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dangermousie · 3 years

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Mousie’s absolutely subjective, very biased Top 10 web novels list

Please note that this is hardly aiming to be objective, if one can even be properly objective about a work of fiction. It is 110% based on my preferences, which means this list is heavy on the angst and has nothing set in the modern day. It is also heavily danmei-centric, even though I read way more het romance than danmei, because for whatever reason, most of the danmei I’ve read has been insanely good.

10. Return of the Swallow - one of the two non-danmeis on this list. Smart and nuanced and with a large cast of characters. Our heroine is a long-lost daughter of the family that is brought back in and has to cope with familial struggles, crazy royals, court intrigue, invasion et al. It’s SO GOOD! There is romance with the sexy smart enemy general but honestly, it’s the heroine that is the main selling point for me.

9. Transmigrator Meets Reincarnator - the only other non-danmei novel on this list, this was my very first web novel and what drew me into this insanity. This is just a ton of fun, probably the lightest novel on this list, not an ounce of angst to be found. But it’s hilarious and features competent heroine and tsundere hero and I will always love it for opening a new world to me. Anyway, our heroine transmigrates into the novel as the female lead. Unlike the original lead though she doesn’t want to seek adventures and angst - she just wants to comfortably live with the wealthy, nice husband heroine has. Alas, said husband is no longer nice since he has previously lived this story where he was betrayed by FL and then transmigrated/reincarnated into the past. Oh well, the heroine opens up businesses and makes friends. And eventually, her husband realizes his wife is way different this time around. This actually doesn’t have much romance, not until close to the end, but this is so fun I don’t care.

8. Lord Seventh - I am only partway through this so far, but it’s already on the list because it’s smart and somehow intense AND laid-back (not sure how this works, but it does) and is honestly just a really really solid and smart period novel, with the OTP a cherry on top of a narrative sundae. Plus, I love the concept of MC deciding he is not going for his supposedly fated love - he’s tried for six lifetimes, always with disaster, and he’s just plain done and tired. When he opens his life in his seventh reincarnation and sees the person he would have given up the world for, he genuinely feels nothing at all. (Spoiler - his OTP is actually a barbarian shaman this time around, thank you Lord!)

7. Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation (MDZS) - oh come on, how are you even on this tumblr if you don’t know MDZS/The Untamed? This was my very first danmei and it’s so much fun! I love everything about it - the unreliable narrator, the looping structure, the main OTP, Wei Wuxian’s laidback, traumatized insouciance, everything. Anyway, the plot in the event you somehow transported here from 2005 is that the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Wei Wuxian, was defeated by the righteous sects over a decade ago and fell of a cliff to his death. Only now that same Wei Wuxian opens his eyes in another body and everything that was supposed to stay in the past starts again.

6. Heaven Official’s Blessing (TGCF) - people either love its meandering narrative, picaresque structure and cast of thousands, or find it a detriment compared to much more compact MDZS. I love it even more than MDZS for those very qualities. It does have a rock-solid, darling OTP, but what really elevates it to me are the MXTX trademark combo of snarky/light tone hiding a ton of trauma underneath, the insanely intricate world-building, and what it has to say about the nature of grace and goodness. Xie Lian is one of my top 5 web novel characters and probably in top 10 from anywhere. Oh, and while MXTX’s stuff is not as angsty for me as Meatbun’s or even Priest’s, there are always exceptions, and there is one chapter in this novel that pretty much broke me and sometimes I still flashback to it and feel unwell.

Anyway, what is it about? There is a commotion in the heavenly realm - Xie Lian, the Crown Prince of a long-destroyed kingdom, has ascended to Godhood. That in itself is not so exciting. However for Xie Lian this is the third time (!!!!) as he’s ascended and lost his godhood twice prior. And now, the biggest joke of the divine realm is back, throwing the heavenly realm into chaos. And elsewhere, Hua Cheng, one of the four most powerful demons of that Universe, sits up and takes notice.

5. Golden Stage - my perfect comfort novel. Probably the least angsty of any danmei novel on this list (which still means plenty angsty :P) It also has a dedicated, smart OTP that is an OTP for the bulk of the book - I think you will notice that in most of the novels in this list, I go for “OTP against the world” trope - I can’t stand love triangles and the same. Anyway, Fu Shen, is a famous general whose fame is making the emperor antsy. When he gets injured and can’t walk any more, the emperor gladly recalls him and marries him off to his most faithful court lackey, the head of sort of secret police, Yan Xiaohan. The emperor intends it both as a check on the general and a general spite move since the two men always clash in court whenever they meet. But not all is at is seems. They used to be friends a long time ago, had a falling out, and one of the loveliest parts of the novel is them finding their way to each other, but there is also finding the middle path between their two very different philosophies and ways of being, not to mention solving a conspiracy or dozen, and putting a new dynasty on the throne, among other things. It always makes me think, a little, of “if Mei Changsu x Jingyan were canon.”

4. Sha Po Lang - if you like a lot of fantasy politics and world-building and steampunk with your novels, this one is for you. This one is VERY plot-heavy with smart, dedicated characters and a deconstruction of many traditional virtues - our protagonist Chang Geng, a long-lost son of the Emperor, is someone who wants to modernize the country but also take down the current emperor his brother for progress’ sake and the person he’s in love with is the general who saved him when he was a kid who is nominally his foster father. Anyway, the romance is mainly a garnish in this one, not even a big side dish, but the relationship between two smart, dedicated, deadly individuals with very different concepts of duty is fascinating long before it turns romantic. And if you like angst, while overall it’s not as angsty as e.g., Meatbun stuff, Chang Geng’s childhood is the stuff of nightmares and probably freaks me out more than anything else in any novel on this list, 2ha included.

3. To Rule In a Turbulent World (LSWW) - gay Minglan. No seriously. This is how I think of it. it’s a slice of life period novel with fascinating characters and setting that happens to have a gay OTP, not a romance in a period setting per se and I always prefer stories where the romance is not the only thing that is going on. It’s meticulously written and smart and deals with character development and somehow makes daily minutia fascinating. Our protagonist, You Miao, is the son of a fabulously wealthy merchant, sent to the capital to make connections and study. As the story starts, he sees his friend’s servants beating someone to death, feels bad, and buys him because, as we discover gradually and organically, You Miao may be wealthy and occasionally immature but he is a genuinely good person. The person he buys is a barbarian from beyond the wall, named Li Zhifeng. It’s touch and go if the man will survive but eventually he does and You Miao, who by then has to return home, gives him his papers and lets him go. However, LZF decides to stick with You Miao instead, both out of sense of debt for YM saving his life and because he genuinely likes him (and yet, there is no instalove on either of their parts, their bodies have fun a lot quicker than their souls.) Anyway, the two take up farming, get involved in the imperial exams and it’s the life of prosperity and peace, until an invasion happens and things go rapidly to hell. This is so nuanced, so smart (smart people in this actually ARE!) and has secondary characters who are just as complex as the mains (for example, I ended up adoring YM’s friend, the one who starts the plot by almost beating LZF to death for no reason) because the novel never forgets that few people are all villain. There is a lovely character arc or two - watching YM grow up and LZF thaw - there is the fact that You Miao is a unicorn in web novels being laid back and calm. This whole thing is a masterpiece.

2. Stains of Filth (Yuwu) - want the emotional hit of 2ha but want to read something half its length? Well, the author of 2ha is here to eviscerate you in a shorter amount of time. This has the beautiful world-building, plot twists that all make sense and, at the center of it all, an intense and all-consuming and gloriously painful relationship between two generals - one aristocratic loner Mo Xi, and the other gregarious former slave general Gu Mang. Once they were best friends and lovers, but when the novel starts, Gu Mang has long turned traitor and went to serve the enemy kingdom and has now been returned and Mo Xi, who now commands the remnants of his slave army, has to cope with the fact that he has never been able to get over the man who stabbed him through the heart. Literally. This novel has a gorgeously looping structure, with flashbacks interwoven into present storyline. There is so much love and longing and sacrifice in this that I am tearing up a bit just thinking of it. If you don’t love Mo Xi and Gu Mang, separately and together, by the end of it, you have no soul.

1. The Dumb Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2ha/erha) - if you’ve been following my tumblr for more than a hot second, you know my obsession with this novel. Honestly, even if I were to make a list of my top 10 novels of any kind, not just webnovels, this would be on the list. It has everything I want - a complicated, intricate plot with an insane amount of plot twists, all of which are both unexpected and make total sense, a rich and large cast of characters, a truly epic OTP that makes me bawl, emotional intensity that sometimes maxes even me out and so much character nuance and growth. Also, Moran is my favorite web novel character ever, hands down.

Anyway, the plot (or at least the way it first appears) is that the evil emperor of the cultivation world, Taxian Jun, kills himself at 32 and wakes up in the body of his 16 year old self, birth name Moran. Excited to get a redo, Moran wants to save his supposed true love Shimei, whose death the last go-around pushed him towards evil. He also wants to avoid entanglement with Chu Wanning, his shizun and sworn enemy in past life. And that’s all you are best off knowing, trust me. The only hint I am going to give is oooh boy the mother of all unreliable narrators has arrived!

The novel starts light and funny on boil the frog principle - if someone told me I would be full bawling multiple times with this novel, I’d have thought they were insane, but i swear my eyes hurt by the end of it. I started out being amused and/or disliking the mains and by the end I would die for either of them.

#cnovel #2ha #yuwu #to rule in a turbulent world #lsww #sha po lang #golden stage #return of the swallow #transmigrator meets reincarnator #lord seventh #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #heaven official's blessing #the dumb husky and his white cat shizun

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rocorambles · 3 years

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Realization

Pairing: Kyoutani x Reader, Iwaizumi x Reader (one-sided)

Genre: SFW, Coming to terms with feelings, Meet Ugly, Falling in Love, Slow Burn, Fluff

Prompt: Meet Ugly

Summary: There’s a difference between liking someone and liking the “idea” of someone.

A/N: This is for the HQHQ SFW Meet Ugly collab. Check out the masterlist here and be sure to read all the other talent-packed content on this list!

“Thanks for all your hard work.”

Your face heats, a flustered smile and giggle escaping you as you grin at Iwaizumi, heart soaring from his praise, chest constricting at how handsome he looks when his lips twitch upwards. It’s only a brief moment, but it means the world to you. You begin to bow in respect to your senpai, only to be cut short, both your heads sharply turning towards the gym door as it slams open with a loud bang.

And just like that, Kyoutani Kentarou has ruined your special moment as he determinedly stares at Iwaizumi who merely sighs at the familiar sight of the second-year. Funny how Kyoutani finds himself at the volleyball gymnasium more now that he’s left the team than when he actually used to be on it.

“Race me.”

You sympathetically smile at Iwaizumi before scurrying off to help put away the rest of the gym equipment as the ace begins to make his way towards his underclassman, tuning out the typical scene, knowing how it’ll end, how it always ends. And sure enough, it’s another indisputable win for Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi - 31 Kyoutani - 0

For someone who’s in your class and your year, you hardly know a thing about Kyoutani other than the fact that he’s as sullen and silent in the classroom as he is outside of it. But as you curiously turn your attention to his figure slumped on top of his desk as you wait for your homeroom teacher to arrive, you have to admit his tenacity is...admirable to say the least.

Aoba Johsai is renowned for its volleyball team and although you hadn’t known a thing about the sport, you were easily swayed by your friends and classmates into watching a game, interested in seeing what the big deal was about. In all fairness, you’re not sure if you necessarily like the sport itself any more than you did that first game. But when you saw Iwaizumi Hajime spike a ball, you were instantly hooked.

Everyone and their mom is smitten with Oikawa Tooru and while you can appreciate your senpai’s charisma, skills, and attractiveness, it’s sharp green eyes and a strong and silent demeanor that captures your heart.

One game turns into two. Two games turn into three. Before you know it you’re donning a teal shirt, shouting and cheering the team on as an official member of the Aoba Johsai Cheer team.

The entire team is treated with almost reverence and certainly respect. So imagine your surprise when you’re watching them practice and a loud growl suddenly echoes throughout the room, Kyoutani stalking towards Iwaizumi with almost hostile aggression. You nervously fidget, unsure if you should do anything, worried he might hurt your crush. You’ve heard the stories of the infamous Mad Dog and his temper, but you can’t imagine Iwaizumi doing anything to warrant any of the younger boy’s anger.

Yet no one else seems to be concerned, the third-years briefly glancing at the two before continuing on with practice. So you stay put, intently watching the unfolding scene, only to rapidly bink in shock when Kyoutani barks at Iwaizumi to arm wrestle. And like a surprisingly addicting reality show, you can’t tear your eyes away as Iwaizumi easily agrees and proceeds to win, as Kyoutani scowls but politely (albeit stiffly) bows in respect to the ace before angrily storming out like a dog with its tail between his legs.

But much like a reality show that plays on the same trope over and over again, you also begin to barely acknowledge the strange daily competitions Kyoutani instigates, just wryly shaking your head in amusement when you hear Kyoutani’s familiar snarl, internally praising Iwaizumi for his patience and good-natured spirit as he goes along with Kyoutani’s whims.

Cut to a few months later, you worriedly gaze at Iwaizumi who looks worse for wear, hovering over him to make sure he’s hydrated as he holds a cool towel to his forehead while he sits on the bench, taking an uncharacteristic break.

“Iwaizumi-senpai, maybe you should go home if you’re not feeling well. It’s not good to push yourself too hard if you’re sick.”

The brunette groans in agreement, sheepishly grinning at your concerned face.

“Alright, alright. Stop looking at me like I’m going to die. I’ll go home-”

He’s cut off by the gym door slamming open and both of you whip your heads again once more as Kyoutani storms towards you two.

“Race me.”

“Not today, Kyoutani. I’m not feeling well-”

“Chickening out? Didn’t take you for someone who lets a little cold-”

“SHUT UP!”

Both boys instantaneously stiffen and quiet down, staring at you wide-eyed and in shock. But you’re not done and you stomp towards Kyoutani, turning yourself into a flimsy barrier between your rude classmate and your senpai, getting between the two and shoving your finger in Kyoutani’s chest.

“Iwaizumi-senpai is sick and he’s going to go home and rest. He’s not going to play your stupid little games that you always lose anyway and you’re going to walk away and stop being so rude to your upperclassman.”

If you weren’t so fired up, you might be proud at how you’ve flabbergasted your fellow hot-headed classmate, leaving him speechless as he stares at you, mouth gaping. But a fire is blazing inside of you and you bare your fangs at him.

“Go. AWAY!”

Your raised voice hits a chord in Kyoutani and there’s tense silence as both of you practically growl at each other before he shoves his hands in his pockets and storms off, muttering angrily under his breath. But when the gym door clangs shut behind him, all your bravado dissipates and you curl in on yourself in embarrassment as you feel everyone’s eyes still on you.

But you startle when a loud raucous laughter fills the air and you turn to pout at Iwaizumi who’s howling in between coughs and sneezes.

“What’s so funny?”

You don’t mean for the question to be as sharp as it is and you cringe when you hear the defensiveness in your own ears, an apology already on your tongue. But your words get stuck in your throat as your body heat skyrockets when a calloused hand endearingly ruffles your head.

“Thanks for standing up for me. I didn’t realize I had such a scary guard dog.”

You shyly look into playful green eyes, only to whine in protest and wrinkle your nose in distaste as he continues on.

“You remind me of Kyoutani when you get fired up.”

“Yeah! It’s like watching two angry chihuahuas go at it. Scary~”

“Shut up, Shittykawa!”

You exchange smug grins with Iwaizumi as Oikawa dramatically complains about the volleyball sized bruise on his forehead before the two of you walk back home together, already leaving the day’s events behind you.

Or at least you tried to.

You can feel eyes boring holes into your head as class drags on and you don’t need to turn to know who it is. Ever since your little showdown, Kyoutani has made it a point to keep you in his sight, staring at you throughout class, only scoffing in return when you snarkily tell him that as smart as you are, he might find it more helpful to actually take notes from the blackboard in the front of the classroom.

Should you be more unnerved by the fact that you’ve caught his interest and that he can’t seem to keep his eyes off you? Maybe. But you don’t feel any creepiness or danger from his intense gaze and if you’re honest, you find it disturbingly cute (although you’d die before you admit it). It reminds you of a cautious puppy trying to study and gauge another puppy who’s entered their home and space.

You suppose you’re passing whatever mental examinations he’s running you through when he unexpectedly joins you at your lunch table one day and you find you don’t mind the comfortable silence that settles around the two of you as you continue on with your meals like nothing is out of the ordinary.

It’s subtle, so subtle that you don’t really notice your newfound closeness until Yahaba briefly mentions it one day as you’re helping the team clean up.

“When did Kyoutani and you become so close?”

Close?

That’s not a word you’d necessarily use to describe your relationship, but as you ponder his question, you can’t deny where he’s coming from. Kyoutani has become something of a protective shadow, appearing out of nowhere as you make your way to and from school, rudely pulling you back whenever he deems you too close to the side of the street as cars zoom by, hostilely growling at men who come too close to you on crowded train cars, smacking more than a hand or two that drift too close to the hem of your skirt.

And in return you’ve found yourself mindlessly blabbering on and on to him, telling him whatever’s on your mind, nosily peeking over his shoulder and correcting mistakes you notice in his homework, passing bites of food from your bento to his.

Close. The two of you are close. Something warm flutters in your chest at that realization.

It’s like a veil has been lifted from your eyes and you suddenly really see Kyoutani for the first time as the two of you walk to and from school and classes. You see the lean toned muscles of his forearm as he insists on holding your bag for you. You see the well-meaning soul behind all the barks and feral eyes. And suddenly the weight of his eyes on you feels heavier than before and you unconsciously move to pat the rumples out of your skirt and shirt and make sure your makeup is intact.

You find your own eyes straying towards his figure as he furrows his brows in concentration, paying attention to the scrawled equations on the board. You no longer ignore his daily competitions with Iwaizumi, surprising yourself with your sudden quiet internal wish for Kyoutani to win as you watch the two race and wrestle against each other. Meanwhile unknown to you, narrowed eyes hone in on the comfortable companionship between Iwaizumi and you, something uncomfortable churning in Kyoutani’s stomach as he observes the carefree way you smile and laugh at everything the ace says.

Kyoutani and you have been assigned to classroom cleaning duties and both of you work in an easy natural harmony, comfortably maneuvering around each other as you sweep and wipe down the room. So you’re surprised when you bump into a hard object, turning around in confusion and coming face to face with Kyoutani who is intensely staring you down.

“What do you like about Iwaizumi?”

You’re stunned, mouth wildly moving around as you try to form words, but no sounds come out.

Your crush on Iwaizumi is a poorly kept secret. You’ve never been subtle and you have an inkling even the vice-captain himself is well-aware of your feelings for him. So it’s not Kyoutani’s awareness of it that’s leaving you speechless. It’s your instinctual response of denial that shocks you to your core.

“I- don’t like Iwaizumi?”

There’s silence as Kyoutani narrows his eyes and stares at you in a mixture of disbelief and confusion.

“Was that a question?”

“Shh! I’m trying to think.”

Kyoutani rolls his eyes, but he settles on top of a nearby desk, patiently waiting and watching as your thoughts race.

You like Iwaizumi. You’ve always liked Iwaizumi. But you wonder if you’ve ever truly liked the upperclassman in the way you believe you did. He’s hard working, responsible, kind, handsome, and physically gifted. He’s a man’s man, someone who everyone looks up to. He’s the shiny glossy page of a magazine that catches your eyes, showing you a vision of a picture perfect world you wildly create and build in your mind. He’s the older brother and mentor you’ve always wanted. He’s protection, comfort, and guidance. But even then, he’s always at arm’s length, on a pedestal you’ve forced him on, unattainable, unreachable. He’s not Kyoutani.

Kyoutani. Rude, gruff, brash Kyoutani with his few words and feral snarls. He’s not Kyoutani and yet when you think of bleached hair, your heart starts pounding and you instinctively want to lean in towards the silent wall of lean muscles that hovers around you, keeping you safe, listening to every word you say. You think of countless meals, walks, and hangout/study sessions. You think of sharp words and growls mixed in with laughter and fondness.

Iwaizumi is just a pretty pipe dream you’ve concocted. He’s a great senpai, a good man, who you've used as the center of your rose-tinted imagination. But you don’t really know him. Not the way you know Kyoutani. Your feelings for Iwaizumi are silly, whimsy, fluffy and cloud-like, a vapid perfect world that doesn’t exist. Not like the raw and tangible bolts you feel around Kyoutani as the two of you bicker about who has the right answer on their homework when your responses differ, excitedly talk about your favorite dog breed, or discover your new go-to fried chicken place together by accident one day while the two of you are aimlessly strolling through town.

You like Iwaizumi, but you like Kyoutani.

It’s like a lightbulb has flipped on over your head, but you know you’ve been silent for too long when movement catches your attention from the corner of your eyes and you turn to see Kyoutani’s legs beginning to impatiently fidget.

“I don’t like Iwaizumi.”

The conviction in your words startles both of you, but you continue on.

“I saw him spike a ball and my mind got carried away. That’s all.”

There’s so much left unsaid, so much implied and yet, somehow you know Kyoutani understands what you really mean when he abruptly stands up and reaches for both your school bags, carrying them on his shoulder as the two of you exit the classroom, an uncharacteristic softness in his next words.

“Yeah, he’s a pretty cool guy...for an upperclassman.”

No one pays any mind as the gym doors slam open at practice yet again, but heads turn when Kyoutani turns his back on Iwaizumi and makes his way towards Oikawa who’s curiously staring at the approaching second-year.

“I want to rejoin the volleyball team and I’m going to be the ace after Iwaizumi graduates.”

Chaos erupts as people choke on their water bottles, surprised and outraged exclamations and whispers flooding the space. But as irritating as Oikawa can be, you have to admit he’s always been good at finding and honing potential, at swaying people to his ways. And you beam in surprise and excitement as Kyoutani begins to warm-up with the team, stretching and jogging amongst a sea of teal.

You’re jolted back to attention when someone sits next to you, smiling at Iwaizumi who drinks some water as he observes Kyoutani.

“You have something to do with this?”

You balk at the hidden connotation of his words. As if you’d have any influence on stubborn, strong-willed Kyoutani who’s always done what he wants and you fervently shake your head side to side in denial.

“Me??? I’m just as surprised as you are. If he doesn’t even listen to you, what makes you think he’d even hear what I have to say-”

You’re silenced by the loud echo of your name being called, turning your head to the middle of the court where the team is lining up, getting ready to practice their spikes, looking at the second-year who’s scowling at you. (If Iwaizumi notices the way Kyoutani’s glare deepens when he notices the ace sitting so close to you, he wisely doesn’t bring it up.)

“Watch me spike.”

Your jaw drops at the demanding statement, indignation beginning to fester in you as you get ready to retort and tell him he can’t tell you what to do, let alone interrupt practice to order you around. But then you remember…

“I saw him spike a ball and my mind got carried away.”

There’s no way that’s why he’s…

And yet…

You clamp your mouth shut, eyes carefully watching as he bounds towards the net, leg muscles contracting and expanding as he leaps in the air, arm swinging overhead, a resounding smack filling the air as he slams the ball over the net. It’s mere seconds and yet it feels like eternity to you as Kyoutani eagerly whips his head towards you the second he lands back on the ground, making sure you were watching, You’re not sure how the gut-twisting awe and pride you feel translates onto your face, but it must if the slight upwards twitch of his lips are any indication as he makes his way towards the back of the line, getting ready to do it all over again

“Congratulations. I think you’ve officially bumped me down to number two on Kyoutani’s ‘people I give a shit about’ list.”

“Senpai, it’s not like that!”

“Yet. It’s not like that yet.”

There’s a pause as you can’t bring yourself to deny his words, something hopeful and nervous twining and entangling your beating heart at the heavy underlying meaning of Iwaizumi’s words. But you wince, crashing back to reality when a finger roughly pokes your forehead, any complaints dying on your tongue when you see the softest knowing look in green eyes.

“I’m happy for you and I wish the two of you all my best.”

To anyone else, they’re sweet words. That’s all. But you know better. You can see the official rejection of your unconfessed feelings in the way Iwaizumi carefully chooses his words. You can feel the acknowledgement of your past feelings for him in the way his hand gently, but firmly grips your shoulder in consolation and reassurance before he trudges back to practice himself.

Yet it doesn’t hurt the way you thought it would and as your heart bids a final fond farewell to the brown-haired, green-eyed protagonist of your past dreams, you turn to Kyoutani, ready to begin a new real adventure together.

#kyoutani x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #kyoutani kentarou #kyoutani fluff #haikyuu fic

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latte-fairytaekwoon · 3 years

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𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓞𝓯 𝓙𝓪𝓷𝓮 (𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮!𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓮𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓰) 𝓡𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒! 𝐾𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑒𝑜𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑔 (𝐴𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑧)/ 𝐴𝑐𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠! 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 (𝐹𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒)

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓, 𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑡, 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟/𝑃𝑠𝑦𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑇ℎ𝑟𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟, 1930'𝑠 𝐸𝑟𝑎.

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 4.3𝐾

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑒ℎ��𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑝𝑠𝑦𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑠, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑖𝑎, 𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑒/𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑠 '𝐽𝑎𝑛𝑒'.

𝑇𝑎𝑔 𝐿𝑖𝑠𝑡: @hanatiny @yunhofingers @multidreams-and-desires @aixy-hpsa

"𝐴𝑠 𝐼 𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑔𝑒, 𝐴𝑠 𝐼 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝐽𝑎𝑛𝑒..."- 𝐵𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐵𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛

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The dark and eerie dense fog that shrouded around the somber and serene graveyard felt as cold as the lifeless bodies that now layed under the soft brown earth. Sculpted angels, white crucifixes, and even bells served as ornaments for some of the tombstones and burial grounds that were meticulously scattered throughout the cemetery. Underneath shadow of the clouds that darkened the daylight, with only slight slivers of rays from the sun piercing through slight cracks as his guide, the handsome male with skin as pale as death itself and a face that seemed to be sculpted in heaven took slow and heavy steps, ignoring all other distractions around him, including the rustling of leaves, a tiny woodland creature scurrying past him or even the distant noises of the groundskeeper......or body snatchers.

None of that mattered to him, his gaze was only focused on the magnificently sculpted stone that he was now standing in front of. He let out a heavy sigh, tears held back as his hand gently grazed upon the letters that had been beautifully engraved into the hard block.

Jane Bryan~ 1917-1939

Sinking to his knees, he stared at the cold hearted reality that he was now living in, unable to feel anything but a hollow and aching void inside his body as his dearly beloved soulmate had been merciless torn apart from his side, before he ever got the chance to confess his deep love and admiration for her.

Reaching into the inside of his dark grey trenchcoat, he pulled out a crimson red journal, the sides of the pages that had once been white, were now more of a light beige color that had come as a result of time, the once smooth pages now somewhat wrinkled up from the constant use it had been given. He skipped all the meaningless first entries, having already read and re-read them many times in the sanctuary of his and comfort of his home, it wasn't anything that most of the public didn't already know. The motivation and driving force of why she chose her career path in the first place, the struggles and poverty she faced at the beginning, and finally her sudden breakthrough and rise to fame. Although many would argue that had it not been for that, he would have never found out about her and would have never even spared a glance at her.....

But Yeosang knew that was all blasphemous accusations that had absolutely no foundation. From the beginning, probably even before his own birth, he already desired and yearned for her. He was destined to be with her....

But alas, fate was cruel to strip him of his hope and chance at happiness, with nothing more than a few pages to help him endure these past days that were nothing but a torment to him.

Finally, coming to the section that truly mattered, he began recounting all the events and scenes that had elapsed over the past year......

One that ended in tragedy.

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"My lady, these just arrived for you."

Looking at her sharply dressed maid through her vanity mirror, the diva smiled and gesture for her to place them on the dresser next to her. After dismissing her maid, the girl put down the hairbrush that had been thoroughly combing through her [insert color] hair, the locks at the very end slightly turned outward from the previous curling session they had endured the day before. Scanning through the series of letters and gifts her charming and adoring fans had sent to her, a bright smile was plastered on her face, enthusiastic about getting to open them and read their comforting and heartwarming words they had to say for her.

As she came across the last stack, her heart dropped when she felt the familiar feeling of the yellow parchment envelope that she had been so used to receiving by now. As per custom, two rose buds had been carefully tied to it, one pure white and the other crimson red. Her thumb brushed across the seal that had the letters "KY" imprinted on it, waiting to be broken off so she could peer into the nearly poetic phrases of adoration that would often spill out from the page.

Taking a deep breath, and against her better judgment, she broke off the seal and with shaky hands, she held up the paper and began reading it aloud:

"My dearest Jane,

You looked absolutely ethereal in your latest film. As soon as it was released, I was sitting in front of my television, watching in earnest every little detail, every wave of your hands, every step your feet took and every smile you had. Words alone cannot fully describe how incredibly beautiful and mesmerizing you are..........

In short, to this day I still remain your most loyal and greatest admirer.

-KY."

It would have been nothing more to another love letter to her, had the postscript at the bottom of every page not sent shockwaves coursing down her spine.

"P.S, have you considered wearing more light blue? The chiffon blouse and skirt set you wore last week while walking through the gardens looked ethereal on you love."

Her hands dropped the paper, letting it fall directly onto the marble floor. With shaking pupils, her gaze wandered across her room, inspecting every nook and corner, delusion setting in as she felt as though she were being watched by a pair of eyes she could hardly make out. Cautiously standing up, one of her hands wrapped around the yellow silk robe she was wearing, fingers delicately tightening the belt that held it in place. Through dragged out steps, she went to the large and lonely window that looked directly out into the grounds of her enormous house, the many rose bushes and apple trees could still be seen from the moonlight cascading down on it.

As she looked out into the night view, her eyes scanning around for any unusual sightings. She could swear there was somebody moving across the fields, slowly getting closer and closer towards her......she was certain she could make out a slim yet powerful silhouette of an unknown male charging straight at her, hands soon to be pressed against the cold glass....

With a sharp gasp, she quickly drew the long curtains to cover the window, nearly falling backwards onto the floor from how fast she backed away from the window. Through shaky breaths, she quickly pulled back the covers and practically jumped into the mattress of her king sized bed. Tucking herself under the warm embrace of the cotton blankets, she looked over at the lamp by her bedside table. Hesitantly, she reached out to turn it off, but then decided against it. Instead, she opened the drawer in the dresser and pulled out her most trusted and confidential friend, accompanied by its black inked partner. Opening up to the next blank page, she began scribbling down words in an effort to calm her mind and hopefully ease her into a deep slumber.

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The snowy haired male writhed around in his bed, tossing and turning constantly, eyes shut tight with a burning desire to drift off into one of his many dream escapades so he could see his beloved soulmate once again. It was the only thing keeping him sane during the days he had to spend locked up in his home, unable to go wander off into the great estate and spend his day accompanying his beautiful lady as she strolled through her gardens, often attending to the flowers herself because she couldn't trust anyone else to treat them with the tenderness that she meticulously bestowed upon them.

Letting out a pained whimper, he turned his head and coughed slightly into his mouth. His throat was sore, chills running through his body and a tiny trail of mucus sometimes needing to be wiped off his nose, all a result of the the nights he spent outside her window, watching it intensely until the light inside turned off, and even after that, he'd still stay an hour or two more, just in case she was awoken by another one of those terrible nightmares that often frightened and terrorized her, unwilling to let her rest.

He was in agony, he hadn't seen his love in 4 days and it was excruciatingly painful for him not knowing any news about her. Perhaps it was the hours without sleep he had gone through, perhaps his fever was making him get a lucid dream, or perhaps his mind was drifting off in vivid imagination, eyes finally closing......

The cold feeling he had endured was suddenly replaced by a warm body laying next to him, gentle fingers running themselves through his soft hair, earning a groan out of his lips. Opening his eyes, he was blessed by the sight of the most dazzling eyes known to mankind, plump and luscious lips curled into the most breathtaking smile that was aimed for him and only him.

"Jane......my dear Jane..."

One of her fingers pressed against his lips, hushing him quietly.

"I've missed you so much my darling." She admitted, eyes looking sad as her mouth formed into a tiny pout.

Cupping her face, he brought his own face close to hers, his nose nuzzling against hers, foreheads pressed against each other.

"I've missed you too my love."

Unable to hold back any longer, his lips hungrily sought after hers, his body shifting so that he was now hovering above hers. Her hands grasped at his neck, mouth parting to allow his wet muscle entrance inside. Once having been satisfied with that, he moved to her neck, planting wet and desperate kisses across her jaw, down her neck where a chain of purple blotches began to take form like one of the many chokers she was often donning. His hands kneaded at her soft and tender breasts that were covered by her silk nightgown, the pale blue color looking ethereal on her skin. In a rather flimsy manner, his veiny hands pulled the straps off her shoulders and began to remove the article of clothing from her body, the nightgown getting lost somewhere underneath the blankets covering them. He looked backed down as his eyes beheld her in her most beautiful form, completely bare and nude, nothing hidden away from his eyes that were practically ravishing her body already.

Stripping himself out of his own garments, he leaned back down, elbows resting on each side of her head as he sought out her lips once more, faint moans and gasps getting caught in his mouth as he slowly began to enter her, her walls stretching out to accommodate and welcome his thick length into her warm and velvet sanctuary.

"Yeosang..."

He let out a soft groan everytime she mentioned his name, prompting his thrusts to get faster and have her chanting his name over and over like a mantra until she was spilling herself all over his cock, his own sticky release following soon after, leaving them both in a state of bliss and ecstasy.

"I love you so much." His deep and husky voice whispered into her ear.

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Holding up the torn off page, his other hand lit one of the corners with the lighter he had brought with him, watching it slowly become engulfed in flames until it was nothing but nothing but another blackened ruin that now layed on the dirt underneath him, surrounded by many other companions that had been blazed up by the same fate. He let out a sigh and looked back at the tombstone in front of him.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why hide all your pain and suffering from me?........"

He stilled before speaking out the last part.

"And why could I not see it?"

He who watched over her constantly and studied everything about her, how did it never cross his mind that his sweetheart was living in constant fear and agitation from some unknown force that seemed to haunt her inside the walls of her own home? The very place where she was supposed to feel protected and safe? It made absolutely no sense. No matter how many times he read over the last few pages, he could not find one clue or detail alluding to the cause of her phobia.

"The place I once called my haven, has now become my hell, my place of torment. I can't eat, sleep, lounge around nor do any other activities without feeling trapped......I see them....hear them... even as I drift off into the night, the times where I can sleep for at least an hour or two, I can feel their very presence, watching over me. It's truly frightening..........

Where are you? And what do you want from me?"

He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Maybe he could have done something to help her, the lord and devil himself knew he'd do anything and go to any lengths for her. He'd live for her, die for her and even kill for her..............

And that was not mere talk, it was the honest truth.....

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"Miss Jane, I have drawn your bath and even added a few drops of the lavender scented oil to help you relax."

The old woman gently touched the girl's shoulder, her touch almost motherly like.

"Please miss....you haven't looked well lately...." Her maid was practically begging at this point.

Realizing she was right, the young woman got up from her couch.

"Thank you Grace. I'll be in in a minute." She assured her.

Her maid excused herself, dreading having to leave her alone for a few hours due to having to go out and fetch a few items for dinner. She was particularly apprehensive about leaving the dear girl alone given how fidgety and anxious she had been, her stress making her more and more agitated as the days went by.

Once she heard the front door shut, it seemed to resonate through her ears, realizing she was all alone.....

And yet she wasn't.

Stepping inside her luxurious bathroom, she untied her bathrobe, letting it drop onto the floor. For a moment, she had been refusing to bathe completely bare, uncomfortable at the thought that someone watching her. So she slowly dipped her foot inside, followed by the other, allowing her expensive nightgown to become soaked inside the bathtub. The lavender scent seemed to relax her body slowly as each minute passed. Her eyes started to get drowsy, all those sleepless nights finally getting to her as a deep fatigue took over her body, making her mind shut down immediately...

She woke up with a sudden gasp, eyes flying open. She was still inside her bathtub but for some reason, the water was all gone and she was completely dry, as if she had never taken a small soak inside.

Her home felt off, it was chillier than usual, and a very dark ambient seemed to be surrounding it. Cautiously slipping out of the tub, she walked out into the corridor and headed straight to her bedroom. She was about to go lay down on her bed, but something made her halt her steps and walk back. Turning her head, she looked over at her vanity dresser. Her eyes furrowed in confusion as her mirror no longer had the glass in it, it was nothing but a mere frame with wood where the reflective material should be.

"That's odd..." She thought to herself as her fingers touched the panel.

Reaching inside one of her drawers, she took out her hand held mirror and discovered it had been tampered with in the same manner as her vanity mirror. The glass was also missing.

Feeling a surge of panic at her home being invaded, especially after all the fretting about someone watching her at all hours of the day, she bolted out of her room and began ransacking through every guest room, bathroom and corner, but all the other mirrors in them were completely removed. Running down the stairs, she nearly tripped from how fast she was coming down them. Going towards the front door, she tried opening it, but it was bolted shut, the door handle wouldn't budge. She began to mercilessly pound on it, screaming for help as tears began fall down her face.

She felt a shadowy presence loom over her.....

Not daring to turn around, she started running down the other corridor that would lead her into the living room where she'd usually attend to her guests. Slamming her hands on it, it opened with absolutely no resistance. As she stepped in, she noticed all the missing mirrors were all placed around the room. Walking closer and closer to them, she inhaled sharply as she stood in front of them.....

And her reflection was nowhere to be seen at all.

Her hand came up to touch her cheek, then forehead and other facial features. Her hands traveled down her neck then to her shoulders as she made sure she was definitely there. Her hand reached out to touch the mirror, confusion overwhelming her as she did not understand why there was no reflection of her at all.

"Don't worry, you may not see yourself, but I see you....and you're extremely beautiful."

She whipped her head around, trying to figure out where the voice came from.

"Who..who's there?" She demanded to know.

"Awww my dear little flower, do you not recognize me? After all the letters I sent you? I am after all your most loyal and greatest admirer."

Hearing those words sent her into a frenzy, nearly knocking down one of the mirrors when she stepped back so abruptly.

"Still don't know? Let me remind you..."

From out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught sight of some figure moving through the room, reflected only by the mirror beside her.

"So nice of you to help the injured bunny that was in the garden, you truly are a kind hearted soul."

Her heart dropped as she recalled those words from a letter she had received months ago.

"Remember the necklace you were so sad to have lost while out in the gardens? I found it and am returning it to you."

Her body swiftly turned as she felt a gusty of wind past behind her, but there was nothing except the same mirror with both reflection of her, but instead a hand holding up the lost item that had been sent back to her along with the same two roses that were always sent.

"Is your wrist better now? I saw you pricked it while attending to your rose bush."

She let out a yelp when she felt something scratched along her skin. Looking down, she trembled as she saw blood pouring out from her wrist, much like the time she had accidentally cut herself, only this time the wound was deeper and the liquid pouring out was not red but instead a black color that had her turning pale.

"Stop! Leave me alone!" She cried out, making way back towards the door only to find that it wasn't there anymore, she was trapped inside that room of mirrors that still reflected nothing of her figure, but had a shadow silhouette pass through them from time to time.

"Remember when you actually wrote back to me? I still have the letter, your handwriting was so delicate, I could faintly smell the scent of that perfume you always wear."

"Shut up!" She begged the voice, feeling frantic as she began pushing over all the mirrors, letting them smash to pieces on the floor.

"You wrote 'please let it be the last time you write to me such contents.'......I couldn't imagine it, you actually wrote to me! To me, directly from you! The very first love letter you replied to me!" The voice let out a tiny giggle.

"Well then let this be the last reply! I hate you!" She declared.

There was silence for a brief moment, then the voice let out a tiny chuckle.

"Honestly? I don't mind if you say this love is the last time-"

"There's a fine line between love and hate, don't you get it?!" She cut them off, before her hands reached above her head, clutching her ears as she didn't want to hear anymore.

"As I said....I don't mind....I like that." They seemed to taunt her, their voice dangerously close to her now.

Whimpering in fear, she shut her eyes tightly, hoping to wake up out of the nightmare she was living.

"So now I'll ask....do you like that?" She felt someone's breath right on her skin.

"No!!!!"

Yelling as loud as she could, she punched her fists into the mirror in front of her, slicing more cuts into her skin as she shattered the glass in front of her, but not completely ruining it. Wheezing harshly, she looked up and saw a reflection in the mirror, but it wasn't her own.........

It was someone else's figure behind her, face as ethereal as an angel, but his eyes looked void of any emotions. Lips curling into a slight smile, she gasped as he wrapped a hand around her neck.

"I like that."

Before she knew it, a cold blade was swiftly dragged across her throat, slicing it open with blood splattering all over the mirror and onto the floor underneath her. She could no longer feel anything, her breath being taken right out of her....

The man's eyes were the last image she ever saw....

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Not being able to take it anymore, Yeosang managed to pry the window lock open. He was thankful that it was spacious enough to allow him to easily crawl inside. Landing with a soft thud, he ignored the pain on his right hip as he stood up, carefully looking around hoping to spot his dear beloved somewhere. He had neglected her for far too long, his illness consuming him for nearly a month and he was restless to see her again. Walking through the corridor, he went inside what he discerned to be her bedroom, already familiarized with the outside structure of the house. He did not find her there, but stumbled across a crimson red book that was placed on top of her dresser. Picking it up, he turned to the first page and immediately realized what it was. This was it, her most treasured secrets were now in the palm of his hands. He was about to start skimming through the first pages when he noticed the adjoining room's door was left ajar. Curiosity getting the best of him, he peeked inside and noticed it was a bathroom. He briefly scanned inside, not particularly amazed by anything...

Until his heart dropped when he saw familiar hair and an arm poking out of the bathtub.

He nearly busted the door down from how harsh he pushed it open. Dropping the diary onto the floor, his arms scooped up the frail and colorless body that was submerged inside the now cold water.

"Jane! Jane!"

He desperately called out to her, his hands shaking her rather forcefully, but to no avail. He looked at the woman he was holding with despair, his heart breaking as he realized she wasn't going to wake up anytime soon.

"No.....no my love!"

He cried in earnest as he held onto her lifeless body, unwilling to let go for a long time. His hand caressed her wet hair, lips placing small and gentle kisses across her face. He just couldn't believe that the love of his life was now gone...forever.

Hearing the front door open and her maid calling out, he looked back at his beloved one last time, placing a desperate and longing kiss first and last kiss on her lips.

"I love you.."

He whispered those words before letting go of her. Making sure to not leave the diary behind, he quickly snuck out of the window, carefully landing on the grass beneath him, running out into the woods surrounding her home and waited....

Waited to see what would happen next.

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His brown eyes looked over the newspaper article that was published not long after that horrible day:

"Famous celebrity actress found dead in her own home by her maid. Investigators say victim fell asleep in her bathtub and accidentally drowned. No foul play is suspected."

Tearing the article apart, he threw the ripped shreds onto the ground before picking up the torn pages he had removed from the diary. Burning the last of the pages he didn't want in there, he stood up and looked back at the tombstone in front of him. Placing the diary on top of it, he turned it to the last page and placed one of his favorite photos of her, followed by one of his own.

Finally now, he had a place in her diary.

Closing the diary, he finished by placing a white and a red rose, bound together with a black ribbon on top of it. Stepping back, he fell to his knees in front of the grave, his eyes glassy from the tears he was holding back. With no hesitation, he reached into his pocket and took out the revolver he had brought with him, specifically because he could not live without his Jane any longer.

"If I have to, I will put myself right beside you.."

Holding up the barrel next to head, he kept a calm and collected stare as his eyes never left the name engraved on the stone.

"Would you like that?"

Saying those final words, his finger pulled on the trigger..........

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167 notes · View notes

saeran-imagines · 3 years

Text

Ray x Reader - Promise

It wasn't a request or anything, but I wrote some Ray x Reader hurt/comfort for my needy soul~ Based on that one time in the garden where he says all those things about how it'd be okay if you hurt him 😢 But it doesn't fit anywhere specific on the timeline~

“I’m sorry.” Ray’s voice cuts through the silence. This was your second trip out to the garden with him, and the evening had been quiet and peaceful. You’d been sitting together on a bench surrounded by roses turned orange from the setting sun. This might be the longest conversation you’ve had with him. He doesn’t seem to like talking about himself, but he listened intently as you talked about your likes, dislikes and desires. He asked a thousand questions, wanting to know every little detail about you, down to your favorite shape and your mother’s last name. Not that you minded. You satisfied his curiosity, throwing in fun little anecdotes to entertain him along the way. He’s out of questions for the night, though, and the two of you have been watching the sun go down in silence. “I’m really sorry.” The bench creaks beside you, and you turn to see his head scrunched up in his hands.

“Ray, what’s wrong?” The night had been going so well, did you say something upsetting? Did he forget about something he had to do? Your mind races through the events of the last hour trying to figure out where something could have gone wrong.

“I’m not nearly as entertaining as the RFA...” he starts. “You could have been talking with them this whole time, but you went along with me and let me selfishly keep you here all night.” Oh no, that’s what this is about... His insecurities have hardly been a secret since the day you met him, but you’d desperately hoped they wouldn’t show themselves tonight. He deserves to enjoy himself, even if it’s just for a few hours. You reach out for him, but stop when he flinches away.

“I didn’t-” you stutter, worried that saying the wrong thing could make the situation worse. “I came here with you because I like spending time with you, okay? Tonight was wonderful.” He curls up into himself more.

“Oh god, and I’m ruining it right now, aren’t I? It was perfect and I just ruined it.”

“No, it’s oka-”

“I’m such an idiot, you can go ahead and hit me if you want.” He finally lifts his head to look at you, revealing his tear stained face. “You can throw things at me, or kick me, or pull my hair, anything that’ll make it up to you.” His shaking body looks like it’s about to collapse into itself, his fingers digging into his knees. Seeing him in this state is too painful, you have to do something about it. You might not have a magic button to take all his pain away, but god dammit you’ll do anything in your power to make sure you’re not a source of it.

"Ray.” His head snaps up like a trained puppy at the sound of his name being called. Which one of the horrible people in his life taught him that trick? You try your best to kick that thought out of your head, you can’t focus on the past right now. “You trust me, right?”

“Of course I trust you!” he sits up straighter, voice frantic. “Anything you tell me to do, I’ll do it.” You frown. He’s getting the wrong message, but at least you have his attention now.

“Thank you.” You smile at him, hoping it looks more reassuring than pained. “Then, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” He leans in closer to you, so close that you can feel his warm breath against your face. If this were a better situation, if you were in a safer place right now, you might have leaned in to close the distance. But that’s not what either of you need right now.

“Okay, then I’m going to make a promise to you, and I want you to try your best to believe me.” He leans back a little, his intensity shifting towards confusion.

“A promise?” he asks.

“Yeah, a promise.” You reach towards his hands but you don’t take them, instead offering yours for him to hold if he chooses. He reaches out hesitantly, glancing back up at you to make sure he really has permission before grabbing them. His grip is just a bit too tight for comfort, but that’s the least of your worries right now. “And I don’t make promises very often, so please try to believe that I’ll keep it. Okay?

“...Okay.” His body is still tense with apprehension. When you asked him for a favor he expected to have to do something, to fetch you a meal, or fix a bug on your phone, or leave you alone for the rest of the night. He would have happily ripped his heart out for you to crush under your feet. But a promise… if you were trying to torture him, this is the best way to do it. He does trust you, though, more than anyone else. Maybe… maybe even more than his savior, though he wouldn’t dare say so out loud. So as much as he wants to, he doesn’t flinch or look away as he waits for you to speak. You run your fingers across his knuckles, smiling with more confidence at his earnesty.

“Alright,” you resist the urge to tack a ‘darling’ or a ‘sweetheart’ to the end of that. This is the most attentive he’s ever been towards you, and you don’t want to ruin that by confusing him even more. “I promise... that I’m never ever going to hurt you.” You bring his hands closer to your chest and squeeze them for emphasis. His breath hitches and his eyes widen, now unable to look away from your intense gaze.

You take a deep breath to control your voice. You’re very passionate about this and you want it to show, but the last thing you want is to scare him off by your intensity sending the wrong message. “I’m not ever gonna hit you, or throw things at you, or shout at you...” Tears start to form behind your eyes at the thought of doing something so horrible, but you continue. “There’s nothing you could do that would push me to hurt you.”

You take a chance and lift your hand up to cup his cheek. He gasps but doesn’t flinch, tentatively leaning into the touch instead. If only you could do more... You could wrap your arms around him and hold him against your chest, telling him that everything will be okay while you run your hands through his hair. Or pull his face closer to yours and close the distance, kissing him so deeply and passionately that he doesn’t have the chance to doubt himself. But that would do more harm than good, this isn’t the time to be self indulgent. All you can do is convince yourself that you’ll have all the time in the world for that once you’re free from this hell.

You feel a drop of water on your hand. Did it start to rain? No, he’s crying. Did you do something wrong? Your other hand moves on its own to brush the tear from his other eye before it gets the chance to fall. “Darling?” You mentally curse yourself, the pet name fell from your mouth while you’re caught off guard. His tears turn into sobs and you don’t know what to do.

“I’d rather...” he manages to get a few words out despite his body telling him not to, screaming at him that it’s safer not to speak. “P-Please don’t promise that. I’d rather have- have you hurt me than leave me.” He’s not looking at you anymore. His eyes are focused on the gap of bench between you, not daring to look anywhere else. Fuck it. You do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into your chest and resting your head on his shoulder. Now that he’s pressed up against you the scent of something toxic beneath his layers of cologne becomes clearer. That must be the elixir that’s been keeping him in agony for god knows how long. You hold him tighter, but immediately let up when you notice his breaths are coming out squeaky from the pressure. What irony would that be, if you crushed him to death right after promising you’d never hurt him.

“Hey, that won’t happen either. I’m not gonna leave this place without you by my side.” All self control is lost as you rub circles into his back and play with his hair in a desperate attempt to calm him down. Your mind is racing too hard to find the right words to say, all you can do is pray that your touches hold enough emotion to get through to him. You’re mumbling something into his ear, something about everything being okay, about not leaving him. You hear yourself call him ‘baby’ somewhere in there but you try to move past that thought before you have the time to get mortified over it. Maybe something in your messy attempt at comfort worked, or maybe he’s just all cried out, but his sobs eventually even out into sniffles. Weak and tired from the emotional rollercoaster, he doesn’t think twice before snuggling further into your embrace.

“...Okay,” he whispers. What?

“Okay?”

“I’ll... I’ll try my best to believe you. I can’t understand why you’re being so nice to me, but since you promised I’ll try to believe you.” Right, the promise. You smile into his neck.

“Thank you. I’ll prove to you that I really mean it.”

☁ ☁ ☁

“Ray?” The bench creaks as he jumps slightly, startled from the silence being broken. After you’d wiped each other’s tears away the two of you stayed side by side on the bench, holding hands and watching the sky turn dark. An attempt at cooling down before you go back to your lonely room and he goes back to his sleepless work. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s okay. What is it?” He turns slightly to look at you, but you don’t meet his eyes. The embarrassment of losing your cool earlier is still fresh in your mind.

“I just want you to know that I really meant that promise,” you say. “And don’t think it’s just because I’m nice, because I’m definitely not above smacking people down. But this promise is for you, Ray, I promise not to hurt you. And if I do by some accident, I’ll make it up to you ten times over.” His face flushes and he looks down at his lap.

“But you are nice, you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met.” You chuckle.

“Nah, I’m not nice. I’m nice to you, but that’s because you’re... you. There’s a lot of people in this world-” the so-called ‘savior’ comes to mind as you talk, and your voice grows colder. “A lot of people in this world that I’d crush like ants between my fingers if I could.” With narrowed eyes you raise your hand towards the Magenta building, imagining the savior sitting inside. You squish your imaginary enemy with your fingers for emphasis. It gives you a rush of joy in some weird twisted way that you should probably talk to a professional about.

“But... you won’t crush me?” He asks softly, unsure of himself. There’s a glimmer of hope in the question, though, a glimmer that wouldn’t have been there if he’d asked an hour ago. You finally look at him and he meets your eyes..

“No, I won’t crush you.” Genuine smiles have been in short supply for you recently, but this gentle, peaceful moment with the object of your affection coaxes one out of you. ‘I will squish you though,’ is what you wanna say before diving in to pinch his cheeks, but you settle for another squeeze of his hand. You’ll have all the time in the world for that later. Right now you just need to escape.

#saeran choi #saeran x reader #ray x reader #mystic messenger #mysme #ray #drabble

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kae-karo · 3 years

Note

Kaeya and/or Diluc with the banter prompt "don't tempt me" or "you didn't answer my question"

thank u eternally dear anon for giving me the always-appreciated opportunity to write some kaeluc >:} (send me one of these prompts and a genshin character!)

make me melt again - T - 2k

tags: stranded on a desert island, no i haven’t done the event stuff yet, idk if we even get to that part by the time i post this, but i was inspired, kaeluc reconciliation, canon divergence

[read on ao3]

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one? You’ve asked an incessant number of them over the past-” Diluc cuts his words off there. Past how long? The sun has set, of course, so he can be relatively certain that some hours have passed, but the exact number is as yet undeterminable.

And Kaeya is doing his best to make it feel eons longer.

“Have you even been paying attention?” Kaeya chides, coughs out a laugh. How he’s finding this amusing, Diluc isn’t entirely certain. This is very far from enjoyable, though he supposes it isn’t the worst situation he’s ever ended up in.

“I tend to tune out when you speak,” Diluc says as he glances over the fire to where Kaeya watches him, brow quirked.

“Hardly an afternoon on a deserted island, and you’re already rather feisty,” Kaeya says with a laugh. “How long until you raise a sword against me again?”

It’s the again that does it, that snaps Diluc’s neutral, unbothered composure. His jaw tics with irritation - of all the people to end up stuck on an island with, it had to be Kaeya, didn’t it? The one person among an entire world who happens to be particularly adept at pushing his buttons.

“You’re welcome to reminisce to your heart’s content,” he grits out, “but I have little interest in rehashing the past.” There is a reason he put all of that behind him, sequestered all his hurt behind an iron wall and locked it away. He does not need it rearing its ugly head now, when they’ve-

Perhaps not reconciled, but they are at an understanding of sorts. They are able to be in each others’ presence without causing problems, though he supposes such a tenuous alliance might crumble under the weight of hours spent on a deserted island.

With nobody to talk to but Kaeya, and nobody to intervene should things turn any less civil.

Not that Diluc will be the one to raise a hand against Kaeya. Never again - he has long passed that place, that dark well of heartache and betrayal. Teyvat moved on, and so Diluc moved on with it. He presumes that Kaeya has moved on as well.

“It was not a particularly pleasant evening,” Kaeya says, his words accented with the crack of a splitting log. Sparks fly up between them, and Diluc catches Kaeya’s eye. Immediately drops his gaze to the dark pit of the burning logs.

“I don’t care to reminisce over it either,” Kaeya adds once the fire has settled. His voice sounds...different. Quieter, less...gods, he can’t believe he’s dredging this word up in relation to Kaeya, but it’s less seductive. So very unlike Kaeya, or at least, the Kaeya that Diluc knows now.

He wasn’t always like that, so inclined to charm every person he meets. So flippant with his flirting that it sets Diluc’s nerves on edge just to be near him.

“We never really talked about it, did we?” Kaeya’s voice carries a hint of humor, and an outright invitation to talk about it now, in spite of his words just a moment ago. Diluc clenches his jaw, fights back the hundred-and-one questions that had burned in his chest after that night. It has taken a very long time to quiet them, and he does not particularly think that they bear any relevance now.

“What is there to discuss,” Diluc says, and means it rhetorically. Kaeya shifts, sticks a leg out and toes his boot off.

“A lot of things, I think.” His other boot joins the first a safe distance from the fire along with his socks, and Kaeya pulls his knees up and leans back on his hands as his toes dig into the sand. “You kissed me the night before that.”

Diluc’s gaze flicks to the side, to the ocean, and he stares hard at the soft flicker of the moon’s reflection on distant waves.

‘And what if I want to?’ Kaeya’d asked. What if he did want to kiss Diluc, then what?

‘Well...I wouldn’t stop you…’ The bravest Diluc could get, even with Kaeya. Far less terrifying to face a horde of hilichurls than to admit how desperately, in that moment, he’d wanted Kaeya to kiss him.

‘But you don’t want me to, do you?’ Bait, he knew it even then, but it didn’t stop him from riding that spark of defiance as far as it would take him. Far enough to lean into Kaeya, push him against the nearest wall and press his lips to Kaeya’s.

“So you do remember,” Kaeya says quietly - this Kaeya, in the present. On a deserted island across a dying fire from Diluc, after so very many years of careful avoidance.

“Of course I do.” How could he forget the rush of heat flooding his veins, the spark in his chest flaring to life at the taste of Kaeya’s lips? The desperate hands at his waist, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. His own hands searching, too, clinging to Kaeya like he’d dreamed about doing for ages.

No, he might bury it deep in his chest, but moments like those do not disappear entirely.

“But you think that’s not something we need to discuss, is that it?” Kaeya quips easily, and Diluc glances back to find his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, now, his scarf and cape discarded. He looks...lighter, this way. Unburdened, but not by the weight of his excessive accessorizing. More that he seems unburdened by the weight of the persona, the facade.

And out here, who would he have to pretend for? Diluc has certainly never believed the performance.

“I think it happened a very long time ago.” And…

And what? He hears it in his tone, the unfinished nature of his statement. And Diluc fears to even discuss that night, for the fact that it might dredge up feelings he has never quite managed to destroy? He can hardly say that to Kaeya, he’d never hear the end of it.

To Diluc’s surprise, though, Kaeya only hums. Stares into the distance beyond Diluc for a long moment, his gaze unfocused. How does he remember that night? Fondly?

“It must’ve been easy, then.” A pause, intentional, and Diluc refuses to rise to the bait. He waits, and Kaeya continues after another beat of silence. “To cast me out if you never truly felt anything for me.”

The meaning of his words processes slowly, leisurely, a perfect match for the faint breeze that twists through Kaeya’s hair, carries on to brush against Diluc’s cheeks. The soft moment splits in two at the sound of another cracking log, and Diluc grits his teeth.

“Is that what you believe?” His words come out on a harsh breath, low and quiet. Kaeya leans forward, wraps his arms around his knees.

“Is it not true?” Bait, Diluc’s mind supplies unhelpfully, but he will not let Kaeya sit here and tell him that it was easy, that Kaeya meant nothing to him.

That it did not break his heart when Kaeya told the truth of his past.

“It is not,” Diluc says shortly, and he dares to level a stare at Kaeya. Kaeya meets his gaze in turn, and by all accounts, it should be flippant. Should be easy and light, and Kaeya should scoff and dismiss Diluc’s words.

The stare he gives is not any of those things, though. Kaeya watches intensely, with sharp focus and tensed muscles, and Diluc is not entirely prepared to handle the sudden weight of his gaze.

A subtle, faint smile flickers to the edge of Kaeya’s lips, a daring thing for how rigid he looks right now.

“Tell me it hurt,” he says then, quiet. Voice laced with a years-old ache that Diluc feels in his chest, and he’s seventeen again - eighteen, almost, just about. Tomorrow. But right now, he and Kaeya find a hidden alcove in the back of the library, and Kaeya kisses him until he can’t catch his breath.

“It hurt.” The words hurt, too, but he says them. Speaks them to the fire and knows that they pass through the flames to reach Kaeya.

“Did you regret it?” Cautious, probing. Diluc blows out a breath.

“For a very long time, I did not.” His gaze flicks up, just enough to meet Kaeya’s for a brief moment before he turns toward the ocean again. “I feel...differently now.”

The closest he can bear to admitting that he lost not one, but two irreplaceable people in his life that night. And that one loss was entirely his own fault, even if he’s learned to forgive himself for his father’s death.

“Time changes things,” Kaeya agrees, and Diluc watches from the corner of his eye as Kaeya shifts, climbs to his feet. “Care to see if it’s changed anything else?”

Diluc’s heart catches up to the words a moment too late, then redoubles its efforts at the idea of what Kaeya could be implying. He swallows, inhales dying fire smoke and grasps within his mind for anything to steady him.

A hand appears before him, then, the lifeline doomed to drag him under, and Diluc’s gaze drifts up to find Kaeya standing over him, a gentle smile on his lips. Not teasing, not put-upon or overly seductive.

Just Kaeya.

And oh, Diluc’s heart aches, begs him to reach out and take Kaeya’s hand.

“There’s nobody here,” Kaeya says softly. “Just us.”

Diluc lets his gaze fall again, back to Kaeya’s outstretched hand. He shifts carefully, lets his heart guide his hand to take Kaeya’s. And oh, the way his heart races when Kaeya’s smile widens.

He pulls Diluc to his feet, then huffs out an amused breath that puts Diluc immediately on guard.

“Are you not sweltering?” Kaeya’s free hand tugs gently at the lapel of his jacket, though, and Diluc’s brows furrow.

“Trying to undress me?” he asks, entirely deadpan, but it pulls such a sweet laugh from Kaeya’s lips that Diluc has to fight a grin of his own.

“I’m trying to prevent heatstroke, but don’t tempt me.” An amused warning, and Diluc sucks in a sharp breath at the hand that skates across his chest, the thumb that hooks around the inside of his jacket. “May I?”

Diluc holds his breath, finds it impossible to do anything but nod.

He will admit - though not to Kaeya - that he’s grateful for the cool night breeze that his jacket had kept at bay. Kaeya sets it alongside his own discarded accessories, then glances down at Diluc’s feet.

“Fine,” Diluc grumbles as he sets about removing his boots as well. At this rate, Kaeya won’t be satisfied til he’s-

A flush crawls up Diluc’s cheeks, and he rushes to discard his boots and socks alongside Kaeya’s. And, to his relief, Kaeya seems to find Diluc’s state of partial undress satisfactory. Again, he extends a hand, and Diluc does not hesitate to take it this time.

He leads Diluc across the sand, vaguely in the direction of the water, and Diluc takes a moment to- to miss this. The comfort of Kaeya’s presence, when it’s so often been little more than an irritation. He lets his steps waver closer to Kaeya, until they walk with their shoulders brushing. Kaeya does not pull away.

The water is cold when they reach it - or, rather, when it reaches them. It curls its way up the shore to meet them, and Kaeya draws to a stop as it swallows his feet for a moment. Diluc turns to watch him, to watch the sea breeze whip at his hair and pull it back from his face.

His eye remains closed for a long moment, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and his hand tightens in Diluc’s in the short second before he opens his eye again, catches Diluc staring. His smile widens.

“What do you think, Luc?” Diluc’s heart stops beating for a breath. “Has anything changed?”

He steps closer, hears his blood rushing in time with the waves, and lifts his hand to Kaeya’s cheek. Thinks that he missed this, that he did not expect to ever have it again. To ever want it again, but here it is. Here he is, and here Kaeya is.

And once again, he does not answer Kaeya’s question. Just leans in, lets his lips brush Kaeya’s, and melts into the feeling of Kaeya pressed against him.

No, he might’ve said. Everything has changed, but not this. Never this.

#genshin #genshin impact #kaeluc #luckae #kaeya #diluc #genshin fic #prompts

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wonda-cat · 3 years

Note

You mentioned rewriting that one analysis post on Tommy’s revival stream and I’d really look forward to it! I never got to read the full og post and that’s the only place I saw these takes. Especially the one about the afterlife being too depressing. It’s not even just about Tommy, the implication that even if every character is safe and happy by the end, this is their inevitable fate is messed up. It’s not “a neat subversion” it’s just depressing and doesn’t add anything.

Hey, anon!

I sorta decided to not rewrite it? I feel a bit differently about the essay in the end, although I still believe in most of my points. I’m also just not nearly as passionate about it as I was when I wrote it (I finished it in a single sitting, which was... interesting.) However, yes, the afterlife stuff still bothers me just the same, as well as the odd changes to Wilbur’s characterization... post mortem.

But—just for you, anon—here’s the entire meta-analysis essay anyway, with some minor edits to the stuff I don’t agree with anymore!

My Many Narrative Issues with Tommyinnit’s Revival Stream

I want to preface this by saying that I dearly love the Dream SMP and understand it isn’t exactly comparable to other mediums like TV and film. With this being the case, most criticism against it is generally in bad faith or strange in foundation. Complaining about streamers for bad acting is the best example that comes to mind.

These aren’t professional actors. Most have never acted in this sort of setting, or even at all. Quite a few have admitted to never roleplaying before. Which is why it’s warranted to praise Tommy, Dream, Wilbur, Ranboo, and others when they deliver stellar performances. The same applies to criticism of music choice, dialogue delivery, focus, tone, etc.

However, one such category I cannot overlook is in regards to its writing. The writing of a story is its entire foundation. It encompasses many things—conflict choice, character development, themes, and morals. The author creates the blueprints for the architect, who then expresses the story with light, sound, color, pacing, and music. It is in its execution that we see if this connection is made or broken.

The reason I find poor writing mostly inexcusable is because it is one of the most available skills to practice and perfect. I don’t mean to say that it’s easy, I mean to say it is something anyone can attempt to cultivate. Whether they do it well or not depends on their methods and experience. If anyone can self-publish a novel and be criticized online for its quality—and even compared to the works of Mark Twain—then I find critiquing the writing of the Dream SMP to be perfectly reasonable.

However, since the Dream SMP script is a set of loose bullet points, tearing apart dialogue and scene continuity—which is nearly all improv—is rather useless. It doesn’t exactly have a clear focus as the plot plays out. The characters talk in circles until they hit the story beat required, and then they move onto the next. Thus, when criticizing it, one should generally critique grand events and narrative-specific shifts, more so than small-scale character interactions.

Which brings me to my main point: The broad narrative choices taken in Tommyinnit’s most recent livestream, ‘Am I dead?’ may lead to disastrous writing pitfalls in the future.

I’ll be outlining each of my issues below, in hopes of creating a better understanding as to why I feel this way.

This might become quite lengthy, so please bear with me for a bit.

Tommy’s relationship to Wilbur has flipped. This change is jarring and seems out of character.

Tommy and Wilbur’s friendship is rather complicated. While Wilbur does care for Tommy immensely, especially during the L’Manburg Revolution and the Election Arc, his mental spiral during exile put a massive strain on their relationship as a whole. Wilbur brushed off Tommy’s feelings and wants, while clinging to him and pushing everyone else away. He was simultaneously distant and suffocating.

Tommy, on the other hand, has an unclear view of his mentor. Since the beginning, and even long after Wilbur’s death, Tommy held him in especially high regard. He saw him as a brother-figure and a wise leader. He followed what he said and did everything he could to impress him. Yet, Wilbur still hurt him while the two were together in exile.

When speaking of him, Tommy tends to flip infrequently between remembering Wilbur the way he was before his mental decline and thinking of him as a monster. Both of these images conflict with each other, but they weren’t nearly as extreme as what Tommy described Wilbur as when he was revived from death. The fear Tommy displays to Wilbur is beyond intense—it feels as if the audience may have missed a month’s worth of character development.

This can make sense, especially since it was stated that he’d spent what felt like two months in the void. However, this shift is still deeply at odds with Tommy’s previous impressions of Wilbur, which is both disheartening and confusing. The fact that Tommy would agree to stay with Dream—his abuser and murderer—over his past mentor is simply head-reeling. It paints a very different picture of Wilbur’s character, somewhat conforming to the fandom’s ableist impression of him—the idea that Wilbur is insane and irredeemable, and always will be.

It also ignores Dream being the driving factor in Wilbur’s downfall, as well as the double-bind deal with Dream which required him to push the button, no matter the outcome. Others have pointed out that Tommy may be lying to get Dream to bring Wilbur back, and there’s compelling evidence for that. For one, Tommy and Wilbur’s conversation seemed uncomfortable, but it was certainly nothing like Tommy implied. (Unless this fear comes from something Wilbur said off-screen.)

Tommy also begged Dream to not bring him back multiple times over, which he should know would make Dream even more tempted to, simply because he likes seeing Tommy in pain. Tommy is also a known unreliable narrator. He may be making Wilbur out to be worse than he is by accident (even still, I’d argue this is a bit of a stretch.)

However, there are some issues with this theory. Tommy offered himself as payment to Dream if he chose to let Wilbur rest. This is a deal Tommy knows Dream is extremely unlikely to refuse. Tommy is what Dream has coveted all this time. If Tommy genuinely wanted Wilbur back, he would not offer this. This sort of compromise is Tommy’s greatest nightmare—something he would only do in response to his friends being threatened or his home being destroyed.

To add, Tommy is not great at lying. Unless he was taught by Wilbur for those two months* in the afterlife, there’s no chance Tommy would be this good at it. Thirdly, Tommy is terrible under pressure. He uses humor to cope. When he can’t, he cries and shouts and spills his heart out. While cornered, Tommy will tell the truth about anything, especially if Dream casually debates killing him again, just for fun.

For now, it’s too early to tell how the relationship shift will play out. In the grand scheme of things, this issue is rather minor.

Season three’s writing is needlessly bleak. The portrayal of the afterlife is a nightmare. There is no rest, not even in death.

I adore the Dream SMP storyline in its entirety. I believe the first season is fantastic, and while the second season has some narrative clarity issues, I enjoyed it just as much. Although, I would argue season one had a more concrete understanding of its Hope-Conflict balance.

To briefly explain, the Hope in stories are its ‘highs’ and good moments. These appear when a character the audience is rooting for is narratively rewarded. They happen during character building in the text—it’s the downtime and peace that allows for connection and relatability. It’s a moment for the viewer to breathe easy.

The other half is Conflict, an obstacle in the story that gets in the way of the main characters’ goals, beliefs, and motives. These are the ‘lows.’ They give the narrative focus and weight. They make the highs feel even higher. They establish consequences and force the characters in the story to change in order to adapt and overcome them.

I bring up the Hope-Conflict balance because a traditional hero’s journey would have an appropriate amount of both. Their highs and lows are generally equalized, as the name suggests. However, this balance has been awkwardly skewed in the latter half of season two and in the current plot of season three. To clarify, it is perfectly reasonable, and even common, for some stories to tip the scale more to one side.

But a common mistake for amateur writers is to create their stories as either hopelessly dark to cause the audience continuous distress for the sake of distress, or to keep everything entirely conflict-free for most of the plot. What do these both have in common? They each make the story boring and predictable.

Season three has taken this concept and thrown a monstrously heavy weight onto the Conflict side and flipped the scale so hard it has crashed through the ceiling. The viewers are hardly given time to find any joy in Tommy’s character, as he’s thrown into yet another abusive situation, just barely after his first narrative reward. The world is painted as relentlessly violent and traumatic.

Every person Tommy meets is morally grey, unhinged, or out to hurt him. Everything most of the characters love is taken from them by those in positions of power. Ranboo cannot even grieve properly because it scars his face. Puffy, Sam, Ranboo, and Tubbo all blame themselves for what happened to Tommy.

The audience watches lore stream after lore stream with the same depressing tone (with the exception of Tubbo’s, but I assume that’s unintentional.) Tommy is revived after being brutally beaten to death by his abuser, surrounded by all of his greatest fears. The afterlife is revealed to be akin to inescapable torture. It’s a colorless void that wraps the individual like fabric.

Time moves thirty times slower within. There’s nothing—nothing but the voices of others who’ve passed on before him. Dying in a world already devoid of happiness takes the characters to a place worse than hell. When a narrative delivers unfair suffering to the entire cast without a moment of joy to speak of, the story will feel simultaneously overwhelming and pointless.

Why watch characters suffer when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel? What happiness could they strive for when we know they’ll never get to keep it? How can I be satisfied with a good ending, if I know that an afterlife too terrible to name is what awaits them, truly, at the end of their story? Death isn’t even a white void that offers rest—it is eternal torment.

Obviously, it isn’t a good message to send by making the afterlife seem like a quiet, perfect place or an escape from pain. But making it an unspeakable anguish which awaits, assumedly, every character who will die in the future? I deeply hope Tommy was only being an extremely unreliable narrator.

More likely, I hope the place Tommy was taken to was a Limbo of sorts, not an end-all-be-all destination for everyone.

The degree of Tommy’s narrative punishment continues to escalate, to an almost absurd degree.

Tommy is one of the most tragic characters to exist in the storyline. He was sent into war at a young age and experienced two traumatic events during it. He was exiled by the newly elected leader and witnessed his mentor Wilbur spiral and break down with paranoia. Tubbo is executed publicly in front of him. When expressing rightful anger at the person who murdered him, he’s beaten nearly to death and never receives an apology.

Schlatt dies right in front of Tommy, after his initial refusal to hurt the ex-president. His brother-figure and mentor is killed in assisted suicide on the same day his nation is blown up. His best friend exiles him from his home for the second time. He routinely self-sacrifices to protect his country and those who live there. His most treasured possessions were taken from him and he was called selfish for trying to retrieve them (although his methods were self-destructive and volatile.)

He was pushed to the brink of suicide after being relentlessly abused and isolated in his exile. He was horrified when he thought he was responsible for drowning Fundy. After making an objectively good decision to stand by his old friends and change for the better, his country was obliterated by the man he once idolized, his father-figure, and his abuser.

He was left scattered and without purpose for many days. Then he fights against Dream and loses, while also reliving his trauma. He watches Tubbo almost die at the hands of someone he once thought was his friend. He doesn’t tell a single person about what happened to him in exile. The day he tries to sever his connection to Dream and heal, he’s trapped with him for a week, surrounded by everything that terrifies him.

He threatens to kill himself, speaking about his own life as if it were an object—something to hold over Dream’s head. He blames himself for everything bad that’s ever happened to L’Manburg and his friends—internalizing a mentality as a scapegoat for everyone around him. He is forced into the role of ‘hero’ despite the title being unfair and distressing to him.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s then beaten to death by his abuser and spends what feels like two months in an afterlife that is worse than hell. When he returns, his senses are excessively heightened. Dream can cause him excruciating pain, just by pinching him. He can send Tommy into an instant panic attack, just by raising his voice.

The punishment Tommy’s character receives is a thousand times worse than everyone he has ever met, or ever will meet. And it shows no signs of stopping, as Dream now has control over Tommy’s very mortality. Tommy now fears the slightest damage and feels as if he’s losing his best friend all over again. He is also forced into a position where he has to kill Dream out of necessity, to protect everyone he cares about.

Characters need fitting punishments in relation to their actions. Not always, but in order to be satisfying? Yes, they do. It is preferred that a main character deal with unfair situations and difficult conflicts, but this is borderline torture p*rn. Putting Tommy in these distressing and abusive situations on repeat and punishing him for doing objectively moral or healthy things is exhausting to watch.

To quickly add, I find the general insinuation of Tommy going to hell distasteful, especially considering the contents of his storyline. I know this may be hard to believe, but Tommy is one of the most moral characters in the plot, besides Puffy and Ghostbur. He’s also the only character, followed by Ranboo, to recognize that they can be wrong and make mistakes. He changed himself in order to heal and be a better person. He was in the process of paying people back for the things he’d stolen.

He’s learned to be hard-working and less violent through the guidance of Sam. He has apologized to everyone he’s ever hurt (with the exception of Jack Manifold, because that man is allergic to communication.) He puts himself in harm's way to protect others. He doesn’t set out to purposely hurt anyone. He goes out of his way to make connections with people and maintain them, even if others don’t reciprocate.

He’s hopelessly optimistic, despite his outwardly bitter façade. He loved so much and put meaning into the smallest things. The thought that a person like him—a suicide and abuse survivor—would go to hell after being beaten to death by the man who took everything from him; it makes me sick to my stomach.

The only thing more morbid than Tommy’s afterlife being different than everyone else’s, is the concept that everyone will end up in this same eternal torture, no matter what they do. Take your pick: Tommy is sentenced to anguish until the end of time for no reason, or everyone will receive the same disturbing ending, regardless of their actions.

The narrative weight of Ranboo’s character is potentially out the window.

For the past few months, I’ve watched all of Ranboo’s lore streams faithfully, curious to see what role he would play in the future. His ‘hallucinations’ of Dream seemed to be sowing the seeds for a plot that has Ranboo taking the fall for every single insidious thing Dream has done. It would also be a tragic parallel to Tommy’s trial.

Ranboo being convinced he was the one who blew up the community house, when Dream himself admitted to doing it, was one of the bigger indicators for me. This is just one of many other unexplained occurrences. Dream seemed to be making an effort to trigger and control Ranboo, especially after Sapnap’s prison visit. It appeared, from the way he went about this, that Dream had some grand use for Ranboo as part of his plan to be freed from Pandora’s Vault.

However, after Tommy’s stream, the way Dream explains himself makes it seem like there was no plan besides seeing if the book worked on people. And if he didn’t after all, then what was Ranboo for? Was Ranboo unimportant? Was Ranboo just some weirdo who happened to phase out when seeing smiley faces and imagined conversations that may or may not have happened?

I bring this up more as a worry, and much less so as an active problem in the narrative. They haven’t actually thrown Ranboo to the way-side or written themselves into a corner yet. In future streams, this could very easily be explained away or developed as more information is revealed.

Only time will tell.

The potential for Wilbur’s future development and importance to the plot is unfeasible.

I feel as if I am the only person on earth who doesn’t want Wilbur Soot or Schlatt revived. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is not a dislike for these characters. I especially adore Wilbur, as he’s one of my all-time favorites. I don’t want either of them resurrected because their stories have already been told. They each had a fitting conclusion that ended their involvement perfectly.

Bringing Wilbur back would especially cheapen the impact of the War of the 16th. It’s the end of a man who was brought to the absolute edge and out of desperation, shame, and self-hatred, he destroyed himself alongside his creation. Bringing him back would leave the climax of the previous story hollow. My biggest issue, however, is that a lack of story importance would likely follow his return.

The only real impact I’d like to see is through a healing arc with Tommy, an apology to Fundy, or a confrontation with Phil/Niki. But that’s really all the potential I can realistically see. While I don’t doubt Wilbur as an agent of chaos, able to create plot out of thin air; what is he going to do now? His country is gone, his friends and family are scattered about, and his mission from the 16th is already accomplished.

What is a well-educated, charismatic politician supposed to do in a world already broken and without nations? Read poetry to himself and cry evilly? However, this is working off the assumption that Wilbur would be returning as his old self.

If Wilbur is resurrected as a ‘villain’ of sorts, then what? He’s not good at fighting in the slightest. He would have no materials. There are no real allies he can make, other than the arctic group. On top of that, there are already more than enough villains to last a lifetime.

We don’t need any more, I promise. Quackity seems to already be shaping up as another antagonist, alongside Sam’s slip into darker and darker shades of moral ambiguity. We also have Philza and Techno, which are already overkill. But then we have Dream who, despite being in a prison, has the ability of selective revival. This is mercilessly overpowered, especially if he makes many allies. The dude could just bring his dead friends back so they can keep fighting forever.

Then there’s Jack Manifold and the Crimson followers; Antfrost, Bad, and Punz. That’s not even including characters who are refusing to get involved. How are Tommy, Tubbo, and Puffy expected to do literally anything to fight back?

Dream’s experiment on Tommy implies he had no backup plan to begin with. This makes his character seem both short-sighted and foolish.

When Tommy woke up after being brought back to life, Dream sounded surprised that the revival worked at all. This instantly shatters the perception that Dream was highly intelligent and thought ahead. With just a few lines of dialogue, it’s implied that Dream killed Tommy, unsure of if the resurrection would even be possible on humans.

Which, to risk something that important, seems unbelievably stupid. Dream needs Tommy, from his perspective. Tommy is his ‘toy,’ the one who makes everything fun. If he lost him and couldn’t get him back, what then? Oh well, everything Dream was doing was all for nothing, I guess.

Why not attempt this experiment on literally anyone else first? Like Sapnap or Bad or, hell, even Ranboo. I suppose it could be that, as soon as Dream got the book, he experimented with it after the 16th. This appears to be insinuated with Friend and Hendry’s revival, although this is uncertain. But even then, he was still unsure of the book’s effect on a human being.

Also, this means, hypothetically, Dream’s entire plan of escape hinged on the experiment working, to begin with, and also on bringing back Wilbur if it somehow did. I find this even more ridiculous. Why Wilbur? That man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, let alone get through the traps in Pandora’s Vault. Even if he is intelligent after years* in the afterlife, that’s also a strange assumption.

How do people learn things in the void? Where do they even get this knowledge? I’d honestly argue Techno is a far more competent choice than Wilbur. And even if Dream did bring him back and tell him he owed him his life, what’s to stop Wilbur from just killing him permanently? Or killing himself, continuously?

No way would Wilbur want to be controlled by anyone, ever. The dude would sooner fuck off into the mountains and become a nomad than help a neon green bodysuit cosplay as Light Yagami.

Dream’s discussion about Sam implies that he wasn't playing any part in Dream’s plan, making Sam appear entirely incompetent and neglectful of Tommy.

Dream talked about Sam in a way that seems detached and unaffiliated. He also mentioned him being broken up about Tommy’s fate and not being aware he’s still alive. Dream not being partnered with, or not using Sam in his plan leaves many plot holes. I’ll go through each one. The initial incident was an explosion, coming from the roof of Pandora’s Vault. This did not affect the Redstone mechanism for the doors or dispensers.

Meaning, Sam could’ve had Tommy leave the way that was expected for visitors after he investigated and found no issues. This likely couldn’t have been done in less than a day, but it would be better than an entire week. If Tommy was required to stay for longer, due to protocol, he could’ve gotten Tommy out and then placed him in one of the minor cells for the remainder of the time.

Also, no one else lost a canon life for leaving via the splash potion of harming and returning outside the maximum-security cell; why would Tommy? To add, Sam being uninvolved means that the explosion could have only been caused by Ranboo or Foolish. That, or it was placed long before and timed for the moment Tommy entered the main cell. (I’m going to ignore how ludicrous it is that someone would know the exact time Tommy would’ve entered the room with Dream.)

If Ranboo was the person behind the detonation, this implies he was necessary for Dream to kill Tommy to test the book. But that makes it even stranger. If this was Dream’s goal all along, why not kill Tommy the instant he was trapped with him? It makes no sense for him to wait so long.

Sam is also directly at fault for not letting Tommy out, even after the week was up. There was no reason not to. He already knew there were no issues with the prison at that point. Although, to be fair to Sam, his character may have been paranoid and checking everything more than necessary, just in case. But this still isn’t a good excuse for him ignoring protocol in this one instance, and yet, not in any of the others.

All of these plot holes or inconsistencies would be removed if it was revealed that Dream was blackmailing Sam in some way, or Sam had been working with him since the get-go. That Sam was the person who set off the explosion in the first place to trap Tommy inside. It would also explain Sam’s refusal to let Tommy out and by keeping him in there for longer than necessary.

This can also coexist with Sam’s attachment and care for Tommy. He probably wasn’t told about Dream’s plan to test the book and genuinely believed Dream wouldn’t hurt him. On top of that, Dream is known to be a pathological liar, so his statements about Ranboo and Sam could be entire fabrications.

Who knows?

The Book of Revival invalidates death entirely. The narrative now lacks both tension and consequence.

Another way the Dream SMP differs from other storytelling media is in the way it goes about its character deaths. In a TV show, for example, there will be characters who die just because, or when it’s important to the plot. However, it seems as if the Dream SMP is hesitant to commit to killing its characters. And there are many reasons for that.

The most important one being, killing someone’s character excludes them from the story and some of their livelihoods depend on them regularly streaming on the server. There is also the issue of the cast becoming extremely sparse if characters keep dying. Typically, in stories, when you kill a character, you should introduce another.

This keeps the cast from dwindling as the storyline goes on. This means the writers would have to find new streamers to join, who will develop their own characters and relationships with the plot’s continued momentum. This can be stressful and daunting to those who may be newly added in the future.

Keeping this in mind, the Book of Revival is annoying from a writer’s perspective. When death is no longer an issue for a story hinged on its characters’ mortality, then what do you have as a consequence anymore? We’ve explored every kind under the sun; from abuse, to betrayal, to loss, to destruction.

In stories, traditionally, death is a finality. It’s a conclusion. Whether it’s good or not depends on the character’s actions, its build-up, and the event’s execution. Without this lingering sense of danger, tension evaporates from the story.

Why should I care if Tommy loses in a fight to someone, if he’ll just come back a day later? Why should I care about what happened to Wilbur, if he just returns as if nothing happened? The answer is simple: I won’t. I will no longer care if Tubbo or Ranboo or Sam die in the story, because the idea of revival even being a possible outcome leaves me unenthused and uncaring.

The Dream SMP likes to flirt with death. It teases the demise of its main characters many, many times. More so Tommy’s than anyone else’s. Wilbur’s failed resurrection, which had unforeseen and unfortunate outcomes, is now strange in comparison to Tommy’s, which happened without a hitch.

To be fair, we actually don’t see how many attempts it took. But here’s the problem; Dream could do it without the book being physically present. He’s trapped in a prison with nothing on him, meaning he doesn’t need any materials either. It’s also implied he could do this as many times as he feels, for anyone he wants. This would be exceedingly overpowered, if not for one thing—Dream himself is mortal (at least, I fucking hope he’s mortal.)

If someone kills him one last time, that knowledge is gone forever. And I’m glad they’ve established at least some way for Tommy to win. Because at this point, I was losing faith.

There is also the bare minimum establishment that Dream can refuse to bring back those he doesn’t care for. He can also use it as a shield, holding this power over other people. If Dream is gone, death is permanent. But isn’t that how death is supposed to be, anyway?

What a bleak premise—the afterlife is pure eternal torture while life is cheapened by a lack of consequences.

Conclusion

All this to say, I am cautiously optimistic for the future. I hope dearly that every single one of these can be disproven or developed in the coming livestreams. Obviously, there’s not enough information to really determine what the end result will be, or how everything will fall into place.

Every time I have theorized about the story, it has done something completely different and pleasantly surprised me. I want this trend to continue.

Surprise me again—I’ll be here to see where it goes.

#answered asks #long post #tommyinnit #dream smp meta #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #this is slightly outdated still but whatever #hope this was helpful anon #tw abuse #tw suicide

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maddiefriendlovesbilly · 3 years

Text

Back by literally zero request:

Once More, This Time With Feeling: Pt. 2

Rating: PG13 for violence and graphic descriptions, SFW

Ship: Ghost/Spooker

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of intense panic attacks and dissociation, derealization, depersonalization, implied traumatic events, similarities to alters switching (Jimmy and Gregory, not intentional but is still there due to the nature of the scene), Graphic Descriptions of violence, Major Character Death (temporary) and probably more (please tell me if there is anything else that needs to be tagged!)

Summary: Ghost learns that watching someone die in front of you is a very quick way to find out how much you actually care about them - even if you're not quite ready to admit it just yet. (Contains lots of fluff with a decent amount of angst mixed in! Could be considered hurt/comfort)

Wordcount: 2634

Nothing can be compared to the sound of an axe splitting a head clean open. Ghost can’t move. He can’t think. This can’t be happening. He’s gonna wake up now...Now...Now.

But nothing happens.

He glances down, numbly, at Spooker’s lifeless body on the ground. Blood spills from the crevice in his skull. Ghost’s stomach lurches, so he looks back up at the doorway, wondering if he’s next. It barely registers that there is no enemy. Just an axe swinging gently back and forth on a rope attached to the ceiling. A trap. It was a trap all along, and they fell for it. Distantly, he wonders if brains can be repaired once they’re split open like that. He thinks, Probably not.

Ghost feels like his world is sinking, crashing, burning. Why isn’t he getting up? Billy’s powers should still hold up here - they’re well within range of the Acachalla house, so why?

He realizes he’s been staring vacantly at Spooker for the past who knows how long, and when he looks up Katrina is standing in front of him, staring at him from behind her mane. She gurgles, sounding somehow both sympathetic and smug despite saying no actual words, and Ghost wavers between collapsing to the ground and sobbing, and strangling her on the spot. Something twitches inside of him, vile and immoral, waiting for its moment to strike. He considers indulging it just this once; doesn’t get the chance to decide whether he really will because Katrina pounces, claws digging into his ribcage like she’s searching for something - and in his last moments of consciousness, he watches something pulse in her hand, once, before all goes dark.

Even in death, it seems he’s not allowed to rest.

As soon as his eyes close, they blink open. He can’t see anything, but he feels a doorknob under his hand and feels his mouth finishing the words, “--what about the others?”

Behind him, Spooker’s voice replies, without a hint of caution or worry, “No luck over he-Woah!”

The door hits the wall and Ghost’s eyes widen with fear. He hears himself stutter out, “H-Hey, you good?”

He mouths the words as Spooker says them, glad at least that the room is too dark for Spooker to see it. “Yeah...yeah, I’m alright, just caught me off guard. Let’s go.” He pivots, lunging blindly for where Spooker’s voice came from, tackling him. Something sharp nicks his cheek, and he feels a slight breeze pass overhead. They hit the ground hard, but Ghost decides he prefers that over the alternative.

“Ghost! Wh-What was that for?”

He fumbles for his emergency batteries and reloads his flashlight as fast as he can, knowing Katrina could appear any second. He shines his light towards the doorway, where the axe takes a final swing inwards, before disappearing behind the door for good.

“Holy crap Ghost, how...how did you know that was there?”

“Instincts or something, I guess…” He pants, out of breath.

His mind buzzes and whirs, and he can hardly think through it, but he can’t just lay on top of Spooker forever, so he forces himself to stand, peeking around the corner cautiously.

Katrina is nowhere in sight. His chest aches with how coiled his muscles are - ready to spring at any moment.

Spooker dusts himself off and peeks over Ghost’s shoulder, searching the room and finding the exact same thing Ghost did — nothing. Ghost just barely restrains himself from putting a protective arm between Spooker and the empty room.

Cautiously, he steps inside, Spooker close behind. The only sound is that of their boots clicking against the tile floor. Despite everything, he finds time to thank any gods watching that Spooker has been too distracted by the new surroundings to baby him about the second cut across his cheek. It’s only a matter of time though, he knows.

Glancing around cautiously, Ghost takes in the decrepit machinery dominating the room’s layout. Most of it has decayed beyond recognition. In the far right corner sits a row of industrial shelves containing what at first looks to be scrap metal and wires, but as they approach them, turns out to be an assortment of batteries and other miscellaneous electronics.

“Score!!” Spooker shouts, and by some miracle Ghost quells his roaring panic into a tense, “Spooker, be careful, we don’t know if the entity is nearby.”

Spooker appears duly contrite, so he lets it go this once, if only because he doesn’t fully grasp the peril they are in. Hell, even Ghost’s not sure what the bigger picture is. If that entity is truly Katrina, then what are her motives? And if it isn’t, did the others see someone else?

Spooker is currently loading some new batteries into his flashlight, so Ghost feigns at inspecting some old flip phones on one of the shelves near Spooker and asks hesitantly, “That girl earlier, you saw her too right?”

“The one with the sharp claws and hair all in her eyes? Yeah, why?”

“Hm. Interesting,” is all he can say.

So if it’s something pretending to be her to toy with him, why did everyone see Katrina, instead of their own illusions? Is it just another layer to the deception? Why bother?

What is the point?

“Is that Nokia particularly thought-provoking, or are you gonna tell me what you’re thinking about?” Spooker had apparently appeared over his shoulder sometime while he was lost in thought, and Ghost jerks around, slamming into the shelf of Nokias, now behind him.

A loud CLANG resonates throughout the room, reverberating off the surrounding machinery in ways that seem almost staged -- it’s hauntingly ethereal.

Spooker’s hands fly out to steady him immediately, a look of concern clearly written on his face. For some reason, despite all logic, the first thing he notices is how close they are to each other. The second is the pain in his back. He hisses.

Spooker’s hands flit about nervously, from Ghost’s shoulder to his face before he curls his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that -- okay maybe a little but-” Ghost’s mouth twitches upwards in amusement involuntarily. “-I didn’t think you’d startle that badly! Really! I’m so so sorry-”

Ghost realizes that Spooker could probably apologize all day if allowed to, so he cuts in, “I’m fine Spooker.” it’s mostly the truth, he’ll probably bruise like hell tomorrow morning, but other than that he’s okay. He’s been through much worse on a mission, so he tries to seem sincere when he smiles slightly and says, “Seriously, it’s nothing to worry about, I’m alright.”

Spooker seems placated for all of two seconds before he suddenly squints at Ghost with heavy suspicion. “Are you saying that because you’re actually fine, or because your pain-rating scale only has the options of ‘not bleeding out or missing limbs, so doing fine,’ and ‘currently bleeding out or missing limbs, might need assistance if the situation is truly dire?’”

Ghost glances away, he’s not exactly wrong - not that he’ll admit that. “It’s actually fine, just a small bruise.”

“Uh huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Turn around, let me see it.”

“Wha-Why? I told you it’s fine!” He is not whining right now, that would be childish. He’s just...objecting loudly. Yes.

“Yeah, and I totally believe you. Turn around.”

Ghost eyes the space under Spooker’s arm, calculating possible escapes. “We have much more important things to do than play doctor Spooker. Like finding a way out of here perhaps? You can swaddle me in bubble wrap when we get out of here for all I care, but right now I’d like to keep moving forward.”

Spooker seems to debate this for a few moments before blinking a few times and replying, “Fine, but if you start struggling to keep up I’m not going to be so nice.” He moves back, letting Ghost slide past him and out from between the shelves. Ghost has to push aside the very strong feeling that he’s had that conversation before.

Ghost ignores the inexplicable heat in his cheeks and starts scanning the room for an exit. For some reason it feels like the temperature has risen quite a bit since they entered, maybe the next room will be cooler. It could be some sort of elaborate trap to slowly boil them to death without them noticing. Who really knows with ghosts.

The walls around the machines are solid grey concrete, smooth and uniform. Ghost searches for some sort of inconsistency, a flaw somewhere, and eventually he finds a small notch in the otherwise perfect walls, and moves to investigate.

As he starts to approach it the sound of something metal hitting the floor ricochets from behind the shelves. “S-Sorry! My...My bad....”

“You alright?”

“Fine! Fine! Everything is fine!” Spookers voice is an octave too high to be deemed truly fine, but Ghost chalks it up to being startled by the loud noise. He looks back at the notch in the wall. Suddenly, he realizes that engraved just above the notch is a long string of symbols he’s never seen before. He wonders how he didn’t notice the intricate carvings until now.

“ᚱᛖᛋᛏ ᛁᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚨᚱᛗᛋ ᛟᚠ ᚹᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᛃᛟᚢᚱ ᛋᛟᚢᛚ ᛁᛋ ᚱᛟᛟᛏᛖᛞ. ᛒᚱᛖᚨᛏᚺᛖ ᛁᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚨᚢᚱᚨ ᛏᚺᚨᛏ ᛃᛟᚢ ᛋᚺᚨᚱᛖ. ᛟᚾᚲᛖ ᛏᚺᛖᛋᛖ ᚲᛟᚾᛞᛁᛏᛁᛟᚾᛋ ᚺᚨᚹᛖ ᛒᛖᛖᚾ ᛗᛖᛏ, ᛏᚺᛖ ᛈᚨᛏᚺ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᛟᛈᛖᚾ.”

Squinting at it, he decides to call Spooker over. Spooker scampers up, yet again hovering just over his left shoulder. Ghost is starting to think he just likes being there. For some reason this doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t know why.

Spooker looks at the symbols for a few seconds like they’re familiar, before finally he exclaims, “Oh! I know what those are - Those are Nordic Runes - specifically Elder Futhark!”

“You just...knew that?”

“I’ve always been into occult stuff, y’know? Apparently people still use these for divination today! But it’s also a language - like right here...” He points at one that looks like a fancy M over Ghost’s shoulder, and he’s beaming so brightly that Ghost is pretty sure he’s found the reason it’s so hot in this room - the warmth in his smile as he talks could rival the sun. Spooker keeps talking, explaining what different runes mean and their individual names, and Ghost realizes he’s been staring at Spooker’s face instead of paying attention, so he looks back at the runes and hopes he hadn’t noticed. Spooker doesn’t mention it if he does, just keeps talking about runes and their meanings, and it settles a part of Ghost he hadn’t even realized was jittery until now.

Something in the notched section of wall clicks twice, and not a second later does the wall slide open in one smooth motion. Behind it lies a rather dull looking corridor, with plain, dark walls, and a sharp turn about twenty feet ahead. They both jump slightly at the sudden change, but just as quickly steel themselves and enter, unwilling to test how long it would remain open. “Do you know what opened it?”

Spooker’s eyes flick side to side like he’s debating with himself. “Well, the clue was really vague...So I’m not really sure..” He scratches his chin. He’s pretty sure Spooker is hiding something, but asking what the clue was when he probably said it earlier is practically announcing that he wasn’t actually paying attention, so instead he just replies, “Huh, weird. Well as long as we’re making progress it can’t be a bad thing. Let’s go.”

Spooker, for one reason or another, stays silent.

Oh. It seems he forgot where he was.

As they round the corner they are met with the one and only Katrina - or whatever it is that’s pretending to be her - standing about thirty feet down the hallway. Ghost could swear she’s smiling under her mop of hair. He wants to run, or scream, or just, at the very least, move, preferably somewhere where the blood red eyes piercing through her veil of hair can’t follow him. But he can’t. He’s stuck to the spot, like he’s been sautered to the floor. He feels a presence behind him - and it can’t be her because he’s staring right at her; so it must be Spooker hovering just over his left shoulder, just like always, and if he wasn’t frozen in place he might have cried with relief. He manages to drag a shaking hand backwards until it meets Spooker’s, intertwining their fingers with a bruising grip. Katrina observes this, before nodding her head in what looks like approval. She turns on her heel and shambles back the way she presumably came.

“Wh-” His voice cracks, forcing him to pause and gather himself. “What was that. Why did she-I don’t, I don’t understand. Why-Why would…I don’t understand-” The jittery fragment grows restless, feeding off of his panic. He doesn’t understand what it is, he doesn’t understand what just happened, he doesn’t understand anything at all.

The fragment is growing agitated now. He doesn’t know why or how or what it is. It’s hungry. It’s so hungry. How did he end up on the ground? When did he start laughing? There’s someone talking somewhere. They feel familiar, safe. Who were they again? He’s still holding their hand. A face has come into view, or maybe they lifted his head. He feels like he’s watching through a window. The face - so so familiar, yet completely unrecognizable - wipes tears from his cheeks. Is he crying? They look worried; it looks wrong on their face. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong--

It’s all wrong.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be. It’s not real.

Spooker - that’s his name - looks at him with a frantic, desperate, fearful look in his eyes. He’s still laughing, he realizes.

“I saw you die,” falls from his mouth, unbidden. He doesn’t know why. “The axe. It killed you.” He giggles hysterically, but it’s choked off by more tears.

“I know,” Spooker says in a soothing voice, like he’s talking to a caged animal, “I know, I’m sorry.” They’re still holding hands, even after all of this. He looks down to see that his nails have dug deep enough into Spooker’s hand to draw blood. He starts to pull away, but Spooker catches his wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll be fine. You can hold on for as long as you need, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” Everything is still so foggy, but the red haze is gone. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong with you okay?”

“But, normal....normal people don’t.” He swallows thickly. “Don’t do this.”

“No, no they don’t,” Spooker agrees.

“So why am I?”

“We’re gonna figure it out, okay? We’ll figure it out together.”

“Okay.” He feels very small. Vulnerable. Scared. He finds himself longing for a mansion he’s never seen before; tall and green and empty, so empty. Home.

He suddenly feels exhausted. “I-I can’t,” he blinks rapidly, trying to stem the drooping of his eyelids.

“It’s okay, you can rest. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“Alright…”

The next time his eyes close, he drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

#jess writes #venturiantale #venturiantale pie #taleblr #ghost/spooker #ghooker #fred spooker soup #fred spooker #johnny toast #johnny ghost #chris colon ghostie #vt pie #paranormal investigators extraordinaire #fuck uhhhh #ill add more later prolly

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sourbat · 3 years

Note

For that touch writing prompts meme, Melmord/Charles - 17, or Magnus/Melmord - 20?

"Holding the other’s chin up"-charles/melm

summary: the dead don't have time to rest or mourn. they do, eventually, find time for each other.

Rating: T for being a huge bummer

Melmord could still recall what he was doing when it happened. He had just finished washing his dishes, and was busy flinging his left hand that smarted from a nasty papercut turned raging hellfire after making contact with the suds, when the alarms went off and Facebone’s voice rang and alerted him of a fire. Then, another alarm telling everyone to hurry to the surface and be prepared to “Die for Dethklok,” before the power totaled, and Melmord was left alone in the dark. The earth above shook, and for some time Melmord spent his waking hours head tucked between his knees, wondering if he was doing to endure yet another death, this one slower and far more excruciating than the last.

Four days later, and after nearly going through all his rations, he was pulled from the rubble by none other than Charles himself.

“Y-you…”

Melmord took his hand and held on to it like an anchor.

“That’s all?” Charles inquired, pushing his lopsided, cracked glasses up his bruised nose. “No witty remark, Fjordslorn?”

Offdensen told him that “there wasn’t much time,” and they had to leave Mordland grounds before the boys up above “unlatch the dragon.” That was all. There were no remarks about what caused the power outage, the quakes and Mordhaus falling apart, nor comments regarding how utterly shaken and disposed Melmord felt being haplessly caught in the middle of it. Then again, it wasn’t like Melmord was itching to know why Offdensen had suddenly lost his color and suit, or how he earned that nasty gash. Frankly, he was just happy to be alive and out of the small hole he’d been trapped in for days.

Then, the aftermath. Melmord stepped out into the moonlight and saw the blood and piles upon piles of bodies. Shattered pieces of metal and concrete were scattered across the uneven land, and tall burn tress resembling skeletons stood silently in the night. Melmord smelled and gagged at the intense stench that hung thick in the air. A soured stew or rotting meat and dead leaves.

He needed to know after that.

“What happened?” he asked through his parched lips as Charles led them deep into the charred woods.

“I’ll explain later.”

This proved to be a lie.

He tried another: “Where are we going?”

“To find answers,” Charles replied, then turned far right before gesturing for him to follow.

“Where’s Dethklok?” Melmord asked once they were already several hundred feet into the air. They hovered over Mordhaus. The view was quite lovely, but the glow of the dragon’s eyes still haunted and made him visibly queasy.

“They’re staying behind,” Charles replied. “They’ll be safe here.”

“But I won’t?”

Charles removed his cracked glasses and tucked them into his jacket. “We have business to conduct.”

That was months ago.

Several months of being mostly in the dark, still trapped, just under a new concrete and slabs that silently, tenderly suffocated Melmord with each passing day. It wasn’t like they didn’t have time to discuss, either. In between the gunfire, traveling through sewers, through sleet and snow, there was plenty of time to stop and talk. But where discussions of the unfolding events should have occurred, instead were long nights spent in absolute silence. Lonely nights where Melmord would see Offdensen staring at the moon, the stars, looking strangely lost in thought, or deep in contemplation. Naturally, Melmord wanted to inquire about the silence. He refrained, partly because he was used to the man constantly giving him the cold shoulder and suspected any attempt would result in the same. Another side savored the sight. It was rare to see Charles’ cornered, morose or locked in a state of misery.

So they continued their endless search, spending their days traveling by tank, jeep or boat to the next piece of some unknown puzzle Offdensen refused to share, and their nights separated, with him sitting on top of some crate, roof or standing in a corner, body hunched and mind elsewhere.

And, for a while, Melmord was perfectly fine with that.

Until, one cold night, he wasn’t.

He was still trapped under the heavy load, still holding the icy white hand that lead him deeper into the strange unknown, the same hand that pushed him onto the alter before having him branded, when Melmord learned the reason behind Offdenson's odd behavior. The army radio he’d stolen after their most recent stint cracked the news of the tragic events that took place six months prior.

Through the heavy static Melmord heard the news of the attack by the Revengencers, of the damage they caused, and Dethklok’s decision to renovate and create space by lifting Mordhaus into the skies.

He learned that Charles had been brutally beaten the death, and died protecting Dethklok.

Charles died.

He died, and like Melmord, came back to live a life away from everything that he knew. A sad, empty life that currently held no meaning.

“Where are we going?” the words played out in his mind, teasing Melmord at first, but revealing a sad truth when, after several months of traveling across the globe for bits of rocks and names and stories, realized that Charles was likely just as trapped and blindly feeling his way through for an escape. Charles was secretive, and Melmord knew better than to expect to be given answers Charles didn’t consider him worthy of, but he did expect something. Anything.

But Charles was quiet. Reserved. Cold.

In mourning.

Shaken by the news, Melmord dropped the radio. It held, but the connection fizzled into a crash of white noise and static, and Melmord hurried to turn it off before checking to see if Charles noticed. Thankfully, the man was still resting, but for the rest of Melmord’s watch, he remained overly vigilant, hardly moving from his spot in their camouflaged sniper’s nest, and when the time for him to wake Charles and trade positions arrived, decided against it and give the man a few minutes more. Melmord held the rifle Charles taught him to use close to his chest, staring out in the far-off distance for any possible hit man, and watched the sun slowly begin to rise.

…

Charles awoke with the sun glistening past the roof, stinging his face with humid, hot rays. Odd. Charles slid up the walls and rubbed his tired eyes. Several birds chirped around them, and the wet head amassing around them suggested he had overslept by at least four hours. He had slept through his watch, exposing their limited defenses against the unknown enemy.

A carefully planned routine, suddenly ruined.

“Hey, Offdensen.”

Charles shifted to Melmord sitting on the other side of the sniper’s nest, head resting against the rifle.

Of course. The real reason behind his extended slumber.

“What time is it?”

“Hey. Listen,” Melmord said. He yawned, then rubbed his cheeks with his hands. “I just heard on the radio–”

“Radio?” Charles looked around the nest. Sure enough, a small army radio lay beside Melmord’s blanket. That wasn’t all he saw. In a flash, Charles noticed the location of the sun, and approximated the hour, and when he was ready to snap at Melmord for falling asleep on the job, found the two contradicting pieces of evidence hanging all over the man’s eyes. Prominent veins around the iris, and dark bags forming underneath. “Did you, ah, stay awake all night?”

“Yeah?”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“You gonna let me finish a sentence?” Melmord snickered which, with his eyes to irritated, could easily be misconstrued. After another exaggerated yawn, his head sank, and his long, dark hair began to fall over his shoulder in heavy, tangled loads. “I learned you died six months ago.”

Oh.

Charles swallowed. “Ah.”

Just hearing the news brought a crushing weight upon his chest. It was a subject Charles meant to discuss with Melmord, months ago, while the wounds were still fresh. Each time, Charles found his thoughts coming undone from the memory and phantom pain resurging with a terrible vengeance. For weeks he wondered if Melmord endured the same fate, relived those last few painful second before going black.

“How long were you gone?”

They sat together, waiting on a call to inform them of their next destination. Another clue that might lead them one step closer to finding out the answer behind his rebirth, behind the obsession behind Dethklok, and the power that helped fuel the Revengencer’s fire. Maybe this time he would earn another sliver of information. The odds were stacked against them. Aside from the name "Falcon Back," there still wasn’t much else to go on…

All there was were the few questions he could answer, and perhaps through those few similarities, could gain some solace in knowing he wasn’t entirely alone in solving this impossible puzzle.

Charles waited before giving a response. Just trying to gauge an estimate of his death proved to be quite unsavory to his bearing. He shut his eyes against the memory. “Long enough to feel myself leave my body,” he answered stiffly. “To know I’ve been gone and to know this isn’t natural.”

For once, Charles worried if his worlds were too cruel for Melmord. He wanted to glance upwards, at the light and Fjordslorn’s carefree expression and be told that he would acclimate, and that everything would return to its normal, working order.

Charles’s stare rested on the tips of his stained combat boots. “Fjordslorn?”

Melmord’s head nudged his. “Hmm?”

“Does it ever go away?” he asked, throat going dry. “Feeling so…”

Desolate? Alone? Frigid?

A hand lifted him by the chin. It was so warm to the touch. A frightening contrast to cold front that tormented him within.

“Nah,” Melmord answered, shaking his wet, heavy head. “Whatever it is…it’s never going to be the same again.” He exhaled, then to Charles surprise, exposed a curious, albeit, hinged grin. “But it has to be like that. It can’t ever be the same again, otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Point?” Charles heard himself parrot.

“Yeah, man. If everything was the same, then what separates this life from the last? It’s a second chance at life, so there’s got to be a difference, one that reminds us what’s at stake.”

His hand slid up Charles’ jaw, heating him with a careful touch.

Charles frowned. Melmord was under the terrible assumption life had a point to begin with, or that coming back to life held some significant meaning. It didn’t. People lived until they didn’t. Melmord was an exception, but only because Charles wanted to let the men in the lab to further develop their sewing abilities. Charles could explain how Melmord came back to life. He could not explain how he himself did though, not with any relevant scientific backing, and that frightened him. No one put him back together. He was gone. Gone for hours, possibly longer. And while he was gone he saw…things. He heard voices of unknown men and saw the face of something demonic, vile and uncannily familiar. He doubted Melmord saw any of that. He knew Melmord experienced none of these things, yet brought him along in the hope that he might have, and the very small chance that there was a connection. A significance. A purpose.

A point.

“Charles.”

This time, it was Melmord’s hand sliding off his chin that brought Charles back to the realm of the living dead.

“Yes, Melmord?”

“How are you feeling?”

What could he possibly say? That he felt like he was suffocating under a thousand questions, and no matter how far he traveled, and the clues they amassed, he seemed no closer to finding out the source of this mystery surrounding him and Dethklok.

Charles brushed his face against Melmord’s. “Well rested, thank you.”

#charles foster offdensen #melmord fjordslorn #charlesmelm #agaricales #touchatouchatouchatouchmeme

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lifeofresulullah · 3 years

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The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh): His Youth, Trade Life, His marriage to Hazrat Khadijah

The Prophet is with Abu Talib, his uncle

The Beloved Prophet is eight years old...

He is under the protection of Abu Talib, his uncle, who was appointed as a guardian by his grandfather.

Abu Talib was an immensely compassionate person; nevertheless, he was quite poor. He did not have any possessions other than his few camels whose beneficial milk was distributed around Mecca. Abu Talib had a crowded family and as a result, he was in great distress.

Despite all of this, he was loved and respected by the Qurayshis for his honest and proper (morally upright) way of living. Hazrat Ali spoke of his father’s condition in this way:

“My father was one of the leading figures of the Quraysh despite having been poor. However, although he was poor, no one was considered to have been exalted in the tribe before him”.

Abu Talib and his manner of living were distant from the ugliness and wickedness of the Age of Ignorance. Like his father, Abdulmuttalib, he never consumed alcohol although the polytheist Qurayshis would drink it freely as if it were water. Abu Talib had the qualities to take care of our Holy Prophet (PBUH) in every circumstance.

At the same time, Abu Talib carried out the duties that were passed onto him by his brother, Zubayr, such as encasing the Kaaba and providing water to the pilgrims. However, after three seasons of Hajj, he understood that with his tight budget, he could not carry out these duties, which required great expenses to be made. Thus, he had to transfer these duties over to his brother, Hazrat Abbas. Hazrat Abbas continued these services until the Kaaba was conquered; Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) left these duties to the same people after he conquered the Kaaba.

Abu Talib was deeply connected to our Holy Prophet (PBUH) as his father had been. He showed the utmost attention to our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) upbringing. He would never separate his nephew from his side, would take him wherever he went, would have him sit next to him, and would talk to him as a friend.

They would not sit at the dinner table without him. When the table was set and when our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was not seen, Abu Talib would say, “Where is Muhammad? Call him to the table”. Everyone would be full yet the food would still increase at whichever table our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was found. Many times, at tables where our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was not present, the food would quickly finish before anyone got full.

Besides, ever since that time, our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) would eat very little. He was always serious and would always respect the food. Unlike other children who would pounce on the food as soon as the table was set, he would not put anything in his mouth until the adults began eating. In fact, his uncle would sometimes set up a separate table for him so that our Holy Prophet (PBUH) would not be bothered by other children.

Like in his adulthood, our Beloved Master (PBUH) would never complain about hunger or thirst during this age (his childhood). His nanny, Umm Ayman, described this property of his as follows:

“I have never seen our Holy Prophet (PBUH) complain about being hungry or thirsty during his childhood. He would drink a sip of Zamzam in the morning. Whenever we would want to feed him, he would say, “I do not want anything. I am full”.

Every morning, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) would open his eyes that were full with happiness and life, with a pristine countenance that shone bright.

The Prophet attends the prayer for rain with his uncle!

Makkah and its neighborhood was undergoing a severe drought and famine. The ground was dry and cracked due to lack of water.

The Qurayshis applied to Abu Talib and said, “O Abu Talib! Our children and animals started to die due to drought and famine! Please pray for rain for us.”

Abu Talib did not reject their offer. However, he would not go alone. He was going to take Muhammad, his nephew, with him because he had seen in many events that Muhammad attracted blessings and grants.

Abu Talib went to the Kaaba with his nephew, the Sun of Bliss. He leaned against the holy Kaaba, opened his hands to the Sultan of the Universe and started to beg. Muhammad (pbuh) was holding the covering of the Kaaba and he was pointing to the sky with one finger.

...After a while, the sea of mercy of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, started move; rain started to pour down over Makkah and the people of Makkah. They could hardly enter their houses. The valleys were full of water. They became very happy.

Yes, Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh) had been appointed to bring material and spiritual mercy and blessing to the humanity and to make the world a happy and prosperous place. He had the traces of that lofty and great duty beginning from his childhood!

The love of Fatima, the wife of Abu Talib, toward the Prophet

The love and compassion of Fatima, the wife of Abu Talib, toward the Prophet was endless. She loved him as one of her own children and would show the utmost attention to his upbringing. In fact, she would not pay attention to her own children until she had fed him and had made sure that he was full. In this way, she was trying to have him not feel the pain of being an orphan.

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) never neglected showing Lady Fatima love and respect. He never forgot the kindness that she had shown him throughout his entire life. When she died, he expressed his love for her by saying “Today my mother passed away”. Afterwards, he made her a shroud by taking off his shirt and wrapping her with it, and he then descended with her to her grave and he lay there for some time.

This particular action had not escaped from the eyes of our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) companions. When they asked him for the reason, he provided the response:

“After Abu Talib, there was no woman who had shown me as much kindness as this dear woman had. I made my shirt a shroud for her so that she could wear a dress from Paradise in the Hereafter and I had lain there with her so she could like and be accustomed to the grave”

The great Prophet (pbuh), who never forgot the favors done to him no matter who did them and who returned those favors to them manyfold...

Our Holy Prophet’s noble and exceptional trait greatly influenced people to convert to Islam, as it can be seen in the various stages of his life.

THE PROPHET HERDS SHEEP

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was in the tenth year of his blissful life.

During this time, he told his uncle, Abu Talib, whose custody he was under, that he wanted to herd Abu Talib’s sheep. At first, his uncle, who loved him wholeheartedly, did not consent. However, he eventually accepted on account of our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) persistence and intense desire. However, this time, his wife, Lady Fatima, ardently opposed. How could their hearts consent to leaving our Holy Prophet (PBUH), whom they loved more than their own children, under the scorching sun?

Nevertheless, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) was determined. For this reason, he was able to obtain Lady Fatima’s consent.

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) began to take the sheep and goats to the valleys and hills where they would graze during the morning.

In this way, he was able to help his uncle, even if it was in a very small way, to save money since it was no longer necessary to hire a shepherd. He also acquired the chance of deeply contemplating on the existence of the ground and skies in solitary. In the fields, he would watch the sublime scenery which Allah revived at every moment; thus, his soul would experience an incomparable pleasure and attain deep enlightenment from viewing these sights. At the same time, this duty, which he had taken upon himself, allowed him the opportunity to keep him away from the lies, fraud, deceit, and hypocrisy of the corrupt society in which he lived.

After the duty of Prophethood had been given to our Master (PBUH), who spent his holy life herding sheep, he went to the fields with his companions (Sahaba). They started to pick the fruit of the siwak tree in a place called Marr az-Zahran. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) said to his companions amid his smiles that soothed hearts:

“Among this wild fruit, choose the black kind since it is the most delicious.”

The companions were amazed and curious. They asked, “Oh Messenger of Allah! Only a shepherd would know the good and bad types of this fruit. Did you herd sheep?”

Once again, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) replied amid his smiles that soothed hearts, “There is no prophet who has not herded sheep.”

One day, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) reminisced to his companions a sweet memory in his life:

“Prophet Moses (AS) was sent as a prophet; he herded sheep. Prophet David (AS) was sent as a prophet; he herded sheep. I too was sent as a prophet and would herd my family’s sheep in Jiyad (a place that is at the bottom part of Mecca).”

It can be seen that at ten years old, our Holy Prophet (PBUH), who is described as the one “who possesses the highest ethics” in the Quran, did not favor being without work due to his diligence and benevolence and did not deem it appropriate to be a burden on someone else.

It is possible to find the traces of one-year experience of herding sheep in these holy words, which can cover several books of commentary and interpretation.

“You all are shepherds. You are responsible for those whom you guard. A state chieftain is responsible for those who are under his rule. An individual is obliged to protect and take care of his children and is responsible for them. A woman is responsible for her husband’s home. A servant is a watchman and is responsible for his employer’s goods. An individual is the watchman of his father’s goods and is responsible for them. You are all responsible for those who are under your command.”

He is withheld from taking part in entertainment

The Master of the Universe, Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) who was under the special protection of God Almighty, narrated an event that happened to him at the time when he was herding the sheep of his uncle. It was as follows:

“A couple of times I wanted to do some things which the people of the Era of Ignorance would do. However, God Almighty kept me from doing them. From that time on, I never intended to do something of which God Almighty would disapprove until the time I was selected as a prophet. As for the thing I meant to do, it was like this: One night, I and some youth from Quraish were herding our sheep up the hill at Mecca. I proposed my friend if he could take care of my sheep so that I like my other friends, might join the night entertainments where people told tales. My friend answered that he could do that for me. Then I came to Mecca.

When I saw the first house of Mecca, I heard the voice of people having fun screaming. I asked someone what it was about. He answered that some man was getting married to some girl and that was their wedding. I then sat somewhere near the wedding and began to watch it. Then I fell asleep and could wake up only with the first lights of the sun. When I turned back to my friend, he asked me what I did. I told him I did nothing and told him all about the night before.

One night, I asked again my friend for permission to leave, which he agreed. When I walked all the way and came to Mecca, I saw again, what I had seen before. I knelt down and started to watch it. Then I fell asleep. I could wake up only at daybreak. As soon as I woke up, I turned back to my friend and told him what I had seen.

After that I never attempted to do such things till I became a prophet.”

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jbuckyb-wintersoldier · 3 years

Text

Untitled

Pairings: Bucky x fem reader, Steve x fem reader (unrequited)

Age of Ultron era

Summary: You’re a researcher working for Tony Stark who doubles as a medic for The Avengers. You could often easily detach yourself from your work, however, after meeting one Avenger in particular, you developed a soft spot for the old man.

Warnings: eventual smut (+18 plz), swearing, mentions of violence, mentions of blood.

Word Count: ~3,200

Part One

You are sitting at your desk focused intensely on your most recent project. It was long past the end of your workday, the lights of your lab having dimmed long ago. Damn Tony and his self-efficient light systems. However, this didn’t deter you from relaxing into the darkness with your eyes squinting into the bright light of your desktop screen. Your fingers danced over the keyboard with lightning speed. It seemed that nothing could distract you from your work and you could feel how close you were to finally figuring this out.

Two months ago, you found Tony leaning against the entrance of your lab with that look on his face that told you he wanted your help with something that was far out of your scope of practice. You remember rolling your eyes when he begged for your help on decoding an encrypted file found during one of his missions.

You feel your eyelids starting to become heavy as you reach a shaky hand towards your cup of coffee that had cooled hours ago.

A loud crash can be heard from the hall, followed by indistinct yelling. This causes the cold cup of coffee in your hand to fall to the floor, shattering, as its contents splash onto your heels and pants.

“Fuck,” you hissed, jumping up from your chair. “My shoes.” You say with a whine which is quickly replaced with anger. Those damn boys always fucking up your night with their antics. It was a Saturday night thus you assumed that one of the boys had gotten too drunk again.

“Lights on, Jarvis.” Your lab floods with light that blinds you for a moment. As you inspect the damage, you hear a ragged voice call your name. Pain and fear are the only words that come to mind when you try to identify the source of the voice. Your previous feelings of anger quickly turn into concern as you rush into the hallway to see what happened.

Once into the hallway your gaze meets Steve’s. He’s struggling to hold someone up. Both of them covered in cuts, bruises, and blood.

“Thank god, you’re up.” Steve’s voice sounds strained as his face contorts into what you can only describe as anguish. You rush to him and the unknown man he’s holding and help them into the medical room. Steve sets the unconscious man down on the examination table and sinks to the floor. You drop to your knees next to him.

“Steve, what the hell happened?” You question as your hands come up to cup his bloodied face. Steve had been a dear friend of yours since the Avengers came together. He’s breathing heavy, exhaustion clearly taking over him.

“Y/n, don’t worry about me. Please, help Bucky.” He looks into your eyes, his pleading voice sending a request to help the man lying on the examination table above you.

“Bucky? You finally found him?” Your voice shakes slightly, knowing Steve has been trying to locate his oldest friend for the last year. A pained smile comes across Steve’s lips.

Mission accomplished.

You jump up then, beginning to tend to Bucky’s wounds. You quickly hook him up to an IV and begin to carefully clean the rather large gash above his left temple.

“What happened?” Your gaze follows Steve as he slowly begins to get himself up from the floor.

“He didn’t recognize me, y/n. He didn’t even know who I was.” Steve’s voice trembles and you feel tears of empathy pricking the corners of your eyes for your friend.

You blink them away and quickly turn back to Bucky’s form. His long brown locks stuck to his forehead in a mixture of blood and sweat. You reach a hand towards them, tucking the sticky strands behind his ear as your fingertips slowly ghost over his bruised cheekbone. You felt hypnotized by him, something refusing to stop your hand from caressing his chiseled jaw.

What pulls you out of your stupor is the sound of Steve’s voice after returning from having cleaned himself up. You jump back, nearly dropping the washcloth in your hand. Quickly attempting to compose yourself.

“How’s he doing?” You blink rapidly at Steve’s question trying to collect your thoughts. “Uh, he’s doing better.” You quip.

“It’s getting late, I can take it from here. You seem exhausted.” Steve grasps the cloth you’re still clutching in your hand. You chuckle, “I could say the same about you.”

“Seriously y/n, I’ve got this.” Steve’s head rises to meet your eyes. A stern look taking over his handsome features. “Steve,” Your voice trembles slightly and you’re unsure if it was caused by the intense look he’s giving you or the multiple cups of coffee you’ve consumed in the last two hours. “I haven’t been able to sleep properly since Tony gave me that file. So, it’s not like I’d be sleeping otherwise.” You pick up your discarded washcloth again and go back to cleaning Bucky’s wounds.

“Y/n.” Steve’s warm palm closes over your hand that holds the bloodied washcloth. “He’s dangerous and I don’t want you around when he eventually wakes up.” Your eyes meet his pale ones again. Something about them is begging you to leave.

“Okay. Okay, fine.” The grip you held on the washcloth finally loosening. “But just so you know, I won’t be sleeping.” Steve chuckles at this, shaking his head as he looks towards the ground. His eyes meet yours again. “Sure, y/n. I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”

This time it’s your turn to chuckle, knowing that Steve is more than capable of handling himself if needed. You give him a soft smile before turning on your heel and heading back to your lab.

The next morning you wake with an awful ache in your neck. You slowly begin to sit up and take in your surroundings. As your eyes focus, you realize that the strain in your neck was a result of you falling asleep bent over your desk.

“Ah, finally. You’re awake.” A voice pulls you from your confused state. “Banner, what are you doing in my lab?” You ask, watching Bruce toy with the random mechanics on the desk sitting parallel to yours. “Come on, y/n. How many times do I have to tell you? This is OUR lab. As in, we share it.” He lays the object in his hands back on his desk and makes his way over to you. “You know, I was really beginning to think you were dead over here.”

Ignoring his last statement, you speak. “I’m honestly surprised you remembered where the lab is even located. Seeing how you spend most of you time in Tony’s.” You lean back in your chair and stretch out your cramping legs. “What time is it anyways?”

“Five thirty-eight. In the morning, you know, when normal people start their days.” Bruce laughs at his own joke. “Waking up that early is hardly normal, Banner. What are you doing here?”

“I told you, this is my lab too.” You raise your eyebrows at him in question. “Okay, fine. I wanted to see how close you are to figuring out that encryption. Tony’s addiment on thinking that it could help figure out our Ultron problem.”

“I’m almost there. There are a few more firewalls to get through but I think the rest will be pretty easy after that.” You sign, standing up and flattening out your wrinkled clothing. “Well, that’s good to hear. Tony has been driving me insane about it.”

“Anyways, I guess I should actually go to bed.” Bruce gives you a soft smile. “I know how you get with your work. Just because Tony is going mad attempting to figure everything out, doesn’t mean you should. Don’t work yourself too hard, y/n.”

You make your way over to Bruce and place a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks Banner, but the faster I get this done, the better chances we have at stopping Ultron before something horrible happens.” Bruce smiles again, this time though, it doesn’t extend to his eyes. “Oh come on, Bruce, I’m fine. See?” You open your arms wide in a failed attempt to show that you weren’t completely exhausted. However, the bags under your eyes tell another story.

“Okay, how about this?” Bruce strides towards your desk. “You take today off and get some form of actual sleep and I’ll work on the encryption today.” You sign and a grin takes over your features. “Oh, Banner that would be amazing. Honestly, thank you.”

“No problem. Now go get a shower or something. You reek of sour milk.” You frown and look down at yourself, realizing that the pants you were wearing are still stained with the coffee you spilt just hours before.

Once in your room, you toss your bag on the bed and make you way to your en suite bathroom. You slowly peel your shirt and pants off as the exhaustion begins to take its toll on you again. With your eyes falling closed you climb into the shower and turn on the water. The initial coldness jolts you awake but soon after, the hot streams of water cascade down your naked form. You close your eyes in bliss as the water heals your aching limbs. Your mind drifts to the events of last night. Images of Steve’s panicked face fill your mind and how he could barely drag his unconscious friend into the medic chambers.

Bucky.

Images of his strong features fill your tired mind. Even while covered in blood and bruises, you couldn’t ignore how attractive he was. God, you think to yourself, what is wrong with me? The man was nearly dead and all you could think about was his handsome appearance. Chalking it up to your lack of sleep, you finish washing yourself, get out of the shower, and crawl into bed.

When you wake, it's dark outside. Jolting up quickly, you look at the clock sitting on your side table. The arms read seven thirty. You decide that there isn’t much point trying to do anything else today, so you pull on some sweats and head towards the kitchen.

While trying to figure out what to eat, you hear someone enter the kitchen behind you.

“Hey y/n.” Whirling around, you meet Steve who is leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, how’s Bucky doing? Has he woken up yet?”

Pushing himself from the kitchen entrance, Steve makes his way over to you. “Yeah, he’s awake. Hasn’t said a word yet but awake.” He signs. “Do you think he remembers?”

“I’m honestly not sure, y/n. The glare he’s been giving me tells me no.” Steve scoffs. He reaches above your head to grab a box of cereal from the top shelf and pours himself a bowl. “Don’t you think it’s a little late in the day to be eating cereal, Steve?”

“What do you mean? Is cereal only a breakfast food?”

“Usually, I guess.” Is all you say as you pour a bowl for yourself and sit next to him. “Say, what is in this stuff? It tastes like pure sugar.” Steve asked as he lifts another spoonful to his mouth.

“Come on, Steve. You really can’t be complaining about the modern world’s creations while you’re simultaneously enjoying them. Cereal is meant to be sugary.” You laugh as you also taste the excessively candied chunks.

“I want to see him.” You blurt out before you can even think about it. Steve lowers his spoon and turns towards you. “I don’t know y/n. I told you, he’s dangerous. I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

“You don’t think I can handle myself? I’ve had my fair share of missions. Ones that even you needed my help for. I –“ You begin to state all the reasons why you know you can take care of yourself but Steve cuts you off. “I’ll let you see him,” you silently cheer in triumph. “but not yet. All of this is going to be a lot for him to understand and I don’t want to overwhelm him.” There’s a moment of silence before Steve starts to speak again. “Plus, he’s currently in solitary. I have no idea if he remembers who he is and I can’t take the chance on him getting out and hurting more people.”

“Hurting more people?” You question. Despite Steve being one of your closest friends, he had been pretty quiet when it came to his efforts in finding Bucky.

“Look, y/n, Bucky’s not himself right now.” Steve speaks slowly. “And what does that mean?” You’re starting to get irritated with Steve’s vague responses. Steve has a habit of treating you like a child, always claiming that it’s for your own protection. However, you get tired of his antics pretty quickly. Steve sighs, sensing your dismay. “Remember a while back when the Winter Soldier helped infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D?” You nod your head in understanding. “Yeah, some ex-military sergeant was brainwashed into becoming this super soldier assassin. I was with you on most of those missions.”

“Yeah, but not all of them. Bucky is the Winter Soldier. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure how you’d react.” You furrow your brows. “Why would I react poorly? Steve, how many times do I have to prove to you that you can trust me?” Steve sighs realizing he’s made you upset. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I hid it from you, honestly.” Your frustration gets the best of you, and you lash out at Steve.

“It’s fine. Your best friend killed thousands of people, if not more. I wouldn’t want to plaster that around either.” You pick up your forgotten bowl of cereal, dumping its contents into the trash. “Oh, come on, y/n. That’s not fair! He didn’t have a choice.” Steve’s voice raises slightly. His own frustration beginning to peek.

“Like you didn’t have the choice to just tell me what was really happening all this time!? This isn’t about Bucky. Seriously, I’m so tired of you keeping things from me! I’m not a child that needs protecting. God! Haven’t I proved that after all these years?” You drop the empty bowl into the sink with a clang and whirl around to face Steve again. “Y/n, it’s not like that.”

You shake your head and laugh. “Of course not.” You turn to leave but Steve tries to stop you. “No, Steve. When you want to start telling me the truth, then come find me. Until then, I’m done talking.” You leave the kitchen and decide to make a stop at your lab.

As you walk the halls of the tower you admire the intricate designs covering the steel walls. You hear a ragged sob from one of the rooms you pass by. You stop dead in you tracks. For a moment, all you can hear is the quiet buzzing of the lights above, then another pained sob can be heard from the room to your right.

You reach a hand towards the door that is separating you from whoever is concealed inside. Slowly you turn the knob and quietly push the door open. As you slip through the half-opened door, your gaze falls upon the man you meet the night before. He’s trapped in what looks like a glass chamber. Large steel panels are wrapped around his chest and neck. More panels are holding his arms and legs in place, trapping him. Your gaze travels to his face. His eyes are squeezed shut, teeth bared, and beads of sweat coat his forehead causing his hair to stick to his skin. What surprises you are the tears that are slowly falling down his face.

“Bucky?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as his name falls from your lips. Bucky focuses on you with a startled expression occupying his features. “You don’t know me. I’m a friend of a friend.” He looks scared and confused, as you slowly approach the chamber. Panic begins to take over and Bucky tries his hardest to break free from his restraints.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” You’re close enough that you can see Bucky’s nostrils flare as he breaths heavily. “Do you remember anything?” Your hopeful that he does. However, for what feels like hours you are only met with silence.

Finally, he speaks up. “Bits and pieces.” His voice cracks and you assume this is the first time he’s spoken since being brought to the towers last night. “Do you know who Steve is?”

“Not really, but I know that he was someone important to me. Before –“ Bucky stops himself as if it’s too painful for him to continue.

“You’re safe here. I won’t make you talk about it if it’s too much.” Against your better judgment, you place one of your palms on the glass that is separating the both of you. The pain in Bucky’s eyes starts to fade. The door opens behind you, causing you to jump back from Bucky. Turning around you meet Steve, his eyes trained on the person behind you. Without having to say a word, you know that he is furious with you. Specifically, because he had asked you to wait before meeting Bucky. Steve brushes passed you, stopping in front of the chamber.

“Hey, Buck. How are you feeling?” Despite his composure, you can feel the anger radiating from Steve’s body. Choosing to ignore his dismay with you, you turn to look at Bucky again. He’s features are hard, and he keeps his mouth glued shut. “You’re going to have to talk to me eventually.” Steve signs. He turns on his heel and grabs your wrist, pulling you out of the room.

“Y/n, what did I tell you?” Steve asks once the door is closed behind you. “I’m sorry, I just kind of stumbled upon him.” You respond sheepishly, know that is the truth. “Stumbled upon him? I know you better than that.”

“Seriously! I did!” You exclaim, throwing your arms in the air. “You know, maybe he isn’t talking to you because you have him caged up like an animal!”

“Y/n, I’m getting tired of this. You know he’s dangerous. It’s for everyone’s safety, even his.”

“He’s terrified! He can barely remember a thing! His best friend has him shackled up and confined in a box! What do you expect from him? He’s a human being. Treat him like one.” You can’t stand to speak with Steve any longer or to listen to his construed ideas of righteousness. Steve sighs, allowing his back to press against the wall behind him.

“You’re right. He shouldn’t be locked up like that, but you didn’t see him when I found him. Whatever Hydra put in his head is still there and they could use it any second to make him turn.”

“Well, let’s figure out how to get it out of his head.” With that, you head towards your lab leaving Steve alone in the hallway.

__________

Part one is complete! This is my first time writing, so give me pointers xx

Thank you for reading! (I will continue this drabble if ppl want more, let me know!)

- Lex

#bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #mcuedit #marvel mcu #james barnes #bucky smut #stevebucky #steve rogers #fic rec

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periminkle · 4 years

Text

Orphic | 02

After moving into your own place, it seems life is finally going your way; the path to independence leading you to a quaint suburban town where even the grass seems to grow a little greener. Although a shocking encounter leads you to believe that perhaps appearances can be quite deceiving.

pairing: hybrid!jk x reader (first person)

genre: hybrid au, angst, fluff

word count: 7.0k

rating: PG-15

warnings: animal cruelty, death, blood, swearing

author’s note: I cut this chapter into two parts bc it was turning into a monster :((( i did try to research DNA and genes and all that fancy stuff but it was too much for my small brain, so beware of inaccurate facts!!! also wanted to say that my heart hurt writing this </3

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The light breeze fluttering through the back door enveloped the bare skin of my legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

I couldn’t recall the last time I lounged around the house in the morning—not flurrying around like a chicken with its head cut off, in a rush to catch the bus. If it wasn’t work then it was grocery shopping, borrowing articles and studies from the library or filling my car’s empty gas.

Consequently, I refused to change out of the oversized sweater and the lousy pair of bright yellow shorts that currently adorned my laden figure. With any luck, the comfort from the soft articles of cloth would somehow seep into my mental state as well.

Yet the optimistic notion wasn’t proving its validity thus far, becoming a more of a burden due to the lack of a proper barrier between my humble abode and the wilderness outside.

For the most part, the structure of the door was left unharmed but the handle containing the lock that had been smashed into was another matter completely. Upon further examination, accompanied by an hour of fiddling around with the busted latch, it seemed to be a problem beyond my capabilities. I reluctantly admitted defeat and ordered a replacement.

With nothing to secure the door to the adjacent wall, it remained slightly ajar.

Another hour whizzed by, scouring through the limited resources at my disposal to—at the very least—find a temporary fix. I tried taping it shut, propping a chair, a step stool and a table up against the remainder of the handle to no avail.

A stroke of genius hit when I stuck a command hook on the wall nearby, fastening a broken hairband from the latch to the hook. However, the placement of the hook was a little too close and the hairband a little too loose to keep the occasional draft from finding its way inside. My fluffy pokémon shorts provided meager defence at best, but I could hardly spare a thought to the lower temperature when my mind was fully occupied with more urgent matters.

After the run-in yesterday night, I remained by the fridge, shaken from the events that had transpired for longer than I’d like to admit. I was unsure if the familiar sylvan scent that lingered was a result of the stranger or simply a waft from the forest, which wasn’t unlikely, considering my defective door.

Once I’d finally gotten a hold of myself, I dialled the police, doubting that my shaky limbs could safely carry me to the nearest station at such an hour. Other than an aching wrist and some medical supplies that could be restocked, my physical well-being and that of my house were surprisingly fine.

Excluding my poor back door, of course.

I was rather fortunate that the robbery, if stealing bandages could even be labelled as such, was more mentally taxing than anything. The drops of blood were rather annoying to clean off my tiles too, I guess.

Trying to get any rest that night was fruitless, tossing and turning, worried that the man might return for something more valuable or another fiend finding his way inside to do worse.

It struck me as more than a little odd that he would come to my tiny cottage, of all places, for first aid supplies. If he wasn’t looking for some extra coins to pocket, why wouldn’t he go to the hospital? Where had he gotten a wound that couldn’t be treated by a doctor? Maybe he had partaken in various illegal activities that couldn’t warrant the suspicion of a governmental figure? Ugh, my brain hurt the more I thought about it.

Along with my raging thoughts, the perpetual feeling of being watched disturbed my slumber as well. It was if another set of eyes were locked on my vulnerable form, peering past the closed blinds and under the protective layers of blankets I’d piled on. No matter how many times I peeked into the darkness though, I was only met with the sight of my backyard enshrouded in the night sky.

When the rays of dawn broke through the tenebrosity, I abandoned any notion of sleep and hesitantly called Jin, unsure if the busy man was even conscious yet. His bright and cheery voice quelled my worries and I informed him of what had transpired within the past twelve hours. Relief flooded my lethargic frame as he delved into a crazed panic, which I greatly appreciated, accepting his offer to take a day off.

Jin was excessively sympathetic and compassionate, reminding me of a mother goose with how he squabbled over staying somewhere else for the time being and taking a week-long break. But I didn’t want to be a burden on any of my new friends and going back to the city wasn’t an option at this point. Reflecting on the matter for more than day wasn’t necessary either.

I haughtily believed that the criminal didn’t deserve any more free real estate in my mind than he’d already occupied.

In order to comprehend the situation, as well as the fact that I would be utterly useless if I went to work with my mind engrossed in other matters, I thought one day to digest everything and get it out of my system would suffice. Though I knew it would come more so with time, I also had to work on regaining an impression of security within my own walls.

To take a rest from my turbulent concerns, I made a trip to one of the populated parks within the small town, figuring that I would feel more safety in the numbers that would surround me. Ridiculously, I found myself stumped when I got there, drowning in my own vulnerability, so I promptly headed back.

At nightfall, I skipped out on meeting with the cat yet again. Evidently, I lacked the mental capability to tend to my own needs the day before, never mind another being, thus I didn’t visit the little guy. I felt a wash of regret and worry that I hadn’t even set out some food. As a result of yesterday’s blunder, I put a heaping mass of tuna on the porch this time, hoping the animal would understand my apology.

The hours flew by as I sat there, stirring in my own solitude. In order to bring the negativity of the day to an end, I invited the trio I’d gotten close to as of recent, although Jin adamantly refused due to his papers that, “wouldn’t write themselves.”

I took the steaming pot of ramen off the stovetop right as the clear ring of the doorbell resounded throughout the cramped place. Hastily, I placed the noodles onto the table with careful hands, grimacing as I realized it took up a bit more than a quarter of the surface.

With a brisk shuffle, I pulled open my front door to the sight of a disgruntled Yoongi, hidden behind the towering stature of a rosy-nosed Namjoon. I barely made out the mutterings of, “it’s freezing out here,” and “took you long enough,” before I was being shoved aside.

As they trudged over to the kitchen, following the scent of freshly cooked ramen wafting around the house, Yoongi scoffed at my tiny table. Since I only purchased two chairs for the space, I cracked open the step stool to act as another seat. I honestly wasn’t sure what I would have done if Jin had tagged along too. Maybe pulled out the ladder too?

The shorter man grabbed the handles of the pot, heading over to the direction of the living room as Namjoon and I trailed after him like baby ducks. “If we’re going to eat like poor college students then we might as well keep up the act and sit on the floor.”

Although Yoongi’s cold and distant facade perplexed me as I was getting to know him, eventually I picked up on the hints of affection he’d drop every once in a while. Mostly, I found that I was able to burn time fooling around with Taemin as he completed enough drudgery for the both of us or a piping hot mug of hot chocolate would be waiting for me in the break room after long hours.

Even now, though he acted irritated, I knew Yoongi well enough to decipher his true intentions: that he was trying to be considerate of my humble living conditions and opted to play it off as a joke. At this point, I was even inclined to believe he harboured a soft spot for me.

In response, I pretended to be peeved by his actions as I ambled back to gather the bowls and utensils I placed at the table, carrying them to the spot we’d occupied on the floor. It was difficult to hide the growing smile on my face.

Once I’d gotten a few drinks down my throat, I finally felt the tense muscles between my brows and shoulder blades relax, forgetting about the worries that echoed in my head all day.

The TV screen flashed with the intense scenes of an action movie that Namjoon had picked out. I was only half paying attention to the redundant plot line, more interested in the outrageous story spewing from Namjoon’s lips.

“-and now he’s bragging about how one of his puns got milk spilling out of Yoongi’s nose!”

The tipsy state I was in got me laughing harder than I should have, but with both men around me in a relatively similar state of mind, no one seemed to care.

“That’s literal bullshit, Eunmi told me that I was drinking the milk meant for Taemin right when Jin finished telling his dumb joke,” Yoongi complained despite the gummy smile stretching across his features.

I clutched my chest at the mention of one of the creatures who had stolen my heart, “aw, my pretty little Taem, I miss him so much and it’s only been one day!”

“You’re getting too attached to him Y/N, you know that he’s not gonna stay at the lab forever,” Namjoon lightly warned. I knew he was concerned for my emotional welfare, but even the mention of Taemin being taken away got me stewing in my own misery.

“Joon, why would you say—I don’t even want to think about that!” My inebriated state obviously enjoyed to spill more information than necessary when I stated, “I need to cuddle Taemin enough for the both of them.”

“Both?” The younger man spared a questioning glance at his companion in before turning back to me, “do you have a cat?” The two of them began scoping out the area, trying to locate the nonexistent bundle of fur.

“Oh no, no, I wish I could afford a pet but I think taking care of myself is challenging enough for now.” At their probing eyes, I continued, “I was just talking about a little kitty that visits me every night in my backyard.”

Yoongi’s dark eyebrows scrunched together, a huff escaping him. “If you’re talking about a domestic cat, there’s no way it would be living out there,” he pointed to the forest outside with a tilt of his chin.

With the shake of my head, I felt myself sober up a bit as I explained, “I think it’s just one of my neighbours’ pets.”

Namjoon and Yoongi stared at each other, appearing baffled. “Well, it’s definitely not Eunhyuk, his son is allergic.”

“But you think mean old Sangmin would have a cat? We’re talking about the same guy who refused to have kids because he’s ‘not a bank’ right?”

Namjoon redirected his attention to me. “Are you sure it’s a cat? Maybe you just saw a rat or something.”

“No, it can’t be...” Their insistent refusal planted seeds of doubt that began to fester the longer I thought about it; they both lived here for longer than I had and obviously knew the area much better as well. It wasn’t like I had the best eyesight, anyway. But I remembered the piercing emerald green irises peering back at me, slit pupils honed in on my form with vibrant clarity. “It’s definitely a cat. It has to be a cat.”

A teasing snort came from Yoongi, who was leaning back on his palms with disbelief written all over his face. “You’re just seeing things, Y/N.”

I pouted at their lack of trust in me. An aggressive urge to prove them wrong began bubbling in the pit of my stomach and with a glimpse of the time from the clock above the stove, I noticed that it was well into midnight—around the hour in which I’d meet the kitty.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t believe me you can come see for yourself.”

“Is it outside?” I revelled in the satisfaction Namjoon’s widened eyes brought me and loftily smirked at him.

The plentiful amount of alcohol I’d indulged in forbade my legs from gracefully standing, wobbling like a newborn fawn instead as I fumbled over to the door, slipping the loose hair tie off and yanking the faulty mass open. Strangely, the night air was deathly silent, even the usually chirpy crickets seeming to have migrated to another yard.

“Hey, buddy. You out there?” I mumbled, scanning the bushes nearby, trying to pick up even the faintest flutter. “Bud?”

When I felt two pairs of curious eyes pierce my back, the pressure skyrocketed. I couldn’t let them believe I was spouting utter nonsense earlier, but the lack of response wasn’t proving my case very well.

After a few minutes passed with only the low whistle of the wind to keep us company, I felt a tinge of worry knot itself into my belly. “Okay, that’s enough Y/N. Let’s go back in.”

“No! It’s just scared because there’s a lot of people out now, you two go back in. I’ll call you when it’s out.” Desperately, I examined every inch of the stationary woodlands.

“We believe you, just get back in here! It’s cold and you’re not wearing a jacket, come on.” Namjoon’s long fingers wrapped around my forearm, tugging on my hesitant form.

As the dark-haired male dragged me back, I caught sight of the abundant helping of tuna I’d left on the last step of the porch yesterday. A pang resounded throughout my chest, disquiet settling into the recesses of my mind. Why didn’t the creature eat the offering, was it angry that I hadn’t shown up the last few nights? I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the worst; if it got lost somewhere, collapsed from starvation or was brutally killed by another animal.

If either one of the guys noticed the unusual pile of food, they didn’t comment on it.

Once back inside, tucked into Namjoon’s comforting shoulder and Yoongi’s warm side pressed against mine, I found myself unable to focus on anything of value. It was as if all my senses had dulled to an absolute minimum, barely processing what flashed on the bright TV screen and only picking up bits and pieces of the conversation between the two males. All I could think about was what could have possibly happened to my poor kitty.

My eyelids began to droop, heavy from the weight of the last few days’ events. With my body molding itself into Namjoon’s sturdy torso, I welcomed the peaceful darkness.

Taemin’s entire body shook from the force of his tiny sneeze and I could have sworn that my heart ceased its endless beating right then and there, was I in heaven?

Unaffected by my inner turmoil, the baby jaguar started bouncing around, weaving in and out of my legs as if he was participating in his own agility competition. I crouched down to his level to reach for his lithe body. The little guy always transformed into a flurry of excitement whenever I stopped by his cage, elated that he was free to play around without his constricting muzzle.

Once I’d discovered what a sweet bean he was, I couldn’t help but comply to his wishes. It didn’t take a mind reader to see how he consistently pawed at the contraption, even clawing his face a couple times on accident.

The reasoning behind all the safety measures wasn’t lost on me though, as I had witnessed the terror he instilled in most of the staff. About a week prior, I caught Minzi trying to lure Taemin out of his cage with some treats, but all her attempts proved unsuccessful when he didn’t even spare a glance her way.

With an annoyed sigh, she reached into the pocket within her lab coat, retrieving a syringe that I knew she had filled with telazol, a tranquilizing fluid for small animals. That prompted a reaction out of Taemin, his haunches tensing and lowering towards the ground, mouth peeling back in a snarl. The low growling sound vibrating from his small body instantly put me on edge; it was the first time I’d ever seen or heard the animal’s anger.

Before I could move a muscle, the irate woman stuck the needle into his hind leg. Taemin yowled in pain, but sunk his claws into her arm when he got the chance, only able to exact his revenge for a couple seconds before his body fell limp. Minzi detched his paw to find a stream of crimson red besmirching her white coat.

Now that I thought back to it, his growl eerily reminded me of the night of the break-in. Funnily enough, I thought the criminal had the more menacing vibration between the two—and Taemin was a jaguar for god’s sake.

What I found truly inhumane was the assistant assigned to handing Taemin his meals. The callous woman didn’t have half a mind to remove his muzzle before placing a handful of dog kibble in his cage.

At a glance, Taemin appeared severely underweight for his size, but I could have never chalked it up to his nutrition being fed through the bars around his snout. He struggled to attain such inadequate portions that weren’t even created for his species in mind.

Nevertheless, the instant I’d seen his horrifying feeding conditions, I dismissed the careless assistant and took on the task of keeping Taemin alive, a job that I didn’t think someone could fail so terribly at.

Taemin blindly swiped the air, bringing me out of my reverie. I chuckled as I saw he was a just a couple centimetres off the sleeve of my coat and I brought my hand, palm turned upwards, to meet his paw.

His eyelids were shut closed as tightly as they had been the first day he’d arrived at the lab, a fact that Yoongi informed me of when I’d inquired about Taemin’s lack of sight. Neither him nor Namjoon knew why he refused to, or simply couldn’t, open his eyes and my chest ached thinking about the unfulfilling life he was leading.

The memory crushed the lighthearted atmosphere that had arisen from fooling around with the dark-coloured feline. I rubbed the fur covering his foreleg while stealing a glimpse of Yoongi, seemingly hard at work from his hunched form.

“Hey, Yoongs?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.” The low murmur was slightly muffled from the microscope covering the entirety of his face.

Disregarding his previous statement, I voiced out my thoughts. “What if Taem can actually see? I mean, we could just check whether the PDE6C gene—”

A lengthy exhale interrupted my speech. “Wow, now I guess I know how Jin feels.”

“Listen, I know what you said before but—”

“Y/N, we have tons of gene sequences to analyze, we don’t have time to waste looking for a faulty PDE6C, okay?” He finally tore his gaze away from his work to peer into my pleading eyes, running his fingers through the strands marring his forehead. “You’re lucky I’m even letting you play around considering the amount of work we have to finish.”

At that, I shut my mouth and concentrated back on Taemin’s restless figure, a much better alternative to the DNA waiting to be analyzed at my desk. Since he was confined within his cage all day, I made it my goal to tire him out enough that he would be forced to rest until the next time I had the chance to abandon work, essentially getting paid to keep him amused.

I gently brought his paw to the floor and scurried away to collect his favourite toy; a fuzzy mouse I’d bought one day after discovering the building was devastatingly unequipped to entertain an extremely bored feline.

Although he whimpered at the loss of contact and the sound of my retreating footsteps, I swiftly grabbed the rodent at the bottom of the drawer, by Yoongi’s legs, and hurried back.

Another half hour passed as I tried to exhaust as much of Taemin’s boundless energy as I could, although my plan backfired when I found that my own strength was depleting just as quickly. His natural hunting instincts were definitely still intact, what with the torn up toy in the corner, held together by mere threads at this point. I made a mental note to go shopping for sturdier prey next time.

Presently, he laid on his side as a content, black loaf, purring from the belly rubs he was receiving. To tease the cub, I would pull away every once in a while only to have his long tail wrap around my wrist, tugging my limb back to action.

“Y/N.” My head turned to meet Namjoon who had wandered over from the assistant researcher’s lab where I’d last seen him. “I finished the sequence for his canines. Do you mind leaving it on Jin’s desk?”

I guiltily stood from my seated position, a sheepish grin plastered on as I gave one last pat to Taemin’s head. “Yeah, of course. Could you lock up Taem for me?”

With his affirmation, I took the papers from his grasp and gave a pat to the crown of Yoongi’s bleached head. He shifted towards me in feigned annoyance, but I was out of his reach before he could get back at me and I celebrated my victory with sticking my tongue out.

I began to make my way upstairs, but not before picking up on Joon’s exasperated remark to Taemin, “I hope you know that I could build you from scratch if I wanted to.”

Once in front of the familiar wood of Jin’s office door, I decided to knock in case he had guests. I restrained the awkward memory of walking in on the whole board of directors from resurfacing and distracted myself by rapping my knuckles with more force when there was no response from within. “Jin? It’s Y/N.” I pushed the handle down and pleasantly found it unlocked. “I’m coming in.”

I waited a couple more seconds before opening the door, meeting the chaos that was the assistant director’s office. As per usual, I winced at the mountain of papers piled upon his desk, astonished that it only seemed to grow since the last time I’d seen it. At this rate, I was just waiting for the day that I’d walk in here to see the towers reaching the ceiling.

Striding over to Jin’s side of the desk, I laid the notes down in the dead centre, resting on top of three separate piles. Sympathy flooded my senses as my gaze roamed across the masses. How could such a hardworking individual accumulate so much work while he was working?

Even staring at the copious amounts of print made me feel queasy, hence I hurried to get out of the nauseating area. But, as I scuttled by, my gaze caught on a file with thick, messy letters scrawled on the front.

Jaguar.

To say my curiosity was piqued whenever Taemin was involved was an understatement. After a glance back to ensure that I was able to safely snoop around until my heart’s content, I reached for the file, making sure to keep my posterior to the camera in the corner, concealing my actions.

Ultimately, I knew Taemin was brought in to make progress on their “top secret, strictly confidential experiment,” which meant that I wasn’t to touch any of his files. At least, according to the brusque Minzi I wasn’t. However, an underlying, devious part of me enjoyed rebelling against her words and I secretly rejoiced as I directly disobeyed her orders, opening the folder.

Basic information was scattered along the first page, his name, birthdate, birthplace, so on and so forth. I casually flipped through the rest, finding the documents we routinely handed off to Jin when we’d written down sequences that brought about certain genes concerning the jaguar. This was probably where Jin would store the note Namjoon had made me deliver.

Losing interest, I flipped the bulk of the papers back to the front and seamlessly slid them into the file. When I unintentionally skimmed the first page once again, my eyes caught on a baffling sentence.

Heightened sense of sight, especially keen night vision.

I wet my suddenly chapped lips in my state of bafflement, double and triple checking that the file was indeed for seemingly blind Taemin; the very same animal that was probably napping downstairs. The statistics even matched up with what little knowledge I had about the animal, sending me into a greater spiral of confusion. They must have accidentally written the observation down on the wrong paper.

Unless...?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the outrageous thoughts swarming my mind.

Heading back down, I caught sight of Yoongi still wrapped around his microscope, jotting notes down with his other hand. My attention shifted to the unconscious feline next, muzzled and locked behind bars.

My fists clenched, fingernails engraving crescents into the palm of my hand as I resolved to finally clear out these murky waters.

An hour passed before I finally located it and then another few hours slipped by as I examined the sequence.

The PDE6C gene on chromosome ten. Perfectly intact and working exceptionally until the halfway point, around the thousandth base. Some of the letters got mixed up, binding with incorrect base pairs and bestowing Taemin with his current lack of vision.

Of course, I was prepared to deal with the repercussions of wasting precious time, examining a sequence that did not correlate to any favourable gene. But after connecting some dots, I recognized the agent that brought about such errors.

Ethyl methanesulfonate, or EMS for short. A chemical mutagenic that induces base substitutions, mutating the DNA molecule as a result. I couldn’t imagine why they’d inject a carcinogenic compound into the mammal, but it obviously had something to do with trying to enhance his natural vision.

Did they think the possibility of disabling him was worth the slim chance that his eyesight could improve? By the bases that were effected, I guessed that they were trying to sharpen his sight when submerged in darkness. If the guanine alkylation hadn’t spread so far, they might have succeeded in their experiment.

Nevertheless, their hypothesis was dreadfully incorrect and Taemin was blind as a result of their recklessness.

My grip on the pencil tightened in pure, white fury. In the fruitless hope that the EMS hadn’t affected his whole body, I took several samples of cells from various areas of his body. Albeit, samplings of his cheeks, ears and legs all provided the same conclusion that I’d reached earlier—deformed DNA from ill-fitting base pairs.

All the blood drained from my face from the appalling notion of just how much EMS they must have injected into his blood stream for it to have tampered with every cell in his body. My jaw clenched as my mouth ran bone dry.

They mutilated him.

Digust washed over me, for the false claims that the lab protected their lab animals, for every ruthless employee that harboured such barbaric morals, for myself, who blindly assisted in the cruel methods of this place. My heart rate picked up at my own helplessness, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I scrambled out of the corner I had holed myself up in.

I didn’t know if it was the bruising despair or the fuming rage that had me stomping my way across the halls, headed for the director’s office. The rational part of me was aware of the fact that I couldn’t do anything, change their twisted morals or bring down that metaphorical sword of justice that I was so fixated on. But that didn’t mean I had to play along as a clueless, complaisant pawn in their gruesome experiments.

Keycard or not, I was determined to wreak havoc until I could properly screech obscenities at one of the incredibly asinine brains that ran this revolting laboratory. Storming past the Namjoon and Yoongi’s office, I picked up on a shrill cry that seemed to douse my whole body in ice water, stopping me in my tracks.

A turn to my right gave me a direct view of Minzi struggling to pull a semi-conscious Taemin out of his cage, arms which he desperately wriggled against, thrashing violently to escape her hold. Now knowing what malicious behaviour deserved such treatment from kind-hearted Taemin, I rushed at her.

“How could you!” I roared, seeing red when she turned, glaring condescendingly.

Her calculated eyes examined my rapidly approaching, ruffled figure. “Oh, good, I needed a coffee. Could you fetch me a tranquilizer while you’re at it? I didn’t think he would wake up.”

I grit my teeth as my temper flared, resentment embedded into each of my features. Stopping a step away from her unbothered form, I seethed out, “you guys claim to look after the lab animals? Then why would you permanently damage his genes!”

“What have you been wasting time on instead of researching what we told you to?”

“Answer the question!”

She sneers. “I thought I warned you to stay out of anything that doesn’t concern you. That includes any testing subjects.”

“Testing subjects? How the hell do you think you can get away with—”

“Woah, what’s all the ruckus here?” Hyunho’s lazy form strolled in with a lax yet domineering countenance. The appearance of the other head researcher made my hair stand on end. “Do we need to put up a sign to remind some people that they’re to use indoor voices inside a laboratory?”

My eyes quickly narrowed at his patronizing remark. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up project you guys are conducting, but if you’re harming innocent animals, I don’t want any part of your imbecilic research.”

“Ooh, it seems that newbie is a feisty one, isn’t she?” He took a step towards me, the scent of a cigarette he probably smoked earlier invading my senses and invoking an appealing urge to regurgitate my dinner all over him. “Listen here girly, I don’t know what you’re trying to accuse us of here, but I’ll be sure to report your unruly behaviour to the director if you keep this shit up.”

“As if I give a flying fu—”

A hand wrapped around my mouth before I could unleash the rest of my resentful spew. “Ah, Dr. Lee.” I recognized the subtle undertone of panic in Namjoon’s deep voice as he addressed the burly man with respect that he didn’t deserve. “You see, Y/N had a pretty rough day, some family matters back home, y’know? I’m just going to take her outside to clear her head a little.”

“Yes, that would be a good idea.” Hyunho stepped back to Minzi’s side.

“If you would excuse us then...” I flailed about in Namjoon’s sturdy hold before he all but manhandled my to the back entrance. The refreshingly cool air grazing my overheated skin quelled some of my fury, although I felt its presence simmering beneath the surface. The tall man released my trembling limbs and I whipped my head over to examine Namjoon’s concerned countenance.

Did he know?

I couldn’t bear the thought of any of the limited friends I’d made in this place willingly taking part in such horrid research. They couldn’t have known. My heavy head fell into my hands, thinking of innocent Taemin who didn’t merit the attention of these corrupt individuals, who had no one to protect him.

If I quit my job here, would anyone care for him? Obviously his basic needs would be met, Namjoon and Yoongi would make sure of that, but were they aware of what exactly that experiment entailed? I’d only scratched the surface, but the prospect of finding out every gritty detail terrified me.

I felt an overwhelming weight crushed me, being helpless beneath it all. “Joon,” I managed to croak out, “I didn’t come here for this.”

With the low volume of my voice, I didn’t know how much he’d heard, but a tug on my wrist enveloped my body into his embrace. As he stroked my head reassuringly, I held onto his thin lab coat with clenched fists.

If it meant I could save Taemin, I would keep my mouth shut. If it meant I could act as some salvation to each animal that came into this wretched place, I would stay.

My disgust for the laboratory only multiplied.

“I didn’t come here for this.”

A pleasant tranquility took shape after a brief greeting had been exchanged, both Jin and I on a well-deserved break after too much time cooped up in our respective offices. Well, even though the assistant researchers’ office wasn’t technically mine in title, the majority of my belongings resided in that space. Namjoon didn’t mind much and Yoongi complained about everything under the sun, so I made myself comfortable there.

The hum of electricity powering the building and the whirr of the coffee maker spurring into action intensified as I closed my eyes, resting my head against the back of the sofa. I stared up at the ceiling with a vacant expression and tried to clear my thoughts for a bit.

A ceramic mug clinked against the surface of the coffee table in front of me. “Drink.” I lifted my head to take in the reassuring crinkle in Jin’s eyes. “You look like you’ll need all the energy you can get right now.”

I scoffed at his statement, the end of my own lips flitting upwards. “Just tell me I look like shit.”

Gratefully accepting the cup of coffee, the bitter taste on my tongue already started to rejuvenate my aching muscles. Jin was aware of my deep-seated aversion to the drink, but I guess my appearance revealed too much of the chaos inside my head. “I was going to, but I had a feeling you might just break down if I did.”

Although the work itself was tedious and relatively tiring on its own, the fact that all my efforts were going to fuel that wretched project made me feel rotten to the core. The knowledge sapped my stamina at an exponential rate that I wasn’t accustomed to.

“How’s baby Yeri doing?” I placed the pungent beverage back down, stroking my chin in faux deliberation. “Or I guess I should ask how Chaeyoung is holding up instead, huh?”

Jin let out a hum of aggravation around his own glass, swallowing the liquid before slapping his unoccupied hand against his thigh. “Don’t even get me started. Chaeyoung keeps telling me to take some time off work to come help, but honestly I would take the peace and quiet of the office over Yeri’s nasty diapers any day.” He shook his head at the thought, repulsed by the dealing with another one of Yeri’s accidents.

I’d heard the story one too many times not to let a giggle slip at his misfortune.

Abruptly, an alarming shriek disturbed the placidity. As my head shot up to identify the source, the sound was muffled, then silence resumed. I scrambled to discern who the perpetrator was when my gaze met Jin’s static form. “Did you hear that?” When his weary eyes met mine, appearing confused, I clarified, “that scream.”

“Oh, they probably just dropped something. Don’t worry too much about it.” But I couldn’t find a trace of compassion in his words, especially with how gut-wrenching the shout sounded. Rather than shock, every note was filled with agony and something felt vaguely off about the whole ordeal.

The look of guilt that Jin sported stopped me from prodding. I refused to believe the stubborn man who was always drowning in papers to complete, shoving fried chicken down his throat like there was no tomorrow, who had the sweetest daughter back at home knew anything about the experiment. Not what was really happening.

That’s why the regret and shame written all over his countenance made me pause.

More shuffling, whimpers and yelps filled my limbs with apprehension, seeping deep into my bones and making me restless. Jin kept his gaze trained on the floor, unable to look me in the eye as he excused each sound with the fault of a clumsy, irresponsible researcher and other rationalizations that I wasn’t sure he, himself, believed.

At this point, the raucous was becoming increasingly bestial and I couldn’t decipher the species that was belting out the miserable noises. I tried to grit my teeth and ignore them, distracting myself with Jin’s moronic cover-ups to keep me glued to my spot. Without a keycard, I had no access to the upstairs lab anyway, it was out of my hands for now.

When my thoughts strayed to Taemin though, I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach, recalling how I had been dragged away before I could stop Minzi from taking him. Suddenly, I lost the ability to think logically, fixated on Taemin’s well-being. I had to know if it was him.

Hastily, I jumped out of my seat, coffee long forgotten as I sprinted down the hall. Jin’s pounding footsteps followed after me, though I gave them no mind.

Once I reached the first floor, the sight of two unfamiliar men dressed in heavy gear greeted me. The bulkier of the two lifted the cage as if it were as light as a feather and I noticed how unusually clean it was. “No, you can’t take it upstairs!” I grabbed onto the bars, halting him in his tracks. “Where is he? Tell them to bring him back here!”

“Sorry, no can do miss,” he drawled out. “We were asked to—”

“I don’t care what you were asked to do! Tell them to bring him back!” He rolled his eyes at my accusatory tone and yanked the cage out of my grasp. As I reached out again in a frenzy, the other man blocked my path. The odds weren’t looking too great for me.

I saw Jin emerge from the staircase, following the ruckus I’d created. Relief flooded my veins as I sought his backup. “Jin, they want to take his cage.” Pursing my lips, I pointed to said object. “Could you tell them to leave it here?”

“No, Y/N. Get out of the way.” My breath hitched at Jin’s steely tone, locking onto his fatigued gaze. I tried to remind myself that he was oblivious to the horrors that they’d already inflicted upon Taemin, but the back of my eyes still burned at the betrayal I felt. “Come on, let them do their job.”

Though I refused to show how dismayed I’d become, I couldn’t bear the idea of Taemin residing upstairs, where they could inject anything without suspicion. “Please, Jin. Please. Believe me when I say that he won’t last a day up there.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, let’s go finish our coffee, hm?” I huffed out through my nostrils in frustration, wringing my fingers together as I debated whether or not to tell him the truth I discovered for myself not too long ago.

“Oh, my. What’s this? I believe I told you what would happen if you caused a commotion again, didn’t I?” Feeling defeated already, I didn’t even turn to meet Hyunho’s form as I heard him approach. “I’ll need you to get out of the way now, girly.”

“It’s Y/N.”

His fake grin put his crooked teeth on full display. “Yes, yes. Scurry along now.”

“No.” With a hardened resolve, I glared back at him. “Bring Taemin back. Let him stay on this floor.” Hesitant but desperate, I added a barely audible, “please.”

At my plea, he brightened up, utterly pleased with watching me grovel at his feet. “You should use that tone more often, newbie, it could really get you places.” The stealthy once-over of my chest didn’t go unnoticed by me and I wrapped the lab coat around me tighter. He pulled back a little, satisfied with my discomfort. "You didn’t hear? He died of natural causes, so we have to clean up this mess for the new tiger cub coming in. Don’t worry though, he’ll be staying on this floor when he gets here.”

I took a step back, skin stinging as if he’d slapped me across the face, feeling my blood run cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the bewilderment reflected on Jin’s features, as well as the sudden appearance of Namjoon and Yoongi, both looking as distressed as I felt.

When my breaths came in heavier and burning droplets rolled down my cheeks, I knew the dam had broken. “Don’t feed me that bullshit... You monsters.” I felt my bottom lip quiver as my voice cracked. “Killed him.”

One of Hyunho’s thick eyebrows raised in amusement at my shattered state. “Haven’t you been taught not to mess with fire, girly?” He crossed his arms after giving a flick of dismissal to the man still carrying the cage. “You could get burned.”

A pair of arms wrapped around my torso and dragged me away before I could wail anything out. Through the blurry mess of tears, I made out a discarded, mangled mouse toy by the corner.

tags: @aurorakingsley @bubbletae7 @iamunrecognized @bangtanloverrrrr @walkingdeadfan25

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook hybrid au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine

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harringtonheartache · 4 years

Text

Daybreak | Part Fifteen

Part Sixteen

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Part fifteen of this fic. Slow it down, what is going on here? Hopper needs to know.

Word Count: 2,300 +

Warning(s): Mild cussing

A/N: I’m not entirely fond of how I ended this chapter but I need to decide what direction I want the story to go in... Anyway, I hope you can forgive me and enjoy reading!

Stacked neatly, Mike’s VHS tapes sat on Steve’s coffee table centered in front of the living room couch. Next to them were Steve’s socked feet, also stacked on top of one another as his legs stretched out before him. The credits for Indiana Jones rolled down the TV screen, and Nine’s eyes trailed across the words. Steve stood from his spot next to her on the couch, and gave her a puzzled look when she shot him one first. “You’re not-” she started, but her eyes traveled back to the screen. “Are you actually reading the credits?” Steve said, amusement in his voice. She looked back to him, giving up on the fast-scrolling text. “I didn’t know what they were,” she told him.

A smile dragged slowly across Steve’s face as he progressed into light laughter. “You don’t have to read those, they aren’t part of the story,” he explained. Nine cracked a smile as well, a breath of air leaving her mouth between her curled lips as if she were relieved. “Oh”.

Steve crouched by the TV now, removing the tape from the player and finding its respective cover to put it away in. “So, what did you think?” he asked, turning his head to Nine as the tape snapped into place in the plastic case.

“I liked it, it was nice to focus on other people’s problems for a while,” she said, and he laughed again. “Agreed”.

About to engage in further discussion of the plot, Nine sat up and parted her lips to speak. Beating her to action, a chime rang through the house as someone outside pressed the doorbell. A recurring situation that had grown less scary and more irritating. Steve sighed as he stood up and looked to Nine with an apologetic expression, as if it were him outside ringing to be let in.

It was Hopper. Chief of police returned to the Harrington residence as he said he would. The site of an authority at his door was inherently startling to Steve, but he let him inside as he thought over how long ago it was Hopper had been in his home, eyeing the empty space and scolding him to put an ice pack on his face. He realized now that he never did.

Nine sat in the same seat she had occupied before, but this time her posture was stiff. She had first crossed her legs, one on top of the other, but moved to undo this after a minute. Her fingertips squeezed at folds in the fabric of her borrowed sweatpants, and she wished her injured arm hadn’t left her unable to borrow a shirt with long sleeves as well. So she substituted one jittery act for another. Beside Nine to her right, Steve was close; turned towards her slightly and hunched over just a little as if he were going to whisper to her a secret. Maybe he’d give her all the answers to the questions she would be asked.

Hopper sat across from the two like a marriage counselor for a young couple. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees as if to get down to Nine’s level, to seem less dominating. She still wanted to back up, despite the intention.

“I don’t want to unsettle you, I just have to understand”. He started off with a half-apology after reading her body language, but continued on even when his sentence didn’t seem to make a dent in her demeanor. “I need to know more about where you came from — the lab”. He said the last two words as if he were reading them from a list, although looked straight ahead, trying to steal a moment of eye contact, even if it were accidental on Nine’s part. She only looked down, counting how long she could stand to hold her fingernail sharply against the pad of her thumb before ceasing the pain and taking the pressure away to watch the indent she had made in her skin fade.

“Do we really have to do this?” Steve interrupted an interview that had hardly begun, opposing it with one question.

“Yes, Steve, we do”. Hopper’s tone was more harsh when speaking to the boy. “Be grateful that I didn’t make her come into the station. I am going beyond off-road in terms of formalities,” he scolded. “I have a lot on my plate here, I just need to ask a few questions for now and the rest can be sorted out later”.

Nine looked up, but only to catch a look at Steve’s face. He was sighing through his nose, biting into his lower lip and looking off to his right as he halfway rolled his eyes. His head swiveled back to face forward, then he peaked at Nine with large eyes.

“How did you first end up there?” Hopper asked. Nine squinted, almost offended he hadn’t caught up on the basics of the story. She looked up to study the sheriff’s face for a moment, seeing only genuine curiosity on his features. She looked him straight in the eye as she responded. “I was born there”. Her tone was blunt, angry words leaving her mouth like weaponry.

Hopper’s brows twitched, unexpectant of her harsh delivery or the answer itself. He sat back against his chair and opened his mouth to retaliate with another question. “Are there others, then?” he said simply, prettying his tone as if to ask nicely.

“Other what? Kids?” Nine returned with another question, although she had understood his without the need for specification. He only nodded. “Yeah, there are others. I’m only number nine,” she said.

Steve’s eyes were stuck on her as she spoke, a look of unease on his face. He appeared more concerned than Nine did at this point, but her twitching fingers reminded her of her anxiety. Another crescent-shaped impression faded slowly from her skin.

Hopper’s next question was thick. “What did they do to you?”

Now Nine sighed, eyes traveling back to her lap for a moment as if recharging. “A lot. Ran tests — different things that evaluate and challenge our abilities.” She knew her response would set her up for a plethora of further questions, trying to keep it short in an attempt to fend off this inevitability. The look of confusion wasn’t wavering from Hopper’s expression, and she watched him gear up to ask another question.

“Abilities? What does that mean?”

Next to Nine, Steve shifted, his own two hands wringing together as if he had been asked the question himself. She glanced at him, then continued. “Specifically? Telekinesis, mostly.” She left out details of her other capabilities, leaving Hopper with a summary she’d hope would satisfy him.

“Okay, come on… what?” He wasn’t satisfied.

Nine’s voice was smaller this time, as if to make up for the increased tension in Hopper’s delivery. “I’d show you-” Steve cut her off, finally getting another word in. “No! You passed out at the lab because you over-exerted yourself. You’re still recovering, you can’t use your powers”. He didn’t even look at Hopper, acting as if he weren’t there at all. He searched Nine’s eyes, his own wavering back and forth in his attempt to read her expression. Hopper spoke again and the two broke their intense eye-contact. “Let’s just - calm down”. He sensed that he was losing both of those in front of him to the swelling unease of the room. Sitting up straight in his chair, he exhaled in demonstration.

He dropped the subject, mentally scribbling the words telekinetic abilities with a question mark after them in his mind. “How did you escape? It’s a pretty secure building from my personal experience,” Hopper huffed, leaning back as cigarette-scented air left his mouth.

Nine looked up this time, searching for an answer on the ceiling between cracks in the plaster. The sound of the Hawkins' Lab security alarm played in her head, uninvited and accompanied by vibrant visuals of running underneath it’s red light. “Something went wrong that night,” she started. “I-” she altered her speech, abandoning words that painted her responsible. “They reached the upside-down. Something from inside escaped, and I took advantage of the distraction.”

She watched Hopper’s face as he processed her summary of events, then stole a glance at Steve like a child who was desperate for their parents to believe a poor excuse. Hopper moved along — the specifics of her getaway weren’t important to him right now anyway. What stood taller than Nine’s breakout was the something that escaped from somewhere he didn’t know of. “The upside down? What is that? That a place?” His tone was becoming more ragged, the unconventionality of this interview getting to him. He was used to routine, if anything boring work: a group of teenagers caught stealing candy from Mrs. Alexander’s corner store, a stale argument turned violent between two men at a local bar - things expected from a small town. This past week had introduced Hop to first-ever’s. First ever missing child case. First ever superhuman lab experiment escapee.

Steve opened his mouth, shut it immediately. This felt invasive. This had been a secret between three, and this fourth member of the club brought doubtful glares and true consequence. He hadn’t known what he had expected, (Nine to spend the rest of her life hiding in his bedroom as his personal little secret?) but with the town’s sheriff sitting across from him in his own home, his reality felt menacing. Something about it seemed punishable.

“There is a gate, like a passageway. It leads to the upside down, this place that- that’s like another dimension beyond our own,” Nine spoke. “A flip-side.” Hopper looked defeated, and felt his pants pocket to make sure his pack of cigarettes still laid underneath the fabric. It did, but he didn’t take them out.

“There isn’t much else. We filled you in. Can we be done?” Steve phrased his question as if he were a kid wishing to be excused from dinner with his parents. A bit of expectancy in his voice; confidence he hoped would end the ‘check-in’ turned interview sooner.

“No, no, no,” Hopper spoke aggressively again as he shifted back to conversation with Steve. “You did not fill me in on anything, she did.” Credit where credit was due. “There is still a lot I don’t know about Hawkins’ lab, and if I have more questions,” he spoke with passive-aggressive simplicity, like letters typed out in bold, “I will ask them”.

Nine didn’t like his deserving attitude; it was flashy and ugly, although fitting of the uniform. “I’m done,” she spoke with Steve’s confidence.

Hopper looked back to her, unhidden shock on his face as he had not considered his head-butting with Steve a true threat until now. He looked over the bruised girl in front of him, and sighed into his hands as he reevaluated the situation. Bringing his head back up, he spoke with a more controlled tone. “Okay, look. I am sorry.” His mustache twitched as he tried to find the words. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice, I'm just… confused.”

Silence draped over the room as Nine contemplated forgiveness. “I just have a few more questions, please.” Hopper added. As much as he wanted to butt in, Steve stayed quiet and let Nine decide if she would hear the sheriff’s finalizing questions. She looked at the man with an unchanging look on her face, one close to anger. She only nodded though, signaling him to continue despite her facial expression that had already convinced him the answer was ‘no’. He raised his eyebrows, almost in awe at her permission, then mentally stumbled over what it was he had intended to ask next. “Something escaped. What the hell was it?”

Now it was Steve with violent visuals flashing in his mind. His ankle stung in remembrance.

“I don’t know, some kind of creature. It’s big. It stands on two legs and towers over any human it encounters. It has no face, just a huge mouth with sharp teeth. Claws, too,” Nine said. Next to her, Steve wondered how she had such a clean mental picture of the ‘creature’. His own was scribbled and dark, an outcome of that night in the woods.

“Okay…” Hopper was at a loss, flipping through an index of his personal experiences in his mind to try and find something to compare this to. “A creature with no face...” Hopper breathed out. Nine only nodded in response, and he looked to Steve as if he could verify the information. The teenager nodded his head slowly, his lips pressed together. An ‘I know, but it’s true,’ look.

Hopper turned a page over in his mental notebook. “Uhm,” he started, his question lodging in his throat. He looked at the floor as he tried to loosen it. “One more thing,” he started. “I was told that you may have information on Will Byers. Is this true?” He regained his confidence, finding the natural groove of his speaking voice. Steve felt a surge of dread, air filling space deep in his chest as he inhaled. He wished that information hadn’t been used to barter for Hopper’s help. The visual of Nine sitting in a room painted a stark white — a setting his mind borrowed from Hawkins’ Lab, he realized — being pricked at and questioned, tested and retested under the idea that she would be useful to the investigation. Authorities from Hawkins’ own police station standing over her as she was returned to a place similar to the one she had escaped; a room filled with people who wanted to use her for her powers.

Nine answered truthfully, and Steve chewed at his tongue. Hopper stayed silent for a moment, as if he weren’t expecting something he was already told to be true when he repeated it himself. “What do you know?”

Her voice was softest when answering this question above all asked previously, words spoken slowly like they’d run off it delivered too eagerly. “I know where he is”.

---

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#steve harrington #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #jim hopper #steve harrington series #st #ST fic #ST fanfic

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gypsydanger01 · 4 years

Text

THE STORM - Part four

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x Reader

A/N: Hey guys, so this is part four! I’ve planned the whole series out, and it’ll be around twenty to twenty five parts long! It’ll be quite the ride!

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

Posting new chapters every Wednesday and Friday!

Dangerous games

The frazzled woman swung her cupboard open and reached for the wine glasses she had neatly tucked away for good occasions. Now, this was no celebration, but she was in desperate need of a glass of wine. Anything to calm her nerves, really.

She looked over at the big shadow in her living room. He stood straight as a rod, and she wondered what it would take for that composure to crack and show the nightmare beneath. His eyes traced the photos hanging across the wall. Most were taken while traveling, small memories and pieces of her framed and cherished. They always reminded her of the cities and rolling landscapes she’d seen. All the places she’d been, and what she’d learned from each one.

She cleared her throat. “You can sit,” she motioned towards the couch. He looked towards her, always contemplating her words before finally sitting down on the dark blue cushioning.

She moved over and sat on the plush chair a few feet away from him. The young woman thought it was an adequate distance, one that was cautious and would allow her a few seconds to get up and out of the room. It was still hard for her to wrap her head around it: Black Noir was in her house.

He watched her cross one leg over the other and pour the wine.

He wouldn’t take his glass, and she raised one eyebrow.

“Do you not like wine?”

He nodded his head. When she looked over at him, she could feel him peer into her soul, a gaze intense and maybe insane. Like a black skull charred by an explosion, his head piece was frightening and intriguing at the same time. She wondered about the man beneath and how many different methods he could use to finish her.

“This won’t do, give me a second,” she told him as she slipped out of her chair. She tried to ignore the shivers running down her spine as she turned her back to him and briefly left the room. She returned with a small black notebook and a pen.

“There. Do you want me to get you anything else?”

He simply watched her, sitting stiff on the couch, his big hands resting on his thighs. Finally, he moved his gaze to the notebook she’d left on the coffee table in front of him. She reminded him of a scared rabbit, her heart thumping fast, her eye watchful of his every move. And yet, she wasn’t succumbing to her fear. If he were a regular person, he wouldn’t notice her state of alert, or the uneasy look in her eyes. His thoughts went back to the small dagger she had pulled from her dress. Who needed to be so prepared for danger they’d hide a knife in their evening dress? Was she in trouble? Was someone hurting her? That couldn’t be the case with him watching over her nearly every minute of every day.

He chose to answer concisely. Mask

Her eyes skimmed the page, and she nodded, her cheeks turning a slight shade of crimson. Still, it would have been lost on a regular person. She would seem perfectly composed and at ease in front of anyone but him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think that through,” she explained

He nodded.

Cautious, she questioned, “Do you ever take it off in public?”

He tilted his head at her. Did she want him to? No

“Only at your place in the Tower?”

Yes

“That must be lonely,” she drew out. The woman focused on the liquid in her glass, letting it swirl from side to side. She lifted her eyes only when she heard a slight scribble on paper.

Yes

He sat back and stared at the paper lying in front of him, the heavy confession he’d left on its surface.

She looked at him in a slightly new light. Even though she stayed alert, she was beginning to paint a new picture of the dark form in her living room. Under all the black clothing, armor and tactical gear, he’s still a man, isn’t he? Was he here out of loneliness? Was he seeking companionship? If he trusted her, her job would become much easier.

She sighed, and the small action had him lift his eyes to hers, trying to discern her feelings towards him. He could sit still anywhere for hours; he’d had plenty of practice. But under her gaze, he felt restless, he felt out in the open. He had learned to thrive in the shadows, in hiding, and now he was exposed.

“You’ve been following me and leaving me these gifts, yes?” she questioned off.

He simply nodded.

She took a sip of her drink and placed it on the coffee table. Folding her arms over her chest she leaned back into the chair.

“Why?”

Black Noir sat still, calculating. How could he have her understand? The attachment he’d developed towards her wasn’t easy to grasp or communicate. And he wouldn’t speak. Her body language superficially communicated ease, but he knew better. He could almost see the thoughts run through her head. She’d leaned back into the couch on purpose. It was a strategy that let him think she’d let her guard down. Now, he wasn’t sure if she was just trying to derail him and keep up a façade of strength, or if it was meant to get him to open up to her. Either way, he didn’t question it.

Slowly, he wrote it out as simply as he could. You are like life, and under it, Light

She let her eyes skim the words multiple times before looking up. Oh, how wrong he was. She was a bomb waiting to explode, destruction looming on the horizon. She was not life, but more akin to death.

He waited for it to sink in. He wanted to just say it all, explain it away. But he waited, locked in his cage of silence.

The young woman was beyond bewildered. Did he actually like her? Why would he go through all of this, when he could easily torture the information out of her? It sounded childish to think, even more to voice out loud, but maybe he really was a secret admirer.

She went straight to the point. “So, you know everything about me?”

He tilted his head to the side, a gesture she was quickly becoming accustomed to.

Almost

She buried her face in her hands and rubbed her temples. She glanced up when she caught him adding a few words.

I want to know you

They were five simple words, and yet she felt they were charged with something more, a deeper meaning. She found herself thinking of all the ways he could kill her less and less.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as she processed it all.

Finally, she spoke. “Okay... okay, okay.”

She ran her fingers through her curls. What the fuck is going on, she thought over and over.

“All right, that’s fine, we can get to know each other,” she spoke tentatively. "Just give me some time to process this."

He gazed at her, straightening his form and nodding in understanding.

“Hmm, are you free to come over tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

When he affirmed with his usual nod, she picked their glasses up and took them into the kitchen. Concealed by a separating wall, she swiftly drained his untouched glass as well.

“So, what’s your name?”

She returned to the living room with a series of planned out questions, only to find it empty. The large man had vanished.

“Are you here?” When she was met with silence, she let herself walk forward and slump across the couch.

Only the notebook on the table served as proof of their encounter. She reached for it and realized he’d added a smiley face before leaving. Pressing the heel of her hands into her eye sockets, she wondered how this would turn out. Would this work, or was she running down a dark and dangerous path?

She swiftly went and locked her doors. The pristine, tiny gift box Black Noir had left for her was still sitting on the front door counter. Grabbing it as well as the oriental lilies he’d collected for her, she retired to her bedroom.

A storm had since brewed outside, thunder cracking off in the distance. And she too felt electric, blood rushing through her veins.

She stayed awake all night.

In the meanwhile, the man she was thinking about was crouched on her roof, listening to her now steady heartbeat. He always stayed until she fell asleep. Once her breathing had deepened and evened out, he usually took his leave.

He could hardly concentrate on anything other than the young woman who’d taken a chance on him. His thoughts were clouded, and his blood was rushing. Jaw closed tight, he was consumed by their plans for the following night. He hadn’t wanted to leave when he did, but he knew it was for the best.

Being showered in her attention had been intoxicating, like a shot of heroin.

He inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to reign in the turmoil building inside. Under the torrent rain, he felt the clash of thunder and bursts of lightening rattle inside his chest. He felt unbreakable.

She was a secret, a mystery he’d slowly unravel. She was so much more than what he knew about her, and this intrigued him. The way she’d reacted was a flag, a signal telling him that there was something else to the pure energy he’d found himself associating her with.

Energy flowed through his body, and he knew he needed to channel it and defuse it. He needed a target, a mission, anything to focus his mind. He raked through the night’s events, and immediately found what he was looking for. The man who hurt her and stopped her from going to the Broadway show.

He conjured up a clear image of his face and his whole body bristled with uncontrollable anger. Jason, he mused. Yes, Jason would do

That night, Black Noir would spend the hours hunting.

PART 5 PART 6

Giulia

#the boys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #black noir #oc story #black noir x reader #romance #stalker #fanfiction

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moviemunchies · 3 years

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Lincoln is a darn good movie, so this review will probably be short because I barely have anything else to say.

The second he heard that there was going to be a book about Lincoln and politics, Steven Spielberg wanted the film rights. The movie sat in Development Hell for quite some time, with more than one rewrite, bunches of research, and originally was going to star Liam Neeson in the title role; he dropped out during development (different sources cite different reasons). Daniel Day-Lewis came on board, given the condition that he have one year to prepare for the role.

There was talk of a while of having the movie cover all of Abraham Lincoln’s life. This was deemed a bit too broad for a movie, so instead Tony Kushner composed the script to focus on a few months of his life--and even that was cut back a bit to give it more focus.

And so we get Lincoln, a movie about the passing of the Thirteenth Amendment and Abraham Lincoln’s role in it. I was very much surprised that I liked this film as much as I did; I was afraid that I’d sit in the theater being bored to tears watching two and half hours of people talking politics. Politics is not a subject I tend to find that interesting, and I’ll admit I tend to lean towards action movies rather than character studies, biopics, or political dramas.

But I did not find myself bored. Lincoln is a film that is, at once intensely moving, captivatingly clever, and surprisingly amusing. History comes to life in a drama that grabs you and invests you in the unfolding story on screen. You know what happens in the end, I imagine--I should hope, or else have a very long talk with your elementary school officials--but the movie is still suspenseful. You still care almost as much as the figures on screen about passing this bill.

[Standard spiel here about how the movie isn’t perfectly historically accurate, and someone hates the movie for that and that person can go suck a brick.]

The movie has a message, and that is: sometimes you have to compromise in order to do the right thing. The right thing in this case being ending slavery in the United States, and many of the political players have to do or say something they don’t like or goes against what they feel is right in order to achieve that one goal. And it’s a very good goal! But in order to make that palatable to a group of powerful white politicians that are, let’s face it, very racist, even if they do want to end slavery, sometimes the people pushing for that goal are going to make comments or deals that aren’t so savory. No, Lincoln doesn’t ever go into something insanely immoral, but a large subplot involves trying to buy votes off representatives by offering them new jobs. That wasn’t illegal at the time, but by today’s standards it seems very sketch. And that’s hardly the only morally ambiguous action Lincoln sanctions to do what must be done.

In reviewing this film, I cannot talk about every cast member. I cannot even talk about every outstanding cast member. This film has such a huge and talented cast that to give all of them their due, we’d be here for quite a while and I’m sorry, I have a day job. Instead, I’m just going to hit the highlights and hope that’s enough.

Daniel Day-Lewis’s Lincoln is both larger than life and intensely human; a man captivating to watch as an audience member, inspiring to the common man. But he’s also the kind of man that’s intensely frustrating to work with, especially in politics. When one of this staff members hears him about to start a story and rushes out of the room, declaring that he can’t take another one of his stories--yeah, I get it. I don’t identify because I like hearing Lincoln’s stories, but I understand that someone who has to work with him every day might be tired of it. And he only barely agrees to compromise, and even when that happens it throws everyone else off so much that they hate that too.

But he is, at his core, a man trying to do the right thing: for his family, for his country, and for his people. And sometimes that hurts him. And it’s a testament to Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance that we feel it too.

Also bringing her A-game is Sally Field as Mary Todd Lincoln. Mary Lincoln is sometimes written off as being crazy, and let’s be clear, her mental health isn’t the most stable during the events of this film. Being the wife of not just the President of the United States, but _this_ President of the United States, cannot be easy, especially during one of the most stress parts of their lives. She worries about her husband, she worries about her sons (one of whom has already died, another of which wants to go to war), and about a country that seems determined to not get their shiz together.

Mrs. Lincoln can be difficult sometimes, but you know exactly why and you can’t blame her for it.

And also as a notable Lincoln is Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Robert Lincoln, Abraham and Mary’s oldest son. There is a simplicity and innocence to him that most of the other characters have, given that he really wants to join the war effort to be able to say he did _something_ concrete in the conflict. Out of the characters I mention here, his arc is maybe the most shallow/predictable, but that’s because everyone else is so outstanding. Gordon-Levitt’s performance is very good, though I do not think there is much to surprise audience members in it.

One of the biggest joys of this movie is watching Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens. He’s clearly having a ball--an elderly, curmudgeonly Representative who takes no crap from no one in the cause he’s taken up.

I like David Strathairn, so I was happy to see him in this film as William H. Seward, Lincoln’s Secretary of State. He’s depicted as Lincoln’s right-hand man--a role that I don’t know matched up to his historical personality and job (after all, I don’t think that helping pass a Constitutional Amendment was ever within the jurisdiction of the State Department). He is the one trying to be as practical as possible, despite Lincoln’s attempts to keep this business as honest as possible. He suggests at the beginning even holding off on passing the Amendment until after the war is over, but falls in line when Lincoln explains why he wants it done. His performance as a frustrated but very politically-savvy (if rather cynical) player is a perfect contrast to Lincoln.

I don’t know if I can recommend this movie enough--it’s a spectacular effort to tell the story of man in a crucial moment of both his life and the nation’s history. This very easily could have been a half-hearted attempt at drama that tried to get by on the name recognition of its subject matter and cast alone, and yet it’s one of the greatest historical dramas I’ve had the pleasure of seeing. It’s one of the greatest of Spielberg’s films, and a worthy addition to any film collection.

#Lincoln #Movie Munchies #Steven Spielberg #Daniel Day Lewis #Abraham Lincoln

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sunnytumbies · 4 years

Note

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that!

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

___________________________________________________________

Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest.

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home.

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven.

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow.

Cal is not having a good day.

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach.

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through.

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much.

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits.

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans.

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles.

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone.

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay?

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day.

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything.

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course.

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it.

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears.

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?”

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it.

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.”

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot.

Some time later, Quincy comes for him.

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach.

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?”

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

“Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

“No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him.

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.”

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely.

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom.

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.”

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard.

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea. “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.”

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.”

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.”

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him.

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea.

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?”

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache.

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.”

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?”

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

#tiny-tum #perhaps it's for the better since i s2g that entire 500 words was the first sequence describing what amy baked but #i think they were like. better words!#i digress this is what we've got #Amy #Cal #Quincy #stuffing #stress eating #stress baking #belly rubs #dysphoria #side fic #answered #i think the reason im so unhappy with this is that i want quincy to be somewhat mysterious until the major fics are released but also i just #cant imagine anyone being super invested until they know more about these ppl #which is fair #but...yeah! hope ppl enjoy!#why am i so anxious about this

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hazel-salmon · 3 years

Text

after dark

What turn ons/kinks/fetishes does your muse have?

Almost anything that gives her the upperhand, but face-sitting is easily at the top of her list. Once she got over the initial fear of potentially suffocating him, it became one of her absolute favorite things to do. A queen needs her throne after all.

What turns your muse off?

Degredation. Hazel can understand the appeal, but it’s just not for her. She’d much rather hear compliments and praise during sex than to have insults constantly hurled at her.

What was their first kiss like?

Hazel spent years imagining what her first kiss would be like and who she would share it with, but the end result was one she had never planned for. As she and Adonis grew closer, the dreamy bubble she had spent so much time living in finally popped and reality took its place. Hazel confided in Scout about her fears of being an inadequate kisser, and in return, she offered more than just advice. A couple of innocent pecks quickly turned into Hazel pinning Scout to the bed and climbing on top of her. It took them both by surprise, but it hardly stopped their “practice”.

What was their first time like?

Nerve-wracking. Pain was the least of her worries throughout the experience. Instead, she silently fixated on what her body looked like and whether or not Adonis was having a good time. She eventually learned how to separate herself from those feelings and actually enjoy sex, but she’s thankful for his patience.

What does your muse fantasize about?

For a while, Hazel didn’t have much to work on. She would fantasize about the idea of having sex and what it would be like, but she only ever had her imagination and a little bit of porn to rely on...until Adonis and sometimes Scout, that is.

After losing her virginity, she dreamt up all kinds of scenarios. Quickies before her parents got home, sex in his car, shower sex, cutting class to fool around...the possibilities were suddenly endless, and she made it her new mission to start ticking off the boxes.

Are they dominant in bed?

In a surprising turn of events, yes. Hazel is almost a complete opposite version of herself in the bedroom. Her day to day life often makes her feel small and insignificant, but she makes up for that lack of control during sex. She still enjoys when Adonis takes charge, of course, but nothing gets her off quicker than feeling powerful.

Do they initiate sex?

Yes. Not as often in the beginning of their relationship, but it becomes more of an equal playing field over time. Her insecurities hold her back for a while, but that doesn’t last long with Adonis as her partner.

How often are they having sex with their partner? (1 as never touching themselves or others and 10 being humping on the couch right now)

While Hazel may be more of a romantic at heart, she still considers sex to be an important part of relationships. She’s very attracted to Adonis and craves sex regularly, so I’d give them a 7 or 8.

How kinky are they? (1 being vanilla with the lights off and 10 meaning they have a sex dungeon in their basement)

She might not be brandishing any chains and whips, but Hazel still sits at about a 6 or 7. She can be pretty commanding and feisty in the bedroom and keeps a very open mind about sex. She’s always eager to hear suggestions and enjoys surprising Adonis with a new position or outfit.

Do they fuck, have sex, or make love?

They regularly have sex, and she enjoys slow, passionate love making every now and then, but when Hazel is at her most confident, she absolutely fucks him. Those are secretly some of her favorite times.

Which time was the best according to your muse?

Their first Halloween together. Her nurse costume had taken more of an effect on him than Hazel had intended, and it lit a fire under her ass. She quickly settled into her role for the night, until she could finally slip away to “treat her patient”. Roleplay became a much bigger part of their sex life after that night.

Which time was the worst according to your muse?

Her first time. Adonis did what he could to make her feel as comfortable as possible, but it was still difficult to get out of her head. However, it was comforting to find out later that most first times are awkward and never what movies and TV make them out to be.

What’s something your muse wants but is too afraid/embarrassed to ask for?

Hazel has been interested in tying Adonis up for quite some time, but she’s not sure if he’d be up for that level of restraint. It’s not that she’s afraid to ask, she just hasn’t found the right moment to bring it up.

Is your muse satisfied with their partner?

Absolutely!

If they could change one thing about their sexual relationship or partner, what would it be?

Hazel is more than happy with their sexual relationship just the way it is, but she certainly wouldn’t object if he wanted to explore some kinkier things, like blindfolds and cuffs.

What would they say to describe their last sexual encounter?

Hazel doesn’t kiss and tell, but her bedroom walls are thin enough to tell the whole story. Sorry Nadia.

Do they masturbate?

Yes. Hazel was gifted with an active imagination, and she eventually found new ways of putting it to use as a teenager. Once she started having sex, she could recall memories quite vividly, making her “alone time” that much more intense.

What’s something that never fails to make them horny?

Having her neck and chest kissed. Hazel had no clue that part of her body was so sensitive until it it was already happening for the first time. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped, and her body reacted involuntarily. She assumed it was just a new feeling and that she would get used to it with time, but even now, she can barely control herself whenever she’s being kissed there.

Something they’re ashamed of doing in the bedroom?

She’s slowly developed a better relationship with her body over time, but for a while, it was the thing that brought her the most shame. Hazel had always believed that every shape, size, and color was beautiful, but those rules ceased to apply whenever she looked in the mirror. That mindset frequently forced her to hold back during intimate moments, and it wasn’t until Adonis finally called her out on it that she buckled down and began working on her confidence and building a healthier connection with herself.

Do they sext their partner?

For sure. Nadia has taught her a thing or two over the years about angles, and it would be a waste not to put that training to good use.

Would they ever consider a threesome/group sex?

Probably not. The idea of Adonis being with another woman, even in a context where Hazel would also be involved, doesn’t sit well with her. She’s not a possessive partner, but she’s a firm believer in monogamy. If she wanted multiple partners, she would just stay single.

Would they ever let anyone watch them pleasure themselves or their partner?

Outside of a couple distant universes, probably not. Being intimate also means being vulnerable, and Hazel isn’t willing to share that side of herself with just anyone. She wants Adonis’ attention, and his attention only.

Are they willing to use toys? Do they own any?

After a girls’ trip to a sex shop, Hazel bought something small for herself to try, but she ultimately prefers the “acoustic” method.

Has anyone ever walked in on them during an intimate moment? How did they respond to being interrupted?

No, and thank GOD. Both of their parents have busy work lives, so they often have the house to themselves...though there was that one time Sweet Honey walked in on them getting a little handsy in his living room. She and Adonis were totally cool about it, but Hazel is still mortified to this day.

Has their partner ever walked in on them pleasuring themself?

She considers masturbation to be a pretty private act and would probably be horrified if anyone walked in on her while doing it. However, if it was something Adonis wanted to see, she could consider making an exception...

Favorite position?

Cowgirl. Between lack of experience and knowing there was no way to hide her body in that position, it took a little time for her to muster up the courage to get on top. But once Hazel tried it, there was no looking back.

Favorite act to perform?

Any kind of teasing. It’s another way for her to take control, and watching him get riled up to the point of almost begging turns Hazel on more than she’d like to admit.

Something they’re embarrassed to admit they like?

She and Adonis agreed pretty early on that they’d always make an effort to be open with one another, especially when it came to intimacy and boundaries. Hazel has genuinely worked to keep that promise, so she doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed to talk with him about her desires anymore. However, talking with friends about sex is still something she hasn’t fully warmed up to. If the conversation is brought up, Hazel will engage, but she’s still pretty private about her kinks.

How would a porn video of your muse be titled?

Sadly, probably some gross, race-bait-y title. She’d dominate the Latina category.

Outdoor sex, yay or nay?

Hazel isn’t crazy about it, but growing up by the ocean her entire life has always made her curious about beach sex.

If they had to pick someone other than their endgame to have sex with, who would it be?

Scout. Hazel has always found her attractive, and their night together was definitely an awakening of sorts for her. Since then, there’s always been a hint of tension between them. While single, I’m sure they have plenty more of those “sleepovers”. Keeping it as their little secret only makes it ten times hotter, too.

Be honest: have they ever fooled around at someone else’s house?

Absolutely. Nadia has taken advantage of their home, so Hazel is simply returning the favor.

Would they consider pegging/getting pegged?

She’s likely considered it for the dominant aspect alone, but Hazel isn’t dying to try it. She doubts Adonis would enjoy it anyways, so it’s a subject that’s been left untouched.

#hc #sorry this took thirty years #this is one of my first times exploring her sexually and it was a trip #welcome to the dark side hazel

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