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rwby-redux · 4 years

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Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: Semblances II

Last time in Part I, we analyzed the failings of Semblances from a meta perspective. Now we’re going to look at them within the context of the actual show. Before we begin, let’s revisit that list of basic traits that are universally shared by Semblances.

A Semblance draws upon Aura as its source of power. When this fuel is depleted, a person can no longer use their Semblance, and must wait for their Aura to regenerate before it can be used again.

The specific ability or nature of one’s Semblance is alleged to be an expression of the user’s personality/character/soul.

Overuse of a Semblance can adversely affect a person and cause physical side effects, such as fatigue, headaches, or fainting.

Semblances can interact with Dust in such a way that their skills are augmented, resulting in the temporary acquisition of new subskills or secondary characteristics.

Through training and regular usage, Semblances can gradually become stronger or more advanced.

The intensity of certain emotions, such as stress, panic, despair, or rage, can cause a person to subconsciously activate their Semblance.

This refresher will be important as we go more in-depth. At the very least, it’ll save you the hassle of having to jump back and forth between tabs.

Limitations of Semblances

Recall point one. If your first instinct is to say, surely having a limited amount of Aura is a good limitation for Semblances, then you’d be forgiven for thinking that. In theory, it makes sense: a power based on a finite energy source does seem like a pretty significant drawback. My main issue with this being a credible limitation for Semblances is that we, the audience, have no way to gauge Aura depletion over time. And by extension, neither do our characters. In the first three Volumes, students used specialized monitors (usually on their scrolls) to keep tabs on Aura over the course of a sparring match. Not only do I like this because it’s a clever visual aid for relaying information to the audience, but also because it conveys clear worldbuilding information: characters don’t seem to have a way of innately sensing when their Aura is low. This idea seems to be reinforced again in V7.E3 - “Ace Operatives.” In the opening scene, Clover reminds RWBY and JN_R that their scrolls have been upgraded with Atlas tech, and they shouldn’t forget to use them. That line of dialogue is accompanied by Blake consulting her scroll for her teammates’ Aura levels. To my knowledge, there’s nothing in the canon that suggests characters can sense or feel when their Aura level drops, or how far away it is from depletion.

Having to rely on scrolls to monitor their Aura would be an excellent limitation to impose on an otherwise limitless superpower. Not only would it require the characters to constantly monitor their Aura, but it could introduce realistic problems. Like what would happen if a character’s scroll was lost, or destroyed, or its batteries died? How would that affect the character’s behavior in regards to Aura-related tasks? Great idea, right?

Now here comes the kicker: we don’t see any evidence of this in the show. When Team RNJR was traveling through Anima, none of them discussed having to find a village to recharge their scrolls. It’s not as if the trees have outlets that they can conveniently plug their scrolls into. Similarly, none of the characters from Volume 3 onward consult their scroll during fights to see where their Aura levels are at. You don’t see characters changing fighting styles midway through a fight in order to conserve what little Aura they have left. You don’t see characters minimizing the use of their Semblance in favor of more efficient tactics.

That’s why limited Aura doesn’t seem like a believable limitation for Semblances—not for a lack of possibility, but for a lack of execution. If characters made more of a fuss about it on-screen, I could buy it. But apart from one or two throw-away lines, characters don’t seem to pay attention to how Aura depletion affects Semblance usage, and by extension, they don’t adjust or change their tactics during combat to compensate for it.

Bear in mind that this discussion has only touched upon general limitations. We haven’t even addressed Semblance-specific limitations yet. Can Marcus Black only steal one Semblance at a time? Can Sun only make a certain number of clones at once? If Yang doesn’t eventually release the energy that she’s stored up, does it backfire on her? Is Pyrrha limited to only one type of magnetism, like ferromagnetism, or can she use more than one type? If Robyn uses her Semblance on someone who’s stating an incorrect fact, but they believe that fact to be true, then does it indicate that the person is lying? Does Hazel’s Semblance allow him to bypass/negate his Aura’s healing factor in order to stab Dust into his body?

And on and on it goes. A combination of vague or poorly-established mechanics for Semblances, coupled with the wide variety of Semblances, makes it impossible to predict what could be a hindrance for our characters down the road. This in turn creates a lack of stakes—how can we, the audience, be invested in the dangers that the cast faces, when we don’t know if those dangers are credible in the first place?

Active versus Passive Semblances

Usually when a character reveals information, it’s meant to answer questions, not create more of them. Such was the case when Qrow revealed his Semblance to Team RNJR for the first time—he brings misfortune, or rather, causes people (and objects in the nearby vicinity) to be blighted by bad luck via the manipulation of probability. Qrow is our introduction to passive Semblances, a term which, if I’m being honest, I’m not even entirely sure is canon. Someone’ll need to correct me on that, but for now “passive Semblance” will do. Because we have precious little information on the topic, I’m going to be relying on direct quotes.

Qrow: My Semblance isn't like most—it's not exactly something I do. It's always there, whether I like it or not. I bring misfortune. [1]

This passage tells us two different things: (1) passive Semblances are always active, and (2) passive Semblances can’t be controlled.

You can already see the problems with introducing a new concept this late in the game, because this new information clashes with what (few) previously-established rules we already have: Do passive Semblances require Aura? If Qrow’s Aura is depleted, will his Semblance continue to run, or will it become unusable like everyone else’s?

This ambiguity becomes even more frustrating when we acquire more information a little over a year later:

“It's not necessarily constantly running, it's more that it randomly spikes to cause unfortunate situations. If he chooses to amplify it in a fight, then yes, it does cost him.” [2]

Now we’re being told that that his Semblance isn’t “always there,” that Qrow can control it to an extent, and that his Semblance only depletes his Aura when he chooses to amplify it. Here we have an example of the character in the show being directly contradicted by one of the show’s creators. This implies that either they didn’t do a good enough job explaining passive Semblances the first time around, or they changed things after the episode aired. It isn’t just a he said/she said issue, either—Semblances requiring Aura is one of RWBY’s core mechanics for its pseudo-magic system, and by having a character whose Semblance breaks that cardinal rule, it makes the writing more difficult to believe or trust in terms of what’s canon versus what’s a retcon; what’s a subplot versus what’s a plothole. It doesn’t help when we get even more contradictory information from later episodes:

Qrow: I wouldn’t thank me. My Semblance brings misfortune. Sometimes I can’t keep it under control. [3]

I’m sorry, I thought we just established that Qrow can only amplify his Semblance. Now you’re telling us that he can partially suppress it too? Either he can’t control it at all, he can amplify it, or he can sometimes suppress its effects. Make up your damn mind.

The effects of his Semblance can be as minor as a coffee spill or as dire as a collapsing building… [4]

No! Stop it! Knocking over a Starbucks latte is not the same thing as demolishing a fucking building.

How is Qrow’s Semblance able to do something as insanely energy-demanding as toppling infrastructure without expending any Aura? How does his Semblance locate or prioritize variables in the environment to exploit/sabotage? Like, if there’s a mouse hanging out near some sort of Dust-powered generator in the building, does his Semblance send out subliminal messaging that convinces the mouse to chew through an electrical wire and cause the generator to explode?

Look, I refuse to believe that spilling a cup of coffee is somehow equal to setting off a stick of TNT or taking a wrecking ball to the side of a skyscraper. It doesn’t make any sense, which means that you have to provide a proper explanation for how it works. Because otherwise you’re going to be left with an audience that assumes Qrow’s Semblance is powered by (a) plot convenience, or (b) rats.

This—all of this, right here—is my issue with passive Semblances. (And don’t even get me started on Clover’s.)

Semblance Discovery, Auratic Plasticity

Did you notice the fancy scientific-sounding term in the heading?

Ooh. Auratic plasticity. That sounds official. You’re probably wondering where that term came from. A scene from Volume 5 you haven’t re-watched in a while (not that I can blame you). A World of Remnant episode, perhaps? Maybe it’s from one of the comics, or the director’s commentary on a DVD, or even an AMA on Reddit?

To answer your question: it didn’t come from any of those. Auratic plasticity is a term I coined exclusively for the Redux. Specifically, for talking about what goes behind discovering a person’s Semblance, and what factors are at play when that Semblance takes on its unique form.

Before we can talk about Auratic plasticity, however, we need to talk about all the ways someone discovers their Semblance. It can vary wildly from person to person. For some, their Semblance unlocks randomly while doing everyday run-of-the-mill things. As alluded to by Taiyang in V4.E9 - “Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back,” Yang’s Semblance activated while she was getting a haircut. For others, it can be the byproduct of training, extreme stress, or an otherwise fatal encounter. [5] In rare instances, Semblances can be hereditary, thus removing any ambiguity of what that person’s Semblance will be when it first activates.

The reason why I bring any of this up is because RWBY’s official stance is that Semblances “generally reflect the wielder’s personality.” [6] If Semblances were generally tied to the personality of the wielder, then it would fail to account for the correlation between the circumstance that triggered the Semblance to manifest, and the resulting Semblance expression.

Let me give you a few examples.

Adaptive Semblance: Nora’s Semblance was unlocked when she was struck by lightning. Consider the fact that her Semblance allows her to absorb electricity without taking any damage from the electric current. Rather than her Semblance being tied to her personality, Nora’s is likely a case of an adaptive Semblance—as in, her circumstances required a very specific Semblance in order to survive the 10,000 amperes running through her body. Instead of her soul generating a Semblance tied to her personality, it prioritized generating a Semblance that would help her survive an immediate and life-threatening scenario.

Innate Semblance: Ruby’s Semblance was discovered one day while training. If we’re to assume that there weren’t any dangerous circumstances factoring into that training session, it’s likely that her soul generated a Semblance that was in fact tied to an aspect of her personality. In this case, her superspeed is a projection of her enthusiasm and hyperactive zeal, and her tendency to prioritize others’ wellbeing over her own, trying to figuratively (and in this case, literally) reach them before they’re harmed.

Hereditary Semblance: Weiss and Winter, and (presumably) Whitley, Willow, and Nicholas all share the glyph-based Semblance unique to the Schnee lineage. The confirmation of their Semblance being explicitly hereditary contradicts the idea that Semblances are an expression of one’s personality. If we go by that logic, it implies that—what, their personalities are all the same? They have no individuality? I’m sorry, but that’s just dumb.

This is why Semblance discovery is important, and why the canon should have paid more attention to developing it. There’s pretty compelling evidence for a person’s Semblance being tied to multiple factors apart from their “personality.” I know that I’m digressing here a bit, but the main reason why I bring up this correlation isn’t just because it clarifies inconsistencies with the canon. It also presents an opportunity to enrich the lore of the show.

In the Redux, Auratic plasticity is the ability of the soul to generate a Semblance based on either an immutable personality trait (innate), a scenario-specific survival method (adaptive), or a “genetic” trait that’s repeatedly selected for due to its inherent fitness (inherited). These three categories are determined by a value called hierarchical prioritization—basically, it’s the soul’s ability to decide what Semblance-trigger gets precedence. I’ll get into more detail when I start the Amendment, but it felt important to clarify my intentions early, so I could justify writing 700 words on why Semblance discovery is important.

Adverse Effects of Using Semblances

Unlike Limitations, which focuses on what a Semblance can or can’t do, Adverse Effects deals with the negative repercussions/consequences of using a Semblance.

Or in RWBY’s case, a lack thereof.

(For the moment, let’s set aside the magic/not magic discourse and acknowledge that yes, in the traditional sense, Aura, Semblances, and Dust are part of RWBY’s magic system, the same way bending is part of A:TLA’s.)

When designing a magic system, you’ve got to balance it. Otherwise, the system contains powers that are vaguely-defined, OP, and bereft of any costs.

One way to implement a system of checks and balances is by giving that system a cost for using it. In RWBY’s case, the only “cost” experienced by characters is physical fatigue whenever they overextend themselves. But in the grand scheme of things it’s not really a detrimental consequence, in part because of how infrequently exhaustion is viewed as a legitimate threat. Seriously. When was the last time you saw the main cast fail because they overdid it while using their Semblances? It just doesn’t happen.

One way you could implement a cost is by tying Semblance usage to a physical demand. According an article by Julia Belluz, Winter Olympic athletes consume anywhere between 1,300 - 2,500 and 4,000 - 7,000 calories on average per day.

It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to apply this to RWBY. Given the high-intensity acrobatics the characters perform on the regular, it would make sense that strenuous physical activity, coupled with Semblance usage, would create costs in the form of caloric needs. Maybe that’s an issue Team RNJR needs to deal with while backpacking across Anima. Is food a top priority for them? Do they have to restrict Semblance usage when running low on rations? Does the group ever have to hunt or forage for food to meet the energy demands of fighting Grimm?

Not only does this balance out Semblances, but it opens the door for potential worldbuilding. Is “Huntsman” ever used as a euphemism for “glutton”? Do all-you-can-eat buffets ban Huntsmen from their establishments? Do Huntsmen have a reputation for being less picky about food options? In places that use trade-and-barter systems, are Huntsmen willing to accept food as payment instead of lien?

I think that’s more or less everything I wanted to say about Semblances. I have a few unrelated nitpicks, but I can save those for another time. This post is already longer than I intended it to be.

[1] Volume 4, Episode 8: “A Much Needed Talk.”

[2] Shawcross, Kerry. “CRWBY AMA.” Reddit interview. February 12, 2018. [https://www.reddit.com/r/RWBY/comments/7x3w4s/crwby_ama_w_miles_luna_kerry_shawcross_and_paula/du5bpdm/?context=3]

[3] Volume 7, Episode 3: “Ace Operatives.”

[4] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 94.

[5] Volume 5, Episode 4: “Lighting the Fire.”

[6] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 39.

#deconstruction #worldbuilding #writing #semblances

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 5 years

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Vicariously

Benjamin Poindexter x reader

AN: This is an answer to an anon request about the reader who is sensitive to others emotions including Dex, and helps him to feel better. This was such a wickedly original idea and it took me down an interesting road. I feel this is something I never could have come up with on my own, so thanks to you anon. Enjoy everyone!

You had a strong sense of empathy, always had. It made you good with people because you knew exactly what to say in correspondence to what they were feeling. Sometimes it could be a hindrance, especially when the emotions were negative. You would get beaten down by the overwhelming magnitude that another person could feel. It wasn't a special power or anything, at least you didn't think so. Not like the Hero of Harlem that you had heard about.

Sometimes you would be in a room full of people and would only be aware of your own emotions. It took one person who radiated strongly to get you to feel as they did. You had gotten good at deflecting the connections, but on occasion, one would come along who would not be ignored. As you sat in the bar that evening, one such man could not be spurned.

You hadn't noticed him when he came in. He was alone at the corner of the bar and had probably arrived that way. He was nursing a beer, but it wasn't holding his interest. If you had to guess, you'd say he wasn't even a drinker. His eyes kept skirting towards the red-headed bartender. Old girlfriend maybe? No, he wasn't giving off those feelings of affection. He was lonely, but he seemed more in need of guidance. The confusion and anxiety he was throwing off were suffocating. It made you want to crawl into bed and have a long cry. Maybe that's what he ought to be doing instead of ruining your evening. He had put you off of your whiskey sour with his welter of sensations.

It became a game of chicken, unbeknownst to him, of who would get up and leave the bar first. You watched him with impatience, while your fingers twitched with the desire to reach into your purse and bring out some money to pay your tab. The game ended the moment he stood up from his seat, throwing down change before sidling to the door. You took a deep breath as he slipped out of the bar, all of your emotions becoming your own again.

What could be going on in his life that caused him to be such a wreck? It wasn't for you to question, but there was a magnetic force pulling you towards the answer, and you were on your feet after him within a moment's notice. Another thing about you was your curiosity towards others. Most of the time they were more interesting than you.

The night was warm, and the air was foul with the city's pollution. You searched around for your mark and spied his blond hair across the street. He was moving fast, and you picked up your pace as you Jay-walked across the road.

“Hey,” You called before blowing out a sharp whistle with your fingers. “Blondie.”

His speed immediately went from ten to zero as he halted, turning back towards you as you cut in front of a cab.

“Sorry,” You said, waving to the driver who shook his head in disapproval.

You made it the rest of the way, leaping up onto the sidewalk ahead of the stranger. His previous emotions flooded back to you, along with a blend of curiosity as you stood before him breathless. You hadn't got a good look at him before because of the dim bar lighting. He had pointed features and a severe manner that didn't give off an approachable vibe. You wondered if it was ingrained in him from whatever job he held. He had red, angry looking scrapes on his cheek and forehead that looked like they were made recently. As you studied him, he studied you right back.

He closed his eyes and shook his head as if clearing his mind. “Sorry, do I know you?”

You hesitated a moment before speaking. “No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I've seen you around the bar before.” Okay, that was a lie. You didn't even know if he had been there before. Hopefully, he had or else this was going to be a short conversation.

“I go there sometimes after work,” He supplied, while still wearing a guarded expression.

“Me too,” You said, smiling to try and ease his suspicions. His emotions had lessened somewhat and it wasn't taking so much of a physical toll on you. “Anyway, I saw that you were alone, and so was I, so I thought why not introduce myself? No one wants to drink alone, that's how alcoholism starts.”

He looked quizzical as you let out a nervous laugh. He probably thought you were crazy. Hell, you had chased him across the street after watching him; you were crazy.

“I like to drink alone,” He said bluntly, taking a step towards you threateningly. “Goodnight.”

You stood stupid with your mouth agape. For someone who felt so much isolation and rejection, he wasted no time in pushing people away. Well, you weren't about to let that beggar be a chooser. “Liar, you go there because you're lonely,” You blurted out before he was too far away.

That got his attention. He rounded in on you fast, and you could find no trace of patience left for you. “What, have you been following me?” He grasped you by the shoulders and pinned you to the wall of the nearby building. “Who the hell are you?”

You let out a gasp. When he touched you, you were overcome by everything he was feeling. It made your knees weak, and you would have sat down if his strength wasn't already holding you up.

“I'm a florist. My names Y/N,” You sputtered.

He let go of you and took a step back. The way he looked at you, it's as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. “You're a florist?”

“Yeah, that's about it. Not very exciting, I know. I'm sorry. I followed you with the best intentions, but now it seems I've only managed to annoy you or freak you out. Frankly, I wouldn't judge you for either. I'm gonna go.” You adjusted the strap of your bag and started to turn back when he stopped you.

“Wait,” He said. “What were your intentions?”

“You were feeling stressed and in need of company. I thought I could help,” You said, looking down at your feet nervously. “I can't explain it, but sometimes I can feel what someone else is feeling. It was like that with you. I've never tried to intervene before. Maybe I should stick to that habit.”

“What am I feeling now?” The way he asked, it sounded almost desperate, like he didn't know his own emotions.

You reached for his hand, not surprised when he held it back in hesitation. “It will help me to feel only what you're feeling if I'm touching you.” You explained, and he relented as his fingers wrapped together with yours.

Your brow furrowed, sensing the restraint he had built up to keep his emotions back. He was wound up like a spring. Despite his best efforts, his more prominent feelings were getting through.

“You're anxious and tense. I'd say work-related, but I don't know what you do. You're also curious, probably about me. I'm flattered by the way.”

He cleared his throat, looking to the side in embarrassment as he broke the connection with your hands. “That's...amazing. How do you so that?”

“I don't know,” You said with a shrug. “It doesn't work with everyone. Guess you just have strong emotions.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.” You smiled, watching him disguise his nervousness. “You know you could tell a girl your name. Usually, that comes before hand-holding.”

“It's Dex,” He said.

“Dex, huh? Short and to the point, I like it.” An awkward pause followed. The street noise continued around you, and you felt the first of a cold raindrop on your arm. “Hey, want to grab a coffee? You can tell me all about your job that I assume is the reason for the marks on your face.”

It was a bold move, but you reached your hand out and cupped the side of his jaw, running your thumb over the cut on his cheek. Dex took a deep breath, closing his eyes while leaning into your touch.

The sky opened up, and the sparse drops that had been falling began to turn into a downpour. You took a step back from Dex and let out a gasp at the cold rain on your skin. “Or maybe somewhere dry.”

“My apartment is close. If you still want that coffee, I can make us a pot,” He offered, and you could feel he wanted your company.

Your heart bled at his loneliness, and you found yourself giving in. “Deal.”

You threw your purse up over your head in a vain attempt to protect you from the shower. Dex led the way with you keeping close to his side. Puddles had already started to form along the pavement, and cars were rushing through them in a push to get someplace. At one point Dex pulled you close when you were nearly sprayed by a passing cab.

You were already drenched through your clothes when you came to Dex's building. He hadn't lied when he said it was close, and you wondered if he had picked the bar because of the close proximity or vice versa. It was a well-maintained complex in an upscale area, and you were suddenly aware that you were just a florist.

The two of you were silent as you rode up the elevator to his floor. You were shivering from dampness, while Dex was radiating the nervousness that had returned. His floor was quiet, and you fell behind a moment to admire the delicate crystal light fixture that hung from the ceiling.

“Y/N,” He called, catching your attention. The door to his apartment was already opened and he was halfway inside before noticing you weren't behind him.

“Oh, sorry,” You said absentmindedly, scurrying inside after him.

When you surveyed his apartment, only one thought came to mind. My God, is he neat! The color palette was black and white, and everything was in perfect placement like an Ikea showroom. It was hard to believe the space had been lived in with how stiff the furniture looked.

“I'll get us some towels,” Dex said, stepping down the hall for a moment, leaving you dripping at the front door. You didn't move, making the assumption that he wasn't the type who would appreciate a mess.

Everything was well cared for and had a place, but you couldn't see any personal effects with sentimental value. It was an empty display, and you didn't know where Dex fit in in his own home. The more you tried to make sense of him, it caused you to feel like you were losing grasp of the situation. It was late, so why had you agreed to come here?

As you tried to find an answer, Dex returned with a towel around his shoulders and a spare in his hand that he held out towards you. It was crisp white.

“Here,” He said, passing it to you gingerly.

“Thank you.” You took it while watching his every move.

His wet hair had been ruffled through with a towel, and it caused him to look more carefree. You would have said innocent, but it just didn't quite fit with Dex. He set to work on brewing that promised pot of coffee, and the idea of something warm put you at ease. You took a seat on one of the stools across the island of the kitchen while finishing squeezing the last remnants of water from your hair. You didn't notice Dex looking at you, but you felt a shift in his emotions. It took you by surprise and nearly knocked you down from the stool. He was aroused by you.

“How do you take your coffee?”

You blinked, staring blankly at him while certain your face was red. “Black with sugar,” You managed, setting the towel down in your lap.

“Here, I'll take that,” He said motioning to the damp towel. “I'd offer you clothes, but I don't think I'd have anything that would fit.”

You could stroll around naked and he'd probably be just as happy. He knew you could sense his emotions, but he gave no indication he was embarrassed, and it occurred to you that he probably didn't even realize what he was feeling.

“I'll be alright. I shouldn't stay much longer anyway. I have an early morning, and you probably do as well, doing whatever it is you do.”

“I work for the FBI,” said Dex.

He wasn't kidding. “Jesus, that really is much more exciting than being a florist. The most I'm at risk of is a prick from a rose.” You leaped down from your seat, taking a step towards Dex. He unconsciously took a step back from you. Maybe he wasn't so unaware of his attraction after all. “So what's the story behind these marks?”

“I'm sure you'll hear about it on the morning news tomorrow. This city is going to turn against us,” He said, frustrated. “We lost people tonight.”

Now you were getting somewhere. His pent up stress and agitation made sense. You placed a hand down on his arm, his eyes shooting to that spot while you led him to the couch.

“I'm sorry, that must have been awful.”

He let out a breath. “It was hard, very hard.”

You searched for it, but the empathy in that statement couldn't be found. He needed help to navigate his emotions, and who better than you if it wasn't too bold to say.

“I'm sure you did all that you could. Sometimes all we have is to trust in our own capabilities, and figure out the rest as it comes.”

His eyes found yours, and you forgot all about the storm outside, drawn in by his gaze. “How do you do it, Y/N? I've only just met you, but you get me.”

“Guess you're just lucky you decided to go for that drink.” The coffee machine let out a beep, and Dex made a move to stand before you stopped him. “Wait a moment, I want to try something first.”

Maybe it was a spur of the moment decision or his heightened arousal had fogged your mind, but you leaned forward and planted your lips tenderly on his. You couldn't play it off as a drunken mistake. Both of you were pathetically sober coming from a bar.

Dex's shyness ended the second you leaned in and he had caught the scent of your perfume. He wrapped you in a stronghold with one arm around the waist, and the other hand tangled in your hair. It had curled from the rain. You let out a squeal as he lifted you up with his strength and your back met the sofa with him above you. He let out a shiver as your hands traced up his back under his shirt. Your fingers were still cold from exposure, but you were considerably hotter with Dex's body on top of yours.

He broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily as you stared at one another. His eyes were blown near to black, and yours were surely similar. Your chest heaved, pressing up into him as if starving for contact.

“Coffee?” Dex asked. His hand was still in your hair, massaging the spot at the base of your skull.

Your eyes fluttered and you smiled. “Oh no, I don't need it. I'm warm now.”

Dex grinned back, and he put his lips to yours once more. You continued to explore each other on his couch while the storm raged on outside. Inside the apartment, your emotions formed together in coalescence. Every touch or tease of Dex's body on yours made it impossible to know where his emotions ended and yours began. The thought was far away, and all according to Dex's design.

If you hadn't have been so preoccupied with his emotions when you first entered his apartment, you might have noticed the small, grey vase sitting on his mantel. The yellow tulips had since perished, but he kept the vase as a memento. He had purchased it weeks ago from your flower shop.

#benjamin poindexter #dex x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #bullseye x reader #bullseye x you #dex x you #daredevil fanfiction #benjamin poindexter x you #daredevil reader insert #poindexter #bullseye #dex

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ohnojustimagine · 6 years

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Where We’re Meant to Be

Dean Ambrose/Reader/Seth Rollins; fluffy smut, 3615 words

This is in the same general universe as Believe In Me (though I don’t think you really need to read that first, just start knowing the three of them are in are poly relationship and you’ll be fine) and is set at the beginning of Dean’s time off.

***

You've always been aware how fortunate it is that Dean's never before been badly hurt, but you've also always known that he likely wouldn't be lucky forever. He's careful, more careful than most wrestlers, but it's the nature of the business that no one escapes a few injuries along the way.

Even so, it takes every ounce of persuasion and cajoling you and Seth can muster to make him even consider actually taking time off and having the surgery he needs. In the end, it's only management stepping in and threatening to forcibly suspend him that finally gets him to agree to the necessary treatment.

The surgeon is in Alabama, and Seth drives you both to the airport. His schedule is as packed as ever, and he'll be heading off tonight for another round of shows, so he can't go with you. "Good luck, man," he says, clasping Dean's raised hand, slapping him on the back.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," Dean says.

Seth takes you in his arms, holding you close for what you know won't ever feel like long enough, turning his head to briefly kiss the side of your face.

"Take care of yourself," he tells you softly, squeezing you tight one last time before letting you go.

"What about me?" Dean says, jokingly belligerent. "Shouldn't she be taking care of me?"

Seth laughs. "You can take care of yourself, asshole," he says, but there's only affection in his voice. He raises his hand in farewell, and then is gone.

***

The surgery goes well, but you know this is just the beginning, with months and months of rehab and healing ahead. Dean's only in the hospital overnight, and while they offer to put him up in a nearby hotel for the rest of the week, he insists on being referred to a more local doctor for his post-surgery checks and then flying home.

You try to talk him out of it, wanting him to stay, but you can't change his mind, and his surgeon okays things, so you do your best not to worry. And you have to admit that it does feel good to be back in your own house, so the first day or two isn't so bad, with Dean still doped up on painkillers and spending most of his time sleeping, but then he starts to feel a little better, and things get worse.

Way worse, because Dean doesn't do bored. He always enjoys his downtime, but it's never too long before he's itching to get back on the road, back in the ring, so this enforced nothingness? You know it's his own personal version of hell, and living with him means it's rapidly becoming pretty hellish for you too.

He won't leave you alone, not even for a second, won't rest like he's supposed to, won't take his pills unless you nag him to, is eating a remarkable amount of junk food, and keeps threatening to start his physical therapy program early, insisting he's feeling fine when you know perfectly well he's not.

What he actually is is frustrated and cranky and in pain, and he's trying, you can see that, doing his best to make light of his moodiness, because that's how he deals with things, but that doesn't actually mean it's any easier to put up with.

But you grit your teeth and count to ten, a lot, and you don't lose your cool. Or not yet, at least.

***

You freelance so you're able to travel with Dean and Seth as much as you can, but what with the surgery and the general stress of the last few weeks, you're behind on work, so today you're in your office at home, attempting to catch up. But, of course, it's not long before Dean wanders in. He's shirtless, wearing only sweat pants, his arm bound up tight in a sling, held close to his chest.

"Whatcha doing?" he asks.

"Working," you say, not looking up from your laptop, because you really, really need to get this done.

"Sounds fun," he says, and from anyone else that would be sarcasm, but Dean's not like that. "I'm gonna order some pizza for lunch, you want some?"

You stop typing and turn your chair around to look at him. "We had pizza for dinner last night," you remind him. "You had cold pizza for breakfast this morning."

"Cold pizza is the best." He grins, and you know there's no use arguing with him, because the man is literally incapable of taking proper care of himself.

"Come on," you say, standing up, and it seems your deadline will have to wait. "I'll make you something."

"You don't have to," he says.

"No, I don't," you tell him. "But you can't live on pizza."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can."

"Well," you concede, "maybe you can, but let's not find out." You head downstairs to the kitchen, Dean following along behind you. "How about a sandwich?" you ask, glancing back at him. "We've got some of that roast beef you like."

"Sounds good," he agrees, and slaps you on the ass with his good hand. "My woman's gonna make me a sandwich," he says happily, and you turn, walking backwards for a few steps and giving him a look.

"Don't push it," you warn him, but he just smirks back at you, and you roll your eyes. "Sit down," you say, gesturing at the couch in front of the TV, because he's still meant to be taking it easy. "I'll only be a minute."

"I can help," he says, hopefully, but Dean's generally more hindrance than help in the kitchen.

"Sit," you reply, firmly, and he obeys, plopping himself down on the couch.

The door of the kitchen swings shut behind you and you inhale a deep breath, because right now, the thought of however many months it's going to be of this makes you wonder if either of you are going to make it to the end. You open the fridge, taking out everything you'll need for a sandwich, then, on impulse, pick up your phone, typing in HELP before pressing 'send.'

It rings almost immediately, and relief rushes through you as you answer.

"You all right?" Seth says, and the warmly familiar concern in his voice makes you feel instantly calmer.

"Yeah," you say. "Sorry."

"Not a problem," he says. "How are things going?"

"About as well as you'd expect," you reply, and he laughs.

"That bad, huh?"

You hear the kitchen door open behind you. "Who you talking to?" says Dean.

"Seth," you say, over your shoulder.

"Yeah?" Dean replies. "Hey, Seth, hey bro," he says, exaggeratedly friendly, then shouts, "HOW THOSE TAG TEAM TITLES TREATING YOU, YOU ASSHOLE?"

You hear Seth wince. "He pissed about that?"

"Well, you know." You sigh. "A little. He's mostly joking," you say, glaring at Dean, who's now beside you, sneaking a slice of roast beef.

"No I'm not," he says, and snatches the phone out of your hand. You try to grab it, but he holds it above your head, out of your reach and yells, "I'M NOT JOKING," into it before passing it back to you.

"Wow," says Seth. "Okay."

"Please tell me you're going to be here tonight," you say.

"Or," Dean says, almost conversationally, "he could go see Jordan instead. Maybe they could, like, hang out and suck each other's dicks now they're best friends and champions and all."

"Stop it," you hiss at Dean, and he rolls his eyes at you, but he's grinning. He wanders back out into the living room, and you sigh into the phone.

"Yeah," you hear Seth say, warily, the word drawn out. "Are you sure he wants to see me?"

"He's fine," you assure him. "You know what he's like when he gets bored."

"I do," he says, adding, with some feeling, "Man, I do."

"So you'll make it?" Seth still officially has his own place, but he spends pretty much all his downtime here with you and Dean, and though you've barely had a second to think about it, you miss him. You miss him more that you've been allowing yourself to admit, and the ache of it is like an empty space inside of you, a part of your heart that's been taken away.

"I'll be there," he says, firmly, and you have to believe that everything's going to be okay.

It only takes you a few minutes to finish making Dean's sandwich, and you take it out to the living room where he's sprawled on the couch, television blaring in front of him.

"Thanks." He flashes you a smile, grabbing the plate and digging in.

You watch him eating, vaguely amused by his careless gusto, but then you get to thinking. "You know," you say, "you don't need to be that much of a dick to him."

Dean shrugs, one-shouldered. "He can take it." He doesn't speak any further for what feels like a long while, finishing eating and dumping the plate on the coffee table before he turns to you, and says, more quietly, "Do you think he feels guilty?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Good."

"Come on," you say, "it's not his fault."

"I know," says Dean. He looks at you, and it's that Dean you don't see so often, the vulnerable one, all the swagger and bravado gone, just for a moment. "It's hard, seeing them all move on and I'm..." He gestures at his injured arm. "I'm stuck here like this."

You take his left hand in both your own, holding it tightly and looking him square in the eye. "Yeah," you tell him, "they're going to move on for a while, but the second you're ready you'll be straight back into your rightful place."

"Nah," he says, as if he's joking, but you know better, hearing the insecurity in his voice as he goes on, saying, "that's what happens, people forget."

"You're kidding, right?" you scoff. "Can you even imagine the reaction you're going to get when you come back?" You shake your head, picturing it. "It's going to be fucking amazing."

"You think?" he asks.

"I know," you say, and he smiles, but you can see the tiredness in his eyes. You kiss his hand, briefly, then stand up, grabbing the plate. "Okay?"

He nods, seemingly happier for now, and stretches out, lying down and swinging his legs up onto to couch. "Maybe time for a nap," he says. "Gotta rest up if Seth's coming home tonight."

"Why?" you ask, playful. "You got some plans?"

"Oh, baby." He raises his eyebrows at you. "I've always got plans."

You laugh, watching him for a second as he closes his eyes, his chest rising as he takes a deep breath, and then you walk away, leaving him to rest.

***

It's late by the time Seth arrives, letting himself in, and as soon as the front door opens, you and Dean are both on your feet, rushing out ready to greet him, both a little too eager, but it feels like forever since it's been just the three of you.

"Hey," Seth says to Dean. "How you feeling?"

"You know, been better," Dean replies and Seth nods ruefully, as if he understands exactly what he means, and you suppose he does, what with his own past injuries, but then he focuses his attention on you.

"Hey you," he says, warmly, pulling you into a hug, and you hold him tightly for a minute, face pressed to his chest, breathing in the smell of him, relaxing into the feel of his arms around you.

"Mind if I head straight up for a shower?" he asks, when he finally releases you.

"Of course," you tell him. "You okay with your bags?"

"I'm fine," he says.

"I'd help," Dean says, all mock-regret, "but you know..." He waves helplessly at his arm, and Seth just laughs.

"Sure," he says, and Dean smiles at him, eyes shining, and you realize you're not the only one who's been missing Seth.

You both watch him walk upstairs, silent, but then you turn to look at Dean, and he looks back at you, and there's something in his face you haven't seen there for a while; definitely not since his surgery and maybe not even since this whole shoulder thing became serious. It's that spark you recognize, that relish for life that makes Dean Dean, and suddenly you know, deep in your bones, that everything is going to be okay, however long it takes.

"We should go up too," Dean says, after a minute, "wait for him."

"Yeah," you say, knowing exactly what he means. "Let's do that."

***

Seth's using the shower in the bathroom off your bedroom, and as you enter you hear the sound of the water running, soft in the background. Dean sits down on the end of the bed, looking at you expectantly, and you know what he wants, but you hesitate.

"You sure you're up for this?" you ask him, needing to be certain. "You'll say if it's too much?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replies, sounding vaguely annoyed, and you can't blame him for that. "I'll behave myself."

And for once, you believe him, so you relent, pouting as you say, "Aw, but you're so much more fun when you misbehave."

He grins at you. "You know," he says, "I really think you need to be naked now."

"You do?" You toy with the hem of your shirt, teasing him, and you see his eyes darken slightly.

"Right now," he tells you, the demand in his voice sending a thrill through you, and you start to undress. And maybe you should make a performance of it, strip for him, but somehow it feels more appropriate, more intimate, to simply take off your clothes, letting him see you, your skin warming under the heat of his gaze until you stand before him, exposed.

He doesn't say anything, only holding out his hand, pulling you in towards him, and you sit down next to him, shifting to face him. You've barely done anything since his surgery; just a few boringly efficient handjobs followed by him watching you masturbate, and it's weird, you think, because you've been touching him, maybe even more than normal, but so much of it has been practical, almost impersonal; helping him wash and dress himself, checking and changing the coverings on his wound.

But you haven't touched him, not like this, your hands sliding slow over his body, exploring like it's the first time. His arm is around your waist, and he kisses you, softly, so unguarded and tender you have to moan.

"You starting without me?" you hear Seth say, and you smile at the sound of his voice, turning to look at him. His hair is wet, slicked back, and he's wearing only a white towel that sits dangerously low on his hips, his skin still glistening with the moisture of the shower. And the sudden rush of want you feel is almost dizzying in its intensity, like something that's been building within you that you haven't been able to acknowledge until this moment.

There's always that hint of doubt and uncertainly when Seth's not with you, a throwback to those days when he betrayed you both and was gone for so long, and even though you've forgiven him a million times over and trust him implicitly, there's still, even now, a small, seductive voice in the darkest places of your mind that will sometimes whisper what if? like an echo.

But now, he's here and you can forget all that.

"Just getting her nice and warmed up for you," Dean says.

Seth smiles back at you. "Yeah, she never needs much warming up."

"True," Dean agrees with a dirty laugh, and you probably should be at least a little offended by that, but yeah, it is true.

"What do you want to do to him?" Dean asks, watching you as you watch Seth, hand stroking up and down your thigh. "You want to suck him? Get on your knees for him?"

You nod, not taking your eyes off Seth, and Dean turns to him, saying, "That what you want? Our girl's mouth on your cock?"

You take a breath, because every single fucking time that gets you, that our. Not mine, not his, but ours, because you belong to both of them, shared between them with no possessiveness or jealousy, something only open and boundless.

"Yeah," Seth says, "I could go for that."

And you don't need any encouragement, sliding off the bed and onto your knees, moving towards him. You rest your hands on Seth's narrow hips, feeling the planes of muscle that slope diagonally across from his abs, and you lean in, pressing kisses along the trail of hair that leads downwards, following it until you reach the edge of the towel. You gaze up at him as you pull the towel away, licking your lips at the sight of his cock, standing out erect from his body, hard and ready for you.

You lean to lick it, kiss it, hand around him as you open your mouth, taking in just the head, sucking on it, gently as first, but then with increasing pressure, just the way you know Seth likes it, using your tongue.

"Oh yeah," you hear Dean say, and Seth's hands are either side of your face, gently cradling your jaw, thumbs stroking across your cheekbones. You look up, and he's staring at you, his eyes almost black with desire as you close your lips around him, going down until he hits the back of your throat and you swallow, taking him in as deep as you can.

"Fuck," he says, as you pull back, almost all the way, pausing to again lavish attention on the head of his cock before you slide back down, and you don't stop, repeating the same motions over and over. Seth groans, and you can tell he's getting close, that he wants you to go faster, but you linger over it, wanting this to last, knowing that when it's time, he won't hesitate to take what he needs.

And finally it seems he's had enough, because he pushes you away, dragging you roughly to your feet and practically throwing you down onto the bed, shoving your legs apart, and he's on top of you before you can even take a breath, cock thrusting into you, and you're powerless to do anything but go with him, allowing yourself to be carried away by it. You hold on as he fucks you, and when he comes it's with such force you think you might lose yourself, just for a minute, but then Dean's lying beside you, tugging on your arm, saying, "Come on," impatiently as Seth rolls off you.

You sit up, your head spinning, managing to get on top of Dean, straddling him as, one-handed, he guides you down onto his cock, letting it fill you as you start to ride him, hips in an urgent, familiar rhythm that you know will get you both there.

Dean's muttering something under his breath, nearing the edge, and you're about to come, you can feel it. You reach out, blindly desperate to connect with both of them in this moment, and Seth understands, because he's immediately right there beside you, holding your hand, kissing your shoulder. "I'm here," he soothes, "I'm with you, baby," and it's everything. You hear Dean moan out his own orgasm just as you come, heat flaring inside you, and the release of it is so great that for a brief second you think you might cry, but it passes, easing out into a sweet, easy contentment.

You climb off Dean, leaning down to kiss him, and you can tell he's about three seconds away from falling asleep, kissing you back, unhurriedly lazy, his eyes already falling closed. "So good," he murmurs happily and you lie down beside him, careful of his arm. Seth settles himself next to you so you're between the two of them, exactly where you like to be, where you belong, and Dean's already dozing off as Seth looks at you, smiling.

His hair is almost dry, curling out into its usual unruly frizz, and he runs his hand through it, pushing it back off his face with a small grunt of annoyance. There's a spare hair tie around your wrist, and you slip it off, offering it to him.

"Thanks," he says, taking it twisting his hair back into a carelessly messy bun, and he looks so good you have to kiss him again, your tongue hot in his mouth, still trying to catch your breath as he pulls back.

He stares past you at Dean, forehead wrinkling slightly in concern as he asks, "Is he gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and you mean it. "Yeah, he'll be fine, it's just going to take a while."

Seth looks at you. "Are you gonna be okay?"

"I am now."

"You know I'm here for you, right?" he says. "Both of you, yeah, but I mean..." He breathes in. "I get what a handful he can be sometimes, so any time you need help, I'm here."

"I know," you say, curling yourself into him, his arms enfolding you in a gentle embrace. Dean shifts slightly, unconsciously pressing closer, and you feel the warmth of both of their bodies against you, safe and steady.

"We're not going anywhere," Seth whispers, and it's a promise, fixed as a truth, built and then rebuilt, something so strong it can't be ever be broken.

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