#cause if it felt visceral and real to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mixtapedoh · 26 days

Note

vernon as highschool crush pls for lonely boy 🧍‍♀️

vernon my bestie beloved bastard ♡ you really are requesting for the people, lindsay.

;༊ — lonely boy

pairing: hansol vernon chwe x gn!reader genre: fluff, high school au word count: ~3.3k warnings: language, mild threats among friends, a lack of originality (but perhaps ameliorated by an understanding of the conventions of trope?)

olive's notes: firstly, hahaha.......... pretend like this wasn't something you sent me actual months ago.... and pretend like i gave the prompt the justice it deserves....... shhhhhh, i answer things in a timely manner and can still be considered a tumblr writer. secondly, this is quite glaringly based off of and colored by my memories of high school, so expect United States education system nonsense <3.

☄. *. ⋆ hansol vernon chwe x high school crush.

— the hardest thing about crushing on this fucker is that he's everywhere

simultaneously the biggest cryptid in the whole student body (if you had a nickel for every time your journalism teacher asked: "has anyone seen hansol this week?" to absolute crickets you'd be able to pay for at least 2 years of college) and also the most social person to ever grace your high school halls, hansol was everywhere all at once, and contradictorily, nowhere when you sought him out.

you wanted to avoid seeing him because of something embarrassing you were sure he had noticed? bam. right there beside you, sitting on the same row of auditorium seats for the assembly.

you wanted to catch a glimpse of him while the both of you were assigned to photograph the basketball game? viola. gone, nowhere to be seen; and yet your friend will tell you later that he was there the whole time, snapping the best photos of boo seungkwan's legendary 3-pointers (which you certainly hadn't missed, so where had he been??).

— yes, having a crush on hansol vernon chwe was exhausting. there was no way to save face — trust hansol to be there at your worst hours (like that chemistry presentation where the color palette you used for your PowerPoint was too light for the old projector screen to show properly, and so you half of your graphics were unreadable, inspiring your professor to dock 10 points, despite that fact that when you pulled it up on a computer screen - or any other device that wasn't an old ass projector at least 15 years out of date - the graphics were just fine and the detail above required). it didn't matter the specifics of the occasion, it was simple fact you'd always somehow manage, in your darkest moment, to look out and see hansol — always a kind smile, with something encouraging in his eye, despite, but still horribly, embarrassingly, and irrevocably present.

— and then, as it if weren't bad enough, hansol vernon chwe had the absolute gall to be unbothered, unfazed, unable to be rattled or shaken in any way, by comparison.

oh sure, you'd seen him cringe before at him friend's (mostly kwon soonyoung's) antics; you were familiar with the way vernon expressed any and all emotion with the whole of him — his every muscle tensing and twisting in a way so visceral and real, you could feel embarrassed, too, by just looking at him — but the envy was this: it was never at his expense that such feelings would arise. vernon was never embarrassed because of something he did or caused or felt. his life was far too chill and unbothered for that. others could be embarrassing around him, but all of his actions flowed so smoothly — rolled over the shoulders of everyone else.

the closest he'd ever get was doing something explicitly stupid just for the enjoyment of others. but, the catch was this: they enjoyed it !!!! it was funny and not cringe worthy !!!!! the net effect was positive.

it was infuriating. sometimes you weren't sure if you wanted to kiss hansol or strangle him with your bare hands.

— but let's take things back to journalism.

— because of course he took journalism.

not exactly the most exalted of the journalism students or anything, hansol was mostly known for his opinion piece articles and, of course, availability and willingness to go to any school event to take pictures and help fill in the blanks of the article anyone was writing.

he had friends in any and all school functions and events. from sports to musicals, science fairs to choir recitals, you could say, "is anyone going to this very obscure and random FBLA presentation?" or "did you know that the coding club is going to be attending an event at another high school this saturday?" and hansol would immediately perk up, pull out one of his headphones and go, "yeah, i'm gonna check it out. did you need a ride?"

— and it was because of that — his being everywhere, inescapable and offhandedly thoughtful, open and so easily warm — that these pesky feelings even started, in the first place.

— just when it happened is perhaps inconsequential (in all actuality, it likely started before your journalism daily exposure, just slowly, more of an itch at the back of your mind than the brash insistence it was, now) but it was definitely the fault of journalism. maybe that band and orchestra festival in 11th grade where you went with hansol to do a write up on all the high schools attending (placing undue emphasis on your high school's multi-talented band leader, lee jihoon, who could play half the instruments in the room), or maybe that series of debate tournaments you both covered in 11th grade, or when the two of you took over the baseball column that same year and when the heatwave spiked early, vernon would attend each game in sleeveless tops, always with an extra ball cap in tow since you would (conveniently, perhaps?) forget one of your own and the sun made it impossible to see what was happening, beyond.

yes, just when it hit was neither here nor there, because at the end of the day, the problem remained: you were hopelessly down bad for one hansol vernon chwe. fuck.

— and you couldn't escape him if you tried.

and trust me, at one point, try, you had.

— after all, at the beginning of your senior year, you somehow ended up being in the same spanish class as him and his friend joshua, and after a whole year (and subsequent summer break, when your journalism teacher found an opportunity to have a section of the city newspaper be dedicated to "the youth of journalism," and weekly, your journalism club was able to publish in the city newspaper) of crushing on hansol with a vehemence perhaps concerning, you knew you couldn't handle having to have embarrassing debates, conversations, and role play scenarios with him.

in perhaps two weeks you were in the counselor's office, exploring alternate class blocks. in the end, you were stuck in a ceramics course instead of your preferred electives, but at least when the unit on "la familia, el amor y todo lo interpersonal" came up, you were role playing as a couple alongside jeon jungkook, who couldn't stop making you wheeze with laughter from his overextention of the r at every available chance, rather than your crush, hansol.

(all it would have taken was one "te extraño" from hansol through your fake hand phones to absolutely floor you. someone call the school nurse, you're fallen and perhaps can never get back up again.)

— so you avoided him there, and even before that, during your junior year, you had mostly eaten off campus on your second schedule days when you and hansol had the same lunch hour and the risk of running into him at a time potentially embarrassing was at an all time high, seeing as nowhere was safe — the social butterfly he was, hansol managed to have business in every hallway of the school. not a single area was risk free.

yeah, junior year really had just been a mess of emotions you hadn't wanted to name, and so instead, elected to pointedly ignore. you were glad to say that while spending your hard earned money to eat out 2-3 times a week was a bit of a low, you had solidly moved out of that phase of your life by spring that year, and could stomach the risk of Being Seen by someone who had captured your attention so strongly.

and yeah, even though you had a bit of a backslide when changing spanish classes senior year (which could be chalked up to self-preservation, truly), you had solidly moved past that whole Avoidance Stage of your Crippling Crush on One Hansol Vernon Chwe.

— so hansol couldn't be avoided. that much was abundantly clear. and you had to interact with him in journalism and (god willing) be normal while doing so, and luckily, while all that exposure didn't exactly desensitize you to his overwhelming charm, admirable confidence, infectious smile, endearing jokes, comfortable aura, and oh so beautiful eyes, it had forced you to just,,,,,,, accept some things.

— accept that you had a raging crush on hansol, but that it could be managed... so long as none of your mutual friends found out.

— you were pretty sure that wonwoo knew, but at least he was ✨subtle✨ and generally checked out of things like that. genuinely, he could not care less, and so he made it no one's problem. you could probably tell him your most rancid, vulgar thoughts, and he would just file it away in his mind as: "nasty shit i can never unhear" and go about his day. compare that to your other mutual acquaintance, seungkwan, and well...

— but for the most part, it seemed that senior year was inching away, another year with a crush on hansol, and another year where you didn't say a damn thing and refused to leave anything close to a hint for him to pick up on.

— but mercy didn't exactly exist for you, now did it.

— the horrible series of Epic Fumblings and Incriminating Moments began in october, when hansol and joshua decided to make a podcast to convince the school that an AV club could be a fun addition to the roster of School Sanctioned Clubs (an idea they really should have had back in august — you know, when clubs were first getting registered and students were accosted in the hallways with club information slapped on astrobrights with strong ~graphic design is my passion~ presentation)

they had needed someone tech savvy enough to get them the podcast equipment and teach them how to use it (and just,,, do all the technical aspects for them 🥺👉👈 pwetty pwease 🥺👉👈 we're just silly boys who want to talk about random shit but are trying to pass it off as being Constructive in Some Sense so that it looks good on college applications) and so obviously their search had sent them in the way of wonwoo, who only seemed to have free time on the exact day and time you two would joint study for your college level government and politics course.

so of course he asked if the two of you could move your study sessions to a different location (he swore he could multitask? okay overacheiver) so that he could both study with you and help the stupidly handsome hansol and joshua with their brilliant podcast idea.

and of course, you'd forget the first time and wonwoo would conveniently not answer his texts for 20 minutes, allowing for the most embarrassing stage of him finally picking up his phone (on speaker?) to you yelling "jeon wonwoo, i will personally castrate you and throw it in the ocean so you can be eaten alive by the creatures birthed from the subsequent sea foam if you don't come to the library to study right now. i have been waiting for 20. minutes. where are you?" and hansol and joshua would hear you. and have the gall to laugh.

and of course wonwoo wouldn't even give you the grace of not having to show up to his house (your new study location) to study for the day. in fact, hansol gave him the brilliant idea of threatening to train an eagle to peck at your liver daily - not eating it fully, just put in it's beak and twist the flesh. since you can't grow another liver overnight, of course. don't you just love mythological punishment.

(and that wouldn't be the end of the embarrassing podcast adventures, either. the time shua cajoled you into being a special guest????? truly, you dodged a bullet not being in spanish with that fool. he's impossible to refuse and the worst of it was that he knew it.)

— or what about the december gift exchange in journalism?? that was certainly not your finest moment, trying to get chaewon to change names with you so that you could gift something to hansol (something lady luck had never granted you despite all the blood, sweat, and tears you sunk into this journalism group of yours), and he heard you, mid-conversation.

seungkwan had told you hansol had been talking about it later, and you quite literally saw him connect the dots in slow-motion as he recounted the story. "y/n, do you have a crush on hansol????" it would have been bad enough that he practically yelled the accusation in the stands of the football field, but then he had the gall to triumphantly gasp and break into hysterical laughter upon your clear embarrassment at being caught. it was during lunch! you're shared lunch break with hansol! who knew where that fucker was! he probably saw the whole exchange!

(in the end, chaewon didn't change names with you (she traded with some other journalism traitor so she could gift to sakura) and even though hansol didn't have your name, he got you something regardless, saying it was thanks for putting up with he and shua stealing wonwoo during your (once peaceful) study sessions. you had decided against getting him a gift regardless, and so you had to awkwardly seek him out during winter break to shove a poorly wrapped box in his hands, with a mumbled apology for your tardiness in gifting, something he pushed away cooly, as expected (but were those red ears of his from just the cold, alone?).)

— and then, well, once everyone came back from winter break and seungkwan knew of your crush on hansol... school became less a Place of Learning and more a Viscous Time Loop of Shutting Seungkwan Up Before He Spilled The Beans.

kicking him under the table. threatening his livelihood. slapping a hand over his mouth on one occasion because seungkwan couldn't take a joke and his retaliation of choice was calling over hansol right there and then and forcing you both to awkwardly sit in the bitter soup of Revelation.

— and then there was february. oh, february. how easy it is to loathe february.

— it was already hard enough getting through the embarrassment of valentine's day themed fundraising — every year, your literature teacher (who oversaw the student body officers — that first exposure to the cruel reality of rigged elections, a popularity win if there ever was one) offered extra credit for students who volunteered time to help the sbo's with their silly little business venture of "roses for $3, sugar cookies with shocking pink frosting for $2, heart suckers for $1, sonnets written by the creative writing and theatre kids for $7.

every year you volunteered for some reason or another - maybe your grade needed it, maybe you were doing sbo president seungcheol a favor because no one signed up, maybe you were following the stupid advice of seokmin and were doing it for the plot (code for: please don't leave me alone at the stand, i will buy you all the sugar cookies you'd like, just don't consign me to spending my lunch break in this particular layer of hell in solitude). this year was no different in you signing up to do time, but seungkwan sure was different, asking you every day if you managed to see if vernon sent anyone something (he had — soonyoung had convinced him to pitch in to send jihoon 16 sonnets, to be read aloud in the middle of class). if he had sent you something (he hadn't).

but when you got an anonymous rose sent to your 2nd class of the day, with a cryptic note attached, your friends wouldn't let you live it down all week. (who had sent it, though? they would have had to be very strategic as to when they placed the order — you had certainly never seen one for yourself in your daily exchange of goods, and seokmin was suspiciously tight lipped about the whole thing (very uncharacteristic of him — who had the ability to buy dk's silence, and better yet, how had they done it???)).

— yes, valentine's day was bad enough. but to add to the mix was always hansol's birthday. last year you'd gotten him a gift since you had worked quite a lot together during that month, and it just felt... normal. comfortable. something kind to do that wasn't weird in anyway. but these days, facing hansol was almost as embarrassing as it had been during junior year when you avoided the mere sight of him like seeing him smile would end in you contracting the plague.

as the day inched ever closer, you were seriously considering missing the day entirely. taking the day off. pretending to be sick. but that wouldn't get you out of seeing him the day after. and the day after that.

perhaps fleeing the country would be a totally normal reaction and solid plan.

— and then joshua invited you to hansol's surprise birthday party.

well. at least that cleared up whether you should get him a gift or not.

— to say that, at that moment and for the subsequent days afterward, were overthinking the whole thing would be to extremely understate reality.

you were about to pop a blood vessel over this shit.

wonwoo was invited, too (how charitable of them. making sure there'd be someone there to scrape you off the floor when you inevitably discovered the power of self combustion) and it was rather comical to see the two of you: cool and calm wonwoo, and you with the internal dialogue of WHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHA

all holding a cute little gift between you.

— and the surprise birthday party really was a Legitimate, 5-Star, Genuine Quality, Surprise Bona Fide™ - a success by all measures. a shock in more ways than one: a surprise for hansol who had no idea the party was happening in the first place, getting called over for what he expected was a casual videogame night; a surprise for lee chan, somehow, when he saw that shua got you to come 15 minutes before show time to help blow up balloons - a shock so big he started to say something with a wild grin and was immediately dogpiled by mingyu, junhui, and hoshi; a surprise for all the friends amassed when you proved to be quite adept at party games like their incredibly convoluted version of mafia; and a surprise for you, later that night, when hansol offered to take you home

— the two you decided to stop at an empty playground before parting ways and see who could jump farther off of the swings. he won by a wide margin, but you had the skinned knees to prove your effort and the memory of hansol laughing so hard he could barely breathe — his smile so wide it could've filled you completely, banish any longing from your chest for a moment of unique closeness and bliss — and perhaps that was a consolation prize, enough.

but then you and hansol were on the swings again, seeing who could tighten the swing chain the most and spin the longest, and between the motion blur, you heard hansol admit defeat and when the swing stopped, his face was all too close to yours to shrug off as friendly, and his hands were holding the swing chain on either side, and when he spoke soft and low to crown you the victor, you kissed him.

and the biggest surprise of the night was when he kissed you back.

☄. *. ⋆

blog home

#olive.writes #seventeen imagine #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #svt x reader #svt imagine #svt x you #vernon x reader #vernon imagine #vernon x you #svt vernon x reader #svt vernon imagine #fuck idk how to tag anymore someone tell me what i'm doing #also me????? WRITING??????????? SOMETHING LONG FORM?????????????? ohmygod it's been actual years since i've posted writing on tumblr #if my formatting isn't pretty yet give me time i'm out of practice okay #no i have not edited this we die like men

81 notes · View notes

autistichalsin · 4 months

Note

Okay, I’ve been a bit scared because I’ve been observing from the sidelines, but I do want you to know this isn’t a hateful or troll ask, I’m genuinely asking for clarification.

In my experience, “pro-shipping” has always meant ‘problematic shipping’, and all of the people I’ve talked to about this have said the same thing.

Am I the one who’s misconstrued? I really don’t get it.

Being called “pro-harassment” or “pro-censorship” is hurtful and confusing as all hell.

I don’t harass people for what they create. I don’t care to do that. I block and move on, and warn people if I know they could be upset by the content.

But I also don’t understand how certain things are justified.

I am personally not bothered by much, but I have watched friends and acquaintances go through visceral traumatic reactions because people have decided to air out their coping by sharing it with the public. (I.E, people who write romantic incestual fics, etc)

I don’t give a shit what people write. I really don’t. But it feels harmful to use the excuse of coping when you, in turn, could be hurting dozens of others.

Like I said, I genuinely am not trying to be hateful here. I’m confused, and still distraught that all of this is happening. I don’t think anyone deserves to be harassed. I just also don’t get the logic here.

Pro-shipping never once meant problematic shipping. It meant opposite of "anti" because antis would come and invade the tags and asks, calling them all kinds of names if they found their ships distasteful.

Sorry that being indirectly accused of supporting harassment hurt your feelings. Imagine how I felt, being DIRECTLY accused of supporting rape in real life because of my taste in fiction. You are throwing in your lot with people who can't distinguish fantasy and reality.

I don't like incest fics either, anon. They are triggering for me. So you know what I do? I don't read fics tagged as incest. For that reason, I have never been triggered by an incest fic. I suppose I would be if I read an incest fic that wasn't tagged as much, but you will never find a single pro-shipper who defends posting such content without a tag. You are responsible for your own experience online; it is your job to curate the content.

If it was just seeing that the fic exists that triggered the response, then I'm sorry to say they're still in the wrong. As a survivor, learning that triggers exist and how to navigate those triggers is on you. We are responsible for how we deal with our trauma. Your friends didn't deserve their traumas, and they deserve kindness and support, but requesting that people never be allowed to write distasteful fiction so that they don't have to be upset by the idea that someone somewhere shipped incest is not reasonable. Their feelings are valid; it's totally reasonable to be triggered, to strictly curate your online experience. It's reasonable to block everyone who ships the upsetting incest ships, to put an "incest shippers DNI" on your page, all of it. It's not reasonable to call them supporters of IRL incest or to accuse them of causing your trauma. It isn't hard at all on AO3 or Tumblr; they even give you the option to blacklist/filter out certain tags so you can avoid it without blocking users. There's easily half a dozen safeguards that already exist that are a lot less radical, a lot less likely to be weaponized against queer users, and a lot easier to enforce than trying to remove them.

Me writing fics, such as a character using kink to cope, can only harm a user who doesn't curate their feed (and who reads fics they know will trigger them, which I can only assume would then be a purposeful form of self-harm). Denying other survivors their coping mechanism, though, IS a direct form of harm. Stigmatizing recovery by saying that survivors are in any way akin to abusers for creating fiction is a direct form of harm.

It sounds to me like you've absorbed some very harmful and very narrow ideas of what recovery should and should not look like, and what is and isn't a good/valid survivor. You might want to reflect on why you're turning your attention to policing what survivors do to cope so much.

#proship #proshipper #discourse

68 notes · View notes

pascalishere · 11 months

Text

Ok, here are some thoughts on Death Grips, cause I forgot earlier whoops

I’ve been feeling some latent frustration with how I see a lot of people online engage with their music. I don’t mean to be some kind of elitist about this, but a lot of the (deserved) praise that I see them getting feels kind of…detached? It’s almost always coming from the kind of “woah, this music is crazy…but it works somehow?” mindset. I know I’m absolutely making a strawman argument here, but I’ve seen it enough times to where I feel like it’s not just a person I’m making up in my head to be mad at.

I feel like some people don’t get that DG isn’t good in spite of the “insanity”, they’re good because of the “insanity”. And I’ll admit, a lot of their music can be quite alienating! They use lots of abrasive textures, MC Ride’s performances can get very intense, it’s all a lot. But I feel like there are tons of moments of sheer beauty within DG’s discography. The riff from Centuries of Damn comes to mind, it’s so tired and desperate sounding, it’s incredible.

Hearing the incredible art that DG puts out is great, but to see a lot of people in it for the pure spectacle is a little disheartening. And I’m not trying to claim to be the only one who really gets Death Grips, at least I hope I’m not. I just really only see people talk about how crazy they are instead of how flat-out good they are.

Like, each member of DG itself is so talented!

Ride’s ability to channel that much visceral feeling into his performances is impressive on its own, it’s a miracle his throat hasn’t completely given out yet. But it feels so shitty to pigeonhole his style into “Funny homeless man screaming”. First of all, that’s just fucking rude. Second, that’s so reductive! Screaming isn’t all he does, he’s a really damn versatile performer! I never feel like he’s phoning it in or reusing a vibe, he does exactly what needs to be done, every single track. Lots of the most memorable moments of DG’s music are when Ride drops the yelling, and just talks. It’s chilling every time. Plus, his ability to keep a consistent flow over the off-kilter production is a feat all on its own.

Speaking of which, I think Andy Morin might be one of my favorite music producers right now. Right up there with Arca, Patricia Taxxon, Nigel Godrich, that real legendary shit. Like Ride, it never feels like I’m hearing the same thing twice. Each DG track sounds and feels so distinct, even while keeping within the general industrial, electronic, and punk sound palettes. Even my least favorite DG project in terms of production, NLDW, never ever felt lazy or unfinished. I think it’s an excellent project, I just don’t personally enjoy it as much as other DG albums, for very superficial reasons. On projects I prefer more, I still strongly feel that he’s very skilled at creating unique sounds, while still maintaining a sense of familiarity within the outlandish production.

Regarding Zach Hill, I think his drumming speaks for itself. Like, watch any video of a live Death Grips performance. That man goes absolutely ham on the drums, every single time. It’s a wonder he hasn’t snapped his wrists more often. Admittedly, he is the DG member I have the least to say about. I tend to get lost in the electronic elements of most DG tracks, I don’t pay as much attention to the drumming. I also have yet to check out Hella, but I’ve heard nothing but good things about them. Moving forward, I’m definitely going to try to keep my ears open to what he’s doing while the other elements of the tracks pass me by. I’m certain I’ll find something incredible.

Put together, they’re easily one of the most unique and consistently astonishing bands ever. I say that with my full chest. I don’t know, I just really like them! Sorry for the rambling, I just wanted to get all of this out there. Bottom line, Death Grips Good.

#pascal barks #music #death grips #mc ride #andy morin #zach hill #hella #no love deep web #the powers that b #jenny death #arca #patricia taxxon #nigel godrich #radiohead #analysis? question mark?#art #long post

87 notes · View notes

dyrewrites · 3 months

Text

In Fog -- 1

Memories live in shaky breaths, in gasps and giggles, in screams and tightly held silence. The moments adored, the moments feared, all soon forgotten which lie in wait for peace, for quiet, when they can be felt full and complete, relived in visceral detail.

It was one such memory that took me then, standing at the edge of that long abandoned park, eyes jittering too fast to make out the rusted playground in all its growing shadows. I didn't need to see it. I knew its shape as surely as I knew my own. I remembered the curves of its slide, the jagged holes in its stairs, its broken bars, and its crooked playhouse.

It had changed over the years, as all things are wont to do, but still I knew it.

Then, as fog rolled in to pierce those familiar shapes with the eerie whites of its jagged fingers, slipping with such ease to fill the cracks my mind could not…I wondered if the park remembered me.

It answered, in its way. With a gasping breeze it fluttered the fallen leaves, toying with the weight of them as easily as it did the tail of my coat. We did not speak, the park and I, not in words. Yet we understood one another through the memories that followed.

In those memories I felt your hands—chill as ever against my cheeks–and we were together again, whole as we were meant to be, whole as we had been so many years ago…

THEN

Autumn stretched eternal that year, trapped in the mesmerizing in-between of burnt orange leaves and scattered rains, and we were trapped too. Unwilling, or unable, we had kept ourselves oblivious to the future overtaking us. We languished in our holding patterns, both so certain we could keep them, store them, to force our lives not to change with the season.

You were to leave after our final year at university, on the heels of your father, ferried to another city–another world for all the pain it caused me–while I remained in our sleepy town, living the same sleepy life.

I would have accepted it, you know. I would have cried and wailed and gnashed my teeth…but I would have accepted it. Perhaps not until filial responsibilities forced me into a business I had no head for and social mores locked me into a marriage of convenience, of expectation. Yet, I would. I am certain that I would…eventually, had I been given the option, had that night not ruined it all; ruined us both.

It began in the playground, as our worst ideas often did, with the two of us drenched in sweat and shame. The fog had rolled in thick that evening, chasing the passing storms of the weeks prior, in a fine white blanket that hid our sin.

We could not have known what rode it.

You were half-dressed in naught but underclothes, sinewy legs dangling bare from the lip of the playhouse as you worked to stitch the suspenders I had torn. Those hands bewitched me, so swift they moved, so precise and with the moonlight outlining all that I had tasted, they tempted me to more.

“The time?” You asked, pushing my lips from your shoulder, my hand from your thigh. And you giggled through it, a sumptuous giggle that I would ache for in the years to follow…

“Half-past planned, close to midnight,” I returned, with a hurt I feared beamed as bright in my eyes as it did in my chest when you parodied my pout.

“Walk me to the train?” Were the last words you spoke with your own voice; your own will.

We had enjoyed its cover and cool caress along our skin, and the dreamy way it scattered the moonlight, but all the while it had grown around us. And we missed how quickly it had risen, how much thicker, how much whiter…how solid.

It had you.

Before I could find the breath to warn you, it had you in its pale grasp. You wailed as thin tendrils coiled round your neck, as they sharpened into teeth too real to be fog. I fought it; of course I did, I would have fought the devil himself for you. But it had control of your muscles and I had only mine.

And so I lost. As I would again before the night was through, before the fog thinned with the rise of a warm autumn morn.

You see, my love…you left with it.

Not completely, not yet, but a sip of you dripped from the grip of those teeth–so white they were, so cold. Then that terrible white, with its terrible chill, lapped up that sip of you. It stole it, and in that one horrid pulse of its shapeless mass…it stole you.

We ran then. Me and the thing you were becoming, though not to our homes. Never there, neither had ever meant safety, but especially then. No, I urged you by your stiffening, cooling hands to another place, a place none would think to look for sinners such as us.

I sought a church.

Father William welcomed us with open arms, if a grave expression, as he had many a morning—and evening. We were not the only ones there for sanctuary but, at the sight of you, he bid the other leave.

With you lain on a pew too quiet, too still, and Sister Beth fetching cloths and cool water, I was forced to explain our circumstances.

“Fog,” I told the Father, “I understand the impossibility of it but it was fog that attacked us,” my voice betrayed me again and again, sputtering imprecise, stealing any hint of eloquence I otherwise strived for. Were you conscious, you would have teased. But I went on, as best I could, “At the playground, it lingers still and it…it took…”

His hand was steady, strong and far too warm on my arm, soothing even as my tears fell, “Fret not, child, you are safe now. We can deal with your friend.”

I had not looked away from your pallor, the mild shakes as Sister Beth wet your brow, until then. Father William, while kind and welcoming of us whenever we fled the rocks and fists of our peers, never asked why they spurned us. Nor questioned how we huddled so close when we hid.

“Father,” as much as I ached to, I could not form the question.

But I needn’t, as he smiled and answered it, “love is love in the eyes of the Almighty.”

Whether from anxiety, panic, grief, or all and more I laughed. It was quick and cut with Father William’s hurt look, but a laugh all the same. A brief release of what would build again, what would threaten to overwhelm. Then I spoke, perhaps too honestly, “I fear you are of singular belief in that, Father”

“Yes,” He nodded, watching you as much as me, “well, not all are open to the divine aspect of His love, unconditional as it is. But they will find it.”

“Until then,” I watched you as well, praying in my way that you were still the one I knew, the one I loved, “perhaps we keep that part of this between us?”

“Of course,” Father William nodded and tapped Sister Beth’s shoulder.

She tilted her head, her silence somehow louder despite the motion that overtook her hands. Swift signs, unknown to me, were shared with Father William—and returned—before she nodded and shuffled into a distant chamber.

“This is a known malady,” Father William explained, once she had gone.

“You know of the fog?” I asked, bewildered.

“Not it, no, but what it imparts,” Cryptic, his words, and I know now they were so out of fear. “But we can remedy it.”

His certainty rang hollow, and what he hid went ignored as I cared only for you to wake. But in that fitful sleep, swollen with all that hateful fog, you were changing, soon to blossom as something magnificent and terrible.

When Sister Beth returned to your side, it was with a vial in her delicate hands. A vial she popped. She nodded at Father William after, waiting for him to return it, hiding as he was beside me. The clear waters she flecked you with burnt to gray on your death-pale skin.

And they woke you.

Red-eyed and ravenous, a beast you became, if I ever knew one. Yet, yet your attack came so swift, so easy, not a drop of her blood hit the floor, until she did.

Then it dribbled in a shimmering red ribbon from her neck. I gawked, I must admit, entranced by its color, the way it pooled, that I missed Father William’s approach.

With a cross, pointed at its base, he lunged for you. And with a voice soaked in terror, he cried, “Back to Hell with you, demon!” and fell into the swift prayers we had heard through so many sermons.

I stood where you were, dumbfounded, lost, outside myself in all ways one could be. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to see the monster you had become. Even as Father William’s prayers became wet and gurgled I would not register, would not accept.

Slow he fell, so slow, with you attached. Clinging to him as the starving beast you were. It was not clean, not swift, as Sister Beth had been. No trickling of life growing to pool like a blasphemous halo about his head.

No. As your teeth broke skin his life sprayed, then it burbled and poured until it dripped in thick, salacious rivulets down his chest. When at last he had no pulse to force it…he crumpled.

You turned then, drenched, eyes too hot and smiled.

At me, you smiled, with teeth too long, too sharp. And he painted you so dark, my love, so red his blood, virulent in its thickness, its agony. You shared it, running to me with it soaking you…and I allowed the embrace, the life-stained kiss.

Father William burned, salt-sick on your tongue and still I took it, devoured it. It was you, after all, I wanted to believe. Oh, how I wanted to believe. Beast, monster, demon, I cared not, so long as it was you.

“Darling, did you see?” Your voice echoed—as a scream through fog.

“I, I,” I saw it then, truly saw it. The blood, the life spilled so quickly, carelessly, on you, on me. Sense fleeting, but terror thick, I screamed, “What have you done!”

Your face so perfect, too perfect, eyes too bright beneath that stolen life, you stared at me, with all the innocent confusion of a scolded child.

Then you laughed, loud and full and echoing.

“Why, I ate them of course,” You said, casually, as if they were any old snack, “but did you see how quickly?”

Grabbing me by the hand, you hummed then and led me in a dance down the aisle, through Father William’s blood. Faster and faster you spun, lifting me with such ease, such grace.

“You always fawned over my strength, what do you think of me now?” You asked, spinning me round and round until all became blurs of color—red, all red.

I had no answer. Exhilarating as the touch, the energy radiating from you, all that confidence I once envied magnified to impossible degrees…it was beautiful. You were beautiful. But you were not you, not quite, something else spoke through you, looked through you. It wore your skin and spoke your words but it was not you.

And the hunger. Oh, my love, your hunger. It knew no end and you, you knew no restraint. Part of me, small, petty, took perverse comfort in your continued devotion. No matter how you changed, how deep you sunk into whatever had poisoned you, those too-bright eyes burned for me alone.

As they did then, surrounded by the remains of your ravenous hunger.

“I await your answer, darling,” That echoed voice cooed, trickling as icy syrup along my skin, “What do you think of me now?”

Terrifying, enchanting, impossible, “I do not know…” A lie, surely, but only just...I knew to be afraid.

But you saw more, heard more, more than even I knew then, and you laughed. Echoed and rich it sang and I spun in it. My head, my heart, my sense all spun. You held me close, too close, teasing my neck with lips softer than reality, lips that hid weapons. Sharp teeth that had bit, torn, devoured—would again.

“You love me still,” You told my neck, my cheek, the soft flesh of my ear, “you want me still.”

Forgive me, my love.

Slathered then, painted so dark and red in all that loss and pain, I should have pushed away. I should have begged, pleaded, demanded perhaps. But part of me, too eager for the lie, wanted you however I could have you. It was not you, could not have been, not with the gaiety in which you slaughtered Father William, Sister Beth—would slaughter more.

But rational thought did not apply on that cold, blood-soaked stone.

No, it had to be you, my love. It had to.

Otherwise, who was I, what was I, to have succumbed?

#writeblr #writing #horror #tw: blood #in fog #novella #horror romance

15 notes · View notes

animebw · 7 months

Text

Seasonal Reflection: Summer 2023 Anime

I've noticed over my years of seasonal anime watching that summer tends to be the weakest season of the year. For whatever reason, everyone saves their good shows for winter, spring or fall, leaving the middle of the year to limp along with few real standouts. But god almighty, even by those standards, this was a dismal fucking season of anime. Forget just not having many good shows, there were so few shows that even had the potential to be good. Trying to find anything with a fighting chance of turning out even halfway decent felt like trawling for nuggets of half-digested corn in an overflowing septic tank of obviously bad isekai, obviously bad light novel junk, and obviously bad wish-fulfillment rom-coms. And then, just to add insult to injury, basically all the shows that did start out strong ended up tripping over themselves in some way. So not only were there so few anime even worth keeping up with this season, none of them managed to score anything higher than "pretty good." This is, unquestionably, the worst anime season I've sat through since I started watching seasonally. So let's take stock of the few shows I kept up with and pray for better things once the much-more-promising fall season gets under way.

Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead: Unfinished/10

Well, isn't this unfortunately ironic. The increasingly exploitative conditions that anime is made under have resulted in so many high-profile shows suffering production delays as their animators crash up against the cruelty of overwork and corporate greed. But there's something particularly disquieting when that fate befalls a show that's all about breaking free from your shitty exploitative job. Zom 100 sets out to extol the joys of living a free life unchained by capitalism's cruel clutches even in the midst of the end of the world, but ends up so ravaged by those very chains that it was unable to finish its run before it ran out of timeslots. And now its last three episodes are left in limbo, the entire production team waiting for a chance to recover and find some way to bring their work to a close. It's a pretty bleak situation that almost makes you believe a zombie apocalypse would actually be preferrable to our current state of affairs. Especially when, uh, this is not a show you want to give the audience extra time to think about. Cause the more you think about it, the more all its aggravating flaws- painfully simplistic moralizing, a sexist streak that refuses to just fucking die- start to sour your good feelings for the rollicking ride it's taking you on. I can only hope the final episodes, whenever they arrive, close it out on a strong enough note to make the ride feel worth it.

Mushoku Tensei Season 2 (1st Cours): 1/10

I have stewed long and hard over how to phrase my thoughts on the second season of Mushoku Tensei. I've agonized for hours on how to express how viscerally, repulsively infuriating this show has become. But ultimately, there's only one thing I can say: Fuck this show and fuck everyone who likes it. Fuck every free ride this show gives Rudeus so he never had to face consequences for his actions. Fuck the hypocritical stabs at "redemption" that only serve to excuse and justify every female character slobbering over an unrepentant pedophile. Fuck the single worst use of slavery I've ever seen in an isekai (Cannot fucking believe I have to give Shield Hero credit for anything). Fuck this lifeless waste of a cast that steadfastly refuses to have a single interesting member. Fuck the misogyny. Fuck the masturbatory woe-is-me manpain. And most of all, fuck every last braindead, media-illiterate mouth-breather who decided to turn this irredeemable garbage into a modern anime classic. The success of Mushoku Tensei is the death of everything I love about this medium, and I will never forgive any of you for bringing us to this point. Go. Fuck. Yourselves.

My Happy Marriage: 4/10

God, I really wanted to like this one more than I did. Isn't it great to see high-profile shoujo anime with impressive productions making a comeback after years of drought? And this is a story about trauma and healing and discovering your self worth and all that good stuff! This should've been right up my alley. And yet, My Happy Marriage just left me frustrated and somewhat offended. There's such a powerful story buried in here somewhere, but thanks to a combination of painfully overwrought melodrama that robs its heroine of far too much agency, a poorly handled supernatural twist on the Cinderella formula that only grows increasingly awkward the more it tries to force the two together, and a condescending undercurrent that seems to think the only cure for years of abuse is embracing a hyper-traditionalist form of wifely duties, that nugget of potential never has the chance to blossom. What an utter disappointment.

Saint Cecilia and Pastor Lawrence: 5/10

Rejoice, folks; we've finally found the mathematical average of the slice-of-life moe romance. Saint Cecilia and Pastor Lawrence is the platonic ideal of the fluffy, disposable rom-com made flesh, pleasant and harmless while watching but leaving no lasting impression once it's done. It's a collection of cute character moments, amusing gags, and occasional stabs at emotion that sometimes tug at your heartstrings a bit, all arranged in their proper places with a likable cast and bouncy animation and just enough energy to stay moderately interesting all the way through. And aside from the somewhat unique setting of a Medieval church as home base for our two awkward lovebirds, none of it lingers in your mind once the episode ends and you find yourself forgetting all the jokes you were just chuckling to. Which may seem like a backhanded complement, but honestly? This is what I would consider the baseline for anime rom-coms. If you're gonna just be fluffy and disposable, this is the absolute minimum you should be aiming for to make me appreciate spending twenty-four minutes every week with you. I can't really recommend it to anyone but the most ravenous rom-com fans, but at least now I have a standard to judge any similar shows that fall short of the mark.

Sugar Apple Fairy Tale Season 2: 5.5/10

What strikes me most about Sugar Apple Fairy Tale now that it's over is just what an ambitious show it turned out to be. It's one thing to write a hackneyed fantasy racism metaphor about fairy slavery into your swoony shoujo romance, it's quite another to actually try and engage honesty with the implications of that idea as the core driving force of your narrative. And whatever else you might say about it, SAFT is really, truly making an effort to explore discrimination and systemic bigotry, tackling it from so many angles over the course of its 24 episodes without shying away from its thorny complexity. How many other stories like this would dedicate an entire subplot to showing how victims of one kind of discrimination can still perpetuate harm on groups even lower on the social totem pole like SAFT does with Brigit? Or explore how toxic systems of control don't magically get better just because a minority is at the helm like Lafalle? It's that kind of ambition that makes it easier to take this show's stumbles in stride, numerous though they might be at times. I'll always appreciate an earnest, messy attempt at making a statement over a safe, line-toeing space filler without the conviction to even try.

Horimiya Piece: 6/10

So this is a weird situation where the first season of Horimiya ended up rushing through the source material in order to adapt the whole story, and now this side-quel is going back and adapting all the content the first season skipped over. Essentially, it's a Horimiya DLC, scattered skits with no real cohesion or progression that just exist to give you more good times with the cast you love. But hey, Horimiya was never really heavy on plot to begin with; it's always been more a collection of moments across the lives of these friends than anything else. So I don't see anything wrong with doing a full season of just slice-of-life shenanigans, since that's basically what the first season became once Hori and Miyamura got together. And if nothing else, I certainly appreciated all the extra time with these lovable goofballs; this show does a better job than most of capturing the sheer, absolute chaos that teenage friend groups can cause amongst each other. Unfortunately, there are two episodes in the back half that truly, utterly suck- episode 9 is completely focused on the creepy pedophile teacher the show thinks is just the most hilarious joke ever, and episode 12 faceplants into romanticizing abusive relationships in a really gross way. So if you're gonna check Horimiya Piece out, do yourself a favor and skip those episodes entirely. Your experience will be better off for it.

Undead Murder Farce: 6.5/10

Pulp is a hard style to define, isn't it? You'd think it would be easy with how influential and popular it's been over the years. Ultimately, though, you just gotta know it when you see it. And Undead Murder Farce is pulpier than a thousand trees being turned into paper at an orange juice factory. It's a Victorian-era serial mystery extravaganza that turns the entirety of 19th-century supernatural adventure literary canon into the backdrop for a rakugo-performing half-oni and a severed immortal head to traipse through solving mysteries as they pursue a larger goal. Over the course of their adventures, they match wits and butt heads with vampires, werewolves, Sherlock Holmes, Phileas Fogg from Around the World in 80 Days, The Phantom of the Opera, Arsene Lupin, Frankenstein's Monster, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. And thanks to the director of Kaguya-sama at the helm, the visual presentation is exactly as gonzo and freewheeling as this brazen OC fanfiction deserves. I enjoyed every second of this goofy-ass show, and I hope we get a second season to see which classic characters our wisecracking immortal detectives rub elbows with next. It's what we deserve.

Jujutsu Kaisen Season 2 (1st Part): 7/10

It's increasingly difficult to pin down my feelings on Jujutsu Kaisen. On the one hand, it regularly delivers some of the coolest, most lavishly animated punch-ups in modern anime. On the other hand, is that enough to cover for the story's incredible lack of focus and constant zig-zagging between different ideas at the drop of a hat? Like, I might need more than ten fingers to count how many times this show just drops in the middle of building up a status quo to shift gears into something entirely different without giving proper closure to what's come before. On the other other hand, though, season 2's backstory arc finally gave us an actual driving force for the story and a strong emotional framework to understand the stakes at play, except then it almost immediately reverses on that idea by revealing one of the critical characters has been dead the whole time and his story's suddenly over just when it was really getting under way, and... eh. Look, I like Jujutsu Kaisen, and its spectacular action and hilarious character interactions are usually enough to help me forgive its overly convoluted plotting (especially this season with its massive upgrade in directorial flourish and experimental animation). But at some point I'm really gonna start wondering if any of this nonsense will ever amount to more than a slapped-together framework to justify the fights.

Fate/Strange Fake Episode 0: 8/10

It's probably not a good sign that the only anime to really inspire me this season was basically just a prologue for a show that's still being made as we speak. But with how barren this season has been, I'll take my victories where I can. And sweet buttery Jesus, am I glad that Strange Fake is getting a full adaptation. After years of having no interest in Fate beyond the core story, one of these endless spinoffs finally manages to grab me hook line and sinker. And all it took was the author of Baccano and Durarara filtering the concept of the Holy Grail War through his particular penchant for sprawling, chaotic ensemble stories full of truly deranged characters slamming the full weight of their personalities against each other for the sheer fun of it. Add a mesmerizing new visual style from a longtime key animator making his directorial debut, and the result is an epic hour-long masterclass introduction that leaves you breathless for more. This is what Fate/Zero's first episode should have been. And sure, it could still go horribly off the rails at some point, but for now, I choose to remain hopeful. May this promise of better things to come prove a welcome omen as we leave this miserable anime season behind.

Shows I Dropped:

The Girl I Like Forgot Her Glasses: Dropped at 2 episodes for extreme GoHands over-animation, and just being a painfully cringey male fantasy rom-com.

Atelier Ryza: Dropped at 1 episode for being boring and generic as fuck. Only worth it for the hilariously crowbarred-in fanservice shots and I can just look those up on their own.

Reign of the Seven Spellblades: Dropped at 2 episodes for some of the most cringe-worthy DeviantArt-tier writing I've ever seen.

The Masterful Cat is Depressed Again Today: Dropped at 2 episodes for just being boring, even though it's way better than GoHands' other monstrosity this season.

Bang Dream It's MyGo: Dropped at 1 episode for just not vibing with it, idk.

23 notes · View notes

random-thought-depository · 3 months

Text

Today is my mother's partner's 91st birthday!

I got him a cake.

Thinking about what it'd be like to be really old makes me viscerally feel how awful it is that we're basically built to fall apart. I think...

It'd be neat to have lived so long and experienced so much and have seen so much change...

But he must realize he's probably going to die soon, and that would certainly cause me to feel fear and sadness if I was him. I know he's not as healthy and strong as he used to be, I can see how everyday life has become more of a struggle for him. I suspect he has substantial aging-related physical pain, though it's hard to tell cause he's the kind of person who keeps a lot to himself. Maybe he's at peace with all that, I hope so, it's hard to tell cause as I said he's a person who keeps a lot to himself. It seems like having a body that's deteriorating like that is probably kind of awful, but the people who get to experience that are the lucky ones, because getting to experience all the bad things about being in your 90s means you're still alive in your 90s and lots of people don't get that; I would take being disabled and in pain over being dead.

Senescence is a horrible disease and I hope someday we'll invent a cure for it. How wonderful it would be to have lived that long and experienced that much and still have all your health and strength and a long future ahead of you! I hope someday that will be a real human experience! I'm thinking of this post I saw once about octopuses, how they're very intelligent for nonhuman animals but don't live very long, and imagine what they might be like if they got more time to learn, think, experience, experiment, and do things. When I think about the experience of very old humans I think about that post; I think very long-lived aliens or very long-lived fantasy elves might feel about old humans the way that person felt about octopuses.

#about me #kinda #random thoughts #transhumanist moment

10 notes · View notes

elvenbeard · 11 months

Text

Mind Games

Cyberpunk 2077 Fanfic Summary: Kerry struggles to understand what's going on with V lately, but at the same time he's just as scared of the truth and what lies ahead. Back at the penthouse a difficult conversation awaits them. (Post-Sun-Ending, Chapter 4/?, 6278 words, Kerry Eurodyne/V, warnings for mentions of self-harm, depression, suicidal ideation and similar canon-typical dark stuff!)

>> Previous Chapter >> Read from the Beginning

Kerry had to suppress a gasp when V dropped the hospital gown, revealing huge bruises across the side of his chest, ranging in color from reddish yellow over blue to dark purple. There were a few more across his sternum that were suspiciously steering-wheel-shaped, but the ones on the side were a lot more severe. He had the sneaking suspicion that they were not from the accident.

It wasn’t the first time Kerry had seen V beat up after a gig. Hell, he’d seen him in a lot worse states. But it still took him off guard every time it was so viscerally demonstrated to him what this job was doing to his body.

“It’s alright,” V said quietly, as he must have noticed Kerry’s momentary hesitation and stare.

“It’s not, no,” Kerry responded, voice also lowered. He didn’t want to lecture, neither scold or even try to convince V that he couldn’t keep going on like this. He knew, at least at the moment, it would be in vain. V could be horribly stubborn, and in that regard he and Johnny were fully alike, no matter how little V wanted to hear it. Kerry hoped though that the state he was in now would at least slow him down for a while, however terrible that thought was. He needed a break from worrying about V throwing himself from one gig into the next, without stopping to think twice, getting some rest. Not only did he not have to do this anymore, from a merely financial standpoint alone, it also wasn’t helping his cause in any way. At least Kerry couldn’t see how.

Back when Johnny was still around, the Relic’s side effects were worst after V had gone through a lot of stress. Always when he finally had a moment to wind down. Maybe he was hoping, if he’d just never let the stress end, things wouldn’t get worse again?

Kerry carefully reached out, rubbing V’s arms, and pulled him closer just slightly, to make him actually look at him properly. Lately he seemed unable to face him.

“I love you, and I worry about you, and you’ll never stop me from either,” he then said, reminded once again of the messages V had left him yesterday, “And I know you love me, you gonk. Never doubt it.”

The faintest smile appeared on V’s lips. He looked to the floor briefly, then back up at Kerry. He nodded slightly, then flinched, his right hand shooting up to his neck.

“Ow, shit… this whiplash is gonna get old real quick…” he cursed.

“Awww, my poor Vince,” Kerry laughed full of pity, in all actuality sorry for the bad state V was in. Very gently he pulled him into a proper hug, resisting the urge to squeeze him too tightly, and making sure not to put too much pressure on his ribs. Instead, his hands wandered down to his naked butt. So he got something to squeeze at least. V snorted, resting his head against Kerry’s shoulder, leaning into the embrace.

“Y’know, this might not’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped to get you the biggest jar of nasty-ass olives I could find on my way home,” V muttered against his neck.

“No, you didn’t…” Kerry was genuinely surprised, and even though he knew by V’s tone that he was joking, he simultaneously felt a little guilty in this whole affair now.

“Mh-hm,” V hummed, “And now they’re all over my fuckin’ car and I’ll never get rid of the smell again.”

“I’ll get ya a new car.”

V laughed, but then just groaned in pain again, his body tensing up against Kerry’s.

“’bout time we get you home and into bed,” he decided, reluctantly letting go of V and picking up the clothes he’d brought with him to finally help him get dressed.

V was still rather wobbly on his feet when they walked out of the hospital. Kerry gently guided and supported him down the stairs by the entrance, holding his hand, or putting an arm around his waist or his shoulders all the way to the parking lot, whichever worked better given the terrain. He remotely opened the passenger side door for V and helped him in.

“Who’s the 89-year-old here, I wonder,” V hissed as he sank into the seat, and Kerry chuckled.

“Can give ya a referral to my plastic surgeons. They offer a package deal if ya replace more than two joints at once.”

“Sometimes I wish you were joking when I know you’re not,” V sighed and Kerry laughed, softly stroking V’s cheek once more before he closed the passenger door and walked to the other side of the car.

Home wasn’t far, just down the road quite literally, but they were in no rush. It was just past 10 a.m. by the time they pulled into the private garage that came with the penthouse. Kerry parked his Rayfield in its usual corner, between The Beast and an empty space that would have normally been occupied by the V-Tech. V made a sad face at the spot.

“Got a message from the insurance,” he said, “They’re still waiting for the police report to see how much of the damage they’re gonna cover, if any at all.”

V really loved that car – but he loved all his cars and bikes for various reasons. The V-Tech though was special, even though Kerry hadn’t figured out yet why.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” he suggested and went around to the other side to help V back out of the car again. They hobbled to the elevator and finally a sense of relief washed over Kerry when the doors to their penthouse opened.

V was back home. A little roughed up, yes, but in one piece. Alive. They still had time. And Kerry would do everything in his power to keep it that way.

Once the elevator doors had closed again behind them, Nibbles perked up from her spot on one of the big floor cushions in the living area, got up to stretch, then lazily walked over to them.

“Hey, good girl, how are you?” V asked, and he wanted to bend down to pet her but froze, face once more twisted with pain. Nibbles rubbed against his legs purring and croaking, then went over to greet Kerry, although not nearly as extensively.

“Playin’ favorites again, I see, see… Yeah, fuck off right away,” he complained as she trailed off into the kitchen to her bowl, “But I get it, he’s my favorite person, too.”

“Hey, no fighting, there’s enough of me for both of you…”

V threw a quick smile at Kerry, pushed his shoulder gently, then slipped out of his shoes and walked over to the sofa to sit down. Kerry followed suit after a brief pause, his heart beating faster than before. They sat in silence side by side for a couple of minutes. Kerry kept looking at V, who just stared into the void for a long time at first, probably still processing all that had happened. All that Kerry still didn’t have a single clue about. He began playing with his rings, considered lighting up a smoke.

“Shit, I could really use a shower still,” V eventually said, breaking the silence, and finally meeting Kerry’s questioning gaze.

“Me too,” he smiled, “Wanna go right away?”

V seemed to consider it for a moment, but then he carefully shook his head.

“We need to talk first, or I’ll just keep finding other ways to avoid it all day.”

“Okay, then… I’m all ears,” Kerry said, a little disappointed about the delayed shower time with V, and nervous now about what he was going to tell him. V restlessly fumbled with his cast, a 3D-printed plastic construction that would keep his wrist still while still allowing airflow. Kerry remembered when he broke his arm as a kid and had to wear a thick plaster cast for six weeks in the worst Night City summer heat. It was hell. Not all things were better in the old days.

“I told you I did gigs for government people a couple times, right?” V then slowly started.

“Yeah, I remember,” Kerry nodded, “Specifically that you were pretty adamant about not tellin’ me who and what it all was about.”

“Mostly to keep you out of harm’s way,” V said, looking up from his hands. Kerry shuddered slightly at how serious his expression had gotten all of a sudden.

“I’ve been running this through in my mind over and over,” V said after a short pause, “’cause I still think the less you know the better but… But it’s hard to really explain the scope of this without getting’ into details that’ll eventually give away who it’s about anyway.”

V let out a long sigh, let his head sink slightly. Kerry wished he knew a way to soothe him, wished he could confidently say “don’t need to go into detail if you don’t wanna”, but at the same time he knew he needed to know everything to finally get a sense of where they were at in this whole mess. For a moment the realization scared him… Where were they at in their relationship, really?

“I can handle it,” Kerry said, a lot less confidently than he sounded, “Whatever it is, and wherever it’ll lead… if you think it can help you...”

V looked up at him again with a sad smile. He remained silent for a few more seconds, then he cleared his throat.

“It was… about a month and a half before we met,” he recounted, “I got a call from a woman. Introduced herself as Elizabeth. Said I’d been recommended to her for an important job that required discretion…”

The story that followed sounded like a bad political thriller to Kerry. The kind of stuff he and V would make fun of if it was on TV for being unrealistic. Underground sex-clubs, spiked braindances, and cyberpsychos weaponized against political enemies – the worst kind of intrigues for something as lousy as the title “Mayor of Night City”. But from there on things only got crazier, and not in a fun way either.

V recounted the second meeting with the Peralezes, secret rooms, secret agency bullshit, even Johnny having a bad feeling about it all… that was what concerned Kerry the most out of the whole story so far. Johnny rarely had bad feelings about anything that didn’t have to do with Arasaka directly… at least not the Johnny he remembered.

“You’ve been in the city for longer than anyone else I know,” V wondered, “Did you ever hear anything about ‘the people with glowing blue eyes’ or somethin’ like it?”

Kerry considered it for a moment.

“Not even Rogue has anything on them?” he then asked, and V briefly and again, carefully, shook his head.

“Not even Rogue, neither Viktor, no-one can find anything concrete,” V said, “Lots of gossip and hearsay, and I guess there is probably some truth here and there, but… yeah.”

“Was gonna say, think I maybe heard a rumor at a party now and then, but that��s as deep as it gets. Sorry,” Kerry said.

“Don’t be, was a long shot,” V shrugged, “Johnny guessed they’re some kind of rogue AI. And you know, the longer I think about it, the more plausible it seems.”

He sighed.

“But dunno… there’s so many possibilities really, and none are good.”

Kerry rummaged through his memories for anything that might be useful, something he may have picked up on and disregarded at the time, or someone he knew that might know more or could figure something out. He wondered if this was something Nancy had ever come across or would be interested in working on… He’d have to give her a call later. But right now, something else interested him more.

“Okay, fine. Let’s just accept we don’t really know who these people are or what they want. What does all that have to do with your gig? With savin’ your life?”

Kerry could guess the answer already, but he still hoped to be wrong. He didn’t like where this was going one bit.

“About two weeks after Mikoshi…” V recalled, “I think it was the first night after that we spent at the villa together.”

Kerry immediately remembered the evening he was talking about. It had been a hellish two weeks. The first couple of days after walking out of Arasaka Tower V had been more dead than alive, constantly drifting in and out of consciousness. Once that had improved and he’d started to physically recover from the worst of it all, he’d been out of it mentally. Even more distant than he was now, unable to really speak some days, utterly numb. It had been incredibly painful to watch, for everyone involved at the time. And once V had finally found back to reality again, the news he’d had about his condition, about Alt’s prognosis, had been another heavy blow.

The night V referred to had been the first to feel somewhat normal, all things considered. Vik had been looking into a possible treatment, full of hope to at least stop V’s health from declining now that they didn’t have to actively work against the Relic anymore. V had been slowly finding back to himself again, was smiling, talking like normal, not just staring into the distance without a single emotion in his body. They’d driven out to Kerry’s villa to get some distance to the city, just be themselves and enjoy the silence for a few days, celebrate that Arasaka was in shambles and would be at least for a little while. Appreciate the fact that, against all odds, V was alive.

It had been during that night, when they were both half-asleep on the sofa already, that V got a call he didn’t really want to take. They called again, and again, until he finally picked up just to shut them up. He actually left the room to do so, so Kerry couldn’t listen in. When he came back, paler than before, quieter, he insisted it was nothing and he had no interest in working with whoever had just contacted him, and to leave it at that.

The pit in Kerry’s stomach grew even deeper.

“You lied…” he blurted out, not able to hide his hurt, “You took their offer…”

“No, not that night, I didn’t,” V quickly interrupted him, reaching out with his left, cast-covered hand and put it on Kerry’s right.

“I think that call was them testing the waters, figuring out if my brain was mush or if I’d still be useful,” he then added slowly, as if he’d only just realized it himself. Kerry forced himself to relax his shoulders again.

“What did they want you to do?” he asked.

“No specifics back then,” V said, “Once I realized who was calling, I already didn’t want anything to do with them. Didn’t give me even half the specifics of what I’d needed to even consider accepting a gig anyway. The guy said ‘what a disappointment’ and hung up, and I thought that would be it.”

V shrugged and lowered his head.

“Damn was I wrong.”

Kerry pulled his hand out from under V’s, causing him to look up at him again as he then carefully took and held it. It was awkward with the cast, they couldn’t really lace their fingers, so Kerry just loosely grasped his palm and hoped it was enough to show V he had his back, that they were in this together.

“What next?” he asked, and V thought about it for a little while, then continued his story.

“I think it was the first or second week of July when they tried to get back in touch again,” he said, “Vik’s therapy wasn’t working out, and somehow they knew it, I… still don’t know how.”

Kerry shuddered.

“They started with ‘you have seen what we’re capable of – we might be able to help, if you’re willing to let us…’ whatever.”

“Yeah right,” Kerry laughed dryly, “They’re just gonna help ya out of the good of their hearts.”

“My thoughts exactly then,” V nodded, but he still had his head low, his voice distant and quiet, “But also… I started considering it.”

“They caught you in a weak moment,” Kerry shrugged.

“Honestly, Kerry, I doubt it was a coincidence,” V said sternly, “There is crazy coincidences, like… your dying friend slotting an experimental biochip into your head, and if he hadn’t, your traitorous fixer might have killed you for good. No one saw that coming, not Jackie, not me, not Dex. But there are no coincidences with these people. They didn’t just happen to call me the moment I stepped out of Vik’s clinic with more bad news and no clue on how to go on now. Coincidentally presenting me with the solution to my problems on a chrome platter? I doubt it. That’s not how Night City works.”

Kerry remembered the day now. He hadn’t been able to accompany V to Vik’s, because he’d been stuck with the label bosses and that bastard Kovachek, re-negotiating contracts for hours. It had been a crap day all over, and finally coming home to V all desperate and with more bad news had been the icing on the shit cake.

“Sounds like they were playin’ with ya,” Kerry muttered after processing this new bit of information for a moment.

“Think so, yeah…” V croaked, “But people like that, they leave you no choice but to play along.”

Kerry wanted to disagree, spurred on by the pain in V’s voice, a pain he knew only too well… but he knew V was right. You’re forced to play along, there is no way around or out, and even then, you have no guarantee to even win. Those with enough power played with you like a cat with its prey.

Kerry had long accepted this was part of the deal of surviving Night City. But it had also been what so majorly contributed to his numbness, the sense of pointlessness of it all. If everything was predetermined for you by others, what purpose was there in fighting back and trying to do things your way, when every aspect of your life was in vain, when every move you could make would lead you further away from yourself and the things that mattered?

That was the mindset he’d been stuck in by the time V walked into his life. That he still fell back into now and then, whenever the next shitstorm hit. It had almost pushed him over the edge before, being so completely at his wits end, seeing no way out, no way to continue, nothing to achieve left, and everyone he’d ever loved dead and gone or no longer part of his life.

He could hear his own pain in V’s voice now, could see it in his eyes, his sunken posture, and it was like he was looking at himself on his worst days. He hated seeing him like this.

“I get it,” Kerry said quietly, “I hate it… but I get it.”

He grabbed his hand a little tighter, as tightly as he managed around the cast. V didn’t look up at him, he probably couldn’t – that Kerry understood as well now – but there was a hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, for a split-second at least.

They sat in silence for a couple of moments, until Nibbles came strolling back from the kitchen and settled down in front of them on the floor cushion again. She already felt right at home, despite the still unpacked boxes here and there, despite them still rearranging the furniture every other day to make a better use of the space. Making it their home as well. They still spent a lot of time at the villa, but it was so huge, and in some ways so much more impractical than this place. The penthouse felt just right for the two of them. Kerry had almost forgotten how fun it could be to live together with someone – sure, argue sometimes about how to organize the cupboards (or not), about the other making or leaving messes, or what table to get for the dining area, things like that. But it felt so good to make their lives fit together here, occupy the same space, everything beginning to seamlessly blend over, their tastes, their belongings, their movements around each other… It was like he was getting to know V all over again, many new sides of him, too. It was exciting to fall in love with him over all the little things over and over again. And yet…

When they first looked at the place together, V had been so reluctant. Not spelled it out like that, but his worried expression, his undertone had said it all: “What’s the point of getting a place, building a life together, when I’m dead in a few months?”

Yeah… Kerry had asked himself the same question. What if there was no way out of it, what if V only had the time Alt had estimated, and they could find no one that would be able to help before he was too far gone? This place wouldn’t be the same without him, not the penthouse, not the city… nothing, really. Kerry feared what V’s death would do to him, should it come untimely, or even should it come exactly when it was predicted. They’d had a few close calls behind them already, and every time he almost lost his mind right then and there. That couldn’t be healthy, he knew it himself, but also he couldn’t just let go of V like that. Not after everything they’d been through together, good and bad, pretty and ugly, in such a short amount of time. The more he seemed to push him away lately, the tighter Kerry grasped at him.

He refused to just accept there was no way to give them more time together in their little realm here. More time to ask him about why he loved the V-Tech so much, learn more about Jackie, hell, even his time working for Arasaka and how he even ended up there. Get to know all his little quirks and habits that no one else would ever get to see that didn’t wake up in the same bed with him, shared a shower, a kitchen, a sofa with him playing games or watching stupid movies. More time to tell him how much he meant to him, give Kerry the time to let down his walls and his guard a bit more. Let V closer, stop hiding all the uncomfortable truths about his past behind jokes, tell him about his wildest dreams and his dumbest childhood memories. Ask him what he wanted to be when he was still a kid. Show him how rewarding it can be to accept your own culture instead of resenting it, no matter how painful it was going to be in the beginning. Compare scars just how they’d compared tattoos before, share hurt, and joy, and let them go on many more crazy rides and impromptu adventures, wherever life would lead them together.

Let it be just a few months more, or a year. Just a little more time… what Kerry wouldn’t give for that. Hell, he’d happily trade half of what was left of his own life to give it to V, however selfish the thought was. Only enough to have him around for the rest of his own life. Just because the thought of losing him was too much to bear most days.

Regardless he’d egged V on about the penthouse, kept pestering him with all kinds of half-assed reasons, until he finally agreed to sign the lease contract with him. Kerry felt a little guilty about it in hindsight, but he didn’t regret it one bit. Sometimes V needed a decent push to make up his mind. And he got the impression that whoever these blue-eyed people were, they knew that only too well.

“What did they want in return for helpin’ ya?” he eventually dared to ask. V remained silent for a couple more moments, either struggling to find the words, or still reluctant to get Kerry involved by telling him. But then it burst out of him like a waterfall, and he told him the whole story from start to finish, leaving nothing out.

A plan to rob the Crystal Palace of its clients’ data, as crazy a gig as one could imagine. Using Arasaka’s defenseless state to rob them blind of their equipment and resources – Johnny would have loved it. Hell, for all they knew, maybe he’d even helped them from wherever he was now, with Alt, beyond the Blackwall. It would only be fitting, Kerry thought. V told him about how everything had been planned down to the minute, by himself, and with Rogue’s help, with many of the Afterlife veterans, and with the man that finally introduced himself as Mr. B. The man V had been on the holo with exclusively up until a few days ago.

“Believe me, there were times when I just wanted to quit, especially the crazier his demands got about what we’d need. I didn’t know what the actual target was until he said ‘we need a space shuttle’,” V recounted.

“Fuckin’ hell,” was all Kerry managed to say, still trying to digest how long this had been going on without him knowing.

“The actual heist was…” V paused, “With all the preparations we’d made, with my background and experience... It wasn’t that hard to pull off, objectively. The timeframe was narrow, and what really sucked was the overall conditions. Movin’ around in that clunky space suit... But data extractions like this I’ve done dozens of times before. All things considered… it worked out exactly as it should have.”

“What about that bruise on your ribs?” Kerry frowned.

V finally looked up at him again, smiling sheepishly.

“That was… stupidity,” he said quietly, “I had to use a different way out than the one I’d taken to get in, to get close to the mainframe. You’ve gotta picture this as this intricate labyrinth of access tunnels, vents, actual airlocks, and whatnot. Like, straight outta your cliché sci-fi movie really.”

“Okay…”

“It was a constant switching back and forth between areas that had artificial gravity, and zero gravity, or something in-between,” V explained, and Kerry began to realize where this was going.

“Oh no…”

“Yeah… I didn’t pay attention, fell, it hurt like fuck. But at least I was close to the exit already and didn’t draw any unwanted attention.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Vince…” Kerry pinched the bridge of his nose, then ran his fingers through his hair.

“It’s alright,” V said gently, inching a little closer, “I’m here now. There is so much that could’ve gone wrong, on the way there, while I was there, on the way back… I’ll gladly take a few cracked ribs over the alternatives.”

Kerry looked up at V, but V didn’t meet his gaze, still staring at the floor. He wanted to believe what he was saying, but there was something… off. Again. The whole time he recounted this. Proud of what he’d accomplished, as was his right… But numb still, blind almost, to all the dangers he went through. V was one of the bravest people Kerry knew, a little bit crazy, an adrenaline junkie… but not careless, not reckless to this degree. Throwing himself into this near-suicide mission as if he had nothing left to lose.

“Vince…” he said slowly, “This whole thing was one hell of a risk to take… for a promise of help that these fuckers still have to fulfill by the way.”

He had to muster all his willpower to prevent his leg from bouncing. V must have noticed how clammy his hand was getting by now.

“You threw yourself out there again and again, and they didn’t move a finger yet to actually help you.”

“They helped plan and set everything up…” V said, but Kerry shook his head.

“Not what I mean.”

How to phrase this in a way it wouldn’t hurt V even more, but make him realize how fucked up all of this was? Especially, him being so… accepting of it? So readily keeping this all away from him, leaving him in the dark? He’d never felt this much of a need to “protect” him – it felt more like, these people were trying to protect themselves from something by giving V only half the deets, by only letting him know half the story. By ordering him around like a pet dog who had to obey their demands.

“They did nothin’ but help themselves so far,” he said, heartbeat fast and angry, “Helpin’ you with the preparations also only served their plans. And besides that - …”

He caught himself just in time before blurting out something he might have regretted. But then again… fuck it. He had to get it out, or he’d explode, or worse, start resenting V for it. He took a deep breath.

“Besides that… you knew how risky all of this was, and you went on with it anyway,” he said as calmly as he managed, “Without tellin’ me shit. You could’ve died up there and I’d forever be sittin’ here wondering what the fuck happened. Fuck.”

“Kerry…” V said quietly, looking up at him with big eyes, and his expression hurt Kerry more than the thought of losing him for a moment, “I… had no choice.”

“Yeah, keep tellin’ that yourself,” Kerry said, only half able to swallow his anger, “There’s always a choice. Hell, you keep going on and on to me about how I still have options, I still have choices and opportunities whenever I just wanna quit, whenever I’m tired of the medias and the label and everything. I didn’t have to almost blow my brains out, even though, let’s be completely fuckin’ honest, it wouldn’t have made a difference to anyone that mattered at the time whether I was dead or alive. You made me take matters in my own hands, showed me how I let others use me as their plaything, for their own agenda. And now you’re doing exactly that! Even worse, you have so many people who care about you, not even just me, and you act like you have nothing left to lose? Like you have no choice? I don’t get it!”

The silence that followed was so heavy and all-encompassing, it seemed to push the air out of the room, out of his lungs, drown them in it. V was looking to his feet again, he did not move. Kerry was half tempted to take it all back after thinking it over, he’d been quite harsh in his word choice… But also, not wrong.

V had once told him that so much about his upbringing, his whole life so far really, had been about being used or being useful. But only now he began to understand what he had meant with it. Kerry hated how desperate V must have been this whole time, and what this despair might still drive him to do. But most he hated that he had felt like he couldn’t tell Kerry anything about all this, that he needed to protect him, when what he would have really needed was just open communication for once. Letting him hold his hand and lead him through the darkness, like V had been doing it for him from the very beginning.

“Sorry, I… I wish you’d just said somethin’. Anythin’,” Kerry stammered eventually, but V shook his head.

“Don’t be sorry…” he said quietly, “To be honest… I don’t get it either. As I said, feels like… I’m not really myself anymore sometimes.”

Another long pause followed, but it felt less tense – or at least tense in a less heavy, devouring way.

Kerry scooched a little closer, their thighs and shoulders touching now, and he let go of V’s hand to put it around his back.

“Ya never told me that you saw Johnny in the mirror sometimes,” he then said.

“… no?”

Kerry shook his head.

More damned silence.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Kerry made sure, “About everything. I can handle it.”

Then he noticed that V was suddenly breathing faster than before… almost as if he was scared.

“Vince?” he asked, reaching over with his left hand to force him to look at him now. Kerry shuddered at the cold sweat beading on V’s forehead, eyes wide and fearful.

“What is it?” he was beginning to panic as well.

“Did I… did you notice anything about me being different?” V then asked breathlessly, “Or… did you have any strangely realistic dreams, had people around you act weirdly?”

“What, no, I…,” Kerry stammered, but he paused to think for a moment. The people at the studio were as normal as studio people could be... And those were really the only ones he’d been around lately, besides V.

“I mean, we had that earlier, you’ve been a little off lately, yeah,” Kerry said, “But that’s to be expected, and I understand it now, if all this has been goin’ on in the background…”

V shook his head, quite vehemently, but not even flinching this time from the pain it must’ve surely caused him.

“No, no, not even like that,” he said, “Did I forget things that I shouldn’t have, did I… Oh, fuck, I think I’m gonna puke…”

“No, no, easy now, just breathe,” Kerry tried to calm him down, still reeling slightly from this sudden shift in his behavior. He was having a proper panic attack. Then it began to dawn on him.

“You’re not thinkin’… they’ve been messing with your head? Like they did with the Peralezes?”

His heart beat hard and fast, he could feel it in his throat, and an icy rush ran down his spine.

“I dunno,” V said, leaning forward now, hands on his head, grasping his hair, “I don’t know anything anymore…”

“Come on, over here,” Kerry said, jumped up, pulled V to his feet quickly but as gently as he managed, then helped him lie down on the floor.

“Flat on your back, okay?”, he instructed, grabbing a pillow from the sofa to put under his head, propped V’s legs up on his own as he knelt down by his side, “Catch your breath first, okay, focus on my voice. Breathe in, and then out, slowly, take it easy…”

He didn’t remember the last time he’d talked someone through a panic attack, if ever… But V did calm down again after a couple of minutes, his breathing normalized, and at least a hint of color returned to his face. He rubbed his eyes with his healthy hand and exhaled deeply.

“What if they did mess with my head…” he said slowly, much calmer now, but his voice still brittle, “What if they tried to drive a wedge between you and me, because it’d be easier to use me on my own? Physically stop me from tellin’ you stuff, prevent me from sayin’ what I wanted to say, makin’ me say things I don’t mean… cause their dirty disgusting corpo-fingers were all over my brain, pokin’ around where they shouldn’t be? Fuck… maybe that’s why they know so much about my past… the car, and the meeting spot…”

His eyes fell shut, but his expression remained pained. Kerry didn’t hesitate any longer and lied down on the floor next to him, scooched up close, just how they’d woken up in the hospital bed together earlier. He squeezed his arm under V to be able to put it around his shoulders, pulled him even closer, his other arm loosely draped around his waist. Almost automatically V shifted, a little more stiffly than usual, but he snuggled up closer as well and pressed his forehead against Kerry’s, their noses touching.

“What if they know so much about me, know what buttons to push, cause my own thoughts and memories are their primary source…”

“I’m not gonna try and sugarcoat it… yeah, maybe, with all you’ve told me,” Kerry said quietly, “Dunno how they would’ve pulled it off though.”

He paused, really considering this option for a moment. Wouldn’t he have noticed? But what if they’d gone about it differently than with the mayor? Was there a way they could have messed with him, too?

“But again, you’ve been goin’ through hell all on your own for quite a while now,” he then said, relativizing, “When we should’ve been doin’ this together.”

Quiet fell over them like a blanket, the only noise the silent whirring of the fridge, the AC, Nibbles gently snoring behind them. The soundproof windows blocked out the noise of the city completely and the sun was high in the sky, bathing them in golden warmth.

“I don’t want you to go through hell again,” V then said, his voice barely more than a breathy whisper. He could’ve stabbed him right in the heart then and there just as well.

“I’ll gladly prop up a fuckin’ tent in hell as long as I’m with ya, gonkbrain,” Kerry responded after a moment, kissing V’s forehead quickly before returning to just holding him, “I told you. I’m not done with you. I’ll be there, ‘til the end. If only you’d let me.”

Ending notes: Thanks so much for reading ♥ I know this was long and sad... I promise the next one's gonna be a bit more light-hearted! Need some fluff (and maybe, if I'm feeilng brave, smut) after all that angst xD

>> Next Chapter

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #cyberpunk fanfiction #cp2077 fanfic #cyberpunk 2077 fanfic #kerry eurodyne x v #kerry x v #male v #male v cyberpunk #cyberpunk kerry #kerry eurodyne #vincent ezaki #my writing #otp: to bad decisions #the amount of times I've read and edited this asdjkföasasdfs #the literal tears I've cried bc AAHHHH nooo I don't want them to be sad!!#but this is a sad and angsty situation and they gotta resolve it somehow so hhhhhhh #love is stored in the olive jar

37 notes · View notes