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#like there’s nothing else much macabre going on with their designs
cruelfeline · 2 years
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That last post made me think a bit more about the stark differences between Prime's lifestyle and Hordak's. Which I think deserves its own post. So!
Going back and looking at these two characters in terms of leadership roles is so fascinating, even years after the show's end. It's common knowledge that Hordak tried to mimic Prime in his attempted conquest of Etheria, but assessing the details makes it clear how practical and functional this mimicry is. And how different Hordak truly is from Prime, in terms of how he uses resources and what he prioritizes as a leader.
Horde Prime is god. Not only is he god, to his clones and - militarily - to the rest of the universe, he believes himself to be god. And he enjoys all the prestige that comes with that belief.
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Like modern-day grifting megachurch pastors, he demands a higher standard of living than what his followers get. This means fine dining with clone wait staff. It means fancy furnishings to lounge about upon. It means an entire trophy room dedicated to showing off his accomplishments, macabre as they are.
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Horde Prime doesn't do physical labor. His clones do that. He doesn't maintain his own form, doesn't even have a machine to do it for him. Again, his clones fill the role, very much acting as personal attendants - servants - while doing so.
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Heck, he doesn't even press buttons on his own; Hordak does that for him.
Compare this to Hordak. Compare how Hordak lives, even as Lord of the Etherian Horde.
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We never see where Hordak sleeps, but we see his inner chambers, his Sanctum. There's not a drop of opulence to be found. No gourmet food. No fancy furnishings. No hall devoted to showcasing his accomplishments in the form of polished trophies. There are only machines and monitors and tools designed to do a job.
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He is Lord, but his surroundings are more befitting of a hard-working engineer than anything Prime has. This becomes even more true in season four, when Hordak works among the ruins of his old projects rather than insisting upon keeping up appearances and having things cleaned. Practical functionality is what matters; nothing else.
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And when there is physical labor to be done? Hordak does it himself. He doesn't leave such work only to his subordinates.
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Same with personal care. Of course, this is likely also a trust issue, but that is something that might have been circumvented with enough sense of entitlement. If Hordak felt others should serve him, then there's a fair chance he'd have made it happened. But he never did. Instead, his body is serviced by a (sadly glitchy) machine.
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And when someone else does help with maintenance? It's Entrapta, and it's within the bonds of friendship rather than service.
My ultimate point here is this: Hordak and Horde Prime both hold the title of "lord" in their respective Hordes, but their relationship with that title could not be more different. Prime believes in that title. He believes that he is lord, king, god. He demands all of the luxuries that go along with that intensely elevated status. And he uses his resources, his spoils of war, to attain them.
Hordak holds the title, but he barely acts it beyond using it to organize others. He doesn't experience any of the "royal treatment" Prime enjoys. He doesn't demand unconditional service from others. And he doesn't bask in the polished glory of his accomplishments.
It's such a fascinating difference between them. One that highlights what their true goals are, what they desire within their core selves. Prime desires opulence and worship, whereas Hordak... Hordak works within the confines of concepts he understands in order to return to the only home he's ever known. But worship? Luxury?
Not even on his radar.
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kuumara · 1 year
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ok lets go
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usually the original post is alright and its the comments that are weird, but not this time. bc i could say the exact same thing ab mcdonalds, that they would be disappointed crying pissing screaming etc when they see s5. i personally think more ronaldmcdonaldasses should be ok with a byler endgame, but if i said this they would all cry piss scream shit
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yeah, he did say he's scared of losing her. but as the saying goes that you've prob seen from alot of other stuff, "if you love something you're not afraid to let it go". so idk ab u but mike saying that just confirms that the relationship is toxic and if it continues it might even turn into an emotionally abusive one, IMO (its a pattern- ur anxious the partner will leave, u start being more cautious around them; even turn into a whole another version of urself u think the partner will like more (mikes lenora drip), etc etc. very stressful for u (mike) and also ur partner (el)).
"he's clearly inlove with eleven" idk it wasnt really clear to me when she offensively side-eyed him at the cabin and then he rolled his eyes or wtvr that was, which was literally the last time they interacted. not really madly in love healthy relationship of them tbh. and its EL not goddamn eleven that alone speaks volumes ab how much they care ab her well-being or character arc or wtvr their other excuses are (they say mike leaving her would crush her, but so would if u called her eleven in her face)
"it would go against everything we've seen in the show" i agree with this one. except, byler not being canon would go against everything blablabla 🤓 like, we've seen this happen before with steve and robin, this would just be even more bombastic.
then, the show dunks on homophobes all the time so Macabre canon would go against that too; and yes, it would be homophobic to use a gay character's CONFESSION and FEELINGS THAT ARE ALREADY CAUSING HIM PAIN to uplift the straight couple, making them happy married with 17 kids while the gay character is in even more pain and like dies or smth
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holy shit i thought yall were exaggerating when u said they actually think mleven is love at first sight.
1) the duffers wouldnt "suddenly scrap it", ppl have been finding subtext and set design clues since the beginning, since ep1. no its not delusions, its stuff for which there isnt any other actual explanation. it all makes sense, every subtext reference, every set design prop, every decoration on clothes- theres even an official st video on yt where the set design says she put triangles on robins clothes bc shes gay asf. Guess who else has triangles on his shirt (which he wears for majority of the show, might i add)? MIKE -but that just means he likes girls!! just like robin, to shut down any theories the fans made ab him liking guys!!! hes a lesbian😭😭😭
2) im assuming these are hard core fans, since theyre still in the subreddit and all that, and i dont doubt theyve seen the stranger things twitter account say they don't believe in love at first sight. so the writers=write the show. don't believe in love at first sight, it's just cheesy (infatuated) 12yr old shit. so, why would they include smth they think isn't real, unrealistic even? except if they're saying mike and els love isn't real-
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alright final one. the classic "yall delusional" argument. Nothing else to say besides we are seeing patterns and we are recognizing them. not my fault ur not as observant and intelligent🙄
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puppyeared · 3 years
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Guess who finished catching up on the owl house
[ reblogs > likes ]
#also.. jumping on the clawthorne theory about bird themed stuff#they’re shaped more closely to earth based birds#I notice that when you look at palismans belonging to the clawthornes compared to other palismans#like there’s nothing else much macabre going on with their designs#if you notice the other palisman even in 'escape of the palisman' they do slightly resemble their earth counterparts#but they’re usually something that makes them more fitting to the demon realm#like a 3 headed baboon or a squirrel with a scorpion tail#but... oddly the clawthornes’ palismans don’t have any deviations on their form that make them lean to the demon realm#they’re actually weirdly normal shaped compared to their environment#and that’s saying something because a cat from the demon realm is fundamentally different from an earth cat#AND... hunters palisman happens to be a northern cardinal that also doesn’t follow the demonic shape pattern like the clawthornes#something id say the exception would be though is the goose palisman cause its meant to be a reference to untitled goose game#my art#myart#the owl house#toh#toh s2#eda clawthorne#luz noceda#toh amity#amity blight#toh hunter#golden guard#willow park#Gus porter#toh luz#still chugging along on the sibling bandwagon#eda you will have your hands so full if hunter joins the group#I’m also in love with lumity god they’re so cute together#and Gus and willow are such good friends they even tried to help luz attempt to steal a priceless relic that’s so precious u guys
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somnambulants · 3 years
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i love your writing!! could you maybe do something with exes to lovers with nat?
word count: 3.9K notes: thanks for the request! i’m glad you like my writing! i also may...have started thinking about writing a second part because im super attached to this fic. let me know if thats something you guys would be interested in!
“Barton, you’re such a –“
Your world stops turning at the sound of that voice, everything else becoming static. It doesn’t matter that you’re standing in a room full of people that you’re supposed to be impressing.
It’s been over ten years since you’d last heard that voice.
Vaguely, you know that Captain America is speaking to you but the only thing you can pay attention to is her.
You turn slowly, and the second you lay eyes on her you know for sure.
It’s definitely her.
You see it the second she spots you too.
In all the time you’d known her, she’d always been so much more proficient at hiding things than you but you still see the way her eyes widen as she takes you in and the way her face shifts into something that resembles shock before she manages to mask it.
“Nat!”
You startle a little, having now somehow completely forgotten that Captain America was next to you and that you were in the middle of a tour of your new workplace the second you’d landed eyes on her.
Oh god.Your new workplace.
Your new workplace that was also clearly her workplace.
As she approaches, you futilely look for every possible way you can escape. “This is Y/N. Fury’s informant while Agent Emery is on reconnaissance. Y/N this is Natasha Romanoff.”
Natasha? Romanoff? Absurdly, you have the sudden urge to laugh.
She really couldn’t have come up with a better name after fleeing the country all those years ago? It’s a surprise to you that you hadn’t heard about her sooner with that alias.
Pushing that thought away and hoping that your face shows the professionalism you’re trying to convey, you straighten your spine and clear your throat. “Nice to meet you.”
Captain America’s eyes flick between the both of you. Maybe you’re not doing as good a job as you’d thought.
Natalia-Natasha takes the hand you extend to her and shakes it. “Likewise,” she says, and you hate the way your body still reacts to her voice all these years later; hate the way her touch still makes you feel.
Even more so, you hate that you don’t know what it is you’re feeling more of as you look into her eyes: fury or heartbreak.
She makes a flimsy –well flimsy to you – excuse and leaves the conversation after that. You watch her walk away, clenching the hand she’d touched into a fist as you resist the urge to put it through the wall next to you.
Somehow you think you’d have a hard time explaining it to the man still standing next to you, who is now watching you with a thoughtfully puzzled but not suspicious expression.
Not yet, anyway.
--
Your dreams that night are fitful and full of her. The first time you’d met, you’d been nothing more than children.
There are no children in red room though. Only fighters and a fighter, she definitely was.
You? Not so much. You’d never been designed to last more than a day in that place and you wouldn’t have, if not for her.
Natalia throws you back against the mat, again and then again and again. Each time you stand up with more difficulty until eventually, she throws you down so hard your vision blurs for a second.
You never had a chance against her, something you knew before you even stepped foot into the room and you know they must have known that too when they set you up against the most experienced fighter here.
It’s abundantly clear you’ve been set up to fail.
The next time she hits you, your legs give out beneath you and you can’t bring yourself to get up this time, even though you know what’s going to happen to you if you don’t.
You know how this works.
Bracing yourself for impact, you close your eyes and wait. It’s pathetic. You know.
The final blow never comes. When you finally crack open an eye, you find Natalia, arms crossed, just gazing down at you.
It might have been your imagination but her eyes don’t seem quite as hard as they had been before.
She extends a hand after a second of her just watching you and you watching her. A little part of you is convinced it’s a trick; that the second you take her hand, you’re going to fail whatever test this is.
Still, against your better judgement you take her hand and, rather than the macabre images playing out in your mind, instead she actually helps you stand, surprisingly gentle as she does so.
She gives you a second to reorient yourself and then her whole demeanour changes, turning cold and stiff as she crouches down back into a fighting position.
“Try again.”
Just as abruptly, you’re thrown into another and another. Quick flashes of the past that still haunt you.
Natalia taking you on your first mission.
Natalia holding your hand as you cried over the body of the first man you’d killed.
Natalia lying beside you on your mattress, running her hands through your hair gently when your nightmares became so bad you’d go days without sleeping.
Years and years of training. Years of bruises and broken bones. Mission after mission. Somehow, it’s all maybe not-quite worth it but it almost is – almost – because of her.
When you kiss her for the first time, you think that might be the first time either of you has had any control over what you do with your bodies. 
You can't remember a time where you'd had something you'd ever wanted and you wanted her so badly.
You can’t get enough of it. Or her.
And then, one day, you wake up and she’s just... gone. 
--
The next morning, feeling irritable and exhausted from your disturbed sleep, you walk into the avengers training room and find the one person you’d been hoping wouldn’t be there.
Of course, your mind spitefully whispers because of course it wasn’t enough for the universe to thrust her back into your life but it had to throw her in your face too.
When you enter, she has her back to you but you know she knows you’re there by the way her back stiffens slightly.
You watch as she stands up straighter at the words you throw at her back, unable to help yourself: “What is this? Babysitting duty? I think we’re passed that, aren’t we?”
She turns to you. “I usually come here early,” is all she says. She doesn’t respond to the bite in your voice.
You make a non-committal sound and then just decide to ignore her, stomping past her to make your way to the far corner of the room. You work by yourself in peace for about ten minutes before you hear the sound of footsteps and all of a sudden she’s in front of you.
“I need a partner,” she says. 
You have the urge to laugh in her face, before it strikes you how cathartic it would be to punch her right now, no matter how childish it might be, so you stand, letting the weight you’d been holding drop back to the floor with a loud thud, and follow her across the room.
You both crouch down in anticipation and you take a second to really look at her.
Her expression is unreadable. The pang you feel when you realise that surprises you.
There had been a time when you’d known her like the back of your hand and now she's nothing more than a stranger standing in front of you.
It hurts a lot more than you’d thought it would.
--
This continues for weeks. You don’t know why you let it happen but you do. You get up early; you go to the gym; you spar with her and then you fulfil the duties you’d been hired to do.
It’s almost easy to slip back into that headspace of your whole life revolving around her. Because it does. All you do is think about her when you’re not around her.
Over those weeks, you still barely speak a word to her because at least if you don’t speak, you have some kind of power.
To your surprise, she lets you ignore her, lets you pretend you don’t hear her whenever she speaks and you resent her a little more for that. You’d rather she hated you as much as you want to hate her.
It would make it all so much easier.
--
Eventually, though, you break.
You’re not strong enough to ignore your desire to know everything; to know how she’d ended up here. And why she’d clearly cared enough to stick around and try and save the entire world when you, a single person, hadn’t even been worth enough for her to stay.
“Why,” you pant, mid spar one morning. She’s kicking your ass, as usual. “Why here? Why the avengers?”
You’d sworn to yourself you’d never ask her this question but the yearning to know has been burning inside you since you’d walked into this building over a month ago now.
Equally as breathless, Natasha drops the careful façade she’d had up and looks at you with those eyes; the ones that could have made you do anything at one point in time. You’re not convinced they still couldn’t. “I wanted to do better… be better than what we were…. Isn’t that why you’re here, too?”
That answer hurts you more than any of the hits she’s landed on you this morning. And there’s been a lot. She’s still the superior fighter, even if she had left so long before you.
God, those words hurt to hear. Especially to have you lumped in with the clearly bad part of her life, whether it was her intention or not.
Maybe that’s why you say what you say next. Maybe there’s a little part of you wishes this whole situation would hurt her as much as it hurts you.
“How… uncharacteristic of you,” you ignore the last part of her sentence because honestly: you don’t know why you’re here. You feel like you’ve been lost and drifting your whole life and the only thing that had ever made sense to you was her.
You know your bitterness has bled into your voice with your words but you don’t make any effort to mask it. And if you can hear it, she definitely can too.
In the blink of an eye, she stops sparring with you, straightening up quicker than even you can catch. You let out a breathless huff of air as she grabs the front of your shirt pulling it so you’re forced forward until you’re almost nose to nose with her.
You hate that for a split second, before you can control yourself, you lean in slightly. As much as your mind can’t stand her, your body has no such feelings and it still wants her. You know you have no hope of hiding it from her so you don’t even bother.
“You don’t know me,” she says. The words come out of her mouth fiercely but the look in her eyes is soft, beseeching, like she wants you to hear her. “I'm not that person anymore.”
Like it matters.
It’s like you’re suspended in time for a second, and all you can think of as you look into her eyes is of the woman you knew.
You hate that you still miss her.
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes that you want to believe mirrors the torrent of emotions currently taking over you – the sadness, the anger, the grief – but you know better than to have hope when it comes to her.
You know all too well how it ends. And you’ve had enough of false hope.
Typically, in a fight, you know Natasha would come out on top – has every time -- but she’s never had your anger directed at her the way it is now and she isn’t expecting the way you’re practically vibrating with it as you shove her away, so hard that she stumbles backwards, only just managing to stay on her feet.
“Clearly,” you spit at her as you straighten up, and start walking towards the exit.
You know she’s still just standing there in the same spot. You can feel her eyes on you.“Yeah, run away,” she mutters under her breath.
It’s the first time she’s shown you the attitude you’d been giving her for weeks and her reaction is justified, you can admit it, but you don’t care.
You spin around, fury overtaking you as you advance on her until you’re pinning her against the wall behind her. “Sorry,” you hiss, glaring into her eyes. “I forgot you’re the only one who can do that.”
“That was different.”
You laugh. It’s not a nice one. It sounds like an injured animal trying to claw it’s way out of your throat. 
“Why? Because it was you doing it? Excuse me for not being —“
All of a sudden, she’s kissing you. Or you’re kissing her.
Either way, you’re kissing and you don’t know how exactly it happened but you know that you can’t get enough of her; can’t get her close enough even though there’s no longer even an inch of space between you.
She flips your positions, tugging you closer, and you’re abruptly bathed in cool air as she rips your shirt off you, shoving you against the wall.
Your heart picks up rapidly as she kneels in front of you, easing the rest of your clothes off in one fluid moment.
“I hate you. So much,” you tell her as you step out of your pants and it’s not convincing even to you. Still, you repeat it again and again as she kisses down your body – so tenderly and gently that your voice starts to wobble.
You hate it. You hate her.
She looks up at you from in between your legs, now on her knees. It’s such a vulnerable position that you find you can’t look at her and you have to close your eyes. Natasha digs her nails into your thighs as she forces them apart.
“Look at me,” she demands. Her grip tightens until you obey; you know you’re going have crescent shaped bruises tomorrow. Her gaze is soft and tender and just all consuming. You know there’s no coming back from it. You’d never had a chance, even back when you didn’t mind not having one. “Don’t look away.”
You don’t, not even when she finally, finally, touches you and your head falls back against the wall. 
You hold her gaze the entire time knowing how incredibly stupid this is and not caring at all about how much you’ll regret it later when you’re thinking straight.
--
And regret it, you do.
You stop working out early. You walk the other way in the halls if you see her. You know people are catching on that something is going on between the both of you; have caught multiple avengers giving you quizzical looks whenever you’re in the same room and it makes you feel even worse than before.
You channel all that regret into something more meaningful and commit to doing a damn good job at what you were actually here for. And you do. You can admit you do a fantastic job.
Every time you hand a report in or come back from a mission, you swear see a glimmer of approval in Fury’s eyes. Something you’d heard was notoriously hard to come by.
You must have done something really shitty in a past life though because after weeks of throwing yourself into your temporary duties, you walk into your temporarily office and are immediately flagged down by Fury, who debriefs you on the details of a mission he’s sending you on.
You’re thrilled for about three seconds until you see the name of the person you’re going with.
Agent Natasha Romanoff.
Fury is looking at you with a scrutinising expression when you look up from the file. Every time he looks at you it’s like he can see inside your soul. “Is that a problem?”
You grit your teeth and force yourself to smile. “Of course not, sir.”
--
It is a problem. A big problem, in fact.
You don’t speak to her on the flight there. Even though it’s only the two of you confined in the aircraft. You don’t even so much let yourself look at her. You can feel her looking at you multiple times, though, even though she’s piloting and should only be looking at the course in front of you.
There are no words exchanged between you all day beyond the times you absolutely have to speak. 
At least not until you reach the tiny hotel room you’d been given.
The second the door closes behind you both, she turns to you and opens her mouth and maybe it’s cowardly but you cut her off before she even start speaking.
“I’m going to have a shower,” you say and flee the room with your entire carry-on, worried that if you pause to sift through your things, she’ll keep talking.
Still in the same spot, the look on Natasha’s face when you emerge from the bathroom is full of clear exhaustion. You hate the way it makes you feel. Empty. Sad. It’s exhausting for you trying to convince yourself you hate her.
“I’m sorry I left,” she says and you freeze. “I wanted to come back. Find you. I just didn’t know - i didn’t know if you even wanted me to.”
You’ve wanted to hear those words for so long. Now you have you don’t know what to do. “Why did you leave?”
She hesitates. The look in her eyes tells you you’re not going to get a full answer. That as open as she’s trying to be, you still don’t get to know why she abandoned you. “It’s a long story.”
The evasion stings. “An apology means nothing if you won’t tell me why.”
It’s an unfair thing to say. You know that but you don’t really feel like being fair right now.
You chance a look up when she doesn’t respond and find her looking down at the floor. It makes you wonder what — or who — she must still be protecting by not telling you. 
It becomes apparent that she’s not going to say anything else after the silence between you drags on long enough that the tension in the air becomes almost unbearable.
You don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing the tears in your eyes so you flick the light off and turn the lamp on your shared nightstand off, throwing the both of you into immediate darkness. It’s definitely too early to be sleeping but you don’t care.
Eventually, after laying there rigidly for what feels like hours and listening to the sounds of Natasha tossing and turning in the other bed, you finally fall asleep and are immediately thrown into dream after dream that quickly turn into fitful nightmares.
Nightmares that may be more aptly called memories. After one particularly bad one that thrusts you back into consciousness, you bolt upwards, still half asleep. 
You only narrowly manage to avoid bumping straight into Natasha, who’s hovering above you, because of her hand on your shoulder holding you in place.
You flinch away from her instinctively and she backs up to give you a little space.
The only sound in the room is your heavy and desperate gasping for air. Natasha, now perched on the very edge of the bed, bites her lip, looking at you as if she knows exactly what you’d been dreaming about.
She probably does. It doesn’t take a genius to guess.
“Are you –"
“I’m fine,” you say flatly. You stare up at the ceiling, absently counting the tiles as you try to slow your breathing.
You’re hyperventilating, you know it, you just can’t get yourself to stop. You’re also sweating, it’s disgusting. You can feel how all of your clothes are stuck to you. Your hair flattened to your neck.
If you hadn’t been dealing with this for so long, you’re pretty sure that you’d think you were having a heart attack instead of a panic attack.
But you have. Been dealing with it. It’s just something you’ve come to expect now. You just never thought she’d be here to witness it.
All of a sudden, as you’re still trying to calm your breathing, the bed dips below you.
Your eyes fly open in shock to find Natasha sliding onto the mattress beside you, still on top of the covers.
Gingerly, she rests her head on the pillow next to your head and fixes her gaze on the ceiling.
It’s slight but her hand brushes against your own a few minutes later.
You suck in a breath between your teeth, but despite yourself, you let her move closer, until she’s so close you’re almost touching, and you can hear her quiet breathing.
Against your better judgement, you let your eyes slip closed again. Seeming to understand you’re not going to push her away, Natasha shifts closer, until you’re both shoulder to shoulder, the way she used to lay next to you when you had bad dreams when you were kids.
She grabs your hand, and slowly, hesitantly, she moves it to her chest where you can feel her heart thrumming rapidly under your fingertips. Surprisingly, it still works; you breathe in and out, in out in out, in time with her heartbeat.
You must at some point fall asleep because all of a sudden you can hear birds chirping outside the window and the sounds of people outside in the street.
When you open your eyes, you expect to find the spot next to you empty and the covers unruffled, as if she’d never been there at all but to your shock she’s still there beside you, awake and on top of the covers.
The circles under her eyes make you think she must not have slept at all.
You slide out of the bed and head towards the bathroom without saying a word, where you turn the shower on and just sit under the spray for what must be at least an hour, letting the water run over you and trying not to think.
This time when you return, she’s gone.
--
The rest of the mission goes smoothly. If nothing else, you both work well together as a team. You can still read her movements like a book, and she knows to anticipate what you’re doing before you even know yourself.
The days go fine. The nights not so much. You don’t speak about it but every night you’re woken up by the same dreams and every night you wake up to find her kneeling beside you.
If you were stronger willed, you would’ve shoved her away the first time, but you can’t bring yourself to. Maybe it’s a little selfish but you can’t find it in yourself to care. 
The last night of the mission is when you finally break, though. Something shifts in the air when you wake yourself up gasping and meet her eyes. The same eyes that had been blank and lifeless in your dream. 
You know she feels the shift as well by the way she’s looking at you, cautiously hopeful.
You don’t say anything though and neither does she. You just lay there, side by side, and watch each other carefully for what could be seconds, or it could be hours.
Her eyes are begging wordlessly: Truce?
Despite yourself, as you gaze back at her, you find yourself giving in. For tonight at least.
Truce.
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shadowworks · 3 years
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Look Inside
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Pairing: Overhaul X Reader
Warnings: Dubcon-noncon, medical kink, drugged sex, mention of needles, mentions of blood, bondage, fingering, this is dark! 
Word Count: 3.8k 
A/N: I decided to try some creepy themes and give second person a try. So we’ll see how it goes. This piece is dark so please mind the warnings!
Huge shoutout to @present-mel for making the beautiful banner and reading over my fic you precious gem! Also thank you @thisisthehardestthing and @hisoknen for your feedback it’s so greatly appreciated! 💜
Someone had shut off the lights in the morgue. 
You happen to notice this when your eyes toil lazily between security cameras at the right time. You freeze on the spot, and quirk a brow toward the shadow. You expect it’ll brighten any second like it usually does, but after those few seconds tick by without change, a weight of dread sinks in your stomach.
Kai Chisaki put orders in place that if experiments are up and running the basement levels are to remain lit. Chisaki and his men are already down below, and the winding pale halls near the morgue are empty.
 You haven’t been called to notify cleaners about another bloody corpse still peeling off the wall, and you can’t find motion on the surveillance camera when you rewind the recordings. It’s in the lower right corner of the camera, and you note the light flicks off without warning. No one enters, no one leaves. 
You study the harsh glow of the screen for another moment, still in denial, still waiting for the lights to flicker on, and stand up from the chair in the office. When not a soul appears by the threshold, all you can do is lean forward with your hands pressed on the desk, dropping your head in defeat. “Seriously? Fuck you.” 
You don’t know who “you” was exactly, but it felt right to say. 
It takes a bit of time after departing the small office, but you find the proper hall in Chisaki’s deeply looping maze...It’s just you don’t want to step out from the elevator. You were ready before, but when the doors split open and the cool air ghosts against your cheeks, you pause. There’s a stillness lingering in the hallway; it’s far too quiet- except for the creaks in the elevator floor from your shifting weight...But, something seems off. 
  Your steps are tentative when you do slip out, peering down the drab hallway. You clearly see which of the rooms is buried in shadow, and frankly you want to whirl back around before the doors close. But you can’t, well, not yet at least. The tap of your shoes hits off the walls, while you tread along on stiff legs. Eventually you come to a stop having reached the doorway. It’s partly open, a slice of darkness hiding what’s deep inside. 
Hold on, this can't be right. The camera— A shudder trails up your spine. It tingles coldly.
You inhale a deep breath. Okay, just do it; just switch the lights back on, it’s fine. It’s fine. Besides, if it were you (which it is) you wouldn’t want to deal with Chisaki’s ill temper over something so minor as a light. 
He’s punished his men for incompetence before, and those who didn’t listen have smeared the walls with their blood, drenching vein red across white. Black-looking goops of muscle plopped on the floor...the consequences ranged based on severity of failure or how stressed he is, really. In fact, one man had the skin of his face torn off for talking back—wait, relax. Focus
It won’t happen. Kai Chisaki is somewhere else in the maze. He’s not aware of what happened.
There’s a member with a quirk which lets him melt through walls; the tiny one with a bone white mask. He probably slipped between the rooms and grabbed something then turned the lights off. But that didn’t explain the door...
It doesn’t matter.
You stretch an arm out, gently pushing the door further open, and light spills onto the tile floor. 
It’s a cold, vacant room. There’s a pungent scent of bleach still lingering from a cleanup, but it hits your nose almost like it happened recently. You can’t see much nor do you want to. And your hand reaches around the door frame, trailing gentle fingers along the smooth surface for a switch—
Only, there’s nothing on the wall. 
“Are you serious? Really?” you huff to yourself, stepping round to search for the light. Sure enough, your fears are realized with one look. 
You let out an annoyed groan, and a, ‘stupid switch’ under your breath. Who the hell designs a room and doesn’t put a switch by the door? 
Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, so you can’t see the precise details on the walls. So this leaves you no choice but to step further in, allowing the brightness from the hall to guide you along.
It’s a moderate room with a vaulted wall filled with metal drawers, all large enough to fit an icy corpse in ‘til the yakuza dispose of them. Then there’s the silver surgical table in the middle of the room. It's empty, but the thing’s embellished. There’s protruding belts attached, and a tray on wheels is parked on the side. On top of the tray is a clean towel and a neat row of surgical tools lay flat across. 
Your brows scrunch together, studying the sharp gleam of knives and the sizes of needles. Why are these out? Kai’s an obsessive clean freak, every little thing needs to be put back and organized. All his masked cronies know this rule, so who the hell did this? That is, unless someone’s using them?
Your back is turned to the glow seeping in from the hall, so you don’t see a gloved hand press on the metal door. There’s a push, and the door slams shut. 
You let out a startled yelp, cupping your hands to your mouth. What the hell…! Your heart’s pounding wildly in your chest; for some reason the room feels colder, you feel colder. 
“I must say this is disappointing.”
Light floods the room from the panels above, flickering with a buzzing noise before they settle. You take a moment. A deep breath, a slow exhale. When the initial shock stops tingling in your muscles, you slowly drop your palms. The voice is male, his tone’s calm, ominous and it carries like chill over your shoulder. You know this voice; you know you have to turn around. But fuck, you can’t stop trembling. When you do, you see a tall figure looming near the wall, a gloved hand still on the switch.
Kai Chisaki. 
“I told Setsuno I needed him in the security room. Do you think it’s hard for him to follow directions?”
You stare at him, anxiously. He isn’t wearing his green coat with the violet plumage trimming on the collar. He’s in his iron pressed, black suit and grey tie; the trademark plague mask covering half his face. 
“Setsuno asked me to fill in. He said he wasn’t feeling well...I guess,” you manage to say it as steady as you can. 
The lanky blond hadn’t given you a clear reason when he staggered towards you near dawn. But if you’re being honest, you didn’t really care.You barely looked his way at breakfast, choosing to stare into your dark coffee cup than at the katana resting on his shoulder. The sword was still wet with blood, and you knew he’d been out all night. Though right now, you sorta wish you pressed him more for details.
Kai mutters something slightly bitter, words that are muffled against the material of his mask. But you hear him sigh, then his tone turns crisper. “No matter. It’s inconvenient, but I can work around these...changes.”
His arm drops to his side, walking from the wall. And unexpectedly- those peculiar eyes you see leering at his enemies, have now fallen on you. 
You seize up in mild panic, the pupils in your eyes shrinking; not knowing what to do. You take a scuffling step or two back on reflex—and knock your hip against the table corner. 
Oww—ow, fuck. Hold on, what’s he doing? Why—Your voice bubbles in your throat as you watch him draw near. Though it’s strange, for Kai doesn’t pull at the rim of his latex glove like expected, rather, the Shie Hassaikai boss happens to steer past you instead. 
...Huh?
Your neck cranes, loose hair spilling over your shoulder. He stops a couple feet away and tilts his head downward in front of the tray, no longer regarding your presence and focusing on his work. 
You stand there awkwardly, just listening to the clinks of metal fitting together in Kai’s grip. You’re not fully understanding though, should you leave? It looks like your job’s finished now that your boss is here. Besides, you’re pretty confident Kai doesn't want you here if he’s occupying the room. 
In the long pause between you two, your mind’s made up which prompts you to retreat back and aim towards the door. They’re slow, careful moving steps. 
“Well, you seem busy...I should probably hurry back and watch the cameras,'' you say dismissing yourself. You’re partial toward the comfort of the smaller office, and any chance you have of leaving the macabre storage space you will eagerly take it. 
You don’t make it to the gleaming doorknob—because Kai’s voice holds you still. It isn’t loud, but it grips the room. “No stay. There’s no need for you to leave so soon.”
A mix of fear and confusion read across your features. Kai has never spent a moment alone with you. In fact, you aren’t actually part of the yakuza. The only reason you’re associated with the fallen crime syndicate, is because the former boss offered you odd jobs as a favor. You needed some work to keep from struggling and he had taken a liking to you, sort of how he did with Kai. But then, the leader collapsed. 
Now you aren't sure where you stand. Chisaki is in charge.
“I believe there’s something you can do for me. Will you have a seat on the table?” 
You aren’t sure if you heard him right, or fully grasp what he means. He says it so casually-  but you know better; it’s a demand. You’re just not sure why.
“I’m fine. Really. I should be going-“
“Are you defying my order?” Again, he says it so nonchalantly. This time Kai turns his head over his shoulder; the look he gives is almost impassive, yet there’s a menacing gleam in the yellow of his eyes.
“What? No, I was…! Right.”
You don’t exactly drag your feet, but you do stand hesitant before the edge of the table where countless bodies have been dissected. So much blood, so many organs harvested on this very table.
“I won’t ask you again.” 
You turn around robotically, eyes pointed downward as you hoist your hips onto the metal. The table’s surface is icy, it numbs your fingers the longer you lean on it, which only makes you fold them against your thighs. 
“Roll up your sleeve.” Kai says by your right, holding up a purple band. Your gaze flicks up immediately, nervously, a silent plea for mercy. As if somehow your glossy and delicate eyes will make a difference. But it does nothing toward Kai’s stoic stance. He simply waits, and his own steely eyes narrow back.
You drop your head with a wince; just do as he says. 
You comply, pushing up your long sleeve. Though you make a point not to help much more than that, leaving your arm limp at your side. 
Kai doesn’t seem to notice or care and proceeds to wrap the rubber around your arm. You grimace, unpleased as his fingers skim your arm, and again when he brushes you with a wet cotton swab. 
“You need my blood?” You ask evenly. 
His eyes don’t leave your skin, “Not necessarily.”
“A lot of effort for, ‘not necessarily.’” You say, not too dryly. 
“You’ve seen my work before, you should know by now I take great care in everything I do.”
Kai rotates between you and the now rolled over stand, dismissing your light jab. He sets up the port for blood to flow; all in a well practiced motion. It certainly makes you wonder how many times he’s done this before. 
“I’m curious, when was your last doctor's appointment?” He asks suddenly, hands already prepping the next instrument. The other needle probably, but you don’t want to play as his patient. He isn’t your doctor, for fucks sake.
“A while.” You answer. 
“A while,” he repeats with a subtle chuckle under his covered breath,“Has anyone told you before you’re a feisty one?”
You bite your tongue and refuse to meet his side glance. When you don’t reply back, he carries on with a sigh. 
“I’ve had quite a long day you see, so I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my tolerance for stubborn little girls.”
Suddenly, his hand is squeezing your shoulder, and all too quickly you find yourself thumping against the cold metal, your horrified eyes staring up at the bright ceiling. The next thing you feel is buckles fastening, pinning you against the table by your waist and elbows. 
You're flooded with tingling panic, voice cracking from strain, “Hol—Hold on one second. Please, just one more—”
“—You know they say you should never let the lamb see the knife? Their fear tampers the meat, and ruins the flavor,” Kai gives a sharp tug on the last belt. “But I find yours all the more intoxicating, my dear.”
You stammer, words of protest mingle together as you attempt to be heard, “I don’t understand, why are you…Just stop. You need to let me go!”
Your teeth clench together in a rage that fills your chest. You’re not thinking rationally, your nerves are unhinged. And in your adrenaline high your leg curls up, thrashing a viciously blunt strike toward the point of his beak.
 Before it can connect and batter the bridge of his nose and mark his cheekbones, Kai’s arm flexes quickly. Your foot stops mid air as he catches your ankle with constricting force. 
“Do I?” He asks with a title of his head, there're subtle creases in the corner of eyes, you can imagine his mouth settles in a cold smile beneath. 
In that moment you freeze up. Your lash lines burn, stinging with fresh tears glossing your doe eyes. You don’t breathe, you don’t dare to expand your lungs. Your only thought is begging him not to burst open your calf. 
“You shouldn’t be giving commands. You work under me now,” his nails dig in your flesh, and you know those indents will marr your flesh.“Meaning you’ll have to bear with me while I continue.”
Kai doesn’t loosen his hold, briefly watching your pained expression. But he favors dropping his gaze below to study the stretch of your thigh, your exposed and parted groin. It’s then his nimble fingers reach to unclasp the button of your jeans and he gently pulls down the zipper. You cry out, jerking against the belts, but he isn’t fazed. 
“One of our new drugs is supposed to relax its victims...recently it’s been ineffective if the heartbeat’s racing too quickly, though we’ve made modifications to counter this. My plan was to stage a fight with Setsuno, until...you graciously took his place.”
Kai lowers your leg, both hands roaming across to the edge of your jeans. He still studies you, and decides to push up your ribbed sweater, letting the cold bite of the morgue chill your hips. His latex fingers trace lightly across your pebbled skin, skimming down the dips to your thighs. 
“Yes, this will do just fine. You’re pretty enough,” he muses, softly.
He then tucks his hands into your waistband, yanking them down your legs, before they fall to the floor with a plop. The seamless panties slip off easily, as well. This sends a small prickle through you, and, no, this can’t keep going! The fight in you surges, pushing your knees together to shield your groin. Only Kai doesn’t like that. 
There’s something cold and dangerous in his glare, a threat that twists at your stomach. He’s warning you; don’t make this worse for yourself or you’ll make him snap. And you didn’t want that...You watch both his hands clutch your knees, he doesn’t waste time and he yanks your legs apart, taking in your pretty cunt.
Angry tears trickle down your cheeks in response. Your throat burns from holding back a sob, “Chisaki, please. If you would—“
 Without a moment of hesitation, Kai knowingly finds where to touch you first. A little too skillfully for a false doctor, the pad of his thumb presses against your soft, sensitive nub, stroking tight circles with focus. Your breath catches, falling heavier while he sinks his pad deeper in the forming slick, building steady pressure.
“Still so stubborn, what good will that bring you?”
A broken moan spills on your shaky breath, all against your better decisions. His other hand settles between your legs, and a finger plunges inside your heat, curling upward and massaging the rougher layer of flesh. A sharp gasp inhales into your lungs. He isn’t stopping, no, Kai’s gloved finger moves with vigor the more your pleasurably laced cries pour out from your lips, how desperate they become.
He pushes in a second finger, and then a third thrusting in, stretching you and soaking your walls with your arousal. This causes you to push your hips further against his latex hand. 
“Kai, you fucking bastard!” you sob out, formalities be damned as your back arches. You can feel the building pulses in your cunt tense up, losing yourself to your superior on an icy slab in a fucking morgue. 
“You curse my name as though you’re not enjoying this,” Kai mocks.
 His fingers pump deeper, tightening your abs and your lips fall open. His matching rhythm on the bundle of nerves surges in a crash, sending a hard orgasm that shivers through your body. For a moment, just a little moment, your cares fade away. 
You're left breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling as your chest rises and falls. The euphoria lasts a moment longer, but only for so long. Reality sets in as you lay there, and much too soon, the warmths gone. 
Kai takes advantage of this.
With your chin tipped up toward cabinets lining the ceiling, Kai unfastens his thinner belt. It’s only when you feel him hook under your knees and pull at your thighs that you snap your head up in startlement.
Kai’s venomous eyes stare you down, “I suggest laying back down little girl, we’re not finished yet.”
“Like hell!”
A second flare of rage strickens across your features, a hard glare that doesn’t unyield, especially as he unzips and withdraws himself from formal slacks. You know he’s relishing in your disdain for him, and this makes you thrash on the belts, hoping to force them apart. Of course, Kai did a good job of fastening these fuckers and simply chuckles at your attempt. 
“You’re still not understanding the position that you’re in,” He slips a hand in his pocket, and pulls out the wrapping of a condom. Taking his time, tearing it open, rolling the rubber down his thick length with precision.
 When Kai’s satisfied, his arms reach for you and grab at your hips, giving them a sharp yank forward. He leans in with a darkly low voice, “You can’t escape me. You’re mine to do with as I please.”
“...You lean any closer and I’ll spit in your face.” There isn’t any bite to it. It’s a calm, empty threat and loses all its appeal as a single tear spills down your cheekbone.
A huffing noise emits from his mask, with his lids narrowing in mild disgust. You catch the words “filthy woman,” rasped low and nasally before he does lean back, wrenching at the skin around your hips. 
When he’s all settled Kai lines himself to your heat, in a slow motion he draws himself inside. You almost don't hear it, but from the mask you note a soft hitch in his breath. He gives shallow pushes and pulls on your hips, an experimental dip that splits you in a painful stretch before he pumps fully into you. They’re slow, long strokes, filling you to the brim.
Another strained gasp rips from your wet lips, and your hands impulsively spring out, clenching the black cloth of Kai’s sleeves. His hips snap quicker, and your breath picks up with him. Heart pounding to his thrust; you can feel the beats in your neck. 
And all of a sudden you hear the sound of plastic clasping together, the squeeze of an injection clip the shell of your ear. Your eyes snap open in horror. What—?
Kai locks on your facial features, his deep pumps lessen though the slapping of skin doesn’t stop. “You’ve been too tense. Why don’t you relax for awhile?”
When did he..? 
He prepped it. The syringe must’ve been tucked away. He did have this all planned. You were just the unlucky one who walked to the table and sealed your fate. 
The serum he injected into your bloodstream has fast results it seems. The tension in your muscles slack against his thrusts, allowing him to carry your body closer and take more of his length. You feel the tension in your wide eyes soften, slowly falling half lidded and weak. 
“That’s a good girl, you're taking to the drug faster than I thought,” he muses a little breathless. Right after he sets the syringe back down, a gloved hand reaches for the strap fastened around his head and pulls. The mask slips off.
It’s at this point he hikes his knees up onto the table and pounds in deeper, letting your walls suck him in. Your body’s folded, and Kai treats your body in any way he desires.
You manage to pull your head from his sharp eyes, your cheek bouncing slightly against the icy metal to Kai’s rhythm. The drawers for the deceased are taken in.
You stare intently. 
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“No.” He manages between breathes, his voice is heavy and laced with lusting growls, “This is merely a precaution. In the event...ah, in the event you overdose...well. You’re in the right place.”
Your head lolls back to Kai meeting his delicate face which is now flushed. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him behind the mask. He’s beautiful. Soft featues that compliment him so well. If only he wasn’t so cruel...
“In fact, hah, if you survive...I think this will be the start of something new in my work.” He manages the last bit with a shaky chuckle. 
You see him smirk wickedly, and all you can do is watch, because it doesn’t stop. The only sound in the room is the liquid squish of sex, your mixed heavy breaths. And you hope, god do you hope in your hazy state, feeling a numbness taking hold of your body, that you leave this room alive.
742 notes · View notes
killypool · 2 years
Text
@seesgood didn't ask for this technically but here it is anyway
he doesn't notice anything is even wrong until the next time he loses a hand. it wasn't as though he kept a spreadsheet up and running of his recovery times, but days were spent with dim lights and cold air creeping in through his cracked window laying in his bed with no energy to even raise his head. after that, each bullet wound lingers, blood staining through his suit, his hoodies, what felt like miles of ace bandages. the next time a blade was raised against his neck, he flinched.
no one could know. not his enemies. not his friends. not even weasel could know. wade's never retained the most information from anatomy and physiology, but something inside told him that his regeneration was failing. his healing was failing. his body was failing.
again.
he doesn't let himself remember how it felt the first time, back when vanessa was at his side. he doesn't let himself think that dying wasn't scary when she was there to watch him. he does, in his most vulnerable moments, think that at least he'd be able to see her again. soon. sooner than he thought he would, at least.
and he refuses to let himself think of all the new people he would say goodbye to just to join vanessa where he was meant to go.
he keeps his secret from the avengers, from s.h.i.e.l.d., from everyone he can. he doesn't feel like going out and playing hero, he says, finding a seat beside caroline. paperwork was always more his style, he tells her, and if she knows he's lying, she says nothing against it. he realizes just how much of a target he's let himself become when he talks with her, when she sees how the avengers treat him. they need a distraction here, an intrusion there, a diversion wherever. if wade gets shot in the line of duty, not a medic bothers to look him over. but he survives, and everyone around him is none the wiser.
at least, he's convinced of it.
but attacks can happen anywhere, even in the relative safety of caroline's office space. the devastating echo of spent bullets fills the space, and wade braces himself for the all too familiar sting of firey lead.
but the sting never comes.
if he saw slow motion when vanessa fell, the world stops entirely as caroline's lithe form is thrust between wade and the intruders. he watches in horror as her body lurches, as crimson red bursts out in a macabre design on her blouse. the sight makes his blood turn to ice within his veins.
he falls forward, scrambling to catch her in his arms.
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this can't be happening again. how much suffering can he withstand seeing? how much more can he live through before his very soul gives out?
but it's different than vanessa. different than anything else he had experienced after his mother had died. caroline didn't get shot by chance, by cruel fate.
she put herself before him. she chose to take the injury, chose the pain, chose the sacrifice.
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he's deaf to the world around him, every sense focused on the angel held in his arms. he watches in horror as the light in her eyes fades. crimson stained fingers find her cheek, his own eyes pleading for life to remain.
despite his every prayer, the smile on her lips fade as she does.
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slashthedice · 4 years
Note
The Doctor x reader prompt in which Herman desires her, but can't get a hold of her. So he becomes desperate until that one day when he is lucky enough... 👀
I’m always thirsty for the Shocktor, and I haven’t written anything that wasn’t part of an event or a commission for a while. This is also an example of what four coffees ($12) will get you from a ko-fi commission. NSFW below!
Electricity licked around your feet and ankles, sparks dancing up your legs. The walls of the ramshackle hospital felt like they were closing in, squeezing tighter and tighter until you were sure you would be crushed. Laughter filled your mind, drowning out your thoughts and leaving you to act on animal instinct alone. Your legs burned, but you knew you couldn’t stop running. He was behind you, his sheer presence pressed up against your back like a wall of static, a wave just waiting to crash down upon you and pull you under.
You were the only one left. You had barely had time to ask Ace who he thought the killer was upon awakening in the courtyard before you heard Dwight’s scream from deeper within Léry’s Memorial Institute. The Doctor was unsettling enough to come up against in a trial, but as time went on, the more he seemed to fixate on you specifically. He had a way of getting inside your mind. He had taken root amongst your thoughts and showed you things in the static. Images, fantasies. You weren’t sure if they belonged to your own scattered mind or his. They were exhilarating. Mad, lusty conjurations of the mind that set your body aflame, but the prospect of indulging in your dark curiosity was terrifying.
Dwight had been the first to fall, the Entity tearing its way into the trial arena to pluck his corpse off the hook for its own. You and Ace managed to finish two generators between you. Adam completed a third before being caught and killed, brain fried with a pulse of electricity. You parted ways with Ace then, ostensibly to complete the final two generators, but you both knew the unspoken truth of the situation: if one of you was caught, then the other would at least have a chance at escape. It hadn’t taken long at all for that exact scenario to become reality. Far too soon after you knelt behind a generator, you heard Ace’s agonized screaming followed by oppressive silence, broken only by the buzzing of a nearby static-filled monitor.
For a moment, you were frozen in place, paralyzed by the knowledge that now it was just you and Him. A thrill ran through you. What was to stop you from acting on all those illicit fantasies now? You knew he was coming for you. You could wait and let him have his way with you, let him drive you insane in a whole new way. On the periphery of your thoughts you recognized that your heartbeat had picked up speed, and realized belatedly that it wasn’t due to the flurry of heated imaginings that played out behind your eyes.
He rounded the corner and your breath caught in your throat. He cut an imposing figure, standing tall in the center of the hallway. One fist was raised, familiar sparks flickering around his fingers and traveling up and down his arm with minds of their own. His unnatural, forced grin seemed broader somehow. Mirth and hunger tangled in his wide, bulging eyes as they focused in on you. 
“I’ve found you,” his voice seemed to come from all around you, just as his unhinged laughter always did.
Your mind and body were in a desperate war with each other, centered completely on the direction in which you were going to run. He took a step towards you, breaking you out of your temporary paralysis and convincing you to turn tail and sprint off in the opposite direction. You heard his spasmodic laughter follow your retreating form along with the pounding of your heart in your ears. He was faster than you, long legs eating up the space between you in no time at all.
You took every twist and turn you could in a desperate bid to lose him, vaulting windows and sliding across fallen pallets. The winding, discombobulating maze that was the hallways of Léry’s Memorial Institute seemed to spin you round and round like you were stuck on some sort of nightmarish carousel until finally it spit you out in a room unlike any other you had seen there. You could almost believe that the Entity had transported you somewhere else entirely. A chandelier flickered above your head, half of the bulbs broken and rendered useless. Wood paneling and bookshelves occupied a good portion of the walls. What wasn’t housing countless books, the natures of which you could not discern, boasted faded cream and grey striped wallpaper that had begun to peel away from the plaster over the course of its decay. What must have once been a rich, expensive rug spanned the majority of the wooden floor, now covered in dust and frayed in places. A large, mahogany executive desk was slightly off-center with a high-backed armchair pulled out behind it as if the occupant had just left for a few moments. Across from the desk was a wall-mounted mirror, bordered in a dirty but intricately designed frame. You could hardly see a thing in the tarnished surface of the mirror, peering closely into it’s dark reflection and searching the vague shapes for your own countenance. 
A sudden sparkle of bluish light in the cracked glass startled you from your contemplation of your surroundings, and you spun around with a gasp. The Doctor loomed in the arched doorway, electricity arcing and crackling brightly around him in a blue-tinged halo of light. The sharp sound of his breathing as it whistled through his exposed teeth fell across your eardrums in harsh waves. He hardly hesitated on the threshold, closing on you with purposeful strides. You scrambled back until your body hit the desk. You reached out a hand to steady yourself, but only succeeded in knocking a stack of old books onto the floor, sending loose papers scattering.
When you turned back to look at the doctor, you came face to face with the blood splattered front of a familiar white lab coat. You allowed your eyes to slowly travel upward, feeling very much the deer about to become acquainted with the grille of a speeding truck. A jolt went through you when you met his eyes. They were trained directly on you, incandescent irises glowing entrancingly. He reached for you and you let him, never flinching as his large hands circled your waist. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, bringing you to rest on the edge of the desk with your legs dangling over the side. You twisted your fingers into the front of his coat, clinging to him like some sort of depraved lifeline. You pleaded with your eyes, begging him for something you dare not name.
Beginning with the buttons on your shirt, he worked methodically to divest you of your clothing. You couldn’t be sure if he had somehow hypnotized you with his presence, or if the unparalleled surreality of the situation prevented you from thinking straight, but you let him strip you until you sat before him completely bare while he had somehow maintained all of his clothing, looking far more composed than he had any right to be.
“Please,” you whispered, clinging all the harder to his lab coat.
He looked at you expectantly, seemingly waiting for you to continue your plea. You couldn’t breathe life into the sentiment of every deviant thing you wanted him to do to you, so you settled for allowing your hands to release his lapels and travel down the length of his torso until your fingers found the leather of his belt. You stripped him slowly, peeling away layers of clothing until his hands stopped your eager fingers at his fly. 
He simply stood there. He looked down at you with that forced, macabre grin and perpetually glowing eyes. His gaze swept over your form until you were trembling from more than just the chilled air. You knew it was on purpose, you knew each moment was calculated just to torture you. You wanted him so badly, if the electricity didn’t drive you crazy then the anticipation would.
When it appeared that he had had enough of simply observing you, his massive hands took hold of your thighs and parted them to accommodate the width of his hips. He moved to press in towards you in one fluid motion. You whimpered as his clothed sex brushed across your arousal slickened folds. His already wheezing breathing seemed to stutter and stall, the only slip in composure you had encountered thus far. 
One of his hands dipped between your thighs and you whimpered pitifully as his fingers teased at your entrance. He was immense and as he loomed over your bare body, you felt so small, so powerless. Your every nerve ending was alight with charged desire.
Your mind was spinning-- twirling, twirling, twirling endlessly. Your face burned, your body quaked. Your core ached and dripped with desire. You needed him inside you, you would admit it willingly. You would scream it for the whole world to hear if that was what he wanted.
You sucked in a sharp breath as he entered you. Pain flashed like a warning light across your senses. You hadn’t even heard the sound of his zipper, hadn’t noticed the heft of his length as it brushed your lower lips. It was only when he was splitting you open, threatening to tear you in half, that your mind snapped back to reality.
You cried out, scream lighting up the electrically charged air around you. His wheezing seemed to buzz through you on two frequencies as he caged you in with his arms. Tears burned your eyes, but through their bleariness you could make out the cracked and charred lines in his skin, broken by glowing pulsing wires and cables. A fleeting query danced around your thoughts, begging to know whether his cock had more of that same cabling. 
You whined as he pulled back, cock dragging along your strained walls. The sound was desperate and involuntary, but was quickly followed by a gasp as he thrust back in and stretched you past capacity once more. Your breath seemed to rattle in your lungs in time with the uncontrolled tremors of your sweat-slicked body. He repeated the motion and you heard yourself make a keening sound. Then again. And again. And again.
Pleasure boiled in your core, singing your nerves like you were being electrocuted. Maybe you were. You didn’t care. 
It was everything you had never allowed yourself to imagine. The way he felt inside you was better than any fantasy could have conjured. You had thought you would have felt guilty for the dark indulgence, but all you felt was ecstasy, bone-deep and all consuming.
Your nails dug into the desk, scraping up the varnish as you floundered for something to hold you in place. Loose papers whispered and bit into your bare skin as you were rocked into the surface. You looked up into his face only to find his horrifying, hypnotizing eyes boring into you. He was watching every flinch and twitch, observing the way your mouth formed around nonsensical words and animalistic sounds. He never blinked, not that he could, and he never looked away. You should have been embarrassed, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be ashamed.
You came hard as one of his cracked fingers found your clit, he really did shock you then. You screamed your please, pain, and approval. He laughed that same familiar laugh as you threw your head back and thrashed, unable to force out the words to ask him to stop. Finally, after a torturous stretch, he removed the stimulating digit away from your overwhelmed sex and resumed his own chase for completion. 
You went limp, feeling more exhausted than you knew yourself capable of. You wondered if this would be it. Hypothesis tested, curiosity sated. You wondered if he would be done with you. But at the same time, your mind abandoned itself to that same dark curiosity that had gotten you here in the first place. In the most shadowed corners of your heart, you hoped that the next time you encountered the Doctor, you would be privy to the same treatment.
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snom0001inu · 3 years
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What do you think is Viv’s biggest hinderance? Do you think she has a chance to get better in regards to her art and storytelling?
OH! I never expected a question like this, thank you for asking!
This is a loaded question because I’m not too familiar with Vivzie’s work. I only learned about her well after Hazbin Hotel blew up. I have skimmed Zoophobia but don’t hold it against her since she admits she doesn’t like it as much as she used to. I’m honestly not too attached to Helluva Boss, I see it as a filler show.
SO 
ᵇᵉᵃʳ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵐᵉ, ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶦˢ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ᵇᵉ ᵃ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵖᵒˢᵗ
In my AMATUER opinion, Vivzie’s biggest hinderance in her writing is she’s too impulsive when making a character/series. She gains a surface level interest in a subject (vodun, demonology, crime culture, mythology, etc) and tries to make a character out of it but doesn’t go the extra mile most writers do to have the proper research done to make a character more dimensional. A lot of her writing mistakes come from a lack of double-checking simple facts or already established aspects which leads to a lot of consistency issues or contradictions, and in certain cases, inconsideration of someone’s real life background. She’s also quick to throw in extra things that don’t enhance a character at all, just to say she thought up of it. This is a fault on her, but also her writing team, who’s job is also to do the research in order to have the story or characters flow. They need to reach out beyond a few Google searches or YouTube videos and if they can’t find enough material for character development, they need to drop that aspect from the character due to lack of research. Same thing when writing technical or academic papers, you only write what you know and can prove, not make stuff up to fill in the gaps.
Another fault is Vivienne’s tendency to not communicate with her fans properly, she’s either giving too much of the wrong information away or keeping the important stuff needed to clear up confusion to herself under the guise that it’s “important later on”. I’m not sure if that’s her way of attempting to build suspense, but it comes off as bad when the fanbase is as rabid as hers is and causes extreme tension that could have been avoided. ESPECIALLY if it’s a subject that should be handled tactfully, such as someone’s race, religion, abuse, gender identity, sexual identity, etc etc. 
ᴵ’ᵐ ᵗᵉᵐᵖᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ˡᶦˢᵗ ��ˣᵃᵐᵖˡᵉˢ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵃˡʳᵉᵃᵈʸ ᵃ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵖᵒˢᵗ ˢᵒ ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ᴵ’ˡˡ ᵃᵈᵈ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵒⁿ ᵃᵗ ᵃ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ ᵗᶦᵐᵉ.
In terms of her art, I don’t feel I can comment on that too much because I am a self-taught hobbyist artist and she’s had formal training. What I will say is I do agree a lot of her characters are too similar in design/color scheme and that needs to be altered for things flow a bit better in a visual sense. Her characters do have interesting factoids that can be integrated into their designs a lot better, such as Alastor’s Louisianan heritage (I made a re-color based off the Louisianan flag colors), Vaggie being a moth, Charlie being based off a porcelain doll, and so forth. 
I like Monster High for this reason, they’re all based off of famous folklore and mythology too but their stories can be seen in their designs. Vivienne could very well do the exact same thing for her characters, she has the capability, training, and passion to do it. I feel as though Vivienne would benefit referencing people like Wes Craven, Stephen King, Guillermo Del Torro, Junji Ito, Tim Jacobus, and the list goes on for macabre/demon design inspiration.  
Do I think she could improve? ABSOLUTELY
Vivienne Medrano has the potential to do an incredible story, she just needs to get out of her comfort zone and interact with people who push her creative boundaries and tell her when she’s going in the wrong direction. She’s very open with how close she is to the people she’s working with, so it makes sense that nobody tells her when her stories are lacking direction or she already established this so she can’t write that happening without conflict because they’re friends, so they support her faults too. There’s also nothing wrong with admitting you don’t know something and needing someone else’s help or input. 
When it comes to the creative field, you need new people and new perspectives to appeal to this universal audience that is the internet. That way if there are aspects people don’t like, they can appreciate other aspects of your work instead. If you only write what appeals to you, then you’re only going to appeal to people who think like you and that’s not an audience, that’s a yes man group. 
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jjba-hell · 3 years
Text
Revoked
Still late for day 2 but I am enjoying the hell out of these prompts. (Today’s prompt was sci-fi)
Trigger warnings for the death of the ice cream gays but lemme know if I missed anything else.
Summary: a weird mismatched team of busted up aliens and half-blood humans just dealing with some shit.
For the lovely: @lasquadraweek2021
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“You should really just transfer to a new body Pros. Humans aren’t supposed to live this long, babe.”
You grumble probably more to yourself than to the man whose forearm you were tinkering in. Well... maybe tinkering wasn’t the word either. He needed another repair and honestly you can’t help but feel like Risotto only offered you the air-mattress in the ship because so many of these psychos have bio-tech they can’t afford to upkeep.
“Sure, I can’t afford a rewire but I can surely afford getting my brain transplanted in a new body.”
“Human bodies are so easy to grow though.” You peer up at him over your magnify glasses with a wriggle of eyebrows. “Fully grown in a quarter rotation? Come on I still have to wait another half rotation to buy a swimsuit let alone grow a body.”
Prosciutto flexed the hand you were working on to spite you but all you did was strap the wrist down and switch off the impulse circuit before getting up and walking toward the exit of the ship where the others were sprawled out in the soft baby blue grass of the planet you were hiding out at.
Melone’s gaze shot from laptop up as you kicked your untied boots from your feet and slid into the grass, barely hearing him as he asked “Any luck with Pros’s arm?”
“I can’t keep mending the same two wires that keep popping off. Its best we find a place that can handle Babyface’s software and get a new one.”
“Still not budging for just replacing the whole thing?” Formaggio asked from somewhere across the clearing.
Like he was one to talk- Akils like him grew back heads and limbs, there wasn’t exactly a need to know anything about biotech.
“Nope. Are all humans this stubborn?”
“I think its the half Megnu in him.” Illuso was the one to chirp in this time.
“That’s still not confirmed.” You sat back on your feet to try and spot your teammates.
“Well he won’t let me analyze.” Melone sighed- continuing to worry away at the clear glass screen that held all his designs.
Melone truly was a bit of a madman to you- he designed the entirety of his body on that simple glass tablet and yet couldn’t finish his face in time before the feds were on him for unethical medical practice- ironic considering he was only putting himself through the strain of fitting his brain into a piece of machinery. What his official titles were in his old field were beyond you.
“Pesci’s not all Scud and he’s not half as stubborn.” You commented and with a soft hum the team fell back into silence.
“Where’s Ris?”
“He’s in bed- that last jump took a toll on him.” Illuso finally rose up from the grass himself heading a bit further away from the clearing, probably wandering after Ghiacchio who was asked to take a lap after he froze off Formaggio’s finger.
You clambered up a few steps to find your captain with the old-fashioned two-way radio in his hand as he lay passed out on couch of the shared living room.
Risotto would rather be caught dead than caught like this so, with intent, you stepped up to take the radio out of his hand. He seemed to gently wake at your fingers prying the piece or equipment from his hand.
“Shit.” He grumbled. “How long-?”
“Ghiacchio’s not even back from his lap- don’t worry. Just head off before they catch you.”
And with a slight groan he rolled up and disappeared down the hallways to his bunk which sounded with an ungraceful “clunk” as he fell into the bed.
Your name got hollered with the slightest tone of desperation from Prosciutto and with that you were back doing your part in the team behind the scene.
“You’re a purebred?” Prosciutto had eventually asked after a few minutes of boredom at watching you weld wires back to the motherboard.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “What am I? A dog?”
He seemed to swallow his words.
“Where do you think I’m from?” You tried to smooth it over.
“Caestea- at least your appearance would have you look like that.”
Another laugh. “I’m from Earth, Pros.”
His eyes widened. “Impossible.”
“Oh yeah. My parents weren’t exactly refugees but they are most certainly not human. Fuck knows what my genetic makeup looks like but thankfully I certainly age like a Caestean. You are all human, huh?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Not that there are many of us left.”
In a sense you felt bad for him. You’d seen photos of Earth long before it started to mimic its brother planet Mars but you rarely thought of how wickedly the planet must have lost its life before intergalactic intervention. Humans were strangely scared and selfish creatures but no one deserved to die because there was no clean water to drink.
You shook off the macabre though before closing up Pros’s arm and putting away the tools. “That should do for now but we really do need to think of a replacement in the near future.”
“Thanks.”
It was a half-assed thank you but it surely caught your attention. Pros was a little too prideful to give just anyone a thanks but nonetheless you returned the sentiment. “No problem.”
Outside the boys were fighting again- or rather Ghiacchio was arguing as Formaggio was pushing his buttons while Pesci grilled a rather obscenely colorful fish over the fire-in-tin.
“Oh just the person we needed to see.”
Getting clasped with two arms over the neck was bad enough but from Sorbet and Gelato, now that was trouble waiting to start.
“Oh gods, what do I have to offer this time.”
“Don’t be so serious!” Sorbet cooed darkly.
“We were just hoping you could help us out with the next target.” His boyfriend added.
If you could just roll your eyes back far enough.
“Wandering off from our captain’s orders doesn’t sound like something I’d want to get myself involved in.”
“Not even for a bionic manufacturer?”
“Or a healing bay, for the ship? Surely you could install those things no problem.”
Honestly it was hard not to fall for the stereotype that all Makzi’s do is play dirty and haggle like merchants but here you were, stuck between them and being tempted into breaking formation with them.
“And what would I have to lose?”
“Nothing much-“
“Maybe some face with Risotto.”
You couldn’t help but scoff. “You want me to convince him?”
“Exactly- he might actually consider something if it came out of your pretty mouth.”
“Or rather, if he could come in it.”
You took one step back and bowed out of the hold between the two of them. “Fucking sleezes. Your shit’s gonna get you killed, mark my words.”
“So its a no?”
“Its a fuck no, Sorbet. Vile comments aside, that shit is expensive, even dent-jobs sell for millions... that kind of money is too big a job for us to handle right now and stealing one even more. Get your heads out of your asses before you come up to me with more dumb shit, next time.”
And with that you slipped back beside Illuso as Pesci was grilling up the third fish for the night. Looking back at what you had said was not untrue. That night you were restless in your bunker above Formaggio- Illuso peering behind the sliding divider across the little hallway that ran between the bed bunks.
“Something on your conscience?”
“No.”
“You sure?” You nearly leapt out of skin as Formaggio’s forehead popped up just below your chin outside your divider. “You’ve turned and kicked like 10 times, babe.”
“Please don’t babe me.” You frown at him but you answered the gnawing feeling by asking. “Where are Sorbet and Gelato?”
“Probably in their bed.” Illuso answered as if there wasn’t a more logical answer.
“Wanna put money on it?” Your eyebrow raised.
“And catch them in the act? Daaamn you’re dirtier than I thought.”
“Come on then, 10 drinks at the next stop they’re not in their bunk.”
“Shit, I can’t miss on that opportunity.” Formaggio’s divider slid open all the way to allow him to plop with bare feet to the double bunks at the end of the hallway.” You and Illuso watched in trepidation as he knelt down and knocked. There was no answer save for Risotto’s stern frown behind the top divider making an appearance. “What do you want?”
“Are Sorbet and Gelato in there?” You piped up first.
The angry frown turned into concern as he slid out of his bunk to replace where Formaggio was. He slid the door open to reveal one big empty bed.
What you’d have given to be wrong. But instead the panic bit you all and soon you were messily slipping on boots and running around the ship to find the missing lovers.
Pesci checked the engine compartments he might have accidentally left open, Pros checked the storage while Risotto was seeing if he could track them on the radar. It was only when you were hoisted onto the roof by Formaggio that the dread set into your bones.
“Tell Ris to switch on the overhead console lights.”
You called back down below you. Part of you wished you didn’t... since all it did was put them on display.
It was a vile thing that made Risotto’s eyes grow darker than they already were and once dawn broke, you and Melone quietly put the bodies into the best makeshift body bags you could manage. The lake a few paces away was where you last saw those body bags.
After you left that pit stop you sat in silence in the communal meeting area, your legs flung over one of the armrests in your seat- staring blankly at the coffee table you’d nipped from a market not too long ago.
“So... what’s the plan?”
You asked at anyone who would listen.
“Do we go on as usual? Find their families?”
“Revenge?”
Your head turned to Prosciutto as he was enjoying one last drag of his cigarette.
“You’re brave.” You huffed a bit of laughter at the thought. The big boss and his cronies- the only real reason none of you strayed from Risotto’s orders was way up on a station so far up the intergalactic alliance ladder that you’d have a better shot at killing the king of Gnomia B908 and getting away with it.
“Why not?” Illuso was the one to back it. “Surely we could track the sick fucks that did it.”
“You’re thinking too simply.” Risotto grumbled over his fist. “They didn’t get themselves killed by accident. This was deliberate- a display not to challenge the higher ups.”
“Any idea what they were planning?” You sat up, propping your elbows onto your knees.
Risotto kindly pulled up their hidden plans- your name encircled in red a few times. They seemed to have had their eye on a biotech printer and medbay that was once used by the Boss himself.
“What’s the relevance of an old medbay?” Pros posed the question to you- Melone was up front with Formaggio.
“Medbays need to keep track of any irregularities in DNA to avoid any incompatibility issues. Its one of the few things that can’t be wiped because its burned into the drive. They were trying to expose the Boss’s identity.”
“And they were planning on risking us all in the process?”
You pointed at a little arrow shooting off your name once more. “They figured I could remove and replace the hard drive before anyone noticed.”
Your throat felt dry as you realized what that meant. Whoever this person was... if they could follow something as irrelevant as a used medbay to keep their tracks clean... chances are you were all, at best, being watched.
The thought must have been shared as Risotto didn’t breathe a word as he moved to the front of the ship and changed course to an unaffiliated vector you know damn well you’d probably be searched and cleansed for.
To no one’s surprise the pristine white towers blinded and no sooner than two seconds of coming into orbit of one of the bigger planets you were requested to land.
You stood beside you captain as the ship docked and you waited with your hands behind your head to greet the haz-mat team. “You must be pretty serious about this if you’re willing to get sit in their prison.”
He gazed down at you and with a deadpan tone simply said: “You’ve escaped, I’m certain you could do it again.”
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anamaleth · 3 years
Text
I took part in the holiday gift exchange organised by @sanderssidesgiftxchange ! My giftee was @to-precious-to-process , who requested a fantasy au, stargazing, and a whole bunch of fluff.
This fic focuses mainly on the last wish and includes elements from the other two - I hope you enjoy it!
@ashblood1314​ was my beta-reader and I cannot thank punk enough for that! Ash did an amazing job and without stars help, this fic wouldn’t be what it is now. Thank you so much, AG, I care you ♡!!!!
xxx
Traditions
Summary: An observation of the traditions the Sides have.
Movie nights, prank wars, playing tabletop RPGs together - their desire to regularly spend time together as a family had led to them creating a lot of traditions.
"Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with."
Content Warnings (it’s just a whole bunch of fluff, honestly, but to be safe):
Food Mentions
Brief mention of poison (no one actually gets poisoned)
Mentions of in-universe fictional character deaths (they play Dungeons and Dragons and their characters die)
read on ao3
 xxx
Weekly movie nights were a tradition for the Sides, just like the Secret Santa, and the Easter Egg Hunt that Patton organized every year.
"It's important for families to have traditions!" he would often tell the others, and the smile Patton's face whenever he said those words made it impossible for the other Sides to turn him down. Patton's excitement was infectious, how could they resist?
The prank wars all of them had could technically also be counted as a tradition, but only unofficially so. They never followed any sort of schedule, which Logan insisted was a fundamental part of traditions, nor were they really organised. Instead, they broke out whenever one of them decided that peace and quiet had prevailed among them for too long.
It was fairly common for one of the twins to start the prank wars, given that “annoy my brother until I get some sort of reaction out of him” seemed to be part of both of their agendas. Not that there was any malice behind it, causing any lasting harm was never their intention. But given Remus’ love for wreaking havoc and Roman’s usual theatrics combined with his inability to resist being dramatic, it came as a surprise to no one that the chances of chaos doubled when the two of them were in the same space together.
In addition to that, the chances of chaos increased exponentially after a certain threshold of time spent by the twins in the same space was exceeded, especially when Virgil or Janus were with them. The amount of time passed since the last prank war and the absence of any Sides that could be considered a responsible adult (Patton is not to be considered a responsible adult) factored into the probability of a prank war breaking out as well. At least according to the graph Logan had created.
Logan kept this graph for two reasons.
The first one was that there was simply no such thing as “having too many graphs and lists”, not to him at least. Creating them was a fun and useful way to practice organisation, and there was most certainly no such thing as being too organised!
And the second reason was that Logan wanted to be aware of the likelihood of a prank war occurring at any given time so that he would always be prepared for them.
“Prepared” both as in “ready to take part in the planning and semi-serious attacking” and as in “I will not be caught off-guard by my friends’ shenanigans”. He had made that mistake once and he would not allow for it to repeat itself. Just thinking about the feather incident made him shiver, and that one had happened back when the twins were on “no speaking” terms. Logan couldn’t and certainly didn’t want to imagine what the two of them would be capable of together.
For all his distaste for “wasted time” and general aversion of disorganization, Logan considered the prank wars to be valuable bonding time with the ones he cared about. This may have had something to do with his love for scheming in said prank wars. It wasn’t unusual for Logan to be utterly absorbed by a task, but for him to be so open about his enthusiasm? That was a rarity, and it was one the other Sides treasured immensely.
Having Logan on your team in the prank wars was a huge advantage, and if both he and Janus were on the same team, their victory was almost certainly guaranteed. The combination of Janus’ wit and Logan’s intellect made for a nearly unbeatable force, which meant they ended up being allies fairly often.
The twins weren’t normally on the same team, given that one of them “attacking” the other was what often started the prank wars in the first place – but the two of them joining forces was the only way to beat Janus and Logan. And given the twins' distaste (read: hatred) for losing, coalitions between them had started to occur more and more regularly.
Roman’s and Remus’ creativity, their ability to improvise and the sheer chaos that seemed to transpire whenever they worked together were a fair match for Logan’s and Janus’ genius scheming that had rightfully earned them the title of Strategic Masterminds. There was no telling which team would win, especially not with Virgil and Patton as rogue elements.
Well, with Virgil as a rogue element, given that Patton got that “I’m about to make a pun and inflict 80 damage on everyone around me”-look on his face whenever someone referred to him as such, after which he would cheekily remind them that he played as a paladin and not as a rogue in their Dungeons and Dragons sessions, which would make him a paladin element.
As much as what Patton said was true, hearing it made Logan go through all five stages of grief over the course of two seconds. He then considered using his powers as the current Dungeon Master to do something to Patton’s character to finally get him to stop making this awful pun. But, after a few moments of contemplation, he quickly abandoned this plan as he reminded himself that he was a responsible adult.
Logan was aware of the fact that Patton had gotten very attached to his character, and he didn’t want to upset him. He was also aware of the fact that Patton would be the next one to DM for all of them.
And given that Patton had started to spend more time with Janus, Remus and Virgil, Logan really didn’t want to risk getting on his bad side. Not because the three of them would do anything to Logan - he was their friend, too, after all – but because the metaphorical seeds of chaos that Patton had carried with him since the very beginning had started to fully blossom under their influence.
Apart from that, Patton brought home-made cookies to their D&D sessions whenever he was in a particularly good mood, and Logan a) didn’t want to miss out on those and b) couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that, with enough persuasion from Remus and Janus, Patton wouldn’t end up poisoning the cookies as a way to get revenge if Logan really did go through with killing his character.
This only further contributed to Logan’s assessment of Patton not being a responsible adult. He chose to ignore what the fact that he had just had an internal debate on whether or not killing off his friend’s D&D character for making puns would be worth it if it meant that he would have to miss out on the cookies said friend makes said about his own status as a “responsible adult”.
The D&D sessions the Sides had together were also a tradition, and they all took turns being the DM, assuring that each of them would both get the chance to be an active player in the game and, every once in a while, get to decide what challenges and narratives their friends would face.
Janus and Remus joining their sessions had brought the number of player characters from three up to five, which meant that instead of having barely enough players for the sessions to work, they now had a group that could face any monster or villain with ease.
Emphasis on the “could”, because what they actually ended up doing most of the time was very different from the heroic deeds their characters were technically capable of.
Virgil played as a rogue, Janus played as a warlock and even without the added chaos of Remus’ multi-class Bard/Barbarian (or “Bardbarian”, as Patton called them, much to Remus’ delight and Logan's dismay) they were capable of completely derailing every single session.
In the most affectionate way possible, they were a complete nightmare to DM for.
Yet watching them interact and build off of what the other said made the horror of being the DM and watching your plans for the game disintegrate right in front of your very own eyes absolutely worth it.
The biggest session the Sides had played so far had been the campaign that Roman and Remus had created together. Both of the twins loved designing classic high-fantasy games, although Remus preferred to lean more heavily into the gruesome and macabre aspects of high-fantasy, while Roman never strayed far from “noble quests”, “heroic adventures” and “saving your true love from the lairs of evil”.
Which was why they both adored fairy tales – the campaign they created together ended up being a modern, much less heteronormative, and almost sci-fi-esque retelling of just about every single fairy tale they could think of. It was a huge project that took them several weeks of planning and two and a half months of bi-weekly game sessions to complete, and some of them even ended up crying during the last session.
The plot focused on a rebellion against a corrupt king and his followers, led by the characters that the Sides played. None of the characters, neither protagonists nor antagonists, survived the final battle; and while the evil king had been defeated, there was no truly Happy Ending for any of them.
As painful as it may have been, it was the perfect ending for the story – absolutely brilliant and tragic, but in a cathartic way that would leave them with fond memories of everything that they had experienced. They held each other after the session was over, the giant table they conjured whenever they played tabletop games together quickly replaced by blankets and pillows that they let themselves sink into.
Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with.
Given that all of them wanted to play something with less emotional investment to take a break from the emotional toll that the last game had taken on them, they moved on to playing one-shots again after that. Although, taking a break from emotional vulnerability wasn’t the only reason for that; Remus and Logan had informed them that the two of them had started the planning process for their next proper campaign, which they were certain would take them a lot of time and effort to complete.
Logan and Remus, as different as they seemed, got along surprisingly well.
Whenever they needed someone to listen to them, they knew they could count on the other to do so without any judgement.
Logan had known of Roman’s love for mythology, specifically Greek- and (surprising to no one, considering his name) Roman mythology, but he had been absolutely overjoyed to learn that Remus shared this interest.
As much as Logan enjoyed having discussions with Roman, it was refreshing to hear things from a completely different perspective every once in a while. Roman adored the tragic love stories, particularly Orpheus and Eurydice, and Achilles and Patroclus; while his brother seemed to fixate more on Heracles’ trials and the story of Oedipus.
Logan and Remus had been stargazing together in Logan’s room when they had come up with the idea for their campaign. Technically Virgil had also been with them, but he had quickly fallen asleep looking up at what had once been a ceiling but was now a vast, clear night’s sky. He was curled up next to Remus, who had taken off his sash so that Virgil could use it as a pillow, burying his face into Remus’ side and using him as a teddy bear.
While Virgil was sleeping, Logan rambled about space and the origins of different star constellations. At one point, Remus chimed in to give some additional information about the mythological story behind one of the constellations Logan had mentioned, which resulted in them having a rapid-fire brainstorming session that lasted for several hours.
During that discussion, they decided on the setting for the campaign: a huge dystopian cyberpunk city in which they would tell modern versions of the original Greek myths.
The D&D sessions Logan planned often featured intricate riddles and complicated challenges he designed himself, which were a perfect fit for this setting. And as much as the other Sides tended to struggle with solving Logan’s puzzles, they earnestly encouraged his passion for creating them and looked forward to what he would come up with next.
Remus and Logan, however, weren’t the only ones who had hour-long discussions about shared interests, as Patton and Janus had started having conversations about the concept of morality. Referring to those conversations as debates, although Logan liked to do so when he occasionally joined them, wasn’t quite accurate. It was never their intention to convince the other of their opinion, they merely enjoyed exchanging their thoughts and points of view.
When Logan was with them, their talks tended to become a lot more philosophical than when it was just the two of them. With him present, it wasn't as casual as when they were on their own, as Logan enjoyed having debates in a more serious setting. But even then, they still valued each other’s company more than the actual outcome of the discussion.
One time, in one of their earlier debates - Janus and Patton had been sitting in Patton’s room together, Janus’ legs draped over Patton’s, as his back rested against the armrest of the sofa - Janus had explained the concepts of Utilitarianism and Deontology to Patton. The latter had listened intently as Janus explained the two fundamental approaches to morality, one where ends are justified by the means it takes to achieve them, and one where one’s actions are justified by the results they achieve.
When Janus brought up the Trolley problem as an example, he noticed how Patton immediately tensed up. Janus paused, taking Patton's hands into his own and apologised.
"It was never my intention to upset you back then, Patton. I was trying to prove a point and I hurt you in the process. While I got what I wanted, I shouldn't have pushed you this far. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used you as a-"
"Means to an end?" Patton interrupted him. He seemed uncertain, but there was a small smile on his face.
After a moment of hesitation, Janus nodded, almost self-conscious, when suddenly, Patton's eyes lit up.
"Like in-! Like in Utilitarism!"
The tense atmosphere evaporated and Janus looked up to meet Patton's eyes.
"Close."
"Ulitiriorism?"
"Ah, getting further away now-"
The fond amusement was clear in Janus' voice.
"Ulitaro...okay, what was it again?"
"Utilitarianism."
Patton beamed at him and Janus couldn't help but return the smile.
"Exactly! That one! And I insisted on the other one? The one where you can’t break your own moral code to achieve a greater goal, what was it? Deon-”
Janus’ expression became impossibly fond.
“Deontology, yes.”
“I got it right!”
After that, their conversation continued as it had before, just that Janus’ fingers were intertwined with Patton’s now. Eventually, Patton came to the conclusion that putting your own needs first can be a means to an end, something that ultimately leads to the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people. He could keep his own values and stick to Deontology while occasionally approaching situations in a more utilitaristic way. He had already done so when it came to the Plato (...or was it Kant? Did it really matter?) dilemma with the murderer that you lie to in order to protect your friends; maybe he could learn to apply the same approach to self-care?
In order to practice, he and Janus had come up with the idea for Patton’s current D&D character: a Paladin who had sworn an oath of devotion to achieving the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people, no matter the means they had to seize to achieve that goal.
Logan, as the current Dungeon Master, simultaneously marvelled at the concept of Patton’s character, and anguished at the chaos that character caused with the help of the characters the rest of the Sides played.
Apart from D&D, the Sides also regularly played board games together and, of course, held movie nights. Janus and Remus had started joining the others in both of these endeavours. They were family tradition after all, and the two of them were part of the family. Both Janus and Remus – although neither of them would ever admit to it - had been dangerously close to tearing up when Patton had first told them so. Part of the family.
They really had come far, hadn’t they?
Despite the sofa being too small for six metaphysical people to sit on, and despite it now being way more packed during their movie nights than it had previously been, none of them seemed to mind sitting closer together.
Patton was sitting in front of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket while wearing his cat onesie. He was holding a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows in it and there were two bowls of popcorn set next to him, which he regularly passed around. One of them was salted and one with sugar.
Both of the twins preferred their popcorn ridiculously sweet - much to Roman’s triumph, because this meant that his brother joining their movie nights tipped the scales so that there were now two Sides who wanted to drown the popcorn in sugar.
On their first movie night with very sweet popcorn, Roman had exclaimed “Democracy wins once again!” to a very tired Logan, who was now seriously considering switching over to salted popcorn out of spite, even though he really did not like salted popcorn.
Patton, despite being, in some regard, the literal embodiment of emotions, had no strong feelings on the matter. He held no preference regarding how sweet or salty his popcorn should be and ate out of both bowls. Meanwhile, Virgil had just laughed at the now pouting Logan (“I am not pouting, Virgil, this is ridiculous”), as he shared his bowl of salted popcorn with Janus.
Now, several movie nights later, Logan sat, as he always did, behind Patton.
He kept absentmindedly running his fingers through Patton's hair, and it seemed as though nothing was out of the ordinary. The only real difference to previous movie nights was that he was now dressed in his unicorn onesie.
No one had commented on this, but Logan had registered the fond smiles on his friends’ faces as they realised that he had started wearing it around them again. Terrified of being written off as immature and unprofessional, it had taken Logan quite some time to get comfortable doing so again. But here he was, happy and cosy, dressed in his favourite outfit.
Janus sat right next to Logan. The first time he had been invited over, there had been a considerable distance between them, but over the course of a few weeks, Janus had found himself moving closer and closer to Logan each movie night, until he eventually found himself leaning against him comfortably.
By now, Janus had reached the point where he didn't even bother waiting anymore before gradually scooting closer to Logan. Instead, he assumed his rightful position immediately - Janus' head, mostly covered by the hood of his snake onesie, resting on Logan's shoulder.
Remus was taking up the most amount of space: his head was lying in Janus' lap while his legs were sprawled on the rest of the sofa. Roman had protested in the beginning, screeching at his brother to get his feet out of his face.
Roman had eventually given up, as Remus refused to move his legs and instead stuck out his tongue.
“How very mature of you, Remus”, Roman had grumbled in response, but his twin had already gone back to playing with the tentacles of his octopus onesie. Defeated, Roman settled for moving his throne - built out of a beanbag and all of the pillows and couch cushions he could get (which was all of them) - next to Patton.
Virgil sat on the backrest of the sofa, close enough to Janus to easily share their bowl of salted popcorn. Every once in a while, one of them would reach for the other’s hand, a simple gesture of affection that was starting to feel familiar again.
Familiarity, that’s what it all came down to in the end. The Sides loved each other dearly, and the traditions they had created allowed for them to regularly spend time together as a family. They adored each other and the connection they had, and they made sure to actively cultivate the conditions under which their bond could thrive.
They supported one another, encouraged each other, and all of them found themselves working towards being the best possible version of themselves they could possibly be, motivated by the love they had for the others.
Love, not simply as a state of being but also as an active choice and effort every single day of their lives.
Love, in everything they said and did - in kind words and in bickering, in gentle expressions of support and in playful insults. In fond smiles and gentle touches; in reaching out and lifting each other up. In helping and in being helped; in establishing boundaries and in respecting those set by their companions. In disagreeing and finding ways to compromise. In making the others laugh, and in finding ways to make their days better and easier, if only a little bit.
In being seen, for all of their facets. Their weaknesses and flaws being exposed, and being loved not despite them but for who they are with them. Always working towards being better and having their strengths and efforts appreciated and encouraged by those who love them.
They were a family. And they cherished the traditions they had created because they cherished one another.
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Chris Motionless Fan Fic - Death Is Only The Beginning
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Prompt: Soulmates
Word-count: 1050 words
Warning: Character death (non-graphic)
Description: Everyone has a soulmate mark: a symbol somewhere on their body that would let them know when they meet their soulmate. Most people like their soulmarks, get a sense of joy when they see them...but Stephanie gets no sense of joy. No, the only think she feels when she looks at her soulmark is dread.
Soulmarks were a touchy subject for Stephanie.
 Most people loved the marks that would let them know when they had met their soulmate. It was the first thing a person had in common with their soulmate: and it was the first indicator a soulmate pair had found each other. Usually, at least before someone met their soulmate, it was something silvery and meaningful and beautiful (even if it was only beautiful and meaningful to them and their soulmate), but Stephanie wasn’t that lucky. Her soulmark was nothing like that.
 Her soulmate wasn’t silvery: it was an uneven, ashy grey colour.
 It wasn’t meaningful to her: not one she’d thought of in twenty-five years.
 The mark certainly wasn’t beautiful.
 Ugly? One-hundred percent. Macabre? Absolutely. Horrifying? Stephanie had used to be terrified of it, when she was a child.
 But then what child wouldn’t be terrified of having a gray scythe just under the crease of her elbow? Some of the other girls in her class at school had had sun on her wrist, another had had a dog just behind her right ear, and one of the boys had had a thorny rose on the back of his hand. When she had gotten to college, she’d laughed with one of her friends over the coffee bean on her hip, and admired another girl’s anklet of geometric circles, all while keeping her soulmark covered with a plaster designed to do just that.
 That plaster only came off when she got in the shower after her day, and even then she hated looking at it. She tried to look at it as little as possible - but pale man with black hair leaning over her in the bath was staring at it with an almost reverent expression.
 Stephanie was seriously weirded out by it.
 She had no idea how he’d gotten into her bathroom - or who he was.
   “What happened?”
 “You fell and hit your head on the taps.” the man explained, his dark hair falling in front of his pale face, obscuring impossibly dark eyes: “I’m here to help”
 Ice-cold hands touched hers, but she barely noticed because of the odd way he said had said he was here to help, especially when they quickly warmed up when they wrapped around hers: “How did you get in here?”
 “I can get in anywhere.”
 “But I locked my front door and this apartment is on the fifth floor…”
 “Like I said…” the strange man replied: “I can get in anywhere.”
 Sensing that she wasn’t going to get anywhere, and starting to feel more and more panicky about this strange man in her apartment, Stephanie pulled away from him and gripped the towel she was wearing tighter to her chest: “Who the fuck are you? You’re being all vague and shit, and you said I hit my head but it doesn’t hurt, and I…I…I…”
 Slowly, carefully, the man wrapped his hands around Stephanie’s forearms and pulled her closer to him: “Calm down, it’ll all clear in a minute.”
 “What will be clear- ” Stephanie pulled away, trying to turn away from the stranger…only to see her own body laying slumped in the bath, eyes shut, blood sluggishly flowing down the drain.
   The world started to spin, Stephanie’s chest feeling tight - even though she could breath just fine? Could she breathe just fine? That was her corpse in the bath, corpses didn’t need to breathe. Was she even breathing? The dead didn’t breathe, and she was dead, so it would make no sense that she was breathing…but the dead didn’t think, and Stephanie was thinking - at least, she thought she was thinking, so that would make no sense. None of this made any sense! She couldn’t be dead! But that was her body in the bath, and she wasn’t in her body, so what else could the explanation be?
   Oh my God, I’m dead.
 I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m -
    “Stephanie! Stephanie, listen to me. Focus on my voice.” the stranger snapped her out of her panic, turning her round to look at him: “It’s going to be okay.”
 “H-h-how is it going to be o-okay?” Stephanie stuttered: “I’m dead!”
 The man nodded: “You are dead, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t okay. You have your whole afterlife to work with now, and I’m here to help you. Just take a minute, okay.”
 “But why?”
 “Because I’m your soulmate.” he said, voice suddenly soft as he pulled up to reveal the scythe mark just under the crease of his elbow.
   A scythe that matched her own perfectly.
 Looking down, Stephanie saw her that her soulmark was no longer an uneven, ashy grey, but solid black…the colour darkening in the way that soulmarks did when soulmates met each other.
   “You’re…you’re my soulmate?”
 “I am. I’m sorry I had to meet you like this,” he smiled apologetically: “I’m Chris.”
 Considering how much he had scared her originally, Stephanie found something soothing about the sweet edge to Chris’s smile: “I’m Stephanie…I know you knew that already, but…”
 Chris’s smile widened into something cheerful rather than pitying: “It’s lovely to meet you, Stephanie, despite the circumstances.”
   Stephanie allowed him to pick her hand up, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it - and Stephanie sort of…melted. Something that Chris seemed to pick up on, if the playful glint in his eye was anything to go by.
 Honestly, Stephanie didn’t mind.
 Maybe she was still slightly hysterical, but…she was dead. What was the worst that could happen? She might as well go all in with her apparently flirty soulmate - what else was she going to do?
 Besides…Chris seemed nice. Inside and out.
   “So…what do people do when they get into the afterlife?” Stephanie asked, keeping her fingers twined with Chris’s.
 Chris grinned: “In your case? Whatever you goddamn want.”
 “And if I want to spend it with my soulmate?”
 “Then your wish is my command.”
 Stephanie beamed back at him, leaning up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek: “I could get used to hearing that.”
 When she pulled away, Chris looked a little dazed - but in a good way: “Your wish: my command.”
   Stephanie grinned.
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mythgirlimagines · 3 years
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Talentswap Tuesday is today! Please keep your eyes peeled, or she just might jump out from the shadows to give you an impromptu makeover! It’s Myth, the Former Ultimate Makeup Artist!
————————-——————————
BACKSTORY AND TALENT
When you first of her talent, you would assume Myth to be some kind of Marylin Monroe-esque social media influencer. But despite Myth’s skill in standard makeup application, Myth’s speciality lies in horror and special effects. Able to turn a person from a beauty to a beast, Myth’s makeup skills are praised by both the horror fanatic crowd and the beautician crowd. As the third daughter to an American horror movie actor and a Ukrainian beautician, Myth’s talent manages to consist of the best of both worlds. Starting out as a humble assistant at some of her father‘s movie shoots, eventually Myth garnered internet fame for her tutorials on how to give yourself extra eyes or how to turn into a vampire. She still hasn’t lost any of her spooky and impish charm, even as an adult and chaperone of Hope’s Peak’s annual Kibo-Con field trip.
——————————————————-
RELATIONSHIP
Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Storyteller
Folks come far and wide to hear Wyre’s macabre tales that can leave even the strongest of bodyguards shaking in their boots. Myth and Wyre knew each other ever since they were little, having bonded over their shared love of horror and the macabre. And you can bet your bottom dollar that their relationship is still going strong to this very day. Myth regularly helps Wyre with their makeup to up the horror factor, usually making Wyre resemble an oni or a dragon. This fearsome duo just love teaming up to scare the other Anons. 
Outfit: White face paint with black circles around their eyes and cracks painted into their face, a large purple cape held together with a skull design, a black vest and red ascot over a white dress shirt, brown pants, black heeled boots.
Anon Scar, Ultimate Jazz Singer
With her proficient skill at both vocals and instruments, Anon Scar, also known by her stage name “Guardian of Soul”, managed to revitalize the jazz genre. You’d think that with her whole demon motif along with her cool and calm behavior on stage, Scar would be able to handle Myth’s horror. But all of that talk of demons and curses is merely a facade, concealing an easily-frazzled and heavily concerned mom friend. Myth loves drawing wounds on herself and pretending to be hurt around Scar, just to see Scar’s facade break.
Outfit: A black vest with a white music note design on the back over a white tank top, black pants, black fingerless gloves, a microphone around her right ear, the scarf and boots from her original design.
Fusion Anon, Ultimate Forensic Sociologist
An expert on human behaviors, body language and social interactions, Fusion possesses an uncanny intuition and can read people like a book, making him a tough nut to crack for the more deceptive and manipulative students. Despite his creepy intuition, Fusion remains a kind-hearted, almost paternal, young man. Myth was thinking that if Fusion wasn’t so kind-hearted and she touched up on his makeup, his freakish intuition and his freakishly thin and tall body would make him the perfect horror movie monster. 
Outfit: An oversized dark blue trench coat, an equally large red scarf that covers his mouth, the pants, shoes and glasses from his original design. 
Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Beatboxer
Conquering rap battles after rap battles, Fusion II is famous for both her epic beatboxing skills and the equally epic roasts of her opponents. But similar to Scar, Fusion II‘s sarcastic and flippant demeanour is merely a facade. Deep down, Fusion II is a massive nerd, particularly for literature and poetry. This love for the written word can be found in many lyrics of her rap songs. Myth finds Fusion II to be a fun person to scare, especially when the beatboxer is in the middle of one of her breakdancing sessions. 
Outfit: A white jumpsuit that is undone at her waist revealing her red tanktop and fake gold heart necklace underneath, blue and white sneakers, black fingerless gloves, a couple of piercings in her ears, a red cap worn backwards, sunglasses from her original design.
Just Anon, Ultimate Seer
Ever since he was little, Janon has been having weird prophetic dreams and Janon felt the urge to draw them in his dream journal. Sleeping and drawing are about the only two things that Janon really puts effort into. Janon sleeps a lot to maximize the number of prophecies he can see, and he can get really grouchy if someone wakes him up in the middle of his dreams. As much as Janon tries to put up the image of a stoic emo, his ridiculous fashion sense and adorable appearance makes Janon Myth‘s number one teasing target.
Outfit: Back-length hair that he didn’t bother to cut with a couples of pencils stuck in, a pink ski cap with bunny ears, a white mask with a cat mouth and whiskers on them, a yellow raincoat, galaxy leggings, nothing on his feet.
Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Linguist
Coming from an influential family known for their international branches, Sparkle has a penchant for traveling and managed to pick up languages left and right. Currently speaking 14 languages at a native level, Sparkle has a loud, bombastic and dramatic personality. And that loud, bombastic and dramatic personality makes really great reactions to Myth’s jumpscares, along with the added bonus of hearing Sparkle curse in different languages. Sparkle would let Myth touch up on her makeup as long as Myth promises not to put gory details on the linguist’s face.
Outfit: A brown vest over a long-sleeved blue dress shirt, a brown skirt, grey nylons, black heels, a large cape with a map of the word on it, blue pauldrons. 
Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Barista, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Perfumer
With the twin’s love for the cursed and macabre, Myth got along with them like a house on fire. Myth regularly hangs out with Egg at their coffee house and exchange their regular cursed inside jokes over a nice cup of joe. Wet Sock, despite their bitter personality, produces some of the best-smelling and luxurious perfume in the known world. Wet Sock’s and Myth’s shared love of cosmetics makes them quite the cursed duo. Both of them may have growing feelings for Myth and they usually fight over her, much to Myth’s amusement.
Egg’s Outfit: A white polo shirt, a green apron, black pants and brown loafers.
Wet Sock’s Outfit: A white polo shirt, a black vest, black pants and brown loafers.
Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Fencer
Being raised by a prestigious family of fencers, Curious managed to dominate fencing tournaments despite their height and age. Curious is loyal, stalwart and above all else, chivalrous. Said chivalry earned them tons of admirers in their old private school. Similar to Fusion, Curious is also a tough nut to crack, for Curious just has this constant poker face, no matter what horrifying imagery Myth throws at them. But Myth is a determined little lass and will find a way to scare Curious, or she will die trying.
Outfit: Hair in a small ponytail, red and white jacket over a red vest and green tie over a white dress shirt, cream pants, black boots and gloves, always has their trusty rapier on their person.
Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Lucky Student
Having been admitted to Hope’s Peak via a mere lottery, Anon Nerd has a foul mouth and an equally foul temper, which very clearly came from the poor hand in life that his bad luck gave him. Nerd doesn’t really have anything to his name apart from being part of his school‘s debate club and getting into screaming matches against 13 year olds online. Because of Nerd’s easily-enraged and overreacting personality, Myth finds Nerd in particular to be a fascinating subject to scare. Nerd’s blushy face is just so darn adorable!
Outfit: A black hoodie hood-up, black sweatpants, white socks, grey flip flops.
Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Crime Novelist
Famous for both his graphic and suspenseful novels and his general evasiveness about his personal information, it truly was a wonder that Myth‘s favorite crime novels were written by not only a Hope’s Peak student, but also someone who is 5 years her junior. Myth regularly tries to socialize with her hero in literature, but despite writing graphic crime novels, Eldritch is cowardly and runs away screaming at the slightest chance of danger. Myth’s generally creepy behavior and interests doesn’t really help matters.
Outfit: Longer hair in a ponytail, a dark purple vest with an orange question mark on the lapel over a long white dress shirt, an orange cravat, grey pants, black socks, black slip-on shoes.
Dream Anon, Ultimate Lighting Designer
Dream has become famous for catapulting her school’s theater club to stardom with her amazing light displays. Dream and Myth both have careers centered around show business, they both admire Eldritch Anon and his novels, and they both have outgoing and childish personalities. But a certain quality about Dream prevents Myth from putting her on her list of friends: Dream is a fashion disaster! Myth always tries to give Dream a makeover and a tirade about how crocs are evil, but everything goes in one ear and comes out the other. 
Outfit: A blue headband, part of her hair is put into a small sidetail with a green scrunchie, her hair is dyed a rainbow of colors, a black tanktop, a black, white, and pink jacket draped over her shoulders, various fake gold jewelry, orange headphones, white jorts, a blue and purple stocking on her left leg and a green and yellow stocking on her right leg, red crocs.
Iris Anon, Ultimate Jack-Of-All-Trades
Unlike other Ultimates with a clear-cut talent, Iris has mastered a ton of talents but not to the point of Ultimate status. Iris’s unorthodox Ultimate makes her an enigma amongst the other Ultimates. Despite not knowing what her plans are for the future, Iris is determined to make the most of the vast array of skills she mastered. Iris is very optimistic, able to see the good in even the worst and cursed of monsters. Myth admires Iris’s determination and Myth regularly uses Iris as her pranking accomplice. 
Outfit: A grey beanie cap with a dark blue star design, a green flannel jacket over a white t-shirt, a gold coin necklace, light blue jorts, white socks and green loafers with white soles, glasses and bandages from her original design. 
Purple Anon, Ultimate Toxicologist
As the scion of an influential family in the science field, Purple Anon is hailed as a prodigy in the field of toxicology. Because of Purple’s upbringing, her vocabulary is both old-fashioned and heavily uses scientific jargon, which makes her speech very hard to decipher by the Anons, with a couple of exceptions. Purple has a timid and easy-to-startle personality, usually hiding behind her good friend, Fusion. Myth regularly consults Purple on any new makeup products, to make sure that the makeup isn’t toxic or an allergen.
This series centers around the gremlin make-up artist trying her best to scare her conmates, but eventually, she opens up to others and proves to be a bit of a cinnamon roll. 
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PERSONALITY
Having been surrounded by horror for the majority of her life, MakeupArtist!Myth is unfazed at the prospect of horror and revels in the macabre and unnerving. Despite regularly getting kicks from scaring her fellow Anons, MakeupArtist!Myth has a surprisingly kind-hearted personality despite her impish and devious first impression, and can dial back her horror for people like Eldritch and Purple. MakeupArtist!Myth is a massive fashion police towards the other Anons, particularly towards LightingDesigner!Dream.  ——————————————————-
APPEARANCE
MakeupArtist!Myth wears her dyed purple hair in two space buns that she keeps up with blue scrunchies with yellow stars on them. She also wears an oversized grey and black sweater, dark blue short overalls, white gyaru-style socks, and black Mary Janes. Holding up her shorts is a belt that holds a bunch of makeup supplies. MakeupArtist!Myth has the same glasses from her original design, which frame her adorable dot eyes with elaborately designed eyeshadow.  ——————————————————-
I hope you like this Tuesday’s Talentswap! I can’t wait to hear what you think of it! By the way, I’d totally recommend “Danganronpa: The Wolf’s Game”, if you want to see another Killing Game with an Ultimate Linguist as the protagonist! I wonder how Wolf Game’s Ultimate Linguist would interact with your Ultimate Linguist!
-Fusion Anon
Dang I would so like to be this good at makeup XD Wyre and I actually have a friend who’s super good with horror makeup
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perfect-fourth · 3 years
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Hⁱˢ ˡᵃᵗᵉˢᵗ ᵃʳʳᵃⁿᵍᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵃᵈ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ˢᵘʳᵖʳⁱˢⁱⁿᵍˡʸ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵒʳᶜʰᵉˢᵗʳᵃᵗᵉ.
A year had gone and past in conjunction with his arrival to Piltover-Zaun, his third reappearance in the twin cities and certainly not his last, had he any say in the matter.  Getting out of Tuula again had been simple enough.  Even without the old man commanding the Navori, they found use of him and his methods; and for the most part, left him to his own macabre devices when he completed whatever menial task they set him on.  It was never anything that created conflict with his own intentions, and they knew better than to ask anything of him that did, at least without the former Eye of Twilight to tell them what to do.  He didn’t much care about their cause; be it for better or worse, so long as it gave him a means to further his own.  
  It wasn’t that he especially enjoyed the region; the constant whirring and buzzing of machinery was a distraction rather than a calming white noise, and more often than not he found himself falling ill to the smothering smog and toxins that permeated the atmosphere, no matter how careful he was to protect himself and cleanse his numerous temporary habitats.  His only solace was found in the part-time work he’d taken as a keeper for one of the many greenhouses that spotted the city, little pockets of foliage in an otherwise bleak and repugnant landscape that offered little hope to anyone who had the misfortune of living there.  Truly, he couldn’t have been the only one who saw the irony in the unholy green glow of the Sunken City, a color representing life to taunt a place overwrought with death.
  Of course, there was also his art, the driving force behind his motivation to return to such a technological dystopia.  As uncomfortable as it was, there was no denying the grotesque beauty in this place.  Twisted iron and even more twisted people, Jhin had felt for a long time now that he hadn’t realized his full artistic potential in his previous installments.  His work back then had left much to be desired, especially in the case of...
No, no, no, no.  Now was not the time to think about Zed, or Shen, or that wretched girl who had systematically ruined his vision.  Tonight was not about them, and it was unlikely they’d heard anything of his whereabouts this time around.  It had been both a blessing and a curse to operate in a place where he was only one of many to paint the streets in blood.  In Ionia, no masterpiece went unnoticed, everything held a weight to it that echoed horror through legends that spun themselves into the cautionary bedtime tales of many a defiant child.  But in Zaun, most of his feats were swept away with the rest of the muck that soiled the bowels of the city, no more than a small snippet of acknowledgement in the local papers. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but it seemed almost every time he performed there he was plagued by some misfortune or another. Be it a trap not going off when it was supposed to, or a composition disrupted before it’s full beauty could be realized, Jhin was half convinced by now that some sort of horrible curse had befallen him.  Either way, surely nothing substantial that was likely to circulate beyond the sea.  Even if it had, the last he’d heard about the Master of Shadows, Zed had his own hands full dealing with the backlash from unrelated endeavors.  Something to do with the vastaya, and two in particular, though he knew little else outside of this. Served him right, really. 
It was of no matter, in the end.  Tonight was the night he’d force the dual cities to bear witness to his gruesome techniques.  Tonight, he would make his mark on the consciousness of Piltover-Zaun.  Permanently.
  The hexdraulic descenders were one of many industrial splendors that helped to shape the outline of the city; so prominent a landmark that the local hooligans had taken to riding on one of them as a right of passage.  The Howler, they called it -- certainly a beast of a transportation device that had initially peaked the virtuoso’s interest,  but soon fallen to the wayside when he’d grown to understand the importance of the smaller, more streamlined descenders.  They carried less passengers at any given time, most of whom held power in either or both of the neighborhoods.  Government officials and high-profile scientists, popular entertainers and media influencers--those who would set Piltover’s Finest into a frenzy trying to uncover the cause of their untimely demise. 
 Working in the gardens had been a genuine form of stress relief for him; but it also carried the added benefit of camouflaging him as nothing but a faceless bystander in a place that was often frequented by the higher class.  He’d overheard many an interesting conversation in his time there; but one conversation in particular had cued him in on how and where to find the schedule logs for these descenders; a knowledge he put to great use for that night’s performance.
5 minutes.  It was 5 minutes until the clock struck twenty hundred hours.  Not his favorite time, but a necessary one to ensure a perfect number of victims would unwittingly meet their demise inside the private descender that was set to rise back into Piltover.  He’d studied the four passengers who were to be boarding that night; ever the meticulous sort, though who they were meant little to Jhin personally.  Just that they were important, and that their deaths would leave a scar on the hearts and minds of not only those who bore witness to his designs, but the region as a whole.
Being there had given him the liberty of exercising his creativity; exploring alternate means to express his art and magic, and tonight was no different.  Jhin had never much entertained the idea of modifying poisons before, but the abundance of toxic substances that were at his disposal were a little bit more than tempting to fool around with.  After a lengthy two months of study and experimentation, he’d found the perfect substance, and the perfect disruption method via modified gas grenades.  Placing them inside the descender at the appropriate time had been the most difficult part; not because of anyone taking notice of the fanciful bits of molded metal and cogwork that looked more like decoration than anything, but because the person--creature--whatever he was who he’d recruited to do the task for him with his stealthy abilities kept accidently setting the little devices off before he even got to the location.  He’d had to reschedule his performance at least twice because of this; eventually coming to the conclusion that the assortment of knives the jester carried on his person were piercing the canisters.  How his physiology bypassed the effects of the fumes was beyond him, but it certainly brought to mind some questions about whether or not he should be involved in any dealings with this other, so-called ‘demon’.         
In 3 minutes, now, the four passengers would finish boarding what would inevitably become a chamber of death; locked away beside the inconspicuous embellishings that at just the right moment would release a concoction of horrible toxins, with a very specific effect.  He could visualize it so clearly in his mind.  Slowly, these unfortunate aristocrats would begin to lose their ability to breath as the chemicals bound to their cells, transformed them, their lungs splintering like tiny shards of glass. They'd gasp and choke for air, but each breath would only bring more pain as the contamination spread into veins and arteries, eventually rupturing skin and kissing away their lips and eyelids with the corrosive fluid that was once their blood eating through soft tissue.
 It was a hideous and painful process that left behind a bubbling mess of flesh and bone, just barely distinguishable as human.  Whoever had luck enough to stumble onto his latest masterpiece wouldn't see this, though-- at least, not at first. Where blood would boil and seep, his magic left streams of gold, and where flesh would tear and melt, delicate roots of wisteria would sprout and spread along the floor of the compartment.  It would be a sight to behold when they actually managed to breach the door, but that would take them quite a fair bit of time to accomplish.  Every facet of his plan had been carefully conducted, right down to the the workings of the machine itself.  By his meddling, the descender would shudder to a halt at the exact spot where it was to cross up into the golden city above-- where those in both cities would be able to marvel at his display.  Threads of magic would unfurl around the spherical machine into illusionary flora that gave it the appearance of a blossoming lotus-- and concealed the gnarled metal cables which would inevitably swallow the cart thanks to the nature of gravity.
 Clad in attire suitable for any other faceless citizen of Zaun, Jhin sneered at the flavorless layers of drearily hued fabrics and simplistic patterns, something he tried to bolster at least a little with choice accessories and one of the numerous protective masks he’d acquired during his time in the city.  By no means was it any kind of substitute for his most beloved facial wear, but he wore the device well, just as one would expect of an astute actor challenging themselves with an unfamiliar role. He had to admit, the abundance of selection when it came to facial wear in Zaun was pretty impressive.
He watched the events of the city below from beyond the panes of an abandoned alcove ascending the walls of the two cities, a delicately crafted telescope at hand.  He’d set up camp there a few hours earlier, beside him a small lantern, a satchel containing extra supplies, two flasks; one water, one alcohol, and a handful of homemade snacks were he to find himself stuck there longer than intended.  Naturally, he kept Whisper at hand, though with no intent of use.  A precautionary instrument, and a source of comfort for the artist, he stroked metal-clad fingertips across her emblem, an invariable and timed motion.  It wasn’t long, now, before the beauty of his craftsmanship would express itself in full for the whole of both cities to marvel.  He could hardly contain his excitement as he heard the soft tick of the pocket watch at his breast, and for a moment, he reluctantly desisted his gun-fondling to tip the telescope up to his line of vision and peer out into the crowded city below.  They were boarding now, each of them, one astutely dressed woman and three...
Two.
One, two. 
Where was the third gentleman who was to board the descender?  Perhaps he’d already entered?  Yes, that must have been it, surely, he hadn’t been watching the entire time, after all, and--
No...
“No.”
  Once, twice, again, again, he scoped across the panels of each window, he stood, he repositioned, he scanned it from every conceivable angle but... There were only three people on board.  He could feel his pulse start to pound in his temples.
One would think that if the sanctity of these individuals lives were of non-importance, than it wasn’t really of any matter if one slipped away, but that sadly just wasn’t the case.  He’d had a very distinct and fixed idea that he’d wanted to convey that night, and while the mechanisms that he’d implemented did indeed seem to be working without a single misstep, it was not what he had arranged.  As the seeds of his creation took root, the artisan barely heard the loud echo of creaking metal beyond the ringing in his ears. He clutched the telescope he’d brought but no longer used it, so tight that the retractable brass slid out of alignment beneath the bow of his fist. 
“This is wrong, this is all wrong!  Where is he?  Where is the Professor?!  I don’t understand, why isn’t he--this can’t be happening to me again.”  
Shambling to bring his now partially dismantled telescope back up to look at the scene that had unfolded, Jhin took little comfort in the suffering of the three who thrashed around in their last ditch effort to cling to life.  Hands trembling, he lowered it once more and forced himself to inhale on the count of 4.  Hold for 8, exhale 4-- a repetition that continued until he had managed to calm himself down enough to at least stop shaking.  This did not mean he was in any way, shape, or form happy about his circumstances, but he couldn’t allow that to control him.  
By the time he looked at his artwork again, everything had fallen into place, and bystanders had started to take notice.  Silent, save for a deep sigh, the maestro prepared his hand canon with an impressive swiftness.  He unlatched the window and rested the muzzle through the slight opening, taking aim at the first person he saw within range down below.  Whisper sang her tune into the unsuspecting courier’s flesh, leaving the woman’s blood and brain matter in a scattering of petals across the cobblestone.  Four.  But not how he’d envisioned.    
“Unacceptable.” he spat to himself, collecting his bearings from the kickback of his canon.  A sneer was hidden behind the sharp contours of his gasmask.
“Uninspired.  Absolute garbage!” As much as he wished to continue berating his own work and breaking things, he knew he couldn’t linger there long.  His improvising had left him vulnerable to discovery, already people were looking to see where that powerful blast had come from, though more were simply trying to find shelter in case the onslaught were to continue.  Collecting most of his things haphazardly, the killer stood and rolled onto his heels towards the tiny passageway he’d found his way through earlier that day.  He had been planning to leave Zaun as soon as he’d accomplished his work anyway, but it’s simultaneous success and failure had ensured his departure.  Once he gathered the seldom few necessities he’d left in a safe space nearby, he’d be out on the next boat.  Siren began screaming in the distance.  
He needed to reassess his work.  He needed to get his inspiration back.  It was time to go home. 
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Seven Devils
Warnings: death
AO3  <<<Previous
Day 5
You woke up screaming. Looking around you didn’t immediately recognise where you were, throwing your sheets of and trying to get out of bed. One of the sisters rushed over to you to calm you down. “where… where’s Claire? Is she okay? Where am I?” you asked frantically. The sister continued to calm you down, informing you that you were in the infirmary and Claire was asleep in the dorms. You were found passed out in one of the old chapels, no one could explain how you got there. The sun had yet to rise, the sister encouraging you to go back to sleep for a few more hours. //// You woke up again, this time in the afternoon. Due to your wandering making you impossible to find, you were to be kept under watch by a sister, in case something happened. You currently sat in the library; you had gravitated towards this seat as soon as you entered the room. The book on the table in front of you had something to do with the history of the convent. You began to flip through the pages, hoping something would stand out to you. “The book isn’t written in English, do you want me to explain the history to you,” the sister watching you asked. You nodded, wanting the human contact. “Most of the convent was rebuilt because of a great fire.” “A fire? What happened? Did everyone survive?” you leaned into the conversation. “No one knows how it started. Some say a stray alter candle, some say it was intentional.” You wondered who would want to set a convent on fire. “As for the survivors,” she began to explain, “it was one of the miracles of St. Y/N. She had a dream that there was to be a fire, so she managed to get the sisters out before they were incinerated.” “What happened to the saint?” you asked. “She didn’t make it. She was found below the tree in the courtyard, the one with poisonous fruit. The story goes that she fought the devil and won, but he took her life in his anger. They say her soul rests within the tree itself and that’s why on a quiet day, you may hear a heartbeat.” You weren’t sure if you believed in God, but you were sure your belief in the devil got stronger every day. The sister continued to tell you the story, “Even the design of the convent is thanks to St. Y/N. She spent hours meticulously drawing up plans inspired by the divine. She made sure one of the sisters at the time left the burning convent with the plans. It is one of her other official miracles actually. Not a bad thing has happened in here since.” “The only fatality made such an impact,” you whispered. “Only? No there was one other death.” Your brows knitted in confusion; this was a new element to the story. “The Monseigneur at the time was also said to have perished in the fire. Apparently, he was deep in prayer. Most of his remains were incinerated however, not much of him was found.” “Michael,” you whispered. The sister gave you a confused look, “Yes, that was his name, how do you know.” You scrambled around for the answer, “Oh I think I heard someone speak about it.” You were not going to tell her that you saw the man in your dreams. ////
Your muscles had gone stiff from all that sitting down. The copious amounts of flies in the room were also bothering you. You had asked if you could walk around the courtyard and promised to return. You cracked your joints while heading out, trying to get rid of the stiffness. You closed your eyes as the cool, early evening air hit you. The sun would set soon, and you wanted to enjoy the outside while you could. This trip had to be the worst thing you had ever done, and you were going to give your parents an earful when you returned. You admired the flowers and their bright colours, swatting away the flies to get a good sniff of their sweetness. You stood and made your way to the centre of the courtyard, trying to listen for that heartbeat again. As you got closer to the tree, you thought you saw someone lying beneath it. Now was not the time to take a nap. You got closer and recognised the face, it was Claire. “Why are you taking a nap here?” you spoke to her, facing away slightly to avoid the suns glare. She didn’t reply. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” You kicked her slightly to wake her up. Instead, she fell limp to her side, an apple from the tree rolling away. It had been bitten. You quickly got down to help her up. You were met with a wide, glassy gaze. Her eyes were lifeless, their vibrant colour had faded. Flies had begun to eat at her face, starting at the remnants of the juice left by the fruit when she took a bite. It took you a while to comprehend the situation. Your mind flashed back to the first day here, the warning given to not eat the poisonous fruit. “WAKE UP Claire! Please … please wake up,” your mind processing what you didn’t want to accept. You screamed for help. Your voice cracking from the consistent screaming. the next few minutes went by in a blur. A sister checked her pulse and shook her head. You became hysterical, screaming something you could not remember, having to be pulled away by staff members. You had gone numb. You felt like you were underwater. Everything was muffled and nothing made sense. //// You had no idea how much time had passed when you were all called to stand outside for an announcement. “It is with the greatest sorrow, that I have to announce the passing of a dear friend and student.” The crowd gasped and began to murmur. “she was a wonderful student, a pillar of our community and the loss will leave a hole in our hearts.” Sister Y/N looked around as she snapped out of her daze, no longer paying attention to the mother superiors words echoing off the stone walls. Stone walls? She looked around confused. She could have sworn that they were all standing outside a minuet ago. This upset her even further. Was she really losing touch with reality now? She tried not to dwell on it too much, she had already been hysterical in front of these sisters more than once. Her puffy eyes and dry lips showed for it. She would keep her mourning private now. //// In her private grief, Sister Y/N spent more time in the run-down chapel, alone. The repairs would have to wait a while. Her days were spent in prayer or just staring at the wall, the numbness did not allow for anything else. Her daily routine was interrupted by the door creaking open. She knew who it was, the footsteps and expensive scent gave him away. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral. he walked into her line of vision, looking her up and down. “You poor thing,” he whispered “look at the state of yourself. One may think you were the corpse,” he chuckled. You didn’t find it funny. “Look at me Y/N” he gently held her face with an unwanted tenderness. Sister Y/n tried to fight the warmth from his touch. “I can take this all away. You know I can.” His thumbs gently stroked her cheekbones. “I can save you from drowning in this grief, offer you salvation of the highest kind.” He sat down next to her, face still in his hands. “All you have to do is come to me. Seek me out. Let me be the light in your darkness and I shall offer you eternal bliss.” His voice was low, barely echoing through the crumbling structure. The offer was enticing, what did she need all these negative emotions for anyway? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Maybe this was god’s way of offering her salvation. Before she could consider his offer any further, the softness of his hands began to feel sticky. The image of those very hands stuffing a body under the bed flashed through her mind. It was like a cat leaving a macabre gift for its owner. She quickly pulled his hands off her, not giving him any time to react as she ran from the room. She headed straight for her room, the one she hadn’t entered in days. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. The room was now almost empty, only her bed and belongings remaining. All traces of her friend had, been erased. She sat on her bed staring at the empty void left behind. Her nose stung with the tears she tried to hold in. When she was younger, she would have turned to her mother for comfort. That was no longer possible. All she had left of her now was old letters and annotated grimoires detailing herbal practices. She opened her drawer and pulled a box out. She ran her finger over every groove in the wood, each intricate carving meant something. It was all protection spells, keeping her secret safe and only allowing her to open the box. Seeing her mother’s handwriting calmed her down, flipping through the pages and reliving some of the happier memories from her childhood. She would do anything to return to the cottage in the woods, where the summer breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and the sounds of the steam would lull her to sleep. Her mother’s humour carried on throughout her writing, leaving little notes as if she knew she wouldn’t be there when Y/N would need her. A she flicked through the book, one of her notes stood out to her: ‘Dear child, I must tell you never to trust beautiful men. Especially those with hair of spun gold and eyes of sapphire. They are almost never human. If you’re lucky he may be one of the fair folk. However, if God has forsaken you, he may well just be the devil’ The devil? Sister Y/N lay down and stared at the ceiling. The more she thought about it, the more the cogs turned. Maybe she was looking too much into it, trying to find something to blame for the terrible few months she was having. But then again, only the devil would parade around like a messiah, offering an illusion to those unhappy with the cards they were dealt in life. She got out of bed to grab her other books. Maybe this we her final test from God, to conquer the devil that had haunted these holy halls.
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dememarquette · 3 years
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True Crime
They parked outside a cottage. Portend Point was a gorgeous neighborhood. Occupying it, 1305 Parkview was an equally picturesque property. It had everything one could want from a gentrified postcard: a manicured lawn, a white picket fence, friendly neighborhood dogs excited to see you but not too excited. A sign advertised this slice of warm American pie could be yours. FOR SALE it said, smacked across an unfortunate realtor's forehead. Kevin Locklear had a new golf cart staked on this commission. In his desperation, which reeked as bad as the scene, he ducked below the police tape to plant an optimistic 'Open House Resumes Wednesday!' picket. Adria would take personal pleasure in throwing it in the garbage.
"Jean and Sidney Morin," She briefed, as Ian punched in the door code. "They're from New Gisen, reported missing 72 hours ago. Gas station footage has the suspect grabbing Jean at the Circle K. Sidney was seen by traffic cams in hot pursuit, but we have nothing after the first intersection. Men are checking doorbell cameras along the street. So far, nothing." The stolen car in the driveway was similarly combed through. Every stray hair inside was documented. There wasn't much left that wasn't bagged, tagged and sent off to the lab, but Ian liked one last intimate walk-through before tossing the keys to clean-up. If he was absorbing one word of what Adria was saying, it didn't show. Her partner worked like a TNT detective. Adria pictured the world bottoming out around him. He'd suffer 50 consecutive epiphanies after looking at something stupid like a tipped ketchup bottle, and construct a convoluted MO from there, but that's not how she worked. If reading the block text helped, murder's hooked on phonics, by God she'd do it. "Neighbors didn't hear anything. We have no idea where the struggle took place, if there was one. Judging from the looks of this place-" "It wasn't here." He said, tuning in only for silent confirmation. She nodded, and he killed the lights. His UV swept over the walls. The inside had the aesthetically-pleasing insipidity of a gourmet cracker. It had been sanitized for a showing, but according to the carpet, the perp wasn't admiring the crown modeling. A modest drip-trail led straight from the front door to the basement, and there wasn't a petal out of place before it. After a quick scan of the rooms composing the ground floor, Ian got his fill of Ashley HomeStore's heritage collection. To the basement they went. Each wood plank creaked under their feet. The floor consisted of a flat slab of water-stained cement. The space was fashioned into a man-cave. Shelves were bolted to the walls. All the sofas were leather. Posters on the wall were swapped for something more palatable, flanking an entertainment system that was to be marveled. In a move that didn't appear to serve any purpose toward the room's breathability, all the furniture was shoved to the side to clear the center. A single bulb hung by chain overhead. Energy funneled through a copper wire made it hum. Evidence photos never did it justice. The victims were strung together by a lawn hose. A single cloth gag- maybe a sheet- knocked their heads together, pulled taut at the pocket of their jaws. Their height difference forced Jean's face heavenward. The whites of her eyes were visible from the top, but you had to be at the bottom to see the shadow she sat in was actually a pattern. Their blood leaked into a paste-like outline, seeping color into the circle etched into it. Where the natural tug of gravity didn't fill the trenches, the killer dropped to their knees and started fingerprinting, casting away any macabre elegance it formerly had. Their hands scraped to fill the pattern all until it got to the bottom of the arc. Ian read her mind. "They were interrupted." "By what?" She asked. His mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn't have an answer. Instead he completed his circuit before dropping closer to the gag. Adria knelt beside him, her boots toeing the edge where the brushwork tapered. Fingerprints- fragmented and smeared- were shipped off to IAFIS. Problem was, when the suspect hadn't indulged in some casual DUI, she needed something to match it to. She sized her hand up against theirs, while the deceased husband stared on. Adria avoided eye contact. Violent crime wasn't anything new. She's seen her fair share since moving to the city, but never a throat cut this deeply. Sidney had been nearly decapitated. Skin folded off his Adam's apple like a bow-tie. Stringy matter underneath was on full display. "What about the design? Does that mean anything to you?" "The team is working on tracking it. So far they're thinking it’s some type of online cult." "And that?" She tipped her head to the bowls skirting the outline. Ian grabbed one, sifting through it with a finger. Its contents stuck to the latex, white. "Cinnamon, and salt. The last one's pyrite. Offerings." "Then what were they?" "Bait." The moment he said it the lights died. Ian shot up. Adria pulsed to follow, but her balance teetered. Neither were near a switch. "Who else is here?" "No one." The bowl Ian was holding warbled a low note, spinning where he’d been. He shouted from the foot of the stairs. "Has to be the breaker. Don't move." "What?" "Don't move." "Wh- I'm not going to touch anything!" Adria lurched on steel-toes. Offense had her fumbling with her flashlight. Sure. Okay. Fine. So in the past she hasn't been the most careful. Maybe she's stomped through one or two crime scenes. But never when it mattered! So it's not like she'd- Something blew past her ear.  With a graceless shriek, she made it a third. "God DAMN it!" Coagulated blood gunked to her jeans. She fell onto her back, swearing and curling to assess the damage. Ian would take one look at her and scowl. He'll do that smoldering, glower thing of his that she only liked when it was directed to other people. And then she'll have to go home, change her jeans, and hope he lets her back onto the property before they break out the body bags. He's going to see right away that- There's smoke? She dropped her knee. Sniffing, she swiveled. Air was escaping somewhere, hissing like a busted soda can. Whatever it was suffused the room. Her eyes burned just to move, but she couldn’t shut them. It could be more than the breaker- But that wouldn't explain why it was in the middle of the scene. With a yelp, she witnessed a spark fly between the corpses. Her heels planted into the floor. She kicked, hastily wedging distance between her and smog lifting off the concrete. She could've pretended she missed the class where she found out cinnamon was flammable. She could've maybe let it slide that denim wasn't an accelerant, but this was straight up sulfur. A ribbon of light unwound between them. A silhouette stretched out from behind it, towering. "Ian?" She asked, already knowing it wasn't. It had too many feelings to be. "What is this?" It croned. Miserably, it picked up a leg. "Ugh." Fingers acting faster than her brain, Adria whipped her gun from its holster "HANDS. Hands up, now!" "Sticky-" It groused. She heard a wet, staggered ppmf-ff. That suspiciously sounded like bodies toppling. In a maneuver she couldn't repeat, she blindly vaulted over the sofa, jamming herself between its backing and the wall. Her vision developed slow. First outlines, then shapes. Colors a little after when the smokescreen fanned out, blurring the glow around his face. She propped up her gun. Old leather gave away her position. The red light of eyes widened, vaguely cartoon-ish. "WHOA, hey now. Don't shoot." "Get on the ground." She ordered. "I said I wanna see your hands! Both of them, now!" "Aye-aye!" He complied. There was something sarcastic about the way his shadow wiggled to the floor. "Happy?" "Who are you?!" "Demetri Marquette, at your service." He tried to bow, until the violent rattle of her pistol suggested that was strictly prohibited. "What are you doing here?!" "Same as you, I imagine." "What?! What does that mean?" "You know. Working. The hustle." He shimmied. One by one, the candles surrounding them lit. The man in the center appeared nothing as he did in the shadows. His stature halved. The reddish glow vanished from his face, but most perplexing yet was that he somehow found a cover to throw over the bodies. With the blanket over them, they looked like fucking sock puppets. Adria sucked in a breath, sputtering nothing but inarticulated syllables for solid five seconds before, "Hey- stop fucking with my scene!!" "Oh- this?" He patted the victim's heads. The disrespect alone should’ve been grounds to fire. "I was meaning to talk to you about that. I'm sorry but two? Overkill. We’re not in the business of extra credit but I do appreciate the enthusiasm. So, uh. What's it going to be?" She swore nothing about this conversation was tracking. "Huh? "Money, fame, power, et cetera?" Nonsense! Complete nonsense. What was he implying? That this was an offer? A transaction for the bodies? It didn't matter. He overstayed his welcome before he popped in. And the fact he got in here at all may mean he knew something they didn't. This ridiculous, unexplainable suspension of belief kept her from feeling imperiled but this fuck was going to ruin the whole case if he didn't already. She pinched the button on the side of her walkie. "Ian, I need back-up downstairs now." The stranger sucked his teeth. "Ah. I wouldn't do that.” ’Oh my God, shut up. “Come on, talk to me.” He cooed. “What would make you more comfortable? Fresh air? The lights- is it the lights?" She glared, trigger finger satisfied with rapid-fire button clicking. Ian's hip would be going off like the fire alarm should be. "You know, I was going for ambiance, but." He snapped. Suddenly the power was back. She twisted from her fort. Corner to corner, stomping cleared across ceiling. The basement door creaked. Ian came swinging down the stairs, perfectly on cue. "The breaker fixed itself." He announced, sounding leery of it. "Imagine that," Said Blondie. Adria’s aim stayed fixed, prepared for sudden moves. There weren’t any, even from her partner. Ian’s velocity slowed to a stop. His grip on the handrail turned rigid before the bottom, tightening like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes roved over the ruined scene, the magnitude of it driving a huge crease into his brow. He did not notice the stranger directly beside him. Adria desperately looked between the both of them. "He can't see me," Demetri elaborated. "Adria?" Said Ian. The gravelly rumble of his voice asked fifty questions- none of which she had an answer to. She had a gun aimed at nothing. Two bodies were down, bizarrely set up for a picnic. "I-..." She stuttered. "Word of advice," Demetri picked a piece of lint of Ian’s shoulder. The detective reacted with only the slight drift of his eye-line, before his attention snapped back to Adria. "Don't say anything or you'll buy yourself a ticket to a psych eval." "Ian, you can't-?" "Nevermind. From this angle, you already look insane." Ian waited for her to continue but she lowered her gun. If he was right, there was no coming back from this. "...I thought I saw someone in the smoke." "Smoke?" There was no smoke. No fire, no light. Demetri's trapeze around the basement hadn't even left footprints. To Ian, she used the two minutes he was away to go nuts. Just lose her mind. Sanity to the wind. Who needs to critically think when you can barricade yourself behind a sofa, wildly waving a gun around? Defending yourself from scary shadow people that a paid electricity bill keeps at bay? Ian stared, impatience surging from a quiet simmer to a boil. She realized it’s been too long since she even tried answering a question. "Are you alright?" He rephrased. What she heard was ’Are you an idiot?’ Her face burned hot. "I think-" She slung her bag over his shoulder. "I think I need a minute. I'll be back." The tight set of his jaw meant he agreed. She ran past him, bolting for the cruiser. Now she was going to have to type up an incident report. Scrub her pants. Contemplate the onset of her paranoia induced insanity, and hope they wouldn't take her badge for this. She threw herself into the front seat of her cruiser. The door slammed behind her. Before she’d let frustrated tears get the better of her, she pulled up a Chrome browser. Occult. Satanism. She typed. Demon summoning. Symbol. All the results looked close. Matching the exact twisted pattern would be a nightmare. "Mind if we hit Starbucks?" Demetri necked her seat. She jolted, narrowly stopping herself from throwing her elbow through his eye socket. Knowing he was fictional made her wish she hadn't hesitated. "Why are you in my car?!" She swiped at her face. "For a frap. Hopefully. Is butterscotch still in season?" "No! Get out." His cheek squished against her headrest. "Aw, c'mon." She adjusted the rear-view, only for him pop up passenger side. "I get it." He said, proving he did Not actually. Devoid of any understanding of what 'Get out' meant, "More of a Dunkin' girl. That's fine I guess. Oh! Hope you don't mind. I dug through your glove department. I was trying to get to know you." He waggled a scrap of stationary. "Does the department know you're dating? Seems naughty. Is that against HIPA or something?" She flustered, red-faced. That note had been in Ian’s lunch. "OUT!" "I mean, I'm not judging. I like it. You'd think detective romances would get cliché but ugh." He pressed it to his heart. "There's something so enticing about seeing the ugliness of humankind hand-in-hand with the one you love. A real testament to love's resilience. Do you listen to Rihanna?" We Found Love belted from her speakers. Forget the psych eval, now she had to worry about the HOA. "What do you want, huh?!” Adria punched her stereo. “What do you want? Why are you here? Turn this OFF-" "I want to know what you want." He shrugged. "I want you to leave?! I’ve said a million times!" "No can do. Gonna need something more substantial. Unless, gasp." He made a show of patting down his slacks before producing a pen. The document it came with looked real and official. Spooky, until it came to 'Officer Hardass' at the top of a memo. It read "I forfeit my eternal soul to get Demetrius Marquette to GTFO" in gold. She looked down at the paper, head reeling. This was a fever dream. A nightmare. A joke, but she could feel the weight surrounding the document. Metaphysical. And as tempting as it would be to physically take his pen and jam it through his palm, five finger fillet- "NO." She shouted, chucking it back at him. "I'm not selling anything." Rihanna's chorus guttered and died. Its volume fell with his face. Hopeless indeed. "I don't get it." He huffed, impossibly exasperated. Like she was the one being objectively difficult here. "Why did you even summon me, then? What's the point?" "I didn't summon you, asshole! Some psychopath did!" "Huh." He pondered, deciding that did make more sense after-all. "...SO GO AWAY." "EeeeeEEEH. I don't think I will." He kicked back in the seat. A pair of sunglasses slid down his nose, gilded logo hitting the sun just right. How did a Dolce and Gabbana sales associate see him but not Ian? "You see. The problem is that I'm here now. I can't go home without something to show for it." "That's not my problem," Adria said, incredulously. "YOU are my problem! I don’t know who you think you are, but I don't owe you anything. You came onto my scene, jeopardized my career, made me look like an idiot, and now you're making my car smell like eggs!" Demetri recoiled. For a moment she thought she got through to him. Then it became abundantly clear it was just the egg part, actually. "Wow." He said. Hurt gave his voice a raspy edge. "Wow..." “So GO AWAY.” She tried for two. Three would be a taser. “You- you know what?” Demetri splayed his hands. “Fine. We’re done here. I’ll go-” “THANK YOU.” He scowled. “-I’ll go, but I will be back. And when I return, we're continuing this discussion in earnest. I hope, I sincerely hope Detective Kyro, that you think about it." She wouldn’t. But he vanished before she could say so. - - - By the time she got home, the scene was cleared. Since it had been cataloged ad nauseam, there was no need to report his partner’s lapse in sanity. Ian let it go. He covered her ass by risking his to shuffle in clean-up before anyone with a badge audited the damage. She got off easy. Despite earning every letter of a psych referral, confrontation fell away into 'unspoken' territory. He said nothing, but it was strongly encouraged by his cancellation of their Friday after-work happy hour that she take an extended weekend to 'rest.' That part he phoned in without her approval. Defeated, she threw off her jacket. She hooked her gun belt on a peg by the door. Her jeans were just going to burn- they were as good as cursed as far as she was concerned. There was nothing left to do but take a long, hot shower. Maybe she’d feel better if her skin ran hotter than the shame. The rest could be dealt with Monday. What choice did she have, really? She jammed a thumb through her braid. The plaits fell loose as she kicked off her boots, Adria went through the motions of attaining tentative comfort. And the moment she thought she could let it go (until she’d inevitably replay it at all again tonight) she smacked into the chest of someone in the bathroom. Her bathroom. This motherfucker made himself at home. “So,” His finger wound in the cord of her hairdryer. Freshly washed, and expertly coiffed, Demetri smelled exactly like her body wash. "Did you think about it?"
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Text
Worth It
“You ever wonder what it’s like to be dead?”
Pairing: Kwon Jiyong/Son Taeyeon
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Warnings: ANGST. And I mean serious angst, with obvious allusions to depression and suicidal thoughts. Mentions of death are prominent. Codependence also, maybe. Keep in mind that this is not necessarily a healthy mindset if gone wrong. Also, there’s swearing, plus some content that might be taken as slightly NSFW.
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oppa: a term used by a female to refer to a male, older than her, that she is close to
eonni: a term used by a female to refer to another female, older than her, that she is close to
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They were sitting on Jiyong-oppa’s bed, with Taeyeon’s back to but not quite touching the headboard, and the entire apartment was silent. Even outside they could hear no sound, like the city of Seoul had been uncharacteristically considerate and decided to quiet down to give them some peace. Maybe it was beyond egotistical of Taeyeon to even imagine the idea of an entire city doing anything for just the two of them, but that was the thought that came to her mind, and she couldn’t help it. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d ever been the humblest person in the world.
“…Hey.”
Jiyong-oppa looked up from his notebook, cradled in his lap as he was doodling what was presumably potential designs for Peaceminusone. Taeyeon was glancing up from her laptop, too, having been jotting down some lyrics. Their eyes met.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“You ever wonder what it’s like to be dead?”
Jiyong-oppa paused, considering her inquiry. An onlooker might have balked from the conversation that was going between them – just a moment before, they’d been working separately for hours on end, not saying a single word and not even glancing at the other despite the fact that they were facing each other on the bed, and close enough for their outstretched legs, resting limply on the mattress, to be intertwined – and now they were finally acknowledging each other’s presence, the first words exchanged between them being about what it would be like to be dead.
But Taeyeon wasn’t sure that either of them even had the capacity to understand how weird this could seem any longer. It was so perfectly ingrained in her – talking to Jiyong-oppa about the thoughts that went through her head – that she’d long since forgotten the feeling of fear that he would judge her. Regardless of if those thoughts were about death, or books, or parenthood, or human selfishness, or relationships, or anything else.
“More than once,” he admitted, even though the word admitted implied some kind of shame or embarrassment, any reservation about telling her the fact, and that couldn’t be further from what was in his voice or demeanor at the moment. He sounded casual – no, he was casual – just as casual as she was, asking him the question. Actually, stated was a much more accurate way to describe the action that saying those three words had been.
Taeyeon arched her eyebrows slightly, a wordless beckon for him to continue. Jiyong-oppa shrugged.
“I don’t know. Mostly I think it’ll be like sleeping, I guess. Nothing. No memories, or feelings. Or consciousness.” His tone was matter-of-fact. That answer hadn’t changed since the last time she had asked him this question. Taeyeon strained to remember when that might have been. Six years ago? Seven? Five? She was losing track.
Just like back then, he had the same thoughts she did on the matter.
“My father said he found that idea scary,” she said absentmindedly, the childhood memory tickling at the back of her skull. She didn’t recall the context of his words, or why her forever-distant father would tell her something so personal. Maybe he hadn’t even been telling her directly – maybe she’d overheard it, or found it written somewhere. That was probably it – no way her father would have opened up to her about something like that.
“Understandable, I guess. Do you?” Jiyong-oppa’s tone was mild. There was curiosity in his eyes, but a mundane kind of curiosity that reminded Taeyeon that this was far from their first time talking about this.
“A little?” She wasn’t sure. She supposed it was a scary idea, and one that had the potential to make her panic – because really, the idea of being conscious of absolutely nothing for the rest of forever was an unnerving one. But quicker than the fear of that was the logical fact that she didn’t have any reason to be afraid, because she wouldn’t even have a mind left to do that with. If death erased all of her, it would erase her ability to feel anything right along with the rest of her, too.
And even barring that, there was the fact that…
“But on the other hand, I think having no consciousness for the rest of eternity would be weirdly comfortable. Maybe even comforting. Don’t you think?” That was true, too. It’d be peaceful, just like sleeping, only there was no chance or need to ever wake from it. Life was pretty exhausting, after all.
“Yeah.” Even though Jiyong-oppa sounded more or less flat, Taeyeon could hear the sincerity in that single word. She wondered why he didn’t bring up the fact that she’d already asked him this before, and that he’d already asked her this in the past, too – that they both already knew what their answers were, and somehow even knew that those answers wouldn’t be changing anytime in the near future.
Well, she didn’t really wonder. She already knew the answer, after all: there was an odd comfort in it, just like the odd comfort of death that she’d mentioned. Even though the topic could be considered macabre, talking about it with each other had a comfortable lull settling over both of them. That was probably so because, in a way, she thought, they were just talking about another of the many similarities shared between them. The fact that they would inevitably die soon – and it really was so soon, in the grand scheme of Earth’s history, the universe’s history – the same as everyone else on the planet. More than that, the fact that they thought similarly even about dying and its unavoidability.
Jiyong-oppa tossed the notebook onto the stand next to the upper part of the bed, the motion somehow lazy despite the quick movements involved. His aim was precise, and the notebook landed with a sharp slapping sound against the hard marble. Taeyeon blinked.
“…Hey, Taeyeon?”
“Yeah?”
“You think living until we have to die is even worth it?”
Taeyeon arched her eyebrow, glancing down at her computer screen to make sure the progress she’d made was saved before she closed the laptop and set it aside on the same stand Jiyong-oppa had put his notebook, albeit with considerable more care than it had received. That was a question they’d never asked each other. Somehow, they both knew it wasn’t a matter that was entirely foreign between them, but it had never been verbalized. She could feel Jiyong-oppa’s gaze on her, steady. Expressionless, but not closed off – on the contrary, it was genuine, in fact, because his sincere feelings about the question really were that bland. She knew that from experience, and she understood what that felt like because it was the same for her. Maybe it wasn’t healthy, but it was what it was.
“Who knows?” She placed her elbows on the thighs of her outstretched legs and settled her chin into her palms, ignoring the pain of the bones digging into flesh. “I doubt there’s even a right answer to that.”
His lips quirked, but he said nothing as she elaborated.
“I mean, it’s tiring to live. You and I know that both of us have more than our fair share of moments where we wonder why we bother.” Where did she – where did they – even start with those? The thought was enough to make her lips curve upward very slightly. Taeyeon liked to remind herself to keep her privileges in mind, no matter how strong the occasional urge to start purposefully dropping plates on the ground and watch them shatter got; she was successful, she was fairly rich, she was cisgender, she was considered attractive, she had dear friends, she and her group had a fanbase that she was unspeakably grateful to. She knew Jiyong-oppa kept that all in mind, too, and neither of them would ever presume to compare their plights to those of the truly, legitimately unfortunate. That didn’t mean that life wasn’t a pain in the ass for both of them, though.
“Yeah. It fucking sucks.” Jiyong-oppa’s statement was bland despite the profanity, like he was talking about the weather. Then again, they both sounded like this a lot, especially when it was just the two of them, especially when it was at night, when the rest of the world was asleep, and all the pretenses and all the need to have the pretenses began slipping away. They would all be back eventually, firm and steady and without a crack – they had to be, after all – if the public saw them like this then the consequence could be their careers at the worst. If that happened, they were really fucked.
“Sad to say that you’re right. But there are nice, beautiful things about life too, you know?” A strand of hair fell over Taeyeon’s eyes as she let her body slump against the headboard fully. Folding his legs and closing the distance between them somewhat so she was within his armlength, Jiyong-oppa reached over and tucked the lock away, secure behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her cheek – they were warm, just like his eyes. Taeyeon stared back at him, neither of them blinking, but the contact wasn’t awkward in any way.
“Such as?” he asked, cocking his head slightly to the side.
Taeyeon didn’t answer immediately, didn’t really feel like either of them felt the need for her to. Driven by impulse more than anything, she opened her arms. Without a beat of hesitation, Jiyong-oppa wriggled forward into her embrace until his head was resting on her chest, tucked under her chin, and his slim upper body settled between her spread legs. Taeyeon inhaled deeply, the weight of his body on hers bringing her its usual steadfast comfort. Adjusting himself a little, Jiyong-oppa wrapped his arms around her waist, blowing contentedly against the flesh of her throat.
“Soojin, for one,” she said. “Yuna. Sunbin. Minhee-eonni. You.”
“How flattering,” Jiyong-oppa mumbled into her neck. “You think I’m nice and beautiful?”
“Only because you think the same about me.” He let out a quiet hum of agreement that vibrated against her. Taeyeon paused for a moment, putting one hand on the back of his head and stroking. His hair was soft, the strands sifting between her fingers. “Books I like. Music I like. My career’s a blessing when it’s not shitty. People are pretty lovable when they don’t suck ass.”
“Wow, this is shocking progress,” he commented, with that slight air of cheekiness that only she seemed to ever be able to detect. “Here I remember fourteen-year-old you ranting to me about how much you hate people.”
“I’m an introvert. I still do. But I love them sometimes, too,” Taeyeon replied. “Besides, don’t pretend like you don’t know exactly what I mean.”
“Yeah… I agree with you.”
Taeyeon snorted. “About you knowing exactly what I mean, or…”
“About your answer. Life is a shithead sometimes and I don’t always feel the urge to waste all the effort it takes, but it’s enjoyable too. Or can be, at least.” He raised his head, and their noses nearly touched. Taeyeon’s eyes flitted to his lips, a fact that she didn’t bother to hide. Especially when she could clearly see his eyes going to the same place on her anatomy.
His breath fluttered against her cheek. Removing her other hand from the small of his back, Taeyeon placed it instead on his face, her thumb settling under his eye. Wordlessly, she pressed their foreheads together, and Jiyong-oppa’s hand came to curl around hers. Even though his hands weren’t particularly large, they were still larger than hers. Taeyeon liked how his fingers fit snugly over hers when they compared hand sizes for fun, knowing all the while what exactly the difference would be.
“You think we’d be together after we die?” he asked softly, like the question itself was a secret.
Taeyeon found that her voice came out hushed, too. “Probably not.” The answer was honest, but laced with reluctance. It might be hypocritical of her to be reluctant to admit something that she thought was true – after all, she had never liked fantasies, had promised herself that she’d do her best never to allow herself to be fooled by them – but she couldn’t help it. Death and the lack of consciousness that it brought might sound comforting, but that most definitely didn’t appeal to her.
Jiyong-oppa made a soft noise of agreement, somewhere between dejected and noncommittal. “You’re right that death might be relaxing in a way, but since we won’t be together, I guess it would be better to put up with life.” As he spoke, he inched upward, and Taeyeon made no move to stop it. She only had time to dip her head once to show her agreement before slowly, languidly, their lips came together, melding into one. Even as her eyes slid closed, Taeyeon could feel the gentle brush of his fingers against the skin of her throat and pulse point.
His kisses, the touch of his hands – well, just him – was different. She’d been in romantic relationships with other people before, but she’d never felt so secure with anyone else. Jiyong-oppa had an uncanny way of making her feel stable, grounded; it had always been that way since they were young and bumbling and green. Taeyeon wasn’t sure she was recognizable from the little child she’d been back then, but she knew she did share a similarity with her: that Jiyong-oppa was her constant, unspoken as that fact went, just like she was his.
Even now, when they were older and talking about dying. Even now, when neither of them could really place their relationship. They weren’t even officially together, Jiyong-oppa wasn’t her boyfriend and Taeyeon wasn’t his girlfriend, but they definitely weren’t just friends, either. Friends didn’t moan softly as their lips slotted against each other’s, soft and reassuring and so, so warm, like Jiyong-oppa moaned just now, breaking away just for a second to suck in air before diving in again. Friends didn’t cling to each other’s bodies with desperation and fervor, like Taeyeon’s hands groping at Jiyong-oppa’s face and nape. Friends didn’t spend nights curled up together like Taeyeon and Jiyong-oppa had spent the previous week and would undoubtedly spend tonight, sometimes with his face buried in her neck and their fingers intertwined together and sometimes with his arms around her waist and his body pressed flush against her back, strong and safe.
They separated just slightly, shoulders heaving, noses brushing. Taeyeon’s temperature felt distinctly higher than it had been before their kiss.
“I won’t die yet,” Jiyong-oppa said, his voice soft, throaty. “The world’s worth it for me, if you’re in it.”
Taeyeon closed her eyes and leaned into him, removing her hands from his face in favor of wrapping her arms around him and squeezing. Even though he didn’t say it, she heard the plea in his words, in his tone. She had to admit, the thought of leaving him alone – it did scare her. It terrified her, in fact.
Jiyong-oppa returned the embrace just as fiercely, his breathing steady against the shell of her ear. The only thing just as terrifying as the thought of leaving him alone, Taeyeon realized, was the thought that he might do so to her.
“I won’t die yet either,” she whispered. “If you’re here, the world’s worth it for me too.”
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