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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 3 years

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The shifting narrative of God’s interventism and how it reflects on the narrative on John

This post will ignore the issue authorial intent entirely because I can, but it’s also about authorial intent in a way, but I also don’t like to talk about things as happening “accidentally” because a) a serialized story like Supernatural, especially one that got renewed for much longer than anyone could possibly expect or hope in their wildest ambitions, structurally relies on serendipity, because that’s how stories work when they’re work in progress, b) a television show is an extremely multi-authored text and the chance that something happens out of the intent of any of the multiple layers of creators is kind of... statistically negligible. So, yeah, that’s my stance on the topic. Anyway.

The shifting narrative about God is simultaneously something that hangs on fortunate storytelling clicks on an essentially programmed narrative. At first, we don’t know where the fuck God is. Cas starts looking for him with little success. Raphael says he’s dead, Cas doesn’t believe it. Dean relates to his struggle because he knows the feeling of not knowing where the fuck your father is and going looking for him with little success, not knowing if he’s even alive. Then the theory that gets assumed as the truth is that God has left. He fucked off who knows where, who knows why, leaving his creation to struggle alone. Also essentially how Dean had felt after John had died; in that case there was guilt for his demon deal and everything, but the most cruel weight on Dean’s shoulder was that John left him alone to struggle with his devastatingly horrific instructions he doesn’t understand. The angels are also left with horrific instructions they don’t understand. No wonder Cas does his own ‘demon deal’ in season 6, as he desperately tries to do what he assumes his father wants from him, but he doesn’t actually know what that is.

“God has left” is maddening, and everyone is angry about it, but it has its own dignity. God has left us without clear instructions, we are confused and in pain and evil runs amock but at least, we suppose, the evil of it is our own doing. We are alone and we do our best, our best is simply not enough. We wish he gave us guidance, but he won’t. He wants us to figure it out ourselves, possibly. We don’t actually know what he wants. But maybe that’s the point. It’s possible he doesn’t even know what’s happening, he just has left the building entirely.

But then Chuck reveals himself. We find out that he never actually left. He was there. “I like front row seats. You know, I figured I’d hide out in plain sight”. He simply chooses not to intervene. He chooses not to answer. He chooses to be hands-off. He presents himself as a laissez-faire parent, because, he says, it’s better for his children to have the responsibility they need to grow up. He’s absent, but in a different way than we thought! It’s not that he doesn’t know what’s happening or isn’t interested in knowing what’s happening. He’s here, he knows what’s happening, he just stays there and watches as you stumble and struggle and scream. It’s worse, and it pains Dean so much he isn’t even afraid to yell at God. You know we’re suffering and you just don’t give us any support, any comfort.

You’re frustrated. I get it. Believe me, I was hands-on, real hands-on, for, wow, ages. I was so sure if I kept stepping in, teaching, punishing, that these beautiful creatures that I created... would grow up. But it only stayed the same. And I saw that I needed to step away and let my baby find its way. Being overinvolved is no longer parenting. It’s enabling.

But it didn’t get better.

Well, I’ve been mulling it over. And from where I sit, I think it has.

Well, from where I sit, it feels like you left us and you’re trying to justify it.

I know you had a complicated upbringing, Dean, but don’t confuse me with your dad.

At that point of the show, the writing team almost certainly didn’t have the s14-15 twist in mind. So this was probably intended to be Chuck’s truth. Later it gets twisted (retconned?) into a lie, but about that later.

Here, Chuck is really good at manipulating the conversation. Dean has a perfectly valid point, because there IS a middle ground between being overinvolved and not being involved at all. There is a middle ground between enabling your children and abandoning them completely. But Chuck hits Dean where it hurts, plays the emotional card, basically tells him that he’s too emotional to understand, too emotional to think rationally about it, because he mixes his feelings about his father to the issue and thus cannot see it clearly. He basically tells him he’s too close to it to get it. You don’t understand parenting, Dean, because you’re too blinded by your emotions about your own little life and cannot see the big picture.

It doesn’t really matter here if he’s telling the truth or lying, it already says a lot about Chuck that he’s emotionally manipulating Dean, silencing him by hitting the painful spot.

But the thing is, 11.20 immediately presents Chuck as a liar. He makes Metatron read his autobiography and the very first line is a lie (“In the beginning, there was me. Boom – detail. And what a grabber. I mean, I’m hooked, and I was there.” “I’m hooked too, and yet... details. You weren’t alone in the beginning. Your sister was with you.”) and the stuff he talks about his experience as Chuck is not exactly truthful about anything (“That, you know, makes you seem like a really grounded, likable person.” “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” “You are neither grounded nor a person!”). Metatron calls him out (“Okay. There are two types of memoir. One is honest... the other, not so much. Truth and fairy tale. Now, do you want to write Life by Keith Richards? Or do you want to write Wouldn’t It Be Nice by Brian Wilson?”). Chuck SAYS he chooses truth and gives Metatron a different manuscript, supposedly containing the truth, to which Metatron reacts positively. Metatron believes it, and we believe it with him.

Oh! Oh, this! This is what I was talking about. Chapter Ten “Why I Never Answer Prayers, and You Should Be Glad I Don’t”, and Chapter Eleven “The Truth About Divine Intervention and Why I Avoid It At All Costs”.

Nature? Divine. Human nature – toxic.

They do like blowing stuff up.

Yeah. And the worst part – they do it in my name. And then they come crying to me, asking me to forgive, to fix things. Never taking any responsibility.

What about your responsibility?

I took responsibility... by leaving. At a certain point, training wheels got to come off. No one likes a helicopter parent.

This is sort of what he later says to Dean, except that to Dean he talks about “beautiful creatures” “my baby”, talks about helping, none of the harsh tone he’s using here. When Metatron accuses him of hiding from Amara, he retorts “I am not hiding. I am just done watching my experiments’ failures”. What a different language, uh? Then Metatron asks him why he abandoned them, and Chuck answers “Because you disappointed me. You all disappointed me”. Then, he admits he lied about “learning” to play the guitar and so on, because he just gave himself the ability, and then appears to Dean and Sam, after Metatron’s passionate speech about humanity.

So, no matter the authorial intent at the time - the truthiness of Chuck’s words was already ambiguous. He kept lying and being called out, or silencing the conversation with some good ol’ gaslighting.

The season 14 finale introduces the big twist: it was, indeed, all a lie. The whole of it. Chuck didn’t abandon shit. It was all him, minutely controlling the narrative of the universe, putting the characters through all the pain and struggles for his own amusement.

The “absent father” narrative was a lie.

What does this tell us about John? Nothing, according to the authorial intent that shines through Dabb’s Lebanon. But we don’t give a crap about Dabb’s authorial intent about John! He’s just one dude and plenty of other authors have painted a different picture. So I’m going to read the narrative the way I want, because I can, and the narrative allows me to. It’s all there.

I’m suggesting that the fact that Chuck lied when he talked about being a hands-off/absentee father parallels how Dean and Sam prefer to think of their father as an “absent father” when that’s not exactly a reflection of the truth.

You left us. Alone. ‘Cause Dad was just a shell. [...] And I-I had to be more than just a brother. I had to be a father and I had to be a mother, to keep him safe.

Setting aside how “I had to be a father and I had to be a mother” sort of retcons and cleans up the Winchester family picture painted by ealier seasons, the fact that John didn’t really count as a functional father figure and Dean and Sam were essentually alone is not incorrect or anything. It is true that John would leave them to their own devices a lot, thus the long stays in motels, the hunger, the food-stealing, and all. But John wasn’t always absent, at all. He trained them as soldiers, he disciplined them, he was around enough for them to be intimately familiar with what happened when he drank. He drove them around.

It’s almost like it’s preferable to Dean and Sam to spin their own “absent father” narrative, putting the accent on the time they spent alone, painting their childhood as a time they had to grow up on their own, rather than acknowledge they grew up under the thumb of a controlling, looming figure they would regularly live in fear of, even when he was not physically present.

The “absent father” narrative is what Dean and Sam need to use to avoid confronting the reality of the father figure whose moods and whims they had to dance around. “I know things got dicey... you know, with Dad... the way he was. And I just... I didn’t always look out for you the way that I should have. I mean, I had my own stuff, you know. In order to keep the peace, probably looked like I took his side quite a bit.”

John shaped their lives. He shaped their identities. Even in the episodes where he abandons Dean or both children somewhere, he’s portrayed as the figure who drives the car. He symbolically drives the car, you know? John shaped Dean and Sam’s relationship with each other, both on a surface level (the conflicts) and on a deeper level (the parental dynamic).

Heck. The entire first season of the show plays on John’s disappearance as the “elephant in the room”. John is there by not being there, you know? And after he dies, his death - his absence - is again the elephant in the room for Dean, the weight on his psyche that he shatters under.

It is not wrong that Dean and Sam had to spend long periods of time without John. But John structured their lives in quite minute detail. Where they needed to be, what they needed to do, what they must not do, everything had to follow John’s instructions. A drill sergeant, the narrative called him, ordering how his sons needed to live their lives. That’s no absence, except on a level where Chuck not showing himself and pretending he’s not there can be considered absent. That’s a presence, not necessarily always physical, but semiotical and psychological.

John is an absent father as much as Chuck is a hands-off god. He even writes himself into the story around the time Cas has the “season 1” phase (let’s go look for dad/let’s go look for god), which is when John actually was alive and appeared. Then he was no longer physically there, but he was still shaping his characters’ lives, just like he’d always done.

The “absent father” narrative on John is that - a narrative. Spun by the characters themselves because it’s easier and actually kinder on John. Or, better, it allows them not to be crushed by the psychological implications of having to accept that their father was such a looming, minutely formative figure in their lives. They know, but they can wave the “absent father” idea around to avoid thinking about it.

“I had to be a father and I had to be a mother” is something easier to tell yourself. I was the one who did it all. But he wasn’t, and that’s the problem. The fact that John was their father - Dean’s and Sam’s - is the problem. But ironically, blaming himself for every failure is a better option for Dean than fully acknowledging John’s abuse. As long as he blames himself, he has control over it. The moment he acknowledges the extent of John’s influence, he loses control over the entire narrative of his own identity and the family identity, the family dynamics. That’s scarier, just like realizing that God manipulated everything is much scarier than the alternative. “God abandoned us” was indeed a better option, and “John left us alone” was a better option. But neither was true, and the characters faced the implications of the cosmic level, but never got to face the implication of the familial level, because the narrative always danced around it and then Dabb’s apologist version “won”.

But what’s been put in the show is still there. The narrative of John’s abuse is still there. Nothing can take it out of the story.

#my spn thoughts #spn meta #dean and john #dean and sam and john #dean and chuck #dean and god #spn 11x20 #spn 11x21 #spn 14x20 #spn 12x22 #et alii #spn #long post

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coldtomyflash · 3 years

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I've seen your speech pattern analysis on Flash characters. I was wondering if you had any advice on how to create speech patterns for OC characters?

oh heck this is one of the coolest questions i’ve ever received.

i’m gonna try not to go overboard/overwhelming and just give a bit of advice, and then if you want more details please come back and follow up!

There’s a few things to think about up front with character voices / speech patterns. The biggest and most obvious is language and cultural background. The second is personality. The third is personal history. Fourth, briefly, is gender. And the final one I’d say is idiosyncrasies to avoid ‘same voice’.

Culture and Group Dynamics

Depending on the setting, there’s a decent chance you’ll be writing characters from different cultural backgrounds. Even if you’re focusing on a single culture, there will be subcultures. Even if you’re focusing on a single narrow group of people, there will be age and generational differences.

Think about where your character is from. If it’s a fantasy world, that’s still (and even more, in some ways) important. What country, what ethnicity, what mother tongue? Did they grow up urban or rural? High socio-economic status or working class? What sort of educational background and peer group did they have growing up (and presently) and how does that factor into their vocabulary and mannerisms, if at all.

All of these can influence how people talk. There are regional accents and different modes of speaking to signal your group membership. There is code-switching across groups, for those who have had to learn multiple linguistics codes to survive and thrive in society.

How much slang does this group and therefor this character use? What references (modern, outddated, topical, etc) do the rely on? What kind of references (pop culture, music, academic, etc)? What colloquialisms and proverbs do they say? Are these the same or different to their characters, even within the same culture, subculture, or group, and is it because they’re from a different place/sub-group or because of their idiosyncrasies?

You can use these to help your reader get to know more about your character’s background without having to spell it all out directly. Speech patterns and style are a great way to show instead of tell when it comes to details that are hard to drop in organically in other ways.

An important caveat: don’t write a bilingual character who switches languages in speech unless you’re ready to do a bit of research on that. In AATJS I did an absolutely horrific job of this because I was thinking more about fronting the fact that character was Italian rather than thinking through how people actually talk, and it came out exotifying and embarrassing. It’s important to make sure that the way you use language to bring in a character’s cultural and/or ethnic background feels authentic and manifests is a way that respects that language and its users. You can write a character with a complex cultural history without using multiple languages if you’re unprepared to do research and talk to bilingual speakers.

Personality

Probably the most salient thing in a writer’s mind when they’re trying to write character voices: is this the funny character? the serious one? the brainy one? etc.

Don’t overuse stereotypes and archetypes for creating speech patterns (or characters in general) if you’re trying to make a rounded, 3-dimensional character. Instead, go about three levels deeper.

Think about whether they’re introverted or extraverted, whether they are neurotypical or neurodivergent, whether they are introspective enough to express their own emotions clearly or whether they stumble when asked why they did a particular thing or feel a particular way (most people don’t or can’t clearly articulate exactly why they did something or how they feel, and come at things a bit sideways to circle around their motives and interior realities when pressed to make them external and concretely verbal).

Is this character calm, is their voice soothing, do they speak slowly? Are they excitable and loud and is their speech free-flowing? Are they angry? Do they swear? Do they use references for humour or are they more into puns? Do they laugh at their own jokes? Do they talk with their hands?

This character has social anxiety: how does that manifest in her speech? Does she clam up and get very quiet when she gets nervous, or does she go rapidfire and a little too loud (does she process by turning in or by distracting herself by turning outward)? Does she get very careful and deliberate in choosing her words (is she a bit high-strung?)? Ask yourself which fits best with the other elements of her personality and what you want the reader to know/interpret about her.

This character is incredibly smart and a bit awkward: how does that manifest in their speech? Do they tend to use 5-dollar words, or do they expend a lot of energy choosing their words more carefully (how considerate are they to their audience when speaking and does that influence their speech)? Do they stumble over their words and explaining things, or are they good at making points with clear language learned from a lifetime of tutoring and helping others?

This character is the bff, who tries hard to make sure everyone else is happy first: how does that manifest in his speech? How does he switch between his happy-mask versus his more authentic self, and what changes in tone, word-choice, and inflection come in when he does?

Personal History

I’m only drawing a distinction between this and personality (archetype, really) so that I can draw attention to ways to add simultaneously unique and shared layers to characters that are distinct but related to group dynamics.

Here’s sort of what I mean: the level of education of a mother (or primary caregiver) of an infant can determine that infant’s vocabulary size. While we can break down all the ‘why is that’ layers to this, the one I want to point is to the simple truth that the more education a person does, the more specialized language they end up learning over time. This doesn’t have to be formal education though -- the more you learn about something and the more you read and access new knowledges and perspective, the more and more words you learn, and then if you start using those words, they trickle down to those close to you.

So.

What’s your character’s educational background? Is it the same as their friends who you are also writing? Is the same as their family’s? How does this character’s family influence their speech? Are they formal, informal, warm, authoritative?

If you’re writing siblings, they’ll have some shared things! But also some very different ones! Me and my sister talk nothing alike in terms of vocabulary, but a lot alike in terms of mannerisms whenever we spend a bit of time together!

If your characters grew up around each other, they’ll have a lot of the same references. People from the same cities or regions will have things specific to that region, either due to sub-culture effects or because of local references.

The city of Calgary, Canada for instance has the Plus15 which are a connected pedway system between the buildings in downtown, so named because they are 15feet above the ground. Drive 3 hours north to the city of Edmonton, and you have an underground pedway just called the pedways, no special name. Go a few provinces east to Toronto and their underground pedway system downtown is called PATH. These are all known to locals and part of the vernacular, but are opaque to people outside those cities. And the whole idea of them is probably opaque to people who aren’t from super cold cities that don’t require building-connecting pedway systems for pedestrians to get around high-density areas like downtown (or university campuses) without going out into the cold.

Friends, families, and groups are like that too. In-jokes, shared histories, speaking in references. What are your characters’ relationships to each other and how does that history influence the way they approach talking to each other?

Gender

I don’t want to spend too much time on this one because ugh, gender. What even is it?

But like it or not, it has an impact on our speech patterns. There are cultural and societal norms in how men and women are likely to speak, and breaking those norms will be noticed regardless of whether you’re trans, enby, queer, or not. There are norms that people who are queer may fall into as well, sometimes without even noticing at first. A lot of these aren’t about word choice per se but instead about mannerisms and tone and body language, but some overlap or are specific to language.

Speaking in broad generalizations here, women use more emotional language and tend to speak with more hesitancies/qualifications. So more “i think, i feel” and less “it is”. More conversations that front emotions and dig deeper into those, with longer sentences to explain in detail. The obvious caveat is that personality matters more (i.e., is this a person who likes to talk about their emotions in detail or not) but it is something to consider because there will be general but subtle differences that you can use to help further distinguish your characters’ voices.

Sidenote: this can also be exacerbated by different cultural backgrounds and languages (a simple example is Japanese which has different words for “I” depending on your gender as well as your personality, familiarity with the other persons in the conversation, and situational appropriateness, so interesting ways that gender and social expectations intersect in language).

Anyway this isn’t typically a huge problem except that I’ve found that a lot of writers have a tendency to overgeneralize the speech patterns that fit with their ascribed gender due to early-life socialization, or conversely to overgeneralize patterns that fit with their gender identity (when not cis) either due to heavily identifying with their gender identity’s speech model (or sometimes possibly due to a knee-jerk sort of backlash). I say this as an enby who both struggles with it and notices it and tries to edit and correct for it.

I could get into all sorts of examples of ways this can lead to voice issues, but in general i think the point here is to make sure you’re writing any given character in view of that character’s personality and history, with gender only as a modifier for how some of these might come out in subtle ways but which can be important to help tell us about your character (and if you’re writing queer characters, it’s all the more important to consider how their relationship with gender and socialization might impact which speech models and styles they identify more with).

Idiosyncrasies

So, you’ve got a character. You’ve got their personality and history down. You know how they manifest in their speech. And you’re still getting some ‘same voice’ issues.

People really are unique snowflakes. Let that be reflected in their speech.

This person uses contractions differently than that one. This one says “ain’t” and that one says “isn’t.”

This person makes Simpsons references and that one doesn’t like Simpsons, and makes Brooklyn Nine Nine references instead. That other one doesn’t use referential humour much at all. This one loves old movies and hasn’t seen any of the new stuff so they make references all the time but no one ever notices.

This one loves the word “excoriate” and that one doesn’t even know what it means because what the hell, who uses the word excoriate?

This one talks about food a lot, it overlaps with their interests. This one uses metaphors. This one grunts in response. This one exclaims. This one says “like” and that one hates it. That one refers to themselves in third person. This other one uses reflective language an usual amount (e.g., “love me some candy”). This other one keeps misusing the word inconceivable and that one speaks almost without contractions but still comes off as more charming and humorous while correcting him.

I have an aunt who says “girl” or “girlfriend” a fuck-ton and she has been my whole life and I don’t know why because none of her sisters do, but she does and it annoys me so much the way she says it. I swear a lot when I’m feeling casual despite never ever doing it in a professional or even slightly-less-than-relaxed space, so the idiosyncrasy of comfort levels has a massive impact on my vocabulary in ways which, I promise, almost no one who meets me first in a professional space expect.

Let your characters be individuals and try to make them as unique as possible without overdoing it, or over-relying on a single verbal tendency or habit.

And ... that’s all I’ve got for now. Completely failed at being concise. I meant to give like 2-3 bullet points or examples for each, not paragraphs, but here we are. That’s one of my verbal tendencies: long flowing verbosity :)

Hope this helps!

#speech patterns #speech analysis #phyn writes #writing advice #writing #OC's #writing reference #didn't edit so apologies for typos i'm sure i'll come back at some point #Anonymous

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drivingsideways · 3 years

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Misaeng review

Ok, it's been almost a week, so I feel like I can get my thoughts (somewhat) in order. As usual, I'm late to the party, given that Misaeng aired 6 years ago, and is already considered a kdrama classic. Still: thoughts!

(under the cut)

I came to this drama with quite a lot of expectations, both because I'd seen it on a lot of rec lists, and also because I'd watched director Kim Won-seok's Signal and My Mister, which are justifiably as beloved as Misaeng. I'm happy to report that Misaeng mostly lived up to those expectations!

The writing & direction work together to make Misaeng a very immersive experience, which is good, considering the entire run time is over 20 hrs. The level of seemingly mundane detail of the operational aspects of running a trading firm that they delve into (and other dramas might have avoided for sake of pacing) seemed odd to me at first, but eventually result in a world building that's incredibly well fleshed out. The (formerly unlikely!) high stakes of a misplaced piece of paper or octopuses in a shipment of squid end up being parts of an emotionally wrenching narrative whole fairly seamlessly. Still, at 20+ hours, Misaeng also does get into the kind of pacing issues that most of the slice of life kdramas I've watched so far have. And it didn't need to! I think it had a wonderful ensemble of characters, and if they'd maybe given a little more time and space to characters other than Jang Geu-Rae (Im Si wan) and Oh Sang-sik (Lee Sung-min), the mid portions may not have felt quite so, well, stuck.

But more than the strong writing and direction, it was really the actors who delivered. They made what could have easily been a dull-ish office drama into a heart warming story about human connection and the joys and troubles of leading an "incomplete life". I'd never watched Lee Sung-min in anything before, and about half way through the series I was like, HOW IS HE MAKING A SHORT TEMPERED, ALCHOHOLIC MIDDLE MANAGER SO SEXY? Like, serious props, dude. Lee Sung-min is by turns annoying and brash and too shout-y and stubborn and funny and so incredibly vulnerable as a man trying his best to live by his principles in a world that thinks they are an impediment to "success", that you forget that he's playing a fictional character-- he's someone you know, he's someone you've seen in the mirror.

His performance as Oh Sang-sik is very ably matched by Im Si Wan's Jang Geu-Rae. This series would not have worked if these two actors didn't have the chemistry they do, and play off each other in every scene. I had watched Im Si Wan recently- in JTBC's "Run On", in which I liked his performance quite a lot, but I absolutely loved him as the naive and endearing Jang Geu-rae. Misaeng, is in part, a bildungsroman narrative centered around Jang Geu Rae. Im Si wan brought a kind of vulnerability to the role that might have felt cloying and emotionally manipulative in the hands of other actors, but Im Si-wan manages to do it with a light touch. I feel he's one of those actors that uses his whole body in a scene, not just relying on facial or verbal expression, and it's a joy to watch.

Each of the other actors in the ensemble also bring that dedication and talent to their roles, even if it's in a single scene. There are lots of one-off characters that we meet during the course of the series, and every single one of them leaves an impact.

But! I'm going to pick a fave from the supporting cast and that's Byun Yo-han, whom I'd last watched as the broody, troubled (and very sexy) swordsman Lee Bang-ji in Six Flying Dragons. I can't imagine a character more in opposition to that one than Han Seok-yul in Misaeng, but Byun Yo-han just knocks it out of the park as the scheming, cheerful and mostly inappropriate clown with a heart of gold; Han Seok-yul is the definition of Chaotic Good, and you're equal parts horrified by his antics- which include sexual harassment dont @ me -- and yet charmed by him. I wish they'd given him a few more scenes and a larger plotline to work with, but I also suspect that he might have just walked away with the entire series if they did that. (Am I plotting that series in my head as I write this? MAYBE.)

Alright, this is getting a bit too long, so I'm going to get to the bits that disappointed me. That's really one major thing: the gender politics. I don't know how different the show is from the web toon it's based on, so I can't tell whether they made significant changes to the basic plot and characters. As in- I have no idea if the webtoon was as male dominated in every way as the show is, so I'm not sure how much of the show's treatment of women as a class, and its female characters in particular, I should lay at the door of the original writer vs the screenwriter and director. I'm also lacking the Korean context in which this was written and made and aired, so you may take my criticism with a pinch of salt, if you please!

That the show features mainly male characters is perhaps unsurprising and realistic, since we know that the kind of corporate life it depicts is very male dominated, top to bottom. The show also portrays the very real and horrific overt and subtle misogyny that women face in the workplace and out of it; mainly in the character of Ahn Young-yi, played with steely determination and quiet suffering by the lovely Kang so-ra. There are only 3 other female characters that have any sort of real speaking role- Sun Ji Young (played by Shin Eun jung), a senior manager at the company, Jang Geu-rae's unnamed(!) mother (played by the amazing Sung Byoung-Sook) and Oh Sang-sik's unnamed (!) wife (played by Oh Yoon-Hong, who's a delight in every tiny scene she has). There are other women who appear but in very minor roles, and often in "comedy" moments that often rely on sexist tropes to start with.

Anyway, right there you can see one of the problems- 4 women characters that have any kind of real screen time, and only 2 of them are named. Aigoo! Screenwriter Jung Yoon-jung is a woman, and like, I don't like putting the burden on any one woman to y'know fix structural misogyny, but I can't also help feeling disappointed that she overlooked even this "small" thing among the larger things.

But that apart, the main issue for me was that while the show doesn't shy away from depicting egregious sexism in the form of sexual harrassment, verbal and physical and certainly emotional abuse, in a manner that's clear that we are meant to be horrified by it--it falls short of depicting how women deal and work with it. It just doesn't give enough space to women or their worldview.

It's very comfortable depicting victimhood, but doesn't put work into depicting the ways in which women survive by finding solidarity with other women. We have a scene or two where Ahn Young-yi who is this show's poster child for female victimhood interacts with the older women who offer sympathy and understanding, but no real strategy or support. And yes, we see men also being targeted by their seniors for the grossest verbal and physical abuse; and it's men who help Ahn Young-yi strategise on how to deal with her situation. Real life experience tells me that it's the women who do this work for other women. I have certainly been on both sides of this equation, for one, and so has every woman that I know in corporate life. And yes, one of the show's core philosophies is that those who endure, survive--but it is none the less extremely painful to watch Ahn Young yi "endure" the kind of abuse she does as a coping strategy and a survival strategy.

At the end of it, when she slowly manages to gain the support of her sexist team, it's shown as a victory-- though naturally imperfect, because this show takes its Realism very seriously (right until the end where it makes a tonal shift into quirky that I was a little ?? about)-- and y'know, sure, it is a victory. And I absolutely understand the choices she makes and why she does it-- I guess I just got annoyed by the fact that other antagonistic figures in the narrative get a more straightforward comeuppance for their egregious behavior, but Ahn Young-yi doesn't even get a goddamned apology from her abusers. Instead, we have a half humourous, half serious moment where she comments on how she's working at turning herself into "someone cute"- because she understands now that sometimes the right strategy is to "go with the flow". Be the water that slowly wears away at the rock. It's an interesting moment- the men she tells this to are taken aback by her bluntness, but also a little clueless about what she means. It's the kind of nuance that I would and do enjoy. Unfortunately, it also closely follows one of the show's most annoying scenes at the tail end of the series- where it tries to play off workplace sexism and misogyny as comedy- boys being boys-Reader, when I tell you that I had to WORK to unclench my jaw--!

I'm not saying we should have a single and obvious narrative of female emancipation. I'm not against realism in fiction, but god, sometimes, please do remember that when we look for escapism, we are actually imagining a better world. The first step toward liberation is allowing yourself to imagine it.

And the show does allow other characters its moments of unfettered fantasy- Im Si Wan parkour-ing all over the rooftops of Amman- and having a semi mystical + Indiana Jones moment in the deserts of Jordan--so why, I ask, are the women not given that gift?

*looks into the camera *

Tl;dr: I enjoyed it, it made me cry every episode, and I cared about all the characters, and if you haven't watched it yet, treat yourselves.

PS. Yes, Han Seok-yul is a disaster bi, sorry, I don't make the rules. Yes, hotties Oh Min Seok and Kang Ha-neul are canonically naked in a hot tub six feet apart because they are bros. Yes, I will be writing the fix it in which they fuck like angry bunnies. Yes, I am going to put my shipper cooties all over this gen slice of life show, deal with it.

#misaeng #kdrama #thinky thoughts

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lunarnirvana · 4 years

Text

Lavender Moon

TRIGGER WARNINGS:

Please not read if these subjects upset or trigger you in any way. Heavy themes are present in my writing.

Descriptions of abduction, hospital setting, language, Vomiting, mentions of s*icide, non-consensual drug use, seizure, some descriptions involving gore, blood, injury, reader drugged, mentions of LSD and tripping, anxiety symptoms.

Prompt: Nicole’s Alphabet Angst for 8K - Occult

Summery: Reid and Reader are dating when a case involving the occult dredges up turmoil between the happy couple. The case being difficult enough, the resemblance between the Reader and the victims leaves Reid uneasy… (Full summary at bottom of writing so as not to spoil but if you’re worried about the content I’ll always add the full summary at the bottom! Stay safe)

Category: Angst with some fluff sprinkled here and there (Happy ending)

Word count: 7k

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU Female Reader

A/N: I hope saying this doesn’t discourage anyone from reading but this is my first imagine! I guess not that I’ve written, just posted. I’m kind of really nervous about putting this out there but why not? Also for future reference I write very intense and real things and I want this to be a safe place for everyone which is why I will try to be as thorough with my trigger warnings as humanly possible but if there is ever anything written that I did not warn you about before the writing I apologize and PLEASE let me know so I can make it a priority to include that warning in the future. Ty and tpwk <3 enjoy

“No evil ever came from a woman’s womb that wasn’t placed there first by a man.”

― Charles A. Cornell

Her intuition never betrayed her.

It was lodged deep inside her throat, the swell of hesitation like a globule that obstructed any resourceful observations about the crime scene photos. The innate feeling that the case was destined for calamity. Y/N didn’t let the gravity of her work weigh on her mental state until she was in the comfort of her confides where she could lick her psychological scars in peace.

The entire BAU regarded their unspoken directive was to bottle any reaction to the happenstances of the case with little exception. As they congregated at the round table they’d bind their biases against their eyes with the blindfolds they used to avoid looking at the bodies for too long. If you stared for too long into those gaping gashes, the blackness of the cavernous body would consume you completely. This is what they all knew to be true and so they pursued beasts with scar tissue forming over their minds and volatile hands with stoic accuracy.

This accuracy was entirely derivative of their abilities to detach from the emotional aspects of the case.

Garcia was the exception to this jurisdiction, her back turned against the horrific gore on the screen yet she described the carnage as if she were looking at it. She threw in some embellishments and innuendos for certain aspects that were too nauseating to repeat.

“We’ve got a local case today. Linda Jefferson and Kayla Burnen were the first two victims of what local PD wrote off as a suicide pact at first,” Garcia explained, “After further inspection, though, they discovered an incredibly high, nearly lethal dosage of LSD in their blood.”

Reid spoke up beside her when he noticed something in the tox-analysis results, startling Y/N slightly, “It's not synthesized in the same manner, though. There are certain proteins missing that would make this particular substance would ensure an emergence phenomenon would happen regardless of the environment.”

He let his hand fall into his lap so his girlfriend could trace figure eights in his palm with the tip of her finger in some apologetic gesture for the trivial fright as he chided. They’d been together for a year now so he understood what comforted her and what didn’t.

“So you’re saying they took bad acid? Growing up in my generation I can vouch that I never felt compelled to shoot someone under the influence,” Rossi chuckled at his own shortcomings and garnered amusement from the team.

“Actually, I believe this particular form of LSD was tampered with to cause a bad trip. You’d either have to be an idiot to make LSD this way or…” Reid drifted off, letting someone else conclude what was already obvious to him.

“You’d have to do it on purpose. You can’t mess up that bad and it not be intentional,” Emily agreed, bobbing her head back and forth while the raven locks framing her elongated facade veiled around her expression.

“A few days after those two were found,” She flipped the slide, “Beth Myers and Lola Sanchez were found in the same area with the same exact M.O. No correlations to the first two victims or to each other.”

Reid felt the way Y/N’s finger swirled against his palm and traced the creases in his skin before flipping his hand over so she could run her soft touch across his veins and phalanges. She found his hands fascinating suddenly, more fascinating than the case. When Garcia flipped to the picture of the victims he felt a sudden pressure as Y/N locked her grip around his hand. She squeezed it for reassurance as the smiling women stared at them through the screen.

“The victims had blood-let themselves, were covered in melted wax from candles, were placed in white nightgowns, and were forced to finish one another off by stabbing each other in the chests,” Garcia winced as she recited the details.

Y/H/C, the texture of their hair, and resemblance with her was the aligning factor between the four and it made Y/N’s chest wrench at the thought of being drugged with such petrifying euphoric paranoia. She could tell her boyfriend noticed her reaction but didn’t bother to meet his concerned gaze. He just stared down at her avoidance in yearning for some communication although he rarely gave her that courtesy himself. He could tell she held reservations about the case, especially when they realized the unsub was following ritualistic patterns and protocols, the occultism sprinkled through the murders like decoration.

Reid never took holding her hand for granted but in this instance he swore he heard bones cracking. Y/N was comforted by the gesture but realized she was hurting him when she felt him begin to crumble under the pain beside her. She turned to him quickly and released her vice-grip.

“Sorry, sorry,” She whispered toward him, not wanting to disturb the briefing.

“Its fine, hun, but what’s wrong?” He pressed.

She shrugged and slouched back into her chair, sinking into the seat as if it would express her silence. She told herself it was just anxiety and eventually convinced herself it was her own self doubt causing her to have such a guttural feeling. She watched the clock for the rest of her shift before gathering her personal effects from the surface of her desk, sweeping the items into her bag. Reid watched her maneuver rather quickly to get her things together. Expecting her to wait for him like always, he bent down to grab his satchel but when he arose she was halfway to the elevators, shuffling through interns and her coworkers to leave.

He followed her down to the lobby before bringing it up.

“I can tell when something’s wrong with you, love. What is it?” His hand had fallen to the small of her back as they walked out of the east entrance together.

“It just freaks me out sometimes, you know? The whole occultism thing,” Her voice was suddenly softer than he remembered.

Typically, this disquieted nature was portrayed by him but she remained unnerved the entire walk down. Something churned in her stomach and converted her into a placid arrangement of unease. Y/N despised the corruption of any establishment but this particular subject hit her square in the chest.

He smiled down to her while they approached the rugged vehicle parked on the far end of the lot. “Occult-related homicides are a statistical anomaly. They’re highly uncommon, Y/N/N, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

She nodded as she pulled the keys to her car out and passed them to him, “Can you drive?”

“Of course but only if I can pick the playlist,” He smirked, snatching the jangling keyring from where it swang on her index finger.

“No way in hell,” She giggled, “I am not listening to Bach the whole way home.”

She slipped into her seat and immediately her leg began to bounce with disarm. She tried to steady it herself as she watched Reid bend down to face her before getting in.

“I was gonna put on Brahms for your information,” His slender body folded into the front seat and he turned the key over in the ignition. Noticing her shaking leg, he reached his arm across the center console to rest on her knee as he began pulling out. It soothed under his touch and he smirked knowing exactly how to ease her even with the slightest gestures.

The base of the lamp was a wicker configuration and it flooded the room with brilliant fiery luminescence, the walls suddenly painted a pastel yellow from the warm lighting emitted from their bedside table. Along with that, illuminating the neglected contours of the room were a few white candles that burned on Y/N’s wooden bureau. Wax congregated at the foot of the tall towers of flame and spilled over the sides of the candle holder onto the wood.

The encapsulating smell of Nag Champa incense shrouded the room blending with the wafting smoke streaming from the ember-littered sage Reid’s eclectic bedmate’s hands. Y/N watched the silver scarf dance above the end of the dried bundle as it swirled around the room. Her eyes followed the smoke, eyelashes veiling her sight giving her a dark allure that Reid couldn’t keep his eyes off of.

He didn’t mind that she liked to indulge in the holistic benefits of burning herbs or the countless books she had on witchcraft and the occult. He found it charming. Although he knew when she was upset she’d do these “cleansing rituals” which really did nothing more than make their room smell like a Grateful Dead concert. She never was discomforted by the fact the unsub was utilizing occultist beliefs, she was upset at the perversion of her practice.

Of course, he was sworn to secrecy against telling the team about her hobby. She knew she’d be teased into oblivion for such an unorthodox collection of semi-precious stone, herbs, and essential oils that she claimed assisted trivial offenses. That was the aspect of her avocation Reid disagreed with.

They’d debated about it before but both were keen on their bias and so they agreed to leave the subject as an unspoken rift and move forward. Reid still found the smell of the incense suffocating especially when his migraines trickled in. She’d slip rosemary and peppermint into his tea to help his chronic condition but whenever he would catch the taste he’d beg her not to use her ‘pseudoscience’s instruction’ on him. Each time they’d get into an argument about it but eventually it’d fizzle out in sniffing apologies and fond interactions generally ensued.

“You’re really going to town on the bad juju tonight, huh?” He spoke up from behind his book. It was always strange to hear his shift in nomenclature when he left work, his vocabulary becoming relaxed and casual. He practically bathed in her relaxing aura. He would describe her the same way she describes the effects of lavender when she tried to spray some on his pillow to help him sleep.

He told her he didn’t need it as long as she was sleeping next to him and that was the first night they shared a bed. He hadn’t left her apartment since.

“I have a bad feeling about this case, Spence. I’d like to clear the negative energy from the room,” She said, waving the burning bundle of dried sage around the bed.

“The creepy ass painting you bought from the farmer’s market is still on the wall so I don’t think it’s working,” Reid laughed. She shot him a small warning glare that resulted in the two of them collapsing into hysterics.

She plopped on the bed, clutching her stomach from laughing with him as the tightening delight in her stomach began to burn. Reid was cackling, trying to make out the words, “You looked like a disgruntled care bear.” She felt relief from the laughter when his hand coiled around her waist and tucked her against his chest for safe keeping. She felt his soft lips quiet his dissipating chuckles as they pressed against her forehead.

The sage was smouldering against an abalone shell beside the bed and Reid let Y/N burn the candles throughout the night despite his heedings that it was a fire hazard. It seemed to bring serenity to her and that’s all he was concerned with.

They remained entangled like chains in a jewelry box, Reid soon enveloping her in his grasp completely. He worried that the victims looked too similar to her as he struggled to fall asleep beside her but eventually, the rhythmic movement of her breathing against him brought him enough poise to sleep.

The case dragged out across a couple of weeks stretching resources and mindsets across the vast expanse of interrogation and interviews. They sharpened the victimology down to a finite point to dig into the unsub’s plans and wrench him away from his potential choices. They were delivering the profile to the police department when Y/N noticed Reid’s hand was now tightly gripping hers instead of their usual routine.

He held their hands behind them so the crowd wouldn’t see the unprofessionalism. As each new victim was discovered resembling the woman he woke up to every morning he began feeling that same tension she’d expressed. Now, as he heard the profile, it brought an agitation to his stomach. His grip was tight and unwavering and unlike hers it didn’t shake at all. It was like he was afraid if he let her go, the unsub would be lying in wait behind them to snatch her away.

“We believe he’s a male caucasian driving a blue Ford Crown Victoria which he uses to abduct the women,” Rossi began.

“His victims are aged twenty three to twenty eight and we think he’s in the same age bracket,” Hotch continued as the soft sound of scribbling followed.

“Combining that with the fact he can synthesize LSD into a more aggressive formula suggests we’re dealing with a highly intelligent unsub with an extensive knowledge in chemistry,” Reid said monotonously despite his conflict.

“This isn’t surprising. Psychopaths often have above average intelligence. Coupled that with trauma relating to a religious mother figure who was abusive in some respect. Either his biological mother or a foster parent,” JJ nodded through her portion, her dark ocean eyes striking every gaze in motherly vivacity.

Y/N sat up, “For some reason this unsub will not engage in the killing himself. He watches the two victims kill one another under the influence of drugs and instructs them on how to mutilate one another,” she suddenly felt Reid’s hand leave hers but remained focused on the expectant faces of the precinct, “His M.O. is consistent with occult sacrifices. It's a form of homicidal voyeurism that could represent his own impotency or may be a forensic countermeasure.”

Reid lurched forward, pushing himself off of the edge of the desk and excused himself politely as he walked back toward the bathrooms. Y/N turned over her shoulder to look, her eyebrows wrought with concern but Emily’s modulated voice leashed her back into delivering the profile.

“He’s been consistently choosing his victims to coincide with the seven deadly sins. First greed where the first two victims were taken from a casino then lust. The third and fourth victims were in an online BDSM chatting room when they were lured into a threesome with the unsub where he killed them. Because of this consistency in his signature, we’ve predicted his next choice is going to be Envy,” Emily explained.

“His target location is going to be an underground swingers club. Our team and some members of the force will be undercover as security for the club. You’re looking for anyone who might complain that they’ve been roofied or look for women who seem overly intoxicated,” Morgan informed.

Y/N leaned back into the table behind her while she quickly spoke, trying desperately to rush through the profile to check on her boyfriend, “So far he’s been following the major astrological events happening in the past month. Tomorrow night is a Harvest Moon and a partial solar eclipse which fits his preference. Excuse me.”

As soon as the sentence ended she was following Reid to the bathroom. She turned behind her to see the crowd still mesmerized by the team as they briefed them and took the opportunity to slip inside unnoticed. She knew Hotch and Morgan would pester the two of them about it later but she couldn’t help it. She saw the way his face shifted to a paled green hue and how he gripped his stomach as he pushed the swinging door open.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw his oxfords poking out of the stall and the sound of retching echoed in the bathroom. Y/N ran beside him and rubbed circles into his back, feeling tears well at her waterline and threaten to spill over. She blinked them away quickly to not upset him any more. Guilt wracked her chest.

“Shh, shh, it’s ok,” She soothed and crouched beside him in the stall so that she could rest her head on his shoulder blade. She watched her hand slide across the woven knit of his cardigan, smoothing the fibers down and continued to try and calm him. She could feel him sobbing dryly, his back arching with each heave. Eventually he felt it was safe to lean back against the far wall of the stall and face her.

The skin around his eyes puckered with irritation, shining with the tears that slipped from the corners. He closed them tightly, wrinkling his face in an agonized expression while Y/N leaned forward. She rested her hands on his knees that were awkwardly sprawled in different directions in the small confides of the stall. She sat between them, tucked into herself so as to not take up too much room.

“Talk to me, Spencer,” she pleaded.

He actually decided to, exhausted by the weight of the bodies that piled in the morgue and his quivering stomach. “I’m worried about you being on this case. I don’t want you to get,” he gagged on the rest of the sentence and vomited into the porcelain bowl again.

“Baby, please stop worrying about it so much,” she was begging now as tears began to haphazardly fall onto his back. He sat up at the sensation and resumed his previous position.

His horse voice came forward now as he tried to swallow the mucus that lined his throat now. “Promise me you won’t leave my side until this case is over, okay? Until the unsub is in custody,” He asked her through his darkly adorned eyes.

“I promise,” She assured and it brought a relief to his nausea, “I have mouthwash and ginger gum in my bag. I’m gonna text Morgan to come bring me it—“

“I can walk, honey. If you tell Morgan he’ll call me something like barf boy for a week,” he chuckled and began to sit up. His legs wobbled beneath him slightly but he caught himself on her shoulders. She gripped his elbows tightly.

“You’re dehydrated, come here,” She lead him to the sink where he could wash up and rinse the taste of bile from his tongue.

Pulsating basslines berated Reid’s chest making him feel like he was choking on the loud music. He despised clubs like these dipped in technicolor animosity and relishing in the electronic stimulation the club reverberated. Each member was stationed at certain points of the room such as beside exits, the landings of stairwells, and an agent at each corner. Y/N was beside the bar vehemently watching each drink poured and handed out, ensuring no hands slipped tabs into the liquor.

Hotch’s instruction was patched in through their earpieces.

“Blonde hair, black button up in the west corner of the bar by you, Y/L/N,” Reid heard and immediately his gaze shot toward her.

She was alerted and her sight honed in on the suspect. He was analyzing the body language of the woman before him who held similar semblance to Y/N. He waited patiently for her to let her guard down and look away from her drink and he was charming her into doing it.

The girl threw her head back in laughter and he saw his opportunity presented before him. Y/N watched his meticulous hands slip a small white tablet into the amber liquid of the girl’s glass. It dissolved into a discreet poison, lacing her glass with LSD.

Then he looked at Y/N and she felt his taunting stare desecrate her sanctity. She didn’t express it, though, her stoicism making him come to the conclusion she was a cop. His eyes widened and he grabbed the startled hands of the two women beside him, one seemingly more intoxicated than the other.

“Suspect is on the move with two friendlies, agent in pursuit.” Y/N’s voice was patched through and Reid watched her bolt after the unsub as she unholstered her gun.

“Wait,” he said through the earpiece, “Y/N, wait!”

She proceeded despite his protest and chased the unsub out of the building where he began loading the girls into his car. They obeyed, the trip settling in for at least one of them. He held a gun to the sober one’s back but Y/N in a flurry of indecision charged at the unsub.

“FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!” She warned.

He drew his gun toward her but she shot his shoulder clean making his gun fly out of his hand. The man cried out, one hand falling on the gushing wound but he closed the door before the sober woman could get in, trapping her counterpart inside. He staggered toward the driver side and ducked into the car as she began to aim her gun at him again, threatening another offense.

Y/N reached out and pulled the girl from the skidding tires as he sped off before she could even process that the other girl was trapped inside. Once she did she began trying to shoot his tires out but to no avail. The girl was sobbing in her arms now, her tears bleeding through Y/N’s shirt that peaked out from above her Kevlar.

“You’re safe now, it’s okay,” she assured, “You’ve been drugged you need to be taken to a hospital,” Y/N said and almost as if on cue, Morgan could be heard behind her calling for a bus.

JJ came and took the sniffling victim from Y/N’s care allowing Reid to grab her shoulders and spin her around to face him. He inspected her facade for any damage but she brushed him off.

“I’m fine, Spence, but the other girl. We have to find her,” She grabbed his arm as he grabbed hers and they interlocked their forearms to reinforce some affection.

“You need to stop chasing after suspects with no backup. You’re being reckless and I’m taking you home, Y/N/N.” His voice was stern and she didn’t bother protesting from the way he looked at her.

Reid was fuming on the car ride home, the whites of his knuckles highlighted even in the darkness as he gripped the steering wheel. Y/N was curled against the passenger side door, wrapped in his sweater that she pulled taught around her frame.

“Can we please not fight when we get home?” He asked suddenly, voice breaking through the silence of the car, “I don’t want you to argue with me to go back into the field. This entire case has been so draining I just need you to understand seeing you do stuff like that— it kills me.”

“I know, Spence. Are you getting a headache?” She noticed him wince as someone passed with their high beams blazing. He groaned at the exposure, pinching the bridge of his nose and nodded.

She decided to make him some tea when they got home. Preparing the mug in the kitchen, she seeped the jasmine leaves and reached inside the cupboard for the mason jars she had filled with various dried herbs. Making the tea kept her mind occupied from the disrupting guilt she reserved for not saving the other girl. It was a guilt that clamped her arteries and made even the simplest tasks seem harrowing.

She put a pinch of dried rosemary and a drop or two of peppermint extract, stirring it in with some sugar. The sound of the metal spoon scraping the bottom of the glass brought her attention back to her task.

Her fingers coiled around the warm ceramic mug and she walked it carefully into the living room where Reid laid on the couch with a pillow pulled over his eyes. She took the hint and dimmed the lights but as she set down his tea he could already smell the additives.

Coupled with the headache, he’d never become genuinely upset over her affinity for the occult until now. He sat up with exasperation and picked it up, sniffing the steam to confirm his suspicions.

“Y/N, seriously?” He asked and looked up to her but his own voice made a piercing impact on his head.

“Seriously what?” She repeated defensively.

“You know what. I honestly can’t believe you. Especially after the case we just had,” he shook his head, laying back down.

“So you’re not even gonna drink it?” She asked, her face falling to an annoyed deadpan although he couldn’t see it.

“Jesus. No. I’m not. Can you just leave me alone for right now?” He asked finally.

A twinge of hurt stabbed her chest at the request and she took the mug as he pulled the pillow back over his face. In the darkness, he could see her pained expression etched into his vision. The shuffling in their bedroom intrigued him as well and he began to realize what he’d said. It blurred the agonizing migraine and caused him to sit up only moments later to apologize.

As he stared at the empty room he was startled by the sudden creek of their door from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he only caught the tail end of her jacket as she walked out. A raucous slam followed making him wince at the sound.

I really screwed up.

Reid pushed through the shroud of pain emanating from the fluorescence of the room, reaching forward for his own coat. A ripping agony followed and he doubled over, burying his face in his palms so he wasn’t staring at the light. A groan tore through the empty apartment as he tried to rub the headache away so he could chase after her.

Following Y/N proved to be farcical in his condition and he leaned against the couch in defeat, praying she’d just step outside for some fresh air.

Y/N stomped down the street with a quivering chin like a small child, sobs tearing through any muscle or fiber holding the sound in. People on the street avoided her state awkwardly, their gazes falling to the concrete when she’d pass. Humiliation was wrought in her mannerisms but she didn’t care. He told her to leave him alone over tea. She knew his migraines were the culprit but she couldn’t stay cooped up inside. There was a girl being tortured somewhere and she was sitting at home making tea with her boyfriend? There was something unfair to her about the situation.

She heard her phone trill a few times but ignored the noise, fleeing toward a local park down the street. She decidedly plopped down in the jagged blades of grass, kicking the shoes she threw on to the side so that she could feel the ground beneath her. She wanted to be as close to the ground as humanly possible to calm herself.

Every time she’d begin to soothe her cries her phone would ring bringing another wave of distraught. Through her tears, the world was a blur of velvet indigos distrusted suddenly by a dark shadow looming over her. She gasped in reaction but that’s all he gave her time to do before she felt his hand grab her head and pull her up by her jaw, his large gloved hands covering her entire face.

His fingers were sprawled apart so she could see herself being dragged away. Something bitter slipped onto her tongue and she tried to spit it out but the unsub locked her jaw shut to force the drug to work through her system. She tried to scream but with each muffled shrill he’d tighten his grip. Her teeth involuntarily grit against each other from the force and she screamed against her lips for help.

Y/N thrashed around as much as she could before she felt a pinprick in her right arm. Then the world shifted to a darker blue until her vision was gone completely.

Waking up in a wooded field sanctioned off from society’s wandering earshot, she felt the zip tie’s digging into her ankles and wrists. The skin had swelled around the bindings, causing excruciating pain whenever she’d move. She could feel her lip bleeding from being split by someone’s fists. Suddenly, a face fell before hers and began to cut the zip ties. Why was he cutting her loose?

“Good morning, sleepy head. You… you really messed my night up, you know that?” The man asked, his hand falling to her cheek.

Instead of skin she felt the smooth sensation of latex against her. The medicinal smell filled her nostrils and she closed her eyes, pretending she was in the hospital with Spencer there instead of him.

“How…” she found it harder to speak than normal, “How did I do that?”

“Clara. I had Clara picked out. She was the perfect one but you were jealous of her. You wanted me all to yourself. Envy is a sin,” his words were venomous.

He couldn’t have been much older than her, sand colored locks that fell in soft tufts around his face. He looked like a renaissance painting with a wicked possession, his blue eyes complimented by the crimson of his bloodshot waterline. When he smirked at her his face shifted from an archangel to that of a demon, waiting to consume her whole.

Then, she noticed the shifting movement beside her. The other victim was tied up beside her and groaned as she awoke. In the darkness even, Y/N could see the girl’s pupils were dilated. She suddenly began screaming and thrashing around violently, kicking at the open air as if there were a second offender in front of her.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay, there’s nothing there!” Y/N tried but the girl couldn’t hear her, only the muffled calls of her hallucinations.

“Darcy, I need you to shut the fuck up sweetie,” the unsub grimaced.

She quieted down almost immediately but still shook in fear at whatever she was seeing before her.

Y/N turned back to the man in front of her, “Let her go. You don’t want her, you want me.”

“On the contrary, I want both of you,” he seemed coherent enough but was still clearly suffering a psychotic break. Psychopaths usually hid those breaks well.

“Why?” Y/N’s gaze suddenly shot straight through his, “You’re afraid if you touch us you’ll be infected with our sin?”

She made a move to spit in his face and he jumped back, yelling and wiping his face harshly with his sleeve. “You filthy bitch! My father will love you,” a smile etched across his face.

“Your father? Where’s your father?” She looked around for a partner but no one could be seen.

“The destroyer of souls of men. He bears the torch, the herald of dawn,” He spoke in his cryptic tongue but Y/N remembered Reid reciting certain portions of the Bible and poetry regarding Lucifer.

“Your father is the devil, right? Lucifer?” She asked.

He suddenly slapped her, the latex making the blow sting that much worse. Blood trickled from her teeth down her hanging lip but she sat back up despite the pain.

“My mom used to bathe me in bleach. She cleansed me of my sins. She’d scrub the chemicals into my back and say ‘Your daddy’s the devil.’” He seemed to find some inner turmoil with his logic but continued to quote his mother in a southern accent, “‘Your daddy is satan and you were born into this world as an abomination.’”

The M.O. and signature began to align with his claims, a severe case of germaphobia which rendered him unable to carry out the murders himself. He lets his victims do it for him.

As he spoke she watched his face begin to shift and swirl into a much eviler expression. His lips coiled into a smile, his eyes narrowing into black slits and his nose sunk into his skull. He began taking the form of a horrifying wraith, horns practically splintering out of his forehead. The trees began to sway and dance despite the lack of wind and the stars in the sky melted into glowing stalagmites that threatened her toward the ground.

Everything began to distort and she felt herself descend into horror. The acid was taking effect and as the girl’s blood curdling shrieks erupted beside her she began to put her head between her knees and sob. He rubbed her hair, sighing.

“Even the warriors must crumble. You’ll bow to my god,” he stood and suddenly tangled a fistful of hair into his hands, yanking her up along with Darcy.

Shrieking as the pain visualized before her in petrifying hallucinations she was positioned before the screaming girl. The unsub instructed Darcy to take the dagger from his hand and stab Y/N. She refused, shaking her head.

“It’s ok,” Y/N assured even as the trip progressed, “It’s ok. Just do what he says, I promise it’s ok.”

Darcy bawled as she hesitantly took the dagger. She walked toward Y/N and slowly drove the knife right beside her hip bone. She groaned, her hand falling forward onto Darcy’s shoulder. “Fuck,” she moaned as the squelching sound echoed through her head.

She keeled over the agony, wrapping her arms around herself. It was harrowing to have to pressurize a wound on oneself she found. Even the slightest touch against her cut felt like she was being stabbed repeatedly. She felt the cool tip of the Unsub’s gun push her up by her shoulder. That was when she realized only one of his hands were in use. The other one was still inflicted with the gunshot she fired. If she weren’t so high she would have used that to her advantage.

With the pain came even more disillusionment. She looked down at her palms and suddenly a bloodied dagger was grasped in them. “No, no, no,” she whispered.

Darcy pleaded for Y/N not to stab her and the agent had no intention of carrying out the Unsub’s fantasy.

“Kill me yourself you coward,” she spat, “I’m not hurting her.”

“I didn’t think you’d be persuaded that easily,” suddenly a gunshot cracked through the soundscape. It rang in Y/N’s ears causing her to buckle over in pain. Nothing seemed real. Her chest felt like it would tear open at any second, freeing her palpitating heart from it’s confides.

She watched the girl’s body fall limply before her and screamed out, racing to her side. The more she looked at the corpse the worse the gore progressed. Eventually, she was staring at a demon.

“FBI! Kye Alderwood, put your hands up!” Reid’s booming voice came from across the field. When she turned to look at him, though, he wasn’t himself.

He was taller, probably eight feet tall, and his body was stretched and elongated into a bony configuration. His face twisted and melted into a horrifying facade and he charged at her. His hands were giant daggers waiting to rip into her. She didn’t see the unsub aim his gun toward her but heard another shot fired. Suddenly, another demonic corpse laid beside her.

She couldn’t fathom grabbing the gun from the unsub’s vapid hands but there she was snatching the glock from the grass it was enveloped in. She didn’t comprehend that her boyfriend was in front of her. What she was seeing was a nightmare unfolding before her. The delusions were real. It was all real.

Reid stumbled back when he saw the gun pointed at him. He thought it was a mistake but when he saw her eyes he knew she wasn’t seeing him. Her paranoia was evident as she hyperventilated and her entire frame trembled, barely able to stand. Swaying back and forth and she wept he felt himself grow sick at the sight.

“Y/N! Put the gun down, honey, it’s just me,” he pleaded.

A sob broke through her voice, “Get away from me!”

“It’s Spencer, baby,” Now he was crying, terrified she’d pull the trigger. In any other circumstance this situation would have diffused by now but the LSD in her system turned her completely hysterical.

“Leave me alone!” The words being reflected back to him just wretched his heart further.

He wasn’t even pointing his own weapon at her anymore. He stopped pointing it at her the second he recognized her. Now it was pointed askew, the barrel facing the grass beside him. Neither of them could have aimed a gun at one another in the right mindset where she didn’t reside for the time being.

Seemingly, her psychosis seemed to penetrate any affection they shared. Beads of sweat formed on her skin as she held the gun steadily toward his frame. He knew if she shot him it’d be a kill shot. She had the best aim on the team.

“Please, baby, I love you so much. Just put the gun down I won’t hurt you,” Reid persisted through it as he heard reinforcements file in behind him. He spun around, waving Morgan, Hotch, and Emily away.

“Don’t come any closer! She’s drugged, she can’t help it and I swear to God if you shoot her I’ll resign!” He warned the other agents who heeded his warning despite the alarming display before them. They still kept their guns aimed at their teammate in allegiance to the judicial implications.

Y/N’s trip began to peak, the world around her becoming unrecognizable in the heap of apparitions that surrounded her. She screamed as misshapen, flesh colored bats charged down at her, flying toward her and swatted them away.

Reid watched her pushing and swatting away imaginary attackers and took the opportunity to run toward her. She screamed and thrashed around in his arms, clawing his skin and kicking at his legs behind her.

Everything looked like bloody flesh. Every blade of grass felt like rusty nails driven through her feet. She felt like she was coiled in the death grip of an anaconda.

“Stop! Stop! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” He tightened his grip on her and used one leg to pin both of hers against his other one. She was completely entangled in him again and the familiarity of his cologne instantly calmed her, he thought. As fell completely limp, relief deluged his psyche only to be matched with her sudden convulsions.

She slipped into a violent seizure, shaking and jarring her body as he lowered her onto the ground and to her side. Hotch and Emily fell beside him and he watched blood seep from her nose and mix with the medley of blood on her lips. He was whimpering as he tried to relax her muscles and barking orders to the others surrounding him. Eventually, her shaking form was taken by the EMTS who were already on the scene. He stood in the wake of the scene, bodies strewn about him wondering what she saw him as that terrified her so.

She was treated for an overdose in the hospital and as Reid entered her room he saw her small figure curled up on the hospital bed. He felt his heart shatter for the hundredth time that night as he floated toward her like a ghost. Placing his hand on her arm, she jumped suddenly startling him as well. He didn’t expect her to be awake so soon. if

“Jesus,” he breathed out, clutching his chest.

She flipped over to face him and couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. “Dork,” she said hoarsely. The way her inflection cracked made him frown in response.

“I don’t even,” he struggled to find the right words, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? I tried to kill you, Spencer,” she began to recollect the happenstances, “I could have killed you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it’s going to be hard for us to get back to normal.”

“You had ten times a normal recreational dose of LSD in your system. That wasn’t you,” he assured.

She nodded softly and scooted back, patting the vacant place beside her on the hospital bed.

“I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you,” as the sentence stumbled out of his mouth he couldn’t help but start crying again.

He was surprised he didn’t bawl himself into dehydration on the way to the hospital. She reached up and grabbed his wrist, leading him down to her where he crawled beside her.

Cupping his face in her hands she felt the sticky coagulation of tears that caked his face. Pulling him toward her, their lips locked and worked against one another before completely enveloping one another in devotion.

Pulling away she caught his glassy irises with hers, “You could never hurt me. Not really,” she replied.

“But I did. I told you to leave me alone and you left and had to go through…” he decided not to bring up the trauma.

She couldn’t remember the trip itself, only what she did during it. He didn’t want to bring it up and trigger an acid flashback.

“I left because I was hurt, yeah, but you didn’t hurt me. I felt so guilty about leaving Clara with the unsub that I thought making you that tea would help me feel better. We should have just stayed in the field, maybe we could have caught him before he killed anyone,” she sighed.

Reid nodded and kissed the tip of her nose, then her forehead, then peppered the rest of her face with the same affection.

She ran her fingers over the skin on his arm and felt raised scar tissue in her wake. Looking down, bruises and scars were freckles across the pale vastness of his arm. She choked back, her hand falling to her lips.

“Did I do this to you?” She asked, her eyes glued to the cuts now.

He craved for her relief so he shook his head. “I don’t remember where I got them but it wasn’t because of you,” He lied. Realistically, she’d clawed and cut his arms until she began seizing. The cocktail of drugs in her system left him a stranger to her while she was high.

She nodded, “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“There’s no way we could have known. I need you to not blame yourself for this because if you do I won’t be able to live with myself. This wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he snaked his arms around her waist carefully, avoiding her bandages.

“I know, I know,” she sighed and nestled into the crook of his neck, “I promise I won’t make you anymore occultist migraine tea.”

He pulled his chin from resting at the top of her head to look at her. He suddenly cupped her cheeks now and made sure she understood.

“Please, never stop making me migraine tea again,” he said before pulling her into a kiss again.

FULL SUMMARY:

Reid and Reader are dating when a case involving the occult dredges up turmoil between the happy couple. The case being difficult enough, the resemblance between the Reader and the victims leaves Reid uneasy. After Reader disrupts the Unsub’s routine she becomes a target. After Reid fights with the Reader because of a migraine, she is taken hostage by unsub and is drugged with LSD and nearly shoots Spencer while tripping.

#spencer reid angst #reid angst #cm fan fic #cms #cm fan fiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer fan fic #spencer reid #trigger warning #reid fanfic #reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #reid imagine #spencer reid imagine #nicolesalphabetangstfor8k

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chronicbatfictioner · 4 years

Text

Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 11

Details, details, details. For someone looking like a pro-wrestler, complete with the dress-up gimmick, Jason Todd - the Red Ghost - turned out to be a very good listener and paid attention to details. He listened quietly as Oracle put out the proverbial lay of the land.

"So to make it clear and recorded redundantly, Talon was an enforcer with the Court of Owls; supposedly the entity that controlled all of Gotham, consisting of the 'builders' of Gotham as well as the 'money' that built Gotham. This guy Bane just out of the blue came to Gotham and killed the members of the Court and Talon's teammates. And now he claimed to be Dr Thomas Wayne's son, and therefore Bruce Wayne's half-brother." Jason recited. "Are the Waynes a member of the Court of Owls?"

"Not according to the database Talon gave us." Oracle replied. "Evidently, the Court had... harassed them to join, but they have repeatedly refused. And by 'repeatedly' I mean over like, three generations of Waynes."

"Yeah, I didn't think so, either. Talia wouldn't have... well, associated herself with Bruce Wayne, otherwise." Jason agreed. "Ra's didn't like to share control with a random group of people who have assassins as doormen. The public disruptions would have been too overwhelming."

"So the Waynes have made an actual tangible alliance with the Al Ghuls, I presume..." Tim commented. "Corporate-wise, the Al Ghuls owned almost half of Gotham, while the other half belonged to the Waynes. Yet they were in different lines of businesses that if the two families were to unite by means of - say, marriage - it would definitely fit the description of a monopoly."

"You're a corporate goon, aren't you?" Jason remarked. Tim preened a little.

"Kind of. I run a much-smaller family business." he admitted.

"I'm... not sure if I should consider it cool or horrific." Jason commented. "What's the business line?"

"Generic meds." Tim replied, and then stopped himself. There were a mere handful of generic medication companies in Gotham, and he might have given away his own identity.

"Ah, cool, then. Generic meds for poor people? Did you leech off the prices?" Still, Jason's disarming smirk and seemingly innocent questions were too inviting to not be answered.

"Of course not! I'm a hero, aren't I?" Tim replied coyly. Jason seemed satisfied with the answer.

"Cool, then. Anyway, to answer your question, yes, there were business deals between the Al Ghuls with the Waynes that are limited to the form of businesses either parties would do. And yes, you're right. If or when Bruce Wayne passed without any other heirs, Damian would own both conglomerations and would have been a form of monopoly. There were... contingency plans to avoid that." Jason elaborated. "But if Bane is a son of Thomas Wayne, he would have inherited half of the Wayne Enterprises, regardless."

"I sincerely hoped that Bane was not Ra's 'contingency plan'," Oracle intoned.

"I've never heard of his name until now." Jason clarified. "And I know all of Ra's associates and agents. Visible or otherwise. And Talia's. But for the issue with the Court... you people think that the Waynes bankrolled Bane to eliminate the Court of Owls."

"We suspect. We haven't found evidence to support or deny it." Oracle said. "You're quick."

"I'm not slow just because I came from Crime Alley, thanks." Jason retorted. "And I'm starting to realize... if I - on behalf of Damian - am staying at the Wayne Manor, I might be able to look for evidence thereof."

"Really quick, I wasn't even going to suggest that yet," Oracle replied glibly.

"And if they were innocent - because of course, we all believe in the 'Innocent 'til Proven Guilty' adage - then you can ally with the Waynes to indict and/or remove Bane out of the equation." Jason continued.

Well, Tim was impressed.

"That's it, in a nutshell."

"I hope you have a contingency plan in case your plan goes sideways..." Jason sighed.

"...you technically have nothing to lose," Tim assured him. "You'll have an escape, where you can bring Damian to a place that is both reinforced and semi-publicly visible; you'll have the Birds of Prey as your backup. And if - in a scenario where Bruce Wayne did not accept Damian, you'll still be welcomed here."

"Why? Just because I'm a Gothamite or what?" Jason challenged.

"Because..." Tim sighed. "Okay, look. I see it more as for Damian's sake, right? If he's accepted, and you don't want to help us, that's fine. We'll figure out something else. But if he's... denied his father..." he shook his head, pushing out the images of himself as a 12-year-old who'd just received the news of his parents' death. "...I know what it's like to lose a parent through violent means, alright. I don't... I'd rather Damian not take the path I took."

Jason's smile looked more like a snarl. "Now that's noble, Stray. You don't want Damian to be a thief like you, but you forgot who you're talking to. I grew up here, in Crime Alley, until my mom died. My dad was gone years before. I lived on the streets, had a box for a bed for weeks. That's the kind of life you won't want a ten-year-old to have to face."

Tim chuckled uneasily. "Okay, that's fair. But considering he's the only heir of the Algol Enterprises, I doubt he'll end up on the streets, am I wrong? Not to be insensitive, but there's a reason why Talia chose you to take care of him, and that wouldn't be the muscles or the pretty face."

That was a logical explanation, so Tim thought, but he could swear that Jason was blushing - even under the tanned skin. He shook his head lightly, and said, "No, I'm also his legal guardian unless his biological father files for custody; and am in charge of the Algol Enterprises," He scowled lightly. "...in spite of the fact that I don't like the corporate world in general. Damian is actually more than smart enough to supervise the companies, but he is still a minor. His signatures should always be accompanied by mine."

"Good system," Oracle commented. "I don't see you as someone easily persuaded if you don't believe in the matter."

"I believe in fairness and assisting those in need, not feeding those in power," Jason muttered. Then sighed. "For now, though, I'll need your help to fend off the League of Shadows. There won't be any steps taken toward your goal if Damian is assassinated."

"That, I believe, I can help. It's not gonna be pretty, but..." Dick remarked, stepping out of the bedrooms. "Boy's sleeping like a log. I mean, literally like a log: on his back, straight-backed and all." He added when Jason's eyes found his.

"You know how to contact your... uh... friends?" Tim tried, cringing, knowing how Barbara felt for violence.

"You thinking about rising the other talons?" Barbara must be cringing, too.

"Unless you can think of utilizing Superman or something, I don't see any other way..." Dick argued.

"Wait," an epiphany suddenly hit Tim. "I... hold up, let me think..." he raised a hand, stopping the questions he knew would be coming out of both Jason and Dick's mouths. A half a minute later, it hit him in the full picture. "Wasn't Green Arrow trained by the League of Assassins, too?"

"Oliver Queen, you mean. Yes, he was." Jason confirmed. "Funny dude, all sass and pretending to be no-brain. Shiva trained him--" Jason suddenly stopped.

"Does he know you?" Tim asked.

"He should... he got in just about a while after I did. I'd trained with him before Talia sent me training elsewhere..." Jason replied, and then his face brightened. "You scary-scheming little shit..."

"Green Arrow opted to use his skills as a hero, protecting those who can't protect himself. I know he's good - a little unfocused in a hand-to-hand and more reliant on his bow and arrows, but he's good." Tim pointed out. "And he has his own group of 'family' - all fighters for good. I'm sure he'll be happy to help us." he hinted to Oracle, deliberately pointing to Oracle as the decision-maker of the 'group'. With the way Dick was glaring at him, Tim knew that he was following Tim's hints - and not mentioning that Tim could have asked aunt Dinah for Oliver Queen's help. Dinah has been dating him for a good long while, after all.

"I'll put out feelers," Barbara stated. "Jason, do you have inklings or list on who we might want to chase after? You mentioned they're covert, and about half of the identity of people rounded up by the GCPD earlier were locals."

Jason shrugged helplessly. "They don't usually trust digital stuff for this... membership thingy. Not especially for foot soldiers."

"I think I can figure out how to sift them out..." Tim commented, ideas after ideas churning through his mind. "Want me to come over and powwow, O?"

"Yes, sure. That'll be great." Oracle replied, even with the metallic voice modulator, Tim could sense the relief.

"Okay, you wanna come with?" he asked Dick.

Dick shook his head. "Not that I'm guarding you or anything, 'cause I'm sure you can figure out how to get out without me noticing, anyway. But I'm... I'd prefer if the boy wakes up, he'll still see me, you know? So he's convinced that he's not... being abandoned or anything."

"That's sweet, but I agree. Do you mind, Jason?"

"Having another body to stand guard? Not at all. I'll need to shut my eyes for a few, anyway." Jason replied with a small smirk. "Would've been nice to shut-eye with a warm body next to me, but hey, beggars can't be choosers," he added blithely just as Tim got up and walked away.

Tim paused, turned, and blew him a kiss. Because that's what mama Selina said you should do when someone openly flirted with you if you also want to flirt with said someone. Jason's smirk just got bigger but didn't give any more reaction.

Tim continued his exit, his mind partially mapping out his plan to clean out the League of Assassins from Gotham; the other part mapping out his plan on to figure out if Jason was as compatible as he suspected.

#Batless!AU #Tim Drake #Jason Todd #JayTim #stray!tim #RedGhost!Jason #Dick Grayson #Talon!Dick #Damian Wayne #Barbara Gordon #Oracle!Barbara #Birds of Prey #BatFam

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velvetv0nblack · 4 years

Text

An open letter;

(Possible trigger warning)

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, maybe because this theme of abuse has be something I’ve been experiencing as a third party, the person removing the victim this time, you know the role many of my friends filled within our tumultuous relationship... maybe it’s because my friends abuser is now threatening and harassing me for helpingher leave... maybe it’s because I’ve finally found my therapeutic dosage of lithium, am in a clear mind and are therefore able to reflect properly for the first time in my life... or maybe it’s because this is not an apology, I mean maybe it is if you had only been a serial cheat, but the truth is you fractured my skull and cut me open with a knife, so this is not a fucking apology. Also I’d rather rip my own eyes out of my skull, smash them with a hammer, and then inject the liquid into my ass than actually engage you in any kind of conversation, so knowing that this is the one platform you can still check for me on, I’m going to post this here... Its about time I had my say without putting myself in physical danger.

You would think I wouldn’t have an essay to correct your 3 lines of a nothing apology, but here we are I guess.

This kind of self deprecating “I wasn’t good enough for you” narrative is truly infuriating, and not because you were actually good enough for me but because of the very reasons you proved yourself not be “not good enough”. You weren’t undeserving of me because you didn’t work, I am physically incapable of doing so myself and I didn’t fall in love with you because you came across mad motivated. You weren’t undeserving of me because you took drugs, drank like a fish or smoked like a chimney, we were both purposefully killing our selves in the same way. You weren’t undeserving of me at all, until you fucked my best friend in the bathroom and collectively gaslit me into wondering if I was imagining the whole thing, and slowly but systematically broke down my confidence and support network away from me. I want this to be very clear; the reason you do not deserve me or any other decent human being is because, you are an abuser, you abuse people.

I was barely a whole person when I met you. I was barely an adult. I had lived through so much already, and had been abused in every area of my existence. I was easy pickings to you. The issue was you were not a pawn to me, a player in any game, or any of that. To me you were this fascinating, beautiful soul, to me you were someone who needed my love who needed someone to support you and I couldn’t believe that you chose me to fill that role. I was freshly 18 that month, and I had just had a flat mate steal £3k and kill my kitten.

I weighed all of 63lbs that night you lost the plot on me because I didn’t want to go to Big Red to watch that actual cunt of a waitress smile at me as she gave you lap dances, it’s not even a dance joint it was a fucking bar. You allowed other people to emotionally abuse me with you for months up until this point and I just didn’t want to go, all I wanted was the keys and I would of gone home alone and gone to bed. Why you feel the need to publicly humiliate me again instead of just leaving it? You couldn’t just go be adulterous without me watching and hurting, so you followed me home, screaming at me the whole time. You told me I was pathetic, you hated me, I should just kill myself- on a bus on a Saturday night, from the bar I worked in, in soho, back to our place near Caledonian Road. I was so unstable anyway, undiagnosed autism, misdiagnosed mental health issues, on the wrong if any medication, deep within the throws of an addiction and eating disorder... you. I couldn’t take you verbally ripping my heart out anymore when I decided that throwing myself from our 3rd story window would hurt less. The fact I could of died isn’t what made you grab me and stop me jumping, no in fact you told me you don’t care if I kill my self as long as it’s not in the flat, you were much more concerned with the amount of drugs in the flat and the prison opposite our window. At that point you threw me full pelt across the other side of the room, all 63lbs of me flew through the air like a paper aeroplane and smashed directly into your guitar. You know your beloved custom Les Paul? The headstock came off, and at that very moment despite the fact you were the one who threw me, my life was the one in danger. You started strangling me and threatening to have men come down to London to gang rape my then 14 year old sister. It gets a little fuzzy, that’s what your brain does when you experience potentially life ending trauma. I do know I ended up with stitches in my lips and hands, that you fractured my right eye socket- that I still suffer issues with to this day- and had black bruising covering my entire body like a bus had hit me.

For a couple of years there my brain completely blocked out important details of that night, and a lot of our relationship. Don’t worry though periodically I have the real type of flashback where I relive these events and I come back to reality remembering more than I ever wanted to. I’m yet to even touch on the fact that whilst I may of been able to escape you in waking life, my dreams are perpetually stuck in this horrific PTSD dream land, a town that is a mash up of all the places I’ve been traumatised in my life, the place you eternally reside inside my head to traumatise me whilst I desperately need to rest. You haven’t really left my life despite the efforts I have made to avoid you (I think I’ve seen you once, from a distance once at Download 2 years ago, my heart fell out my ass, and I dragged Camilla in another direction) I have only 2 dreams in 6 years that haven’t included you chasing me down to finish what you started and kill me or keep me captive. But that’s what trauma does, and oh how you traumatised me.

I really loved you though, that’s why I stayed, and those couple times I tried to leave before I came back. I loved you so unconditionally that it took me realising that everyone else around us was so complicit that they’d help you hide by body. To this very day I cannot believe a man, a male roommate, walked in on you pinning me into a sofa by my neck, with both your planted knees on top of my chest, full weight suffocating me, biting the end of my nose until it was blackened and he had the audacity me I needed to calm down. I have to label the guy the world biggest pussy in my head so I don’t get wound up about it.

I wasn’t perfect, I can never be perfect, I have more imperfections than most. I am severely mentally and physically unwell- I sure as hell am a pain in the ass to love- however I cannot actually think of a damn thing I did to deserve constant unending emotional abuse, threatens and follow through of physical abuse and then after I left stalking and harassment. I am difficult but I am not deserving of abuse and that’s all you gave me in the end... unless of course you “needed your baby girl to suck your dick” - that was the only time you were ever nice to me, and I know because I recently read back a bunch of our texts and you flipped between “I hate you, I’m gonna kill you/kill your self” to “I need my beautiful girl to come and suck my dick I love you so much” is actually fucking insane. - Should I bring up the fact you would bang pathetic girls on the scene and then dicknotise them into stalking and harassing me with you? Because... what I had the audacity to leave a man, of over 6ft tall, who would become violent to my 5ft 63lbs self?

So yeah, you didn’t deserve me, but not because of any self deprecating attention seeking reason but because you’re a sociopath, who seems to take pleasure in fucking with vulnerable women.

Am I happy? Now that’s a fucking difficult one to answer.

I ended up homeless on and off for a year. Despite the homelessness I had suffered before this was worse because of the place I was in mentally.

You caused me to develop complex PTSD.

You caused me to have a 3 year long psychotic break.

You caused me to live in secure supported housing, where I was prayed upon by other residents.

You caused me to fall victim to abuse within the system

Not sure if you know this but our mental health services sucks ass, after leaving you I had a delightful therapist that would text me telling to kill my self and would tell me you were right to abuse me.

But I got one thing from our relationship, I fine tuned my “four Fs” ...I no longer freeze or fight in the face of difficulty... I developed an ability to fawn.

Dead ends are no longer in my eyeline, I will metaphorically straight on walk through someone else’s house to get where I need to be, I will jump the fence, break the locks and out run any guard dog. I may fall down but I’m never out.

When I was diagnosed with multiple chronic illnesses and essentially lived in hospital for 3 years, even when I thought to end my life it was weighed out by the thought of “how do I get to a place we’re I can do even 5% of what I want? What do I have to change, manifest?”.

You see if you could only temporarily break me but not stop me then why the hell would I let my own mind and body do that? That ability to fawn came with an ability to find a middle path, to be diplomatic. That ability to fawn gave me the patience to understand medical text and use that to access the right care. ~ I am actually thinking of starting a medical degree just to prove I can ~ I am now 98lbs and healthy for my size and stature, I now have a home with a housing association who like me so much they have me a lifetime partner agreement, meaning I will never be homeless again. I have been clean 7 whole goddamn years and 2 months. I have the most beautiful empathic cat, 2 foster dogs and an incredibly patient partner, who has known me before you had ever entered my life. I am as healthy as someone in my position can be, I still struggle with the anorexic thoughts but I eat everyday of the fucking week now.

I am not “happy” as happy is an emotion and emotions are fleeting but I am content in living for the simple life I have fought ever so hard for. I am strong, and determined and constantly fucking working on making more for myself. I’m proud of myself.

All I have to say is get therapy. If you’re really sorry work on yourself enough to be able to apologise properly before you fuck my day up by rising your head again for this weakness. I can’t say I don’t have morbid curiosity, because that’s me all over, however I’m much more determined to keep all that I have work for mentally, emotionally, and physically safe. For that reason I would never in my right medicated mind talk it out with you, email you back or seek you out. I’m sorry, it is what it is.

You can not damage someone irreparably both mentally and physically and think “I’m sorry for being a cunt” even close to cuts it. You are mentally unbalanced, in a way not even I can relate to.

#what was the point #open letter to my abuser #its not 2014 anymore buddy

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artsybanchou · 4 years

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I’m a big fan of 80s/90s anime and Ranma 1/2 played a big role in my childhood. The premise has sooooo much food for thought when it comes to looking at gender and specifically the performance of gender. I’m about to get INTO it, so, here’s your warning-- read more is a ramble. (LONG ramble)

Oh ho ho ho! WELCOME TO MY HELL!

Aight, so let me set the stage for you-->

Two people, who should not be parents, have a kid. The father, Genma, a fairly successful martial artist, takes their just-born son on a training journey without consulting the mother. By training journey, I mean that they travel all over the world with little to no money, either stealing from or scamming people in order to make sure they can eat, under the guise of training the son, Ranma, to become the greatest martial artist of the “Anything Goes” school of martial arts. One of the most frequent scams the father pulls is promising his son’s hand in marriage to various families in exchange for a dowry before running off with both his son and the dowry, never to be seen again. This-- inevitably-- comes back to bite them in the ass. But more on that later.

We don’t get to see a lot of Ranma’s childhood on the training journey, just the occasional incredibly horrific flashback to something that would become a national incident were it to happen in the real world. For example, at one point in time, his father finds a Chinese pamphlet of an ~ancient lost Chinese art~ that is INCREDIBLY POWERFUL!!!!! wow! It’s called Neko-ken. So he decides to teach his six-year-old this technique, although he can’t actually read Chinese so he does it based off the diagrams-- which detail a process of collecting a good number of cats, starving them for a few days straight, and then tossing his son, covered in fish sausages (possibly tied up, can’t remember), into the pit to fend for himself (and not be eaten alive) for hours on end. Surprise, surprise, Ranma comes out incredibly traumatized and with an intense fear of cats (something his father would’ve seen coming if he was able to read Chinese as the pamphlet says that someone would have to be crazy to try to teach someone this technique and that it causes severe psychological damage-- also could’ve been avoided if his father had any common sense or fatherly instincts, but hey that’s just asking too much of Genma). This is not the result his father wanted, so he tries to “fix” it by doing the exact same thing multiple times, just with different cat foods wrapped around his son because... I genuinely don’t know what his thought process was but yeah. So that’s just a tiny snapshot of what his childhood was like as well as how much of a massive idiot his father was. And since Ranma never interacted with his mother, guess who had the greatest influence in his development (yay........). (save him) (also this is based off my memory from watching the anime YEARS ago, so some small details might be wrong but the big, overarching “his dad is a terrible person” thing is still very much true even if some of these smaller details aren’t)

When Ranma is a teenager, his father brings him to a Chinese training ground full of cursed springs. The tour guide repeatedly tries to explain what exactly this place they’re visiting is, but the father and son pair are two hard-headed idiots and get right to sparring. Ranma knocks his father into a spring pretty quick only to be caught off guard when his father reemerges from said spring as a panda and grand slams our protagonist into another one of the cursed springs. Our manly man martial artist protagonist emerges from this spring as a dainty, busty teenage girl. /The horror./ The panic from both Ranma and his father’s deeply shaken fragile masculinities gives the tour guide enough time to reveal that they had fallen into the cursed springs of the drowned panda and the drowned girl (one guess who fell into which one) and that anyone who falls into a cursed spring will take on the form of the life form that drowned in it. They can return to their original bodies by being splashed with hot water but, from now on, every time they’re hit with cold (or even apparently lukewarm) water, they’ll change into these new cursed forms.

Now, I’m sure you all saw this coming from the type of man that Ranma’s father is based on everything I’ve said so far, but Genma is the worst(TM). So Genma is all, “no SON of MINE can be a GIRL! >:((((((” and Ranma, who has been raised for his entire conscious life by this man, and only this man, is also very much not Okay(TM) with this because he’s a man, a manly fighting man who was raised to be the manliest of fighting men who fight. He can’t be a GIRL.

Except he totally can. Because these two start taking advantage of Ranma’s feminine body pretty much immediately in order to continue running scams so that they can eat and whatnot while traveling. Of course, Genma constantly shames Ranma by saying things like, “I can’t believe my son is such a failure of a martial artist, being a girl! I’m so ashamed!” and whatnot at every opportunity but especially when they are in an argument and Ranma is winning or if he needs Ranma to do something for him. He frequently manipulates his son by using this kind of guilt-tripping language as though it’s Ranma’s fault that his body is like this. Nevermind that they both frequently profit off of Ranma’s female body for scams, Genma still puts Ranma down for having it and Ranma internalizes that because he’s 15 and his father is the only person he’s ever known.

And I’m sure we all hate Genma now, as we should, because fuck Genma. What kind of woman would ever marry Genma? (And we assume a woman is married to Genma because how could a man this bigoted do anything other than marry a woman all traditional and whatnot). If only Ranma wasn’t taken from his mother so young. Maybe he would’ve turned out a better person~ Well, uh, bad news, lads :/ So, by the time we meet Ranma’s mom in the series, we’ve known most of these characters for a chunk of time. It’s already quite well established how terrible of a human being Genma is. Ranma may or may not have started the episode out admitting he doesn’t know much about his mom after being asked about her. A standard set-up. I don’t quite remember all the details of the episode, only the important things-- here’s the important thing: Genma’s wife, Nodoka, made Genma swear something to her before he took their toddler on a training journey all around the world. He had to raise Ranma to become “a Man among Men” (and we’ll talk about how she defines manliness) and, if he failed, then both he and Ranma must commit seppuku.

Yeah, that's right.

If her son isn’t enough of a man by her standards then he has to commit ritual suicide.

Her son who now transforms into a girl every time he is touched with at least a ladle’s worth water that isn’t steaming.

(hey have i mentioned save Ranma yet? save him seriously)

Her definition of manliness? All the shit the misandrists of tumblr swear is the inherent evils to all men. She thinks her son needs to be unapologetically forceful in /all/ he does. Especially in his romantic forays :///// (yeah this is going where you think it is)

When she does decide he isn’t manly enough (because Ranma was being sexually harassed by an old man who forcibly put him in a sailor outfit, no im not kidding, happosai, said old man, is a whole other element of the show that like holy shit) and tries to get him to commit seppuku, the solution the cast comes up with is to have Ranma “peek” at (his friend? girlfriend? fiance? frenemy? roommate? it’s weird-- technically they’re the two romantic leads but their chemistry is like -5 because she constantly physically hits him for things that really aren’t his fault and just ://) Akane while she is bathing and that will prove his manliness to his mother so that he doesn’t have to literally die. Will having Ranma be a fucking voyeur prove his manliness to his mother, you ask? Yep. This is Manly(TM) and so Ranma gets to live another day. Yay. Once again, molestation saves the day. (aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa) All of this is played off as a joke, for the record. No character is really acknowledged as being “a bad person” for any of this behavior-- not molester Happosai, not trying-to-kill-her-own-child Nodoka, etc.

So these are the people who made Ranma. Who shaped this kid with the ability to spontaneously switch between male and female bodies (presuming he has water on hand). Also, obviously, Genma had more influence seeing as Ranma never saw his mother between the ages of two and (I think) 16(?), but. regardless, these are the people who shaped his understanding of gender. For all intents and purposes, our lad should be such a pressure cooker of toxic and fragile masculinity that he just about commits seppuku himself every time he ends up in his female body.

But he doesn’t. In fact, Ranma is largely comfortable in his female body as long as his father isn’t trying to hold said body against him (wait did that come out wrong?). Ranma has no hesitations taking on his female form for something as little as a discount on ice cream. He makes the statement, “when it comes to eating out, being a girl is the only way to go”-- because he’s able to get an extra scoop for being “cute”

There’s a scene very early on in the series about exactly that which has always stuck with me. It opens with Ranma in his female body at a cafe with Akane and they both order fancy ice cream parfaits. Ranma is extremely excited and exclaims, “I’ve always wanted to try one of these!”

Akane replies with, “don’t tell me you’ve never had ice cream before.”

And Ranma proceeds to explain that he’s never had ice cream like /this/ because it would be too embarrassing for a guy. When Akane asks if he isn’t embarrassed now, happily shoving huge spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth, he responds with, “hey, I’m a girl now. It don’t count.” Akanes shoots back with a “REAL girls don’t eat like that” (because our lad is eating with such gusto-- he’s living, he’s thriving, he is demolishing that parfait and there is ice cream all over his face)

He goes, “I’ll eat it however I want.” And then finishes the whole thing off and proclaims that he wants to order the chocolate one next.

Moments like that were the ones where I loved the show the most. We can see Ranma’s insecurities about his masculinity (thank you /soo/ much for that genma) in that he isn’t willing to perform an ‘unmanly’ action in public in his male body. He can’t be *seen* eating girly ice cream. But when he is admonished for not living up to feminine standards in his female body (eat more daintily), he just goes, ‘i’ll do what i want’. Young me really resonated with that, being born with a female assigned at birth body and growing up in Texas.

It feels like there’s a trans narrative buried in the steaming hot mess that is this work by Takahashi Rumiko-- and it is abundantly clear that was never her intention so I wouldn’t exactly recommend trying to give her an award or anything. She said that she wanted to write a work with a male main character but was so worried about how many male readers she had, she made the decision to make (as she described) a half-male half-female main character (essentially so she could have her cake and eat it too if you will-- all the self aggrandizing fantasies of a male protagonist her male readers could imagine themselves as along with a copious amount of fan service-- the great majority of which was at Ranma’s unwilling expense in his female body which like ://////// (remember that old man I mentioned before??)-- with the female protagonist body). And, like, I’m not saying Takahashi Rumiko is a terrible person or anything-- I don’t know what her beliefs are, I only know her works which are quite old at this point. Takahashi Rumiko is a big deal in the mangaka world because she was one of the first big shonen mangakas who was openly a woman. Normally, men wrote shounen (which literally translates to boys) manga and women wrote shoujo (which literally translates to girls) manga-- the genres were literally divided along gender lines in terms of their intended audiences but also, to a certain extent, their creators. If a woman wanted to write/draw shounen, usually she had to use a pen name that sounded fairly masculine in order to not impact the perception of her work. Takahashi Rumiko was working in that environment so I would understand why she’d want to be careful but, at the same time, I still kind of hate a lot of the things that she normalizes in her works. Especially assault. Both physical and sexual assault she constantly used as a punchline. Not as much anymore. Her most recent work I’ve read was Rinne and the punchline with that one was that the male lead is super poor, literally penniless, and is constantly starving so hahahahha humor amirite? Pain being funny seems to be her through line now that assault is off the table. At least he isn’t constantly getting whole ass tables thrown at him by his love interest as though that’s supposed to be a cute relationship dynamic (Akaneeeeeeeee). I digress. Takahashi Rumiko’s works played a big fucking role in my childhood from Ranma to Inuyasha to Lum (which I encountered well into my teens and therefore didn’t jive with at all because I’d finally learned sexual assault =/= funny and this was one of her more dated works) and so on and just-- I don’t know if I can watch her older stuff the same way I used to. I’m scared to try, honestly. Because some of the ideas behind her works are so interesting-- like Ranma 1/2-- but then you have to sit through episode after episode of a teenage boy in a girl’s body being sexually assaulted by a remorseless old man only to try to fight back at which point he is physically assaulted but also he still has to grovel to and respect said old man because he’s his father’s master and therefore he has to learn martial arts from him but the old man is constantly wagering Ranma having to pose for him in incredibly skimpy outfits if Ranma wants to learn literally anything and alsso RANMA IS FUCKING FIFTEEN/SIXTEEN JESUS CHRIST IS THERE NO FUNCTIONING ADULT ANYWHERE IN THE VVICINITY SAVE HIM!

I NEED TO DIGRESS

It feels like there’s an unintentional trans narrative buried in this anime. It’s not a fun one (but most trans narratives aren’t either so). This is a boy who knows he’s a boy-- even when his body disagrees. He frequently asserts that “he’s a boy” even when in his female body because he is. He’s a boy. He’ll reference being a girl “in appearance” like with the ice cream parfait scene earlier, but when it comes to identity statements, he’s always a boy. This narrative is about him navigating gender presentation and societal assumptions in order to live however he wants. He’s constantly contending with his own forms of gender dysphoria, whether that be his own gripes about doing anything unmanly (eating ice cream) or the very real threat of his mother fucking killing him if he does anything unmanly (aaaaaaaaaaaa), and he navigates tons of threats by choosing how he presents himself.

There are characters that are in love with the male “version” of Ranma and want to kill the female “version” of Ranma (who, for the record, goes by the name Ranko) and vice versa. The Kuno siblings are a great example. Kodachi is in love with Ranma (and is not above literally fucking using date rape drugs on him to get to him) and wants to fucking kill Ranko whereas Tatewaki Kuno, her brother, is in love with Ranko (the lovely pigtailed girl, he calls her) and has literally sent assassins after Ranma. Ranma essentially has to choose between being sexually assaulted or physically assaulted every time he runs into either of them in terms of what body he is presenting.

I feel like I should let you know, ye who have actually read this far, that Ranma is able to protect himself pretty well from the assault. Like, our boy ain’t dead. Later on he literally fucking kills a god because he’s really passionate about martial arts so he puts all of himself into it and god damnit does his effort show but, honestly, his ability to protect himself shouldn’t mean that it is okay to assault him. Assault is assault. And just because he can fight back doesn’t mean he always does. Akane, his main love interest, regularly sends him through roofs and across town with the force of her Up + B (aka magically appearing hammer), usually for things that aren’t his fault in any way. Akane actually came to the conclusion that Ranma was a pervert when she (fully dressed) walked in on him (naked because he was in the bath) even though the bathroom was obviously occupied. She constantly gets mad at him for things that are beyond his control and then takes her frustrations out on him by literally beating him up and he never fights back-- which is admirable of him but also made me never want to root for their relationship because that isn’t a red flag, my dude, that’s a red planet. the whole of mars is out here trying to warn everyone that this relationship is the most toxic thing since RoundUp.)

Usually, when watching a show, you get really invested in the character’s aspirations. You want them to ‘get the girl’, ‘get the promotion’, ‘become the pokemon master’ and whatnot. All I ever wanted for Ranma was for him to fake his own death and run far, far away from everyone who ever knew him as “Ranma”. He’d have to fake his own death, obviously, because otherwise his father and Happosai would track him down because, for his father, Ranma is a walking meal ticket and, for Happosai, Ranma is a teenage girl he can sexually assault at any time. Those two would chase Ranma to the ends of the earth if they thought he was trying to get away from them so--

Ranma. Help him.

There’s so much more to dissect with this show. It’s kind of accidentally a great way to look at gender presentation, especially all the terrible negatives that come with constrained gender roles. I use He/Him pronouns when talking about Ranma because it is abundantly clear that he sees himself as a man and I respect that. Sometimes nonbinary-me is like, but think what a gender-fluid icon our boy would be-- literally switching perceived genders via fluids-- and I think that version of Ranma would be a lot happier than the canon one but, I think the canon Ranma is an important reflection of what a lot of people go through, cisgender, transgender, and beyond, when trying to parse what it means to present a gender and the roles you’re supposed to play.

Maybe Ranma can go on a journey of self-discovery with his own gender after faking his death and escaping Nermina.

I was all over the place writing this but this isn’t an essay and I’m not being graded so ha fuck you (excpet no not really fuck you because you either a) read this whole thing or b)scrolled down to the bottom to see if i’d get to the fucking point already-- which for the record, I don’t really-- and either way it means you were a little curious what I had to say so thanks I guess). None of this is exceptionally well-thought-out. I wouldn’t exactly stamp this with any kind of official gender discourse seal. It’s all just food for thought.

#my art #ranma 1/2 #dont click read more seriously youll regret it #i just ramble for a really long time about nothing #technically about ranma and gender #save ranma jesus chrsit he doesnt deserve all the bullshit

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maleyanderecafe · 5 years

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Desperate Yanderes

I honestly can’t believe I hadn't thought about these kinds of yanderes before considering how much I adore desperation in yanderes. Thanks to @tsukaramachi for helping me brainstorm a couple of ideas for future analysis, including this one! So with that, let’s start talking about desperate yanderes.

I’ll be honest, one of the biggest reasons I love yanderes so much is the sense of desperateness that yanderes display. Not only does it show a sense of vulnerabilities that we might not usually see in yanderes, but it also shows that something that is normally frightening and generally in control of the situation, lose control very quickly. It also better demonstrates how emotionally frail a yandere can be, especially in a situation where the odds are not in their favor.

This analysis will split desperate yanderes into two parts: a desperate yandere and a yandere in a desperate state. While a yandere can have both scenarios, they can also just have either one.

A desperate yandere is a yandere who is extremely afraid of losing their s/o and tries to please them as much as possible. While the reasoning of why they’re afraid can range from being too vicious and scaring them off or not being good enough, the general motivation of a desperate yandere is the fear of their s/o leaving them. Because of this, in most situations, the yandere will always be in a more submissive position, becoming to the s/o’s will and whim. Even if a desperate yandere has their s/o trapped in a cage, they will most likely be afraid of displeasing their s/o in some variation or another, even if they have the upper hand.

Desperate yanderes tend to be very emotional as compared to other yanderes and tend to have problems with self-confidence or abandonment issues. Some examples might be the idea that they’re not good enough for the s/o, that if the s/o leaves them there will be nobody who will ever love them and that the s/o is the reason for their existence and without them they’re nothing. Because of this, this type of yandere is generally very emotionally fragile and is generally fairly easy to manipulate emotionally. Because of the emotional fragility that this yandere has, it’s very easy for them to panic suddenly or to break down if things don’t go their way. They tend to have mood swings to some capacity or another and are almost always clingy. A very good example of this is Yeonho from Nameless, who has an excessive fear of being abandoned by the MC. Throughout his route, we can see him do his best to please the MC, with him cooking food for only her and none of the other dolls he’s living with, forcing himself to like the rides that they go on when they’re at the amusement park and even telling her that he’s willing to be destroyed if it makes her happy. The MC starts to avoid him, as he’s become overly clingy until one day he doesn’t come home, and she finds him outside, getting a fever from the rain, standing there for so long because he believes he has no more use. Besides the tremendously sad story, we really see how much Yeonho wishes to please the MC, to the point of self-destruction.

There are a lot of ways that a desperate yandere will attempt to please their s/os or prevent them from leaving them. The first and generally most harmless is overcompensation. I’ve talked about this in my other analysis before, but the idea is that the yandere will often go overboard in showing affection because they want to please their s/o. They might plan out a date in excruciating detail, from what possible scenarios might happen and how to prevent them, or having multiple gifts based on what the s/o gives them. If something goes wrong, they might be extremely worried about the s/o’s reaction and plan accordingly to the next event. Yanderes that overcompensate like this are generally very aware of what the s/o likes and dislikes, have a fairly good memory and are usually pretty good at gathering information. This might lead to other things like stalking or blackmail in order to gather more information, but usually, these kinds of things are rather harmless. The second way is to become more like the person the s/o wants. In the most extreme case, this is adjusting the yandere’s entire personality, appearance and even gender to becoming someone else, which would put immense pressure on the yandere, and/or physical pain (like changing their height, which means adding more bone). In most cases, it’s usually smaller things, like bad habits that the s/o gets annoyed with or slight changes, like dying their hair. This can be pretty cute if written correctly, like wearing more bows because the s/o loves it when the yandere wears cute things, but it can also be pretty horrific, like if the s/o prefers girls and the yandere attempts to chop his dick off (I’m looking at you, y0urb0yfriend), but it really depends on the extent of the yandere’s desperation. I see this a lot with mangas that include traps/crossdressers, like in Hatsukoi Lovers, but this can also just apply to a situation like an s/o preferring shy smart guys and a delinquent yandere dressing up and learning more things to become more like his s/o’s preference. Feigning weakness is also another factor that desperate yanderes tend to deploy, though this is much more manipulative. This is especially if the s/o is already used to taking care of the yandere, or is very empathetic over anyone who needs help. Feigning weakness can be pretty easy for a yandere, just by simply acting dumb or pretending to be physically ill. Usually, the weakness is only feigned in front of the s/o and with everyone else, he acts “normally” as respects to his personality. Desperate yanderes tend to fake weakness like this, especially illness so that they can sort of trap the s/o into caring for them, and it allows them to spend more time together. However, this is a lot riskier than the other two actions, simply because if the s/o learns that the yandere has been faking their illness/acting dumb, they might not want to hang out with them, especially if their entire personality is around this idea. After that, the yandere might go to more desperate measures. A good example of this is from Kiss him, not me, where Takeru Mitsuboshi feigns sickness in front of Serinuma just so that she will take care of him, and when that fails, he decides to kidnap her instead. Finally, there’s the direst of actions which are self-harm or the threat of self-harm. This can be similar to overcompensating in some cases, where they overwork themselves to exhaustion or do something dangerous for the s/o, like sticking their hand in boiling water to pick up their s/o’s dropped bracelet. Usually, the lack of regard for their own safety is from their self-confidence in some manner, like not caring about their own body because the s/o’s things are more important, or not even registering the fact that they did hurt themselves since they don’t care for their own well being in the first place. Usually the threat of self-harm comes from when a desperate yandere is at their breaking point, which we’ll talk about in a bit and the actual use of self-harm might come as their own punishment for not being good enough for the s/o, or trying to destroy themselves because they just feel so worthless without them. It also is similar to how Yuri feels with it from DDLC, like a way to feel alive or get on a high. In a worst-case scenario, a desperate yandere might even attempt to have a murder-suicide with the s/o.

I think out of all yanderes, desperate yanderes are the most horrific. While yanderes that are ruthless, manipulative or cold-hearted are in their own sense pretty scary, what makes desperate yanderes truly horrifying is the unstable nature of their emotions and the sympathy you feel towards them. Because of their unstable nature and the fact that they are very afraid of upsetting their s/o, it feels a lot of the times like they might break at any second if you do something wrong, almost like walking on a tight rope. But I think what makes them really horrifying and tragic is their snapping point. While a yandere’s snapping point is the most interesting part of the story, a lot of times it feels very sudden and out of the blue. Even if a yandere has a very clear build-up to this snapping point, it tends to be behind the s/o’s back, so when they do snap, it feels more sudden towards the s/o, or that it’s rather obvious that the yandere is about to snap because of their creepy behaviors. With a desperate yandere, the implication is usually that they will snap, we just don’t know when. With the huge amount of pressure on a desperate yandere trying to please their s/o, the sudden whiplash of fear to anger or sudden sadness can be something that feels like it could be prevented but wasn’t. The sympathy also makes it more terrifying in a psychological way, since in a lot of cases, desperate yanderes are just trying to make somebody happy and failing so much that they don’t have any reason to live. Which is, in my opinion, incredibly sad, since I think to some degree most people can understand trying so hard at something only to fail and feel like they’re worthless.

While not all yanderes are desperate yanderes, a lot of them have a breaking point where they display vulnerability, and in which many of them show their more desperate side. If during their breaking point, they have a desperate moment, it gives the character a moment of weakness and vulnerability as well as gain sympathy from the audience. This especially if the yandere is a character who is generally always in control or is really cruel, by creating this moment of vulnerability, it may make the yandere at least a little more likeable or at least we can be empathetic with the reasons that they perform certain actions, even if we don’t agree with it. A show of vulnerability may also help to better show what a character is feeling internal, especially if there are hints of possible reasons for this vulnerability within the story. A good example of this would be JD from Heathers, where we learn that his mother commits suicide and his father has been neglectful since. While in the beginning, we see how he deals with these issues, freezing his brain with slushies, we don’t really see him vulnerable, at least until the song Meant to be Yours, with the lines: “Veronica, can we night fight any more please// Can we not fight anymore?// Veronica, I know you’re scared, I’ve been there, I can set you free.” where we can see more about how lonely he’s been and how scared he must have been throughout his life. Even if the actions he does are wrong, (like killing three people and then trying to kill the entire school, which ya know is pretty terrible) we can see him in a more empathetic lens of why he would perform all of these terrible things. (By the way, those verses are probably my favorite lines in the entire musical okay moving on) A show of vulnerability can also be used to create a redeemed yandere or to show a satisfying end to a villainous one. Obviously, this depends more on the actions of the yandere in question and what kind of story the yandere is in, but a break down of a yandere can either help them become redeemed or can serve as payment for villainous actions. If the yandere is a redeemed one, then he will most likely break down and start to understand how to better treat the s/o in a less obsessive manner. The breakdown usually serves as the lowest point of a yandere’s story, having lost so much that at this point he realizes that his goal cannot be achieved. Because of this, it may become a way for him to realize his wrongdoings and work to achieve a better self. On the opposite side, if a villainous yandere has been stripped of all of his power, his breakdown may be a satisfying conclusion to all of the horrible things that he’s done, akin to beating a boss in a game. This show of vulnerability may instead make his loss seem more like a victory and karma to all the terrible things he’s done.

Anyways, those are my thoughts on desperate yandere. I have got to stop writing these two days before I post these.

#male yandere #yandere boy #yandere #analysis #opinions #writing

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alphawave-writes · 5 years

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World Records and recordings NSFW Sigma x Harold Winston

Synopsis: Harold Winston is sexually frustrated, but Siebren isn't interested in sex. Or at least, that's what Harold thinks, until he catches Siebren masturbating in his room. Read below or find it on AO3

I’ve also opened up a Sigrold discord server. If you wanna gush about space dads, join the crew!

It’s taken Harold a while to acknowledge the possibility that Dr. Siebren de Kuiper may not hold any sexual interest in him. To be fair, that shouldn’t surprise him. As far as he knows, Harold is Siebren’s first serious relationship in a long, long time. And since they’ve been together, Siebren has given no indication he’s interested in sex. No passing comment, no double entendre, no sultry words or secretive wink or lingering touch. Nothing.

Harold on the other hand is sexually interested in Siebren. Very interested, if interest is measured by the amount and intensity of wet dreams and lewd fantasies a single man can have. He’s not sure when his feelings had shifted from a warm, unconditional love to this overwhelming lust. All he knows is that he’s hyper aware of every little move Siebren makes now. He sees every lick of the lips, every flutter of the eyes, and his imagination runs wild, giving him a glimpse into an alternate reality where Siebren kisses him hotly in the mouth and bends him over a table and takes him then and there, for all of the Horizon staff to see.

Harold’s lost count of the amount of times he’s let the images fly before his eyes when he’s alone in bed. He’d stroke himself off, whimpering silently to the dust in the air, imagining all the ways Siebren can have him. Every time he finishes, he’s sated but unsatisfied. Every morning he stares at Siebren’s door, just opposite his bedroom, and lets out a sigh.

It’s not like Harold beats around the bush, oh no, he makes his intentions very clear. He’s hinted many times in front of Siebren what his preferences are. He did his fair share of nudges and winks, and when that didn’t work, he opted for a more direct approach.

In hindsight, lying naked on Siebren’s bed in a provocative pose was probably not his greatest decision. It’s almost an hour when Siebren finally arrives and once he realizes that Harold is there, naked and wanting, he just stares at him for a few seconds, eyes wide. Harold tries to smile seductively even as his nerves threaten to get the better of him, but Siebren does not say a thing. Siebren walks silently up to the bed, places his hands on Harold’s shoulders, kisses him gently on the forehead, and proceeds to fall asleep next to him.

“I’m sorry, Harold,” he says apologetically the next morning. He's still wearing yesterday's clothes, his bedhead making him look wild and gorgeous. “I do love you, do not be mistaken, it’s just…better that we don’t do this kind of thing. It’ll only ruin our relationship.”

Harold frowns. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you or your feelings.” He holds Harold close and rubs his back in a soothing manner, trailing kisses down Harold's chin. It’s Siebren's way of apologizing.

And it’s fine, Harold tells himself later that day. It’s fine that Siebren’s not attracted to him whatsoever. It’s totally fine that he’s the only one who masturbates to the thought of Siebren’s dick, big and red and full of veins, pressing into the cleft of his ass, sweet nothings whispered into his ear. It's definitely fine that he can get himself hard if he so much as thinks about Siebren for too long.

Oh, who is he kidding? It’s absolutely NOT fine. They need to discuss this properly. They need to. He wants to make his relationship with Siebren work.

For all intents and purposes, it is a rather typical day on Horizon One lunar base. Harold spends half the morning chasing after Specimen 28, and the other half of the morning doing the prep work for his latest experiment. In the afternoon he has lunch, chats with the other Horizon staff, and goes about his day.

He doesn’t see Siebren at all today, which is a bit of a relief. He needs the distraction away from him. After that fiasco, things have been more than a little awkward between the two of them. Siebren doesn’t smile easily at him, an almost distant expression upon his face whenever they make eye contact. Every time Harold tries to broach the topic of sex, Siebren changes the subject or just remains unusually quiet, or even just leave the room altogether. Harold can't account this for naïve innocence or embarrassment. Siebren's avoiding him.

Harold’s frustrated, but he refuses to be the one to start this conversation. Maybe he's being stubborn, but Siebren knows how he feels. He's supposed to be smart.

Harold stares at the open door to his lab and sighs. He almost expects Siebren to come in any moment now, but he's nowhere to be seen.

He'll have to talk to me sooner or later, Harold tells himself as he gets back into his work. He can't avoid me all day.

But then the hours tick on by and Harold is still alone. Dinner comes and goes and Siebren is still nowhere to be seen. It's not just Harold who notices his absence. Even the other scientists are concerned.

“It’s your job to find him,” Yoshida says. Today is their day to do the dishes. They’re the slowest dish washer on Horizon One, but they’re also the most thorough. No one ever finds a dirty spot on their cutlery when Yoshida does the washing.

Harold sighs. “Do I have to?”

“You’re the boyfriend,” Nevsky smirks. “Or is there trouble in paradise?”

It still sounds so weird hearing the word ‘boyfriend’ to describe himself. He never thought he’d be a boyfriend to anyone, let alone to be the boyfriend of a Dutch astrophysicist with horrific eating habits and a strange aversion to footwear. Then again, he never thought he’d be taking care of genetically enhanced gorillas on the moon. “Nothing a small chat cannot fix,” he smiles tersely.

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would it?” Nevsky takes out a small, unopened bottle of lube from their lab coat. Harold’s eyes widen as he quickly snatches it away from Nevsky’s grasp, stuffing it into his own pockets.

His cheeks are crimson. Yoshida cackles loudly. The shit-eating grin Nevsky gives him is enough to make his stomach turn. “P-please tell me you didn’t snoop my room to get this.”

“It’s your fault for bringing Hammond in. He escaped his cage once again, and when we finally found him, he was chewing on the cap.” Nevsky smirks before adding, “I won’t report this to Lucheng, but maybe find a better place to hide this so the animals can’t get a hold of it. Just saying.”

Harold glances down at the bottle. Small bite marks could be seen near the top of the cap. “N-noted.”

“Hey, does that mean Harold will be the first man to have sex on the moon?” Yoshida asks.

“That’d be some world record,” Nevsky remarks. “Dr. Harold Winston, astrobiologist, zoologist. First man ever to have butt sex on the moon.”

“Doesn’t that mean Dr. de Kuiper also gets a world record?”

“They’ll both share a world record then. I mean, one of them has to perform it, and the other has to receive, right?” Nevsky turns to Harold and smirks. “No offense, Harold, but out of the two of you, you strike me as the bottom.”

“This is the part of the conversation where I go away and find Siebren and never talk to you guys again,” Harold cringes.

“Let me know how it goes,” Nevsky yells as Harold leaves the dining area. “Guinness will probably want all the details for your new world record.”

Harold checks Siebren’s lab, half expecting him to be distracted with his work, but he’s nowhere to be found. His lab is clean and well-kept, almost like he hasn’t been in it at all. To say it’s strange is an understatement. Siebren practically lives and breathes in his lab. He’s probably spent more time in this lab than he’s spent in his own bedroom, or any other part of the lunar base. Something must be wrong, Harold realizes. He’s got one other place to check.

Harold finds himself outside of Siebren’s private room, waiting by the door. He’s done his best to avoid even looking at Siebren’s door. After yesterday, it’s going to be so awkward. And it’s mostly his fault for making it awkward, he knows that, but one look at Siebren nowadays and his fantasies run wild. It’s easy to imagine Siebren’s large hands pinning him to the wall, his thrusts powerful and hard, a smug smirk drifting on top of his crimson face as he leaves Harold a shuddering mess.

He shakes his head, ignoring the heat rising up his cheeks. He doesn’t need this. Quick in and quick out. Tell Siebren he's missed dinner. Let him figure out why Harold’s frustrated in his own time.

Harold lets out a breath and presses his palm to the hand scanner. The door slides open.

As he suspects, Siebren is in his room, sitting at his desk. His back is facing Harold, hunched over and slumped as he gazes at the papers strewn across the hard surface. He’s got headphones on but the wires have since frayed slightly, some of the sound leaking. It’s faint, but Harold can just make out voices talking over a jazzy tune. A podcast, he thinks.

“Come on, Siebren, you spent all day in here?” Harold tuts silently. Siebren hasn’t noticed him at all. He’s too distracted with his podcast. A small smirk spreads across Harold’s face as an idea forms in his head.

He tiptoes forward, his steps as quiet as possible, ready to sneak up and surprise Siebren. A part of him tells him it’s petty revenge. The other part of him tells him it’s a way to alleviate some of his frustrations. The reason doesn’t matter. Before he can surprise Siebren proper, a loud shudder escapes his lips. The noise is lewd, desperate, a far cry from the strict properness of Siebren’s speech. It’s enough to make Harold stop in his tracks.

He's close enough to hear the words filtering from Siebren’s headphones. Two men are talking to each other in low, seductive tones. One has a deep yet weak voice. The other sounds a lot like Harold himself, only far more assertive and much more aroused.

“You’ll do as I say,” The Harold voice-alike breathes. There's heat and possessiveness in his tone.

“Y-yes,” the deep voiced man quivered.

“Yes, what, exactly?”

“Y-yes, master.”

“Good. Now, stay still for me. Don’t move one little bit.”

The noises that follow after are suggestive and revealing at the same time. There’s the loud noise of a zipper being pulled down, hushed moans and gasps, whispered compliments breathed in an erotic tone as the jazz gets louder, and then the wet noises of a man swallowing another’s cock.

Siebren lets his head fall onto his left arm, muffling his noises. Harold’s eyes trail down Siebren’s right arm, disappearing into his lap, moving up and down rhythmically. He should be mad, but a part of him is aroused by the sight of Siebren pleasuring himself to these voices, vulnerable and blushing.

Suddenly the door to Siebren’s room automatically closes with an audible swish. Siebren freezes in place, twisting his head slowly over his shoulder. His eyes are wide. His mouth is agape.

“S-siebren?”

He stops the recording, takes the headphones off his ears and quickly swivels his chair around to face the desk.

“Siebren,” Harold huffs.

He stomps his way forward and forcefully turns the chair to face him. Siebren averts his gaze, all of a sudden captivated with his empty bookshelf. His hands are folded over his crotch, his thick legs pressed together so tightly. Next to the pile of papers on Siebren’s desk is an empty plate, scraps of today’s breakfast coating the surface.

“Have you been in your room all day?” Harold admonishes.

Siebren scowls shamefully. “It…won’t calm down.”

“You…what?” Harold's eyebrows furrow.

“I-I don’t listen to this out of pleasure,” Siebren gestures at his headphones. “I just need to calm it down. Get on with my work. B-but my body does not heed my commands today.”

Harold gazes down to Siebren’s crotch and gulps. He can’t see anything with Siebren’s hands in the way, but he can see that his pants have been undone, pulled lower over his hips for easier access. Orange boxers peek over hip bones, slid down slightly to reveal a tuft of thick hair.

Harold takes a shaky breath in and out. He doesn’t know what to feel anymore. Laying naked on a bed doesn’t do anything for Siebren, but a few guys fucking on stereo do? But then one of those guys sounded an awful lot like him. He purses his lips and shakes the thought away. He’s got bigger problems. More immediate problems.

“How long has…it…not calmed down?” Harold asks slowly.

“P-probably just over an hour now.”

“Only an hour?”

“This is the fourth time today I’ve had this particular problem.” Siebren flushes. “It doesn’t stay away for long.”

“And why doesn’t it stay away?”

Siebren huffs, but he doesn’t reply. His crimson blush has reached down to his neck and hands. His jaw is clenched tight, his body squirms, a far cry from the confident and suave man that Harold knows. His dazed eyes give Harold the answer Siebren’s lips don’t speak. Harold wasn't the only one with the hyperactive imagination today, it seems.

Harold doesn’t stop looking at Siebren’s pants. He’s had fantasies like this. Siebren would be properly dressed, just unzipping his pants to unveil his thick cock peeking from his underwear. He would lead Harold down onto his knees, pulling his head forward into his CROTCH. Siebren will give him the simple but powerful command to “suck” and Harold would eagerly do as Siebren says, watching and waiting for Siebren’s cool façade to slowly break as he moans to the stars.

His throat feels so dry as he braces his hand on Siebren’s chair. He’s not sure what expression is on his face, but he knows it must be intense, because Siebren exhales noisily through his nostrils, the hot air caressing Harold’s cheek. He places his other hand over Siebren’s, their gazes connected.

“Let me help you.”

“N-no,” he whispers.

“Please,” Harold insists.

Siebren whines, but he puts up no resistance when Harold pushes his hands aside. He sucks in a breath as his cock springs upward, suddenly exposed to the cool air. Harold’s eyes are as big as balloons.

“Gosh,” he breathes, because really, what else can he say about a cock like this? Even considering Siebren’s height, it’s massive, bulging blood vessels lining up from the base of his cock all the way up to the red, glistening head. It’s almost straight, with a slight lean to the left, the length so long that if Siebren was shirtless, Harold thinks it goes past his bellybutton. It leaks eagerly, precum covering the surface in a wet sheen.

It’s not what Harold expects Siebren’s dick to look like. It’s so much bigger than he expected. It’s so much better than anything his brain could’ve conjured.

Before Harold can stop himself, his hand wraps around Siebren’s shaft.

“H-Harold,” Siebren hisses.

“You’re thick too.” His hand strokes upwards slowly, all the way up to the head. He never thought Siebren would react like this, a fist over his mouth, gaze averted, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. It’s a side of him Harold’s never seen before. The Siebren he knows is prim and proper, a haughty gentleman with a strict routine and stricter standards. It’s nothing like this Siebren, beautiful and blushing and vulnerable.

He wants more. He wants to see more.

Harold gets down on his knees and leans forward, inhaling deeply. The scent of Siebren’s dick is heavy and musky and a bit overwhelming but it’s Siebren’s scent, and that’s all that matters. He strokes just a bit faster, the pressure on his fingers just a bit harder. Siebren quivers from his touch, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’s finally staring at him with those mesmerizing blue eyes, cloudy with desire. It's such an undeniably erotic expression, and Harold's the one to bring it to the surface.

“I-I don’t have any lube,” Siebren whimpers.

“I’ve smuggled some.”

“You, Dr. Harold Winston, smuggled lube onto a lunar base?” Siebren almost sounds impressed.

Harold smirks. “I’m prepared.”

Siebren splutters as he turns his head away. “W-well, I don’t have condoms.”

“We don’t need them.”

Siebren’s lips dip. He’s trying and failing to find another excuse, another reason to stop this. Siebren can’t say he doesn’t want this, because they both know he does. He leans back into his chair, legs spread to accommodate Harold, fists clenched at his side as Harold jerks him faster.

“Y-you don’t want this. Don’t want me,” Siebren says in a hoarse whisper. He moans softly as Harold’s other hand begin to caress his balls. “I-I’m too big. I would only hurt you.”

“Is that why you refused me earlier? Because you think I’ll break up with you because your dick is humongous?” Harold says incredulously.

Siebren blushes furiously. “When you put it like that…”

Harold can’t help but laugh quietly, if only to ease the tension building on Siebren’s shoulders. “Siebren, I’m already on my knees for you. And I’m old.” He licks a long, slow stripe up Siebren’s cock. “I don’t mind taking it as slow as we need to.”

His lips wrap eagerly around Siebren’s head. Above him, Siebren groans loudly. One hand plucks the glasses off his face and deposits them on the desk behind him. The other is on his head, fingers curling into his short brown locks. Siebren doesn’t pull or tug. His touch is soft and delicate, like he’s handling a porcelain doll that will break at any moment.

“Do you want this?” Harold whispers, nuzzling into Siebren’s groin. The pubic hairs tickle his nose. It takes all his effort to suppress a chuckle. “I’ll stop if you want me to. Won’t ever ask for sex if you don’t want it.”

“I…” Siebren finally turns his gaze down to Harold. His smile is small, shy, and utterly gorgeous. His hand sweeps down Harold’s skull. “I do want this, my love, just…slow, please.”

Harold smiles. He presses a soft kiss to the underside of Siebren’s cock. “I can do slow.”

Siebren shivers. “It didn’t seem like it earlier. You all but forced yourself on me.”

“Well, OK, maybe I wasn’t slow earlier, but I’ll go slow from now on.” I think I’ll need to with this monster, Harold thinks to himself.

“G-good.”

Harold feels the hand on the back of his head pull him forward. His lips are once more on the tip of Siebren’s dick, sucking lightly, making sure not to graze his teeth too harshly. The taste on his tongue is powerful, and not entirely pleasant, but Siebren’s groaning softly now, his hand ruffling Harold’s hair while the other one slides up his shirt, massaging slow circles over his nipple, and it’s all worth it.

When he thinks his jaw is relaxed enough, Harold presses further until he can feel Siebren’s dick on the back of his throat. Siebren moans, the vibrations running down to Harold’s open mouth, making him shudder. His pants feel so tight and his body feels so hot, but he’s got a job to do. He bops his head up and down slowly, settling on a controlled pace, dragging his tongue along every square inch of flesh it can reach.

“Good,” Siebren sighs. “V-very good.” There are other Dutch words mixed in as well that Harold doesn’t understand—synonyms for “good”, he guesses. He moans in response, and makes the mistake of gazing up into Siebren’s cool blue eyes. The look he gives Harold is heated and intense, like he plucked the stars out of the sky and placed them beneath his irises. It's so erotic. It's so unfair.

Harold feels himself getting hard with every second. The pressure is just too much. He palms himself slowly in full view of Siebren, a reasonably difficult job with a dick in his mouth but achievable. He groans lowly, uncoiling with the friction.

“Harold,” Siebren gasps. He’s close, and it’s obvious from the way he squirms with every little flick of Harold’s tongue. His hand is firm on Harold’s head now, holding it in place. “P-Please tell me you also smuggled condoms.”

Harold’s lips leave Siebren’s dick with a pop, a trail of saliva and precum hanging off his chin. “I-I do.” His gaze drops. “A-at least, I think I do. Why?”

“I don’t want our first time to end like this.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want…” Siebren trails off, his eyes sliding down Harold’s chest, resting at his hips. His eyes are cloudy. “I don’t know. Just as long as it’s you.”

“So you do want me?”

“Of course I do,” he breathes seductively.

Harold suppresses a gasp. There’s butterflies in his chest, flying in every direction, making him feel warm and fuzzy. His hand goes up to Siebren’s knee, rubbing slow circles. “I want you too. Preferably before the condoms expire.”

Siebren’s lips purse, his head suddenly lowers, and then he laughs, dispelling the tension in the air. Harold tries to pout, but it’s difficult not to smile when Siebren’s laughing so childishly like this, mouth wide and open, eyes scrunched in happiness. This is the Siebren he knows. This is the Siebren he loves.

Siebren pulls Harold up slowly so they’re both standing on their own two feet. His hand lowers down to Harold’s chin, caressing his jaw softly before kissing him passionately. It’s unlike any of their previous kisses. It’s warm and passionate, open-mouthed and wanting. His tongue spars with Harold’s eagerly, drawing out as many sounds as it can. The moans that leaves Harold’s throat are obscene, lewd.

“S-Sieb?” Harold breathes when their mouths drift away.

Siebren swipes his thumb over Harold's chin and brings it up to his tongue, licking slowly. He smacks his lips loudly, his face scrunched up. “Is that what I taste like?”

“You don’t know what you taste like?”

“You do?”

“Well, one of us is the weird one here,” Harold raises his eyebrows.

“I’m going to say it’s you, my love,” Siebren smirks.

“You’re the one who kissed me, knowing exactly where my mouth’s been.” Harold’s hand traces down Siebren’s shirt as he presses a kiss to Siebren’s neck. Electricity fizzles warmly on his lips, traveling down his spine. “Perhaps we should take this back to my room then?”

“I suppose we shall,” Siebren glances down at his still-hard dick and frowns. “Although perhaps I might need to take care of this.”

“Your jacket’s big enough to hide it.” He takes Siebren’s hand in his and leads him out of the room before Siebren can argue otherwise, giggling at the surprised yelp that spills out of Siebren’s mouth.

It’s a quick trip to Harold’s bedroom next door to get the condoms. Turns out the lube bottle wasn’t the only victim from Hammond’s ‘attack’. As he opens his bedside drawer, he notices that his box of condoms is also lightly chewed at the edge, though a quick inspection inside prove that the condoms within are unaffected. He breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't want to give Siebren an excuse to stop this.

“Found them?” Siebren asks teasingly. He’s sitting down at the foot of Harold’s bed, smirking lightly as he rests backwards on his elbows. Harold laughs as he crosses the threshold to the bed and sits in Siebren’s lap. He’s pulled into a crushing kiss, full of teeth and tongue, textures and tastes and wonderful sounds. A hand reaches over his shoulder, pulling his lab coat down to his elbows.

God, they’re really going to do this. Siebren is going to strip his clothes off and pin him down to the bed and make love with him. Siebren actually wants him. This is really happening.

“Sieb,” Harold gasps. He barely has the necessary brain power to get the box of condoms and lube out of his coat pockets and place them on the bed. The rest of his thoughts are all on Siebren’s touch, Siebren’s love, Siebren’s everything.

“Let me do this,” he whispers. “It’s the least I can do.”

In a flurry of hand motions, Harold’s coat is gone. His turtleneck is next, Siebren guiding Harold’s arms up, pulling the fabric up and over his head. Siebren pauses for a second to admire his chest before his tongue latches onto Harold’s neck, sucking lightly. A shudder escapes Harold’s throat. Fingers move lower, fumbling at his zipper. Pants are slid down, and then underwear, thrown off in some direction behind his back.

Harold feels the sharp inhale on his neck, and then a nervous chuckle. Siebren palms his half-hard dick, rubbing softly. “Just as I thought. You are beautiful,” Siebren utters.

Harold blushes self-consciously. “So you have thought of me like this?”

“I have,” Siebren quietly admits. “Thought of you—thought of the both of us—in many different situations.” He smiles. “Not all of them were entirely innocent.”

Harold sweeps his hand over the stretch of belly peeking out from under Siebren’s shirt. His mind is swimming. Now that he knows Siebren feels the same way, the possibilities feel endless. “What are you thinking now?” Harold whispers.

“That I want you. That I want to please you.” Siebren kisses Harold's collarbone. “That I love you dearly.”

“So sappy,” Harold giggles as he pulls Siebren close for another kiss. “I love you too.”

Harold doesn’t have near the same amount of patience when it came to stripping Siebren, taking the pieces off one at a time and throwing them over his shoulder. He only gets a moment to admire Siebren’s broad, hairy chest and strong muscles and flushed cheeks. Siebren pulls him in and reverses their positions, Harold's back pressed to the mattress. Kisses and licks are exchanged eagerly. True to Siebren’s request, they’re passionate but slow, patient and wet and warm. Everything Harold wants and more.

Harold hears the sound of the lube bottle popping open before he sees it. It squelches deliciously as it oozes down Siebren’s fingers, covering them in a glistening sheen. Siebren's smile is soft yet shy.

“I must warn you, it’s been a long while since I’ve done this,” Siebren says.

“No offense, but I’d be surprised if it hasn’t been a long time for you, Sieb.”

Siebren just smirks as he spreads the lube over Harold’s puckered asshole. Harold hisses lowly. “That certainly keeps you quiet,” Siebren laughs.

Harold has a retort, but words don’t make much sense when he's got a finger in his ass, slowly working itself in and out. There’s the squelch of more lube, and suddenly there’s another finger, scissoring with the other, grazing over his prostate.

“E-easy, tiger,” Harold sighs.

“Be patient. I need to prepare you thoroughly.”

“Xīn gān, I think I’ll be finished by the time I’m prepared, at this rate.”

“Patience, mijn schatje,” Siebren insists.

There’s a third finger, and then a fourth, moving slowly, careful not to stimulate him too much and push him off the cliff. For a moment Harold thinks that maybe he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He already feels so full with four fingers, but Siebren’s cock is much thicker than that. It’s hard to relax when there’s a hand on his belly, pressing lightly into his pudgy flesh, distracting him.

But eventually those fingers slide out of him, and Harold groans loudly, feeling empty all of a sudden. There’s the slick slide of more lube down Siebren’s cock, and then the crinkle of the condom wrapper being torn. Harold watches with hooded eyes as Siebren puts the condom on slowly.

Harold smiles. “Ever been told you put on a condom sexily?”

“No,” Siebren blinks. “There’s a non-sexy way to do it?”

Harold chuckles. “Maybe I’ll show you one day.”

“I’d rather you not,” Siebren responds wryly. He squeezes Harold’s hips lightly. “Turn around for me.”

Harold gives a knowing smirk, but does as Siebren says. He’s flat on his stomach, his arms folded over the pillow. Siebren’s hand glides down from his ass to his thighs, tapping at them rhythmically. Harold slowly slides his legs wider until Siebren taps him to stop. Siebren hums indulgently, leaning down to kiss constellations on Harold’s back.

His cock rocks into the crack of Harold’s ass, slow and steady, a dizzying friction. Strangled noises escape Harold's throat. He's so sensitive all of a sudden, hyperaware of every little touch and sound. He's no longer aware of the four walls that surround his bedroom or the volume of his moans. The only thing in his universe is Siebren.

"Tell me when you're ready," Siebren whispers.

"G-gosh, Sieb," he pants.

"You haven't answered me."

"Sieb, I've been ready for weeks, please, don't make me wait any longer."

There's another slow kiss to the junction between his neck and shoulder. The lips pressed on his skin curl up into a smirk. "If you say so," he hums.

The tip presses against Harold's entrance before penetrating and he groans obscenely, grabbing a fistful of the pillow. Siebren’s hands are on his hips, rubbing circles with his thumbs, urging him to relax. It stings, and it definitely burns despite the liberal amounts of lube they’ve used, but the slide is good. Real good. Siebren's pace is measured and tempered, his arms surrounding Harold from both sides, hips rocking melodically. Harold almost wishes he could turn around just so he could see Siebren’s flushed face prickled with beads of sweat. It’d be beautiful, vulnerable. Absolutely breathtaking.

“You want this,” Siebren pants. It’s a statement, not a question, but it begs for an answer regardless.

“Y-yeah,” Harold manages. “For a while now.”

“Have you imagined this?”

Harold opens his mouth to respond but then Siebren thrusts at just the right angle and the stars begin to flicker behind his eyes. “Right there, r-right…yes, there.”

Siebren’s breath hitches, his hips momentarily losing their rhythm. “D-don’t stop talking,” he pleads.

Harold shouldn’t be completely surprised that his talking is turning Siebren on—he did just catch him moments ago getting off to some erotica podcast. But the fact that his voice alone can make Siebren lose his composure so easily sends a dark thrill up his spine.

“Imagined you…coming into my room once,” Harold admits. Siebren groans lewdly, making Harold chuckle lightly. “You’d tell me how much you wanted me, that you had to have me, and you’d lose all control. Rip my clothes off and order me around. Make me yours.”

"M-more," Siebren breathes.

"You'd order me to stay on all fours while you take me from behind. You'd be so brutal on me, but it would feel so good. You wouldn't hold back whatsoever. I'd be at your utter mercy and I would love every second of it."

Siebren does something in between a pant and a huff of laughter as he buries his nose into Harold’s shoulder. His chest is pressed into Harold’s back. Gravity pulls their bodies so close, leaving no square inch of their skin untouched. “I-I don’t think I’m the kind to order you around like that.” His pace is getting faster. His thrusts are pushing deeper. “D-don’t think I can last much longer either.”

It’s only then that Harold becomes aware of heat and density pooling in his groin, not unlike the death of a supergiant star. There’s no longer any semblance of tempo to Siebren’s hips, thrusting wildly one second, and then achingly slow the next. Siebren’s moaning now, the hot breath tickling the tip of his ears. He’s whispering of comet tails and the infinite realms of space, sweet nothings that mean nothing except for the two of them. The arms surrounding his figure are shaking, shaking fists gripping tightly onto the covers.

Harold’s hand reaches for Siebren’s, wrapping his fingers over and squeezing. At once, the arms stop shaking. Siebren exhales loudly, curling forward, thrusting harder. “M-Mijn Schatje, please.”

“Hold it together,” Harold pleads. “Just a bit longer. Want you inside. Want you inside me, Sieb.”

“Harold,” Siebren gasps.

“I’m so close. One more moment.”

He feels one of the arms move around him, and a hand turns his face to the side. Before he realises what's happening, Siebren’s mouth crashes into his, tongue flicking eagerly, hips gliding fluidly, pressing constantly at his prostate and it’s so much pleasure, almost too much pleasure. Within seconds, Harold’s muscles tense as a loud, long moan leaves his lips, swallowed by Siebren’s tongue. The supernova explodes in his veins, searing him with light from the inside, turning him into a shuddery mess.

Siebren groans loudly and soon he too is lost to the world, cumming soon after. He collapses on Harold’s back, pressing tightly, shivering violently. Harold closes his eyes, losing himself to the waves. The stars before him give way to nebulas, then galaxies, then the universe, and it’s beautiful and perfect.

It’s many minutes later after the supernova has faded that Harold feels Siebren shift above him, lifting himself off and up before collapsing by Harold’s side. He’s breathing heavily, cheeks and body flushed, tired but sated. He looks absolutely gorgeous like this, Harold thinks. He wouldn’t mind seeing Siebren like this a little bit more.

It’s a long while before Siebren realizes Harold is staring at him. His eyes droop down from Harold's face to his hand. Slowly, he reaches out for them, intertwining his fingers, squeezing gently.

“You did not regret this, did you?” Siebren asks quietly.

“Maybe tomorrow morning I will,” Harold teases, rubbing his backside for emphasis. Siebren just raises his eyebrows incredulously. Harold chuckles. “I’m kidding. No, I do not regret this.” Quieter, he adds, “You did wonderful.”

Siebren releases a breath. “Good,” he smiles before clearing his throat loudly. “You did…you did fine as well.”

“Just fine?” Harold laughs.

“OK, you did more than fine,” Siebren rolled his eyes, smiling softly. He nuzzles closer into Harold. “You were also wonderful.”

Harold smiles softly. Siebren’s compliments never fail to ignite the sparks in his chest. It's not enough for him to ask for another round, but it's enough to make him feel warm and blissful in the afterglow.

“Does that mean you want me?”

An embarrassed blush caresses his face as he pouts. "C-could you clarify?"

"We both know what I mean. The next step. You know..." he gestures at the empty space between their naked bodies. "This."

"I do," Siebren whispers. Suddenly, as if just catching himself, averts his gaze. He bites his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling. "S-sorry. About earlier, about me avoiding you. The last few times I got to this stage of a relationship I've...intimidated people with my size. I thought you would be the same. Clearly, I underestimated you."

"Clearly," Harold laughs. He snuggles closer into Siebren, lying his head under his chin. "So you don't mind if we do this from now on?"

"Do what, exactly?" His grin betrays the otherwise innocent tone in his question.

"Sex. Making love." Harold smirks. "Fucking."

"So crude," Siebren teases. He laughs softly as he envelopes Harold in his arms, pressing another slow kiss to his forehead. "Yes. I am ready. Although maybe not for the last one."

Harold smiles softly as he curls into Siebren's arms. There are so many things on his mind. He wants to know what Siebren likes and doesn't like during sex, if he has any kinks of his own, if perhaps they've got mutual fantasies that they want to try some time in the future. He wants to talk about it now so they are better prepared for next time, because he's sure next time will be even more spectacular than tonight, but Siebren is drifting away in his arms, already lulling off to sleep.

Harold smiles sleepily to himself as he stares at Siebren's sleeping form, brushing his hand over Siebren's warm cheek. Perhaps he can have that discussion some other day. He doesn't need to rush it. They're old men, with experience and time under their belt. As long as time is linear and the future is unwritten, they can go as slow as they want.

It’s late when they finally make their way to the breakroom for breakfast the next morning. Harold was in a mad scramble to find his glasses, only to realise he left them in Siebren’s room. Siebren himself was having an ethical dilemma on the proper disposal of used condoms in space, before admitting defeat and chucking it in his room’s sole bin. And then there was Siebren dressing and undressing and then re-dressing, which cost a bit of precious time. But they’re reasonably presentable, in fresh clothes, and best of all, they don’t look freshly fucked when they finally arrive in the kitchen.

It’s too easy for them to fall into familiar habits. Harold makes his way for the kitchen counter to make himself a sandwich while Siebren presses his tea order into the machine. “Make me a coffee,” he sleepily asks.

“Sure,” Siebren gruffly responds, tapping in Harold’s order. He's already memorised it long ago. The flat white is finished just as Harold plates up his PB&J sandwich. Siebren has already placed the drink near Harold’s usual seat, sipping his tea quietly in his own chair right beside Harold's.

Harold makes himself comfortable, sitting down and opening up the tablet he brought with himself and doing his daily sweep at the lunar colony’s integrity and the gorillas’ vitals. He bites into his sandwich, only aware in that moment of two eyes watching him. Siebren smiles softly at him, a knowing glint in his eyes. Harold can't stop the smile from spreading on his face as he takes a sip of coffee.

He barely glances up in time to see Yoshida and Nevsky approach them, smiling slyly. There’s the pop of a party popper, then the toot of a party pipe, performed by Yoshida and Nevsky respectively. Siebren jumps in his seat.

“Congratulations on your world record,” Yoshida laughs.

Siebren’s brows furrow in confusion. “What world record?”

“Oh no,” Harold murmurs.

From behind his back, Nevsky brings out two official looking documents. They’re both identical copies of the Guiness World Record certificate, with the original text whited out crudely, new text photoshopped on top. Nevsky hands one to Siebren, before sliding the other one to Harold.

On Harold’s certificate it reads ‘The world’s first butt sex on the moon was performed by Dr. Harold Winston (USA/China) and Dr. Siebren de Kuiper (The Netherlands) on Horizon One Lunar Colony.’

From the way Siebren’s face paled, Harold assumed his certificate read the same thing.

Yoshida and Nevsky are cackling like hyenas, tears of laughter streaming down their faces. Harold’s only saving grace is that none of the other scientists are here, though by the amplitude of the laughter, the others might be attracted to the noise sooner or later.

“O-oh god, they really did it. Look at how they’re blushing. Look,” Yoshida heaves.

“Who’s the bottom?” Nevsky asks.

“Probably Harold. Look at how he’s sitting.”

Harold winces, not necessarily because his ass is a little bit battered from last night, but because his dirty laundry has practically been aired out for all to see.

“You two,” Siebren growls.

“Oh my god, I have to tell Zhang and Flores,” Nevsky giggles.

“You have to tell us all the details,” Yoshida says to Harold and Siebren. “I mean, someone’s gotta tell Guinness about this world achievement.” Yoshida and Nevsky continue to laugh.

Siebren stands up slowly, glares at the two, and then picks up both certificates in his hands and rips them into shreds. Their laughter quickly dies.

Harold stands up with a carefully neutral expression. He gobbles his sandwich up and drinks the coffee in one go, wiping his lips of the excess.

“If anybody needs me, I’m going to throw myself out of airlock E-35," Harold emotionlessly.

Siebren takes a few seconds to glare evilly at Yoshida and Nevsky before turning to Harold. "I'll join you."

#Overwatch #Sigma #Siebren de kuiper #Harold Winston #Sigrold #I am ashamed of how proud I am of this smut fic #The word count is 6700 words!!!#I didn't make a podfic of this #The only way I'll be convinced to write a podfic of this is if I got commissioned #If you guys can support me by reblogging this that would be super appreciated

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enaasteria · 5 years

Text

Lost and Found // Baekhyun

// Prompt Request—“Have you seen my hoodie?” // Requested by—@baekyung // Artist AU, Soulmate AU, attempt at fluff but probably more aligned to angst

A/N: It was supposed to be a drabble but it turned into this monster. I’m very sorry.

“You’re staring at him again,” my seat mate, Mari, teases. She pokes me with an unused paintbrush before packing up the rest of her supplies at the end of class. It breaks me out of my reverie and I massage the slight throbbing in my arm, playing off her scrutiny of where my eyes may have wandered.

“We’re supposed to look at him.”

“Yeah, while we’re painting his figure. I’m not sure if that includes when he dresses and undresses.”

“I—I—wa—I wasn’t staring at him undress—was I?” I ask, almost mortified at the thought of being so pathetically obvious in how besotted I am over this semester’s male model, Byun Baekhyun.

“If laser eyes existed in this world, you would’ve burned two holes into his chest.”

“I wasn’t staring at his chest.”

“Oh? Was it his—

I lunge forward, almost dropping my art supply bin, to stop her from verbally embarrassing me more so than she already has as one by one the students exit the classroom. “I wasn’t.”

“Fine, fine. You weren’t, but who would blame you if you did,” she says with a wave of her hand while she waits for me to finish packing up. “He is, after all, rather aesthetically pleasing.”

“More than aesthetically pleasing.”

“Oh?”

I look at her, realizing I divulged more than what I usually do in terms of my infatuation for Baekhyun. It was harmless intrigue in the beginning. I saw him through the eyes of a painter because he was unbelievably beautiful. His soft cheeks, the strawberry toned hair ruffling over his eyes, the benevolent grin seemingly etched into his face. It was as if there was a light exuding from him—a type of warmth I tried to capture with my paintbrushes every day. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you and I both know exactly what you meant.”

The comment makes me grimace because there’s no denying I like him. Down to the very essence, I like him in a way I can’t explain within words, in drawings, or even fathom how I’ve never felt my heartstrings tug for another in a way it does for Baekhyun.

As much as I wish for a little more from the very man I paint from on a daily basis, I realize how futile these inner desires truly are. Because it’s all I can do. I can only look at him. I can only draw him and the single thought continually spreads a debilitating ache throughout every part of my soul.

Mari watches as my expression reaches the fine line of acceptance and hurt and places a supportive hand on my shoulder. “He could be, you know. He could be your—”

I stop her before she voices it—the dreaded ‘soulmate’ terminology of which we all live and abide by. In our world, there’s a person we’re meant to be with. They’re our match in every possible way and while I do harbor feelings for Baekhyun in the acutest kind, I realize the chance of him being that person made out to be my other half is zero to none. “He’s not.”

“He could be.”

“The universe has never and would never be so kind.”

“You never know.” She changes her pitch, turning it into a rather singsongy tune as we exit the drawing room.

We make our way down the hallway with our art portfolio cases hanging on our shoulders and from the corner of my eye, I see her bite her bottom lip. She’s toying with whether to voice out the obvious because whenever she tries to mention the word soulmate to me, immediately following will be a discussion about my birthday—my 20th birthday to be exact and one which will happen at the stroke of midnight.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“Is anyone ever ready to find out who their soulmate is on their 20th birthday?”

There’s a slight shock to her face as she hears me say the word I usually avoid. And it’s because I have a hard time admitting how the word scares me. I’m horrifically afraid what I’ll feel for my soulmate will never amount to the way I feel for Baekhyun.

I let out a sigh and push away the apprehension, figuring I’ll deal with it when it comes. But as a good friend should, she empathizes with my worries and connects her free arm within mine. “I definitely wasn’t ready.”

“Yet, you won’t tell me how it happens so I can prepare myself.”

She scoffs as her eyes crinkle at the edges, perhaps remembering how she found out who her fated person was all those months ago. “It’s because I don’t know how to explain it. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. What about your parents? Did they say anything?”

“Yeah—but it only made me more confused.”

“What did they say?”

“They called it—lost and found.”

For a while, I tried interpreting their meaning. I wondered if it meant physically losing something with my soulmate finding and returning it or if it was just a metaphor beyond my comprehension. In the end, all I was left with was a whole new set of unanswered questions. Though, I don’t get a chance to hear Mari’s take on it as a familiar voice calls out my name.

The sound instantly stills my heart as I’ve memorized his pitch and tone as much as I’ve memorized the details of his body from head to toe. I’m frozen in footing as my grip on Mari tightens. She doesn’t let go as we both see Baekhyun jog up to where we’re standing.

“Hey—” he starts off and per his norm, his smile is already tugging at the far corners of his mouth.

I’m not sure where the courage is coming from but my mouth responds on its own (albeit it’s just a single greeting and to my defense, it is one word more than what I’ve said to him all year). “Hi.”

Mari untangles herself from my grasp. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’s about to abandon me within the matter of seconds so I’ll suffer through this sudden interaction alone. “I have to catch the bus, but I’ll see you next class. Happy birthday and let me know how it goes tonight—okay?”

I mentally plead her to stay but all she gives back are sly winks and unexplainable eyebrow raises. What’s a little more alarming other than her leaving me to fend for myself is the fact she mentioned my birthday for Baekhyun to hear.

My free hand reaches up to my forehead, scratching an imaginary itch and hope he doesn’t read too heavily into any of it. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s nothing serious but Professor Moon mentioned you might be able to help me.” He looks hopeful and I do my best not to get lost in his blinding presence.

It’s hard enough being in the same room with him while painting his male form but it’s a whole other issue trying to concentrate on holding a proper conversation with him. With the former, at least I had a legitimate reason to only look at him. This is worlds different and is by far, a suffering I never thought I’d have to endure. “Yeah, of course. What is it?”

“Please don’t laugh,” he begins and my heart plummets as I see his eyes shine in the most innocent way. “I usually wear a certain hoodie to your painting class.”

“Right—the sapphire blue one with the white logo design running across the chest,” I say it all without thinking until the cold terror washes down my body. I only memorized that hoodie because it’s the outfit he wore the first time I met him and he’s worn it every day since. But voicing that little fact makes me out to be a strange person and the feeling of wanting to run into a ditch and live there for all of time comes in full force. “I—I me—I mean—artist’s eyes, you know. I notice a lot of details.”

He cranes his neck while his gaze roams about my face. It’s a small little action but one I make note of due to this being the closest I’ve ever stood next to him. I pray he doesn’t sense anything off and to my relief, he doesn’t question or dive deeper into my odd remark.

Instead, his stare goes on for a second too long before something clicks within him and he speaks again. “Yeah, that’s the one. I must’ve left it behind or misplaced it. I asked Professor Moon if she’s seen it around the classroom but she didn’t. She suggested I ask you since you work in the Art Department office and there’s a lost and found box. I was wondering if you’ve seen my hoodie there by any chance?”

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t,” I say with a shake of my head.

Baekhyun’s lips press together into a pout and it’s the saddest look I’ve ever witnessed on him. The melancholy expression doesn’t suit him and I go through every possible method to think and come up with a way to help him.

“But we can go check—the office, I mean. We can check the office. I only work three days out of the week so someone might’ve turned it in.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother you if you had plans—

“It’s ok. I don’t mind,” I say because if there was a choice between going home to an empty apartment or having a few more minutes with Baekhyun, I would choose him time and time again. “I didn’t make any plans so—” My voice fades into a whisper at the end as I urge him to follow me to the art office one building over.

I try to make it a quick walk but it seems Baekhyun has other ideas as his pace is much slower than mine. He digs his lithe fingers into his jean pockets as he takes one foot after another down the outdoor steps.

When he reaches the sidewalk, he brings up the very words I love to avoid. “So, your birthday is tonight.” He watches as I writhe about in imaginary pain. It causes a low chuckle to escape from his chest while he waits for my answer.

“Unfortunately, it is.”

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

“Not a fan of this birthday,” I correct.

“Ah—that one.”

I take quick glances at him and find it more of a surprise seeing him return my gaze. But since his attractive face is difficult for me to handle in large doses, I turn my main focus towards the pavement below. “Did you have yours already?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh. So you know then—” I swallow and find the sudden lump situated at the base of my throat making it hard for me to breathe. “You know who your soulmate is.”

“Mhmm. I know who she is.”

“Does she know—that you’re her soulmate?” The bitter words feel like salt on my wounds but I’m not even sure why I’m asking. The only plausible result waiting for me at the finish line is more angst and agony. Maybe a part of me wants to know in hopes it’ll make tonight a little bit more bearable—solidifying into stone how I was right in thinking Baekhyun wasn’t my soulmate after all.

Baekhyun shakes his head, his locks tousling over his almond eyes. “No, not yet. I’m trying my best to keep myself from getting too close to her until she does find out.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. I have this irrational fear she won’t like me so for now, I’m staying away and just hoping for the best.”

“Hope.” I breathe out the one word and find so much familiarity in it because it’s exactly how I feel when I look at Baekhyun.

I hope even when I realize it’s hopeless to do so.

Tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ear, I give him a sad smile before we reach the building. I change the topic since this might be the only time I’ll ever have a conversation with him in our lives and I’d rather it not be so dreary and bleak.

“I’m sure she’ll like you—especially in that hoodie,” I placate and sincerely wish she loves him for the remarkable person he is inside and out.

When we finally arrive to the art office, I set my art portfolio case down by the door and ask Baekhyun to wait. I feel the weight of his gaze watching my every movement and it becomes a little nerve-wracking to just walk in front of him. I dig around in the storage closest before finding the tattered cardboard box but when I bring it out, I’m unable to hide my disappointment. It doesn’t go unnoticed as his expression mirrors my own.

“It’s not in there, is it?” he asks.

“No, it isn’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m thankful for you trying.” He shrugs his shoulders and the frown once on his face dissipates as quickly as it came. “You know, I actually considered it my good luck charm.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not to be super cheesy or anything but my life changed the day I was wearing it so it became something I was attached to. I even went to the lengths of writing my name and phone number inside on the label tag just in case I somehow lost it—which, clearly, I ended up doing anyway.”

“I know the feeling. It happened with my sketchbook.”

Baekhyun shifts his weight and bites down on the inner flesh of his mouth as if keeping himself from smiling too hard. I blink to try and understand it but no viable answer comes to mind. He clears his throat and brushes his index over his nose a few times before asking, “Sketchbook?”

“It wasn’t really a good luck charm as it was more of something bringing me joy. I would draw in it every time I felt down.”

“What did you draw in it?”

My hand naturally draws up to my chest, trying to alleviate some of the tension because what I drew in that notebook was endless portraits of him. Every page was lined to the details of only him. His face. His hands. Even the tiny little mole housed on his ear. “Pictures—of someone.” I avoid saying him in fear of coming off more peculiar than I already am and laugh it off. “But it’s gone missing just like your hoodie. I’m sure it’ll turn up though.”

“I do too.” He stands up straight, shuffling a bit in his stance and I fear the times come to part ways.

I realize I’ll still see Baekhyun in class. I’ll still get to draw him but I know once midnight comes around, what I feel inside might change and I’m unsure if it’ll be for better or worse.

“Thanks again for trying—I really mean it,” he says.

“Wish I could’ve helped more. If I see it, I’ll let you know.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

He ends our conversation with his signature smile but before he's out of view, Baekhyun turns around and quickly walks back to me. He angles down slightly to my height. It’s close enough to the point where I can see every speck and glint designed into his umber eyes and count every lash perfectly placed on his lids. He displays the same kindness and light which drew me in from the very beginning while he speaks. “The tag.”

“The tag?”

He nods slowly and just as carefully as the words leaving his lips. “Just in case, when you do see it, the tag inside the hoodie will read—Byun Baekhyun.” He spells out every beautiful letter to his name and it feels as if he’s engraving them into my heart and mind. He does the same thing he did earlier when we were in front of the classroom. His eyes wash over me, from my brows to my nose, even to the sides of my face. He takes it all in. “And I hope,” he whispers, “I hope—you won’t be disappointed tonight.”

His sentiment stays with me.

It remains etched in the lining of my skin after he leaves and even when I reach my home. It replays over and over in my head and like my parents, he’s given me more questions than answers. But I can’t dwell on it as the hours and minutes dwindle down to midnight. The dread of what’s to come makes its unsettling way into my stomach as the twist and turns provide no comfort.

I watch as the clock counts down into the seconds and my place of refuge has always been the image of Baekhyun. Leaning back against the headboard of my bed, I close my eyes and think of him. His joy, his light. His very existence. I picture it all and if I was asked how I wanted to spend my 20th birthday, this would be it. It would be picturing him and thinking of him.

With no expectation or hope, I feel the next day unfold and sense the slightest change in the air. It’s minuscule. It’s so small that it’s barely discernible as the faintest breeze washes over me. I slowly open my eyes and feel my heart thrum against the bones of my chest.

Because what’s placed before me at the foot of my bed is a familiar sapphire blue hoodie. The garment is folded and tucked securely inside a knotted red bow and for a while, I let it sit there. I’m scared to touch it, frightened to even know what it could mean. I never dreamed of this outcome. I tried my hardest never to hope for it or wholly wish for it since the chances of it being true was near impossible.

I will my hands to unwrap the ribbon and search for the one affirmation to make me believe it’s real—as real as the words he spoke. I search for the tag as my fingers brush over the small piece of fabric.

And written on it in his handwriting is word for word, letter for letter—

Byun Baekhyun.

#baekhyun scenario #baekhyun drabble #exo scenario #exo scenarios #baekhyun imagine #baekhyun #byun baekhyun #exo #exo k #enaasteria #drabble game #kpop scenario #kpop imagine #kpop scenarios #baekhyun fluff #is it really fluff tho LMAO

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cranial-echo · 5 years

Text

The Worst Kind of Torture

Fandom/Series: Bungou Stray Dogs

Description: An “extension” or alternate variation of episode 14, in which Dazai and Oda discover that Ango is hopelessly ticklish.

Genre: Comedy? I think?

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Odasaku Sakunosuke, Ango Sakaguchi

Ships: None

Trigger Warnings: Minimal spoilers for Season 2, Episode 2 (Episode 14 in the series)

Inspiration: I honestly don’t know at this point

Author Notes: THIS IS THE LONGEST THING I’VE EVER WRITTEN??? (also Ango’s laugh is adorable and he is a godsend)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Had Ango Sakaguchi known what was to await him at work today, he most certainly would have stayed home. To be visited out of the blue like this was quite rare, especially by two already semi-familiar faces. He'd hadn't formally met them until now, of course, but it was hard not to hear about the Mafia's youngest underboss and the lowest ranking member of the affiliation. Just why they were together, however, was not something Ango could readily place. Nor why the two of them were bothering him at this time. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't come any closer," he tells them, hardly in the mood to deal with whatever nonsense they'd come to deliver. "You reek." He notices the shorter one (Dazai was his name, he thinks?) goes about smelling his own clothing in a manner that could only really be described as "frantically confsed". Yep. Today was going to be absolutely wonderful. (This was sarcasm, of course.) He hardly pays any mind to them after this, instead deciding to focus on what he'd been doing before the two of them so eloquently decided to drop by for a very unwelcome visit. He tunes out the sound of Dazai's voice, hearing him ask his companion if he, indeed, smelled bad. The answer was yes, and Ango quickly found that he couldn't focus with such a smell in his office - and the mere presence of them alone wasn't helping at all. "You must be new here," he hears Dazai say a moment later, and he looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Why don't you tell us your name?" Ango waits a moment before replying, as if debating whether or not being on a first-name basis with the two of them would even be worth the trouble. Eventually, he introduces himself. "It's Ango Sakaguchi." "Well, Ango," Dazai says, approaching his desk. "You're a fascinating character." Oh. Oh god, he's coming closer. Oh fuck. Why is he coming closer? What is the purpose of invading his personal space like this? And... Oh lord, the stench... It's assaulting his nostrils mercilessly. It's so awful, so horrific, so- "Smelly-!" he ends up blurting it out almost comically, voice raising in pitch and almost cracking, trying to lean as far away from his desk and the other male as he could while still seated. Dazai hardly seems to care about his discomfort as he just leans in to invade his space even more, staring at him with a sickeningly curious look on his face. "Are you sure that the boss approves of what it is you're up to right now?" Ango exhales a barely audible breath, discomfort quite clear at this point - not that either of them seemed to care. "And just what are you insinuating that I'm up to, exactly?" Dazai smiles, reaching out to pick up one of the sheets of paper he'd been writing on, holding it up to show him. "That you're writing an obituary for those who died. Am I wrong?" Such audacity, to just saunter into his office and snoop through his work. Ango would shoot them, if he could. And he definitely wants to, at this point. "He's writing obituaries?" he hears the other man in the room ask (Dazai had called him Odasaku, hadn't he?), having almost completely forgotten he was there to begin with. "These are the three that died during the attack on our executives last night." Dazai explains to him as he goes about reading the names off of the paper out loud. "Kurehito Umegi, Shoukichi Saigusa, and Mirouku Ishige. Umegi was a former MP who was shamefully discharged for killing a coworker. Both parents are dead." He reaches out to set the paper back down on Ango's desk, addressing the bespectacled brunet once more. "You're keeping a record of their life events and family history." Ango simply listens to him ramble on about information he'd already known, speaking up once Dazai had finished, looking down to avoid his gaze. "It's the least that they deserve." he says, adjusting his posture properly in his seat. "Every one of their lives has to have had some meaning." He looks up at Dazai after a few seconds pause. "I wanted to do more to remember who they were than just chock them up as part of a body count. To honor their sacrifice." Dazai smiles at him. "What did the boss say about this?" Ango folds his hands neatly on his desk, trying his best to not let onto how he was quite displeased with the way this conversation was dragging out so unpleasantly. He figures it's best to humor them for now. "I managed to convince him to account for everyone who had been reportedly killed as a result of the incident. He was very opposed to the idea at first, but he eventually saw great value to the Port Mafia in keeping such detailed records." The words are barely out of his mouth before Dazai speaks again, turning around to look at Odasaku. "See? Isn't he fascinating? What kind of person goes through the trouble of creating such a unique job?" His tone is almost disparaging, Ango notes. Oh, how he wushes they'd hurry up and conclude whatever business they had, and just leave him alone. "There's only one way to find out." Odasaku replies to his friend. "Let's take him out for a few drinks at our usual spot." Dazai grins mischievously. "That's a lovely idea~" Alright, unexpected change of plans. Ango certainly as fuck wasn't going to give them what thwy wanted. Not a chance. Though he's certain his discomfort is quite visible now - and he already assumes they'll take this to their advantage. "I can't do that," he tries to tell them. "I have work to do-!" He realizes too late when Dazai approaches him from one side, nearly squeaking in panic. "Hey Odasaku~" Dazai lulls to his partner in crime (or rather, partner in harassment), with a certain tone to his voice that has Ango fearing for his own wellbeing. "I think I know just how we can get him to leave early. If we hug him real tightly, the stench will be unbearable for him and he'll have to call it a day." Odasaku's response was three simple words Ango dreaded to hear at this time. "Let's do it." He tries to make a break for it, but to his horrified dismay, Odasaku is on the other side. He was trapped. "Wait! I've got an even better idea!" Dazai exclaims happily. " Let's tickle him and see if he breaks!" Ango is absolutely mortified at the concept, pressing himself as far back into his chair and away from the other brunet as he can. "D-Don't you dare come any closer!" Dazai chuckles, presumably at Ango's terrified movements. "I think we have a plan of action, Odasaku~" Ango doesn't even has time to formulate a proper response before he receives a sudden poke to his side, from none other than the redhead to his left. He just barely manages to stifle a squeal of surprise, glaring daggers at the blue-eyed male. "Aaaah," Dazai hums. "I think he's ticklish!~" "I-I most certainly am not!" Ango stutters, practically fuming at the audacity of these two interlopers. "I think all evidence points to otherwise," Odasaku says, poking Ango once more. Ango squeaked. Oh. Oh god. This wasn't going to end well... This wasn't going to end well at all. Destruction was imminent, and Ango knew it. There was a momentary pause after Ango let out that tiny, impotent squeak. Dazai was the first one to break it. "Did he just...?" Odasaku nods. "I think he did." Ango is visibly nervous now, several thoughts racing through his head all at once. This couldn't end well. This couldn't possibly end well. He'd practically sealed his fate the instant that displeased squeak came out of his mouth. But yet, he tried to divert them. "I s-strongly urge the both of you to leave," he tells them, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose in nervous habit. He tries to keep the anxious stutter out of his voice, but ultimately fails. "I have very important work to attend to..." "If you think we're gonna be deterred that easily, especially after that little squeak," Dazai starts, a certain sparkle in his eye that sent a great feeling of unease to wash over the bespectacled brunet. "You've got another thing coming~" "T-This," Ango can barely keep his voice steady, damn near raising an octave higher than usual. "This is highly unprofessional...!" "Being professional is so boring," Dazai says with a sigh. "I'd much rather hear you squeak again~" Ango couldn't quite place just what he'd done to deserve such torture. Oh, what a catastrophe this was. An utter disaster. How to get out of this conundrum? Ah, there was his pistol. He could always use that. Not on these two nuisances, of course, but rather himself- His thoughts are interrupted when a pair of hands makes contact with his side, illiciting a sharp squawk of a sound out of him. It was Dazai this time, practically beaming at the sound he'd made. "He sounds kind of like a crow, doesn't he, Odasaku?~" Ango fumes at these words, letting out an indignant squeak when he heard Odasaku' s response. "He does, now that I think about it." Ango presses himself into the back of his chair once more, looking like a mouse forced in a corner and trapped by two hungry felines. This was how he died, wasn't it? He always thought he'd be shot or shanked. Never tickled to death. He opens his mouth to plead with the two of them. "I-I implore you-" Dazai interrupts hm. "Implore away~ We're not leaving until you give us what we want~" Ah. So this was what Hell was. Ango tries his best not to panic, though he's failing miserably - and he knew Odasaku and Dazai could see it. He quickly found that he couldn't keep his eye on both of them at the same time. When he focused his attention on Odasaku, Dazai would inch closer, and vice versa. He fidgeted nervously, pulling at the collar of his shirt in a feeble attempt to ease his nerves. He was always a man of routine, of statistics and logic. Thinking several hours if not days before making even the slightest movement. He always planned everything beforehand. Dazai and Odasaku, on the other hand, were not something he could have thought about. He couldn't have possibly planned for an underboss and his low-ranked companion to bust in uninvited with plans of torturing him - by tickling him, no less. Needless to say, being forced to act on the spot was highly uncomfortable, and not recommended for the poor glasses-wearing man. Such a catastrophic event. If he can just get past them, he thinks, then he could perhaps make an escape. To run away and avoid such an embarrassing fate. His gaze first lands on Dazai. He knows, just knows that he is the one to keep close eye on. That mischievous glint in his eye and almost malicious smirk are too obvious to ignore. He then glances at Odasaku from the corner of his peripheral vision. He seems more passive than Dazai, no doubt, but he doesn’t dare assume he won't attack him just as mercilessly as Dazai will. He must look positively comical at the moment - squished into his chair, feet up on the seat, knees to his chest. Shoulders hunched forward and head lowered. How truly mortifying. Such an unsightly occurrence. He feels an underlying shame from allowing himself to be harassed so easily, beneath the more obvious outward terror of being attacked by two absolute strangers. They're just toying with him at this point, just standing there, watching him - waiting to see what he'll do next as if he's some sort of exhibit at the zoo. He inadvertently lets out a soft whine, and hears Dazai's amused chuckle. Oh, god. It can't end like this. He refuses to let himself be beaten. He absolutely rebukes the mere thought of it. He hates acting on a whim, but knows he has to make some sort of move if he wants to get out of this with even a shred of dignity left. Why couldn't a bunch of gunmen have bursted into the room with the intention of killing him, instead of these two buffoons? It would have been so much more ideal than whatever the hell they were trying to do... He sighs through his nose, knowing that it was now or never. He springs up from his seat, with the full intention of leaping over his desk and high-tailing it the fuck out of there. Unfortunately, it seems as though they'd been waiting for ths exact moment, as Dazai wasted no time tackling Ango to the ground, straddling his hips in a rather inopportune way and pinning him by the shoulders to prevent his escape. "Ah ah ah," he hums, smiling sweetly at the other with a fake innocence. "You're not getting away from us that easily~" Ango lets out a displeased groan, glasses askew from having been tackled so harshly. He squirms in Dazai's hold - for someone who certainly looked weak in appearance, he was definitely strong. Ango admits inwardly that it was his own fault for making an assumption like that, but in no way does he relent. "Unhand me this instant!" he demands, squirming quite ungracefully in the other's grip. "I d-demand that you release me!" "Nope~" Dazai grins happily at him. "Odasaku, do me a favor and hold him down for me, will you?~" Ango was about to make some sort of retort, when he felt a second pair of hands on his shoulders, qute the bit larger than Dazai's. He looks up to see Odasaku had knelt down next to them on the ground, and was now keeping him steady per Dazai's instructions. Usually Ango was great at pinpointing a person's emotions just from looking at their face - but Odasaku was different. His facial features didn't seem to hold much of an expression at all, but there was a certain shine in his blue eyes that he couldn't place. And the fact that he couldn't made him greatly uncomfortable He can't help but notice the way Odasaku was holding him steady. His hhold was firm, yet quite gentle as well. Just strong enough to keep him in place without causing any sort of pain. He does realize, however, that whenever he tries tp struggle, Odasaku adds a bit more pressure every time. What a joy. It's only once Odasaku's hands are properly placed does Dazai remove his own, humming to himself as he got off of Ango in favor of sitting next to him, legs crossed, elbow on his knee and chin resting in the palm of that hand. "Soooooooo," he drawls, looking at the flustered male in front of him. "Are you going to give us what we came for, or are you going to keep resisting?" Ango huffs, trying to keep his composure despite how greatly concerned he was for what events may come next. "If you honestly think that t-tickling me will get you anywhere-" "Oh, I do," Dazai seems to have a habit of interrupting him, causing an irritated growl to come from Ango's throat. "I'm genuinely curious as to how long you can last like this. Aren't you?" He punctuates his sentence by delivering a harsh poke to Ango's side. Ango holds his breath, clenching his fists in a desperate attempt not to laugh or make any kind of sound. He wasn't going to give in. Nope. Not today, not ever. Being pinned down on his office floor while two men take advantage of him. For most, this would be some sort of fantasy come true. For Ango, he's certain it means his utter doom. "Oh?" Dazai speaks up once again. "Not going to say anything? I'm disappointed in you. We're guests in your office, after all. You could at least show us some common courtesy..." "Bite me." Ango's retort comes swiftly, his mind barely even registering what he'd said until he'd heard the sound of his own voice. Dazai was correct - usually, he tried his best to always at least be polite. But now... Well, courtesy be damned. "Is that so?~" Dazai lilts, gaze darkening in a way as to cause a sudden pang of fear to strike through Ango's chest. "Well, I'll just have to use some different tactics to get you to talk instead~" That was the only word of warning Ango got before Dazai lunged at him, making instantaneous contact with his sides. Ango's breath hitched in his throat, trying to steel himself as best he could in hopes of enduring this attack. If he holds out long enough, perhaps they'll get bored and come to the conclusion that he wasn't ticklish after all, and leave him in semi-peace. But judging from the look in Dazai's visible eye, something told him that it wouldn't be so easy. Dazai doesn't let up, continuing to take advantage of Ango’s sensitivity in a way that Ango greatly despised. He clenched his jaw shut, staunchly refusing to make any sounds willingly. Unfortunately for him, however, Dazai ended up hitting a particularly sensitive spot just below his ribcage, and he damn near lost it. He ended up making a choked-off gasping sound, hardly managing to stifle an actual laugh. Oh god. This isn't good. "Come on, Ango~" Dazai purrs teasingly. "Let us hear your beautiful laughter~" Ango's been holding his breath long enough to feel lightheaded at this point. Perhaps if he holds it long enough he can pass out and they'd leave him alone. He might even die, if he's lucky. This wish doesn’t come true, however, as he exhaled a shaky breath a few seconds later. He only manages to choke out a restrained "S-Stop...!" before he ends up breaking into an uncontrolled giggle fit. Oh lord. He's laughing. He's actually laughing. He's being held down and harassed by strangers and he's laughing. It's barely been going on for two minutes and he already feels like he can't take it anymore. "There it is!~' Dazai proclaims with a grin. "Precisely what I wanted to hear!~" Ango opens his mouth as if to plead with him to stop, but all that comes out is a fit of laughter. He can hardly form a complete sentence through it, either. How embarrassing. "I- Hh- S-Stop-!" He squirms in Odasaku's grip once again, trying desperately to get away from them. "I- I-I c- hahaha-!" "He really seems to be enjoying himself~" Dazai muses, looking over at Odasaku. "Perhaps we should continue?~" Odasaku gives his companion a nod of approval. "If he's enjoying himself that much, I think it's only best." Ango practically squeals in protest to hearing these words. "N-No-!" His words are choked out by more of his own laughter as Dazai's lithe fingers had managed to find their way up beneath his jacket and shirt, now making contact with his bare skin and only heightening this dreadful feeling. He shuts his eyes tightly, kicking feebly and aimlessly at the air as he fucking cackles in a false sense of what most would consider delight. He can hardly believe that this is happening - he doesn't want to believe it. But it is. He instinctively arches his back, trying anything and everything he can think of to try and get away. "S-Stoppit-!" Dazai hums to himself in contentment. "Such a cute laugh~ Sort of nasally, kind of screechy... What an absolute dork you are, Ango~" Ango couldn't tell if Dazai was teasing him or if he was being genuine. Either way, it was a comment that Ango took offense to - his laugh certainly wasn't cute or anything of the sort. And to actually call him a dork was... was... His train of thoughts was derailed when he heard a soft chuckle. It wasn't Dazai, no; it was Odasaku. He opens his eyes momentarily to look up at the redhead. Blue eyes sparkling, smiling ever so slightly... Were they really enjoying his suffering that much? He tries to say something when Dazai's fingers moved from his sides to his midsection, causing him to let out a rather unflattering sound in an attempt to stifle his own laughter. "Pffffthhh-!" "What was that?~" Dazai hums, a wide grin on his face. "You'll have to speak up, Ango~" "S-Stop," Ango wheezes. "I- I ca- I c-can't-" "Well isn't that a shame?~" the other brunet teases. "Certainly, I thought you could have lasted longer than this~" "I-I'm s-serious," Ango should know better than to try and reason with them at this point, but he's desperate. His chest hurts from laughing so much and he fears he's close to passing out. "I-I'm n-not joki- snrk!" Shit. Shit fucking shit. He just snorted. This was it. Everything was over. "Oh my god," Dazai says with a laugh of his own. "Did you just snort?" "I- N-No, I'm-" Ango tries to respond, but only ends up snorting again. Lovely. He shuts his eyes once more, hearing Dazai's amused laughter and another quiet chuckle from Odasaku. He honestly wishes he could just die at this point. Death would be much better than this. He finds that once he'd started to snort, he couldn't stop - for Christ's sake, he sounded like a fucking pig. This was horrific. Absolutely nightmarish. "You know," Dazai tells him. "If you'd just say the magic word, we'd let you go~" No. No. He won't say it. He refuses to give in. He refuses to beg. He won't do it. He won't, he won't, he- Dazai's fingers brush along a sensitive spot just above his hip on his left side, causing him to nearly scream with laughter. "F-Fuck-!" He hadn't meant to use such vulgarity, initially, but it just sort of slipped out. Hs voice is hoarse as he decides, fuck it. Screw dignity. He tries to get them to stop, he truly does. But he can hardly speak through his laughter, now actually crying from laughing too hard. He must look pathetic - laying on the ground, laughing uncontrollably, clothes and hair a mess with his cheeks wet, and most likely, flushed. "P- Pleahhahha-!" "Hmmm?~ Did you say something, Ango?" Dazai grins mischievously. "You'll have to speak up~" "P-Please-!" Ango manages to finally squeak. "P-Please stop! I a-admit defeat-!" Dazai stops tickling him almost instantaneously. "Good!~" It takes a while for Ango to calm down, flailing his arm at Dazai in an attempt to shoo him away as he, for whatever reason, shifts closer to Odasaku. He covers his face with his hands, feeling both the heat in his cheeks and an already familiar hand on his shoulder. He was panting, breathing heavily, and absolutely mortified. He was never going to live this down with these two around. Then he notices what looks like a flash from between his fingers. No... It couldn't be... He rolls over slightly to look up at Dazai, his worst fears being proven - the bastard was smiling happily at him, phone in hand. Ango quickly finds he lacks the strength to scold Dazai in a way that was preferred, only able to stutter like some sort of clueless asshole. "Y-You..." Dazai's grin seems to widen. "Yep!~" The bastard took a picture of him. He took a picture of him in his absolute lowest, weakest time. Ango lunges for Dazai suddenly, only to be held back by Odasaku. "That's not how you handle blackmail material, now, is it?" the redhead asks him. Ango tenses noticeably, looking back at him. "B-Blackmail...?" "Thaaaaaat's right!~" Dazai sing-songs. "We have sufficient evidence of you cracking under our torture tactics. Now you have to tell us everything we want to know, otherwise this picture gets released~ Say, over drinks, perhaps?" Ango grits his teeth, glaring harshly at the grinning brunet. He's an absolute mess, his heart rate is entirely fucked up, and he was made an absolute fool of. Odasaku pats his shoulder. "So, what'll it be?" Ango pauses for a second, adjusting his glasses with a defeated sigh. "...Fine. But so help me God, if either of you tries something like this again, I have two bullets with your names on them." As much as he hated to admit it, Ango knew in the pit of his soul that this wouldn't be the last time he would be forced to deal with these two. Perhaps he could drown his regrets of this experience over the drinks they were apparently going to get. He should have stayed home today.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd fanfic #dazai osamu #odasaku sakunosuke #ango sakaguchi #bsd dazai #bsd odasaku #bsd ango #bsd dark era #buraiha #buraiha trio

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shardclan · 5 years

Photo

Fog blanketed Horizon’s Landing. The cold had yielded to a potent warm front carried on the Vortex winds. Drips and trickles of the early spring thaw were as muffled echoes in silence that not even the birds dared part it. A cold rain fell, so fine that it was practically mist floating on the breeze.

Invigilavi stood stone still, peering at the hulking gray shadow of the obscured mountain. It was the middle of the day and he couldn’t hear anything or any one.

His arms throbbed faintly. The whispering babble of running water faded. The shadow of the mountain blurred and moved, and opened four vast eyes. Stars appeared one by one around its twin heads.

Lavi clenched his fists. If it had been anyone else, it would have been easy to assume this was a horrific vision of an emperor. But he recognized this feeling.

Abankhit.

Each eye winked in and out independent of the others, and with a rumble, the mountain was merely a mountain again. The trickle of rain and melted snow resumed. The throb in Lavi’s arms subsided.

It wasn’t time yet.

“Lavi…?”

He whirled, but it was only Ashlesha. He was clutching his robes closed over his chest. Their moon-bright lengths were dull and limp, as was the mischievous light usually present in his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Lavi asked fretfully. He pressed his palm instinctively against Ashlesha’s forehead, but he couldn’t feel anything. He told himself it was because of the gloves. “You look awful.”

Ashlesha closed his eyes, and leaned into Lavi’s palm. It would have been easy to mistake it for his usual affections, if he had not started to cry.

Lavi’s spines stood. “Ashlesha?!”

“I’m okay…” he sighed unconvincingly. He curled his arms around Lavi’s wrists, pressing them closer even though it only seemed to make him cry more insistently.

Lavi’s fins twisted. Ashlesha was given to high emotion, but he had never cried before. The closest he came were occasional moods on the edge of bad dreams, where he was lonesome and needy but refused to say why. Even then, it had never left him as destroyed as he looked now.

Lavi pulled Ashlesha in and picked him easily up off the ground. Perhaps his recent talk with Azricai had softened his state of mind, but he found it hard to keep Ashlesha at a distance when he was so distraught.

“You don’t have to,” Ashlesha sniveled.

“I know,” Lavi answered matter-of-factly, and made for his private den.

Lavi didn’t give any further explanation, and Ashlesha relented. In spite of his weak protest, he leaned his head gratefully against Lavi’s shoulder. The whole way his fingers clutched at the warmth of Lavi’s mantle, his breath hitching in intervals.

When Lavi finally got them out of the spitting rain and tried to set him down, he clutched tighter. “Please, don’t… Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t,” Lavi assured. He’d wanted to start a fire, but he settled for lighting the starsap lamps and sat with Ashlesha in the flickering blue light.

“Are we alone…?” Ashlesha whispered.

“Yeah. No one knows I’m back yet. Just you and me.”

Ashlesha sniffed, and slowly sat up. He rubbed his face ferociously, but he still wouldn’t look at Lavi. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s the most…sympathetic thing I think you’ve ever done.”

“No I don’t–I don’t mean for crying.” He drew his feet in. “I lied to you. I’m not human. Not completely.”

“…Would it hurt you to know I’m not really surprised?”

“Faded?” Ashlesha guessed.

“Yeah. The exact words they gave me were that I would meet a liar.”

Ashlesha laughed tiredly, but not without humor. “That bitch… Just so you know, I didn’t lie to you to cause trouble, Invigilavi. I just…didn’t want to deal with the truth.”

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “But now I have to.”

“Why? What happened while I was gone?”

Ashlesha didn’t answer. For several moments, the only sound was their breath and the trickle of water over the mountain.

“I am part human…” he began unsteadily. “I began as a human. A long time ago.” He rubbed at his hair. “I’m sorry, I haven’t explained this to anyone in so long, and you’re not human yourself…”

“Take your time. I have nowhere to be.”

“I don’t want to take my time. I don’t want to deal with this. But when you told me about the Xannites…” He lapsed into silence again. His voice was nearly a caricature of casual apathy when he continued:

“I was human once. I died. I was human again. I died. If I reproduced, I became my offspring. If I didn’t, I woke up in some other body of some tangentially related baby. And I can recall every single detail of every life I’ve lived.”

“Like this one time–there was a genocide. Massive, very successful. I died seventeen different times–about half were suicides. And finally…I ran out of relations. I woke up again on the other side of the world. All my hopes it was some kind of bloodline curse ended there.“

"I wasn’t too keen on dying a lot after that–that’s when I started learning magic. I wanted to live forever on my own terms. Some…less than pleasant things happened as a result, and to make a long story short, I had a kid with one of the sidhe. When I say I’m not human, I really only mean I’m a halfling with Unseelie blood in me. Aside from that and the magic I’m your run of the mill human… You know, aside from having an unbroken string of consciousness dating back to the first humans.”

Lavi fidgeted. He had not bargained for this, and desperately clung to the only thread that gave him any context. “Do the Xannites have something to do with you?”

Ashlesha turned. His tear-streaked face was a harsh contrast to the contempt in his eyes. “How much Xannites really know about the Auditor?”

“Not much more than I’ve told you. They say she’s an old earth dragon. One of the Firstborn, maybe.”

Ashlesha shook his head, his laughter coming out like acid. “Oh no, Lavi. They are wrong. The Auditor is not a dragon, and she never was. It’s just something she takes the form of, no different than Faded or Qualia or that other Outsider that neighbors Aphaster City.”

His laughter dried up. His tears did too, and he sank down against Lavi’s thigh. “The Auditor was my friend once. My love too, for awhile. She would spend days, sometimes weeks in my memory. Just…removing things. Things I didn’t want to remember. Things that were dangerous for me to remember. It was the only relief I ever got–the only way I ever got to forget anything.”

“But now…?”

“Now she helps the Xannites with their obscene cause. A living library. Memory upon memory, stacking on forever.” He shuddered and covered his face with the sleeve of his robe. “It makes me sick!”

“Maybe she didn’t want you to be alone.”

The robe flared to life, and Lavi felt an immense pressure move in on him only to slip sideways and crack the stone walls.

Ashlesha’s eyes were bright and stormy, and he was clutching himself so tightly that blood spilled from under his fingernails.

“Please don’t ever say that again.” Lavi had heard that tone before. Despite the undercurrent of pleading in Ashlesha’s voice, it was not a question.

“I hate myself, Lavi, and the Auditor knows that. I didn’t choose sleep on some whim; it’s the closest I can come to dying. I am so, so tired of existing, and I would never wish this on anyone. If Faded hadn’t assured me that every new Xannite is a completely new person carrying around their ancestor’s memories, I would have killed them all before you got back, and then I would have killed myself.”

“Okay…” Lavi whispered breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”

Just as quick as it had come on, the wave of temper subsided. The robes went limp, and Ashlesha wrapped himself tight inside them. The wounds in his arms closed up, leaving only pressure marks and blood behind.

Lavi glanced aside at the fissure in the wall. He had truly touched on something he shouldn’t have, and again he felt distinctly under-qualified to be ordering Ashlesha around. But those flippant, selfish behaviors did make sense now. Why would someone who had been alive for so long, even if it was in varying bodies, want to think about anything? He did whatever crossed his mind not because he was powerful, but because… Well, what else was there? Katasomata had been almost insane with the with weight of Sornieth’s tragedies because she could fathom them all as if they were new. Ashlesha had lived through them all with no reprieve, and while he couldn’t forget, he clearly had the ability to put things out of his mind. He could go numb.

After living so long, wouldn’t the only thing in the way of permanent numbness be the little joys of pursuing whim?

“I’m sorry,” Ashelsha whimpered. “I didn’t want to show you that side of me…”

Lavi shifted his jaw. Something still bothered him. Something key that Ashlesha had not explained. “Can I ask a question…?”

“Anything!” Ashlesha blurted almost desperately.

“Why are you so…enamored with me? Does it have something to do with all of this?”

Ashlesha’s eyes widened. “I don’t know…” His eyes watered with fresh tears. For the first time since Lavi returned, he smiled. “I don’t know at all!”

“Then why me?”

“I don’t know! I’m drawn to you. From the moment I looked at you, it felt like I was finally somewhere I could forget everything else. It’s maddening how much I want to be at your side.”

Lavi blushed. He had been avoiding the question for a long time, but if Ashlesha was in a truth-telling mood, he’d thought there was no better time. But it really was as simple and baseless as it seemed.

He nearly jumped out of his scales when Ashlesha threw his arms around his neck, and nestled back into his shoulder.

“I missed you, Lavi.”

“If I can intrude on your good mood and take a few steps back…” he wheezed, pushing Ashlesha back to a comfortable distance. “What about the Auditor? What about House Xanna?”

Ashlesha stiffened. Tired lines bred rapidly under his eyes, and a familiar expression of weary agony made it’s home in his eyes. Ashlesha looked how Lavi had felt when he told Azricai to keep his secret–even from Arcanus.

“I won’t hurt any of the Xannites,” he pledged. “But the Auditor and I have personal business. …Will you hate me for it?”

Lavi cracked a small, peaceable smile. Finally, an easy question, with an easy answer. “According to Analemma law, if you kill her it will count as Execution of Personal Grudge. The Xannites may not be too happy about it, but once all this Imperator business is over, I am going to be the clan’s Head Barrister. If you tell me more about it, I’d be happy to defend you.”

Ashlesha pouted. “That’s a terribly unromantic answer.”

“I’m not a romantic drake, and you know it.”

“Fine… Just sit with me awhile, please?” He sagged into Lavi’s stomach without hearing the answer, the distress of the past few days finally taking their toll. His breath started to slow, and he sighed. “I finally feel okay again.

The words ‘I have a report to write’ sped to the tip of Lavi’s tongue and crashed one into the other. Ashlesha had been honest. At great personal cost, too. It was easy to fall back into the routine of being at odds with him, but he was vulnerable right now. Besides, Lavi was tired. The day had been too full, and Ashlesha was warm in a way that even penetrated into his arms. They were full of a blooming sensation as blissful as if he were soaking them in a hot bath. A few hours couldn’t hurt, he thought.

Both slept the whole night through.

#Flight Rising #In which Ashlesha tells the truth and it involves a lot of self-hate #C: Lavi #C: Ashlesha #tw: suicide mention #zodiac goetia

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stupid-richie · 6 years

Text

Into the Dark (7/12)

Summary: Richie and Stan have seen and dealt with a lot of cases in the years they’ve been working together, from cults to cartels. A case in Derry, Maine, proves to be one of the most horrific for them and for the two local officers they’ll be working with. And on top of it all, Richie keeps remembering things he’d rather forget.

WC: 1928

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It takes hours, but Richie and Eddie eventually come up with a profile that makes sense. Dinner time comes and goes without either of their notice, as do several texts to Richie from Stan. Bill even sends Eddie a couple that aren’t seen until after the new profile is made.

White male, late twenties. History of abuse, both as a victim and as a perpetrator. Definitely has a wife, currently abusing her, but likely has no children of his own at all. He’s most likely an addict, a smoker or drinker. The children trust him at the time of their abduction, and if Beverly Marsh is to be trusted, he dresses as a clown in order to make that possible. He has a dog or lives near the forest where he has access to wolves or something that could mutilate the children so badly. He has lived in Derry for a very long time, seeing how well he knows when the children will be unsupervised.

“Richie, Don’t suggest Tom Rogan,” Eddie says, reaching for the cup of coffee he had made himself at some point. “Bev wouldn’t marry anyone like that.”

Bev, Richie has learned while they were profiling, is the girl from Bill’s desk photo: Beverly Rogan. When she was younger, she had been a force to be reckoned with. She was all fire and fight, more likely to brawl than any of her friends. That had changed in college, and now she seldom spoke to them. This leaves Richie with a sour taste in his mouth and higher certainty that Tom Rogan isn’t the model citizen he seems.

“Got any other leads, Eds? You said yourself that Beverly would never be a drunk and that something wasn’t adding up.”

While he talks, Richie feigns disinterest, staring at the little bowl on the coffee table he hadn’t noticed earlier. A peach and red betta fish swims in the waters, seemingly holding Richie’s attention. In reality, all his brainpower is dedicated to the case. His eyes are the only things focused elsewhere. Stan is used to it, but Eddie isn’t because he calls Richie’s name before he speaks every time to make sure that he’s being heard.

“Richie.”

Richie flicks his attention to Eddie instead of the fish for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Why’re you so fixated on Tom?”

“I just know he did it.”

“How?”

He made Beverly recant her statement. He fits the profile. He acted really weird in the cab with Richie. He’s far too reminiscent of Mr. Gray. Something about Tom isn’t right. Eddie doesn’t seem to see it, and it’s hard for Richie to make him. Impossible, even. There’s no way he can explain that the look in Tom’s eyes was the same predatory gaze that Mr. Gray had. All Richie really has to do is convince Eddie to let the two of them interview Tom and he’ll see the same thing Richie does.

“Did you find a police record for him?” he questions, avoiding Eddie’s curiosity.

“I’ve done a couple house calls for domestic disturbances. Tom says he and Bev were fighting, and she nods, then they shut the door. I’ve never seen her hurt or actually seen ‘em arguing.”

Don’t say anything, Richard.

Richie smiles to himself and stands up straight. The fish swims another lazy lap around the tank as he does so. “I want to interview Tom and Bev. Separately. Can you handle Tom on your own for that?”

“It’s one thing to keep working with what we have, it’s another to investigate. Neither of us have any real authority, Richie.”

“They don’t have to know that.”

The way Eddie then looks at him is the way one might look at a madman. His eyes are wide in surprise, with an element of fear hidden behind them. Pink lips hang open slightly. His cheeks, still pallid, have started to color again with the increased beating of his heart. Richie thinks to himself that Eddie is much prettier when he looks more alive.

“I’ve met Tom, he can’t see me. Bring him to the station, say it’s routine questioning for everyone, and I’ll talk to Bev.”

“I can’t take anyone to the station, I’m on paid vacation,” Eddie tells Richie, sounding almost put out by the limit. “Bill would kill me.”

“Bill’s not your dad. Catch Tom in a cab, it’s his job, and keep him talking as long as possible. I don’t think Bev works.”

A ghost of a smile works its way onto Eddie’s face. “Web designer. She never leaves the house anymore.”

They settle into an easy rhythm, working out how to conduct the interviews and what to ask. Eddie seems more alive than he has since the morgue, a fact that makes something warm curl around Richie’s heart. It’s a feeling similar to cracking a tough case or actually making Stan give one of his rare smiles. For a brief moment, part of him is tempted to lean over and kiss Eddie. He quickly pushes the thought down and presses his thumb into his palm again. When he does, an involuntary wince forces its way up his throat. Eddie looks at him with concern, flicks his eyes to Richie’s hands, and silently pulls them apart before he goes back to his work.

It’s nice to be quietly and unobtrusively cared for, even in an action so small.

“Anything I should know about Bev?” The question is a deflection, a way to change the topic of his thoughts. It kind of works. “Anything to avoid saying?”

“Basic victim etiquette. Be gentle, Richie. Don’t push her too hard.”

The Bev that Eddie had described from his childhood wouldn’t have needed to be slapped with the “handle with care” label, but times have clearly changed for her. Richie makes no jokes, nor does he laugh. This case is causing Eddie plenty of anxiety without him worrying about Bev’s mental health. A solemn nod is the best response, which Richie gives.

“Think Stan and Bill are making any progress?”

“Dunno. Bill’s got great intuition but he’s not the smartest.”

Now it’s time to smile. “Stan’s the opposite. He’s brilliant but he’s got the gut feelings of a brick.”

Eddie actually laughs at that remark, making it the first quip of Richie’s he’s found anything but annoying. Richie feels something like pride at finally earning a positive reaction before he can push it down again. He’s been doing that a lot since he got to Derry- shoving down everything he feels so as to pretend it doesn’t exist. That’s not unusual for him, it’s just rare to do it so much. He wonders if it’s the case and it affects him more than he realizes, or if it’s Eddie. He’s known him for a day, no more, and already feels like Eddie is someone he has to protect and coddle and keep close. Eddie feels like an old friend.

“You still with me?”

“Yeah, sorry. Got distracted by how cute you are, Eds.”

An involuntary remark, one he should apologize for. He’s about to, but then Eddie shoves Richie’s shoulder and tells him to shut his mouth. The tips of his ears turn red in a mock blush. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It’s not flattery, it’s flirting. There’s a difference.”

“Ought to give Bill some tips. He thinks Stan’s hot.”

For the first time in (four? five?) years, Richie considers the fact that other people find Stan attractive. He is, with bright brown eyes and curly hair and dexterous fingers that Richie is very familiar with. When they were much younger, and just beginning to get to know each other, they had tried taking things past a platonic level. Romance was never their thing, but they sometimes spent intimate nights together to celebrate closed cases and birthdays, or to release some of their built up tension. After a while, they stopped, because things had gotten too complicated.

Bill though… it isn’t too much of a shock, considering the way he’s been looking at Stan since he and Richie arrived in Derry. And Eddie has known Bill for probably ten, fifteen years, and he says that Bill harbors at least some kind of attraction. It’s improbable that he doesn’t at the very least want to get laid. Richie thinks, however, that Stan deserves a real relationship. If Bill hurts him, he’ll be dealing with the mighty wrath of Richie Tozier.

“He’s not gonna have meaningless sex with my Stan.”

“Your Stan?” Eddie snorts, “He’s not property, he’s a person.”

True, but he’s the closest friend that Richie’s ever had, and that means he deserves the best.

“I know, Eds. I mean, Bill can’t use my best friend to get off. He’d be devastated.”

“He isn’t like that.”

Richie nods thoughtfully. In the few hours he’s known Bill, he’s gotten an idea for who the policeman is. Fiercely protective of Eddie, rather serious, and with a strong moral compass. He’s a natural leader, and he seems to be well-liked. Something about Bill even makes Richie feel a little safer. Bill feels familiar, in a weird sort of way. Like an old friend as well. His office was decorated warmly, despite the glass ashtray on the corner of his desk with cigarette butts sticking out of it. It even had couches, paired with the dark walls and caramel wood of the desk in a cozy coordination.

The cigarettes.

“Is he the reason you have a pack of Camels on your patio?”

An inconsequential detail that maybe not many people would have noticed, but Richie sees small things that mean nothing to anyone other than him. Eddie doesn’t strike Richie as a smoker; he’s too delicate. His cabinet of medication attests to that.

The question brings a strange expression to Eddie’s face. “Bill doesn’t come over much, we always go to his.”

“So who smokes?”

Eddie presses his lips together in a fine line and shakes his head, nonverbally asking Richie to back off. He wants to keep pressing, but just this once, he drops it with a shrug. Eventually Richie will figure it out.

“Can I crash on your couch?” he asks as Eddie begins to awkwardly pack away his notes. “I promise I’ll be a good roomie and make you breakfast in the morning, Eds.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Richie braces himself for Eddie to kick him out. “My bed’s warmer and softer and you’re a guest. I’ll take the couch.”

Richie wants to argue and tell Eddie that he deserves the bed, or suggest they share it, but both of those are stupid when Eddie isn’t even his friend.

“Okay, thanks. See you in the morning.”

“Yeah. Bedroom’s at the end of the hall.”

He feels like he should say something else, but nothing comes to mind, so Richie picks up his suitcase and goes to the bedroom. It’s neat and well decorated like everything in Eddie’s apartment. The room contains a bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and a single window with the grey curtains drawn open.

Close them. No one needs to see.

Richie releases them from their strings so they block out the natural light and crawls into Eddie’s bed. It’s soft, downy, and smells faintly of detergent. The sheets remind him of Stan’s, clean and almost unwrinkled.

Off come Richie’s glasses, folded neatly on Eddie’s nightstand. Off comes his shirt because he can’t sleep in one. Off goes the artificial lamp beside the bed. Richie shuts his eyes and takes deep breaths, but sleep doesn’t come for a long time.

@heterophobic-thezoomer @ariamalik19 @bobert-newby @pucaaaaaa @thavwrecka @sodaoutsiders @bxxpbxxprichie @bitchierrichie @bleepbleeprichie @coolfijiwater

#reddie #stenbrough #it 2017 #it movie #fic #itd #mine

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verseofthedead · 7 years

Text

Lost in the Snow

if you lower your expectations and this isn’t half bad....lower...lower. no lower... that’s good. enjoy, or not. i’m not your guardian. all mistakes are mine cause how do grammar?

This is something to be said about the isolating feeling of a New England town in winter. Everything is quiet; even my footsteps, dampened by the few inches of snowfall from earlier in the day, seem almost silent. Quiet like this unnerves me. It makes the hair on the back of my neck rise with uncertainty. In the five or so minutes since I left my rusted, old Toyota Corolla in the ditch where it slid; I haven’t been able to keep my eyes forward. I’m afraid one of these moments I’ll look back and someone will be there ill intentioned and ready to strike. I’d never been mugged before, but then again I’ve never slid off the road on the outskirts of an unfamiliar town.

If you’ve never owned a Toyota, they aren’t made for ice and snow, or any harsh weather for that matter. They’re light little things that will shift in a small breeze. So when I slammed on my breaks to avoid the panicked deer that had leapt out into the road, I went spinning. I managed to remember to direct the wheel with the slide instead of cutting harshly against it and that is probably what put me down a bumper and not put me upside down, probably unconscious, on an empty road. Up ahead the town lights glow softly against the deep black of the night sky. It’s January and on nights like this it feels the world is at its darkest. I can make out the lights that align the main road, and even thought they should be a beacon guiding me to safety, they glow a dull, pale orange as if in warning. If one looked at just the right angle, they would say darkness itself was feeding on their luminance.

“Don’t go.”

I swear I heard someone speak from behind me. A low growl of a voice muffled by the quiet of the air. I whip around so fast I slip a little on the snow. Regaining a bit of composure I call out, my voice wavering. If it’s from the cold or from fear I cannot tell. The darkness behind me swallows more of my vision in response. The darkness grows around one point, so dark nothing can reflect back. And in that point of pitch black I swear I see two eyes gleam, barely there and low to the ground watching my every move. A dogs head appears, impossibly dark fur matted and something, blood probably, glistens on its snout.

“Stay.”

Hearing that growl of a voice, barely a whisper, my body goes into fight or flight mode and never being one for a fight, I run towards the lights of the town. My feet scramble on the snow for purchase and whether or not there is someone following after me, I bolt as fast and as far as my body will take me from that point. Taking in lungfuls of bitter cold air, my throat burns in a way I’ve never experienced and despite the pain in my chest I don’t stop until I see the welcome sign of the town which appears much sooner than I was expecting. Even on a good day I am far from a strong runner. The edges of the sign are wooden and worn. White and red paint peels from the parts I can see, but most of the sign is covered in snow, lit by two overheard lights, casting shadows onto the ground. Long and lithe almost like guardians standing watch over the town. My breathes come in painful gasps and wheezes, lungs too tight for comfort as these shadows seem to waiver in and out of reality. I realize now the wind has picked up a little and my mind is playing tricks as the tree branches shift. I look back as a feeling of unease eats away at my gut, gnawing at me to seek out those eyes again. Find some sort of proof they existed and I wasn’t just afraid of the dark. I stared for some time, eyes probing as deep as I was allowed, but there was nothing but darkness. I convinced myself the whispers through the trees were merely my mind trying to make sense out of the wind. Pulling my scarf over my nose and mouth in an attempt to cut out the cold I begin to walk down the lit road I saw earlier before whatever I thought was in the darkness chased me here.

To be honest I’m not sure which town this is. My GPS had cut out along the long road up to the town, it was surrounded by dense forest and that probably is what interfered. When I find some place to stop in I’ll ask and check my phone. I can feel the last bit of adrenaline ebb away and my teeth begin to chatter so harshly I fear a couple might crack. My hands are so numb they feel like the static of an old tube TV left on an empty station. I squeeze them in an attempt to get some blood flow back into them, it’s futile however, my thin excuses for gloves are soaked and frozen over.

I make my way down the main road of the town. It is surprisingly empty for a main road. No cars in sight. It has been plowed recently though, the asphalt striking black strip against the snow piled up on the sidewalks. Both sides of the road were lined with antique lamp posts, each positioned a few hundred feet from the others, covered with a light coating of snow. They’re the old models. The one with the bulb in a box-like casing, pointed on top, with all the electric guts in the large, sturdy base. The glow they emit is soft and orange and when I look up it’s as if the glow barely skims the bottom of the sky, somehow contained to the town. It’s always strange how changing where you stand changes everything about your perspective. Looking around the storefront windows are eerily dark. The light from the street posts barely illuminate the old brick facings let alone the windows. It’s as though someone hung a black curtain over all of them. Most of the windows have some business signage painted on them. A few thousand feet away on the other side of an intersection there is the distinct shadow of a church. I squint to take a better look at it, its design is simple in nature: a plain white building with a single steeple, three large windows with bull’s-eye glass panes, two framing the welcoming red door and one in the middle of the steeple. A top it all lays a thick weather beaten cross painted bronze. It looms, as if passing judgment on those who walk up to it. The windows that frame either side of the big red door are the only other source of light in this town and I shrug as I make my way towards them. I’m not sure about God and his “plans” but I am sure that whoever resides there is probably kind enough to offer some sanctuary and help me get my car out of the ditch and back on the road. Or at the very least, get myself towed into town and set up in a hotel. If this place even has one.

I make my way to the church and as I look around I notice just how abandoned this town feels. Beyond your usual New England fair, the world is muted in sound and color. As if the snow has blocked the town away from the rest of the world. I struggle to think of a word to describe what kind of place this is, and the best I can come up with is luminal. Even as I think it, the word morphs into a sinister feeling that crawls its way up my spine prodding as it goes. I reach the intersection and the snow drift kicked up by the wind makes it difficult to see down the perpendicular road. It’s like the town ends where the road is no longer visible and I shudder violently against the cold, crossing hastily to the church. Taking the old snow-covered stone steps two at a time I reach the red door and grasp a bronze knocker I couldn’t make out when I was first looking at the church. It’s terrifying to look at. A man’s face, rendered in horrifically realistic detail screaming in agony, his head pierced through the temples by the knocker. His eyes belie immense pain and from each orifice bronze rivulets of an unknown substance, possibly blood, have been carved. I can’t stand to look at it so I turn my head as I knock once, twice, three times and wait. Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets I glance back down the stairs. The town is barely visible behind a wall of snow drift, yet the wind didn’t seem as though it had picked up. It worries me that I’ve reached the point I’m so numb from the cold I hadn’t noticed the wind.

A small sliver of light appears and casts my shadow onto the ground. It is much shorter than the long one that is cast beside mine, I turn around and jump as the old man that answered the door stood much closer than I had anticipated. He is dressed in a solid black clergy cassock with gold buttons trailing down the front. His face is aged and wrinkled, with clear grey eyes lit up with some sort of mischief. He is bald except for the crown of grey hair round his head.

“Ah, hello there child. Lost are we?” His voice is dry like leaves in fall, crisp and crackling. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and I feel much less comfortable standing next to him than I did wandering the roads in.

“I’m not lost, per se. I had an accident down the road.” I gestured vaguely behind me. Not wanting to take my eyes off of his. That deep unsettling feeling I felt when I was first walking down the road returned. I didn’t want to turn my back to him “A deer ran out in front of me and I ran off the road. Uh, there was a dog too.”

“Did you kill him?” The question itself didn’t surprise me, but the nature of how he asked it. As if the dog was a common annoyance that must be taken care of.

“Uh. I don’t think so?” I hadn’t really stopped to look for the dog. Really I had yelled into the woods while I tried to make a call on my cell. It was the lack of service that prompted me to seek out the town. “Can I step inside?”

“Of course! How rude of me. You must be freezing to death out there.”

Pushing the door open a little more and stepping aside he bowed slightly as I stepped into the warm church. I watched him shut the door and make his way towards the front towards the Alter.

I stayed back wanting to take a quick look around. Along the walls were tapestries of Jesus’ trials, some depictions of angels on high, with their horns blaring out the end of the world, and some dark illustrations of what most certainly are hell; Fire and Brimstone galore. When I finally looked towards the front of the church he was there, watching me from the pulpit. I started to feel queasy and remembered I came here to warm up and make a call. Pulling my gloves off was more painful than I wanted it to be, my hands were a bright red, raw from the cold. I shook them a bit until the pins and needles subsided. Reaching into the front pocket of my green pea coat my hand grasped pocket lint where a cell phone should be. Swallowing down the wave of fear rising in my throat I tried to search the other pockets without coming off as frantic. I always put my cell in the right pocket, it wasn’t there or in any of the other pockets, inner and outer. It wasn’t in my jeans either and I felt the panic begin to take over. It must have fallen out when I was running. Now I’m stuck in an unknown town with a strange man in an empty church, blanketed by a new England winter. I honestly doubt if anyone would hear me scream even if they stood outside the door.

“Something wrong dear?” His voiced carried across the church high up into the rafters.

“Uh… I, uh I lost my cell phone somewhere and I need it to make a call.” My throat feels dry and the air feels thick around me.

“Cell phones aren’t allowed here and even if they were, there’s no signal.” He chuckles at that. “Besides you don’t need them anymore.” His words were calm as he gazed at me. I felt indignant; certainly I’ll need it to call someone when I get back to my car.

“What, what do you mean I don’t need my cell phone anymore. How else am I going to call for a tow truck? Unless you have a tow truck in town? If you let me sleep here I’ll just go there in the morning.”

“There won’t be a tow truck.” He looks down at me, his emotions unreadable. “You don’t need one anymore.”

“What, no I have a car just down the road!” My voice carries high into the ceiling. My panic echoes off carved angels and devils. My car is down the road in a ditch. There was a dog and he might have been rabid so I ran here to get some help.”

“He does have the particularly difficult task of getting people to listen to him.” The Priest smiled. “But now you’re here and we have to figure out what to do with you.” Now he just wasn’t making any sense. Without turning my back to him I walked slowly until my back hit the door. Frantically I groped around behind me until I finally found the doorknob which forgivingly turned and unlocked.

“Look, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about but I’m going back to my car! You can just send someone to pick me up in the morning.”

“That won’t be necessary, but go. See for yourself.” He turned and sat in the modest, tall backed chair. “I’ll be here when you get back and we can proceed from there.”

I ripped the door open, light spilling onto my path, and slid down the stairs, my knees colliding harshly against the stone there. Looking down the intersection the asphalt was still clear, but I still couldn’t make out where they lead to. The wind had picked up and the snow drift blocked whatever lay beyond it. My heart beat a vigorous tattoo against my chest as I ran down the main road which had sprung to life. Around me tall shadows moved around the little town and I dipped and bobbed through them. Terrified of what might befall me if I touched one. The lights in the storefronts were on and there was nothing inside them. No one is here but that priest and these things. I won’t find any help here. I have to get back to my car and find the way back.

When I reached the welcome sign that damned black dog was there. My head pounded and it felt like my brain was trying to punch its way out of my skull. Why couldn’t I remember the direction I came from? When I reached the towns edge the darkness had drawn closer. I could barely make out the welcome sign.

“I’m sorry. You have to stay here.” The growling voice I had heard in the darkness.

“I have to get back to my car!” I yelled, feeling much braver with the adrenaline and fear coursing through my blood making my skin hot. “Who the fuck is out there!?” From the darkness stepped that damned dog. Steam rose from its face as it huffed at me. It’s eyes were a deep brown, almost human and they looked at me forlornly.

“There is no car. It’s gone. You are gone. I tried to get you to stay, but you ran.” It’s mouth didn’t move but I heard that voice all the same. “I can’t get you from there, he won’t let me cross the threshold.” The dogs snout lifted back towards the town. “And you can’t cross back.”

I took two steps towards him before two shadowy figures moved into my peripheral. Tendrils of shadow grasped at my arms and forced me back. It was those long shadows that had looked like people, the ones from earlier, the sentinels that stood underneath the sign.

“You have to go now. If you’re lucky he’ll send you down the road. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you back” The dog turned back into the darkness, the winter swallowing him whole.

Roughly I was tossed back onto the ground. One of the sentinels pointed to the sign, and my eyes followed. What I saw made my heart drop. The snow had fallen off the rest of the sign and there in blood red paint brilliant against worn wood covered in white paint were the words:

Welcome to Purgatory.

#spooky #maybe?#original fiction

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