#please let this level of delusion fall upon me
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Tumblr sorta needs a 'Mute' feature in my opinion. Like what if I don't want to block this user, what if I don't want to become enemies and in some days I'd like to interact. But also most of the time seeing how they avidly encourage everyone else whereas I get the passive-aggressive 'oh yeah very uhh... interesting... (please leave me alone I don't like your art lol)' makes me want to unfollow every single fan of these characters and never draw them again.
I remember two years ago the exact same thing happened when someone liked the same character and the same ship and I swear I was the only person in the fandom they bluntly left out and could not spare a single good word for. I can't even blame this on my art being "ugly" because this type of user always aggressively praises all art styles and all levels of skill, it feels more like 'a personal thing except we never fought a single time'. And now my toxic trait of needing approval from [cool person name] is back to haunt me years later! Add the unability to "abandon" this character/ship/whatever despite wanting to after facing so much unspoken passive spite, because I am a contrarian and the best way to trap me into doing something is to try to exclude me from it. I didn't face attempts to very aggressively bully me out of the yard/class/community/etc, sometimes with physical violence included, only to let something mid like passive aggression online finally do it.
I am really stupid and naive person despite my age, but in like 5% of the cases I will still understand the hint and understand what is going on. Yet I have to pretend to be clueless even in rare situations when I know someone hates me, because since they never admitted it, quitting will be perceived as me being "paranoid". But dear goooood, it hurts sometimes. I hope that one day I will be numbed to being treated as a tumor on an otherwise healthy body of society that someone is dying to amputate- and always a person whose approval I want, of all people. Knowing that this day will come is one of the things that keep me going as both a person and a creator. Things like viruses and diseases still try their best to persist, so even if I am actually one, I should persist. It doesn't matter whether I actually rot everything around me or this is just my self-depreciating delusion upon focusing on people that mistreated me and not people that loved me. What matters is persisting, I just still feel angry that it hurts. I can't respond spite with spite or passive aggression with passive aggression, I can't do the 'smug asshole' when I become aware that someone tries to starve me until I "die". I can just fall over and cry about it like a kicked dog, despite being so old, especially when it is a person I didn't have anything against.
And really.. It is as simple as turning the internet off, so I don't see The Person and can focus on doing stuff that I like, as if they never existed and can't crash my self-esteem. It is just annoying to keep doing this, a feature to not see them unless I am in the mood would be better. Like.. blocking is not an option. Not only it implies being enemies which is not my intention, but also it will be like an "evidence" that I was "crazy". They didn't do anything, right? Well, they know what they did, but it was never verbal, so it is my fault I "imagined things", right?
#/vent#/negative#/HEAVILY negative#fandomry rambles#like I started crying typing this do not read it unless you already know#it is just stupid how I don't even need any sort of drama to *just* annoy people to THIS severe point#like I said even before everything there was a very similar situation#I just evoke some primal hatred in specific type of people#it is probably what happened with maasanox but they apologized and moreover felt bad vibes from the stalker bully idiot#it is more like that meme from Lilo and Stitch#'ah yeah all artists and other creative fans deserve knowing they are liked and talented and supported...'#*katya walks in* 'EXCEPT THAT ONE!!!!!!!'#the punchline is that the two years ago guy and todays guy are fans of the same character#I swear the fictional bastard has abnormal ability to reveal the ugliest truths and bring out the worst in people#like the last time someone kinned the twink every single person here showed their true face and that was painful#not a single person got spared of showing what they were made of and me lacking spine was the LEAST of the sins brought up for judgement#you see this is why truth hurts. because people are terrible. truth is always ugly because WE are always ugly#I kinda love him for that but seriously can he stop making the worst things surface for FIVE minutes lol#in my excuse I am TRYING to kill my 'inner child' because these problems are too stupid but it seems impossible#I am a kicked dog with rabies in the past today and always
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Only sin can feel so holy.
Author’s note: this is the first time i’m sharing my writings online, and its a rather dark start i suppose. Not proofread, i wrote this at like 2 am, this is based on a few OC’s.
English isn’t my first language, please excuse any writing errors.
THIS POST INCLUDES DARK CONTENT, IT IS NOT MEANT TO GLORIFY/GLAMORIZE ANY OF THESE DARK TOPICS!
Trigger Warnings: Abuse, manipulation, masochism, suggestive content, [implied] delusions, [implied] drug usage, [implied] self harm, mentions of cuts, [implied]religion based trauma, power abuse, religious abuse, mention of gods.
A world of sin we live in, yet we believe saints to be saviors.
But in a world of sin; sinners and saints aren’t that different. The cruel gods above look at the earthlings in pity, yet never sorrow. The stars gaze at the angels as they cry their tears over humanity, and sinners groan at the pathetic and miserable connection between these two sides of a coin, connected by a physical bound we call the earth.
A particular saint watches the world of sin; between humanity, gods, and those titled saints. The demons never had business with the brawn of the holy, yet humans begged for their sins to be washed away in a forgotten sea in order to maybe even come close to touching heaven in a dream.
‘Save us, dear lord, hear our pleas! we beg of you to eliminate our records, the pearly gates are reserved for your most loyal subjects, no?
please, o great god, a single smile of yours would give us infinite joy, may you let our faults go unnoticed?’
She laughed.
Each time their pathetic pleas came up to her level, a thousand whispers filling the crowd of her mind, she laughed at how miserable they sounded.
she; one whom made those who lacked ambition drown in a sea of ashes that come from fires which have not yet been lit.
she; the one whom burnt tears of the beggars just to see them light their last cigars on.
and she; the one who’s throne was made of sorrow and weep coming from those at the core of earth.
Gods were cruel. The heavens didn’t accept those whom were filled with anything but sorrow. a cage; prison for those who wished to escape thoughts of saints. there was no home of holy nor sin; heaven and hell did not hold their respective elements. You cannot expect perfection from a universe with no literate god.
God existed, but never as reality. She was minds, she existed merely as concept, and what more could humanity ever ask for? they got their delusional sense of protection, and heaven and hell existed in the end, so whom would care what decided where you’d end up?
Who ever told you that stars would be kind to the skies, or that the sun had to be balanced with the moon? That was exactly why she existed.
She was there so that the sinners of this broken planet could at least convince themselves that they had a chance of redemption. The false hope to make the despair greater; to give the abomination at least the idea leading it to believe it would one day be pure. It was nothing but lies, and thats exactly how she liked it.
And that was also exactly why she never left her mind. An angel, wasn’t it heartless to give a saint such a cruel punishment? maybe the stars planned this, as the angel of dusk never was meant to have purity in the first place. She looked down on earth instead of up the skies where she’d be expected to be in. Looking down, a twisted smile on her face as she gazed upon earthlings.
‘oh how i wish i could descend, for her gaze to fall upon me. Maybe she would never leave me..? Infinite sky.. you have been cruel to me for far too long…’
..maybe the gods did hear her pleas after all.
Wondering around the streets, every step she took echoed.. sudden lack of the wings that she once wished she could snap into pieces made her long for their existence again. Maybe they were there and she just didn’t feel them, but why would it matter? The brunette waves of her forever ruined hair was now in contact with the breeze after eons.
if only she had kept her mouth shut.
or was it truly good that she spoke out?
The world, stepping on blades of grass as the weak common plants would crush underneath her heels.. was this what she felt like when she got to step on earth before the start of existence?
being back.. it wasn’t usual. after what felt like forever… maybe this was meant for her re-discovery.
‘I’m only ever yours- please don’t shove my grip off.. i beg of you!’
A stoic gaze thrown in her way, a bashing kick to her chest.
‘G-gah!-’
-and a thump to the floor. she let out a moan when she stepped on her chest with all her strength, crushing her ribcage as she let out a scream of pain
‘P-please..’
Only sounds of her heavy and hitched breathing, shaking from the crushing weight pressed on the centre of her chest as she laid on the floor
‘..more.’
A ruthless kick to her face, throwing her across the floor, making her nose bleed
“You’re pathetic” she spat out.
Only a cry-like moan of pleasure from the saint thrown across the floor. Bloodied and broken wings, nose like a red faucet leaking uncontrollably, and eyes half lidded with blurry vision as she kept on smiling, looking at her
After all.. it was always for her.
She asked for this after all, she begged to be on this earth full of sin just for her.
she leaned down and pulled her up painfully by her collar
“You insolent-
-slap.
-Pathetic,
-another slap, even harsher
-Mindless mortal”.
Suddenly, she pulled her into a kiss, the blood on the pure’s cracked lips coming in contact with hers as she tightened her pulling grip on her collar,
Gasps of air as her saliva felt like venom in her mouth, yet also so intoxicating like a drug.. was this what a god felt like?
‘P-please-‘
she whimpered desperately, cut off by her short breaths from the amount of wrecking pain on her chest, her face, her wings that have been snapped like toothpicks one by one… everywhere
pain caused by her.
pain that made her want more, more and even more.
As her tongue took over her mouth, making her squirm and gasp for air, her pupils dilating as she gazed at her god. Her hand at the throat of the ‘holy’, choking her whilst making her more and more desperate within the kiss. Tears were at the corners of the angel’s eyes, her broken and now dirtied wings making her want to scream in pain since her chokehold made her body press more and more onto the floor, bending her once pure white wings. Her other hand at her wrist, nails scratching and leaving small cuts right on her veins as she was seeking pleasure under the pain of her control.
She was breaking her so well.
She was an addiction
She was like a drug, making her become addicted more and more. She was in charge.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t real.
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The Tsaritsa
You know, since writing a fair bit about La Signora, I was thinking a lot about the Cryo Archon and her subordinates. They're not what I expected.
We're told that the Fatui are an organization answering only to Snezhnaya's leader. They use diplomacy, but their reputation for vicious sadism and brute force precedes them--they're ruthless, leveraging any scrap of political favor thrown their way and exploiting what conflicts they can.
We know this from the Ursa the Drake incident, when Dottore's "defeat" of the beast gave them favorable diplomatic conditions in Mondstadt. We know this from the Vision Hunt Decree, promoted and maintained by Fatui intervention in order to destabilize the country from the inside.
And the Fatui value strength above anything else. Signora's death is not their tragedy and she was not a woman they mourned, because to fall in battle is a sign of weakness.
In Snezhnaya, there is no honor for the dead.
Like so many others the Traveler meets on their journey, they're also deeply devoted to their archon. To join the Fatui is to forsake one's name and one's face in the pursuit of the Tsaritsa's beautiful and terrible dream of a world without Celestia. That so many of her people have taken up her cause is no mean feat, and that she had eleven people so feverishly devoted to her that they would willingly sacrifice everything is intriguing.
But how?
The Tsaritsa is no simple tyrant. She's not Baal. And that's evident from the way she speaks to her subordinates and their opinion of her. Kujou Sara speaks of her archon with reverence and respect, and she devotes herself to Baal's eternity without a second thought--but there's nothing personal about why. It makes Sara, and by extension Baal, seem...more two-dimensional.
But the Tsaritsa, despite being the Cryo Archon, is one hell of a firebrand.
Think about it. She's advocating revolution, full on revolution against the powers that be. The Tsaritsa wants to bring the gods down from the sky and to burn the old world to the ground. And she acknowledges the enormous burden this puts upon her subordinates. She acknowledges that she is demanding their fullest loyalty, devotion beyond reason or ability.
"Sorry...to also have you shoulder the grievances of the world. Since you could endure my bitter cold, you must have the desire to burn? Then, burn away the old world for me."
What sort of archon apologizes to her subjects?
One that understands, on a visceral level, the sacrifices she asks they make.
Of all the archons, is it such a surprise that she sounds the most human? Because what could be more human than to wish to defeat the divine?
I have many thoughts on visions being a manifestation of human ambition, responding to their will, being tied inextricably to their dreams...and how gods don't simply grant humans power, but help their ambitions become realized. The Tsaritsa is not Venti, with little ambition other than to see his people happy; she is not Zhongli, tired of shouldering that responsibility; she is not Ei, forging ahead while deaf to the cries of her subjects.
The Tsaritsa tells them that the world is brutal, and so is she, but that they can tear it down if they so wished.
And this inspires such fanatic loyalty that it's astonishing to witness.
Cleverer still is how she gathered her Harbingers. They are all, in some form or another, as cruel as their leader. And from what we know, they were all outcasts.
La Signora is the first Harbinger we meet. She wandered Teyvat for centuries, burning away the corruption she saw until she was, perhaps, no longer fit to be called human. The Tsaritsa gives her a path forward--bring down the gods, destroy the Abyss.
Then we meet Childe. He's brash, arrogant, and fundamentally wrong in some way. The lore blames the Abyss for what he's become--a little too bloodthirsty, a little too ambitious, and a little too reckless for other people to tolerate--but the Tsaritsa gives him a place where he can grow in strength as much as he desires.
Scaramouche is next. What was Scaramouche if not a person without a destiny? Does a puppet even have a constellation? Before he was found, he drifted aimlessly. The Tsaritsa gave him a cause to fight for.
And though we have not met Il Dottore in game, we know enough about him to see that he was cast out of the Academia for unauthorized experimentation. The Tsaritsa recruited him with the promise that he would not be accused of heresy.
Though perhaps I give her too much credit. Scaramouche, Signora, and Dottore were recruited directly by Pierro, the first of the Harbingers. And he, too, is intriguing, and his words sum up the general attitude of the Fatui.
Then I shall become instead a fool, a Fatuus, and devote myself to Her Majesty, who understands my pain...
My name is Pierro, The Jester. Please listen to the words I have to say:
Proud Fatui comrades, I know your hearts harbor both the fires of rage and the cold of eternal winter.
Each one of us has borne witness to the absurd callousness of the foundational principles of this world.
So, let us don our masks in mockery of the world as we go forth and rewrite the rules of destiny.
What sets the Tsaritsa apart, I think, is that she understands the rage of her subjects. She seeks out Harbingers who feel the same and tells them that they are not alone, and that there is a better world--they must only build it from the ground.
And what could be more dangerous, more clever than a passionate revolutionary with a talent for recruiting bitter extremists?
Perhaps it is fair to say that only those who possess an obsession close to or even exceeding the level of delusion might be willing to join this group that so rebels against the Heavenly Principles, binding their remaining days to their Delusions and burning as brightly as stars.
Bitter, obsessive extremists. Clever indeed.
#all of the lore i cite is from the wiki#the tsaritsa#aurie character analysis#less analysis and more unstructured rambling lol#the harbingers#genshin impact#genshin fanart#childe#tartaglia#il dottore#la signora#scaramouche
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Rexsoka Week 2021 Day 7: FUBAR
I hope everyone enjoyed my Rexsoka week contributions. I've had a lot of fun with them. Thanks for all the support!
This one is a little less focused on their relationship and more on the...effed up part of things.
TW: Non Graphic Torture
Day 7: FUBAR
Rex had hung for hours. They'd stripped him of his armor and blacks. His arms were wrenched upward and over a horizontal bar of metal. His legs were forced in an uncomfortable position, as if he was doing a squat midair. Most of his weight was on his bent knees. The device he was entangled with seemed to be a relic of the Separatists.
Rex had no hope of getting out of here alive. It would be foolish to go so deep into Imperial territory for one soldier, even as high ranking as he was. And Rex prided himself with the knowledge that he would never give any sensitive information away.
They'd started the normal Imperial interrogation process with him, using an IT-0 droid to try and get him to talk. Rex was better than that. The clones had been trained to resist the mundane mind probe that the droids used.
But then they had stopped. Some higher up wanted to interrogate Rex themselves, and Rex was to be untouched until they got there.
So Rex hung. The pain of his shoulders and knees was probably more effective than what any of the average Imperial idiots could inflict. By the whispered tones of the Imps in charge of him, whoever was coming for Rex was far from average.
Rex didn't fear pain. He'd been under extreme distress, physical, mental, and emotional, before. He hadn't broken then. He wouldn't break now.
Finally, the door slid open, and a tall, dark figure swept in. Its head was covered in a helmet that hid any trace of humanity. The sound of rasping breathing accompanied it, as if each breath was forced in and out of the thing's body. It stared at Rex, and Rex was so transfixed by its blank stare that he almost didn't notice the thing's companion.
A clone, holding his black helmet at his side, with greying hair and a wandering scar down the left side of his face.
Rex's breath caught.
"Cody? " He asked.
He didn't need it confirmed. It was Cody. Rex could never forget his ori'vod's face.
It seemed that Cody had forgotten Rex. He looked Rex over with a blank stare. His chip was still active.
"Captain Rex." The dark figure said in a deep, robotic voice that nudged something in Rex's memory. "You were listed as killed in action."
"Well," Rex said, though he could not tear his eyes from Cody's face. "Reports can be wrong."
"Yes." The figure said. "It seems so. Which leads me to believe that others that were believed dead may yet be alive."
Rex tried not to let his fear show in his face. He knew who this man wanted.
"Tell me." The figure stepped forward. "Where is Ahsoka Tano?"
Rex managed to look away from his brother and into the figure's helmeted face.
"Ahsoka Tano is dead." He said with as much conviction as he could muster.
"I see." The figure said. "Commander, you may begin."
"Yes, Lord Vader." Cody said.
In a fluid movement he withdrew an electrostaff and slammed it into Rex's side. Rex hissed through his teeth as he felt ribs break. Then the electricity began coursing through his body in burning waves. Rex’s jaw clenched involuntarily, keeping him from making much noise.
Rex fell limp as Cody finally drew the staff away.
"Where is Ahsoka Tano?" Vader asked again.
Rex struggled to lift his head.
"She's dead." He said.
Vader stared at him for a long time before turning to Cody.
"Continue."
Ahsoka stole through the halls of the Imperial facility. Rex was here somewhere. At least, that’s what she prayed. The chances of him surviving at the hands of the Imperials seven days were-
Ahsoka refused to let herself dwell on it.
She paused at a corner when she heard the idle chatter of two TK troopers nearby.
"I wish Lord Vader would hurry up and kill the wretch." One complained. "Patrolling the detention level is becoming a real pain."
"Gives me a headache." The other grumbled. "Judging by its screams, I doubt it can last much longer."
Ahsoka's heart quickened. He was alive. She waited for the troopers to move past and quickly made her way to the nearest lift. The Force guided her hands to hit level B3.
The lift opened and Ahsoka felt sick. Rex's screams were echoing throughout the hallway. There was something else; whatever was torturing him was a Force user. A powerful and Dark one at that.
Ahsoka grit her teeth. There went her plan to go in sabers blazing. She edged closer to the area from which Rex's noises of distress were coming from. Soon she could make out words.
" SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!" Rex was screaming.
So that's what they wanted to know. Ahsoka tried to reach for Rex's mind, but it was saturated with pain, oblivious to everything but the torture being inflicted on him.
Ahsoka found a storage closet adjacent to the room Rex was in. She would have to wait this out, no matter how badly she wanted to stop Rex's tormentors.
After a while Rex's screams turned to sobs, and the words he said changed.
" Kote, vod, gedet'ye!"
Cody, brother, please.
Ahsoka's heart clenched as she translated the words in her head. He was calling for Cody. She prayed that he was seeing some delusion, and that Cody was not playing a part in his torture.
His sobs began to fade. Ahsoka pressed a montral to the wall. A door opened and shut. Ahsoka waited a minute before unsheathing her sabers. She drew them in a circle in the wall and forced the cut section forward. The room she stepped into was overly bright. The floor was tacky and pinkish. Ahsoka swallowed bile before looking at the back of the room.
Rex was twisted around a metal frame, forced into what looked like an excruciating position. He was mostly naked, save for his grey undershorts. It seemed there wasn't a bit of skin that wasn't bruised, burned, or cut. Blood ran in dribbles from fresh slashes on his chest. He didn't look up as she approached him. His head lolled forwards.
" She's dead. " He whispered through chapped lips. " Kote, gedet'ye, she's dead. "
Ahsoka shook herself and wasted no more time in releasing him from his bindings. He'd lost weight in the few days he'd been here, and Ahsoka easily lifted him. A soft groan escaped him as she shouldered most of his weight.
"It's okay, Rex." Ahsoka promised him. "It's over now."
It would be. Even if they were caught, the answer the Imperials wanted was given by her presence. There would be no need to continue his interrogations.
Of course, they could always use him against her.
She quickly scanned near her. There was one guard nearby. The dark presence was getting further away.
Ahsoka set Rex down before slipping out the door. The startled guard didn't have time to make a noise before Ahsoka slammed him against the wall. He crumpled. Ahsoka retrieved Rex and started their painfully slow way down the corridor.
Rex occasionally made soft noises of pain as she jostled him. They got to the turbolift with no incidents. Ahsoka could sense the guards on the level on which her stolen Imperial shuttle was docked. There weren’t many, and by some miracle of the Force she managed to get Rex to the hangar without being seen. He let out a pitiful groan as she quickened her pace.
"I'm sorry." Ahsoka whispered. "We're almost out. Just-"
The dark presence suddenly reappeared, looming between them and the shuttle.
Ahsoka had no time, not with Rex's dead weight, to move before the man to which the presence belonged stepped from behind another ship. If it could be called a man. It seemed more like a droid.
"Ahsoka Tano." It said. "Captain Rex has become a more convincing liar. I almost believed him when he said you were dead."
Ahsoka tensed. She would not leave Rex. But she didn't see a way out of this.
"Something I'm sure you're eager to rectify." Ahsoka spat.
"There is a way for you to survive. For you both to survive." It said. "Join the Empire and you will both live."
"And become whatever you are? No." Ahsoka said.
The figure did not immediately attack.
"You think this path leads to anything else?" It asked. "Your attachment to the clone is far too deep."
"I'm sure it was only attachment that made you fall." Ahsoka said.
Her mind raced. What could she do? She would not leave Rex, but she couldn’t move quickly with his weight. And this thing was powerful .
"I see that you are resolved." The thing said. "Then I offer you this. Surrender, and I will give you both painless deaths."
For half a moment Ahsoka was tempted. Rex's pain was saturating the Force. She didn't want him to hurt anymore. And she saw no way out.
Her hesitation was seen as a refusal. The thing reached out a clawed hand. Ahsoka tensed, but nothing touched her. Rex, on the other hand, stiffened. Ahsoka nearly dropped him as he struggled for air.
"No!" Ahsoka said. "I didn't-"
A blaster shot rang through the hangar. The thing whirled to the side and deflected it with a hand. Rex relaxed.
Ahsoka only paused long enough to see a familiar clone pointing a blaster at the thing. She drew upon the Force and darted forward, past the figure who was concerned with blocking the barrage of blaster fire raining down on it.
"No more!" She heard Cody shout. " No more! "
She reached out briefly to try to connect with Cody and found a shattered mind. Whatever they had done to Rex had been too much for him.
Ahsoka dragged Rex the last few feet to the shuttle.
"Now, R-7!" She shouted.
The shuttle's door began to rise. Right before it shut, Ahsoka saw the Dark creature shear through Cody's chest with a blood red blade.
There was no med bay in the Imperial shuttle, so Ahsoka had to lay Rex on a clean sheet in the middle of the passenger bay. It had taken nearly two hours to dress Rex's injuries. Ahsoka had to set his broken fingers, wrap his ribs, and put bacta on every burn and laceration. He began to stir as she was finishing wrapping the cut up soles of his feet.
He groaned as he shifted, eyes opening to a slit.
"'Soka." He mumbled.
He struggled to lift himself.
"Shhh." Ahsoka said, gently easing himself back down. "Lie still."
She began running her fingers through his short hair in a hopefully soothing manner. He closed his eyes again and his head sagged to the side.
"How do you feel?" She asked.
"Hurts." He slurred.
Ahsoka frowned. She already had him on pretty heavy painkillers. She couldn't give him more, but she hated that he was still in pain.
She continued to massage his head. She hoped he was heading back to sleep.
"Cody?" He asked.
Ahsoka felt sick at his hopeful tone.
"I'm so sorry, Rex." She said. "He didn't make it."
Rex didn't say anything at first. He opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Was it-" He struggled to form the words. "You?"
Ahsoka moved her hand to the side of his face.
"That thing killed him." Ahsoka said. "He died so we could escape."
Rex squeezed his eyes shut. The agony that warped the Force around him deepened. He turned his head away from her, a tear tracing down his cheek.
“No more.” He muttered. “ No more. ”
Check it out and my other Rexsoka Fics on A03!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/34125910/chapters/85234081
https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExecutiveCucumber/works
#rexsoka#rexsoka week#rexsoka week 2021#rexsokaweek#rexsokaweek2021#captain rex#ahsoka tano#ahsoka and rex#Day 7: FUBAR#commander cody
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Resigned To Fate
Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting
Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)
Rating: M
Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions
Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.
Word Count: ~2k
@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo
I.
Witchers survive.
Witchers endure.
Witchers outlast.
No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.
Survive. Endure. Outlast.
Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.
He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.
He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.
This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.
Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.
Nothing breaks Vesemir.
II.
When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.
III.
She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.
Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.
His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.
Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.
"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.
"I brought food."
"I'm not hungry."
Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.
This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.
Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.
"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.
Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.
"I'm not thirsty."
"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.
"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."
"I did."
"Mine also?"
"They took them back to the Camp."
Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.
"It's all my fault."
"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.
Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.
"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."
"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?
Because he has to.
Nothing breaks Vesemir.
"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."
"What. Choice."
"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."
No such thing happened.
Vesemir knows.
He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.
This is your fault.
You brought this upon them, mutant scum.
They will die for your sins.
Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.
"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.
"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"
They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.
"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."
"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."
Nothing ever. Breaks...
"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."
"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."
"No."
"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"
Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.
IV.
There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.
He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.
"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."
There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.
Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.
"Take care of yourself."
Guxart nods and turns and walks away.
And Vesemir doesn't break.
V.
Decades pass.
Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.
Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.
It is acceptable.
Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.
Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.
And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.
#the witcher#witcher#tw3#my writing#vesemir x guxart#vesemir#guxart#radowit#lambert#aiden#lambden#treyse#post-tournament#grief#angst#pain#much hurt little comfort#tw suicidal thoughts#cw suicidal thoughts#gaslighting#altered memory#once more I'm not sure this works with the prompt#but I suppose there is some memory alteration here#now I want to write more about this ship hmmm#I'm thinking a rom-com type situation: they're teachers from rival schools#they hate each other#they fight constantly about sword stances#then their students lock them into the weapons chamber together#and they bang#happily ever after
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Merry-Go-Round Colson Baker X Reader
A/N: wrote this fic in 2019 with a different character revised it using Colson of course also changed up original title it was Addicted. Note there is drug use, overdose and death involved so this could be triggering for some. Might want to have tissues handy cause it's sad folks!
Warnings: drug use, overdose, death & smut
Word Count: 3,248
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐲
𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧
𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧
𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧
𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐠𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝...
Y/N looked on in mute horror. Horror was something she had not felt before in her life. There he was, almost catatonic, a look of aloof disinterest on his otherwise flawless and beautiful face. In his left hand a small bottle was loosely clutched, open, contents scattered upon the ground below. His hair was dishevelled, his upper body unclothed, a trail of saliva dripping from his slightly-parted mouth onto his chest. His unblinking gaze stared at something beyond focus, something only he was seeing.
What what happened? She asked in a cautious whisper. She gently plucked the small bottle out of his hand, realising he had overdosed. Purposely overdosed. What could have happened to drive Colson to such reckless, illogical behaviour? What drove this normally calm and deliberate person to such an abrupt, impromptu act? What demanded such drastic and permanent release?
It was too late. She knew it was too late. Not knowing what to do for such circumstances normally, Y/N only looked on helplessly, slowly crouching down by his side. She tentatively reached out and touched his bare shoulder.
Cold both her fingertips and his skin. The two of them were both abnormally cool-blooded, he had penetrating and yet distant blue eyes, tattooed skin and fine features. And yet he was colder than was normal for the two of them.He gave her no response, didn’t register her presence.
Taking a firmer grip, she shook him gently, knowing he wouldn’t respond. He lost the balance from his precarious position, haphazardly propped against a fallen chair. His right arm, previously draped across a side of the chair, smacked the ground with a sickeningly final thud. She caught his head against her chest, his head lolling down and to the side as if he wanted to suck on her breast. He was heavier than she remembered. She couldn’t think of why this could be.
She cradled him, rocking back and forth slightly. A tightness grew in her stomach and throat, a cold shiver ran down her spine. Her breath was suddenly shaky and her mouth grew dry. A tear froze as it formed at the corner of her eye, falling and shattering upon impacting against the colder-still floor. “Colson… please please wake up,” she stated desperately.
She closed her mind thinking back to the first time they had met, both of them were junkies it seemed to be one of the few things that kept them together asides from the sex. They may have had a toxic relationship but like a moth to a flame she was drawn to him and she kept coming back for more.
2 years ago...
‘I need it so badly, and I need to see him, be near him.’
I want to find another dealer, but I can't bring myself to look. I just keep coming back.
I love him. I don't know if he knows it, but I do. With all of my heart.
I took my first fix to impress him. I don'tt care that I’m an addict; it gives me an excuse to see him.
And I do see him. Almost every day.
I let myself fall into the delusion that he loved me too, at first. When we met, in a bar, he gave me some crack. I liked it, of course, and he told me where I could see him and get more.
At first he just scared me, but gradually I started to look forward to going to see him to see him, as well as to get my fix.
I was a virgin. One night I gave that to him, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. But when I woke up the next morning, he handed me about three weeks worth and told me I’d earned it all. I slapped him, but he just laughed and said he’d see me soon.
I held off the stuff for about a week, and then I couldn't do it anymore. It was even better than it had been the first time around.
When I ran out I went back to him, same as I always had before, with my money in my backpack.
He smirked, and told me I didn't need to give him any money, looking my body over knowingly. I was so tempted to do it. “Are you brave Y/N?” He asked me not taking his eyes off of mine. I looked at him nervously “why do you ask?” My stomach was tied in knots an excited feeling rushed through my veins.
“You want some of this?" He held up the small baggie to my eyes, which contained a fairly sized black hunk of something. I didn't have to ask him to know what it was.He had the sexiest face when he was offering you drugs, a straight, poker face, with a little smirk that just screamed "Come on, you know you want to,". I chewed at my bottom lip contemplating it for a moment. "Come on, it's the greatest feeling ever. I'll shoot it for you and everything, I guarantee you won't be able to move for the next hour, I swear. It's the best, no lie." Colson urged me.
I hesitated slightly, my heart thundering against my ribs. Everything in my brain was screaming 'NO! You idiot! Remember health class?' "Awh hell, off to the races!" I said, laughing, and instantly feeling a rush of anxiety. Colson laughed, "Yeah, you want this," and then he pulled out a spoon from his pocket, breaking off a chunk of the black tar heroin and setting it in the spoon to melt it down. He was always so cocky, but it suited his personality.
My stomach was starting to feel funny from all the adrenaline pumping though my body as he patiently turned the black mass into a liquid; I hadn't felt this antsy since the last time we were tweaking out on shards. I couldn't believe I was about to do this; one hit and I could be addicted.
𝙎𝙤 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤 𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚
𝙉𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙖 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩
𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙩 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙩
Before I knew it, Colson had taken a hold of my left wrist and was holding my arm out straight, tapping against the main vein in my elbow until it was raised and throbbing.
"You're gonna want to look away for this," he said, as he held up a small syringe he'd filled with the drug. "This is gonna be like nothing you've ever felt before."
I smiled, and said "Hell yes," before I looked up into his eyes. He met my gaze, his blue eyes distracting me from where the needle was going. I felt the pinch, and winced slightly.
“You're ok, you will be ok Y/N," he said, he smiled, still staring into my eyes. "Eyes right here."
𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 “𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲?”
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 “𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲?!”
I stared back, smiled, and felt the needle being withdrawn from my arm. I exhaled slowly, wondering when it was supposed to take effect--
The rush of euphoria you get from shooting up heroin is unlike anything else. You could be going through horrible withdrawals, but after you see that red cloud of blood erupt in the syringe, you’ll feel like you're on top of the world in seconds. You feel weightless, and warm, and safe.
“How you feeling Y/N?" Colson asked, getting down to my level to look me in the eye, his smirk setting my nerve endings on fire. ‘fuck why is it that his smirk damn near destroys me?’ I thought to myself. I tried to speak, but my mouth wasn't working with my brain...or, my brain wasn't working with my mouth. Actually, I don't think my brain was working at this point at all, it was all just too slow. Even my tongue felt heavy.
It seemed like a long time passed, I heard Colson opening up the small baggie once again, heard the lighter click to life, closed my eyes and felt my breathing, watching the colors dance past my eyes as I heard him hiss from the needle, heard the THUMP as he hit the floor.
A few moments had passed then I saw Colson get up from the floor, and plop down onto the end of the bed, smiling and looking down at me. I looked back up at him, and in my mind a vague feeling was starting to swim around, to spark to roaring life amidst the haze that I was feeling everywhere else.
“You feelin' good?" He asked, tilting his head and grinning at me in the way he always did after witnessing me getting fucked up in some way or another. A grin that said, 'Now that's what I'm talking about', before always asking the same question; You feeling good?
I tried to wrap my mind around how I was feeling, to grasp at how hot it was starting to feel between my legs, how when I arched my back upward I wanted something to be there, to be in the space between my legs, in the heat and the wet, to fill me up, make me moan.
And without really meaning to, I did moan. I let out a low, hungry growl, closing my eyes and allowing my head to fall backward.
Colson chuckled, a low, almost animalistic sound. “Y/N...you want to fuck don't you?" I didn't respond, merely laid there, eyes still closed, feeling my head fall to the side, my nose against my right bicep. It was so hot, I could hear myself panting, feel it in my breasts as they rose and fell with my breath.
"Yeeeeeaaaaahh, you wanna fuck," I heard Colson say, his words long and drawn out. "You're so horny right now it's driving you out of your Goddamn mind, isn't it?"
I heard myself moan again, still unable to think my way out of the warm cloud that had settled over my body. All I knew was that I wanted a dick, a hard, long, thick dick, shoved into my pussy, and I wanted it now. I gave a small growl of frustration, arching my back upward again.
Colson takes hold of my wrist all of a sudden, forcing me to still. Then he lowers my arm, meeting my stare in the dimness of lamplight shining from a table. “You look like you have somethin’ you wanna say, Miss Y/N.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Do I?” “Yeah. Do you?” “I – I.” I was unable to formulate a complete sentence. God he’s beautiful. I’m mesmerized. Enthralled. Captivated. Whatever this emotion of want is.
His blonde hair dusts across his forehead. Glazed in a sheen of sweat.“Oh…” I’m at a loss for words, so awestruck. He begins undressing himself,His hands are on his belt, undoing the buckle. His trousers sag some, slipping down his waist.I close the distance between us, pushing aside his trembling hands to use mine. I undo his belt then unfasten the button of his trousers, letting them fall around his ankles.
Colson looks at me he holds my face in his big, calloused hands. “You can’t be real.” “No?” “No. You have to just be some illusion I’ve thought of. You’ll disappear soon.” “I don’t think I’m leaving, Colson,” I confess, voice breathless. His touch is like fire, letting me feel that more than I desire.
I flush with heat, taking in the truth that he’s naked now. Naked. In front of me.“You wanna join, darlin’?” “J – Join?” He gently traces his fingertips across my arm I can't help but shiver “yeah you look cold guess even angels need warmth, huh?” he narrowed his gaze on me, he stretches out an arm to grab my wrist. He pulls me into him, sitting up to hold me in his strong arms. Heat blooms all over my skin as he embraces me from behind, sensations I had thought I lost or maybe never realized I had.
He makes it seem like I have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to do but relent, to surrender and release the tension I’ve been holding in. His breath warms my ear, tousling strands of hair. He moves closer, pinning me to the wall. I hold in all the breath I can as his scent overwhelms me, musk and oil and smoke. He has one arm over my head, bracing his position over me. His other hand rests near my abdomen, hovering over his shirt that I have on. His blue gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Can I touch you?” I blink, dark lashes fanning out tears. “I – I’ve never been touched like this.” “Never?” “No.” 'sure we had had sex before but this moment seemed different electrified. This was the first time he even really touched me at least like this… so soft, so sensual.
“You – You don’t have to.” I managed to stutter out awkwardly. “I can. You look like you want me to. You have for a while. It doesn’t have to be more than this, and I don’t mind doin’ it for you.” His touch is like fire, as before. That tingling that I hunger for. The licks of heat over my skin sets my nerve endings on fire. His rough fingers slither over my slit, forcing me to let out a muffled noise as I shudder. “Want me to stop?” “No. No. More… do more.”
He pushes closer, leaving no space amid us. His teeth sink into my throat, biting sensitive areas I didn’t know I wanted to be bitten. I arch my back, bending a little as he presses a knee between my thighs.He rubs, for a few minutes. Stroking. Caressing.He nibbles my neck, the muscle that runs down to my shoulder. His shirt falls off of me some, slipping off the shoulder his mouth is on. I rest my palms on his tatooed chest, nails scratching over his skin. He hisses then sucks beneath my ear, licking his tongue back and forth. “Oh, Colson,” I moan my breath becoming more rapid making me almost dizzy.
He parts me with his fingers, rubbing the warm slick that’s dripping out of me. “God, Y/N. You moan like an angel.” He pushes one thick digit into me, then another. Stretching me, he thrusts in and out at a slow pace. I fall into a haze of bliss, drowned in the blazing sensations that wash over me. I move my hips in time with his hand, finding a tempo with him. A blinding crescendo rises and rises. Hotter. Brighter. ”I’m so close, so close –” Then the flat of his thumb circles over my clit and I scream, coming undone.
This was an all new heightened sensation, and throughout our relationship it seemed the more we experimented with different drugs the more the sexual connection we had seemed to get more and more intense. Hell we were just as addicted to the sex as much as the drugs. To be honest I think we tried just about everything, Crystal meth, shrooms, coke, mollies you name it then most likely we had tried it. But it seemed like nothing was enough, another fix needed to keep the euphoric rush going. Each time more and more it seemed like he needed, like a junkie he couldn't seem to get enough. But it seemed heroin was always his vice, his ultimate fix of choice.
Being on heroin is akin to being in a toxic relationship. You start off knowing you're playing with fire, but you tell yourself it’ll be casual and you have more will power than to let yourself fall into addiction. Unfortunately, the pull of heroin is stronger than you, and by the time you realize you’ve lost control, you already lost it a long time ago. This kind of end was not for the likes of him. In one long continuous movement she eased him to the ground, laying him on his back and lovingly straddled him. She had one hand pressed against his cold chest, the other gripping the handle of the blade. Her hand wavered a little as it hovered above his chest. She glanced away, eyes a little misted by tears that were unaccustomed to forming, and thus shy of coming out.
Die by the blade, she whispered barely audibly. He never was much of a fighter she was the warrior of unparalleled potential of the two of them and yet she believed, she knew, that he wouldn't want it any other way either.
With one efficient movement, she plunged the blade neatly into his heart. She opened her eyes with a start, sharply glancing down at him as she felt a tensing beneath her and the slightest of hitched gasps. His eyes, free of the madness, clear of the haze, looked back at her with such a whirlpool of emotions and questions she nearly choked on a gasp of her own. She felt a new horror. A new kind of chill. She couldn't find her voice, and wouldn't have known what to say anyway. She looked back into his eyes, silently pleading.
“Colson Baker?”
Questioning turned to acceptant understanding, forgiveness, and finally to a slightly guilty apology. The corner of his lips twitched into the briefest of smiles, as if trying to reassure her that everything would be fine.
“L-love,you.”
His eyes glazed over again. This time he wouldn’t be waking up for her again. The crimson trickled over his skin and stained her sleeves and her skirts. Never had she made such a costly error of judgement.
𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫
Colson Baker died of an overdose. A plaque in his memory was put up, reading, “There is no substitute” Unfortunately for music fans, as well as the family and friends of the victims, too many singers have died before their time either directly or indirectly because of drug use and abuse.
Colson Baker
The raspy deep voiced rocker died at the age of 30, from a heroin overdose. Born Richard Colson Baker, but known as “Kells” to his friends and family, He is famous for some of the hit singles such as “Bloody Valentine,”My Ex's Bestfriend” “Forget Me Too,” “Concert For Aliens,” and his personal favorite, “Jawbreaker.” In 2020, Rolling Stone magazine ranked him #46 on their list of the 100 Greatest Artists of All Time.
#machine gun kelly#colson baker#mgk#machine gun kelly x reader#machine gun kelly imagine#colson baker x reader#colson baker imagine#fan fiction
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I say "my comfort character is Draco Malfoy, I love him"
But I have gone so far into my own fanon idea of him that it is not the Draco you know (and maybe also love). Nope. Not at all. Fucking hate that rich preposterous bully.
What I mean by him being my comfort character is:
"After meticulous analysis of the films (and a little bit of the books, where it was conveninet) I have developed a huce resonance and atrtatchment to the character as the boy who had no chance.
Because do you really have a choice when you are born and bred to be a carbon copy of your parents and their ideals, their prejudice? When it is sort of obvious, if you read into it (thank you Jason Isaacs, your plan to give people something to be sorry for Draco worked wonders) his parents expect the world and more from him. And if he doesn't deliver? Lucius is way to happy waving that cane around and it's making me very uneasy. I'm not saying Lucius is an abusive father, but I would not put it past him, under the guise of "discipline". Cold punishment to cut out unwanted behaviours, showers in riches and luxury and anything he wants when he gets what mommy and daddy want.
Do you really think, as a child, you could see past this ruse? No. You could not. It was good for you and it made you happy, so why would you see past it?
But then the child grows up and following Mom and Dad means following wizard h*tler too. He is not even 15 when the Dark Lord returns, and his whole world outside of school bends over backwards to please his every whim, so as to not fall on his bad side. That bad side means death. So now the stakes have risen.
It's no longer do what father said or I will get punished, this is do what father said because it's the Dark Lord's will, and going against that will means death.
Do you think a 15 year old that has to sit at extremist murderous fascists meetings in his own dining room every night can even think of escaping this fate? Do you think he is confident in his own abilities to escape the wolf's den? While his family is trapped, willingly or not, under his foot? No, he can't.
He is not selfish or stupid. He knows that there are consequences to his actions, and any sort of failure will mean demise for the only people who have shown him love in this world (even if very conditional). So Draco stays, and Draco does as he is told, even when it breaks him with impossible tasks and renders him a traitor to the entirery of the rest of the wrold he knows. Because the other option is death, multiple deaths.
Perhaps he was ok with his own at one point, but he cannot bear sacrifice others just for his own benefit.
People call him selfish, a bully, closeminded. But was he ever really any of those things? When he stuck with his childhood friends since before Hogwarts, and stuck with them even when they were proven to be trash at everything, and not even useful for his own shenanigans? Was he closeminded when he was spoonfed bigotry since he was born, and punished for not replicating it to a T? He was a bully, because he was taught to be a bully, and there was no other option ever presented. You cannot have a child go through all that, and then welcome them at the other end with accusations of the very things you made them become.
Some other people call him a coward, because he didn't try to flee, not even once. Are you blind? He was the bravest person in the entire school, when he was singlehandedly taking on an impossible task, just to give his family some time, some sliver of hope, of surviving the Unforgivable Mistake his own father made (fucking up retrieving the Prophecy) If he failed, they would all die. If he succeeded, a lot of other people would die.
In the end, he failed, but again, he had no real choice here. Dumbledore's death was orchestrated outside of his knowledge, but nobody thought of letting him know even after the fact, to ease his guilt.
He spent an entire year pretending to try to kill and unkillable man, just so he could maybe get some credit but not need to complete the dreaded task. Futile, really, but he did try until the very end. Snape, who was supposed to help him, was just controlling when that cabinet was supposed to open, according to Dumbledore's whims. Draco had zero control. I'm not even so sure he was the one to fix the damn thing.
A person so devoid of control about their own life, who still tried so damn hard, just to be cast aside as a bully and a traitor, just breaks my fucking heart!!
And I can relate. I do relate.
To the conditional love of his parents, to the conditional support of his peers, to the constant act he had to keep up in order to benefit from any of his privileges - that he did not ask for.
To the mountains of lies, upon lies, flung to everyone who might pry, who might hear. In the end, even to himself, to the point where reality and delusion overlap and lose all meaning.
To holding onto one last hope, even when you know it's futile, because if you don't... you don't want to think about what will happen if you stop.
I relate to this, on a personal level, twice over. Draco is me, but Draco is also the best friend I had growing up.
I'm the Draco that fought tooth and nail and lost the battle, but never surrendered. The one that eventually fled, and changed his self to be a better person, all on his own.
My friend is the Draco that was a coward. The Draco that never changed, that always settled, because death and being alone was way too overpowering of a threat.
I suffer with myself every day. It is very hard to learn to love the parts of myself that I was taught to shame and blame and hate.
My friend never changed. We broke up almost a decade ago. She was manipulated into being a hateful, closeminded, horrible bully, and my heart breaks for her every single day. Her name is the same as mine. There is not a moment I am not reminded of her. I loved my friend.
So when I say that Draco Malfoy is my comfort character, I mean that his journey offers me a chance to explore my own trauma, in a way that I can offer comfort and feel love towards a person, that I know is a projection of me.
Loving Malfoy means loving myself."
Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I will not be answering any questions.
#val rants#draco malfoy#character analysis#i think?#long post#this is very much my own fanon take and I don't want criticism thank you#this is how I cope#idk why im posting but im severely sleeep deprived and had a Thought
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Klaus saying I love you for the first time
Thank you for the request! It’s not particularly long and I’m not even sure if I like it but I hope you enjoy it!
♡ KLAROLINE DRABBLE #51: Hiraeth♡
“Why?”
It’s all she can say at this point. When she told him she wanted to move on once again, travel to Singapore, she had expected some level of reluctance but Klaus had gone above and beyond. They had exchanged a few tight words when she made the announcement but she had prepared to leave regardless. Being intruded upon by two of his minions and ushered to the compound at eight a.m., an hour before she was due to leave, was nothing short of frustrating. She had debated snapping their necks but the younger of the pair had begged her and she decided it would be better to deliver such a blow directly to the hybrid.
He had left her waiting in one of the many, lavish guest rooms until noon. A selection of blood bags were delivered and she was anything but pleased to see the entirety of her belongings were being moved in shortly thereafter. The surprise on his face when he finally entered, only to be welcomed with outrage, was a picture.
Klaus rushes forward, holding a hand out as his forehead creases. “Caroline—”
Caroline doesn’t give him the chance, stepping back in her interruption, “No. Tell me why exactly I shouldn’t go.” She folds her arms tightly and stares him down. “For years, you tell me there’s a world out there waiting for me and I should take a chance but I get hurt once because of your messed up battle for power and now, you don’t even want me to leave New Orleans!” She isn’t sure if her eyes could get any wider. The altercation between her and a faction of young, ambitious witches is both the reason she wants to go and the reason he wants her to stay. But she isn’t scared. Truthfully, she’s been considering forever for a while now and one last solo trip is the perfect way to mark a new chapter.
He stills, seeming to realise that any inch he takes, she will do all the same. “That’s not it,” he tells her with a firmness more suited to the politics of the Quarter.
“It’s not? Then what is it?!” Caroline looks aside when she can’t bear to view his puppy-like stare any longer. Her brows knit closer for a moment before she expresses an incredulous laugh and swings out her arms. “I was doing just fine on my own. You should be thankful I even let you join me in Paris!”
The mention of Paris appears to be a sore spot as she can detect a faint brush of anger across his face. It was the start of everything after all. They had bumped into each other outside the Louvre, though she’s sure his timing was more than just fortunate, and she agreed to a few innocent outings. The sex had been somewhat unexpected but they weren’t in Mystic Falls any longer. Things had changed. Friendship and a trip to New Orleans. Those were the loose terms of their arrangement and they seemed to suit him well. It wasn’t enough to warrant the current circumstances.
“Please don’t—”
Again, she cuts into his rebuttal, “I’m not some fragile doll and I am definitely not going to stay just because you feel like you have some...claim over me all of a sudden!“ Whether it be an action of her subconscious or a sign of some delusion, she gravitates towards him, heels clicking harshly against the marble beneath her feet. “I am not your siblings or your stupid hybrid ar—“
Klaus is swift, grasping her by the elbows. She would be inclined to tear herself away but it’s neither firm nor rough enough to react. Still, she feels the air leave her lungs when he yells out, “For Christ’s sake, Caroline, it’s because I love you!”
Her lashes barely flutter in response and breathlessly, she says, “What?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think and I...” Klaus huffs, his gaze shifting across their touch. It’s not a common occurrence to see him speechless and it’s an ever-enjoyable sight but in this instance, she’s yearning for the opposite. Those stormy blue eyes she has carefully memorised over their time together will her to make contact before he finally concludes, “I want you to stay here...with me.”
#klaroline#klaus mikaelson#caroline forbes#kc fanfiction#the vampire diaries#the originals#tvd#drabble
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Good influence, bad influence.
Tim is one of those, and he gets the other one. Guess which is which. Ft a murder kitten, two oblivious birds, a divorce-preventing baby and a murderous mother.
(Thanks to @the-quiet-carrotcake who helped me think this through on chat and gave me ideas (THANKS BABE), and tagging @animemangasoul because they understand my need to ALWAYS include Kon when writting about Tim.
This sat on my wips for so long now, so I’m not even proofreading it. Just take it away, please)
-----.-----
-Are you sure I can’t just stab her?
-Really sure.
-How much?
-Like, 100% sure.
-You told me once it’s impossible to ever/
-...be 100% sure of something, I know. Which is how you know I mean it now.
Damian puffed his cheeks. Tim was sure that, in his mind’s eye, he looked dignifiedly annoyed. In reality, it was adorable. But since Damian currently held his right hand hostage, and was probably holding onto his dagger inside his pocket with the other one, he didn’t want to risk pointing it out. He just tugged him away, swimming through the masses, as Damian had called them upon entering the ballroom.
-But why not?
It was as close to a whine a sound as the kid could make, which upped his adorable factor another notch.
-You’d get blood on your suit, for one. And then, my mom would kill you.
A little shudder at the mention of Janet Drake, though the kid composed himself quickly- I wouldn’t let a single drop fall on me, cousin. I’m not an amateur.
Since Damian would have used another, more offensive word not so long ago, Tim ignored the pointed look he got when he said ‘amateur’. Also, the use of modern slang was something he was painstakingly drilling into him, so he was quiet proud when it bore fruits.
-Also, you’d draw attention to ourselves. And that woman didn’t even do anything worthy of such a reaction.
-She dared touch me! Treated me like, like… like a kid!
Pointing out that he, in fact, was one wouldn’t go well, so Tim’s mind offered an alternative route.
-You don’t know? -he blurted out, feigning surprise. Damian looked up at him, eyes squinting suspiciously, and there, very well hidden (but not enough he didn’t notice) a little hesitancy.
-Know what?
Tim let go of the little, calloused hand, and placed both of his on the slimmer shoulders, bending down a bit to be face to face with his charge for the night. The blond wig and round glasses weren’t enough to hide Damian’s almost aristocratic features, but they sure managed to misdirect someone about his bloodline. No one would be able to tell he was Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul’s son, which was kinda the idea.
It had been a chore, to put the disguise in the proud boy, but Tim had been the one to achieve it when he dressed it as a training exercise: they had to make it through the party without its host, Mr Wayne, recognizing him.
Easy peasy, or so he had told mother when he assured her she could go make business with aunt Nicole and leave them be. He hadn’t calculated… well, other people.
-About Mrs Stingdom’s homeland.
Damian was too dignified to look over his shoulder at the lady in question, but Tim could see he wanted to.
-She’s a gothamite -he pointed out, because as Tim had suggested, he did his homework about who was attending to the party. A bit, at least. The story of so many boring socialites was too much to bear.
-She married a gothamite -he explained, doing his best to look stern about Damian’s apparent misinformation-. She’s actually from another land, which is why she pinched your checks. In her culture, it’s a sign of utmost respect towards people under ten years old who are still considered to be superiors, despite their age.
It sounded far fetched, even to his own ears, but he was playing into Damian’s social incompetency and his arrogance at believing himself above all others, which is why the kid nodded slowly after a few seconds, eating the whole lie in one bite.
His bespectacled eyes bore into his, brows furrowed. His hands went to Tim’s, still on his shoulders, a little unsure.
-Should I expect more of this… cultural difference? So I won’t be underprepared, should anyone else wish to pay me their respects in a new manner?
Sensing a chance to prevent a future stabbing, Tim was quick to nod. Mom was going to be so proud!
----.----
A little later that night, a new issue arose. Since Tim was pretty busy handling the seven year old, he had to forgo his usual Wayne-party routine, which was basically to find one of the sons and hide with them for the rest of the night.
Of course, neurotic bastards like them wouldn’t take a change in routine go like that. Because Bruce has instilled paranoia and curiosity on them like Alfred did with manners, and sadly, the last one’s teachings rarely showed up.
-Timmy! Here you are. I was worried, since you never approached us. Aww, who’s this kid? You made a friend?
He groaned internally. Dick, and behind him he could spot Jason, eyebrow arched at the novelty of Tim not looking for them immediately. He wanted to, thrived in the chance to spend even a few minutes with his idols, but duty calls, and his mind didn’t like the possibles outcomes would Damian and the Waynes meet.
-Hey, Dick… Jay. Good evening -he smiled politely, hand clutching tighter Damian’s. Don’t notice, don’t notice, please don’t notice.
To his immense relief, none of them seemed to find anything noteworthy in Damian’s face, which… was also kinda disappointing, despite him wishing for it. Like, yeah, the wig and glasses were good misdirect, but really? He would have noticed the similarities with Bruce despite them, and those two were supposedly detectives…
-Stop being so formal, kid -grumbled Jason, big hand making a mess of Tim’s styled hair. He would have complained, but… Jason’s voice and hand, okay? He was a weak teenager. Don’t judge him- Know ya since y’were half that heigh, and lighter than my jacket.
Tim’s hormones ignored the comment on him being small, and focused on the mental image of the mentioned jacket, most likely leather and well worn.
…This was so not the time for fantasizing.
A tiny, calloused hand slapped Jason’s away, which promptly changed the mood.
-Don’t touch my cousin, you/
But Tim had prepared for this outcome, so his own hand rose just as quickly to cover Damian’s mouth.
At the word ‘cousin’, both heroes looked very interested. Tim was under no delusions, well aware Bruce and each of his adopted children had made their own background checks on him and his entire family, so they would know Damian’s claim to familiarity to be a lie, but they also couldn't really call them out on it without making it obvious they investigated him.
His head was already hurting for all the social maneuvering he had to do to keep out of trouble, and now, adding two concerned birds and one murderous kitten, it was even worse.
This was going to be a very, very long night. But both mom and Nicole had asked him, so he wouldn’t try to get out of being a (as) good (as possible) role model.
---------------.----------
Tim winced, muscles locking in a poor attempt at not showing it. From the look Conner gave him, at the other side of the room where he was being chewed out by Lex, he failed miserably at hiding his pain; which, in turn, enraged his mom even more.
-What. Did. You. DO?!
The hand not currently held by his mother went to his ear, protecting it from the almost demonic screech. He could see Auntie Nicole doing the same, sitting with Damian on the couch, sharing tea and cookies as they watched the whole show. The nine year old showed a surprising amount of sympathy towards Tim’s injuries, for someone who had been harshly trained since birth and had recently begun a career as vigilante (not that Tim was supposed to know about it, though). Or was it pity because of mom’s rage?
-You told me no tights and spandex! Never said anything about a mask and a hoodie, and Conner and the guys really needed my help with strategizing -he defended himself, because even if he shouldn't know about the waynes being heroes, he had been Conner’s friend since he found and subsequently freed him from Lex’s secret lab, which in turn warranted mom’s rule against heroing that he had just broke-. And don’t yell at me, I can hear you perfectly fine.
-I’M NOT YELLING! -she lied, tightening the bandage, scowl growing in power-, AND MASKS WERE IMPLIED AS A NO! Also, what are those if not thighs?
-Skinny jeans!
-They are indecent, that’s what they are!
On the other side of the room, Kon seemed to be having a less exhausting time than Tim. Lucky bastard, Luthor had less experience in parenthood, hadn’t yet reached the Scolding Mastery level.
-Hey! Auntie Nicole dresses like that -he points to the woman, who raises an eyebrow- and you don’t tell her anything! Look at her cleavage, you can almost see her bellybutton!
-Leave me out of this -asked the woman, taking the teapot to refill Damian’s cup; he, in turn, handed her the cookies platter.
Ignoring her best friend, Janet snapped again- NICOLE ISN’T MY STUPID FOURTEEN YEAR OLD SON, WHO IS NEVER SEEING THE LIGHT OF DAY AGAIN!
-What light of day? This is Gotham, we don’t have sunlight anyway. And I’m not stupid, my IQ is higher than everyone’s in this room.
-IT SURELY LOOKS LIKE YOU ARE FROM WHERE I’M STANDING, HERE, RE-BANDAGING YOUR ARM!
Tim sighed, locking eyes with Conner in solidarity; or he wanted to, but the smug bastard’s scolding was over and he and Luthor had joined the Al Ghuls in their tea party.
-Come on, mom. This’ but a scratch.
-YOU GOT SEVEN STITCHES!!!! I can’t believe this.
She barely got her son out of vigilantism by monitoring his Wayne-Interaction and threats of boarding school and then he went and befriended a group of teen heroes and threw all her hard work straight to the trash. No, he skipped that part, he went directly to the dumpster and burried her good intentions under a pile of shit.
But really, she couldn’t very well make him entirely responsible of this, not when he got carried away by Conner’s ‘do the right thing’ speech. And Conner had came into their lives because of…
In blind rage, she finished her patch job on her son’s arm and turned in a flash to face Lex, whose face went quickly from amused to scared.
-WHY DID YOU THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO HAVE A KID WITH SUPERMAN?
Sensing she was done with him, Tim went to sit by Kon, who moved a bit on his individual couch so they could share it, though it was a very tight fit.
-Clone -he corrected helpfully, TTK bringing Tim his coffee cup closer.
-Did I stutter? And I wasn’t talking to you, was I?
Nicole seemed like she was having the time of her life right now- So hey, listen, between you and LITERAL SUPERMAN, who was the one on the receiving end when you pictured yourself having a kid with him? Like, who was getting it? Because, pal, odds aren’t in your favor, you know.
-Don’t be stupid, dear -huffed Janet, looking at her friend’s green eyes and calming don infinitesimally- If he was actually getting it, he wouldn't have resorted to having his kid to get his attention.
-IT’S A CLONE, AND I ABSOLUTELY DIDN’T MAKE HIM TO GET THAT ALIEN’S ATTENTION! He’s my enemy, not my lover, what is wrong with you people.
-Am I a divorce-preventing baby? -asked Kon to Tim, raising an eyebrow. The other kid just shrugged.
-Looks like it. Not like Uncle Lex had any other way to keep Superman from leaving him…
-I’m right here.
-I know, Uncle Lex. I love you, but you need to rethink your choices. If the man wants to go, let him go. Kon doesn’t need any brothers. I can’t deal with more of him, one is more than enough.
#Janet Drake au#janet drake is a good mom#Tim Drake#janet drake#Nicole Al Ghul (oc)#Damian Wayne#conner kent#lex luthor#dick grayson#Jason Todd#Janet is close to having a panic attack#or yknow#murdering lex for making this happen#lex just wanted a weapon against superman NOT a divorce-preventive baby#pre Janet/nicole#tim isn't a hero but he's friends with a few so sometiems he helps#THEY ARE STUPID MOM THEY'D DIE WITHOUT MY HELP I 'HAD' TO HELP THEM
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Let’s Review || Chapter 15
Peter Parker knew that his big sister would do anything for him to be safe and happy. She’d given up everything for him twice over already and would do it again in a heartbeat. And that’s why, when the criminal mastermind Tony Stark started inextricably following him around, he didn’t say a word. Because he knew without a doubt Penny would do whatever she had to if it meant keeping Peter safe. He had to protect her, just like she always protected him. He never considered what would happen if Stark decided both Parker siblings were worth taking. Never considered who else in Stark’s inner circle would agree. He just wanted to protect her and yet somehow, they both ended up with needles in their necks.
relationship: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character/Bucky Barnes, background Peter Parker/Tony Stark
rating: Explicit
warnings: Dark Steve Rogers, Dark Bucky Barnes, Dark Tony Stark, Dark Avengers, kidnapping, non-con/dub-con elements, underage Peter Parker, emotional and psychological abuse, very dark
casual reminder: this story is r o u g h. themes of rape, kidnapping, power imbalances, etc.. This story does not depict healthy or safe relationships. Trigger warning for blood.
Steve could tell she didn't remember when she woke up. It was still dark and she was cocooned between them, her body not even touching the bed but instead splayed across theirs. Her legs had tangled with his during the night, one hitched over his thigh while the other brushed against his shin, squished between him and Bucky. She was mostly laid out across his torso, flat on her stomach with her head rested in the crook of his neck. Her lips nearly brushed his skin every time she breathed, soft, sleepy sounds escaping.
Several precious moments went by, where she didn't tense up or try to pull away. She curled her neck down, forehead brushing his skin like she wanted to burrow into his chest and tucked her arms closer to her torso, fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake as she shifted.
It was a small, squeaky mewing from the end of the bed that caused her reaction. Her movements stopped all at once, her breathing freezing in her lungs. The cats, of course, served as a reminder of the night before. After all, they’d been a supplication gift.
An “oh sorry we made you throw up three times because we tortured a man in front of you” present. “Remember that time you watched me systematically brutalize another human being? Take some cats while we pretend we didn’t do anything wrong.”
He felt how hard she swallowed in the short, jerky movements that followed, as she remembered Rumlow’s screams with every hit. His eyes had swollen completely shut over the course of the hour, blood was pouring from his mouth where teeth had become entirely dislodged and then, of course, he’d gone and ripped the man’s finger off completely.
It began again all at once, with Penny shoving against his chest so hard she practically threw herself off the bed. She teetered on the edge for several seconds in panic before visibly deciding to fall rather than reach for help. A slow sigh escaped Steve at the resulting thud; they were back to step one, where she was so afraid that she abandoned any concern for her safety. Their bed could’ve just as easily been the one in the spare room several floors away, the scene played out just the same, if short a bit of violence. Steve went to the end of the bed just the same, only for her to pop up on her own accord before he could help her.
It was like any and all progress had been erased. Penny’s eyes were darting around the room, searching for any possible escapes. She almost stumbled over her own feet in her haste to back away from him, arms out to her sides for both balance and to keep him at a distance as he approached.
“Penny, doll—”
“P-Please, please I’ll be better,” Bucky had sat up by this point, the blanket pooled over his waist, face twisting upon hearing Penny’s whimpering, “I can do better, I swear.”
When Buck stood up, a keening cry escaped her and her back hit the wall from trying to prevent them from getting too close, "wait, please! Wait, just wait, please! Please, please!"
Please became a much more important facet of her vocabulary when she was trying to Be Sweet. Usually it was when she didn't know how to make them happy, when she didn't know what behavior constituted as breaking the rules. He knew she didn't necessarily care about them being happy, she was trying anything she could to avoid punishments. It would've been cute if it weren't accompanied by tears and violent, fearful shaking. Steve stopped approaching, motioning for Bucky to do the same, and held his hands up placatingly.
"Take a deep breath, Penny," he ordered gently, "try to rationalize baby. We haven't been aggressive, haven't done anything that would make you think we're angry. Just try to think, Penny, you're not in any danger, we're not going to hurt you, you're safe here."
There was a visible fight or flight reaction. Her muscles locked and both Steve and Bucky had to immediately drop into defensive stances—Penny chose fight 9 times out of 10 with no hesitation or forethought. She had a tendency to get the drop on them too, just because her movements were always so brutal. Whoever taught Penny self-defense must’ve put a lot of emphasis on disabling an attacker and disengaging from the situation, because she wanted to cause as much bodily damage as possible. It was actually almost impressive but neither of them was looking to receive a cock shot any time soon.
“Penny, you don’t have to be better,” Bucky implored quietly, staying far across the room just in case he needed to play back up to Steve in the event of violence, “we know how stressful this is for you, precious. You’re going through a really hard time.”
Steve was quick to nod in agreement, “you’re so scared baby, let us help you. Let us take care of you. That’s all we want.”
Her dark eyes darted between them for several prolonged seconds, face crumbling as she did so before she burst into tears. She slid down the wall, coming to rest in a crumpled pile on the floor. Both soldiers immediately advanced, dropping down to the ground on either side of her and simultaneously engulfing her in their arms. Please, please, please. She was just repeating the words over and over through sobs, her hands shaking as she held them in front of her, elbows curled against her sides. It was a defenseless position, one that desperately sought space and projected don’t touch me, stop touching me, let go.
"Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh," Steve's lips brushed her temple, both his and Bucky's hands running over any skin they could find.
She'd never admit it, never tell them, but the skin to skin contact was immediately successful. She'd resigned to quietly crying, spread across both of their laps. Steve carefully shifted her to lay chest to chest with him, catching the mass of her curly hair to fall away from her face.
"I hate how scared you are baby," he murmured after a few moments, the three of them comfortably settled in a pile, "we don't want you to be upset. All we want is for you to be happy, Penny doll. We want to make you happy, for you to be happy."
The skin contact was brutally unfair; Penny was touch starved in an almost incapacitating way. Her skin was on fire from the sensations of their hands, her brain flooding with happy chemicals despite how much she hated them. She didn't want to be touched. They were monsters among men but somehow she leaned in anyway, absorbing the body heat. Her cheek brushed Steve's bare chest, eyes slipping shut at the sensation of his skin beneath hers.
She’d been scared for ages now. Fear had permeated her entire existence since the moment she’d searched for Tony Stark online, her heart beat with a steady thrum of underlying terror at all times. The fear had been real when she’d woken up in the Tower when the soldiers’ purpose was revealed and when she realized Stark had taken Peter. It had gone effete to a degree, the intensity depleting with the consistency.
This fear was different. It was overwhelming and all-encompassing. Tony Stark was dangerous and powerful and she’d been so, so afraid of him. She’d been afraid of his power over everyone he came in contact with, the overwhelming control he seemed to have over his world and everything in his orbit. But her fear of the soldiers was worse. Never in her life had there been such a dire and immediate threat to her safety. She was literally wrapped in the arms of men who would rip a man’s finger off and shove it into his mouth. To prove a point. They would do that just to prove a point.
What if they got sick of her fighting them? What would they do when their infatuation with her wore off? She knew very clearly that Peter was the prime target in this whole situation, that she was the equivalent of a kid's toy and could be thrown away with the same level of apathy. She, personally, was not safe and it had honestly never been so clear to her before.
Peter was going to be alone, after everything she did to make sure he wouldn't be. Paul and Olivia would've taken care of him, would've loved him like a little brother just like she had. Penny had no delusions; she was going to die and Peter was going to live surrounded by monsters for the rest of his life.
She'd failed him, in the worst possible way, Penny had failed him.
Bucky carefully arranged Penny to rest completely on Steve, standing up and walking to the bed to collect the weighted blanket they’d brought out the night before. The blond helped him arrange it around her, cocooning her in the fabric. She was covered in goosebumps but felt like she was burning up, a shiver went down her spine and her teeth clenched together to prevent them from chattering. Over her head, the soldiers spoke with nothing more than facial expressions and minute hand gestures. Small sighs escaped both of them and Steve arched his neck to rest his forehead against the crown of her hair.
“I’m gonna stay home with you today, okay precious?” He murmured, “We’ll rest, play with the kittens. Do your plants need to be watered?”
Penny felt like her bones were expanding under her skin, pressing out and out and out until they burst through her flesh and ripped her entire body to pieces— a hair raising sensation that almost equaled the substantial level of unrelenting terror she felt at the thought of being alone with Steve all day long. Did they forget she’d watched him rip a man’s finger off about twelve hours ago? Because she had. She was almost sure she’d seen it.
But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what happened, because they didn’t care. They didn’t care how she felt, how her stomach was twisting into such tight knots she felt like she’d never eat again. Nothing about her mattered to them beyond a surface level obsession.
“Ss... some of.. them,” the words barely escaped, a desperate attempt to placate the psychopaths surrounding her with a response; she had to make them happy. She had to make them happy or she was literally going to die.
She didn’t see the glance exchanged over her head, the sad expression on Steve’s face; her eyes were wide open, moving even but she was hardly saw anything but blurs. Between the tears and the near mental breakdown, she was blind to the way both men seemed almost lost.
“How about we go make breakfast,” Steve asked softly, getting to his feet and carefully setting Penny on hers, his hands on her hips to keep her steady.
A jerky nod was his only response and Bucky sighed a little, leaning over to kiss her forehead before heading into the bathroom; Steve might be staying home, but he’d need to get into the ‘office’ by about 9 A.M. to prevent Tony from pitching a fit. He’d take over the blond’s work for the day, some internal investigation Steve had been working on. His interrogations could always wait— if there was one thing he and Stark agreed on, it was that anticipation was its own form of torture.
Rumlow would need several days to stew before he and Steve returned. That was the kind of anticipation Bucky really like causing. A bone deep chill that grew worse and worse with each passing hour, until the victim was a shivering mass curled up on the floor. His lips twisted as he stepped out of the shower and quickly dressed in work clothes. Usually he liked causing that kind of anticipation, but the image in his head replayed Penny sliding down the wall bawling, over and over. Their poor girl was a mess and it was at least 30% their fault.
Sure, Tony was largely at fault and Peter had a hand in it all, no matter how unwittingly. And Penny had proved she obviously needed a lesson. But seeing her so scared hurt his heart, especially since he had a part in causing it.
It was hard knowing that Penny didn't believe how much they adored her. They'd waited a hundred years for her, endured countless agonies and survived it all, and somehow were found worthy of finding their doll at the end of it. Fate had tried to keep them from her, had tried everything to prevent them from their happy ending, and fate had failed. She was their supplication present, sent by whatever monsters had put them through hell for so long, and they adored her.
They'd known from the beginning, when they made their decision to take her, that Penny's acceptance would take a lot of time and effort on their part. The constant rejections were frustrating and depressing but they could handle it. That didn't mean they wouldn't do anything in their power to shorten the time and suffering. It was likely time to call in the big guns.
"JARVIS, tell everyone I need a meeting during lunch today," he sighed, pulling his hair back into a bun, "we need some strategic assistance."
"I'll alert you once I have received responses, Sargeant."
"Thanks buddy," Bucky replied absently, adjusting his shirt sleeves as he stepped out of the bathroom and into their room.
His ears picked up the sound of shattering glass as he approached the living room, stopping him in his tracks. Anxiety flooded the entire apartment, tension rising up to choke him.
"I d-didn't mean to," Penny's voice was hardly more than a whisper, Bucky wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't doubled timed it to the kitchen as soon as he regained control.
The sink was still running behind her while she faced Steve at the oven, wet, soapy hands still held out at her waist where she'd been holding the glass now broken on the tile. Her eyes were locked on the floor, pupils blown wide with terror.
"Penny—"
"I'm sorry!" Penny dropped to her knees immediately, brutally shredding her skin and reaching out to begin sweeping the glass into a pile with her hands, "I'll clean it, I'm sorry!"
Bucky blew past Steve, shoes crunching over the glass as he scooped Penny off the floor and deposited her onto the counter. Her blood was smeared over the white tile, a nearly nauseating sight to the soldiers. The blond had already darted off for the first aid kit and come back, easily battling away Penny's attempts to keep him from touching her wounds.
"JARVIS, call for Dr. Banner immediately!"
"Dr. Banner is en route with the emergency kit."
"Penny, baby— Jesus baby, why did you do that? JARVIS, open the apartment door so Dr. Banner can get in once the elevator arrives."
"Please, I'm so sorry!" She sobbed, "I lost my grip, I swear! I didn't mean to, please—"
"We know, baby, we know!" Bucky cooed, trying with Steve to carefully restrain her flailing limbs and steady her head without making her feel trapped, blood covering their hands, "it was an accident baby, it's okay! Steve?"
He has gauze in hand and was trying to clean her knees without pressing the glass further into her skin, "come on baby, stay still for me."
"Penny you've got to calm down before Dr. Banner gets here or we'll have to give you a sedative so he can clean your wounds, do you understand?" Bucky caught her chin in his flesh hand, trying to ignore the sight of the blood he smeared over her chin and cheek.
Penny visibly tried to reel herself in, sobs coming out in bubbling breaths and her entire body shaking. The soldiers carefully cooed around her as she quieted, bloody hands running over her bare skin. She was streaked red, her legs and neck and face. It looked like she’d been assaulted, all bloody and small and trembling. The elevator dinged and Bruce quickly made his way in to the kitchen, shouldering them both out of his way.
“JARVIS told me what happened,” he stated, setting the emergency kit next to Penny on the counter, “Penny, sweetheart, try to take deep breaths, okay? I need you to be still.”
“She’s trying,” Bucky snapped, hand wrapping around to cup the back of her neck.
“She’s already calmed down a lot, Bruce,” Steve stepped in before his boyfriend could get anymore heated, “just give her a second, I think it’s the adrenaline.”
Bucky sighed and glanced over at the doctor remorsefully, “sorry Bruce. I’ll clean up the glass.”
But when the brunet tried to pull away, Penny let out a sharp cry and latched onto his arm. A whine of pain followed, the movement pushing glass further into her hands, but she tightened her grip anyway. She was saying something, but the words were Hebrew and none of the men understood what she was trying to say.
“Shit, it’s okay doll,” he scooped Penny up into his arms and walked over to the kitchen table, swinging a chair out and settling into it with her on his lap, “here baby, let me hold you.”
The elevator dinged once again, this time revealing Stark and, surprisingly, Pepper, meaning JARVIS must've either left the door open after Bruce came in, or Tony has used his override. Steve did what Bucky called the ‘confused puppy’ head tilt but was waved off by the pair as they walked into the kitchen. Both were dressed to the nines, likely for some sort of press conference. Pepper was one of the only people who could properly reign Tony in and regularly made a point of showing up to supervise him during press events. The soldiers hadn’t even been aware she’d gotten back from her most recent business trip.
“JARVIS said we had an accident,” Tony came to crouch in front of Penny with Bruce, eyes scanning over her knees and outstretched hands, “oh, angel, you did a number on yourself didn’t you?”
Quiet, hiccuping cries continued to to escape Penny but she gave no other response. She hadn’t even acknowledged Stark’s presence, which just emphasized how distraught she was; Penny was hypervigilant around Tony 90% of the time.
“Poor thing,” Pepper sighed, hand rested on her forehead, “we need to get a psychiatrist in here.”
Penny yelped loudly when Bruce dug a small piece of glass from her knee, jerking against Bucky’s hold unintentionally, “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“We know, we know,” Tony brushed his words off, standing up and dragging a hand over his beard, “get someone on it, Pep. We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late, Rogers—”
“I’m staying home with her today, Buck’ll go in once she calms down,” the blond cut him off before he could finish.
The older man nodded, leaning over to press a kiss to Penny’s forehead before standing up, “I’ll be back later, we’ve got a press conference.”
The pair exited just as quickly as they’d entered, Pepper giving JARVIS orders while Tony talked incessantly at her. It was the kind of dynamic that to a stranger looked like regular behavior, but the soldiers and Bruce knew it revealed their discomfort; Pepper made very polite requests to JARVIS, always, because she knew how annoying it was to have orders barked at her and Tony didn’t speak over her, out of a sense of respect he only had very a select few people. They weren’t sure if it was Penny’s current state, or the press event they were likely on their way to, or both, but Tony and Pepper were definitely distraught.
“You’re doing very well, Penny,” Bruce spoke quietly as he moved from her right knee to her left knee, having successfully removed all of the glass, “there’s not too much in this one, it’s just a little deeper. Just squeeze Bucky’s hands when it hurts, okay?”
The trembling brunette nodded, still hiccuping every few seconds. It took a good half hour for Bruce to get all of the glass out and after double checking his work three separate times, he finally bandaged her up. Sitting in her panties and an oversized henley in Bucky's lap, with bandages on her hands and knees, she lookes like a little girl who'd fallen while playing outside. It was almost like when Steve had been so small, when Bucky could still cradle him in his lap. His arms squeezed around her waist and he kissed the back of her head softly.
"Alright Penny, we're finished," Bruce gave her a smile and stood up, handing off some sterile packaging to Steve to be thrown away, "just keep an eye out for signs of infection, change the bandages regularly, and you'll be good to go."
"Thanks for coming, Bruce," the blond sounded just as sad as he felt as he led him out towards the open front door and into the hallway that held the elevator.
"The emotional trauma will recede, Steve," Bruce put a hand on the taller man's shoulder, "she's going to be okay, humans are incredibly adaptable. You just have to keep pressing."
"It's just hard when she's so sad," Steve sighed, "we knew she would be scared, but I hate that we're making her sad."
"That's because you're a good person," Bruce's face cracked into a crooked smile, "now, go comfort her."
#steve rogers x oc x bucky barnes#steve rogers x oc#bucky barnes x oc#dark!steve rogers#dark!bucky barnes#dark!tony stark#dark!mcu#let's review#let's review chapter 15
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the color of a bruise (part two)
warnings; cursing, pretty vanilla so far tbh
word count; 1626
a/n; can I please just say how much I love Ennoshita,, like he seriously doesn’t get enough love and support
(8:34pm, Karasuno Headquarters, Daichi's Office)
"She isn't cut out for this."
"It's not like she has much of a choice."
"The girl never asked for this lifestyle, she did what she thought was right. You can't punish her for that, Sawamura."
The tension in room was palpable. Daichi stood with his shoulders leaned against the wall. His sharp gaze was on where Ennoshita stood across his desk. The two held their silent pissing contest until Daichi let out a dejected sigh.
"Yes, but that Good Samaritan act just landed her a one way ticket into this mess."
"But-"
Ennoshita's reoccurring concern was cut short when another voice spoke in to reason. "If Daichi didn't find her, you know they would have…" Suga was sat in one of the chairs by the desk, his long legs crossed and a look of genuine speculation etched into the soft wrinkles of his forehead. "Besides, she saved two of our recruits, we owe her for that much... And we might as well use any of her abilities since she’ll be with us for awhile."
"But what does she even have to offer? All we know is that she can aim a can of fucking mace, it's practical to assume she has no real training,"Ennoshita's hands came to rub across his jaw, the uncertainty of the situation as a whole left him on edge. If there was one thing Ennoshita didn't like, it was unidentified liabilities.
"We'll figure it out as we go, but I'm not leaving her to be killed by them. She saved two of ours, so now we save her."
Daichi spoke with such a firmness that Ennoshita knew, even if he wanted to rebuttal the claim, the use of furthering the debate would be useless. He made his decision.
It was huge. So much larger than any house you had ever stepped foot into before. Your brain didn't allow you to gawk, however. It was far too focused on the adrenaline still pumping through your veins as the account of the previous hour circulated through your memory like a broken tape.
A job, a job, a job.. Maybe they need something fixed? What the hell could you fix?... No.. Maybe a secretary! You can type! But what use would they have for secretary?.. Shit! What did they want from you?
You were scattered, your mind a jumbled mess of paranoid delusions and worst case scenarios. This wasn't good, no. But you had to keep a level head if it were to take a turn for the worse.
You cast a watchful glance towards the boy who stood at the corner of the couch. From where you sat you could see that he was in fact one of the boys you had stumbled upon that fateful night. Under proper lighting, he looked cute. His freckled face and kind eyes made you feel a bit more at ease the longer you were forced to wait. You had tried to subtly get his attention through gestures, fearful to make any noise in the otherwise silent mansion, but his eyes remained glued to the floor in an unblinking stare.
That effort had been abandoned after your fourth attempt. You closed your eyes, willing the entire house to vanish when you opened them again. If you had any such abilities, they were clearly against you tonight. When you had reopened your eyes, you nearly yelped at the new additions to the room.
Sat on the pristine white sofa across from you sat a man with neatly style silver hair. Beside him was another man of larger stature and dark eyes. He watched you with a searching stare. You were so caught in keeping your guard up that your heart skipped a beat when the silver-haired man spoke,
"Relax, we aren't going to hurt you."
The dark-haired fellow softened his gaze as he rested his elbows atop his knees. "What's your name? Your full name."
"Y/N L/N." You cringed at the sound of your own voice. It sounded broken and afraid--and while that may be the case, you'd prefer to not have your captors be aware of your current state.
"Okay, Y/N, tell me what you're thinking."
The scoff you let out was second nature. Were you the only one who realized how batshit insane this whole thing was? Most likely. "I think this is a sick game you're playing. Saying you won't hurt me just to build up my trust, and then when I least expect it, you'll have me begging for a life that was never promised." Somehow, despite the racing heart inside your ribcage, you looked up to make eye contact with the brunet.
What shocked you was that despite the chiseled features of his jaw and muscular frame, his eyes were soft as they looked at you. "I can assure you, we have no intention of bringing you any harm. I am a man of my word, and if you would like, I can explain everything in detail."
"I just want to go home."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss L/N."
Your heart nearly exploded in your chest. You hadn't noticed the third person enter. He was of average height and build, with dark ebony hair combed neatly away from his forehead. His features were colder, more serious than the other two. You didn't like the way he looked at you as if you were the cause for all his troubles.
But then again, maybe you were.
With wide eyes, you stared at the men on the couch as panic thrummed in your veins. The brunet leaned closer towards you, the palm of his hand was opened as if he were gesturing for a wild animal to calm down. "Relax, I can explain what's going to happen, but you need to settle down first."
Although oppositions nested in your brain, you willed yourself to find any last shreds of composure. You prayed they failed to notice the tremor of your hands as you clutched them tightly in your lap. You gave a small nod.
"My name is Daichi. These are my associates, Suga and Ennoshita. We work in a… taboo field of business. The two boys you had met a few night ago, Hinata and Yamaguchi, also work for me. Does this make sense so far?"
You gave him an uncertain glance, but nodded nonetheless.
"The man that had cornered Hinata and Yamaguchi works for a different… business, and he had real intent to do harm to them. Thankfully, though, you acted with bravery and helped them escape. However…" He paused.
You didn't like the way he paused. Your eyes searched his features for any giveaways. The rationale in your brain told you to dig deeper, demand to know why he was so hesitant about telling you these things, what any of this has to do with you. But your tongue was glued in your mouth, and what came out was the voice of someone defeated, "However?..."
"Because of your actions, you now have a target over your head as well."
In that moment, your heart seemingly ceased to beat. The breath in your lungs dissipated and your mind went white as the words sank in. "What- what the hell does that mean?" You feared you already knew the answer.
"It means, whether you want to believe it or not, you're wanted by one of the most powerful gangs in Japan."
You weren't sure who had said it. Most likely Ennoshita, but your mind was only able to make out two words; wanted and gangs.
Your eyes burned. It took a moment before you realized tears were falling down your cheeks. You didn't rub them away, you didn't try to hide. You merely felt. Felt the coolness of them as they rolled like rain down a window. Felt the hole in your chest become a gaping void. Felt as your world seemingly fell apart.
It was weak, a plea for help, for stability or support. It came from the deepest parts of you, and it was pathetic, "What have I done?..."
Daichi stood from where he sat to kneel in front of your slouched figure. His hands were large, they could easily grab onto you and put you out of whatever misery was coming your way, but instead, they were gentle as his calloused fingers laid atop your own. "I gave you my word that your safety is in the hands of me and my men. You saved two of mine, so now we will save you. Deal?"
When you managed to meet his gaze, you found warmth in the browns of his eyes, a deep level of comfort you never expected had you nodding solemnly.
You notice out of the corner of your eyes that the boy from earlier had reappeared. When he left, you never noticed. But now, his eyes finally looked at you. In them, you saw the same glimpses of sympathy etched into his features. You were quick to look away.
"Yamaguchi is going to take you to your room. You'll be staying here until it's safe for you to return home. I'll send someone to your apartment for clothes in the morning. Go get some rest. We’ll discuss everything else in the morning."
Being told you would have a bed to sleep in was easily the best news you had received all day. You didn't pay any attention to the vast interior of the mansion or hallways as you trailed behind Yamaguchi. You didn't take in any details of the room as you entered, either. Your body merely floated from one place to the next until you were asleep on a mattress that was far too soft for a place so cold.
#haikyuu!!#haikyuu#hq!!#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu fluff#haikyuu scenarios#haikyuu angst#haikyuu smut#mafia au#my writing#the color of a bruise
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Vikings Ending Explained
https://ift.tt/eA8V8J
The following contains spoilers for Vikings season 6 part two.
Vikings has always been concerned with legacy: that of the Vikings themselves, and of Ragnar and his sons. It’s clear from the show’s coda – Ubbe and Floki side by side on a distant beach, contemplating existence as the sun glows down upon the endless stretch of ocean before them – that the two ultimately are inseparable. Bound up in this spider’s web of myth and mayhem, too, is the fate and legacy of the show itself. How will it be remembered now that it is gone? In a word: fondly.
Creator Michael Hirst has left us a show for the ages, one that transcends the war, blood, and murder that first drew audiences to its story. The closing run of episodes is at turns thrilling, stirring, chilling, harrowing, heart-breaking, savage, sensual and ethereal, and is capped off with a mesmerizing, mytho-philosophical finale that retroactively elevates everything that came before it, all the way back to the moment when Ragnar first asked Floki to help him sail west. So how does it achieve this greatness? And what does it all mean? Let’s break it down.
Groundhog Deity
One of the central themes of the show is the cycle of violence and bloodshed in which Viking society finds itself mired, and the battle between those who seek to perpetuate it, and those who seek to break free from it. It’s a dichotomy that burns down through the wick of the show, and often rages within its characters, most notably Ragnar, Lagertha, Floki, Bjorn, and Ubbe. Season upon season, each promise of peace is swiftly pounded into the blood-soaked earth by the vengeance, skulduggery or megalomaniacal ambitions of a chaotic individual, faction or rival; the old ways refusing to cede ground to the new. But still the dreamers and visionaries struggle, against themselves, against the furious roar of tradition, again and again. This rise and fall happened so frequently throughout the show’s run that its rhythm caused some sections of the audience to grow weary. This repetition, though, this sense of helplessness, is largely the point (not to mention an accurate portrayal of the brutish life endured by most people in the Dark and Middle Ages), and one that’s made more explicit than ever before in the final stretch of the season. Like the characters themselves, we the audience must feel – truly feel – the suffocating hopelessness of it all before we can begin to appreciate the burst of light at the end.
All throughout the series the Vikings’ thirst for war and conquest is cloaked in the language of fate, destiny, glory, and the Gods. In a telling sequence half-way through the final ten episodes, these justifications are stripped away to reveal the dark, very mortal truth that lies behind them. Ivar, Hvitserk, and King Harald reunite in a calm and peaceful Kattegat. All three are burnt-out, frazzled, and dissatisfied. There’s a real sense that “the age of the Vikings is gone” and that this is “the twilight of the Gods”. Harald and Ivar admit that there is no pleasure in being a King, despite it being a title both men have dreamed of and longed for, and for which they’ve lied, cheated, betrayed, and killed. In the final analysis, we can see – and finally they can see, however indirectly – that the great cycle in which the Vikings are trapped has been perpetuated not by the Gods – those great scapegoats in the sky – but by bored and angry men seeking in bloodshed distractions from a cold and brutish world whose quotient of misery has only ever been increased by their actions. It is especially sad to see Ivar churned back into this mill given the growth he experienced throughout this season, not only in being a caring, surrogate father to the Rus heir Igor, but in becoming an actual father after his body asserted itself just long enough to plant his seed in Princess Katia’s belly.
Ivar witnesses two men in a public gathering-place squabbling over a trivial matter, and extrapolates from this that war is a necessary state for the Vikings, because in peace they fight amongst themselves. It’s patently obvious that the lesson Ivar pulls from this incident says more about his pain and psychopathology – his hatred, his emptiness – than it does about society at large. Ultimately, it is he, and Harald, and Hvitserk, and a million other men just like them, who need war. They need external conflict to distract them from their own internal conflicts and inadequacies. Never-the-less, and perhaps unsurprisingly, Ivar’s facile supposition is all that King Harald needs to hear. Before long, the three men and a ready-made army are heading back across the sea to England for a final confrontation with King Alfred and his Christian Saxon soldiers.
“The Twilight of the Gods”
This climactic confrontation is, on one level, less a battle between two armies and more the continuation of the chess game Ivar and Alfred once played as children, as their fathers – King Ragnar and King Ecbert – cut deals and hatched plots in another room.
In many ways, Ivar was always marked for monsterhood. He grew up with the fierce love of his mother, Aslaug, which she wrapped around him like a blanket made of steel. By over-compensating for his condition and physical fragility to such a suffocating degree, she left him isolated, conceited and angry. His father, Ragnar, was absent for most of his youth. Though Ivar had Floki to teach and guide him in the ways of the Gods, Ivar didn’t realize quite how much of himself had been missing until Ragnar returned and took him under his wing. Ragnar was one of the few men who seemed to have faith in Ivar’s abilities; who told him that he could be something other than a liability, a cripple, a joke. They journeyed to England together with conquest in mind, but when a storm sank most of their boats, Ragnar swiftly refocused the purpose of their visit, enlisting Ivar’s aid to kill the surviving members of their party (to remove all evidence of their initial intent) and surrender themselves to King Ecbert.
Ragnar tells Ecbert to deliver him into the hands of King Aelle, so that Ecbert will not be blamed for Ragnar’s death, and the full fury of the Vikings will be directed at their mutual enemy instead. However, Ragnar has instructed Ivar to return home with news of Ecbert’s duplicity, so that both Kings will become the targets of the rage-and-grief-filled Viking horde. Ivar is the perfect capsule for this incendiary message, as Ragnar gambles, quite correctly, that King Ecbert’s sense of fair play, filtered through his Christianity, won’t permit him to harm or imprison a poor, harmless crippled boy. Ragnar thus succeeds in turning the Saxon’s Christian compassion into a fatal weakness, while at the same time teaching his weaponized son that love, violence, deceit, and death are so intimately connected as to be almost indivisible.
When Aslaug died at Lagertha’s hands, soon after Ragnar’s death, it removed his only other source of love, cloying though it was. He took that love and turned a mutated version of it upon himself, imbuing himself with delusions of Godhood, something his fury at his parents’ deaths only served to magnify.
In the first dramatic round of the final battle against Alfred, Ivar repeats his father’s tactic of weaponizing kindness. He orders traps to be set in the forest with which to painfully ensnare the first line of Alfred’s advancing soldiers. The hope is that Alfred’s Christian compassion will compel him to send the next few lines of soldiers to assist their wailing brothers, allowing the Vikings to ambush them like lambs to the slaughter. And so it proves. Many lives are lost. The fighting is kinetic and savage; the pervading mist and gloom only enlivened by the occasional eruption of fire, like a melding of Valhalla and the Christian conception of Hell. King Harald is killed, finding some solace and peace at last with a dying vision of his brother, Halfdan, whom he’d killed in a previous battle.
After this, there is a lull in the fighting. Alfred and Ivar meet under a white flag to discuss terms. Alfred will not yield. He will never again reward Ivar for his unprovoked attacks, nor fall into the trap of trusting his word. He tells Ivar to leave his kingdom, leave England, and never return; entreats him to save his people from further pointless bloodshed. He goes on to declare: “My God is the God of peace and love. Your Gods are savage. They demand sacrifice. They do not know human love.” The final fight that follows is as much the culmination of a struggle between two competing religious and cultural ideologies as it is a battle between Ivar and Alfred; and by the end of this final episode the matter is settled, at least in a thematic sense.
Alfred and Ivar cleave to their God and Gods on the battlefield, looking to them for guidance and answers. As the situation becomes ever more desperate, both leaders soon find themselves deserted by their Gods, their imagined connection to them severed.
“What am I supposed to do?” Ivar shouts to his suddenly deaf and mute Gods. “Answer me!”
“Speak to me, please. I’m afraid. Speak!” Alfred beseeches his lord Jesus.
Stripped of their Gods, both men are forced to acknowledge in whose image they’ve truly been forged: their fathers’. What they do next will decide if history is doomed to repeat itself, and also settle the question of whether it is their own wills or the wills of their fathers that are the stronger. Ultimately, it is love and compassion, in both instances, that proves to be their guiding light, leading Ivar to reject his father’s ways, and Alfred to embrace his father’s – his real father: the monk Athelstan, who was once a friend and confidante of the great Ragnar Lothbrook.
All You Need is Love
Ivar watches the battle from the side-lines. Hvitserk has long been a tormented, tortured and fractured man, but in combat he’s whole, screeching and roaring through the flames like a mythical demon. But one man can’t best a whole army, and it becomes clear that Hvitserk isn’t long for this world. Ivar’s eyes shine an electric blue, a physical indication known since childhood that his brittle bones are about to break. Ivar knows his actions in the next few minutes will serve as his last will and testament, the means by which the world will remember him. Ivar watches Hvitserk – the brother he’d many times mocked and tormented, whose life he’d tried to ruin, who’d long forsworn to kill him – and charges onto the battlefield to take his place, submitting himself to the same forces of compassion he’d spent a life-time deriding and subverting.
“I could never kill you,” he tells Hvitserk.
“I love you. I love you brother,” Hvitserk replies tearfully.
“Now go. Go!” hollers Ivar.
Ivar’s rage and defiance seem to shake the very earth around him. He is at one with his army. He fights and lives through them. In the midst of his last stand a young soldier, shaking with fear, approaches him from the mist.
“Don’t be afraid,” says Ivar, an almost Christ-like evocation at this, his moment of sacrifice. The soldier stabs him repeatedly, and, as Ivar falls, his bones snap and break. Hvitserk runs to him and cradles his dying body, while Alfred calls for the fighting to stop. “I am afraid,” Ivar splutters, words no-one thought they would ever hear from Ivar the Boneless. And then there are three more; his final words: “I love you.”
Ivar has thus broken the cycle. He has sacrificed himself not for hate, as his father once did, but for love. He was finally able to know and to feel human love; and crucially to demonstrate it instead of demanding it, even if it was right at the end of his life, and only for a few moments. Already Ivar had begun to demonstrate humility. On the eve of the battle he told Hvitserk: “Hundreds of years from now, someone will be proud to find my blood is in their body and my spirit is in their soul.” Maybe part of him realized that in becoming a father he’d finally achieved the immortality after which he’d always hungered, and it was enough.
Hvitserk is carried away on the back of a wagon. We’re given an aerial view of this, lending Hvitserk the appearance of a corpse returning from battle. In many ways he is. Hvitserk is dead, in a sense. The merciful Alfred baptises Hvitserk, allowing him to be reborn with a new name: Athelstan.
We know from our future vantage point that the loving Christ Hvitserk has now embraced is destined to eventually, and irrevocably, defeat the old Norse Gods. Not only that, but there will be a millennium of distinctly non-loving conquests, wars, decimations, genocides, enslavements and cultural destructions carried out in His name, all of which will make the exploits of the 8th and 9th century Vikings look like the tantrums of naughty children in comparison. But Hvitserk doesn’t know this. All he knows is that he has found peace by rejecting war and embracing love. He has finally found a way to honor his father – or at least the part of his father that loved Athelstan, and came to see Christianity and Paganism as two sides of the same coin. Love and mercy, then, are the instruments that Hvitserk and Alfred use to break free from the ‘endless cycle of suffering and war’.
Out With The Old
The show’s themes converge, coalesce and crystalize in the New World, too. The journey from Iceland to Greenland to North America is one fraught with danger and death, but characterized by faith and hope and sacrifice. And it is Othere, the Christian wanderer once known as – appropriately enough – Athelstan (no relation), who leads them there.
“This is everything [Ragnar] was searching for,” Ubbe tells Othere, in their new land of milk and honey. “And I found it.” Othere cautions Ubbe against behaving in the same ways that he did before – the old ways – lest this land become just like the land he left behind.
They are not alone. The Vikings discover that the land is occupied by a tribe of indigenous peoples they refer to as Skraelings. The tribe welcomes them warmly. Ubbe soon discovers they have a friend in common: Floki, who somehow reached these same shores from Iceland, alone, and now lives on the periphery of the Skraelings’ land as a revered mystic. If it wasn’t for the Skraelings’ kindness, Floki would have died on arrival. They showed him mercy and kindness.
Asked why he left Iceland, Floki says it was because he was ‘imprisoned in sadness’.
“What made you so sad?”
“I don’t always remember,” he says, with a wistful smile.
Floki here represents the past of the Vikings as we in the modern world have come to know it, a patchwork of tall tales and omissions. Floki embodies how time will continue to wash away both the Vikings’ history and their legend, until there’s little difference between them, and nothing much is left of either. Floki also embodies the idea that the golden age of the Vikings is gone; he remembers that he once was a Viking; he remembers Ragnar, the sons of Ragnar and the people who were important to them, but little else. There was a time when Floki was the greatest soldier of and preacher for the Gods, but he has now let them go, shed them like a dead skin. “I called to them and no longer heard their voices, or they didn’t make sense,” he tells Ubbe. Again, entropy, evolution, death, re-birth, legend, past, future: all suffused.
The old ways make one last effort to re-assert themselves, even here in this paradise, and Ubbe gets his defining moment – just as Ivar and Hvitserk and Bjorn before him got theirs. One of his party murders the son of the Skraeling’s leader while ransacking the leader’s home for gold. The Skraelings – clearly more civilized than the Vikings ever were – hand this man over to Ubbe to decide his fate.
This is a pivotal moment for the series. Where once we were encouraged to see Ragnar as the hero, even when he was killing and pillaging his way through innocent peoples, here we perceive this man, this murderer – who has simply acted in accordance with how the Vikings have always acted – as a dangerous savage. We, the audience, have already made a choice about who the Vikings are now, or who they should be – and so has Ubbe.
At first the murderer is to be publically blood-eagled, a particularly savage and painful form of execution that never-the-less guarantees its sufferer entry to Valhalla. At the last moment, Ubbe changes his mind, and slits the man’s throat instead.
“Valhalla is not for you, my friend,” Ubbe tells him, mere seconds before carrying out his sentence, “Let me put you out of your misery.” Ubbe does not say this to be cruel, to rob the man of his place in the afterlife. He simply doesn’t want to inflict unnecessary pain, and is showing mercy. But it’s deeper than that, too. Valhalla doesn’t seem to matter to him anymore. Ubbe has come to understand that life can be lived without the old ways and their Gods, and be all the better for it.
On the beach, Ubbe seeks Floki’s advice and counsel. Floki smiles. “You don’t need to know anything. It’s not important. Let it go.”
It’s fitting that Floki is there at the show’s end. Without his innovation as a boat maker, Ragnar would never have sailed west and discovered Saxon lands; would never have met Athelstan. Without Floki, the Vikings would never have discovered Iceland, or Greenland, or the New World on whose shores they now sit. Ragnar is the one who will be immortalized in legend, while the world will slowly forget Floki. He has already started to forget himself. Perhaps that is the point. Warriors live on in legend and infamy, while the people who built the world around them and at their backs fade away. But wasn’t it ever thus? Legends change the world; love saves it. And here we see that love is the more important, and more enduring, force of the two, even if we’re sometimes too proud to acknowledge it, or too blind to see it.
“I love you, Floki,” says Ubbe, as they stare across the ocean, at their past, at their possible future, at eternity.
What a beautiful, and truly surprising, sentiment for a show as blood-soaked as Vikings to bow out on.
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Of course the status quo clings on in Kattegat, and I guess this will be picked up in the spin-off series. Set 100 years after the events of Vikings, Vikings: Valhalla is reportedly coming to Netflix sometime next year.
The post Vikings Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.
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A Father’s Duty - Chapter 42
Chapter 42: Familiar
Read here or on AO3
Summary: Din suffers from a sudden panic attack, going suddenly to find you for help.
Word Count: 1877
Slipping out of your cot, your bare feet touched the cold durasteel floor, feeling around for your cloth shoes. It took a few moments, but you found and secured the straps tightly.
“Are they awake, Little Brother?” You whispered, having pulled the baby into your innocent plot.
Thank the stars he reported both Mandalorians were fast asleep, Paz in the cockpit and Din in his quarters. After your brother wished you luck and safety, by hand you slipped open the door, slipping out of your room. Each step was purposeful and silent, moving down to the second level of the Crest and through a small hatch. It had been the result of some dogfight the Mandalorian had gotten himself into. Whoever had patched the ship up had left an important layer loose.
Paz had informed you and the baby the ship would land on Stewjon, but it would be better to sleep for the night before going out to find resources, rest, and perhaps even train. Though for you the wait had become too much; there was no way in hell you would be able to sleep through the night knowing that you were back on your home planet after maybe years of exile. How long had it been exactly? In truth you had no idea, perhaps you should have been keeping track. Your mother had once told you; your species was different. Reminiscent of a human, but not exactly alike. While the other children in your village started to gain height, you remained the same. How much older would you old friends be now?
The Mandalorian Paz Vizsla had landed the Razor Crest (Much to Din’s distaste) on a low plain, far out from the nearest town as to not draw any unwanted attention. Though you had no idea which prefecture you were currently in, just going out now would be enough. Jumping from the small edge you made sure to place back the several layers of durasteel, taking in a deep breath becoming lost in the memory of it all. The world was still dark, a few moons dimly lighting the night, reflecting coldly off the Stewjoni ocean. Falling to your knees you took fistfuls of long, green grass in your hands, in utter awe of its soft texture. Still getting used to your limited vision, was irksome, so for now you had to rely heavily upon the rest of your senses. That gentle wind that ruffled your hair whisked back the tears falling from the edge of your cheeks.
With the wind at your back, you took off, sprinting from the ship’s spot on the grassy plain to where it met the fine sand of the beach. Not really caring anymore, you shucked your shoes, leaving them in the dunes. The salty taste of the ocean was on your tongue, a telling sign you were running in the right direction. Back on Tatooine, the sand was rough, constantly slipping into your shoes and scratching against your skin. But here, on your home planet, with sand as delicate as liquid silk, you felt as if you could revel in it for hours on end. Though, with the ocean just seconds away, such desires, you would have to wait. Silt kicking up in your wake finally gave way to the water. With one massive leap, your body fell into the warmth of the sea, enveloped completely. Head breaching the surface, you let yourself float lazily on the surface, staring up at the blurred vision of the moons gracing the heavens. An hour passed, and you stayed like that, buoyant on the sea as it shifted just slightly.
“…!” From off in the distance you could hear someone yelling.
For a moment your throat clenched, thinking someone had noticed you and the Razor Crest, but after a second, you sensed your guardian’s presence. With your ethereal moment squandered you simply treaded water, not wanting to swim back to shore knowing a stern lecture or a few damning words awaited you. But what more could he say, what could hurt more than wishing your paths had never crossed? Even so, you half-heartedly made your way to the shore, moving easily through the surf until your feet met sand once more. You could see him somewhat, a tall, blurry figure of an armored man coming at you rather quickly. All at once, dread consumed you.
***___***___***___***
The shaking took up several minutes before it subsided. Din Djarin took a few deep breaths in a feeble effort to calm his body and mind in unison. Placing his calloused hands over his bare face, he could feel the sweat that had caked on during his night terror. Perhaps it was best if the baby stayed with his sibling in their room for the time being. If either of the little ones were to see him in such a state of disarray, Din doubted he would be able to cope. Checking his datapad, he could tell two hours had gone by, but how much of that had been delusion, Din was unsure, but he was going to take what he could get.
While panic and fear were momentarily by the wayside, Din could feel his chest grow heavy, strained and compressed; each breath was almost labored, but with no current injury, there was nothing to heal, nothing to cure. Beviin. They could do something, but at what kriffing cost? The room spun, vision becoming warped and twisted. Swearing up a proper storm, Din Djarin donned his armor, slipping out of his quarters, immediately heading for the children’s room.
Thank the kriffing stars Paz stayed asleep, the bastard out cold. The door to their room shot open, the Mandalorian stumbling inside. In his little pod the baby blinked a few times, clearly disturbed by this sudden intrusion. Next to him was Beviin’s empty cot, blanket folded neatly, and shoes gone. Panic was quick to return, thrusting Din into action. Rushing to the main hatch, Din could see a small shadow of a person in the dark ocean water. There.
“Beviin!” Din called out, his body beginning to feel lighter. “Beviin!”
The figure came closer and closer, a look a tense fear written on their young face.
“Beviin…Help.” Din couldn’t help but fall forward.
His child materialized to his side, catching him awkwardly, and softening his fall to the ground. The shaking took over once again, rendering Din unable to vocalize.
“Buir?!”
The Mandalorian could feel two hands at his chest plate, pressing as hard as they could.
“You’re gonna be okay!” Beviin assured him desperately. “I-I’m gonna heal you! It’s just-just gotta work!” Din watched their worried features twist into frustration. “Come ON!”
Still clutching him fiercely, his child pressed their forehead to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Buir! I d-don’t know what to do! It’s not working!”
Their forlorn pleas for forgiveness continued on, but Din’s chest began to grow lax, his trembling and pain vanishing. To test this sudden respite, he carefully inhaled and exhaled, finding no further aches.
“I…I think M’ okay…”
Beviin looked at him apprehensively, as if he were doubting his very words.
“Are you sure?” Their voice was almost non-existence.
He nodded, sitting upright. Immediately, Beviin retracted from their touch on him, gaze falling away, arms clutching themself.
“Ad’ika?” Din questioned.
They sighed. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m doing out at this time?”
Actually, the thought had never crossed his mind. “Well I am now. You should be sleeping.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I-I’ll go back to my quarters…”
“Beviin, wait!” The Mandalorian hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but it still didn’t fail to stun his child. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I know…”
“Ad’ika, please. You’ve been avoiding me lately. Talk to me please.”
Taking their braid in hand, they twisted it gaze fixed on it, refusing to look at Din completely.
“Is it because I didn’t see you for a few days? I-I’m sorry, that was self-.”
“No! Kark, no!” Beviin groaned, shaking water from their hair. “No. It’s not that.”
“Then what.”
Their head swayed oddly from side to side, eyes shifting. In the darkness of night, Din guessed they were having a hell of a time trying to see. Finally, Beviin seemed to find Din’s helmet, focusing intensely.
“I heard you the other day. With the other.” Pausing they bit down on the inside of their cheek. “you told him that you wished we never met.”
“Wh-What?” Din jerked awkwardly. “No! Kriffing hell! What the hell did I say?”
While he wracked his brain for the memory, Beviin continued on. “I don’t blame you actually. I mean I did try to kill you and more than once. I could have hurt you and the baby…oh Maker…”
“That’s not what I meant!” Finally recalling, Din suddenly gripped his child’s shoulders. “I was just- I wondered if you would have been safer if we hadn’t crossed paths. That was it!”
Beviin’s eyes widened, their face fell upon realizing their mistake. “Oh kark…”
“And, you were eavesdropping?”
“Can you blame me?” They sighed, “You Mandalorians are loud as all hell.”
Relieved the problem was extremely finite and resolved, Beviin on the other hand seemed simply distraught.
“What’s wrong, Ad’ika?” With renewed confidence, Din tried probing further.
His child fell back on the sand, gripping the sediment in their hands. “I don’t understand. And, usually M’okay with that.” Turning, their gaze fixed on him once more. “I’ve hurt you, so much. You didn’t have to bring me along. I feel so selfish! You’ve never had to forgive me or feed me or look at me! Or even think of me!”
Reaching out with one hand, Din waited for them, not wanting to force touch once more. Beviin tentatively finally taking Din’s hand, allowing him to draw them close.
“I’ve never had to. But I’ve wanted to.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Me neither.” The Mandalorian admitted.
Looking out at the sea, Din wished for a moment to feel the sensation of it against his skin. To not have to uphold the honor of Mandalore, welded together within his Beskar.
“It’s just like I remembered it.” His child said wistfully.
“Oh,” Din realized. “This is your home. I’d almost forgotten. You should rest though before we venture out tomorrow.”
“I will,” Beviin relented, far too quickly for Din’s liking. “But only if you do.”
“Ad’ika, I already have.”
“I won’t be able to unless you do too.” They tapped the visor of his helmet. “I can’t see you, but I can tell you’re tired.”
“Fine.”
The child smiled, relishing in their minor victory. Though if Din were to try to sleep again, it could bring another terror, but it would be worth it if it would give respite to his ad’ika. Ruffling their hair, the Mandalorian realized the length to which he would go for the baby, for Beviin.
“Can we stay here for a bit longer?” They asked. “I kinda just wanna sit. Just for a little bit.”
“Why?”
“I’d just like to be here next to you…If that’s okay.”
“Would you like another story?”
That sparkle illuminated the young one’s face, spreading a wide smile. A smile Din desired to protect. “Yes!”
#sw#star wars#the mandalorian#the force#the child#A Father's Duty#The Baby#the mandolarian#the mandalorian fic#the mandolorian#the mandalorian x y/n#y/n#reader insert#paz vizla#paz visla#paz#DIN#dyn#din djarin#dyn jarren#sw fic#fanfic#fanfiction#fluff#a tad bit of angst
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I Grade: Giovanni
The original and most prevalent villain in the whole franchise.
Games: In the mainline game series, Giovanni has made many appearances across many generations. He’s been in Red/Blue/Green/Yellow in Gen I, FireRed/LeafGreen in Gen III, HeartGold/SoulSilver in Gen IV, Black 2/White 2 in Gen V, Ultra Sun/Ultra Moon, GO, and Let’s GO Pikachu/Eevee in Gen VII before appearing in Pokemon Masters during Gen VIII. And for that matter, he was the invisible hand who set events in motion for Gold/Silver/Crystal in Gen II. Only in Gen VI was Giovanni truly MIA. He is THE villain of the game series.
I’m going to be totally honest here: for the longest time, Giovanni didn’t do all that much for me in the games. In every game he appears in from Gens I through V, he is very one-note. He’s a thug with delusions of grandeur, a guy with super tough Pokemon that he’s always promising to use to inflict “a world of pain” on opponents, and whose driving motive is to rule the world of Pokemon as “the strongest trainer” via basic plans that are easily thwarted. The twist toward the end of Gen I about him also being the Viridian Gym Leader was executed in a way that made no sense (Nobody knew? How!?) The games couldn’t even stay consistent on his resolution: in Gens I and II it’s suggested that he reforms after being defeated thrice by the same kid, while the remakes of those games in Gens III and IV change it so that he’s still evil and merely disbanded Team Rocket while going off to train to become stronger, always intending to reforge the gang and becomes it leader again once he’d truly become the strongest trainer. But in Gen V, which is set place after those games, he’s ultimately shown to have reformed anyway, so what exactly was the point of that whole change in the first place? Giovanni’s own son, the Gen II rival, is a far more compelling character than him!
It’s only in Gen VII that Giovanni’s iconic status finally got a depiction to match. In US/UM’s postgame Episode RR, as the boss of Team Rainbow Rocket, Giovanni has a much smoother, cooler, more charismatic and intelligent characterization. He’s shown to be good at planning and executing those plans, level-headed enough to maintain a level of control over other villains with differing agendas, and can back up his swagger with more than just strong Pokemon - after gracefully leaving upon being defeated, it’s revealed that he swiped an Ultra Wormhole device and can fall back upon another evil scheme in another world, which he does with an evil smirk on his face. This new and improved Giovanni actually ends up being carried over to Pokemon GO, changing his team’s name from Rainbow Rocket to Go Rocket and declaring that Earth, the real world, our world, is where he will make his next endeavor to take control over all Pokemon. That’s right, Gio’s so cool that he’s transcending realities!
Once he’s defeated in GO, he uses the Ultra Wormhole device again and moves on over to the Pokemon Masters IOS game for the Legendary Event “Lurking Shadow”, where he uses Mewtwo to attempt an evil scheme to take over Pasio and can be fought over and over and over again until finally he comes to respect your strength and actually joins your party, while still maintaining his deliciously diabolical personality. He is voiced by Andrew Russell, who gives him a perfectly sinister and silky-smooth voice which greatly adds to the excellent writing for him that’s carried over from US/UM (I can’t unhear Russell when I play it now!)
Furthermore, the Let’s GO remakes of the Gen I games retained this new characterization, making Giovanni appear as more of a suave schemer than a glorified bully. As we’ll see below, it’s actually his portrayals elsewhere in the franchise that led to his depiction in the games becoming this way, in order to fall more in line with them, which is just as it should be.
Score = 4.5
Anime: As the boss of the Team Rocket trio whom they are always desperate to please, Giovanni is basically the overarching villain of the anime franchise, appearing in every show (Original Series, Advanced Generation, Diamond & Pearl, Best Wishes, XY, Sun & Moon, and Revival Series), though only relevant in half of them (OS, BW, the Z third of XY, and SM).
In the OS, Giovanni establishes himself right away as the Moriarty of the Pokemon world. He’s a shadowy, sinister presence, doing little himself but planning and observing, while the numerous agents of his vast criminal organization exercise his will, and he shields himself under the cover of legitimacy in multiple legal enterprises, including being the Gym Leader of Viridian City. However, once he comes into the light, he reveals that he does have a master plan that he’s taking an active part in: the creation and training of Mewtwo, the world’s most powerful Pokemon. When Mewtwo achieves his full potential, Giovanni intends to put him at the head of an army of all the powerful Pokemon that Team Rocket has acquired, and with it he can take over the world. But this plan goes awry when Mewtwo rebels and escapes. Giovanni subsequently becomes obsessed with recapturing Mewtwo, and it all comes to a head in the OVA Mewtwo Returns, where Gio is in full Wrath of Khan mode as he makes a terrifyingly ruthless attempt to bend Mewtwo to his will by force. But with help from Ash and his friends, Mewtwo is able to persevere and utterly defeat Giovanni in spectacular fashion.
This was Giovanni at his best in the anime. He never fully hit the same stride again, and in the case of AG, DP and XY he was simply portrayed as the TRio’s employer and not an active villain or threat of any kind. This was especially bad in the case of AG and DP, where in the former he was fed up with the TRio and just sent them out on fools’ errands to get rid of them and in the latter he cared so little for the TRio that he actually forgot who they even were...all the while, his image gets demeaned in the repetitive “Boss fantasies” of Meowth, which by DP had become insufferable. At least in XY, he took an active interest in what the TRio was doing in the Kalos region, especially when they came to blows with Team Flare.
However, Giovanni had stronger showings in BW and SM, as in both of them he reclaimed his position as the Big Bad with a master plan for world domination. In BW, he launched a long-running operation to conquer the Unova region so that it could be his stronghold from which to conquer the rest of the world from, even donning a military-style uniform to reflect his sinister ambitions. This culminated in Operation Tempest, where Giovanni directly took control of the Kami Trio via Meloetta and an ancient artifact and engaged Ash and his friends directly in combat, ultimately being defeated by a super-charged Electro Ball from Pikachu. Later, in SM, Giovanni sought to claim the legendary “Blinding One” of Alola, aka Necrozma, a mission he entrusted to Team Rocket’s elite unit Matori Matrix, led by his secretary Matori.
All in all, the anime’s Giovanni is excellent, especially when voiced by the superb Ted Lewis in the English dub, and it’s such a damn shame that the show’s writers seldom utilized him.
Score = 4.5
Manga: Let’s get this out of the way right now - this is the best incarnation of Giovanni across the whole franchise, bar none. No other version is as fleshed out into as full of a character, or as much of a badass in almost every area possible. He’s like the best of the game version and the best of the anime version merged together and topped off with new qualities that enrich him even further. He is, if not the manga series’ best villain, one of its best characters.
Giovanni is the Big Bad of the original Red/Blue/Green Chapter, and he plays this role superbly. His master plan is a relatively simple one, and yet the way he executes it is so intricate and interconnected to events spanning the whole arc that it catches you as off guard as it does Red. His battle with Red in Viridian City is the stuff of legends, showing just how charismatic, brilliant and imposing he is as both a crime boss and a Pokemon trainer.
He has a brief yet badass stint toward the end of the Yellow Chapter where he engages in an Evil vs. Evil showdown with Lance. After that, he goes underground for a while before finally resurfacing to retake the Big Bad role in the FireRed/LeafGreen Chapter. Here he does even more ruthless deeds and has another, even more intense battle with Red. But perhaps most noteworthy of all is that this was the first time the franchise confirmed that the Gen II rival, called Silver here, was Giovanni’s son. And for all his many faults, Gio does truly and deeply love his son and has an amazing moment in which he rescues him from a blazing inferno that actually gets us applauding him and hoping he survives the illness he reveals that he has.
And survive he does, as his illness is cured in the HeartGold/SoulSilver Chapter where he teams up with the other two OG villains of the manga, Lance and Pryce, to take on the rogue Creation Trio unleashed by his subordinate Archer’s stupidity. Giovanni takes on Giratina, since matter was always what he has sought to control, just as space-obsessed Lance fights Palkia and time-coveting Pryce fights Dialga. The resolution Giovanni’s character comes to in this arc is also perfect: he concedes that he is a bad man and will never stop being one, and he retakes his position as boss of Team Rocket, who are like family to him, while also telling his son to stick to the path of goodness and continue training to get stronger. Silver agrees, vowing to be the one to defeat his father and bring him to justice for good...and Giovanni smiles, as he would not have his ultimate defeat any other way than at the hands of the son he’s so proud of. The level of nuance this version of Giovanni shows is truly incredible. This nuance persists in the Omega Ruby/Alpha Sapphire Chapter, his latest appearance, while despite still being an active crime boss he travels to Hoenn to help in the Delta crisis since he rightfully suspects he played an unwilling part in causing it (Grand Meteor Delta is actually the original Deoxys, whom Giovanni experimented on and then discarded in the FR/LG Chapter).
I’ve gushed about Adventures!Giovanni enough, you should expect his score by now.
Score = 5
TCG: Yep, Giovanni has been an influential villain even in the Trading Card Game.
He first enters the scene in the Team Rocket expansion, which is dedicated to his criminal organization, their Dark Pokemon, and all their fiendish tricks. He appears on the Ken Sugimori-illustrated card “The Boss’s Way”, shrouded in shadow and giving a diabolical smirk. Two expansions later, in Gym Challenge, we get a lot more of Giovanni, this time in his alternative occupation as Viridian City Gym Leader. He has many Pokemon, plus the cards “Giovanni” and “Giovanni’s Last Resort” dedicated to him, and even his own deck. Later on, “The Boss’s Way” was reprinted in the US-exclusive Legendary Collection set.
Team Rocket Returns had Team Rocket back and evil-ing it up in order to promote FR/LG, but Giovanni himself was nowhere to be seen in any cards in that set. Suddenly, in the XY era BREAKthrough expansion, Giovanni resurfaced with the card “Giovanni’s Scheme”, which referred to his plan to capture and control Mewtwo and its new Mega Evolved forms. He must have failed, since in the Sun/Moon era expansion Unbroken Bonds, he has been banished to Alola as shown in the card “Giovanni’s Exile”. But the evil grin on his face is clear indication that his spirits are far from broken, and that he’s ready to strike back once more. And strike back he does in the Sword/Shield Era expansion Rebel Clash, where he leads Team Rocket in full force to invade Galar. So Giovanni’s not leaving the TCG anytime soon.
Score = 4
Other: Giovanni appears in two different Nintendo 64 games: Pokemon Stadium and Pokemon Puzzle League. In the former, it’s the mainline game series version who has his own tower in Gym Leader Castle like all the other Gym Leaders of Kanto. In the latter, it’s the anime version, who has created Mewtwo to be the Puzzle Master (yeah, this game is weird).
The Electric Tale of Pikachu manga, adapted from the anime, features Giovanni in one chapter and...oh dear Arceus, what did they do to you, Gio!? The man shown here is a buffoon, a total kook who doesn’t seem any more competent than his underlings. If this wasn’t enough, he barely physically resembles Giovanni as he is in any other medium! Among all the versions of Giovanni out there in the franchise, this is definitely the worst.
We get two animated versions of Giovanni outside of the main anime, in the OVA Pokemon Origins and the web series Pokemon Generations. The version in Origins is basically the Let’s GO! version before it existed, adapted from the original games but given a more charismatic and calculating portrayal. We also get a look into his childhood as he faces Red in the Viridian Gym, and the reasons behind him disbanding Team Rocket are because he is ashamed of losing his innocence and wants to see if he can reclaim the same passion for Pokemon training he had as a child - a very interesting take on the character that hasn’t been done before. He also has a fantastic voice, in both Japanese and English. Unfortunately, the version in Generations who appears in episodes 2 and 5 is not nearly as impressive, as here he’s adapted to the letter from the 2D games and thus possesses all the flaws from them that I brought up before: being a boring thug instead of an evil mastermind, with a voice to match.
Score = 3.5
TOTAL FRANCHISE SCORE: 4.5 out of 5
Giovanni is and always will be the most iconic BIg Bad of the Pokemon franchise, and when looked at on the whole with all of these incarnations, it’s easy to see why: the man is cool. Everything about him, no matter how evil, is just so admirable: his simple but sleek design, his powerful array of Pokemon, his confidence, his intelligence, his ambition, his hold over a large criminal network, and how he’s constantly evolving even while fundamentally remaining the same guy we all know and Love to Hate (or maybe Hate to Love). He’s just the best.
BONUS: Which version is my personal favorite?
Yeah, I know. After I praised the Adventures version to high heaven and gave it a perfect score, you’re probably wondering why that one isn’t my favorite. But damn it all, the anime’s Giovanni in all of his shadowy, orange suited glory was my first exposure to the character! This version is why I even ended up discovering all the other ones, and for that I love him.
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The dying of the light (NJ x Reader)
Genre: Angst, Werewolf AU
Pairing: Werewolf!Namjoon x Human!Reader
Warnings: Allusion to domestic violence/abuse, character death
Summary: Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Masterlist
Never judge a book by its cover is one of the righteous tenets to live by for everyone deserves to show the tale within and be judged based on that. It is quite astonishing what a person might learn this way.
But what if the chronicle is hideous? The title page a mere delusion?
Downstairs sound loaded curses, the breaking of glass and the plates filled with the dinner of the day adding a sharp edge to the animalistic growling tone in which is spoken.
That was used against an individual to whom it was promised never to be used yet was, the terrible overwhelming fear burning as bright within at the resonating words of argument as the scarlet outline on a tear-stained cheek. Withal, the hit has to be forgiven because it is the animal inside the brown-haired mature version of the bad boy with platinum strands who has a surprising liking towards philosophy and literature that forces the behaviour.
It is still you somewhere in there, Joon. You didn’t mean to hit me.
Nevertheless, it is difficult to believe the thought despite having been together for four years, the promising ring set with a moonstone signifying the love of the tall otherwise incredible man now gone mad with beastly instincts for a mere human regardless of the many she-wolves throwing themselves at the alpha’s feet whenever the season for continuing the bloodline has begun. That faith in faithfulness has to be held onto as much as the belief that the accidental branding is just that, an accident.
Right?
Maybe the topic of prolonged absences should not have been pushed, fabricating allegations which are obvious lies of not being loved enough to be talked to because the prestigious family of the apparent ancient Kim line would never tolerate anything other than a proper alpha female for the second-in-line to be the heir and the dawning of this at last realized by Namjoon.
Then came the sound of a vicious palm on an unsuspecting cheek, ear-deafening in the silence that followed the outrage of seeing any type of apology, verbally and physical, go to waste by being pushed away.
Literally.
Bloodthirsty ruby irises.
A snarl on plush lips.
Wrong.
The wolf hated it.
He merely did not like it.
You meant it. It wasn’t the beast, it was you, Joon. I could tell. It was you.
Bare feet storm up the creaky oak stairs of the two-storey home recently moved into together, making a damaged face instantly crawl haphazardly away from the position leaning against the door to the bed with thick blue-striped alabaster sheets that normally feels so safe when lying down with the fiancé after a long tiring day. Paralyzed with horror, the thick duvet is pulled up till the eyes only able to look on helplessly, hope the lock on the door rapidly put into place before the second flight will hold.
A loud bang on the wood evokes a heavy flinch, causing digits to hold on tighter to the self-made futile sacred haven. ‘Y/N! Open up!’
A second bang, frightful rattling. ‘Y/N, I’m serious. Open the door!’
Please, stop. Just go. Just this once, I want you to go.
A few more attempts are made at opening the entrance to the last secure place left in the small home, both parties knowing full well the werewolf could easily force an entry yet decides against it with every ounce of remaining sanity on this starry night lit by an almost full moon. A deep sigh of relief is barely audible when it escapes lips pulled into a grave straight line, allowing shoulders to sack slightly in relaxation upon hearing a civilized baritone voice from afar when the noisy threats have faded. ‘I really, really didn’t mean to hurt you, baby. I don’t kno- I can’t- I don’t understand what’s happening. It feels as if... as if-’
What follows the unfinished sentence are painful outcries at bones rearranging themselves to fit a dominant beastly body, having to retreat to the cage and collar on a short chain in the extended basement fast to not commit one of the other violent mistakes that were also sworn to never be made. ‘Fuck. Y/N- ngh- I know you’re listening, can hear your heartbeat. Ah! Ha... ha... Breath, baby. Just breath. I’m gonna go, okay? Try- Shit, need to hurry up. I’m slipping away, that’s what it fee- argh!’
Like the former utterance before the continuation of the confession, all that wanted to be said before the jaw started transforming and bright teeth forming the most delightful of happy smiles deform to malicious predatory fangs remains unspoken.
A relentless hush fills the wake of hasty stumbling footsteps down the creaking stairs, getting away as fast as possible from a person who has been hurt to a whole new extent that will be hard to surpass. Indeed, the fear of death is nothing compared to the harm inflicted by the actual brown-haired beloved and not the innate beast using Joon as a permanent host.
The calm does not soothe, but eventually eyes continuing to water with the burning aftermath of the supposedly unintentional slap on the cheek surrender in the lightless space to the slumber of the night.
Trying to ignore the dimmed growling mixed with agonizing outcries tearing the soul in two. One part wants to flee and never come back, mercilessly unforgiving for the act of domestic violence while the other wants to give a second chance because it is steadfast in its belief this wreck can be salvaged.
Endeavouring to dismiss the muted howl signifying Namjoon is no longer there.
Only the animal held in high esteem in the defied family.
A senseless beast.
That makes the hope of finding the tanned tall kind-hearted husband in the morning incredibly small if existent at all.
Maybe, this time, there is nothing to prevent being permanently truly lost.
It has become a relentless routine to, once consciousness is retrieved to a coherent level at the crack of dawn, go downstairs to the cellar immediately after chaotic nights given body by the barely audible tinkling of rattling chains. Normally, it is a relief to do so but considering the events of a recent past, each step made of lead is calculating, considering to wait a bit longer, longer than usual. Questioning whether or not the offender wants to be seen again.
The least I can do is set you free. Save you for the last time.
After a self-deprecating shake of the head, the last of the oaken steps are descended and bare feet pad over the cool tiles of the small hallway to the crisp white-painted door just underneath the staircase revealing fresh deep claw marks on the inside wood upon opening. Fingertips lightly trace the marks made by the monster, guilt at even daring to question whether the cruelty in the form of the abuse had been inherently the beloved’s sinking to the bottom of the stomach and sitting there heavily because the crude traces remind of the might of the suppressed being within.
As does the naked sweaty honey-toned body lying unconsciously on the hard concrete ground of the cage that was installed directly upon moving in, chained to the brick wall by a sturdy glistening iron chain and collar which allows just enough freedom for the current position. Considering the dewiness of the bared skin, the return to humanity has taken place quite recently, mayhaps twenty to fifteen minutes earlier than the digits carefully grabbing the keys to the constraints that were retrieved from the mahogany nightstand drawer before leaving the safe sheets arrived.
Lying where they are always being kept.
Next to the emergency gun.
Each movement is languid, every advance towards the significant other seeming to be in vain due to toes feeling as if they are incorporated into the cement below, afraid to approach and thus taking up a determined resisting stance a few metres away from stirring limbs. Withal, Namjoon is, apparently unconsciously, gradually approached regardless.
Familiar lashes flutter open in utter fazing, civilized irises the colour of the earth after rainfall on an autumn day taking in reality while meticulously constructing it from the increasingly registering pieces revealed by brief glances. Until they find the last simply staring puzzle piece, which makes the brow furrow in ashamed apologetic begging. ‘Y/N?’ The werewolf has left the ability to talk entirely, instead letting the affected husband speak with a sonorous voice inherently his albeit in need of some adjustment after the transforming harrowing event. ‘Y/N, I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t- didn’t mean to- I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I hate myself for what I did to you, for losing control like that. I’ve never wanted to be a monster.’
Long fingers wrap themselves tightly around the iron bars, foreheads resting against each other as best as possible with the obstruction after a terrified wife with the paradoxical toxic wanting to forgive falls to the knees in front of tears streaming over glistening sun-kissed cheeks, unlocking the door while revelling in the comforting intimacy. However, when once solacing fingertips graze the spot where the hit landed, the body immediately flinches back as if being pulled into retreat by an invisible rubber band, eyes wide with the expected horror of a harmful repeat.
A similar expression maintains the unbroken lock of gazes, the hand likely meaning well hanging futilely in the air and falling away in defeat, plush lips slightly trembling in the effort to remain coherent. ‘I won’t- Baby, I won’t hurt you again. Please. Please, come closer. It was the wolf within-’
‘It was you.’ Breathlessly, the observation breaking the heart all over again as it denies the argument of the claw marks now that reality and the source of pain is too concrete, too close, is spoken aloud.
Protest in a recomposed beloved voice does not help conviction. ‘I’d never-!’
‘It was you, Joon. Just before you hit me, I saw it was you and not the beast.’ The headshake is too confirming of the empirical experience that is attempted to be denied despite knowing better but believing the self-served humanity preserving lie.
‘If it was truly me I would have never beat you! I would have stopped myself!’ The yelling reduces to a softness bordering on a whisper, clearly recalling what had been said in the night at the door before vanishing underground. Seeing the truth behind the conjured mirage. ‘I really- dammit, no, I couldn’t... couldn’t have. I- I can’t. I don’t want to be a mindless beast. I don’t- I don’t want to slip away.’
Though despising oneself for it, as soon as slender digits clamp agitatedly onto brown sweat-matted messy locks and Namjoon stares at bare feet, palms folded over the head to shield himself from cruel reality, instinct kicks in and makes a conflicted woman crawl towards the loved heavily sobbing man. Precisely as was done on the rare occasion the platinum bad boy showed his true hurt persona to a nerdy outcast girl while sitting in the gravel on the side of the high school building filled with students fearing him.
Everyone but her.
Because she understood.
Because she loved.
Arms envelop freshly transformed sticky shoulders after a brief instant of hesitance, one hand moving upwards to entangle in velvet locks and cradle the back of the head of the extraordinary significant other directly pulling a strangely affectionate body flush against a quickly rising and falling chest, face buried in the side of the neck to not show the brooks streaming uncontrollably again.
The promises formed by a tongue that wants to live in assuring fantasy sound misplaced, inappropriately positive in the grave atmosphere merely forming a prelude to a terrible future. ‘We’re gonna get through this. We’ll figure it out.’
‘You- You say that but- but your heart is racing with fear.’ Long once trusted digits wrap themselves around upper arms, undoing the embrace and creating a bit of distance to properly, at least attempt to do so, talk vis-á-vis. When the rooted horror becomes visible despite the mask under which it was supposed to be hidden, Joon’s troubled fragmented voice cracks further with sorrowful resignation. ‘You’re- You’re scared of me.’
A wordless shake to deny the truthful allegation, hoping to convince the tall cruelly wonderful man of the opposite yet failing in doing so as innate systems do not lie. ‘Don’t deny it, Y/N. It’s obvious. Still... still I want to ask for a second chance, but,’ this time, the tracing of the agitated mark left behind as a reminder on skin powerless against the beast is allowed, but it takes every ounce of strength and courage to remain, ‘but if I can’t change, if we ever come this close again to me accidentally killing you in rage again, then-’
‘Don’t. Don’t ask this of me.’ The shivers at the image of the unavoidable deal made at the start of the relationship remain as chillingly harrowing as they were at first when Namjoon revealed what is within and can overtake the body and soul entirely when not being appropriately trained to control it. ‘I won’t do it.’
I would run away, leave forevermore. But I cannot end the story the way you want. I don’t want to.
‘I beat you, baby. Furthermore, while trying to apologize, I came too close to transforming at the door and killing you by giving the... thing free rein. I only didn’t this time because I barely managed to get myself here.’ Comforting large palms frame a face gone pale with anguish, having to undeniably acknowledge this is indeed the matter of the circumstances and haunted by what the aftermath will look like. ‘You know what can happen, what I’ll do. I don’t want to discover your body in shreds at dawn, murdered by my hand because of a lack of control.’
The kiss lingers, tasting of salty desperation and genuine dangerous love.
Tasting of goodbye.
‘Promise me you’ll use the gun. Don’t shoot try to shoot in one of the paws but aim for the heart or between the eyes.’
‘Joon, stop. Don’t talk like this.’
‘I’m slipping away, baby.’ Affectionately, a thumb begins to gently brush over the clear sign of abuse, almost as if being able to kind-heartedly make it vanish by the soft contact yet unable to do so for it shall continue to linger. ‘We have to talk about it now because if things don’t change soon, I’ll be gone. Forever.’
I can’t do it. I can’t be the one to put you down.
‘Joonie, please stop.’ Teeth bite down on a quivering bottom lip, lashes fluttering shut to bask entirely in the warmth of the precious husband’s hands. The abuse can be borne and can be helped with aid in the form of anger management therapy. Surely that has to help against malevolent animalistic outbursts.
There has to be a way out of this.
Out of fate.
‘Kill me.’
‘No.’
‘Y/N, I’m not asking anymore. I’ll need you to put me down.’ Urgency has crept into a defeated baritone voice that wants, needs to be heard daily in order to live.
Is forbidden from fading by vows promising to withstand the storms blowing on the path of marriage. ‘We can work this out.’
All storms eventually pass.
Right?
Stay with me. Don’t leave me behind.
‘Maybe we can, but there is a big chance we can’t.’
And he was right, because the next month there was solely the wolf after being beaten worse than before.
He slipped away.
Aim.
Fangs.
Do not panic.
Growling.
Pull the trigger.
Regret.
Make it end.
Save yourself.
A second.
Crimson.
A whine.
Bullet hole in the wall.
Transformation.
Closing eyes.
‘Thank you.’
Tears.
The end.
The waiting crib of a fatherless child.
#BTS#BTS Werewolf AU#Werewolf AU#hyunglinenetwork#kimnamjoonnet#Bangtan#BTS fanfiction#Namjoon#RM#Kim Namjoon#Joon#Werewolf!Namjoon#alpha!Namjoon
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Congratulations, DAVE! You’ve been accepted for the role of EDMUND. Admin Rosey: There's something that makes Edmund such a powerful figure in his own right and Dave, I don't know how but you managed to capture it in the span of this one application. The prose, the voice, all of it was present from the plot points to the interview. His voice was so very poignant throughout the whole thing it made my heart ache a little. I am well and truly enthralled by the Edmund that you have presented to us and cannot wait to watch you dive deeper and show us what makes this boy who he is and how he'll give Verona a reckoning to be feared. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.
WELCOME TO THE MOB.
OUT OF CHARACTER
Alias | Dave
Age | 23
Preferred Pronouns | He/him
Activity Level | On average a few hours every other / every third night. I have kids so it will likely be after I put them to bed.
Timezone | EST
How did you find the rp? | My sister Kat lead me in your direction
IN CHARACTER
Character | Edmund / Easton Craven
What drew you to this character? A man built from resentment, bones compressed from the ashes of an others mistakes, a cold structure of stone engraved with rage. Teeth that never unclench, a jaw so tight it threatens to break into fragments. Animosity is the dangerous life raft holding together a bitterly broken character, mania stemmed from a lifetime of repudiation. An obsession potent enough to cover years of aching ribs; the soft tissues under the bones filled with a fire harrowing enough to stifle hurt. He craves revenge as if a child reaching out to their mother. Comfort being found in the promise of reunification. If only he could reach, if only his stiff limbs would meet the soft, consoling ones that he felt reciprocating the assignation, he would feel peace. Delusion of contentment driving passionate precision, carefully planned collisions that cause wise, crooked smiles that meet the eyes of madness.
He knows the storm is raging. The thorns sprouting from his blooming roses; depriving the buds of the little sunlight they initially had. He’s feeling just as suffocated and trapped now. Everything around him is whirling in the chaos he created but he won’t let it break him. Even in the blinding darkness he makes himself big, thrashing about so that even those who can see clear as day stay far from his reach. He lives with the actions of a stubborn child; allowing the haze of red fury to cloud his mind as he surrenders his better judgment. Every time he drink the poison he loses another piece of himself to make room. The pressure builds inside of him like a volcano and when he erupts; his pride and joy are the only casualties. He’s sacrificed everything for his cause, his battle cry drowning out the grief but he’s no longer even sure what threat the enemy poses, forcing a blindness on him more dangerous than the dark.
Taking the risk, stepping up to the plate and taking his best shot. When pressed with his back against the wall, Blood betraying him or perhaps the other way around; what choice is one left with? Perhaps the anger lies only with himself but his innate strength fuels the fire of his inner flames and he utilizes them. He makes these flames dry his tears, forces them to dance beneath the spotline, start forest fires to the granite floors beneath his feet. He uses them as his shield and a deadly weapon all in one curve of his lip. He uses them to carve art onto every inch of the elegantly draped walls that enclosed him so that the world can see how wrongly it had mistaken him, all while making the error of not once giving him the satisfaction of knowing he wields with the strength of mind, unaware of the fear that would bestow his enemies. He fights for himself rather than the cause, drawing those who abandon him back to his wake so that opportunity can present itself in the cruelest twists of fate. He will win back his power, giving himself the choice to crush it to ash or feed it to his fire so that it grows in size. They will beg for remorse, what he will do with them he doesn’t know but someone will burn alive; of that he is sure.
Years of neglect and deprivation leave scars, deep gashes in ego and emotional stability. Easton is broken, deeply hurt by being denied by those who were meant to hold him close, being inevitably punished for the actions of others. To pretend he isn’t aching over his loss would be an injustice. Deeply buried insecurities burrow deep in his bones with the aching torment he shoved away. Still, anger is a much easier emotion to handle, it carries more dignity, a false sense of self control. There’s something there in that deeply rooted delusion of control, believing it so wholeheartedly that it becomes a reality, that I’m immensely drawn to. An emotional whirlwind with a powerful mind, twisting together in dangerous ways. I see so much potential for him developmentally, so many layers to explore. I really want to be able to flesh that out and bring him to life.
What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?
“Yet Edmund was beloved” - Villains amongst disastrous plot, all alike in wicked bitterness. Written to be disliked, to cause mouths to turn down with force, muscles to tense in distaste. A rarity amongst his breed, they found a moment of remorse. Weakness was found and admittance to their sinful deeds, an eager audience was forced to face questions of morality.
I think what makes Edmund throughout literature to stand out so strongly was his repentance. It was a rare quality among Shakespeare’s literature and it’s something I feel is important to keep intact to his plot. It made its audience question whether he was truly a cold, cruel man or if he it was driven by a misdirected desire to be accepted. It’s a theme I plan to show throughout the plot, but I would like a bigger when the time is right to showcase his humanity.
Double edged sword- Sly crooked smiles and sparkling eyes, they crave the game, the slipping of cards into a deck undetected, the chips inconspicuously gathering in front of patiently folded hands. Winning the game does not raise feelings of satisfaction, spirits don’t rise at the chips that twirl between his narrow fingers but at the bitter eyes that narrow in his direction as he does so. Pleasure found only in the woefulness of others, misery causing teeth to show greedily, sparkling eyes falling dark with revelation.
I was to do a lot of scheming with him, a lot. Carefully planned betrayals, shady business deals, cunningly undermining those around him. I want a few of these, and I expect nothing less than a few Enemies as a result.
Blood over blood - Empires built steadily over a name that cursed his existence, pressed him back into a crevasse, covered him thick in wool as if to conceal even the heart that beat within his chest. A name placed on his head as if it were to quench the thirst of question, to satisfy the growing hunger for bloodshed that was soon to breed within the expanding chest below. The indefensible half of the term son. Cast down upon with fury and iron fists by all but his counterpart. Antipathy baking in the fires that nestled between fragile ribs, desperately attempting to replace the warmth his brighter half consumed without question or consideration. Confliction of blood contemplated incautiously. Blood had betrayed him, or perhaps it was the other way around.
There is a lot to be said about Easton’s relationship with his brother. I feel there is true feelings buried deep under the poisonous vines he’s planted within himself. I think it is the single relationship that will reveal that rage is used to cover fear, fear that stems from loss and betrayal.
Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes.
IN DEPTH
Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)
In-Character Interview: The following questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would if you were playing the character.
What is your favorite place in Verona? | “Places are places, are places.” Words fell from casually loose lips, flat muscles and eyes rested upon his face as he took in the response of his interviewer, gave himself a moment to enjoy their frustration, the needle of his words knitting the space between their brows together. A dilatory moment of this passed before his lips unsheathed far too-perfect teeth. “The twelfth night.” Amusement laced his words in a way that sounded like a chuckle, spread far across his face to meet his eyes like beams of sunlight, brightening the pale skin it touched. Eyes casually emigrated to the cuff of his sleeve, long narrow fingers fiddling to straighten the small metal clasp that held it in place. ‘Home’ felt like an obvious answer, one that comes from a place deep within one’s soul, one given from utter personage. It was a word used to describe a dwelling of comfort, safety. Ah, but no person or place provided such a vast sensation. All that resided there was a bitter taste that weighed him down as strongly as desire did. He found himself on those places, however pesky, simply prioritized. “I like art.“ He added, blue orbs flickering up from under thick dark brows. There was a great truth in this set of words and yet in the cruelest twist of fate and fallacy he continued with an almost crude sense of humor. "And other historical entertainments."
What has been your biggest mistake thus far? I "Ah, mistakes.” Air left eager lungs as if to sound off sighs of relief. As if voracious for the topic, his lungs pulled in another large breath. “I can attest to many, many mistakes.” It was a topic that engulfed his life, his very breaths taken in vain of the word. It echoed off the walls of his skull, pounding itself into the bone it reached, engraving the term ad nauseum so that he could never forget. “My greatest mistake is the sins of another. Unfortunately, all my own will seem pale in comparison. Boring really.” Far too warm hands folded over his knees, well-practiced politeness plastered across his features. “But I’m sure I’ll even the score eventually.”
What has been the most difficult task asked of you? I “Difficulty stems from incompetence.” Bold statements were made from confidence, a strong belief that burned in his chest. Neatly trimmed fingernails tapped the dark stained wood of the armchair he poised himself in, Hack stretched out against the opulently draped bolster. Many difficult tasks had been asked of him, several that flashed about his mind in a rapid myriad, pressed up against his smooth forehead so that the pressure built like cotton. Difficult not in question of morality but in the conflict of agenda. The undertakings themselves brought little burden to his mind but the consequences must always be taken under consideration. The butterfly effects that carried with each accord left the stains of spots on his own broken wings. None were to be taken unnecessarily. “I suspect you aren’t accusing me of that.”
What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues? I “The war between the two?” Vibrant eyes narrowed with the flow of words from his parted lips. As if the question brought some offense, pierced through a more obvious concern, a more prominent affair. It was much easier separated into two parts of one whole, easier but untrue to the nature of this particular footing. To new eyes, the crimson stains would seem so easily poised from a clear separation, Capulet and Montague. Ah, but Easton’s eyes were nor new or untrained. They had seen the blood that pooled from open veins, the carnage and rot that baked in the warm midsummer sun. He tsked as if to scorn the ignorance of those who would ask such. You could not start a book from the middle, nor could you an end. Blight had long held the minds of those from each party. Betrayal bubbled and burst from within each seam, pressed at authority and delegation alike. “It’s easier to blame others for our actions, surely.” As if talking to a child he turned his lips down, the incomprehension something of an irritation, the need for explanation an inconvenience to his own time. “Do you not consider the wars amongst ourselves?”
In-Character Para Sample: Again, write as much or as little as you need to get your interpretation across.
(this is a kinda lot? and not something a situation i see happening incredibly often at all but I write it nonetheless so I included it)
A dream is defined as a succession of images, thoughts, or emotions passing through the mind during a state of unconsciousness. This was otherwise known as sleep. The term would never relate to himself, however, as sleep was a luxury only available to the poor, the deprived. The same word, conversely, is a wild or vain fantasy. This definition seemed more appropriate when associating the word, dream, to himself. Wild and vein, indeed. His egotistical nature seemed to be everywhere at once as he closed his eyelids. It burned there in the pictures that were painting themselves in his mind. And suddenly it was as if he were hearing his own thoughts. Thoughts, that seemed obscure and twisted to himself muffled by choking screams. Ah, but his mind was not absent at all. In fact, the image that was painting itself in his mind was both behind his eyelids and in front of them. It was as if his dreams poured out from his mind to spill on the floor. Or more suitably, nightmares.
Air flared his nostrils, filling his lungs with a sudden force so powerful it was audible as he opened his eyes, his rough thumb trailed the skin on the side of his mouth with anxiety as he turned. Deep-set eyes were thoughtful, dark brows pulled together in a pucker from a tilted head that stares down the man who was bleeding out on his new carpet. He looked as if he hadn’t noticed, not the man bleeding, not the ruined carpet. Easton knelt down beside him, his lips pressed together as he flicked his phone back on. “Have you seen this girl?”
His voice was too casual, too kind for the scene, too worried. Headlight with adrenaline, the preternatural display causing reality to feel more like a hallucination. The other didn’t look up, clearly too occupied with the blood that came up with every cough to entertain the deranged man leaning over him.
“She’s red hot I know.” He said in a breathy chuckle. The sound was innocent, lustful even as he shook his head in disbelief. “She’s slippery though. Always hard to find. Not mine either. Not really my type but-” Easton sighed, slight frustration lacing his tone as his eyes trailed away from the phone to stare at still choking interrogatee.
“You see that’s the thing. She’s been ignoring someone for the past 24 hours, it’s like she completely disappeared.” There in his iris’ you could find a new, growing intensity. It was slow at first, a sense of seriousness that within a matter of words became terrifying, unhinged in the deep pits of his pupils. “Here, take a look at her.” Easton shoved the phone further in the man’s face. The light from the screen reflecting off the red stream, almost close enough to engage in it. He knew very well it still wouldn’t be seen, that the blood pooling in this man’s eyes would have him seeing red, not quite in the way Easton was expecting to himself; certainly, there was more of a disadvantage in it. “She’s beautiful right?”
“Anyway,-” Easton’s tone dropped off again with a sigh, the phone going dark so that the men own eradicated state was staring back at him with a click. “She doesn’t report back last night. No text, no calls, nothing. So people start asking around, when’s the last time people heard from her. We don’t like the responses. You know, there’s something about the tone of a person’s voice.”
Easton stood, the now accumulating sweat from his palms being wiped on his dark crisp pants as he began to pace. “My imagination starts running wild. I start thinking of other guys I’ve seen her look at, other associations she’s hung out with, other friends of hers she doesn’t know we know about. You know, I started thinking about what I would do to someone if I found out that he paid her off. I would shackle the fucker up for a year and I would slowly and systematically torture him every morning and every night till he finally shut down. I mean I would burn off all his fucking skin is what I would do.” Something about the tone of his voice insinuated he was talking to a friend, a casual comfort emulating from him in waves that got cut off by sudden bursts of insanity.
“You know, these are the classifications of things I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about bad things.” Feet were trailing in small circles by this point, shiny shoes walking through pools of claret, dragging it with each pace. A heavy sign caused the motion to stop, silence falling in its place as crystal slowly rose to Easton’s lips, a thoughtful sip seeming to bring him back to his purpose.
“So, do you recognize her?” He waited a long moment. “Hm?”
“Yea.” The man responded in response in a choke. Easton quickly rushed to kneel by his side again. “You do?” He asked eagerly, his chest beginning to rise and fall with expectations.
“Uh, Yeah, I see her around sometimes. I mean, I don’t know her, but –” His eyes focused on almost anything but Easton’’s face but Easton kept moving his eyes into the line of sight.
“Hard to miss right?” Easton smiled almost confidently, proudly.
“Right.” The other coughed out again, his fluids seeming to stay inside him for once. The stench of iron and violence still fresh on his breath.
“It’s the little things that get you, the arguments. There had been this little spat about nothing – I don’t even remember what and then poof, she’s out the door, she’s gone. You know where she goes?” Easton didn’t give a moment to respond. “She goes to your side of town.”
“Really?”
Heartbeats were becoming more frequent, patience suddenly running low as if they were thin to begin with. The cause wasn’t a lack of control but a lack of interest. The cards were being dealt too slowly, passion only residing when there was something to be won. The room already smelled like victory and the fight he received in return was none. The anger now came from a place of disappointment. “Yea.”
Suddenly his voice was getting louder, quicker. The urgency became something of a result of annoyance twisting around his chest, crushing his ribs. Easton’s face flushed red, pressing closer to the others, enclosing some of the space between them with a furious gaze.
“She goes over to that shit hole. She sends a text that she found her friends and then that’s it, that’s the last time she’s heard from. And you know what? I know some of these ‘friends’ over there and you know what they tell me? They tell me she goes over around 1 AM and then doesn’t come back – So she comes in, but doesn’t come out. At least not through town.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as he caught his breath. His tone finding another spasm of normality. His finger lifted, head tilted to the side as brows furrowed once more. “You were down their last night, right?
Easton’s company simply nodded in reply, cringing at the pain that seemed to ache through his muscles at the action. Easton’s head nodded in return, lips tight as he took in the words. “Did you see anything?”
“Did I see anything?”
“Yea, did you see anything.”
“Did I see anything? I don’t see much of anything ever.“
Easton stared at him for a moment as if he were taking this in.
“Right, but you didn’t answer my question.”
Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.
I am pretty dyslexic so larger bodies of text tend to get grammar and spelling mistake. They are usually minor and people usually have no issue comprehending my work but if there ever is an issue I just ask that you let me know so I can fix it!
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