#Not sure how coherently this came out but thought it was a cool distinction

[genshin-side-piece]

Hazy Shade of Winter (Part 2)

Warnings: Yandere Content, Implied Kidnapping, Implied Captivity, Implied Stalking, Implied drug use, Mentions of alcohol, ]Non-Consensual Touching, my bad writing, anything else I missed, 18+, Minors DNI

A/N: Slightly (?) OOC Wriothesley. I think. I'm honestly not sure. But fair warning just to be safe. Follow up to Hazy Shade of Winter (Part 1)

There was no way to tell time in this place. Being miles under the surface meant no windows, which meant no real way to track the light. Wriothesley also didn’t seem that keen on clocks, or maybe, he wasn’t keen on them where you were concerned. It was a clever strategy, hiding something as essential as time from you.  Without it, you couldn’t gauge how long it had been since Wriothesley had left you. Nor could you know when he would be back. It might be minutes or it could be hours. You could only guess. What you were certain of was that the time you had been allowed was enough to at least feel marginally better. The hangover you’d suffered from thanks to the alcohol and the unnamed stuff had begun to ease. Though you still felt like you’d been struck by a water bus. Eventually, you found yourself capable of leaving the bed long enough to clean yourself up. It was a relief to finally rid yourself of the gritty taste in your mouth. It made you feel somewhat human again, even if it did nothing to change your circumstances. When you were satisfied, you retreated back to the bed, pulling the sheets and light comforter over you. There you stayed, hiding in the darkness. It lured you into the false belief that you were temporarily safe from the storm that was to come. Given your first encounter, you silently hoped that when he returned, Wriothesley would just leave you be. That he would pick on the fact that you cared as much for his rules as you did him and in turn, he would just go. It wasn’t like there was a rush to explain them anyway. You were a captive with no means of escape. From your point of view, he had all the time in the world to explain his expectations for you. His insistence on doing so first thing, when you weren’t even coherent, betrayed the cool facade that he had maintained since. He was excited. He was eager. No amount of sarcasm or dry humor would ever be able to hide that. 

Those emotions further betrayed him upon his eventual return.  Wriothesley tried to seem amicable, at least that’s what you thought. His true tone was muffled thanks to the blankets. You really didn’t care anyway. You only hoped he would get the message and leave. He didn’t. Instead, he ripped the blankets away from you, tearing away the illusion of safety you felt you had. “Still sleepy are we?” The wry tone in his voice did nothing to help. Nor did the tray of food he had brought with him. The sight of questionable sausage and what you thought was porridge made your stomach lurch. You tried to look at anything other than him or the tray; the walls, the ceiling, the door he had left open. Wait. Your eyes went back to it. The door, Wriothesley had left it open when he had come in. Either he was confident you wouldn’t try anything or he was testing you. It really didn’t matter. The proverbial door was open and you were prepared to take it.

You only gave the disgusting excuse for food one more glance before you threw it back in his face. Literally. Your hands came up in one swift motion, smacking the tray out from under him. You barely had time to register the way the light reflected off the porcelain bowl as it flew at Wriothesley before you made a break for it. Again with both hands, you gave him a hard shove, throwing him off just enough to squeak by and make a break for the open door. Around you, silverware clanged as it hit the floor. Glass and porcelain shattered leaving little cuts on your exposed skin, and a very distinctive grunt followed you as you desperately tried to get away. Wriothesley’s hand in your hair ended any hope of that coming true. You hadn’t even made it a handful of steps when the force of which he pulled you back ripped a scream out of you. One moment you were vertical. The next you were facing the ceiling, back pressed firmly into the lumpy mattress as Wriothesley snatched a hold of one of your wrists.  “Oh” He let out a dry laugh, that same dangerous glint returning to his eyes. “You want to fight do you? Well-” With his free hand he reached down, detaching the cuffs from his belt. “Let’s fight.” One look at them told you his intentions. With a garbled scream, you kicked at him again. This time though he was ready. Wriothesley maneuvered his hips between your flailing legs. The best you could do was smack him square in the ass with your calf. An action he seemed to enjoy, based on the smirk he gave you after you landed your first strike. “Give it to me.” Meaning your other hand. His tone was flat, expectant, and generally uninterested. To your horror, your escape attempt had done little to rile him up. Instead, he patiently held out one hand, while the other kept a grip on the wrist he had since locked in his handcuffs. “You’re already going to be punished for refusing your food. It’s only going to get worse for you if I have to reach under you and get that hand myself. Do yourself a favor and give it to me.” You still refused, vehemently shaking your head no. It was a foolish move on your part. You were all too aware of that. The smart decision would be to cooperate with him. To obey him this one time in the hope that he offered you some form of clemency. That wasn’t the decision you made though. Instead, you chose to refuse. You chose to fight. Two things you had been denied thanks to how he’d had you abducted. Two things you were all too prepared to give him in spades. All things considered, It was no less than he deserved. Wriothesley could only sigh at your refusal. He almost managed looking mournful for a moment, but it was short lived. The cocky smirk returned before he could finish his next statement. “You really want me to be the bad guy, don’t you?” Your response was to try to tuck your arm even further behind you, cementing your choice to disobey him rather than concede. “Foolish.” He clicked his tongue. “I suppose you’re really no different than the rest. Seems you’ll just have to learn this lesson the hard way.” There was only a brief shrug of his shoulders before Wriothesley finally followed through on one of his threats. All it took was one pull. 

You screamed again, the metal of the cuff around your one wrist digging into your flesh to an extreme degree as he drug your entire body off the bed. The pain that shot through your body was horrific. It felt like he was trying to rip your arm off from the force alone. Nevermind thin cuts and bruises left by the steel he had locked around your wrist. It was a foregone conclusion that he was going to get what he wanted. The force from the pull had wrenched what control you had away from you. Your body flailed in a tangle of limbs as you tried to catch yourself from falling face first onto the metal floor. He caught you, barely, but he made sure that you didn’t land into the pool of gray gunk that was congealing on the floor. Instead, you were wrenched up by your waist long enough for your other wrist to be captured in the steel of his cuffs. From there you were unceremoniously dumped onto a clean part of the floor and left to wait.

There was no quip that followed your escape attempt. No snide comment or even the faintest hint of judgment. Just a cold glare as he removed the longer chain from his outfit. The rattling bounced off the metal walls, causing you to flinch at the noise. While your headache had temporarily subsided, the piercing noise of metal echoing off of metal seemed to bring it roaring back. You whimpered, but only enough so he wouldn’t hear you over the jostling of his outfit. Thankfully he was kind enough to be quick about it, but only because removing the offending chain was easy work for him. The fact that he was punishing you to the point that you felt your ears would bleed was an inconsequential detail. You half expected him to say you deserved it. “I’ll only say this once.” He rotated the chain until he had an end in each hand. “Do as I ask. Don’t make me use force again.” Implying you wouldn’t like what would happen. Considering your present circumstances, you were fairly sure you wouldn’t. He’d already had you kidnapped and personally manhandled you without much provocation. To push him much further, at least at present, might result in a situation that was altogether unpleasant. “Hands” He gestured for you to lift your cuffed hands, which after a slight hesitation, you did. It wasn’t a leap to figure out his next move. One end of the chain found its way around the connecting link of the cuffs, while the other stayed firmly in his hand. “Up.” He moved his hand and you half expected another gesture, but instead he held it out to you, offering it as a means of assistance should you need it. An entirely gentlemanly gesture, from a brute of a man. You ignored it, awkwardly pushing yourself onto your wobbly legs. The effort to right yourself was a struggle. The failed escape attempt and subsequent fight after had drained what little energy you had woken up with away. Your legs felt no better than jelly. Standing on them or worse trying to walk on them would require a specific level of effort that you weren’t sure you possessed. The decision to not eat was a poor one. Even if the food was revolting, you probably should have seized the chance to get something in your aching stomach. At least then you could still the shaking that was quickly working its way across your entire body.

Wriothesley didn’t give you time to fret over it nor did he wait for you to fully steady yourself. The brief show of gentlemanly behavior was forgotten almost as quickly as it was offered. He yanked the chain hard, dragging you through the doorway and into the empty room beyond with little trouble or care. You stumbled, falling to your hands and knees against the rough metal floor, the sharp edges of the cold metal cutting into your exposed flesh even more. The sting from the metal biting your skin made you wince, not that Wriothesley noticed. He kept walking, pulling the chain tighter the further away he got. The silent demand from him was that you keep up; whether it was by walking or crawling. He didn’t seem to mind which. He only wanted you to follow until he ordered you to stop. Then he would move on to whatever humiliation he had planned next. Your cheeks burned at the very thought of it. How dare he. You had half a mind to repay his rough behavior with some of your own, but you weren’t nearly as strong as him. Given his size, you doubted you would be able to shift him. At most, you pulling on the chain or refusing to go any further would be a mild jerk against his hand. An inconvenience for him at worst. Hardly worth the energy or the struggle considering your current predicament. 

“Rule number one.” His voice drew you from your thoughts, pulling your attention back to him. He strode to the center of the room, bending down to loop the chain through a d-ring that was bolted to the floor. “You are the master of your own treatment here.” You stared up at him through the fringe of your lashes as he stood to his full height. “Call it irony” He shrugged. “But I don’t like the idea of punishing you. It took quite a bit of work on my part to bring you here. I even paid extra for the deluxe delivery.” Were you supposed to be impressed by that? It was laughable to consider that he expected you to fall all over yourself and thank him for taking such care with your abduction. Yet one look at him told you, that was exactly what he wanted, or rather he expected your compliance as a result of his supposed care of you. A trade. A bargain. An insult. In your mind, if he had the nerve to kidnap you, then the very least he could do was see to your safety during said act. Anything afterwards, like now, was a different transaction. Something you weren’t entirely interested in participating in unless it involved your unconditional release.  “So bearing that in mind, I suggest you consider your actions or rather your reactions in the future. I don’t want to get rough with you, but as you’ve seen, I’m not above doing it.”

“My actions?” He didn’t bother to hide his surprise when you finally broke your silence. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall ever having someone kidnapped for any reason, let alone to satisfy my own vanity.” He was quick. Despite his surprise, Wriothesley was able to volley a response back to you or rather he tried too. “That’s not-” You scoffed looking away for a moment. Any excuse or justification would go as far as his own lips. You didn’t want to hear them. You didn’t care about them. Clearly, based on your own feelings, they didn’t matter. Nothing could justify what he had done to you, nor would it justify anything that would happen in the future.  You could spend a thousand years with him and still call him a stranger. Above you, he let out a long breath. Your refusal to hear him had given him pause. You could tell those cold eyes were still firmly fixed on your face. He was intently watching every single thing you did. You knew he was.  When you finally decided to turn back, your eyes met his. They had never left you. He merely traded the view of your face for the back of your head and vice versa. Beneath the surface, you could see a myriad of emotions swirling within his eyes. He wasn’t as confident as he appeared. Wriothesley had worries, he had concerns. There was even what you felt was a twinge of doubt if you looked long enough. 

In turn, his eyes read and judged every emotion, every expression that you didn’t bother to hide. They saw your anger, your confusion, and even your own fear. You hadn’t fully acknowledged it yet, but you were every bit afraid as you were angry. In the span of a night, your life had become the property of someone else. He could do anything he wanted with it. You were powerless in stopping him from doing anything he wanted. Your current predicament was proof of that. “Look, I-” He let out another sigh. “I don’t want our first true interaction to happen this way. Please don’t be like this.” Please don’t fight. That’s what he meant. Just submit to his wishes and desires. Don’t make him beg, don’t make him force you. A not so impassioned plea from a man who was a stranger to you. He was trying his best to placate the fury that was radiating off your body, but the wound he had inflicted with his actions was far too fresh for it to work. “I’m happy to make nice with you. I’ll chalk the escape attempt up to the fact that you’re still adjusting. Perhaps I was being a tad unrealistic with how long it would take you to work through everything. Though-” There was a long pause after that. “in truth I would like an apology. You nearly burned half my face off with hot porridge.” He gestured to the side of his face as some sort of reference. You silently stared back, wishing you had. There was a chance you would have gotten away or at the very least put some much needed space between you and him. “Come on. I’m giving you an easy out here. Just apologize and we can move forward. It will make things easier for us both if you do. Believe me when I say that I would rather spend the limited time I do have with you doing anything else but fighting with or punishing you.” Swallowing, you silently noted that he was in for a rude awakening. “I would rather be at home, in my own bed. But we can’t always get what we want, can we?” A chill washed over the room. You weren’t sure if it was him or you, but you felt it all the same. “Instead I find myself at the mercy of a lunatic!” Your voice shook as the fear began to overtake your anger. The lack of food was fueling your desperation, which in turn was driving both your fear and your anger. You could feel yourself slowly losing control. It was a vicious cycle, which was reaching its conclusion at a rapid place. “I have no intention of playing this sick game of yours.” His entire body sagged in what you could only guess was disappointment.

“God-” He rubbed his scared eye with his free hand. “I truly didn’t think you would be this stubborn.” His hand fell back to his side as he stared at you with fondness. “It’s cute though. I like someone with a little bite to them. Makes things interesting. Still, I was hoping you would get the message right off the bat. But, if you insist we spend this time this way, then so be it. I will be all too happy to give you what you are so eager to earn.” He wrapped a length of chain around his hand, tightening what was left between you and him, pulling your arms towards the d-ring. You had to inch forward on your knees, just to ease some of the tension in your shoulders. “I will, out of the kindness of my heart, forgive earlier.  Before I left for my meeting I did tell you that you could be upset with me and in that spirit, I suppose you were only doing as you were told. I can’t fault you for it.” He wrapped another length around his hand, pulling the chain even tighter and you ever closer. “Just now though.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he silently recalled what had just transpired. “I’m afraid I can’t forgive that. Refusals, altercations, and escape attempts are strictly forbidden from here on out. As I mentioned, you are the master of your own treatment. Behave and we can co-exist peacefully. I might even consider special privileges if I’m convinced you’re sincere in your behavior.” Refuse him or fight him or even try to escape him and you would end up where you were now or possibly somewhere far worse. 

In retrospect, you knew your current predicament was fairly mild compared to the ways he could make you suffer. Humiliation, starvation, degradation, and pain were only the first steps. There were bones that hadn’t been shattered, flesh that hadn't been marked, limbs that hadn’t been removed. You and he had a long way to go before you reached the point of no return, and that’s if you ever got there. In the back of your mind, you knew you wouldn’t last that long. He would break you long before you ever got to that point. “Am I being clear?” “What-” Tears stung at your eyes for the first time, closing your throat and forcing you to momentarily choke on your own words. You didn’t want to admit defeat so easily, but what other choice did you have? This was his world. Even if you managed to get free, no one within the fortress or outside of it would help you. He could easily send the guardes or even himself after you. The general population of Fontaine wouldn’t question why a fugitive from the fortress was being hunted. The assumption would be you were just another escaped convict. A threat that the Duke himself felt he needed to personally handle. 

It was only then that you realized your disappearance probably hadn’t even been noted. It had been the weekend when you had gone out. Work had been tiresome and the promise of a day off meant you had the chance to blow off some much needed steam. With that in mind, there would be no one to miss you if you didn’t show up the next day. Same for the day after. By the time you did have to return to work, Wriothesley would have had plenty of time to cover your tracks. He could make your disappearance seem quite ordinary. Maybe you had run away to Sumeru, you had been talking about it or perhaps that serial killer got you. Wouldn’t that give your co-workers something to talk about? Maybe no one would even notice. People came and went from your place of work everyday. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to be there one day and gone the next. The reality of that hit you harder than the sedative had. No one could help you. No one would save you. Not a single soul, outside of those involved, knew you were here. No one, outside of the man standing above you, cared.

You choked back a sob as that information sunk in. It was loud enough and perhaps distraught enough that Wriothesley drew his brows together in genuine concern. From your vantage point you could see he wanted to check on you, to ask if you were alright, but he held his tongue. He just stood there, staring at you as hot tears spilled freely down your cheeks. “What do you want?” A pregnant pause followed that. As if the answer was stupidly obvious to everyone, except you. 

“I would think that is rather plain.” You looked up at him again through tear stained lashes, sniffling as he moved closer. “I want you.” Your throat bobbed, thickly swallowing the rising panic that was filling your body. You racked your brain, trying to think of any reason as to how or why this happened. How had an excuse me, an introduction, and have a nice day translated into you being in chains at his feet? The encounter between you had only lasted seconds. In your own mind, there was no feasible way a chance meeting could have this result, unless the meeting itself wasn’t by chance. 

Your eyes flew back to his face as your mind began to put all the puzzle pieces together. Chocolates, flowers, perfumes, and even lingerie had been sent to you in droves over the course of the year. Your mind whirled, suddenly recalling all the other strange or odd occurrences that had happened, especially in the last few weeks or so. The feeling of eyes watching you everywhere you would go. Strangers scribbling notes when they thought you weren’t looking. Your clothes, namely your underwear turning up missing every time you took your things to the laundress. The door to your apartment being unlocked despite you remembering that you had locked it. God. Your eyes got wider as the full picture came together. A year. Oh god, he had been watching you for a year.  “Look who finally figured it out.” 

On instinct, you tried to pull away, but his foot slamming down on the chain brought that plan to a decided halt. Your body jerked with the chain, a frustrated whine escaping your throat as you continued to struggle against the cuffs. Escape in this case was utterly futile. You knew that. The chain that was connected to your wrists was firmly in his hand. Even if you managed to get away from him, the room you were in only had one visible door; the chamber from which you had just come. The exit you could not see, the one that would take you to the rest of the fortress was almost assuredly locked. Then there was the fortress itself. A maze of locked doors and heavy bars. If the building itself didn’t stop you, then the guardes most certainly would. All Wriothesley needed to do was raise the alarm and he could have your right back where you were now in a matter of minutes. “You know-” Your eyes met his again, noting the hints of malice that were beginning to swirl in the icy blue depths. “I never believed that you didn’t fully know.” He leaned down, resting an arm on his thigh as the slack portion of the chain rattled in the background. “I told myself that no one was that unobservant of their surroundings.” A soft chuckle slipped past his lips. “I’ll be damned if you didn’t prove me wrong. Seems like all those nights where my anxiety kept me awake were in vain. You had no clue, did you?” He furrowed his brow, gently chuckling again. “Did you ever think to ask? Did you just assume someone was sending you gifts and that would be that?” You wanted to slap the smirk off his face, maybe leave another scar while you were at it. “Of course I asked.” Since you couldn’t slap him, you tried to add some venom to your voice, hoping it would compensate for your lack of movement. “I spoke to the couriers and the stores. No one knew. They all said the same thing. All the orders had come with the necessary payment by mail via an unmarked envelope.” There had been no indication of where the letters had originated from. The only thing worth noting about them was the simple stationary on which they had come. The paper lacked the ornate embellishment that was associated with the upper class, yet the paper itself was of a high enough quality that you could discern the sender had money. That theory had been further proven based on the gifts he had sent. Everything you had received was from the finest shops in the Court and of the highest quality. They had all cost well above what the average admirer could spend. That had told you that your devotee was at least well to do. Wriothesley, as the Duke of Meropide, was certainly that. “I thought that when my admirer was ready, they might be normal and present themselves properly.” Not have you abducted and brought to the bottom of the sea. “Because that would have gone oh so well.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure that I’m exactly what you were expecting, hm?” He wasn’t. 

You let out a heavy sigh, trying to ignore the obvious. Wriothesley had been the last person you had been expecting. Worse though, was the thought of the Administrator of the Fortress coming to your door for no explicable reason. Even with flowers in hand, the idea was a terrifying one. The Duke of Meropide wasn’t exactly a celebrated figure in the eyes of the citizens of Fontaine. While his rise to prominence certainly made him an enigma, the few that knew what he looked like, tended to avoid him at all costs. To see the Duke or any officers of the law on your street was often a sign that trouble was soon to follow. If you had known that Wriothesley was your admirer or if he had shown himself to be interested in you in a normal way, it was entirely likely that you would have run. Even knowing that you had committed no crimes in the eyes of the law, the risk of having him so close was one you didn’t want to take. The goal of every citizen was to avoid the fortress and all of those associated with it. You weren’t excluded from that. “See the dilemma?” Your first reaction was to fix your eyes to the floor, while you felt the first twinges of embarrassment creep their way up your neck. “Kid- kidnapping isn’t exactly a viable solution.” You raised your eyes to him again, trying to make that sound as harsh as possible. “Neither is this, for the record.” He just laughed. “If we’re adding things to the record, then throwing hot porridge in the administrator's face isn’t exactly the smartest of moves. Neither is disobeying my orders or trying to escape.” You squirmed, stupidly pulling on the chain as your own frustration spiked. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” He laughed again. This time, his laughter echoed off the walls, hurting your ears. 

“You hadn’t done anything wrong.” Until you threw the food in his face, and kicked him, and disobeyed him, and tried to escape. “I don’t think I need to list the crimes for you. I’m sure you’re aware.” Crimes? Your mind whirled at the very mention of the word. It was inconceivable to think that you had done anything wrong.

Fresh tears stung at your eyes as the frustration his words caused you, washed over you. No. It couldn’t be. You were innocent. He had abducted you. He had tricked you. You weren’t his prisoner. “But as the administrator of the fortress, it is at my discretion on how you are punished.” Wriothesley stood to his full height, reaching for something in his pocket. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t have time to deal with that.” He produced a medium sized lock, which was promptly attached to the chain and the d-ring, forcing you to hold your position at his feet. “I have more meetings. I suppose for now-” He mockingly thought about it for a moment. “Your punishment can be that you get to think about how you’re going to make it up to me or maybe, you reconsider your attitude. If not, then perhaps I’ll have to get slightly more strict with you.” From your vantage point, you watched his eyes drift away from you, focusing on something behind you. There was only one thing that could be; the room you’d woken up in, the bed. “Seems cruel to consider.” Your eyes went wide at the thoughts that were running through your head. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “I’d hate to do it.” Wait. “But maybe I was too nice at the beginning.” No. “Maybe I’ll just leave that with you though.” His focus came back to you. “Based on your expression, you get my meaning. Persist on your current path though-” His tone developed a steely, authoritative hardness to it that you didn’t like. “And perhaps I’ll go against my better judgment and make you earn things like a bed and hot food, at least until I can be assured that you don’t need too. That’s if I can be assured at all.” You blindly shook your head as you realized this man intended to keep you indebted to him for the rest of your life. “No? Well-” There was an odd chuckle that followed that. “Tell you what.” A long pause stretched out between you. He waited, oh so patiently for you to finally look up at him before he opted to continue. “I might be inclined to go easy on you. If you decide you’re ready to behave.” If. It had the same inflection as before, though this one possessed more doubt than its predecessor had “Let’s test the waters. I’ll give you something easy, something simple. I bet you couldn’t take more than that, could you? By now, I’m sure you’re feeling a little drained.” There was a brief moment where you thought to challenge him on that. Drained wasn’t the right word for it. Exhausted maybe? Famished and dehydrated; absolutely. In your mind though, you believed you could take all he threw at you and more, but your cramping stomach and oncoming dizziness told you otherwise. Your body had been taken to its physical limit. It couldn’t handle anything more; not without getting food into you first. “Let’s try… you giving me a smile again. That seems like a simple thing. I’ll even sweeten the deal. Give me a smile and I’ll bring you a little something to eat. I bet you’re pretty starved by now. Some fresh bread or maybe even some fruit, surely that’s enough to get me a smile?” It shouldn’t have been. In any normal circumstance, it wouldn’t have been. Had you been back in the court, you wouldn’t have given him the time of day. But here, in his world, you didn’t have that luxury. Here he could determine every detail of your life, including when you ate next. Considering you had already gone a day, you briefly wondered how cruel he could be. Wriothesley ran both hot and cold. His reactions shifted between the two with frightening regularity. It made him difficult to read in a situation like this, which was why you had to consider your answer carefully. 

There was no winning here, you knew that. Wriothesley had stacked the deck against you long before your kidnapping and arrival. Now he’d dealt you the losing hand he’d prepared for you.  If you refused, would he cave due to his own feelings for you and bring you a meal anyway or would he demand an even higher toll for your next meal? Would he let you starve if you refused to pay that price? How many meals would he allow you to miss before the inevitable happened. How many could you stand to miss before you yourself gave in? Upon further review, a smile was easy. It was simple. It wouldn’t tax your fatigued state any further. You could just give it to him to make him go, but again that carried risk. Once meant always. Always meant forever. There would never be a time where you would be able to refuse him without running the risk of being punished. One frown could send you right back to where you were. “Well?” You didn’t want to. 

“I-“ You drew in a slow steadying breath, trying to calm the emotions that were running through you. At this stage, you wanted to scream, you wanted to cry, you wanted to lunge at him and you wanted to do it, all at once. You couldn’t though. Even if you felt like you were drowning, you couldn’t give in just yet. For now, you had to remain in control. “I hate you.”  Above you, he released an incredulous scoff.

“Believe me, I’m aware.” His nonchalance about this whole thing only served to irritate you further. He was acting as if everything that had happened between you was a normal thing. As if he kidnapped and manhandled and humiliated people everyday.

“So why should I smile at you if I hate you?” You swallowed as your eyes found his again. He towered over you, giving the answer very little thought.

“Because I asked you too.” You hated how his tone sounded almost thoughtful. “Let me be perfectly clear, unless the world is about to end or you are deathly ill, I will be your sole companion here. That means you will rely on me for everything.” And the fruits of that reliance were determined based on how well behaved you were. In his words, you were the master in your own treatment, which meant you decided your own fate. “We can keep on this path, if you like. I can play the mean warden just as easily as I can the affable fellow. It makes no difference to me how we get there, just so long as you understand we will get there in the end. One day those defenses of yours will crumble and that anger you currently feel will give way to something else.” Was he implying you would fall in love with him? “It happens to everyone down here. Some get angry, some are perfectly fine with it.” “I will never be fine with it or this.”  He smirked again, a gentle spark of mirth dancing in his eyes. “We’ll see. I tend to have a pretty good handle on people, especially when it comes to how they’re going to react to certain things. You’re no exception.” His head tilted slightly. “But keep telling yourself whatever you need to keep that fire in you burning.  I’m beginning to find your anger endearing. You’re cute with your face all scrunched up like that.” He chuckled, his smirk growing larger when the sound only served to make you angrier. “Maybe I’ll lock down the pankration ring one day, just so we can spar. It might be fun to turn you loose for a little while, if for no other reason other than to get my hands on you.  But I suppose that depends on one thing?” You let out a heavy breath, grinding your teeth in mild frustration. “What?” “Will you smile or not?”

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[booppooo]

Whenever you open up requests again, I'd love to see a p2 of Never! Like, if reader tries to have sex with someone else and it's just not as satisfying and she complains to Ellie and then gets an encore performance ~

AN: I'm so sorry this took so long!!! Im in college so I be doing school stuff :( please forgive me

Warnings: you almost have smexy time with some dude ick, unestablished relationship, making out, scissoring (there's so much scissoring on my blog I'm so sorry), Ellie being horny and flirty, weed

Part 1

-

Ellie kept her promise when she said she wouldn't tell anyone.

Her lips were sealed, and she kept a calm and collected demeanor about the situation as a whole. You on the other hand - maybe not so much.

Sometimes, involuntarily, you'd get random flash backs to the fateful evening. The dark color of your pistol would remind you of her strap, the smell of your sweaty hands after a long day of patrol also sent you back in time. It would make you freeze and your skin burn hot, then your groin would grow warm as if Ellie's touch still lingered.

As if Ellie still lingered.

Every time you were near her your heart would nearly explode. Again, your face would become embarrassingly warm, the urge to lean over into her ear and whisper how much you missed her and wished to relive that night burned in your chest.

Yet, you held yourself together, knowing the interaction you two shared was nothing more than a favor. She was essentially setting you up for success. When you thought too deeply about it, you wondered how such a vulnerable and pivotal moment between two beings could be brushed off so easily?

That question eventually snowballed in your mind. When you weren't fighting for your life and protecting those back in Jackson, you were thinking about Ellie. You'd turn in early at night and try to trace the patterns on yourself that she once had, only to grow frustrated. It would be an understatement to say she had branded you. There seemed to be only one solution:

To find one of those meatheads she warned you about to rid her of you.

The next dance would be your hunting ground.

-

Several gin and tonic's in and you were teetering on the edge of total intoxication. No matter how hard you fought to stay coherent and cool, you slurred your words and stumbled. After each sentence you giggled, your limbs feeling as adventurous by always ending back up on the dance floor.

And admits this all, you kept your eyes peeled for someone who would end the constant battle in your brain. Luckily for you, you didn't have to dance very far.

A song ended and everyone clapped, only for another one to be birthed, and a man around your age in a button up and jeans tapped your shoulder. He held out his hand and politely asked you to dance, then flashed a charming smile that left you half-dizzy. How could you say no?

So, you gently rested your palm in his and let him adjust you both accordingly to slow dance to the song. Despite the distinct smell of whiskey lingering on him, he smelled musky and gruff, tickling a part of your nose you didn't know you enjoyed. His calloused hands contradicted his careful touch, soft grin contrasting wandering eyes. It wasn't long before one thing led to another and you were at his home.

Once you were in the door, shoes and coat left near the entrance, you'd been seated on his counter with his lips on yours. Again, whiskey was at the forefront. You noted how clumsy and rough he was. To give him the benefit of the doubt you blamed the drinking, because surely you were no angel.

Once he pressed his tongue past your lips things seemed to only get more awkward. Your teeth clinked together and his excessively slippery tongue coated your mouth and nearly choked you - as fast as it came it went. Now he was on your jaw and throat.

He was rushing. You felt behind and disoriented to say the least, but you didn't say no when his hand reached under your shirt to unclip your bra. In a haste you grabbed his excited arms for support, forgetting you were supposed to be enjoying this. Being drunk wasn't helping.

Next he wriggled between your thighs, and you felt his erection on your thigh. This is when you realized you felt nothing of the sort. The only dampness you recalled was sweat mostly caused from dancing and how stressed his ministrations made you.

He groped your breast, hard. It made you yelp and shove him away.

"Hey? What's wrong?" Red cheeks and glossy lips.

"I just...I'm sorry," you began to hastily clip your bra, "I can't, I don't feel good."

"Huh?"

Running for your boots and coat you mumbled, "I need to leave, I think I'm sick."

"What? C'mon don't blue ball me!"

No time to argue, you were out the door.

-

By some grace of god that guy hadn't crossed paths with you since that night. Needless to say you had been isolating more than usual, so that was also a factor to consider.

It wasn't as if you were doing it for attention, or wanting your friends to try and drag you out to some get together. You genuinely needed time to ponder what had occurred, how you felt about him and still Ellie.

In an attempt to figure it out, you journaled about it, scribbling down all your thoughts. It eased some of the tension, but not all of it. Not the physical aspect, at least.

Because now you felt his touch and Ellie's, both battling on your skin, leaving different types of heat in different places.

You hoped it would soon pass and time would heal everything. But when you woke up for patrol with Ellie one morning, you still felt the same sensations as the day before. Ellie noticed.

You had finished logging the two of you in and you both sat on a torn love seat to catch a breather. The closeness between you made your knee bounce.

Ellie pulled some items out of her bag that you didn't take notice of at first, "Hey uhm, everything alright?" She wondered.

Finally you looked over to her, and she had a tray on her lap, lithe fingers rolling a joint. You choked on the air caught in your throat.

She noticed the fearful red on your cheeks, "Oh" - she motioned to the joint - "you don't have to if you don't want to."

The only response you could create was a faint hum.

"Anyway, you've been kinda distant I guess. Is something going on?"

When her tongue peaked between her lips to lick the paper, a fire erupted in your core.

Nervously, you cleared your throat, "Just have a lot on my mind."

She eyed you from her peripherals, "....Wanna talk about it?"

Now the joint was between her lips, and she cupped her hand near the lighter as she lit the end. How could someone make this look so effortless and sexy?

"I mean..." you didn't even know where to begin.

"If you're not ready to talk that's cool too," she tossed her ankle over her knee and slouched into the cushions.

You knew you should talk about it. Even if you didn't mention how you thought about her day and night you could at least bring up him. It would be good to get it off your chest and lighten the load some.

"I uh, I met up with this guy at the dance. And we almost..." you nodded toward your pants, "but I couldn't do it. I feel bad. He was going too fast and all I could taste on him was whiskey. He just-"

"Wasn't me?"

You weren't sure if you heard her right.

"Huh?"

Her mossy-blood-shot eyes slowly scanned over to you and a faint grin snaked across her lips. She took another long, sensual drag of her joint, and let the smoke funnel out with her words:

"I think about that night a lot. It was fun. I've been tempted to ask if you wanted a round two, but you've been keeping to yourself."

Her words didn't feel real.

"I'm not sure if that's what you were getting at. Point is - if you ever want to dick around again, I'm game."

Then she returned to herself, watching the ceiling and smoking. The amount of self control she had baffled you. Maybe her feelings weren't as intense as yours, but nonetheless there was still enough there for her to want to do it again. That had to mean something, right?

You'd feel like a fool for saying no, because surely if you had another night with her then that feeling would shake. Or would it? What if it only got worse? Perhaps, there was only one way to find out.

"Yeah, sure." You answered.

She turned to you with raised brows, "Really?"

Confidently, you nodded.

And that confidence had you riding some sort of metaphorical high, because then you reached for the joint pinched between her index and thumb.

"What do I do?"

She scanned you, large pupils darting around your features as she calculated what to think or do or say.

"Ah-okay. So just hold it up to your lips like I was, and breathe in. Be gentle though, or else you'll cough. Yeah, like that."

The burn in your throat and lungs was extremely uncomfortable, and you still coughed. You knew your first time smoking wouldn't make you feel anything, but it only seemed fitting since Ellie was the one to pop your cherry.

She chuckled at your struggled breathing, took one last hit, and then put out the last of it on the tray set aside.

"I don't have my strap on me right now-"

"I don't care."

Again, her response was delayed, "Ya sure? Isn't that like the whole point?"

"Doesn't have to be. We can save it for next time."

She scoffed sarcastically, "Next time?"

You mocked her scoff, "Uh- yeah. If you wanted seconds you're most likely to want thirds, too."

The smirk on her lips made you think she was impressed.

"Alright, I like the sound of that."

A wide smile broke out, and you bit it back, watching as she smoothly inched toward you.

One of her palms fell to your thigh, the other feeling the curve of your jaw. Honey-like warmth filled your woman hood, your heart beating with excitement, fingers tingly with anticipation.

Ellie hovered inches away from your face, eyes glazed with lust and her high. A hungry spark quickly ignited in your stomach.

"C'mon pretty girl, don't leave me hangin'."

And you didn't.

The taste of her lips was everything you had been intensely craving for so long. Soft, sure, experienced, knowing. All your muscles were tense yet relaxed.

She wasn't close enough. You cupped her face and neck and urged her closer. Her smile was mixed into your sinful kiss, her nails were also digging into your thigh and made the fire within you brighter and hotter. Then your tongues clashed and collided, sending you deeper.

It relieved you how stimulated Ellie made you feel. You didn't want to waste another second with her, yet you wanted to soak this all up, and let yourself sufficiently scratch this itch she had left. Alas, you tugged at her shirt and helped her squirm out, then she pinned your shoulders to the cushions.

"Someone missed me." Ellie huffed, unbuttoning your jeans.

"You have no idea."

At this she smiled - completely full of it.

But her smile slowly faded once she reached your dampened panties, and she went into deep thought.

"Is something wrong?"

She squinted at you, then wondered, "Wanna scissor?"

Your soul drained from your face.

"We don't have to - just askin' if you wanna try."

"I mean..." you weren't entirely sure what 'scissoring' was, "have you done it before?"

Just like that fateful night, she was nonchalant, "Yeah. It's a lot of work, but worth it."

A lot of work? What could be more work that what she did with her strap?

You wanted to find out.

"Let's do it."

Sticky panties were ripped down your legs, then came her own bottoms - to match her you took off your shirt. Next, you watched curiously as she situated herself onto the furniture, positioning your legs and slotting herself between them.

"Oh....this is....different." You commented as she adjusted.

She looked at you with worry, "You still wanna do this?"

"Yes."

Her warm, large hand took your thigh and pressed it against her torso, your ankle dangling near her ear. She reached down and took your clothed boob in her palm, grinding her slick center along yours. Both of you sighed, and you squeaked when she pinched your nipple.

"Whatcha think?" Swollen and slick bottom lip pinched between her teeth lustfully.

A needy twinge accented your voice, "Don't stop!" Pathetically you tried to grind yourself up onto her.

"That's what I like to hear."

Again, her level of experience really showed. She knew how to swivel and dip her moving hips to glide against you in the most pleasurable way. Meanwhile, her tattooed hand wandered across your chest. Shoving your bra up your chest to watch your tits move with her ruts, toying with your borderline-painfully-hard nipples. Despite her doing most of the work you still felt a sheer layer of sweat perspire on your skin.

"Shit Ellie!" She had upped the anti.

Carefully trimmed nails leaving imprinted arches in your limb, but she wasn't without evidence either. The thigh folded by your hip was gripped and scratched and bruised from your desperate attempts to keep yourself steady and bring her that much closer.

"Fuck babe, I think I'm gonna cum-" Ellie panted.

Stuttering, strong hips jutted clumsily, barely stimulating the both of you, but just enough to tip you over the edge like a cat knocking a vase off the counter.

It had become a collaborative effort to milk your orgasms, most of it involuntary on account of your climax. Like bitches in heat you both moaned and whined and sucked air through your teeth while humping each other; every roll of the waist more exhausted than the last.

When you both came to a standstill, Ellie chuckled and tiredly closed her eyes, "Fuck...that was so hot."

Between gasps for air you laughed. This isn't exactly what you planned, but you had absolutely no complaints about the outcome.

"So..." you slowly sat up, "are we like fuck buddies now? Or are you just going to keep finding ways to pop my cherry?"

"Hmm," Ellie pursed her lips sarcastically, "I can be whatever you want me to be."

Giggling, you playfully shoved her from you and began to search for your clothes. The soreness in your legs and muscles in general already began to hit.

"Actually, fuck buddies could be fun."

You whipped your head around to find Ellie with her jeans unbuttoned and barely over her hips, baby hairs stuck to her forehead and taking a long sip of her water. Emerald eyes watching your every move with an everlasting desire.

"Whatever Williams."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Finally, you finished redressing and joined her on the loveseat to recoup, her eyes still watched you, "Quit being a little shit, we have to finish patrol."

She kissed her teeth, "Fuck patrol...I wanna know when I can finish you again."

Your jaw nearly slammed onto the floor.

"Oh my god Ellie!"

"Okay okay, I'm done. Let's get going."

With that, you both gathered your items and prepared to face the roaming infected that still plagued the outskirts of Jackson.

You should've expected Ellie to smack your ass on the way out the door.

#ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie x you

[transpoettryinghisbest]

(Guess who just watched Turnabout Gold Medal and got hopelessly obsessed with a certain ship!! Trigger warnings are in the tags.)

The courtroom empties and I’m the last to leave. I stumble out into the empty hallway. I’m not sure where to go or what to do with myself now. I wonder what happened to Vice Chairman Nivantess. Ex-Vice Chairman. I suppose he’ll be put where all of the criminals go. He always told me not to worry myself with it, as it wasn't anything to do with me. Whatever happens to criminals after they face judgement isn’t my concern.

I’ve known Nivantess my whole life. He was a close business partner with my father and he practically raised me. He taught me everything I know, from small distinctions between law definitions, to the big things - the legal and moral building blocks that this country and I rely on. He’s always taught me right from wrong. How to behave. What to say. What to believe.

It all feels like a lie now.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

“Alright, Chairman?”

I jolt in surprise. There, coffee mug in hand, is Mr Godot. The prosecutor and head of the Judicial Olympics. I instinctively want to tell him everything that’s running through my mind. But all I can manage is:

“Yes.”

“Are you sure? You look like your mind’s been stirred up more than milk in coffee.”

“Oh.”

He glances down, then recoils. “Crowmack, you're bleeding.”

“I am?”

My right hand is indeed dripping blood from a cut on my palm. I hadn’t noticed until now.

“Come with me,” Mr Godot says.

He takes my upper arm and guides me in a particular direction. I follow.

“Where are we going?”

“To the medics. To get you patched up.”

“Okay.”

Once we get there, the medical office is empty, but Mr Godot sits me down anyway. He takes off my glove, which has been slashed and ruined, to reveal a cut running across the top of my palm. It's stinging slightly. Mr Godot finds some bandages and gently starts wrapping it around my hand.

“Is it too tight? Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

I didn't feel anything when it first happened. I think I was in some kind of shock, but the shock is wearing off now. I can feel the sensation of Nivantess’ cane against my chest, pushing me to the ground. I still hear his voice ringing in my ears. Feel his chin against my knuckles.

“You want to talk about what happened?” Mr Godot asks.

“I…”

I do and I don’t. I have so many rushing thoughts that I can’t get anything coherent out.

“It’s alright, take your time.”

“I don’t know,” I finally settle on.

I’m used to having decisions made for me, even little ones. It used to be a relief, less to worry about, but I know now that it was a small part of something more sinister. An attempt to change me. To silence me.

“I’m here if you ever want to talk,” Mr Godot says.

“It’s…hard to talk sometimes.”

“That’s okay.”

He finishes bandaging me and just sits quietly, sipping his coffee. He’s not staring at me, demanding I speak up. He’s not rushing to talk for me or talk over me. He’s very comfortable with silence, it seems. I feel the pressure ease a little.

“I didn't mean to punch him,” I say, eventually. “I didn't think. I just did it.”

“We all do things without thinking about them sometimes.”

“I shouldn't have done it.”

I don't want to be someone who solves problems with violence. Someone who can't control his fists. I don't want to lose sight of the morality and purpose of my actions.

“Do you regret it?” Mr Godot asks.

“I…”

All I remember is the rage. I went through so much fear and confusion that day. When I finally came face to face with my mentor, the man who betrayed me, I tried to speak some sense into him. Tell him that he'd gone too far. But my voice froze up. Like it is now. Like it always does.

He pointed the knife at me.

And something just overcame me.

“I don't know,” I say. “Do you think I should? Regret it?”

“I think it was cool.” He takes a sip. “But it's up to you.”

I think about the moment I saw that blade pointed in my face. I didn't know it at the time, but everything he'd done had lead up to this moment. Vice-Chairman Nivantess always vying for my father's position, always falling second best, but still pulling strings behind closed doors, claiming it was for the greater good. When I was born, he saw me as someone to shape for his own benefit. Someone to use for my authority. Someone he could dispose of at any time.

He meant everything to me. He was like a father and a teacher to me. But I meant nothing to him.

“It's been a crazy couple days for you, huh,” Mr Godot says.

“I don't…know what to do with myself. I…I can't stop…” I rub my forehead, as if trying to calm all of my racing thoughts.

“It's all good. Whatever you want to do now is your choice.”

I don't know if he means long term or just today. I don't know what I mean. I don't know what I want. I don't know how I feel. Am I angry at Nivantess? Am I angry at myself? Do I hate myself?

I think I'm too tired to be angry. Not physically tired, but emotionally. I'm scared. For the state of this country now. And for me. I have no family. I have no one.

And I miss my father.

I wonder what he'd think if he could see me now. He raised a strong leader, not a snivelling child. But he was betrayed by Nivantess too. And he'll never know that. Nivantess called him foolish and incompetent. Just like me. Just like my whole family and the legacy that ends with me. It's a heavy burden and for years it was unknowingly stolen from me. But now it's finally mine, I feel a duty to uphold it.

I just hope I'm strong enough to do so. I still feel so weak. Just a lonely child crying for his father.

“It's alright, Kitten.” Mr Godot gently strokes my upper back.

“K-kitten?”

“Yeah. Cos you're small and cute but you have claws. You can fight back, I've seen it.”

I lean into him and he strokes my hair. For a moment, I forget about my responsibility. I forget about Mr Godot's job and his impressive, elaborate schemes. I forget about everything and just focus on this moment.

This feels nice.

“I just want to make my father proud,” I whimper, eventually.

“I think you already have.”

“I…I have?”

“You know what injustice is and you stand against it. Even before you knew of Nivantess' schemes, when he tried to do something that didn't feel right, you fixed it.” He chuckles. “And you sure know how to make a point when you want to. I raise my mug to you, kid.”

“Thank you. I…I appreciate all of your help.”

He wipes the tears from my eyes very gently. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

He finishes what's in his mug and sets it down beside him.

“So, Chairman Crowmack. What do you say to a little coffee date?”

“Coffee date?”

��Just a chance to…” He lifts my chin up. “…get to know each other a little bit.”

“O-okay.”

He tuts, shaking his head.

“Okay is not an answer, Chairman. If you wish to, you have to give me a yes. And if you don't, a no. And whichever you choose, make sure it's your choice.”

Mr Godot makes me feel nervous. But everything makes me feel nervous. He makes me feel…a different kind of nervous. I don't dislike it. It makes me feel compelled to…be close to him.

“My answer is yes.”

He grins. “Alright. Then. Let's Olympic.”

#ace attorney #ace attorney stage play #turnabout gold medal #jack crowmack #prosecutor godot #aa godot #tw blood #tw knife #tw abuse mention #crowdot #tw food mention #selective mutism #selective mute #ace attorney godot #fanfiction #ace attorney fanfiction

[quibbs126]

OH RIGHT THE FUSION PROJECT

I WAS SUPPOSED TO TALK ABOUT THAT

*groan* but I don’t really wanna right now, that’s a lot of stuff to get through. Like, if you thought my other original idea posts were long, you have no idea how long this would be. Made worse by the fact that there are so many plot points and I don’t know how to put them in a coherent format

But I did say I’d talk about it if people wanted me to, and people do

How about this, for now I’ll just give you the prologue of how I came up with it, since I should at least give people something

Okay, so backstory, I was in my Dragon Ball phase at the time. I was only ever able to get about halfway through the original series, just at the start of the 2nd Tenkaichi Budokai arc (random fact, I forgot the name of the tournament and just now had to look it up, and I got it mostly right other than me swapping the ending bits. Sorry I just thought it was funny), but I still knew what went down through people on YouTube. And Dragon Ball Z Abridged. I should go and watch it again sometime

Anyways, one thing I discovered and loved about the series was the fusion aspect, I really liked it, with Vegito being a favorite of mine and someone I often drew (sketchbook only though, so no Vegito art for you). I admit I liked the Potara method far more than the Fusion Dance method, considering the clothes combined too. One thing I also liked was how it fused the characters abilities, giving them both character’s abilities and even creating combinations of both. I also discovered the Fusions game, in which a bunch of the characters could be combined and fused, and all the different fusions that came with it

However, one thing that got to me is that with the majority of the main fighters, if they weren’t distinctly alien looking, not many of them would have fusions with much variation. Like yes, the designs would look distinct, but something that was a bit of a gripe for me was that a majority of the characters would have black hair and eyes, with the only major exceptions I can recall being the Androids, Videl and Mr Satan, and the Briefs family. While I generally don’t have a problem with this with the characters themselves, it makes fusing them a little boring in the looks department, since there’s not much to do

So one day in Physics class junior year, I was typing these thoughts on my computer, and I was struck with the idea to make my own shonen esque series with distinctly different characters, so I could fuse them all and make a bunch of designs?

And for all intents in purposes, that’s what it all started out as, just an excuse to make cool fusion designs. I made 10 characters, tried to give them all distinct looks and character archetypes, so that I could have fun fusing them and drawing those designs. Though soon after I started trying to develop some sort of story with them, though it was never more than a collection of general plot and character points

Though I do admit, I didn’t go too far with designs, as they’re all human, and it wasn’t until much later that I started to consider non human options

Looking back, I find myself wondering if I should just have stuck with that original idea. I do love combining characters to make new designs, that’s one of the reasons I like making fankids, but I also realize that other than the beginning, I never really did draw those fusions, focusing only on the characters on their own

Honestly maybe if I want to move forward with the fusion project, I just need to leave everything behind and start from scratch once more, going back to that original idea. I’m just not sure, especially since I do like a lot of the original characters and don’t want to just get rid of everything I made. But I also realize in my constant attempts to rewrite things, I may have made a mess of things, and might just have to start everything over again with that clean slate

But yeah, there’s your origins for the fusion project

…Actually you know what, I’ll be nice and leave you with some of the earliest art of the series, when I was creating the designs and not the story, including the very first lineup

…You know, I kind of just want to leave you with my art and designs and not have to go super in depth about all these characters and the world, sort of like what I did with when I showed off my Standswap drawings. But I also recognize that there, I had a pre-established world with Jojo’s that I didn’t need to explain, whereas here I’m the only one with the knowledge of all the characters. Hmm

#original characters #fusion project #original story #my art #dragon ball #fusion

[conspirwbytheorist-inactive]

Direct vs. Indirect Allusions: Identity in RWBY

Been doing a lot of RWBY character analysis recently (slowly due to holiday season) and I just wanted to gush a bit on how much fun it is to play with allusions.

Like, on the one hand you have the Direct Allusions. Or which fairy tale/story each character is directly based on. Like how Ruby is Red Riding Hood or how Weiss is Snow White or Blake is Belle, Yang is Goldilocks, etc. Relatively straight-forward stuff. But, these more or less give us a basic idea of and path to theorize about who a character is as a person, what their general drives are and what lesson they most need to learn on an individual level.

Then, on the other, you have this tier of Indirect Allusions. Or what roles a character plays in relation to other characters. Like how Team RWBY has the main allusions above but can also be seen as Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and Scarecrow. They're not the allusions to these characters, but due to their dispositions, when placed in relation to Ozpin (Wizard of Oz) they fill very similar roles. And this is where things get more convoluted. Because instead of providing information about an individual with a lasting identity, Indirect Allusions provide information on an interpersonal/situational level.

Which is how we get batshit things like 4 or 5 Dorothies traipsing around Remnant. Because relationships are way more fluid than individual identities. While there may be only one "true" [Direct Allusion] Dorothy, there's no reason multiple people can't play the role of Dorothy (wide-eyed kid whisked into a dangerous quest in a world beyond their wildest dreams by forces beyond their control). After all, people model themselves after others all the time and an immortal wizard is going to know a thing or two about finding people who can play it reliably well.

But, the thing is. . .while people may fill a role for someone, they still bring their own individual ideals and attitudes and flavor to the role. And it provides this awesome opportunity for the writers to foil characters and give perspective. Show how, while the original "Lollipop Gang" may have made horrific mistakes, a new generation can take those same roles and remake them with an entirely different approach. There may only be one true, Direct Allusion Dorothy (Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow, etc.) but each Indirect Allusion gives a whole new perspective by asking things like "OK. But what would happen if Red Riding Hood was Dorothy? Or Pinnochio? Or if Snow White was the Tin Man? What would they do?" and seeing what happens.

I gush because it's just so cool to prod around and see how many different angles and lenses to view characters with. Just like in real life, these characters aren't straightforward. They may be themselves but what that means and what they show can change based on their situation and who they're relating with. We know these characters pretty well, but each new dynamic and role we see them partake in with someone on screen just gives us an additional perspective on them as a character.

So, like, Yang may be Goldilocks, but in relation to Blake, she's the "just right" between Sun and Adam. Ironwood is the Tin Man, but he is trying to act like the Wizard in relation to Atlas. Raven and Qrow are Huginn and Muninn in relation to Ozpin, but who are they independent of that? - All of this really cool stuff that arises from how they relate to others.

Yeah. I just think it's really neat to have a show that uses it's allusions to create such a complex portrait of its characters' identities. Didn't mean for this to go on for so long, but figured I'd share :)

#rwby #rwby meta #rwby analysis #ruby rose #ozpin #rwby8 #Not sure how coherently this came out but thought it was a cool distinction

[spencers-renaissance]

This Gravitational Pull

Summary: Penelope Garcia sets her two best friends Derek & Spencer up on a blind first date. Even with the best intentions and highest expectations, no-one could've predicted it would go quite this well.

Tags: fluff, first date, au: diff first meeting, shy spencer, insecurity, anxiety, flirting, cuddling, protective derek, silly amounts of affection

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.9k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

I started writing this and then realised that I'd set their date in a pub's beer garden? I googled it and apparently they are a thing in America so I kept it in. I don't know how common they are, but I hope it's all good and you can picture the setting just fine.

Spencer really wishes he hadn’t agreed to this blind date.

Not because he doesn’t trust Penelope — he does, he trusts her implicitly and entirely — but because it's a blisteringly hot day in late July and the heat compounded by his shaking nerves is making for a rather unpleasant sweating situation.

A bumblebee buzzes quietly around the table he’s sat at, briefly interested in the iced coffee he’s got his hands wrapped around, and Spencer watches it with a gentle sort of intrigue, able to briefly take his mind off the impending date. He knows that Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan is physically attractive, Penelope had made that more than clear with both her copious photos of him and the way she’s sung his praises since she started working at the FBI, but if anything, that just makes him more nervous. If Derek wasn’t his type, then he wouldn’t have as much to lose.

He runs a nervous hand through his hair as he heaves a small sigh. Worst case scenario, he can run home to his apartment, order Indian food, bury himself in the early edition of War and Peace he just won in an auction and forget that this date ever happened.

“Spencer? Spencer Reid?”

A surprisingly deep and sexy voice has him looking up from the watch face he’s been staring at perhaps a little too intensely, and he’s instantly taken aback by the Greek God standing in front of him. He’d known Derek was attractive, he'd seen pictures of him, but no camera could ever hope to do someone so beautiful any semblance of justice.

“Uh, y-yes, um, yeah. That’s me.” He shakes his head to try and recover his awkward word stumbling before discreetly wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers and standing up to shake Derek’s hand. “You’re Derek?”

“The one and only,” Derek says cheekily, shooting Spencer a grin that already has his stomach churning with a mix of excitement and crippling nerves. “Penelope told me you were gorgeous, but let me tell you, she really undersold it, pretty boy.”

His cheeks instantly flush red as he fights to maintain eye contact, blinking owlishly at the other man. Did he really just say that?

“I was going to say the same thing.”

Derek’s grin only widens. “Well, it looks like Penelope matched us well, then.”

This time Spencer allows himself to briefly duck his head as a baffling mix of pleasure and mortification swim around his chest. He puts it down to inexperience. Any other explanation will only compound his embarrassment.

“She did,” he agrees, smiling over at Derek and hoping desperately that he’s managing to stay cooler on the outside than he is on the inside. “Do you want something to drink?”

Derek nods. “I’ll go and order a beer at the bar. Do you want anything or are you okay with that coffee?”

“Oh no, I’m fine, thank you,” Spencer says, and mentally he praises himself for finally getting out a coherent sentence that doesn’t sound hopelessly mangled and flustered.

He watches Derek as he strides into the pub, looking as cool and confident as his looks and personality allow, and he realises that he really does just have a way about him. The bar is relatively crowded due to the blinding heat on a Saturday afternoon, but the bartender serves him instantly, all the girls eyeing him interestedly and the guys knocking his shoulder and joking about with him as though they’re all easy, long-time friends.

It’s nice, Spencer thinks, to be the focus of someone like that’s attention. Derek could have his pick of most people drinking here, but he only has eyes for Spencer as he comes back out, holding a tall pint and wearing a happy, focused expression as he sits back down.

“Do you not drink?” Derek asks curiously and without judgement, gesturing to his coffee.

“I go out with my friends sometimes,” Spencer says, blushing again, “but I’m a bit of a lightweight, and that’s not the best state of mind to be in on any first date, let alone a blind one.”

Derek chuckles warmly at that, and the sound is a pleasant rumble reminiscent of a distant thunderstorm. Spencer wants to melt into it.

“I think I’d like to see you all messy on a night out, pretty boy,” Derek says wryly, still grinning shamelessly, and Spencer gets the distinct impression that this ‘pretty boy’ business is going to be a Thing between them.

Spencer cocks his head and takes a sip of his coffee through the long metal straw. “Maybe you’ll have to join us some time.”

“Does that mean we’re going on another date?” Derek asks, but before Spencer can panic that he’s said the wrong thing, he’s smoothly continuing. “Because I’m more than down for that.”

“You are?”

“Pretty boy, you ever looked in the mirror?” Derek demands playfully. “Add that to this cute little nerdy bashful doctor thing you got going on and you’re the whole package. Of course I want another date with you, and we’ve barely even started this one.”

Spencer flushes bright pink at that, and decides to move the conversation on before he melts into a literal puddle in the middle of this beer garden. “So you know Penelope through work?”

Derek gets the hint. “I was part of the group that arrested her, actually,” he chuckles, “and I thought she was gonna be a nightmare to work with when we gave her the option of working for the FBI instead of going to prison. But then she showed up on her first day decked out from head to toe in pink and yellow, her hair dyed back to her natural blonde, and the way she smiled when I called her baby girl… well, it was smooth sailing from then on. Did you know her back in her Black Queen days?”

“I was her one phone call,” Spencer answers, his face splitting into an easy grin as they discuss his favourite person on planet earth. “I was terrified she was going to jail and I’d lose her forever, so I was over the moon when you guys offered her that deal. We went to get our hair done together the very next day.”

“Oh yeah? And what did Pretty Boy have done to his hair, hm?”

Spencer blushes. “Let’s just say she wasn’t the only one who had a rebellious phase?”

“Now that I have got to know more about.”

“Save it for date number two, SSA Morgan,” Spencer shoots back, relaxing into the easy banter between them.

“Alright, alright, baby, I can do that,” he says, winking again. Thankfully, Spencer manages not to do an embarrassing impression of a traffic light this time. “How did you and Penelope meet?”

“Back in college actually,” Spencer nods. “She was sort of going off the rails after her parents’ death, but I think finding a scared 12 year old in her Geography elective helped her rein it in a bit. We’ve been glued at the hip pretty much since we met. Even when I went to MIT for a bit to complete my Engineering PhD, she came with me. Since her job back then was mostly hacking and some supplemental side jobs, it didn’t really matter where she was based, she was just hellbent on protecting me like she has ever since that first Geography class.”

“Wow,” Derek says, looking genuinely shocked as he leans back a little bit, eyeing Spencer with curious eyes. “You went to college when you were twelve? I’m glad you had Penelope because that could’ve been a disaster.”

“It kind of was,” Spencer nods, laughing a little. “But it meant that I had five degrees including three doctorates by the time I was twenty-one so I wasn’t too mad about it.”

Derek stares at him consideringly, the soft smile on his face making Spencer’s stomach fill with butterflies. “You’re quite the genius aren’t you?”

“Well, I don't believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I do have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute.”

Derek just stares at him.

“So, yeah, I guess I’m a genius?” he says bashfully.

Derek laughs, shaking his head. “Definitely a genius. I mean, Penelope told me you were clever, but this is like… insane. Are you sure you’re okay to go out with a mere mortal like me or should I see myself out?”

“Yeah actually, Derek, sorry, it’s not going to work out,” Spencer says, feigning seriousness. “I can’t be with anybody who’s not within twenty IQ points of me or doesn’t have at least two PhDs.”

“A good actor, too? What don’t you have going for you, pretty boy?” He laughs in that wild and free kind of way Spencer always wishes he could, and he wonders whether Derek could teach him how.

Derek watches him like there’s something special about Spencer as the sound of their laughter mingles, looks at him like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be but right here, right now, and the warm intensity of it has a buzz going in Spencer’s chest, a pleasant feeling he can’t imagine anything dousing, and he never wants Derek to take his eyes off him again. Not if this is how it’s always going to make him feel.

The hours of the afternoon fly by and all of a sudden the sun is setting and they’re feeling distinctly hungry.

“How do you feel about getting some street food and taking a wander down to the beach?” Derek suggests hopefully, and Spencer can’t help the wide grin that splits his cheeks at the idea.

“Let’s do it.”

The beach is slightly cooler than the garden now the sun is setting and a soft, salty breeze is floating in from the ocean, so they sit close together in the sand, sharing their servings of nachos and fries between them.

“What’s your family like?” Spencer asks, a little daringly after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence.

Derek smiles. “They’re amazing. It’s been just me, my mom, and my two sisters since I was ten years old, but I think losing my dad only brought us closer together, y’know? We had to learn from a young age how to rely on each other, and we were also taught the very valuable lesson of just how important family is and how nothing in life is guaranteed, so we’ve made every effort to be as close to one another as possible.”

Spencer watches with quiet admiration as Derek gushes about his family, and takes another bite of their nachos. “Do they live locally?”

“No, they’re all still back in Chicago,” Derek says. “It’s sad sometimes, being so far away from them, but they would have killed me if I’d stuck around back home just for them and hadn’t chased my dream of climbing the ladder of the FBI.”

Spencer nods, chuckling along with Derek as they stare out at the quiet, tumbling waves of the ocean.

“What about you?” Derek asks. “Are you close with your family?”

Shit. He hadn’t exactly considered that asking Derek about his family would lead to reverse questioning about his own. I mean, call him a genius all you want, but social interaction is not his area of expertise.

“Uh, it’s just me and my mom. She lives back in Vegas,” he explains, clearing his throat awkwardly as he hopes that’s enough to appease his date.

Truthfully, it probably would have been, but Derek doesn’t say anything immediately, and the silence feels like it’s choking him into admitting the truth, however much it makes his chest tighten and his stomach flip with anxiety. What if this is it? What if Derek doesn’t want to start something with someone who has a family history as fucked up as his? What if he reads between the lines and sees that Spencer could be just like his mom in the future, and thinks that starting a relationship is just too risky?

“She has paranoid schizophrenia,” he blurts out, the words rolling off his tongue without his express permission, and instead of shutting up, they just keep coming. “When my dad left when I was ten, I had to be her sole carer until I left for college at twelve, but even then she refused professional help and medication, so I was taking the train from Pasadena to Las Vegas every weekend to try and help her out, and it got messy a lot of the time. It was only when I turned eighteen that things got a little bit easier, and that was only because I betrayed her trust and had her sectioned into a Sanitorium.

“They’re amazing, they take really good care of her and I did my research obviously, but I think a part of her still resents me for doing that.”

He stares out at the ocean for a couple of seconds before he suddenly realises where he is and what he’s just done.

“Oh my god,” he says as horror and dread fill him from the bottom up, “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have just dumped all that on you, I’m sorry, just—”

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek says gently, placing a reassuring hand on his back to get his attention. “It’s okay, don’t worry. I’m just happy you felt comfortable enough to tell me all of that, and besides, I asked the question, and I meant it. I wanted to know the answer.”

Spencer feels some of the panic recede a little, and he looks up at Derek to try and gauge whether he’s telling the truth. “Really?”

Derek’s expression only softens further. “Really.”

He relaxes a little further and leans into Derek’s side, smiling to himself when Derek wraps his arm fully around his waist, resting his head on top of Spencer’s.

“I feel like I’ve known you way longer than just four hours and fifty six minutes,” Spencer says eventually.

Derek chuckles, and this time Spencer can feel the low rumble against his cheek as well as hear it. “It might be the biggest cliche in the book, but I feel exactly the same, baby.”

“I think sharing street food on the beach while staring out at a sunset as romantic and beautiful as that one has cemented the cliches in this date enough already,” Spencer points out, laughing a little.

“That is very true,” Derek agrees, squeezing his hand against Spencer’s waist. “We could round all the cliches off with a kiss, if you’d like.”

Spencer sits upright, blushing again as he eyes Derek’s flirtatious but serious expression. “I’d like that a lot.”

Derek wastes no time in taking Spencer’s jaw in his hand and leaning in slowly to place a long, sensuous kiss to his lips. Spencer kisses back with as much control as is possible when your experience is next to none and you have one of the most beautiful men in the world turning your stomach inside out with his attention, but it seems to be enough for Derek because as soon as they pull away, he’s grinning widely.

“You’re quite the kisser, pretty boy.”

Spencer fights the blush but it comes anyway. “I like that.”

Derek’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “The kiss?”

“No, the pet names.”

Derek’s expression smooths out and he smiles again, a little more tenderly than his usual cheeky grin. “Well, that’s good, because I have plenty more up my sleeve, sweetheart.”

Spencer flushes with pleasure this time and settles back against Derek’s side, observing the blue sea as they settle into silence once more.

“I’m not very used to all of this, by the way,” he says after a while, the sky slowly darkening.

“Used to what?”

“This. Kissing. Dating. Pet names.”

Derek looks down at Spencer to try and get a better look at his face. “Really? You could’ve fooled me.”

“I’ve only ever had one boyfriend before, and this is only the second date I’ve ever been on.”

“Any girlfriends?”

“Not really my area.”

“And this other date, was that with boyfriend number one?”

Spencer shakes his head against Derek’s shoulder. “No, I never went on a date with him. I met him in college and we were friends first, so we never really dated, just fell into a relationship.”

“Ah.” A brief silence settles over them again, but Derek doesn’t let it hang long. “You know I’m not bothered by any of that, right? You could have never dated anyone ever before or have screwed your way round half of California and DC and it wouldn’t matter a single bit. Not if you were here with me, right now.”

He laughs softly as Derek lightens the mood, and something in Spencer’s chest feels like it falls into place at that, like his last anxious reservation has been washed away and he can really move forward, forge onward with this scarily exciting endeavour.

“You’re a good man, Derek Morgan. You know that, right?”

Derek kisses the top of his head. “I do,” he says, “but I’m not sure it’s ever sounded quite as special falling from anyone else’s lips as it does falling from yours.”

Further down the beach, another wave crashes against the shore, and the colours of the sunset fade away slowly. People pack up their picnic baskets and head home, and seagulls attack their leftovers, but none of that matters, because right now, Spencer’s world is Derek Morgan.

Penelope Garcia deserves a medal.

(Yes, I've used that "yeah I guess I'm a genius" sequence in way too many fics, leave me ALONE. )

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @marsjareau @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds @wifeyprentiss @cmily @love-pyramus @notevanbuckley @hotchscotchh (add yourself to my taglist here!)

#my writing #moreid #criminal minds #cm #derek morgan #spencer reid #derek morgan/spencer reid #spencer reid/derek morgan #derek morgan x spencer reid #spencer reid x derek morgan #moreid fic #moreid fanfic #moreid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #moreid fluff #protective derek morgan #shy spencer reid

[parvuls]

fic: kintsugi

summary: The day after brunch at Jerry's, Jack and Shitty have a raw, much-needed conversation over the phone. Some issues need to be addressed before they can head down the road to patching things up.

word count: 6k

tags: year 3, post-comic 3.12, phone calls, friendship, canon compliant, apologies, introspection

notes: based on the prompt ‘providence + family’ by @atlasthemayor.

read on ao3

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Jack’s stomach churns strangely when he sees Shitty’s name flash on his caller ID.

It’s a disconcerting feeling, a slight jolt and twinge in his gut, both reminiscent of when anxiety coils low inside him and distinctive in some way. It makes Jack frown and set his heated dinner aside on the coffee table with the hand not holding the buzzing phone. He’s not sure he ever had this foreign reaction to Shitty calling him before, so after a brief moment of puzzlement he decides to write it off as a side effect of the exhaustion weighing him down.

The phone vibrates once more in his palm before Jack slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Hey, man,” he greets, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can pick his food up again. Shitty won’t mind the sound of his chewing, probably. “Staying up late to study?”

It’s coming up to half past eleven on Saturday night. Jack dragged himself through the front door and into the dark apartment at around ten forty-five, his muscles sore and his body beat from over twenty minutes of ice time. He dumped his gear bag in the entryway next to his shoes and headed straight into the kitchen without flicking any of the lights on, shoved one of his frozen meal plan boxes of grilled chicken and brown rice into the microwave without pausing.

The yellow glow of the microwave was the sole source of light in the room as Jack strapped an ice pack to his shoulder, still aching from Ericsson’s high-stick, stuck Bitty’s handwritten PB&J note on the fridge, and waited. The only thing he really wanted to do was fall face-first into his bed, text Bitty that he was home, maybe break down the game over the phone if Bitty wasn’t too busy -- but his regimen had taken precedence. He knew he needed to put in some calories and take care of his pain if he wanted to get up for his six a.m. run. By the time his phone started ringing, Jack was mechanically chewing on his food in the living room. His couch was more comfortable than a dining chair, plush upholstery engulfing his tired limbs, and it only distantly occurred to him that there was something sad about eating dinner alone in the dark.

Shitty’s call, when it came, was unexpected.

“Hate to tell you this, but eleven thirty is not late," Shitty replies, the familiar timbre of his voice tinny due to cell reception. It's an effect Jack is closely acquainted with after months of daily phone calls with Bitty, so he knows that's not all there is to it when he notices something else amiss about Shitty’s voice; like the rhythm of his speech is slightly off. He registers it as abnormal, but before he can figure out if he wants to ask about it Shitty carries on talking. “How’s everything going for ya?”

“Okay,” Jack answers plainly, piling rice onto his fork. He doesn't have the energy to think of anything more gripping than the truth. “Eating post-game dinner.”

Shitty pauses on the other side of the line, makes the creases in Jack’s forehead deepen. Something feels weird, but Jack doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it if nothing is really wrong. Sometimes people act in ways that confuse him for any number of reasons, and he’s not always good at telling them apart.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw,” Shitty says, clearing his throat quietly. “The Red Wings. Great game, brah. Your shoulder doin’ okay?”

Jack’s mouth slows down his chewing on instinct, and he swallows the rice with difficulty. Shitty never just tells Jack great game. Shitty talks about hockey like he’s the narrator in a porn film, with an enthusiasm unmatched by anyone Jack has ever met. Shitty once sang Jack’s praises for half an hour after a game against UND in which Samwell lost 2-0. That, combined with his tone -- something isn’t quite right, Jack thinks. He's more confident in that observation now, but his brain feels slower than usual and he’s too tired to connect any dots.

“Euh, yeah. I’ll be alright. Really have to shake it off and make sure I’m all there on Monday night, eh? We’ve had a good streak, but it’s always about how we play the next game. We’re getting better as a group.”

Jack’s tongue slips into hockey speak naturally before he can do anything to stop it, but instead of chirp him, Shitty makes a vague, throaty noise and doesn’t comment. “Yeah, I get what you mean. You and Mashkov really seem to hit it off out there, heh. Uh, listen -- I know you had to drive back for your practice, but. We didn’t really get the chance to talk much yesterday, and I guess…” Shitty pauses again, and Jack lowers the box to rest against his knee, apprehensive. “Well. D’ya have a moment? Because I’d really fuckin’ like to apologize for some shit.”

Jack’s hand clenches convulsively around his fork, a piece of chicken breast sliding off the tines and falling back into the box with a dull noise.

The early morning and then noon hours of Friday were an emotional blur. From the anxiety spike when Jack stepped off the plane to the car ride on the flooded highway; from the sleep-deprived, tearful conversation in Bitty's narrow bed to the cathartic brunch at Jerry’s with their friends. Jack drove straight home after his nap and stepped out of the car back in Providence to find his phone overflowing with chirping text messages. The chirps haven’t really died down over the weekend, but Jack doesn’t mind them, and he doesn’t think Bitty does either; it feels good to have a subject that’s been burdening them both treated lightheartedly. Trusting their friends with this secret isn't as heavy on Jack's shoulder as he feared it might be.

Shitty is the only one who hasn’t written much in the group chat. He and Jack talked briefly on the lawn outside the Haus after the six of them had returned from brunch, and then they resorted to roughhousing when the mood got too somber. Jack hoped that it’d be enough to put everything behind them, but if he pushes himself to think it through, a part of him has known that this conversation was coming. It wasn’t like Shitty to let things go so easily.

Jack's glad that Shitty can't see his face right now, because he can feel himself grimacing. He hopes his brief silence hasn’t been too revealing. “Shits -- it’s cool, yeah? We’re cool.”

“I don’t think we are, actually,” Shitty argues. His voice is growing strained. “You don’t have to talk, even --”

“C’mon, man, there’s really not much to say. Everything is good now --”

“Jack,” Shitty cuts him off, and the tone of his voice shuts Jack right up. Shitty can get wrapped up in things, can lose himself in long tirades about rights and wrongs and justice, but this tone sounds different than it has through the hundreds of rants Jack has been witness to. Shitty sounds dead serious. Jack blinks, and realizes: this isn’t Shitty being his normal self. He’s genuinely torn up about this. “Just -- will ya let me…? Please.”

“I…” Jack starts, but he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. He’s never been skilled at these kinds of conversations, and the odd feeling he got when he saw Shitty’s name on his screen squeezes even tighter than before, making him feel slightly nauseated.

“It’s -- I --. Jack, what I said in front of everyone during the home opening kegster… and all the other times I... That was some fucked up shit. I fucked up real bad, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jack tries again, but this time the words feel so wrong in his mouth that he has difficulty shaping his tongue around them. It tastes like an outright lie, although he wasn’t aware he was even lying at all.

Jack hadn’t recognized the churning in his gut until now, but Shitty’s steadfast apology intensifies the feeling and dredges up what Jack has clearly failed to notice. He wants to tell Shitty that there’s no need to apologize, but apparently that’s just not true; it’s only now that he realizes the sharp response he had to Shitty’s call is bitterness. Jack’s feelings actually were hurt by Shitty. Maybe he should be startled by discovering wounded feelings he wasn’t cognizant of for over a month, but if this past summer has taught Jack anything, it’s that sometimes he manages to overlook the most substantial of things.

“-- and it’s not enough to be chill about it now,” Jack blinks out of his thoughts and tunes back into Shitty’s distressed train of words, coming chopped and fast through the ear speaker. “I should’ve -- before, too, I should’ve created a safe enough fuckin’ environment --”

“You were always talking to us about creating safe environments, Shitty,” Jack interrupts him. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, and he puts his fork in the box and the box back on the coffee table to free his hands. He’s still making sense of his own mental state, and he knows that whatever is going to come stumbling out of his mouth will be barely coherent at best. “It’s not -- it was just that -- you’re always saying it’s important, and then, câlice… It was hard enough, hiding, and then with you as well --.”

Everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty. Jack remembers how in sophomore year Shitty marched into the Haus, ecstatic about the five different people who had come out to him that same week, babbling about how great it was and how different Samwell was to Andover. He mentioned sexuality labels Jack had never even heard of, had accepted so effortlessly those borderline strangers who had trusted him with their identities. Shitty has always been the most open-minded person Jack knows, the one to talk endlessly about the inherent toxicity of heteronormativity and to lecture the team about never labeling others without their consent.

Jack’s not always good at pinpointing the root of his own feelings, but the moment he thinks of that thrilled look on Shitty’s face almost three years before, he knows, like a lightbulb going off, why he was hurt. Because it seemed like everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty -- except Jack. Like Jack wasn’t queer enough to warrant the same respectful treatment. Like he wasn’t really allowed to be queer at all. Jack had never felt particularly close to his sexuality, but when even Shitty assumed so assuredly that he couldn’t be anything but straight, it stung. He just hasn’t registered it until now.

There’s a split second of tense silence, and then Shitty says, “I didn’t even know you were having a hard time, brah,” the pace of his speech slowed down.

Jack’s eyebrows draw together. His right hand, absentmindedly, pinches the fabric of his suit pants and rubs the smooth texture between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t -- what does that mean? It’s not like you asked.”

Shitty’s breath comes out in a harsh exhale, crackles in Jack’s ears. Jack can hear springs squeaking and sheets ruffling, the sounds of Shitty dropping heavily onto his bed. “Brah. How was I supposed to ask? You never pick up the damn phone anymore. Shit, man, I know fuck all about your life lately."

The fabric of Jack’s pants stretches in the tight grip of his fingers as he blinks, takes in Shitty’s accusation, and realizes he’s right all in the space of two and a half seconds. He can recall a few missed calls that he never got around to returning, but it didn’t seem so important at the time. He was, and still is, in the midst of his first NHL season, trying so hard not to get so lost in hockey and his own worries that he drowns in it and forgets to be a good boyfriend to Bitty.

It never occurred to him that he was investing so much effort into being a good boyfriend to Bitty that he wound up forgetting to be a good friend to everyone else. He knew Shitty and he weren’t talking as often, that things between them haven’t been great lately, but the truth is he had so many other things to worry about that he let it drift to the margins of his mind.

Jack lets go of his pants, rubs his palm down his thigh to smooth the creases away. His momentary bout of anger deserts him with the release of a slow, purposeful exhale. "You’re right. I’m sorry."

"No, no, shit,” Shitty says immediately, switching back from resigned to guilt-ridden in the matter of nanoseconds. “Don’t -- damn it, don’t apologize, oh shit, I’m victim blaming aren’t I, I totally didn’t mean to put this on you --"

"Shitty --"

There’s the sound of bed springs creaking again and then loud footsteps hitting a floor, which Jack assumes are the background sounds of Shitty rushing up from his bed to pace the length of his room. He’s seen Shitty do it across his small room in the Haus countless times, and it feels strange now, having it happen forty miles away. "It’s just, you know, I tried and you didn’t pick up and I get it, fuck do I get it, remember how in freshman year you forgot to talk to anyone for like a week during the preseason stress?"

Jack cracks a tiny, shaky smile that he knows won’t make it into his voice. His first few months at Samwell were a horrible time, fraught with loneliness and frequent panic attacks, too absorbed in thoughts of the path he was supposed to take to function in the path he ended up taking. His therapist helped with that, later, but before that there was Shitty. Determined to be Jack’s friend for no good reason at all. "Yeah. And you broke into my dorm room to make sure I wasn’t dead."

"So it wasn’t like I was offended you didn’t pick up or some bull,” Shitty hurries to finish, “I know you, I get it --"

But that’s wrong, Jack thinks, frowning deeply. Surely, Shitty must know that. "Shitty."

"What? No, seriously. It’s not the first time it happened, and with the pressure of playing in the league and all, I totally get it -- it’s just --"

"You’re allowed to be offended, Shits." Jack says quietly. His hand reaches up to curl around the phone and tug it away from the crook of his shoulder, but his muscles remain tense even when his shoulder drops down. His other hand is still fisted on top of his thigh and the purple shadows cast by the faint stars outside the windows heighten the grooves of his veins. "I know I -- I know it can get difficult -- with me --"

"No," Shitty interrupts, sounding even more emotional than before, a penitent snowball that keeps on rolling down the hill. Shitty’s capable of rolling on forever, if he thinks something is truly wrong. "No no no, Jack, I didn’t mean --"

"Shut up, Shitty." Jack says firmly. He preserves, reminding himself forcefully that the sentiment he wants to establish is too important to be derailed by Shitty’s atonement. His hands have begun to shake slightly, but he needs to get it out. "I know I’m worthy of love and friendship and all the crap you were about to say. I’m just saying --. You’re allowed to be hurt even if it isn’t new behavior. Just because I -- my anxiety -- y’know. If it hurts you, you’re allowed to be hurt."

The other side of the line goes quiet for a long moment, not even the sound of breathing coming through. Jack closes his eyes, counts to ten, tells himself that it’s Shitty and that the two of them are going to figure it out. Fighting with Shitty has always been mentally hard on Jack, has always felt like shaking the only foundation Jack had to stand on. It didn’t happen often, but Jack tries to remind himself that whenever it did they always came out intact on the other side. Arguing was a healthy way to understand your needs and the needs of the other person, his therapist told him.

When Shitty speaks, he sounds awed. "Christ on a cracker, man. That was fuckin’ wise. That Bits’ influence on you?"

Jack pauses to consider it seriously, taking time to recompose his brain. Being with Bitty -- it has taught him so much, about his own feelings and others' and how to put them into words, the importance of open communication. He told Shitty that the previous day after Jerry's -- feelings could easily not occur to him, even if he felt them very strongly. He coexisted with them without acknowledging their existence a lot of the time, and this phone call is only one example of it. Being with Bitty, having to be aware and give name and give value to his own feelings to make things work between them, has changed the way he interacted with his emotions. Made him understand himself better. He’s not at all sure he would’ve been capable of articulating himself in a conversation like this if not for the progress Bitty and he have made together.

But being aware of his worth as a person, and learning that his disorder didn’t define him but shouldn’t be brushed aside either, that wasn’t Bitty. “No, Shits. That’s your influence on me.”

This silence is even longer than the one before it, and then it’s broken by muffled sniffles on the other side. Jack's heart leaps, panic building in his chest -- but then Shitty says, throat choked up, “I thought -- fuck, Jack, this is gonna sound so motherfucking stupid. But I thought you didn’t, y’know. Need me anymore. I know this is on me too, I’m barely keeping my head above water here and the whole -- fuckin’ Harvard situation, it’s not… but each day we didn't talk and I saw your game scores, or I would see those Falcs vids… it looks like you have this spankin’ fuckin’ brand new life that I know shit about. And you’ve got Mashkov, and St. Martin, and…”

Jack can’t find adequate words for a long moment, and once he opens his mouth he’s surprised to hear his voice is thick, surprised to feel hot tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Shitty. Tater is great. And Marty is great, and -- Thirdy, and all of them. But.”

None of them are you, he wants to say, but that sounds too dumb to utter out loud. That’s not how Shitty and he talk to each other, or at least, it’s not how Jack talks to Shitty. Shitty is good at phrasing his feelings in ways Jack can handle, but Jack can’t ever make the right words come out of his mouth.

There’s another pause, his mind blanking, and then he says, “Tater didn’t make me sign a friendship contract.”

Shitty snorts, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Jacko --”

“No. Shits --. Tater didn’t make the effort to be my friend even when I was doing everything I could to push him away. He didn’t drag my ass to the Haus my freshman year after I hadn't talked to anyone but faculty in two weeks. He didn’t argue with Bergey until we were banked together on every roadie and was heartbroken when no one spread rumors about us hooking up.”

That shot goes wide. “Oh fuckity fuck, Jack, I’m a fucking dickhead --”

“Bordel de merde, Shitty, will you fucking listen?” Jack rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose, feels his skin crease between his brows. “Tater didn’t make me go to Gender in Warfare in Early 20th Century America because he knew it’d end up one of my favorite classes, or learnt my story about the fire extinguisher and the football team by heart, or -- or have been defending me behind my back since the first week he knew me. Tater’s great. I’m -- you know, uh, thankful, for having people on the Falcs. I didn’t think it could be -- after the guys at Samwell, no team would ever be the same.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says, sadly, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what Jack means.

Jack’s throat bobs when he swallows, chest aching. “And they’re great. But Tater -- or Marty, or any of them -- they’re not...”

None of them are you, Jack wants Shitty to hear, gripping his pants in his hand again to balance himself. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that would make Shitty hear him. None of them could ever be you.

There’s once again silence between them, only interrupted by Shitty’s quiet sniffles and the erratic beating of Jack’s heart. His phone is too warm on his ear, clammy from sweat smearing over the screen, but he can’t bring himself to put Shitty on speaker. It feels like they’re too far apart to have this conversation already, like Shitty should be sitting here on the couch next to Jack in flimsy underwear like he was every time they needed to talk like this over the past four years.

After a long moment, Shitty makes an ambiguous rasping noise and admits, “I was jealous.”

Jack winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Yeah, I mean, apology accepted, whatever, just. I was jealous they got to be there for you every day, really be there in the moments I used to live through with you that I now know zilch about. I was used to that being me.” He then adds, much more grimly, “Except apparently I sucked ass at being there for you at all when it counted.”

Jack sighs. They veered off topic to talk about something Jack considers more important, but now they were back to that and he knows in the pit of his stomach that they, both of them, won’t be able to move on until they talk this through. This is a conversation they need to have, even if it would be easier for Jack to not have it at all. “Shitty. I need to tell you something.”

The thing about Shitty is that he has faults like the rest of them, but Jack has always known that he’d drop anything if Jack needed him. He knows because it goes unconditionally both ways. Shitty’s voice goes immediately even and he wastes no time before saying, “I'm listening.”

Jack swallows. It feels -- heavy, on his breastbones. It didn’t before, it didn’t at Jerry's. He doesn’t remember this weight from years ago, when he first talked about it with his parents, and then -- later, too much later -- with his therapist. His chest was so laden with other concerns then that there was no room for anything more, and this burden was only ever an afterthought. At Jerry's he was thinking of Bitty, of Bitty’s happiness and Jack's own happiness with him, and the necessity of the action for their joint happiness. It didn’t leave any space for this weight.

Now he can feel the weight. It’s stupid. Shitty already knows, and besides, it’s Shitty. Jack knows Shitty so well that he can practically predict the exact words he will use, and even if he couldn’t, he knows Shitty would never turn him away. Yet his chest feels tight, like he’s holding in all of his air, and his fingers are again shaking against his thigh. “Shitty, I'm dating Bittle.”

Shitty makes a baffled sound, clearly not expecting this choice of confession. “I -- yeah, dude, I know.”

“I’m dating Bittle,” Jack reiterates determinedly, eager to get it over with. “He’s a guy.”

Shitty goes quiet for a moment, and then he says, voice low, “Okay.”

Jack wasn’t sure he was going to say it, but now that they’re here, this is something he wants Shitty to know. “He’s not the first guy I’ve been with.”

Shitty’s sharp intake of breath at this is audible even over the phone, but other than that he doesn’t react outwardly. Jack's shaking hand lifts up to rub over his chest while he waits for Shitty to say something, and Shitty doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

That’s almost exactly the reaction Jack expected to hear, but for some reason he doesn’t feel settled. “It never came up before.”

“That’s okay, buddy,” Shitty reassures him. Jack’s not sure what Shitty is thinking, if he’s thinking anything at all. This probably isn’t as big a deal to him as it feels like to Jack.

Jack frowns down at the shadows of his socked feet in the dark, thinks it over, and then corrects, “No, actually -- no. It never came up with anyone else. But I did think of telling you. More than once. You were the only one… but I had reasons not to. Or, I thought I did.”

“That’s still cool, brah,” Shitty hurries to interrupt. “You don’t have to --”

“No, because,” Jack sighs, trails off midsentence. He doesn’t want Shitty to make this easy for him, to allow Jack to take the exit he’s being offered. He knows they could stop the discussion right there and Shitty would never say a thing, but he doesn’t want this to hang over their friendship for the rest of time, and he knows that it could if he doesn’t force himself to dig deeper. “Because when you assumed that if I had someone it must’ve been a girlfriend, it hurt. I didn’t realize before -- I thought I was upset because Bitty was hurt, and I hurt him even more with my reaction, and it mattered more at the time. But it hurt. And that’s not entirely fair to you, because you had no reason to think otherwise. Because I didn’t tell you.”

There’s more rustling in the background, and Shitty talks over him before the last word is out of his mouth. “Jack, no, you’re under no obligation to disclose your identity to anyone and it doesn’t give them any right to assume -- I assumed and it was so fucking wrong --”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, because it was. He’s not trying to argue that it wasn’t. Shitty was wrong, but that’s not the point Jack is trying to make.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Shitty sounds contrite, and Jack can almost imagine the look on his face now. The small wrinkle in his forehead, the downward slope of his mustache, the sharp angle of his jaw. Shitty always looks older when he feels guilty about something. “So fuckin’ sorry.”

“That’s okay, man. Eh. Well, it's not, but it's forgiven.” And it is, Jack knows. He’s already forgiven Shitty, would have to try so hard not to forgive Shitty. They’ve hurt each other in the past and they’ll most likely hurt each other again in the future, but it’s never done intentionally. Shitty’s friendship is worth all of this crap and always has.

“I guess I just... “ Shitty lowers his voice, and Jack has to press the phone harder into his ear to hear him. “Fuck, I don’t want to excuse my actions, this does not in any way justify the shit I said. But I guess, in my mind, even though I know you should never assume about anyone, I did think that because it’s you… that you’d tell me. If there was ever anything to tell.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says this time. He’s not sure Shitty knows this, but this is what he was trying to get to before. What Shitty is saying is reasonable even if it isn’t ideal.

“Fuck no. What the fucking fuck are you apologizing for, you idiot --”

“I’m not apologizing for not telling you, Shits,” Jack stops him before it becomes another rant. He’s growing tired of using so many words at once, feeling the toll of the unexpected emotional turmoil he’s dragging his overworked body through. “I know what you said was wrong, and I know I didn’t have to tell you. I’m saying I’m sorry if you were hurt by it. And I'm apologizing if it made you feel like I didn't trust you, or. Or some shit.”

Another pause follows Jack’s words, and he has to stifle the urge to collapse sideways into the couch and shove his face into a cushion until everything goes away. This conversation, as necessary as it is, doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’ve been talking about their feelings for too long now and it’s starting to get awkward and overwhelming.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t super touched by your previous comment,” Shitty says, suddenly. “Because stereotypical masculinity is complete bullshit and I’m not ashamed to admit I teared the fuck up. But Jack -- Bitty has done some serious work on you. Or, like, you know, healthy relationships and all, you two worked on yourselves with each other to be better and all that, but. Man, I don’t think that’s a distinction you would’ve made six months ago.”

Jack considers it. The idea of someone’s hurt being valid even if the reason for it didn’t make sense probably isn’t a concept he would’ve been able to grasp, or at least would not have paid much thought to. Looking back, he was probably hurt dozens of times by little comments in the Haus, or things he heard around campus, or moments of feeling left out by his team; but when the reason for his hurt wasn’t completely logical it was harder for him to allow himself that pain. He would usually distract himself from it, instead. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“But can I just say again -- I'm so fucking sorry for being a heteronormative jackass. I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for hurting Bits, I’m sorry for --”

Esti de câlice de tabarnak. Jack drops his face into his palm and sighs over the string of Shitty’s rapidly escalating apologies. Jack is fully aware that Shitty is just going to apologize until they’re both old and gray if Jack doesn’t stop him. “Shitty, can you knock it?”

Shitty hesitates, but the flood of his words stops. “I miss you,” is what he says eventually.

Jack drops his hand down, leans his weight on his elbows and blinks at the dark room. Shitty used to tell him that all of the time. When they were apart on school breaks; when they were separated on roadies; when Jack had two lectures and a senior workshop on Wednesday nights and Shitty wouldn’t see him for several consecutive hours. Shitty’s affection was always abundant and inescapable, and Jack didn't know it was something he was lacking until he finally hears it. “I miss you, too, man.”

Shitty lets the gravity of it, the seriousness in Jack's voice settle between them, the earnestness he wouldn’t usually hand over easily when they were back at school. And then he says, “It’s hard as fuck, man. It’s hard to admit that it’s hard, too. It’s hard to see Lards’ pics from kegsters I can’t attend anymore, and it’s hard to find friends in this pretentious shithole full of pretensions dicks, and -- Harvard is fucking hard, Jack. And I hate being away from you guys, but I don’t wanna bring you down with my sad. You assholes are my goddamn family, there’s nothing that’s ever gonna replace that. It sucks knowing that I'm stuck here. I miss you so much it drives me fuckin’ insane.”

Jack knows, instantly and wholeheartedly, what Shitty is talking about. He’s living his dream and he loves the Falcs and he’s sincerely grateful for all of it even on his worst days. But sometimes stepping off the ice after a grueling practice and getting pictures of Bitty, laughing with Holster and Ransom on the ice at Faber -- it aches somewhere deep inside him. Sometimes he lies awake in foreign hotel rooms in foreign cities, and while most nights he longs for nothing more than Bitty’s presence, others he closes his eyes and wishes Shitty was there to crawl into his bed again. Sometimes he puts on his jersey before games and imagines the blue and yellow are red and white. His team from Samwell is his family, too, and sometimes missing them feels like missing an amputated limb.

“I wish we got to see each other more,” Jack squeezes out. His windpipe feels strangled, and for a moment he thinks that if he blinks too hard tears might well up again. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so tired his body is shutting down, or because he’s been holding on to more emotions than he previously thought. “I didn’t know --. I feel the same way, Shitty, but I didn’t know you felt like that. I’m sorry we didn’t really talk much lately.”

It wasn’t something Jack was consciously aware of, but he more or less assumed that if Shitty was ever struggling he would just reach out for help. Shitty was always the better one of the two of them at communicating his feelings, at saying when he needed something or was going through a rough time. It never occurred to Jack to reach out and ask because he always figured that Shitty would come to him first. It's a startling realization. He really isn’t as good a friend as Shitty deserves.

“‘S not your fault,” Shitty objects, even though in some ways it really is. But Shitty means it, Jack knows, despite the lingering hints of anxiety. Shitty wouldn’t say it if he didn’t honestly believe it wasn’t Jack’s fault.

“Maybe, but you should make time for the things that matter to you, right? I’ll try to be better about that. I wanna be there for you, too.”

Shitty sighs, and the tails of it turn into a breathy, weary laugh. “Fuck, Jacko, this is a fuckin’ sobfest. Shit, man. Yeah. I’ll try, too. We could Skype, even. You know I miss that mug of yours.”

Jack finally pulls the phone away from his ear, wipes the sweat tracks away and switches the call to speakerphone. His calendar app is full of cute little reminders Bitty leaves anonymously, like 06:30 work hard and have fun! or 11:11 someone is thinking of you. He’s developed a habit of checking his calendar often these past six months, counting down the days until he gets to see Bitty next. He’s sure it won’t be easy, especially with the progression of the Falconers’ season, but from now on he’ll have to make every effort to fit more people into his schedule. Bitty makes him happy, but he’s not the only one who does.

Jack scrolls through the events logged into his upcoming week. He’s got a game on Monday and one at home on Wednesday, and then Thursday is American Thanksgiving. Bitty is throwing together a whole meal for the Samwell team. He told Jack that he’s under no obligation to come if practice time doesn’t allow it, but... “Are you going to Hausgiving on Thursday?”

Shitty curses loudly. “Fuck, I fuckin’ wish, but I don’t know if that’s smart. I’ve got this fuckin’ test coming up. But I promised Lar-- uh --”

Jack smirks, even if it’s only to himself in an empty apartment. Lardo texted him after Jerry’s to let him know that the two of them will exchange deets privately like civilized bros, but Shitty still seems to be under the illusion that he’s fooling someone. Like his heart-eyes haven’t been obvious from space -- and Jack is painfully aware that if he noticed, that really says something. “Lardo, eh? Not getting out of that one.”

He can almost see Shitty’s answering furious blush from all those miles away. “Fuck you, Zimmermann, don’t make this about me. What I was sayin’ is, I wanna be there super freakin’ bad -- we all know I will gladly sell my right leg for Bitty’s cooking --”

“And for Lardo’s company,” Jack chirps, incredibly satisfied with this turn of conversation.

“I will fuck you right up, don’t you think I won’t!” Shitty threatens emptily, even though Jack takes him down every single time. “Seriously. Your bro becomes a pro athlete and suddenly he thinks he’s a goddamn comedian. Anyway. For Bitty’s cooking, I will make an effort. You got team stuff?”

“No,” Jack says with finality, swiping his calendar closed. He always feels better when things are put into action. “I think I’m going.”

“For Bitty?” Shitty asks, most likely trying to chirp Jack back.

“Well. Yes,” Jack says, perfectly honest. He’s not in any way ashamed of how much he wants to be near Bitty all of the time. He doesn’t think he can remember ever being less ashamed of anything in his life. “But also for you. Think you can meet me there?”

Shitty’s quiet. And then he says, “For my best friend? I’ll meet you halfway across the universe, Jackabelle.”

After the two of them hang up the call, Jack doesn’t move, his eyes fixed blindly in the direction of the windows across the room. His food is growing cold on the coffee table, but Jack thinks that at this point he might genuinely be too tired to eat. Whatever little energy he had left after the game was spent on this conversation with Shitty. He doesn’t regret it; they needed to say all of those things. Jack needed to hear all of those things, both so he could forgive Shitty for something he didn’t know he was holding onto, and so he could work on being a more considerate friend.

The game plan is solid, though, Jack decides. Thanksgiving dinner at the Haus will bring the opportunity to be completely honest with his friends after months of hiding a big aspect of his life from them. And it’d be fun, too. Ransom would put together actual charts for the seating arrangement, and Holster would draw everyone into a betting pool on the football game results, and Bitty would inevitably prepare insane amounts of food using the frogs as his sous chefs. He would probably insist that they’d hold hands around the table and say one thing each of them wants to give thanks for, as well.

Jack doesn’t mind American Thanksgiving, but he’s never really seen the point of that ritual. He’s known for a long time now what he's truly grateful for.

#omgcp #jackshitty #jackshitty fic #omgcheckplease #pavfics #i decided not to wait for friendship day because i'm not sure i'll be around to post then #but i hope you'll enjoy this anyway? #i wanted to write something about their friendship in early y3 in forever

[lewa358]

Game Retrospective: The Outer Worlds

Fallout: New Vegas was a blast. It had gripping worldbuilding, solid characters, and meaningful choices.

But like…it was also, you know, complete shit. I’m sorry, it was. It beats out the first _InFAMOUS _for being the single ugliest AAA video game I have ever played, the combat was a ridiculously clunky mess, and so damn much of the game is just dragging myself at an achingly slow pace across a wretchedly dull landscape while doing nothing but holding down W. and Cazdors have my permission to go to hell.

I believe these two contradictory elements to be true, and I can’t explain how. New Vegas was one of those games I liked experiencing more than actually playing, for want of a better word.

I bring this up because it is basically impossible to talk about The Outer Worlds without mentioning the Fallout games, and New Vegas in particular. Like New Vegas, Outer Worlds is a sci-fi first-person RPG with combat primarily—but not exclusively—relying on chipping away enemies’ health bars with guns (and sometimes melee weapons). You have a selection of companions to choose from—two at a time—and quests to complete, perks to earn, choices to make, blah blah blah.

And of course, both New Vegas and Outer Worlds are made by the same studio, Obsidian, though with nearly 10 years between the two games’ releases I’m not sure how many of the actual people in that studio were involved in both games.

So naturally, it’s inevitable that I compare the two. But I seriously wasn’t expecting Worlds to be this much better than Vegas.

The environments are bright, colorful and surreal! Combat is…mostly very easy, so it’s not intrusive! Because the game is kind of a budget title, the environments are nowhere near as expansive as those in Vegas, but that just means that there’s much less empty nothing in between locations! And even then, the terrain is just a lot more varied, with hills and valleys, and there’s this cool mid-air dash you can do that keeps you moving.

And in stark contrast to, say, Xenoblade Chronicles 2, all these improvements are very much not at the cost of what made the earlier game so engaging. Outer Worlds’, well, worlds are a blast to envelop myself in. The entire game is a shamelessly brutal satire of unregulated capitalism, with corporations acting as governments and demanding an almost religious reverence for labor and The Brand, even as the colony crumbles all around them. Each of the locations explores this in different ways, from the MSI’s flailing attempt to unionize to Edgewater’s blatant depiction of resource scarcity.

And the writing is phenomenal. I kept sending screenshots of dialogue to my sister, because there was so much that I thought was insightful or just plain hilarious. Despite how limited the character creator can be (why is long hair out of style?), every person feels distinct and every dialogue tree feels meaningful, reinforcing the game’s key themes while working excellently on their own merits.

The companions are a blast, too. There’s no romancing them in this one, so their quests are all about character growth without any uncomfortable expectations of a sultry reward—and they’re great. Tripping out with a vicar to have him confront the contradictory nature of his religion. Helping some idealistic kid come to terms with the unfortunate reality of his revolutionary ideals. Helping a mercenary lay her companions to rest. Cheating some scummy “parents” out of money they own illegitimately. That robot is cool too I guess.

But Pavarti. Pavarti! Her one dumb sidequest is so simple, but so shamelessly earnest and optimistic that I immediately fell in love with it. Just…how many games have you acting as a wingman for another character’s romantic exploits, helping a character achieve their best selves without immediately jumping into the protagonist’s pants—or for that matter, anyone’s pants? How many games have a romance subplot that checks off not just one but two letters in that LGBTQA+ acronym? How many games can even attempt half of these things without coming off as pandering or saccharine, especially in a world as snarky and cruel as Halcyon?

That’s enough coherent gushing. Here’s some extra bits I thought were neat:

No lockpicking or hacking minigames! As long as you have enough picks, and your hacking skill is high enough, you just hold down a button until the thing opens.

The game’s approach to stealth is…interesting.

On one hand, you have the whole thing where you crouch-walk around enemies until a meter over their head fills to indicate that they see you, and unlike, say, Deus Ex you can’t just stealthily pick off enemies one by one. You either sneak around or fight, and all the stealthy approach will do if you can’t or won’t completely avoid enemies is let you get the upper hand.

On the other, you have something particularly genius: if you find a particular organization’s keycard, you can disguise yourself as them when walking into restricted areas. This happens automatically, as soon as you walk past a “RESTRICTED AREA” hologram, and then a meter appears, showing how long until your disguise disappears. In a final twist of brilliance, the meter only goes down when you move, so moving around in these areas is about careful planning more than speedrunning.* The combat is fine. I was way overpowered well past the halfway point, to the point where this game’s equivalent of Deathclaws took me seconds to annihilate, often without a scratch, and my companions yelling about how my weapon was ineffective (due to its elemental affinities, but again, I was OP, so it didn’t matter). But I’ll take “dull” over “fucking cazdors” any day of the week. That, and the final area was oddly difficult considering how breezy the rest of the game was.

Look, man, I loved this game. It might even be one of my favorites ever. I truly do not care that the game as a whole feels a little cheap compared to, say the PS4 God of War, or that it lagged a little bit throughout my whole playthrough. When it came to the parts that mattered, it succeeded with aplomb.

Playthrough notes:

Played on  PC via Game Pass.

Playtime: about 30 hours

Completed the game and seemingly most sidequests, including all companion quests (but not that one modeling sidequest). Sided with Phineas but used a smaller portion of the MacGuffin.

Source for images is the game’s official website, except for the skeleton guy in the hat, that was my screenshot.

#The Outer Worlds #Fallout New Vegas #New Vegas #Outer Worlds #Game Review #blog

[talkfastromance4]

Against All Odds--Calum Hood (part IV soulmate!au)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: car accident, coma, stitches, an attempt at medical jargon, I did research but am in no way a doctor so if there’s fallacies, that’s why. I tried my best.

Song inspirations: move to you-jagwartwin; falling-tyler daniel; hesitate-the jonas brothers; falling-harry styles; stars in your eyes-ronnie hilton; want you back-5sos; what happens here-ASL; where will i remember you-ASL; all i want-kodaline

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

The Click || Measured in Moments || Fractures catch up on previous parts here!

Enjoy! Feedback is always welcome :)

• • • •

Calum hears rain. He feels it as well, but it doesn’t feel like normal raindrops. His entire body hurts, but the pain is more intense in his head and in his chest. It’s as if he’s on fire with a thousand-ton weight on his head and heart. Voices float in and out of his ears, he tries to decipher the words and their meaning, but his main concern is to control his breathing.

When the pain becomes too much in his head, he forces himself to open his eyes. They’re heavy but he pushes through and blinks a few times until he sees Ashton and Ruby’s faces near his.

“Oh, thank God,” Ashton exhales dropping his head, “you scared the shit outta me.”

Calum tries to sit up but Ruby pushes onto his shoulders.

“Take it easy, Cal,” she says, her voice small, “you’ve been in and out for the past ten minutes.” The honey color in her brown eyes are brighter than usual. “What happened?”

“Where’s Rose? Something’s wrong… she’s… where is she?” Calum demands trying to sit up again, but Ashton is the one to keep him on the floor.

“Take it easy,” Ashton repeats what Ruby said, “you’ve been murmuring her name. Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“I felt it. I can…” Calum’s eyes search down his body frantically, “I feel it everywhere. I need to get to her, I need to—”

His ringtone he has set up for Rose blares from his pocket and he’s quick to pull it out. He slides his finger over the screen to answer it but before he can say a word, a man’s voice comes through.

“Is this Calum Hood?” the unfamiliar voice asks.

“Yes, who is this?” Calum sits up and swats Ashton’s hands away so he can stand up slowly. Ruby holds onto his arms for support, which he’s thankful for. He got a head rush from standing.

“This is Officer Mathers, um… your girlfriend—”

“Fiancée.”

“…Your fiancée was in a collision just now. When we arrived on scene, she was slightly coherent and kept saying your name… Can you come to the county hospital?” Officer Mathers asks.

Like a tidal wave, Calum nearly collapses again, but Ashton has a strong grip on him and keeps him upright. Ashton can see the fear in Calum’s eyes.

“We need to go to the hospital,” Calum whispers.

***

Calum tries to placate and identify every emotion coursing through his body. His whole body is wired, he’s rubbing his hands together in anxious anticipation while his leg shakes impatiently. His eyes are focused on the cracks in the tiled floor, he’s focusing on his breathing and trying not to let the heavy pain in his chest overtake him.

Ashton and Ruby sit on either side of him, they gave up trying to console him as soon as they sat down in the waiting area. Officer Mathers, the one Calum spoke to, was waiting for them at the Emergency Room entrance, a solemn expression on his face as he explained the accident.

Rose was at a four way stop just as the storm started and when she pulled forward, another car came speeding through the stop sign hitting the front end of her car. She went into a tailspin and the force of it overturned the car. When squad cars, the fire department and the ambulance showed up the car that hit her was already gone but a witness getting their groceries from their driveway who made the call saw the whole accident happen.

It took all of ten minutes to break her free from the vehicle—which was how long Calum blacked out—and when she was placed on a stretcher that’s when she started saying his name, almost like a mantra. Officer Mathers took her phone that was still somehow clutched in her hand and found his number just as she was wheeled into the back of the ambulance.

A nurse came by after the officer left and escorted Calum, Ashton and Ruby to the waiting area. Calum badgered her for questions on where Rose was, if she was okay; but the nurse didn’t have that information.

His mind races while he sits and waits. It’s been hours since they arrived, he doesn’t even want to know what time it is. Every minute of not knowing what’s happening with Rose seems like a lifetime. His heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, he’s filled with adrenaline. He’s not sure if he wants to pace or sit here with his racing thoughts. He’s equally tired as he is wired, and he checks the glow in his chest every few minutes.

It hasn’t gone back to that dark orange, it’s as if he lost the part of Rose that helped complete him.

“I should have been with her,” he mumbles. Ashton and Ruby turn to him, their fingers are interlocked, and, in that moment, Calum is jealous of them. They have the comfort of their perfect counterpart, Calum’s never felt more alone.

“You can’t blame yourself, Cal,” Ashton tries to reason but Calum doesn’t want to hear it.

Not being able to handle sitting much longer, he rises from his chair and begins to pace. His head is still throbbing all around, so he tries to release the tension in his back by placing both hands on his neck. His fingers knead and rub the tight muscles but to no avail, his mind is still racing, and his heart is aching.

Calum.

He spins around abruptly hearing Rose’s voice, but is met instead with a woman wearing an orange surgical cap.

“Are you Calum Hood? Rose’s fiancé?” the woman asks.

“Ye—” he clears his throat, lowers his hands from his neck. “Yes, I am. Is she all right? Can I go see her?”

“I’m Dr. Robbins,” she says, “When Rose arrived, she was unresponsive, so we did some scans and found bleeding in her brain. We took her into immediate surgery to alleviate the bleeding. She has a femoral shaft fracture due to the collision and our orthopedic surgeon placed plates and screws to secure the fracture and an external fixator that holds it all in place. When you see her, it will look a little scary to see the fixator. She also has a few broken ribs and she’s being moved into the ICU so we can observe her on the clock.”

Her words fumble and stumble inside his brain, Calum tries to make sense of it all.

“Can I see her? Please?” his main concern is seeing her for himself, with his own eyes to make sure she’s all right.

“As soon as she’s settled, I’ll send a nurse to bring you to her. She won’t be awake yet, but the anesthesia should wear off in an hour or two. I’ll see you then.”

“Thank you,” Ashton says.

Calum thinks he says them as well, his mouth opens but he doesn’t hear the words. When Dr. Robbins turns on her heels, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, that’s when Calum loses his balance. Ashton and Ruby grab hold of his arms to steady him and bring him back to his chair.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before a nurse retrieves them escorting the three friends down the long, brightly lit hallway. Calum’s throat is sandpaper dry, he’s not sure what to expect when he sees Rose, but he knows when he sees her eyes, he’ll be able to tell how she’s really doing which will equally appease him.

Right when they’re about to turn into the glass paneled wall, curtains are pulled to hide the room, he takes a deep breath. When he sees her, he nearly falls to his knees. His beautiful Rose lies still in the bed, her head wrapped in cloth and gauze while her face is covered in bruises and scratches. Her left leg is elevated with small rods and screws holding her leg in place; now he understands what Dr. Robbins meant about the fixator. It makes her leg look bionic and very unnatural compared to her natural beauty.

His feet feel like lead as he steps forward moving against the curtain. Machines are beeping, while tubes, wires, and IV’s protrude from her chest and arms. When he reaches the side of her bed, he collapses into the chair placed next to it. His brown eyes are sad as he looks her over, his beautiful Rose. Carefully, he touches her hand and when he sees her ring still on her left finger, that’s what breaks him.

“Oh, Rosie,” he sighs letting his head fall onto the back of his arm. He kisses her fingers delicately, making sure not to jostle her too much. She smells like hospital, sterile and clean but he can faintly make out her distinct rose and rainwater smell.

He doesn’t notice Ashton and Ruby shuffle in and occupy the other chairs across the room. He holds her hand tightly in comfort, almost willing that he could somehow take her pain away. He’d rather it be him in the bed than her.

He doesn’t notice a nurse come in until he feels movement on the bed, and he sits up in a flash.

“Checking her vitals and numbers,” the nurse smiles as he eyes the monitors.

Calum watches him sullenly as he checks her breathing, and notices how he makes a face as he shines a small flashlight in her eyes.

“I’ll be right back.”

“What’s wrong?” Calum asks but the nurse is gone. “What’s wrong?!” he looks to Ashton and Ruby who shake their heads in confusion as well.

Dr. Robbins comes bustling in, bringing her own small light to Rose’s eyes, flicking it over as she opened her lids.

“Rose? Rose, can you hear me? I’m Dr. Robbins and you’re at the County Hospital. Rose,” she says in a cool affirmative voice.

“What’s wrong?” Calum demands, his voice hard.

“Check her blood pressure,” Dr. Robbins instructs the nurse. “Mr. Hood, I need you to wait outside.”

“What the hell is happening?” Calum roars rising to his feet. Dr. Robbins eyes him.

“I need to run a few tests on her right now, and for me to properly help her, I need you to wait outside for me, okay? Right outside the door,” Dr. Robbins speaks to him as if he’s a child but it’s not in a condescending way.

“C’mon, mate, let’s go outside,” Ashton says suddenly next to him.

Calum holds onto Rose’s hand as long as he can, his eyes never leaving her face until the curtains are pulled around her bed. Closing Calum off from her again. He hears medical jargon through the thin piece of fabric. He waits, he listens, he watches the glow in his chest flicker.

Five minutes later, Dr. Robbins pulls them aside.

“Rose has a traumatic brain injury and I believe that is what has her in a comatose state,” Dr. Robbins tells him, Ashton, and Ruby. “The impact of the other car caused severe trauma and her body is trying to heal itself in this way.”

“Will she wake up?” Ashton asks.

“It’s hard to say at this stage, statistics show—”

“I don’t want to hear the statistics. She’s going to wake up, what can we do to help her?” Calum asks with not even an ounce of doubt.

“Keep her as comfortable as possible, it’s a good sign she’s breathing on her own but we’ll set her up with a feeding tube so she can still get the nutrients that she needs. We’ll continue to monitor, do routine coma tests and make sure that her leg is healing properly.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Calum nods and moves to go back to her room. He looks back at Dr. Robbins, Ashton, and Ruby. The look they’re giving him is full of sadness. “She’s going to wake up.”

Two Weeks Later

Calum has been at the hospital day and night with Rose. Unwilling to leave her until she wakes up, the staff have brought in a bed for him to sleep in and placed it right next to hers. The first few days were the hardest, Calum was still in shock and trying to process all that’s happened. The guys stayed with him in rotation until it was well past visiting hours. The nights were the hardest, Calum ached to lay next to her and hear her true heartbeat rather than the beeps of the monitor.

As the days went by, her hospital room became like their own little one room apartment. Ashton and Ruby were kind enough to bring their pillows and blankets, clothes for Calum to change in and out of, their poetry books and record player paired with their favorite records.

Michael and Crystal have taken in Duke and Honey until Calum and Rose can return home. He wishes he could bring the dogs in so that their presence would somehow breakthrough to Rose, but the hospital wouldn’t allow it in case they bumped her leg or tugged on the multiple wires and tubes she’s connected to.

Calum also had flower arrangements delivered so the whole room was vibrant and floral smelling. He made sure they were always roses, hoping it would pull his Rose back to him. They also brought a little bit of light in here; it’s been raining for the last three weeks. He never lets one of them wilt, if it looks like it’s starting to brown he orders a new arrangement. He doesn’t want any form of death happening in this room.

The TV is on low volume when Jane, Rose’s primary RN whisks inside.

“How’s our girl doing today?” Jane asks brightly. She appears next to Rose checking her tubes, stitches, IV drip and her leg.

“Okay I think. I think I’m going to try reading her some poetry again,” Calum says stroking the back of Rose’s hand with his fingers.

“I think your love story is so sweet,” Jane smiles poking the earpieces of her stethoscope in her ears. She nods to his guitar leaning against the window. “I haven’t heard you play that yet.”

Calum glances at the instrument that Luke brought over for him one day in the first week of Rose being admitted. Luke told him music is what brought him and his soulmate together, and the love Calum and Rose also shared of music was bound to ignite something within her.

“I don’t really want to play the melodies that are in my head,” Calum says picking up a poetry book that’s on the makeshift nightstand next to his cot bed. It’s a hospital table-top cart that holds his and Rose’s notebooks along with their poetry books. He shuffles through the pages, inked words flashing by quickly. “They’re all sad and I don’t want her to feel that.”

Jane nods tucking Rose’s plush periwinkle blanket back into place, so she stays warm.

“I understand. Everything looks good, I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t forget to eat, Calum,” Jane reminds him with a pointed look.

“Thanks Jane,” Calum tries to give her a grin, but he can feel it’s more of a grimace. Jane walks back out of the room closing the door behind her and Calum sighs staring at Rose. “Should I read some poems to you, Rosie?”

The page he landed on was of a poem titled Bloom,

‘Someone once planted your name

like a seed in my heart.

Only now I’ve met you,

Do I know what it means to bloom.’

And below the printed words are Rose’s own, handwritten in her beautiful cursive. Calum traces the written words with a longing he knows will never go away. It reads:

Calum and I said ‘I love you’ to each other. Not many soulmates do that but after that night with the storm when we had sex for the first time…it felt right. Like my world finally clicked into place. I’ve read about love, seen it with my own eyes from friends and family but to feel it? Love is such a strong word, since we’ve both said it I feel it blooming within me. When I say his name it grows, when he says mine it doubles, and when we exchange ‘I love you’ it triples.

Calum remembers that night perfectly. The provocative prose he read to her lead to their lovemaking while the storm rumbled on outside. It mirrored the storm within him at wanting to declare his love to her, but he kept it inside in fear of losing her. He knew he loved her the first time they kissed up in her apartment, that this was everything he’s ever wanted. Rose is the muse he’s been writing and singing about for all these years.

A loud roar of thunder shook outside, and Calum glances out the rain streaked window as lightning flashes across the sky. It’s as if the universe knows his soulmate is in turmoil because the rain hasn’t let up at all. Glancing back at Rose, he hopes wherever she is that it’s sunshine and happy memories.

He closes the book then moves to the record player in the corner of the room. Their favorite record is already placed inside, and he turns it on. Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the room as he sings about the moon. Calum inspects the flowers making sure they all have their vibrant color before sitting back down on his cot.

He picks up his Michael Faudet book and reads Chasing Love out loud to her. When he’s finished, he stares at this poem for a long time as Frank’s voice ricochets off the walls. The first half is a little broody, two pathways meeting but not crossing. He’s thankful his path and Rose’s crossed—crashed actually. He’s reminded of the ghostly dream he had of this phantom woman a few years ago that teased him of knowing him in his ear. Turns out it was her all along.

The last line pulls at his heart ‘how sunshine steals from autumn frost.’ What a conundrum because his sunshine was stolen from him. Instead of frost and snow the sun was replaced with the rain and thunder brewing relentlessly outside.

He looks at his Rose, frozen in sleep, and he’s desperate for her to return to him. his throat works as he realizes how too close their situation resembles to the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. His sweet, sweet Rose in a deep slumber.

Calum traces the area of the diamond on her finger. It’s become a bit loose and he takes in her appearance for the thousandth time. Her complexion is dry and thin compared to her usual warmth and softness. She’s void of color and abundance. Like the other times before when he’s felt her anger or her sadness, he tries to place what she’s feeling now but comes up blank. There’s a faint buzzing and a very distant lilt of music, but that’s all he can gather.

The red glow is dim but still there, so that has to be a good sign. Calum scoots closer and with careful fingers touches her hair that is also less in color and dry. Some of it is growing back in baby tufts around her stitches. He caresses her cheek; her skin is lukewarm. On a normal day, this action would have made her cheeks heat up in a light pink pigment, but they remain the same pallor.

“Come back to me, Rosie,” he whispers anxiously. He curls her cool, limp fingers in his. “I love you so much.”

On instinct, he glances back to her chest, the red glow is still the weak glimmer but it’s that little bit of light that urges his hope to press on. She will wake again.

Four Weeks Later

Ashton is sitting with him today like he has been every Monday and Wednesday prior. The record player plays absently in the background and Ashton watches his best friend cling to the love of his life. Their talk is minimal, the weather has been the same onslaught of rain so that’s always out. After Calum informs him of Rose’s condition it goes silent between them.

When the record stops Calum shifts to that part of the room and grabs their album placing it on the B side of the vinyl. He feels Ashton’s gaze on him the whole time.

“Lover of mine is her favorite,” Calum grins then sits back down next to her bed. He’s hoping the music will awaken her at some point. He has to find the right song.

“I hate seeing you like this, mate,” Ashton finally admits. “You’re wasting away being cooped up in here.”

“I’m staying until she wakes up.”

“You have to start thinking of the possibility that she might not…” Ashton’s voice tapers off morosely. Calum’s eyes flash in white hot fury.

“She’s going to wake up,” Calum says firmly. “She’s in there. She can hear me and I…I feel her.” He flicks his eyes back to her then takes her hand.

A few days ago, while he was reading to her, the buzzing he always heard quieted and the musical melody became louder.

“How?”

Calum hesitates, his thumb rubs the back of her hand. “We love each other,” he confesses and Ashton gasps. “And since we’ve said it we’ve had a…a connection. It’s a warmth and a-a glow in our chests and somehow it combined into one. She still has her glow and I have mine.”

“When—why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s hard to explain and I know it’s not common for soulmates to say it to each other, because there isn’t really a need to but…I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”

“I’d never think that. That’s incredible, man.”

They fall into a silence again. Ashton is still wrestling with the idea that even though Calum feels her, who knows how long it will be until she does wake up? He wants to be supportive of his friend, his brother, but it’s hard when he can see how harrowing this is for him.

He’s been stuck in this hotel for four weeks now, eating hospital food and never leaving. Calum has lost weight and he has dark circles under his eyes that never seem to go away. The similarities between Rose and Calum’s appearances is frightening but also adds truth to how Calum says he ‘feels’ her. Is he going through what Rose is?

Ruby arrives about an hour later with some take out food, her curls are dewed with droplets of the rain and her face falls when she catches sight of Rose and Calum. She looks to Ashton who nods; the two of them have discussed trying to get Calum to go home for a bit and today seems like a good time to do that.

“Hey Cal,” she greets him brightly setting the food bags on the table under the tv.

“Hey Rube,” he replies quietly, eyes never straying from Rose.

“What do you say about going home for a few hours?” She rubs her hands together trying to warm up from the cold rain. “Ash and I can stay here so you can shower and do some laundry.”

Calum turns to her stiffly, his brown eyes flat.

“I’m not leaving her, Ruby.”

“It’d only be for an hour or two,” she presses moving to the other side of Rose’s bed. She gazes at her own best friend, sadness welling up in her heart. “You don’t have to spend the night but just to stretch your legs, get a change of scenery.”

Calum licks his chapped lips, the thought of showering in his own bathroom is tempting. The one here gets the job done but he can feel the difference in comfort. He does have a pile of clothes in the corner that should be washed but the thought of leaving Rose tugs at his heart.

“What if something happens?”

“You know we’ll call you,” Ashton chimes in. “Rose would want you to take care of yourself, too.”

After careful thought he agrees, gathers his clothes then kisses Rose’s forehead. It’s clammy and each step away from her makes him feel horrible. It rises a panic in him he’s never felt before and it only increases when he gets in his car. The rain is a horrible reminder of the night of her accident when his world flipped upside down.

He’s anxious the whole car ride, it’s weird being in a vehicle after four weeks of staying in one place. He makes sure to keep both hands on the wheel as he drives not wanting to risk getting into an accident himself.

When he arrives home it’s dark and quiet without the welcoming of the dogs’ claws on the floor. He misses them and wants to see them at Mike’s house but that would make him be away from Rose longer and he couldn’t have that. Maybe he’ll go over there in a day or two.

The silence is deafening as he walks down the hall. He pauses at the Eiffel tower photos on the wall and gazes at each photo. Rose’s smile and the light in her eyes brings him both comfort and pain. Being home and out of the hospital makes him truly feel the huge weight on his shoulders

He tosses his clothes in the washer and pours in the desired amount of detergent. He selects a setting without reading it but sees it’s only for forty minutes. Good, the faster he can get back to the hospital the better.

Once inside the bathroom—he makes sure to avoid looking at their bed—he connects his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the fan. Calum’s body feels heavier as he removes his clothes slowly, his arms like lead and his muscles throb.

He stands under the hot spray of water, breathing in the steam and letting it smooth out his strained muscles in his neck and shoulders. Memories of showers spent with Rose flood his mind. He always loved the way she’d stand behind him with her hands sliding up his chest as she kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

What he would give to have her behind him right now. If only he didn’t have to be at the venue early to set up for the show Rose would have been with him. She wouldn’t have had to drive by herself, she wouldn’t have been at that intersection and she wouldn’t be in the hospital right now.

The song changes and the all too familiar lyrics ‘remember the words you told me love me ‘til the day I die’ pierced Calum’s heart. His breath catches as the words sink in along with Ashton’s insinuation that she might not wake. Calum slams his palm against the wall, he continues to smack it until he feels the sharp pain shoot up his arm. He falls to the shower floor, water raining down on him as his sadness, hurt and confusion surface.

Calum feels so lost without Rose, his sobs bounce off the tile and drown out the music. He lets out a few shouts of rage to mask the song of hurt while his bleeds out. He’s not sure how long he sits on the shower floor before he cleans himself off and exits.

While he brushes his teeth, he stares at himself in the mirror barely recognizing the reflection. His cheeks have sunken in under the dark bags of his eyes. He’s so exhausted, sleeping on that cot isn’t as comfortable as his own bed. Calum replaces his wet clothes into the dryer, noting the time of an hour and a half. He shuffles back to his and Rose’s bedroom and falls onto the side that’s hers.

Her pillow still smells like her and tears well in Calum’s eyes at the all too familiar smell. He pulls the comforter over him, his eyes closing easily. He’ll just sleep until the dryer is done and he’ll be back at the hospital in two hours.

The next time Calum opens his eyes is due to a loud crack of thunder. He’s still on Rose’s side of the bed but facing the other way and his whole body feels rigid. His hand pats the bed until he finds his phone, the light makes his eyes strain and he blinks in confusion as he reads the time.

He slept for a whole day and a half. For a quick moment he forgot about the accident and thought he’d just come back from a tour. The phone drops to his chest as he rolls over to gaze at Rose but she’s not there. His small moment of bliss dissipates because he hasn’t been on tour in so long and reality sets in that Rose is back at the hospital.

He curses himself for falling asleep then stretches his limbs, the cracks of his joints are music to his ears and fill him with release. He lies in bed for a little while longer until he’s more awake then gets out slowly. His hair has dried oddly because it was wet when he dropped onto the mattress, but he doesn’t care. He has to get back to Rose.

When he arrives back at the hospital again, guilt ever present in his chest of being away from her so long, he finds there hasn’t been any change in her condition. Ashton and Ruby figured he fell asleep and were glad at how refreshed he looks. They stayed the night with Rose and he’s thankful for that but still feels awful for not sleeping next to her.

After catching up with Ashton and Ruby, they leave him with a kiss on the cheek from Ruby and a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder from Ashton. Calum kisses Rose’s forehead.

“Sorry for being away, sweetheart. Sleep took over me but I’m back now. Should I read some more to you?” he picks up a book and starts to read from Michael Faudet.

He stares at ‘The Northern Lights’ reminiscing about his and Rose’s own moment at the beach, much like what the poem is describing. He reads it out loud, twice then stares at Rose’s face.

“Remember that night at the beach, Rosie? The stars shone in your eyes and we got sand everywhere,” he smiles at the memory while Ronnie Hilton’s song ‘Stars Shine in your eyes’ plays just like that night.

It was a date night curated by Calum complete with a basket of food and a large blanket to lay in the sand. They were in a hidden spot unseen to other beachgoers with the perfect view of the ocean and the setting sun. It was twilight when he lit the candles for their dinner, feeding each other the small finger food with kisses exchanged in between each bite.

Rose pulled him to his feet so they could walk in the ocean for a little while, just until the sun disappeared below the horizon. When her feet became cold, she hopped on Calum’s back so he could carry her back to the blanket where he draped a second one over her legs while he got a fire started.

He remembers how he froze when he turned around to see her top off, a nipple peeking above the second blanket he gave her, and she flashed him the sweetest smile.

“Come warm me up?”

They created their own sunset between their hearts that night, the smell of ocean air and smoke clouded over their tangled limbs as they made love twice on the beach.

The loud ringing of his phone pulls him from the sweet reverie, he sees it’s his mom and he picks up right away. She asks if there has been any new progress with Rose and he tells her not yet and that she doesn’t have to come watch the dogs because Mike still has them. He promises he’ll call her when Rose does wake up.

He hangs up and is still thinking of the beach when he’s reminded of a poem Lang Leav wrote called ‘High Tide’. He goes to her book and reads out the first line.

“’Are you somewhere looking at the sea, my love?’ Is that where you are, Rosie? By the sea? The sand in your toes, salty seawater spraying your hair?” he chokes up as he gazes at her still face. He grabs her hand in his and kisses it. “Pick a pretty shell for me, okay? What should I read next?”

Five Weeks Later

It’s Thursday afternoon and Calum is doing the routine exercises for Rose, so she doesn’t get bed sores and her muscles don’t atrophy when Ruby enters the room. She is absolutely beaming, her eyes wide and bright accompanied with a huge smile on her face. Surprised at her elation, Calum’s first instinct is to look at her left-hand thinking Ashton proposed to her, but her hand is bare.

“Hey Rube, what’s up?” he asks bending Rose’s fingers down one by one, similar to the tactic of counting a child’s toes as little piggies.

“Ash and I said, ‘I love you.’”

“Really?!” Calum gives her a large smile then massages the palm of Rose’s hand. “That’s fantastic, how’d it happen?”

“We were making breakfast and he just said it,” she smiles breathlessly. “You and Rose were right about that warmth; I feel it everywhere…it’s like I’m floating on air.”

“That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you guys.” Calum sets Rose’s arm back down on the bed and moves down to her leg that’s not in a cast.

“We have you two to thank. Rose told me not to be scared and after what you told Ashton last week he said he’s been feeling different. I can’t wait to tell Rose.” Ruby smiles down sadly at her friend

“She’ll be happy to hear about it,” Calum smiles and lifts her leg to do the exercises. Dr. Robbins has said that her external fixator is doing a good job of healing her leg, it’s a slow process but with her current condition, slow is best.

Ruby recounts the whole moment for Calum while he continues the exercises with Rose. Ruby knew something was up because Ashton was being a bit moodier than normal and was acting nervous while they did their morning yoga session. It wasn’t until Ruby started their coffee and she asked for their two mugs did he say it after she said, ‘thank you.’

Calum knows Ashton will probably tell him about it when he comes to visit but it fills him with happiness that his two friends know of the same elation that he and Rose feel. When her exercises are done, and Jane has checked her vitals, Calum and Ruby sit down while he reads more poetry to Rose.

Before he’s about to go to sleep for the night he reads one more poem and notices all of Rose’s underlines in ‘A Letter to My Love’ starting with the word France and the rest as follows:

‘…how we pictured, but it is exactly how it was always meant to be.’

‘But building this life with you has been the grandest adventure.’

‘This is the happiest I have ever been.’

‘With you I have seen all my dreams to into fruition.’

‘All I ask now is for time with you, as much as we are allowed.’

He doesn’t like that last foreboding sentence, as if this time they’ve shared together is all they were allowed. This can’t be it for them. Then her handwriting appears on the page next to it dated the day they got engaged and of their graduation. She wrote an entry.

It’s the day after and Calum is sleeping next to me. He asked me to marry him! I woke up and opened to this poem, fate has been on m side since that day we bumped into each other outside the CBS. He’s my dream I’ve dreamt of since I was a little girl. There are many great loves, but non are greater than mine and his. I felt a flicker in my glow just now…excitement? You’re starting to mumble in your sleep my love, time to wake you up and celebrate our life of forever.

Calum stares at her phrase of ‘flicker in my glow’ did she somehow know about the accident before it even happened? Why else would it flicker? He shifts his gaze to her chest and the red glow is still there, still faint, but no sign of flickering.

Six Weeks Later

Calum is dreaming. Somewhere in his mind, he knows it but won’t wake. He and Rose are at the Dainty Dove. She’s leaning against him in their regular booth with his arm around her shoulders as they share a cup of coffee. She smiles like her familiar rose and rainwater smell; Moonlight Serenade by Frank Sinatra plays softly in the background from the jukebox. Their song from their very first date and they’re the only ones in the joint.

“It’s almost time,” she says twisting her fingers with his.

“Time for what?” he kisses her hair, breathing her in.

“The rain…it’s coming here. I am too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come dance,” she whispers and then suddenly they’re dancing.

The room darkens as clouds roll over outside the restaurant. Calum watches over Rose’s head through the windows in confusion. Rose touches his cheek and he looks down at her.

“Promise me something,” she says.

“Anything.”

“Be patient with me. The rain is coming,” she whispers, and his dream self is befuddled as she leans up on her toes, lips brushing his, “and I’m in close proximity.”

Just before her lips touch his, the rain falls heavily, and her voice lingers in his mind when he wakes up. Just like in his dream, the rain is hitting the windows harshly much like it has been for the last six weeks. The weatherman are calling it an unnatural weather phenomenon and have no real answer for the source of all the rain.

He checks that the time is 4:37 a.m. He rubs his eyes then jerks to a sitting position because Rose’s chest is glowing a burning red with much more strength. It isn’t dim at all, it’s vibrant and strong.

“Rose?!” his legs get tangled in the hospital sheets as he turns on the lights and he swears he sees her eyelashes twitch. “Rosie, baby?” he takes her hand. “Can you hear me? I’m right here, in prox…”

Calum swallows harshly then snatches up his Michael Faudet book opening to the poem titled ‘Proximity.’ He reads the prose quickly about joining the dots from A to B, empty shores and the sea and everything else in between all the way to the end.

‘For what’s real is meant to be, when two hearts beat—in proximity.’

Rose’s finger twitches against his and Calum’s heart skyrockets.

“Rose?” he whispers in shock. “Come on sweetheart, open your eyes for me. I’m right here. I’m here and I love you so much.” He gasps when the orange glow in his chest brightens and her does as well from his proclamation of love. Tears spring in his eyes then two more fingers twitch. “Rose, I’m here. I love you; I love you, come back to me, Rosie.”

Their glows blaze brighter still, something beeps but Calum pays it no mind because Rose’s eyes flutter for a few seconds and then open. Calum stares in astonishment, oh how he’s missed those ocean eyes.

“Rose?” he whispers. She blinks heavily and he’s smashing the nurse’s call button. “She’s awake! Jane! She’s opened her eyes!” he shouts into the speaker then takes her hand in both of his. Happy tears are falling down his cheeks as she comes to. “Hi sweetheart, I’m right here, you’re okay.”

She tries to focus on him, her mouth tries to open to speak but then she chokes on the feeding tube and he panics. He starts shouting some more for help then Jane and Dr. Robbins rush in. They’re quick to remove the tube and fix the alarms screaming on the machines. Jane pushes Calum gently out of the way so they can work, and other nurses arrive in the room.

“Rose, I’m Dr. Robbins,” Dr. Robbins speaks very slowly and clearly, as if she’s talking to a child. “You’re in the hospital and were in an accident. You’ve been asleep for a while but you’re okay.” She flashes a light in her eyes. “Good. Can you blink twice if you understand me?”

Calum watches in amazement as Rose blinks once…then twice ever so slowly. He could leap for joy.

“That’s good,” Dr. Robbins smiles warmly, “You’ve been in a coma for some time so things may be fuzzy. Are you in pain? Blink once for no and twice for yes.”

Rose blinks twice and Calum’s heart plummets. Has she been in silent pain all this time?

“Jane can help with that, she’s your nurse,” Dr. Robbins smiles again. “I’m going to do some quick tests okay?”

While Dr. Robbins does her testing Calum’s fingers are flying as he texts everyone in excitement. He would call but he can’t take his eyes off Rose and it’s extremely early in the morning. He didn’t want to alarm them in a panic when it was actually good news.

***

A few days have gone by, Calum watches silently as Rose goes through more tests to see how well her reflexes are and her strength. Calum only leaves when he gets a phone call from their friends or his mom to give them updates and share their excitement of her finally being awake. Her eyes are always on him with a twinge of confusion in her dark blue eyes. When she speaks, it’s soft and raspy but it’s the voice of angels to Calum. He’s missed her voice so much.

“I know you want to be alone with him, but I have to make sure you’re all right. He won’t go anywhere, I promise,” Dr. Robbins chuckles while she watches the orthopedic doctor check Rose’s leg.

Calum hopes she’ll be able to get the mechanical thing off her now and they can work on physical therapy so she can walk. He knows her recovery process is going to be long and strenuous. She’s been in a coma for six weeks; her body is stiff and probably feels weird to her, but Calum will be with her every step of the way.

Calum takes a step forward, smile on his face at being acknowledged by Dr. Robbins. Rose’s brows furrow in a concerned v.

“Who is he?”

The rain stops, and the clouds part to reveal a bright sun that shines in Rose’s eyes. The bad weather has ceased, and Calum should be happy that the light of his life is back, but a new storm has arrived as Rose stares at Calum like she’s never seen him before in her life.

• • • •

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#calum hood au #soulmate!calum #soulmate!calum hood #calum hood angst #calum hood fic #calum hood writing #calum writing #calum angst #soulmate!cal

[mithranqueersmusings]

The Night Before II

Chapter: 2/15

Rating: E

Summary: Ringo hangs around after the club closes and meets a stranger.

Tags: Smut

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo hadn't been to this club for a while, without John by his side he couldn't help but feel a little nervous. There were only two types of people who dragged themselves to such a questionable establishment so late in the night: people so off their faces in need of a warm place to dance until they could hardly stand upright, and predatory figures looking for an easy target. Ringo and George didn't fit into either category, making Ringo question the distinction entirely, but he supposed a drink or two could get them well on their way. The two of them headed straight to the bar which was littered with a few figures who were struggling to hold their heads up.

"What can I get you?" George asked, getting his phone ready to pay immediately.

"Oh, um... A vodka-coke if you're offering." Ringo once again felt his nerves getting the better of him, part of him still couldn't believe someone like George was even interested in him.

"Gross, how do you drink that shite?" George curled his nose up in mock disgust but ordered one for Ringo all the same, buying himself a gin and lemonade.

With their drinks in hand they moved over to the sparsely populated dancefloor, the music seemed to be the same every time Ringo came here: 80s throwbacks and cringey one-hit-wonders from the 2000s. Not that Ringo was complaining, it was easy to dance to and he almost always knew the words, but it was far from his music of choice.

"You ever been here before?" Ringo asked, having to shout over the music.

"Never." George replied with a smile "Is it always this dingy?"

"Yes." Ringo answered instantly "But it's one of the only places open right now."

"Who says I'm complaining?" George laughed.

The two of them continued dancing through a variety of songs, both of them drunkenly singing along to 'Don't Stop Me Now' and failing to mask their excitement when 'Dancing Queen' came on. Several rounds of drinks passed their lips, each one decreasing the proximity between them as they danced. Ringo wasn't entirely sure who initiated it first, but before he knew it George's back was pressed up against his chest and they were attempting to move with one another without falling over. They were far from the only couple grinding shamelessly like this, but they were certainly the only male duo.

When another song finally ceased, Ringo found himself getting a little worked up from all the friction with George; his jeans were tight, his heart was racing and he was beginning to sweat. The only solution would be to get out to the smoking area for some "fresh air". Ringo moved his hands slowly off of George's body and leaned his face in closer so he could shout in George's ear. George evidently thought Ringo had other ideas, because he turned around quickly and crashed his lips clumsily down onto Ringo's.

Ringo froze for a moment, his hands thrown up in shock before he could register what was happening. It was far from the most romantic kiss Ringo had experienced, but the last thing he was going to do was complain. George was pulling at the fabric of Ringo's shirt to pull them closer together, his sharp teeth poking through occasionally. Ringo felt himself being dipped down by the sheer force of George and had to cling onto his neck just to stay upright.

The kiss didn't last very long, at least Ringo thought so but time was a difficult concept to grasp at this moment. George pulled away, pulling Ringo back up with him, a satisfied grin on his face and a dark look in his eyes.

"Been waiting to do that all night." George slurred, the satisfaction still clear on his face.

Ringo could feel himself blushing, luckily the club was dark enough to hide it "All night?"

George nodded "Was watching you with your mates for a while, couldn't find the courage to say hello."

"Why don't we, uh... Go for a smoke?" Ringo could hardly hear what George was saying over the music, and this was a conversation he certainly didn't want to miss.

"Sure thing." George followed Ringo as he maneuvered through the labyrinthine club until they finally got to the outside.

The wind felt far colder than before, no doubt it was because the club was so tightly packed and humid. A bouncer stood in the corner of the fenced off area with his arms crossed, eyeing George and Ringo as though they were about to cause any trouble. Someone else stood in the corner yelling down their phone, seemingly having an argument with whoever was on the other end. George and Ringo found some relatively dry seating and sat beside one another.

"How you feelin'?" Ringo asked, rather than sobering up the cold air was only making him feel drunker.

"Pretty good." George hummed happily, his eyes were barely open.

Now they'd gotten to be alone together, Ringo had no idea what to say. Looking into George's eyes he could hardly string a coherent thought together. At least Ringo could be certain that it wasn't just the alcohol clouding his mind, George really was something else. Even the way he dressed was attractive, a retro windbreaker with flared velvet trousers, the shirt underneath a mixture of colours and shapes.

"So... You were watching me in the club then?" Ringo asked cautiously.

George let out a hearty laugh "Shit, yeah... Me and my big mouth." He looked embarrassed for a moment or two "I was worried the guy you were with was your boyfriend, even after they left I was still a little too scared to come over."

Ringo chuckled at the thought, dating either Paul or John was amusing to him "What made you come over in the end, then?"

"Felt like I couldn't let you get away." George smiled "You looked so cool, I was certain you were gonna tell me to piss off."

"Me?" Ringo laughed "Not very likely. I'm a sweetheart really."

George leant in a little closer "Something tells me that's not the whole truth." The darkness had returned to his eyes, his lips curling up in a devilish smile.

"I'm afraid I haven't the faintest clue what you're on about." Ringo leaned in too, close enough to feel George's breath on his face.

A beat of silence passed between them.

"This place has got a toilet, right?" George's voice was almost a whisper.

Ringo paused "Yeah, of course. Why, do you feel sick or something?"

George let out a splutter of a laugh "Don't be daft." His voice grew quiet once more, making the hairs stand up on Ringo's skin "But I don't think that bouncer will like it very much if I start blowing you right here."

Breath escaped Ringo entirely, this was far from the first time that he'd been prepositioned in such a way but hearing it from George made his head cloud.

"Well?" George asked, cocking an eyebrow and widening his toothy grin.

Ringo stood up a little too eagerly, but he was past the point of caring by now. Grabbing George by his slim wrist he quickly guided them back into the dingy club and towards the questionable toilets. By this point in the night, one of the cubicles was already out of order and something somewhere had started to flood and pools of water formed around the sinks. It was a ghastly sight, but Ringo hardly noticed it as he pulled George into the furthest stall.

"Charming place." George remarked as he locked the door, luckily the floor was relatively clean.

It was cramped to say the least, Ringo put the seat down on the well-used toilet and sat himself rather excitedly down.

"It's dreadful, I know. But desperate times..." Ringo had no clue what to do with his hands, his head was swimming with anticipation.

"I hope that's not a dig at me." George replied as he wasted no time getting to his knees, it made Ringo sad to see his trousers dirtying with the muck on the floor but George hardly seemed to care.

George quickly got to work, his slender fingers pulling at the zip on Ringo's achingly tight jeans. Ringo let out a sigh of relief as the denim was pulled from his skin, pooling down at his ankles, he only hoped they didn't get too dirty but that was a risk he was willing to take. Next were the boxers, Ringo wished he'd worn a more presentable pair tonight but it wasn't long before they were being pulled down too.

Ringo hadn't realised how hard he'd become until he was staring right at his aching erection, a sight which drew George's attention too.

"Fuck..." George breathed, his hand tentatively gripping the shaft "For a short guy you've got a huge cock."

"I'll skip the insult and take that compliment, thanks." Ringo was struggling to keep his composure as George's slim lips wrapped around the head.

It wasn't the most debauched thing Ringo had ever done, he'd fucked a guy at the back of a club surrounded by overflowing dumpsters once, but it was certainly the most thrilling. George was acting like he was starved, as though all he needed in this moment was Ringo. With George's mouth working up and down Ringo's length, it was hard to believe they'd only met a few hours ago.

"Jesus." Ringo hissed when George lightly grazed his teeth, he swore he could feel George's sharp canines individually on his sensitive skin.

George hummed happily, taking more of Ringo into his throat. The world seemed to be spinning around him, Ringo had to push his hand against the cubicle wall to gain the slightest feeling of being grounded. Maybe it was his bias for George, but Ringo could swear this was the greatest blowjob he'd ever had. He wondered whether George did this a lot, the thought of that alone released a moan from deep inside him.

Ringo ran his hand through George's hair, it had started sticking together with sweat but he still managed to look good. George let out a quiet gasp at the contact, feeling the coolness of Ringo's jewellery was welcome.

George was quickening his pace now, each time being able to take more of Ringo into his mouth, his determination was certainly admirable, but he never managed to take him all the way. Each time he gagged around the thickness, Ringo couldn't stop the moans from pouring out of his mouth.

"Fucking hell, George..." Ringo panted, gripping tightly at his hair "Your mouth feels incredible, just wanna fuck up into it."

The sound that left George's mouth was purely criminal, groaning with his mouth filled with cock. He looked up into Ringo's eyes with a hungry twinkle, it was all the permission Ringo needed to start thrusting upwards. At first he was cautious, testing the waters as he felt George's throat relaxing around him but soon enough he grew sloppy and erratic.

Everything seemed to fade into the background, all that was left was the sensation of George's hot mouth and the wanton noises he was making. The sounds were obscene, wet slapping of skin on skin, George gagging and moaning.

"Shit, shit... I'm getting close." Ringo announced, he could hardly see straight.

George didn't wait for another word, he pinned Ringo's hips down to the seat forcefully and sank his lips all the way down to the base. Hollowing his cheeks and gagging loudly, Ringo came in an instant, shooting down deep into George's throat. It took Ringo a few moments to recover, still gripping at George's hair tightly.

Pulling off suddenly, George licked his lips and swallowed hard. It was purely pornographic, the way he smiled with specks of cum still visible. Ringo couldn't help himself from rubbing his thumb tenderly on George's smooth cheek, he worried it would be too intimate of a gesture but he didn't seem to mind, instead he pressed his face into the hand.

Reluctantly Ringo pulled the hand away, then passed what was left of a toilet roll over to George so he could clean himself up. George accepted it willingly, standing up and assessing the damage of his trousers which weren't as bad as either one had anticipated, although it was pretty clear what he'd been getting up to.

"Sorry about your trousers." Ringo said hoarsely, pulling up his own jeans and shuddering at the wet sensation against his skin.

"Don't worry about it." George's voice was even more wrecked "Worth it."

Ringo laughed nervously, even after all that he still couldn't help the effect George had on him. He could barely stand, his knees were far too shaky. George looked beyond satisfied, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed.

"So... What say we head back to yours?" George asked with a grin, despite all the exertion he was still eager.

"I say the Uber can't get here fast enough." Ringo smirked, managing to get up to his feet to kiss George deeply.

He could taste his cum on George's tongue, mingled with alcohol and smoke. Perhaps it was just the heat of the moment, but he could've sworn it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

#Beatles #the beatles #beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #George Harrison/Ringo Starr #george harrisonxreader #george harrisonxringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #starrison #starrison smut

[some-dr-writings]

Kiibo takes care of sick reader

·       At the time you didn’t think much of it. Awaking that morning it just felt like any other bad, allergy season ridden day. Though you had not left your apartment for the last several days, cooped up trying to get your work done, it seemed the fresh autumn wind and pollen had gotten to you once again just as it had any other year. You simply took some pain medicine and kept a box of tissues by your side, making sure all windows were closed and fans turned off just as you had done every other year. You were simply thankful it was not spring, that, was a true nightmare… Or so you thought. The day carried on as usual really, some chores got done such as scrubbing down the bathroom, cooking your comfort food to cheer yourself up a bit, going through that final edit before submitting your work. By the time bedtime had rolled around you were actually feeling a little better and hoped by the next morning you’d be right as rain.

·       Through the night as you tried to sleep something inside you quickly morphed. From a dry, runny nose to this dull throbbing, stinging pain that seemed to course through you. At first you assumed your nose dried up so much it was in pain again so you simply took more pain medicine, but… it just wouldn’t go away. You heard and felt your every last breath grow heavier, quivering and quaking under some strange pressure. The quilts of your bed, unbearable, suffocating and drowning you in that oppressive heat, yet even when you kicked them off, that heat still just hung there. You just wanted to sleep. You hated this, you hated being awake so early in the morning, but. You. Just. Could. Not. Sleep. You tried sleeping. You really did. You laid there for hours with your eyes shut, but that dull throbbing pain just would not let you. You didn’t want to, but you caved into the temptation of doing… something! If you had to be awake, you could at least be productive, right? Yes, it stimulated your brain, certainly keeping you awake, but… You were exhausted and you hoped that pushing your body a little would be enough to get you to collapse so you could drift off and not be conscious of the pain for even a little while… But that hope was in vain. Try as you might, you couldn’t concentrate on anything, only making your frustrations increase just as rapidly as that stinging pain seemed to zap your muscles forcing them to endlessly tense up, causing them to become sore and tremble under the constant pressure of being so tight. This quickly evolved into the back of your neck killing you as well as forming a wretched headache.

·       You hated this.

·       You just wanted sleep. Was that truly so much to ask?

·       Laying back in bed you stared into that inky darkness as thoughts tried to form but were quickly cut off by that… everything.

·       You just couldn’t do anything, but were forced to stay awake through it all? Really? “That’s just cruel.” You mumbled that to yourself, rolling out of bed, and trudging into the living room. There you found your charging phone and mindlessly picked it up, fiddling with the messages, then some app you downloaded long ago but soon forgotten.

·       With that constant ringing in our head and ears muffled, hearing proved to be a challenge. Something you were normally rather fearful off, but in the moment, couldn’t care less about. At this point, you honestly couldn’t notice new symptoms in the ever-growing pile.

·       You mindlessly droned on, sliding fluffy puff balls to make them explode came to a stop when some text suddenly appeared at the top of your screen. ‘I’m at the door. If you’re not feeling up to unlocking it, would you tell me if anyone has a spare key so I could ask them to let me in?’

·       … huh?

·       Someone was at the door you guess.

·       On unsteady footing you stumbled to the door. Too bad you couldn’t hear the distinctive soft metal clicks you oh so enjoyed hearing when unlocking the door, it was one of the little things in life you loved so much, perhaps it would have put you at ease a little.

·       “Ah, Y/N! Here.” His voice was quiet, yet you could still make out the words, the concern seeping from his tone striking you the most. He held your shoulders in a firm grip, keeping you from wavering and toppling over right then and there. “Kiibo? What?... why are you here?” This momentarily caught him by surprise. “You texted me. Do you not remember? Is our condition worse than I thought?” He placed down the bags he had on hand and lead you back to bed. “Wait? I… I did look through my messages, but I texted you?” He sat beside you and placed his hand on your head. “Yes. I’ll show you.” Scrolling through the messages on his phone you saw you had indeed texted, Kiibo. It was semi-coherent with spaces missing or not where hey should be, capitalization seemingly popping up out of nowhere. You were listing off our many aches and pains. Last time Kiibo had sent you, other than saying he was at the door, was how he’d be over to your place right away. “oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t want you to stay here and get this bug too if I’m sick and it’s not my allergies acting up again.” For a moment Kiibo simply stared at you quirking a brow up, smiling, amused by something. “… You must really be out of it. But it’s no wonder, you’re burning up. Lay down and leave the rest to me!” Before you could say another word, he had already left.

·       He soon returned with two small paper bags. “Have you taken any medicine?” “uh, just my prescribed pain meds.” “And when was that?” “Twenty-one, about an hour before I tried going to bed.” “It’s two now, can you take more?” “… Uh. I think so?” “Where is it?” “Ah, yeah, we can just check! Bathroom, lowest shelf on the right, behind the mirror, door, thing. That thing.” “Got it!” After placing the two small bags on the bedside table he sprinted away.

·       Being here, trying to care for you, it was a little funny to Kiibo. As he opened the mirror cabinet he recalled how when Shuichi was trying to help him find jobs and they tested out him being a nurse robot. A faulty endeavor since he only had the strength of an old man and could not carry Shuichi, but the main premise was not truly tested. Closing the cabinet with the pill bottle in hand something caught his gaze in the reflection. A small hand towel that hung on the shower door. Perfect! He turned on the faucet, setting it to as cold as it could go before placing the small hand towel under the water. Waiting for the towel to absorb the cold he thought more on the premise. Long ago Kiibo had accepted he was not human but a robot. But that did not mean he was not a person. It was also useful. As a robot he could do things humans cannot. Like care for a sick person and not get sick himself. He’d just need a thorough cleaning to make sure he didn’t spread anything which could easily be done. After wringing out the towel he swiftly made his way back to your room.

·       Entering the room, he found you with your hands on your face, breathing heavily, your voice lightly seeping out in quaking rasps. “You can take more pills. Time ran out.” “yay.” Taking a sip of water and the pills you hoped this would help, even if last time didn’t work, maybe it would this time. It was all you could do. “huh?” “Does this help?” He had placed the cold moist towel on your forehead, gently leaning you back onto the bed from sitting up. You sighed, placing your hands on his, pushing down on the towel a little more, adoring the cooling feeling. “Thank you.”

·       He gently retracted his hand much to your disappointment. You then noticed he was looking through one of the small paper bags. “… what’s in the bags you brought?” “Ah! Doctor Idabashi let me take some medical supplies from home. Pain medicine, some ingredients for a light meal, he even quickly wrote down the directions so I could make it for you.” “aw, he’s nice, just like you. Like father, like son I suppose.” For a moment, he froze, those words completely catching him off guard. He softly smiled, holding the folded-up paper, ‘best oatmeal recipe’ written on it in neat, albeit tiny writing. “… Yeah, he is. He said this should only take eight minutes. I’ll be right back.” “Wait, you don’t know where everything is in the kitchen. I’ll cook with you.” “No, you’re sick. You need to rest.” “W-we don’t know that.” “Fine. Clearly you are unwell.” Shakily you sat up. “at least let me rest on the living room couch so I can be nearby and tell you where I keep everything.” “Only if you don’t enter the kitchen and try to cook.” You grumbled as you used the bedside table for support. “Okay.” Holding onto Kiibo’s arm, he gently led you to the couch.

·       You flinched hearing a loud metal crash that was able to pierce through your muffled ears. “… Need help?” “N-no!” Though he found it to be rather silly, he was annoyed. “… Maybe.” You chuckled at the sheepish tone in his voice. “Where are the cups?” No matter where he looked, he could not find them. “And the tablespoons and teaspoons… And the knife block, and- HEY!!” He pointed at you taking on what you assumed to be a fighting stance. “No going into the kitchen!” “Just… getting the suff. I won’t cook.” Reluctantly he let you pass, standing in the middle of the kitchen with his arms crossed, watching as you shambled about. “Anything else?” “Uh… just a microwave safe bowl.” “okay.” “Then right after it’s straight back to the couch!” “uh-huh.”

·       Kiibo wondered what it felt like to be sick, for one’s body to be working to fight off something within yourself. Was it like when he didn’t maintain his vents and fans? It was odd and saddening how in trying to protect yourself, you were left so miserable. When letting you hold on to him he got a close look at you, seeing how your whole body trembled, pale skin slightly shiny and clammy from a thin layer of sweat, the bags under your eyes a deep dark purple, your cheeks and nose flushed a bright red. Once you were sat down, he went straight to work, a newfound determination coursing through him!

·       You were surprised at just how quick Kiibo was. You though he had just sat you down, but there he was sitting beside you, a hot, steaming bowl and spoon on the table before you as Kiibo held your shoulders looking absolutely worried. “Y/N, how are you feeling?” “Uh, dizzy, really dizzy.” “Wait right here.” He then dashed away. Suddenly there was pressure on your shoulders and head. It was cool. Your water bottle was held out to you. “Thanks.” As you were twisting off the cap you noticed what was placed atop you. “My towel? I see. Tha-thanks.” Your head felt so light suddenly, and you were terrified. That was till Kiibo leaned you against his shoulder. “What do you need? Can I get you anything? Should I take you to a hospital?” “… just pass me the oatmeal please.” “Uh… are you sure that’s all?” You simply nodded. It wasn’t hot, or was it? You weren’t sure you could tell, since almost everything felt hot right now. You huffed after taking a bite. “Is something wrong?” “… there’s apples, raisins, cranberries, but… I can’t tase any of it.” Solemnly you took another bite.

·       When finished you placed the bowl on the table before you. “I’ll cle- Y/N?” He was perplexed and a little flustered by how you wrapped your arms around him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “you’re cool.” Was all you muttered before falling silent. “… Okay.”

·       Through the night and day no words were exchanged. You simply slept as Kiibo held you close. On occasion he’d wriggle out of your grasp, taking the towel, placing it in ice water and wringing it out, finding you slowly awakening before draping the towel over you and holding you again. It was alright. He didn’t need to sleep or eat, and his batteries could last him for a week without rest, so he’d stay by you for as long as you needed. He simply wished he could do more, but… maybe this was enough. Though just to be sure of that Kiibo looked up your symptoms online, only to start internally panicking thinking you were dying, hurriedly texting Doctor Idabashi who despite having a difficult time, managed to calm Kiibo, convincing him the internet was not a good place to look up medical diagnoses much of the time before Kiibo had called an ambulance… Hopefully him being with you was enough, and eventually when you got better, he realized it was… and vowed to himself not to seek the internet’s advice when trying to diagnose something ever again.

#kiibo #k1b0 #k1-b0 #mod gundham #danganronpa v3 #danganronpav3 #new danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #danganronpa imagine #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa v3 imagine #danganronpa v3 imagines #dr imagine #dr imagines #dr v3 imagine #dr v3 imagines #danganronpa x reader #kiibo x reader #k1b0 x reader

[doomedandstoned]

Planet of the Dead Return to the Stars as ‘Pilgrims’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Album Art by Jonathan Guzi

Every other day there's a story that calls our eyes heavenward to wonder about new planets discovered in nearby solar systems, terraforming Mars, or exploring the smallest elements in the universe. Anywhere has to be better than here, any time better than here right now. At least that's what a lot of people are feeling. How about the power of music to elevate us into vast dimensions of the imagination. One band out of New Zealand is interested in finding out what limits one can breach when the driving power of doom rock is hotwired with adventurous sci-fi/fantasy storytelling.

I speak, of course, of Wellington quartet PLANET OF THE DEAD Last year, Mark Mundell (vox), Malcolm McKenzie (guitar), Kees Hengst (bass), and Josh Hussey (drums) brought us the impressive first introduction to their soundscape and narrative concept, which elicited no small amount of praise for 'Fear of a Dead Planet' (2020), including the enthusiastic Bandcamper who gushed, "Some of the best jams I've heard in this universe!" Listen to fan favorites "The Eternal Void" or "Mind Killer" and you'll discover why there's excitement around this band's future.

But Planet of the Dead wasn't done yet. As many of us have already experienced, unexpected and elongated times of forced aloneness do crazy things to the creative mind. For one, it frustrates, as you cannot express the present songs you feel so strongly about to live crowds filled with spontaneous drifters. The moods usually shift out of sheer exasperated boredom, leading to the insatiable urge to begin tinkering again. 'Pilgrim' (2021) comes at us like an explosion with stories to tell and songs to wail. It's purpose-driven interdimensional doom we're talking about here. This may have been the impetus behind the second album’s creation, so closely after the birth of their first (incidentally, both records feature exactly eight songs a piece).

"Gom Jabbar" is the first creature we chance upon in this otherworldly dimension. He speaks with synth-enhanced vocals (ever so slightly) that's practically like an alien encounter if you listen to it high (gosh, sorry. I've gotta stop leaking album reviewer secrets like that). A defiant second voice joins the dialogue, sounding for all the world like Goliath, Hercules, or Hulkian figure.

"Pilgrim" stirs up grey and purple auras as this groovy sandcrawler glides across dunes and high above deserts, searching for the most fitting place to (re)build the world they once knew, perhaps even dare to dream beyond it. I'm assuming they're a scientific voyage on the run from a restrictive government in a week's long mini series I should have pitched to NBC 20 years ago for big bucks. The song allows your imagination drift on its own recognisance, before the closing words call us back to the shadows.

A dire feeling blankets the air throughout "Nostromo," a stomping little number that's straight-up doom rock, with a cool streetwalking kind of stride. It's impossible to not to think of previous adventures aboard vessels christened Nostromo, but each are mysterious encounters with the unknown, some of which yield new insights into our humanity by taking us back through some strange luck of heavy metal time travel to experience pivotal moments in astral history.

"The Sprawl" may be one of the most dismal legs of this journey, but in an exotic acid-soaked kind of way that makes you question your reality (and your own sanity) before the trip is done. The song is good about building various layers of joy and tension, then meshing them together for some distorted, fuzzy, electric, sparkin' Frankensteinian experience. Where will the spiral take us next? Confident lead gets a riff-enhanced jolt, staging march-like-groove that eventually turns meditative, psychedelic, and ethereal. And that's just the first side of the record! Go ahead, flip it over. You can't stop this far-invested in the trip. Shhh. Listen. Grungy, rumbling energy, extraterrestrial harmonics, and gnarly acid-touched solos are just ahead.

"Escape from Smith's Grove" jars the senses with the unexpected tonal shift from clarinets into a seismic pattern of eruptions that match our stomping feet. This is, after all, a jailbreak of sorts.

"Directive IV" takes the perspective of an enforcement officer who is just doing his job. Mark Mundell's vocal stylings are on-point. For me they compare to the pipes of the late-great Wayne Static, the spastic, growling frontman of Static X. Others may see more similarity with the "common man" grit of Scott Angelacos from Hollow Leg and Junior Bruce. Or even Kirk Windstein's apocalyptic spitfire with Crowbar.

The song appears to be a struggle of conscience between compassion and machine-like order, a tug-of-war that after several epic call and response segments in which our protagonist is put on trial by his peers. The tight grip of fascistic space goons gradually loosens their grip in the song's final minutes, as a street-worn riff storm carries our rebels far away from the grasp of whatever the fucks. That means our (now treasonous) soldier has a second chance at life in the (are you ready for this?) the unknown wilds of...

..."The Cursed Earth." This is a perfect song for that moment in a show when the alcohol or "legal tobacco" has sufficiently unlocked your third eye with stellar riffs and choruses (this song has several "ah-ha" moments). The vocals are obscured here and are sometimes backed up by other singers to emphasize a specific point in the lyrical narrative. The final moments again are slowed down with impactful tonal moments that make you think you're on the edge spying some strange meeting of warrior souls.

Things are not what they seem They never are

"The Great Wave" pulls you right into its hypnotic sway, interjected with extraterrestrial strains of thought communicated as if by a very blasted HAL 9000, our onboard computer. It's downright creepy when it hits you. Then again, maybe that's what we want from an intrepid album such as Pilgrim, to rope us into a fascinating narrative and invite us to return to sort out the details, several spins down the road. Now that I think of it, maybe these songs are all references pinned to great Alien, Robocop, and Judge Dredd moments? Listen closely to "Nostromo" and "Directive IV" and wonder. A good album should do that to a person, draw you into its storytelling and musical colour. It has me listening to it immediately from beginning to end, then end to beginning. If you wanna give it a shot, Planet of the Dead's monsterpiece will definitely reward your back-to-back listens.

Look for Pilgrims to come to life on July 23rd, with a fantastic spread of options on vinyl and CD (pre-order here). In the meanwhile, Planet of the Dead are letting us join the party leading up to the big drop right here at Doomed & Stoned HQ, where you can hear each track in full. Don't miss crucial insight from the band itself in 'Some Buzz' to follow. Then join in sharing your thoughts and theories (stoned or otherwise) on this transcendental New Zealand metal album in the comments below!

Give ear...

LISTEN: Planet of the Dead - Pilgrim

SOME BUZZ

Just little over a year following the release of their auspicious debut album, 'Fear of a Dead Planet' (2020), which attained more than 35,000 views on YouTube, New Zealand cosmic stoner and doom four-piece band Planet of the Dead are back with a new full-length album titled 'Pilgrims' (2021).

Hurtling towards the forever yawning void within their busted-up space freighter, they draw inspiration from classic science fiction and horror, and push supermassive and megalithic riffs to the outer limits.

"Our second album came together around the titular track 'Pilgrim', which is based on the book 'Slaughterhouse 5' by Kurt Vonnegut. Musically, it plays upon the themes of moments trapped in the amber." So says the band about this new album.

"Our basic concept is heavy music played heavy, and we try to keep it simple. There are recurrent themes in our riffs which gives the album a sense of coherence, but we've experimented with some new sounds in the latest album which we feel results in a greater sense of dynamism.

"Lyrically, we dug deeper into our obsessions with classic sci-fi and horror. There is a distinctive and undeniable fan-fiction element to our work. We actively seek out cultural references, and weave them into our tapestries. Ultimately, we do everything we do for the great god Dyzan, for his greater glory...and for our mutual pleasure.”

Set for release on July 23rd, 'Pilgrims' will surely cement Planet of the Dead’s reputation as serious riff merchants.

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[hypnoshatesme]

Wrong and Right, and Perfect

Gerry hadn't known Michael Shelley, at least not well. They had talked when Gerry had gotten stuck waiting for Gertrude in the Institute, which happened a lot, or when he himself ended up needing some sort of information from the Archive. Michael had always been eager to help. Maybe Gerry had flirted with him on those occasions. Initially it was more teasing, boredom and curiosity getting the better of Gerry. Michael was timid and fussy, and nobody seemed to ever talk to him unless to request his help. Gerry had wondered how he’d react if somebody did. And so, after waiting for more than five minutes and with no sign of the waiting being over anytime soon, he did just that.

Michael did not disappoint. Gerry couldn’t even remember what exactly he had said, but the other man had frozen, face flushing brightly as he tried to stammer an answer, getting more embarrassed by his own flusteredness. It was cute. So Gerry made it a habit. With time, Michael started being more comfortable, so they could actually hold a conversation without him dissolving into a blushing, stuttering mess. But his eyes were still bright, his cheeks still blushing, hands fidgeting nervously. He was cute. Gerry liked talking to him, liked the soft, clear voice that could get all high and excited, and low and grave within only a couple minutes. It was fun.

Gerry hadn’t known Michael Shelley well, but he hadn’t been oblivious to him, either. So when he glanced at the tall, lanky figure that came to stand next to him in the alley he had ducked into to smoke in peace, the first thing that came to his mind was Michael Shelley. Which was ridiculous. The figure was even taller than Michael had been, limbs longer. The hair looked too long, too, though it was hard to tell since Gerry had never seen it outside of the messy bun Michael had worn it in every day in the institute.

Most importantly, looking at Michael had never given Gerry a headache, had never made his skin tingle as it was with him eyeing the figure beside him now. It wasn’t human. Gerry scoffed internally at his own certainty about that. Of course he could tell that in a dimly lit alley without even looking properly at the figure. That’s just how his life was.

Still, in the back of his mind, the picture of Michael Shelley kept creeping up. Gerry had assumed him dead when Gertrude returned without him. She had said he wouldn’t be coming back, though. Nothing about him dying. Gerry turned around to get a better look at the figure in the dim street light. It was dizzying. There was movement. Its hair was curling itself into spiral patterns, defying gravity and all logic; its body vaguely human, but not quite, too many sharp edges, skin looking like it’d cut. It probably would. Its fingers too long with too many joints, twitching, much like Michael’s hands had, but less nervous, more wrong.

When Gerry finally managed to control his eyes enough to look at what should presumably be the face, despite his head throbbing the harder he tried, he froze. It was Michael Shelley. Same round, unthreatening face. Except full of sharp edges, split by a unnaturally wide grin revealing a row of pointy teeth. Except with eyes that looked like a nightmare, all colours and shapes, all moving together, independently and all at once, instead of the warm, grey eyes that Gerry had gotten used to making sparkle with the right words.

Gerry had to avert his eyes to collect his thoughts, to remember how to build sentences.

“Michael?”, he decided to ask, mind still racing with colours and shapes and the implications of the being standing beside him and the fact that he wasn’t sure if he could fight it now that he had looked at it for so long his head felt like it was exploding.

It laughed and Gerry held his head, the noise like shattered glass, engulfing him, reverberating inside his brain. Somewhere mixed in there, though, it sounded like Michael’s laughter, sweet and shy. It was both and neither at the same time and Gerry thought that he might be losing his mind.

He had been disappointed when Michael didn’t return. He hadn’t allowed anything beyond that sharp pang in his gut. There was work to do. Gerry was feeling tears when he looked up again after the laughter stopped. Were they his? Of course they were. How did that question even occur to him.

“In a sense. It is a name.”, it said after a moment of consideration, and the voice was Michael’s, too, but it clearly was nothing like it.

The pain Gerry felt at the sound had nothing to do with how wrong it sounded. Or maybe it had. He wasn’t sure. He was obviously dealing with the Distortion, there was no trusting his senses. Gerry took a long drag of his nearly burned down cigarette, exhaling slowly, trying to calm down.

“You...ate him?”, he asked.

His voice didn’t sound like his own. Was he shaking? He stared at his fingers, but his view was still cloudy from tears. He cleaned them away with the back of his hand.

It cocked its head to the side. Too far. A human neck would’ve broken at that angle.

“As much as he ate me.”, there was a permanent sliver of amusement in that voice, an inaudible chuckle, a cackle.

Somehow, that was more disconcerting than everything else to Gerry. It was grating at him, bringing out something raw and angry Gerry had been ignoring, burying deep within.

“Spit him out.”, Gerry hissed, and the anger was clear in his voice now.

Suddenly, he wanted to punch it. He didn’t. It looked sharp. It would be foolish to attack it with his bare hands. Gerry felt triumphant for having a thought so reasonable in that moment.

It moved its head further to the side and Gerry couldn't tell if he imagined the crack that motion made. It didn't seem bothered by it. It chuckled, again, this time softer and it didn't make Gerry want to double over in pain.

"If I told you to spit out your heart, would you?"

It probably could make him, Gerry thought first, mind still processing the meaning of those words. It was the Distortion. It was also Michael Shelley, though Gerry couldn't tell how much of him was left beyond the suggestion of his form.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, "What do you want?", and in the back of his mind he got ready to fight, because what else could it want but to drive him insane. It was its nature.

It laughed again and Gerry braced himself, but it didn't hurt as it had. It tingled, that distinct feeling of wrongness when fazed by anything relating to the Spiral; a discomfort, the earlier pain dulled. Gerry wondered if that was done on purpose.

"You shouldn't trust her.", it said and pulled a face, voice shattering into something akin to a gasp and utterly unlike it.

Gerry’s ears were ringing, "Her?"

It took some time to spit out the next words, face further contorting. Distantly, Gerry thought it looked like pain.

"The archivist."

There was venom in those words and Gerry nearly took a step back, feeling the impact of the word like a blow. Trusting Gertrude Robinson beyond their wary collaboration currently in place had never occurred to him. She did not seem like the trustworthy type. He didn’t trust easily.

It took Gerry a moment to find his voice again, "I don't. Why are you telling me this?"

"I wanted to.", it said with a pained expression that made that hard to believe.

"Michael Shelley wanted to?", Gerry asked because that sounded more likely.

It nodded its head mechanically, only half a nod before it’s face contorted in agony and it stumbled back.

It was holding its head and Gerry could see the pointy fingers burying into its scalp as it gasped, "He worried, in...the end. About you."

That sounded awfully like Michael Shelley. Gerry’s stomach twisted into a tight knot; maybe literally, considering the being in front of him. The being heaving and swaying, reaching out to steady itself against the wall. A door opened, creaking, and then the entity was going through it, dragging itself in stiff motions and Gerry thought there was something wrong with its face. More wrong. There was blood trickling down its mouth and nose, its eyes. Gerry watched as the creature closed the door behind it.

When Gerry blinked again the door was gone and he felt a distant burn on his fingers. He looked and his cigarette had burned down completely. Gerry watched the small spot of irritated skin for a moment longer before cleaning the ashes from his fingers and stepping back unto the street, head still spinning. He felt numb at the same time and instead of making his way back to the club he walked home, letting the cool night sooth the remnants of his headache. He tried very hard to not think about what he had seen.

It turned out that wasn’t easy, as the being appeared again. And again. It became a somewhat regular occurrence in Gerry’s life. Michael, Gerry decided to call it for a lack of a better word. Because it was Michael, it just wasn't Michael Shelley. Not anymore. In the Institute, in the bars and cafés he frequented, when he was out for one of his jobs, in his apartment. The door would appear. Michael would step out. Sometimes it would even help Gerry if he had found himself in a sticky situation. Usually it would just be there.

They'd talk, but keeping up a coherent conversation with the Distortion was nigh impossible. Gerry got used to it. It kept things interesting to try and make sense of the vague, scattered sentences Michael would give him as answers to questions, or sometimes unasked. There was only one thing it was always clear about, despite it paining it to say it. Don't trust the archivist. It didn't matter how many times Gerry assured it that he didn't, it kept saying it. Gerry got used to that, too.

It was worrying how quickly Gerry became comfortable with it around. He never let his guard down completely, he wasn't that stupid, but he got used to the slight headache, the buzzing sensation warning him that something was wrong. It became a way to tell Michael was there. Days, weeks and sometimes more would pass between Michael's visits, and Gerry noticed that, eventually, he started missing it, looking forward to whenever it appeared again. It was a somewhat disturbing realisation to have.

It was the familiarity of it all that had Gerry not even look up from his notebook when he started feeling the dull headache on one of his few lazy afternoons spent on the couch. It had been nearly two weeks since it had last appeared. Gerry tried to ignore his skipping heartbeat that had started to accompany the headaches by now. Just another warning sign, he told himself.

"Michael.", he said when he heard the steps approach.

"Gerry.", it answered, as always.

The fact that they had something of a routine made Gerry feel warm inside despite himself.

He didn't hear it come closer, but suddenly it was bending over him from behind the couch, stray strands of blond hair falling into Gerry’s vision. One touched his nose, making a shallow cut in the process. Gerry wrinkled his nose.

"Ouch.", he said, despite him barely feeling it, more teasing than anything.

Quickly, sharp edges were turned soft, an apology mumbled as a finger, pointy but no longer sharp, came to clean off the small trickle of blood. The barest touch from Michael always felt like electricity. When the finger retreated, Gerry bit his lip to keep himself from asking it to stop. Gerry quite liked the sensation.

"What are you doing?", Michael’s voice came right above him, curious and, as usual, amused.

"Drawing.", Gerry answered, nodding at the notebook in his hands.

Michael sounded surprised, "I didn't know you draw."

"I rarely get to do it.", Gerry sighed, looking up.

Michael's face was closer than he had thought and he fought the blush creeping into his face, "What do..uh...what do you want?", he asked, desperately trying to say something, unsure if it his mind was struggling because he was looking at Michael or because Michael’s face was so very close to his own.

As usual, Michael shrugged. He only ever had a proper answer when he came to help Gerry on the job, and even then he managed to say anything but.

"Do you want to sit?", Gerry asked, looking at the grinning face right in front of his own, his headache starting to worsen with the effort. He was losing the fight with the heat rising in his cheeks, too.

Michael seemed to think for a moment before nodding and, instead of coming around to the couch, he simply stepped over it and sat down next to Gerry.

"What are you drawing?", it asked, head coming to rest on Gerry’s shoulder so it could look at the drawing. It didn't seem like the most comfortable position to Gerry, their height difference making it bend its neck at an odd angle, but he guessed that was the advantage of not being human. Its hair tickled Gerry’s neck, little sparks against his skin that had been difficult to ignore in the beginning. He managed, now.

Gerry turned the notebook for better view, readjusting his position so he could continue comfortably with Michael’s head on his shoulder. By now he was used to how off it felt, Michael seemingly having taken a liking to resting it there or on Gerry’s own head when it managed to catch Gerry relaxing. Or just not running. Gerry barely glanced at it by now, his mind knowing what exactly it will find and so stopping his eyes from giving into the urge to check what the source of the weird feeling, not quite a human head but not not a head, was.

Michael could see now, that Gerry was drawing an eye. It was an intricate design, the longer he looked the more details he saw, smaller shapes and fine lines all coming together for the overall picture. It was somewhat hypnotic to look at and Michael had to admit, somewhat begrudgingly, that it liked it.

“Another tribute to your patron.”, it wasn’t a question, the eyes on Gerry’s knuckles in clear view from where Michael was sitting.

If Michael cared to, he could shift his head to look at the eye on Gerry’s throat, too, or the twin one at the back of his head. He had always wondered if there were more. And where those might be.

Gerry thought about that. He hadn’t intended it to be a tribute, wasn’t even sure he’d set out to draw an eye. He had always liked drawing eyes, and it was his go-to motive when he didn’t really have a plan.

He shrugged, “Did save my ass more than once. I do still think it’s better than most oth-”, he stopped, looking at Michael with a crooked, half-apologetic grin, that threw Michael off-balance for a moment, but in a very different way from what it was used to, “No offense.”

“Mhm, none taken.”, Michael chuckled his shattered glass laughter, trying to shake off the weird feeling, and Gerry closed his eyes for a moment because that was a lot to take when Michael was so close to his ear.

When the wave of dizziness passed, he opened his eyes again, looking at his half finished drawing.

“Do you have any suggestions what else to draw?”, he asked, shifting to look at Michael again.

Michael made a thoughtful expression - at least that was the closest Gerry could describe it as - and Gerry forced himself to look, because it was fascinating to watch, no matter if looking made his headache worse. The facial features looked human enough with his usual, wide grin, but when they shifted into any other expression it was in a distinctly unhuman way, too obvious, janky. It made it easier to read the face and harder to do so at the same time and it was simply interesting to watch.

“How about...a spiral?”, it ended up saying.

Gerry burst out laughing, “I thought you’d say that.”

Michael blinked at him, as if confused, before laughing, too. It was a rare occasion, to hear Gerry laugh, and Michael quite enjoyed the sound. It was infectious.

Gerry continued with his current piece after his laughter faded, and Michael watched from his shoulder. It had become accustomed to seeing Gerry’s fingers wrapped around books and files, lighters, the occasional weapon. It had even seen him hold a pen to jot down notes, once, but this was different. They looked more relaxed. Long fingers - for human standards - wrapped around the pen losely, rather than the vice grip Michael remembered seeing as he frantically took notes in a hurry about two weeks ago. Michael watched, enraptured by the subtle shift of muscle, more noticable thanks to the eyes on each knuckle shifting with them.

They were nice, his fingers, and Michael thought it had always liked to watch them move, to look at them. It was a memory, not its own, but undoubtedly belonging to it. It hurt when it remembered, and so it just tried to focus on those fingers as they continued moving smoothly, beautifully. Michael would have liked to hold them, but that would mean he couldn’t watch them anymore, so he didn’t. It stayed where it was and watched on in comfortable silence.

Gerry did draw it its spiral, because why not, and considering who, or rather what, it was for he went all out with labyrinthine details, spirals made out of elaborate smaller patterns that twisted and turned, none quite like the other, all of them making one big spiral. When Gerry looked at the finished piece, it gave him a headache, and he was sure Michael would be satisfied. Michael had had left a while ago, by then, but Gerry knew it would be back eventually.

It appeared again two days later, as Gerry was about to get to dedicate the rest of the night to going through the files he’d gotten from Gertrude to track down another Leitner. He had had a run-in with the Hunt on his way home and ended up arriving much later than intended. Still, he wanted to finally find some more specific leads, so he sighed and sat down at the table on which had thrown the copies when he had come home before heading straight into the shower. It would be a long night, but Gerry wasn’t the biggest fan of sleep, anyways.

Gerry didn’t hear any doors open, but he felt the slight buzzing light-headedness that always accompanied Michael’s proximity before he was through with the first file. He raised his head and saw a mug being set down in front of him by a hand with too many bones.

"You forgot your coffee in the kitchen.", Michael said and Gerry couldn't remember making coffee - he did remember wanting to, at least - but he gratefully accepted the mug with a mumbled 'thanks' and took a sip.

Michael looked over the covered table, "I thought you spent your long research nights right in the Institute.", his voice dropped a little, something close to venom added to the usual amusement at the word 'institute', as always.

Gerry couldn't blame it, really. He didn’t know details, Michael clearly not wanting to talk about what happened. But he knew enough. Gerry tried not to think about it too much. The idea of soft-spoken, sweet Michael slowly losing himself in the hallway, shattering, un-becoming and being forced back into a shape that wasn’t his, was wrong for everyone- and thing involved. He didn’t want to imagine it. So, obviously, his brain sometimes made it topic of his dreams, when it got bored of his own horrors to torture him with. Gerry never asked for more details because he was doing fine adding them himself.

"There's some renovations going on and it’s noisy, so I just copied what i thought I might need."

He also had gotten into yet another disagreement with Gertrude and had desperately craved putting some distance between them. But the archivist was not somebody Gerry mentioned to Michael if he could help it. He knew it upset the other, too many emotions, none of them positive. He wondered sometimes, what Michael Shelley felt. Would have been feeling had he still been there. Betrayal, probably. But would he get angry, the way Michael did? Vindictive fury was such a difficult thing to imagine on that face. Then again, it was the same face that expressed it so very clearly to Gerry every time he mentioned Gertrude. It looked wrong, and Gerry could never tell if that was due to Michael’s nature or because Michael Shelley's face had not being cut out for such expressions. Gerry would never know.

Gerry looked at Michael as he drank his too-hot coffee and tried to calculate how likely it was for him to actually get any work done with it here. It's not that Gerry wanted to send it away, but it was a fact that it was harder to form clear thoughts with Michael around. He didn't mind, not really. Most of the time, talking to it was much more enjoyable than work. As Gerry watched Michael watching him, he felt his will and motivation to work dwindle.

He sighed, getting up, "Did you come to get your spiral picture?"

"Oh? Is it done?", came the answer and Michael was quite literally radiating waves of excitement.

Gerry thought that if he'd try hard enough he'd be able to physically see them. He turned around to get his notebook, an amused grin on his lips. There was something endearing about the instances when Michael got so caught up in its emotions they started to ooze it with every fibre of its being. Well, it was endearing as long as it wasn't his anger directed at Gertrude, at least.

Gerry finally managed to find his notebook and the correct page. He ripped it out carefully and held it out towards Michael.

"Careful or you'll cut it.", he decided to add because, as far as his eyes could tell, Michael's features and limbs and everything was still sharp; the hand being raised to reach for the paper still had knife points for fingers.

They were dulled as the hand reached the piece of paper. Michael brought it up to his face to look at it - he held it so close that Gerry wasn't sure he could even see much - and Gerry reached for his coffee to finish it as he watched Michael as intently as he dared to without making his headache overbearing.

His head had trouble comprehending what was happening to Michael's face. The usual wide grin grew wider, literally splitting the face in two, thankfully without detaching the halves. Its eyes didn't just widen in the metaphorical sense, but they expanded, the shapes and colours even more frantic than usual and Gerry wasn't sure if the appropriate reaction to this was to scream or to laugh because it looked both utterly horrifying and completely ridiculous. So he just stared, mesmerised by the head shifting from side to side on a neck that seemed like rubber to look at the piece of paper from different angles.

Gerry considered pointing out that it could just turn the paper around in its hands, but he didn't. He didn't want to interrupt as Michael thoroughly examined it with an expression somewhere between awe, glee and a headache. Gerry wasn't sure if it was headache-inducing or if it looked like Michael was having a headache. Maybe it was both. Gerry brought his hand down flat on the table, starting to feel a little woozy from staring at Michael for so long.

He averted his eyes, and when he tried to speak his chuckle came out a little broken as his mind was still processing what his eyes had just experienced, "I take that means you like it?", he said, and his tongue tasted like static. A stray thought found itself at the forefront of Gerry’s conscience then, wondering if that would be what Michael tasted like. Gerry shook his head, dismissing the thought.

Michael was nodding his head furiously as Gerry glimpsed up again, making his face look even more horrific. Gerry looked down again, head spinning.

"I love it! Thank you!", its voice was about four pitches too high to be anything but grating and Gerry cringed as his ears protested.

The next moment he felt himself being squeezed against what he assumed was Michael's torso. His body was singing, the tingling sensation amplified tenfold where their bodies met and then Michael let go and stepped away, and Gerry's spinning mind ground to a halt painfully. Gerry blinked away the remnants of confusion before looking up again and being met with what probably counted as a sheepish smile for Michael.

"I'm sorry, that was...a bit much. But I finally understand why humans love presents so much. They're delightful.", he marveled and clapped his hands.

Gerry shook his head, grinning, "Its fine", and it was fine. In fact,Gerry was tempted to ask it to do that again, "I think I'm not going to get much work done anymore, though.", he added glancing at the table again.

"Ah...you should take a break anyways, Gerry. Humans break without breaks.", the laughter that followed after Michael realised what it'd just said was hysterical and Gerry worried the neighbours might complain. Death metal at 3am was one thing, maniacal, ear-piercing laughter another.

"Michael?", Gerry tried, unsure if it would hear him over its own laughter.

Michael did stop, looking at Gerry attentively.

"Not so loud, please.", he said rubbing at his temple.

Michael nodded, its expression still so bright it hurt to look at it. At least the facial proportions were back to usual by now. It looked cute, that way, so much like Michael Shelley any yet different. But still cute. Gerry sighed, glancing at the files on the table one last time. He really wasn’t feeling it now.

"Want to join me for some Netflix?", Gerry asked when he looked back up.

Gerry knew that Michael had enjoyed the last time Gerry had let it watch series with him, so he wasn’t surprised when Michael’s answer came with more nodding. He was fairly sure that a normal neck would have broken from all that excessive nodding already.

Minutes later they were sitting on the couch, some random series playing - it didn't matter because when Michael was there, every series ended up just wrong, which was fine with Gerry, since they usually bored him - both of them clutching a steaming mug of tea in their hands. Michael always held his mugs with both hands, an impressive task considering it could wrap one hand around the mug at least thrice. It would bring it up to its face just to sniff it and enjoy the sensation of the heat rising up to meet it. Gerry found himself watching it more than the laptop screen. It was adorable.

Gerry was still careful when he leaned closer, resting his head against Michael's arm. Usually Michael kept his edges soft now, around Gerry, since it found out that that made Gerry come closer. It liked when Gerry did. Tentatively, it put one arm around Gerry, waiting for him to tense and relax again. It had taken some time, to get to the relaxing part. Gerry had always been on edge, expecting Michael to attack, to use the opportunity of a lowered guard against him. Michael never did and, by now, Gerry could relax again, tension bleeding out of his shoulders right underneath Michaels hand. He was still alert, of course, but at least they could sit like this now without him nearly jumping up at every shifting motion from Michael. It was nice. Michael wished it could pull him even closer. Instead, he drew patterns on Gerry’s arm, and Gerry hummed appreciatively.

Michael left when Gerry went to bed, as usual. As usual Gerry found himself wishing it hadn't. It was harder to ignore at night, the pounding of his heart when he thought of the way Michael's fingers had felt against his arm, how he could still feel a slight buzzing from where they had touched his bare skin. It made Gerry feel unfamiliarly warm and fuzzy and wish it were still there. He groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes. It was getting harder and harder to ignore and he should really tell it to get lost.

Gerry didn’t tell Michael to get lost, of course. He was already in too deep. And fairly sure that wouldn’t make much of a difference. Not like he had ever invited the being over. It just showed up, a yellow door appearing wherever Gerry was at random times.

Despite Michael showing up on a somewhat regular basis, Gerry never opened the door himself when it appeared. He let it be, knowing that, sooner or later, many-knuckled hands would start turning the doorknob. He never gave into the curiosity of opening it, which he was proud of. He had always been too curious for his own good.

So when Gerry did open the door for the first time it was because he didn't realise what door it was. He was bloody - most of it not his own, as far as he could tell - and the blow to his head when he had fallen earlier left him somewhat disoriented. The only thought left clearly in his mind was the urge to run, to escape. So when he saw the yellow door it didn't even occur to him that it looked completely out of place. It was an escape and so he didnt think twice about opening it and slipping inside, closing it behind him as he carried on running, aching muscles telling him that he'd need to find a place to catch his breath, if only for a moment.

He stumbled as he thought that, and then he was falling but instead of the concrete floor from the warehouse complex he had been in a moment ago it was ugly, green carpet coming closer. And then it wasn't as he stopped falling, leaning against something that felt like a wall, but with imbs to wrap around Gerry. He froze, and glimpsed a row or mirrors to his side, hung on the yellow walls of a hallway. The hallway. Gerry had read enough statements to know. He was inside the Spiral. Which meant that the wall he was leaning against was probably Michael. He looked up, craning his neck nearly painfully to try and see the face attached to the chest Gerry was resting against. It didn't feel like a wall at all, now that he thought about it.

He didn't manage to really see the face, vision swimming with a headache he hadn't felt in a while. The face came to meet him, though, and suddenly Michael was right there, so close Gerry was surprised he didn’t feel its breath, before he remembered it didn’t breathe.

“Gerry? Are you...alright?”, it was saying, voice frantic, worried.

It sounded wrong, and Gerry was having trouble focussing on the words as he could only watch those lips move, lips he’d been wanting to kiss and now they were right there and his head was throbbing.

“Can I kiss you?”, he heard himself say, the desire to close the gap between them the only clear thought in Gerry’s head as his blood rushed in his ears, mostly srill from being hunted, but not exclusively.

The words registered slowly and Gerry felt the colour rise to his face when Michael pressed its lips to his. Something clicked into place inside Gerry at that, something hollow Gerry had been deliberately ignoring filling to the brim with the electrifying sensation of those lips on his; those lips that didn't quite have the right shape, were both hard and soft at the same time and utterly intoxicating.

His right arm was going numb, and Gerry kept it pressed to his side, using his uninjured arm to wrap around a too-long neck, pulling Michael closer. Gerry realised that it had been a close call, that he had come closer to the end than he would have liked to, that he had nearly been gone without experiencing this kiss that felt so very perfect and right and yet wrong. The small hairs at the back of his neck were standing up as something slid into his mouth, not quite a tongue but also not not a tongue. Gerry pressed closer, in spite of his body's revulsion at the sensation. It did taste like static, Gerry thought distantly, as his hand buried in hair that really wasn't hair at all, steadying himself as he felt thin fingers rubbing his back, holding him like he might disappear any moment, desperatley pulling him closer.

Gerry was lying on his back, back against something soft as he was kissed breathless, pointy fingertips following the line of his throat, a dull scraping sensation that was driving Gerry mad in the best way, making him gasp and clutch at Michael's back, first a shirt, fabric like static against Gerry’s fingers, before it dissolved and his fingernails were burying into not-quite-skin and Michael made a noise that sent Gerry's mind spiralling, so very unlike anything human and so very much Michael.

"Michael.", Gerry managed to breathe out in between kisses and his voice sounded foreign in his ears, heated and desperate and wanting.

It understood, as the next moment Gerry's clothes were gone, long, long fingers meeting sensitive skin, fingers like knivepoints, dulled to not break skin as they traced his chest, his naval. They were everywhere and Gerry’s head was whirring, his skin hot, and he noticed his arm wasn't stiff and hurting anymore so he brought it up to bury in ever moving fractal hair, glass shards made soft, to pull Michael even closer. It was never close enough.

Gerry was still dizzy by morning, the unmoving body next to him, which never truly ceased to move, making it impossible to fully clear his head. Gerry didn't mind. He turned to look at it and it was staring at him. It didn't sleep. It smiled at him, the usual grin made softer at the edges. It looked fond, and Gerry smiled back, leaning his forehead against Michael's.

It only occured to Gerry after Michael had left later that morning that he had actually gotten a fairly good night’s rest, despite having the Distortion pressed against him all night. He froze at the realisation, halfway between his bathroom and the kitchen. Gerry didn’t sleep well in company, never had. Well, he didn’t sleep well in general. But usually the prospect of there being somebody to witness his violent tossing, or being there when he awoke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and ready to fight whichever horror was attacking him, because there was always, always something out to get him, made sleeping impossible.

But he had slept. With Michael. Gerry blushed a little at that. With Michael in his bed, he should rather say. The former was frankly less surprising to Gerry. Which was a realisation that only made him blush more. He shook his head. That was besides the point right now.

What Gerry truly was wondering about was how he had managed to sleep through the night with somebody - or something - next to him. Especially considering that something gave him headaches when awake already. Especially considering Gerry did not remember those fading, or even the static seemingly coming off Michael, making Gerry’s skin tingle where they touched. It had certainly been there when he was falling asleep, he remembered it clearly, his whole back tingling as Michael’s chest lay against it. How had he even fallen asleep? Did he misremember? Gerry sighed, finally taking the last steps into his kitchen. He needed something to eat. Maybe his head was still a bit foggy and he was misremembering. Or maybe it had been exhaustion. He had been exhausted. Gerry decided to think about that later as he started cooking, a soft grin playing on his lips.

Gerry got to try out his theory soon enough, as Michael appeared again a couple days later, when Gerry wasn't running for his life. Instead, Gerry was in the Institute when it showed up and there was a moment of hesitant awkwardness as both stood across each other, unsure about how to proceed. It was Gerry who closed in, unable to take it anymore, and pressed a quick kiss to Michaels jaw, since that was as far as he could get on tiptoes when Michael was standing at its full height.

The effect was immediate, Michael's arms wrapping around him and pulling him close as it bent down to kiss Gerry. Gerry felt his body hum under the touch, the buzzing sensation making him feel aware, alive. His arms wrapped around Michael's neck, holding it in place as he kissed back with equal fervour. Neither of them even thought of pulling apart, Gerry aware, somewhere in his whirring mind, that they weren't alone in the Institute, but he found it difficult to care when long fingers were tracing the line of his spine, making his breath hitch.

Gerry was breathless when they pulled apart and forgot to breathe completely when he looked into Michael's eyes, intense and focused, only for a moment, only on him. Gerry’s head was spinning with how close they were, and Michael was grinning widely, as always, except it wasn't quite as always. It looked like it was a grin specifically for Gerry. Gerry grinned back, feeling somewhat drunk.

Michael watched him work for a while, never straying too far, hand coming to twist Gerry’s hair around long fingers whenever Gerry dared to stay in the same position for longer than a couple minutes. He had a vague memory of the same sensation lulling him to sleep a couple nights ago. And then he was back to wondering.

Eventually, he looked up, nearly bumping his nose into Michael's head, which was much closer than he had expected. It was difficult to tell, sometimes. Michael looked down to meet his gaze, curious. He had always been very interested in whatever Gerry might do next.

"Do you...uh...want to stay? The night?", he ended up mumbling, barely intelligible as his face grew hot.

Michael looked somewhat surprised, a rarity Gerry always enjoyed seeing on those features, before grinning, running fingers down the side of Gerry's face, "Depends. Are you planning to spend it in the dusty archive or in your dusty apartment?"

Gerry drew his eyebrows together, "My apartment isn't dusty.", he said, taking some insult.

He wasn't the most meticulous in keeping his living space clean, and he spend a lot of time outside of it, but it really wasn't that bad.

Michael laughed wholeheartedly and Gerry's cheeks turned even darker at the memory of a similar laughter, lower, right next to his ear as he was coming undone under fingers too long and too thin and just perfect.

There was a glint in Michael's eyes, like it knew exactly what Gerry was thinking about, when it spoke again, "Yes.", it said, simply, fingers trailing down Gerry’s neck.

It took Gerry a moment to understand what it meant, his thoughts already hard to pin down when Michael was just close, much worse when it was touching him. Even when Gerry managed to discern that it had answered his question, he wasn't entirely sure what exactly it had answered. Maybe he should specify that what he’d meant to do was seeing if he could sleep again. The feeling of Michael's fingers tracing the eye on his throat sent a shiver down his spine again, and Gerry decided that that wasn't necessary.

He did sleep. And he did so again and again whenever Michael would extend his random visits until morning, which it generally started doing most of the time. It took convincing, sometimes, because in the morning Gerry was dizzy from staying so close for so long, and Michael disliked being responsible for him struggling to get up without falling. But Gerry didn't care much for mornings when he actually got some proper sleep. Nightmares didn't come for him when Michael was there, his sleep usually dreamless, then, or full of colours and shapes and static.

When Michael wasn't there, all was back to normal, so Gerry couldn't say that it just had stopped. Michael seemed to make it stop. He didn't know why, but it wasn't like much of Gerry’s life made sense in the first place, so he stopped mulling over it and simply enjoyed the nights he didn't wake up close to panicking. When Gerry told Michael about his strange discovery, the other had somehow managed to look pleased and displeased at the same time. It was in his nature to bring fitful nights, so Gerry was describing a failure. At the same time, it didn't want to make Gerry suffer, so it was glad to hear that, despite the groggy mornings, the nights were apparently restful. It was a whole new experience for Michael and it was thrilled.

As Gerry became more busy helping Gertrude and spend even less time at home, Michaels visits became more rare. It didn't like being too close to the archivist and most of the time Gerry was too busy anyways. It was fine. Occasionally, Michael would join him in his hotel rooms, keeping him company as he worked, slipping into bed next to him when Gerry had finally reached the point of exhaustion where he couldn't stay up any longer. The lightheadedness in the morning was more of a problem on those trips, however, and Michael often left after what he assumed where a couple of hours of good sleep for Gerry. Gerry didn't complain about it, didn't say much of anything as he was usually too tired. Michael also didn't say much, only pressing out his first warning through gritted teeth, not wanting Gerry to forget, no matter how painful it was to say. He was spending more and more time with the archivist and, despite Gerry reassuring Michael that he really didn't trust her beyond what was necessary for work, Michael was afraid that was already too much.

Gerry was home for the first time in what felt like years. He wasn't even sure if it had been a month. Somehow coming home had felt nothing like it. His apartment felt strange to him and he had spent most of his time in the Institute, anyways. Nothing new, then.

Gerry had no idea what time it was when he carried himself into his kitchen to make the next cup of coffee. He had lost count of how many he’d drunk since coming home from the Institute with more files and more leads to follow up on.

He wasn't even sure how long he had been standing there, in his kitchen, staring down at the coffee, when he felt a familiar weight settle on his head, thin, too long arms wrapping around his middle. Gerry barely felt the slight ache of his head he knew must be there through the haze of exhaustion.

"Gerry.", Michael whispered, squeezing him softly.

"Michael.", Gerry returned, letting himself indulge a little, leaning into the hug.

He sighed. He missed having Michael around somewhat regularly, but he hadn't had much free time to even think about it. Michael didn't like coming for visits when he was travelling with Gertrude, which had been most of what Gerry had been doing lately. There just was no time. Quite literally, considering they always seemed to only locate rituals when they were about to be completed.

"You need to sleep.", Michael mumbled into his hair, voice a bit sterner than Gerry remembered. When had he last heard it talk?

Gerry sighed, "I'm not done yet."

"You'll never be done.", Michael said, voice going a little softer at the edges, one hand coming to Gerry’s hair, removing the hair tie.

Gerry hadn't even realised how tight the ponytail had been and sighed as the tension bled out of his scalp, hair falling loosely. He felt his shoulders relax, too and it took him all his self control to straighten up and trying to shake Michael off. He still had things to do. He couldn't give in like this.

Michael didn't let go, running his fingers through the black locks instead, seemingly undisturbed by Gerry's efforts to escape the hug. Not that Gerry was trying too hard. He was tired. He missed Michael. His laptop waiting with another 50 tabs to check was having a hard time sounding more appealing than the feeling of Michael's fingers in his hair.

"Please sleep.", Michael whispered.

Gerry sighed, resigned, leaning his head back a little, into the touch, and looking up at the face above him. Michael looked worried, in a way it only ever did when Gerry had had a particularly rough run in with an avatar or the sorts. Gerry must really look like shit if Michael was giving him that look.

"I give up. I'll take a nap, okay?", he mumbled, pressing his face into Michael's neck, inhaling that scent he could never quite remember because it was like so many things at the same time but also like nothing at all. It was Michael.

Michael made a sound that made it clear it wasn't completely satisfied with the prospect of Gerry taking a nap, but Gerry felt him nod anyways. He let Michael pull him to the bedroom, energy draining from him as he embraced the idea of taking a nap. When had he last sleep?

Gerry let Michael tuck him in, his eyelids already heavy the moment his back hit the mattress. Michael looked delighted by the fact that, for once, Gerry was letting him do that without complaining about it being unnecessary. Gerry liked that expression. Then again, he liked most expressions on that impossible face.

His hand reached out to catch Michaels wrist as it started pulling away. He sounded sluggish when he spoke, "Where're you going?"

"Letting you sleep."

"How will you know I did if you're going?", Gerry pulled on its wrist lightly, "Come in."

Michael hesitated, "You need rest. Proper rest...without...confusion."

This wasn't the first time they were having this conversation, but certainly the first time Gerry was struggling to keep awake enough to explain that he'd rather have Michael next to him and wake up somewhat groggy than not having Michael next to him when he awoke.

It took too many words to piece together such a sentence now, so Gerry pulled a little harder, looking up at Michael in exasperation- albeit a very tired version of it - and simply said, "Michael!", sounding like a whiny child insisting on its candy.

Michael couldn't keep itself from chuckling, though it tried to keep it down as to make it easier on Gerry’s ears. It definitely hadn't imagined ever seeing Gerry like this and, were it not for the circles under his eyes that looked worse every time Michael stopped by, it would have been thoroughly endeared by the view. It was it was still very cute, and warming Michael from the inside, in a way only Gerry ever did. Michael carefully pried Gerry’s fingers off its wrist, squeezing them for a moment because Michael missed touching his fingers, holding his hands in its own. They felt even better than it remembered.

It walked around to the other side of the bed and crawled under the covers next to Gerry, who instantly wrapped his arms around it, rolling up against Michael's side and sighing into its shoulder. Michael caressed his cheek for a moment, noting that it looked somewhat hollow and wondered if Gerry had forgotten to eat again. It would have asked, but Gerry’s eyes were already closed, his breath slowing down as he slipped into sleep. So instead, Michael brought his fingers up to tangle in his hair, watching as it wrapped strands around its fingers only to release them again.

Michael knew exactly what he could do playing with Gerry’s hair without disturbing his sleep by now, many a night spent exactly like this, or in similar positions. Michael always liked when whatever sleeping position Gerry went for allowed it to play with his hair. He didn't let it do that a lot when awake, usually too busy and finding it distracting. It used to be something Michael could do when he caught Gerry relaxing, drawing or just watching movies on the couch. It had been a very long time since Michael had managed to find him like that, so he was glad for the current opportunity. Gerry made a small, satisfied noise, probably already more asleep than awake. This was better than nothing, at least. And Michael would see to it being a very long nap.

Gerry knew he'd slept too long the moment he awoke, light making it through the cracks in the blind and unto his face. He sighed, shifting to hide his face in Michael’s arm. He could still feel the other’s hand in his hair, just as he had before falling asleep for good. Not for the first time he found himself wondering how Michael didn't get bored with it. Peeking up to look at its face, there was the same wonder in it he had gotten used to seeing there every time Michael would play with his hair.

Gerry reached up to take the hand in his hair and gently pull it down, pressing a kiss to its palm, "Morning…"

"I think it's midday or something. Good morning.", Michael answered with a grin, oozing with self satisfaction.

Gerry groaned, rolling unto his back and rubbing his eyes. So late and so much to do. He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He did feel better, rested. His thoughts were clearer, despite Michael beside him. He also felt Michael more clearly now, head light and a dull ache at the back of it. It felt right. He had missed this feeling.

"You look like you should eat.", Michael mumbled.

Gerry turned his head to face it, take it in. He never quite remembered it right, its features a bit too off, body too sharp for Gerry's memory. He had long given up trying to remember Michael Shelley. Every time he tried the smile was too wide, the eyes never the right shade. But still not an accurate depiction of the Michael as it lay next to him.

"I think I'd rather kiss you."

Michael raised his eyebrows a little too high, "Not a good idea if you want to get work done."

"I don't care right now.", Gerry grinned, pulling Michael into a kiss.

Michael returned it, eager as ever, and Gerry smiled. He clearly wasn't the only one who missed this. Arms were wrapped around him and he was pulled close, his body humming in response to having Michael all around him. Yes, he had certainly missed it.

As expected, he had to close his eyes and wait for the worst of the dizziness to subside when they pulled apart, but he stayed close, one hand drawing small circles on the palm of Michael's hand. The touch still send small sparks through him, like electricity but not - he was fairly sure he would have electrocuted himself by now if that were the case - which wasn't helpful in shaking the lingering lightheadedness.

"I told you it was a bad idea."

"Shut up, this was the single good idea I had in months."

Michael sighed, and even in his sighing there was a chuckle. It wrapped his hand around Gerry's and squeezed.

"It's not going to go away while I'm here, you know."

"Don't go.", Gerry said it quickly and with such desperation he surprised himself.

Michael was also stunned into silence, which was certainly an achievement. But Gerry was too shocked himself to notice.

Michael turned its head to face him and Gerry opened his eyes again. By now his brain barely reacted to the obviously-should-be-broken neck. A short spike of discomfort, gone in a second.

"I thought you had work to do.", it said, sounding genuinely confused.

"I do."

"You also want me to stay."

"I do."

Now Michael laughed and Gerry thought his ears might bleed. Michael noticed him flinching and cut itself off, touching his cheek in what might have been a calming motion if it weren't for the electrifying nature of its touches.

"You're just...being very contradictory. You'd have made a great avatar of the spiral.", there was mirth in its voice but also something else underneath, something that had always sounded like jealousy to Gerry.

Sometimes, Michael was ridiculously human, in a way.

"Mhm…", Gerry mumbled, leaning over and pressing his lips to its jaw, "Maybe it's your influence.", he brought his free hand up to its face, brushing some hair out of its forehead before tracing its features tenderly, "Maybe I'm just getting demanding.", he chuckled against its neck, planting feather light kisses down to its collarbone.

Michael shivered, eyes fluttering close again with a sigh. It didn't want him to stop. It reached out to pull him closer, flush against it, and buried its face in Gerry's hair. Gerry chuckled against its chest, low and fond, and Michael wondered, not for the first time, if it would combust from the warmth spreading inside of it at the sound. It felt Gerry’s fingers on his back, tracing a too-long spine, slipping under the fabric of the shirt covering it when they arrived at Michael's lower back, drawing another shiver from it and a satisfied hum.

"Let's stay a little longer like this, hmm?", Gerry asked, a bit teasing, but loving.

Michael brought its hand to the nape of his neck, playing with his hair, occasionally brushing the sensitive skin between where his hair roots ended and his shirt began, making Gerry shiver, too.

"Alright.", it mumbled, voice muffled by Gerry’s hair but it didn't matter. Gerry knew it would never say no to such an offer.

Michael did leave a couple hours later, leaving Gerry to his work. Gerry's apartment felt empty and strange again, with it gone.

It didn't show up again before the morning of Gerry’s flight, when it sat on his bed and watched him pack.

“That’s a lot of things.”, it commented.

Gerry looked up at it, “It will probably be a long one.”

It looked disappointed. Gerry sighed, finishing packing and putting on his coat. He was tired and part of him couldn’t wait to get on the plane and hopefully get some sleep. The other part wanted to roll up next to Michael and just sleep here. He shook his head. It had taken so long to finally piece the leads together. Finally, the nights spend researching were going to pay off.

“I’ll be off, then.”, he mumbled, stepping up to where Michael was sitting.

It was an interesting perspective, to be able to see its face so clearly while standing up without craning his neck. He sighed. Gerry disliked goodbyes and wasn���t particularly good at them. Now he found himself wishing Michael hadn’t come, which made him feel guilty because it was looking at him with something akin to a pout, clearly disliking the idea of Gerry leaving again. Or maybe it wasn’t that clear, but Gerry had just become that good at reading its incomprehensible expressions. It had been quite some time since it started its visits.

He pressed his lips to Michael’s forehead, running his fingers through its hair. He lingered, longer than necessary, feeling Michael leaning into it. Gerry chuckled at that, looking at Michael after pulling away.

Michael met his eyes, “That felt..nice.”, it made a face when saying it, but Gerry was used to the contradictory expressions it made for comments like that.

“Mhm, I’ll keep that in mind, then.”, Gerry grinned, pressing his lips to Michael’s for a moment, “I’ll need to go now.”.

Michael looked sad again, and Gerry knew he had to really get out because he couldn’t bear that look. He could deal with the dizzying headache that came with looking into those eyes, but being looked at by them with that expression made his throat feel tight at the same time. He kissed Michael’s forehead again, this time just a peck, before turning around, picking up his luggage and leaving the apartment.

Michael simply watched as Gerry locked the door to the apartment behind him. It never liked the idea of Gerry spending time with the archivist. Even worse when he was travelling with her, making it difficult for Michael to stop while avoiding running into her. It didn’t want to see her. It wanted to see Gerry, to see that he was okay despite spending so much time with her. He had always been, until now. He didn’t really trust her, he said. Michael still couldn’t shake the creeping worry, something it was fairly sure had not belonged to him before. It didn’t like it.

Gerry was alone in the hospital room when he felt the end coming. There was no fight left in him. The doctors had been pretty clear about how this was the most likely outcome. So he wasn’t surprised. Or scared. But he was alone. Gertrude had left to meet up with their contact, though she had looked quite uncomfortable in the first place. Or maybe rather disapproving. Gerry guessed it was a good thing he wouldn’t die under that scrutinizing glare. He could still feel it, now, even with his eyes closed and her gone. He should be glad she was gone.

There were fingers brushing through his hair, gentle, despite feeling very unlike fingers. Gentle probably wasn't the right word, but there had never been right words for Michael. Gerry opened his eyes to see blond curls moving on their own, a pair of bright eyes looking down at him. It hurt to look as always, but Gerry was beyond caring.

"Michael.", he said and regretted it instantly, cringing at how weak his own voice sounded.

Michael continued petting his hair with his many jointed fingers, "Gerry."

Gerry waited for it to continue. It didn't, just kept running fingers through Gerry’s hair. It was hypnotic and Gerry was unsure how much of that was the motion and how much it was the nature of Michael being so. Or maybe it was because he himself was barely there anymore.

"Say something.", Gerry asked after the silence dragged on, this time keeping his voice low so he wouldn't have to hear it breaking so loudly.

It still took a lot of effort to form the words. But he wanted to hear more of Michael’s voice, wanted to be sure it was really there. The fingers felt real, but Gerry’s vision was swimming, Michael’s edges dissolving. He wanted to hear it.

Michael didn't know what to say. It had waited for the hospital staff and the archivist to leave, trying to understand what was happening. It hadn't expected to find Gerry in the hospital in the first place. He should have been in his hotel room, unpacking. Not lying in a white room full of beeping machines and needles in his hand.

"I warned you not to trust her.", Michael finally said because he remembered the archivist's look as she left, calculating, and it knew Gerry would suffer.

Its usual amused tone didn't sound right, like that wasn't the emotion it wanted to convey at all. Gerry was used to it by now, to the slight nuances in that voice hinting at what it truly was conveying. In that moment he wished he hadn't been. Michael sounded frustratingly sad. Gerry wanted to comfort it, but he could barely speak.

Gerry licked his dry lips, collecting his strength to answer, "She has...nothing to do with this."

There was something wrong with Michael's face, he noticed. Well, there was always something not right about it. That was the point. But the expression it was wearing was foreign to Gerry, something he couldn't read or place. There was something running down its cheeks. It looked like tears. It looked distinctly unlike tears.

Gerry felt the urge to reach out and touch but he could barely feel his arms anymore. The order from his brain did not reach them and so all he could do was squint up at Michael, trying to bring the slightly blurry image into focus. Gerry knew that Michael was never quite in focus. But he had the impression that it was worse now and Gerry was afraid that that might be more due to his body shutting down than due to the nature of not-being of Michael's. Gerry wanted to see it.

"There will be pain.", Michael whispered, and yet it pierced Gerry’s ears, making his head ache.

He mumbled, "I'm used to it.". Because he was. Michael knew.

Michael shook his head violently, hair bouncing wildly. Gerry was struck by the urge to touch it. He remembered its texture. Nothing like hair. Utterly wrong. So very right between Gerry’s fingers, smoothed edges wanting to go sharp again, to cut. But Michael had always liked Gerry’s hands in its hair. It had kept its edges smooth.

"It's nothing like you know. It's worse, it's…", Michael struggled, face contorting from the effort of speaking clearly, of finding the right words.

Right hurt him. Gerry didn’t want it to hurt. It was difficult to follow the words by now, anyways. He wanted it to stop.

“Kiss me?”, Gerry didn’t know if he ended up saying it, barely registering his mouth moving, not hearing his own voice.

He must have said it though because Michael’s blurry image came closer and then Gerry felt a slight tingle against his lips, a shadow of the intensity he remembered from those kisses. It was better than nothing, though, and he closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sensation, trying to stay.

He wanted to hug Michael, keep him there, but all he managed was a weak twitching of his fingers. Michael must have noticed, covering the hand in question with its own and squeezing it lightly. Gerry felt it, but distantly. He struggled to open his eyes again, but gave up when it became obvious that it was too much.

Michael watched his eyelids flutter, his face contorting with the effort of opening his eyes before he stopped with a broken, frustrated sigh. Michael caressed his cheek. It felt off. Cold and dry and fragile. Michael knew how easily Gerry could break and rip and die. Michael seen him get hurt many times, had been the source of a bleeding cut more than once when it forgot how quickly Gerry’s skin was punctured.

Never had it felt it. Never had it actually feared Gerry might crumble under its fingers. Michael was hurting, but not from doing the right thing this time, but from how very wrong Gerry felt. Looked. Thin, skin sickly pale, black hair oily with sweat despite his skin feeling dry. His roots were showing and Michael knew Gerry would wrinkle his nose if he'd see that. He had always kept up with the dying, hating to see the natural colour coming through. Michael had helped, sometimes. It couldn’t help now.

Gerry couldn't see it now. Gerry looked exhausted. More than he ever had. Like all the exhaustion in his life had caught up with him now as he was bound to this hospital bed in a strange country, unable to move and slipping.

Michael traced gerrys eyebrow with one finger. It wished those eyes would open again and look at him, sharp and clear, a trace of amusement or mischief, or even annoyance or seriousness in them. Michael wondered if he was missing Gerry. He shouldn't. Gerry was here. A little bit of him.

Michael’s other hand started combing through his hair again and watched Gerry relax, a rare occasion in life. His face went slack and his breathing soft and shallow. Michael could see him slipping. He didn't let go, didn't stop caressing because he knew Gerry liked it, even if he couldn't feel it properly. Michael continued even after Gerry’s chest stopped rising, machines attached to him starting to beep differently. Michael didn't stop because he didn't want to, then, not because he knew Gerry liked it. There was nothing Gerry could feel anymore. Gerry was gone.

Michael bent down again, pressing his lips to Gerry’s forehead. Gerry, of course, didn’t react. And Michael was hurting. It was hearing steps approaching, so it forced itself to let go of Gerry’s hand and hair, to pull away from his face.

A yellow door appeared and it stepped through it. The yellow door was gone by the time the nurses opened the door to the hospital room.

#tma #gerrymichael #gerard keay #gerry keay #michael shelley #michael the distortion #michael tma #fluff & angst #tma fanfic

[rwby-redux]

Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: Genetics

If any of my Deconstruction posts were going to turn heads, I had a hunch it would be this one. You’ll probably find this topic incongruous with the others simply because—unlike Aura, Semblances, Dust, and Grimm—genetics isn’t one of RWBY’s unique gimmicks. If I’m being entirely honest, part of why this post exists is because I still had some miscellaneous talking points to address, but lacked a proper heading to file them under. Call it what it is: a dumping ground for wayward thoughts.

But there’s a bit more to it than just that. The reason why I want to talk about this is because, much like the other mechanical aspects, genetics does have a bearing on RWBY’s worldbuilding, and the stories that were subsequently built around it. It has an undeniable impact on the sociopolitical human-Faunus schism that set the stage for Remnant’s immediate past, and the present-day terrorist acts committed by the White Fang. Genetics is also an extension of RWBY’s adherence to color theory, reflected in the hair and eye color choices of the ensemble cast.

Before we can finally conclude Part 1 of the Worldbuilding posts, we need to discuss this topic from both a narrative and a production standpoint. Genetics is firmly rooted in the development and design choices of the writers—choices which, as you’ll quickly see, had long-lasting consequences for the show.

Today we’re going to be dividing this topic into two sections. Since I’m sure it’s already on your mind, let’s get the obvious one out of the way first:

The Genetics of the Faunus

The Faunus are going to have an entire post dedicated just to them, but it’s impossible to talk about genetics without at least a passing mention of one of Remnant’s two main species.

Subspecies.

Races?

Yeah. You can quickly see where this is going.

Before I get ahead of myself, let me provide some context. Just like the conception of the Maidens, the Faunus can trace their developmental history to a rather impulsive design choice:

“Monty really wanted a character with cat ears,” admits Miles Luna. Shawcross expands on how Blake Belladonna’s look resulted in a cornerstone of the show’s lore. “So if Blake has cat ears, does that mean anyone can have cat ears? Could they have other animal traits? It’d be cool to see someone with scales or a fox tail…” [1]

Let me clarify by saying that there’s nothing wrong with basing a decision on aesthetics (in principle, anyway). And RWBY isn’t the only franchise guilty of doing this. It only takes a few seconds of consulting TV Tropes to see that zoomorphism is extremely pervasive. And while I have a tendency to complain a lot on this blog, I’m not such a kvetch that I’ll deny that animal-people with lion tails and ram horns look fucking sweet.

The problem I have with Faunus (from a genetic standpoint) is the way they’re inconsistently described in relation to humans. While Qrow unambiguously refers to them as a separate species, [2] we have Faunus characters that contradict him by describing themselves as a race. [3] This leads to the inevitable issue of whose account do we trust? On one hand, the information provided to us by Qrow is through World of Remnant, a spin-off series whose entire purpose is to clarify information and teach the audience about core worldbuilding concepts. On the other hand, what we’re told about the Faunus being a race comes directly from Ghira Belladonna. In this context, who would you expect to be the better authority on Faunus—a human, or a Faunus?

Even if we set aside the complicated implications of an outgroup member talking over a minority, we’re still left with the issue of well, which is it? Are they a race or a species? And why does it even matter?

Before we can answer any of those questions, let’s quickly define both terms:

A species is a taxonomic rank used for classifying groups of organisms together on the basis of being able to participate in genetic interchange via sexual reproduction, to produce fertile offspring.

A race (in biology) is an informal/unrecognized taxonomic rank below subspecies, defined as unique subgroups with either geographic, physiological, or genetic distinctions from other subgroups within their species. In anthropology, however, a race is typically regarded as a social construct. In this case, it refers to an identity held by members of a population that share physical or social qualities that are seen as categorically distinct.

The answer, if we’re being objective, is probably something along the lines of “RWBY’s writers thought that the two terms were interchangeable, or they didn’t think the distinction mattered enough to do the research and settle on a definition.” Unless someone specifically reached out to a Rooster Teeth employee and asked, we’ll never truly know. Speculation will only get us so far, and where this blog is concerned, we need a definitive answer—or at the very least, we need to talk about why the distinction matters to us.

So, are Faunus their own race? Meaning, are they a self-identifying ethnic group with a common language, ancestry, history, culture, nation, or social treatment within their residing area?

Common language: That’s a definite no. RWBY still hasn’t managed to explain how everyone across the four kingdoms speaks the same language, let alone develop any conlangs.

Ancestry: We actually don’t have a canon answer for this. The show has yet to tell us where the Faunus came from, so we can’t make any assumptions about how related they are to one another.

History: Technically, yes. But the series has a gross tendency to homogenize the experience of Faunus across Remnant, so the history of Faunus in Vale is virtually identical to that of Mistral. This trend results in storytelling discrepancies, like the Faunus in culturally-unprejudiced Vacuo [4] being equally threatened by and involved with the Faunus Rights Revolution, when there shouldn’t have been an in-world basis for this scenario.

Culture: Don’t make me laugh. RWBY couldn’t even be bothered to give any of its four kingdoms distinct cultures. Apart from a few scenes in Menagerie where you see a bunch of background characters hanging out in the Shallow Sea district of Kuo Kuana, there really isn’t anything culturally unique to the Faunus.

Nation: I guess? I personally wouldn’t consider Menagerie a nation, simply because it’s not one the Faunus originated from, but were rather given in the aftermath of the Great War. As far as we know, Faunus have always been just as widespread across Remnant as humans.

Social treatment: We’re told that social treatment for the Faunus as a whole is shitty, but that the degree of shittiness varies from place to place. Forgive me if I don’t buy that. Not after we’ve seen students in Vale physically harass a Faunus, [5] shops in Mistral refuse service to Faunus, [6] and companies in Atlas extract labor from Faunus. [7] If social treatment is contingent on shared experiences, then why are we told that these experiences change depending on the kingdom? And if the kingdoms vary in levels of racial acceptance, then why are we repeatedly shown the exact opposite?

Based on the aforementioned criteria, I’m inclined to say that Faunus don’t fit the definition of race.

So, are the Faunus a separate species from humans?

“History gets a little fuzzy past a certain point, but we do know that their kind and ours are completely compatible, from a—a biological standpoint.” | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 6: “Faunus.”

That’s a resounding no.

As much as the taxonomist in me wants to talk about things like the multiple competing species concepts, or the fact that plants frequently violate the definition of species by producing fertile hybrids through polyploidy (chromosomal doubling), I have to restrain myself. For simplicity’s sake, we’re accepting that Faunus and humans are members of the same species on the basis that they’re not reproductively isolated.

The reason why genetics matters in regards to the race-species discourse is because we have yet to learn what the Faunus truly are. If we ignore the fact that they exist because Monty Oum wanted to stick cat ears on a girl, then we have to figure out what their existence means to Remnant’s past: Did the Brother Gods intervene in the early evolution of Humanity v2.0, by creating a subset of people with animal traits that would sow discord, for the sole purpose of giving Ozma another obstacle to overcome? Did Salem (who watched Humanity v2.0 evolve) try to influence their evolution, and somehow managed to bestow animalistic traits upon select groups of early hominids? Is Dust like a magically-radioactive fossil fuel that by pure chance mutated early people through exposure, resulting in their animalistic traits? Are the Faunus’ animal traits completely irrelevant to the plot, and are only there for the sake of style?

That’s why the Faunus’ genetic background matters—because as the story progresses, it’s going to inform what questions the audience asks.

There’s a good chance that all of this will end up being nitpicky conjecture, and there won’t be any storytelling payoff. But I think it’s still important to address, if for no other reason than to illustrate why pre-production worldbuilding is essential for telling a coherent story. But I digress.

Genetics, and Its Relationship with Color Theory

It goes without saying that RWBY is defined by color. It’s reflected in nearly every facet of the franchise—team names, wardrobe, Dust color, Aura color, emblems, characters’ names, even the show’s title—and it’s just as important from a worldbuilding standpoint as it is from a narrative one. [8]

Where color theory and genetics cross paths is in the field of character appearance—specifically, hair and eye color. For the moment, let’s set aside eye color as a visual device for foiling and paralleling characters (like Yang Xiao Long’s purple eyes compared to Blake Belladonna’s yellow eyes). Instead, we’re going to talk about these phenotypes from a hereditary perspective.

We’re going to streamline this discussion a bit by focusing on hair for the moment, and picking three colors that would be considered unnatural by our world’s standards. Let’s go with blue, green, and pink. Here’s a handful of characters who have these traits:

Blue hair: Neptune Vasilias, Ciel Soleil, Henry Marigold, May Marigold, Nebula Violette, Sky Lark, Trifa

Green hair: Emerald Sustrai, Marrow Amin, Bartholomew Oobleck, Reese Chloris, Russel Thrush, Sage Ayana

Pink hair: An Ren, May Zedong, Nadir Shiko

Now we’re going to take those lists and swap out the characters’ names for their inferred country of origin:

Blue hair: Mistral, Atlas, Atlas, Atlas, Vacuo, Vale, Menagerie

Green hair: Vale, Atlas, Vale, Mistral, Vale, Mistral

Pink hair: Mistral, Vacuo, Mistral

We can conclude that these hair colors are natural on the basis that we never see characters dying their hair, and that similarly unusual eye colors (red, pink, purple, yellow) would also be natural in Remnant. Unless we’re assuming that everyone is wearing custom contact lenses, then it’s safe to say they’re legit. With the example of hair color, you’ll notice that they’re distributed across a wide number of nationalities, with little hint of consistency among them.

At the end of the day, it’s easy to write this off as “the writers wanted to have cool character designs and not have to think too hard about the worldbuilding implications behind them.” But there is a worldbuilding implication behind them, and it’s one that I’ll be focusing on in later Deconstruction and Amendment posts, so I want to make sure we talk about it now:

RWBY has repeatedly shown us that people are fairly geographically isolated from each other, and travel between kingdoms has always been difficult due to the Grimm. It wasn’t until eighty years ago, when the Great War ended, that a combo of international political cooperation and technological advancements made travel safer and more commonplace. Keep in mind that when populations of humans are geographically isolated from each other over prolonged periods of time, it results in those populations evolving specific anatomical traits.

Let me give you a few real world examples. Epicanthic folds are predominantly found in East Asian, Polynesian, and North Asian ethnic groups. Red hair, while not exclusive to any one nationality, is statistically highest in people of Northwestern European ancestry. Darker complexion is most common in equatorial populations, where high melanin production (especially eumelanin) protects against UVR exposure.

RWBY has every reason under the sun to ascribe certain phenotypes to the ethnicities of each kingdom, and for some reason it just doesn’t. Like, why not make green hair a trait common to people with Sanus ancestry? How about red eyes originating from Anima?

Avatar: The Last Airbender pulled this off by making dark skin, brown hair, and blue/gray eyes features of the Water Tribes. The Fire Nation, to reflect its broader geographic distribution, has a much wider range of phenotypes, with both light and dark skin tones and black or brown hair. However, it still retained golden, amber, and bronze eyes as a distinguishing characteristic of people descended from this ancestry. Frankly, I love that the show took the time to establish those traits among its ethnic groups. Not only was it a great way to visually communicate to the audience the ethnicity of the characters, but those traits took on entirely new meanings in the sequel Avatar: The Legend of Korra. When we meet the brothers Mako and Bolin for the first time and see their respective eye colors—amber and green—we’re immediately able to deduce that they’re the products of successful multiculturalism, something that would’ve seemed impossible seventy years ago when the world was gripped by war. It’s a powerful statement that was conveyed through careful attention to detail and excellent worldbuilding. Given that RWBY also takes place several decades after a global war, the writers had the opportunity to pull off a similar feat. And I don’t think it ever occurred to them once.

At the end of the day, it’s not the worst thing RWBY could’ve done. I think I’m just disappointed by the missed opportunities. The show already has so little going for it when it comes to shaping the identities of its four main kingdoms, so with color being such a vital motif for the show, this feels like it should have been a natural progression of those ideas.

On a more positive note, we’ve finally reached the end of Worldbuilding (Part I) - Mechanical Aspects! Next time, we’ll get to introduce the second section of worldbuilding topics: history.

-

[1] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 42.

[2] World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 6: “Faunus.”

[3] Volume 5, Episode 3: “Unforeseen Complications.” Ghira Belladonna: “[Adam’s] actions not only tarnished the reputation of an organization originally created to bring peace and equality to all, but to our entire race.”

[4] World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 4: “Vacuo.”

[5] Volume 1, Episode 11: “Jaunedice - Part 1.”

[6] Volume 5, Episode 6: “Known by Its Song.”

[7] Volume 7, Episode 1: “The Greatest Kingdom.”

[8] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 44.

#deconstruction #worldbuilding #writing #genetics #oh thank god it's done #time to go slither off to bed

[epicpastefailure]

Finally, that long pan-to-bi story.

The only reason I changed from bi to pan in the first place is I believed the hype about pan being more inclusive and I'm not wedded to a Type, so I thought it fit better.  I actually didn't have any animosity towards bisexuality because I was already happily identifying as bi by the time I came across this discourse, though ages before that I briefly hesitated on doing so because I knew I preferred men and didn't want to be saying something that wasn't true "just to look cool or something".  (Didn't realize as a young one it's not about raw numbers.)  I bring that up only because I'm the type of person who wants to be extra-sure a label is correct before I apply it to me - meaning that if I had known in advance about real bi history I certainly wouldn't have changed in the first place.

The change to pan was during some of the earliest days of tumblr, something like 2012~2014, back when I was much more credulous than I am now and assuming the people making lists and infographics about LGBT things were both well-informed and also acting in good faith, when it's clear now that a lot of them were at the least not well-informed.  I also happened to be fortunate enough to be among people, parents included, who had no problem with my sexuality, so I wasn't thinking very critically about my labels and the history behind them except to choose what seemed to be the most "accurate".  What changed my mind was continually encountering bi people explaining why they preferred bi to pan (one irritated person finding pan- identifiers to represent "one more person who decided bi wasn't good enough"; even when I wasn't ready to retract yet, that stuck with me), explaining that bi didn't mean the things that non-bisexuals had decided it meant and never meant those things, and it finally occurred to me:

"Well, to me it's a complicated question, because if bi- is not to mean "two" or to necessarily imply a limitation then I don't see a real point to pan- anymore, and this is as somebody who would call myself pansexual.  There's no functional difference between "I'm into all genders" and "gender doesn't matter to me", though a difference is there.  The way that pan would make sense as distinct is as a way of saying the person has no type, no preferences or no strong ones.  Like a bi person might still have a look or a personality they prefer in a partner, but with a pan person all you really need to do is "click" with someone.  But if even that definition doesn't work, then pan is pretty much unnecessary."

I have no idea what circa I wrote that (more than a couple of years ago) but I clearly intended to post it as a response to something, and never got around to it.  I even forgot that I had already parsed all this out until recently.

After getting past that point, the only reason I didn't ditch pan sooner is, I admit, liking the flag better, since CMY(+K) = full color spectrum (although I knew that's not the original intent of the choices, it just ended up that way) and I disliked the bi colors.  I mean, it wasn't just "I don't like this as much as that", back then I thought the bi flag was just outright ugly.  Didn't like the "drab look", didn't like the colors, didn't feel a connection to it at all (when I didn't know what the symbolism was).  Pan's was brighter and "more beautiful" and more pleasing... (putting it that way, it seems like my reactions to the flags more or less mirror those of pan identifiers who take a dim view of what they think bisexuality is, looks like, and means).  And it did factor into why I jumped ship to pan all those years ago, maybe more strongly than being led to believe pan was "more accurate".

May I digress about that?  I guess because that's the motivation for more than a few people, it is pretty relevant.  I've been slowly getting over it because when I paused to really look at them, the bi colors are actually very nice - it seems I just didn't like the plum-ish lavender between the magenta and blue.  I've seen a version of the flag with a way prettier lavender shade I actually like (but the flag's creator's only request was to keep the shades consistent, so I must).  The result of the symbolism of the color choices, though, is actually very close to how I instinctively felt about bisexuality and the exact nature of the genuine pride I take in/joy I feel about being bi, having all doors open to me.  What is there not to like?

Even then just over the flag is not a good reason to have a whole other label for the exact same sexuality.  I guess it was just hard for me to get past my gut reaction and realize that, 'cause I don't like to realize I've been wrong/misguided for really silly reasons even if it's been a long time and I've learned and changed since then.  (I have to be honest, too, the symbolism of the pan flag is not only less coherent than the bi flag's (by focusing on divisions instead of blending and mixing), but seems to have led some people to assume that the bi flag uses the same type of symbolism, when it's actually one of the ones that doesn't use gendered/gender-role-based colors at all (which I like).  I actually saw a bi-identified person say "The purple stripe on the bi flag is meant to represent attraction to nb genders"... no, that's not even close to what it means...)

So just a few months ago, before I even had any clue about the huge pushback going on, I finally cut the cord and jettisoned pan, even the colors.  Not before buying a couple pan flag things at a ComiCon, unfortunately, but one I would have gotten anyway because it was the pan colors with the words "Pretentious Bisexual".  I thought that was perfect and had no idea that was Shots Fired at the time, lol.

Had I known back then what big problems pansexuality has been causing for bisexuality I wouldn't have waffled for as long as I did.  But I have to say, even if I still ID'd as pan, I wouldn't think it's "erasure" or "-phobia" to acknowledge that in the modern use it's another word for bi, because that is a true fact (and one I was kind of already aware of even back then; for instance when labelling my own bisexual characters, even "being pan" I couldn't just say they were pan since bi was "so close to the same thing" and I never wanted to throw bisexuality under the bus by excluding it when it could apply.  I always said "bi/pan").  And even if someone disagrees they shouldn't shit on bi people, holy fuck, and then go on to wonder why people find "pan" to be anti-bi.

(It IS biphobic anyway, because as pointed out bi has historically meant what pan was "supposed to fix about it".  Nobody's saying IDing as pan is inherently a violent attack, it's fully possible to be biphobic out of simple ignorance.  It's okay; you can fix it.)

[bing-fucker]

Plot twist, Remus was amping up his annoyingness and grossness just so when Anti is all fed up and says "UGH IS THERE ANYTHING THAT WILL GET YOU TO SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE" Remus can then say "lemme fuck you and I'll shut up for the rest of the day". It was all part of his master plan to get at Anti's twink ass

Remus is an evil master mind and I love him for it. Also, I'm using this ask to write it because y'all have given me far too many ideas for this, and if I have to suffer with my thoughts, so do you. Also, just for Hearts Anon, I did mention Anti bottoming for Dark. So there.

Also, I can't add read more links on my phone, so I'm sorry.

Warnings: Remus being Remus, mentions of wound-fucking and blood play, Anti's throat wound, mentions of suicide, dildos used as gags, use of the term "glitch bitch" in a sexual context, Remus licks Anti's throat slit. Ask me to add as necessary!

Meeting the Sides was supposed to be exciting! It was supposed to be fun and cool, because the Sides were new and it was fun to meet new people. Schneep had immediately latched onto Logan, and the two were talking about math so quickly that Anti wasn't even sure they were speaking English (he did, actually, hear some German words occasionally). Marvin and Jackie had both quickly been dragged off by Roman, Chase was speaking to Patton and Deceit, and JJ awkwardly teaching Virgil some Sign.

Which left Anti, who would have much rather been left alone. Unfortunately, however, Anti was not alone. No, instead, Anti had been annoyed all day by one Duke Remus Sanders. Remus was, to put it simply, fascinated by Anti. And, specifically, Anti's neck wound. Anti had attempted to escape him by going outside, but that just got him followed.

"Hey, if someone fucked your throat wound, would it be, like, deep-deep throating?" Remus asked, looking around the backyard of the Sides' house. "Or! Or! If you sucked someone's dick, could it go through the slit?" Remus looked back at Anti, who was sitting on the porch steps, looking exhausted. Remus leaned closer to Anti and poked his throat wound.

"Don't feckin' do that, you eejit!" Anti exclaimed, slapping Remus' hand away. "It isn't all the way cut through, dumbass, that isn't how biology works!"

"Have you tried it?" Remus asked, cocking his head curiously.

"No!"

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I'm not feckin' decapitated, this isn't just a hole in my throat!" Anti groaned and stood, stomping back into the house. It had been like this for the five hours that him and the others were visiting the Sides, and he was very close to taking Dark's advice and trying to kill himself again. Or maybe killing Remus. Either were ideas that would work.

Anti stomped into the living room, where most of the others were gathered. Remus followed behind him quickly, rambling on about something Anti wasn't paying attention to and never had been.

"Oh, for feck's sake!" Anti exclaimed, stopping and turning to look at Remus, who stilled and cocked his head curiously. "What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone!?"

Remus grinned wide. "Let me fuck you and I'll leave you alone for the rest of the day." Anti heard the very distinct sound of Schneep cursing in surprise, and even a surprised laugh from Chase.

"Are you serious?" Anti asked, glaring at Remus.

"Deadly so," Remus agreed, grinning wider.

Anti glared harder. Was it worth it? The average man lasted three to ten minutes, to be fair. So it was three to ten minutes of Anti's life for hours of piece. "Fine," he said, drawing more surprised curses and laughs from Henrik and Chase. "But you don't touch my neck."

Remus looked shocked for a second, then grinned and grabbed Anti's hand, quickly sinking down and subsequently dragging the glitch out of the living room and into Remus' room. Anti looked around the room, glitching in annoyance.

"Wow. Great decorating skills," he said sarcastically. Remus' room was dark, messy, and probably a health hazard.

"Thank you!" Remus replied, seemingly mistaking Anti's sarcasm for genuine admiration.

"Yeah, whatever." Anti sighed and turned back towards Remus, opening his mouth to say something else. However his words were quickly cut off by the duke crashing his lips against Anti's. Anti yelped into the kiss, fumbling with his hands hand a second before settling them on Remus' hips.

"Jaysus feck!" Anti exclaimed, pulling away from the kiss briefly. "Warn a guy!"

"I thought the whole 'let me fuck you and I'll leave you alone' bit worked as a warning," Remus replied, moving to kiss at Anti's throat and frowning when he remembered. "How am I supposed to do foreplay if I can't mark your throat!?"

"Try taking off my shirt, asshole," Anti replied, pushing Remus away and pulling his shirt off. "There are other places to mark someone!"

"Works for me," Remus replied, quickly taking off his own shirt and shoving Anti onto the bed.

"Ask me to do things, don't just shove me!" Anti hissed, glitching slightly as he arranged himself on the bed.

"That's boring," Remus replied, straddling Anti's thighs and quickly setting to work marking up the glitch's shoulders and collarbones. "Hey, is it going to bleed? Like, while I'm fucking you?"

"You're feckin' disgusting," Anti replied, voice glitching into a soft moan when Remus licked around his nipple.

Remus didn't respond, only ground against Anti's thigh lightly. Anti winced slightly, suddenly very much reminded that the only time he'd bottomed before was when losing a fight to Dark- and Remus was shaping up to be quite a bit rougher than Dark.

"You hump like a wild animal," Anti hissed, holding back a sound as he shifted beneath Remus and was reminded of his own cock, straining in too-tight skinny jeans.

"Yes, well, it's one of my charms," Remus responded, sitting back slightly to admire the mass of dark bruises he'd left littering Anti's shoulders, chest, and collarbones. Anti glared weakly up at him, earning a sigh. "Are you going to glare the entire time?"

"Until you do something that's worth me not, yes," Anti replied.

Remus shrugged and climbed off of Anti, roughling yanking the glitch's jeans and boxers off in one smooth motion. Anti yelped, gripping Remus' hair as the duke lifted his legs in the air and pressed his face right against Anti's entrance.

"What is with you not warning people!?" Anti exclaimed, blushing and staring down at Remus in shock. Remus just shrugged and licked around Anti's hole wetly, drawing a startled moan from the glitch.

"Y-you're doing horribly," Anti commented, words falsified by the high-pitched, glitching moans he gave as Remus ate him out.

"You say that," Remus replied, pulling back slightly. "And yet every other part of you disagrees." As if to prove his point, he dragged his finger up the underside of Anti's achingly hard cock. Anti yelped, hips bucking up in response.

"See, look at that," Remus purred, snapping his fingers and locking Anti's legs into previously unseen stir-ups. He pulled away to undress himself. "You seem so open for me. Pity your mouth can't quite shut up."

"What are you gonna do, gag me?" Anti replied, blushing brightly at the lewd position Remus had put him in.

"You know," Remus commented, standing and walking to a chest of drawers across the room. "That's not a half bad idea. Let's test something out." Anti craned his neck to try and see what Remus was doing, blushing more as he became more excited at the mystery.

"There we go," Remus purred, returning to Anti's side with something hidden behind his back. "Open wide, my dear glitch bitch." Anti rolled his eyes at the name, but opened his mouth obediently, silently justifying his obedience by saying it was for the sake of being left alone. Anti's eyes once again widened as Remus shoved a rather sizable dildo down his throat, reflexive tears almost immediately springing to his eyes as he glared at the duke.

"Well, that was disappointing," Remus observed. "You were right." Anti rolled his eyes as if to say 'Duh, of course I was'.

"Don't get snippy," Remus laughed, climbing back onto the bed and between Anti's lifted legs. "You look rather beautiful, you know. All spread out and silenced. I bet you'd look even prettier with your lips wrapped around a cock."

Anti blushed and moaned around the dildo in his throat at the praise, arching his back as Remus slowly pushed the head of his cock into him.

"Oh," Remus breathed, watching the demon beneath him as he pushed fully inside. "Somehow I didn't peg you as the praise type. Hah! Peg!" Anti rolled his eyes again, letting out a muffled moan as Remus angled his hips and pressed against Anti's prostate.

"You feel so good," Remus purred, waiting less than a minute for Anti to adjust before setting a punishing pace. "Better than I imagined." Anti's eyes fluttered closed as Remus continued, moaning desperately around the dildo down his throat.

"Fuck, you're hot," Remus praised, gently stroking Anti's cock as he fucked him. Anti moaned loudly, not even caring as Remus leaned down and licked along his wound. Anti whimpered and moaned desperately around his gag, bucking back against Remus' thrusts as he came far too quickly for his own liking.

"That's very cute," Remus grunted, thrusts becoming erratic and even rougher as he came close to his own orgasm. "How quickly you came just from getting fucked. We should do this more often~" Anti didn't even have the coherancy to roll his eyes in response, or be disgusted when Remus came inside of him.

Remus pulled away with a soft laugh, licking his lips at the sight Anti made and staring for a few minutes. Eventually, he released Anti's legs from their stir-ups and pulled the dildo from the glitch's throat, impassively watching Anti gasp and choke for breath for a few seconds before offering a bottle of water.

"There we go," Remus laughed, getting dressed and tossing Anti his clothes. "That was fun wasn't it?"

"Ah!" Anti made a gesture for Remus to shut up when he was coherant enough to start getting dressed. "You said you'd leave me alone!"

"Does that have to start now?" Remus whined, watching Anti get dressed with a pout.

"Yes," Anti replied, pulling his shirt on. "Yes it does." With that, the glitch turned and stormed off, followed closely by the laughing duke.

Anti collapsed on the living room couch gratefully, looking forward to spending the rest of the visit in silence. Silence which he only got to enjoy for about ten minutes.

"Guys," Jackie said, voice soft. Anti groaned and looked away from his phone, looking at Jackie, who was now holding a sleeping Jameson, the youngest clinging to the hero like a koala. "Get your stuff, okay? We're gonna head home."

Anti stared in shock. He did all of that for ten minutes!? He could've put up with Remus for all that time! Not that he was too bothered about getting to fuck the other man, but still! It was the principle of it! Ten minutes!

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" Anti exclaimed, his loud voice joined by Schneep and Chase's loud laughter.