teacher, it would not have been right." You answer the same as his own. "Also, I did express my feelings, just not verbally."

"Well, you're going to have to explain that one to me, because I don't recall anything that gave me any signals that you felt like this towards me." He sounded a little miffed but not in a bad way, mostly with himself you think for not noticing.

"Those blue energon roses. One was left at your work station every week. They're hard to grow and need the right formulas for them to flourish which I did every week and presented to you. I never said they were from me but I watched from afar. You admired them."

"You?" He lays everything on the bench and leans himself against it as if his knees were growing weak. "Those were from you?"

"I learned from the best." You give a dainty smile. "You taught me how to grow them, and I wanted to express my gratitude and...affections, without either of us getting in trouble."

Perhaps if you both confessed your feelings for one another during those times, things might've been different. Sure, you might've been kicked out and he would've lost his position, but at least you would've had each other, right? That's the childish dream you had while being his student but you got over it, at least that's what you kept telling yourself.

"So, you felt the same way about me?" Ratchet wants to clarify once more from you. "Do those feelings still persist?"

"I did." You confirm. "And they do."

Its then you notice you're both holding a deep rooted stare. Blue optic illuminating together in a stronghold, one and the other silently screaming for the other to do or say something, quickly, before it escapes. Ratchet catches it just in time.

"What's stopping us now?"

"Nothing."

It all happens abruptly, one moment you and Ratchet were tinkering away with experiments and the next, you find yourself in his private quarters. There's a growing fever as you run your servos across his chassis, up over his shoulder pads as you feel his own servos smooth over your waist. His warm lips are across your own in a deep, slow passion, his glossa coils with your own while you welcome his touches and kisses through pure ecstasy and eagerness.

Ratchet calmly leads you towards his berth where he sits himself and you straddle his lap as you keep the kiss hot and lasting between you both. It's him that eventually breaks the kiss, touching your helms together as your heated vents hit against each other.

"Would you like to try out a new experiment?"

"I thought we already were." You can't help but giggle faintly, regarding the humid moment you are both currently sharing.

"Think of it as an add on to our current one."

"Why not? Tinkering with experiments is kind of our thing."

Ratchet lets out a light chuckle that you grew to love so rapidly.

"Turn around, and settle in my lap again."

Following his gentle command you do that, sitting back down and pressing your back against his chassis as you feel his servos calmly move across your waist, cascading down over your hips and across your thighs, letting them linger there while he feels you under his touch. You let out a placid vent, feeling relaxed and a small boiling of desire creeping its way through your frame. He then touches his wrist and you catch onto a device being activated in front of your both.

"A hologram mirror?" You smile warmly in amusement. "Is there a reason that it's set up right in front of your berth?"

"Perhaps I like to admire myself." There's a hint of playfulness in his voice making you giggle faintly in return.

"Well, you're quite the sight."

"You're a better looking sight."

Ratchet turns your helm a little so he can kiss you gently before resuming his actions, servos ghostly running on top of your tights and inwards, close to your warm panel. His chin rests against your shoulder as he looks at the mirror, as you lock your optics on it as well, watching what he is doing to you. To see everything is very arousing for you both.

You spread your legs to give him more access, hanging over each of his as you settle comfortably in his lap and rest yourself back against him, letting out silent heated vents that slowly boil more within you. Your waist wiggles, rubbing softly against Ratchet's panel causing him to let out a silky moan.

"Let's have a look at you. Retract your panel, please."

Without any pause you do this, revealing your already soaked valve for you both to see through the mirror. You can feel Ratchet quiver against your back as he stares, servos moving even closer to your valve.

"Stunning." He whispers into your audio. It's your turn to moan when he touches a digit against your moist lips and delicate node, exploring and teasing you for his own pleasure.

You watch as he uses a second digit to open your lips to explore you more, and uses another with his other servo to gently push into your valve. Instantly you clench around to invading digit, a feathered moan lingering from your vocals. You can't help but rock your hips gently, both of you watching as he plays with you. "Ratchet." His name sighs from you while your servos rest against both his thighs.

"You're a rare beauty, y/n. You were always my favourite student." His charming words causes you to smile shyly.

"As you were my favourite teacher." Next, you got cocky. "Is this what you always wanted to do to me?"

Ratchet is quiet, optics staring at what he's doing while playing with your valve, digit pumping into you slowly. His response is by adding a second digit to join the first, and his other servo circles around your node, causing you to gasp and back arch, feeling the new buzz suddenly electrocute through your frame.

"This, and much more."

You weep softly through the burning lust that drifts across your entire frame, hips swaying in sync with his servos and digits against your valve before moving your servo up to touch the side of Ratchet's face as a way to hold on and keep him close as possible. Your optics never leave the mirror, fascinated by the sight of yourself and Ratchet's skillful servos on you, knowing very well that he'll more than likely want to try out other things in the future. After all, nothing is holding either of you back anymore.

You hear a faint click and you see his throbbing spike emerge from it's housing between your legs. His girth size was rather impressive, thick and throbbing, canvas up perfectly as small drops of trans fluid leaks from his tip and runs down his length.

He catches you from the mirror staring at his spike making him chuckle lightly. "I'm not that impressive."

"Liar." You comment back before gently wrapping you servo around his spike, hearing him letting out a hitched vent at your warm touch as his optics shuttered a little. "You're beyond impressive. You're phenomenal." It's your turn to moan again as he rewards you with a third digit in your soaking valve.

"You're too kind to this old timer."

"You're my old timer." You notice his expression change a little, as if he is touched by your words before giving you a soft beam against your shoulder.

Your servo slowly starts to pump at his spike, feeling every ridge along the base and every twitch given from him, digit rubbing at his tip and back down to moist him all over. You kind of feel like you're going to need it. His servos are kept on your valve, digits pumping into your stretched depths while rubbing still slow at your node. He doesn't want you overloading just yet. With all this happening both your moans and heated vents surround you both, growing more hotter and eager for more.

"Ratchet, please, I need you inside me."

"Stand up." It seems you both have the same thoughts. Once his digits are gone from you, you stand up on weak legs just a little. Slowly, you lower yourself back down, watching the mirror as Ratchet holds himself in position before finding your mark.

Your mouth hangs open a little while watching yourself sink down onto his spike, taking his thick girth inch at a time while tossing your helm back against Ratchet's shoulder. You can hear his tense grunts as you clamp around him tightly, and let yourself sink fully into his lap again.

"Y/n..." He says your name, almost sounding desperate, like he was begging for something from you.

"Ratchet." You return the same as you give yourself a moment to adjust. "You feel so good."

Carefully, you start to move yourself, watching from the mirror as you see yourself moving along his spike entering your valve over again. His servo wraps around your front and comes to your node again, rubbing at you as he has a firm hold at your hip as you ride him. You're obsessed with the sight, and you know already you're going to want to use the hologram mirror again for yourselves.

Letting out heavy moans you grind down against Ratchet causing him to let out a surprised moan himself, holding a tighter hold as he presses his lips into your neck, glancing at the mirror whenever possible. You hold onto him as you ride his spike, letting out more blissful sounds that slowly grow more.

"Oh frag!" You curse out much louder, unable to hold it in.

"Such language doesn't suit you." Ratchet can't help himself, causing you to give a giggle through your moans.

"Then what suits me?"

"This."

He grabs hold of you tightly and thrusts his hips up against your movements at a rapid pace, causing you to let out a mewl. Looking at the mirror you are obsessed with the sight of you sitting against him, riding his spike, as he thrusts into you, causing the berth to start creaking under your harsh movements.

"Touch yourself."

You do that, using a free servo to bring down to yourself as you rub your node, digits skipping across the base of his moist spike as he enters you over again. Your thighs are spread wide, hanging across his own legs as you hump against his movements and moving in sync together. At this rate, you know you won't last too much longer.

Ratchet seems to read your mind. "Go on darling. Overload with me. Let yourself go."

That is all you needed to hear. Letting out a loud lingering mewl you fall apart and overload hard, watching yourself as your juices pool around the spike and under the both of you against the berth.

His heated vents against your shoulder turn into grunts before he lets out a harsher gnarl and you feel his warm trans fluids soak your depths. hips stilling, keeping inside you as you both sag against one another and the berth. With your optics still cascading at the mirror you are enjoying the sight while letting yourself vent and cool off as he did the same.

"That experiment was fun." You say through a giddy smile.

"Fun indeed. I have more ideas and experiments for us to try out for the future." The very thought makes you hum in delight.

"I look forward to all of them." You gently remove yourself from his spike and turn around, straddling him again and giving him a tender and loving kiss.

He kisses you back just as tenderly before your helms rest together.

"You think you can handle this old grumpy fool?"

"Absolutely." You answer while caressing his cheek plating.

"Fantastic."

There is nothing stopping either of you now.

Also, just to share because I can, this is the position that they had going. Let that invade your mind and consume your thoughts. 😍

#transformers #prime #ratchet #valveplug #ratchet x reader #reader insert #fanfiction #writing #smut #older mechs are always the best #ratchet has a thick spike and skillful servos #sugarrusheag

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max1461 · 1 year

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Let me try this post again. I think there's something to it, but I don't think I communicated it very well. I'm going to come at this from a more personal angle, and I'm also going to be a bit more careful in my wording. There are also, I think, several different ideas being gestured at in that post, and I'm only going to cover one of them here. The others will get their own posts eventually.

Ok.

I am deeply, deeply in love with the world we live in. I think it is extraordinary beautifully and fascinating. I am continually astounded by the intricacies and strange little details of nature, of human society, of history, and so on. I consider learning about the world to be one of my primary reasons for living. Existing on earth, having nature around to look at and people around to talk to and things to discover is like being in a garden of delights. I can look at a tree! I can learn a language! Moreover, I can read about a tree and then look at that tree, and can see for myself all the things that were in the book, connect the abstract description of some biological fact with my real, direct observation of the physical world around me. The world is a cornucopia of puzzles and mysteries. It is, in a broad structural sense, like my own personal heaven. I cannot overstate the degree to which I love the universe that I am living in.

I think I am, perhaps, an outlier in this regard. Maybe most people don't think this way, at least not as generally as I do. But certainly a lot of people I've met here seem to feel this way. And I think many people, perhaps most, feel this way about some corner of the world even if they don't feel it about the world in general. If you love literature or video games, maybe you feel deeply in love with the works that people have made. If you're passionate about, I don't know, soccer, maybe you're similarly enthralled by the feeling of the game, the experience of practicing and improving, etc. In general, if you like anything... you like that thing! I mean that's a tautology, but like, I hope it conveys what I'm trying to convey.

And I think this experience of passion, this experience of loving the world or some part of the world, is for many people an inherent aspect of a life worth living. Not for everyone, I'm sure—there are people who would be contented without it, and I support those people just as much. But there are likewise people, a lot of people, who would say "without soccer, what's the point? Without trees, what's the point? Without languages to learn, what's the point? If I can't dance, it's not my revolution."

At the same time, it is evident that this world that I'm so in love with is, in many ways, deeply unjust. There is suffering, poverty, disease, loss, grief, and pain. Many of these problems are tractable, and don't interfere with the things that I (or most anyone, I think) loves about the world. Fighting disease and poverty, for instance. These are two great imperatives, and for the most part I think their cost is purely one of human time and energy. We can fix these things if we try hard, if we put in the resources, and so on. These are not efforts that come at the cost of the world I love.

Some forms of injustice are not so obviously orthogonal to human passion. The type case here, I think, is wild animal suffering. There is a huge amount of suffering in nature, of pain and fear and death. Billions upon billions of organisms in pain. And right now, as awful as it may sound, I feel almost thankful that any proposed solutions to this problem remain in the realm of the fantastical. Because, you know, I love nature! Part of the reason I wake up every day is to experience the nature around me! And solving the problem of animal suffering—freeing all those billions of organisms from their constant struggle—would involve irreparably changing nature into something else, something without the organic complexity that makes it what it is.

And, you know, I want to put aside all arguments about the advisability of trying to meddle with ecosystems and all that. I agree, wholeheartedly, that humans trying to jump in and solve the problem of wild animal suffering would almost certainly be immensely stupid. That's not the point! The point is, suppose that we could. With no catastrophic consequences, no great collapse. And ignore any trolley problems, ignore any ethical conundra that might arise, like "how do we weight animal freedom against animal pain?" or "how do we acquire consent to alter aspects of the biosphere from stakeholders who can't communicate?" or whatever. Pretend it all magically works out. Should we do it? I don't know, but I think the answer might be "probably".

But then nature is gone! The intricate complexity of ecosystems is gone! Remember, that complexity relies on cycles of predation, on natural selection! Pain and suffering are built into it! But ending that pain and suffering requires something terrible in its own way. I think there are people who would wake up in that new world, that world where nature per se no longer exists, and say "what am I waking up for anymore? What is the point now? The world I loved is gone."

This description so far also relies on positing, falsely, a separation between humans and nature, or perhaps between passion-feelers and nature. Remember, many of those wild animals are not so different from us. Don't you think a horse feels something similar to passion when it sees a wide sprawling grassland to run across? If you aren't sure that it does, don't you think it at least might? Don't you think lions are passionate about the hunt? I think they might be. Some people are. And lions aren't that far away from us, biologically. But zebras suffer because of the lions' hunt!

So it's not just the fare of privileged outside observers to say "oh no, you ended mass suffering but also took away my pretty garden!". It's not just the slaveholder lamenting the end of slavery. It's that the world itself is an intricate mixture of passions and pains, and each passion is predicated on a pain! The lion wants to keep hunting, the zebra wants to keep grazing, the grass—if it wants, which I don't know that it doesn't—wants to keep photosynthesizing.

We all live in a world where the basic things that make us happy are predicated on the current structure of the world, which involves a great amount of suffering. Maybe some of us would be happy to, as it were, live in a zoo and sustain ourselves on nutrient mush, and would take this as the necessary price for the end of suffering. But I think most of us would find that existence intolerable. Our ability to enjoy life is dependent on being part of this matrix, part of this complex web, and pain is another, inextricable part of it.

Or, at least, that's the fear. I don't know. Maybe there is a way to create a world were suffering is minimal but you and me and lions and zebras all still get to live something approaching "the good life". We all still get to have a worthwhile existence, an existence we feel satisfied by. I'm not sure if this is possible when the whole of the biosphere is taken into account (which is why I chose it as an example), but I think it very well might be possible with regard to human society. And I think we should work tirelessly to find it, because if it is possible then achieving it is an utter imperative. But I fear that it isn't, and that makes me sad, and concerned. But it's still worth trying.

Ok, maybe that wasn't actually any better phrased than the last time. I don't know. I seem incapable of writing about this topic in a disinterested manner, at least at present. But hopefully that's at least a little better, and answers some of the questions people had last time.

#society #navel gazing

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kris-the-yan · 18 days

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Neurodivergent characters in Super Monkey Ball

Only one of these has a canon name for their disorder, the rest are implied so much that they may potentially be canon too

1. Doctor

-> Out of everyone, Doctor is the only character who has a label for his disorder, which is amnesia. And although it isn't entirely accurate representation of amnesia, it also isn't terrible as they don't portray him in a way that creates a mockery of amnesiac people in general.

-> besides that, he's also incredibly smart, so his IQ has to be through the roof practically, so maybe giftedness? Either way, he is portrayed as someone who is well-respected among individuals (hence the name Doctor, which was given by the public) (also I imagine when he was in school he was super popular due to his high intelligence)

2. YanYan

Probably not canon, but then again she litterally shows these in the games so it may be so

To start I would say she possibly shows **a few** signs of autism and although they never said anything about her having it, I feel like she probably does

-> For one thing, she **absolutely cannot sit still, AT ALL.** as seen in the games, she's constantly moving around, even when sitting down, something some sensory-seeking autistic people experience

-> Another thing, she is canonically described as being "fearless," which gets me thinking, maybe she doesn't fear anything even when it potentially puts her life in danger (for example a moving car headed her direction) (they probably mean she doesn't fear any bad guy she faces, but still).

-> Oh yeah SUPER MONKEY BALL BOUNCE AND she's the only one out of everyone who cries when she was kidnapped. Not just teary, watery eyes, I mean FULL ON WAILING which is kind of surprising because for someone who's supposedly "fearless," she's just there letting her emotions out. But why does she cry this much? Maybe it was the feeling of that green gooey web that she's tied up with, perhaps she hates the feeling of it and it upset her to the point of crying?

-> Also she's apparently shy, which honestly contradicts her actually being "fearless," but anyway, some autistic people are shy (depends on where they are on the spectrum), and although not all shy people are autistic, she could be since she experiences some of the other things (the constantly moving around is a big thing)

-> Also I think she has a lack of social awareness because she canonically has a crush on AiAi and even flirts with him even though their biological son is **right there** so shouldn't she be aware of that already? My prediction is that they throw hints and cues that any allistic person would understand and go "ok so I guess I can't date him because he's married and they have a son from the future" but YanYan doesn't seem to understand any of that, instead thinks she can still have a chance with him

3. Jam

-> Ok so this one's rather short but absentmindedness and hyperactivity are both signs of ADHD and since Jam shows both of these... :)

4. Pospos

-> I've went in-depth with this but he canonically shows signs of anomic aphasia or dysmonia, which is when you have trouble retrieving the correct words from memory, which happens to him a lot. He has trouble remembering names, which actually interferes with his job and ability to communicate overall. This is shown in-game when he struggles to remember the names of people he has to deliver mail to. He also seems to not make very good eye contact and shows signs of being shy, which I believe his disorder leads to.

5. Sisi

-> So, normally people wouldn't have to have pictures of everyone they meet to tell whether or not they exist, but just that one like tells everything ("I take pictures of everybody I meet, it's the only way I know they really exist"). The only explanation I can think of is he deals with hallucinations, specifically people. It may be only one line but he could possibly be schizo-spec because again, that piece of dialogue implies he hallucinates people and therefore takes pictures of everyone as the only real way of knowing whether they're real or not

#kris talks #super monkey ball #yanyan #sisi #pospos #doctor #jam #dereality tw #<- just in case for the last paragraph #i litterally had this in my head this morning

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chirpsythismorning · 1 year

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I have multiple versions of Mike in my head if I'm being honest.

gay/bi/unlabeled Mike discourse TW:

There's a version of Mike in my head that's gay and I love him dearly. I think that when you dig a little deeper into Mike's character, beyond what's being outright told to us, but also what's being shown, what you'll find is that not everything is what it seems (ie. mirrors = reflection/deception). And so navigating him as a character that requires more than us just going along with what's on the surface (what the casual viewers see) is what I do think leads to a lot of analysis that leans towards Mike being gay.

And yet still, simultaneously there's a version of Mike in my head that's bi and I also love him dearly. I see him pretty clearly in my head and he is wonderful and dear to me!! I also think this is more than anything because if someone whose bisexual can relate to Mike and his character, then that's great and it sort of just knocks down the basic claim that bi-Mike doesn't make sense at all/isn't realistic at all, as an argument? And so hearing that argument does irc me a little bit. I know we're talking about a TV show here, where everything is intentional. I get it and I agree! I do!

However, if we're going to also in the same breath use real life examples of peoples experience with sexuality, and argue how Mike's arc is going to provide representation to not only queer people watching, but also perhaps have a ripple effect on the entire film industry and how we as a society tend to perceive sexuality based on preconceived notions/stereotypes, in that regard, Mike being bi is valid... Because if this were the real world (again a place many of us are saying will be impacted by this moment in TV), then it wouldn't matter if we never saw Mike outright look at girls in the same way he looked at boys. This is a unique situation bc doing what we're doing in the real world would be despicable. We're talking about our perception of what makes someone gay/bi/unlabeled and all the assumptions at play in regards to that, while using the real world as evidence to support our claims. This is why, because of the impact on our reality, I would be okay with Mike being bi in canon. I'd also be okay with it assuming that Finn was okay with it. No matter what happens, Finn has a lot of say in Mike's arc, just like most of the main cast has a say in their characters. If Finn is standing by it then shit, I'm there!

I may be a gay mike truther, but I will gladly admit that there is bi-Mike evidence, bc there is! There are moments with Mike that show the colors of the bi flag that add up to at least a couple handfuls of times. While I do think the gay imagery sort of outweighs the bi-imagery in the details (there is also gay Mike evidence!), it's still not enough for me to rule out bi-Mike all together bc after all, sexuality is a spectrum and so the back and forth going on could technically be an indication of Mike questioning and figuring himself out!

I also think that Mike can be capable of having internalized homophobia while also being bi (or unlabeled/gay for that matter). I think he's capable of an arc separate from Will/El, related to him and his own insecurities and why he felt the need to be in denial for so long. All that closet imagery was there for a reason! His parents having hints at being aligned with more conservative values was intentional. I also don't think exploring this has to interfere with Will, El or any of the other character arcs. Mike did arguably start the show as the protagonist, who took a big step back from being in focus over the last two seasons and so yes I do think exploring his struggles more outright is something that could and should happen, to bring his character's arc to an end properly, regardless of what label he identifies with once that time comes.

And then there's another version of Mike in my head that's unlabeled Mike and best believe he is loved!!!. While I agree it would be frustrating to have to see people still unable to accept Mike not being straight, just like there are people still in denial about Will and Robin (an ugly reminder ppl will do it regardless), it also doesn't feel great hearing that Mike being unlabeled would be disappointing. Arguably one could make the claim that Mike struggling with his identity all this time and being surrounded by all this imagery back and forth, along with the whole forced conforming speech and that 'bs media propaganda' line alone, could be evidence supporting the fact that he's just an unlabeled king, bc they do exist. Again I welcome criticism to unlabeled Mike along with all the other interpretations of Mike's character bc some criticism is well supported and like I don't have a problem with discourse.

Here's the thing, I personally think it's sort of weird to rule out stuff as a possibility, at all? I think it's weird to make the claim that someone is not media literate or is setting themselves up for disappointment for simply having a theory. So yes I would rather believe all of it, consider every possibility, because it also allows me to not be blinded where certain analysis actually doesn't check out. Both gay and bi-Mike truthers will make a claim, be presented with evidence against it that arguably does check out as more strong that the original claim they made, only to downplay it as not that deep and move on. And it's because neither side wants to really acknowledge those deeper things if it goes against what they want to believe. (However, if it supports what they believe, then nvm, it is that deep!)

Sure it might be a little bit embarrassing to be super convinced a theory is going to play out, only for it to be way off, but this applies to literally everyone. Everyone has theories and most of them are going to be wrong. There's no shame in shooting in the dark when it comes to speculating about what could happen.

What I do however think would actually be embarrassing, is insisting a theory is not happening, only to be the one who ends up being wrong.

Everyone can do whatever they want. I can't stop anyone from making controversial posts and honestly I wouldn't want to. I don't want us to get to a point where we feel like we can't speak our minds about basic things or to a point where we make each other feel so uncomfortable and disliked that we're not welcome. I don't want to hurt peoples feelings and make them feel small over this because it's not that serious and making real life people feel miserable over a TV show is just not worth it to me!

If you find yourself discouraging others, think about the possibility that it could be you that ends up being wrong and maybe don't take it too far?

That's why I will not be caught DEAD saying a theory has no chance because it would be naive to insinuate that. Now, believing theories on the other hand... I could go on for hours about what I do believe. And I'm gonna have fun continuing to do it!

Anyways I love unlabeled, bi and gay Mike and all the analysis surrounding it. Yes I'm controversial as I do personally agree/disagree with both sides at different points. And so until we get confirmation, I'm open to differing takes and thinking about arguments that could be used to analyze each scene for each one bc you'd be surprised how believable each analysis can be (including straight Mike... yeah yeah I love him too (unfortunately). However, he does scare me).

#byler #pls don't insist your right and everyone else is wrong #i do not want to see your heartbreak sprial about how the duffer brothers are terrible writers bc you (1 person) were wrong...#gay bi unlabeled whatever you identify mike as pls leave room for sanity if you want others to take you seriously #btw i headcanon mike as being gay but i could also see him being someone that later on down the line identivies as bi or vice versa...#bc sexuality is a spectrum and we're all figuring our shit out #and whatever mike (finn says in interviews post s5)#i'm on his side idc what he says #if he says mike is straight i will be ummm #lets not talk about it bc it's not happening #if he supports mike being unlabeled and a boy kisser okay tell em #if he says mike is gay then you heard him #if he says mike is bi then don't make him say it again you hear???!#end of rant #i will never talk about this again bc i've made it clear where i stand i think...

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evilasiangenius · 6 months

Text

So much for War, he thought, until she appeared before him.

Clothed in a long crimson tunic bordered with a darker red that was nearly black, the color of dead roses or perhaps of dried blood, she stepped forward, the short black cloak pinned around her shoulders swirling about her like smoke. Her sword was unsheathed, hefted over one shoulder, cold flames licking at her without actually touching her.

Crowley recognized the clothing. “You’re here from another war, aren’t you? Is it in Crete? Ionia? Who’s fighting?”

“That is no concern of yours, little angel. Tell me, what was that all about?” War asked, pointing to the battlefield.

“What was what all about?” Crowley quickly got up on his feet. Though he was taller than her by quite a bit, he found something overwhelming about her; she carried herself with a presence and authority that reminded him of the demeanor of an Archangel.

“All that tripping and stopping. Do you know what’s going on?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not really. Been here for a while, just taking a break, if you must know. Letting the humans get to their war. We don’t interfere,” he said with a bright smile that he hoped she wouldn’t notice was absolutely insincere.

“Are you sure?” War looked puzzled. “Because I have orders and my orders say that there is to be a war today. And it doesn’t look like a war out there at all. Where is the blood? Where is the screaming of the wounded and dying?”

As War spoke, Crowley realized that the longer he kept War distracted, the less time War had to be at war. And thus he calculated that a few minutes of his time made War’s time even less valuable.

“Oh, no?” Crowley made a big show out of peering over at the battlefield, where men were still struggling with their kilts and robes. “Oh, are you sure it wasn’t meant to be a sartorial war? Seems like they’re going at it pretty hard, trying to fix all those belts and knots. Rather looks like a massacre to me, what with all those mud stains. They’ll be cleaning those clothes for weeks at this rate. The rivers will run brown with dirt. Women and children will wail at the sight of these ground-in stains. The earth itself will echo with the lamentations of the launderers. Hopefully no one will catch a chill from all that wet.”

“Angels,” War said with a harrumph of contempt. “Always so soft-hearted, except when they’re not.”

“But weren’t you an angel once too?” Crowley asked boldly.

“That was a long time ago.” War smiled, a cold and emotionless expression etched with an innate cruelty that sent a little shiver through Crowley despite himself. “And I am no longer what I was once before. If I ever was that.”

“Oh, I didn’t know, I thought-”

“Does it matter what you think? What matters is War. If this isn’t your doing, angel, then what’s going on?”

Crowley took a moment to compose himself before he leaned in conspiratorially. “Could be the Opposition. Never know what they’re up to. Seems to me it might be some infernal plot to distract us from a proper war. Then again, it might just be bad luck. A bad sheep harvest one season and then all the clothes the next season will tangle and misbehave. Oh, or maybe they had bad luck shearing the flax; flax tends to get unruly and run about wild if not sheared properly. Slippery lot that stuff is, maybe some of those clothes were just made too slippery in the first place. Materials are important. I know, I’ve paid attention to humans and their works.”

“I’m not sure that sounds right...”

“Oh, but what do I know, I’m just an angel, and we don’t, you know, muck about too deeply in human affairs.”

“Well, if nobody is taking responsibility for this war, then I had better get this party started and be on my way. There is more important work today than this little battlefield. Great cities to burn, men put to the sword, children and women enslaved…” Blood welled in War’s eyes like tears, and she blinked away the red haze. Crowley’s mouth tightened as he watched, confused by the mismatch of War’s words and expression. “Ah, so much wondrous work to do today and no time to enjoy these little maneuvers with such greater pleasures promised elsewhere.” A drop of blood slid down her face and she raised her sword over her head.

“Are you all right?” Crowley asked, concerned. “You seem to be erm...crying.”

“I am War and nothing else.” War brushed away the blood, pointing the fiery weapon at the battlefield.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked, alarmed and trying desperately not to show his distress.

“Oh, just getting the fun restarted. After this, they won’t worry if they’re naked or not. The dead and dying no longer care about modesty or mud.” War laughed, a dark, sensuous sound deep in her throat, and where she pointed, a young man, the boy that Crowley had seen earlier, the archer with the new wristguard, stumbled up onto his feet. Though his distant figure was caked in mud, he bent down to pick up a fallen arrow that was miraculously untouched by the muck. Nocking it, his motions jerking as if a wooden toy pulled by strings, he let fly the arrow into the Egyptian ranks.

Time seemed for a moment to pause, to still, as Crowley’s eye followed the trajectory of the arrow. The arrow sailed through the air and landed right in the middle of the Egyptian line, piercing the breast of Prince Amenmesse who had been leading the charge. The prince gave a cry and collapsed against the side of his chariot. A moment later, all hell broke loose as the Egyptian army roared for vengeance.

“There now, that wasn’t hard, was it?” War beamed. “Have fun with your war, angel.” But when Crowley turned around to speak to War again, she was gone, as if she had never been there, even as she had always been.

Heart pounding, Crowley leapt forward with a loud cry.

“No!”

#angel crowley #crowley #good omens #reverse omens #four horsepeople of the apocalypse #war #the seventh prince of hell

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power-chords · 2 years

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I am going to re-watch episodes 1-4 of this season, probably, to see what else I can pick up on. But once again, I am paying close attention to costuming decisions. There is information being conveyed here.

Note who is dressed in black and white, and when. These are being used as indicators of Hale’s dominion, influence, or attempts at control (Hale is always dressed in black or white). Costuming that is in color, as with Clementine, or with Christina, indicates something external to her, or in conflict with her. When we see Christina wearing color, we might suspect that a part of Dolores – wherever she may be – is struggling to surface. Notice how Maya is dressed when accompanying her, when trying to steer her decisions one way or the other.

I do not think Maya is “good people.” I think Maya is a minder, a mother – there are both phonetic and semantic connotations to the name – as the name Christina has etymologic parallels to child. There is also Peter Myers (as in Peter Abernathy, as in pater; Myers, as in a masculine counterpart to Maya, as in mayor). We know Westworld is big on parent/child themes and the question of “programming” invoked therein, both sacrificial love and intrinsic tension, succession and separation. What it means not just to deviate, but to individuate, even speciate.

What is the significance of Christina's date in 4x01, and of Teddy, both dressed in gray? I’m still trying to parse that out. If black and white represent Hale’s conflation of harmony and binarism, Black and White, Humans and Hosts, then perhaps gray is indicative of a test of some kind, tempting Christina with the illusion of an alternate choice, breaking free of the either/or. Perhaps Teddy is a covert operative (and if so, on whose behalf?), a wrench in the gears, trying to sneak in under the cover of Christina’s own simulation enclosure-slash-fidelity test.

In last Sunday’s episode, Maeve makes a comment to Hale to the effect of, “And here I thought Wyatt was Dolores’s bad side.” That’s a hugely loaded line, intended to remind the audience that Hale 2.0 is (or, perhaps, was) the synthesis of two discrete personalities: Dolores Abernathy and Charlotte Hale. She even tells Dolores in S3: “Why give us these feelings” if all they’ll be is a liability?

All of which is why I have a hunch that Christina is a part of Hale 2.0 – the Dolores part – that has been jettisoned, partitioned off and imprisoned, so as not to interfere with Hale’s execution of her master plan.

So then why keep Christina around, stuck in a loop? Who knows. Maybe Hale’s just vindictive. Maybe Dolores, being the park’s OG host, contains valuable data that Hale doesn’t want to risk disposing of – an insurance policy of sorts, or a backup template. Wouldn’t it be funny if she winds up being the proverbial fly in the ointment, coming back – resurrecting – to bite Hale in the ass?

More costuming details: you see a lot of cut-out panels in Christina’s clothing, implying a missing or segmented piece. Her earrings are broken in two. There are also abundant straps, belts, or textile details that suggest leashing, binding. You see some of it echoed in Host MIB’s outfits, as well.

#westworld #westworld s4 #dolores abernathy #charlotte hale #teddy flood #the man in black #MIB #westworld spoilers

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vulpeskorsak · 2 years

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Day 6 of Whumptober 2022: Do not touch cursed ancient obelisks!

Day 6 of Whumptober 2022!

No. 6 PROOF OF LIFE

Ransom Video | “I’ve got a pulse” | Screams from Across the Hall Camp

Timeline-wise my current shorts go: Day 2 -> Day 5 ->Day 1 -> Day 4 -> Day 3 -> Day 6

Victor is my human fleshsmith inventor (KibblesTasty Homebrew class) from a long-running DnD adventure. Ludwig Richter is a former gravedigger turned archeologist who wields a rifle and a battle shovel named Charon that I play in a TTRPG.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42189867 (AO3 link)

Do not touch cursed ancient obelisks!

The dig is finished. They found what they wanted. A five-meters tall gray obelisk that has been broken at the base during the Great Blacktail Rebellion over a thousand years ago. The legend has it that queen Vasara also known as the Dark Star, that ruled the tabaxi lands at the time, has built 9 of such obelisks in hidden areas of her kingdom and tied her body and soul to them, so that she could be immortal as long as they stand.

It is not impossible, of course, for it to be the truth. Yet given the uniqueness of the method, it still needs more solid proof than a few legends.

And now they have it. Over the past year Ludwig’s archeological team has uncovered four such obelisks in addition to the two that have been known to the current tabaxi government and populace already. And with this last one they finally found strong traces of necromantic magic.

Unfortunately, they have also found actual death. Three junior team members tasked with collecting gear and trash from around the dig sight breeched the protocol and approached the base of the obelisk. Neither Ludwig, nor anyone else saw what happened, but he guesses they touched it or attempted to cast a spell on it for some completely idiotic reason.

Now Sarak and Drake are dead and Elma is in a coma. He was told that something akin to a curse or a spirit has entered their bodies from the obelisk.

Great. Just wonderful. He knew it was going too smoothly.

Ludwig sighs looking around the camp trying to get rid of at least some tension. He ordered to pack as much as they could, so they could still stay at the sight for a day or two to investigate further and then proceed with the schedule. They have also doubled up on warning signs and barriers around the pit. He did not expect that after becoming the head of his own archeological team he would still have to make wooden fences.

Thankfully, other people are actually doing their job now. His stern supervision is certainly helping with that. He hopes this at least serves as a good lesson for further jobs.

Victor has not come out of the medical tent since early morning. Ludwig poked his head inside it once to ask for a report and got shooed away instead. Not something he expected from the doctor, as he is usually a lot more friendly. Too friendly at times, perhaps. Yet he does not dare to interfere with his work. He trusts him to do his job right.

He is disappointed in Elma. She has joined the expedition two digs ago but has already proved to be resourceful and diligent. Ludwig had high hopes for her. Hopefully, whatever Victor has come up with works and she has a chance to explain herself.

He decides to check the fencing again just in case.

As he turns around, a shriek pierces the entire camp.

He bolts for the medical tent where it came from, throws the heavy tent flap out of the way and runs inside.

Victor is nowhere to be seen. Both dead bodies are tied together with a rope in a sitting position at the end of the room. One of them is struggling and snarling aggressively against the ropes and the other… is dead as it is supposed to be. Wide-eyed and shaking Elma is sitting on the surgery table breathing heavily and coughing.

“Victor!” Ludwig shouts in a panic.

“Yes?”

Ludwig startles but thankfully nobody else went into the tent after him to see him jerk away.

Victor is crouching behind an empty cot he uses as his bed to the right of Ludwig, rummaging through his backpack.

“You don’t need to shout, my dear. I’m right here.” He says with the slyest of grins before getting up with a bottle of dark green medicine in hand.

“What the…” Ludwig sighs and collects himself. “What happened here? I can see that you have successfully brought Elma here back to consciousness but… what is up with the living corpse?”

“Ah. Nothing to worry about. Very low tier undead. It got awaken from the necromantic surge that happened as the spirit was leaving Elma’s body.”

“How did you manage to achieve that?”

“Ah. Just choked her out until she was practically dead. The spirit left and I brought her back.”

Ludwig looks at the girl again. She looks relatively okay, though her neck is indeed bruised. Certainly better than being comatose or dead.

“Huh. And you’re sure it is gone for good?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about it. I don’t sense it anymore.” The doctor pats him on the shoulder and walks to the awakened patient to administer the medicine.

“Elma? Are you alright?” Ludwig asks approaching the table.

“Y-yes.” She says quietly and gives the two of them a weak shy smile but does not seem to be in the condition for any more talking.

“We’ll talk later then.” Ludwig nods in approval and glances at the other man and then at the drooling undead. “Good job, Doctor. Do not forget to dispatch of that one though... And no, we can’t keep him.”

#whumptober #whumptober2022 #no.6 #dnd #oc #fantasy #archeology #spirits #mentioned choking

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jamiekb · 3 months

Text

Listening to TMA for the first time (Part IX)

Part I II III IV V VI VII VIII

121-141

#121 Far Away: We really started off with a bang didn't we. I had honestly forgotten about this guy, but it'll be interesting to see him again (maybe, hopefully) or perhaps he really just came to give John a pep talk from avatar to avatar. And it's sweet that Georgie went to visit John, I really like her, I certainly hope nothing more happens to her please. Did she recognize Oliver as the End? Or why did she wanna catch up to him?

#122 Zombie: Funny statement to grab before John woke up. So Georgie is fine but she's gonna take a step back. What happened at the Institute, I'm sure nothing good with Lukas in charge but is Martin okay?? Where is Melanie? What happened that they had to get rid of stuff, did something attack? And I just thought how does it work for the main place for the Eye to be under supervision from some other Fear?

#123 Web Development: Good to know everything's gone to shit. I feel just as off-kilter as John must, like walking into the middle of the action and you're constantly trying to keep up, solid writing and directing on the team's part. So Melanie has basically the same attitude as Tim but more intense, Martin is isolating like John used to (or has been forced into it), Basira is still our solid rock and John is still trying to come into his own just in a slightly different way. I haven't mentioned it but that's really cemented by the fact that John has stopped saying his position and is now just The Archivist, then again he was changed. Regarding the statement it's kinda interesting, love how John (as the actual writter of the show) can make digital things sound spooky, I feel like many people struggle with that, it always seems a bit corny, but not for TMA.

#124 Left Hanging: Not much of an opinion on the story, I prefer the other stories for the Vast. But it is interesting that Martin is really going out of his way to avoid John, like I know he's following orders from Lukas and is probably very shaken from basically loosing John but it's still very weird. Can't wait for many more episodes of this before this dinamic changes, not.

#125 Civilian Casualties: Ok so now something is possesing John??? Is it Gertrude with her knowledge or just like the Archivist spirit? merging with him? Well in any case it seems that Melanie might be a bit more stable now, good when many Fears are waiting to attack them. And again John is a collection of different scars.

#126 Sculptor's Tool: I stand corrected apparently, that was a whole lot. Ok so now the statements are getting a bit more obvious with how they relate to what is going on or relevant for the Institute. So now Martin is an assistant for Lukas who is avatar of the Lonely. That's why he's keeping Martin away from everyone and especially John, though I'm guessing there's a second part to that in that John is the Archivist and that somehow interferes with whatever they are trying to stop. What are they trying to stop by the way? Another becoming for something else? Peter mentions the bigger picture, something other than the rituals, and that's what he needs Martin for, thus why he needs to gather more energy for the Fear. Still cryptic but I guess it all boils down to, it's gonna be a bad time for Martin. Wonder if its the Institute that's gained some sentience or just the Eye that's "listening" to the tapes and appearing the recorders. Wonder if John can listen to that tape or maybe have it just appear same as the devices, I'm guessing that would be a bit too simple.

#127 Remains to be Seen: I thought Jonah was a woman, nothing to it just a random thought. Anyway what will Elias tell Basira? I don't really know, maybe something about how Lukas is using Martin or how John is progressing. Melanie has mellowed out (haha). John is still a bit lost though.

#128 Heavy Goods: I almost feel bad for Breekon, it truly was lost. It seems to happen every once in a while, like when Michael became Helen. These things go againts their nature and thus are unmade in some way. Hope we get to "see" what Basira is up to, how she manages to wrangle a bit of logic from the nothing that are the Fears. And again more progression for John and his abilities, he's slowly coming into more power, wonder if he could rival Elias at some point. With some time he could do more about the knowing things and extracting stories from people/things. Already his questions are way more powerful and precise.

#129 Submerged: I'm gonna go with since John is much more elevated now that the Eye itself want to kinda help and is giving him those little pushes. You might not want the new abilities John but better to have them and know what they do than be caught unaware in the next situation. Also he sounds so awkward when he intercepted Martin, and poor Martin he just wants to keep John as safe as possible, cause the man just keeps getting beat up and has recently just died. I just hope you don't loose yourself Martin dear.

#130 Meat: Yeah no for this one I'm a bit lost. So something to do with a body is what John needs to get back? Like a corpse or like a person? If it's a person could it be Georgie? Cause if it's a corpse I really don't know who he could use, unless Jan Presntiss' ashes count. I do agree that the church can be fascinating, living a bit of that myself at the moment. Gertrude really was quite pragmatic, wonder what that means when John can't shake off the last of his humanity, nothing good for him I'm sure.

#131 Flesh: Great sfx for the rib taking part, though I still couldn't quite hear all of Jared's statement I'll maybe go back and read it. Again, will there be anything left of John? Wonder if he can like regenerate them, or at the very least not be bothered by loosing two ribs. Nice to see Melanie work out her feelings and John understanding his friends a bit more. And I hope we get to see more of Helen, I like her/it. It doesn't seem to be truly malicious at this point in time so I'll take it. I like Basira but not that big of a fan of her wanting to keep John in the dark, I'm sure she thinks it serves a purpose, but what could it be?

#132 Entombed: Such a good episode!!!! Sometimes when I'm litening to an episode I would like some visuals, like when it's a statement about the Vast or the End, or the Stranger as well, but for this one nothing could better convey the feeling of not being able to reach out to someone you know is close, all encompassing earth not letting in a single ray of light. A black screen I'm sure would just distract from the feelings that Daisy lets out and their fear of just being trapped forever. Also, what were those voices??? Like were Basira or Martin doing a shitty summoning of John just putting on a bunch of statements? Just a coincidence and it was John as he tried to concentrate?? Hopefully that gets explained

#133 Dead Horse: Did Basira get tangled up in a Fear? She's just going round and round, you can't really rely on her anymore. Maybe she still didn't make it all out during the Unkowing, or it just isn't like she wanted it to be. Interesting theory on the Hunt. Seems kinda ironic that in trying to change the world they get lost in the Chase and don't want it to end.

#134 Time of Revelation: Revelations indeed, that was quite a bit of outright explanation. Then we have two rituals to be looking out for, the Eye and stop the Extinction. For the later Lukas is trying to recruit Martin after he struck a deal to protect his friends at the Archive I guess. And I didn't recall the name of the claustophobia thing being Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe but it makes sense of course. Ah so it was Martin that put the tape recorders on, but what compelled him, the Eye? Maybe even the Web since it likes to pupeteer people?

#135 Dark Matter: Finally the last statement from the space exploration, it was not what I was expecting. So Elias is one of those enemies that not even distance keeps you safe, almost feels like he's from the Web and not just the Eye. He's not wrong that it wouldn't have happened without Basira there, but I don't really like it. Still I wonder if Elias knows that now John is aware of it.

#136 The Puppeteer: Nice to see Neil the animatronics guy return, he sounded cool and the concept of him being a puppet bit by bit is quite interesting. So more movement so to speak from the Web. But I don't recall this Alison lady, in any case it was a nice bonding episode for Daisy and John, I do like them together (platonically). So Basira is off to investigate so I'm guessing this connection with Daisy will help John stop the Darkness thing. And was the therapist a whole thing or just Melanie hating recordings now?

#137 Nemesis: Damn at this rate I'm gonna have to keep track of which rituals have failed and when. The again it is pretty obvious only two are relevant at the moment. I'm guessing the one from this statement is what I usually refer to as the War, but apparently it's proper name is Slaughter. I need to go back to that episode where they list them, so I can keep them clear. As to the tapes that John is finding I'm sure that Elias is prefectly aware of what he listens to and when, just like he said to John when he complained about being fed information bit by bit.

#138 The Architecture of Fear: Yay, more Elias. I do like his voice but of course as not that his purpose is being obtuse about information and kinda playing everyone at the Institute. Well in any case it is nice to have it confirmed that there is a new fear emerging, they're actually gonna try to end everything as we know it, to the point where the other ones want to stop it and that Martin is trying to help John as much as possible through reading the statements. Which actually I have a question about that, does he still listen to the tapes because he feels compelled or does he just kinda soak up the knowledge because he's the Archivist? In any case poor Martin, the Lonely really isn't great for him and he hasn't even like sworn himself in properly.

#139 Chosen: What did you see John??? Or was it just too much effort? Anyway it was cool to have another nice wrap up (or as close to) for the Lightless Flame. Again, we knew quite a bit but it was still a bit scrambled. I'll be honest I could do with another listen to fully comprehend but I'm pretty good with what I managed to understand so far.

#140 The Movement of the Heavens: Ok interesting duo, Basira and John, I do like Basira but she's been a bit iffy the last few times. Anyway this will be they're what second or third time derailing a ritual? The Darkness like they have said in the past can sometimes be a bit meh. Although I do like the imagery of the intense nothing that is just slightly different from the Vast, also the weird thing they do with the water.

#141 Doomed Voyage: Damn John you're really coming into your own I see. And yes I agree a bit hypocritical of you Basira to feel uncomfortable about what John can do. Many a time you've basically bemoaned that he didn't have control of his abilities, well now is the time you want him to have more, whatever abilities those may be. Never forget that as much as John wants to be "good" he's at the mercy and whims of the Eye, after all he started on this path because he always wanted more information, no matter the cost. Anyway cool to see more on that front and of course tie up more loose ends. A few chapters ago I was wondering what had happened to Salesa when John read his statement so I guess now I know.

I'll just leave at that because the next seems quite interesting from the description and this is getting quite long

#tma #the magnus archives #hey this is my stuff #experiencing media

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cozymoko · 3 years

Note

hi. I'm really happy your requests are open again, thank your for writing!

for my request, may I please ask for yandere! Shikamaru, Neji and Obito (separately) with a darling who at first acts like they're not gonna be of any trouble, agrees to their yandere rules and whatnot tries to trick them into believing they're gonna stay and just be obedient, but in reality they're trying to outsmart them and gain their trust before they actually try to escape. Would they be able to trick their yandere or to successfully escape? or would they end up being 'punished' for thinking that they could trick them

wishing you a blessed day and please take car of yourself! ❤️

NOTE: Thank you for requesting Obito, I had fun writing his part. You take care of your health as well!

SHIKAMARU NARA

🦌 Takes a while for him to catch on. Not because it slips his mind but it appears to be too much of a hassle to question your plans. You had his "trust" since the beginning, but that doesn't mean Shikamaru wasn't keeping an eye on you. Spending his time enjoying your obedience while he has the chance.

🦌 Tolerates your bizarre behavior simply because it makes his life a lot easier. The obvious shift in your personality before and after he kidnapped you were quite clear. To him, "Only an idiot wouldn't notice something so obvious." Since he spends an abundance of his time to himself there's plenty of time to take in your more compliant personality.

🦌 Near the time of your escape he catches you, snagging your arm. You struggle against his grip, tears burning your panicked eyes. Screaming for whoever would listen, for the help of anyone who would care to interfere. "What a drag. Hah, {Name} stop making a scene. I don't have time for your tantrums."

🦌 Finds the whole idea of "punishing you" to be a load of bullshit. You are both adults therefore you'll handle the situation like one. That is if locking you in a room is one — It's not? oh well! Until you learn there's no escape, that things could be a whole lot worse than you will stay here. Drowning in your loneliness, tears filled with so much sorrow. All until you come crawling back to him — they always do.

NEJI HYUUGA

🥋 It's ironic how such a sharp man couldn't even catch on to your behavior, rookie mistake. Nji chalked up your compliance with love, acceptance. Gaining his trust has never been a problem for you as the man is hopelessly in love. Perhaps he'd end his life if you ordered him to do so. But only an idiot would do so.

🥋 Your obedience was too good to be true! After all, he only wants the best for you. Willingly letting him spoil you rotten, gifting you whatever your heart desires. Freedom not being an option. Surely you've forgotten about all the things that he's put you through and — no, forget about that.

🥋 I have a feeling there are plenty of people who disagree with my idea of Neji being tricked. Yes, of course, the man is intelligent. However, his delusions will be his downfall. The strong desire to believe in whatever feels right. Whatever makes you the happiest, the most content. That is you, my dear, the idea of your affections are too much I suppose!

🥋 You've successfully escaped a Hyuuga! What now? It won't be long before he comes to his senses and comes desperately searching for you, no matter the cost. Look at that; you're all locked up, how sad. What will you do now, with no freedom, no contact with the outside world? Nothing at all. I know now is not a good time but I'm curious; what will you do next?

OBITO UCHIHA

🔥 Plays along, humoring your efforts. You could be the most intelligent person to ever walk this pathetic planet and there's still no chance you could fool him. Sure your compliance is appreciated but it wields no true significance to the outcome of your scheme. Think of it as a friendly game of cat and mouse, yeah, a game! But there can only be one winner to this game, and I'm sure you know who it is.

🔥 Your behavior was odd from the beginning. Obito wasted no time putting his guard up, focusing on the little things you do a bit more often. Do you maybe have Stockholm Syndrome — no, impossible. Your demeanor appears far too perfect. It's rather painful to know you despise his existence that much. To fake giving into his love just to snatch it back.

🔥 You failed, surprise. You were near the border of the village, running until your legs were numb, lungs burning from lack of air. You could nearly taste the relief of freedom on your tongue, the sweet taste that seemed foreign in this endless hell. But it was all too good to be true, "Times up!" Eerie red eyes, that's all you could see through that twisted mask. Digging your nails into the selves of your infamous captor. "You're so mean {Name}, playing tricks on me. Shouldn't I be awarded for keeping my composure?"

🔥 As for punishment, there are so many choices! For reference, "Tobi" would be far worse than Obito If that makes it any better! The real Obito would be sympathetic, forgiving you for your wrongdoings. Only going as far as to lock you up for a while — how kind! However, "Tobi" isn't as kind. Deciding on torturing you just as you did him, perhaps with slight sympathy. But forget the details, I'm sure you'll find out for yourself!

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yanderes-galore · 3 years

Text

Xenophobic Chapter 5: Traitor's Testing

Possible Trigger Warnings: Human testing, Implied death and Manipulation.

"What the hell, you must be malfunctioning!" Carl screams at Liam, said android standing by the lab entrance. "You plan on creating more Xenomorphs to make them 'bond' with humans? Isn't the one we got you enough!?"

"Private Carl, that is none of your business. My research is important for the future, you must understand that." Liam says coldly as Carl shakes his head.

"You're planning on dragging (Y/N) into this, aren't you?" Carl argues again as Liam sighs. "I should've known you were nothing but trouble. She would never go near one of those monsters. She was so shaken up and tired when she came up to me after you bred the first one!"

"You are a loud one, aren't you? Perhaps you would like to help me in my research?" Liam hums as Carl backs off.

"The hell do you mean-"

"Isn't it obvious...?"

~~~~~~~~~~~

Liam was certainly rough when it came to testing. One thing that wasn't to his liking and he would scrap the attempt and gas you again. The strong smelling gas weighed heavily in your lungs and even you could tell 526 was getting annoyed.

How long had it been? Days? Liam refused to tell you anything. You wondered why no one was coming to check up on you. Did Liam tell them something?

That thought plagued your mind constantly. Did anyone know that Liam was doing this to you? Did Carl know? Maybe they didn't and that's why no one came.

Someone had to know you're missing, right? Maybe you haven't been gone days. Was it only a few hours?

526 only ever got more irritable. Testing his knowledge was getting more difficult. Liam was getting irritated at 526 and you, too

"Could you at least tell me if anyone knows where I am?" You find yourself mumbling, eyes drifting fearfully towards 526 pacing back and forth in his cell. At least Liam separated them now.

"That's not important to my research."

"It's important to me! Wouldn't it be better to keep my morale up to get better results?" You try to bargain, Liam staring at you. He sighs and gives in.

"Yes, they do."

"Are they coming!?" You breathe, standing up and pressing against the glass. The sensors and gadgets Liam put on you to monitor your well being were heavy and you were tired from not getting decent oxygen. Standing quickly became a struggle.

"No, they aren't." Liam's voice is robotic, cold. Your heart clenches at his words. It was a stupid question but you had to at least ask.

"They...what?" You can't believe it. Was he lying to you? You already knew trusting him got you into this mess.

"They know better than to interfere with my testing. Marines are always busy, scientists want results, why do they need to stop me?" Liam's smile is malicious towards you.

Oddly you hear no hissing from 526, who usually acts up at Liam. You turn to see 526 silent in his containment cell. Observing.

He swivels his head around his cell and then locks onto you and Liam again. It's unnerving to you. You didn't notice until Liam pointed it out but your eyes were welling up with tears. Your situation was getting to you.

"I can understand learning that everyone you care about, including your dear Carl, betrayed you is devastating to the human mind. I'll give you some time to recover before we continue." Liam offers before sitting nearby. Androids were always so cold.

The thought of Carl and the others betraying you made your heart ache. You really had no one left, huh?

From one tragedy to another, you were forced to play along.

---------

For now you did what Liam said. Maybe when testing concluded you could finally be free and see if Liam was telling the truth.

Most of the tests included Intelligence testing for 526. You still had to cooperate in them because you were 526's supposed 'attachment'. Meant to be some sort of companion with the Alien.

Intelligence tests started simple to match 526's curiosity and child like intellect. Block puzzles, basic switches and levers, attempted communication between Xenomorph and Human.

Other tests included agility and compatibility tests. You would be given light weight armor and put in a course with 526. While you were happy that 526 would not be aggressive towards you, you felt something could go wrong.

526 also had a type of armor mostly to match with you as the companion. It was more like a training vest on him. Of course, in these tests weapons were prohibited. An attempt to escape and violence against Liam or each other would set off the ankle bracelet to gas you, also.

You theorized what Liam's goal was. Create a weapon using pairs of Xenomorphs and Humans. You and 526 happened to be prototypes.

Through testing you noticed how fast 526 could learn. Intelligence tests became faster, agility courses would be passed with flying colors.

Liam was more fascinated with 526's reaction with you, however. It was always just vacant staring at you through his cell or testing. It was clear throughout these tests 526 was curious of you.

The reason was yet to be found, however.

526 tended to space out a lot, too.

You wondered what was going on within his head, not like you'd ever understand.

No matter how much Liam forced you to, you could never understand a Xenomorph.

--------

When the lights were eventually shut off, it was quiet. The alien wasn't tired as he had no need to sleep. His gaze turns to the human girl.

The human that he was forced to suffer with. He felt indifferent to the human at first, yet through the testing he and the human were supposed to endure, he cared a little more.

She hated the metallic creature just as much as him, so they have something in common. Carefully, 526 looked around the lab one more time.

The speaker like device on the ceiling was silent. The vents that gas would flow in by were dangerous to traverse through. Carefully, 526 then observed the ankle bracelet and the glass. A clawed hand touches the cool surface softly in what seemed to be thought.

526 was tried of playing dumb for the metallic creature's amusement. It was the time he'd been waiting for.

#yandere x reader #xenomorph #yandere xenomorph #horror #female reader #yandere alien #xenomorph x reader

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sapphixxx · 3 years

Text

Just finished Lain. Watched the last episode twice, which gently removed my heart from my chest and pulped it into a fine paste in a mortar and pestle. This hit much closer to home than I expected.

In my Lain epistemology post I somewhat flippantly made an aside that the series was only tangentially about Lain the actual character. By which I meant that my read on the series up until that point (around episode 8 or 9) was that each episode was teasing apart different aspects of the ambiguity of truth, knowledge, information, and communication, with the events of Lain's life being almost just a sort of example case study for how these concepts can impact someone on an individual level. Lain was framed in a kind of zoomed out way as an abstract avatar moving through these events without a whole lot of expression of her personal thoughts and feelings.

And then we get to the last three episodes.

It's in this space that Lain the 8th grade age girl with thoughts and feelings and wants and needs and fears comes into painfully sharp focus. The beginning of the final episode sums up and contextualizes what all of this has always been about.

Who am I? What is the real me? How can I tell what's real about me if everyone interprets it differently?

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

The flippant bravado that I expressed in that post is the same attitude that Lain has been applying to her own very sense of self throughout the series, as just another arbitrary and moldable piece of information subject to interpretation with no inherent truth.

She effectively commits suicide by removing herself from sight, mind, and memory, of everyone around her. After all, if they have no knowledge of her, then she no longer exists. But what is lurking in the subtext of this finale is that she fails to consider that everyone she is cutting off is equally subject to this process. She imagines that without her meddling they are able to be happy. But that's all it is, imagination.

She doesn't exist to them anymore because she erased their knowledge of her, but it goes both ways. In doing this, they cease to exist to her, too. The image of the happy lives of the people she knew don't come from real observation or fact. It is something that she is imposing upon her memory or imagination of those people, which is only possible because she's removed herself from the possibility of being reminded just how complex and occasionally painful their lives will be with her or without her. In those scenes nobody misses her except in these brief fleeting moments where they remember some fond association with her, before moving on to their happy lives.

But this isn't reality. She isn't seeing these people. This is how she comforts herself, by imagining that everything is for the best without her, and nobody has to feel the pain of missing her. But that's not something she can know or control. The pain they feel upon losing her doesn't exist only because she has removed herself from where she might see it and have to acknowledge it.

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

This phrase is taken to its literal extreme in the finale. But I think it's important to take a step back and really think about what this means on a more human level, especially when it comes to the kinds of struggles that everyone, especially kids that age, are dealing with.

That is to say, even if you literally physically exist and go about the world talking to people going to school eating dinner and so on, if there are parts of you that people don't know about, if there are things inside you that you can't express, you quickly come to the painful realization that to other people, that stuff just doesn't exist. Which means that whole side of you doesn't exist, according to the outside world. And if that side of you encompasses something important about your identity or your experiences, it's hard to not come to the conclusion that the real you, the entirety of your being, doesn't exist to them either. And when you try to tell them about it, or when they notice on their own, but they don't understand or perhaps outright reject it, hasn't some fundamental part of your humanity been erased? In this kind of environment it's easy to start doubting that any of it exists at all. After all, if nobody else will recognize it, you've only got your own word to go on. And that isn't always enough to trust.

And again, keep in mind that this goes both ways. I think Lain's sister is the clearest example which is given by the series. One episode she begins as a character, someone who has thoughts and a personality and so on. By the end of the episode she is reduced to the state that she will stay in for the rest of the series, blank-eyed and senseless. That fully fledged self she had still exists though. Lain just stops being able to see it, so effectively her sister stops existing for her.

Do I even exist if other people can't see me?

When you are isolated you can say anything about yourself. You can say you're nobody, or you're God, or perhaps something even wiser and greater than God. It can feel powerful to start writing your own existence and rationalizing your own isolation, the perceptions of others be damned. You can say well, my parents don't understand me and I stopped being able to connect to my sister, but who cares! Family is just arbitrary biology anyway! What if they aren't even my family at all, and are just plants put in place by a secret organization. I'm not lonely, I'm just seeking a greater truth, a conspiracy that only I can see! I don't make social mistakes, I'm not afraid of hurting anyone, that's the fake me running around out there! But it's not sustainable. Eventually life comes crashing down, whether it be in the form of interference in the material world, or if that mental state with all of its attendant self-spun narratives just finally collapses.

As with most things in this series, Lain's interactions with "God" are written in a very abstract symbolic way. But, the pattern that it follows seems very familiar to me as one of a predatory adult grooming a vulnerable minor. He alternates between gassing Lane up as the most powerful and important being who has ever lived, and then in the next breath saying that she's nothing. In peddling his conspiracy theory narrative of humankind merging with The Wired, of Lain simply being a powerful piece of software meant for Grand Purpose, he feeds into her struggle for identity and the need to be seen and understood by at once validating these feelings and how confusing they are, while reinforcing her isolation and his own dominant grip over defining the shape of the world and society.

When Arisu finds Lain living in filth and comforts her, that is one of the rare moments that the raw, vulnerable, material world Lain, weighed down with no pretenses, pokes her head out. That moment of genuine intimacy that she has been so hungry for this whole time is enough to allow her to retaliate against "God" when he shows up in anger upon being doubted. When Arisu reacts poorly to this sight, though, is when Lain makes her final dive back into her own walled off reality. For as much as she wants to be seen and held and comforted by this girl she loves, it is far more painful for her to have to witness and live with the feeling of rejection and guilt that came from Arisu's fear in the aftermath.

The final image of her father finally expressing the real tenderness she has longed for. The imagined future of Arisu dating her former teacher well into adulthood, because it's the only model of a relationship Lain has ever seen someone want, because her parents certainly don't seem happy, and she herself didn't get anything out of the boy who kissed her. The final statement, "I will always be with you". As with everything in the series, these can be interpreted many ways. But to me it reads unmistakably as the final moments before suicide.

In any case though, after all that, it seems fairly starkly clear why Lain resonates so strongly with trans people. Contrary to the old saying that all happy people are happy the same way, but all miserable people suffer uniquely, this path to despondence is depressingly common. It is the way out that is unique to everyone who finds themselves there. I hate to say it, although I feel very lucky to say that I have survived being in that place many times--which I think is proof that it is possible to get to the other side and make a good life, despite everything-- I think if it had ended any more neatly or more positively, it just wouldn't feel as honest. It captures the depth of that state of being. That's just what it's like. And as heavy as it is to sit with, I get a lot from being able to see something painfully familiar to me reflected in such a raw way. After all that, a happy ending would just feel disingenuous. I mean, that's my life, and any happy ending they could have written just isn't how it went.

#writing #Serial Experiments Lain #Lain

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papers4me · 3 years

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Fruits Basket Manga Review , ch 111

sigh~~~ I feel that my recent posts are a bit negative towards the anime, but thats cuz the chapters I’ve read so far are either unbelievably important character depth content cut for no valid reason or content in the anime but packed with million other things that it lost its purpose or importance. Basically tohu’s ep 6 which consists of 4 chapters & now ep 5 which is a momiji ep & yup, packed with 4 chapters as well... so, I apologize for any negativity, my intention is just analyzing artistic & story-telling aspects, I love se03, but yeah it screwed up lots of important characters due to its not so thorough plot decisions & harmful character insight choices.

today.. we explore Momiji... but only before his curse breaks.

Furuba anime struggling to know how to design an episode based on various plot-heavy chapters?

so, they decided 13 eps, & decided one ep for momiji cuz motoko’s graduation & the fanclub is the core of the furuba & have already cut tons of tohru, cuz who cares? she’s kind. be like her. end of lesson. No. really, jokes aside, how to do this?

How to combine several chapters in one ep? collect small snippets from chosen chapters/content like a bee does flowers? you gotta skip some content, you gotta highlight others. The ep is only 20 min after all & you got an op & Ed that you cant always skip.... so.. furuba team decide that momoji’s ep should be true to his zodiac animal, this is the rabbits last appearance in spirit. so, they went with quick hopping from one chapter to the other like a rabbit?

No really, ep 5 is really like a rabbit in its flow, you can’t savior a moment enough before jumping to the other: we learned momiji grew up!! loves toheu romantically, challenged kyo, really meant it, wanted a fair love game, got freed, lost tohru romantically & faced momiji! but that’s not all? we still have space!! quick add akito’s moodiness & love triangle with her dog & her submissive bed partner, add a happy comedy for no reason whatever & make shigue kiss tohru & wish shes 'was his lover instead!!!!!!!!! Mind you all this happened in the anime before shigure hurt tohru with his “the truth of the zodiacs talk & them accepting & feeling consolance that kyo is doomed”talk.

-Gets whats my biggest surprise after reading this chapter ?????????

Shigure is consistent!! He isnt a rabbit hopping here & there. The dog is loyal & is tired for good reason! Him being depressed & his weird talk with thoru makes so much sense given the manga’s order.

Kyo is consistent!! In the anime, momiji surprise him with confession he loves tohru & challenge him, then kyo la~la~la~joins them downstairs for curry. Not a single expression on his face, where is the expression? it will appear when the plot is forced to address it: by the end of the ep when momiji face hin again. Then we get kyo’s reaction.

I need someone to tell the anime that actions require a reaction. You can refrain from showing a certain reaction if you can’t address it now, but you can’t erase it, negate it, then make it appear when have to!!!! couldn’t they make kyo refuse to join them & eat together? the other characters wont be surprised they think he’s needlessly moody. The audience will know that kyo is troubled with momiji’s challenged & it will excite them!!! having kyo just go eat & watch the momiji/hiro/haru/yuki comedy skit is weird.

The manga’s author wanted kyo to join the dinner, like the anime did. but huge difference. the author actually cares for logic reaction & understands that the audience aren’t dumb little kids that will sit & wait for kyo’s turn to...react! nope! she did this: (a) & (b) below.

-Lost Small Bits/ Panels from the chapter.. But Sadly Big Huge Chunks for Characters buildup & Growth:

(a) addressed the fact the hiro noticed kyoru is in love & dressed that shigure was right!! the cat being in love is a weird concept to the zodiacs! hiro reacted naturally & the author used hiro to flesh yuki’s (the rat), momiji’s (the rabbit) & haru’s (the cow) decision to silently watch the kyo (the cat) makes his own decisions to live!!! They won’t interfere or tell akito or remind him of his state as the doomed caged cat. So sad this moment is cut from yuki. Why must yuki only interact with kyo to beat him (all seasons)? why must yuki only think of kyo to envy him (all seasons) ? Here, yuki’s growth towards kyo as a person & his relationship with tohru is 1000 times better than all tohru is my mom’s sh!t & I envy kyo’s Sh!t we saw in the anime over & over till we memorized it.

(b) kyo didnt just go la~la~eat with momiji after knowing he loves tohru. Nope, there’s small bits missing: called logical emotional reaction. He was surprised he’s caught pining over tohru! cuz yuki, the audience representative, has told us in the previous chapter that ppl in love dont notice anything around them. Kyo thinks him being cold hid his feelings. the dummy’s feelings are as bright as the sun in the Sahara, tohru too. a child read her! such small thing that wont take much space from the ep but was cut cuz kyo only needs to be responsive at the ep’s end. & this scene of kyo & tohru looking awkwardly at each other is minor in space but so important cuz kyo is determined to let go but his decision is challenged by not only momiji, but his natural attraction to tohru. Here he knows he’s caught & exposed... here he knows momiji is a better choice for tohru cuz he wont didn’t hurt her mom... here he knows that even yuki is better cuz never had to pretend to be cold to her... here he knows the world is better than him... & here he just cant help by smile & walks towards her... T_T ... another lesson in writing slow burns by Takaya-san.

-Why would the anime team pass on this?? drawing kyoru closer after the epic tear in Cinderella ep, cuz they want empty suspense~! The anime team thinks that if kyo & tohru stand next to each other, then it means all their issues are solved & the audience are so stupid as to forget tohru’s mom, kyo’s imprisonment, kyo not confessing his sins to tohru & tohru’s need to make a choice wether to fogive hom or not.. nope! you see, they think, ppl who read mangas are smart, so the author can give this epic symbolism & pp would still be not sure kyoru is end game & tohru will forgive him or kyo even fogive himself, but ppl who watch, oh no, gotta cut all the plot worthy content, produce a graduation song for a minor character, cut all kyo/tohru interaction cuz it only means romance & not at all character depth & oh if we show yuki actually formulating deep thoughts that aren’t centered around him, the audience might forget his se02 struggles! or that might ruin yuki’s upcoming growth moment in the finale where he .. you guessed it hits kyo.. as he always do & sulk & think abt himself cuz yuki can only do monologues when he’s directly involved.... man~it is so sad how the anime is dumped down.. Who is the target audience again? not kids as young as hiro cuz even hiro is smart!

-just look:

Momiji talks abt kyo shouldn't give up loving tohru & the authr shows this this ghost!!! his mom! The author reminds us that kyo isnt da~~~~ forgetting anything. He’s a deeply troubled soul & hos mom wants him locked cuz she too was locked in a cage & thinks that’s safer...why oh why you dump ur own story! sh!t~

Side Notes:

I like the closeups on Kisa’s face as she interacted with kyo. It’s very rare for kisa to have a world beside the endearing parental/big protective bro/big doting sister love she has with tohru & haru & off course the romantic love with hiro which was perhaps since their birth or sth. lol. Kisa & kyo arent much on the brotherly side as they rarely interact, but its one of those refreshing interactions she has that helps cast a new light on her as tiny as it is, but its sth out of the norm around her. She sees him around tohru & gets to perceive his true unprovoked character. “He is nice guy”.

I really wanted to punch kureno this chapter.. like Shigure is a jerk shitty dog for sleeping with akito’s mom but kureno... dude.. you submissively sleep with the guy’s eternal love interest & still walks in on him talking to her!!! lol. you’re mentally, emotionally & physically weaker than him & yet, she puts you on her bed, not him & you, tho not wanting her at all, dont walk away. No wonder shigure is defeated & wishing for someone like tohru, lol! Even if shigure met an older tohru-like person, it wont work. shigure deserve someone like him mean, schemer & loves playing power games. Tohru is someone who values honesty & commutation, not saying she’s an angel on earth, but tohru knows who suits her.. except fate is saying: NO. .... currently. lol.

I know kureno’s weakness is part of his character & I love that such characters exits. There are ppl ike that in real life. It’s just this chapter, I felt shigure’s frustration. XD

Yuki in this ep is the best yuki. no exaggeration here, I love when yuki is calmly thoughtful of others & here its kyo of all ppl !!!! cutting this scene is sad.. without it, kyo & yuki remain a cat & rat in the anime. Only ever thinking abt each other thro envious binoculars or hateful words or yuki giving kyo comedic hitting or life’s problem-solving hitting. Why can’t anime yuki be interactive outside his self-centered issues is beyond me.

Momiji & kyo’s interactions are always the best! whether comedy or drama.

I hated the curry cooking scene in the anime... so weirdly out of the ep’s flow.. very forced comedy... in the manga it had a purpose! not just quick add comedy cuz next shot momiji curse breaks & drama & we’ll close the ep with tears & sadness & glimpses of hope...

I love haru’s answer to hiro... so him.. “a guy can’t fall in love?”so chill.. so..simple.

#Fruits Basket #Anime Only #manga spoilers #fruits basket manga #manga review #sad paper #mad paper #I'm having shitty personal day dont mind me #sorry for extra anger #if it sounds like I;m screaming or shouting #I'm not i swear #I really love the anime & se03 is the best content among the other seasons #its just have big giant issues in plot & characters....

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coepiteamare · 3 years

Text

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak, header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories!

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you’re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”.

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!”

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle.

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance.

“You could have called before you barged in.”

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.”

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind.

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.”

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes.

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera.

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.”

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.”

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.” Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet.

“Used to. Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.”

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up.

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder.

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.”

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!”

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works.

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly.

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers.

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.”

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders.

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.”

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter.

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold.

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.”

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice.

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog.

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go.

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else.

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.”

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills.

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you.

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.”

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes please.”

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you.

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives.

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?”

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again.

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.”

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing.

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?”

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?”

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?”

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.”

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare.

It could never.

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives.

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you.

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep.

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows.

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy.

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.”

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.”

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.)

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes.

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.”

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while.

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall.

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?”

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.”

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?”

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.”

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up.

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself.

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much.

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too.

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?”

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences.

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer.

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.”

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold.

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you.

Did you eat?

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought.

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition.

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?”

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas.

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.”

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings.

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed).

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don’t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol.

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue.

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you.

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head.

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head.

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi?

Who am I to you?

What do you see through the lenses?

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t.

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back.

He’s alone again.

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile.

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile.

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall.

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat.

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry.

So why does it hurt so much?

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off.

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent.

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin.

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember.

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry.

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this.

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs.

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back.

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways.

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself.

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you.

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you.

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about.

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is.

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out.

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him.

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you.

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his.

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you.

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all.

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.”

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing.

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.”

“I don’t-I’m not following.”

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it.

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee?

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you.

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to.

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline.

He’s never been more ready.

#yoongi fic #bts fic #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #bts fluff #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts x reader #thebtswritersclub #heartsforbts #bangtaninn #btswritingcafe #bangtanuniversity

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

Text

till we be dead ourselves

I saw a thing today that made me a bit cross and reminded me of how unsatisfying I've always found the Brothers Jones reunion in the underworld. This is the result. It's not anti-Liam but it does change him quite a lot from canon, so if that's not your jam you may want to skip this one.

Basically, this is the Brothers Jones I would have liked to see.

Also, at least part of the inspiration came from chatting with @thesschesthair and @winterbythesea about alternative POVs on our OTP. So here, guys, have a Liam. Beware, there are feels.

SUMMARY: Liam Jones has been waiting for his brother for three hundred years. When he finally arrives, he's not as Liam remembers. Some not-typical or particularly respectful of canon Brothers-Jones-in-the-underworld feels, plus a dash of Captain Swan.

words: 2025 rating: T tags: not canon compliant, underworld AU, brothers jones. Major characters are already dead.

on AO3

till we be dead ourselves:

He’s been waiting a long time for this. Three hundred years.

Well, two hundred ninety-three years and eighty-six days, to be precise. He knows because he looked it up. He had to. It’s not easy keeping track of time here; some seconds tick so slowly they’re torture while years can pass in the blink of an eye.

Years, such as they are. There aren’t really years in this place, or truly ‘time’ at all. There’s not really anything. This is nothingness, a void, a repository for whatever souls are made of, and different to each one. They’re trapped here, these souls, until they finish whatever business still remains for them, and over the centuries he’s seen so many come and go—some sorrowfully confused by what they need to do, others firmly certain.

As for Liam Jones, he’s always known why he’s here. His unfinished business is Killian.

On the day Killian arrives Liam can barely contain his excitement. Not just because he may finally be free of this place but because he longs to see his little brother again. He’s missed Killian, and also he’s keen to know what the devil took him so long. How is it possible that his brother’s life stretched on for over three hundred years?

He walks quickly through the town—an odd little town, unlike any he encountered while alive. His afterlife has manifested it for only a few years. Before that it was ships and ports and then it was jungle. Ships and jungle, jungle and ships for so very, very long. He’s come to realise that his afterlife reflects what his brother does Above, though what precisely that consisted of he is not privileged to know. He’s hoping Killian will tell him.

He knocks on the door of a large, blue house and waits, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. When it opens he turns with a smile that freezes on his face.

The man framed in the doorway is his brother, unmistakably him, yet Liam finds he’s not prepared for how much Killian has changed. He feels foolish for being taken so by surprise; of course Killian is not what he remembers. He’s not still the eager young lieutenant he was when Liam died, obviously not. He couldn’t be.

But the man before him is… hard. Jaw set and eyes cold, with an aura of both danger and command. A man not to be trifled with. His face is still youngish—mid-thirties, perhaps—but his eyes are ancient. Tired and bitter and heavy with the weight of ages, and abruptly Liam feels very, very young.

“K-killian?” he ventures.

Killian’s brow wrinkles in confusion that lasts an uncomfortable beat or two, and then it clears. His eyes widen. “Liam,” he breathes. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me, brother.” Liam attempts a smile again. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Bloody hell.”

Killian pulls him into a hug which he returns warmly, though the sound of curse words on his brother’s lips has stunned him. He smells of leather, and of the sea. And rum. Liam blinks through a fresh wave of astonishment. Killian has been drinking. Drinking rum.

Killian pulls back from the hug but keeps his hand on Liam’s shoulder. His eyes are crinkled by a smile that Liam can’t help noticing barely touches the depth of sadness in them. “It’s good to see you, brother,” he says.

“You’ve changed,” Liam blurts, then curses his impulsive tongue when the smile fades from his brother’s face.

“Aye,” Killian says. “It’s been some time.”

“Three hundred years, give or take,” Liam agrees. “How? How was it that long?”

“Perhaps you’d better come in, Liam,” Killian says. He steps back and holds the door. “We’ve rather a lot to discuss.”

Liam spends that first night in his brother’s house. Killian seems at a bit of a loss for what to do with himself in all the space and curiously reluctant to speak of why his afterlife has manifested such a dwelling just for him. Of course the dead don’t truly sleep, but Liam passes the night deep in thought, still in shock over what he’s learned about life his brother led.

Killian is Captain Hook. A pirate. A man whose name Liam has heard in hushed whispers on the lips of many a soul who’s passed through this place. None of those whispers spoke of anything good.

He cannot reconcile his little brother, even three hundred years of bitter loss and violent struggle later, as the cruel and vengeful villain of those tales. He cannot. It’s simply not possible.

“Much of what they recounted was likely exaggerated,” Killian said wryly, “or hearsay. But I’ve done much I’m not proud of, Liam. I killed men without a second thought. I plundered lands across the realms. I have not led a good life.”

“Then why are you here?” Liam demanded. “If you were as bad as all that, you wouldn’t end up in limbo.”

“Perhaps I may have done enough in the past few years to warrant a chance at redemption,” Killian reflected. “I suppose we’ll see.”

“And do you know what your unfinished business is?”

Killian swallowed visibly, then nodded. “I believe I do.”

Over the next week Liam keeps an eye on his brother. It’s not that he’s concerned—well, yes, it is that he’s concerned. There’s a restless energy to Killian that makes Liam uneasy, worried that he might do something rash. So he watches, from a distance, as Killian sets about finishing his business. He watches his brother seek out many of the men who bore the tales about him, those who still remain at least. He sees the fear in those men’s faces, and the anger. Sometimes he hears their voices, raised and vicious. It pains him to witness these things—not least the shame on Killian’s face—but he forces himself not to interfere.

His brother is not a man to be trifled with.

One day he observes Killian deep in conversation with a woman, dark-haired and statuesque. They stand close together in the manner of those who’ve shared a deep intimacy, and even from a distance he can see that they are crying. Killian pulls the woman into his arms where she weeps into his shoulder, and before they part he presses his lips to hers.

It’s farewell.

With every interaction Killian’s burden lessens, though he remains weighed down by things Liam can barely fathom. Each night they meet at the blue house, where they sit together and talk. They have three hundred years of catching up to do. As they talk Killian drinks, and Liam has begun to as well. He senses his brother could use company in more than conversation, and it’s not like alcohol can harm the dead. It doesn’t do them much good either, but the phantom rum seems to soothe Killian, and loosen his tongue.

Though not enough, Liam comes to realise, for Killian to speak of why he’s really here.

Her arrival sparks an uproar such as Liam has never experienced, even in all the time he’s passed in this place. She shouldn’t be here. She can’t be here. It’s not possible.

Yet here she is.

Word of it spreads like wildfire; Liam is polishing glasses at the bar where he inexplicably works when it reaches his ears.

“They say she’s alive,” says one of the regulars, in hushed tones. “Alive, and here.”

“That’s impossible,” Liam scoffs. “None of the living can come here. And even if they could why would they want to?”

“She’s here to rescue someone,” the regular replies. “Her true love. That makes it possible, or so they say.”

“And the man died in sacrifice,” another adds. “Huge sacrifice, before his time.”

Before his time, Liam thinks. That should rule Killian out. Yet he can’t shake this feeling, this creeping suspicion born of Killian’s refusal to discuss how he died, or how he lived these past few years. There’s a reason this town is his afterlife, and Liam’s too. There’s a reason he’s alone in that big house.

He sets the glass down, and the rag. “I have to go,” he says.

It couldn’t be more obvious that the woman doesn’t belong. She’s visibly, ostentatiously alive, so full of life she glows. It draws the souls—ghoulishly, Liam thinks—but none dare approach too closely. The woman looks as though if anyone could kill a soul that’s already dead, it’s her.

She heads down Main Street and Liam follows. Past the diner and the library, around the corner and up the street where Killian lives. A tight knot forms in Liam’s chest as she walks up to the blue house then stops, with her hand on the gate.

The door flies open and Killian appears on the porch. He stares at the woman, who offers him a smile that strikes Liam as far too tremulous for her take-no-prisoners demeanour.

“Swan,” Killian chokes. His voice sounds broken. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to save you,” the woman replies. She opens the gate and takes a few steps forward. Killian stumbles off the porch to close the distance between them.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here, not here. Not you.”

“I had to, Killian!” She looks up at him imploringly. “You shouldn’t have died like that. You shouldn’t have had to make that choice.”

She takes his hand and laces their fingers tighter. Killian’s breath catches. “Come back with me, Killian. Come home.”

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“You can. I know a way.” Her voice drops as she steps closer, but Liam can still hear her words. “Don’t try to make me live the rest of my life without you, Killian Jones,” she says. “I won’t do it.”

“Swan—”

“I won’t do it,” she repeats. “I love you.”

Liam can see the moment Killian breaks. He snatches the woman into his arms, holds her tightly as she clings to him and magic twines palpably around them. This is not what he had with the brunette, Liam realises. That was love, yes, and intimacy. It was grief, deep and terrible but of a normal sort.

This is agony. This is two souls that should never have been parted and the connection that still binds them, so powerful it can draw a living woman into the land of the dead.

No wonder Killian couldn’t speak of her, Liam thinks, or of the circumstances of his death. The pain must have been too great.

Liam’s been dead so long he’s forgotten how sensitive a subject it can be.

The man died in sacrifice, he recalls. Huge sacrifice, before his time.

He died for her. And now she’s here to bring him back.

“This feels too soon,” Killian says, as he hugs Liam tight. “I only just found you again.” He pulls back and gives his brother a shrewd look. “And I sense that when I’m here again, you no longer will be.”

“No,” Liam agrees. His business is finished now. And Killian’s not coming back, not to this place. Not if Emma Swan has anything to say about it. The next time Killian Jones dies it will be with his life’s purpose fully met.

He’s glad they had this time, though, and not just because he needed it to move on. He’s glad he got to know his brother as a man, a flawed and troubled one, yes, but one who has goodness at his core and is finally where he needs to be. It only took three hundred years for him to get there.

He’s also glad Killian is still shorter than he is, for all that Liam appears ten years younger than his brother now. He’s glad because he can still wrap his arm around Killian’s neck and ruffle his hair. He does so now, though Killian’s indignant “Oi!” of protest twists his heart. He sounds so like his younger self, that boy Liam spent centuries waiting for and will never see again.

“I love you, little brother,” he whispers.

Killian swallows hard, and nods. “I love you too.”

#cs ff #cs ff au #underworld au #brothers jones #not canon compliant #or especially respectful of it #alternative version of Liam #killian pretty much as is #here there be feels #my own version of the underworld #not quite a ficlet #till we be dead ourselves #profdanglaisstuff

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shig-a-shig-ah · 3 years

Note

Please I'm on my hands and knees begging for some kind of angst/comfort or whatever sequel to Solace what do I have to pay to see it at last

You know what, anon? Fuck it—ask and you shall receive.

DISCOMFIT ━ PART 2 OF SOLACE

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader, previous shigaraki tomura x reader

» cw: noncon, free use (mostly implied/referenced), implied anal, mentions of cheating, little bit of comfort, whole lot of angst. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: This picks up exactly where Solace left off, and isn’t exactly canon-compliant because the war arc hadn’t ended when I first posted Solace. It’s also more angsty than smutty, but def still NSFW. As always, reblogs, replies, etc. are welcome <3

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

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There's lead in Dabi's stomach as Shigaraki drags you towards the door, and he's already scrambling to tug on his sweats, staggering to his feet as though he could effectively intervene. He'd heard the threats hissed in your ear, the ones scattered among the taunts Dabi had tried so hard to counter with his own exaltations, but he hadn't been prepared for them to be genuine, had thought that in the end Shigaraki would view your shame as his own. That he wouldn't want to make this betrayal public, not really.

Apparently, Dabi was wrong.

When you're hauled across the threshold, he falters. The thought of your imminent defilement is enough to make him feel sick, bile rising at the back of his throat as his gut twists; he doesn't think he could bear to witness such a desecration. But in the end he also doesn't have a choice—Shigaraki pauses in the doorway, his vicious gaze fixing on Dabi as he gives the order. "You're coming too."

Dabi's throat tightens, because he knows there's no use trying to oppose Shigaraki's will, not with his newfound power. And there's no clemency in the man's burning red eyes, no hints that Tomura has doubts about his chosen retribution, nothing at all to give Dabi hope that perhaps the pale-haired man can be dissuaded from this corrective action.

So Dabi swallows back that bitter taste in his mouth, and he follows.

***

Your heart is in your throat as you're dragged into the hall for the second time, only vaguely aware of Dabi trailing behind, failing to interfere though you don't blame him for that, could never condemn him when this is so much more your fault than his. Had you ever really thought you could gladden yourself with Dabi's comfort and then return unscathed to Shigaraki's arms?

You're loud at first, and desperate. You rake at Tomura's forearm as you try to free yourself from his bruising grip, clawing until red droplets are blooming from the scratches on his skin and his flesh collects beneath your nails, but those marks knit themselves back together almost as quickly as you carve them in. Your feet scrabble ineffectually against the carpet too, trying to slow Tomura's movements, but all that accomplishes is friction burns when you stumble, collapsing to your knees even as Shigaraki continues his unyielding march, dragging you along without so much as a backwards glance.

You beg shamelessly again too, pleading with him to stop, to not, to simply let you go. You swear that you'll leave, that he'll never have to see you again, but he ignores those cries just as he does your pathetic attempts to grapple yourself free. It isn't until your implorations grow quieter, more disheartened, that he pauses—you're weeping, not even thinking about what you're saying, rash words falling from your lips. "Tomu, please, I'm sorry, it was a mistake. Please, if you ever cared about me, just let me go."

It's then that he freezes in place, every muscle in his body going rigid, the cords in his neck standing out as he whirls around to face you. His eyes are impossibly wide, his mouth twisted in disgust, and something dark flashes behind his expression, something that, but for a moment, makes him look wounded rather than filled with rage. It's gone almost as soon as it comes, replaced by an expression stonier than any he's fixed you with thus far. He spits his retort through gritted teeth, his tone so tight and glacial that it sends a shiver down your exposed spine.

"Who could ever care about a whore like you?"

***

Dabi can see you struggling, tears streaming down your reddened cheeks as you beg, but he hears none of those supplications, hears nothing but blood rushing in his ears and the wet glug of his throat every time he tries to swallow down the lump that has lodged itself there. Just moving forward consumes all his focus; this sprawling mansion may as well extend for miles for all the effort it takes him to continue putting one foot in front of the other as Shigaraki tows you down the hall.

Your grotesque procession ends in the cavernous ballroom on the ground floor. It's ornate even in its empty glory, sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows and glinting off the crystal of the chandelier that hangs unlit from the ceiling. Dozens of observers trail behind, every inquiring mind that had peered out to investigate the commotion now obeying Shigaraki's commands for them to follow. They're watching warily, whispering behind their hands as their eyes flick curiously from Dabi, shirtless and shaking, to Shigaraki and you.

Dabi comes back into himself when Shigaraki hurls you unceremoniously to the floor, the sharp crack of your head against the hardwood echoing loudly enough to breach the disassociated haze in which he's been trapped. The sight of your face, dazed by the blow, has him instinctually moving forward, but he's stopped at once when a chiseled arm casts itself across his chest, halting his movements. A low growl issues from the back of Shigaraki's throat. "Don't."

It was easier not to protest Shigaraki's rough treatment of you when the three of you were alone in Dabi's bedroom. He'd been able to convince himself then that Shigaraki had some claim on you, some right to do what he was doing, a sense that had been given all the more weight by your own equivocal response to those harsh touches. But the sight of you now, curled on the floor clutching your head, your legs tucked to your chest as though that could somehow preserve your modesty, is harder to abide. It has heat roiling under Dabi's skin, his insides near-roasting as he does his best to restrain himself, to keep emotions too tumultuous to define from bubbling up and setting him alight.

So Dabi looks away. He does his best to tamp down on that growing heat and to endure, to think about the importance of being there for you. After.

Even after Tomura extends his sadistic invitation to the assembled remnants of the Paranormal Liberation Front, Dabi is naive enough at first to hope that no one will take the bait, that even a crowd of villains won't be depraved enough to indulge in what Shigaraki is offering. Except, Dabi had, hadn't he? Had found his own satisfaction in the first part of Shigaraki's punishment, even as you'd wept. He tries to tell himself that was different—he'd already had you, more than once and voluntarily, and you'd asked for him, implored him so desperately that he couldn't have refused, especially not when it was something Shigaraki had been so intent on enacting.

A darker thought flits across the back of Dabi's mind when he remembers the way you'd writhed under Tomura's domineering touch: if Shigaraki insists on it, will you beg here too?

It's a question that goes unanswered. You spend less than a minute sniffling on the floor surrounded by that mob of villains, and then Dabi's glancing up against his better judgement to see Re-Destro stepping forward, dark eyes glinting with curiosity as he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie, the balding sycophant unabashedly eager to avail himself of Shigaraki's sloppy seconds.

All your struggling has ceased; you're not trying to leave or asking for help, or mercy. Dabi's not sure if you're still trying to please Shigaraki or are only clinging to some last shred of dignity, if he should be disgusted or proud. Still, you flinch when the redhead crouches to trace one large hand up the outside of your thigh, and that small sign of discomfort is enough to have Dabi moving without thinking, every fiber of his body screaming out to defend you from that unwanted touch. But he only manages one feeble step forward before Shigaraki's hand is curling in his hair, yanking him back so hard that Dabi's scalp throbs. Shigaraki maintains that tight hold, leaving Dabi immobilized and with no choice left but to keep staring forward.

"You're going to watch every second," Shigaraki hisses.

Dabi nods. Grinds his teeth. Watches.

***

He thinks nothing could be worse than the powerlessness he feels as Re-Destro takes you. It's a sense of impotence that settles in his bones, that unearths and amplifies every inadequacy he endured in his youth until his knees are weak and there's blood leaking from the corners of his eyes. Just like back then, he's too weak to do what is needed. He can only watch in dismay as someone slots themselves into a role that should be his.

He's wrong, of course, that nothing could be more horrible than witnessing that first act. It's worse when he starts to notice the familiar tensing in your body, and hears your high-keyed whines reverberating off of walls designed to carry just such a pitch. It's worse when he spies Skeptic with that camera trained on you, documenting your disgrace as he palms himself through his pants, and even worse when Spinner comes forward, casting a long, uncertain glance towards Shigaraki before burying himself in both your holes. It's worse when they stop taking orderly turns coupling with your pliant form and start to share instead, and it's worse still when Dabi realizes that somewhere along the way he's grown shamefully, achingly hard.

But the worst? The absolute worst?

That comes at the end.

You're nothing but a crumpled heap on the floor, one cheek squashed against the stained hardwood, your expression glassy and far away. People have stopped coming forward, all those who wanted a turn having taken one, or more. Their faces are uneasy now that they're spent, murmuring again and shooting furtive looks towards the door, obviously unsure if their continued presence is required but too wary of Shigaraki to ask. So it's Dabi who finally works up the nerve to speak, his voice tight through his clenched jaw.

"You did what you wanted. Now can we go?"

A sense of relief washes over him when Shigaraki releases him, but it's short-lived as the other man fixes that red-eyed stare on Dabi.

"Huh," he muses thickly, his expression unreadable as he cocks his head. "You still want her."

Dabi hesitates. Because he knows Shigaraki doesn't want that to be true, is intent on ripping apart whatever tenuous connection you and Dabi have forged over the past weeks, but Dabi's not sure that such a thing is possible. Right now he can't imagine the future any further than getting you both far, far away from here, but even after watching you submit to Shigaraki so readily, after seeing you clench and moan while being offered up like so much meat, Dabi doesn't think he could ever turn you away, not so long as you want him. So he nods.

Shigaraki's unreadable expression morphs, his lips splitting into a wide, depraved grin. "Fine." There's something in his tone that has Dabi's chest tightening with dread already, a sense that only intensifies when Shigaraki continues. "Finish her off, and you can have her. After all, what the fuck do I care if you want to keep the toy you damaged?"

Dabi swallows hard, looking around again. The crowd is watching intently, exchanging hushed whispers, and he knows they can hear every word, have no doubt anymore about just what has happened here, if they had any doubts before.

"Better get on with it," Tomura jeers, followed by a quiet, callous chuckle. "Take the last turn, and the two of you can go. Or don't, and I'll keep her here for days."

Fuck, Dabi can feel the weight of all those eyes on him, of dozens of gazes flicking between his torn expression and your used up form. He wants to say he can't, that he could never, but it's not the truth. The thought alone might have him fighting back a wave of nausea but that doesn't mean he isn't still erect, tenting his pants in a way that's painfully obvious to himself and to everyone else. Physically, at least, Dabi absolutely could.

He takes a step closer to you. Grimaces. He wants to reach out to you, to give you the reassurance of a soothing touch, but there's nowhere your skin isn't reddened or contused, the evidence of that damage exaggerated by the sheen of sweat and worse coating your skin. Your eyes roll up just enough to meet his hesitant stare, and Dabi gives you what he hopes is an apologetic look.

Dabi does what he has to do.

***

The moment it's over Dabi is scooping you up, hooking his arms around your shoulders and behind your bruised knees and lifting you gingerly from the floor, taking you in his arms as gently as he can manage. Your eyes drift to him again, the corners of your lips twitching and a tiny whimper issuing from the back of your throat, a sound so small and feeble that Dabi has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek to maintain some semblance of composure.

He avoids making eye contact with anyone as he leaves, not even sparing a glance towards Shigaraki to confirm this is really over; if the other man decides to change his mind, Dabi's sure it will be painfully obvious. But no one tries to stop him from taking you—he flees the scene of your discrediting successfully, with his heart pounding and his eyes fixed firmly on the floor ahead of him. Just as when he'd followed Shigaraki's march before, he puts one foot in front of the other and wills himself to think of nothing else.

It's difficult. Your skin is slick against his unclothed chest, and feels feverish. Every time he shifts you, he can feel wetness dribbling down your thighs as he tries to lie to himself it's nothing. Tries not to give it any attention at all.

Dabi's never been very good at deceiving himself, and it's all the harder now with the images of your defilement burned into his retinas—Shigaraki knew just what would make him suffer, Dabi has to admit that much.

When he reaches his room, he sets you gently to the floor, whispers that he'll be right back and then disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. He cranks on the bathtub—it will be necessary to clean you up since he's certain you couldn't stand if you tried. It also serves to drown out the sounds to come, because the moment the water starts pouring he's lunging for the toilet and heaving his guts into the bowl, coughing and sputtering as he retches.

By the time he's finished being sick, the tub is nearly full.

He checks the temperature of the water. Once, twice. Three times. It's hard for him to gauge it adequately when he runs so hot, and the last thing he wants is to scald your abused skin or any of those tender, overworked parts. When he's finally wrangling you into the tub, he dips your hand in first, one final test to ease his anxious mind.

"That feel all right, baby girl?" He's not sure if you really nod, or if you're simply shifting a little, but either way he takes it as a yes.

In the end, it doesn't matter so much. The water turns disgusting almost the moment you're submerged, an oily sheen rising to the surface that Dabi doesn't want to think too hard about it. He drains it and doesn't repeat that mistake, only fills it a few inches full the second time and then scoops water over your irritated skin to rinse away the worst of the mess, a painstakingly slow but necessary measure. He repeats it twice and only after that muck stops rising to the top does he let the water creep higher so that he can wash you properly.

He starts with your hair. It's another slow process, trying to keep from snagging your damp tresses on the staples that line his palms as he massages shampoo into your scalp, and moving carefully to avoid the lump that's formed at the back of your head, where it cracked against the hardwood floor. He does his best not to grimace visibly at that swelling, does the same as he's working sweat and sticky clumps out of your matted locks—your eyes are still bleary but he knows you're watching him, and he couldn't bear for you to see how much it affects him to witness you like this.

Conditioner is probably an unnecessary touch, but he works it in anyway once the last of the suds have been rinsed away, thinks it might help you to feel some sense of normalcy, if that's even still a possibility for you. He lets it soak in while he tends to the rest of your inflamed skin, trying best as he can to be gentle, though that doesn't stop you from wincing every time he brushes over some raw, tender spot. When he finally works the washcloth between your thighs, the last horribly necessary task left, you let out a choked sob, your face contorting in distress in a way that has his throat tightening again.

"Shh, baby girl," Dabi soothes, his voice raw even to his own ears as he lifts a hand to stroke at your hair. "It's okay. I've got you."

You can't help but wonder if that's entirely true as you bite back more complaints and let him tend to your ravaged sex. You can see the tightness in his face, the way he can't seem to look at you for long, and Shigaraki's words keep running through your mind, a grim mantra that sticks in your head even more than the memories of the past few hours.

You'll be ruined for him, just like you're ruined for me.

The thought is enough to have panic brewing in your chest, a near-hysteria clawing its way through you. Because what would you do without Dabi? Who else would ever want you now? It would be too much to lose them both.

You don't realize tears are streaming down your cheeks until hot thumbs are brushing them away, cerulean eyes fixed worriedly on your own. "It's okay," Dabi murmurs again. "You're okay."

But it's not, you're not, probably won't ever be again, and you need more than those thin reassurances. Your arm aches when you lift one hand to catch his wrist, your feeble grip a reminder of just how worn you really are. "Am I—" your voice is hoarse, your words interrupted by a painful cough as you struggle to speak through your wrecked throat "—am I ruined for you?"

The way his face falls at your question is reassurance enough, that tight expression going slack and defeated, the corners of his brows lifting in grief. Then Dabi's pulling you to his chest, water sloshing over the side of the tub and cool porcelain digging into your side as he wraps both arms around you, his face burying itself in your damp strands as he cradles you close.

"No. No, of course not, baby girl. Never."

***

When Dabi finally releases you, he leaves you soaking in the tub long enough to take a shower. He's loath to abandon you for even one second, but he needs that cleansing and, more than that, needs a moment to breath. Because you'd never clung to him so eagerly before, never needed him the same way he needed you, not when you had someone else to hold tightly to.

So just now, when you'd burrowed against his chest and made clear that he was the one you were counting on? Well, he'd be lying if he said it hadn't felt good.

Shigaraki might have succeeded in cracking the pedestal Dabi had placed you on, but all that's truly accomplished is to bring you down to Dabi's level, to a place where he can actually hope to make you his. And Dabi doesn't want to find that thought reassuring, doesn't want to dwell on the realization that this whole fucked up situation might be the only way he'll get the one thing he still wants in life. But he does.

He cranks the heat in the shower as high as it will go as he tries to wash away that guilt, but the scalding water isn't enough. It can't rinse out the shame of finding personal satisfaction in your suffering, just like it can't scour away the memories of obeying Shigaraki's final order, of burying his length in the slick sensation of a dozen other men's seed, of squeezing your thighs together in a desperate bid to create some sort of friction, or of sinking himself into your tighter hole when it seemed like the only way to end that agony.

The list of things that require Dabi's contrition is endless, it seems.

Perhaps it's some kind of fucked up penance, then, that once you're both clean Dabi finds himself offering to go collect your things from the room you'd shared with Shigaraki.

It's an offer born of necessity; you have nothing to wear and while Dabi would love to dress you in his clothes, would relish the sight of you parading around in some oversized shirt that belongs to him, the way you had with Shigaraki's clothes back in the old hideout, he has nothing to offer on that front. An extensive wardrobe isn't among his precious few possessions—the options are his filthy tee shirt and jeans, the ones that reek of booze and ash, or his sweats, amply stained from your walk of shame. None of that seems anywhere near adequate.

So Dabi grits his teeth yet again, tugs on those dirty clothes himself and leaves you tucked safely in his bed, bundled in his only towel. There's an anxious look in your eyes as he departs, one that has a strange thrill coursing through him as he murmurs a promise to return quickly.

He tells himself as he journeys down the hall—pointedly ignoring every person he passes—that Shigaraki won't be there. Dabi's seen the boss angry before, knows he's one to wander and destroy rather than to sulk, and if Dabi were a betting man he would wager that Shigaraki won't be setting foot in the room he'd shared with you any time soon.

Unfortunately, Dabi is wrong once again. There's no answer when he knocks, but when he slips inside it becomes painfully obvious that lack of response wasn't because the quarters were unoccupied. He pauses inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and is almost immediately assaulted by the sounds issuing from around the corner, just out of sight: sheets rustling and heavy breathing, the faint slap of skin on skin, a quiet moan.

Fuck. Fuck no. This is the last thing that Dabi wants or needs to witness, even if the stab of incredulity and anger he feels about it is undeserved. It's how he himself would have coped, he knows, had Shigaraki's return to the Liberation Front and your return to him gone according plan, but the thought that he could avail himself of this ever after today's display has Dabi's stomach twisting.

He holds his breath as he immediately retreats, the carpet muffling his slow, quiet steps. Dabi will try something else, ask Toga to loan you some things, or rifle through the remnants of Jin's possessions if he has to. All he has do is get out of here without—

"What do you think you're doing?"

The sound of Shigaraki's low voice has Dabi freezing in place. He sounds different than when they last spoke, some faint trace of amusement there in place of that calculated callousness. Dabi keeps still, tries to convince himself that it's not him Shigaraki is addressing, but that hope proves unfounded.

"I can smell you, you know. You reek of smoke. So why don't you stop hiding and tell me why the fuck you're here?"

Dabi's first instinct is to simply turn and leave, to avoid this unpleasant encounter all together and pray Tomura will simply return his attentions to whoever had the poor judgement to leap into his bed. But in the end he steps forward, not willing to test the other man further than he has with his mere presence, not when there's still a sinister edge to his tone and the damage Dabi's wrought is already likely to haunt him to his dying day.

A light clicks on when Dabi steps into sight, the sudden assault on his pupils making him blink rapidly, and when the room finally swims back into focus, Dabi freezes. Tomura has some woman tucked neatly in his lap, her back nestled to his chest as he peers at Dabi from over her shoulder, the sheets barely covering where Dabi is positive they're joined together.

"I just came to get some of her shit—I didn't think you'd be here," Dabi says flatly, trying to not to let his eyes drift from Tomura's face as deadly hands grope at exposed breasts, dark bite marks and hickeys starkly visible even from the bottom of Dabi's field of vision. "I'll come back later. Or just find her new shit."

"Why bother when you're already here? Just get on with it." Dabi can sense something forced in that casual dismissal of his presence even as Shigaraki lets out a low laugh, and that impression is only strengthened when the woman—some MLA holdover Dabi recognizes but couldn't name—tugs at the edge of the blankets, obviously intent on providing herself with some sort of cover. Shigaraki growls immediately, pale fingers clamping around her wrist so tightly that she whimpers in protest. The first syllable of Tomura's name falls quietly from her lips, a paltry whine that's quashed as soon as it begins, Shigaraki's wide palm slapping harshly over her mouth. His eyes narrow in displeasure as scowling lips ghost over her ear.

"You're the one who wanted to fuck," Dabi hears Shigaraki hiss, "so don't you dare stop."

Dabi might have felt some sympathy for her in another life, some pang of unease at the way her eyes widen and she fidgets nervously before hesitantly rocking her hips, but in this moment he can muster no sympathy, not when her apparently voluntary presence far exceeds even Dabi's expectations for the shamelessness of these meta liberation freaks.

He does, however, feel a twinge of disquiet when he realizes, after a moment of staring, that she looks like you. Not exactly, of course—the nose is wrong, the hairstyle different—but enough. Her hair color, her eyes, her build: they're all reminiscent of your own.

Dabi tries not to think about what that means.

"Well, aren't you going to do what you came for?" Shigaraki taunts. That malicious glint is back in his eyes, the corner of his thin mouth curving up into a smirk that makes it clear he's enjoying Dabi's discomfort at the scene playing out before him. His hands start to wander again as though to emphasize it, pinching and tugging at puffy, exposed nipples while the woman continues to issue muffled mewls from behind his hand. "I'm busy, if you couldn't tell."

Dabi grits his teeth and looks away. "Where is it?"

Shigaraki only shrugs, that sneer widening, and Dabi turns stiffly towards the dresser, doing his best to tune out the soft cries as he rummages through the drawers. After a moment it's clear that nothing within belongs to you, and reluctantly Dabi steps further into the room to search the closet. He finds what he's looking for there, thank god; neatly folded stacks of pants and shirts line the shelves, blouses and those fancy nightgowns you're so fond of arranged neatly on hangars beside them. There's a duffel bag on the floor too, and Dabi quickly busies himself shoving as many of your belongings into it as he can, working with unceremonious haste and chewing at his cheek, still trying to ignore the way the sounds behind him are escalating, the moans and lewd wet smacks growing louder, more rapid.

He only stops when the duffel is overflowing, too stuffed full to even zip shut. It's certainly more than enough for now, but he wonders briefly about the rest of your possessions, if there's some other source of comfort he could and should bring you before Shigaraki decides to dispose of anything you've left behind. But Dabi has no way of knowing, has never been permitted to so much as step foot in this space before.

When the unmistakable sound of a slap emanates from behind him, followed by a throaty groan, Dabi decides it doesn't matter.

It takes him a moment to steel himself, to work up the nerve to turn back towards the room and the vulgar performance occurring mere feet away, but he once he does he strides purposefully towards the door without so much as a glance towards Shigaraki and his new—and very temporary, Dabi suspects—lover. He's almost out the door, seconds from feeling as though he can breath again, when that mocking voice is once again demanding his attention.

"Dabi," Shigaraki calls out liltingly, and Dabi pauses.

"What now?"

His obvious impatience draws a cold chuckle from Tomura. "Don't try to leave. Either of you," Shigaraki says. "The Violet Regiment still needs its lieutenant, and I need you motivated."

For a long moment, Dabi simply stands there, his hand still resting on the knob as he considers those instructions. Shigaraki isn't wrong to think he would consider it; Dabi's mostly accomplished what he hoped to with the League, and his more protective instincts have been screaming at him to get you out of here since the second it was clear Tomura intended to honor his threats. But he'd already had doubts that the jilted man would let that happen, not when the punishment he'd devised is most effective if you're both forced to stay, forced to face everyone who witnessed your downfalls and shared shame.

And also, well...Dabi's more protective instincts might tempt him to flee—he's disappeared before, after all, thinks he could do it again even if it would be harder to evade Shigaraki's reach—but his possessive instincts? Those have more self-serving thoughts brewing in the back of his mind. Because if the castigation you endured is most effective if you stay, it also means that Dabi has no advantage anywhere else. Would you cling to him so sweetly, so fiercely if you weren't surrounded by those who had seen you so thoroughly humbled? Or would such an escape only taint Dabi's presence in your mind, single him out as the last reminder of your humiliation and debasement?

It would, he thinks. So Dabi nods even though Shigaraki can't see him, noting the opportunity present in what was surely intended as a threat. The sadistic leader might be intent on dangling this over both your and Dabi's heads until at least one of you is dead, but Dabi's made the best of bad situations before, ones worse than this.

"Sure thing, boss," he says, working to keep his tone level and mild. He steps out into the hall, lets the door click closed behind him.

For the first time all day, Dabi smiles.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #dabi smut #dabi fanfic #dabi angst #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon #bnha x reader #bnha smut

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