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alexanderlightweight · 1 year

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Malec based on the story of Savitri and Satyavan please? There’s a ted ed video of it if you need it

i had a lot of fun with this so i hope you enjoy and thank you for the prompt!

for anyone curious about the story here is a link with the video.

youtube

even if you're not curious because of the fic, i'd suggest watching as its a beautiful soulmate story and i absolutely loved incorporating it with malec.

<3 lumine

Magnus startles as an arrow flies past him, embedding itself in the last demon he was about to snuff out.

“Now that’s a weapon I haven’t seen for quite some time.” He says into the darkness, “what ever are you trying to hunt in Brooklyn with one of those?”

A figure steps out of the darkness, tall dark and devastatingly handsome and there’s a look of contained wonder as he steps closer to Magnus.

“I was shadow hunting.” He’s told with a dry smirk, “I thought I saw one.”

It’s then that Magnus sees the dark lines he will never fail to recognize creating runes across the man’s neck and arms.

However, shadowhunters don’t leave Idris anymore, content to stay safe and let the rest of the world suffer the demons that nephilim no longer hunt nightly.

They swore to never come out of their city after the Uprising and failed negotiations for new accords. In their own words, the clave will not send aid for anything less than world catastrophes.

Magnus finds he has less free time and gets his hands a fair bit dirtier, but it’s also much less troublesome.

He doubts the werewolves, vampires and less powerful warlocks agree but well, that’s their problem. Magnus quite prefers not having to deal with nephilim though he will make an exception for the one in front of him.

“And what is a lone nephilim doing wondering the streets of the outside world? Is there an apocalypse I haven’t noticed?”

There’s a pause and a pained grimace and the shadowhunter shrugs, “I’m no longer welcome in Alicante.”

Magnus takes a moment to wonder why but some instinct in him is both curious and intrigued and he steps closer. “I’m Magnus Bane. Tell me over a meal why you’re exiled in my territory, you look like you could use one.” Magnus doesn’t mean to say it, but he can’t help it and instead of getting offended, the shadowhunter seems confused.

As if it’s been a very long time since someone cared about his wellbeing, even as a method for information.

He’s activating every single one of Magnus’ normally non-existent protective instincts and Magnus tuts and opens a portal. He holds out a hand and after a moment it’s taken and he’s followed through to his lair.

He meant to take the shadowhunter somewhere less private, less personal but it’s too late now and Magnus smirks, as if this was his plan all along.

“Drinks?” He suggests and then because he really is concerned, he snaps his fingers and summons plates and bowls of foods and pitchers and pots of drinks.

There’s a moment of contemplation and then, in an intimate but careful gesture the shadowhunter brushes his fingers against Magnus’ wrist in quiet thanks.

“I’m Alec.”

He’s told, no family name offered and Magnus immediately thinks, “Alexander.” He doesn’t realize he’s murmured it aloud until Alexander blinks and then smiles softly at him, nodding.

There is a carefulness as Alexander sits and eats and drinks slowly that makes Magnus want to rage.

“Will you tell me, what happened?” Magnus asks, because while he could demand it, he wants to know because Alexander trusts him. It’s a silly hope but even as Magnus is reminding himself not to be disappointed to not find out, Alexander nods.

“A rift opened in Alicante two months ago and Lilith attacked. We couldn’t keep up with her demons and the clave summoned Asmodeus, striking a deal with him.”

Magnus stares in shock and despite what he wants, his glamour falls and he can tell instantly that they’re recognized.

For a moment, Magnus thinks Alexander will attack him and the part of him that hates himself and his father thinks it will almost be deserved.

“They’re so much prettier on you.” Alexander blurts out and then he flushes, as if he can’t believe he said such a thing and Magnus can’t either. “Sorry it’s just. They just look different.” When it becomes clear that Magnus doesn’t understand what he means — he’s only ever seen his father’s eyes staring back at him — Alexander scowls. “It’s like the difference between one of those plastic mundane gems and a real one.”

Magnus is beyond flattered and he blinks, wondering just where exiled shadowhunters learned to be so coy.

Especially after learning that his father is involved in the reason Alexander no longer has a home.

“What happened?” He asks and he can’t help but reach out and press his hand to Alexander’s knee in comfort.

Alexander gives him an almost apologetic look, features tight, “I’m from one of the disgraced families, Magnus.” He admits, like Magnus would ever hold his parents against him, especially in a situation like this. Magnus isn’t surprised that Alexander is from one of the many families who joined the Circle and fell from their prestige when returned to Idris.

“Asmodeus wanted a nephilim soul, freely given. My family was picked because we have the most children for spare heirs. I volunteered for my siblings and the deal was struck. Fifteen months of life tied to Edom before Asmodeus collects me to harvest my soul.” Alexander shrugs, unaffected as if he has long since accepted his fate. “In return, he closed the rift.”

Magnus is unsurprised by both the clave forcing innocents to clean up their mess and his father’s part in this. Undoubtedly, the real reason his father gave Alexander so long was to force his soul to wallow in despair with the knowledge of his fate.

“And the exile?”

“My soul is now tied to a demon. I am unfit to reside in the walls of Alicante and so I came here.”

“Where are you living?” It should feel like an interrogation but it feels so easy, to wonder and be concerned for Alexander and he’s given a small smile in return.

“The abandoned Institute in Manhattan. The angelic core was never able be retrieved and so while it’s a bit run down, it has enough energy to power some wards and protections.” Alexander shrugs, as if Magnus doesn’t know exactly what kind of conditions the Institute is in.

“You’ll stay here instead of that drafty place.” Magnus says — a tone of finality he doesn’t even understand himself — in his voice. “Darling, nephilim are a rare treat in the downworld these days. It simply isn’t safe and while I could ward the Institute for you—”

“Magnus I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Alexander cuts in, looking distressed at the very idea of causing Magnus so much work.

“I didn’t hear you ask me for anything,” Magnus teases and Alexander blushes, looking away for a moment. “However, warding the whole Institute seems wasteful when I can simply keep you here, where the wards are already in existence and can keep you safe.”

“Magnus, you know now that nothing can keep me safe. Not forever.” Alexander hedges, something soft in his voice as if he’s worried the reminder will hurt Magnus… and it does. “I only have about a year until your father claims my soul.” Alexander reminds him and he looks worried, as if any of this was ever Alexander’s fault.

“That’s still a year that I can protect you. That I can keep you safe, Alexander.” And then, because Magnus isn’t sure how he knows that Alexander is where he meets his fate but he murmurs a soft, courageous, “How can you ask me to give you up even sooner than I absolutely must?”

It shouldn’t be this easy to know that Alexander was meant for him but Magnus thinks he knew from the moment Alexander took his hand that this was different.

And Alexander breaks and turns, shaking as he presses himself to Magnus and hugs him tightly.

Whatever strange fate has them meeting, Magnus already knows that there is nothing he wouldn’t do for Alexander.

—

They fall into their relationship with a desperation born from an hourglass that never stops its trickle of sand.

Catarina and Ragnor are happy for him until they learn the circumstances and while they want to protect him, they love him too much to cause him anymore pain. Catarina cries when Magnus tells her and she holds him close and kisses his forehead, promising him everything she can.

Ragnor buries himself in his archives and studies rituals, dark magicks that Magnus can use against his father. Artifacts that will protect him and boost his powers and Catarina helps him with Alexander.

There is a toll on a soul when it’s sold to a demon and the contract to Asmodeus drains Alexander daily. Asmodeus gave Alexander so many months to live not out of generosity, but because he wanted to feed on the despair of a soul abandoned by everyone it trusted.

However Alexander trusts Magnus with a fervor that still astounds him and Magnus caresses Alexander’s face as his boy bathes in potions and herbs. Anything to combat the strain on his soul and keep up his strength.

Because Alexander will need all the strength he can get, just to hold on. But he’ll survive because Alexander would do anything if it were for Magnus’ sake.

Magnus kisses Alexander’s brow and taking a breath he begins to weave his magic into the very fiber of Alexander’s soul, beyond where Asmodeus can yet reach.

Alexander smiles up at him and kisses Magnus’ palm when he reaches out.

“You are my world, Alexander.” Magnus tells him and Alexander chuckles and kisses his palm again with voiceless adoration. “I will never have another after you darling, I couldn’t bear to, so you must stay strong.”

“I’ll always try my best, to live for you.” Alexander promises because it’s the only thing he can try.

—

Asmodeus comes as he was always going to and while Alec won’t be able to fight — he’s not even going to try, he can’t — Magnus has hope for his vitality and health. Things that have been carefully boosted and curated over the last year to help him stay conscious when he’s taken to Edom.

“Magnus, somehow I thought you had better taste than the dregs of my contracts.” His father says a moue of disdain on his face as his voice drips with disappointment.

“What do you want for him?” Magnus asks, because that’s how he has to start this. Trying to bargain for Alexander.

Asmodeus looks at him curiously and then he grins, smile wide and vicious as he takes him in.

“Does he mean so much to you then?” Asmodeus asks and he grips Alexander by his hair, shaking him like he’s some pest. “Think less of what I want for him, Magnus and tell me what you’re willing to give me.”

Magnus swallows and offers, “I will release you from the binding I put on you. Free to leave Edom as you wish.”

Asmodeus looks at him for a minute and then laughs and shakes his head.

“I will gain far more than that from a willingly harvested nephilim soul, Magnus. You bargain too cheaply, still afraid to take risks.”

Asmodeus takes Alexander away and Magnus grits his teeth and triggers the array that will take him to Edom.

Magnus attacks his father before he has a chance to be surprised that Magnus followed him.

His magic lashes out, whipping through the air and never once harming Alexander even as Asmodeus tries to use him as a shield.

Realizing the futility, Asmodeus throws Alexander to the side and Magnus watches as his boy meets his gaze and nods, just a little.

It’s enough to fuel him and Magnus puts every ounce of possessive, desperate adoration into his next blow and it takes his father down.

Not for long and Magnus snarls as he’s thrown into the rocks.

His father portals and Magnus follows him, spitting blood and smearing it across his jaw as he wipes his mouth.

The next attack, Magnus sends shards of molten fire through Edom’s sands to sear his father’s talons. There’s a whistle of rage and then Magnus is being choked and he grabs the whip with hands that sear from how much more powerful his father’s flames are.

Magnus breaks the tether and screams as he throws acid at his father. It falls as harmless as dewdrops against Alexander — his magic will never harm his boy — but his father bats it away effortlessly with an almost annoyed sigh.

“Really Magnus, this grows tedious. Though I admire your determination, even if it could be better applied.” Asmodeus leaves and Magnus opens the five potions Cat and Ragnor prepared for him and down them in quick succession.

Then, he takes off the platinum bands on his wrists that have been constraining his power, saving the last of it for this final effort.

He portals a last time, right as his father is about to drag Alexander into the ceremonial halls and Magnus follows, waiting until they’re in the ritual room before he attacks.

Alexander is motionless on an altar but his eyes are clear through his pain as he watches Magnus, his sides heaving with labored breath as Edom very atmosphere slowly poisons him.

“Do you want him to die for no reason at all?” Asmodeus asks mockingly, “at least this way his death won’t be a waste. Or do you want his soul for yourself?”

Magnus clenches his fists, feeling the burns there that sting with fire as if it had never been put out.

“No matter how much I admire your pride and tenacity, I will not give him back to you.” Asmodeus warns, a cruel, smug glint on his face.

Magnus growls, face twisted into a snarl of hate as he once again readies himself for an attack. Just as he’s about to release it, Asmodeus sends a blast of lightning through the sand.

Magnus curses as glass forms around him and shatters under the weight of his magic. What is meant to be an attack turns to defense as he deflects them from himself, feeling warm blood slide down from the shards of Asmodeus magic he couldn’t destroy.

“You’ve impressed me son.” Asmodeus tells him thoughtfully and Magnus spits out blood as he forces himself to stand straight and not waver. “I will give you one wish alone, as a reward. A boon from a father to his heir, as long as it isn’t that.” Asmodeus motions to Alexander and smirks, as if Magnus needs to be shown what he means.

Magnus doesn’t even need to think.

There was never a chance his father would give up Alexander but he already knows what he wants.

“Then I want you to release my magic. All of it, every single piece of my magic that you’ve hoarded away for yourself.

“So be it.” Asmodeus says with a vicious laugh, “my heir finally understanding how deals work. A pity for your lover.” Then his eyes narrow, “though if you hope to take him back by force, I will not be lenient in teaching you a lesson.”

If he thinks his words will shatter Alexander or Magnus, then he’s mistaken because his boy is looking at Magnus with nothing but love and trust and determination in his eyes.

“A vow then, upon our blood. I will never again ask you for Alexander or his soul. I will not try to take him from you by word or force. Nor will I try to gain back his soul once you’ve harvested it. In return, you will give back to me every part of my magic that you have ever taken from me. You will return it intact and you will never again be able to touch a single part of my magic again.”

Asmodeus is surprised by the vow but delighted and he chuckles, the image of a proud father as he drops Alexander — abandoning his limp form in the sand and glass — and comes forward to hug Magnus.

The vow clicks into place as they embrace and Magnus knows the moment Asmodeus realizes what has happened. His father grips him harder in cruel disbelief before he laughs. It’s a harsh, angry sound but he also seems wary. As if Magnus has surprised him in a way he didn’t expect.

“You’re more clever than I remember.” Asmodeus tells him, eyes covetous as he stares at him. “You’re perfect to rule with me, why do you deny it?”

“I have a kingdom of my own.” Magnus reminds him with a dark, bloody smile as his stolen magic returns to him, Alexander along with it and he picks Alexander up and holds him to his chest. “I have no need for antiquities or legacies, father. I have plenty authority of my own without needing to rely on handouts.”

He smirks back at his father, content with the fact that he has, for the first time, successfully beat Asmodeus.

“They’ll let him return now that I no longer own his soul.” Asmodeus reminds him, “do you really think he’ll stay with you with that kind of a choice before him?”

“You’ve already forgotten how I won. Alexander is mine, a part of my magic lives in his soul and will forever, forever bound to him in an eternal way. Alicante will never let him through their wards and he wouldn’t want them to.”

Magnus ignores any further attempts at manipulations and turns, knowing that his father won’t dare to attack him. Not with all of Magnus’ reclaimed magic writhing around him, furious at the idea of Asmodeus — the thief — coming near.

So much of his magic is strange and fearsomely different from its time trapped in Edom but all of it curls around Magnus and around Alexander. It gives him the strength to turn his back and carry Alexander out of his father’s throne room.

Magnus walks through the dilapidated palace and into the sands of Edom and takes a deep, gasping breath because he didn’t know if that would work. Magnus had only hoped and hoped and he holds Alexander unconscious body to him fiercely.

A portal opens to the strongest most secret of his lairs and Magnus walks them through. Soon he will return to his seat of power but for a few days, he will content himself in reassuring himself that the man he loves still lives.

Here, safe and belonging only to Magnus and himself.

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #gold like the sun #malec #shadowhunters #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadwhunters au

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yruvyhi · 2 years

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H.G. Wells - A Character Analysis [Bsd 55 minutes]

In the last scene, we see Wells meeting up with Atsushi. She thanks him for saving her life as well as preventing the catastrophe from occurring.

RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN WELLS AND ATSUSHI

One aspect of their relationship strikes me the most. Wells trusted Atsushi despite knowing next to nothing about him. She sends him back to the past since she couldn’t go back herself. Even though Atsushi was a literal stranger to her, she didn’t doubt him once before sending him back. He might as well be a criminal and take advantage of the second chance that was granted to him, for all we know, as he had done nothing notable before her to convince her that he was indeed a good person. But Wells trusted him, may it be because of hurry or may be because he was the only option available to her at the moment, or just straight up plain intuition, we do not know. However, for a European intelligence military engineer who had met a lot of people, there sure was something in him which made her realise that he was indeed a good person, just as how Dazai saw it in him. Just a thought: may be it was his eyes, as eyes as considered to be doorways to one’s soul, just as how Atsushi knew that she wasn’t the terrorist by looking at her stone cold blue eyes in the surveillance camera. It is indeed to say that their relationship and bond of trust is something to be kept in mind.

“I owe you one.”

Unlike most other light novels, the writing style of 55 minutes is very different, and very interesting to read. It has an open ending, which further allows us to speculate as to what might have happened later on. It’s a very personal opinion, but the last scene kind of left an empty hole in my heart, a solemn, comforting feeling of solitude resided within me. With her practically evaporating into thin air, I felt that Wells would never return, leaving us yearning for more of her presence, like a drug. I got greatly attached to her character, and felt a deep sense of sympathy towards her. She was labelled as an international terrorist, despite her only intention of wanting to save others. She was misunderstood, her actions misinterpreted and no one believed her. So her only option was to run away and hide, which further only fuelled the suspicions regarding her. Despite everything, she was still determined to save others, even if it meant to put her own life on the line and ruin her own reputation. In the first timeline, she killed the island manager as she thought that he was the culprit and obliterating him would save the lives of four million people, even though it would tarnish her own image. In the second timeline, in order to catch the real perpetrator, she even got herself stabbed in the process. Despite not being physically very strong, she was a very intelligent an determined woman who was willing to go up to any extent in order to save others – a trait I find similar to that of Dazai, he too doesn’t back off from using underhanded methods if it means it would result in the eventual good and save human life.

“I should be on my way to the next catastrophe. As I will continue to do until I draw my last breath and am forgotten in the flow of time.”

The incident on the Standard Island and her sheer strong will to save others from the destruction caused by the device ‘Annihilation’ may be considered as a way of atonement for her own crime of creating the device in the first place (another part of her that I find similar to that of Dazai, as he too is on the side that ‘saves’ people as a form of reparation for his past crimes and promise to his friend). However, she says that she will ‘continue’ to prevent catastrophe until she draws her last breath – this further proves the fact that she indeed has a strong will to save others despite it being any situation, whether it involved something that she created or not. She emphasizes on the fact that she would only save people where a ‘catastrophe’ was supposed to occur, meaning she wouldn’t really deal with a situation which wasn’t large scale destructive in nature, leaving it to be dealt by others, and her ability would help her in her mission, despite the conditions being very stringent.

‘….forgotten in the flow of time.’

- Those were her last words before she vanished into thin air. Now the question arises – why did she way this?

Wells’ ability allowed her to reverse time uptil 55 minutes, however she could no longer use it on herself since she could only use it once on someone. Now, if she used it on someone other than herself, she herself would no longer retain the memories once time was reversed. From this story, we get a little more insight on what actually are abilities in the first place. We are given information that abilities evolve and their capabilities increase, as we have seen in the case of Gab while using Wells’ ability. However, as time passed, the skill itself got separated from the user and caused irreversible destruction. Now if that were to happen to Wells, with her time-reversing ability, it undoubtedly would result in a devastating situation. Maybe, Wells had predicted that something similar might occur in the future and that her ability itself would result in her ultimate demise. With an ability as powerful as hers, it is safe to say that almost anything can happen.

HYPOTHESIS

She also says that she ‘owes him one.’ Meaning, the fact that Atsushi helped her to prevent the catastrophe to be brought about by the device of annihilation, she would repay him back this favour. Given that she only took part to prevent catastrophic disasters which was capable of destroying many lives, we can assume that there is a chance that she might make an appearance in the future (manga/light novels). In the manga of the main series, we see that the vampire infection outbreak is considered as a catastrophic event. Now it might be that Wells makes an appearance to return the favour to Atsushi. Reversing back time only upto 55 minutes, we don’t really know what could be accomplished. Also, since she had already used her ability on Atsushi once, she would have to use it on someone else.

P.S. WELLS IS STUNNINGLY BEAUTIFUL :)

#bungou stray dogs #bsd 55 minutes #h.g. wells #character analysis #h. g. wells bsd #atsushi nakajima #bsd literature #bsd #english literature #55 minutes bsd #writing #analysis #wells bsd #time machine #author #japanese literature

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ceph-the-ghost-writer · 2 years

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Newcomer

Picrew Maker by Euphälle

CW: hints of fear toward strangers/the unknown, "it" used as a pronoun, reference to American evangelical-style religious fanaticism, mention of demons, reference to past event of child sacrifice, mentions of global catastrophe, suggestion of gun violence/intent to kill, swearing, general anxiety over creepy inhuman creatures (none of this short piece dwells on these things, but they for sure flavor the tone)

Belief is a dangerous thing.

It should go without saying by now. We all watched the Central States try to use magic to cling to its failing power. Not to mention when the cultists fed their children to a demon, looking to buy tickets to a heaven that had already closed down a long time ago. But we continue to learn nothing. The oceans keep on rising, controlled by the mer, the eastern winds carry radiation and the stench of cities overrun with the undead. People desperately grasp at anything they think might offer a quick, neat solution to a million messy problems.

I don't know whether the mind worms consciously chose this moment to pop up. But if it's a coincidence, then the fucking things have an uncanny sense of timing.

One of them finally came into town last week. Just breezed on in and sat down on a bench in the park, near the fountain. I watched it for the better part of an hour. It didn't strike me as particularly tall or strong. Judging from its tan it spent a lot of its time out in the sun. Its clothes were nothing special either. Some mismatched layers of dusty linen and denim, a leather satchel slung around its shoulders, ratty old military surplus boots. I would've taken it for a regular drifter if it weren't for the mask. Like the ones people wear over the upper half of their faces at harvest costume parties, except with no eyeholes. A blind prophet wandering in from the wilderness.

The Addison girls were the first to talk to it. I was too far to catch anything said, but there was plenty of giggling on their end. The mind worm, for its part, mostly listened and wore this weird little smile. Like someone who's in on a secret no one else knows. It accepted the welcome gifts the girls brought it: a crown of flowers and a pretty scarf May Addison tied in a bow around its neck herself.

Those were the first, but definitely not the last. Before long, people all the way from the outskirts were dropping by. A few even brought their little ones to meet it. Most kept the customs of hospitality. Sharing sips from pocket flasks with the stranger. Leaving it jars of jam or pastries wrapped in wax paper. It talked with Zoe McPherson, the tutor for the older kids, for a long while before finally getting up and following her away. Still wearing that smile. It's been holding court at her place ever since.

I heard some of the communes down south do business with mind worms. There've been stories about parents sending children that are almost grown off with the things. I don't know what was promised, if anything. I doubt it would take much, though. Just a slim hope that the next generation would have a better life somewhere else. Or believing mind worms are here to save our dying world instead of pick at its carcass. Maybe it comes down to the math of one less mouth to feed too.

What I believe is the things I see with my own eyes and the reliability of Dad's old rifle. People can argue about right and wrong afterwards. I'm not waiting around for my neighbors to make that thing the new local god just for the satisfaction of an "I told you so".

--Entry from a singed journal found tossed down a dry well in Valentine, Nebraska

#beyond & between #worldbuilding #speculative fiction

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garudabluffs · 6 months

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“The crowding in Castiglione became something unspeakable,” Dunant wrote in A Memory of Solferino, his account of the battle and its aftermath that was published in 1863. He continued:

The town was completely transformed into a vast improvised hospital for French and Austrians. The hospital of Castiglione, the churches… were all filled with wounded men, piled on one another and with nothing but straw to lie on. Straw had also been spread in the streets, courtyards and squares, and here and there wooden shelters had been thrown up or pieces of cloth stretched, so that the wounded pouring in from all directions might have a little shelter from the sun.

Dunant left Castiglione deeply affected by the horrors that he had seen, particularly as civilians and soldiers alike struggled to care for the wounded and dead. A Memory of Solferino inspired him to propose the formation of a permanent society of trained volunteers who would help care for wounded combatants during war. This eventually led to the creation of the International Committee of the Red Cross."

The Rules of War Oct 14, 2023

They are being broken profoundly and openly right now. But they still offer a reminder that, despite being capable of horrific violence, human beings are not helpless in its path.

"In 1863, the Red Cross organized a conference in Geneva, Switzerland, which was attended by delegates from all the major nations or kingdoms of Europe, as well as several international representatives. The First Geneva Convention, as it came to be known, set a precedent for international cooperation and debate as to, for lack of a better term, the rules of war."

"As we all know, though, that fine print has created a morass of loopholes and half-ratifications and signatories with reservations that have rendered the actual legal power of the various conventions in Geneva basically moot. War, as a concept, defies the existence of any rules or control. It is about the power to kill, and we have devised so many more ways to do so than could ever be governed by some nice words on a piece of presumably very expensive paper in Switzerland."

"When the Israeli Air Force bombs a building, it often performs what it calls a “soft knock” strike first, hitting the building’s roof with a small explosive charge as a form of a warning shot that is purportedly intended to notify civilians to evacuate. A few seconds or minutes later, it will usually flatten the building.

What we are seeing now is a soft knock on over 2,000,000 people living in one of the most densely packed areas on the planet. The larger bomb is likely already on its way.

What form that genocide—for there is no other appropriate word for it in the English language—will take is yet to be seen."

"On Friday morning, the Palestine Red Crescent Society—the local branch of the organization Jean Dunant’s work inspired—published a sparse, desperate appeal to humanity.

“We do not have the means to evacuate the sick and the wounded in our hospitals, or the elderly and the disabled,” it read. “There are no safe areas in the whole of the Gaza Strip. Humanity is on the line. The world must intervene to stop this catastrophe [from unfolding] in the next few hours. War is not the answer. Killing civilians and destroying civilian infrastructure is not the answer. All parties must abide by the laws of war and protect the civilian population.”

I do not know what will happen beyond this. Nobody does; I doubt the generals of the IDF or Israel’s fractured political leadership have a clear idea of the method and extent of atrocities they are about to commit.

Which brings me back to the “rules” of war.All of this, as should be clear to any rational observer, is against those rules. The IDF’s actions since Hamas’s attack alone have broken the Geneva Conventions more times than I can even begin to count. In context, as well, Israel’s entire relationship with the Gaza Strip has been defined by collective punishment and wanton disregard for human life for some 70 years; its current actions are only relevant because they appear to indicate that the country is seeking a final and decisive escalation of a slow genocide carried out over generations."

"Israel’s stated goal in its current offensive is to eradicate Hamas from the Gaza Strip, a mission which, though it is both completely open-ended and practically unfeasible, provides cover for Israel to break any rule and end any life they desire until external or internal pressures demand that they stop. And right now, that pressure does not exist."

"What the rules give us—citizens of America or Israel or any party aligned with them— is the means to demand that the acts being committed in our names are recognized for what they are: evil."

READ MORE https://www.discourseblog.com/p/the-rules-of-war

12 Comments "So I leave you with two questions

1.) do you believe Israel has a right to exist?

2.) if so, how do you think they should’ve handled the aftermath of the attack?

PCOct 14·edited Oct 14

"You might as well ask Nat Turner if the USA had a right to exist. The issue is not the right of a slave or apartheid society to exist - the issue is when are you going to end slavery or apartheid."

Fight, Flight, Freeze

#Middle East #Israel #Palestine #Jews #Hamas #god's chosen Many are called #but few are frozen

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kusogamesss · 2 years

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PAGAN: Autogeny

After Technopolis and Emporium, I was immensely excited to delve into Autogeny. From the outset, however, Autogeny demonstrated with crystal clarity that it is not the work I wanted or expected it to be.

Much of this is no doubt due to my own misunderstanding of what the Pagan titles were trying to convey to me. Autogeny makes it explicit that the space the player delves into and reclaims are part of a dead MMO, something that never occured to me with the previous titles. Autogeny is undeniably about the trans (re)claiming of digital spaces. One of your skills is Estrogen, a character tells you that walls are little more than clandestine passages, another skill is Body Forging which is levelled by appending thigh-high socks to a busty mannequin. I find those aspects fascinating, and fitting for a dead MMO. Not that I can speak with any authourity, but I think like with STG (keep in mind the top Battle Garegga player in the world is a trans woman), the appeal of trans/queer inquiries into the dead MMO space have to do with an a-communal appeal. For an MMO, here exists a land ostensibly populated with other people, real in the case of a 'living' MMO, a simulacra for a dead MMO. Those fictionalised representations of people don't harbour the same discriminatory sentiments that real players might. These false selves hate goblins and demons, not a real person's actual existence. One won't be called a slur for any number of reasons, these players become as ghosts in the machine, consuming that which is no longer considered suitable for consumption. And all of this is fantastic and deserves to be realised in a cohesive, singular gamespace that is agnostic of actual MMOs, I just don't think Autogeny operates well as that space.

The appeal of Technopolis and Emporium largely arose from the non-labelling of them as dead MMOs. The thought hadn't even occurred to me. The colour-banding grey miasma of Technopolis didn't strike me as a dead digital space, but as a non-place between life and death. The pervasiveness of John Atkinson Grimshaw's nocturnal urban purgatories and John William Waterhouse's The Magic Circle and Hylas with a Nymph made it plain to me that this was a time before death, a time of abduction, a time of awaiting a true end. The skills of Technopolis suggested responses to catastrophe, the grey concrete nothings mining away at cars a sort of coping through this transitory period. When rapture is on its way (or perhaps occurrent) would we not descend into a mad reverie of our silicon masters, or stoke the flames of seared flesh in the name of an urban scavenger? The accompanying player piano's ceaseless echoes of Bach's Jesus bleibet meine Freude call to mind The End of Evangelion's audience scene where we see the world continuing, and the world without the body to occupy it. It is a pre-post-present apocalypse.

Emporium only cemented this in/after the end reasoning to me. The overwhelming bass as the world collapses around the self, every fragment of life gone apart from the knights. This is a realm of post-apocalyptic techno-serfdom as conveyed in James Ferraro's Four Pieces for Mirai. It is a land of desiccated theology, of fire's warmth, of murderous necessity. When the meaning of tarot is lost, we look to those omnipresent Bicycle brand playing cards for some answer from the cosmos, given to us like manna by a video poker machine. This is the Strugatsky Brother's notion of a Roadside Picnic, these fragments of someone's dicarded past misunderstood and misapplied to eke out some sort of undeserved existence. Were that not enough, this space is explicitly Hamilton, Ontario. This is not an MMO space, this is a real space. When we get on the boat to leave, we are not headed for brighter shores for there are none. We continue a spiral of non-life and non-death until, mercifully, it will end.

The combat of Technopolis was a non-act, your targets unflinching though they oozed digital red. Emporium had combat as a means to an end for progression, your spear poking into flaming bodies with no retaliation. Autogeny by contrast insists on an actual combat system, at odds with the previous Pagan titles' recontextualisation of violence. And it isn't even good combat, it exists only to further the notion of this being an MMO locale. The inventory becomes a clusterfuck of labour vouchers and multiple copies of limbs as items reappear out of necessity when changing locations. The difficult navigation of a blurred, fogged landscape makes everything a frustration exacerbated by agonisingly slow movement. It wastes time by having death as a possibility, by having its multiple endings locked behind repeat full playthroughs a requirement. It insists upon itself and I wish so much that it did not.

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cinnaminsvga · 4 years

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Let the Dead Weep | Jimin

→ summary: jimin falls in love the only way he knows how: catastrophically. your heart ends up as collateral damage.

→ genre: royal guard!jimin, princess!reader, angst → warnings: jimin is cold-hearted but only because he’s afraid, jungkook tries his Best to pick up the pieces, heart ache city babey! → words: 5.6K → a/n: this was commissioned by the wonderful @kookiebunnii!! thanks again for giving me the freedom to write my own wips (this is admittedly Very old... so old that i almost forgot this existed in my drafts lol) i hope you like it bc this one is prime zee angst propaganda... sorry jimin but i had to do it to ya (again)

The sound of clicking heels is an unusual occurrence at the royal training grounds. Accustomed to the cacophony of grunting men and clashing swords, Prince Jungkook does not immediately notice that something (or rather, someone) is out of place.

“Your defenses are down.” Jungkook thrusts his sword forward, disarming his sparring partner in one smooth motion. Surprised, his partner yelps as his sword clatters to the ground, his now empty hands raised awkwardly in befuddlement. But his shock does not last long, as his previously occupied gaze returns to where it was, his jaw agape as he continues to stare somewhere just outside the courtyard.

When Jungkook turns his head to the source, he finally understands why he had so easily defeated his distracted opponent.

Your bright white summer dress stands out starkly against the dreary autumn scenery, your skirt bunched up to your knees to avoid tripping over yourself. It seems as though the world has gone still from shock, every man in the vicinity holding their breaths at their first glimpse of the princess from up close. Even from where he stands, Jungkook can see the sweat flowing freely from your temples as you rush towards them, your chest heaving as you dash past dozens of starstruck onlookers towards your destination.

You don’t even spare Jungkook a glance when you pass by him, your eyes trained somewhere behind him as though nothing (or rather, no one) else in the courtyard matters. “Jimin!” you call out, nearly collapsing onto the man you had been looking for as you fail to stop your momentum in time. Luckily, the head of the royal guard catches you effortlessly, his hand previously resting on the hilt of his sword jumping up to find its place on your waist to steady you.

Jungkook watches as Jimin’s gaze sweeps through the sea of heads before landing on him. The guard’s posture stiffens, jaw clenching as the two men size each other up. Eventually, Jimin drops his hand from your waist as if he’d been burned, taking an inconspicuous step back to regain some sort of respectable distance.

Jimin clears his throat, his expression as stern as ever. It only takes a single glare from him for the excited whispers to die in a second. “Well? Did I tell you to stop? Take your positions,” he growls. In an instant, the men around Jungkook rise back to action, the sound of metal hitting metal echoing loudly once more.

“Your Highness? Shall we continue?” The boy he had been sparring with speaks out hesitantly, breaking Jungkook’s trance. Jungkook blinks slowly in confusion, before remembering where he was and what he was doing. He takes one last glance at Jimin’s and your retreating forms, only managing to glimpse the trail of your skirt as Jimin quickly drags you away from prying eyes.

“Your Highness?” the boy repeats, more nervously this time. Jungkook fixes a smile on his face before turning to face him, gently patting the young boy on the shoulder with the ease and charisma only a prince could manage.

“Yes, let’s continue. On your guard,” Jungkook warns, poising his sword forward before taking the first strike.

x x x x x

Jimin drags you away to the nearby armory, causing a domino of shields to topple down in his haste to open the door. He shuts it closed, not bothering to find a light as he pulls you deeper into the large shed. Only the small window by the roof sheds any light for them to see, but it’s enough for you to see the barely concealed annoyance set in Jimin’s eyes.

“What the hell were you thinking? That was highly inappropriate for a princess,” he growls, lips downturned in a frown. He might be well-known amongst his men as a stern and unforgiving captain, but he has never been gruff with you. In any other scenario, you might have been shocked at his sudden change of face, but the news that you just heard from your father is still ringing loudly in your ears, distracting you from anything else.

“What am I thinking? I should be asking you that! How is it that despite being the princess of this damn kingdom, I am still the last to know anything around here?” you shriek, ignoring Jimin’s silent pleas for you to quiet down. No, you are done being quiet; if you had to choose a moment to you would throw away all etiquette classes out the window, it would be now.

Jimin heaves a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Your Highness—”

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss, interrupting him. You hold up a finger when he makes a move to argue. “No, you answer my questions, first and foremost. Why did I only find out from my father just now that you volunteered to get stationed at the border?” You can feel your face heating up from the frustration and betrayal you feel; blood rushes up to your head and leaves you feeling dizzy, but you refuse to stop until he budges.

You’re breathing heavily, speaking so quickly that you doubt you’re making any sense right now. “The king requested for volunteers to fill the station guard units over a month ago. We’ve met and seen each other multiple times since then, and yet here we are,” you spit out, jabbing a nail into his chest. He barely budges, only keeping his head lowered. “Huh? Why on earth would you keep this from me? Answer me, Park Jimin!”

Jimin grimaces, his face contorting as if he’s in pain. He does not make a move to reply, only continues to avoid your fierce gaze. But even from where you stand under this dim light, you can tell from his expression that he isn’t guilty—just forlorn. Heartbroken, even.

You swallow thickly, blinking rapidly to keep your angry tears at bay, but your voice still cracks when you ask, “Why won’t you say anything?”

Finally, he looks at you. “What else is there to say?” He sounds as defeated as you feel.

And yet, you’re flabbergasted. You’re angry, tired, and hysterical—but above all else, you’re hurt. It feels as though a massive rock has dropped in your stomach, crashing waves against your chest like fire licking at your bones. The heavy feeling that has been weighing on you finally has a name, as you have been fighting to ignore what it was for ages now. Deep down, you know that this is inevitable, but somewhere inside you still resides the six-year-old child entrenched in her happy fairy tales, the same girl who believes that good things will always happen to good people.

You hoped that you would have at least deserved a warning. Preparation before this mirage disappeared forever. But Jimin had always been the type to rip the bandage and muscle through the pain, so you shouldn’t have been surprised at all. You just hoped that the two of you would still have more time.

A naive thing to desire, as Park Jimin was never yours to call your own.

You’re struggling to find the words to speak, anything to convince him to stay, even if you know it is not your place. He can see you grappling for straws, and perhaps it is out of pity or self-preservation, but he does not mention it. He does not say anything about you at all.

Eventually, he speaks. “I am… I have to...” He hesitates for a moment, taking one short glance at you before staring at the door. His hand grips the hilt of his sword tightly, though you know it is not because he itches to wield it, but for his ease of mind. You have learned, after years of growing up with him, that his only comfort comes from his own strength, his own ability to control his fate.

“Unfortunately, I must leave for now, Your Highness. Let us speak about this later before my subordinates begin to wonder.” There is a heaviness in his tone when he says that, like it is disgraceful for you to be seen with him. It reignites the fire in your veins once more, and you reflexively reach out to grab his retreating shoulder before the shed is suddenly bathed in light.

“Princess Y/N? Are you alright?” Prince Jungkook stands by the entrance of the armory, sweaty hair matted to his skin from his morning practice routine. For a moment, you almost hate the way he had sounded so… well-meaning, even though he had done nothing wrong to spite you. In fact, Jeon Jungkook has always been the perfect filial son, someone any royal family would be proud of.

And unfortunately for you, that was quite possibly the only reason you were betrothed to him in the first place.

You see him eye the pair of you curiously, his gaze gradually coming to a stop where your hand still rests against Jimin’s shoulder. You retract it immediately as if burned. You clear your throat, curtsying respectfully to him. “I am fine, Prince Jungkook. I am sorry for the scene I caused. I hope I did not interrupt your daily practice,” you say carefully, folding your hands in front of you.

Jungkook nods silently, his expression giving nothing away. Feeling awkward under his scrutiny, you curtsy to him once more. You shuffle away from Jimin without sparing him another glance, but you feel his gaze trained on your back like a brand. You wait for Jungkook to allow you to pass him before scuttling away, the ends of your dress dragging across the dirt path as you rush back towards the castle.

Stupid of you.

Jimin had been right, like always. News spreads fast within these ancient walls, and the chatterings about your emotional display are sure to reach your father’s ears one way or another. You doubt he’d be surprised by it; it’s no secret that your affections have always lied heavily on the royal guardsman. As long as you kept your secret rendezvous a secret, the King is more than happy to turn a blind eye. A reward, perhaps, for keeping your side of the deal.

Except that side of the deal hadn’t meant to arrive until your older brother had been wed, right after his search for his queen consort had been completed. But Jungkook’s family had been adamant to move things along, most likely due to their desperation to form an alliance with your prominent kingdom. As the seventh son, Jungkook hardly had any use for them in their household other than being goods for barter, and in any other case, you might have felt bad for him.

The guilt feels like a dagger pressing itself against your throat, and yet, you do not have the courage to fight against it. You sigh, defeated, as you stay reclused in your bedroom, waiting for Jimin to join you.

You don’t join your family for lunch that afternoon: a bigger mistake on your part, as it probably incriminates you further. Even worse still, Jungkook and his escorts are guests at the palace, and your absence doesn’t look good for your reputation. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to care that day, only offering weak excuses about a headache to appease them.

To your surprise, Jungkook had vouched for you, according to your handmaiden. When you asked what he said, they said he had mentioned something about your pensiveness from this morning. You scoff, wondering if he must be covering your mistake for the sake of your future together.

The sun makes its way across the horizon and still no signs of Jimin visiting your quarters. You pace your room for so long that you fear leaving the carpet threadbare, your restlessness causing spikes of fear to trickle down your spine. Your entire body tingles with the need to do something, anything. Just to feel as though you still have some control, some sense of sanity.

By your dresser, your untouched violin sits, waiting forlornly for your hands to caress it once more. It is a gift from your mother for your birthday, though you have scarcely used it since then. You have always been talented with the violin, but the need to play it had died down once your days had been occupied with a different type of music—the sort of melodies that you could not pull from strings or brass.

You pluck the violin from its stand, the polished wood still smelling of varnish when you place it by your neck. You begin to play a piece from memory—a song that your tutor had once drilled into your head until your hands could move on their own. Even still, you love the piece with all your heart; the melancholy and longing of the notes resonate deeply within you.

You know that what you are doing is cruel, both to yourself and to him. With your window wide open, you are sure that the wind can carry your music to the royal offices, where Jimin is sure to hear it. Anyone would be able to tell that it is you playing, stringing note after note with hopeless abandon. Just to get a reaction, from anyone. Anything!

So deeply are you immersed in your playing that it takes a moment for you to notice the knocking. Your bow stills mid-way, your breath hitching when the knocking continues. “Just a moment,” you call out, hastily placing your violin back on your dresser before ripping open the door to find—

Prince Jungkook still has his hand poised to knock, not having anticipated you to open your door so quickly. “Oh, pardon me. I am so sorry to intrude on your playing. Have I come at a bad time?”

Your shoulders slacken, and your disappointment could not be more apparent. “Oh.”

Prince Jungkook smiles wryly, not appearing to be offended by your less than enthusiastic greeting. “I know that it is improper of me to ask, but could you invite me into your quarters for a moment? I would like to speak to you, if you would allow it.”

“Why would it be improper? We’re promised to each other anyway,” you reply bitterly, the words coming out before you can think twice.

Jungkook cringes, bowing his head sadly. “I suppose that is a bad thing, isn’t it?”

It is impossible not to feel bad after that, your face flushing deeply with shame. “Not exactly…” You offer an awkward smile to compensate, but you doubt that it reaches your eyes. You step aside, allowing him to enter. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

His long legs allow him to take only two strides to reach the center of your room, his large frame engulfing the space. It almost feels suffocating, being here with him. Your mind unhelpfully compares him to the other only man who has ever entered your room, a man who had a much more lithe figure to the one with you right now.

You notice how he scans your room with sharp eyes, how he locks onto your violin immediately. He moves towards it and makes a motion as if to hold it, and after you give him your permission, he picks it up with reverence, turning it over with meticulous grace. “I was not aware that you were so gifted with musical talent,” he murmurs, plucking the strings experimentally.

You shrug, leaning against your door. “It was never brought up during our dinner conversations.” Not that much was said between the two of you during your meals together, as your father seems more interested in learning about Jungkook’s competency in politics than what his hobbies are.

He nods, absent-minded. He returns the violin to its proper place, his touch featherlike and graceful. He might be a violinist himself, you think. “That piece you were just playing… What was it called?”

A common question. “It’s a traditional song based on one of the kingdom’s myths,” you reply easily.

He nods again. “Why were you playing it?”

A less common question, one that you find more difficult to answer. “It… happened to be the first one I thought of, I suppose.” A half-truth, at the very least.

He hums thoughtfully, turning to you with doleful eyes. “Then I suppose that you must be grieving, are you not? if that is the sort of song that first comes to mind.”

You’re immediately defensive, curling into yourself as you watch him suspiciously. “My father… He told you, didn’t he?”

Even though you do not expound on what you mean, the prince is quick to shake his head in denial. “Nothing my eyes have not already seen.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, hackles rising as you size him up. “What do you want from me then? A confession? For me to go on my knees and ask for forgiveness?” you spit.

He stares at you, astonished. “Who am I to dole out absolution when I am but only a man?”

“So does that mean you have committed the same mistakes that I have? I find that hard to believe,” you scoff, lowering your guard in your annoyance. He’s only been in your room for a few minutes and already you tire of his company; you wonder how you’ll manage to keep your sanity while spending your life with him.

But in truth, even if he hadn’t irritated you, even if he was the nicest man in the world, he would never compare to the man you have already laid your heart with.

He shakes his head once more, almost as if he’s embarrassed. “Not quite, but I do understand what you’re going through. Somewhat.”

Somewhat, he says. The more you observe him, the more you realize how young he is. Not just in the way he appears, but also in the way he talks and moves, almost like the stars trapped in his eyes have yet to escape. You can imagine him falling for one of the servant girls back in his own palace, secretly swapping lovelorn gazes across polished halls. Unlike you, he must not have acted on his greed, knowing the extent of his responsibility to his house and kingdom.

Unlike you, he does not bear a cruel bone in his body, as he would never subject that poor girl to the sort of heartbreak that only a clandestine relationship could offer.

“I want to make myself clear to you, my princess. I did not come here to accuse you of anything. I came here because I wanted to make myself clear with you,” he says. You raise a brow, urging him to continue.

“I am not asking you to fall in love with me,” he says plainly. It surprises you greatly, to hear him speak so candidly. Ever the perfect politician, he’d only ever spoken with care and precision, always anticipating the other party’s reaction. You have spoken with enough visiting royals to know that he is well-versed in that sort of language, so to hear him speak so brazenly is almost refreshing.

“I wouldn’t have offered, regardless,” you respond, smirking sardonically. He laughs at that, and you can hear the honesty in his laughter, too.

“Fair. But for the sake of the people who put their faith in us, I would suggest,” he pauses, licking his lips as he mulls over his next words, “that we might be sincere with one another. Just so our union may not perish… prematurely.”

You don’t respond, scanning him for any ill intent. As a princess from an illustrious kingdom, you have needed to stave off numerous lords and princes from taking your hand for their own wicked gain. However, none of your previous suitors were like Prince Jungkook, who genuinely seemed to care greatly for his people, as seen by how kindly he has treated his entourage of helpers.

He waits for you to say something, but eventually, he continues, “Princess Y/N, it would be the greatest honor if you would allow me to know you better. I seek nothing more than your companionship.” He blushes slightly, coughing into his fists. “W-well, not that you owe me that, as we could very well live separately for the rest of our lives, but... Umm… That came out a little more awkward than I intended, but I hope you get the gist.”

You realize, then, that he desires to live peacefully with you—guilelessly and unselfishly. Perhaps he is doing this for his parents (highly likely), or perhaps he has no other choice (extremely likely). But the fact remains that in front of you stands a good man with a simple wish: to become friends with you, if not at least become amicable with one another.

“Then I suppose you want to know more about me? About my story?” you ask sarcastically. “Want to know why the eldest daughter of the king is off frolicking with the captain of his guard?”

Jungkook snorts, an easy smile on his lips. “Well, you could tell me that, but I was thinking more along the lines of ‘when did you learn to play the violin?’ and other neutral information. You know, like how normal people converse.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he had been making fun of you. “Hey, watch it, princeling. You’re not in the clear just yet,” you huff, but there is no bite to your bark. You can tell that he knows this, from the way his tense figure has relaxed tremendously in this short amount of time. You notice your own tension fading away too, if only infinitesimally.

“I can start if you want,” he hums, tapping a finger on his chin as he thinks. “Well, I have always wanted to tell you this, but you might think I might be buttering your ass if I did, pardon the language—”

You laugh loudly, baffled by his seemingly out-of-nowhere casual demeanor. In your bedroom, with his shoulders slackened and hair still disheveled from his morning practice, he looks nothing like the perfect prince you had boxed him in as. “Pardoned,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“—but I’ve always found your tenacity to be admirable. Your dedication to your people, evidenced by your tireless work to make their lives better, has always struck me as inspirational. Pardon the cliché, but you really aren’t like other girls,” he says.

You wave off his compliments. “By the sounds of it, you must have this line practiced to perfection. Don’t tell me this is what you say to the other princesses when you confess to them.”

He flushes darkly, stuttering at your brash comment. The sight makes you snort, only worsening his embarrassment. “I have, um, never confessed to anyone before…”

“I find that hard to believe. Sure, you might not be like me—” you say drily. You haven’t sentenced your own life to heartache and misfortune, is what you mean to say. The pang in your chest comes back with a vengeance, but you carry on. “—but I would imagine that you’ve had to sweet talk many princesses before me. I was not your parents’ first choice, was I?”

“Indeed,” he admits awkwardly. “But I am not completely powerless. My father had allowed me some freedom when choosing a bride, and I…” he trails off, swallowing nervously. He gestures to you vaguely, unwilling to keep eye contact as he does.

You gape at him, pointing to yourself. “You… You chose me? Why?”

“It’s exactly as I said,” he shrugs. “I read about the things you’ve done, and I was drawn to you. It seems that my freedom has indirectly caused your misery, however…” he says ashamedly.

Guilt coils up you for the umpteenth time that day, except now it is directed at the boy in front of you. Foolish of you to think that your actions only affected you and your lover. Foolish of you to believe that your actions don’t have consequences bigger than you might have imagined.

“It… is not your fault,” you grit out, though it pains you to say. Not because it is a lie, but rather, it is a painful truth: a pill you have finally been forced to swallow. “My recklessness has caused more wreckage than I would have imagined.”

“I must admit that I have always been in love with the concept of love,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck, shyly turning away from you. “I believe that while love comes in all different shapes and sizes, it is certainly never supposed to be cruel. It is never selfish or… painful.”

Your eyes narrow, fully understanding his implications. “Then you must be as naive as you appear,” you snarl. You step away from the doorway, making your way towards the prince until your chests were merely a breath apart. However, he doesn’t back away like you thought he would. He stands his ground, looking at you through his long lashes.

“You wouldn’t understand. Have you ever loved someone so deeply that even the thought of being apart wounds you? Have you ever stayed awake at night, listening carefully to the sound of your own beating heart, aching for someone you cannot have? It is an ache, Jungkook, that cannot be salved with pretty words and sentiments. It is not a choice,” you finish, vision growing blurry with unshed tears. But you refuse to let them fall, not for a boy who didn’t know better.

His gaze is level with your own, his breathing steady. His eyes look dark to you, no longer sparkling like they once did. But before you can blink, the darkness is gone, replaced with his carefully crafted neutrality. The princely politician makes his return, except he’s a little sadder. Disappointed, even. “No, I have not experienced any of that. I cannot say for certain what is true, but I have always thought that love should be gentle and kind. Something to be enjoyed, and not a cause of strife.”

He steps away from you, his footsteps light as he makes his way to the door. When he twists the doorknob, he stills for a moment. “It was nice speaking to you, Y/N. Don’t… keep hurting yourself, okay? A lot of people care for you, even if they don’t say it. Even if it doesn’t seem that way.”

You bark out a laugh, but it sounds watered down to your ears. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with me already.”

He smiles at you, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs before bidding you farewell.

You’re left alone again, and your room feels significantly more hollow. Your entire body is vibrating, filled with an unidentifiable feeling swirling in your chest like a hurricane. Was it anger? Frustration? Hopelessness? Guilt? Perhaps an ungodly concoction of all four?

You feel nauseous, almost falling over from the strength of it. Everything about today has caused you to lose your hold on your sanity, the urge to scream in anguish becoming more unbearable by the second.

Love should be gentle and kind, he said. Despite how sweet his intentions, his words still feel like poison. How dare he say that to you, when he knows that you wish it was true?

You grab your violin by the neck, your violent grip causing the wood to creak. Your hands shake, tears freely falling into the sea of your self-pity.

You drag your bow harshly against the strings, striking a sound louder than your own frustrated cry. A few of the hairs snap, but you continue, playing like a madwoman possessed. The music is frantic, agonizing—goosebumps trail your skin unprompted. Your pain overflows until even the dead can hear you weep.

Your violin almost drowns out the sound of another knock at your door. “Go away,” you growl, playing more fiercely. The violin groans, as if in pain. “If you’ve come back to lecture me about love again—”

“Your Highness,” a softer voice responds. It’s not Jungkook like you had thought. “It’s Jimin.”

Even if he had not announced himself, you would have known just by his footsteps. You freeze, your heart beating wildly out of your chest. You swipe a hand across your cheek in a futile attempt to hide away the evidence. Even without a mirror, you know that your eyes are puffy and bloodshot.

He enters without your prompting: comfortable enough to invade your space as if he had not torn your heart to pieces just hours ago. His gaze immediately goes to your face, a staggered breath leaving his lungs when he sees your hollow expression. But that moment of weakness disappears in an instant, the same stoic captain from this morning reappearing right in front of you.

“Had you been expecting someone else?” he asks in place of a greeting. There is an edge to his tone, you notice. If you didn’t know better, you might have missed it. Jealousy. How dare he.

You squint at him, but you say nothing. The air is icy with tension, enough to freeze hell twice over.

He clears his throat. “I’ve come to apologize, your Highness. It was out of line for a royal guard such as myself to drag you so brusquely like that. It will not happen again,” he murmurs.

You can hear the hidden meaning buried in his words. It won’t happen again, because I won’t be here to do it.

“Is that all you have to say?” you whisper. You place your violin down carefully, but your vision is already turning blurry once more. You won’t cry in front of him. You refuse to be the only one hurt from this.

He sighs, as if worn by your childish antics. “Y/N, you don’t understand—”

When he calls you by your name, the fraying string inside of you snaps. “Save it,” you seethe. “You’re a coward, that’s what you are. There isn’t anything to understand.”

“No, you should understand,” Jimin steps forward, grabbing you by the shoulders. He shakes you, desperation hanging off every inch of his frame. “As a princess, you should know what it means to serve the people. You should know more than anyone about the oaths I made to this kingdom. You should be proud of me!”

His increasing volume only encourages you to match him, your throat nearly getting torn in two from how loudly you shout. “Cut the patriotic act! Do you think I’ve forgotten all the whispers you’ve planted in my head? About how you wished more than anything to work with your brothers as performers, how you wished you hadn’t been the breadwinner of your family just so you wouldn’t have to sell your strength to my father?”

“I was naive. I should have known it was my responsibility,” he counters.

“Then what about all the promises you made to me during our nights together? You swore to love me forever under starry nights and disheveled sheets. You said you’d run away with me, just so I wouldn’t have to marry anyone else!”

Jimin grits his teeth. “Meer words of comfort. The babblings of a child.”

You shove him away, your skin burning from where he touched you. “Then actions must speak louder than words, correct? You cannot hide from me when your lovemaking spoke volumes. ”

For once, it seems Park Jimin is at a loss for words. He clenches his fists by his side, looking utterly defeated. “Y/N… You know that it’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t,” you mumble, lips trembling. “I really don’t.”

“Even so,” Jimin says. He lifts a finger, wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. “It is better that I make the choice than you.”

Better that he breaks your heart than you. “We… we could’ve found another way,” you croak, helpless.

Jimin only smiles sadly. “The prince… He is a good man. I have been watching him these past few weeks and I know that he will—” his voice catches, and he has to pause for a moment to regain his composure. “He will make a good match for you. It would be wrong for us to…”

It pains you to admit it, but he’s right. Jungkook doesn’t deserve your infidelity. And yet, even if Jimin were to leave, would you ever be wholly Jungkook’s anyway? What would be the difference, if your heart will continue to yearn for another man regardless?

“Tell me this, then. For once, spare me from your half-truths. Drive the final nail into my coffin so that I know that you are truly certain.” You force him to look you directly in the eye, his pupils shaking as he takes you in for what might be his last time. It is almost as if time had stopped, and only the two of you existed in this space. This bedroom that you called your haven, the place where you had fallen in love—the place that will witness your first heartache.

“If our lives could have been different, would you have loved me then?”

Jimin has never looked so weary, so different from the boisterous boy you had met all those years ago. “I’m sure… that I would’ve done what was best. For the greater good.”

“And does that greater good include us? How do we fit in that equation?”

But he only steps away, his hand still outstretched as if to hold you. Then, he slowly tucks it behind him, his posture straightening the way a guard should. “I think you already know the answer to that,” he says, the note of finality ringing loud and clear.

He pries open the door, hesitating only for one more moment before chancing one last glance at you. “Tomorrow… I leave with my men. I would appreciate it if you don’t come.”

The door closes, and your question remains unanswered.

Just like him, the empty silence of your room refuses to respond, no matter how many times you ask.

Because in the sanctity of your bedroom, no promises ever did hold. The Park Jimin you loved was never real in the first place, and no matter how much you slam your fists and stomp your feet, he’s never going to love you the way you want him to.

And there you stand, all by your lonesome, without the prying gazes of those who expect better of you. Gruesomely, and painfully you.

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akaiamedama · 3 years

Text

Of crocodiles and rings and a possible connection to a teased weakness

Crocodile is a guy that is real extra and dresses sharp and loves his bling bling, right? He’s a man of high standards, so of course, he’s gotta wear bling to show that. Other bling loving characters are Capone Bege and Blackbeard for example. All three of them like to show off that bling. Now why do I mention the other two? Coz look at these three bling loving gentlemen, wearing rings on every finger and tell me where the difference lies. I’ll wait.

Exactly!

As opposed to Bege and Blackbeard, Crocodile doesn’t wear a ring on every finger. Obviously he cannot wear 10 rings coz he only got one hand with 5 fingers but he also never wears 5 rings. No, no. This guy, ladies and gentlemen, kinda makes it a point to always leave out one finger and that’s the ring finger. Ha- interesting.

Now, of course this could be mere coincidence. But let’s be realistic here, it’s Oda. He clearly has a reason for it as he’s been true to this detail ever since Crocodile was introduced over a decade ago and the only real question is ‘why’?

Why would Crocodile do that? He clearly loves wearing rings so why not wear them on every finger? Why leave out the ring finger for crying out loud? If one wanted to leave a finger without a ring, one would probably leave out the pinky or the thumb but who puts rings on every finger and leaves out the ring finger? I tell you who.

Crocodile. That’s who.

If you’re one who believes in symbolism and all that stuff, then you’d probably find it interesting that the ring finger symbolises releationships with others especially romantical ones as it is seen closest to the heart and therefore or because of it is the finger a wedding ring is worn on. In most cultures the engagement ring is worn on the right hand and the wedding ring on the left as the right hand is often the ‘physical’ one and has a greater visibility. It’s probably interesting to note that the left hand is considered to represent your character and beliefs. Ha. Interesting that Crocodile is missing that one, huh? Anyhow, in Crocodile’s case left or right hand doesn’t really matter as he only has one left (duh) so an argument can be made that sides don’t matter and the importance lies on the finger itself.

The way it looks right now is that he’s making a statement leaving out the ring finger and there are a few possibilites here. Of course it could be a family ring and he could be from an important family but really, not only would that be a bit to similar to Doflamingo, it would also not make sense to not just replace the family ring on the occations he’s not wearing it. But he never wears a ring on that finger so one can only come to the conclusion that there’s some sentimental thought behind that.

The most logical would be that there is a ring he believes should be on that finger. Either he’s keeping it free for a future event coz he doesn’t have the ring yet (which I doubt) or he’s keeping it free coz technically there already is a ring for the finger. This could be a ring he doesn’t have anymore and regrets it (like he lost it with his left hand or threw it away) or a ring he does have but decides not to wear for his own reasons. Whichever it is, it clearly has such an important value that he doesn’t just covers it up or replaces it.

Now, given the ring finger and it’s symbolism the thought of a wedding ring isn’t too far fetched. We don’t know enough about his past to say that he could never have been married so I think it’s worth looking into.

Let’s just imagine for a second, that the ring missing is indeed a wedding ring, what could that mean?

He could have had a wife but she died and even though he’d technically not be married anymore, people who lost their partner almost always keep their wedding ring as a memento. If they move on, they don’t wear it anymore but they often keep it. This could give another perspective to the ‘wounds’ Daz was referring to after Marineford as he was clearly not talking about Luffy’s physical wounds but about the emotional wounds that came with losing a loved one.

Crocodile could have had a wife but she betrayed him and he took the ring off as to break the relationship and connection. Then the choice to not wear a ring on that finger in the future could serve as a reminder to himself not to trust people, not even those close to you. This could possibly explain his huge trust issues.

However, these two scenarios, while possible, don’t strike me as the most likely simply due to the two following scenes:

“If you want to protect something, do it right!!”

This could be totally random and only refer to the moment at hand but it could also indicate that he knows a thing or two about how to successfully protect someone. Which leads us to the infamous

“I know one of his weaknesses ...!! But if he cooperates with us ... then I won’t say anything about it!!”

Think about it, the biggest weakness ANY pirate of Crocodiles caliber could have is a loved one or people they care about and their identity and location to be known by the public or enemies (marines, pirates etc.) because no matter how powerful a pirate you are, if information like that was to spread and reach the wrong ears, this could have catastrophic consequences for you and the people you care about. It’s used over and over in OP stories like when the marines hunted down Gol D. Rogers offspring and slaughtered all newborn who could potentially have been Roger’s child or when the marines swore to kill Luffy for being Dragon’s son or when Zeff was used as leverage to force Sanji to comply. I doubt anyone knows Usopp is Yasopp’s son or that he had a woman and child in Syrup village otherwise someone would have probably attacked them to get back at Yasopp. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he left them. As to protect them.

Ivankov and Croc met years ago when Croc was still considered a rookie, so in his early/mid twenties. If there is indeed a ring to that finger and the person is still alive, Ivankov could know her identity or location and this could totally be the weakness Ivankov was refering to. Of course this only works if the person is still alive.

Now I know, you’re probably scratching your head, thinking I might be a bit nuts going this direction considering it’s Crocodile we’re talking about but really, think about it. His choice of jewelry is mega weird so what could be the reaaon for it? Also it’s hardly the weirdest theory out there (looking at you femCroc theorists).

This would also tie in neatly with why he decided to have his Baroque agents working in teams of two with male/female. I mean, unlike other characters, he clearly doesn't seem to see women as the weaker sex and him having his agents work in pairs has to be grounded somewhere. Maybe he was raised like that and his parents where a good example of how well men and women complement each other or maybe he made the experience himself. If so, I tend to think that he wasn't betrayed by the woman... or maybe he was and that's one of the reasons why he was so paranoid and basically expected Robin to betray him. All possible, really.

It’s also apparent that Oda incorporates marriages a lot more often nowadays than he did in the early years of One Piece. Mr 9 and Mrs Mondey got married on a cover page and have a baby, Capone got married and his henchman Gotty married too, Sai and Baby 5 married, Sanji and Pudding were meant to marry and let’s not forget poor Senior Pink’s backstory.

Last but not least, I’d like to point out a seemingly random fan question Oda answered in an SBS which seems just kinda odd once you consider everything I said above.

Now the question focuses on “they never had a child” and “I wonder what faces their children would have”, yet Oda starts with “They’ve been to weddings before ...” ... WOW. Really? Why would he say that? XD No one even asked about weddings. Funny. So they’ve been to weddings, huh? As what? Guests? Grooms? You know? It doesn’t seem to mean anything but if you consider Crocodile’s rings and such imo it’s just a weird thing to say. Then the mysterious “I wouldn’t say whether they had children or not ...” .....

Note: Especially during Alabasta Oda often forgets to draw Croc’s rings at all or accidentally leaves out the wrong finger but he is consistent with the rings since Impel Down. He still forgets them from time to time but he doesn’t switch the fingers anymore so one could reason that he had a vague idea of Crocodile’s reasons behind the rings when he introduced him but only solidified it or gave it more details once Croc showed back up. The anime and games however often just leave out the wrong ring probably thinking that it doesn’t matter.

#one piece #sir crocodile #crocodile #eiichiro oda #one piece theory #crocodile theory #wani yarou #crocoboy

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thecaptainhelm · 4 years

Text

Shut Your Mouth Pt.2

hahaha, daminette part two, wasn’t a one shot, gn gn gn.

Marinette sighed as the shower warmed up, rolling her neck and relishing in the light feeling of accomplishment. Ever since Hawkmoth had been defeated, a mere two days ago, things had been tense. Hawkmoth, now known as Gabriel Agreste, was arrested along with his assistant Nathalie Sancoeur who had since retired as Mayura the year before. It was a stroke of luck to discover that the Guardian had the ability to forcibly renounce a broken Miraculous. Something Gabriel hadn’t known, granting them extra time as he futilely tried to ‘fix’ the brooch. While that happened, she managed to finally convince Chat to at least keep him as a suspect if not out of suspicion, then to actually strike him from their list. It didn’t take long rack up evidence against him, especially after learning from the Bats of Gotham.

The battle was quiet, in the early hours of the morning, where the city forcibly cut the power to the Agreste mansion, and it only took one Venom for each while they slept defenselessly. It took only a few minutes to find evidence that he was at least working with Hawkmoth, and when they found the miraculous pin and brooch, it was confirmed that he was, indeed, Hawkmoth with Nathalie working as his henchwoman Mayura.

Soon, with what was probably the fastest trial of the century, Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancoeur were declared guilty and sentenced to serve life in prison and an insane asylum respectively. It had only shocked her for a moment that Mayura pleaded guilty and asked to be sent directly to rehab for mental help, by reason of insanity wrought by grief. What did surprise her was that she was the one to take the miraculous and give them to the Agreste couple as an anniversary gift, ultimately setting off a chain of unforeseen consequences.

That was a whole other cake she didn’t want to bake just yet, so she decided to finally just take a moment to breathe for what felt like the first time in five years.

So it was only normal that her smartwatch chimed on the hook of the shower caddy, a picture of a frowny eagle glaring right at her. She cursed her luck, yeah, no breaks was still her usual routine. It must be real hard for the universe to break out that particular habit.

Then she remembered that she set this particular picture and ringtone for the one person who had never called.

Robin, the vigilante that she might have, kind of, definitely made an enemy of.

Who was also her crush, so that was just. Great.

In her defense, she was a human being, and human beings were capable of amazing feats. It was just that her amazing feats were more amazing bouts of stupidity. Seriously, why did she do it? Just where did her common sense escape to make her think that was even a remotely good idea, because she wanted to go there and never come back.

She had kissed-- no! She made out with Robin, the most notoriously ill-tempered member of Batman’s team. The only reason he didn’t deck her in the face was because, because, well she didn’t know! Was it mercy, a misplaced feeling of pity, perhaps?

No, actually, it was more likely that he was frozen stiff with rage. Marinette couldn’t blame him, heck, she’d be angry too, suddenly getting passionately smooched in the middle of livid rant.

She had planned on giving him her contact information for the longest time, since they'd come to the understanding that they only wanted to do what was best for everyone, the kind of understanding that only leaders could have. And to maybe get closer to him as much as professionalism allowed. So, it stood to reason that she had to go ahead and ruin that, too. She really couldn’t believe herself sometimes, who randomly kisses someone, hands them their number, and then trots off back to work? Marinette Dupain-Cheng apparently.

In fact, it was about time he called. She had pretty much an entire year to prepare herself for what was sure to be a concise and frigid rejection, maybe even a “Stay for away from, lest I stab everyone in this room and then jump out of a window out of utter disgust”? She might as well get it over with and then move on to be alone for the rest of her life.

She wiped the water out of her eyes and squinted at the text message, before jumping out the shower with a loud curse. She hurriedly dried off and put on her clothes, before heading to the Miracle Box, rereading his message.

Emergency evac, one person, requesting Pegasus’ portal twenty kilometers horizontally above sea level precisely fifteen minutes after this message. Coordinates attached.

The message was sent ten minutes ago. How long was she catastrophizing for?!

Max was partying along with the rest of Paris while she took a breather in her art studio. Even with the full fifteen minutes she wouldn’t be able to find him in time. Shit, would she even be able to transform in time?

She grabbed the glasses from the box and Kaalki appeared in a proud flash.

“No time, there’s trouble,” she panted. “Ready?”

“Hmph, of course,” Kaalki tossed her head. “Let’s go, shall we?”

“Kaalki, transform me!” She eyed the time, two minutes left. She memorized the coordinates as she searched for a suitable place for him to land, and realized she was going to have to catch him in her storage closet.

One minute left. She opened the door and cleared space in the center of the room.

Thirty-five seconds. She stood on an old chair that she moved into the center of the room.

Twenty seconds, and she called, “Voyage!” and threw the portal up towards the ceiling.

Zero. She braced for impact and caught a body that plummeted through in a free fall.

“Ow,” she closed the portal with a groan, amidst the shattered pieces of what used to be a pretty sturdy chair.

“Don’t complain, it could have been worse.” A deep voice rasped.

Wow, to think she missed him, that asshole.

“Shut up, Robi-- oh my god your arm! Get up, getupgetupgetup!” She hauled him up as gently as possible, annoyance giving way to concern.

Robin was, putting it lightly, a mess. He had lost his mask, his eye was swollen shut and his face was bruised with cuts all over, and he was sticky with blood practically everywhere she looked. It was his arm that she was most concerned about, however. It was set in a splint, but he must have been in a rush because it was set wrong, his thumb facing perpendicular lyaway from his body.

“I am fine,” he sagged into her, weary. “I just need a place to stay for the night.”

“If you weren’t so grievously injured, I’d throw you out for that,” she remarked. “But guess what? It’s your lucky night monsieur, and I’m a trained field medic.” Robin looked at her, maskless, and she had to dart her eyes away from his maskless face.

“Oh, so Ladybug finally started replacing her subpar lineup? About time, either she benched them or Hawkmoth would kill them at some point. They were woefully incompent.” Yep, this was definitely Robin, no doubt about it with that attitude.

She called off the transformation and was somewhat pleased when he reflexively jerked his head away. She pulled him into a princess carry and made her way back to the bathroom, inwardly delighting at his reaction. She would never let him live this down.

“It’s me, Robin. Ladybug. Pegasus couldn’t make it, so you’ll have to do with me instead of a random stand-in.” She raised her brow, not that he could see it.

“Unless that bothers you, Boy Wonder?”

“...I’m not,” he mumbled.

“Hm?”

“I’m not Robin anymore.”

What. What.

“What?”

“I’ve retired, effective as of nine months ago today, Robin’s cape has been hung up for the next generation.”

Relief didn’t come yet. “Oh, so you’ve taken on a new mantle? Or are you finally the next Batman, though it would take some time to fill those shoulders. Literally, I mean that literally, um.” She observed his downcast expression and once again started walking to the bathroom. When had she stopped?

“I’m not taking over anything,” he said sullenly. “I can’t. Not after what I did.”

“Come on, it couldn’t have been so bad,” she opened the door with her heel as she backed them towards the stool by the sink. She set him down carefully, taking full stock of his injuries.

“It was. Batman’s cowl has always represented a strict moral code, one that I’ve always...struggled to adhere to.”

Marinette bit her lip as she kneeled in front of him. He didn’t say anymore, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. She sighed and brought out her med kit from the towel cabinet. She was always like this with him.

With Robin (now not Robin?) she had always drawn a blank. She could read his emotions somewhat well, had a good grasp on his moods, and could have genuinely insightful conversations with him. It was only at crucial moments like this that she struggled. Even with Adrien she had always known what she wanted to say, but Robin was different. Everything about him screamed “one chance only” and that caused her mind to go blank. It was so unbelievably frustrating that she could scream.

Marinette handed the glasses to Kaalki and nodded towards her purse hanging on the door handle. The kwami zoomed towards it and soon disappeared into it with the miraculous.

“Robin,” she called gently. He didn’t move. “I’ll have to cut your shirt off, okay? I need to see where the blood is coming from.”

“It’s not mine.The blood.” He kept his gaze away as she froze.

“Well, we’ll have to reset that arm,” she tried again. “It’s not...it’s not looking good, to say the least.”

He looked towards his mangled right arm and nodded.

It took some time to undo the splint and she tried not to think about where he had been for him to only have rotted wood and prison rags on hand. She cut his shirt off at the sleeve and down his middle, pulling it off and exposing a painful canvas of mottled bruises, scrapes, and cuts. She handed him her towel and he stuffed it in his mouth without a word. She gently untied the splint.

“Are you ready?” She gazed at him resolutely. He nodded and braced himself as best he could.

“On my count, one, two--” She re-broke his arm a count early on purpose.

“Arrghh! Ffuk!!” He jerked out of her grip.

“Hold still!” He spat out the towel and glared in response.

“Mizq dhiraei allaeaynat 'aw aidbitha!!!” She only understood ‘rip’ and ‘arm’ but she got the gist of his screaming.

“Alright it’s done now, I’m setting it, so stop moving,” She couldn’t help but sigh under his vicious scowl.

“Tsk. Be grateful that I can barely discern your features Ladybug. You’re on my shit list and I don’t feel like kicking your ass today.”

“Wow, thanks for saving me Ladybug, I could have died if it weren’t for you!” Marinette couldn’t help but snark at him.

“...tsk!” Yep, that was as good as she was going to get in his condition.

After years of fighting akuma victims she was able to observe the complex and hidden emotions of her opponents and the civilians that she rescued. And right now, her experience was telling her that Robin had more than his pride ruined. His self-confident, courageous, and taciturn nature seemed to be regressing as he fell back into what was probably a self-defense mechanism. For him to be like this instead of exhausted in his current state told her that he must have been through a lot since she last saw him.

She started to gently clean the blood off and noted the bruises underneath definitely came from an intense melee battle. Most of them were in places that made her cringe just looking at them. At least he doesn’t have any other broken bones, or stab wounds. Lucky him.

Robin put an ice pack to his face in the meanwhile and wouldn’t look in her direction.

It was quiet for a while. “So, what should I call you, then?” And she had to open her big fat mouth, didn’t she? Now it was awkward. It was awkward, and he hated her, and she was never speaking again, ever.

“Damian.” Uh oh.That didn’t sound like a moniker.

“Um, nice code name?” She started disinfecting his cuts and scrapes, trying not to panic.

“I no longer require such aliases.” Ok, process that later, heal Robin now. Process. Later.

“Ro--, Damian, uh, well,” She sighed. “My offer still stands, you know?”

He made a quiet noise.

“Last time I saw you, I mean. I had left in a rush,”-- after kissing you senseless-- “but I’m always here to listen if you want to talk about what happened.”

Robin, or Damian now, she still wasn’t used to that, froze. His brows furrowed and he strangely went red in the face, before sighing, slumping against the sink.

“I...the blood’s not mine. It hasn’t been my for a long time, but it might as well be for how long I’ve carried it. I’m not a good person so much as to blame myself completely, but I do recognize some of the fault as mine. I’d gotten help, and I was making progress, but it wasn’t enough. I started falling back into old habits and I hated it. I tried and I failed, and I kept trying and failing for months and I…” He gained a look of despair, the first real emotion she’s seen on him since he dropped in.

“I couldn’t do it anymore. I just kept disappointing everyone and I hated it so much,” he dug his fingers into his matted hair.

“So, I left. I decided to go on a journey to try and repent, and it was working, at least I thought it did. But, then I had stumbled upon a Shadows base and I…” He peered unseeing at the floor.

“It was like I lost all sense of reason. I lay siege to the entire facility and found my way to the next base. It all turned into an endless cycle, all the way until I reached headquarters and inadvertently met up with high ranking members of the Justice League, teaming up to diminish their power. We were successful, but a candidate for the position of the Demon’s Head activated the self-destruct module. Everyone was scrambling to get out and suddenly my mind felt clearer than it had ever been.” He took a deep breath and Marinette moved closer to offer some comfort. He leaned towards her gratefully.

“The Justice League had already had an escape route, but the Shadows were in disarray for some reason. After I was sure my old comrades were out, I locked all the doors, and dived down to a ceremonial bathing chamber.”

“And that’s where I came in,” she whispered. I think I’m starting to like him more than I should. What is wrong with me?! Who made me this way?! She had some complaints in regards to that.

“You saved my life,” he inclined his head in an informal bow. “Thank you, Ladybug.”

“...Marinette.” She croaked suddenly. She was left reeling from his info dump and her intense, romantic feelings. So, why not go for a confession?

Damian whipped his head up in disbelief.

“My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Enchanté, Damian.” She smiled at his bewildered state, wiping away a bit of blood under his chin. She opened her mouth to say more, but didn’t get the chance.

Damian leapt up, furious. “You fool! I knew you were a space cadet, but I didn’t think your brain drifted beyond the stars! How utterly moronic!”

“Wait, why are you so mad?!” She panicked. She kind of had a spur of the moment idea to kiss him on his split lip, but that was looking less and less likely to happen.

(Damn it.)

“You told me your name!” he shouted.

“Yes, and you told me your’s?” She retorted.

“Have you forgotten Hawkmoth?! Your enemy that can read the minds of the emotionally disturbed should he decide to possess them!” He started to hobble out of the bathroom, still half-treated and mostly in pain.

Oh.

Oh!

“I have to leave, now! If I can stay calm long enough to reach the trains then I’ll be moving too fast for a butterfly to suddenly get me.”

“Uh, Damian?”

“No, it might already be enroute to someone else and might even already be on board,” He winced and stumbled on the tassel rug in the hallway.

“Woah, hang on a second Damian,” she grabbed him before he could fall, but he pulled out of her grip.

“We don’t have time for this, I can guarantee that I would be one of the worst akumas you’ve faced in your hero career, nevermind the insider information I hold within my mind.”

“Yes, but listen to me,” Damian moved towards the small sitting area, not listening to her.

Again.

“This safehouse should be around one hundred kilometers from the city limits, you’re safe for now, but Hawkmoth’s estimated rate of growth was--”

That’s it!

Marinette grabbed his jaw and slammed it closed. She had had enough.

“This isn’t a safehouse, we’re in my art studio,” she snapped. She could see the rage begin to build to new heights in his eye.

“No, shut your mouth, and listen!” A vein in his forehead started to pulse, but he didn't move to speak.

Good.

“Hawkmoth has been defeated as of last week, and the trial was concluded a couple days ago. Going by what you told me, you've been out the loop for almost a year, so you don’t know that my team and I had closed in on Hawkmoth’s trail some time ago and were able to build a solid case that’ll go through in a court of law,” She carefully let him go.

“So, you’re safe, I’m safe, and Paris is safe too.” She’d already started to calm down in the middle of her explanation, and idly noted that she should probably take an anger management class.

And sign up for therapy. Lots of it, preferably.

Damian nodded slowly as he rubbed his jaw and she couldn’t help her wince.

“Sorry, did I handle you too roughly? Come here,” she started to pull him back towards the bathroom. He resisted.

“No, it’s fine, no damage just from that much force,” he tugged his arm away but she quickly moved behind him and began to push him through the bathroom door.

“Well, I’m not done treating you, so get back in there.” He grabbed the door frame and pushed back, and her calm demeanor left as quick as it came. Was it even truly there to begin with?

“I said,” she picked him up and threw him back on the stool where he grasped for stability.

“Come here.” She leaned in close to his bruised face, and wow, the one eye that she could see was so very, very green. “I’m not done with you, yet.”

“...okay,” he whispered. He kept his head down.

It didn’t take long to finish disinfecting the rest of his wounds, and soon she started applying ointment to the worst of his bruises. She had enough, but she was definitely going to be restocking in order to play his nursemaid for the next week or so. She rose to her feet and started packing away her kit.

“I’ll give you some pain meds for the night, I’ll leave you to take care of the injuries under the rest of your clothes. Come find me in the kitchenette. I’ll make something for us, though it won’t be anything fancy.”

“That is fine.” Marinette frowned at the strange husk in his voice. Did someone try to suffocate him? Why hadn’t she noticed until now?

She kneeled beside him and reached around him for the water bottle she had left in there earlier, but noticed him twitch and start to blush. Did he get a fever too?

She observed his red face and clear, but dilated eyes. Merde, did she embarrass him from earlier? She knew he had a large ego, but it was his own fault for being stubborn.

“Here, get yourself some water from the sink,” she handed the glittery black bottle to him and hurriedly strode out of the bathroom, calling,

“Holler if you need me!”

Completely aware of the flustered state she left Damian in. Though not for the reason she thinks, at least.

#daminette #maribat #part two

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lostcauses-noregrets · 4 years

Text

It’s no secret that I’ve never been much of a fan of Eren, but like most readers, I’ve been dying to know what his motivation and justification is for the catastrophic course of events he has set in motion. And now we finally have that justification and it just seems so…petty. Eren doesn’t seem to have any kind of grand vision, he’s just pissed off that the world isn’t the way he wanted it to be.

Like many, I’ve never been convinced by the theories that Eren is caught up in a chain of events that he has no control over, or that he is being manipulated by the power of the Titans that inhabit him, however he does seem to be highly susceptible to the Attack Titan’s ability to see both backwards and forwards in time. Eren has seen a vision of the future in which Paradis will not survive and he has decided to change the future to prevent this. He knows that if he destroyed all Eldians, the power of the Titans would end, but he doesn’t want to do that, he would rather destroy the whole of humanity in order to “save” Paradis. This isn’t about saving all Eldians remember, it’s only about Paradis, Eren’s home. There’s no indication that the future Eren has seen is the only possible future, presumably not as he has already decided to change it, and there doesn’t seem to be any consideration that there could be other futures that don’t involve wiping out the whole of humanity. For someone who claims to be so enamoured with freedom, and who actually has the ability to alter time and history, Eren is oddly fatalistic. I’ve said before that I’ve never really understood what Eren means when he talks about freedom, that he has a weirdly twisted concept of what freedom means, and I think that’s become more apparent than ever.

The real kicker for me though was Eren’s own admission that the real reason he has decided on this course of action is his disappointment that the real world didn’t match his expectations of the world he and Armin dreamed of as children. Eren wanted a pristine empty world beyond the walls (that’s some eco-fascist bullshit right there), but instead he found a world inhabited but people; people who were just as good and bad, cruel and kind, corrupt and compassionate as the people inside the walls. So like a petulant child he decides to destroy it. If Eren can’t have the world that he wants, then no one else can have it either.

In response to an earlier ask, I mentioned the interesting discussion in the chapter 130 @youhearbiggirls podcast about what is actually motivating Eren, why is he doing what he’s doing? Is he being manipulated by the Titans, is he caught up in a chain of events beyond his control, is he doing it to save his friends? I think Eren probably does believe he is “saving” his home and his friends, but tbh I think that’s simply an excuse to justify his actions. Eren may claim that his friends are more important to him than anyone else, and that he wants them to live long lives (ch 108), but few of his actions demonstrate that he actually does care for them as much as he claims to. He is indifferent to Armin’s joy when he realises his dream of seeing the ocean, he fails to recognise Mikasa’s love for what it is, he repeatedly endangers their lives, and he treats them with outright cruelty in chapter 112. And the fact that Eren seems to think his friends would actually condone his actions, his “Right Armin?” towards the end of the chapter, just goes to show how little he really understands them. Similarly Eren may shed bitter tears and claim to be “sorry” for his actions but he gives no indication that he has any desire to stop the rumbling. He appears to believe he is fully justified in his actions, and belief in justification is always a dangerous thing.

(Eren’s actions in this chapter made me think of the Calvinist belief in Predestination; the idea that some people are justified by god and can do no wrong, no matter how terrible their sins. I’m no theologian, and the only reason I know anything about this is because predestination features in an obscurely famous 19th century Scottish novel called The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner. It’s a weirdly convoluted story of a deeply religious young man who believes he is preordained to righteousness and that it is his mission to destroy sinners. He commits terrible acts of violence under the influence of a shadowy companion who may be the devil, or who may be a facet of his own personality. Eventually the he looses all track of his own identity and the passage of time and tormented by his actions he commits suicide. It don’t think Eren is at all suicidal, but otherwise the similarities are striking.)

Having said all that, I am glad that we finally have an insight into Eren’s motivations. I don’t know where things will go from here, but I don’t think there can be any redemption for Eren from this point on. And neither should there be. Isayama has made it brutally clear that genocide can only ever be wrong. As if there was ever any doubt.

Disclaimer: I should note that the only other time I stuck my neck out and wrote Eren meta, I was wildly wrong, so make of that what you will!

#eren yeager #snk 131 #snk #lostcauses meta #i should probably stick to writing about characters i know and care about

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fabricated-misslieness · 3 years

Text

♡〜Can you write a fluffy headcanon with Tony Stark where he remembers the first time he met the reader? You can choose how they met.-@teenagemutantninjangel〜♡

Tony Stark x gender neutral reader

So first I thought about working at the shawarma joint with your family, cause it seems like a family thing, then I thought that I shouldn’t assume gender, then thought about being a random worker and that just felt weird, and finally I remembered that Thor is a himbo.

Also my math might be wrong and I’m not sure where the rich part came from.

Idk why you would want this to be a headcanon so it’s a oneshot

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 1,293

About 14 years ago - the phrase makes you feel extremely old - the Avengers had saved the world from a bunch of aliens. New York was absolutely wrecked in the process, though you’d brushed it off as a side effect. Your life over your material possessions, right? Though, miraculously, out of all people, your possessions weren’t destroyed.

You thought yourself to be lucky. Out of all of them: blonde men with either hammer or shield, a man in a mechanical suit, some extremely muscular green man, a man with all different sorts of arrows, and a woman with a gun; none had wrecked your car.

You thought it was a miracle, especially with the fact it was parked outside. All you had to do was clean it, although it was no easy task with all the dust on it.

Then, one night as you walked to your car to get home from your awful job, you’d spotted a familiar blonde man. With a hammer in hand and an alcohol bottle in the other, you could easily tell who he was: Thor, the blonde Avenger.

You’d always expected him to be a heavy-weight, not that you even thought about it, but he just gave away the energy. The sight of him struggling to even walk properly, swinging his hammer around and nearly hitting walls or lamps, was utterly disappointing. If he could save the world, how could he not handle his alcohol? Though, for the record, you hadn’t seen how much he drank.

All your thoughts about his alcohol were washed away when he walked close to your car. Then you were panicking, because he was in striking range and your car had survived the catastrophe. And then you ran, because it’s either a dent in your bank account or a dent in your stomach; a dent either way with the healthcare system, but you weren’t thinking.

You hadn’t made it in time, how could you?

You stop in your tracks, nearly tripping over your feet, when his hammer strikes down on the hood of your car. By the looks of it, you are not driving that car anytime soon.

“THOR!” Said god merely turns in the attention of the voice, which is where he’d come from. He leaves the hammer on the hood of your car.

“Oh my god, Thor, what the fuck?!” And you see Tony Stark. With all the parties he threw, you knew he was a heavy-weight, so you were extremely thankful that he’d looked somewhat sober. Tony looks around, at the hammer and then down the sidewalk, where you are. He can clearly see your stunned face, and you can see his beautiful one.

“Yes, I am a god.” Thor replies, lifting up a finger as if he were a kindergartener.

Tony doesn’t pay any mind to his comment, instead, turning to you. “Is this your car?” He half-shouts, pointing at it.

“Y-Yeah.” You never thought you’d find yourself in this predicament. A wasted Thor and a panicked Tony Stark. Well, he doesn’t actually look very panicked. He can pay for the damage - you know that - he just looks more concerned about Thor than you.

“Good.” He nods, taking out his wallet and handing you much more than you’d need to fix your car. “What’s your name?”

“(y/n).” Thank god he’d asked you a question you could still answer in your state of shock.

“Alright, (y/n), I’m sorry, truly.” You don’t actually think he means it. “Keep the change.” He pats you on the shoulder, hoping to be reassuring. He is not reassuring.

He was basically calling you a peasant with the ‘change’ part.

Now, 14 years older - once again, that hurts - you were successful. Not as rich as Tony Stark, but you were somewhere in that list of wealthy people.

While most people only found devastation after half the population of Earth was wiped, you found success and devastation.

It was 2023, the world was once again saved by the Avengers. Not that you’d find out about that until the news spread around the world, since apparently they hadn’t fought in a city this time. That was a good thing, because the people certainly did not want to fix a big city such as New York. Oh, and apparently they’d brought everybody back.

Out of everything in the world - yes, even the blipped people coming back - you did not expect to feel deja vu.

Once again, you were walking to your car from your not awful job. It was different from the one you had 14 years ago, one of the many ones you had. Boy, you liked being rich. People stopped and looked because, well; you weren’t exactly a nobody, nor did you look like a nobody.

“THOR!” This time you didn’t see a god, but you did a few seconds later.

Thor had… changed. His hair is messier, beard way longer, and he’d put on some weight. You weren’t sure if this was Thor or some random hobo until you saw the axe - and bottle- in his hands. Somehow, it looked like an upgrade from his hammer.

“Huh?” He turns to the voice, though the rest of his body doesn’t. Carelessly, he drops his axe, right on the car of your hood.

“Jesus Christ, Thor, not again!” Tony Stark rounds the corner, looking about ready to smack the shit out of his alcoholic norse god.

“I once challenged Jesus to a battle to the death.” Thor takes a swig of his bottle while absentmindedly staring at the wall nearby. “The coward didn’t show up.”

Tony groans, massaging his temples with his hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

With a sigh, he turns to you. “Your car?”

“Mhm.” You hum in reply. This time you hadn’t been very worried about the repairs, since you were doing just fine economically.

“Good.” He doesn’t seem to take into account the model of your car or your face as he takes out his wallet. He does the same thing he did 14 years ago, take out a wad of bills and hand them to you with a similar phrase. “Keep the change.”

“Stark,” You say, which actually catches his attention. He looks you up and down, finally taking in who you are. “I don’t need the change.”

“(l/n), (y/n).” He says with his charming business smile. Saying the first name seems to make him remember. “Hey didn’t Thor wreck your car 14 years ago?”

You were surprised he remembered, and it clearly showed on your face. “Yes.”

“Deja vu, huh?” He laughs heartily.

You nod with a laugh. “Deja vu.”

“You know, I did not expect to see you in the news when I came back to Earth.” He leans against your car subconsciously, completely forgetting about the damages. “I was glad you made it big.”

“Back to Earth?” You raise an eyebrow.

Tony shakes his hand dismissively, “You don’t want to know about it.”

“Anyway, Stark, is that empty talk or do you really mean it?” You cross your arms, also forgetting about the condition your car is in as you lean against it.

“You got me there.” He laughs that business man polite laugh. “I was more worried about your rivalry with my company!”

“Oh really?” Your companies were in very different industries. “Well, Tony, I sincerely doubt anybody would be able to overthrow your throne.”

You share a mutual laugh before Tony speaks up again. “Hey, we’re having a party down the block.” He grabs Thor by the shoulder, who looks just about ready to pass out. “Do you want to come?”

You shrug, glancing at your car. “I guess that can be fixed later. Sure, why not?”

#tony stark x reader #tony x reader #iron man x reader #avengers x reader #mcu x reader

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in-slytherin-we-trust · 4 years

Note

Hey there! Could you write a harry potter x reader where harry tells y/n that he loves her for the first time after some dangerous situation? Please 💕

His Chosen One (Harry Potter x Reader

-> Set in 6th year.

Harry Potter had never felt more petrified. The events of yesterday still fresh in his mind, the feeling of dread looming over him as if taunting, saying “This is only the start and there will be more”. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it away.

Professor Dumbledore’s cryptic warnings and his ever-growing suspicious behavior doesn’t help either. His guts telling him that there is something bigger at play, a grand sinister scheme that hasn’t revealed its hands, waiting for the right moment to strike him at his lowest. And it kills him, to keep all these secrets to himself. Secrets that could have catastrophic results.

He can still see it everytime he closed his eyes. The door which required a blood sacrifice, the edge of a great black lake, and the misty greenish light that shone far away. How he had no other choice but to force feed Professor Dumbledore the potion in the basin, watched as he started to hallucinate terrible things, how his insides experienced unbearable burning sensation. And then comes the waves of inferi, crawling from beneath the lake. They are corpses, dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. One of the darkest branch of magic, Necromancy.

He thought he was going to die right there and then as those hideous creatures clawed their way up to him. He was alone and helpless with no one to help him. His whole life flashed before his eyes, Merlin, he hasn’t even said goodbye to Mione and Ron. Hasn’t feed or pat Hedwig’s soft snow white feathers. Hasn’t told her how he felt. And so he made a promise to himself that if by some miracle he managed to survive this, he would no longer stand by and wait. He prayed to whatever god is listening to give him this one chance. And it was answered as a wall of fire erupted all around him, scorching the inferni alive.

———————————————————————

“Harry.... are you okay?” Hermione’s voice pulled him out.

He had to take a minute so calm down his erratic breathing, to convince himself that he is safe now, seating on the wooden bench of the Great Hall, his bestfriends seating across from him.

“Yeah, mate. What’s going on? you’ve been pretty out of it lately” Ron chirped in as he too looked serious for the first time.

“I’m sorry, I got lost in my head” He muttered.

“Is it because of where you’ve gone to yesterday?” Hermione asked again, worry evident in her face.

“Yeah.... yeah, believe me I wish I could tell you guys about it but I can’t. At least not yet” Harry said.

“It’s fine, we understand, just tell us if we could help with anything” Ron replied with a shrug.

———————————————————————

Hermione found Harry that night, sitting alone on the common room coach, the crackling fire his only companion.

She made her way down the winding staircase, making sure that it’s loud enough so Harry is aware of her approaching.

Harry looked back over his shoulder, sagging in relief when he saw that it’s only her. “Can’t sleep too?” He asked.

“I was about to go get some water but then I saw you down here” Hermione replied. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all, you shouldn’t even ask” Harry said, patting down the spot beside him.

As Hermione sat down, Harry was already lost in his mind again. She watched him, see the darkness lurking behind those emerald eyes, something has changed in him but she doesn’t want to force him if he’s not ready.

So they sat in silence together, it could’ve been an hour or more for all she knew, but then Harry’s voice broke the spell.

“I nearly died yesterday, Mione” His voice shakes, no more than a whisper.

Hermione gulped, her whole body felt cold. “What happened?”

And so Harry told him, and with each tale she can feel herself growing sick, the monstrosity that Harry has faced, bloody hell, she couldn’t stomach it.

“When I thought that was the end, all I could see was your face, and Ron’s, and Y/N’s”

“You love her don’t you?” She asked even though she already knew the answer.

“Yeah, I guess I do. I was just too afraid to acknowledge it, knowing that danger lurks everywhere” He finally admitted out loud.

“Then tell her, Harry. Tell her before it’s too late to do so, if anything this should be a wake up call for you, for all of us really” She said, her own words felt like a slap to her face, feeling like a hypocrite because she herself has unsaid feelings towards their red headed friend.

———————————————————————

Harry Potter was a man on a mission. He decided to skip today’s quidditch practice, leaving the team under Ginny’s care because this can’t wait. He knows he is living on borrowed time and he intends to make the best of it.

He asked around on where she might be, “She’s out in the courtyard” Seamus said. So he tracked her down there, to the snow coated courtyard, where she sat near one of the pillars with a book propped on her lap.

“Y/N....” Harry called out.

The girl raised her head in greeting, smiling at him and beckoned for him to come closer.

“Hey, Harry. Don’t you have quidditch practice? I saw the team passed by earlier, all geared up” She asked.

“Ah yeah about that... I actually skipped it to come and talk to you” Harry replied as he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.

“Oh.. whatever for?” She asked, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“I got something to confess. It’s been a long time coming really but hear me out yeah?”

Y/N can only nod, her own heart thundering in her chest.

“This....thing between us. It was wrong of me to never gave you an inkling on what we are. To leave you hanging like that. But gods, Y/N, you make me want to truly live. I know being with me won’t be easy but I want to be with you, I want you to be mine if you’ll have me” He confessed heartfeltly, pouring his emotions out with every word. Cutting down any doubt that has been growing on her mind.

Her eyes shone bright with tears. “I’ve picked you from the start, Harry. And i’ll stand by you no matter what, to whatever end” She said as she cupped his face with both ends, rubbing it soothingly. Watching as his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into her touch.

“To whatever end then” He murmured back to her. As he grabbed one of her hand and planted a soft kiss on it. “You are my chosen one” He said with a grin.

Y/N chuckled, “I better be”.

———————————————————————

A/N : I FINALLY WROTE MY FIRST HARRY POTTER X READER!!!! yay, I hope this one’s good enough but yeah let me know what you think ☺️😉

#harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you #harry potter oneshot #harry potter fluff #harry potter drabble #harry potter angst #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshots #harry potter imagine #harry potter smut

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abject-chaos · 3 years

Text

I’m still not gonna reveal the title just yet, but this is officially chapter 1

@silvermun sorry for tagging you again, but the first chapter is officially here (and far sooner than I anticipated)!

“Are you hungry already, Lance because you seem to be enjoying eating my dust?” The newly crowned king of Camelot quipped as he sped past his trusted knight in shining armour. The barest huff of laughter made its way to Sonic’s ears as he raced towards their designated picnic spot at the edge of the prairie. Before long there came a surprisingly well-articulated comeback considering how much Lancelot must have been exerting himself.

“That was a clever jest, Sire. Although, and forgive my audacity, your insult would have far more bite if it were not you who was lagging.”

“Huh?” Sonic said eloquently before a dashingly handsome blur caught him by surprise as Lancelot skated past him with the ease of a practised runner. Some things never change.

Luckily in this weird Arthurian fantasy world, Lancelot was no ultimate life form from space so Sonic was still the fastest thing alive and rushed over to match pace with the knight. “I think my joke rings true, Sir Lancelot,” Sonic said teasingly and was unashamedly pleased with the startled gasp he managed to coax from the seasoned knight as he once again surpassed him.

It wasn’t long after that exchange that Sonic arrived triumphantly in first place on the hill overlooking the open field below. Lance arrived seconds later, elegantly gasping for breath before he noticed his king watching him smugly. He straightened instantly and willed his lungs to settle for shallower breaths. Sonic, thoroughly chuffed that he’d won, smirked and laid down the picnic blanket. He sat down and patted the seat next to him. Lancelot stumbled over, a lazy smile on his face. Sonic couldn’t believe it had been a year since he’d become king. Looking back on the early days he could see how far he’d come with getting Lancelot to treat him as a friend and not as a ruler.

“It has been a pleasure racing with you, Sire.” Well, almost.

“And it has been a pleasure kicking your arse.” Sonic joked to get the knight to loosen up.

“Careful, Sire. Hubris is often the downfall of a tragic hero,” Lancelot said with a cheeky wink. The pair laughed and joked for a bit longer, tucking into the picnic basket to unveil the assortment of goodies they had managed to sneak out of the kitchen. There were grapes and cakes, bread and cheese, and all sorts of delicious treats that weren’t chilli dogs. Truly a tragedy. Sonic had tried to teach the chefs in the castle how to make them, but the last failed attempt was catastrophic enough to brand itself as the chilli fiasco, thereby convincing everyone involved to never endeavour to repeat the incident.

Lancelot began sharing his take on the whole debacle, animatedly waving his hands about to express the enormity of the failure, when a figure in the distance caught Sonic’s eye. He fixated on that point near the horizon that seemed to host a familiar silhouette. The figure was getting closer, yet the details of their form were still too muddled to make out but they looked so familiar.

Then it hit him.

“Oh, but the scene was grim. The curtains were soiled! The dinnerware shattered. The only hope of salvaging the dubious concoction was littered on the floor and-”

“Lance, stop waxing poetic for a second and tell me I’m not crazy.”

Lancelot looked taken aback for a second before he opened his dramatically closed eyes and saw Sonic’s incredulous expression looking off into the distance. “Sire?”

Sonic’s voice was barely above a whisper, nursing an emotion that Lancelot had only heard once in the king’s voice as the figure grew closer, steadily advancing the hill on which the pair were seated. “Is that..?”

Just a few metres shy of reaching the slight hill the figure stopped short. Crimson eyes gazed unbelievingly back at Sonic. The king stood slowly on suddenly unsteady legs, overwrought with emotion. “Shadow?”

A small smile and a sudden “who’s asking?” from the stranger was apparently all it took to jolt Sonic from his state of doubtful observation as he suddenly sped forth and threw himself at the other presence, desperately clinging to them in a tight embrace. Despite being caught off-guard, Shadow returned the hug, though a mystified quality never left his eyes. “Oh my- I missed you so much!” Sonic gushed, sending the slightest pang of jealousy through Lancelot’s heart. Apologies and assurances were thrown back and forth, though the rest of the exchange went unheard as the knight tried to make sense of the inexplicability of his interdimensional counterpart’s appearance. He was more than a little suspicious.

Having finished their impromptu reunion, Sonic promptly acquainted the two strangers. “So, uh, this is awkward,” he started with a nervous chuckle looking between the two lookalikes. “I guess I should introduce you two then?”

“That would be helpful, yes,” Shadow deadpanned, studying the obvious similarities he shared with Lancelot.

“Well, this might be a lot to digest but, in short, this is Lancelot and he’s this dimension’s version of you.”

“Hm, I figured as much.” Shadow hummed, his eyes narrowed and his fingers steepled against his chin in an expression of thoughtful investigation. “Why is he dressed like that?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lancelot exclaimed with righteous indignation as Sonic guffawed at the stranger’s lack of tact. “I am a knight of remarkable standing. The accoutrements I adorn are a symbol of such and you will do well to respect that.”

“Oh please,” Shadow said, rolling his eyes. “Go back to the renaissance festival, ‘Sir Knight’.”

Lancelot was fuming now, his fingers twitching inches away from his sword as he glared at his parallel. It took much too much effort to rein in his composure as Sonic’s laughter died down to a snicker. He resolved to not attract the ire of the king by striking down one of his closest friends.

“Now with that out of the way,” Sonic began, breathless from his laughing fit, “Lance, you already know enough about Shadow I assume so-”

“Wait,” Shadow interrupted, his face contorted with confusion. “Why does he- how do you know who I am?” he asked pointedly at the knight.

“I’ve been here for a whole year, Shad. You were bound to come up in conversation at some point,” Sonic said, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck.

“But...but you’ve only been gone for a week.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Amy said you went missing a week ago.”

“B-but that doesn’t make sense,” the king sputtered. “I’ve been here for a year. We had a coronation and everything. I’m on the currency!” Sonic exclaimed, producing a coin engraved with the image of his cheerful visage.

“Perhaps we should take this exchange back to the castle, Sire,” Lancelot chimed in, sensing the king’s unease. He sent a pointed glare at the newly acquainted Shadow, a silent threat communicated through the eye-contact. Shadow didn’t flinch. “Merlina might have some answers.”

Needless to say, the picnic was cut short.

#chapter 1 #fanfiction #satbk

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dreamer213 · 3 years

Text

Broken Machines: Lights the Dark

Chapter 3 Evening In Atlas Part 3

At the sound of his voice Penny breaks free from her trance. She looks back at her hand remembers that they were still in a life or death situation. Somehow of the gravity of the situation had been lost in her fawning over him.

Penny: Y-Yes Of Course! I-I’ll Get You Up Right Away!

Penny, now flustered, grabs his other hand and pulls him back up onto the balcony. Once he’s back on his feet and dust himself off Penny gets a look at his full figure. He was two inches shorter then her in heels, he’d be two inches taller than her if she was in her normal shoes, he had a model’s figure very slim and elegant, and his limbs are long and delicate especially his hands. Long elegant fingers with clean manicured nails and soft palms. He was like painting come to life and Penny can’t help but admire his beauty. While she��s admiring him Whitley fully composes himself and speaks up.

Whitley: Thank the gods I thought I was done for. If it’s wasn’t for you I could’ve died! Thank you, thank you so much Miss?

Penny: My n-name is Pe-

“Good Heavens Are You Alright?”

A sudden shout interrupts them prompting both to reenter the ballroom floor. Once they set foot back in they are immediately surrounded by group of “considered” onlookers. Penny recommend the woman who screamed as one of the ladies she ran into early.

Woman in indigo dress: Whitley dear, I saw the commotion and ran over as fast as I could! Are you alright?

Short business man: Yes we saw you being pull up and were too shocked to move!

Woman in red dress: And to think your fate was left in the hands of a little girl. Gods you must have been absolutely terrified.

The crowd turns their gases towards Penny, watching her for a reaction. Penny could feel the stares on her and tried to think of something to say, she doubted her normal response of “ just do what’s right” would be taken well but she couldn’t think of anything else. It was only reason she did what she did but there’s no way this people could understand that. She starts trembling a bit but before anyone else can start questioning her Whitley takes her hand and pulls her close. She turns to asks him what he was doing but he just gives her a knowing smile. He knows where this is going and he’d be damned if he was going to let foulness be thrown at the person that just saved his life.

Whitley: Actually I was quite happy. When I fell I thought it would be the end for me but this brave young woman thrown herself into harms way to save my life without any hesitation. And after such a daring rescue I’m sure my savior must be very tired and I myself am still quite shaken, so of you’ll excuse us, We need to go find a place to rest.

Woman in red dress: But of course after such a harrowing experience who would need a rest. Here, let me watch over the girl while you get some rest.

Whitley: Thank you Mrs. Dahlia but I can’t possibly ask that of you especially when you already have some much on your mind already.

Mrs. Dahlia (red dress): What do you talking about? Our business is doing wonderful and I just bought a new fur I haven’t a worry in the world right now.

Whitley: But didn’t your son Jacob just return from his health spa retreat? Certainly he needs your attention much more the I do.

Mrs. Dahlia: How did you-

Whitley: He was gone for so long I thought he’d never return but it looks like he’s finally pulled himself together. Though it seems he still has issues with slurring his words and maintaining his balance. So I think it be best if you go and checked in on him first before worrying about us.

Mrs.Dahlia: Y-your absolutely right! I’ll go check on him right now! Excuse me!

Dahlia runs off, face as red as her dress completely shamed. The short man, a Mr. Aster, is about to speak up again but Whitley spots it and goes ahead of him.

Whitley: Oh Mr. Aster I believe there was a man in a tiger print suit looking for you earlier. I think he said some about some debts you owe and lead pipe-

Before he can say anything else Aster has already scurried away. With that the crowd grow silent, they know that Whitley wasn’t going to tolerate their behavior and soon the sea of people parts down the middle allowing Whitley and Penny passage. Once they’re past the crowd Whitley whispers to Penny.

Whitley: (whisper) I’ve never seen you before did someone bring you with them? If so where are they?

Penny: (whisper) Yes I was brought here but we got separated. The last time I saw him he was talking with a large group of people at the entrance of ballroom.

Whitley: (whisper) How many people?

Penny: (whisper) Thirty six people when we separated but there could be more they were still coming when I left.

Whitley: (whisper) Then he should still be there, I’ll take you back to him.

Penny nods in responses and they begin to make their way through the ballroom. On their way they encounter more elites trying to make conversation with Whitley. But Whitley is able to bypass all of them using his practiced social skills. His methods consist of redirecting their attention to someone else, giving them a quick response and promising to continue later, or subtly shaming them until they take the hit and run off with their tails tucked in. For him this was sort of thing was like breathing, in effortless function he did to survive, but to Penny, who was getting a front row seat of this, it was incredible. It was like combat in verbal form with the strategic weaponization of words, tactical use of information, and well timed retreats. In this battle Penny was just a civilian, lost on a battlefield she doesn’t know how to fight on being carried to safety by a veteran soldier while he strikes down enemies left and right to clear their path. It was remarkable.

They’re near the dance floor all they have to do is cross it and they have a clear shot to the entrance. As they near the edge of the dance floor Penny spot General Ironwood across the room. He was just a few yards away from the dance floor if they cut across they’d end up right next to him! Penny tugs at Whitley’s sleeve then points in Ironwood’s direction.

Penny: (whisper) He’s right over there we just have to get across.

Whitley: (whisper) Well then let’s not keep him waiting.

Just as they’re about to move forward suddenly music starts to play and couples make there way onto and around the formally empty dance floor. With all the people on the floor there’s no way to walking across and the crowd of onlookers was far too thick to see through. There was only one way to get across the floor. Whitley taps his feet to the music, a standard 3 step waltz a beginners dance. He looks over to his savior and meets her gaze.

Whitley: (whisper) Do you know how to dance?

Penny: (whisper) N-no I do not.

Whitley: (whisper) Hmmm, Okay then just stay close, hold on tight, and let me lead.

Before she ask what he means Whitley pulls them onto the dance floor, he takes her left hand and places it on his right shoulder puts his right hand under her left shoulder blade, and raises their joined hands up to a little above shoulder level, at standard waltz position. He starts slow until Penny gets the rhythm of his movements. Once she’s got it he speed up a bit moving them a bit closer to the other people on the floor. They’re closing in on the other couples dancing they just need to match their speed then jump in. Whitley looks to Penny and mouths “Ready? she think for a moment then nods. With that he speeds up to match the song and the other dancers, and throws them into the sea of dancing couples. Whitley leads them around the dance floor looking for openings to cut through the other dancers to get across. Meanwhile Penny is bewildered, she’s trying to get her body to go on autopilot and just match his movements but she just can’t! Her mind is a jumbled mess and all she can focus on is trying not to step on his feet. This whole night had been an insane mess, here she was supposed to be on a mission but somehow she ended up here on the dance floor with him. To be honest it was like a fairytale and she was the heroine dancing in the castle with the prince, how enchanting. No no no she couldn’t think like that she had to focus on getting back to Ironwood not her own fantasies. Whitley notices her attempts to keep up with him and is honestly amused by it. Her face is scrunched up in focus and her eyes are trained on their feet, it’s so obvious and clumsy that it’s actually sort of cute. Just enough so that it makes him laugh a bit and puts a little smile on his face. The sound of his laughter gets Penny’s attention and she looks back up but only for a second as the moment she sees his smile she goes bright red. She may have lacked an actual heart but something in her chest was pounding like a drum.

It only lasted around four minutes but it felt like an eternity, once the first song ended they had already made it to the other side though Penny hadn’t noticed she was still trying to unravel the odd new feelings she was experiencing. How could one person make feel so nervous but so happy it was so confusing. As she ponders a familiar figure approaches them.

Ironwood: Penny.

Penny: General!

Whitley: General Ironwood?

Whitley stood in shock as Penny ran to Ironwood’s side, he couldn’t believe this small sweet girl Penny was here with General Ironwood. Now most of Whitley know about coming from the dealing between Ironwood and his father. The relationship between them hadn’t been good for long time as Jacques was too money focused to see the bigger picture while Ironwood was straight forward, always had a plan of action, and dislike compromise with Jacques on anything. But with global communication down they were stuck with each other. He also knew that Ironwood was a workaholic and an antisocial especially since Beacon fell. The charity gala was his first appearance in high since the catastrophe and for him to be at another event so soon was off kilter but bringing an unknown young woman with him as well, completely abnormal. Ironwood was here for a reason and While had to figure out why.

Whitley: General Ironwood it would seem that I found your lost companion.

Ironwood: Indeed you did. And Penny isn’t just a companion she also one of my soldiers.

Penny: I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I was going to introduce myself but that crowd at the balcony frightened me and could not finish my sentence.

Ironwood: A crowd? Hmm, We’ll talk about that later but first I should thank you for returning my soldier Schnee.

Whitley: Please General call me Whitley and honestly I should be the one thanking you. If you hadn’t brought her here tonight I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Getting this lovely girl back to you was the least I could do. In fact I’d like to offer you a lending hand in you’re endeavors as thanks for your soldier’s heroic actions.

Ironwood: Really? And why a lending hand? Isn’t gifting a nice car, summer home or some other luxury item the norm from your family.

Whitley: (chuckles) Oh General I think you’ve gotten a bit confused that’s my father’s style of gifting. He likes to give people pretty things because that’s what he thinks everyone wants. While it can be very effective it’s just not my style. No I prefer to look past simple glitz and glamor to see what they really want and from what I’ve seen General you didn’t come here for a good time.

Whitley had been reflecting on what had happened tonight and a few things stood out. Ironwood had come to this party which was completely out of character, he brought a naïve young woman with him, and said naïve woman was a soldier and if her actions earlier were any indicator of her skill, a damn good one at that. There was only few reasons a man like Ironwood would come to an event like this with such an gentle but very capable soldier at his side and all of them led back to one thing. Information. That what Ironwood wanted and if Whitley could give it to him then his plan for the future might go smoother the he thought. All he needed to do was reel him in.

Whitley: If there’s something you’d like to know or need help find out about something I’d be happy to help. But if you’re non interested I could also offer some etiquette lessons for your soldier, seeing as she such a hard time tonight some formal training would surely be of great use to her.

Whitley existents a hand to Ironwood.

Ironwood: This will be kept discrete?

Whitley: Of course, discretion is absolutely necessary when dealing with the military.

Ironwood: We’ll go over the details later but for now I accept. Your contribution will be greatly appreciated by myself and by Atlas as a whole.

Ironwood gives Whitley firm handshake, it hurts a bit but Whitley shakes it off. He puts his now slightly pulsing hand in his suit pocket and pulls out two business cards. He hands one to each of them. Penny takes hers with both hands, reading very carefully. The information on it was standard but somehow felt significant, specifically his number. It was like a link, a way she could reach him to for…well she didn’t know there was just so much she wanted known, wanted say. She still hadn’t even properly introduced herself! After all that’s happened tonight she couldn’t leave without doing the one thing she was supposed to.

Whitley: Thank you again General Ironwood. We’ll contact you about the details in the morning. Have a nice rest of your evening.

Whitley turns to walk away but Penny quickly steps up behind him and grabs the hem of his sleeve causing him to turn back. Penny stand straight up, with a bright smile and her signature salute finally speaks the line she’s been trying to get out all night.

Penny: S-s-Salutations! My name is Penny Poledina, it was a pleasure meeting you tonight!

There’s a pause, silence falls over the scene until a little chuckle escape from Whitley. Once he’s pulled himself back together he looks at Penny with an almost sincere smile.

Whitley: It was nice meeting you as well Ms. Poledina and I hope to see you again soon.

With that Whitley walks off to go find his father to inform him over this new opportunity he’s secured for them. Penny returns to Ironwood expecting to be scolded for her actions but instead he pats her head and give her a nod of approval. She did well tonight as she just secured a life debt from what could be considered the royal family of Atlas high society. Not only that but it was with the most level head and even tempered of the family. This was the golden key of contention and Ironwood couldn’t be more proud.

Informing Jacques had gone better than Whitley expected. Though that was mostly because Jacques was absolutely thrilled by the prospect of Ironwood own him a favor given their tumultuous business relationship and planned to milk the situation for all it’s worth. With that Whitley was dismissed for the night and retired to his bedroom while Jacques return to the party.

Happy but exhausted Whitley baths and changes into his sleepwear then heads to his bed where he quickly falls asleep. As his consciousness fades slowly the darkness of his mind is illuminated by a white light. Whitley finds himself on a cold floor, he looks around and sees that his in the middle of a circle surrounded by a circle of lights and armchairs, soon figures begin stepping out from behind them, each give a wave before taking a set in their respective chair. Each figure was the same but different, all where the same white haired blue eyed young man but each dressed in their own fashion and adorned their faces with unique animal masks. This is council of thought, a reacquiring lucid dream of his was the only place in existence Whitley could speak freely and full engross himself in his thoughts. Whitley stands and looks around, there are five chairs and five figures. The smartly dressed owl in a sweater vest and plaid pants, the smirking fox with rolled up sleeves and pants legs, the lion dressed in battle wear with a red cape with gold lace trim on his back, the peacock dolled up in his finest with his usual over the top suit and long feather coattails, and the wolf.

Whitley: Looks likes everyone’s here, it’s time to proceed. Owl! State of current affairs.

Owl: We’ve been formally announced as new the heir, preformed well at the party, had an near death experience which led to us to extending a hand to Ironwood. We now have in opportunity to start repairing our family’s relationship with the Atlas military. Father was pleased with our actions and our awaiting further instruction. That is all for current affairs, the floor is now up to commentary.

Fox: (Yawn) Gods keeping that stupid smile on our face was absolute pain. But watching those vultures squirm on their boots trying to keep up with us was priceless! I mean that Aster practically fainted when we mentioned the tiger suit (Laughs) too easy.

Lion: That’s because we had one hell of a bounce back! I mean what other elite could almost fall to their deaths then jumping right back into the fire not two minutes later! (chuckles)

Peacock: Let’s not forget about appearances Dears. You can’t deny that us staying prim and proper the whole night was key in our success. Especially with the General, gods knows he wouldn’t have taken us seriously if we let ourselves get disheveled.(giggles)

Whitley: Looks like we’re all in agreement, the night went well despite a few hiccups. Isn’t that right Wolf?

The last figure, Wolf, was a far cry from the rest, as apposed to sitting in his chair he squatted down in front of it, his appearance was just as odd. Long and unkempt hair, his only clothing were a tattered pair of dress pants and silver chains shackled on his wrists and ankles with a tight collar around his neck. Scars clover the skin of his biceps, feet, and back. And then there was his eyes. They were almost completely devoid of life, the only thing reflecting out of them was pure unbridled hatred.

This was the one part himself Whitley never showed but kept at the forefront of his mind at most times. This monster had grown from the depths of his once innocent heart after many years of suffering. it’s hungry was the only thing keeping him alive when things had got to their worst in the manor. No matter how tiring this game of playing good boy for Father was, no matter how painful interacting with his mother and sister became, and no matter how hopeless he felt at times the wolf’s hunger would always push him back onto his plan. It needed him to see this to the end HE needed to see this to the end! He’d never be at peace until then and until then the wolf remains waiting for that day.

Wolf: (growls) Why most we give more to that damn BASTERD!....After everything he’s done to us… what he’s done to our sisters….to Mother…….TO KLEIN! (Anger Growl)

Whitley goes over to wolf, he bends down to Wolf’s level and pets his shoulder.

Whitley: Shh Shhh, there there Wolf be patient. Just a couple more years, a little more boot licking, and plenty of good behavior and then we will strike. And when we do-

Whitley looks deep into Wolf’s eyes, that same look of pure hate now reflected back into Wolf.

Whitley: We. Will. Be. Freed. And. You. Will. Be. Fed. We just have to be patient if only for a little while longer.

The wolf growls in agreement, he smiles wide showing off his big bright fangs. Having pacified Wolf the meeting of thought had come to an end for the night and Whitley should be returning to a state of darkness before waking up. But instead of the room fading away into nothing the sound of a chair being pushed can be heard behind Whitley and Wolf. Whitley turns around to see another chair has been pushed into circle with a small rabbit mask place in the seat. He’s confused, this had never happened before, the dream had never changed against his will. The rules of this place were simple, this room and everything in it were all there was and that there should be here. And it was a always ALWAYS under Whitley’s control. So why? Why had that changed? Suddenly a new voice calls out from the void. It was soft and small like the animal the new mask mimics.

??????: …..That girl….she…was..so nice….Her smile was so….sweet….so..pure…so…..real…How long has it been…since someone smiled at us that way?..... How long has it been….since someone looked at us that way?.....I…want…..I want to see her….I want see her smile again.

Suddenly everything fades to white and Whitley wakes up.

#broken machines #whitley schnee #penny polendina #james ironwood #rwby fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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farchanter · 3 years

Photo

Steven Hall: Maxwell’s Demon

It’s an unsettling business, when you really look at it.

Unsettling to think that when we read a novel, we’re burning through years of a writer’s life in a matter of hours. Unsettling too, though in a different way, the realisation that a reader will rarely have any sense of the temporal disparity at all. From a reader’s perspective, the words invite movement across a page at an obvious pace, sometimes racing, sometimes ambling, sometimes moving with a slow, deliberate creep, and for all the world as though the writer is right there alongside the reader, that the two are in this together, tiptoeing, then sprinting, then pausing for breath at one another’s side. But none of that’s true. The truth is, it took me forty-eight minutes to get from writing the words ‘It’s an unsettling business’ to here, to build that little road with its various curves, slopes and rises. To work it over, to stamp its surface as flat as I possibly could, to do my best to ensure you wouldn’t trip or stumble along the way. How long did it take you to go from there, to there, to here?

Since I committed to reading more books a few years ago, I’ve read some outstanding work. My favorite discovery, however, is likely Steven Hall’s debut The Raw Shark Texts. It’s a literary laser-beam targeted right at me— it’s an ambitious, cerebral, maybe even somewhat pretentious horror story built around the idea of the transformative power of communication. It lives in a space adjacant to Mark Z. Danielewski’s seminal House of Leaves, and comes closer to that mark than any fiction I’ve read since. I don’t know that it’s strictly the best book I’ve read on this journey, but it’s such a big story— such a titantic swing for the fences— that I couldn’t help but fall in love with it and its warts.

So, when it came out that Hall’s second novel— this, Maxwell’s Demon— I was both excited and nervous. Nervous, because when an author succeeds with a book as high-brow and artsy as The Raw Sharks Texts, that tends to give them the license they need to turn their next work into something even more into the avant garde— and this jump is particularly difficult to do well. After all, House of Leaves was followed by Only Revolutions— despite that novel’s success, I found it so prose-y as to damage one’s ability to consume the story.

It came as quite the surprise, then, that when Maxwell’s Demon was finally in my hands it came across as much more restrained than The Raw Shark Texts.

Thomas Quinn is a writer living in a shadow. His father, Stanley, was one of the most celebrated journalists and poets of his generation. When his mother passes away, his father all-but vanishes from Thomas’s life, too— but not from the public. In fact, Stanley takes up a protégé— a fiction writer named Andrew Black who goes on to write Cupid’s Engine: in-universe, one of the most popular and world-changing novels of all time. And right there, on the cover, is the glowing accolade of Stanley Quinn.

Once Stanley passes, however, Black and Thomas strike up an unusual relationship. On one side is Black, one of the most venerated popular English novelists of all time. The literary press styles him as Stanley Quinn’s stylistic son. On the other is Stanley’s actual son, an author struggling to make ends meet. Yet, through Stanley, they are bound— one bitter of the other’s relationship, the other curious in turn. That strange partnership leads Black to send Quinn a mysterious photograph of an unsettling black orb. In investigating, Quinn starts down a rabbit hole of people who believe in a magical power of the written word— not magical in the sense that one’s eighth-grade English teacher would use it, but instead a literal supernatural force with the power to change reality.

In many ways, Maxwell’s Demon is an extension of the philosophy Hall explores in The Raw Shark Texts— the idea that humans don’t simply write down things that happen to them or wish would happen. Instead, the act of writing has a real ability to prescriptively recontextualize and alter the world around it.

If The Raw Shark Texts is that philosophy viewed through the lens of the horror genre (and particularly a House of Leaves lens), then Maxwell’s Demon is that same philosophy presented as a mystery novel (and, especially, it makes no pretense about what it owes The Da Vinci Code).

There’s a lot to like here, and once the book hits its stride you find yourself on a fun pendulum: you’re fully willing to accept a supernatural cause before Hall slowly presents evidence to walk you back to a mundane explanation, right before another shocking moment which casts the entirety of that mundane explanation into doubt— and the cycle begins again. Once we got there, I couldn’t read through the story fast enough.

There are two problems, after a fashion, with Maxwell’s Demon. I mention in the previous paragraph that the story has a good pace once it gets rolling, but it takes a while for that to happen. Relatedly, it lacks the “popcorn movie” feel that defines Dan Brown’s writing, the “pageturnability” that leads you to plow through Angels & Demons in one night. Brown is an expert at ending each chapter in a particular way to compell you to continue, to read just one more, which Maxwell’s Demon doesn’t do. This may be a deliberate choice— I’ve heard other writers refer to Brown’s technique as “cheap tricks"— but between the relatively slow build-up of the relationship between Black and Quinn and Hall’s predilection to philosophical explainers, I don’t think he quite nails the difficult highwire act between high-concept metafiction and mass-market pop culture he was shooting for.

There’s a truly startling twist ending here, and it achieves the same thing that a lot of modern mystery stories do— it’s so shocking it overpowers the part of your brain that would ordinarily realize that it makes no sense. If one were coming to Maxwell’s Demon purely as a mystery, one would find it disappointing. The careful layering of evidence and use of negative space which defined, say, Agatha Christie is absent. There’s no real plausible way to deduce what’s really going on from a plain reading of Maxwell’s Demon, and that would bother genre fans.

But, to my mind, this isn’t really a mystery story— it wears the clothing of a mystery, but those trappings are a vehicle for Hall’s metaphysics more than a sincere adoption of the genre per se. As someone who enjoys those metaphysics, I similarly enjoyed Maxwell’s Demon.

There’s a recurring theme of inadequacy in the story, and it humanizes Thomas Quinn to the point where it’s painful and upsetting to read. He holds an idealized version of himself— he is Thomas Quinn, novelist— but over the course of Maxwell’s Demon that ideal is slowly burned away. He is a man undergoing an identity crisis, and it feels so personal that a reader’s heart goes out to Quinn. He comes to realize that he is failing as a writer— on the verge of financial catastrophe. His wife is a successful scientists chasing down her dream, and he comes to realize that he is inadequate as a partner to her— that he is failing her romantically and sexually. He carries the weight of losing both parents, and of his father’s seeming discarding of him for Black. These bitter pills lead Quinn to make some very poor choices— but, with the care Hall takes in painting these inadequacies as the background for Quinn’s character, we can’t help but understand why he makes them. The outstanding humanization of Thomas Quinn, the careful characterization, is what carries the novel.

After two books, it’s fair to say that Hall has difficulty writing women. In both The Raw Shark Texts and Maxwell’s Demon, the characters have brilliant wives who work tirelessly to pull their husbands out of the mud. But they don’t necessarily have a ton of depth of their own— in the case of Maxwell’s Demon’s Imogen, her primary role is to shine so brightly that we both can’t look at her directly and cast all the darker Thomas’s shadows. She is the Guide on Thomas’s Hero’s Journey, but she does not seem to grow otherwise.

Possibly a spoiler in this next paragraph, although I’m going to endeavor to not spoil the entire mystery.

In fact, Hall’s tiny cast of women serves as an interesting literary device here. The moment the mystery ends, where the ending begins, involves the use of a "she” where we were expecting to read a “he”. Because there are so few women in the story— and every one of them is accounted for at that moment, save one— that single change of pronoun, that single added character is enough to collapse the wave function of the mystery into its only possible remaining solution.

So, all that to say: Maxwell’s Demon is more thoughtful than it is engrossing, but that thoughtfulness— the idea of writing as a literal magic— makes for a fun read.

#books #completion list #todo #review #steven hall #maxwell's demon #mystery #horror #metafiction #the quarantine list

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thepeakyfckingblinders · 5 years

Text

The Whore || John Shelby x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “11&19 with John boy? cause I miss him “ (I miss him too, my poor heart aches)

Summary: n.11 & 19 from prompt list: “Please, please, please” + “I’ll burn this fucking place down” Warnings: swearing, a lot of angst, prostitution, nudity, violence, mentions of abuse, mentions of rape, misogynistic talk, graphic description of signs of physical abuse

Author’s notes:

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

So, this request’s been in my mind for ages, and even though I’m not happy with its final part ‘cause it sucks, I’m literally obsessed with this idea, I love it so much that I’ll probably write a long fic about it, right after Contagio, but it will depend on you babes, because, first and froemost, I need to know what you think about this piece. ⤟ IMPORTANT

Please, if you’re a victim of any kind of abuse, talk to someone who can help you, nobody should go through something like that alone.⤟ IMPORTANT

I edited the gif and added the text, it’s not an actual scene from the show, but I thought it could be a good idea, a small detail that could be added to my works. What do you think about it? Pls, let me hear your opinions babeees ⤟

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Birmingham was somehow silent that night, John noticed the unusually empty streets around him, as his feisty pace easily led him towards a well-known destination, his confident steps resounding in between the damp walls of those sordid blocks made of innumerable overcrowded flats. The unmistakable stench of stagnant urine viciously permeated his nostrils, soon causing a disgusted expression to taint his angelic face, while he avidly took the umpteenth drag of smoke from his Cuban cigar and finally stopped his unceasing walk in front of the most renowned brothel in the entire city. For about three years by then, day after day, his life had been perilously circling the drain: things had got totally out of hand, fate had pitilessly thrown him into profound despair, giving life to an apparently endless spiral of darkness and desolation, which was gradually corroding his fragile self, brutally strangling him, rapaciously plundering each of his already strained vital breaths. And, nevertheless, it was beyond hard to blame him for such catastrophic outcomes, after all, he’d scarcely survived the battlefield, only to find himself with a handful of nothing, left alone to deal with a dead wife and four children to raise on his own, while his guts crawled with excruciating grief and ravenous acrimony for the whole world, having him develop a tendency to self-destruction that was just as concerning as it was well concealed. As a matter of fact, in spite of his private hell, he still remained a Shelby, and a Shelby wasn’t meant to be soft, nor weak, none of them could afford to succumb to their affliction, never, not for a moment. They had to be invulnerable.

Or, at least, they had to look invulnerable, for truth was that John was scared, utterly frightened by all those unmerciful changes. Deep inside he felt like a hopeless, undefended child, forsaken by God and discarded to wander that grim world without any destination other than death and misery, thus his blood boiled with virulence and venom, having his heart clench with blind wrath and his devastated young soul desperately long for sort of any distorted kind of unattached affection. That was basically the main reason why his bed was incessantly warm, or more accurately, warmer than it had always been before, because, needless to say, John Shelby had actually been an authentic ladies’ man since his first cry. His stunning beauty constantly teemed on everyone’s lips in Birmingham, there was not a single woman in the whole town who hadn’t dreamt of sleeping with him at least once in her life. Therefore, John was more than happy to please them all, literally, welcoming them with wide open arms, even during his past marriage; and, on those rare times when no girl went to knock on his door, he had now grown accustomed to seek relief into whorehouses, rather than sleep alone and become an easy prey for his ferocious demons.

So he eventually ended up dropping his smouldering cigar on the uneven asphalt of the most rundown place in Small Heath, “Le Belle Donne”, an Italian house of tolerance, quite dilapidated and about to fall to pieces, but which often happened to have his favourite prostitutes. Indeed, ever since the Peaky Blinders had defeated and subjugated Sabini’s clan, they’d occupied a prominent position among the country, to the point that several other Italian gangs on their territory, including the Changrettas who owned that brothel in particular, had finally given in to the Shelbys. As a direct consequence, to put it simply, John and all his brothers had, in a very real sense, earned the full right to abuse of whatever business the wops held.

“Hey, man!” Johnny resonantly barked as he entered the hall, maintaining a pretty intimidating attitude and a menacing look on purpose, in order to strike even greater fear in his newest flunky. “C’mon, show me what you got” That rough order cunningly glided onto his lower lip, immediately followed by his hot tongue, while his famished gaze travelled around the room, examining the face of each harlot standing there with meticulous attention, without however finding something that could come anywhere close to seriously rapture him. Robert Turrini, the whoremaster, was a bizarre bloke, for his physical appearance could be probably described as both disturbing and amusing: his revortingly corpulent stomach wobbled and his short legs dangerously stumbled, when he made haste to stand up and accommodate his toughest client. “Mr. Shelby, what an honour and a pleasure to have you back!” Those sycophant words fled his moist and malodorous mouth, and nonetheless, his stubby fingers inexorably betrayed his true thoughts, since they were either nervously torturing each other or, as only alternative, convulsively running through his greasy, mangy bangs. “Please, sir, follow me, these are for yokels and boozers, nothing to do with gentlemen like yourself” Once again, Turrini’s shrill fawning tone relentlessly grated his ears, making clear reference to the bunch of second-rate whores who could be found at the entrance; thus the lame pimp quickly moved, his hand anxiously beckoning John to tread upon his heels, then headed towards an eerily narrow corridor, so scanty that it was almost impossible to cross, if not walking on the bias. The secret lounge was illuminated only in part by a squalid red light creating a gruesome atmosphere, a dull silence tyrannically reigned into that small space, although you were not alone, but practically glued to another girl; both sitting on a minuscle sofa, your elbows touching, still none of you dared emit a single sound. Everything felt like lead upon your papier-mâché ribcage, that horrible sensation forcing your traumatized brain to involuntarily keep counting the seconds until that heinous burden would’ve potentially staved in your sternum, definitively annihilating your splintered heart. As a result, when the ramshackle door opened and a high-pitched squeak scraped your skin, you really thought to be about to die. Your torturer made his entrance, and right after him, another man came in, yet you couldn’t spot his face, since the peak of his cap designedly casted a mysterious shadow on it. “These two right here, they're real young, real fresh” Robert flaunted his goods along with a nefarious grin, rubbing his soiled paws with evident greed. “Behold the finest offering of flesh and bone on the market” A sadistic snicker repugnantly accompanied his speech, instantly causing John to frown, visibly disgruntled with the way that man deliberately talked about human beings. Luckily, it was a known fact that the middle Shelby was used to treating his women with all due respect: whether he paid them or not, he always made sure they were comfortable with him and never shrank from giving them some good time as well; therefore, a vexed glare was shot in the direction of his gross interlocutor, before his crystalline eyes briefly fluttered around the place, then bumping into your elegant figure almost at once.

Your bloodstream seemed to benumb on the spot as the stranger’s confident stare entangled yours, his rawboned features being now fully displayed, for he had lifted his chin a little in order to properly look at you, and you only, despite Clarissa’s desperate and petulant attempts to get his attention with malicious smiles and ridiculous pet names. Even though your dazed mind had just been ruthlessly brutalized by the sudden, ablaze assault of his glacial irises, a few moments were enough for you to realize how profoundly different he was from all the low-down rats who usually came through that horrible place.

Each sharp, still somehow delicate, trait of his face was brimming with delicious youthfulness, a less keen eye might have even confounded his freshness with actual naivety, but not yours; you were far too clever to make such a coarse mistake. Furthermore, the midnight-blue posh fabric of the classy suit, remarkably folding his majestic body, left gaunt doubt that he was, in all likelihood, a considerably rich man, which was beyond disorientating you, since the price to pay for some tawdry delight in that brothel was outrageously derisory, to say the least. And ultimately, as much as it killed you to conceive it, he was without question one of the most enchanting men you had ever seen, to the point that you found yourself subconsciously wondering the possible reason why a heavenly creature of his kind would’ve needed to buy a miserable hour of dissembled love.

“There she is” That malleable murmur, filled with longing and gratification, furtively sidled past John’s roseate mouth, as its corners seductively bent upwards and his gaze persevered in its praiseworthy commitment to scrupulously linger your finest shape in sheer adoration. Lace and organdy sublimely merged on the light crimson negligee you were wearing, your immaculate form appeared as a beguiling paradox into his dilated pupils, being your long legs lecherously left exposed, while every inch of your porcelain skin, from your lean neck to your groin, was painstakingly disguised by that unholy material, dark and inscrutable, albeit thin enough to allow him to glimpse the inviting turgidity of your nipples. His breath shuddered in awe when he went back to contemplate your aphrodisiac facial features, flushed cheeks and plump lips having him ache with desire, and then your doe eyes flooded by melancholy, strangling his soul with no mercy, entrenching into his brains the treacherous conviction that, at the end of the day, he would’ve gladly dilapidated his fortune, if only to venerate you from afar. “Oi, sweetheart!” His low voice finally rumbled within the walls of that small space, overwhelmingly vibrating into your abdomen, while you forced yourself to swallow the painful lump obstructing your throat and stand up, promptly responding to his command, aware as you had become that rebelling against your pitiable destiny would’ve served no purpose at all. Holding your client’s hand behind your back, but keeping your head down during the whole route, you silently guided him up the spiral staircase to the best room in the house, like you had previously been instructed by your pimp. His jacket and hat were quickly hung on the apposite coat-rack, leaving his muscular top covered with just his white shirt and blue vest, an alluring grin was flashed in your direction and you detected a libidinous sparkle in his irises, as he healed the rift between you at a slow pace. “What should I call you, sweetheart?” He knowingly used the same flattering pet name once more, whispering that barely audible question into your ear, for he was now behind you: his large hands laid around your waist, gently making your back and his vigorous chest fit together, while his skilled mouth brushed forthwith against your nape, drawing an ardent contrail of ephemeral pecks up until your jaw. “Just y/n” You gasped in response, the marked contrast between his warmth and your bitter cold body, along with crippling dread eating you alive, caused your scrambled stomach to squirm and your eyelids to distressingly shut into a frown. “Well, that’s a pretty good one, I’m John, by the way” A lovely, yet hinted giggle fleetingly filled your ears together with that little compliment; there was no record of mockery in his tone, though, it simply sounded like he wanted to be nice to you, without any aspiration of personal gain, and you almost blushed, caught off guard and no longer used to any form of kindness. Nevertheless, it was a matter of instants before another wet, long kiss was pressed on your jawline, making you startle with evident apprehension and, at a later time, definitively back away from him, as soon as you sensed his touch abandoning your hips only to climb your sides, till he reached for your nightgown’s collar and his fingers began to fiddle with its round buttons. “No, I’ll do it!” You curtly gave notice, as you temporarily lost control of both your speech and actions, placing your hands above his in order to shrug them off, then turning to face him with short breath, your open palms shielding you. “I got it” A noticeably softer voice supplanted your preceding rudeness once you gradually metabolised how much damage your incautious reaction could’ve done.

“Aye, aye, darling, as you wish” But John just chuckled, tenderly humouring you, while his forearms jokingly lift in surrender to your commands, although, truth be told, your strange behaviour had left him a bit bewildered, well-nigh confused. Carefully moving backwards, he cockily made himself comfortable on the edge of the double bed, sitting right in front of you with splayed legs, his yearning stare never deflecting from you, and started to unbutton his waistcoat along with his shirt and undershirt, until his statuesque torso was completely nude, in all its glory, as the moon transpired through the curtains and shed its faint rays on his every contour, superbly enhancing all of his muscles.

Without reprieve, he ogled up at you in pure adoration, devastatingly astonished afresh by your dazzling beauty, eager to feel your afire flesh around his, literally hanging on your every word or move, while a provocative smirk steadily rippled his lips. Still, he kept questioning why a seraphic vision like you was slowly withering away in that authentic hell on heart, adamantly squandering your blush of youth amidst that rabble of unrestrained putridity. It made absolutely no sense, and he couldn’t get rid of that pernicious thought haunting his mind ever since he had first seen you: you looked nervous, extremely defensive, almost paralyzed with fear; you seemed so different from all the whores he’d had before, hence his instincts, however obfuscated with cupidity, were screaming that something was wrong. And when he watched you turn your back on him again, so to avoid his penetrating gaze as you reluctantly got undressed, it was enough for him to understand that his execrable hunch was right. Nevertheless, by the time his head managed to eventually reconnect to his mouth, it was already too late, the soft textile of your nightdress ineluctably fell to your feet, leaving you naked under his starving leer.

John choked on his own breath; for the very first time, he felt like a fledgling kid at his earliest experience, no matter if nothing could be further form the truth, in some turbid, cryptic way, you were able to make him vulnerable. His craw went hellishly dry while he continued to gape at you in awe, the sinuous curves of your flawless glutes, the meandering line of your superlatively arched back covered in part by your soft hair, your tensed shoulders and your refined legs, everything about you caused his mind to go entirely black, words stifling in his throat. Yet, as soon as you moved to face him and his sight was blessed with the full view of your voluptuous figure, something altered the light in his cerulean eyes, suddenly making it dark and gloomy. His jaw slightly dropped under the weight of that violent dismay: in conjunction, an obnoxious sense of nausea cruelly shot him in the gut and blind anger virulently assailed him, for your front bust was completely martyrized.

“What the hell...” That unmeant babble died in the gelid air, his shocked orbs demarcating the strokes of your damaged silhouette: your neck and collarbone were horridly plastered with several violet fingerprints, as if someone had mercilessly strangled you over and over, greenish bruises with the shape of full palms circled both your arms, there were conspicuous signs of ligature around your tiny wrists. Worse still, his eyelids had to squeeze a little in order to bring into focus the multiple oxblood dots stigmatizing your soft breasts, until he noticed in horror how those round specks were effectively cigarettes burns; all of the oxygen bluntly withdrew from his lungs, when he dwelled on the multiple blue and black marks barbarically desecrating the protuberances of your ribs. But what irremediably drove him over the edge were the two ghastly scars digging stretched grooves in your lower stomach, in parallel with your bulging pelvic bones and down almost to your livid groin.

Prey of that deleterious humiliation, you observed raw disgust contaminating his features and, with no apparent reason, the dormant hatred you had for yourself began to ferment inside your belly. “I-I’m sorry” you forced yourself to swallow your imminent tears, unexpectedly, the awareness of not being able to please him somehow inflicted more suffering on your mangled soul “If I’m not to your taste, y-you can...” The young man quickly stood up and, before you had the chance to finish your nonsensical sentence, he readily grabbed his shirt, approaching you with dispatch, his cold irises burning with an implausible mixture of fury and concern. “I don’t fucking care right now” His voice was unsteady, rolling down his tongue in fatigued panting, as his hands hastened to wrap his shirt around your shoulders, his trembling fingers struggling to put the buttons through the eyelets “Who did this to you?” In truth, he was talking to himself rather than with you, noticeable impatience worsening his mad tone, yet you persistently steered clear of his inquiring look, more than determined to keep your mouth shut, forasmuch as your dizzy head was already helplessly spinning, along with your heart rabidly hammering against your sore ribcage. You were having a hard time figuring out what was going on, everything around you was so confused, you didn’t even know whether to trust him or not, you only wanted to close your eyes and forget about that lucid nightmare. “I’m not asking you, for fuck’s sake! Tell me who it was!” That searing order tersely brought you back to reality and cleared how easily his rash temper could reemerge; indeed, all of a sudden, no trace was left of that kind, cheerful boy who earlier that night had succeeded in making you genuinely blush, on the contrary, when he cupped your cheeks and vehemently shook you, in a desperate effort to get your attention, his rough, authoritative command unbendingly hit you, and the sweet child within him ended up being thoroughly smothered by the scary, ruthless gangster that he truly was. That unforeseen contact had your feet automatically stagger backwards, your eyes fell to your tiptoes and your teeth started skewering your lower lip, while your exhausted brain resorted to its last ounce of strength, thereby obligating you to spit out a bit of your sorrow. “Three months ago, the man I once called father sold me to settle one of his debts with the Italians” Your thorax seemed to shrink to the point of absurdity once you became aware that it was essentially the first time you allowed yourself to say it all out loud. However, the presence of that compassionate stranger still represented for you a substantial barrier to surmount, leading your unquiet glance to franticly move from the grime on the floor, to the broken window on your left, anywhere, but never daring to meet his. “ I tried to run away, I swear I did, but they always caught me and-”

A large knot callously plugged the bottom of your palate, causing you to hesitate for a minute, gently rubbing your own arms, in attempt to comfort yourself . “Robert has a short fuse, he g-gets pretty brutal when you don’t cooperate” Those disenchanted considerations carried an involuntary grin, it was nothing more than a spasm, but hid the unmistakable sign of an imminent cry, and John’s attentive irises certainly did not let it go unnoticed, yet he chose to stay quiet, because the last thing he would’ve wanted in that crucial moment was to scare you even more. “He beat me to death, each time harder than the time before, and then he let those men-... He-e kept me tied to that bed for days to teach me a lesson” Copious tears were now unremittingly streaming down your flushed face, your heart aching with raw affliction, preventing you from breathing properly, one of your palms instinctively went to cover the space between your breasts, in a vain whirl to ease that excruciating grief. “Oh, God” John simply sighed, he was precariously theetering on the verge of tears as well, thick veins untamedly pumped in the proximity of his temples, till his solid shape ruinously keeled over the longest side of the bed, his elbows piercing his own thighs, as he hid behind his clenched fists and finally permitted himself to indulge a couple of muffled sobs. Innumerable atrocities had clouded his eyes and soul during his brief life, he himself was capable of unspeakable acts of cruelty, still, that was absolutely intolerable, hearing your story was taking a terrible toll on him. Try as he might, he couldn’t conceive how somebody could have been so hopelessly evil, to abuse in such a heinous way a defenseless creature as pure as you were. That thought was irretrievably disturbing him, rancorously eroding his bowels, almost depriving him of his sanity.

“U-until I stopped fighting them” Your last, indescribably anguished whisper struck the fatal blow, it unrelentingly plunged into his chest, sending an unbearable jolt of pain through his poisoned veins. For a brief instant, his expression, together with yours, harshly turned into a mask made of neat despair, as if your synapsis had been ravelled and both of you were enduring the exact same ache, at the exact same moment.

“I’ll fucking kill him!” Then, all at once, something apopletic inside him violently detonated, he berserkly stood up, roughly tripping over the beside table and everything placed on it. “Fucking kill that filthy bastard with my own two hands, bloody hell!” His hoarse yells made your bruised skin cringe and his furious steps covered the whole length of the room in the space of a scant minute; he was literally seething with murderous fits of rage, teeth grinding with irrepressible choler. “No!” your desperate voice erupted afresh and you hurried to reach for him, your hands unconsciously enveloping his cheekbones “Please, please, John, please, stop!” For the first time, his name slipped out of your aching throat in between those pathetic pleads, your wrists forced him to look at you, in attempt to dissuade him from his homicidal purposes; the mere thought of the potential disastrous consequences to his calamitous ire totally asphyxiated you, rampant panic assaulted your frail mind and, soon after, you found yourself hyperventilating and simultaneously rambling a bunch of incoherent words, your fingers gradually tightening their grip on him. “He’s gonna get so angry at me, he’s gonna- he-he’s...” “I’m a fucking Shelby, he does not draw a damn breath unless I say so” He firmly grabbed your chin with just two of his fingers, guiding your depleted pupils to entirely focus on his confident stare, and he growled that undisputable fact a span away from your nose. Petrified by that new awareness, you fell utterly silent, only gawking in his direction, while he put his undershirt back on with ease and rapidly grasped his cap. “Just stay here, do you hear me? Don’t move until I come back” An incandescent kiss was impulsively pressed to your forehead, no other words were spent, before he disappeared behind the door of your private hell. When your persecutor saw his special guest unyieldingly storming towards his desk with a truculent expression exuding fervent disappointment, he jumped on his feet, ready to find a solution to whatever problem had possibly arisen; one thing was sure, he never would’ve guessed what was about to happen. “Mr. Shelby, what’s wron-” John’s fist savagely collided with his jaw, nipping his cloying speech in the bud, without giving Turrini a second to process what was going on, another punch pitilessly smote him, and then another one, and then another, until hot, plenteous blood gushed from his multiple wounds. “You son of a bitch” Animalistic groans left his rabid maws, sheer hate rushing through his brains, as he violently tossed him to the ground, immediately beginning to kick his torso with all of his brute force. “Mercy! I beg of you, sir, have mercy!” His victim’s prayers and harrowing screams barely titillated his ears, everything he could think about was your tragically marred body, hence an unbridled desire to give him a taste of his own medicine completely took over. “Where was your mercy when you were torturing her?” Expertely holding his hat in the most efficient way, in a fury, John went down on his sacrificial lamb, promptly disfiguring just one side of his face, in order to take a quite theatrical pause from his wicked work.

“When she was imploring you to stop?” Robert was now crying out loud, overwhelmed by that merciless agony, reduced to just invoke the glacial scynt of death, since nothing in his entire miserable existence had ever caused him more intense pain, than the coarse perception of a finely sharpened razorblade brutishly lacerating his flesh once more, inch by inch.

“Now bend your ear to this” despite his wrenching laments, John rudely lift him up by seizing the blood stained collar of his jacket “if anyone else but me goes near her fucking room again, I’ll burn this fucking place down!” And with that first, deadly threat the pimp’s head was brutally slammed into the wall, an umpteenth whine of contrition escaping his mouth filled with blood, nevertheless, no time was left for redemption.

“You lay a finger on her again” his skull was doggedly crashed into the bricks once again, a crimson spatter smeared the pale plaster covering them “I will break your neck” John’s knuckles clasped, having his red right hand effectively strenghten its hold on his neck, nearly killing him on the spot. However, fortunately for the whoremaster, Johnny would’ve not put an end to his sufferings, nor he could've simply taken you away, deep inside, he knew he needed to discuss it with his family, first and foremost, with Thomas, for the unstable equilibrium reached by the Peaky Blinder was far too fragile to start a new war against the Italians. Thus, with great difficulty, he forced himself to keep his mind clear and put a lid on his beastly instinct. “From now on, no one of you dirty swines is allowed to even look at her” Throwing him to the floor, the middle Shelby delivered one last kick straight to his fat abdomen, and disrespectfully spit on him, marking with his salt slaver the end of his brutalized prey’s calvary. “By order of the Peaky Blinders” As soon as the crackling door snapped open, your heart seemed to explode, your eyelids bolted with pure fear, whilst you pulled your knees closer to your clavicles, an ancient prayer lingering your lips together with heavy breaths, as you prepared for the worst. But the worst never came. “Y/n, hey, calm down. It’s all right” John’s husky voice echoed in your ears, and, you could’ve sworn it, that was, without the slightest doubt, the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Your head abruptly tilted in his direction, an oxymoric mixture of fear and hope twinkling into your watery irises, deep pants still rocking your tiny self. “It’s me, it’s just me” Keeping his arms up to indicate his innocuous purpose, he carefully approached you. Almost immediately, you noticed the several scarlet handprints staining his pale top, eloquent sign that he had tried to wipe his palms on that ivory material as best as he could. Yet, you were so profoundly relieved to see his friendly face, that, to be honest, the sight of fresh blood didn’t upset you at all. It was like you had fallen into a fugue state, every single thing around you was so distant, your numb senses were only able to concentrate on John’s lean silhouette kneeling in front of you. “ No one will hurt you anymore, darling” his hands gently went to caress your thighs, while his worried gaze tirelessly sought yours and he spoke those soft, reassuring words “You need to trust me”. And you did want to put all of your faith in that young man. His delicate flair easily awakened you from that ostensible slumber, building a rousing fire inside your belly; without a thought about your unforeseen actions, you threw your arms around his strong neck, your knees producing a dry sound as they collided with the wooden pavement, still you didn’t care and you held him tight, letting out loud cries and drowning into his muscular chest, finally revelling in the feeling of that warm embrace. Soon, he entangled his callous fingers with your velvety locks, subconsciously narrowing his solid shoulders, as to shield your frangible figure from the outside world. “I'll get you out of here soon, I promise”

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