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livingwalkingbreathing · 2 years

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Fight Club Semiotic Analysis

Though it is hard to depict the underlying causes of mental illnesses, they are usually all around us without us ever noticing. David Fincher's Fight Club is a prime example of a psychological film that will make you think about it for days after watching. The unnamed narrator throughout the film (Edward Norton) covers the fact that he is struggling so well that his doctors, acquaintances, and the viewers do not realize that anything is seriously wrong. Struggling with insomnia, the narrator finds an outlet through numerous support groups. His relief is soon interfered with when the love interest in the film, Marla Singer (Helena Bonham Carter), shows up to the same groups for the same reasons. During this time, the narrator crosses paths with Tyler during the strangest time of his life.

“If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?”

In the film, the narrator and Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) are polar opposites. The narrator is a shy, anxious insomniac, obsessed with his 9-5 job, while Tyler enjoys living on the edge and believes that rules are meant to be broken. After the words, "I want you to hit me as hard as you can" were spoken by Tyler, the two men were inseparable and connected through their souls, much like yin and yang. After they meet for the first time, the narrator returns home to his apartment only to find it aflame and his belongings sprawled out across the sidewalk. The camera pans across his stuff, and his favorite item, a yin and yang coffee table is shown on screen. When further analyzing this scene, I realized that this table symbolizes the narrator's and Tyler's relationship. Exactly like the yin and yang, they are opposites that belong with one another. Even further, this coffee table can be depicted as foreshadowing the ending, revealing that they are the same person, or one. After the realization that the narrator has lost everything, he turns to Tyler to help him forget about it. He calls Tyler, but he does not pick up. Tyler calls back, although there is a small sign on the payphone stating it does not take receiving calls, further symbolizing that the two are the same person, and that the narrator is only talking to himself.

“What would Tyler Durden do?”

When Tyler is talking about his job and what he does everyday, he mentions that he likes to make his life fun. He works at a movie theater, switching the film rolls throughout each movie. During this, he likes to make it his own by inserting explicit clips at the end of each roll. Tyler says that when they show for a split second, the viewers will rarely ever notice it, or the image will not process in their head until they think about what they just saw. Much like this, David Fincher, the director, shows millisecond clips of Tyler in the scenes prior to them meeting. This is a major symbol of the two, showing that the narrator's alter-ego, Tyler, is forming in his head without him realizing. David Fincher wanted the viewers to go through the same experience as the narrator, subconsciously putting images of Tyler in their heads.

“How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?”

The entire plot of the movie is meant to show the capitalistic effects on masculinity and its corrupt system. This is shown through Tyler's soap-making business, where he makes and sells soap from stolen ingredients. In real life, soap is meant to clean things, much like how in the movie, soap is a metaphor for the fight club that Tyler and the narrator formed - which later becomes known as Project Mayhem - to cleanse and tear down financial and capitalistic companies in order to cause panic. Tyler is against capitalism, and that is strongly known throughout the film. He constantly tried to convince the narrator that they need to do something about it, but he is skeptical because he is comfortable with his routine life. Tyler gets in his head and causes mayhem with the rest of the fight club without the narrator knowing. Things begin to get out of hand when Tyler leaves and the narrator is left confused, finally coming to his senses and realizing that he is the person behind everything and that he is about to ruin his life forever.

The final scene is right before the club's biggest act, and the narrator is on the verge of ending it all, with a gun in his mouth sitting in an empty warehouse. With seconds to the end of the countdown where all major financial buildings will be destroyed, the narrator accepts his fate. He shoots himself, permanently erasing Tyler, but only partially harming himself. Marla Singer shows up the warehouse to talk sense into him. He assures her that they are too late, and the scene closes with the quote from the narrator to Marla, "you met me in a very strange time in my life" as all the buildings collapse in front of them.

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pennylaneforthoughts · 3 years

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After some thinking, a conversation with my sister-in-law with a psych degree, and a couple of sessions with my godsend of a therapist, I think I've finally put my finger on the thing about Mobius that Loki (and a lot of the fandom tbh) so quickly latched onto like a man dying of thirst at the first sign of water:

Unconditional positive regard.

This concept is at the core of client-centered psychology and basically is a stance that a therapist will take in relation to their client, where they simply accept and support their client as a person, regardless of what they do or say.

My therapist uses this framework with me, and when the Loki series came out, I immediately saw Mobius and was like "holy crap, this man has the exact same energy as Sami what???" And I couldn't for the life of me figure out why until I was talking about it with my sister-in-law and she mentioned unconditional positive regard. And then it clicked.

Mobius radiates unconditional positive regard from the minute he meets Loki in episode 1, and arguably even from the first time we even see him onscreen. He approaches everyone he interacts with using a basic framework of "I see you and care about you as a person, and nothing you do or say can change that," so we immediately get the impression that this man is soft, kind, and shaped like a friend. However, it's most obvious and pointed in his interactions with Loki.

While yes, Mobius' primary objective in episode 1 is to interrogate Loki, it's important to note that it's not an interrogation where Mobius is trying to find proof of guilt for a crime like we'd see in a typical detective procedural. Rather, Mobius is trying to see if this variant of Loki is self aware enough to be able to help him in his hunt for Sylvie. It's fundamentally a test to find out Loki's current place in his emotional and psychological development. It is not maliciously intended, and it is not designed to harm Loki. On the contrary, the intent is clearly to help Loki begin to come to terms with the reality of who he is and the choices he has made.

In fact, the whole time this is happening, Mobius very purposefully strives to foster an environment where Loki knows that A.) Mobius sees him. Truly sees and knows him. B.) Despite knowing what Loki is and what he's done, Mobius loves him and regards him positively, and C.) nothing Loki can do or say will change that positive regard.

Loki, however, is super not used to receiving unconditional positive regard. He has no idea how to respond to it. He feels like it's a trick, like there's another shoe just waiting to drop. I related to him hardcore in this scene because that's exactly how I felt when my therapist presented me with unconditional positive regard for the first time. It's confusing and strange and difficult to believe at first. Especially because it sets the stage for honest self reflection and personal growth that can be incredibly painful.

Loki is not a perfectly innocent person. He has done a lot of really bad things and hurt a lot of people in his life. He has a lot of very deep seated trauma that has informed these actions, but he still made those choices and he needs to take responsibility for them. This is not a fun process. Mobius knows this is actually a really awful, sucky process. But he also knows that change and growth requires two things: acknowledgement that a change needs to be made and the expectation that change can and will occur when properly cultivated. Mobius clearly laying out the reality of Loki's actions and who he is in the Sacred Timeline is the first part of that equation, and his unflappable, unconditional positive regard towards Loki as a person despite knowing that reality cultivates an environment for the second part to flourish.

"By definition, it is essential in any helping relationship to have an anticipation for change. In the counseling relationship, that anticipation presents as Hope—an optimism that something good and positive will develop to bring about constructive change in the client's personality. Thus, unconditional positive regard means that the therapist has and shows overall acceptance of the client by setting aside their own personal opinions and biases. The main factor in unconditional positive regard is the ability to isolate behaviors from the person who displays them." (source)

Mobius is not Loki's therapist, but he does take on a therapeutic role in Loki's life. He shows Loki that he is fully aware of all of Loki's faults and mistakes. He's seen them over and over again and knows them by heart because it's his job. And in the face of all of that he looks at Loki and says that he doesn't see him as a villain. That he likes him anyway and believes that Loki has the potential to help him and what he believes is the cause of good. (Yes the TVA is corrupt, but neither of them know that at this point, and the fact that both Mobius and Loki believe this to be the side of good to varying degrees is important here)

Mobius maintains this regard throughout the series and his subsequent interactions with Loki and when talking about Loki to Ravonna and others, and it's a big part of why Loki so quickly trusts and feels comfortable around Mobius. I know some people say it's unrealistic how fast it was, but it made a lot of sense just based on my experience. I mean, after one (1) session with my therapist, I was 100% ride or die for him, and it was kind of absurd. But the feeling of being seen like that is so potent when you're starved for it, that extreme reactions to it make a lot of sense. And if anyone's starved for unconditional positive regard, it's Loki.

Mobius is only human though, and he's not perfect at this. Over the course of the series, it's clear that Mobius has emotionally invested a lot in his Loki, and he struggles to maintain a professional distance, though he usually is able to keep his head enough to give Loki that positive regard he needs. The only time we see this regard slip is in episode 4 when Mobius is feeling betrayed and jealous. In these moments, Mobius is unable to step back from his feelings enough to get into a headspace where he can separate Loki's actions from who he is. He calls Loki an asshole and a bad friend, and it comes from a place of hurt and jealousy. It's also what drives Loki into a defensive mode we haven't seen since episode 1. He's no longer receiving that unconditional positive regard from Mobius and he feels betrayed. He worries that maybe it was all an act in the first place and Mobius never really cared for him at all. For the first time, Loki feels like Mobius doesn't see the best in him anymore and it hurts.

Mobius' unconditional positive regard was genuine, though, and this is reinforced in the subsequent scenes where we see him act on his instinctual desire to assume the best of Loki and investigate his claims. We see it again when he returns to Loki and he reaffirms both his desire to trust Loki and his belief that Loki can be "whoever, whatever he wants to be, even someone good." At this point, Loki is able to accept it and no longer pushes back against Mobius' belief in Loki's goodness and that he "has within himself vast resources for self-understanding, for altering his self-concept, attitudes, and self-directed behavior." He's grown and begun to see himself in a more realistic and positive light and it's a direct result of the time Mobius has spent cultivating that relationship based on unconditional positive regard.

That's why their relationship feels so comfortable and satisfying. Unconditional positive regard isn't only a therapy principle. It's something everyone craves in a relationship. To be seen as you are, flaws and mistakes and quirks and all is terrifying and mortifying, but when that person then just smiles and says I love you anyway because you are not your mistakes and you are not your flaws and nothing you can ever do or say can change how I feel about you, the relief and joy and comfort is more than worth the discomfort. So I think the idea that Mobius can look at someone as deeply flawed, broken, and jaded as Loki and love him exactly as he is right there and then, eyes wide open and smiling, believing that beneath it all Loki has the potential to be good, gives us hope that someone could do the same for us. I know that's what Lokius does for me, at least. Mobius represents to me the ideal of unconditional positive regard, and having an image of what that looks like in the character of Mobius gives us the opportunity to apply it to ourselves when we may not get it elsewhere in our lives. And I, for one, think that's very sexy of him.

#lokius #wowki #loki #mobius #loki x mobius #mobius my beloved #He is my comfort character and this is why #Also this is low key homework from my therapist bc my attachment to this man has become a literal tool in my therapist's belt #And it's both excellent and embarrassing lmaoooooo

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notsoheadless · 3 years

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Remember Longcat, Jane? I remember Longcat. Fuck the picture on this page, I want to talk about Longcat. Memes were simpler back then, in 2006. They stood for something. And that something was nothing. Memes just were. “Longcat is long.” An undeniably true, self-reflexive statement. Water is wet, fire is hot, Longcat is long. Memes were floating signifiers without signifieds, meaningful in their meaninglessness. Nobody made memes, they just arose through spontaneous generation; Athena being birthed, fully formed, from her own skull. You could talk about them around the proverbial water cooler, taking comfort in their absurdity. “Hey, Johnston, have you seen the picture of that cat? They call it Longcat because it’s long!” “Ha ha, sounds like good fun, Stevenson! That reminds me, I need to show you this webpage I found the other day; it contains numerous animated dancing hamsters. It’s called — you’ll never believe this — hamsterdance!” And then Johnston and Stevenson went on to have a wonderful friendship based on the comfortable banality of self-evident digitized animals. But then 2007 came, and along with it came I Can Has, and everything was forever ruined. It was hubris, Jane. We did it to ourselves. The minute we added written language beyond the reflexive, it all went to shit. Suddenly memes had an excess of information to be parsed. It wasn’t just a picture of a cat, perhaps with a simple description appended to it; now the cat spoke to us via a written caption on the picture itself. It referred to an item of food that existed in our world but not in the world of the meme, rupturing the boundary between the two. The cat wanted something. Which forced us to recognize that what it wanted was us, was our attention. WE are the cheezburger, Jane, and we always were. But by the time we realized this, it was too late. We were slaves to the very memes that we had created. We toiled to earn the privilege of being distracted by them. They fiddled while Rome burned, and we threw ourselves into the fire so that we might listen to the music. The memes had us. Or, rather, they could has us. And it just got worse from there. Soon the cats had invisible bicycles and played keyboards. They gained complex identities, and so we hollowed out our own identities to accommodate them. We prayed to return to the simple days when we would admire a cat for its exceptional length alone, the days when the cat itself was the meme and not merely a vehicle for the complex memetic text. And the fact that this text was so sparse, informal, and broken ironically made it even more demanding. The intentional grammatical and syntactical flaws drew attention to themselves, making the meme even more about the captioning words and less about the pictures. Words, words, words. Wurds werds wordz. Stumbling through a crooked, dead-end hallway of a mangled clause describing a simple feline sentiment was a torture that we inflicted on ourselves daily. Let’s not forget where the word “caption” itself comes from: capio, Latin for both “I understand” and “I capture.” We thought that by captioning the memes, we were understanding them. Instead, our captions allowed them to capture us. The memes that had once been a cure for our cultural ills were now the illness itself. It goes right back to the Phaedrus, really. Think about it. Back in the innocent days of 2006, we naïvely thought that the grapheme had subjugated the phoneme, that the belief in the primacy of the spoken word was an ancient and backwards folly on par with burning witches or practicing phrenology or thinking that Smash Mouth was good. Fucking Smash Mouth. But we were wrong. About the phoneme, I mean. Theuth came to us again, this time in the guise of a grinning grey cat. The cat hungered, and so did Theuth. He offered us an updated choice, and we greedily took it, oblivious to the consequences. To borrow the parlance of a contemporary meme, he baked us a pharmakon, and we eated it. Pharmakon, φάρμακον, the Greek word that means both “poison” and “cure,” but, because of the

limitations of the English language, can only be translated one way or the other depending on the context and the translator’s whims. No possible translation can capture the full implications of a Greek text including this word. In the Phaedrus, writing is the pharmakon that the trickster god Theuth offers, the toxin and remedy in one. With writing, man will no longer forget; but he will also no longer think. A double-edged (s)word, if you will. But the new iteration of the pharmakon is the meme. Specifically, the post-I-Can-Has memescape of 2007 onward. And it was the language that did it, Jane. The addition of written language twisted the remedy into a poison, flipped the pharmakon on its invisible axis. In retrospect, it was in front of our eyes all along. Meme. The noxious word was given to us by who else but those wily ancient Greeks themselves. μίμημα, or mīmēma. Defined as an imitation, a copy. The exact thing Plato warned us against in the Republic. Remember? The simulacrum that is two steps removed from the perfection of the original by the process of — note the root of the word — mimesis. The Platonic ideal of an object is the source: the father, the sun, the ghostly whole. The corporeal manifestation of the object is one step removed from perfection. The image of the object (be it in letters or in pigments) is two steps removed. The author is inferior to the craftsman is inferior to God. Fuck, out of space. Okay, the illustration on page 46 is fucking useless; I’ll see you there. (21) But we’ll go farther than Plato. Longcat, a photograph, is a textbook example of a second-degree mimesis. (We might promote it to the third degree since the image on the internet is a digital copy of the original photograph of the physical cat which is itself a copy of Platonic ideal of a cat (the Godcat, if you will); but this line of thought doesn’t change anything in the argument.) The text-supplemented meme, on the other hand, the captioned cat, is at an infinite remove from the Godcat, the ultimate mimesis, copying the copy of itself eternally, the written language and the image echoing off each other, until it finally loops back around to the truth by virtue of being so far from it. It becomes its own truth, the fidelity of the eternal copy. It becomes a God. Writing itself is the archetypical pharmakon and the archetypical copy, if you’ll come back with me to the Phaedrus (if we ever really left it). Speech is the real deal, Socrates says, with a smug little wink to his (written) dialogic buddy. Speech is alive, it can defend itself, it can adapt and change. Writing is its bastard son, the mimic, the dead, rigid simulacrum. Writing is a copy, a mīmēma, of truth in speech. To return to our analogous issue: the image of the cheezburger cat, the copy of the picture-copy-copy, is so much closer to the original Platonic ideal than the written language that accompanies it. (“Pharmakon” can also mean “paint.” Think about it, Jane. Just think about it.) The image is still fake, but it’s the caption on the cat that is the downfall of the republic, the real fakeness, which is both realer and faker than whatever original it is that it represents. Men and gods abhor the lie, Plato says in sections 382 a and b of the Republic. οὐκ οἶσθα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τό γε ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος, εἰ οἷόν τε τοῦτο εἰπεῖν, πάντες θεοί τε καὶ ἄνθρωποι μισοῦσιν; πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις; οὕτως, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τῷ κυριωτάτῳ που ἑαυτῶν ψεύδεσθαι καὶ περὶ τὰ κυριώτατα οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν ἐθέλει, ἀλλὰ πάντων μάλιστα φοβεῖται ἐκεῖ αὐτὸ κεκτῆσθαι. “Don’t you know,” said I, “that the veritable lie, if the expression is permissible, is a thing that all gods and men abhor?” “What do you mean?” he said. “This,” said I, “that falsehood in the most vital part of themselves, and about their most vital concerns, is something that no one willingly accepts, but it is there above all that everyone fears it.” Man’s worst fear is that he will hold existential falsehood within himself. And the verbal lies that he tells are a copy of this feared dishonesty in the soul.

Plato goes on to elaborate: “the falsehood in words is a copy of the affection in the soul, an after-rising image of it and not an altogether unmixed falsehood.” A copy of man’s false internal copy of truth. And what word does Plato use for “copy” in this sentence? That’s fucking right, μίμημα. Mīmēma. Mimesis. Meme. The new meme is a lie, manifested in (written) words, that reflects the lack of truth, the emptiness, within the very soul of a human. The meme is now not only an inferior copy, it is a deceptive copy. But just wait, it gets better. Plato continues in the very next section of the Republic, 382 c. Sometimes, he says, the lie, the meme, is appropriate, even moral. It is not abhorrent to lie to your enemy, or to your friend in order to keep him from harm. “Does it [the lie] not then become useful to avert the evil—as a medicine?” You get one fucking guess for what Greek word is being translated as “medicine” in this passage. Ding ding motherfucking ding, you got it, φάρμακον, pharmakon. The μίμημα is a φάρμακον, the lie is a medicine/poison, the meme is a pharmakon. But I’m sure that by now you’ve realized the (intentional) mistake in my argument that brought us to this point. I said earlier that the addition of written language to the meme flipped the pharmakon on its axis. But the pharmakon didn��t flip, it doesn’t have an axis. It was always both remedy and poison. The fact that this isn’t obvious to us from the very beginning of the discussion is the fault of, you guessed it, language. The initial lie (writing) clouds our vision and keeps us from realizing how false the second-order lie (the meme) is. The very structure of the lying meme mirrors the structure of the written word that defines and corrupts it. Once you try to identify an “outside” in order to reveal the lie, the whole framework turns itself inside-out so that you can never escape it. The cat wants the cheezburger that exists outside the meme, but only through the meme do we become aware of the presumed existence of the cheezburger — we can’t point out the absurdity of the world of the meme without also indicting our own world. We can’t talk about language without language, we can’t meme without mimesis. Memes didn’t change between ‘06 and ‘07, it was us who changed. Or rather, our understanding of what we had always been changed. The lie became truth, the remedy became the poison, the outside became the inside. Which is to say that the truth became lie, the pharmakon was always the remedy and the poison, and the inside retreated further inside. It all came full circle. Because here’s the secret, Jane. Language ruined the meme, yes. But language itself had already been ruined. By that initial poisonous, lying copy. Writing. The First Meme. Language didn’t attack the meme in 2007 out of spite. It attacked it to get revenge. Longcat is long. Language is language. Pharmakon is pharmakon. The phoneme topples the grapheme, witches ride through the night, our skulls hide secret messages on their surfaces, Smash Mouth is good after all. Hey now, you’re an all-star. Get your game on. Go play.

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immaturityofthomasastruc · 3 years

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IOTA Reviews: Furious Fu

Well, I'm surprised this is here so quickly, but here we are. The first episode of Season 4. While I was on the fence about reviewing it even though it isn't in English (though there’s one in Spanish with English subtitles), but it seems like there are people that want to see me do it anyway, so who am I to let them down? Hopefully, I won't be regretting my decision to go over every episode of this season later on.

Will Marinette's new position as Guardian lead to more storylines other than her suffering? Will the show actually resolve the whole Love Square debacle this season? Why am I asking you all these questions?

Let's dive right into the first (actually sixth because of course it is) episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fourth season, Furious Fu.

We start off with all of the Kwamis under Marinette's care asking to see Former Master by Default Fu, before Marinette reminds them, and by extension, the audience, that he erased his memory during the events of last season, making her the new Guardian. They continue to act like hyperactive children until Marinette finally caves in and carries them in her backpack, although not before they give us one of the most unintentionally creepy images in the entire show.

I apologize in advance for your nightmares tonight.

The only Kwami who stays is the Dog Kwami, Barkk, who looks like she's going to see if Marinette's parents have any wine in the kitchen once she leaves.

Marinette heads down to the train station, where she meets up with Fu and Marianne, a former confidant/old flame who he recently reunited with. It turns out that inbetween Seasons 3 and 4, not only has Fu been living in London with Marianne while taking up painting as a hobby, but they've actually gotten married. So yeah, while Marinette has to deal with the stress of protecting some of the most dangerous artifacts on the planet, Fu's just been chilling in London, oblivious to the fact that he forced a teenage girl to do his job for him. Nothing but the best from this show's wise and lovable “mentor”.

After heading back home, Marinette sees a strange man who has broken into her room and demands to know where she got the Miracle Box from.

This is Master Su-Han, the former Guardians before Fu accidentally killed them all. He's naturally not happy with the “improper” form of the Miracle Box (he's not the only one) and wants to know how Marinette got in in the first place. When she says she got it from Fu...

Yeah... while it isn't as obvious as “Animaestro” and “Felix”, you can kind of tell that this is a “turn the critics into enemies” episode. Even though the criticism towards Master Fu isn't as prevalent as the criticism those episodes were meant to call out, there have been some fans on Tumblr and Reddit who have criticized Fu's actions in the show, calling out his decision to make Marinette a guardian in particular. Likewise, Su-Han is meant to be a strawman to mirror the complaints, and show why they are ridiculous. Though ironically, Su-Han's dialogue and rules also unintentionally highlight how incompetent the Order of the Guardians was, but we'll get to it later.

But because the script says she has to, Marinette defends Fu's decision to make her Guardian. She even refers to Fu being the reason the Guardians were all killed in the first place as a “mistake”.

NO HE DIDN'T! How was what Fu did in any way a sacrifice? When he made Marinette the new Guardian “Miracle Queen”, All Fu really did was make the box float for a bit before it immediately landed back in Chloe's hands. If the box had magically floated over to Ladybug in the process, I'd see why Fu would have done it. It'd still be reckless, but it would be a good way to escape from Hawkmoth and Mayura's trap. Hell, the Kwamis had already refused to let Chloe transform when she had their Miraculous, so there was no real threat there. We don't even know if Hawkmoth knew how to transform with the other Miraculous. So again, I raise the question: How was Fu forcing Ladybug to take his job while he gets to paint in London a heroic sacrifice? How can you even frame that as anything but cowardly?

Su-Han notices a few of the Kwamis are missing, and takes notice of Plagg, who was shown to devastate Paris with a single tap to the ground, being missing in particular. He's even more horrified to see Marinette's earrings, because, get this, Guardians aren't allowed to wear Miraculous.

You're telling me that if someone gets their hands on a Miraculous and goes rogue, the Guardians are supposed to fight them with their bare hands? They don't even explain it by saying something like how the Guardians aren't supposed to be tempted by the power of the Miraculous, we're just supposed to accept that rule as fact. How are you supposed to fight someone with superpowers like illusions, shapeshifting, teleportation, and time travel on your own?

So Su-Han orders the Kwamis back into the Miracle Box (still don't get why they have to listen to him) and lists off some of the rules Marinette broke like he was a Ferengi reading the Rules of Acquisition. He does all of this while voicing several concerns fans have about Marinette being Guardian, but rather than being out of concern or compassion for her, it's condescension.

It's pretty easy to understand Su-Han's side of the story, and if the episode actually acknowledged it, I wouldn't mind. But no, everything he says is automatically supposed to be wrong, because when has anything with a different viewpoint portrayed as a good guy in this show?

Su-Han orders Ladybug to take him to see Cat Noir before demanding they both hand over their Miraculous, and we learn something interesting about the Order of the Guardians.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?

Of all the stupid Guardian rules Master Fuckup didn't blindly follow, it's the rule that Miraculous are ONLY SUPPOSED TO GO TO ADULTS!? Why the hell did he even recruit Marinette and Adrien in the first place if Miraculous for adults to use? What did he even see in them? All they did was help him once!

And again, we're supposed to see Su-Han as wrong for doing this. Why can't Ladybug simply tell Su-Han about Hawkmoth and ask for his help before she returns her Miraculous to him? That way, Hawkmoth is defeated, and Su-Han gets the Miraculous back. And it's not like Ladybug doesn't try to talk things out with Su-Han, so you can't say she didn't consider it. Oh wait, that would imply Su-Han is supposed to have a point in his claims.

Though to the show's credit, Su-Han's words do get to Ladybug, causing herself to doubt herself and her ability to stop Hawkmoth, but Cat Noir helps to reassure her, saying he'll only return his Miraculous only if she asks him to. It's a brief moment, but it's nice to see him place his faith in his partner in a platonic way.

Less nice to see is Cat Noir finding out that if Ladybug gives up her position as Guardian, she'll lose her memory like Fu. Except... Cat Noir was there when Miraculous Ladybug failed to restore Fu's memory, so why does he see this as new information? Did he only think it would happen to Fu? Did he lose some of his memory at the end of the last season?

This information is enough for Cat Noir to start a fight with Su-Han, with Ladybug abandoning any attempts at diplomacy by declaring that Cat Noir won't lose his Miraculous. It's a little frustrating to see them engage Su-Han, but again, this is meant to show Cat Noir trying to protect Ladybug so she doesn't lose her memory. This scene still does a good job showcasing the bond the two heroes have. It's far better than anything we got from the New York special.

Su-Han is trained in... Oh God... Mirakung-Fu, which somehow gives him the ability to predict Ladybug and Cat Noir's moves before they make them, comparing it to his rage “adaptating and always finding a way”. Translation: Astruc ripped off something else from Dragon Ball, Ultra Instinct. Ladybug distracts Su-Han and gets the Miracle Box, while Cat Noir gets his staff. After briefly trapping him under some rubble (which I guess doesn't kill him because of his “Mirakung-Fu”), the two heroes escape.

Meanwhile, Shadowmoth, the upgraded form of Hawkmoth that I'll talk about in his debut proper, senses Su-Han's negative emotions and sends out an Akuma after him. Su-Han sees Fu painting in the park, and steals his cane, thinking it's a Guardian's staff he can sue to track down the Miraculous. When the Akuma reaches him, Su-Han uses a technique to repel the Akuma completely. I like this idea. It makes sense that a monk would find a way to mask their emotions and achieve enough of a state of zen to ward off an Akuma. The Akuma instead reaches Fu, turning him into Furious Fu.

I like the design of this Akuma. While I personally thought it could have made for a more interesting fight if he was still short (like Yoda's fight scenes in the prequels), I think it's really clever to incorporate Fu's Hawaiian shirt into what looks like a Chinese gi. Furious Fu's powers are kind of like Evilustrator, only he has to draw down a Chinese character on a talisman before the power takes immediate effect, and lacks the weakness Evilustrator had with his tablet being easily breakable, with the corrupted object, a paintbrush on his ear, being harder to reach.

Ladybug and Cat Noir retreat to the unnamed stadium that the local school has gym class in for some reason, where they're confronted by Su-Han, who in turn, is confronted by Furious Fu. This leads to a three-way fight for the Miracle Box, which they all kick around like a soccer ball. Cat Noir even gets a goal. All around, pretty fun bit, though not for the Kwamis, I guess.

As soon as he sees Furious Fu get the Miracle Ball, Su-Han hides while Ladybug and Cat Noir get beat up by the Akuma. While he does get up eventually, he's still taken out by Furious Fu. Apparently, Su-Han's “Mirakung-Fu” is only useful against Miraculous holders, not supervillains created with the powers of a Miraculous. How the hell does that work? That's like being a trained soldier in the Marine Corps who's terrible at laser tag.

Ladybug uses her Lucky Charm (again, I'll talk about the suit change for its proper debut episode), and gets a pair of wire cutters. She uses them go get a soccer ball from a nearby container while Cat Noir keeps Furious Fu busy. Furious Fu, in turn, uses one of his talismans to predict Ladybug's plan, and manages to immobilize both heroes, but not before Ladybug traps the soccer ball underneath Cat Noir's arm before Furious Fu can use his Cataclysm against him.

How do they stop him? By having Marianne casually walk up to him and break the paintbrush while he's distracted. Honestly, that's a pretty funny payoff. Not “Puppeteer” or “Bakerix” funny, but it's still one of the funnier Akuma defeats I've seen. Another funny joke is Cat Noir using his Cataclysm on a soccer ball before he accidentally uses it on Ladybug and Marianne for their post-victory fist bump.

Later on, after Marinette sees Marianne and Fu off while the latter continues to avoid responsibility, Su-Han apologizes to her, and decides to trust her. He'll still take away the Miracle Box if she screws up, but it's a start to someone Marinette can at least consult Guardian to Guardian.

And honestly? I think this episode is a pretty good start to Season 4. It really feels like the writers are learning from their mistakes in Season 3.

Yes, Marinette is blamed by Su-Han, and while it is frustrating to turn Su-Han into a strawman, unlike other Season 3 episodes where Marinette is blamed, the blame itself is unwarranted, and by the end of the episode, it looks like Su-Han is willing to change, as he apologizes to Fu after he's de-evilized. That's a lot more than I can say for Astruc's other straw characters like Chloe and Felix. Sure, some of Su-Han's concerns are brushed off, but it's still a start.

From what little we saw of him, Cat Noir is also a lot better, really showing the character development promised towards the end of “Miracle Queen”. He's thankfully turned down the flirting, and I can only hope he keeps his promise as the season goes on. I hope we get an episode or two showing his perspective on Ladybug becoming Guardian, and how he feels less like her actual partner now. You know, something that can reinforce their bond as partners.

My biggest complaints from the episode really come from the way Fu is portrayed, and even then, it's only because of events that happen because of what he did last season and how much of a screw-up he is, despite the narrative trying to tell the audience he isn't. Then there's the revelation that Fu's cane has the ability to track down Miraculous. So... we're seriously learning this now? Why didn't Fu use it earlier to look for the two missing Miraculous? He literally has a Miraculous detector! But hopefully, the consequences of Fu's actions won't affect this season too much.

So yeah, I'm actually feeling pretty optimistic about this season so far. Maybe Season 4 won't be that bad after all.

Oh.

Oh no...

youtube

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viviae · 4 years

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The Red Plague: An Analysis

Ok, I’m to preface this that I am not at ALL a student of medicine or science I am just a humble blogger who really likes diseases, literary analysis, and the science behind death. This will also be a STUPIDLY long post so I am letting you all live by putting it behind a readmore this time

This goes without saying but there is a content warning to this. I’m talking about death, stages of decay, rotting, corpses, vomit, and other gross medical stuff. There will be NO images however. I subjected myself to viewing those images and I will not condemn you all to view them.

I’m going to start this off making sure everyone is on the same page and post an image from the art book about the Red Plague itself

So let’s start with the canonical facts about the plague first

Average life expectancy was 3-7 days once symptoms show, Averages are also liars which means it could’ve taken a little bit more than 7 days or under 3 days to die.

Spread by the plague beetles, exact method of transfer is unknown but Julian was force fed one and contracted the plague however they are safe to keep in containment.

Plague beetles also infected nonhuman objects like the water supply which is shown as a thick ichor. This ichor no longer possesses infectious properties at the time of the story

Julian believed that it had to do with a corruption in the blood hence the usage of leeches

The Lazarus started as a containment center before becoming a crematorium, meaning people believed that it was spread from contact or things like that

HOWEVER This is not the first appearance of the plague as it would show up at locations Lucio stayed for too long but no note if it spread from these locations.

It’s not a disease, its a curse.

So, this is one nasty plague on our hands. Most diseases that are this lethal would never be able to spread as much as it did unless it could spread from corpse contact or through other means like a carrier. I think that it could be spread through a combination of both which would add an additional need for cremation.

Corpse Disposal & Spreading

Historically during plagues you would simply toss bodies into mass graves or ‘plague pits’. This would be, substantially, easier than what they do in Vesuvia. Cremation is not an easy process and is an art form. The heat needed for a cremation alone is incredibly hot and needs special methods to be contained. Not to mention the tedious cleaning process to make sure ashes don’t damage the heat element. So you are telling me that Vesuvia... went through the process of rowing away their dead to the middle of a lake to do mass cremations because it was the easiest? Yes they would’ve run out of grave space a while ago but no one is saying they can’t go make a plague pit out in the woods for half the work.

Now granted, I understand the imagery of making Asra wade through bodies of rotting corpses to find the apprentice’s bloated corpse is uh,,, graphic. Or making us stumble upon an open plague pit of bones in the woods with you LI is not what most people call romantic. (you’re welcome for that image) So they could’ve just made mass cremations on a separate island for tone reasons but that’s BORING.

Not a lot of diseases are actually capable of surviving in dead body simply because when we die our bodies lose the necessary high heats for them to multiply and survive. But this isn’t a disease in a traditional sense, its a curse to Lucio. And this is Lucio we are talking about, some one who is famously afraid of death and dying, which was grafted by a demon of pestilence who is obsessed with worms (cough maggot symbolism and death by disease cough). So I propose that the plague is spread in addition to plague beetles but by dead bodies themselves. This would put additional pressure on proper corpse disposal and the need for cremation. This fact would also explain why plague doctors were present at the boats leading to the Lazarus instead of simple plague carters (rowers?) as doctors would probably have to keep a closer eye on proper disposal of bodies.

As for how I think the beetles themselves spread the plague, I think it’s probably in a similar way as to how Lyme Disease is spread. I can’t name any disease that is spread by beetles themselves off the top of my head but ticks are pretty similar to beetles (I am not an entomologist). Lyme disease is spread by infected ticks biting into the hosts skin and regurgitating its stomach contents that includes the bacterium for the disease.

This would explain why Julian got the plague pretty awful real quick. He consumed all of the plague beetle’s contents and Lucio didn’t have to try and force a beetle to bite Julian, which would’ve given Julian time to fight back. This is also working with the fact Lucio got bit by a plague beetle when running from Morga in his tale. He most likely contracted the plague, or perhaps he contracted the curse then and later on got re bit, in that bite. This would also explain the ichor that infects the water in the south end. Beetles are significantly larger than ticks, and so they might have a need to empty their stomach contents more and its more waste produced.

Symptoms and Inspirations

The Red Plague is obviously, influenced by the Bubonic Plague in terms of symptoms and Tuberculous in treatment. I will list some of the common symptoms of Black Plague and signs and be comparing these to the Red Plague. I cannot stress enough that I do not have any knowledge in medicine but I don’t think the dev’s are all doctors so we are on even ground.

There are generally speaking three types of plagues; Bubonic (Most common type of The Black Plague and mainly targets your lymphatic system), Pneumonic (When the Plague enters and infects the lungs), and Septicemic (When the plague enters the blood stream, either form can lead to Septicemic)

Bolded Symptoms are what are obvious symptoms the Red Plague has taken from these three variations of plague. Italic is Lucio specific.

High Fevers

Chills

Headache

Muscle Pain

Weakness

Seizures

Swollen black lymph nodes known as Buboes (Bubonic)

Internal Bleeding (Septicemic)

Gangrene (Septicemic)

Shock (Septicemic)

Vomiting Blood (Bubonic & Septicemic)

Coughing Blood & Mucus (Pneumonic)

Shortness of breath (Pneumonic)

The Red Eyes

By far the most obvious symptom of the plague and its trademark. Consider this the equivalent of Buboes to the black plague. This is the first obvious symptom that marks you for dead and probably one of the first symptoms to show after a possible resting phase.

Apparently it takes each eye individually as seen with Julian or it may not take both? The stage we see Julian in isn’t the clearest but I’m assuming he was rather early on with a pretty serious case.

It’s also a debate of what exactly is going on with the red stringy bits under neath the eyes. For the sprite models it appears to be veins under the eyes that have been aggravated. While in the concept art above it has a more liquid and viscous look which is probably blood. And in Julian’s CG of him dying of the plague he has no marks around his eyes. So I’m saying its a fun combo of all of the above.

Essentially I think that the plague is causing the blood vessels in the eyes to pop and do serious damage. There can also be a foreign growth to occur behind the eyes or just magical nonsense, doing additional damage to the veins surrounding the eyes and cause bleeding from putting stress on the veins.

The Arms and Lower Extremities

Ok, remember how I talked about Lucio’s fear of death and how its incredibly likely that the plague is manipulating his fear? In death there are various stages of decay, and different functions occur at each stage. And one of these functions is Livor Mortis.

Livor Mortis is when your blood cells rupture out of your veins and die. These dead blood cells sink down to your body based off of gravity where they settle. This is seen as a purple color on the skin based on gravity, normally the back. This can be disrupted by any disruption to the body, but depending on time you are likely to receive lighter marks based on its previous position.

What I think is going on all over the body is veins are rupturing and the body is going through an extreme form of living Livor Mortis. Just that it’s in red and not purple because this is the “Red Plague” and not the purple plague. And due to the patients still being alive when Livor Mortis is occurring it simply pools into the extremities instead of one specific location, with the fingers and bottom of the foot being the most severe. To add to the veins popping suddenly the subtle bruising through origin points to where the red vein-y look begins remind me of my own experience of having four veins burst in my arm.

Julian had reason to believe he could use leeches to treat the plague and in typical plague doctor fashion of “They were right but not exactly” he was on the right track! Using leeches to drink the settled and dead blood would be beneficial to the patient. As likely leaving these areas to accumulate dead blood would put it at serious risk of rot, since maggots first grow on open wounds and areas affected by Livor Mortis.

Julian might not have been curing the plague but what he was probably doing is preventing a lot of people from developing gangrene and needing amputations. A beneficial skill for a previous combat medic to utilize and what might have drawn additional attention to him. Julian’s uses of leeches could also explain why Lucio does not have any of these red marks since Julian is his personal doctor and Lucio would spare no expense for his treatment.

Lucio’s Unique Symptoms

Portia’s route mentions that due to Lucio’s longer surviving time he developed unique symptoms. We don’t know much details about this besides he was extra miserable and was confined to his bedroom most the time. From my provided list above I think that generally speaking the Red Plague is a combination of Bubonic + Septicemic plagues.

However, Pnuemonic plagues were considered especially deadly, but rarer. Lucio is described as having a cough when he has the plague and generally a wheezy voice. It wouldn’t be odd to think the plague had spread into his lungs due to the increase longevity he had.

There is a dramatic irony in Lucio losing his lungs to sickness as well. Morga tells us about how when Lucio was very young he almost drowned and that instilled a fear of death in him at a young age. He’s also a man with a lot of stamina who can run in the freezing cold carrying a fully grown apprentice on his shoulder or run away from Morga who also possesses a lot of energy. Lucio has trained his lungs to be stronger more so than the average person, and now with his downfall he loses them.

It goes along with his general want of having a new body as well. You can rebuild muscle mass although hard, but recovering from illnesses that target your lungs? You’ll almost never get back to the same degree you previously were.

The imagery of the dead is also present in the animal itself used to spread the plague. Although the beetle comes from Lucio’s tribe, beetles play a role in decomposition. Beetles like to come after the body has been nearly completely rotten, after the maggots and wasps consume most of the dead flesh beetles come in and eat the scraps. Beetles are also used in skeletonizing items, one example I think of off my head is a man who had his amputated foot skeletonized by beetles for keeping. So these beetles are coming in and spreading a plague that forces the body to go through stages of decay while living, for their own food. Just like Lucio’s tribe came in and slaughtered other tribes for their own need to eat.

The plague was handcrafted to torture Lucio for his inability to finish his end of the deal. That’s why it uses imagery of dead bodies, it steals Lucio’s lungs from him, and why even the dead can cause severe damage.

Of course this is all my own theory and analysis of the plague but thank you for reading all of this.

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sunshine-tattoo · 4 years

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so I think that elements of cyberpunk and biopunk (and maybe even clockpunk) can be mixed into a solarpunk world.

let me explain. Solarpunk is many ways is not a -punk but a post -punk. One where the major anti-corruption work has already been done.

there are still problems to deal with but it is not like the other -punks where the big fight is daily against tyranny, imperialism, and poverty.

solarpunk imagines things that are a little softer. A little more grounded and healthy.

But it is not a world without tech. Rather the tech is in the hands of the people and used by them for community creativity and innovation.

Look at all stuff that people make online, like music videos and games and art. Then they share it with the world.

A solarpunk future most definitely still has the internet and digital technology. The difference is that it isn't filled with capitalism and its powered by green energy. It also is used to make sure that peoples who's ancestors were marginalized have a place to share their stories.

Then there's the biopunk elements. For those unfamiliar, it's a type of world focused on building things not with mechanical engineering, but genetic engineering. The -punk aspects usually come in via fighting a eugenics based government or lab bred people not having rights.

But genetic engineering doesn't have to be used for evil. It can, and is, used for good.

A very real example are editting the genes of crops to make them drought tolerant and repelling of insects.

Many solarpunk images have people living in communities in the treetops of immense forests and enormous trees.

In the real world, such a thing would take centuries to build because plants grow slowly.

But imagine being able to use genetic engineering to create trees that grow very big and very fast, and then slow down once they reach a certain size. Instant forests.

Genetics and computer coding are actually nearly identical in process: it is a set of instructions to create something new. A solarpunk world would take full advantage of these facts and use them to build things.

Just look at 3D printing. We now can print human organ transplants by taking the image, sending it to a printer, and using healthy cells taken from the patient as the source material.

Imagine a world where the excitement we feel about making new things, whether its art or science, is deeply ingrained in the culture and resources are so well distributed that people are encouraged to create.

As for the clockpunk components, that's mainly just for fun. Clockpunk is kinda like steampunk only farther back. Think renaissance Italy and Da Vinci's workshop. Flying machines that we know can't actually work but look neat. Lots of swirly patterns and parts that fit well together, all while being aesthetically pleasing.

Those old ideas could not work with the limited tech of the time, but the designs were way cool. Solarpunk could actually incorporate those, like flying ships or whatever, by putting in real tech to make it seem like they worked.

Like having a vehicle that actually is just a drone but it's dressed up all pretty to look like a flying pirate ship.

Not because it's practical, but just because it's fun.

that I think that is the biggest part of solarpunk: doing things for the community and the betterment of society, but also just to experiment and have a great time.

#solarpunk #biopunk #cyberpunk #clockpunk #green energy #afrofuturism #genetic engineering

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gagmebucky · 4 years

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[steve. breeding kink. baby.]

“Wanna know what makes it worse?” Steve leans in and trails his nose along the inviting curve of your shoulder and neck until his lips are adjacent with your ear. “My sense of smell, it tells me when your body is just ripe for the taking. It’s like you’re fucking calling me every single month—begging me to put your little pussy out of your misery. . . fuck and fuck until you’re milkin’ my kid right outta me.”

in which you’re playing with a baby and steve can’t resist himself. (includes steve’s pov, avenger!steve rogers x girlfriend!reader, breeding kink, dirty talk, praise kink, mild daddy kink, unprotected sex.)

do not repost.

—

Procedure requires debriefing at the end of every mission. In this hours-long process, an agent must recap the objectives and the means used to achieve them; deviations to the original plan and why; as well as whether success was gained, and any other pertinent intel possibly acquired.

This routine is mandatory for all those working for and with an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D.; not even the Avengers are exempt from this. Except in this particular case where the titular first of the super-powered team has forgone the professional necessity, and instead, is in search of you.

Normally, America’s golden boy can handle the dangers that occur in such a violent but imperative field. He understands the risks and pressures inherent to his line of duty, and he’s always accepted it, dealt with it because the overall outcome dwarfs the bad.

On this particular assignment, however, the stakes were higher than usual and although the quick snap-quick decisions he made ultimately paid off, it didn’t soften the blow of the sacrifices made. Times like this, he has to wonder if it’s worth it.

The tension weighs on his shoulders and crackles underneath his skin; his synapses are frayed with the memory of each fallen agent, the orders he doled out preambling every one, and the electricity curls his fists and locks his jaw. It’s corrupting that logical part of his brain, and that craving for vengeance can’t be sated with his knuckles breaking a few punching bags.

In rare moments like these, when the serum is pumping through his veins like rabies, there’s one thing to straighten the edges and bring him back from the trenches. That solace is you; your alluring smile and twinkling eyes, the musical carry of your laugh, your seemingly innate ability to figure out what’s wrong and quell the turmoil cycloning inside of him.

So he doesn’t report to Fury like he’s supposed to, doesn’t go over the myriad of errors that only worsened as the mission progressed—no one stops him either.

When employees spot him marching down the corridors, stealth suit still on and rippling across his hulking mass, his strides colliding deafeningly with the floor, handsome and affable features tightened intensely, their only recourse is moved out of the way. Thankfully, they get the hint because if someone hadn’t, he knows he’d snap and do something he might regret.

His senses, formerly haywire in his manic state, have lasered into tunnel focus; his eardrums hone in on the specific sound wave of your crooning voice, and the olfactory nerves in his nostrils guide him in a trail to the source of your intoxicating essence.

Steve slams the door open and storms into the upper, restricted level of the headquarters. His hastened pace slows upon your increased dose, lulling his awareness and distance waning significantly. As his search nears its end, he recognizes where he’s at: the luxurious space designed by and created for Tony Stark.

The doors are open so he doesn’t waste time knocking (not that he possesses the patience to abide by his hundred year old manners). Upon entry, he’s taken the tranquility occupying the atmosphere and the sight of you bathed in the sun’s glow; bright rays beam through the impenetrable windowed wall of the tower while you gently rock the three month old baby perched on your shoulder, probably basking in the dual warmth of you and the star.

From afar, behind you, the brown-eyed girl’s mother stands. With her head tilted and soft gratefulness slanted into her lips, the strawberry blonde’s hip rests against the office’s wet bar and watches fondly as you effortlessly soothe her child’s fussiness into a thumb-sucking slumber.

“Aren’t they cute?” Pepper Potts remarks as he steps beside her. Her gaze maintains on his girlfriend and her daughter. “Morgan would not stop crying for the past few hours, and I did everything to calm her down. I was frazzled and at my wit’s end then I handed her off to her aunt, and now she’s as quiet as a mouse.” She pauses and spares a glance over to his adoration-fixed stare, a slyness twisting into her smile. “I don't know what stage you two are at but she’d make a great mom.”

Steve knows you occasionally babysit for the Starks, but he’s never seen you like this. You’re in your element, swaying back and forth while you hum inaudibly into the infamous delicate baby’s ear. Her small hands are curled around your neck and her face nuzzled into the crease of your shoulder, with the opposing thumb slid between her lips as her big chocolate eyes flutter into a peaceful rest.

Suddenly breathless—but it’s not from the exertion—he has to agree, nodding his head. “Y - yeah,” he answers to both statements because it’s fucking adorable, and while there’s never been a doubt about your caring nature, this cements the fact that you would be an amazing mother. The sensation boils in his gut, and his fingers twitch at his sides. “Has she always been this good with her?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pepper tells him matter-of-factly. “With her, other kids, too. She came with us to the park, and this one kid was screaming his head off and she just went over and poof! He was happy.” Her eyes are back on your slow pacing silhouette. “I would swear she was made for this. I bet she was a nanny in another life.”

His knuckles clench as her words ignite the simmering inferno of his being. Made for this, made for this, echoes in his head and he has to remind himself that he’s in public. But the primal image of you, radiating like an angel with a little piece of him growing inside you, has already carved itself in the forefront of his psyche.

Steve has never been into traditional gender roles, not even when he was in his time and it was the norm (he’s always been a very progressive thinker). But, God, he can’t deny the appeal now that he has you. There’s something so primally satisfying about having you at home, free of any worries that aren’t about your family, potentially—preferably—knocked up.

The carnal urge grips him more intensely than before. Usually, he can suppress that visceral desire to bury himself bare inside you and spill his virility until he further claims you as his. However, receiving a glimpse of you in this maternal state, it has every instinct screaming that you’re irrefutably perfect and primed.

As if on cue, you turn around with the effectively lullabied infant clinging around your neck. After a flicker of surprise, pleasant then concerned, you pad on over to carefully hand over Morgan to her thankful mother. Your attention rivets back to him with a knitted brow gaze.

“Babe, hey,” you greet in a gentle voice. Worry ebbs into your gaze amongst the usual stare of attraction upon dragging across the navy blue material that still clings to his muscular torso. You offer your hand, which he immediately takes, and you guide him out of the office into the hallway. The door shuts behind you, and the sectioned off level is empty, but your voice is still quiet when asking, “What happened?”

You stand barely a breath away, and the proximity pacifies his senses. His stance loosens while a smile upturns a corner of his mouth. “Nothing,” he answers then clarifies, “Nothing that matters anymore, anyway.”

The amendment dwindles your concerned curiosity because it’s honest—he doesn’t need to dwell when you’re standing here—and you can hear it; another lovingly scrutinizing up-and-down glance confirms that his earlier disquietude has settled significantly.

“D’you have fun back there?” he goes onto wonder, eyes flickering over to the closed door. Your earlier titillatingly visage snaps into his brain, and he subconsciously bites down on his bottom lip. “You looked like you were.”

You accept his subject-change with a nonchalant shrug. “Babies like me, and I like them,” you tell him, smiling at the admission. “What can I say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that you want me to knock you up.” The words fumble out of his mouth before he thinks about it, and while he hadn’t intended on letting it slip, if he did, it would’ve been without the serious fluctuation he blurted it out with.

In a lame attempt to correct his slip of the tongue regarding a topic you both rarely discussed, he quickly adds, “I’m joking.” A surprised expression had crossed your features upon processing his former response, transitioning into something he can’t yet pinpoint if he likes. As if to test the waters—or dig himself into a deeper hole—he says, matter-of-factly, borderline suggestive, “But you know, back in my day, you’d probably already have a few popped out by now.”

“Mr. Rogers!” you gasp in an almost-shocked tone, but your cheeks split with a devious grin. “Are you telling me you want to be a daddy?”

Disheveled by his mission, then upended by your placating presence, he’s more awkward than the day he met you. “Fuck. Look, I’d never pressure you, okay?” For the millionth time, the previous scene plays mentally; he exhales heavily. “It’s just you with her, and I. . . never mind.” He shakes his head, deciding he’s still on the edge from both events today, and dismisses his animalistic inkling. “Act like I didn’t say anything.”

You fold your arms and nod.

“Uh-huh, daddy,” you drawl, scintillating in mischievousness that simultaneously has his heart skipping a beat and his cock jumping. Your smirk widens before disappearing beneath a cascade of feigned innocence. “We can just act like you don’t want me to have your kid.”

His lips part at your teasing twist of his words. “That’s - that’s not what I said.”

“Isn’t it?” You lift a brow. “It is. So, maybe I should find a guy who does. I think any other man would take immense pleasure in going condomless inside of me.” One hand wiggles into your jacket pocket while you peddle away from his orbit; a rectangular plastic ruffles as his reflexes instinctively catch it. “You know, I think Bucky would really appreciate me. I bet he’d have the manners to really wife me up and make me—“

He knows you’re poking fun of him; playfulness alight within your gaze that he usually enjoys. In actuality, he understands there’s zero truth in your jesting and he’d be more amused than jealous. However, currently, the circumstances have corrupted his sensibilities.

“That’s not funny.”

Your laugh echoes musically. “It’s not ‘cause it isn’t a joke,” you say between your giggles, your amusement pardoning your spacial awareness. “I mean—Steve!” Your yelp is louder and even more musical when he surges forth and reigns you in.

Air expels from your chest as his body cages yours against the wall. Using one hand to brace himself above you, his opposing appendage tilts your dazed blinking up. “Now do you really think I don’t want you to carry my kid?” he rumbles. “Because if it were up to me, I would’ve taken claim to your womb the second I saw you.”

Your breathing hitches, and you try to remain unaffected but he’s too keen on your reactions to be fooled. “O - oh?”

“Yeah.” His tongue swipes across his bottom lip. “Wanna know what makes it worse?” He leans in and trails his nose along the inviting curve of your shoulder and neck until his lips are adjacent to your ear. “My sense of smell, it tells me when your body is just ripe for the taking. It’s like you’re fucking calling me every single month—begging me to put your little pussy out of your misery. . . fuck and fuck until you’re milkin’ my kid right outta me.”

A sound, hybrid between a moan and a gasp, escapes your throat; humor eviscerated, desire exudes from you and submerges his senses in a provoking intoxication. The rush sinks into his brain and triggers that visceral frenzy within him but he has no interest in suppressing it anymore.

He releases a guttural groan and grabs your hips. His big hands splay on either side, thumb slightly kneading back and forth, and he draws you in closer. “I can smell you right now, too. Not only how wet you’re gettin’ but that it’s that time for you, isn’t it?” he purrs and nips at your lobe. “You’re mine for the taking.” His teeth catch your pulse, sucking a mark onto the vulnerable skin. “Hm, baby?”

“Y - yes!” you moan wantonly loud as your weight sags into his embrace. “Always.”

“Good—” His hands cinch on your flanks and abruptly hoist you up: prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist and your arms to encircle around his neck. “—cause holding back with you is gonna be impossible.”

With your body clutched around his abdomen, he heads for the closest empty room, scoped out via his enhanced hearing. Unceremoniously, he turns a handle and breaks the lock of the unused office space; two doors down from the main room, it’s smaller but it has a sturdy-looking desk in the center.

He kicks the door shut and sets you down as your lips find his. Although you’re sat down, legs dangling over the wooden edge, you keep your elbows hooked around the nape of his neck and coax a ragged groan out of his chest with the deft stroke of your tongue.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes and parts from you in order to yank your jacket down your shoulders. Tossing it off the side, he reveals a braless tank top and your nipples he can see have pebbled underneath. His imagination takes off once more, envisioning what the already perfect twins will look like in the wake of his seed taking root inside you.

His blood pumps viciously, flowing downward and flooding his cock to strain beneath the oppressive stealth-suit fabric. Like you’re reading his mind, you unhook the utility belt and similarly shove it off somewhere on the side.

Something rustles, and it’s the condom you’d thrown at him. Absentmindedly tucked under the cinch of the belt previously, it falls into your undressing hands. Your eyes rivet up to him, lashes fluttering big, as you hold it between two fingers: halfway offering. “What are you gonna do, daddy?”

At that particular moment, it occurs to him that you’re doubting his seriousness. While abundantly clear you want this, you’re dubious on whether he’s going through it. Which is preposterous, but he figures that the look on your face when he spills inside you bareback will only further his orgasm, consequently heightening the odds of his end-goal.

He plucks the packaging from of your grip, holds it up as your gazes clash and makes a show out of discarding it out of reach. Then he seizes your knees and slides your ass to the edge so your center is flushed against him, rocking into his hardened imprint.

“You,” he answers your query, tone a growl, as he peels your jeans off. He continues on just to shred your panties. “I’m doing you. With nothing to separate me from you, nothing to keep you from your rightful destiny: knocked up with our baby.”

“Please,” is all you utter, but the room’s thick with sensory evidence of your essence.

Spreading your thighs as far as possible, he glances down to spit lewdly on your glistening mound; a long dribble of saliva coating your eager button and slit. He uses his thumb to smear it all over, mixing with the puddle you’re creating, dipping into your sticky folds with his middle finger.

The whole time, you’re choking with these hungry and appreciative little noises. Likewise, you’re watching as he prepares you thoroughly and roughly to wring the cum out of him. “S - Steve,” you mewl coherently and buck into his messy caress. Your fingers are tugging pleading on the lower half of his uniform. “I need you. Please!”

It is about damn time.

His control has been witting away since the first time you called him daddy. He swiftly wrenches the suit down and exposes his leaking, throbbing cock to your tunnel of relief. His size always dwarfs your kempt triangle; an initial observation one might come to is the improbability he won’t fit. But he does, every single time, and in this special instance, he’s going to ensure all of his formidable length is buried in your fertile heat.

He rasps his tip over your clit, plastering his translucent white pre-cum over the engorged nub, then traces down the crease of your slit. As he prods in, his hands span your thighs and help open up your elastic entrance for his ravenous cock. He stretches your tightness slow but unyieldingly while you both watch with labored breathing, transfixed by the sight of your dripping core enveloping his veined and tanned angry stalk until he’s nudging your cervix.

“Good girl,” he grits out, strangled by the electricity prickling his nerves. He slips support underneath your ass, intertwining from the inner to the outer so when he hauls you up, your knees are bent over his elbows. “You ready to make me a daddy, baby?”

“Yes!” You nod quickly with a moan. “Shit, you’re big—and deep. Really fucking deep.”

He chuckles huskily because if you think that now, he can’t wait to see you once he’s truly plundered new depths. “Now, you just hold on tight and let me do all the work. I only want you to focus on givin’ me a baby, okay?”

In the middle of an abandoned office room—possibly a storage area—he heaves you up and drops you back down. Your arms curl around his neck, hands twisting into his suit, while he alters between gravity and his hips jutting forth to drill inside you.

Without any mind to those around you—just you and him—he fucks you with every ounce of strength coiled into his super-charged build. Ignoring the fact that door is unlocked, broken more specifically, and the possibility that there’s likely high quality surveillance cameras watching, your shared sounds of carnality fills the room in between the harsh collision of skin.

Each propelling thrust seems to jostle further than further, carving himself into your inner walls. Like he said before, he handles all the work, effortlessly bouncing your sporadically clenching channel with his inhuman strength and stamina; leaving you to accept and bask in the stimulation his cock is providing and the gift he’ll be depositing inside of you any time now.

Your lips are breathless in his ear, gasping, “Daddy, please,” that has him climbing the rope faster. The beg pours gasoline on an already roaring fire, igniting wildly to burn up his legs then his stomach and on its way to take him under.

“Y’gonna make me a daddy, baby? You’re gonna be a pretty lil’ mommy and take care of us? Is that what you want?” he croons, identifying the way you tighten as your steadily approaching orgasm. “Y’gonna have your pretty pussy squeeze me until I’m shooting my load and knocking you up?”

He’s pretty sure your nails have punctured the suit’s resilient material. “S - Steve, fuck! Please. Yes! Cum inside me—cum inside me—“ you cry out with genuine desperation that his limbs tingling numbly. “I want it. I want you. Please. I wanna feel you!”

His jaw locks and works you somehow even harder. The room is completely engulfed with you, your arousal, the potency of your ovulation, and your future with him; once he releases, it’ll only seal the fact that you’re his and belong to him (as well as vice versa).

“Who’s gonna be a daddy, baby? Who are you making a daddy, baby?” His words are practically slurred while fever coalesces across his entirety. “Who owns your pretty little pussy and your womb?”

“You—Steve—daddy,” you sob as your orgasm seizes up around his cock, giving him no other choice other than to: “Cum inside me, daddy—!”

Something beastly rips out of his chest, and without protest, he gifts you exactly what you want. He burrows into the absolute hilt and fires inside you for what feels like forever. Spurts of ooze finally wane, nudging your fruitful cervix, but even then, he doesn’t dare retreat from your heavenly depths.

The aftershocks force him to set you back down on the desk, still buried and keeping you stuffed. His face nuzzles the junction between your neck and shoulder languorously, and you lazily run your fingers through his hair, walls periodically pulsating.

When he regains the energy, he straightens and pulls out of you until his bulbous head is blocking your entrance; he stops there because he realizes something. “It’s gonna leak, and as hot as that is, I need to keep you full, baby.” Abruptly, he hauls you up and shuffles the position so that he’s sitting on the desk, and you’re sitting on his cock.

Your sensitivity flares around him, and you squeal. “F - fuck!” But you adjust to comfortability, blinking at him. “For how long?”

A smile curls into his lips, and he strokes your cheek while his other hand lays on your belly. “For as long as it takes.”

[masterlist / feedback]

#steve rogers x you smut #steve rogers imagines #steve x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers smut #marvel reader insert #marvel smut imagines #my writing #marvel imagines #my fics #mANY ERRORS

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hammeredalcoholic · 4 years

Text

wicked game

josuke higashikata/reader

this is a birthday commission for a special person, @big–gulp! i hope you enjoy it sis, and have a wonderful birthday!!!

the world was on fire and no one could save me but you it’s strange what desire will make foolish people do

rated: 18+/nsfw

Smears of red and orange painted the sky across Morioh. The sun had started to set, leaving the ocean glimmering a mixture of green. It was enticing to look at– to study, to take pictures of. The waves crashing softly against the sandy beaches, rolling back and forth in a steady motion. It was so beautiful. Although, it always has been.

Dusty white clouds swirled around overhead, passing in front of the sun’s bright gaze. Josuke had practically memorized this scene, seeing it over and over again from his youth until now. No matter how many years had passed, it always managed to take his breath away.

Except tonight.

His head was fuzzy. His thoughts were unfocused, and he simply couldn’t be brought to the same familiar feeling. Josuke didn’t know what had happened to him, or why he simply couldn’t take in the wonderful sight along Morioh’s coast. Deep down, it scared him.

Despite this, he continued to make his rounds. A police officer couldn’t be spotted slacking off, after all. Even if the sunset was outstanding tonight. His feet trudged forward, and with each step he took, his mind got lost.

You were there. In the frontlines. Your eyes, your face, your beautiful smile. All there, all for him. It made his heart warm, his blood pumping fast in his veins. How had he managed to get this way? How could just the thought of you be corrupting him like this?

Josuke was a strong man. He prided himself on that, being the top of his class when he entered the task force, making sure he took everything in stride. He wanted to be the best of the best, and he wanted to make everyone proud of him.

At least, that’s what he thought. That was before you showed up.

He can barely remember the details of it. It was foggy, a distant memory that he had to reach deep for. But then again, it felt clear as day. Something he could not possibly forget.

You had recently moved to Morioh. He wasn’t sure where you had come from– but he knew that it was States. He just didn’t recall which one. It was his job to keep the city in line, and make sure he knew of all the people who lived there, so meeting you didn’t take a whole lot of time.

It was at the beach, actually. The sun had been at high noon, baring down hotly against the shoreline. You were there. Your feet in the water, looking down at the waves licking at your ankles. To him, it seemed like you hadn’t truly experienced the ocean before.

Josuke approached you, careful not to scare you in the process, despite how funny it may be. He introduced himself, telling you that he was the local police officer, and just wondered why you decided to move to Morioh.

The smile he got in response almost knocked him off his feet. It was so kind, so tooth-rottingly sweet. “I just wanted a change of pace. Experience the world a little bit, y’know?” He actually didn’t know. Josuke had never once ventured out of Japan. He had heard stories about his father’s trips, Italy, Egypt– they sounded fun, yes, but he just couldn’t see himself leaving Morioh.

Although he just agreed, wanting to see your face contort in happiness again.

Back then, things were simple. You were a kind face, with a wonderful personality. It was nothing more, nothing less. But, things tended to change, didn’t they?

Josuke wasn’t sure what had happened from there. The details were a mess, full of inexcusable thoughts and actions. He didn’t even know how you managed to get his phone number– but it’s not like it mattered anymore anyways.

He had your contact saved, and that’s what mattered.

The sun had now passed over the horizon. A deep blue coated the sky, the moon rising and shining gently, illuminating the waves in a way the sun never could. The street lights had clicked on, covering his path in a muted yellow. The sounds of bustling cars and people had calmed, giving Josuke a sigh of relief.

It was finally time to head home.

As his footsteps echoed against the concrete sidewalks, his mind drifted again. You were there once more– like when he had first met you. Pants rolled up to your lower calves, shoes discarded and hair whipping around your face from the salty breeze.

The image alone sent warmth ripping through his body. Josuke quickly shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, balling them up until his knuckles turned white. Is this what it felt like? He’d heard stories, far-fetched tales from his friends and relatives, but he’d never really believed in them.

He needed to feel it for himself.

And yet, with the way his heart pounded in his chest, he couldn’t be brought to disregard it. He’s never truly felt this way before– occasional girlfriends, and yes maybe a boyfriend, but the feelings were never like this. They never managed to fog his mind like this, so much to the point of becoming nearly sick.

What did make him sick was the fact that he didn’t know how you felt. It was like a pit in his stomach, all dark and encompassing, reminding him that he could be the only one feeling like this. It didn’t matter how kind and caring you might be– you have never once told him how you felt, in any of this.

It terrified him to think that only he felt this way. That it was all one-sided. That you could be using him, of all things.

That thought sent a cold sweat across his brow. How could he manage this much longer? He wanted to tell you how he felt, really he did– but yet he was scared. Josuke was scared that you would reject him. Turn your nose up, and tell him that he wasn’t worth your time anymore.

He felt his hands shake in his pockets, and the air around him grew cold. Suffocating, even.

Was this what it was like?

Dizziness flooded his system, and he quickly grabbed onto a near-by lamp post.

It couldn’t be. He couldn’t believe it. But still– the thought lingered.

Was this love?

The sound of his phone ringing cut through his thoughts like a sharp knife. It seared in his mind, and he quickly moved to pull the device out of his pocket. Looking down at it, his eyes grew wide. No, not now. Why now?

It was your name that flashed on the screen.

Your face appeared in his mind once more, so beautiful and gorgeous–

“Josuke?”

His heart stopped beating. Your voice was quiet, hushed tones with a touch of need. He knew what that voice meant. It was always the same thing, the same request. The pit in his gut felt like it was getting deeper and darker by the second.

“Hey.” Was that all he could say? Josuke mentally slapped himself, bringing his other hand up to rub at his eyes. “What’s up?”

Your voice was so sweet in the receiver.

“Oh, I just got home. Thought I’d give you a call.” Yeah, that’s all it was, huh? Josuke doubted it. You were always innocent, never once giving away the true intentions behind your sudden interruptions.

“Oh. I’m headed home myself.” He replied quickly, deciding that the best course of action would be to follow through with his statement. He moved off the lamp post and headed back in the direction of his house. His footsteps were slow and steady, not wanting to cover up your voice.

“I see. In that case, why don’t you take a detour?”

“A detour?” Josuke simply asked, his fingers clutching at his phone for dear life. His heart was hyperactive again, and he swore that if the ocean wasn’t so damn loud, you’d be able to hear it.

“Yeah. I’d like to talk.” He heard a shift from your end, and then your voice dropped low, almost a growl. “I want to talk until you can’t walk anymore.”

Josuke practically started running in your direction then and there, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t seem eager– no, that would give something away. Huffing out a small breath, he pulled his phone closer to his ear.

“Alright, well. I’m thinking about taking that detour.” He simply stated, bringing his footsteps to a stop. Your voice was back to sweet, caressing his ear and making a shiver run down his spine. “Great. I’ll see you soon, Officer Higashikata.”

Josuke almost dropped his phone when you hung up. Your words bounced around in his head, sultry tones making his thoughts foggy. He didn’t even realize that his feet had started to lead him in the direction of your house, until it soon came into view.

What the hell? How could he have walked this far without consciously knowing?

Well. It’s not like it mattered much anyways. Slowly making his way to the door, he hesitated. Did he really want to continue this? Was this really something he wanted? His heart was practically pounding in his chest.

Should he turn away?

Forget that you even called him, and make the trek to his house. It would avoid the feelings that plagued his mind– maybe it was for the best that you didn’t know. Josuke let out a shaky breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

The air had cooled tremendously since the sun had gone down, and small touches of vapor expelled from his lips. He wishes that he could disappear. Just completely vanish– not a trace of him left, just so he doesn’t have to deal with the heart break.

How could you be doing this to him? What changed him?

It was just sex. It’s always been just sex.

But your eyes– your words, your sweet touches– everything about you was alluring to him. Soft sighs and mewls, the way your body was practically made for him. It was too much. Too much for his brain, too much for his heart.

And now, it was too much for his dick.

Pushing all of his thoughts into the back of his mind, Josuke lifted his hand and swiftly knocked on your door. The wood creaked under his fingers, and it was a sound that he was all too familiar with. It was almost torture– waiting for you to get up and answer him.

It almost made him turn around and leave.

But then there you were. The door opened with a creak, and you stood there. Beautiful– dressed in a white gown, your hair framing your face, your eyes piercing into his soul. It made his heart skip a beat, and dread began to crawl up his back.

“Good evening, Officer Higashikata. Would you like to come in?”

God, what was he getting himself into?

“Yes, please.” Was that all he could say? Jesus Christ, Josuke– get it together. Your smile almost knocked him down, but you opened the door to let him in. Your house was quaint, full of little knick-knacks and blankets, along with the smell of burning candles. It felt like home to him.

“I have some wine if you’d like a glass. It’s always good for loosening up after a long shift.” You looked over at him, picking up said bottle of red wine. Josuke couldn’t tell what brand it was– not that he cared, he wasn’t much of a wine guy– but just nodded.

Your small giggle hit his ears, and he was starting to deeply regret coming. Why couldn’t he just say it? Why couldn’t he just drop to his knees and tell you his feelings? What was so different about this situation?

A small wine glass was held out to him, and he gladly took it. Any alcohol at this point would do– anything to dull the feelings that would arise when you finally took him to bed. Josuke took a seat on your couch, pulling his hat off and setting it to the side.

“Did you have a rough day at work?” You asked him, your voice laced with nothing but kindness. It made his legs shake and his stomach go up in knots.

“No, nothing much ever happens in Morioh. The most I have to deal with is bratty kids.”

Your laugh was so amazing. It always managed to lift his spirits, and make his heart pound in his chest. Josuke couldn’t help but stare at your amused face, but he tried to busy himself with the wine.

“I mean, that’s good at least! I’m glad to know that Morioh is so safe.” Your eyes got a shade darker, a small glint shown in your pupils. “Especially with you around, officer.”

Josuke couldn’t help the spikes of arousal that clawed through his guts. You were going to be the death of him– he was absolutely positive. Deciding that now would be a great time to finish his wine, he did so, trying his hardest not to look too rushed.

You casually sipped on your own, but your eyes were sizing him up. Carefully dragging along his figure, stopping to stare at particular places that any normal person wouldn’t. It took everything in his power not to revert back to the 16-year-old boy who would get an erection at basically anything.

“Hm, Josuke. I think we should take this party elsewhere.”

Oh god. The way you said his first name was practically delicious.

“I’d have to agree.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, you were tugging on his wrist to stand up. He did so, not without a bit of misfooting– and let you drag him in the direction of your bedroom. That’s when the thought hit him.

We’re not going to fuck tonight.

Your bedroom door was open and you tugged him inside.

We’re going to make love.

Within seconds, Josuke had you pinned back up against the door. His hands were hot against your skin, holding onto your hips carefully. His mind was made up– he was going to show you his feelings.

Your lips crashed together in a heated kiss. It was slow and full of passion, his hands trying their hardest to pull you as close as possible to him. Lips moving softly against the other’s, hands caressing and memorizing each other’s bodies.

It was everything he’d ever wanted.

Everything he’d ever needed.

His heart clenched in his chest when your tongue dragged across his bottom lip. God, was this heaven? Josuke truly thought it was. He accepted your advances and opened his mouth, kissing you with more fever. His hands were clutching at your dress, feeling the fabric and admiring the smooth silk.

He’s never seen you in something like this, and he never wants to forget it.

Josuke doesn’t know what happens next. It’s all a blur in his mind, distinctive arousal sparking every little movement.

His back hits the bed and you’re in his lap, your lips still desperately attached to his. It was so hot, so unbelievably sexy– and he didn’t want it to end. You were feeling him up, soft fingers molding their way along his chest, poking at the buttons that kept his uniform intact.

“Just– Just take it off.” Josuke’s voice was absolutely drenched in lust, and the way your eyes shined at his statement was no help. Your fingers moved swiftly– popping open the offending buttons and pulling it off his shoulders. Sweat was practically dripping from every pore of his body– and he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when you looked at him like that.

Your dress was gone. Holy shit, when did you take it off? Why didn’t he do it?

His hands moved to caress your body, running down your delicate curves, memorizing everything. He needed to– he didn’t want to forget it. Josuke gasped when your lips met his neck, squeezing harshly at your hips. “God, fuck–!” He choked out, your lips smoothing over the rough bite you’d delivered to his collarbone.

“I need you, Officer Higashikata.” Those words were going to be the fucking death of him. Josuke’s head was spinning, clouded with lust and pure want. No, no– He needed this.

“You have me, babe.” Is all he could muster, flipping your positions. He straddled your hips, grinding against your core gently. The moan you let escape was purely sinful– it made his arousal spike, and his heartbeat jump in his ears.

Your legs locked around his waist like a vice, pulling him as close as possible. He let a smile cross his lips before leaning down and kissing along your chest. Smooth and passionate, leaving wet marks and small bruises. You looked so good covered in his love bites.

Mewls and gasps filled his ears, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to take much more of this. He was beyond desperate– his fingers trailed down, sliding in between your folds, feeling the slick that gathered there. It was so hot, you had gotten this wet from him. Pride bloomed in his chest, and continued to rub slowly at your entrance.

Legs were shaking around his waist, pleasured moans slipping from your lips. It was driving him absolutely mad. Josuke couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you ready for me?” His voice was rough, borderline needy.

“God– Yes, Josuke!”

His hands have never fumbled with his belt more in his life. Taking a deep breath, he finally managed to undo it, and pulled off his pants. They fell around his ankles with a dull thud, and your hands were on him instantly.

Simple touches to his clothed cock, soft rubbing at the head. You knew exactly what he liked, and what drove him up the wall. It was so– addictive. Everything about you was addictive. So very intoxicating– he couldn’t get enough, even if he tried.

A harsh tug of his boxers pulled him out of his thoughts, and he was met with your lips kissing the tip of his cock. He almost came right then and there. Josuke gasped and threw his head back, his hands going down to lace through your hair.

Your mouth was fantastic, warm and inviting– but it wasn’t what he wanted. No, he wanted to be inside you. He needed to be inside you. So that’s what he said.

“God, baby, please– I need to be inside you right now.” He felt you shiver at his words, rolling down your spine. You had to be absolutely soaked.

“Take me, then.”

That’s all he needed. Josuke had you against the bed, your arms tight around his neck. He was peppering sweet kisses to your skin, his hands going to hold your hips steady. He lined himself up without a second thought, and pressed in.

God, you were so tight.

It felt unimaginably good, like every other time before. The slick sounds, the warmth of your surrounding his cock and his mind was so much. It made his heart clench, and his eyes lidded. Your gasps filled his ears, your hips desperately trying to get him to move, thrust– anything.

But no. He was dead set on truly loving you.

His hips moved slowly, grinding gently against you with each thrust. His kisses continued to be placed, on your cheeks, neck, lips– anywhere he could reach. You were truly a gift, and he wasn’t sure what he’d do without you.

Although even with his determination, you were still too much for him. His thrusts gained traction, and the harsh sounds of your bed frame hitting the wall clouded his mind. You felt amazing, and it was something he dare never forget.

Your moans picked up pitch, crying out with every particular movement. Just like how you knew his weak spots, so did he. It wasn’t long before your eyes were screwed shut in pleasure, your mouth barely able to stay shut. Josuke loved this– loved looking at your pleasure-stricken face, flushed pink and wanting.

All because of him.

That thought made his heart jump in his throat. And his hips smack against yours with more force.

He couldn’t keep this secret anymore. Not with how good you looked underneath him– how your eyes shined with every sweet praise, your lips coated in his spit– he needed to tell you.

Now.

The pleasure was too much– you were so tight and warm, your hips recoiling against his in the most perfect of ways. Josuke was panting hard, leaving desperate bruises along your sides, gripping at anything and everything.

It was too hot.

It was too good.

It was absolutely perfect.

“Oh fuck– Babe, please–” His hips became erratic, and your noises became choked and silent. You were so close, he knew you were. His fingers came down, rubbing lovingly along your clit to bring your orgasm closer.

He was going to cum.

“Babe! I love you– Fuck, I love you so much!”

Your eyes were wide– brimmed with tears of pleasure. You all but screamed, your head thrown back against the pillows as your undoing washed over you. It shook him to his core, how you tightened around him. Josuke came with a final thrust, spilling everything he had inside you.

Sweat dripped from his temples, and he stared at your complexion. Josuke couldn’t believe he just said that. Why did he say that? It was over. He just knew it. The pit in his stomach grew, and a sense of guilt and sadness rained through his body.

He fucked up.

“Officer Higashikata.” He looked down at you again, and your eyes sparkled. Your mouth was curled into a pleasant smile, and your hands came up to cup his cheeks.

“Don’t look so sad. It doesn’t suit you.” Your lips pressed against his in the sweetest way possible. It was like tasting his favorite candy for the first time in ages.

“I love you too, dummy.”

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faggotri · 3 years

Text

But we’ll go farther than Plato. Longcat, a photograph, is a textbook example of a second-degree mimesis. (We might promote it to the third degree since the image on the internet is a digital copy of the original photograph of the physical cat which is itself a copy of Platonic ideal of a cat (the Godcat, if you will); but this line of thought doesn’t change anything in the argument.) The text-supplemented meme, on the other hand, the captioned cat, is at an infinite remove from the Godcat, the ultimate mimesis, copying the copy of itself eternally, the written language and the image echoing off each other, until it finally loops back around to the truth by virtue of being so far from it. It becomes its own truth, the fidelity of the eternal copy. It becomes a God. Writing itself is the archetypical pharmakon and the archetypical copy, if you’ll come back with me to the Phaedrus (if we ever really left it). Speech is the real deal, Socrates says, with a smug little wink to his (written) dialogic buddy. Speech is alive, it can defend itself, it can adapt and change. Writing is its bastard son, the mimic, the dead, rigid simulacrum. Writing is a copy, a mīmēma, of truth in speech. To return to our analogous issue: the image of the cheezburger cat, the copy of the picture-copy-copy, is so much closer to the original Platonic ideal than the written language that accompanies it. (“Pharmakon” can also mean “paint.” Think about it, Jane. Just think about it.) The image is still fake, but it’s the caption on the cat that is the downfall of the republic, the real fakeness, which is both realer and faker than whatever original it is that it represents. Men and gods abhor the lie, Plato says in sections 382 a and b of the Republic. οὐκ οἶσθα, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τό γε ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος, εἰ οἷόν τε τοῦτο εἰπεῖν, πάντες θεοί τε καὶ ἄνθρωπ��ι μισοῦσιν; πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις; οὕτως, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, ὅτι τῷ κυριωτάτῳ που ἑαυτῶν ψεύδεσθαι καὶ περὶ τὰ κυριώτατα οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν ἐθέλει, ἀλλὰ πάντων μάλιστα φοβεῖται ἐκεῖ αὐτὸ κεκτῆσθαι. “Don’t you know,” said I, “that the veritable lie, if the expression is permissible, is a thing that all gods and men abhor?” “What do you mean?” he said. “This,” said I, “that falsehood in the most vital part of themselves, and about their most vital concerns, is something that no one willingly accepts, but it is there above all that everyone fears it.” Man’s worst fear is that he will hold existential falsehood within himself. And the verbal lies that he tells are a copy of this feared dishonesty in the soul. Plato goes on to elaborate: “the falsehood in words is a copy of the affection in the soul, an after-rising image of it and not an altogether unmixed falsehood.” A copy of man’s false internal copy of truth. And what word does Plato use for “copy” in this sentence? That’s fucking right, μίμημα. Mīmēma. Mimesis. Meme. The new meme is a lie, manifested in (written) words, that reflects the lack of truth, the emptiness, within the very soul of a human. The meme is now not only an inferior copy, it is a deceptive copy. But just wait, it gets better. Plato continues in the very next section of the Republic, 382 c. Sometimes, he says, the lie, the meme, is appropriate, even moral. It is not abhorrent to lie to your enemy, or to your friend in order to keep him from harm. “Does it [the lie] not then become useful to avert the evil—as a medicine?” You get one fucking guess for what Greek word is being translated as “medicine” in this passage. Ding ding motherfucking ding, you got it, φάρμακον, pharmakon. The μίμημα is a φάρμακον, the lie is a medicine/poison, the meme is a pharmakon. But I’m sure that by now you’ve realized the (intentional) mistake in my argument that brought us to this point. I said earlier that the addition of written language to the meme flipped the pharmakon on its axis. But the pharmakon didn’t flip, it doesn’t have an axis. It was always both remedy and poison. The fact that this isn’t obvious to us from the very beginning of the discussion is the fault of, you guessed it, language. The initial lie (writing) clouds our vision and keeps us from realizing how false the second-order lie (the meme) is. The very structure of the lying meme mirrors the structure of the written word that defines and corrupts it. Once you try to identify an “outside” in order to reveal the lie, the whole framework turns itself inside-out so that you can never escape it. The cat wants the cheezburger that exists outside the meme, but only through the meme do we become aware of the presumed existence of the cheezburger — we can’t point out the absurdity of the world of the meme without also indicting our own world. We can’t talk about language without language, we can’t meme without mimesis. Memes didn’t change between ‘06 and ‘07, it was us who changed. Or rather, our understanding of what we had always been changed. The lie became truth, the remedy became the poison, the outside became the inside. Which is to say that the truth became lie, the pharmakon was always the remedy and the poison, and the inside retreated further inside. It all came full circle. Because here’s the secret, Jane. Language ruined the meme, yes. But language itself had already been ruined. By that initial poisonous, lying copy. Writing. The First Meme. Language didn’t attack the meme in 2007 out of spite. It attacked it to get revenge. Longcat is long. Language is language. Pharmakon is pharmakon. The phoneme topples the grapheme, witches ride through the night, our skulls hide secret messages on their surfaces, Smash Mouth is good after all. Hey now, you’re an all-star. Get your game on. Go play.

#love it here #just a regular post :)#aaron shouts

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choisanii · 4 years

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wait for the enneagram thing, what are the enneagrams of each type of stans (as you've observed) if you know ? im genuinely curious.

ok so a little disclaimer before i start rambling: i’m by no means an expert on enneagrams i just find them absolutely fascinating and i think they’re really helpful overall! like if you know what type you are and what type someone else in your life is, you are evidently able to better understand yourself, them, and therefore better your relationship with them! also considering i have <15 ateez moots, some of which i unfortunately do not know that well, i’m going to try to keep this pretty vague and i’m also going to mostly base it on what i’ve observed in the members themselves (what types i think they may be, but again, i don’t know them personally so take it with a grain of salt!), as I think that one of the reasons our biases are who they are is because we identify with certain aspects of their personality.

general note about the enneagram system: there are 9 types––one of them is your “basic personality.” this is your “core”, dominating personality, something predetermined partially by genetics and pre-natal factors, but also by your childhood (parental figures, significant events/experiences, etc.). however, since one’s personality is fluid and cannot be confined to just one “box” or “type”, everyone inevitably identifies with other types as well (this is where “wings” come in but that’s too complicated so i’ll stick with the core type). no type is “better” or “worse” than another; it’s literally just an explanation of why you are the way you are and how that contributes to how you see the world and interact with others.

hongjoong stans: type 1 (the reformer) or type 3 (the achiever) -> in the most basic sense type 1s are perfectionists. conscientious and ethical. they are set apart from the other types due to the existence of a self-critical “internal voice/monologue”. one may even call them workaholics due to the fact that they’ll often suppress their personal needs/self indulgence in favor of productivity. high standards. a very very strong moral compass. incessant desire to be “right”. fears corruption. type 3s are also known to be workaholics and they struggle with competitiveness. they’re extremely driven and ambitious though they are often overly concerned with their self image. gets wrapped up in their problems; tends to neglect their personal needs and the needs of others. strives to gain love and approval through performance. usually regarded as popular and well-liked among others, the “class president” or “homecoming king/queen/monarch” type. aims to be a role model who inspires others.

seonghwa stans: type 2 (the helper) or type 9 (the peacemaker) -> type 2s at their best are unselfish, altruistic, and maintain an unconditional love for others. extremely warm-hearted and empathetic. great listeners. kind and nurturing. self-sacrificial and people-pleasing. issues with possessiveness and acknowledging their own needs. bases self worth on what they give to others and what they’ll get back in return. may become overly dependent or manipulative. values relationships above all else. embodiment of the “good parent” everyone wishes they had. type 9s avoid anger and conflict at all costs. the mediator. merges with others and makes sacrifices in order to gain a sense of peace, belonging, and harmony, sometimes at the expense of their own feelings. can be very passive-aggressive when upset. trusting and gets along well with others. tendency to be overly complacent. can be very stubborn. maintains a generally optimistic point of view; likes to see the “bright side” of things.

yunho stans: type 4 (the individualist) or type 7 (the enthusiast) -> type 4s want nothing more than to “find themselves” and create their unique sense of self. inspired and creative, they view themselves as unlike any other human being; not in an arrogant way––in a way that makes them focus on their own personal deficiencies as well as hone in on their personal talents. honest and self-reflective. fears abandonment and loss. struggles with negative self image and low self esteem. type 7s epitomize the motto “don’t worry, be happy.” hate being bored; moves towards excitement, freedom, and a variety of interesting experiences. always willing to try something new. difficulty with commitment. extroverted, optimistic, and playful. struggles with impatience and impulsiveness. aims to maintain their freedom and happiness at all costs, never wanting to miss out on worthwhile experiences. spontaneous, agile, and exceptionally fast learners. book smart and impressive mind-body coordination.

yeosang stans: type 4 (the individualist) or type 6 (the loyalist) -> like i said with yunho, type 4s uniquely talented and expressive. gift for healing and the creative arts. always looking for more meaning in things. intense emotional highs and lows, difficult to find a happy medium. can be moody and self conscious. wishes to connect with people who understand them and their feelings. honest with themselves; do not attempt to rationalize their states, only accept them, which enables them to endure suffering with a quiet strength. easier for them to process painful experiences that may overwhelm other types. type 6s are reliable, trustworthy, and hardworking. when they are internally stable and self reliant, they become able to champion themselves and others. seek security and support from others in order to fight against anxiety and insecurity. friends for life. beliefs sometimes go against the “status quo” but they will defend and fight for them fiercely, more so than they’d do for themselves.

san stans: type 2 (the helper) or type 3 (the achiever) -> maybe this is me just projecting since i’m a type 2 wing 3 but these two types really stand out to me in terms of my san biased moots as well as san himself. as i said with hwa, type 2s at their best are unselfish, altruistic, and maintain an unconditional love for others. people person and people-pleaser. extremely empathetic and give good advice. self worth depends on the love and approval of others. considerate, generous, helpful. fears becoming worthless. does not want to be taken for granted. may become overly involved in the lives of others. energetic, romantic, and sensitive to other’s needs and feelings. and like i said with hongjoong, type 3s believe that only through performance, achievement, and success will they gain love and approval. can be very self conscious and self critical; wants to appear their best. motivated and motivating, constantly on a journey of self-improvement. their unwavering belief in themselves and desire for self development inspires others to do the same. a role model.

mingi stans: type 7 (the enthusiast) or type 9 (the peacemaker) -> like i said with yunho, type 7s are constantly seeking out new experiences. playful, optimistic, versatile, and extroverted. can be “scatter-brained” and end up undisciplined or over-extended. become satisfied when they are able to focus their talents on worthwhile goals. approach to life is not unlike “a kid in a candy store”. able to pick up skills and talents with relative ease, though when confronted with too many, they are unable to choose one to focus on. balance is key. like i said with hwa, type 9s are the mediators, the ones to avoid anger and conflict at all costs. passive aggressive under stress. seeks peace through acquiesce and acceptance. able to bring people together and solve conflicts. very in touch with their inner selves. goal-oriented but not aggressive. do not do well under pressure. struggle with finding a strong sense of identity. “spiritual seekers”, yearns for a connection with the cosmos as well as other people.

wooyoung stans: type 7 (the enthusiast) or type 8 (the challenger) -> like i said with yunho and mingi, type 7s hate being bored; they are constantly seeking excitement, freedom, and a variety of interesting and new experiences. an avoider; they avoid pain and fear by escaping into fun and pleasure. often have difficulty with commitment and following through. easily distracted and can become exhausted from being constantly on the go. do not attempt to control. brain works at a mile a minute, much faster than anyone else is able to comprehend. aims to stay upbeat and look forward to a bright, positive future. type 8s are proud, confident, powerful, and strong. not afraid of confrontation. extremely self assertive and independent, might be intimidating to others. have difficulty with allowing themselves to be vulnerable. quick to anger but easy to appease. fears being harmed or controlled by others. denies weakness or fear. refuse to “give in” to social convention.

jongho stans: type 5 (the investigator) or type 8 (the challenger) -> type 5s are visionaries, able to see the world in an entirely new way. focus on complex ideas and skills, sometimes to the point of detachment from the real world. relentless in their pursuit for knowledge. believe that they will eventually figure things out from the safety of their minds. hate feeling useless or incapable. compartmentalize people and situations. minimalist lifestyle; holds back strong feelings and desires/needs. like i said with wooyoung, type 8s are confident, impulsive, and aggressive. not afraid to go after what they want. difficulty being vulnerable. courageous, make good leaders, and protective of the weak. feel the need to control their environment (people as well) which may end up coming off as intimidating and domineering. want to be self reliant by proving their strength and resisting weaknesses. seek total independence and do not like being indebted to anyone. exercise an enormous amount of will, endurance, and persistence in their day-to-day lives.

#ateez #ot8 #ok to rb #thank u for asking shims <3 but sorry this is such a long post aklsjdfhajs #again i based this off of mostly what i see in the members themselves and a little bit on the one or two moots that bias each of them #so it's definitely not totally accurate! take it with a grain of salt or whatever #just to reiterate: personalities are very fluid! u can identify with some aspects #not always all of them and that's totally normal (which is why there are wings)#i love talking abt enneagrams so if anyone is interested always feel free to come chat w me abt them!!#cute mutuals #atinyphobe #askjess

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shattereddreamsau · 4 years

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hey, could you resume in, like, less than 10 sentences the big thing you posted about the au? bc my adhd ass cant read things that long and im sad everyone else knows and not me-

wasShort Version: (also next time don’t send me 13 asks containing the same message please ^^) you can read it all below.

The beginning: Two gods; Nocturnal and Solaris created the Tree. which gave the world that they had created life. then they created two Goddesses; Gaia and Pele. these goddesses giving Life and Death; Positives and Negatives. they created beings with clay to live in this vast place. later on they were bestoyed a gift. a smaller portion of the first gods. they created Vision and Illusion (Dream and Nightmare) with that gift. they were formed with hardened bodies colored according to the god which they were bestowed from.

The Gods world and Religions:

(image above is what the world used to look like in the beginning)

The tree they had created eventually got surrounded with buildings, the closer the buildings the closer they resembled the gods and the tree. Schools taught the younger ones about the gods and the tree; so no one would possibly even think of taking it down, they worshipped this tree and the gods. if a mortal even brought harm to this tree they would turn to stone; their bodies breaking down into smaller rocks eventually pebbles which would hug the tree. only gods are able to harm the tree.

The only known gods: Nocturnal, Solaris, Gaia, Pele, and their children VIsion and Illusion (Also known as Dream and Nightmare)

time had passed; Gaia and Pele eventually gave their powers to their children. Gaia’s to Nightmare and Pele’s to Dreams. then the goddesses joined their creators; Nocturnal and Solaris. once they had left things got out of hand. Dream was praised as the next successor to the goddesses while Nightmare was given the harsh end.

Nightmare had enough and eventually broke; eating the darkened apples and bringing hell. chopping down the tree in the process also destroyed the world with it and it’s people. Dream fought off Nightmare but eventually came to a stale mate. Nightmare retreated and Dream stayed.

Present story:

Nightmare in this story; in his eyes spares others by killing them if they’re in a genocide timeline. he believes that this is the only way to stop it. stop their suffering. Dream always tries to stop this from happening. but this time they were too late. Tyrant; the chara in this story was the only survivor. while Dream and Nightmare were having their moment; Tyrant took advantage. getting out of this situation with Dream. after venting a bit, Dream figured out how to hold the apples under the certain condition. without hesitation he had eaten the apple without thinking what it would do. it caused all this to happen.

Ink felt the disturbance, and ended up fighting the corrupted dream. dying and ressurecting in the process. retreating with nightmare afterwards.

̣̣(Information on the characters kind of long:)

(Tyrants au) Cast and Sans: Dead

Tyrant: Age: 20. Power hungry virus; spreads to AU’s and hijacks them taking souls for more power.

Dream: Age: 400+ Previously Vision; A God; child of Pele the one who forgot their true nature as time passed. Someone who trained and gained their strength but eventually fell to their emotions. His weapon: A bow (explanation?: He’s nice but tends to be distant. which is why his weapon was a bow.)

Shattered: Age: same as Dreams. He’s an overconfident version of himself. One who doesn’t show pity towards others. He tends to be a annoyance to others.

Nightmare: Age: 400+ Previously Illusion, another God the child of Gaia; they soon forgot their godly nature once the harassment began. A void grew in their chest. A single light stayed their only hope that being their friend Dream who fell to the heartbreak as well. (his weapon: A staff along with floating candles. Explanation?: he likes being close to others and tends to be a bit clingy when he gets to know someone. He’s like a fire but can be easily put out but at the same time put back on)

Ink: Age: Unknown. An Ink who previously had a family, A husband and their daughter but became widowed after he was cursed and his family killed.

Blue: Age: 30. The older brother, still energetic and constantly trying to encourage their younger brother. Who is taller then himself what gives?

Orange: Age: 25 the younger one, lazier then his brother Blue. he tends to be like this due to his various jobs he has.

….More characters coming soon.

(abilities and more a bit long as well:)

Guardian Abilities/Powers/Weapons: Aura sensing, body manipulation, god's touch, energy manipulation, reincarnation, Weapon manipulation + Summoning (can form a weapon from their very being; fors according to the Guardians current state or being)

Inks Abilities/Powers: 4th wall breaking, knowledge of otherworldly beings, ink manipulation, immortality,

Tyrant: Code manipulation, Illusionist, Creators hand

Blue: summoning attacks, dodging, teleportation, AU vision.

Orange: summoning attacks, flight

More will be added when new characters come into the comic!

Fun facts!:

Guardian fun fact 1:: the opposing guardian can become corrupted if certain conditions are met.

Guardian fun fact 2: In the Shattered Dreams AU: The rare occurrence called Apple eyes happens whenever something catastrophic is being put into place. these occurrences happen rarely to these Guardians knowing most situations aren’t Multiverse level threats. once these Apple eyes appear they disappear until the catastrophic event is over. they’ll reappear as a sign to its end.

Guardian fun fact 3: Guardians weapons have meaning embedded in them. If the Guardian is reincarnated their weapon would show this through their weapon; adding on a small detail.

I hope this kind of shorter version help s

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persephunee · 4 years

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I have so much to say about Kim Dong Hee and his character JiSoo the problem is where??? Do??? I???? Begin????

I think I’ll start by saying Kim Dong Hee is very talented. He knocked his character out of the park and shot it to the moon. I was very impressed with his acting, but even more by the time I finished the entire 10 episodes. I think he portrayed JiSoo’s mind slowly shattering and showing it’s inevitable “explosion” (as the show describes it), so incredibly well. I really believe he is going to be a big star because this is only the beginning for him and his acting career if he continues to stretch his abilities.

Okay, now onto the big one... his character JiSoo. He is such an interesting character and I absolutely love him, but not because I think he’s a puppy/victim/not to be blamed for the things he’s done. I love him because of his complexity. When you look at his core, he is driven by 2 things: protecting people, and determination to be normal (which in his eyes requires money). He’s not a bad kid, he’s a kid who was thrown into the right environment that lead him to inevitably do horrible things.

JiSoo was left abandoned by both his parents (one is a drunk gambler who would sooner sell his kid off for money), who in his absolute desperation to live a normal life and survive turns to a life he shouldn’t have. The thing is, he could have chosen any number of things to survive, but he chose a business that he was able to justify as protection. Now no, I’m not saying what he did is right, or that any thing involving the exploitation and abuse of women is okay but I just wanted to point out that his entire business as horrible and shady as it was, centred around protection. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He needed a way to survive. He also had no idea what it was like because he was always far removed from the situation. He managed the money and the meetups but never saw these horrible things that the girls were subjecting themselves to. JiSoo to me is a victim of circumstance, because a true monster wouldn’t feel remorse. Yes he could have made different choices, but how else would he have survived ?? JiSoo is soft hearted, and kept wanting to make things right, but he had no one to be there for him and push him to make the right choices. He even handed Gyuri the business and walked away, only to get dragged back in because he wanted to save her. I’m not saying he shouldn’t be held accountable, in fact I was really hoping he would turn himself in... but I think he was just doing the bare minimum it look him to survive until Gyuri manipulated his emotions to do more. JiSoo could have been redeemed if it was caught earlier, but unfortunately this show is dark, and in Gyuri’s hands this all led to him to his inevitable downfall. His mind by the end of the drama is completely and irrevocably broken. The psychological damage and trauma of his experiences... just no going back now. He’s lost himself.

All this to say... that this is the reason I’m so bothered by the show saying Gyuri and JiSoo are so similar. Gyuri is a whole different social status to JiSoo, lives a life of privilege, and MOST importantly shows lack of empathy the entire drama. I know she has moments where she is shown to have some emotions there, but time and time again you see how quickly those emotions go away. JiSoo on the other hand, shows empathy and emotion constantly. He is motivated by completely different things to Gyuri and he even tells her that. Gyuri is driven by the thrill and the need to run away from a life she so desperately hates... she is nothing like him. The only thing I think they have in common is that both of them are suffering, but their personalities and motivations are miles apart. The biggest example I can give for this is their different reactions to the thought/image of killing their parents (or in Ji Soo’s case just his dad). When Gyuri imagines this, she remains so unphased it’s unnerving. In contrast to JiSoo, who clearly hates that he considered even thinking it and walks away because “it’s my dad”.

Gyuri was the most toxic person to come into JiSoo’s life, arguably worse than his father. She plays with him like a toy for her own fun and games and it’s disgusting. The problem is, because Jisoo was abandoned and betrayed by the 2 adults he trusted the most, he now doesn’t trust any. He also is left with no one to guide him. This left him open to manipulation. That is what Gyuri did. You can argue she felt bad for losing his money but that doesn’t explain why she stole his phone in the first place only to torture him and meddle with something she shouldn’t have. You watch the way she convinces him every single time he wants to give up and she is very good at using his emotions and desire to be normal to get him to do what she wants. I think Gyuri on some level feels emotions but her lack of empathy and ability to just stab someone (bad person or not) and feel nothing, makes the hairs of the back of my neck stand up. It’s unnerving how unphased Gyuri is. She’s an enigma, and the only real thing I know is she manipulates people into getting what she wants, feels no remorse, and lacks empathy. Which is the complete opposite of what JiSoo needed in his life to turn things around.

I think if there was any hope left in saving JiSoo, he needed to have someone in his life to be a good influence and protect him from himself. That, and also a LOT of therapy because wow by the end of the 10 episodes he is completely broken and that is so heartbreaking to watch because he just wanted to be a normal teen... BUT instead he was abandoned and left to survive on his own. He was just trying to survive until he could inevitably find a real job and live normally. He clung to that dream so desperately and... lost himself in the process. :(

That’s the post folks. In short, I want to protect JiSoo and stop Gyuri from corrupting him.

#extracurricular #인간수업 #인간 수업 #김동회 #kim dong hee

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anthropologicalhands · 3 years

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fic: (un)acceptable losses

title: (un)acceptable losses characters: Hiei/Kurama summary: What's an acceptable loss? Hiei and Kurama have different definitions, even if they can't quite pin them down. chapters: 1/2 Ao3 Link

Hiei’s head hurts. He feels wearied and ill at ease, despite his containment to the sidelines during the round. Some of that feeling can be attributed to Yukina’s unexpected reappearance in Ningenkai (and here, of all places), but not all. Some of it can even be attributed to the stress of watching his teammates’ brutal fights, without the strength to intervene. But not all of it.

He’s sick of this whole fucking tournament. It drags at him, weighs him down in new and unexpected ways, worse than even his parole in Ningenkai. It’s a monster trying to drag all of them down a well, forcing him to claw and snarl and fight his way back toward where he glimpses the sky, except the sides of the well keep growing, no matter how much high he climbs.

At least in this moment, he has something of a reprieve. The throbbing in his head persists through the long walk back to the hotel. Ahead of him, Kuwabara walks unaided, despite the beatings he took across two rounds; Hiei refuses to think about the reason why. Yusuke is still supporting Kurama’s weight, one arm around his shoulders, though even the latter is looking better now than he did just a few hours earlier.

Not, Hiei thinks sourly to himself, that it’s that much of an improvement. Hard to look worse after being tossed around like a doll, with a deadly, bloodthirsty plant draining him from the inside.

(He appreciates Yusuke’s efficient dispatch of Bakken, but he wouldn’t have minded a clear shot.)

His hands flex, digging his claws into his palms, creating sensation without pain. Hiei glances down at his right arm, and the corner of his mouth tugs up.

At least in one way he came out better than he went in…

By the time they reach the hotel, Kurama insists he can stand on his own. Yusuke frowns, looking like he wants to protest, and glances over at Hiei. Hiei gives Yusuke a tiny nod of acknowledgement, and falls into step with Kurama. He’s not about to let the fox shrug off anything that needs attention.

Yusuke relaxes minutely, and then turns and heads into the forest, toward Keiko, who watches him approach with an intent, stern look on her face. Kuwabara is already gone, and so, alarmingly, is Yukina, but Hiei won’t concern himself with that now; the worst that Kuwabara would possibly do is make a fool of himself, and Hiei is fine with missing that particular demonstration.

In their room, Hiei sits on his bed, legs drawn up, examining the restored mobility of his right hand with pleasure. He has no doubt that he could’ve gotten it to work on his own, but it was only fitting that the committee’s interference sped up the process for him. It buys him extra time to truly master the dragon, and the pleasure of spiting those corrupt humans can only sweeten the lure he uses to draw the dragon out.

“It looks much better,” says Kurama, drawing Hiei’s focus. He looks up to see Kurama observing him mildly from his own bed, even as he goes through the motions of subduing and coaxing the deadly vetch from his wounds. “I wonder if the committee had any idea that their trick would actually restore your health so efficiently.”

“I doubt it.”

Kurama hums his agreement. “Or perhaps they knew, but deemed it an acceptable risk.”

“Either way, I’ll skip the thank you cards.”

“Of course,” says Kurama, in a musing sort of way that indicates that, no, he hadn’t thought that Hiei would write thank you cards and, in fact, had no idea that Hiei even knew what a thank you card was, but he had that image in his head now and he wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon. Hiei tends to do that--putting images into people’s heads, even when he isn’t using the Jagan. It amuses Kurama, which Hiei sometimes mind and sometimes doesn’t.

Hiei doesn’t mind today; he has more pressing reasons to be annoyed with his partner.

“It’s only an arm,” says Hiei, lowering his hand to rest in his lap. “It wouldn’t have been worth very much if you had really been eaten from the inside out by your own plants.”

“True,” agrees Kurama, not even having the decency to look guilty. He pinches at his seeded arm, wincing as he digs his fingers in, but when he draws his hand away, there’s a small, bloodied seed in his arm. He tucks it back into his hair, and resumes drawing out the rest of the bloody strings of vegetation. Difficult to watch, but Hiei’s seen (and caused) far gorier scenes.

“Or if Bakken succeeded in beating you to death,” presses Hiei, because the number of ways Kurama could have died today is truly alarming. “You scared the detective.”

Kurama doesn’t immediately respond, still working through his arm and chest. It’s good that Kurama won’t meet his stare; annoying if anyone else tried to avoid it, but it means that Kurama might have actually learned a lesson about how his needlessly thorough strategizing leaves him vulnerable to weaker opponents.

“I know,” he says at last. “I miscalculated.”

Hiei knows that’s a big admission for Kurama. He still scoffs. Loudly.

“You don’t. He would have torn the whole stadium apart for you,” snaps Hiei, not thinking about his own reaction, how he thought nothing of destroying his still-healing arm a second time, and possibly even for good, if it meant he could prevent Kurama’s death.

Kurama only offers a faint smile, shadowed by the dark afternoon light. Hiei has noticed that he does that a lot, shifting to stay in shadows and poorly lit spaces, despite his striking looks. He’s never asked about this particular habit of Kurama’s, whether it is left over from his youko form’s sense of theatrics, or a new one formed to remain unobtrusive in a world where he stands out, so he can continue his observations relatively undisturbed.

“I don’t blame either of you for being frustrated by the committee's machinations today,” Kurama is saying, forcing Hiei to focus back on his words. “Nor would I bet against you, even if you fought against the entire stadium. Under better circumstances, I would’ve happily joined you.”

He speaks like he has a head cold, not like he had been bleeding out. How can the fox still be so calm? It’s a thought that Hiei has held frequently in the time they’ve known each other. No matter how well he understands Kurama’s strategies, Kurama’s choices are often beyond him--especially for sacrifices like these. Despite his intellect and his weapons, Kurama treats his own body as fodder for distraction.

(Albeit, usually not so literally.)

“You couldn’t. Fox, you have no idea how close you were to getting killed.”

“I’ve been healing the damage for the last three hours,” says Kurama, a new edge in his voice. “I think I have a better idea than you do. I’m not playing games, Hiei.”

Hiei recognizes that accusation--it’s one he has regularly thrown at the fox over the years. But it only annoys him further.

“And yet you still won’t fix your bad habits,” says Hiei, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so that he faces Kurama fully. He probably shouldn't be taking advantage of Kurama’s weakened state to harangue him, but the opportunity for him to speak with impunity on these points have been few and far between. How this quiet, careful creature cannot see his own arrogance is alarming and infuriating--especially when he so regularly pokes at Hiei’s perceived shortcomings.

Kurama’s eyes glitter with frustration, but when he speaks, his tone is still level. “I use what I have at hand. I’ve only recently started testing the limits of this body; I need to be deliberate.”

Hiei snorts; he can’t help it. “If you didn’t just put that body at completely unnecessary risk, I might believe you. It’s not my responsibility if you’re too foolish to avoid getting yourself killed, but I would expect you to appreciate that someone else wants you to fix the holes in your guard. Opponents like Gama and Bakken should have been nothing to you--what?”

Kurama is giving him a very strange look, his youki shifting from defensive to questioning.

“You’re taking this rather personally, Hiei.”

“It’s not fun to watch you lose,” says Hiei shortly. It’s an obvious statement, but Kurama is still looking at him with slightly widened eyes, he wonders uneasily if he might have unintentionally implied something more. Hastily, before Kurama can accuse him of sentiment, he adds, “What happens if you have another opponent like Touya? Or an opponent like me, who knows your tactics?”

Kurama opens his mouth as if to speak, only to turn pale and gasp--a short, pained sound--and doubles over on himself. Hiei is off the bed and in two steps is in front of Kurama, hands outstretched and hovering, uncertain where to put them, but determined to offer aid if needed.

But then Kurama uncurls, still breathing deeply, and with a small smile, holds out the bloodied roots of the vetch, now limp in his hand.

“That’s the last of it,” he says, a note of undisguised relief seeping through. He wraps his fingers around the roots, and when they open again, the plant is only a seed again.

“Good.” Hiei steps away, folding his arms close against his chest. “Now you can actually heal yourself?”

Kurama nods. He already looks a little better, now that he’s excised the plant from his system, the edges of pain no longer sharpening the angles of his face.

“Yes. Not to mention, I can actually clean up properly--I still reek of the arena.” Kurama stands carefully, still wincing. Hiei starts to move back toward his own bed, except then Kurama steps right into Hiei’s space, looking down at him. Hiei doesn’t look away.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” says Kurama gently.

Hiei flushes and glares at the corner of the room, looking away from Kurama, who is looking at him like--like he’s a child in need of reassurance. How arrogant.

“You owe Yusuke far more than you owe me,” he reminds Kurama.

“We’ve established that,” agrees Kurama, and when Hiei can force himself to look back, he catches the thoughtful glint in Kurama’s eyes that almost make him wish that he didn’t. “But I still mean it.”

Hiei huffs and closes his eyes, flopping backwards on the bed as if he is about to go to sleep. Kurama is wasting his apologies on Hiei, and knows it.

Still.

“Accepted,” Hiei replies, knowing that he doesn’t need to say it, but that Kurama likes to hear it all the same. He hears Kurama move around the room, gathering his things for the shower, and sleep does seem more tempting, now that they have the promise of a few days’ rest ahead of the semifinals.

“Hiei?”

Ignoring Kurama now wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for him. Hiei opens his eyes to meet Kurama’s: permission to continue.

“If you and I ever truly fight,” says Kurama, mischievously, with that slight, amused smile of his, “I promise that you won’t have to watch me lose.”

He turns and heads into the shower without waiting for Hiei’s response, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and that’s good, because there’s the answer Kurama expects and the answer Hiei can give, and they are no longer one and the same.

#ellie writes fic #yyh #yu yu hakusho #me trying my hand at characters i've loved for over a decade XD #we'll see how this goes!#(wait it's closer to 20 yikes)

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thebeautyofdisorder · 4 years

Text

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 9

A/N: Hey, it wasn’t a full two weeks this time, yay. The ending got a bit poetic on me, I’m going to warn you, and I really don’t know why. But hey, it is what it is. Vampires and drama rather go hand in hand, right? Unresolved tension and vampirism lay ahead. Also a terrible pun or two.

Pairing: Dracula & Agatha/Zoe, off and on Dracula/OC

Rating: M, for blood, language, mercenaries with guns, blood drinking and hints at violence/death.

Chapters 1-2 Here - Chapter 3 Here - Chapter 4 Here - Chapter 5 Here - Chapter 6 Here - Chapter 7 Here - Chapter 8 Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE - or enjoy below the cut

Tagging some new followers in case they wanna check it out. If not, don’t feel bad to ask to be removed either! And I let me know if the tags fails to work entirely? Tried copying/pasting and just re-tagging.

"You needed me, didn't you?"

Zoe quirked a skeptical brow at the Count's surface-level consideration, not buying its sincerity for a moment. But that certainly didn't mean she wouldn't take advantage of it. As wont she was to admit it, she did in fact 'need him' for once.

"Do you even know what I need you for?" She asked, curious.

"I believe I 'get the gist' - you need to compare the effects of proper sustenance to whatever muck you've concocted. And considering you're refusing to properly nourish yourself to make that comparison, then naturally I'd be the only acceptable substitute."

She nodded, a smirk tilting her mouth to one side. "What do you want?"

He blinked in what was almost mistakable for innocent confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

Zoe scoffed, smirk still in place. "Don't pretend you're going to inconvenience yourself for something you completely disapprove of and not expect anything in return," she prodded knowingly. "Out with it."

The Count mirrored her smirk, taking her in with silent consideration. He could hear the whispers from the humans around them outside of the glass, those both panicked and conspiratorial, though they made for a pleasant bit of background noise to their negotiation. He understood that was exactly what it was, after all, anytime they spoke, and he was looking forward to the challenge.

"We both want the same thing, Dr. Helsing."

"And what is that?"

"To understand ourselves and in turn, each other," he replied simply, gesturing between them. "And funnily enough, neither of us can do that alone."

"Are none of your other 'experiments' going well?" She couldn't help but ask dryly.

He quirked a smug brow at her tone, the accusation of jealousy remaining unsaid but no less audible for it.

She scoffed, looking down at the table in annoyance.

"Perhaps I'd rather wallow in my success before risking disappointment."

"Poke and prod at your success you mean?"

"In a manner of speaking," he grinned, though seeing her returning glare, as endearing as it was, he redirected his approach slightly.

"From one scientific mind to another, you know as well as I do that working together is the best way to each get the answers we're looking for."

"I told you I wouldn't help you infect all of London," Zoe persisted, though more weakly than she'd originally intended.

He gave a shrug of his left shoulder. "For all you know, you could be encouraging me not to. Depends on what our findings are, yes?"

She narrowed her eyes, though he could see Agatha's vehement disapproval radiating through Zoe's wavering will.

"Since when did you learn patience?"

Dracula's amusement wavered, accusation coloring his tone, though it was too soft to belly resentment. "Since I learned there's nothing to be impatient for."

Zoe frowned, studying him further. "You won't harm anyone here."

It wasn't a question, though unlike when Dr. Connors had demanded the same, Dracula gave a short nod of agreement, eyes never leaving hers.

They made an interesting sight, if the focused attention was anything to go by. Two dark haired creatures of the night in what appeared to anyone outside the glass to be a standoff. Their conversation had been mostly spoken in murmurs - to their ears perfectly audible, but even with the sound enhancement, from the outside practically silent. A frustrating thing, if the purple hue of Dr. Connors' face was anything to go by, as Zoe briefly observed when she finally took her eyes off the vampire to observe their onlookers.

"Fine. But I still maintain my diet, and I want to know everything you know - no secrets, no assumptions," Zoe conceded, her stubborn posture relaxing only faintly. She couldn't completely let down her guard, even around him. "And I'll offer the same."

His lips tilted. "Are you saying you have secrets now?" He asked, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"Maybe I do," she replied, her poker face in full deployment.

The Count's brows gave a playful wag as he held out his hand, large and clawed as it was, over the table that separated them in a gesture of relatively peaceful acceptance.

"We have an accord then? From one lab rat to another."

Zoe studied it for a half a moment, the hand that had been wrapped with no effort at all around her throat not long before, before finally placing her petite hand in his, immediately feeling his long fingers curling around the whole of it. She could only grasp them in turn to hold her ground, forcing the image from her mind for multiple reasons, namely his ability to peek at it.

"We do. Permitted that you behave yourself."

"Only when absolutely necessary," he assured her in only a breath above a whisper with his most charming grin.

She rolled her eyes in return, but didn't argue. That was the best she could hope for with him.

There was an audible ah-ha-hem projected into the room, and they both turned with unenthused expressions towards the persistent if still clearly terrified face of Dr. Connors. Dracula’s upper lip curled upward in a quiet snarl and Zoe gave him a side-eye which he only faintly acknowledged.

“Count Dracula will be our control, we’ll reconvene after later testing,” Zoe announced loudly, and much to her pleasant surprise, despite looking like he wanted to argue, the other doctor just gave a curt nod and quickly began to gather his things to leave. Probably to go ‘report back’, she was sure. The rest of her colleagues seemed to be joining suit just as quickly if not more so. She looked back at the vampire’s faintly amused expression only to just take note of the fact that he hadn’t let go of her hand, and quickly pulled it back from his grasp.

His lips pursed slightly, but he didn’t, much to her relief, seem inclined to rub the slip of comfortability with him in her face, at least not at the moment. Thank heaven for small mercies.

“I suppose I should leave you to your preparations before I frighten anyone else away,” Dracula mused aloud, already gesturing outward to Dr. Bloxham to open the door – he could’ve just forced it easily, but he had said he would try to ‘behave’. Destroying their elaborate, if entirely useless toy cage would certainly be frowned upon – at least until they figured out exactly how useless it was. Now that was a day he was looking forward to.

“I do that perfectly fine all by myself, thanks,” she replied wryly, gathering her things and joining him where he awaited her by the exit, so used to playing the gentlemen she wasn’t sure if he even realized how much of a default it had become as he fell into step at her side.

“Wait until I teach you how to do it properly,” he suggested with a wag of his brows.

“I suppose that’s part of your experimentation process,” she replied blandly, turning towards him as they paused just outside of the main chamber.

“Naturally. Plus, it just sounds like fun,” the Count couldn’t help but admit, a gleeful smile brightening his features. “I want to, as Agatha enjoyed putting it, see the limit of your capabilities’.”

“And apparently the limits of my patience,” she prodded back, gesturing her head towards the elevators. “You saw your way in, I expect you can see your way out. I have work to do.”

“Good night, Zoe. And do try not to poison me again,” he made a mocking gesture of praying hands that brought him far more amusement than it really should have, before she saw him turn to walk away.

She took a much heavier breath than she really needed to. What in the hell had she just agreed to?

-----

It was pitch black when the vampire found himself re-entering the bounds of London proper, drawn by the crowds of lives and the unmistakable need for sustenance. He perused his phone, skimming past a decent hoard of messages from some of his more persistent conquests – he wasn’t exactly in the mood to play to anyone else’s whims tonight, and certainly not anyone vying for immortality. Normally he was delighted to corrupt the willing human mind, but as always in the wake of facing the trademark Van Helsing defiance, he found himself craving more of a challenge. A tiresome side effect, to be sure.

There was much to be had from good, old fashioned subservience, but every once and a while he did appreciate having to make an effort. Alas, the minute anyone discovered what Dracula was, they tended to attempt to appease him. No, please, I’ll do whatever it is that you want. Don’t kill me. Or they just downright bared their throat like a sacrificial lamb. A beautiful thing to behold, but hardly satisfying. And the aftertaste of idiocy that someone trying to fight him in earnest would leave made him cringe.

No, he needed an unsuspecting meal this evening. The Count’s thumb hovered over Kat’s name in his phone, lingering there for a long moment before heaving a dramatic sigh and putting the mobile device away entirely. Unsuspecting, yes, but she was too clever to remain that way for long if he made feeding from her a regular occurrence. He wanted to save her for a… later occasion. Seeing how long he could keep up the façade of humanity with her was an amusement, while fun, he didn’t have the patience for at the present.

He took to the streets instead, perusing his options - an old evil in a new world. It was beginning to storm, but in England that hardly limited his options by much. The expectation of rain seemed to be so ingrained into the minds of the locals that it didn’t even cause most of them to speed up or pause like it would elsewhere in the world. Even in the brightest sun, it seemed to him that the common businessman would sooner be caught without an umbrella than a warrior of old be caught without his sword. Just such a man caught Dracula’s eye.

Leant up against an aging brick wall under the awning of a restaurant with his umbrella at his side, the man was utterly oblivious to other passerby, a look of stern concentration on his face directed at his mobile phone quickly melting into impatience. It gave the vampire a moment to study him in proper detail. He was perhaps just over thirty, fine of feature, but well dressed in a way that spoke of refinement without determination. His expensive suit was crumpled, his hair tousled, and he sported a rough day-old shave that looked more like indifference than ineptitude while a half-smoked cigarette hung lazily from his lips.

Clearly, this was not a man who would be difficult to lure away. In fact, his very countenance radiated someone who wanted an escape and was failing to find one. Perfection, Dracula thought as he made his way up the darkened alley that exited on the narrow walk where he stood, leaning against the opposite side of the wall.

“Someone run over your dog?” He asked in a wry, pseudo-casual way, pulling out his own phone from his coat pocket.

The man looked up, in mild surprise, brow furrowed at the older man who he swore hadn’t been there half a second before, though it only stalled him for a moment, pulling the cigarette from his mouth.

“Oh…the wait time for a car’s bloody ridiculous tonight.”

“So I am seeing,” Dracula agreed blandly, scanning his own screen with practiced annoyance.

“Fuck I want to get out of here… apologies, this really isn’t my type of 'scene'.”

The vampire chuckled, flashing him a charming smile experimentally. “The stuffy overpriced scene? Congratulations.”

The younger man returned a slightly lopsided grin, though a tad more cautiously. “Yeah, more of a business…thing.”

“If you're interested in splitting a cab, we could try the main stretch back this way,” Dracula gestured with his head, through the alley he had come through that opened up to a street on the other side with a few more lights than the one they were currently occupying. Granted if one made it through the narrow darkness.

The younger man disguised his pause of consideration with a final long drag of his cigarette, but proceeded to nod as he flicked the butt into the sewer drain just ahead of them. The vampire could see the brief trail of thoughts as they flicked through the man's eyes with practiced ease. What harm could it possibly do? Not likely to be a thief, tall but I could take him if necessary.

"Why not? Better than standing about." He agreed, plucking up his umbrella from where it leant against the wall at his side. He didn't bother to open it.

Taking a last moment to eye his phone and pocket it, Dracula allowed the younger man to begin to walk ahead of him, giving him the lead. His pulse was calm, calmer than most when joining a stranger in a dark place. He'd drank, but nothing substantial, clearly wanting to keep up appearances - not enough to thin out the blood too much or taint the flavor. Good, the vampire conceded, he truly did hate that.

"So where are you headed?" He asked after a moment, interrupting the silence, keeping the man in a comfortable state. Conversation did, after all, proceed dinner.

Whatever his answer was, the Count didn't bother to acknowledge it, already tuning his ears away from the young man's voice to the steady beat of his heart. He allowed the thrum to overtake him, fill his senses completely until even his forced breaths and his footfalls kept in time with it.

They had neared the midway point now, and the sounds of other passerby were beginning to taint the pitter-patter of rainfall that provided the counterpoint to the lively rush of blood pumping under skin. The younger man paused his slightly speedy pace to check for his packet of cigarettes, but before his fingers could separate the damp material of his jacket, there were jagged bricks at his back and a large hand encaging his throat, halting any chance of escape.

His brows rose in bewilderment as dank breath cooled his throat, but just before the first tricklings of fear and panic began to descend - the vampire struck, sharpened teeth breaking skin and the coppery aroma of blood perfumed the air.

The young man's entire body tensed, broad shoulders flexing uselessly against Dracula's iron grip and the growing wave of lethargy that slowly but surely drug him into easeful darkness. Something akin to a groan, of protest or pleasure he would never know, fell from his slackened lips into the night.

Suppressed fury, intelligence and crushing waves of obsession filled the vampire’s mouth. A search for a man with no face, a splatter of blood on porcelain, and the love of a man with dead eyes and an angel’s face.

He’d always been a sucker for the tragic ones.

----

Zoe’s head wrung with rhythm of a stranger’s heart, thumping faster and faster and then slowly, ever so slowly easing back into a distant low hum. She froze, waiting with equal parts sickening dread and impatience for the pulse to stop completely and still to deadly silence...but the moment of death never came. Once again, Dracula had left his victim to a peaceful slumber - for how long, she didn’t know. She never knew. But somewhere in the night thunder clapped, and she could feel the pang of excitement and strangely, the hollow feeling of loss that accompanied it as lighting cracked the sky soon after.

His name was Malcolm and he was dreaming peacefully of vengeance.

----

Yeah, not really sure where that came from, but I just felt like writing him being a bit predatory. Then got some good old fashioned human murder concepts in my head and well...here we are. Enjoy, lovelies. Always let me know what you think! And if anyone ever has any ideas, suggestions, etc do let me know. I’m a fickle little thing who’s easily influenced and always looking for fresh inspiration for this chaos.

Tag List: @break-free-killer-queen @mephdcosplay @charlesdances @punk-courtesan @crowley-needs-a-hug @hoefordarkness @bellamortislife @malkaviangirl @imagineandimagine @chelsfic @dracula-s-bride @my-fanfic-library @hyacinth-meadow @mymagicsuitcase @littlemessyjessi @desperatefrenchwriter @ss9slb @crazytxgradstudent @claesbang @mr-kisskiss-bangbang @gettingcrazyforlife @carydorse @dreamerkim @gatissed @alhoyin @girlonfireice @festering-queen @jangleprojet @guardianbelle @vampiregirl1797 @serindiyoza @drsherlockmoffat @allis143 @leah-halliwell92 @xis23 @angielandon @profiler-in-courage @erislilith @kandomeresbitch @enchantedfleur @lets-talk-about-claes-baby @bloodspatteredprincess @river-soul @flyingleapdisco @onyxthevampire @katwoman06

#bbc dracula #dracula 2020 #dracula bbc #dragatha #claes bang #my writing #the undone & the divine

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robbyrobinson · 4 years

Photo

I haven't the faintest idea how I ended up getting into this position, but I am forever grateful that I managed to escape it. Ever since I was a child, I was an avid reader. I read just about anything: newspapers; comic books; obituaries, you name it. I'm certain that you had the same feelings I had. Of reading whatever you could get your grubby hands-on, you find yourself in a bind. Craving more knowledge, I am assured that you would've done anything to satiate your hunger.

When I was allowing my mind to humor the imagined solutions to my plight, it happened. While I was browsing the town's bookstore, I bumped into a strange man. He was the spitting image of a walrus. He was a rotund man in the perfect shape of an egg. He had a double chin that was partially covered by the thick, wintry whiskers of his mustache. Whoever this man was, he clearly was of some form of nobility. He was dressed in the finest black tuxedo that money could buy...if not for the fact that his paunch peeked through the bottom of his shirt. His arms were of a gargantuan frame with rolls of fat jiggling from the slightest movement.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," I said. I had about four books in my hands at the time. I gazed down at them and collapsed on my knees to collect them without hesitation. The man tentatively wiped his shirt off with his pudgy fingers.

"It's quite all right, my good fellow," he said in an understanding tone of voice. While I should've been relieved that he wasn't going to take vengeance on me for my mistake, I felt the heat of his stare. He observed the books on the ground with a passing curiosity. "A fellow book connoisseur?"

"Well, yes," I answered while still being intimidated by the sudden interrogation.

"That is very good news," he replied. His smile shifted down into a frown. "But these books just won't do."

My interest peaked. "You know more appropriate literature for me to indulge myself in?"

"Yes. Just between you and me, let's just say that I have a collection of forbidden literature."

That proved to be the most intriguing part of the discussion. This man I had met on accident had access to literature that was assuredly banned by the government. I've heard stories of such books containing such unorthodox material, they were buried away, never to be seen by the light of day. The opportunities were limitless. I could barely conceal my excitement as I almost glossed over the gentleman providing me with his address. He became like a penguin and wobbled away, throwing his weight on his legs. Before I walked over to the counter, for a moment, I could've sworn that I saw a large, monstrous anomaly acting as the man's shadow.

Not too long after my realization that I neglected to ask the man of his name; a series of disappearances befell the city. Children between the ages of 10 and 16 were reported missing. They each disappeared not too long after the other. Approximately, there were six missing children. I thought back to the man I met at the bookstore and how eerily his shadow matched the news reports of the children complaining about being relentlessly pursued by a monster shrouded in darkness. It sent a chill up my spine whenever I weighed more on it.

The day of my little get-together with the man from the bookstore arrived. I fidgeted through my important papers until I fished out the note with his address on it. His home was a decent walking pace from mine. With my briefcase in hand, I traveled down the path. When I reached the house, it did not resemble anything I have imagined for a man of such a high status. The outer layers of the house contorted and shifted. The outer layer was transforming into indescribable shapes unknown to man. The trees around the settlement transformed into scaly talons. I turned to leave, but the voice of the fat man was calling out to me over the onslaught of chaos.

I walked through the shifting front door and trudged down the hallway. The walls were now a fleshy mass of red meat. They shook violently so much so; I was afraid they would leap at me. The other sights were…unappealing. In one room, what I could only describe as the most horrid of debaucheries was transpiring before my eyes. A wave of men and women bereft of clothing were committing the most audacious of sins. They danced around in a perverted succession and clawed onto each other in large orgies. Their incessant moaning disturbed me. “Lust,” I thought. It was undoubtedly a section dedicated entirely to the deadly sin of lust.

The next room was worse. Inside, chains of people were wrought with hunger. They tore into each other as wild dogs looking for scraps. Limbs were ripped off and fingers were plucked one by one like feathers. Not once did they grant me a passing glance. Instead, they continued to indulge in their cannibalistic rituals, never once feeling their hunger subsiding. What I have experienced was the sin of gluttony in its most perverted form.

Sloth was next. It was another guest room. It was relatively easier on the eyes, but that would be comparing a severed arm to a paper cut. Fat blobs sat on the bed and floor without rhyme or interest in anything currently happening. They were of people who were so corrupted by their slothfulness, they were reduced to creatures even below the worms.

The further I glanced into the rooms, the more I felt my mind crack from my incapability of understanding it. A hand reached out and touched my shoulder, sending me over the edge. “Glad you could make it; the festivities had just begun.”

It was the fat man again. But something was horribly wrong. He did not have any noticeable change in his demeanor. He still was just as jolly as he was when I first met him. In fact, he treated the unholy nightmares festering in his home with seeming indifference. That kind of indifference a man may feel when he views the same events daily. I now felt uncomfortable being in the same room as him.

Before I could respond, he whisked me away into the kitchen where he had a lavish array on the table. It looked normal at first glance, but after seeing all the bizarre, surreal nonsense in the respective rooms, I couldn’t help but be suspicious. The obese man sat at the head of the table and glutted himself on fattening foods from turkey legs and mashed potatoes. Thinking back, he looked even more massive than I gave him credit for. He looked up from his many plates and eyed me inquisitively.

III

“So, how are you enjoying your stay?”

I slammed my fists on the table in a dazed frenzy. “What in the name of all decency is going on here!?”

He frowned and sighed deeply. “I see you don’t understand. Such a shame.”

“Shame?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m sure that you noticed by now that I am by no means an ordinary man.”

My mind became a blank. Not human? What is he suggesting? I knew he was insane, but what the hell did he mean by those cryptic words? I hushed my thoughts when he began to speak again.

“I am of a race of gods eldritch to your thought processes. Please, call me the Defiler.”

“Where are you going with this?” I asked now in irritation. Great; this man was insane, and he also believes that he was some powerful deity. I rubbed my throbbing temples in bewilderment. If this were a dream, I very much would’ve loved to wake up. I’d imagine waking up in my bed in the early morning going about my day and then indulging in my cherished hobbies. Instead, I was currently in a grotesque house filled with unspeakable perversions getting lectured to by a deranged man who may as well have escaped from a mental asylum not too far from here.

“I see that I am boring you, boy,” he said. His face was contorted into a vengeful scowl. “I am here speaking to you, but I am also far away.”

“How far, fat man?” I asked.

“My body is indescribable to you mortals, but I am confined behind a stone wall.”

I listened tentatively despite my disbelief. What he said next horrified me. If the idea that he was locked away behind a stonewall was already unbelievable, what he spoke of still to this day greatly disturbed me.

“Do you like my latest body?” he asked, “after all, this freak was just like you before I found you.” He told me that there was a man who was much like me who hungered for knowledge. After he grew bored with the typical literature he read, he sought more. In his endeavor, he met a member of an underground cult who told him that he could have access to the more problematic pieces. He was exposed to the depravities that the cult performed in dedication to some Great Old One or something of the sort. Despite it, he nevertheless allowed his cravings to overpower him, and he read a book that summoned that unearthly presence to him.

“It’s a pity that this body is going to waste,” the fat man bemoaned. “It’s about time I parted with him; we had so much fun together.” He feigned a single tear. “Those children were my favorite part.”

“Children?” I said.

He wordlessly took me forcefully out of my seat, and we both walked to the basement of the house. The remains of the missing children were spread astray. I choked back vomit as I took a closer look at them. Large chunks were noticeably taken from the corpses. I looked back at the fat man, his grin only growing larger with a more deranged glaze in his eyes. His smile circled around the tips of his mouth.

“What? What can I say; after I had my fun with them, I got hungry. Can’t blame a Great Old One becoming famished.”

My fists clenched. After everything, I was mentally preparing myself to punch this “god” back towards whatever plane of existence he originated from. “What else did you do to that man?”

He smirked. “When I possessed him, I cast his soul aside. He will forever be trekking that long path between life and death. I maneuvered him like a flesh puppet subservient to my rule. I do wonder though if he ever was made to watch his body cozy up with strangers?”

“What are you wanting from me now? And what is the reason behind any of this!?” I finally yelled.

He shrugged his shoulders. “After about three hours or so in my home and you still fail to understand?” He sighed. “I live for the carnality of you simple humans. I know all of man’s depravities and abominations, and I bask in it. That sense of pleasure mixed with pain is intoxicating. But what I desire the most is to be free from my prison and walk among you simple humans!”

The man’s disguise was wearing thin. His skin became papery with small cracks forming all over. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, his disguise cracked open. Underneath was displeasing to man’s eyes. An abnormally fat, headless man burst through the skin and towered over me. His hands were large and enshrouded my head. What sent me the most alarm, however, were the two mouths within the palms of his hands. Hot drool dripped down from his serpentine tongues. The room transformed into a chasm of red meat with oozing slime. A book manifested before me. It opened to the section that mentioned the fat man, the Defiler’s, name.

“Say my name and free me!”

My eyes darted towards his name. I tried my darndest to fight, but once my mind was set on the name, my tongue began to betray me. “Y…Y…”

The Defiler stiffened up in anticipation. “Yes! Yes!”

I grasped my throat and grunted. My attempts at choking myself were also proving to be unfruitful. “Y’gol…”

I immediately stared down on the floor of the basement. Beside one of the bodies of the slain children, I saw a carving knife. With my little time, I made a grab for it. The Defiler was perplexed, though because of lacking eyes, he could only express it through his mouths. I grabbed the knife and held it in front of him. My tongue slid out unconsciously from my mouth, and I grabbed it with one hand.

“No, no!” he screamed.

It was painful, but I sliced my tongue off, allowing half to fall on the floor. The Defiler shook violently. I was running out of blood quickly, but I ran forward with the knife and tussled with the Great Old One. He pinned me tightly with one of his hands and he tried to shove me up his other mouth. I clenched my knife and I rammed it into his chest cavity. He loosened his hold on me and tumbled forward. Blood was leaking out onto the floor. Nevertheless, he laughed. Despite the pain and blatant loss of blood. He was still laughing as if he was having the best day of his life.

“Don’t think that this is over, fool,” he said, “I can never truly die. Shame we won’t be able to play some more, though. Oh well, I guess I’ll go defile some other poor sap.” He laughed through his hands and contorted into dust. Without its owner, the house began to collapse, and debris came raining down. From the sound of the bloody screaming, the Defiler’s followers were also being buried alive. I staggered my way through the horrific freak show and exited the house. The house imploded, burying itself deep into a crater in the ground.

Even though it was a few months ago, I still find myself thinking back about how my lust for reading nearly cost me my life and the threats of that beast getting released. But he also said that he would try to corrupt some other hapless victim. I just wonder who will be the next to fall, victim?

#ramsey campbell #cthulhu mythos #y'golonac #short story #eldritch abomination #great old ones

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