#he gives me an illness i can hardly describe | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wheeboo · 11 months

Text

ukiyo | xu minghao

SYNOPSIS. in which you and minghao spend the day together. PAIRING. xu minghao x gn!reader GENRE. angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship WARNINGS. language alluding to death, reader is in a wheelchair, mentions of an unnamed terminal disease that causes reader to have weakened limbs n feel very weak in general, vague mention of nudity (hao takes off reader’s clothes and gives them a bath) but nothing is explicitly described, descriptions of a hospital, terms of endearment (love), one curse word WORD COUNT. 4.3k

ukiyo ( 浮世 ) 𑁋 “the floating world”; living in the moment; detached from the bothers of life.

notes: there’s not really a plot to this. it’s just brainrot because i love torturing myself and my heart. i saw pics of the beach of hai cheng mv and immediately wanted to write something sad for no reason.

The late morning sunlight pours in through the small window of the bathroom as you hold a steady, blank gaze at the running water gushing out from the faucet. The sounds bounce off the walls of the bathroom, and you bring your eyes down to your legs.

You can hardly move them.

It’s been this way for the past two years. It had started with the muscles of your legs slowly succumbing to the weakness stemming from the terminal illness you had been diagnosed with. And as time continues to routinely pass, that certain weakness had set out to invade other parts of your body like a dumb and relentless parasite.

Over the years, the disease had been slowly nearing its peak. The countless visits to the hospital had laggardly dissipated every bit of hope to a possible recovery, and you’ve gotten used to the sentences being said of There’s no cure for the disease, or Sooner or later, it can spread to your brain. You’re only growing weaker and weaker each passing day. Every day tasks were already strenuous. Opening your eyes in the morning took too much strength. Nothing but tiredness and exhaustion plagued your body. Headaches have been becoming more prevalent. Sometimes you just want all this pain to cease to exist. You didn’t want to put this burden on the people you love.

You didn’t want to put this burden on Minghao.

“So... cherry blossom, lavender, or coconut chamomile?”

You slowly bring your gaze up to the sight of your boyfriend holding up three different scents of bubble bath in the doorway. The sight makes you giggle as you look between the different scents with curiosity, before looking back up at Minghao.

Even after being together the past four years, just the fleeting sight of him lights you up. Your body may be growing weaker each day, but your unwavering love for the man holding up bottles of bubble bath scents has never faltered. Not one bit.

But if you weren’t sick, he would be able to live the long, happy life that he wanted, right?

Minghao knows that you are tired𑁋it’s your default answer every day. He wishes he can be able to take away the exhaustion that you feel. He wishes to put all of that pain onto his shoulders and carry it for you so you could experience the freedom away from the constraints of your illness.

But he also knows that life doesn't always grant such wishes.

“Will you... surprise me?” You ask instead.

All he does is smile. It’s that soft, fond nose-scrunching smile that you’ve grown to love over the years. Minghao places the bottles on the counter of the sink, putting his body in front so you wouldn’t be able to see what he selects. Covering the bottle with his arms, he playfully walks backward towards the bathtub, causing you to elicit a weak laugh at his dorky antics.

As he reaches the tub, he leans over and carefully pours the bubble bath into the warm water, And as you watch, a gentle purple hue of bubbles begin to form and spread sporadically throughout the tub like a magical mist. It's the soothing and enchanting aroma of lavender.

“You... always know what I like, hm?” You ask him as he closes the container to the bottle and sets it back on the sink counter.

The corners of Minghao’s lips curl amusedly. "I may have learned a thing or two about you over the years.”

The sincerity in his words never fails to relax your heart and push away the clouds of your bittersweet thoughts. Minghao waits a minute or two before turning off the faucet and directing his attention back to you.

“Now,” He leans in front of you, letting his hands caress over yours on the handle of the wheelchair and landing at the hems of your shirt. “can I help you out of these clothes?”

A blush grows on your cheeks at his request despite him doing this for years. You heave out a nervous breath and nod as Minghao's hands begin to move over you with practiced ease, aware of your weakened limbs and exhausted state. He keeps his touch gentle and respectful, and starts with unbuttoning your shirt, his delicate fingers gliding effortlessly along the fabric to reveal the vulnerability the lies underneath. He doesn’t rush or hurry anything, simply setting his focus on you and only you. The warmth of his hands against your skin sends shivers running down your spine.

Though he has seen you bare for him many times, Minghao can’t help the faint smirk to his face. As the last button is undone, he lets your shirt fall to the tile floor below, his gaze travelling over you with adoration. The all-too familiar intimacy between you two has never diminished the admiration he holds for you. Treasuring you is something he has always been devoted to do.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your knuckle, and you feel the surge of warmth and love run marathons to your heart.

With his hands now free from the task of your shirt, he continues his journey downwards, the tips of his fingers ghosting tenderly over your fragile skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You can barely feel the way he touches you, but the thought of him doing so brings you comfort. He takes his precious time, savouring each second that passes between as he loosens the clasps of your pants and helps bring them down your legs with utmost caution.

As each layer of clothing is finally peeled off, a wave of relief and peace washes over you. Minghao sets your clothing neatly away before returning to your side and bringing you closer to the tub. He lets his arms wrap around you, carefully lifting you from the wheelchair and guiding you towards the edge of the bathtub. Sticking a hand in the water to ensure its a good temperature, he slowly but surely eases you into the bath, the water and lavender aroma embracing your body as you sink deeper inside the tub.

“Does it feel good?” he asks you while lathering the bubbles onto your shoulders.

A sigh escapes your lips as you lean your back against the tub with the bubbles tickling against your skin.

“Mhm,” You let out quietly. “Thank... thank you.” Thank you for taking care of me; I wish I could give you all the care back.

Minghao hums softly, planting a kiss to the top of your head, and retrieves a nearby sponge. Sitting himself down at the edge of the tub, he dips the sponge into the water before lightly caressing over your skin. He starts with your shoulders, washing your skin with a smooth pace and various patterns, helping to gradually ease away the tension to your body.

“Relax, love,” he tells you. “Let me take care of you.”

And so you let your eyes flutter to a close. It felt relaxing to do so𑁋to let go. It almost makes the pain in your head go away.

You watch the steam rise from the untouched bowl of rice porridge in front of you. It takes Minghao a few minutes later to come back with his own bowl, along with a few side dishes in hand. He glances towards you and notices your empty expression, a tinge of sadness to your eyes that brings a heavy weight to his chest, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Reaching over, he takes your metal spoon in his hand and dips it in the bowl, grabbing a spoonful of the porridge.

“It’s important for you to eat, love.” Minghao blows on the spoon, cooling down the porridge before bringing it to your lips. The illness hasn’t been much cooperative to your appetite, and eating has been a daunting task for the past few months. He prepares you light foods that doesn’t take much strength to swallow, but enough to nourish you at the same time.

Parting your lips slightly, Minghao feeds you the spoonful of porridge, and you immediately relish in the warmth coursing through you. A small smile crosses your face at the familiar taste of comfort, and it even makes Minghao’s worried face soften. He continues to feed you, spoonful by spoonful, his eyes never leaving yours while taking in every detail𑁋the way your eyes flutter close after each bite, the way the faint smile to your face grows every so slightly, but enough for him to notice. It’s a big change to see, according to him.

“Tastes good.” You murmur under your breath, looking up at him.

The weariness fades off your face just minisculely. Minghao manages a gentle smile, barely noticing his own food going cold as he continues to feed you.

There’s a certain silence that you love with him𑁋it’s a domestic silence, especially after being together for four years, where you love observing him doing his everyday routine. But gosh, you miss the times when you were able to hold him in your own arms, or when you could wrap your arms around him in a tight back hug while he cooked, or sneak kisses to his cheek and run away before he would tackle you back into the bed. You miss the times when he’d let you hold him so he could listen to you read, or when you both sat across from each other having your late night doodling sessions.

You miss all those times, and there’s no way to get them back.

“I was thinking...” Minghao comes back to sit down after setting the dishes away. “...if you wanted to go on a little getaway for the day?”

You look up at him dazedly. “A... getaway?”

“You’ve mentioned wanting to go the beach before,” he inputs, and you see his face up to your idea. “and I think it would be nice to get some fresh air, would you say so?”

He really does remember all the things about you.

A flicker of hesitation crosses your mind, yet the longing for a change of scenery, a temporary escape from the walls that confine you, helps to wash away any doubts.

You used to dream about running through the white sand beach, feeling the heat of the sun on your skin and the cool breeze caress your face while listening to the calming sound of the waves crashing against the shore. You dreamed of you and Minghao’s laughter mingling into the fresh, afternoon air, your hands intertwined together as you dash down the shoreline together.

Ever since you were a kid, you dreamed of the beach being the place where you would marry the love of your life, because the sight of the sun setting in the horizon, the soft sand beneath your feet, and the vastness of the ocean waters as you kissed your partner was a fairytale you wanted to experience.

And ever since before your diagnosis and still to this day, you dream of the beach being the place where you would marry Minghao.

Now, it entirely feels like a distant memory now, something beyond unattainable, but the thought of simply seeing it with your eyes brings some form of hope back to your tired heart.

So you look back up at Minghao as a very faint sparkle of eagerness passes through your eyes.

The winter season paints the world with a palette of muted colours. The once vibrancy of the ocean waters fades into a pale blue-grey like the cloudy skies above, and the emptiness allows the beach to unfold in its truest form. The waves aren’t too strong or too weak, but roll in gently onto the shoreline with their white foam brushing against the sand before receding back into the vast waters.

As you and Minghao stroll down towards the beach, you find small patches of snow in the grass and bushes. The air is crisp and chilly, but you don't mind the cold. You find yourself dressed in a comfortable and cozy turtleneck, along with a snug coat to protect you from the winter chill. Minghao had insisted on picking an outfit since dressing you up𑁋and making sure all the colours work well with each other𑁋has always been one of his favourite activities to do.

There’s a ramp that you go down before finally arriving onto the sandy grounds. The wheels of the wheelchair sinks into the slightly damp sand as Minghao pushes you closer towards the water. He's used to assisting you with mobility the past two years, and he does it with such grace and care that it has practically become a second nature for him.

The beach appears desolate, but seeing it so untouched and undisturbed makes the experience far more peaceful.

Minghao stops the wheelchair at a comfortable distance from the water's edge before kneeling beside you. His ears are slightly reddened from the cold, even with the protection of his own turtle neck and long scarf, but his gaze in the direction of the water is filled with warmth and pure awe.

He turns to reach for your hand on your lap and intertwines his fingers with yours, before turning back to the sight of the sky meeting the sea.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.

“It’s...” If you could, if your body gave you the benefit of the doubt for one single moment, you would say everything coming from your heart𑁋how the word beautiful is just a small word compared to the real floating feeling that it gives you. “...beautiful.”

The word feels lackluster, but it's all you can manage to say, and Minghao's warm smile is all that you need to back you up.

He turns back towards you, hesitation in his words. “Do you want to stand closer to the water?”

You peer at Minghao with hesitation and uncertainty. Standing now took... more strength than usual as of lately, and it pains you to admit it. But the thought of being able to stand near the water, to be able to stand on the world that fills your dreams at night was more than tempting. You can barely remember the last time you were able to go to the beach; it was more than possible that it was way before the diagnosis of your illness.

But what if this could be your only opportunity?

And so you muster a small nod towards Minghao. “Help... me stand?”

Minghao only nods. He moves behind the wheelchair and locks the brakes so that it won't move while he helps you stand. With nothing but caution, he wraps an arm around your waist and one under your knees as you slowly rise from the wheelchair, your legs trembling from the use of all your strength as you lean against Minghao for balance. It felt... strange to be able to stand like this again, even if it was just for a few short minutes, almost like a sensation you have nearly forgotten.

His arm tightens around your waist as he guides you to take your first step, leading you closer to the shore. Each step felt like an ardous journey. You basically can hear the loud protests of your own body telling you to stop.

“You’re doing great,” he tells you, and his words bring you some heightened determination.

Even with each passing moment and your body slowly but surely taking all its effort to remain you upright, you don’t let the thought dampen your persistence.

When you finally reach the line where the tip of your shoe reaches the edge, the ocean stretches out before you as if holding countless stories of joy, sadness, and everything in between within its deep, mysterious depths.

Minghao still has an arm wrapped around you, but his eyes are directed into yours, both tenderly and admiringly.

"You did it," he assures you. "You're standing by the ocean.”

A bittersweet smile crosses your lips, a smile warm but with a hint of sadness. You feel the heat growing in your eyelids as you let a few streams of tears to flow down your face, never thinking that such a vast space would become your safe haven. Minghao leans in to press a loving kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment.

You feel like you’re floating in that moment, suspended between that of reality and a dream. The weariness that lingers in your bones is briefly forgotten about, and you relish in the feeling of standing tall after so much time.

But as you continue standing, you feel the weakness descend upon you. The exhaustion surrounds you like a dense fog, clouding your mind and eating away at your energy. You try to keep your focus on the calmness of the ocean ahead, but you feel a certain heaviness to your eyes, making it difficult for you to keep them open.

And the world around you starts to blur.

Minghao is speaking. He’s speaking but you can’t make out any words because of the ringing in your ears that was growing louder each second and drowning out his voice which was the only thing fucking powerful enough to keep you even remotely grounded𑁋

“Y/N, stay with me. Can you... hear...”

No, I can’t hear you. You’re fading away... I’m the one who is fading away.

“Hao...” is all you manage to mumble out in a hushed, weak whisper.

The last thing you remember is the feeling of his arms around you and his voice desperately calling out your name before all you could see is black.

It takes a lot for Minghao to break.

But seeing you in this hospital bed right next to him, with your skin more fragile than ever and your body laying unconsciously still, he feels each individual piece of his heart shatter by the passing minute and his chest grow heavy. The doctors predicted for you to have woken up two hours ago, but... you haven’t done so.

He doesn’t know what to feel, and it almost feels like each breath he takes only suffocates him even more, and being confined in the walls of the hospital room had been no help. Maybe it’s anguish, fear, guilt, or even anger. Perhaps it was all of the above.

Minghao's hands tremble as he clenches them into fists, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. He wants to scream, but he restrains himself, and he’s been oddly good at doing so.

If only you knew all the times he had desperately tried to fight back tears knowing that one day, you won’t be waking up next to him anymore𑁋that you won’t wake up at all. Or the times he had fought back anger to hide away just how much he wants to yell at the universe for cursing you with such a damned illness.

As he continues to anxiously pace around the room, a soft knock to the door makes him halt. A man enters into the room𑁋the doctor𑁋with a solemn expression to his face. He glances towards your unconscious body on the bed, before turning back towards Minghao.

“Comparing the results of some tests and a previous medical check-up,” The man takes a noticeable deep breath. “I’m afraid that the disease has progressed its way into their brain, and it’s hard to tell as of now when they will regain consciousness.”

Minghao's body freezes at the doctor's words, and he feels something in his chest tugging painfully at the strings of his heart. The room grows silent aside for the sound of his racing heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the rhythmic beating of the heart monitor.

He means... that you knew all along?

The weight of it all crashes over him like a wave at high tide, and he loosens the grip he has to his fists. He swears that the ground beneath him was crumbling now as he gets himself to run back to your side and bring the hands of your lifeless form into his trembling ones.

“Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers shakily, but his question hangs unanswered in the air. “Dammit, Y/N, why didn’t you tell me?”

He feels the anger inside of him now, but he isn’t angry at you. He’s angry at himself. He clutches at your hands tightly, his grip almost desperate with his fingers running over your knuckles. Minghao's eyes scan frantically over your face, pleading for some type of response, for any sign that you can hear him. But the silence in the room remains unchanged.

Minghao presses his quivering lips against your hand, a river of tears spilling down his face. He blames himself for not seeing the signs. He blames himself for the pain you’ve went through. All he wanted to do was bring you to a place of happiness for just a single day, but it all went downhill, and he blames no one else but himself.

It takes a lot for Minghao to break, but not when it comes to you.

“I’ll beat you to it, Hao!”

Minghao doesn’t race after you, instead he watches with a grin to his face as you dash excitedly in the direction of the ocean water, nearly tripping in the sand in the process. The waves were calm as they crash lightly against the shoreline. It wasn’t much cloudy than before, and the air was still as chilly as the previous days, but for some reason it felt refreshing as ever to breathe in the wintry air and a perfect time to take a stroll near the waters.

He slowly makes his way down to the beach, hands in his pockets as he watches you stop at the edge of where the water rolls into the sand. You turn around to face him, a pout to your face that makes him chuckle to himself.

“You’re such a slowpoke!” You exclaim to him.

When he finally makes his way right next to you, you both look out at the waters together.

“We both know I would’ve beaten you anyways.” Minghao mutters, and he hears you release an annoyed scoff.

You turn towards him, a teasing smirk to your face. “Care to prove it?”

He raises an eyebrow as if contemplating your words for a moment. But with a sudden burst of energy, he takes off running, leaving you behind in the sand. Nothing but laughter leaves you as you follow after him, calling out his name for him to slow the heck down with your feet sinking into the softened sand with each step you took.

It takes some time of more chasing before Minghao finally stops in front of the water. When you arrive next to him, breaths shallow and unsteady from all the running, he quickly circles his arms around your waist like a tender cocoon, pulling you into a loving back hug.

Minghao rests his head comfortingly on your shoulder, his warm breath tickling against the skin of your neck. His touch immediately makes you lean into him, both of your gazes looking straight in the direction of the endless ocean waters. Time seems to stand still, where all the worries of the outside world melt away with each wave that comes in. It's just the two of you together, and no one else.

“I love you.” The words leave his lips like a hushed promise, even though it was only the two of you standing together. “You know that, right?”

"I know," You reply, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you too, Hao.”

As the words suspend quietly in the chilly air, a wistful breeze sweeps over the beach.

“You know I’ve always wanted to get married at the beach?”

Minghao tilts his head slightly, a soft, somewhat playful smile playing on his lips as he gazes into your eyes wonderingly.

“Is that so?” he hums. “Guess this is where we’re going to get married, then.”

You couldn’t tell if it was excitement or surprise that was raging through you. He said it so casually that it nearly makes your entire body go limp in his arms, your heart fluttering and swelling out of your chest.

“Wow, I... I didn’t expect you to say that so easily.” You stammer out your words.

Minghao just chuckles, placing a kiss to the temple of your head. “If that’s what you want, then I promise to make it happen, love.”

You feel the smile bloom onto your face as you bring your eyes back out to the waters again. You feel him rocking you back and forth in his hold, swaying your bodies aside the small waves that come washing onto the shore. But as he continues to hold you and you notice the waves coming in heavier, the smile to your face slowly begins to fade away.

Turning around to face him, you get yourself to light up your face once more.

“Close your eyes,” You tell him, letting your fingers play with his hair flying in the breeze. “Can you do that for me?”

Minghao gives you an odd look, before complying and letting his eyes fall to a close. He feels you release yourself from his grasp until he was holding nothing, which he brings his arms back down to his side. He shivers from a sudden breeze running past him as the anticipation courses through his veins.

Seconds turn into minutes, and all Minghao can hear is the waves beginning to crash louder against the sand. But amidst the sound of nature taking its course, there's silence from you. He doesn’t hear any signs of movement, any noise that can indicate that it was you. He hears nothing.

“Y/N?” he calls out once, twice, three times. “Y/N!”

And when he finally prys open his eyes, he’s met with nothing. All he could see was the seemingly endless beach and ocean stretching out before him in all directions possible. He calls out your name again in desperation, panic, fear, but he doesn’t earn any response, feeling the tears brim in his eyes once more as he sinks to his knees in the sand.

You’re gone.

taglist (open) ʚɞ @enhazen @haowrld @ylliris-hanniehae @icyminghao @slytherinshua

728 notes · View notes

ecoamerica · 1 month

Text

youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

16K notes · View notes

treedaddymcpuffpuff · 17 days

Text

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

TW: angst, fighting, discussion of nsfw topics

The alcohol you ingested certainly does not help with your coordination. You nearly bump into several club-goers, as if you are a salmon struggling to make your way up stream. You feel as though you can’t breathe, your skin crawling on your bones.

Once you finally burst out the doors you gasp for breath, grateful for the outside, if not polluted, air. You do not stop moving, your feet mindlessly carrying you down the sidewalk, away. All you can think, is that you want to get away.

You don’t really pay attention to your surroundings in your manic dash. Julian’s face keeps flashing in your mind. Of all the men in your life who had hurt you, none of them had been half so beguiling as Julian. None of them so fucking clever at hiding the monster inside.

You have been a fly caught in his web, baited by his puppy dog eyes and his kindness in his doctor’s persona–you cannot understand how that man can share the same body with the dom who literally licked your blood from your palm earlier, and loved it. He lured you but now you know the only way you can be intimate with that man is through playing dangerous games with his darker side. Maybe some of them you could have enjoyed, but this? He would tease you with the crumbs of his sweetness, his kisses and caresses, but he would make you pay for them with your pain, your blood, and your submission.

It can only end in your ruin.

You would destroy yourself, trying to heal this man, while he just kept taking pieces out of you and swallowing them whole.

As your feet slow you look around, and you realize you have no fucking idea where you are.

Well done, you fucking little idiot. Filled with crippling despair, you sink to the cracked concrete curb, ruining the seat of your silk dress, hanging your head in your hands. Asking Julian to take you home is out of the question. You can’t really afford a taxi. You could call an Uber, but the thought of getting in a car with a total stranger right now makes you feel ill. And you are way too drunk to try to navigate the Byzantine bus system of LA.

You stare at your phone, and your fingers swipe and tap of their own volition, as though to say we know what to do, you messy bitch. The phone only rings twice before a familiar, deep voice comes over the line. “Hey baby.”

“Tom?”

“What’s wrong?”

The sleepy warmth in his tone immediately sharpens, and the fact that he hears the distress in your voice after just one word fills you with a relief that maybe you have no right to.

“Can you come get me?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

You laugh a little at that, a brittle sound you have not heard in your own voice in a long time. “I don’t know?” Your voice cracks, your throat tight, on the verge of tears. “I’m somewhere in Venice.”

There’s a silence on the other end that communicates he has an inkling of what you’ve been up to. “Are you hurt?” There’s an undertone of something dangerous in his question, but you don’t think it’s directed at you.

“No. Just…” Scared. Embarrassed. Stupid. Heartbroken. Drunk.

You can’t bring yourself to say any of these things aloud. You settle for, “Lost.”

It was the understatement of the century.

“Ok, honey. I’m on my way. Tell me what you see.”

You describe your surroundings as best you can, and it’s enough for this man who knows this city like the back of his hand. He has you stay on the line, asking you little questions you hardly even think about the answers you give. You’re in a different place, in your mind, and like the forever original creature that you are, you sit there and cry quietly while Tom tries to keep you talking. Meanwhile, you cannot stop picturing Julian’s face, the hunger in his eyes as he watched that poor girl being lit on fire.

By the time you hear the bass growl of Tom’s Charger swing up to the curb, you don’t know how long it’s been, only that you’re grateful for the sight. Moments later he’s kneeling in front of you, his big hands cradling your tear-streaked face like you are something precious and breakable.

At least the last part is true.

“Y/n? You ok, sweet girl?” He wipes your tears with his thumb, sweeping your damp hair back from your face. You can only imagine how terrible you must look. Waterproof mascara has its limits.

Bravely you nod, though your chin quivers tellingly. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll always come for you, y/n,” he tells you with a frown, and goddammit if you don’t believe him. He’s looking you over, inspecting you for damage you’re too in shock or too embarrassed to disclose. When he finds the bandage on your hand his expression turns murderous. “What the fuck is this?”

“I cut myself,” you assure him, certain that if you don’t convince this dangerous man of the truth, Julian’s not days, but hours, are numbered. “With scissors. Opening a plant.”

Tom narrows his eyes, glaring down at the bandage like he’s not sure he believes you. “What happened then? Why are you out here alone like this?”

“Julian wanted to show me the club,” you try to answer as vaguely as possible. “But I…couldn’t handle it.” You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. He wants to hurt you. Julian had outright told you so, but somehow before tonight, maybe you didn’t really believe him.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Tom asks, his voice low and pointedly gentle. You realize, a beat later, that he’s asking if you need a rape kit. You never imagined, for some reason, that this man could be as equally gentle with victims as he is harsh with perps. That warms your heart for some reason.

You shake your head slowly. “No, nothing like that.”

He searches your face with those sharp black eyes, and you imagine that stare is probably just as effective as a lie detector. You almost didn’t even register it, maybe because it feels so natural, but his hands are on you. His hands have been on you this entire time, and his touch makes you feel anchored, like just maybe you won’t get blown away in this shitstorm.

He looks at the matching bangles around your wrists next, the thin bands of gold bearing Julian’s monogram in that delicate slanted script.

“Fucking asshole, really thinks he owns you,” Tom growls, sliding one from your hand, and crushing the soft high karat gold in his fist.

“Hey.” Your protest is half hearted at best, and all you do is watch as he does the same to the other one, bending it beyond recognition. Destroying the precious little objects that weighed on your wrists with such heavy meaning seems to make him feel better.

Maybe you feel lighter too.

“Trade ‘em at a pawn shop for scrap value, honey. That’s all they’re good for.”

“They were Tiffany,” you tell him with a half smile and a raised eyebrow.

“They were Bullshit & Co, baby girl.” He might just be right about that. “Didn’t really think you cared about stuff like that?”

You shrug, because you don’t, but you’d never owned anything so fine. The novelty of it was enchanting, but maybe the real price for them was far too high.

“Can you take me home?” You think you probably look as pathetic as you sound.

He nods, pulling you to your feet with those strong hands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You lean on him, more than you have to, and it takes all your self control not to wrap your arms around his solid torso and not let go. You realize, this is the first time all night you actually feel safe. “I’ve got you, honey. Come on.”

He walks you to the passenger side of the Charger, tucking you down into the seat, even fussing over the seatbelt. “I can do it,” you tell him softly with a brittle smile. You only see it for a flash of a second, but the rawness in his expression wipes that stupid smile right off your face. You realize that he was scared, for you, and the unlikelihood of it all makes you reach for him.

He freezes as you touch his cheek, your thumb tracing his high cheekbone. Only belatedly do you remember it's the hand with the bandage, because you really have had too much to drink, and you start to withdraw. Not before he turns to press his lips to your palm, his hand dwarfing yours. “You’re safe now. Alright?”

You nod, and your heart hammers in your chest as his gaze drops for a telling moment to your lips. In this vulnerable, inebriated state, safely ensconced in his car, you decide there’s nothing you would like more than to kiss Tom Ludlow, your unlikely knight in shining armor. It seems like the least you can do. You even start to lean towards him, but with a small growl he’s suddenly gone, shutting your door, and striding around to the driver's side. You almost can’t believe it.

But then again, you’re a fucking mess. Why would he want to kiss you?

Julian chooses this moment to start blowing up your phone. You send it to voicemail. As Tom pulls away, the Hemi snarling down the streets of Venice, your doctor demands,

WHERE ARE YOU?!

In answer you tap out, I can’t do this, Julian. I’m sorry. I left. You look over at Tom, a small warmth blooming in your chest, before adding, I’m safe.

Julian tries to keep talking to you, but you decide to just turn off your phone entirely, tossing it down on the floormat with your little clutch purse.You close your eyes, and sit back in the seat. Even then, you can feel Tom looking over at you.

You don’t know where you get the courage to speak, except maybe it’s just the liquid kind, and you’ll really regret it in the morning. “You’re a smart guy, Tom. Maybe you can tell me. What is it about me, that makes men want to hurt me? My whole fucking life…” Your courage does fail you then, and your mouth snaps shut.

There’s the regret. You knew it was there somewhere.

“Honey…” He reaches for you, engulfing your hand in his catcher’s mitt of a paw, squeezing. “I’ve seen a lot of bad shit over the years as a cop. The world is full of assholes. It’s full of evil. Maybe even more than good. It’s not your fault, when it finds you. Ok?”

You nod silently, but you still can’t help but think you’re like a fucking magnet for it. Julian had seemed like such a nice guy, but it turns out he literally wants to beat you with sticks–and maybe light you on fire? A bit of a roué. The understatement of the century.

And Tom seemed like an insufferable alpha asshole, but here he is, saving your ass when you had no one else to turn to.

Maybe the real lesson of the night is that you can’t trust your own judgment at all.

You feel Tom looking over at you again, that evaluating gaze that you fear misses nothing. “You sure he didn’t hurt you?”

You shake your head again. “He just…wanted to,” you admit. “He told me about it. That’s as far as it got.”

“Ok, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hand again, and you can’t help yourself from looking down at it in your lap, and imagining what it would be like if he slid those long fingers up your thigh, and into your panties while driving this powerful machine at breakneck speed down the road. His voice breaks you from your fantasy, leaving you blinking from the brightness of the passing headlights. “Look. Maybe that shit is all done up as something safe with all its rules and consenting adults and blah blah blah, but I’m a cop, and I know an abuser when I see one. If a man cares about you, he shouldn’t want to hurt you. Ok? Don’t let him mindfuck you, baby girl. Stay away from him. You don’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t own you.”

“You think you own me. By that logic, shouldn’t I stay away from you too?”

He gives your thigh a little possessive squeeze. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Maybe you’re a horrible judge of character, and maybe you should just listen to yourself every once in a while and stop getting into these situations, and maybe you’re just fucking stupid, but you believe Tom Ludlow. You believe him with every part of you.

“Well, you’re sorta.” A big hiccup cuts off the middle of your sentence, and you cover your mouth. Oh, that’s how you absolutely know you’re too inebriated for your own good.

Tom laughs. “Sorta what? Mean? Domineering? Bull headed?”

“Cocky,” you add, using the hand on your mouth to cover your smile. Somehow, this man has already managed to cheer you up a little.

“You can be dominant without hurting someone,” he tells you, tapping the side of your thigh with one chunky finger. You twitch a little bit, and it spreads a big grin on his face. The temptation exists to grab his hand and guide it right under the skirt of the dress, but you’re sadly not that drunk.

“Maybe…I need a demonstration?”

He looks so handsome when you catch him off guard, that rugged eyebrow quick and easy, raising in either confusion, humor, or a little bit of both. “Maybe I need to have dinner with you.”

Nope. No more dates. No more, says panicking sober brain.

“I was thinking maybe we just… skip the date?”

“Why? So you can avoid all those feelings you have about me? This might surprise you, but I’m not much for one night stands.”

Really? Fucking really? All his sexual innuendos and suggestions and poking and prodding and he’s suddenly the Virgin Mary?

“Are you kidding me?” You ask, unable to hide your anger. Alcohol. It does wonders. And horrors.

“I’d like to fuck you more than once, honey.”

“I’m not saying it would only be once.”

“Oh? And then the rest of the time, when we’re not fucking, you avoid me and ignore my calls?” Impenetrable Tom Ludlow seems a bit annoyed. Meanwhile, you are internally melting at his words. A man that wants to do more than just fuck you? Take advantage of you? Tom wants you? Fucking asshole. For making you feel…special. Wanted. Even if it is true.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?” His anger makes you flinch.

You knock his hand off your thigh. “I said, I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe you would if you’d give me a chance.”

“You don’t take no for an answer.”

“Because I like you, and I’m not stupid enough to let you go.” Your internal monologue is screaming, resist. You’ve heard this shit before.

That’s the mantra.

You’ve heard it before.

“You just don’t get it.”

“Because you won’t let me. For Christ’s sake, it’s just one date. You wanna act all tough, but if you ask me, you’re being a coward.”

His words hurt, and you shrink back from the deep bite of his tone. He must notice the withdrawal, because he’s reaching over to touch your cheek, to soothe you, to tame you easily with that big, warm touch.

You smack him away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Baby.” His voice is soft, now, and fuck him for plucking every single one of your heart strings with it.

“No. Just let me out. I’ll walk home. I’ll call a fucking Uber.”

“You’re not getting out of this car until I watch you walk into your apartment.”

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“No, but I’m bigger, stronger, and have double locks on these doors, so you’re getting home safe whether you like it or not.”

So you stew in your frustration for the rest of the ride home, your arms crossed like a petulant child. When he pulls up to your apartment building you remember that you had not, in fact, told him where you live.

“How do you know where I live? See, this is why I didn’t go on a date with you. It’s weird that you know where I live. I didn’t even tell you, and you think I’m the one who’s doing something wrong here? You’re a real piece of work, Tom.” You’re babbling, rambling, trying to restrain drops of salty liquid from falling down your face and failing horribly.

He turns toward you, calm and despondent. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

This is the second time he’s said sorry to you since the day you met him. No, maybe the third. He just swings that word around like he does his badge, and it’s so strange. People do not say sorry to you. That apologetic roll is usually yours and yours alone, and here he is just… Just saying it? Why does it piss you off even more?

You get out of the car, slam the door shut, and punch the security buttons for your complex. It's only after you’re safely inside that Tom drives away.

#keanuverse fic #keanuverse #tom ludlow x reader #tom ludlow #street kings

79 notes · View notes

lynmars79 · 21 days

Text

Reflecting on the meme responses and jokes to episode 12 of season 3 Midst--and don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the reactions too, after sitting on this for two weeks--and there's specific ways in universe, and by the narrators, in which Weepe's Fold disability is treated compared to others afflicted by their Fold scars.

He's hardly the only weird or monstrous looking person in the cosmos, particularly those who live within the Fold itself, and now many of the citizens of Midst who survived the moonfall. There's people with extra eyes, limbs, even heads. Fiona's left leg is now a man named Jacob. Giselle's personality is replaced by frogs. Fuze's upside down mouth, hidden behind his facial hair. Ettie's constant laughing. Saskia's doubling can even be horrifying in a few ways, though she's currently coping and using it as an advantage, most times.

And then there's Moc Weepe, who was the most noticeably Fold-affected person on Midst pre-tearror. Because of what happened in the Arca, his situation became a lot worse--a situation he tells Imelda was an inevitability someday.

(Was it really? Or is that his assumption, given how events in his life tend to happen? That if it wasn't Imelda pushing him like that, someone else would have sooner or later?)

Weepe's appearance is described as ghastly and horrific, and it is! He's a translucent jelly of a person, innards on display, the Fold visibly slinking through his system. He has to constantly have a pump going, not unlike people who need their constant oxygen, or drainage bags, or other outward signs of their disability.

Weepe's falling into a(n often dicey) trope of his outward appearance reflecting the monstrousness within, though his descriptions in that way are different from others afflicted by the Fold. Many of them are noted by the narrators as simply existing, a little odd but nothing grotesque, even when the descriptions given would be extremely off-putting. They're spoken of as normal, if noticeable, ramifications of exposure to the Fold. The images and descriptions of the Sequester citizens that Phineas, Lark, and Tzila encountered in season 2 could also be considered monstrous by some.

But it's Weepe specifically who murders people with his own tainted blood, even selling it to others (like Lark, unknowingly). Having his security use it to kill Kozma's entourage. I doubt he's sending any samples to the Mothers now. There are indications, too, that Weepe is exaggerating how weak/ill he is to take others off guard (like Kozma). It's Weepe who weaponizes his Fold affliction, with all sorts of justifications pertaining to his own survival and success.

(Perhaps Saskia to a degree also, using her doubling to literally be in two places at once, passing information between herself, but for very different reasons.)

I say in another post that I gotta respect Imelda's monster-fucking game (I've been on the internet for 30 years, y'all). Especially since I consider her as a monster of another kind, the True Believer with ambition and seeking power, somehow seeing Weepe as a key to her own success, willing to do anything to achieve that. So far it's working, and there have been some concerning appendices about her actions as Archauditor already.

It's not so much about Weepe's horrific Fold-altered state (though that is part of it, but unlike with other Fold-afflicted characters). It's not the middle-aged aspect of the participants (that may be part of it for some younger listeners, though Lark and Sherman hooking up is also considered normal to sweet, and Imogen Loxlee is forever a catch).

It is two horrible people, who have done horrible things to each other as well as to other people, giving in to a long-standing tension (Weepe describing Imelda in detail down to her "little sexy suits" during his Arca ranting, and her fawning on Midst and into the Highest Light didn't seem entirely business-driven) for their own dubious reasons that likely have nothing to do with actual romantic emotions, and are more likely as much about their parallel schemes as about the sexual attraction over their matching ruthlessness

Of the relationships, complicated as they all are in this series, it's the potentially most toxic we are shown as sex occurs, in an exchange to cut the various tensions and issues with this particular hookup; it's actually one of my favorite narrator interactions, the awkwardness and uncertainty playing up the funny to describe the scene without describing it.

I just also look to all the discussions about aging, weight, and disabled, and other folks who fall outside our society's norms for desirability, and wish the narrative descriptions did lean a little more on Weepe's actual monstrosity, and not the grotesqueness of his Fold-afflicted appearance. Cuz when they do turn on the Actual Monster Weepe mode, he's terrifying regardless.

Besides, the pump sound effects and ability to "see" Weepe's physical reactions definitely added to the creative descriptions of that scene in a way that wouldn't be possible otherwise!

Anyway. Mostly feel like there's some unintentional line toe-ing happening in some of these descriptors and reasons for them, which is going to happen in pretty much any and every media, especially a semi-improvised one, as our diabolical businessman--inspired by various traditional villain characters--slips further into villainy himself and his oft-described appearance reflects it.

#midst podcast #midst spoilers #Third Person #season 3 #Interest #Moc Weepe #Imelda Goldfinch #Stationary Hill #Fold #Disability #Monsters #Tearror #character description #musing

17 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Text

Imagine being the one who releases Morpheus. - Part 6

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 7] [ENDING] [ALT. ENDING] | Sandman-inspired playlist

The day was only becoming more bizarre as knocking on your front door resounded throughout the house. Simultaneously, Morpheus and you looked at each other as if trying to ask the other person if they, too, felt danger lurking. Then, you looked towards the front door you could slightly see from the living room as if staring intensely at the dark wood would make it possible for you to see through it.

"I wasn't expecting anyone," you spoke up quietly as if it wasn't already obvious by your anxious attitude. "Truthfully, I was hardly expecting you."

The knocking repeated but this time it sounded more impatient. Hesitantly, you stood up from the sofa and walked towards a window close to the entrance. Pushing your cheek against the cold glass, you could see a strangely familiar silhouette at your door: short, chubby, dark skin covered in dingy clothing. There was only one person who fit that description and who would want to see you.

Almost tripping over your own feet and the old carpet in the hall, you run to unlock the door and let the guest in as quickly as possible. It was rude to let any guest wait too long but this one particular visitor deserved all the respect you were capable of giving them.

The door swung open and you swore your heart grew in size upon seeing that round, slightly wrinkly face. The kindness you learned to recognize as motherly love was still beaming from those tired eyes. Looking at them, you noticed that the left eye was bruised. A few strands of coily brown hair slipped from the white bonnet. She looked much older than she really was but singlehandedly raising three children that weren't her own could do that to a woman.

"Yasmin, what are you doing here? Are you alright? Come inside, you're just in time for tea."

"I can not stay long, my dear," she answered. Despite her statement, she followed you into the house. "Your father, he's... forgive me for speaking ill about him but I'm afraid 'mad' doesn't describe his state anymore."

"Did something happen at the mansion? What of Alex, Yasmin? Is he alright?"

"Younker Alex is fine, dearie," she assured you as she was taking her gloves off. Yasmin had a habit of speaking in a slow, mild way despite neither you nor Alex not being toddlers anymore. "At least as long as he doesn't defy your father. He's a bright boy but still afraid like a child. A lot has changed since you left. Master Rodrick became all the more desperate to save his health and life. But his anger... my dear child, I have never seen a man so full of rage! I'm telling you, some demon took a hold of your father's soul. I and a few other workers decided something needs to be done. I came here to give you this."

Frantically, Yasmin began looking for something in her coat pockets. Finally, she pulled out a small, lightweight bag made of dark material. It could be leather, actually. The textile seemed to be worn out as if the pouch had been used many times or it was ancient. Only then, seeing the enigmatic dark bag, did Morpheus show any kind of interest in the guest and your relationship with her. He made his way to you and Yasmin in quick strides, only to snatch his belongings from her hand. Judging by her face, she was unpleasantly surprised by his rude action but you had other things in mind that lecturing an actual king on netiquette. Alright, the pouch did belong to him but it didn't mean he had to behave like an emaciated weasel.

"How on Earth did you get this?" you asked.

"It wasn't my sole effort, do not flatter me in such a way." Yasmin tried her best to focus on you while answering but it was obvious that Morpheus himself interested her. Up until now, she only heard about the god-like creature kept in the mansion's basement. "Master Rodrick was planning to sell this pouch at a secret auction. In a small group of housekeeps, we managed to swap it for a fake. It has gone unnoticed, so far."

"Yasmin!" You couldn't believe that the softspoken and sympathetic woman who raised you became a sort of a criminal mastermind. Yes, desperate times had fallen on anyone who was in any way related to Rodrick Burgess. "What if my father finds out?"

"Do not worry about me, dearie," she said with a dismissive wave. "I'm old and I have lived a wonderful life. I accept whatever fate the Lord has planned for me. It is up to you, youngsters, to make sure this blasphemous madness does not continue. I came to you because I thought that Master Rodrick was unlikely to look for it here. If I may be honest, dear child, he wishes not to see you ever again. Shortly after you left, he began to keep a loaded rifle next to his bed! He never spoke of a reason for such a drastic decision but we figured it out ourselves."

"What about my letters?" you coaxed her. Morpheus was still dwelling on the mention of a firearm but it seemed as though it wasn't important to you, at least at the moment. His hand clenched tightly around the sand pouch but he was hardly aware of that. "Yasmin, tell me, what happened to the letters I had sent to Alex? I never got any response."

Yasmin furrowed her eyebrows. She stared into the distance for a moment, her vision somehow both blank and intense. Then like a symptom of enlightenment, she raised her eyebrows and looked back at you. Her stare wasn't blank anymore - it was sad. "I saw once master Rodrick throwing correspondence into the fireplace. I'm sorry dearie, I'm afraid your brother knows nothing about it."

A dreadful emptiness wove a nest in your mind. There was only one thought of utmost terror echoing in your head: He knows nothing. All those years... Alex never once was told that you think about him. That you continue to care. Did he feel abandoned? Was his young heart broken in too many ways to ever be fixed? And what of his spirit? If you met him now, would you even recognize the man he was forced to become?

"I musn't linger, dearie." Yasmin placed her old hand on your shoulder bringing you back to the present moment. She used to do that whenever one of the kids was leaving the house. "I can not risk Rodrick finding out where you are. Farewell, my dear child. I will always love you like my own. And you," she turned to Morpheus who appeared surprised at his sudden involvement in the conversation, "keep an eye on her, will you? God looks after his angels and so should you."

Only when Yasmin disappeared behind the now-closed door did the weight of her words fully strike your heart. You hid your face in your hands as you felt gut-wrenching sadness beginning to shake your body. "Dear God, little Alex! He must think I have abandoned him. And father... I'm afraid to wonder what wickedness he had bestowed upon my brother."

Upon hearing you sob, Morpheus's hand instinctively raised like it did once before. This time he, too, stopped it from reaching its destination. It was like an itch, a primitive urge that shouldn't exist within a creature of his sort. Clenching and relaxing his jaw repeatedly, battling his indifference and truly regal ego, he forced his palm to gently lay against the fabric of your clothes, between your shoulder blades. His breath hitched in his throat as if Morpheus himself was surprised that he was, in fact, capable of genuine intimacy.

Unable to keep your misery in check, you leaned into Dream's chest and sobbed against his dark coat. His hand, once shyly resting between your shoulder blades, moved to encircle your shoulders, keeping you closer than one might have expected him to want. The outside world may have continued to spin despite your desperation but it felt like your reality had collapsed in on itself. There was something comforting in the strict seriousness he wore all the time as if it was a reminder that something aside from your anguish existed. Or, perhaps, it was an unbearably lonely experience - that you were the only one in the entire world feeling something so insufferable, that there was no one to cry with you. What a terrifying thought it was: heartache unseen, without a person to acknowledge its existence, only grew in severity, slowly eating away at the wretch.

Taking in a deep, shaky breath you leaned away from Morpheus. He looked at you in his usual stern way, making it even harder to speak your mind even in times of dire need. Strangely enough, his arm remained around you but you didn't pay it much attention at the moment.

"Morpheus, perhaps I am in no position to be asking this, you are an Endless being, a king, after all. But if you find some altruism inside you, could I ask for your help in aiding my brother? My heart breaks for the suffering he had to endure."

"Am I not indebted to you?"

You looked at him with a confused grimace. "No, my dear, you are not and you never have been. If your kindness is repayment, I do not want it."

"What would you have me do?" he asked right away. Truthfully, you were too shaken up to think reasonably. Your head was filled with horrifying scenarios of Alex's fate that you never knew of. And how it broke your heart to think how lonely his misery was, how abandoned he must have felt after all those years without hearing from you. Morpheus took a few steps towards you and leaned close to your face - perhaps a little too close for people who were not married. "Watch your words," he whispered in a shaky voice. You saw his Addam's apple move as he swallowed before continuing. "If you ask me to kill Rodrick, I will."

In all of its macabre, it was a confession of endearment. Hate, perhaps, was a love unspoken, unlived; love that, never having seen the light of day, rotted, not recognizing its decayed-out face anymore. Contempt is but a scream, a whine of all almost-lovers, who with time forgot why they were crying. Maybe only as hate this unconfessed love can prevail, maybe in any other form, it would be a pleading for death.

Your hand anxiously touched the side of his face and, to your surprise, he did not wince. Morpheus managed to surprise himself even: he leaned into the warmth of your palm. Perhaps the love rotting inside of him was making him tired and complacent. "I know," you whispered. "But you deserve better than to be an executioner's axe. You are better than that, Morpheus. I could never ask you to belittle yourself so much and for such a dishonourable deed."

Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @rosaren2498 @jessiboobdbdb @chantzmar @lexi-anastasia @bisexualunicronrunningloose @farintonorth @oo0lady-mad0oo@all-bi-myselfs-blog @piperstofu101 @magic-magnoliaa @kotonei-molyneux @wheresmyboo @supermegapauselouca @sloanexx @rockergirl57 @aizawa-emma @ruyi-years @commanderfreethatdust @sapphireonline @izzicle @mxxny-lupin @shadowluna25

261 notes · View notes

throwaway-yandere · 2 years

Text

Hana Yori Dango (Arataki Itto/Reader/Yan!Kamisato Ayato)

A/n: Eyoo it's Feb 3, the Setsubun festival should be happening rn!!! Idk how I thought it was feb when I uploaded this on SEPTEMBER. Anywahs, ily Itto. He's not a full-blown yandere here (yet?) but he is my– OUR himbo, comrade. Writing Itto's dialogues is a delight. I took some inspiration and ideas from @leftdestiny-posts and the itto/gorou enjoyer anon for this one! (both characters are technically here but... haha...) Thanks for the ideas ehehe >:D

gn!reader. This is Itto's side story for "Careful, He Bites.", so everything is in his perspective. Maybe it could be read as a stand-alone (?) if you haven't read the previous one for extra mystery lololol.

An Unreliable Synopsis: There is another thing besides you and your flowers that Itto can't live without, and it's good fricking food. (Fic happens before "Careful, He Bites")

Cw: yandere!ayato, Japanese folklore, and pure biker gang leader!itto supremacy.

--------

Around the time Emperor Takakura reigned in the country, there lived an old farmer who wouldn't move a hair away from Yamashiro Province.

They were gentle, and their neighbors consistently portrayed them as extremely dense. They did not care to dream big for themselves, and opted to worry only about the plate they'll have once the sun sets. They didn't pay attention to whispers that would soon become the country's history; they hardly heard of the latest gossip regarding Taira no Tokuko. They lived blissfully secluded and unaware, and it was the life they chose to live.

Unaware may not be the best word to describe them, but unaffected.

███ was alone in their household with no spouse to care for them nor children to raise, and in turn, no one thought to accompany them.

Yet ███ never once considered themselves lonely. The moonlight may wax and wane, but the monsters that lurk nearby would never leave them pondering in the dark.

The moon was beautiful that night, too.

"–Won't you be a dear and fetch me a bottle of sake?"

Their voice echoed inside the empty and dilapidated house. The █████ Clan had long been silent, so no human would answer their calls.

"HAHAHAHA!!! Off to drink again, eh? Leave it to the one and oni Arataki Itto to keep you company!"

But a yokai might.

This particular yokai, Arataki Itto, had grown accustomed to pouring drinks for the farmer, in a way, they consider him their grandson. Itto sat by the floor beside them. He was small in stature, not much taller than their knee, but they considered his heart to be much bigger than an average human's. So, how could they ever turn down his offer of joining his cute little gang?

"But seriously, grand-y," Itto grinned. "I don't understand why you drink so much when you could never beat me in a drinking competition."

And oftentimes, a bigger heart comes with a bigger pride.

"Oh, Itto..." The old farmer gently ruffled the young oni's hair. "You ought not to be proud of such a feat! You're too young to be downing these drinks."

"But grand-y!"

"Do not argue with me, young oni."

"Why not, especially when you sound like a total sore loser?"

"Wha–?"

"Bleeuuugh."

The oni stuck his tongue out.

The farmer sighed, endeared.

Itto wasn't happy with the way they'd been acting over the previous month. Their movements have become terse and rigid since they returned from visiting Yae Miko. And right now, they're being awfully silent for a drunk person. Itto also didn't like how their clan's Kagura Bell Wand is also neatly boxed on top of the table with the kitsune's name on it. It's as if they're planning to give their family heirloom away. Does that mean no purification spells are working on their illness?

"Yo, grand-y. Is something up?"

He doubted it was because of ordinary human struggles. Their father had long perished in a failed rebellion and their mother had hopelessly succumbed to an undiagnosed illness. She left her child the heavy weight of carrying a disgraced Clan's name. Almost nothing can trouble the farmer.

The farmer succeded most of their previous hardships. If "succeeded" also meant abandoning the Kuruma-dera temple and becoming a recluse entangled with yokai, then the old Sojo would be rolling in his grave right now. But the point is, Itto doesn't think the old farmer would act this way simply because of a menial problem like relationships and lack of entertainment.

"Oh, nothing. I am just... Pondering over my distant relatives' wellbeing. Nothing too personal."

"Do ya want to visit them? I can help you pack up! I've been getting stronger!!!"

The imperial court may be their cousin's home, but it is not their place to stay. Especially for a hakaiso like them. If their cousin wasn't merciful the usual Banishment Laws would've been in full effect on their trial and they'd be sent to Izu Province. They don't want to burden their subordinate clan-- the Kaedehara clan-- more with their presence.

So they digressed.

"Itto, I want you to have this."

They procured a small violet flower from the vase on top of their table. Itto's nose scrunched. The child never expressed any interest in flowers, so their affectionate gesture doesn't reach him.

"Eh? What am I gonna do with that, grand-y?" Itto was visibly unimpressed.

"I have something to ask of you, won't you take this as a reward for that request?"

"HMPH! I don't even know what the request is!"

"Ahh... Fair point."

They gazed at the moon.

"Can you look after the Kamisato siblings for me?"

The young oni tilted his head. Why would they ask that? The two bakenekos are already capable of taking care of themselves anyways. Particularly the oldest. Itto often played with Ayato, and all their games ended with the cat outsmarting him one way or another. The only fault Ayato had was being overtly clingy and jealous whenever another yokai steals their attention.

"But why? It's not like Ayato needs help--"

"I'll be leaving soon."

"--raising his sis– HAAAAAH?!"

They cleared their throat.

"As a human, it still feels as though I'm abandoning my pets, even if they are intellectual yokais who can handle themselves. I'm worried about Ayato especially, he'll probably carry the weight of the world on his shoulders even if he could share the load. Our little himegimi doesn't even have a proper name yet." They muttered, melancholic.

"Hold up grand-y oni! Where are you going?! You're just going out of town... right?"

They laughed humorlessly and patted his head once more. "It won't be long. I'm sure I'll crawl home to you in a few more years. Don't cry, young oni."

So it's not a visit to the capital, it's...

Itto gulped.

"What... What did miss Miko say?"

"It doesn't matter. I am already tired of thinking about talking about it, what more if we discussed the subject?" They shook their head. By the sound of it, they refuse to talk not because of the emotional strain, but because successfully explaining things to someone like Itto would take too much effort.

"NO! Let's talk about iiiiiiiiitttt!!!" He incessantly tugged on their sleeves. "Is it your heart again?! As your gang leader, I already ordered you to stop purging wraiths!!"

They gave him a small, patient smile. For a brief, enchanting moment, it was as if the world slowed just for the oni to process an epiphany.

They tucked a wisteria behind his tiny ear.

"The moon is beautiful. Itto, thank you for making me the first member of your gang." They closed their eyes, breathing shallowly.

And then, a complete yet abrupt silence.

"Grand-y...?"

Young Arataki Itto lightly shook the old farmer.

"Grand-y?"

Young Arataki Itto shook them a bit more forcefully.

"Grand-y oni?!"

They didn't reply.

"GRAND-Y ONI!?"

Young Arataki Itto helplessly yanked them by their collar.

"GRAND-Y ONI!!!"

-----

"(Y/N)!!!"

You toppled forward as a heavy weight pressed forcefully against your back.

"Oomph– Goodness– Itto?"

"Oh, thank God you're alive!" He sobbed.

Arataki Itto, your best bud, wept over your shoulder. You did not shove him away. Itto is way too strong for you, and you wouldn't ask him to carry rice sacks for you if that weren't the case.

Itto had always been an obnoxious eccentric, often barging into your flower shop and leaving his muddy footsteps on the floor without any reservations until you surprisingly snapped. You commanded him in silent anger that he should make himself more useful to society. Hearing your low-toned voice was the scariest experience Itto had. Itto swears it was downright traumatizing. Distraught, he begged to be your "temporary" delivery boy to calm your nerves. His plan worked.

You pay him generously for his service, especially since he is missing his birth certificate and therefore can't be employed officially, but that doesn't change the fact that your floors are still muddy now that he's always back.

Itto squished his cheek against your neck as he bawled. You first assumed he was here for his part-time job but he's more interested in sharing his story. You accepted your fate and listened to the biker's performance.

"You would not BELIEVE what kinda nightmare I had last night– like hoo boy, it was INTENSE!"

"Is that so?" You chuckled, slowly diverting your attention back to your previous task, which was watering your plants.

"Trust me, man! It was so strange, it felt like it was some premonition from a distant past or something."

"I'm almost certain that premonition refers to an omen of what might happen in the future, but do go on."

"I can't remember the details, but apparently I was talking to this old farmer– and then they died in my arms! Like bleugh!" Itto bit his tongue and closed his eyes, trying to mimic what the corpse did but it's obviously an exaggeration. "I don't even remember what we were talking about, but I felt so small."

"Oh, wow. How horrifying." You spoke with your voice dripping with disinterest.

It kinda blows that you see him as just an annoying kid-like figure, but at least you let him pull you close like this. Maybe you'd compliment his muscles one day (or not, he lowkey skips arm exercises).

"Right?! Get this– the old grandperson-guy gave me a sumire! A FLOWER!!!"

"This is most certainly the first time you're excited about flowers. Hmm..." You placed a finger on your chin. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but are your dreams trying to tell me that violets will sell well this season or...?"

You cast a glance at your reserved flower stock. Because none of them are violets, it appears that you cannot tease him by offering a bouquet. You would've joked about sending some to his funeral, but Itto is rattled enough without your misplaced sense of humor.

"What?! DUDE! Why is that your interpretation?!"

"It might be because I happen to be a florist, Itto."

Itto looked back at your flowers with an open-mouth expression that says "oh, right."

He quietly noticed that most of your flowers have become more colorful since Ayato began generously giving you bonemeal as gifts. He sent jars nearly the size of a skull. It was pretty creepy. Nobody knows what that gentleman meant when he said he personally acquired and ground those bones for you, but at least they're great fertilizers.

"Well, yeah, I guess. But that's beside the point, compadre! I'm telling you all this because I wanna know what sumire, violets, mean in flower language or somethin'!"

"Violets in our country are often given as a sign of gratitude or love. Perhaps the old figure in your dreams only wishes to thank you before they regret not doing so." You sighed. Itto noticed how you looked perplexed amidst your ramblings, as though you were remembering something you shouldn't have. "Your fear of ghosts is seriously affecting your wellbeing, Itto. I fear that your cowardice will affect you one day."

...

'Itto, thank you for making me the first member of your gang.'

...

Itto shuddered.

Nope. No way. There's no way that dude was a ghost.

"W-What?! Me? Afraid of GHOSTS?! HA!" He laughed emptily. "No way."

He paused, eyeing you with his face going way past your comfortable personal space.

"And you know, (Y/n)... Now that I took a good look at ya, you kinda look like the old person from my dreams."

The two of you went silent.

You chucked a half-filled plastic watering can directly into his head.

"OW!!! What was that for?!"

"Old-fashioned as my speech and knowledge of the world may be, that does not mean I appear old myself, thank you very much!"

"WHAT?! I didn't mean it like THAT! C'mon, (Y/n)!" Itto blew a raspberry beside your neck. "I wasn't saying that. I was thinking about how you have this wholesome grandpa or granny type of vibe-- not saying that you're cute-- well I mean, you are cute-- but not in a MEAN way-- like, you're giving endgame lover vibes--"

You gently pushed Itto's hug away and passed on the next batch of flowers before he spirals when defending himself. It's a trick you used against him frequently, which helps you drown out Itto's nonsensical ramblings that are often borderline flirting. He doesn't seem to notice that he'd take anything off your hands whenever he's speaking. Doing this prevents him from realizing that you're asking him to deliver flowers to a sleazy love hotel. You have to thank his biker gang's deputy leader– Kuki Shinobu– for that "life hack."

"This next bouquet is for a client in Kabukicho. Paimon was kind enough to inform me that there is a 10% possibility of rain, but it might pick up by 6 pm so use caution."

Itto furrowed his thick eyebrows. It's cute how you talk like P.A.I.M.O.N is as a person but– "It's just an AI..."

You shrugged.

"Any friend of Lumine is a friend of mine."

Itto perked up. Lumine. It's been a while since the three of you had the pleasure of spending the afternoon indulging in sweets with her in Bistro Ichiya. He wondered how she's been lately.

She stopped responding to your calls the same summer you all became friends with Ayato. Itto thought it was such a bizarre turn of events. It lead you to wonder if your inadequate knowledge of technology had put on quite a formidable communication barrier, but it turns out your mutuals were unable to talk to her as well. Even Yoimiya offhandedly mentioned that it had always been in Lumine's nature to travel and forget her previous commitments.

You highly doubted that Lumine would let it go this far, however. It's been half a year. You had been casual friends for longer than that and know that she's not as fickle as dandelion seeds.

Itto pities your faith in her.

"... Still no calls?"

"Unfortunately no." You sighed. "Not even Paimon knows where she ended up in all her traveling endeavors."

"I'll try searching TeyvatBook again for you."

"Thank you. 'Surfing' the web must be incredibly taxing for both you and your device. I appreciate the effort, Arataki. Do make sure to replenish your phone's energy afterward."

You have the intonation of an aged soul. Itto assumed he'd be used to your manner of speech by now, but it's so eerily similar to the elderly person in his nightmares that it's bordering on the uncanny valley. He wouldn't be astonished if you were ever a docile monk in your past life.

"G-Geez. You make it seem like P.A.I.M.O.N's human. Kinda freaky."

Your silk-like laughter filled the gaps of silence, drowning his distress.

"I am the type of florist who believes talking to plants helps their growth, aren't I?"

Itto smiled softly.

"Yeah... Yeah, I guess you are, grand-y."

-------------------

"Call me later, big guy~–"

"Thank you for your purchase, have a nice day!"

That was the last order for today. Itto would've boasted as usual, but he has your best interest at heart, so he refrained from doing so to keep a good name for the Sakura Bloom flower shop. Following a script is out of character from a man like Itto, but he did most of what you commanded effortlessly.

On a side note: he looked quite adorable sporting a little green apron– clearly your size– instead of his usual bad-boy leather jacket. The look barely complimented his muscles but he's confident that he's still oozing charisma. He can't be too sure though-- he'll gel his hair extra later, and MAYBE you would say he's smokin'.

Itto stepped away from the hotel's porch and walked toward his bike. he never would've guessed you take customers from this side of Shinjuku too. That lady earlier was unforgettably promiscuous, to say the least. As he was about to comb his hair and reach for his helmet, he stopped abruptly.

"Hol' up– Was that Ayato?"

It was unmistakably him. He looked off, though. Itto only saw him for like a split second from afar but Ayato's expression looked nothing like the gentle warm smile he usually sports. Seeing Ayato without you nearby is rare since the man frequently accompanies you in public like a servant or a pet. That's not to say that Ayato lacks a social life. It's just that Itto never had the opportunity to speak with him one-on-one.

Itto became excited simply thinking about it, and the thought of asking why Ayato would be seen in the red light area didn't occur to him. Instead, he had another priority in mind. He always wanted to know where Ayato got his niku-dango ingredients because he wouldn't answer when you asked Ayato or Thoma (but Thoma looked nauseous that day, so Itto couldn't blame the guy). Itto didn't care for the meat dango's recipe, but the ingredients made it delectable—the pork especially! If he was being poetic, it tasted nostalgic. It was as though he had relished in it fresh from his muddled memories. And he's craving for more.

He left his bike and ran after him just before the light turned from yellow to red. But when he reached the other side he couldn't find a hint of his light blue hair amongst the crowd.

Itto cursed to himself as quietly as he could muster, still aware that he was wearing your apron.

"You..."

He spun around. The voice didn't sound anything like Ayato's, but the tone pointed at him. The stranger wore an obi that did not match the century he was in and two protruding azure horns that were hard to miss. It was like he came out of a Setsubun festival. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Itto felt as if those horns were real and not at all out of place.

"Arataki Itto." The stranger's nose scrunched, voice dripping with unadulterated disdain. "The pathetic red oni that stained our pride just for a sinful runin."

Itto stared back, his face blank and his eyes hollow.

"...Takuya."

Itto froze as the name slipped out of his mouth. How did he know his name? And why is he so sure that's his name?

"How was it? How was the taste? Was it as good as you remembered?"

"I... Who are you, man?!"

Itto already knew his name. He knew he just said his name but he still asked out loud because he couldn't understand what the hell is going on.

"Why don't you still remember...?"

Takuya seemed at a total loss on what else to say, unlike his heavily contorted expression.

Arataki Itto is for being easily provoked, and Takuya took advantage of his simple flaw.

"It's been years since you made the deal. Why don't you remember who you were– who you are? Don't you remember the pact?!"

"Theeee– what now?"

Don't get him wrong, Itto feels guilty but he's stumped. He doesn't know what he's guilty of exactly, and this man isn't doing him any favors by continuing this guessing game.

"You promised– you red onis made an oath that you will live ALONGSIDE humans. Why did you eat them? Why did you start living AS a human?!"

Itto's breath hitched at the sound of Takuya's screaming, causing him to nervously run his fingers through his hair. As he reached for his scalp, a phantom pain seared where two things should've been.

"... The hell you talking about, man? Are you a chuunibyo or something?" His voice came off as hoarse and strained, reflecting that an invisible force is harming him in ways he can't prove to himself or others.

Takuya sucked air between his teeth. But just as he was about to break down his list of grievances, another voice interrupted the conversation.

"Ah, there you are, my friend! I have been looking everywhere for you."

The two stopped and Takuya froze. It was almost as if the stranger shrank as the taps of footsteps amplified in each stride.

"Oh, my bro Ayato. There you are." Itto faintly greeted him.

The third person smiled weakly.

Ayato always had excellent timing, it seemed. He curved a hand above Itto's shoulder and gave the stranger a cloudy sideways glance. His eyes were trained on the person in front of them, and in response, Takuya stood defensively. The horned "man" stepped back, preparing to sprint, while Ayato inserted two more steps into his space.

Ayato got in between both Itto and the stranger faster and more forceful than what the biker gang leader anticipated.

His voice was similar to yours when he spoke. It was dangerously low with unmatched vigor and sharpness above all else. "Excuse me, sir, but we're in a hurry. We will be taking our leave immediately."

Takuya nearly sighed in relief as the elegant man shut down the possibility of continuing a conversation. His trembling form bowed quickly while his foot was already turned in the opposite direction. They have to have known each other. Itto had never considered himself as astute, and yet he discovered that this "Takuya" isn't the real threat out of the three of them.

It was none other than Kamisato Ayato.

"Y-Yes... Yes, of course, sir. Farewell."

Takuya scurried away.

...

What was that all about?

What kind of stunts did Ayato pull around Shinjuku for him to come off as intimidating without his knowledge? Itto furrowed his eyes as he looked at Ayato's back. Children don't even find Itto scary, and he had the stereotypical troublemaker look. Ayato appears kind and gentle, maybe a bit standoffish, but his soft appearance shouldn't be able to scare some weird grunt away.

Ayato turned to face him.

Ah. So that's why.

His look of displeasure changed Itto's misconceptions immediately.

Ayato softened his expression once he realized Itto was staring, dumbfounded. He chuckled and tapped the biker's shoulder as if reminding him that the scary look wasn't aimed at him. Itto laughed nervously. Sure, it wasn't, but he made a mental note not to piss Ayato off, ever.

From that, Itto learned that Ayato can be as scary as you when he wants to be.

This man definitely got a dark side. Noted.

"Hey, uh, Ayato, did you see that?"

The light-haired man gave him an indifferent stare. "Saw what, exactly?"

"He had horns, my guy."

Itto began ruffling the top of his head– something he normally wouldn't do since he adores his hair– and created two triangular air shapes. His friend watched him, amused, but perplexed about what he was trying to communicate.

"Like, that dude got those devil horns going on– don't tell me you haven't seen it!"

"Hmm." Ayato hummed, a small grin plastered on his face.

"What would you do if I said I haven't seen anything? You're not afraid of yokai, aren't you?"

"What– C'MON!!!" Itto groaned loudly. "NOT YOU TOO– GAH!!! What's with you and (Y/n) today– enough with this "oooh-you're-afraid-of-this-aren't-yooouu" bullcrap! HELLO?!? I'm ARATAKI NUMERO UNO ITTO! Monsters and ghosts should be afraid of ME."

Ayato closed his eyes and shook his head, but his sly smile had not left his face. "Ah right, my apologies. How could I forget the unsurmountable one and oni Itto, how foolish of me."

"Exactl–..."

One and oni?

Itto both liked and didn't like the sound of that. Much like the taste of Kamisato Ayato's food, the phrase itched the nostalgic part of his brain. He couldn't tell where he first heard it. Ayato didn't even look like he made a mistake in saying "oni" instead of "only", rather, it slipped out of his tongue so naturally. Like he was hoping Itto would catch on to whatever he was implying.

Well, he didn't. He had no idea where Ayato was getting at and he only has about 2 brain cells left after that terrible migraine.

"And don't even joke about yokai stuff! I don't wanna get bad luck this Setsuban Festival."

Ayato raised an eyebrow.

"...I thought you were allergic to beans?"

"Yeah I am," Itto said. "And that's precisely I don't want any bad vibes for tomorrow. Can't have beans to save me from those onis, you know?"

Ayato muttered something Itto didn't hear.

"So you aren't fully human yet as well, hmm..."

"Say, why are you in the red light district? Don't tell me you're picking chicks around here."

Ayato refrained from rolling his eyes while Itto laughed.

"I'm not here for that, I'm trying to find a sist-- my little sister."

"Oh, oh! Tag me in! Lemme help. What does your sister look like?"

He appeared troubled when Itto volunteered to help. Ayato carefully chose his next words.

"She's shy and quite the formidable escapist. You wouldn't be able to find her unless you're looking at every nook and cranny."

"Sounds like bullshit."

Ayato technically didn't lie.

Itto continued. "Do you have a sister complex or something? Bro, I won't do anything to her. Just give me a description."

He shrugged. "Himegimi looks like me."

"Well, duh, of course, she does. Can't you be more specific? Like her height, hair, and eye color maybe--"

"Never mind it. Once she's tired of searching, she'll be back home soon enough."

"But, dude, your little sister is in the RED LIGHT DISTRICT! Aren't you worried--"

"She'll be fine."

"But men would--"

"She's small, they won't notice her."

Itto's unsure whether Ayato's brain is too advanced or he's acting stupid because that answer didn't make sense at all. Aren't smaller girls supposed to be in more danger around these parts? His head hurt. He always treated anyone smaller than him as kiddos-- and he can't imagine a kid can protect themselves from kidnappers.

Suddenly, they heard a strangle rumbling nearby.

Ayato looked at Itto and his stomach accusably.

He scratched his neck with a snobbish frown.

"Fiiiiine, I take it back. I'm hungry so I'll leave you searching for your sister. Alone. Without my help. At all."

Ayato, familiar with his antics by now, started leading Itto to walk alongside him.

"You're in luck then. I was planning to cook today. I haven't ordered Thoma to butcher the meat yet– but we will tonight. Perhaps you'd want to join me for dinner?"

"Holy shit, are you making those niku-dangos again?"

He nodded.

"For real? Hold on, let me tell grand-y first." He began messaging you.

"Haha, so you're back to calling our (Y/n) "Grand-y", I see."

Itto looked up from his phone. "Back to?"

Our?

Ayato nodded solemnly. Once again, he had that look that hints that he's trying to get Itto to remember something on his own, but Itto REALLY doesn't have the patience at this point. He's so dog-tired plus he's starving. Itto doesn't have time for any more mind games, whether it's that Takuya guy or Ayato.

Itto was surprised that you replied fast. Albeit, it was the default thumbs-up emoji and you might've mis-tapped but nu-uh, no takebacks allowed here, boss! Itto giggled like a preschooler as he bombarded you with smug Thank You stickers and emojis while you were (very slowly) typing a reply.

"From that look on your face, I am guessing that they agreed."

"Hell yeah, man! I can't wait to grab a bite of that sweet sweet taste of perfection, baby! C'mon, free delicious food? Count me in!"

"Wonderful."

Kamisato Ayato's lips contorted into a Cheshire cat-like grin.

"Let's eat him, together."

--------

Glossary:

Dango over flowers/hana yori dango: means "substance over style" or preferring a practical gift over something superficial.

Hakaiso: a monk who had sinned/had been considered depraved.

Himegimi: word for princess.

Sojo: a high-ranking Buddhist priest.

Setsubun Festival: a festival focused on purging houses of misfortune (b e a n s), often associated with oni imagery.

Runin: an exiled individual.

#tag: careful he bites #yandere genshin x reader #yandere #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere x reader #yandere ayato #arataki itto x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere kamisato ayato #arataki itto fanfic #tw: cannibalism #ansy-writes

249 notes · View notes

ecoamerica · 2 months

Text

youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

16K notes · View notes

agentrouka-blog · 1 year

Note

Jon is said to be called black heart bastard in books. Besides him Rhaegar, Jaime, Bronn and Brown Ben Plumm are mention to have black hearts. Melisandre told Davos that Others also have black heart. Do you think it's implying about treachery and duplicity in these characters?

Oh, let's do it the old-fashioned way and just check out Every Single Mention! :)

One thing that stands out is that the black heart is usually assigned in an accusatory manner by a different character, so the connotation to treachery or cruelty is definitely an in-universe trope, while at the same time creating some fun parallels between those so described.

Black hearts a-plenty. Lots of quotes.

"Rhaegar … Rhaegar won, damn him. I killed him, Ned, I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it. Yet somehow he still won. (AGOT, Eddard X)

-> Dead, yet triumphant. An armored heart.

So many dead, so very many. Their corpses hung limply, their faces slack or stiff or swollen with gas, unrecognizable, hardly human. The garments the sisters took from them were decorated with black hearts, grey lions, dead flowers, and pale ghostly stags. (ACOK, Tyrion XV)

-> A sigil worn by the dead.

Styr scowled. "His heart may still be black."

"Then cut it out." (ASOS, Jon II)

-> A mark of treachery. In need of killing.

"So tell me, Ser Davos Seaworth, and tell me truly—does your heart burn with the shining light of R'hllor? Or is it black and cold and full of worms?" [...] It is well you did not lie to me. I would have known. The Other's servants oft hide black hearts in gaudy light, so R'hllor gives his priests the power to see through falsehoods." She stepped lightly away from the cell. "Why did you mean to kill me?" (ASOS, Davos III)

-> Treacherous, in opposition to fire, with ill intent.

"Why? Is it your fault that Bronn's an insolent black-hearted rogue? He's always been an insolent black-hearted rogue. That's what I liked about him." (ASOS, Tyrion IX)

-> A mark of disloyalty.

Ser Brynden laughed again. "Much as I would welcome the chance to take that golden sword away from you and cut out your black heart, your promises are worthless. I would gain nothing from your death but the pleasure of killing you, and I will not risk my own life for that . . . as small a risk as that may be." (AFFC, Jaime VI)

-> A mark of treachery. In need of killing.

Jon felt as stiff as a man of sixty years. Dark dreams, he thought, and guilt. His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard's heart. (ADWD, Jon VI)

-> A mark of treachery (against his family) caused by torn loyalty (between the Watch and the Starks).

"Ser Grandfather knows how to count. The Second Sons have gone over to the Yunkai'i." Daario turned his head and spat. "That's for Brown Ben Plumm. When next I see his ugly face I will open him from throat to groin and rip out his black heart." (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

-> A mark of treachery. In need of killing.

A horn of mead was never far from his hand, so the spittle he sprayed when making threats was sweet with honey. He called Jon Snow a craven, a liar, and a turncloak, cursed him for a black-hearted buggering kneeler, a robber, and a carrion crow, accused him of wanting to fuck the free folk up the arse. Twice he flung his drinking horn at Jon's head, though only after he had emptied it. (ADWD, Jon XI)

-> Variety! An unrelenting negotiator with high demands who cannot be moved. Treacherous only in the expectations of generosity placed on him, not in true falseness.

Ghost came racing from the gate. Tormund's horse shied so hard that the wildling almost lost his saddle. "Naught to be feared?" Jon said. "Ghost, stay."

"You are a black-hearted bastard, Lord Crow." Tormund Horn-Blower lifted his own warhorn to his lips. The sound of it echoed off the ice like rolling thunder, and the first of the free folk began to stream toward the gate. (ADWD, Jon XII)

-> Same as above: Unrelenting, intimidating, stern.

Bonus Black-heartedness:

The Hoares

The west coast of the North has also oft been beset by reavers, and several of the Hungry Wolf's wars were forced upon him when longships out of Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Pyke, and Orkmont descended upon his western coasts beneath the banners of Harrag Hoare, King of the Iron Islands. For a time the Stony Shore did fealty to Harrag and his ironmen, swathes of the wolfswood were nothing but ashes, and Bear Island was a base for reaving, ruled by Harrag's black-hearted son, Ravos the Raper. (The World of Ice and Fire - The North: The Kings of Winter)

Archmaester Hake tells us that the kings of House Hoare were, "black of hair, black of eye, and black of heart." Their foes claimed their blood was black as well, darkened by the "Andal taint," for many of the early Hoare kings took maidens of that ilk to wife. True ironborn had salt water in their veins, the priests of the Drowned God proclaimed; the black-blooded Hoares were false kings, ungodly usurpers who must be cast down. (The World of Ice and Fire - The Iron Islands: The Black Blood)

-> A mark of cruelty as well as treachery and illegitimacy. In need of killing. (Historically opposed to the dragons.)

The Heart of Old Volantis

Who built it? When? Why? Most maesters accept the common wisdom that declares it to be of Valyrian construction, for its massive walls and labyrinthine interiors are all of solid rock, with no hint of joins or mortar, no chisel marks of any kind, a type of construction that is seen elsewhere, most notably in the dragonroads of the Freehold of Valyria, and the Black Walls that protect the heart of Old Volantis. (The World of Ice and Fire - The Reach: Oldtown)

They must have a library in Old Volantis, surely. I may find a better copy there, if I can find a way inside the Black Walls to the city's heart. (ADWD, Tyrion IV)

One looked toward the Long Bridge and the black-walled heart of Old Volantis across the river. (ADWD, Tyrion VII)

-> A black heart may simply be armored in black, protecting what is within.

So a black heart does, indeed, indicate treachery and duplicity, mortal animosity, often in opposition to a fire-related enemy. It can also indicate illegitimacy, and it carries a strong connotation with death, though in the case of Ben Plumm it is survival he champions. It may indicate a "wall" or "armor" around the true intentions of the heart, similarly to a metaphorical Wall of Ice.

Honorable mention: Dark Heart

One spoke with the timbre of a child. The floating heart pulsed from dimness to darkness. [...] Perched above her, the dragon spread his wings and tore at the terrible dark heart, ripping the rotten flesh to ribbons, and when his head snapped forward, fire flew from his open jaws, bright and hot. (ACOK, Daenerys IV)

-> In opposition to Daenerys and her dragons.

The dwarf woman studied her with dim red eyes. "I see you," she whispered. "I see you, wolf child. Blood child. I thought it was the lord who smelled of death . . ." She began to sob, her little body shaking. "You are cruel to come to my hill, cruel. I gorged on grief at Summerhall, I need none of yours. Begone from here, dark heart. Begone!" (ASOS, Arya VIII)

-> A child. A wolf child. A dark heart.

Or, interestingly distinct: Heart of Darkness

At her command, one produced an iron key. The door opened, hinges shrieking. Daenerys Targaryen stepped into the hot heart of darkness and stopped at the lip of a deep pit. Forty feet below, her dragons raised their heads. Four eyes burned through the shadows—two of molten gold and two of bronze. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

-> Where dragons dwell.

Most sinister of all the sorcerers of Asshai are the shadowbinders, whose lacquered masks hide their faces from the eyes of gods and men. They alone dare to go upriver past the walls of Asshai, into the heart of darkness. On its way from the Mountains of the Morn to the sea, the Ash runs howling through a narrow cleft in the mountains, between towering cliffs so steep and close that the river is perpetually in shadow, save for a few moments at midday when the sun is at its zenith. In the caves that pockmark the cliffs, demons and dragons and worse make their lairs. The farther from the city one goes, the more hideous and twisted these creatures become...until at last one stands before the doors of the Stygai, the corpse city at the Shadow's heart, where even the shadowbinders fear to tread. Or so the stories say. (The World of Ice and Fire - The Bones and Beyond: Asshai-by-the-Shadow)

-> A place of demons, dragons "and worse". A place of corpses. Marked by the run of a river named Ash, a city named Stygai. Truly stygian.

Far be in from me to cast aspersions (Lies, I love casting those.) but given that Jon is associated with the term most frequently, I'd suspect he will end up playing a role in opposition to a fire-related enemy, who will want him dead, guarding his heart's true intentions behind a black armor and plotting with ill intent. Perhaps accused of trying to be a usurper, perhaps accused of demanding too much, perhaps trying to reconcile a taint in his blood with his loyalty to the Starks.

#rouka queue #long post #quote compilation #black heart #jon snow #parallels #anti daenerys targaryen #not really but you know

67 notes · View notes

msfcatlover · 1 year

Text

@alycat76 : Can you give me the low urban fantasy AU?

YES! YES I ABSOLUTELY CAN!!! Ah, you have no idea how much I love this one!!!

Okay, so! This AU was actually born directly from my frustration with a bunch of Urban Fantasy AUs (and original stories, if we’re being real here.) Namely, that those stories will so often be like, “These magical beings are very, very rare,” and then the entire cast will be mystical beings of one sort or another. And I was like, “You can totally tell an engaging story in a world like this with an almost entirely human cast. You don’t even have to cut out the magic element or fun world building!” (And yes, that first part does accurately describe my Monster!Kids AU. Shhhhh, let me have my hypocrisy.)

I wanted to do that, and my brain is 90% Batfam brainrot right now, so here’s what I came up with.

(CW for minor mentions of sickness, canon character death, and child abuse. Bruce is not the abuser, for the record. But mentions are there. Also, Jason’s body is not restored to its pre-death state, and I do describe some of the things that would’ve been done to prep him for his funeral.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Very first point: Bruce’s tie to Gotham is more than just his love & dedication to his city. The Wayne family are supposedly one of the oldest families in the city, and of those old families they’re possibly (I’m still a little unclear here) the only one not tied to the Court of Owls? They’re the ones most dedicated to improving Gotham and ending its corruption, anyway. So let’s do something with that, shall we?

The Wayne bloodline has a bond with the city. Some might call it a blessing, some might call it a curse. The eldest member of the family is a Fisher King; the health of the Lord is tied directly to that of the city. When the Lord is sick, the city suffers; when the city suffers, the Lord feels its pain. And for generations, the head of the family has near-always been ill. Bruce has vivid memories of his father retching over the toilet, or calling in sick because the trembling was too much for Thomas to risk operating on patients (they are, depressingly, some of the most vivid memories Bruce has of his father.) As a member of the family, Bruce could see the marks just under his father’s skin, from ink-black to bruise-yellow and every sickly color in between, that nobody else seemed to see (Zatanna did, and she was the only outsider to assure Bruce he wasn’t crazy over it, but there’s only so much she could do for him.) It was terrifying for a young boy to see his father so ill, but Thomas promised Bruce that even though it was a “family condition,” Thomas & Martha were working on it; Thomas promised his son that by the time Bruce had to worry about it, they’d have made enough progress that Bruce would hardly even notice it.

Of course, that’s not what happened. Thomas was actually feeling well that night, better than he had in months, and wanted to go out to celebrate. Martha chose the restaurant and Bruce chose the movie. And maybe, if Thomas had kept feeling well, if he hadn’t had to stop to catch his breath, if the family hadn’t stepped into that specific alley to avoid blocking the sidewalk... maybe things would’ve been different.

When Thomas Wayne breathed his last, his son collapsed under the weight of Gotham’s rot & suffering. Joe Chill assumed the bullet must’ve passed through one of the parents to hit the child, and fled in a panic.

The hospital could find nothing wrong with Bruce, but he saw the understanding in Alfred’s eyes when he arrived and the first thing Bruce said to Alfred was, “I think I’m dying.”

(In most legends, Fisher Kings cannot leave their homelands. The Waynes are slightly luckier, but the longer they are away, the more they... fade. Energy seeps out of them slowly, color leaves their skin, no amount of sleep is ever enough, and they eventually need to return to Gotham to recharge. Bruce’s record is 3yrs, and the doctors shipped him home basically in a coma.)

(Bruce swore he would never have children, never pass down his bloodline’s curse to an innocent child who should not have to carry it. He got a vasectomy as soon as he legally could. Needless to say, he was furious Talia would go so far as to create a clone-son for the two of them, violating both Bruce’s right to choose and cursing Damian to carry on that line of suffering.)

Bruce learned his city & body well enough that he can use it as a map. Not a map that would make sense to anyone else (street corners that are directly adjacent to eachother might be on completely different parts of him, like one on his ribs and the other behind his knee.) During the day, he uses his resources to try to treat Gotham’s suffering preventatively, going after unjust rules & systems, weaving a new security net for Gotham’s underclass, etc. At night, his methods are more surgical, cutting out the tumors & rot, while also taking the time to help as many individual citizens as he possibly can.

As the legend of the Batman grows, reality starts to bend ever so slightly under the weight of it. He jumps further & more accurately than a man of his bulk should be able to, can always find the perfect corner to hide in, always has something to grab when he falls off a building.

Despite all the suffering Gotham causes Bruce Wayne, he still loves his city. And the city loves him back.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Second point: Dick Grayson is human, and he doesn’t exactly have any magic of his own. It’s... I’m calling it “being a conduit.” Basically, Dick resonates with any magic in his vicinity. He’s very sensitive to the presence of magic, to the point of it being basically a sixth sense, and on an instinctive level he attunes himself to any natural or environmental magic around him. To a very limited degree, he can even take on a few traits of what that magic is, but not... he can’t tune into a fire spell and burn you with a touch, but when he’s resonating with Gotham, he is slightly more resistant to poisoning.

It’s much, much rarer than being a magic user (though many magic users do eventually become conduits through sheer exposure,) but in the same way having perfect pitch is different from being able to sing.

...I’m making it sound so much more powerful than it actually is here. The main benefit Dick gets out of it is that when he attunes himself to any given city, the city will treat him as a native and most citizens just passing him in the street will assume he is too (this does not affect his ability to, say, speak the language or change his accent, it’s just his “vibes,” if that makes sense.)

As far as story goes, this means Dick can see Bruce’s curse-marks despite not being a member of his bloodline; if they’re in contact with eachother, Dick can even very faintly feel what the city is inflicting on Bruce at any given time. (This scares the absolute bejeezus out of Bruce when he realizes, as he immediately assumes he misinterpreted the curse, and “bloodline” just means “family,” or even “household,” and he’s cursed Dick as well just by offering him a home!) It also means that as soon as Robin becomes part of Batman’s legend, Dick can benefit from the city’s protections just like Bruce does.

It is, in fact, Dick who causes Bruce to realize there’s something more than just good luck happening, when Robin is thrown off a roof but fortunately finds a pole of some sort hidden by the building’s shadow to kick off from and make it to the next one over (this also triggers a rumor that Robin can fly, something Dick is more than happy to lean into with some tailoring on his cape, and yes, he does move even better & faster as a result.) The thing is, Bruce is certain there was no pole there, because he would’ve incorporated it into potential escape plans. And when he finally has the time to go back & check, after the fight is over, after Robin is safe... he’s right. The alley is empty. There’s no pole, no pipe, no nothing. But Dick definitely kicked off of something in mid-air, Dick’s not a metahuman or a magic user, he can’t double-jump or anything. Dick himself insists his foot just caught the top of a thin, flat cylinder, no more than two inches wide, just barely enough to jump from; Dick’s even pretty sure he saw the pole when he glanced behind him, sticking up out of the shadows. Nothing weird at all, except for how it doesn’t exist.

(When Jason dies, Gotham’s grief is strong enough to feel it all the way out in space. Dick doesn’t understand the heavy feeling in his heart, nor the sudden urgency to get home. He tells the other Titans to just drop him off in Gotham, but the closer they get, the worse Dick feels. When they actually break the city limits, Dick just melts into tears as Gotham’s pain howls through every inch of his body. Donna calls ahead, more than a little panicked, and nearly gives Alfred a heart attack with how worried & hesitant Donna is to just straight up say what’s wrong with Dick. She offers Dick the communicator, saying it’s Alfred on the line, and Dick snatches it out of her hand to ask the only coherent word any of them will hear from him for the rest of the day: “Who?”

When Alfred answers, Dick just... breaks. Right there in front of them. He’s trying to say something, something about that being wrong, something about having plans, but he can’t deny what he’s feeling, and he can’t seem to get the words out.

The Titans land in the Batcave, and refuse to leave. Fuck Batman’s rules, they’re not abandoning Dick... and Dick isn’t the only one who didn’t get to say goodbye.)

(Bruce & Dick still fight about it terribly once they’re finally alone. Bruce never once raises his hand to his son, but Dick tries to reach out to him, to touch Bruce’s hand and resonate, to literally share his pain, and Bruce jerks away saying, “Don’t, it’s not---”

Dick stares in shock & horror as both of them silently complete that sentence: It’s not real. If you asked Dick right in that moment, he’d say striking him would have hurt less.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jason was human, fully human, with nothing special about him at all. Well, except for how Gotham loved him even more than Batman. The resonance Dick needs to wrap himself up in for Gotham to accept him, Jason has it echoing in his bones. He’s one of Gotham’s truest sons, he’s part of that city, and the city is part of him.

It’s not Superboy Prime’s reality breaking punch that brought Jason back from the dead. I... Look, I wrote a little nursery rhyme to explain it, and I’ve no idea if it’s any good (but it can’t be any worse than the Court of Owls’ rhyme, which has just a few too many syllables in certain lines for me to find whatever rhythm it’s supposed to have.)

Take me home to Gotham If I die far away Put me in her soil In a shallow grave

I don’t belong in Paris Or under London Town Don’t bury me in Tokyo Put me in Gotham ground

If you lose me out at sea In storm or dark of night I’ll swim back home to Gotham I’ll just follow the lights

Don’t send me off to Moscow Or drag me down to Rome I’m Gotham born and bred, my friend I only rest at home

Oh, take me home to Gotham If I die far away Put me in her soil In a shallow grave

I don’t need no tears or funerals Don’t miss me every day For I’ve come home to Gotham And right at home I’ll stay

(As far as most people are concerned, that’s where the rhyme ends. This next part is less well known, in-universe.)

I don’t want no fancy coffin Just put me in the ground Dig a hole on old Park Row And don’t let me be found

My soul belongs in Gotham She knows me blood and bone There is nowhere else that I may rest I’ll only toss and moan

But I’ll rest well in Gotham For two years and a day And if I’m feeling up to it I might even awake

So take me home to Gotham If I die far away You know I’ll only rest in peace In my shallow grave

...Yeah. This actually leads to a few traditions very specific to Gotham, like lighting a candle on someone’s grave on the anniversary of their death to help “lead them home,” or sitting vigil by their grave for the first 2-3 anniversaries. Lots of people don’t even know it has anything to do with this rhyme, it’s just part of Gotham’s culture.

Bruce & Dick of course know the whole rhyme and fight not to get their hopes up on the 2nd anniversary (have you seen that one post where Dick goes to smoke a cigarette for Jason on his grave, chokes on the smoke, and then Bruce shows up and they just silently share it? Yeah. Those vibes. Big those vibes.)

They made one crucial miscalculation, though: they calculated when Jason’s return would theoretically be from the time he died, not from when he was buried. Jason claws his way out of the ground just a day or two after they leave.

Now Jason’s a full-on undead revenant. In exactly the same condition they put him in the ground. He has embalming fluid in his veins, and wires holding his broken bones together. His mouth was sewn shut. But he’s not braindead, he’s fully aware, so enjoy that nightmare fuel for your near future! Additionally, people can’t seem to recognize him as being out of place; he’s walking around in his funeral suit, covered in dirt, and hardly anyone gives him a second glance. He doesn’t register to people, just a face in the crowd, just another part of Gotham, and it’s... Look, Jason’s not complaining that he’s not being arrested or having people run screaming at the sight of him. He can’t even say they’re ignoring him because people will still look up, say their greetings, whatever when he walks through a door, or grunt when they walk into him. But something about the way people brush past him, the certainty nobody will remember him after their interaction is finished, hurts.

(The only way for Jason to be remembered, to leave an impression on the people around him, is to become part of a legend once again.)

Revenants come back for a reason, and Jason’s is to kill his murderer. But he’s part of Gotham proper now, and unlike Bruce, Jason can’t leave. He tries to, he drives all the way to Arkham in a hot-wired car, but he’s still a good half mile away before the pain becomes too much and Jason’s forced to turn the car around or risk crashing when he inevitably passes out. This Jason never trains with the League of Assassins, but he doesn’t need to; no Lazarus Pit needed to fix his mind, and his undead body can take a lot more punishment than any living human could.

(I have this mental image of Jason going back to Wayne Manor, right on the edge of discomfort-not-pain outside of the city proper, and needing to spill so many identifying secrets to Alfred to get Alfred to even let him through the door. Bruce is out of the country, so Alfred calls Dick to please come help him verify their visitor’s identity. Dick has no idea who this stranger in their living room is, until he closes his eyes and focuses on the magic. Dives in deep, letting the resonance of Gotham’s soul wrap around him, and is surprised to find it so much clearer & louder than it should be this far from the city’s heart. Louder than it’s ever been since Jason---

Dick opens his eyes, and his breath catches in his throat as he finally recognizes the face staring at him with so much raw hope.)

Anyway, Bruce refuses to kill the Joker even harder when he finds out Jason is back, because he’s terrified that the moment Jason’s unfinished business is done, Jason will go back to being properly dead.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Okay, last stop: Tim! The only member of the family to be fully supernatural, non-human from the start.

Tim is a changeling. Specifically, he’s a fae who was born without the spellcasting abilities most fae have, so he was traded for a human child. Tim has no memory of the fae courts or his home mound, but he’s a smart cookie and it wasn’t hard to do the math.

Tim can’t lie. He has to keep his promises and he can’t help but keep track of debts (the kindest people in his life will give him quick, easy ways to repay them; a cool rock Tim found, or an interesting bit of information. Tim doesn’t like to hold debts over others most of the time, and will offer similar outs or just tell himself the next nice thing they do for him makes them even.)

Tim can’t cross salt lines or thresholds with horseshoes above them.

Tim can’t touch iron or silver without burning his skin.

Eating non-iodized salt makes Tim sick.

If Tim speaks someone’s full name as part of a command, they will do what he tells them to (other people don’t usually realize this, because they aren’t forced violently; their own minds usually try to find ways to justify what they’re doing.)

If someone has a piece of Tim’s body (like hair, blood, or nail-clippings) Tim’s brain goes into panic mode as quickly as if they held a knife to his throat.

Those are the obvious giveaways that point straight to fae. Tim’s inhumanity can also be found in minute details of his physicality.

Tim’s eyes glow in the dark.

The tips of Tim’s ears are pointed.

Tim has never lost a tooth (but his parents had his eye-teeth removed when he was eight.)

Tim’s nails grow in tough & black as pitch. (He’s gotten in trouble many times at school for painting them, despite the doctor’s note explaining it.)

Hidden under Tim’s hair, his scalp grows thick, curved thorns like a rosebush. (His mother sits him down in the bathroom the day before company comes over, and meticulously removes them with a pair of nail clippers. It hurts. They bleed. Tim’s learned not to squirm or show how much he hate it. It hurts worse if anyone messes with Tim’s hair afterwards, but he’s learned not to show that either.)

And, of course, there’s the biggest giveaway of all:

In all Tim’s pictures before the single trip his parents ever took him on (a whirlwind tour of Europe just before his 2nd birthday,) Tim’s eyes were hazel-brown.

They’re blue now.

(Tim tells himself his parents leave him behind and push him away because they can sense something is off about him, but that they don’t know what. He tells himself they didn’t notice when the fae stole their son away, that the real Timothy Drake would’ve grown up doted on & treasured, traveling the world with them, seeing the sights. Tim tries not to think about how Drake Industries was spiraling before they took that trip, or how it stabilized before they even made it home.)

Tim still becomes Robin, barely resisting Name-commanding his way into the role (it wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be honest, he needs Bruce to trust Tim if Bruce is ever going to get better.)

Gotham itself sees Tim as an interloper, but when Tim is Robin it can’t do anything about that. When Jason comes back, Tim sets off all his red-flag alarms, and all he can see is an alien parasite trying to worm its way into his family. It won’t be until Jason saves Tim from supernatural poachers who try to torture Tim’s Name out of him (fruitless in the first place, Tim doesn’t know his own Name,) that they’ll be able to move past that. Gotham can project its suspicions & paranoia through Jason, but how Jason chooses to see Tim will also affect Gotham.

(Someday, Damian will find Tim’s eye-teeth and return them to him as a birthday gift. It will be the kindest single act anyone has ever done for him, as Tim feels safe & whole for the first time since they were taken. Nevermind that they’re in a jewelry box and not Tim’s body, he has his teeth back, and nobody can take them ever again.

Tim will struggle to tell Damian that Tim can’t even begin to express how much this means to him. In the end, Tim just tells Damian, “Thank you. I owe you.”

Dangerous words, with no limit on the debt.

Damian will blink, realize what Tim’s answer really means, and scoff. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a gift. You don’t owe me anything, that’s how gifts work.”)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Basically everyone else has the same stories they do in canon, but with a little less dying. I’ve given dying so much more weight in this AU, so like, Steph doesn’t die, Damian doesn’t die, etc.

Damian does inherit Bruce’s curse/burden when Bruce is lost in time, though. Dick helps him learn to manage it, on top of everything else.

66 notes · View notes

nitpickrider · 5 months

Text

And so, with that, we conclude Captain America Vol 1. (1968-1996) I'll give a short sum up for anyone who doesn't want to jump below the cut. This volume is a classic. A 30 year epic that prospered under the hands of some of the best in the business and under the mind of one creative genius in particular who shaped and defined our understanding of one of the greatest characters in the Marvel canon. From the heaving ruckus of the Marvel 60s to the stumbling aftermath of the 90s Dark Age, Captain America shared some of the greatest moments, stories and emotions that you could ever pick off a rack. I thought I appreciated Cap before. I know much, MUCH better now. If you're interested in my thoughts on breaking the book down into eras, or want a sneak peak at the next Marvel book on the list. Peek below.

ERA 1, THE SIXTIES: What can even be SAID about Marvel in the 60s? A constant flooding river of new ideas tossed thick and fast one right after the other in a verbose style that we joke on because we love it. This was a foundational stepping stone of the modern comic book and Captain America is no exception. Weird science, kirby dots, story straining with a countercultural need to be about something, to turn into something people had never seen before and yet still with a casual familiarity that mad the bullpen feel like a gaggle of college yucksters making it up as they went along. Often imitated, never duplicated, Captain America in the 60s had about 5 too many Sleeper storylines but an energy that kept me hopping along gladly.

ERA 2, THE FALCON:

Words can hardly describe the breath of fresh air that Sam Wilson AKA The Falcon represented. Cap in the 60s could on run on that early Marvel energy for so long before the Bronze Age crept in and it needed something new, something modern, something that gave the stories some meat to sink into. Sam Wilson was that and more, a new perspective to every story that kept Captain America honest in how his symbol was viewed and accepted from the ground up by marginalized communities, not to mention someone who could bounce ideas and banter off Steve in every sense. There's a reason they become one of, if not THE enduring duo of equals in Marvel's canon. Captain America and The Falcon will always have a special resonance to anyone who knows them and this run getting it right the first time is why. Plus, cute birb.

ERA 3, THE BROOKLYN ERA:

With the 80s came a new style, a new grit and reality that came with New York's growth or degeneration depending on how you look at it. Urban sprawl and smog became a constant backdrop and ideas of street crime and urban decay become frightening realities for the residents. So Captain America was forced to confront and integrate himself into that new reality. He got an apartment, he got a job, he got a girlfriend, he lived in a tenement with people who lived and worked and toiled the same way he did. It's the closest he's ever come to being a Spider-Man style street level hero, fighting the ills of a world that feels real and tactile all around him.

ERA 4, EARLY GRUENWALD:

Now we get to the core of this volume, a single writer and creative that would steer the ship of defining Captain America to the largest extent since his original creators. Mark Gruenwald. A writer who had every idea of how one examined, deconstructed, reconstructed and puzzled with the inherent questions and contradictions inherent in the Sentinel of Liberty. Never does the comic go any length of time without making Cap question who he is and what his purpose is. It's an era that feels like nothing so much as building momentum, creating an engine to tell stories about a fascinating man and the fascinating people around him, never one to shy away from beloved secondary heroes like Nomad, D-Man and Steve's supporting cast like Bernie Rosenthal or Arnie Roth.

ERA 5, THE JOHN WALKER ERA:

Gruenwald's masterstroke, making Captain America look a modern, cynical world in the eye and ask "who am I, what is my purpose, and what does my symbol mean in a world where freedom and America are not synonymous terms." Not content to JUST look at that through Steve's eyes, the character of John Walker (Later USAgent) is a dark reflection of Steve that asks him what the consequences would be if his patriotism become jingoism by even one degree over the line. Forcing Steve to define for himself what kind of American ideal he is fighting to protect and what he's willing to sacrifice to back it up when the American Dream and the American Reality couldn't be further apart.

ERA 6, LATER GRUENWALD: Established with a world class storyline under its belt and nothing left to do but hit the gas and see where it goes, the later Gruenwald era is an expression of the joyous fun that can be taken from a comic that takes itself dramatically but not too seriously. New villains, new twists and pulling old favorites out of mothballs it's a comic that can go anywhere and do anything under an established writer who knows the character like the back of his hand. The Bloodstone Hunt, Capwolf, Superia. The kind of consistently good storytelling you can only get from a comic that has comfortably gotten into a once in a lifetime kind of groove.

ERA 7, THE @#$%^& 90S:

Like any comic that runs long enough in certain period of time, any good groove is going to run head first into the 90s and end up breaking its nose. I won't lie or sugarcoat it in the name of preserving the book's legacy. The armor storyline and everything surrounding it is ROUGH. The art is ugly, the power armor is dumb and the entire series seems content to wallow in a sense of its own cleverness for examining Cap physically in ways Gruenwald topped 100x over by taking the character apart mentally and emotionally. I WILL say however, that if you honestly meet this era's emotions on their level, if you're able to get past its flaws, you find that that Gruenwald spark is still right where it was. The new additions, Free Spirit and Jack Flag show promise in the mold of Cap's partners of old and the issue where Cap confronts his own mortality is truly poignant.

ERA 8, CURTAIN CALL:

Outside of the helm of Gruenwald for the first time in more than 10 years, it's easy to see that the series can't last too much longer in its current form. These issues are all about setting up something new, forcing Cap out of the comfortable spot he's made for himself and confronting an oncoming millennium with the sobering realization that this continuous stream must come to an end to plant something new. Returns of old concepts but with a millennial sheen that gives a hope for the future, it truly feels like the passing of the torch from the old guard to a new one that would take on the Event Comics era and the modern Marvel landscape one way or the other.

CONCLUSION, A LIVING LEGEND:

Captain America is a classic character. We all know it however as a fixture of the universe's main superhero team it's often hard to really frame him in your mind as a character in his own right with his own, independent stories to tell and a timeline that's rich and begging to be mined outside of The Avengers. Gruenwald forged a new path for Cap, dozens of other creators from 3 decades of Marvel comics reaching in to lend a hand to the tapestry of one of the true legends of comics. A story that twists, turned and sometimes stumbled but never the less kept itself to one, truly unalterable standard. Legendary. For those of you interesting in what Marvel book comes along next...Follow me on a journey to the Hyborean Age.

#marvel #marvel comics #marvel universe #marvel heroes #superhero #comics #captain america #steve rogers

11 notes · View notes

sleepy-shutin · 7 months

Text

i've been agonizing for a long time over whether or not i should tell my girlfriend that i have DID. we've been together for a small handful of months, but she doesn't seem particularly experienced with severe and complex mental illnesses. she thinks she's crazy for having anxiety for talking on the phone, meanwhile my main social outlet is going to work and i prefer it that way because i have a diminished desire/capacity for relationships with other people, and i can barely have my nephew give me a hug around my upper leg without jumping and wanting him off of me because he's touching me in a place that triggers me. i can hardly be touched in many places because of that.

half the time i don't feel attached to her at all, and the other half of the time i do, but i don't really remember it.

she's just not familiar with severe, complex and stigmatized illnesses, and if her roommates think she's a nut because she has obvious PTSD (she is aware of this) then they're going to think i'm even crazier. she's probably going to be accepting, but i don't know in what way she's going to be accepting about it.

the way she's said the word 'plural' a few times here and there has me suspecting that she may already know about this sort of thing, but due to that preconceived notion, i don't know how exactly she's going to react if/when i decide to tell her that i have DID. i don't want to be treated like 30+ separate people in one body, but if that's all she knows then that's all she knows, and i'll have to spend a lot of time un-doing that damage to tell her that not every plural/multiple/whatever preferred term person wants to be treated that way.

there's not necessarily anything wrong with wanting to be treated this way, i just don't want to be, and i'm sick of it being treated like the default way to treat plurals/multiples/systems/etc. i just don't want her to feel like she can only date one alter or thinks that getting into a relationship with a multiple means she has to suddenly be polyamorous or whatever when that is very far from how i view my multiplicity personally.

i just don't know how she's going to react.

i would say that's the biggest and only reason keeping me from telling her but frankly an even bigger reason is just plain shame. for being traumatized, for being mentally ill, for having been abused in unspeakable ways as a child.

i use that word, unspeakable, for very particular reasons. because i can't talk about it. it feels as if the shame or a manifestation of it is physically keeping me from talking about it. it makes me feel awful in ways i can barely even begin describing in words. it's just the kind of shame that only comes with having this experience.

she was sexually assaulted as a child, so i'm partially sure that she would feel a similar way, but knowing i'm not alone in an experience doesn't make it any easier, any less shameful, it doesn't make me feel any better about it. maybe it's related to my diminished desire for social interaction or relationships or whatever, but someone experiencing the same thing i have has never made me feel better, it doesn't show me how to deal with something.

i just, i don't know. i want to tell her but more than pretty much anything else, shame stops me.

#post.#journal tag #advice welcome

13 notes · View notes

autumnfangirler · 6 months

Note

👀 mindscapes u say ?

the minute i saw this ask this popped into my brain

insanity will go under the cut :)

step being step, and them being telepaths, i always thought they had ways to protect their mindscape just in case something happened, so those are going to be added along with the actual descriptions of the mindscape! ill add a bit of what their thoughts sound/feel like because it goes hand in hand for me

Caine- their mindscape is a mix of both the farm and the rangers HQ, because those two were the most fomative places in caine learning what to do and how to be. for a long time they werent anything but a vessel for what others wanted. his mindscape will shift depending on what caine associates the person with the most(fun fact, ortega is more or less at the midway point between the farm and the rangers. it makes for,,, an interesting look to his mindscape). the only thing that doesnt change, though, is that it always feels strangely impersonal, like hes viewing his own mind in a third person perspective. their mind is firm yet adaptable, and while his shields arent,,,,the greatest, they dont need to be. he keeps track of the mental feel of anybody in their brain, and arranges something accordingly. whatever seems to be a particular persons weakpoint, hell pick up on and project. its difficult to find anything in their brain (that sounds like an insult but i Swear its not) since its bare of more personal objects or revealing factors. they use their observations and skill to make sure nobody can do much to their brain– just like a fight, find his opponents weakness and take advantage of it to win.

i always saw his thoughts as a mix of ortega and chens, most of them being short and clipped, but restless. hell often get lost in them, though hes always aware of whats going on around him. their imagination is surprisingly active, and they also come with a healthy dose of overthinking :D

Cyrus- i was mentally shaking your hand when you talked about cyrus mindscape. the core of his mind is exactly what you described; its a blaze, with near welding-torch focus towards its victims. youll be burned if you try to get close. but hes making sure nobody reaches that far. the surrounding area is a icy and cold, giving anybody inside absolutely nothing. hes laid tricks, of course: fading tracks in the snow, an odd rustle of bushes here or there, but mostly speaking its entirely barren. its a test of endurance, and hes depending on people failing from the environment before they can do any real damage. only the people who know him or are observant enough can figure out which way to go. as a little bonus tidbit: prehb cyrus' mindscape was a forest in midday, where the heat was just intense enough to feel it beating on your back. there are still remnants of that in his current mindscape, though the trees are fallen over and theres no sun to be found.

his thoughts are very final, for lack of better word. theres hardly room for doubt in them, though often times he'll ruminate on an idea to make sure everything is up to his satisfaction. despite the outer shell of his mindscape, his thoughts Do feel warm, but its more like friction burn

Cecilia- her mind is surprisingly open, and it is showy. its a museum, and when you enter theres a velvet carpet with those massive marble stairs in the middle and a beautiful chandelier overhead. every floor has paintings of things shes done, with the first few floors consisting entirely of her proudest moments, including the sidestep ones. im sure theres at least one painting of the nanosurge in there, she didnt like the fact that nobody knew she stopped it. there are some more quieter, but still happy memories when people go up, ones with ortega, argent, herald, and more. theres an uneasy feeling at about this point, though. the farther up they go, the stronger that feeling grows, to the point where the mental pressure could crush them completely. ceci doesnt need tricks like the other two do; she exercises power as her means of defense. its coupled with more disturbing paintings too, ones that depict things like the farm and the void. the lights get dimmer, theres less exhibits, and the final floor is just. empty. empty, and utterly lonely. what are you doing up here? theres nothing for you.

shes in the same boat as ortega, aka her thoughts Never shut up. shes creative and excitable, and its easy to get wrapped up in her thought processes. there doesnt tend to be repetition or circling, she doesnt stay on the same thought for very long.

Cynthia- you know the "you... are... lost in memories" line in rebirth? thats what cynthias mindscape is like. its a house thats an amalgamation of every home shes visited before: tia elenas, anathemas, and of course ortegas. it invites nostalgia. every object sends a person into memories, using the same system that nightmare loops do, but kinder. the memories are wrong, though. faces can get blurred, voices are distorted, and touch is especially difficult to get right. it can be disorienting to experience these loops, and they become nauseating if you spend too long in them. the house itself is a maze, and it feels like it goes on forever. none of the rooms repeat itself, but they cant be used as a marker either, because it never seems like you can go back to the same room you were in before. thats how cynthia protects herself– nothing is the same, everything is a trap, and when a person falls for it, she can safely extract them from her mind.

her thoughts are long, slow, and careful, and she often goes back to earlier thoughts to consider them further. her thoughts are twitchy too, theyre easily affected by her environment. theyre warm though, and i imagine feels like somebody reading a story to you

#fhr #caine lynzal #cyrus becker #cecilia rider #cynthia garcia #i spent too much time on this and i have 0 regrets #cynthias mindscape is a prettier backrooms send tweet #cant wait for canon to break into my house and wreck all of these headcanons #this wasnt proofread and i couldnt bring myself to do so #so im sorry in advance for any spelling mistakes or just. straight up incomplete sentences

9 notes · View notes

ladyhoneydee · 1 year

Text

SWEET TALK

zelink | BotW college AU | 1.8k

For the Zelinktines23 event, day 12: Sugar!

Zelda takes an impromptu late-night study break to investigate a suspicious noise out in the kitchen, and her chaotic boyfriend Link takes the opportunity to convert her into a lover of conversation heart candies. Or...attempt to, at any rate. Much humor and fluff!

Read it on AO3, FFN, or under the cut!

There’s something crinkling out in the kitchen.

It’s been doing that for over a minute now. A whole minute of Zelda squinting harder at her textbook in the gloom of her desk lamp, grinding her earbuds deeper into her ears, and turning up the volume of her lo-fi study playlist—all to no avail. The crinkling wins out.

She sighs and drops the earbuds to rest atop the open page of her book, then pushes herself up into a standing position. Her head spins a bit when she’s fully upright, vision darkening to a star-swirled violet, and she wonders just how long she’d been studying. Her brain feels like it’s been pumped full of a dense, narcotic fog of physics equations and mechanical diagrams.

A glance at the clock beside her bed reveals that it’s 2:17 in the morning. Too long, apparently, is the answer to her question. It’s tragic that she only hyper-focuses on schoolwork like this, rather than any of the handicrafts she’s attempted over the years.

The crinkling has yet to cease. Zelda slaps her palms against her cheeks lightly in an attempt to wake herself up a bit, and then sets off towards the kitchen to see what on earth has the gall to disrupt her studying.

As she walks, she considers the options. It could be one of Paya’s hamsters on another ill-begotten midnight escape (Zelda really hopes Paya will never learn that her precious Orbie is actually Orbie II, a clandestine replacement after the original literally died of fright when Yunobo tried to move the fridge it was hiding behind). It could be Yunobo himself, stepping on some random trash while sleepwalking through the house, as Zelda has caught him doing a few times before. It could be, Hylia forbid, a raccoon or opossum that has broken in through the bathroom window that Link keeps saying he’ll repair. Or it could be…

She comes around the half-wall separating their apartment’s little dining room from their cramped kitchen, and is met with a sight more terrifying than any of the possibilities she had previously considered.

Feral animal? No. Feral Link . Her roommate and boyfriend—whose outfit alone is chaotic, with his hair thrown up in the least gravity-defying bun she’s ever seen, and a bathrobe she suspects is stolen from a day spa hanging open around his Castleton U Fencing t-shirt and keese-patterned pajama pants—is perched on the countertop next to the fridge, with a huge bag of conversation hearts clutched in both hands. She watches in horror as he throws an entire handful of the candies back like he’s taking a shot. The gleeful crunch that follows could rival a rockslide in its volume and lethality.

“Link, w-what on Hylia’s green earth are you doing?” she blurts out.

Link’s head snaps towards her. He bears a striking resemblance to a startled chipmunk, with those full cheeks and wide eyes.

“This isn’t what it looks like!”

Zelda can hardly understand him through the mouthful of half-chewed hearts. She levels him with a deadpan stare.

“...it’s exactly what it looks like,” he admits.

“Real bokoblin hours.”

Link nods enthusiastically. Then he reaches back into the bag for another handful, the familiar crinkling giving away the gesture.

“You know, I’ve heard of people eating whole cakes in the middle of the night. Even shredded cheese right out of the bag. But you’re eating chalk? ”

Link swallows his bite in a manner she can only describe as indignant . “They’re good!”

“You’ve eaten rocks before.”

“Those were good too. And as if I was gonna say no to Yunobo’s uncle when he offered me dinner!”

“Fair,” Zelda sighs. She wouldn’t want to disappoint Daruk either. For a man afraid of dogs, he does a fantastic sad-puppy impersonation.

“Anyway, they’re not chalk. They’re sweet,” Link sniffs. He takes another crunching bite.

“I’m sure it would be possible to make sweet chalk.” Zelda considers the bag. “Maybe I should experiment with using those on my chalkboard.” She certainly gets enough use out of the little board in her room for all the physics equations to make it worthwhile.

Link clutches the bag to his chest protectively, and he’s never looked more like a bokoblin than he does in this moment. “You can have some if you’re going to eat them, but no way can you use them for your chalkboard.” That pouty scowl shifts into something a bit more shit-eating, and a thundercloud of foreboding builds in Zelda’s stomach. “That would be so… heartless of you.”

There it is. Zelda groans wordlessly at the pun. Link grins like he’s won a trophy.

“I’m still not sure those things are even edible,” she says eventually, deciding not to give the pun any more space than she already has. “I swear the last time I tried one I almost broke my teeth on it.”

“When was that, elementary school?”

Zelda considers, then nods.

Link holds out the bag towards her. “It’s been over a decade, Zel. They’ve improved upon the recipe.” He shakes the bag to punctuate his point, although she can’t say the sound of sweet chalk bombs rattling against crinkly plastic is particularly appetizing. “These ones have all been the perfect texture.”

“I really doubt that.”

“Party pooper.” Link sticks out his tongue at her.

She shakes her head staunchly. No way is she eating such dubious food.

“C’mon, Zel, just try one?” he wheedles. “What if I say that you—” he pulls a green one out of the package and reads it “— MELT MY ♡ ?”

“Nope.”

He tosses it in his mouth and crunches down. Those short, cute fingers slither back into the bag to retrieve a whole handful. The packaging almost doesn’t crinkle this time.

Link waves a purple one in front of her face, and she goes cross-eyed to look at it. Unfortunately, he’s got the message facing away from her. “What if I say that UR A QT?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Try again.”

Link gamely snaps it up instead, and dips his hand back into the bag. “Zelda…” he starts, his tone dramatic, and she plays along by raising an eyebrow and tilting her head inquisitively as he holds out the blue heart like one might a ring box. “When I’m with you, I know I’ve GOT LOVE.”

She laughs despite herself, but pushes it back towards him. “You sap.”

Link sends her a grin so bright she swears she can see sparkles in his eyes. Then he goes back to rifling through the conversation hearts.

“Give up yet?” she asks.

“Never. BAE?”

“No.”

“DREAM?”

“No. Is that supposed to be romantic? It’s just a noun.”

“Maybe you’ll like this one better, then. COOL CAT?”

“Why are they animal themed?”

Link laughs. “LUV U?”

“Love you too, but nope.”

“XOXO?”

“No.”

“DIG ME?”

“What the—surely that doesn’t actually say that.” Link flashes her the face of the heart, and Zelda is slightly horrified to see that the heart is in fact that cringy. Her face of revulsion makes Link laugh, and he pops the orange candy into his mouth.

“Hmm. How about…YAAAS?”

Zelda bursts into a loud cackle at the way he pronounces the word, then stifles it so as not to bother poor Paya and Yunobo too much. “You’re kidding me!”

“I didn’t hear a no to that one~” Link singsongs. He holds it against her lips.

“No way! ” She bats the yellow menace away.

“How about…” Link looks down. There’s one last heart in his hand, a pink that matches the flush in her cheeks from laughing so hard. “KISS ME?”

Zelda looks into his eyes, and can’t help but let a large grin overtake her features. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

She steps forward until she’s situated in the space between his dangling legs. His thighs give a brief squeeze to either side of her hips, welcoming her warmth, as she leans forward until they’re nose-to-nose. They’re so, so close now, enough that she can feel his sugar-sweet breath on her lips, and the heat of his cheeks against her own, and the tickle of his bangs on her forehead as they mix in with her own.

And then she waits.

As the tension builds, Link’s breath comes more and more shallowly where his chest presses against hers. It’s hard to make out all his features clearly with him so near—everything is just slightly out of focus, like a dreamy old film—but she doesn’t need to have 20-20 vision to see the way his pupils dilate as his gaze flickers down to her lips again and again.

Finally, he breaks. “Goddesses, Zel, just kiss me, please—”

She does.

He tastes of cloying banana from that last conversation heart, but she can’t find it in herself to care when his hands are winding into her hair and massaging the back of her neck like that, and his lips feel so plush under her own, and the slant of his hungry mouth against hers make her want to study nothing but every possible angle their kisses can take instead of her actual coursework. It’s warm and a little wet and so good that one kiss becomes two becomes five, until he pulls away with a gasp. He never was as good at holding his breath as her.

As they catch their breath, she admires those lips swollen from her kisses, and the deep pink tinging his cheeks and ears. She tucks a stray hair back behind one rosy lobe with a gentle hand.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers. Her lips press lightly against his own with every syllable.

“That’s my line,” he whispers back. His eyes search her face, taking in the pride and desire and utter adoration she’s sure is projected by her every feature. She’s always had a very honest face.

“Link?”

“Yeah?”

“Feed me that conversation heart before I change my mind.”

His laugh makes his lips brush against hers like the wings of a smotherwing butterfly. “I’m on it.” The pink heart replaces his mouth, and she mourns its loss even as she accepts the candy from his fingers.

It’s…very chalky, no matter what Link says. Sweet dust coats the surface of her tongue instantly. She bites down cautiously with the set of molars she trusts the most.

CRUNCH.

They both jolt back at once; Link out of surprise at the sudden loudness, and Zelda with the shock and fear of did she just break a tooth? They stare at one another with matching wide eyes. And then—

“LINK! YOU SAID THEY WOULDN’T BREAK MY TEETH!”

“That must’ve just been a bad one, I swear—”

“I’M NEVER JOINING YOU FOR BOKOBLIN HOURS AGAIN!”

“Just try another! I’m telling you, none of them have been like that—”

He can’t even finish his sentence before he’s scrambling up onto the countertops away from her wrathful hands. She ends up chasing him all around the kitchen, his nimbleness counterbalanced by her cleverness, until they’re both guffawing breathlessly against the fridge, the forgotten bag of conversation hearts crinkling underfoot.

“GOT CHA,” Zelda wheezes, her hands fisting into Link’s ridiculous bathrobe.

“ONLY YOU,” he replies, and pulls her in for another kiss.

#my fanfiction #legend of zelda #zelda #zelink #zelinktines23 #thank you zelmo and pastels for betaing!!

29 notes · View notes

blood-darkened-moon · 3 months

Note

(1/2) TEW question: If Ruben hadn’t been burned but was still a serial killer, what is his motive for killing? Since there’s no need for revenge, what would happen? SKs IIRC develop a fractured identity hidden behind a wall of primitive defenses, so it’s a horrible way of coping, like self-medicating (we know there’s trauma and a predisposition).

Ok, anon, I love horror movies and games and also read about some serial killers out of interest, but I’m not an expert on this topic, especially not on the psychological aspects. And I refuse to diagnose fictional characters with mental illnesses. The headcanons I write are just for fun and should be seen as an attempt to write a horror AU rather than an analysis based on the mindset of real people. I don’t think that I can give you a qualified answer to your questions, but I’ll try my best. Here’s a more analytical approach to the topic.

I agree with you that there was a predisposition, but was there trauma involved before the fire? I don’t think so, or at least I think there is absolutely no evidence for this within the game. Even Jimenez wrote in Research Entry #31, “After surviving the incident and subsequent abuse from his parents, it’s a miracle Ruben can function at all.” We know very little about Ruben’s past before the incident. Some information originates from Ruben’s documents or his recordings after the fire. At that time, he is deeply traumatized, hallucinates, and is overall mentally unstable, which becomes even noticeable in his records. His state likely influences his perception in a heavily subjective way. Due to this and the ongoing abuse by his father, he may evaluate his childhood as worse than it actually was. However, since there are no more reliable sources, I have to take his words for granted.

While I don’t see anything that could have traumatized Ruben as a child, I still think that there were conflicts that could have worsened even if the fire never happened. There was tension in his family, specifically with his father. Ruben already seemed to have a somewhat strained relationship with him before the incident. Yet, he still respected him, as Ruben stated in one of the recordings, “Father was a stern man. Proud, and I thought intelligent.” He was calm while he recorded this. Therefore, I think this statement is valid, and their relationship wasn’t that bad at first. On the other hand, Ruben also wrote: “He’s trying to punish me again. He always resented our closeness. Thinks he can use it against me.” He wrote this while he was clearly enraged, likely not fully accountable. It still indicates a conflict between the two.

The latter statement is somewhat strange, though. Why should Ernesto mind if his children get along well with each other? Isn’t this a good thing? Jimenez describes Ruben’s love for Laura as “almost on an incestuous level”, and considering Ruben’s records, that seems to be a legitimate interpretation. But the records are from after the fire when he was already a teenager or young adult. Moreover, he was locked up in the basement for years without any human contact (except for his father and a doctor, maybe). This long-term isolation would excuse Ruben’s affection for his sister reaching an abnormal level. Even in case little Ruben had a crush on Laura at that age (10 or younger), I think this would hardly be a reason to be concerned. He could likely outgrow it easily if he grew up under normal circumstances. So, it is unlikely that this was Ernesto’s issue.

I think it is possible that the statement relates to Ruben’s experiments in some way. We know Ernesto cannot cope well with problems that would damage his family’s reputation. After all, he preferred to lock his traumatized son away after the fire instead of organizing real help for him. Well, dissecting pig heads is not a normal behavior for a child, and yet Ruben had the equipment and a room where he could do his experiments. Why did Ernesto tolerate this behavior, which is significantly more concerning than suffering from physical and mental trauma after barely surviving a fire? (In the sense of the latter is an understandable reaction.) And why did he show it to Jimenez in the first place? This isn’t something that you show proudly around in the neighborhood. I assume that maybe Laura protected her brother, acted as the voice of reason, and convinced Ernesto that instead of punishing Ruben for his experiments, he should deal with it differently. Jimenez was just about 20 at the time he met Ruben. He can’t have been a doctor then. He was likely only a student. (The model in the game is older, probably due to time or budget reasons.) Jimenez wasn’t working at Beacon yet either. In Research Entry #16, he stated that he started working there but also mentioned Ruben, so he already knew him before that. Perhaps at Laura’s request, the Victorianos looked for someone with the necessary expertise to deal with Ruben’s behavior but who would do so in secrecy. Therefore, they went with a student. In the end, it backfired, and instead of talking Ruben out of his experiments, Jimenez confirmed his beliefs. Ernesto could take this amiss and think strict punishment would have worked better. This is highly speculative, though. Ruben also mentioned punishment in the document, but it is unclear what kind of punishment it was and when it happened. It could be something (long) before the fire, or he could relate to his recent confinement in the basement.

Another issue Ruvik mentioned is his hatred for the church and his father always supporting them. He said, “Somehow he always supported the church, no matter what the newspapers said. He waved away the allegations as if they were infallible. The wretched, the vermin, the stern... All were taken in by that church.”, followed by “They were promised salvation and eternal life. But there’s nothing they could promise that I couldn’t take away.” Where his hatred for the church originates from is again not clear. We know the church was a shady place, but had it anything to do with child-Ruben? I think it is also possible that Ruben developed his hatred later during his time in the basement. He thought his father had taken Laura away from him, the one person he loved the most. Perhaps he then decided to take something away from his father that he cherished deeply.

This covers the conflicts at home we know of. None of them seem to be a major issue before the fire, though. I doubt that these alone had the potential to set up Ruben on the path of a serial killer unless drastic changes occur. However, there are still some other aspects.

Jimenez is one of them. He is not a good influence on Ruben at all. He could have tried to channel Ruben’s interests onto a healthier path. Instead, he affirmed that ethical and moral standards in science must be questioned if true greatness is to be achieved. Ruben knew very well that his experiments were unacceptable when they met for the first time. Jimenez probably had a chance of convincing Ruben to give up on them. Later, he continues to be a toxic influence. Despite his sympathy for Ruben, Jimenez often disregards his poor mental state and only tries to gain profit from Ruben’s results. Only after the experiments reached an extreme level of gruesomeness and the death toll went through the roof did Jimenez realize that he made a big mistake. “I had taught him from a young age that the end shall justify the means, but I could not have predicted things to be this extreme.” Not that it would stop Jimenez from leeching further on Ruben’s work.

Now, before I come to the possibility of Ruben still becoming a serial killer without the fire, I want to speculate a bit about his early experiments, because they could hint at a predisposition. We know that Ruben dissected pig heads, but I think this can’t be the only thing he has done. I assume the pig heads are slaughterhouse waste. (He can’t have killed and decapitated a large pig alone at the age of 9, right?) Little Ruben doesn’t seem to have the proper equipment to prevent the decomposition in his room. (How fresh were the heads when he got them?) As far as I know, brain matter decomposes rather quickly, though. How far can he get with a half-decomposed pig brain? He can develop and improve his surgery skills. However, Jimenez mentions Ruben’s studies, and he is really impressed by them (“… but Ruben... Comparatively insignificant, but even at his young age, his studies are remarkable.”). While it is not shown or otherwise described in the game, I think it is likely that Ruben also experimented on other smaller animals that were either still alive or killed shortly before he started. We don’t know what kind of studies he performed, but I think you likely need a fresh or well-preserved brain for most experiments. Ruben was also hesitant to show his experiments to Jimenez. He said they are gross and that Jimenez now thinks he is a monster. Ruben did not try to justify them. Would this be the case if he only used slaughterhouse waste? It would still be gross and off for a child but a little less disturbing than experimenting on animals he had killed first. At least assuming that Jimenez might think he was a monster for doing so seems like an exaggeration to me since the pigs were slaughtered beforehand anyway.

Edit: In the room where Ruben dissects the pig’s head, there is an eviscerated dog carcass (which I’ve apparently always overlooked). So he has definitely killed other animals and experimented on them. The cages in the room also point to this. Judging by the size of the cages, he probably mainly used cats and dogs.

So much to the background, now what could have happened without the fire? Firstly, Laura was 17 when the fire occurred; Ruben was only 10. Laura probably wouldn’t have stayed with her parents forever. Maybe she would have gone to college the following year. Ruben spent his teenage years in the 80s, so no internet, and telephones weren’t constantly available either. He still has to live almost without Laura for several years. As I said before, I assume that Laura protected Ruben in some way from Ernesto. After she leaves, Ruben has to deal with his father mostly on his own. Their relationship was already strained before and would certainly not improve over the years, rather the opposite. I can’t say how far Ernesto would ultimately go with his punishments if Laura isn’t on-site without further information, though. We should also bear in mind that Ruben is getting older and can probably hide his activities better from his father. Jimenez might also be able to help him with this. I think, it is unlikely that the situation would take on similarly traumatizing proportions as after the fire, but there is still a certain conflict potential.

The bigger problem is, in my opinion, Jimenez. Without Laura and with a tense atmosphere at home, Ruben would probably spend more time with him. At least initially, Jimenez seemed to understand and support him. He recognized Ruben’s talent and was his mentor, even if not entirely for selfless reasons. I think it’s possible that even without fire, he could lead Ruben down a similar path as in the game, but probably at a slower pace. Seeing Laura again would no longer be Ruben’s driving force, but she wasn’t his only motivation in the game anyway. Ruben took a lot of pride in his research. He became furious when Jimenez stole and published his results (“That cockroach, that sycophant; living off of me, feeding off of my work.“). Sure, Jimenez is an asshole, but he was somewhat correct when he said Ruvik couldn’t have published it in a reputable journal otherwise. If Laura was really all Ruben wanted, he shouldn’t have been so angry about what Jimenez was doing. So, Ruben’s own ambitions as a scientist may have played a role, albeit a subordinate one.

Jimenez has persuaded Ruben from the beginning that the end justifies the means, plus there is Ruben’s potential predisposition, now adding some overambition, nurtured by his mentor, on top. Ruben would probably not shy away from human experiments, as they would be more reliable than the ones with animals. Jimenez would certainly provide him with test subjects, and he might even urge him to take this step once Ruben’s abilities were sufficient. After all, Jimenez also wants to profit from his work.

I don’t think Ruben would become an ordinary serial killer, but, for instance, I could imagine him evolving in a similar direction to Josef Mengele. In the game, he no longer sees the people he experiments on as people. He describes them as vermin and microbes. Without fire and the years in the basement, he should feel less hatred towards others, but with Jimenez as a mentor, he may have come to the conclusion that the death of some people is justified in order to help others through scientific advancement. His test subjects may no longer be vermin to him but laboratory supplies. He still would use and kill them as he pleased.

Serial killers often have a traumatic past and use the killing as a coping mechanism, but not all of them. It is not impossible that someone could become a serial killer for different reasons. The scenario above is the best I could do with the little information we have. I guess my answer isn’t really what you wanted, but I cannot see a canon reason for Ruben to snap if the fire and the abuse afterward never happened. If we knew more about his past, perhaps this would change. (I left Mobius out for simplicity, by the way.)

#the evil within #ruben victoriano #ruvik #marcelo jimenez #laura victoriano #ask #meta #tew meta #🩸🌙#i wanted to post this more than a week ago but i ran into writer’s block #the last week i spent writing and rewriting the last couple of paragraphs #still not happy with it tho

6 notes · View notes

sussybrianna · 11 months

Text

the relationships in tbhk are so messy

Spoilers!

let me start off with why it’s so enamoring. the toxicity and complicated situations, the black and white or lack thereof leaving us with just the grey. It realistic.

It’s real.

Akane Aoi and Aoi Akane

The arcs that give the most attention to the pair are the Clock Keepers arc and the Far Shore but the Clock Keeper one just tells us Akane has powers blah blah. Aoi is more.. deeper then surface level is the only way I can describe it. On the outside, she the outgoing pretty popular girl but really she’s completely cut herself off from the real world because of her fear. She takes her insecurity out onto the world. She hates everyone because they are what she can’t be. She hates everyone because she hates herself. When she met Akane, she was jealous but drawn to him. She sees Akane as everything she’s ever wanted to be but that’s also why she loves him so much. But she’s scared. Aoi is constantly paralyzed by her own fear. she’s scared to open up and scared to get hurt. She’s scared people won't like the real her. She doesn’t believe Akane would like the real her.

This is why she’s almost hurt by his constant displays of affection. She think’s Akane is only in love with her facade. And when Akane and Nene start to be more secretive the closer she get’s to them it starts to seem true. She says it herself, (idk how to put pictures of the panels here) “I don't want to get close to anyone. Goodbye.” in chap 69 before trying to walk away from Akane. Before we continue, let me getting something straight;

AKANE

IS NOT

EVIL

because I know some people went haywire over the scene were he chokes her and says he hates her (looks bad written without context. trust me I know this still looks really bad but if you headed to the spoiler warning I’m sure you get it) but he did it to prove the he wasn’t just looking at Aoi from her facade, he knew the true her. At the end he says, “I hated that about you.” He hated how she would hide who she really was. He hated how she pushed everyone away because Akane doesn’t understand how anyone could dislike her. Akane says the face she makes when she cry is cute becaus that shows that she reciprocates some sort of feeling back; enough to be hurt by Akane saying he hated her. In chapter 70 Aoi tries to apologize about what she did to Akane and Nene but Akane just says “It was hardly your fault anyway. Let’s apologize together.” BRO THIS MAN’S ENTIRE EXISTANCE IS FOR AOI. He doesn’t feel burdened by the responsibility for her rather it comes naturally to Akane.

To sum it up: they BOTH are very in love with each other but other then Akane’s completely fine sorta murderous/stalker tendencies when it comes to Aoi, the only thing preventing them from getting together is just Aoi’s cowardice. She didn’t think Akane knew who she was under the mask and if he didn’t she’d be rejected. But, he did and loved her regardless. ok so happily ever after and they will get together when everything is said and done because I said so mf.

this came out a little long so maybe ill go into the other relationships on a different post

#tbhk #tbhk spoilers #aoi akane #akane aoi #toilet bidet spray #toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #jibaku shonen hanako kun #jshk

18 notes · View notes

isfjmel-phleg · 2 years

Text

Shocking find from the Coregean Royal Archives

[Another short piece from @fictionadventurer’s list: “Elystan’s infamous Lamplight letter.” For further context, see “A Visit from the Murderess.”]

A historian recently uncovered in the royal archives a letter that the monarchy never wanted anyone to know about. Dated 1908, this letter was written by a twelve-year-old Elystan, Duke of Gorchester, half-brother to Delclis V and ex-heir to the throne, and addressed to the editor of the Loriston Lamplight. But rather than seizing the rare chance to publish the words of a member of the royal family, editor Murrick Owell sent it on to Queen Dowager Bethira with a brief note explaining the letter as “better suited for Your Majesty’s attention than ours.” Months later, Elystan was sent to Hollingham College. Did the contents of this letter have anything to do with this development? And could this letter recontextualize what we know of Elystan’s doings during his time at school...?

2 June 1908

Endean House

To the Editor of the Loriston Lamplight[1]

Dear Sir,

My name will be as familiar to you and the readers of this newspaper as your own. I am Elystan, Prince of Arclis.[2] You will know me from pictures on postcards[3] and the many times my family has made appearances to you all.[4] I always have thought of myself as not only my parents’ son but the child of all Corege, and I know that our beloved people feel the same way.[5] However, I regret that I have not seen your faces in quite a long time. Do you all miss me as much as I miss you? It pains me to have had to spend such a long time away, but allow me to explain. It was from no choice of my own.

The last time we met, I was enjoying my accustomed excellent health.[6] Our royal visitors from last autumn can attest that I was able to entertain them alongside my dear brother the King and my mother the Queen Dowager.[7] By the time of the unrest, I had an ordinary cold—nothing serious but enough to keep me in bed during what followed.[8] Besides, I am twelve, and it was a matter for grown-ups. When I had recovered, I waited for the King my brother to send for me from Endean House. I don’t know if he forgot or if he was too preoccupied to think of his own brother. I never had even a letter from him or the Queen my mother. My correspondence seemed to fall on deaf ears. I continued to devote myself to my studies, praying every day to be reunited with my family.[9]

However, as the weeks wore on, I suffered an illness I had never before encountered. None of the doctors (sent by my brother’s household) could account for it. They did nothing to treat it. My condition worsened.[10] I will spare the gentle readers of this newspaper the unpleasant details of what I suffered, but let us describe it as an illness digestive in nature. I noticed that its attacks always followed meals. Such reactions, of course, are quite unusual for one of my constitution. My habits had not changed.[11] Since the learned doctors would not help me,[12] I was forced to seek the truth for myself.

I found that my symptoms were consistent with those of poisoning. I told this to a doctor, but he dismissed the notion.[13] My symptoms have not ceased, despite my best attempts to avoid whatever is harming me.[14] You would hardly know me if you saw me.[15] I used to think I had many years left, but now I am barely clinging to life. I cannot give in, because I need to remain strong for my beloved people. But someone somewhere in Corege, land of the enlightened and kind, is the sort of monster who would murder Corege’s most beloved son. Who could possibly want to poison an innocent child?

It happens that I do know one person who is knowledgeable about even the rarest and most subtle poisons. This person has grown poison in his own gardens, experimented upon it in his own laboratory, and attended a Hallowe’en party in the character of Deadly Nightshade.[16] I have heard him joke about poisoning people whom he dislikes,[17] and I have evidence that this person is not above taking a life if he can rationalize it.[18] I am sorry to say that this person is my greatest enemy in the world. He has always disliked me.[19] He hates me now more than ever. He would not hesitate to harm me if he could.[20] And, my dear people, this person is none other than the so-called innocent boy king[21] himself, my half-brother King Delclis.

You are shocked. So am I. The thought that my own brother would do such a thing to me has made my already weakened state worse. The doctors are clearly in my brother’s pay and will do me no good. My mother has aided and abetted my brother in his heartless deeds. She does not care about me any more than he does.[22] I am all alone in the world, with no one to speak for or protect me. Every day I wake up wondering if today will be my last. Therefore, I am throwing myself on the mercy of the Coregean people. I know you would never leave your innocent child to die alone, no matter what the circumstances. I am Corege’s last hope; you all are mine.[23] For my sake, for the sake of one whom you once loved,[24] do your duty as Coregean subjects, because there is not much time left for the boy who remains

Very truly yours,

Elystan, Prince of Arclis

[1] the Editor of the Loriston Lamplight: Murrick Owell had been the editor of the Loriston Lamplight since 1881, following a seventeen-year career in journalism, and had seen more than his share of royal scandals. The Lamplight had a reputation as a paper in support of the crown. Whatever sensational response could have been had from publishing Elystan’s letter was outweighed by the risk of repercussions from the government, and Owell was savvy enough to pass on this letter to the Palace, without making a copy for his own records. To this day, the Lamplight still officially denies the existence of this letter.

[2] I am Elystan, Prince of Arclis: Elystan had not held this title since 1906. He had forfeited it upon his father’s abdication (on both Talfrin’s and Elystan’s behalf). As of 1908, he held only the title Duke of Gorchester. The choice to incorrectly style himself would have already made this letter problematic at best and treasonous at worst.

[3] pictures on postcards: Talfrin encouraged images of his family to be mass-produced and widely displayed. A set of photographs of him, Bethira, and Elystan, both together and separately, was issued in 1906 and featured prominently on postcards and other memorabilia. The ten-year-old Elystan is pictured in full dress uniform, complete with sword.

[4] the many times my family has made appearances to you all: For most of his reign, Talfrin was often referred to by the media as “the people’s king” for his frequent public appearances and apparent affability, and part of this exhibition included showing off his wife and son. Although Elystan’s appearances were less frequent than his parents’, there are numerous photographs and footage of him waving delightedly to crowds from an open automobile or carriage.

[5] I always have thought of myself as not only my parents’ son but the child of all Corege, and I know that our beloved people feel the same way: Until 1906, society columns of Coregean newspapers reported eagerly on every available detail of the young prince’s life. Many mothers endeavored to imitate Elystan’s clothing, toys, etc. for their own children. The turnout and responses to Elystan’s investiture as Prince of Arclis in 1906 indicate that he (or at least the image Talfrin and his regime promoted) was popular. After the abdication, however, public views changed considerably, with attention turning to the new king.

[6] The last time we met, I was enjoying my accustomed excellent health: Elystan’s assessment of his health is blatantly false but in keeping with his established public image. Talfrin, as the first of his dynasty, did not wish his line to appear weak and thus saw to it that his only surviving heir was never known to have any significant health problems. Elystan’s isolation at Endean House, far away from Loriston, helped conceal this, and any visible signs of frailty were downplayed in photographs and public appearance through costuming tricks and, on occasion, “painting.”

[7] Our royal visitors from last autumn can attest that I was able to entertain them alongside my dear brother the King and my mother the Queen Dowager: Elystan was indeed present during the ill-fated September 1907 state visit of Queen Rietta of Faysmond and her mother; and King Odren of Lienne and his daughters. Elystan’s name is listed among the dinner guests at Rhosemore Palace on the night the 1907 uprising began.

[8] By the time of the unrest, I had an ordinary cold—nothing serious but enough to keep me in bed during what followed: Following his time at Chandemothe Castle during the 1907 uprising, Elystan was treated for bronchitis that later developed into pneumonia. The testimonies given after the attempted abduction of King Delclis include a statement under oath from Elystan himself confessing his active role in the events of the evening. These testimonies would have been made public by the time Elystan wrote this letter.

[9] When I had recovered, I waited for the King my brother to send for me from Endean House. I don’t know if he forgot or if he was too preoccupied to think of his own brother. I never had even a letter from him or the Queen my mother. My correspondence seemed to fall on deaf ears. I continued to devote myself to my studies, praying every day to be reunited with my family: Elystan omits that during this time, he did visit Loriston. Prime Minister Sir Jowan Mitchett-Scorbrook’s records indicate that on 8 January 1908, he went with Elystan to the Citidel Prison and afterward lunched with him. Further details of this encounter are unknown, and there is no indication that Elystan visited his mother or brother during this visit. Furthermore, his academic records from early 1908 do not corroborate the claim of devotion to studies; his lessons came to an abrupt stop.

[10] I suffered an illness I had never before encountered. None of the doctors (sent by my brother’s household) could account for it. They did nothing to treat it. My condition worsened: Elystan’s personal physician Alpin Gillisall and Valan Folant, a local physician, treated Elystan for gastritis in January 1908. Gillisall’s reports indicate that the patient was peculiarly unreceptive to treatment but that the symptoms seemed to subside somewhat within a few days and were not severe enough to merit any great concern.

[11] I will spare the gentle readers of this newspaper the unpleasant details of what I suffered, but let us describe it as an illness digestive in nature. I noticed that its attacks always followed meals. Such reactions, of course, are quite unusual for one of my constitution. My habits had not changed: These claims are not consistent with Gillisall’s reports, which mention a sudden lack of appetite starting around this time, or with Elystan’s medical history.

[12] the learned doctors would not help me: In February 1908, Gillisall took a leave of absence to attend to family concerns, and Folant was informed that his services were no longer required.

[13] I found that my symptoms were consistent with those of poisoning. I told this to a doctor, but he dismissed the notion: Gillisall’s reports do not mention such a conversation with the patient but refer to signs of “nervousness.”

[14] My symptoms have not ceased, despite my best attempts to avoid whatever is harming me: A report from Folant, who returned in June 1908 to examine Elystan at Queen Bethira’s behest, mentions no symptoms of poison but diagnoses neurasthenia instead.

[15] You would hardly know me if you saw me: The photographs of a convalescent Elystan taken by Bethira during her stay with him in the summer of 1908 do strikingly differ with images of him known to the public.

[16] This person has grown poison in his own gardens, experimented upon it in his own laboratory, and attended a Hallowe’en party in the character of Deadly Nightshade: The “poison” grown and experimented upon by Delclis might refer to such plants as foxglove (Digitalis), whose medical uses Delclis examined for an essay assigned by his tutor around 1906. There are photographs of Delclis in a makeshift “Deadly Nightshade” costume at a 1905 Hallowe’en party, but how Elystan, who did not attend the party, knew about this is unclear.

[17] I have heard him joke about poisoning people whom he dislikes: No such statement occurs in any of Delclis’s correspondence or in reliably reported accounts of conversation with him.

[18] I have evidence that this person is not above taking a life if he can rationalize it: This is probably in reference to Delclis’s government’s handling of the 1907 uprising.

[19] He has always disliked me: Although the half-brothers do not seem to have been close as children, there are no signs that there was any especial animosity on Delclis’s side. Some of Delclis’s earliest letters are notes addressed to his young brother with conventional expressions of affection.

[20] He would not hesitate to harm me if he could: In light of Elystan’s confession to his participation in the 1907 uprising, Mitchett-Scorbrook pushed for trial of the twelve-year-old Elystan as an adult. Delclis refused to even consider this proposition and insisted on granting his brother a pardon, citing the boy’s youth as a mitigating circumstance.

[21] the so-called innocent boy king: Delclis’s regime’s strategy for endearing the new king to the public was to present him as very young and guileless. At the beginning of Delclis’s reign, he often appeared in white clothing designed to give him a youthful, ethereal look, most notably at his coronation. This image was difficult to maintain after the 1907 uprising.

[22] My mother has aided and abetted my brother in his heartless deeds. She does not care about me any more than he does: Bethira did not play an active role in the decisions of Delclis’s government after the 1907 uprising. Days after Elystan penned these words, she came to Endean and stayed with him for the rest of the summer.

[23] I am Corege’s last hope; you all are mine: This statement strongly suggests that Elystan at this point viewed himself as the rightful heir to the Coregean throne, which in addition to his assuming titles no longer his own and accusing the King of attempted murder would have been more than enough to convict him of seditious libel, if not treason, had this letter been published.

[24] for the sake of one whom you once loved: This likely refers to Talfrin.

#The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes short stories #Elystan's Infamous Lamplight Letter #A Visit from the Murderess #my writing #Elystan Liddick

24 notes · View notes

incorrect-koh-posts · 2 years

Note

☮ - ൠ - ☠ - ♡ - Tiberias

P.S. I'm the anon who challenged you

Nonny - the audacity! First you challenge me and now you try to appease me by asking me to rant about my boy??? My supreme KoH husband??? Fie, fie! 😁

But I shall gladly comply, of course. Here you go, some (much-needed) headcanons for Uncle Tibs:

TIBERIAS

☮ Friendship

Since he isn't the most trusting person and has made more than a few enemies at court over the years, Tiberias has few actual friends. Among them, he counts for example his cousin Bohemond of Antioch and the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, Roger de Moulins. With his family members, things are a little trickier: Tiberias is too wary of Sibylla with her changing whims and fancies to actually consider her a friend, and though he certainly harboured a great fondness for Baldwin, his feelings towards the young king are better described as a mixture of fatherly affection and the guarded respect of a great lord for his sovereign.

Tiberias loved Godfrey like the brother he never had. They met during King Amalric's Egyptian wars, shortly after Godfrey first arrived in the Holy Land, and became fast friends while being cut off from the rest of the Frankish forces during a skirmish. Whether at court or in war, the Baron of Ibelin and the Count of Tripoli have fought side by side ever since; so, naturally, when he received word of Godfrey's death, Tiberias was devastated. Being the older and somewhat frailer one of the two, he'd always thought he would be the first of them to go. Without Godfrey's idealism, he fears the walls of Jerusalem will not stand ere long; he knows that his own more pragmatic nature and waning faith will hardly be able to keep them from crumbling, in the end.

What can be said for Tiberias, hence, is that he has few friends but generally good ones. Though he can come across as rather aloof and even dour, he does care deeply about the ones he holds dear and will help wherever he can. He is not the sort of man to give grand declarations about how much someone means to him or some such, but when Tiberias shows a person his teasing, humourous side beyond his usual tired sarcasm, this usually indicates that he likes them very well.

ൠ Random headcanon

One of Tiberias' chief insecurities is his crippled right leg - not so much out of vanity but because it makes him a less capable fighter. Even in his prime, his swordsmanship was never on par with Godfrey's, which, back then, didn't irk him much as it was still decent. But ever since he suffered a nasty fall from his horse in battle some seven years ago and broke his leg, with the bone not setting properly afterwards, Tiberias has been ashamed of his lack of skill with the sword. The bad leg does not only render him slower than he'd like, but also impacts his balance and makes him prone to stumbling. Not that he won't fight tooth and claw in battle - but the leg injury shows him more than anything that he is no lively young buck anymore, which is especially sobering since he likes to believe he has kept himself quite well, otherwise.

As he enjoys taking his horses out for rides or participating in hunts, Tiberias is glad he didn't lose the leg and is still able to spend a long time in the saddle without any major discomfort. Even though most days, the limp tends to look worse than it is, the old injury aches more than usual in the winter months when even Jerusalem turns into a cold and rainy place. During those times, Tiberias often becomes a little grouchier than normal, for he is not a man accustomed to having to take it slow for a few days. And seeing the younger knights practice with each other in the training yards of the palace with all the ladies watching, knowing full well he cannot hold a candle to them anymore, does not exactly help.

☠ Angry / Violent

Though he has a reputation for being impatient and somewhat ill-tempered, it takes a while to rile Tiberias up. As he is seldom in good spirits, the signs of true anger tend to be difficult to spot, at first, beneath his usual gruff tone of voice and the bitterness that creeps into his face all-too-often these days. Things begin to get critical, however, once you see a muscle twitch in his jaw and notice a sudden tautness about his shoulders. In that case, it is either high time to try and smoothe the waters, or to brace yourself for the scolding you are about to receive.

Tiberias makes for a rather intimidating sight when he is angry. Since he generally has the advantage of height, people often feel threatened by his towering over them; and being shouted and / or growled at by a scarred, sinewy man with a gravelly voice who looks like he could - and would - kill you if provoked, has led many a squire and nobleman to rapidly regret their choices in life.

But, as most of his closer acquaintances will tell you, Tiberias is firmly one of those old war dogs whose bark is worse than their bite. Shouting at someone, and perhaps grabbing them by the shoulders for emphasis, is about as violent as he gets. While he will do what is necessary depending on the situation, the Count of Tripoli is not the sort of knight to revel in brutality or the suffering of others at his hands. Particularly if it was an innocent person he snapped at, a friend, or someone else he is close to, he will most likely feel guilty afterwards and attempt - if somewhat awkwardly - to apologise. He has done a number of things in life that he is decidedly not proud of, weighing heavy on his conscience.

♡ Romance

If you were to ask him, Tiberias would probably answer that he is done with love. It has never been a prime concern for him - could not be, really, on account of all his years spent in Saracen captivity and as regent for Baldwin IV. And although he has had the odd entanglement here and there (aside from his rather cold marriage bed), it has rarely been anything particularly meaningful or long-lasting. Nowadays, he likes to tell himself that he's too old, too worn, too tired to play the coy games of courtly love only to eventually be disappointed; he asks himself if it would really be worth the effort to try again with someone, or if he wouldn't just end up making a fool of himself. But once he found someone worth pursuing, he'd soon discover that there is life in the old dog yet.

When it comes to romance, Tiberias is much like a dried-up well: one would have to dig deep to draw water again. The way I see it, he is definitely a slow-burn guy who enjoys the chase as much as the pounce. For all that he is not the sort to write someone poetry or bring them flowers, he still is more of a traditionalist in these matters and would likely want - or at least expect - to be the one to make the first move. Which might take a while to happen, as it would be important to him to get to know that person well before deciding they might well be worth the shame of being rejected. That said, Tiberias would probably fall for someone younger - not because of "young and beautiful" but because he'd want someone who is not as jaded and weary as he is, someone who would make him see the good in the world again. He'd enjoy being surprised by them and showing them new things; while he might be a bit overprotective and paternalistic at times, he'd nonetheless be willing to learn and try his best to make his partner feel both at ease and on footing equal to himself.

Also, if he had a lover, Tiberias would be touching them constantly. Not in a creepy way, but ... you know, a hand at their elbow or between their shoulder blades when they enter a room together. An arm loosely draped around their waist. Kisses to the top of their head, when they're alone. Having them sit in his lap. Since he has spent quite a few lonely years in his life, he'd likely appreciate the physical reassurance that there is someone by his side now who won't go away anytime soon; and, not being the type to say 'I love you' fifteen times a day, these little touches would probably his way of telling them how happy he is they're with him. So, if you are looking for a wry, clever knight to brush a prickly kiss to the back of your hand or gently stroke your hair, Tiberias is your man. (And would, of course, be overjoyed if his affections were returned.) He reserves the naughty stuff for a more intimate setting.

In a word: Yes, the old boy is cuddly, lol. And possibly a tad possessive.

Want to hear my headcanons for a KoH character of your choice? Have a look here!

#ask games #asks #kingdom of heaven 2005 #kingdom of heaven headcanons #headcanon meme #tiberias #raymond iii of tripoli #could it be me trying in vain to condense all of my complicated tiberias feelings in a single post?? NEVER #i've been writing this man for two years i could feed you random headcanons about him for the rest of your days #i'm once again sorry that this got so utterly out of control #i know nobody gets it #but i love my grumpy old boy #and i maintain that the fandom has been sleeping on tiberias and all the intriguing things you could do with him in a story #i mean ... the aNgST alone is delicious #thanks for coming to my ted talk

31 notes · View notes