#and being good foils to each other and just sort of being like a lock and key | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deluluass · 3 years

Note

could yoy do please some yandere kuroo and kageyama headcanons? 💕

nsfw is welcomed 😊

My first headcanons 🤞🏽

Yandere! Kuroo Tetsuro

Content warnings: markers of a toxic/emotionally abusive relationship; dumbification; daddy kink; sex toy(s); mild public play/exhibitionism

😇SFW😇

This boy has a fascination for messy people.

And by "messy", I mean that Kuroo has a soft spot for those who put up some sort of front. A performative mask to hide their crumbling psyche.

Oh.

Those are his favorites. (Especially when they're not even aware that they’re hiding something.)

Maybe it's because they're so easy to manipulate? (Or perhaps it's a mild case of schadenfreude?)

It's the instigator in him.

He knows which buttons to push and at what time to exactly do it.

Kuroo lives for being that guy who causes a full blown fight by simply dropping a backhanded comment or two.

For being the final straw that eventually breaks the proverbial camel's back.

And then slipping back into the shadows to watch the Drama unfold.

So it's not unlikely for him to form an obsession for someone who's so emotionally vulnerable.

Someone who has the weight of the world on their shoulders; who has everything locked up inside to the point of bursting.

Because then it won't take much to have them falling apart and unraveling before him.

But he's also a caretaker, you know.

He's opportunistic and covertly callous and mischievous, yes.

But you've seen how much he tends to those close to him.

So when you do fall apart, you will do it in his arms.

He will take care of you.

He'll say everything you've always wanted to hear.

You're beautiful and wanted and loved and you don't have to be brave anymore.

Kuroo's here and he understands you.

From the barest changes in your inflection to your most subtle facial expression.

Other people won't catch it.

To Kuroo, though? Tell-tale signs that you're hiding your feelings again.

He understands you in a way that no else had; that no else cared to try.

And eventually that’ll be the very thing that you’ll hold onto.

Never mind that his every word has become an indisputable fact (when it shouldn’t be).

Never mind that the line between Kuroo just being a mindful boyfriend AND Kuroo disregarding your boundaries has become too blurry that it’s impossible to tell which is which.

Never mind that your entire world has narrowed down to just him and you.

Because all your friends have, one by one, made their way for the exit.

They tell you that they're so tired.

They've warned you- begged you, actually- to end this insidiously suffocating relationship.

"I know he's only been nice to you and to us, but there's just...something wrong about that guy," they say.

But until they pinpoint, exactly, what that "something wrong" is; and until you see it for yourself, you're sticking by his side.

Damn whatever people say.

So.

Kuroo's not the yandere who'd chain you up in his basement or something.

Not that he's above it, but because he doesn't really need to.

Not when he has you bound right where it really matters.

😈NSFW😈

Kuroo has perfected being a dom down to a Science.

He knows exactly when to be mean and hurtful and sweet and kind and giving to you.

Kuroo's very generous, methinks! But only if he believes you deserved it.

So you better prove that you earned it!!

He'll having you cumming and gushing into his hand if you pleaded just enough!!

Looked into his eyes all pouty and teary and pliant to all his wishes.

Very into treating you and talking to you like you're not capable of comprehending words.

Oh, darling. I know I'm hurting you. I know I am. But you like it, don't you? That's right. Fuck yeah, you do, you fucking slut.

That's because you're just a dumb little baby, aren't you? You'd be happy as long as daddy makes you cum?

And you'd nod and say yes so obediently as he pounds your little hole even though you can't hear him over the sound of your own moans.

ALSO!!!

HE IS A TEASE!!!!

A FUCKINGN!!!!!!!!! TEASE!!!!

Every seggsy time is edging time!!

Has a thing for slapping your ass until your cheeks are bruised and tender under his palms.

And for sticking a vibrator inside you while you're out in public.

Just to teach you a lesson whenever he feels like you're not learning enough.

"Do you want me to come back until you're ready?" the waiter droned, obviously suppressing the urge to roll his eyes when all you did was grip the napkin in front of you.

You couldn't even look at poor kid; couldn't even make out a sound. You're too busy stifling the tingling within your walls, prompting you to cross your legs beneath the table and squeeze your thighs together.

And Kuroo's just...scanning the menu. Sitting idly before you. He's resting his chin against his open palm, long fingers brushing under his nose, while you're practically grinding down the chair.

You feel yourself leak into the crotch of your underwear, sticky liquid squelching against the crack of your ass as the toy continued to vibrate, burning you up and melting your insides, the buzzing a white noise only you could hear.

His indifference was unflappable. Kuroo even managed to call out, "Excuse me. Sorry about that earlier. We're ready now," so smoothly despite your desperate attempts to catch his attention. Then, he recited a bunch of dishes that you didn’t have the appetite for. Like you’re not outright writhing and earning a few disconcerted looks from the table next to you.

All you wanted was for him to put an end to this. You've learned your lesson. You're not gonna disappoint him again.

Instead, you watched in agonizing fear as he reached for his pocket. And immediately, without a warning, you felt the toy shake violently inside you.

"Ah!" you cried, sharply folding your arms and legs, making the plates and utensils clink against each other as your wrists chafed against your hard nipples.

Your boyfriend halted, leaned closer, and looked at you in a convincing display of concern.

"Are you alright, babe?" he muttered, caressing your knee, his nails pressing down just a tad. Not too hard. Just enough for you to hiss in a heady mixture of pleasure and pain.

You managed a small, quivering "uh-huh" as you begged him with your eyes. Conveying as much message as you could.

"Daddy, I'll be good for you. I swear. I won't lie anymore. I won't make you angry. I won't do anything that you wouldn't be happy about. Everything I do from this moment on will be just for you, daddy. I promise, daddy-"

But Kuroo only huffed out, a small, faint grin tracing his lips as he turned back to the waiter and said, "One cream pie, please."

Yandere! Kageyama Tobio

Content warning(s): rape/noncon

😇SFW😇

Fourth wall break, if you will: thank you, anon, for putting these characters together because I Believe that they’re each other’s foils in terms of yandere-isms. And this is gonna be an interesting contrast to see (at least, I hope it would be).

So Kuroo’s all subdued mind games, right? Like, you have to do a whole routine of mental gymnastics if you want to dig deep and analyze how he had your head spinning.

But Kageyama?

Kageyama says fuck that.

Kageyama, genius though he is, is about as subtle as a metal bat to the head when it comes to his darling.

He has no qualms about tying you to his bed once the opportunity presents itself to him.

But it didn’t start out like that.

At first, perhaps Kageyama was just an aloof classmate whose entire life revolved around volleyball.

The one who couldn’t even take a time out of his day to hang out with the rest of the class on a weekend.

Though Kageyama has a knack for attracting hostility from other people, there comes a time (rare it may be) that it is offset by people who are sympathetic to his idiosyncrasies.

His darling falls under the latter.

That's what draws Kageyama to you.

Hearing stuff like "D'you know what they used to call him before? King!" and "King because he's an arrogant dickhead who thinks he's better than everyone" are not new to him.

But hearing these are: "Stop that. It's rude to talk behind a person's back."

"Kageyama's passionate about volleyball. More than anyone we've ever met. Ok so it's alienating for us! Whatever! But isn't it admirable that he's doing his best at a thing that he loves?"

Kageyama did not get it.

You're not his teammate.

You're not his..anything.

You had no cause to try and be nice to him and defend him and..understand him, really.

So the rest was history.

The beginning might have been awkward.

Every time he tried to talk to you, Kageyama, for some reason, always blurted out the wrong things.

But you didn't mind. You just liked being his friend.

And Kageyama liked having you by his side.

Kageyama liked it, especially, when you're in the sidelines and cheering him on. (This caused quite a ruckus in Karasuno.)

It should have been weird. Kageyama had not known anything else besides volleyball.

Your presence should’ve been that of a stranger encroaching on someone else’s property.

Somehow, though, you fitted in so perfectly.

Like you’re made to be there.

So he tells you: “You’re free, aren’t you? You should be watching me play by now” and “You should be waiting for me after class” and “Stop making excuses. You’re not tired. You can still drop by practice”

You’ve tried to reason with him. (Even contemplated about ending your friendship.)

But it’s not like you’re ever gonna shake him off.

Besides, you know that he wouldn’t accept anything less than perfect.

😈NSFW😈

His darling was his first sexual experience.

And like any beginner, Kageyama was pretty...uh..bad at it ngl.

Add that to the fact that he’s on the bigger side and your first with him wasn’t consensual.

At that time, all Kageyama knew was that he really, really wanted to touch you and kiss you and fuck you senseless until you acknowledge that there’s no running from him.

Trust, though, that Kageyama will not settle for being bad or, heaven forbid, mediocre at it.

Nope.

Not. a. chance.

Doesn’t matter that you’ve spent the entire day fucking.

Kageyama will not rest- not let you rest, until he drags out a moan from you; until you’ve ruined the sheets with how much he’s made you cum; until he has you begging for more.

Will experiment a lot.

Will test out how fast and hard he has to fuck you to get what kind of reaction he wants from you.

Very attentive even to your quietest gasp.

If you so much as show a sign that you’re finding whatever it is he’s doing to your body pleasurable- curl your toe or arch your back- Kageyama will amp it up to the point where you’re screaming.

He’ll have this haughty, shit-eating grin while doing it too.

“Yes, you can,” Kageyama growled. “Spread those legs and show me how you do it.”

You shook your head, your body protesting at the slight movement. You’re already on the verge of blacking out. And you don’t have to check the ticking wall clock to know that, by now, Kageyama, too, should be knocked out and dozing off beside you.

But he only grabbed your wrists, making you howl in pain as soon as he touched the cuts and bruises across the skin. Remnants of the nylon rope that bound them together not too long ago.

“Touch yourself,” he repeated.

Kageyama’s voice is a rasping noise to your ears, his hot breath causing goosebumps all over you as he pressed his lips against the shell.

“No-no more, Kag-Kageyama,” you forced yourself to say, though your throat was dry and aching from all your screeching.

He clicked his tongue.

You flinched.

And you didn’t think it possible for Kageyama to be more frightening than he already is. Until you’d done as he’d told and, like a wolf patiently waiting to pounce, Kageyama zeroed in on how you moved your hands, his own reaching for his cock.

He didn’t take his eyes off of you, groaning as you trembled and mewled under your featherlight touch. Kageyama stroked himself, grinding into his fist until pre-cum dripped from the head.

“That how you like it, huh,” he croaked.

Before you could even reach an orgasm, Kageyama had already pushed you on your back, mimicking the way you pleasured yourself. Only this time it was rougher, more unforgiving, and indifferent to your cries of “Stop! Stop it, I can’t- Enough, Kageyama!”

#tw non con haikyuu #yandere headcanons #dark content haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kageyama #yandere haikyuu #tw noncon #y/n's gender is not specified

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thinkingoutlouddblog · 3 years

Text

butterfly effect: one

His mouth is slightly ajar, surely shocked to be seeing the girl of his past so far from where he had left her. I myself try to compute what I am seeing, but my brain is running so fast from the adrenaline, the gravity of what is occurring hardly registers.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Word Count: 6k+

Includes: mob!h, mentions of blood, scary dudes late at night, and the set up for my favourite story I’ve ever written!

A/N: guys I am so excited about this story! I swear writing this is the only thing holding me together (so don’t let it flop lmao). It is 2AM pray for me.

My inbox is open for anyone who wants to chat about this series! I love to gab, and constructive criticism is very much appreciated. I want this to be as good as possible!!

butterfly effect masterlist // my masterlist

now

It is not until it is already too late that I realise I should have just ordered an uber.

Alex was very insistent that I order one home from my late shift at the pub. He had even offered to split the cost, knowing without needing to ask this was the cause of my hesitation. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford it. Strictly speaking, I could. I was just keenly aware of the amount of material I could buy with the amount a late night uber in London would cost me. I would never take him up on his offer. He needed the money just as much as I did.

“It’s okay, I’m good for it,” I gave him a little smile. He was sitting in front of his mirror in his room, midway through getting ready for work. I had simply come to say goodbye before I left for my shift when he had grabbed me by the hand and demanded I ordered an uber home.

“Babe, you have to promise me.”

“I promise!” I stared exaggeratedly into his eyes as I spoke, emphasising my honesty.

In that moment, I made peace with the money I would be losing from my fabric budget. I calculated this budget, of course, by subtracting living expenses from my weekly income. My best friend wanted to make sure I got home safe, wanted the peace of mind while he was working that I would be fine. Who was I to say no to that?

“Make sure you text me when you get into the uber and once you make it up to the apartment.” My chest flooded with warmth at the love and care in his voice. It was moments like these I really sat back and thanked my lucky stars that Alex was in my life.

So, of course I was just going to bite the bullet and order the uber. Of course.

Except, well.

I couldn’t help but think how quickly I got from our place to work. We had picked the apartment just one short month ago, heavily considering the advantage of its walking distance to my work. The King’s Arms was just one block up and down the road. It was barely a fifteen-minute walk. Shorter than that if I took the shortcut down the alleyway back to our block, saving me from walking further down the road and looping back around. It would probably take me longer to get home via uber, once you account for the time spent waiting for it to arrive.

A ten-minute walk home wouldn’t kill me, surely.

The contemplation was pushed from my mind for the duration of my busy Saturday night shift. It was my least favourite shift of the week, as I spent each week chasing after middle aged men getting rowdy in the excitement of watching whatever sport was on TV. The King’s Arm was small, but it was a local favourite known for its homey pub meals, reasonably priced pints and good atmosphere. Much to my contempt they didn’t keep a large staff pool, preferring a smaller, well-trained, reliable bunch. Which was great in theory until it left me to run around like my hair is on fire on a night as busy as tonight.

I was capable of serving everyone well and in a timely manner, but it wasn’t exactly a stroll in the park. More like a seven-hour long sprint, with a half hour break in the middle.

As the final game for the night ended, the crowd slowly but surely thinned until just a couple of small groups remained.

“Hey y/n, are you okay to lock up by yourself if I head home in five?” my manager, Rachel asked me half an hour before close. “I have some time I need to take back,” she added in explanation.

“Of course, you go get out of here.” I knew she wasn’t lying when she said she had some time to take back, putting in all sorts of extra hours to keep the place in tip top shape. I liked Nicola, and I had certainly been working there long enough to handle a couple of customers and lock up by myself. Even if I didn’t like Rachel and thought she was slacking off, I couldn’t exactly argue. She was both my boss and the owner’s daughter, probably not far off becoming the owner herself.

“Are you sure?” She asked, eyeing the few men still seated, probably triple checking she didn’t think they were any kind of threat.

“Yes,” I laughed, “now scram, before I change my mind.”

“Alright if you insist,” she said, already making her way towards her bag.

“Ring me if you need anything! Good night!” She called over her shoulder as she exited through the kitchen door. The cook had gone home ten minutes earlier, the pub serving only drinks the hour before close at midnight.

“Night!” I called back.

I made quick work of what little cleaning there was left to do, and gently reminded the remaining patrons we closed in half an hour. To my surprise they were agreeable and friendly, one of them instantly assuring me, “Don’t worry love we’ll be out of your hair soon, won’t make you stay back late.”

Usually the kind of people that were in the pub this late had no care for closing time, believing that pertained simply to whenever they decided they wanted to leave.

True to his word, everyone was out with ten minutes to spare and I was able to clean their dishes and tables with the remaining time they had granted me. I locked the door to The King’s Arms at 12 o’clock on the dot and riding the high of such an easy close, took not a moment in deciding I was in fact going to walk home.

To Alex: Just ordered an uber!

I felt guilty lying, but I would rather lie than have Alex worrying over nothing. I would be home in a flash, keys secured firmly in between my knuckles the whole way. I felt far safer on the move than waiting out the front of work for an uber anyway.

I kept a fast pace, left only to debate whether I took my shortcut or stuck to the street. I checked over my shoulder, and seeing absolutely no one around, made a quick right turn into the alleyway between two buildings.

I grabbed my phone from my back pocket as I heard the ding of a text notification. I glance down at my screen, reading as I walk.

From Alex: Amazing! I should be home in a couple hours, text me when you get home safe. Love you x

I don’t register the hushed growling tones as I continue making my way down the alley, still looking down at my phone as I type a simple ‘love you’ in reply. It isn’t uncommon to hear the conversations of tenants on the lower levels of these apartment buildings as you walk down the street. Walls are thin and many windows generally left open. It is easy to consign this particular conversation among the other non-threatening city sounds until I eventually look back up from my phone.

I am immediately faced with a most unfavourable scene, under the single light that illuminates this alley, are the two men who I now recognise to be the source of the argument I had barely registered. The first man is tall, dressed in all black, thick muscles protruding through his t-shirt. He towered over the second man who contrasted him starkly in his bright red adidas tracksuit. The tall man’s presence would be dominating the space, even if he didn’t have his dark forearm pressed firmly against the smaller man’s throat.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, stopping myself from yelping stupidly and drawing attention to myself. They haven’t noticed my presence. A witness to whatever it was that was occurring here.

“See all I’m hearing is excuses, bruv,” the tall man’s accent is distinctly that of someone from South London. His tone is aggressive, but even. He knows he has the upper hand and it is clearly not his first rodeo threatening people. This is exactly the kind of person I could’ve avoided encountering by simply ordering an uber.

I snap out of my shocked daze and start to turn to make a swift and stealthy departure. I’m no fool. I know there is a definitive gang presence around here. I also know, if you leave them alone, they too shall (hopefully)leave you. All hopes of making such an exit are of course foiled as soon as my foot connects with an empty beer bottle on my first step.

The two men’s heads snap towards me instantly. I expect the shorter man to ask for help, to say something, but his mouth remains clamped shut. Gang business. He is in a bigger mess than someone like me can ever save him from. The taller man’s eyes narrow. After the briefest moments of standing there frozen, caught, I spin on my heel and run as fast as my feet can carry me.

I run back to the route I should have taken, cursing myself all the way for being naïve enough to believe that nothing bad could happen to me on something as simple as a walk home from work. That women who were raped, kidnapped and murdered from off the street were somehow removed from me. That was something only on the news in my world. Not something that was possibly about to occur.

My heart hammers in my chest as I make the split-second decision, I am safer running all the way home than running as far as I can from the scene of the crime. I’m going to run all the way up the stairs to my fifth-floor apartment, and I am going to lock the door behind me. I turn the corner back up to my block, not slowing down for a second.

I am so quick in fact, that as I come flying around the next corner towards my apartment, I nearly barrel straight into someone. He was clearly walking with some pace too, because he narrowly prevents us crashing into each other head on, but he is a second too slow in his reaction time because I trip straight over his feet. I hardly even see him, even as I am falling straight over him. All I see is brown hair and a dark suit before I’m staring straight at the pavement flying towards my face. I barely manage to throw my forearms out to break my fall as I hit the pavement at speed.

“Jesus,” the man mutters, but the only thing I can hear is my heavy breathing and my own blood pounding in my ears.

I’m on the ground now, I register for a second before my flight response kicks back in.

I don’t even feel the sting of the scrapes with the adrenaline coursing through me, already attempting to scramble up and get as far away as possible from this stranger. “I’m so sorry!” I manage to call as I pick myself and my keys up, gearing up to get moving once more.

“Honey?”

No. It absolutely could not possibly be. There was only one person on this planet who had ever called me by that name.

I stop dead in my tracks. That voice. It’s deeper than I remember but undoubtedly familiar. Familiar seems too simple a word. That voice had echoed around the halls of my brain for years. Even now, six years later, it was not gone but buried, waiting for a simple trigger to spark my memory and bring that beautiful sound back to the forefront my mind. Some days I swear I remembered it like I had just heard it moments ago.

Except now, I really had heard him.

Slowly, I turned to face him.

It’s Harry, and he’s here and the two of you need to get out of there right now.

Before he can verbalise any of the questions on the tip of his tongue, I grab his hand in my own, and yank him forward as I continue running home.

Realistically, I know that we now outnumber whoever it was that may be coming after me and I know even six years since I’ve last seen him, I am always safe with Harry. He proved that in many ways, and more than once, while I knew him. I was not, however, willing to risk the tall man pulling a knife on Harry. I didn’t even want to put him in a situation where it was a battle of fists. Though I did know from experience he could more than hold his own.

“What’s going on?” he yells as we run down the street, rapidly approaching the exit of the alleyway I had fled.

I gradually reduce our pace until we are speed-walking past the alleyway. Tempted as I am to see if they are still there, I keep my eyes trained forward, praying they aren’t there watching us as we pass by.

As soon as we have cleared it, I’m straight back to my running pace, forcing Harry to accelerate speed once more.

“I’ll explain inside,” I call over my shoulder in answer to his earlier question.

Now that I felt a degree safer with Harry’s presence, I had the capacity to feel thankful I had opted for a boiler suit and converse for tonight to accommodate for the Saturday night rush. This run would have been hell if I had worn a skirt and a heeled boot instead.

“Inside where?” He’s laughing as he speaks and as the fear loosens its grip on me, the déjà vu begins to battle for dominance. That laugh had brightened my every day for long enough to leave a mark on my soul. Fleeting as it was, that single sound reignited the shine it had once left.

His question was answered when we came to a screeching halt in front of my apartment. It took me two tries to input my security code correctly, my brain and hands both moving quickly, but not quite matching up. Eventually, the door clicked, and I was able to swing it open, tugging Harry in after me.

I didn’t stop dragging him along behind me until we had taken all five flights of stairs up to my apartment two at a time.

“y/n…” he attempted to grab my attention when we first entered the building, but I was not to be deterred until we had reached the absolute safety of my apartment. I shushed him, not wanting to receive a noise complaint from my new neighbours. I supposed having such a thought was a good sign, my consciousness beginning to register it was not in any imminent danger.

I huffed and puffed as we landed at the doorstep of apartment 5B, the place I loved to call home. Harry, I noticed, was barely short of breath. He had always been a runner when we were in high school. I wondered if he kept up the habit even now.

My hands shook as I located the correct key on my chain, body still shaking from the excitement of the events of the past five minutes. I struggled to align the key with the lock with my left hand, unthinking of the fact my right was still firmly in Harry’s hold.

“Let me,” he murmured, already moving his right hand to take the key. I said nothing, simply surrendering it over to him.

His hands were steady as anything as he turned the key, granting us entrance into my home. I released a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. I finally stopped just past the door, my back to Harry as he shut it behind him. I took a few deep breaths, trying so desperately to ground myself.

Was any of this even real? The sketchy characters I could believe in a heartbeat, Harry Styles’ presence, however, was harder to grasp.

But there his hand was, in my own, even if I couldn’t see him.

Harry stood back and let me take this moment to myself, keenly aware of how much I needed it. He knew I needed to take pause and re-centre myself otherwise I would only shut down. He was also aware of my injured state though, even if I wasn’t.

“y/n, you’re bleeding.”

“Oh,” my head snapped back to look at my arm. In the rush to get home, the blood from the scrapes on my arm had run down my arm and dripped into our connected hands. I quickly released my grasp on him. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“A little bit of blood never hurt anyone,” he quickly dismissed. “Unless you’re the one that’s bleeding, in which case you better get cleaned up as soon as possible.

“Luckily you have me here to play nurse. Just lead the way to the nearest bathroom,” he gave me a little cheeky grin, clearly trying to lift your spirits. The subtle playfulness is not as natural as it once was, but it is certainly reminiscent of our old dynamic. The surrealism of this whole thing goes straight to my head, clouding my ability to form full, coherent thoughts.

Somehow, I manage to come out with, “I think you mean our only bathroom,” in response.

He grunts a laugh, but he hasn’t missed the use of the word our.

I walk like a zombie, leading him through the hallway past the living room and the kitchen to the bathroom. I hold my forearms up in an attempt to redirect the flow of the blood and prevent it from dripping from my fingertips onto the floor. As I slowly came out of survival mode, my awareness of the stinging of my forearms became increasingly prominent. I was sure my hip and knees were going to be bruised pretty badly too. I really hadn’t managed to slow down at all before all my momentum came crashing into the cement.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” He asks upon our arrival to the bathroom.

“Under the sink.”

My eyes trail over the mess Alex and I had left in our rush to get ready.

I tend to procrastinate getting ready for as long as possible, busying myself with just about anything else. Generally, it will be tidying up the mess I’ve made during the day, only for me to create a whole new one in my hurry to get ready for my shift on time. Alex on the other hand, always leaves plenty of time to perfect his look before leaving for the night. Despite having the time to do so, he never cleans as he goes. Leaving his many products and deliberated outfits spread far and wide. Luckily most of his mess was confined to his bedroom, the only trace of him in the bathroom skincare and hair products (though there wasn’t a limited amount of those, either).

“I’m sorry for the mess,” I speak quietly watching Harry get his bearings, standing helplessly as I bled, hands still raised.

“Nonsense,” he doesn’t look at me as he speaks, jumping into action.

Harry turns the faucet on in the sink before opening the cupboard door and grabbing the first aid kid out. It was actually sort of a miracle Alex and I had one. It had been on a list of “Things You Need for a New Apartment” I had googled, scared we were missing important things. At the time, I had deliberated longer than necessary over whether to get one. I couldn’t remember the last time I had required anything more than a band aid for any given ailment. The deciding factor had been the memory of Alex getting into a couple of scrapes while out over the years. It had never been anything major, the worst injury he ever sustained being a bruised jaw, but it was better to be safe than sorry, I decided.

Turns out, that decision was for the best.

He gently touches his fingertips to my right arm, which had copped the brunt of it. With the softest touch, he delicately guided my arm under the stream of water. As I stepped forward to lean over the sink and wash away the dirt of the footpath, he stepped backwards, giving me my space.

I winced at the initial contact of the water as it ran red. I risked a glance at my reflection. Sweaty brow, the light lazy work makeup I had applied half off my face. I quickly diverted my gaze back to my injured arm. This was not exactly how I pictured our reunion. I had hardly ever even pictured it, I was so sure that I would never see Harry again.

I wondered if this silence was as heavy as I thought it was. Everything about him felt so familiar, yet so different. Up until this moment it felt like being in the presence of a friend, but now I realised, he was closer to a stranger.

I knew the person he once was, a sweet but fucked up kid who had been forced to become a man too early. Someone who had his walls a mile high around almost everyone. Almost. The boy who painted his nails on lunch breaks and was friends with everyone but somehow also no one. Until he was friends with me. Then he was the boy who always sat to my left from the first bell of the school day to the last. Back then, I knew him from the inside out, just as he knew me.

He was my greatest joy of those years. Then he was my greatest heartbreak. Now, he was just some guy I used to know who I had plucked straight up off the street, looking very out of place in what was clearly a designer suit in my tiny apartment.

He looked through the first aid kit as I ensured the entirety of the scrape was rinsed. It extended most of the way from my elbow to my wrist, but more pressingly in my mind, it now stung like a bitch. Once the water rain clear as it ran off my arm, I moved onto the much smaller and shallower scrape on my left elbow, working quickly to get it clean.

Most of the bleeding had stopped, only a few spots on my right arm still dotting with blood. I leaned over the sink to prevent the water from dripping onto the floor.

I cleared my throat, nervous to break the silence.

“Can you please grab me that towel?” I nodded my head towards the black hand towel hung behind Harry.

His eyes snapped upwards from the first aid kit he had been busying himself with. I was sure he had been surveying it more thoroughly than strictly necessary, trying to detract from the awkward energy which had crept up on us. We made brief eye contact through the mirror. My breath caught in my throat. The moment was over as soon as it began as he turned wordlessly to grab the towel.

He holds it in his hand, hesitating before handing it over, “Did you want me to…?” he trails off, growing awkward in his offer. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. She barely knows you, back off, he tells himself.

“No that’s okay,” I speak gently, and he quickly passes the towel to me. I get to work patting my arms down delicately.

“Thank you though,” I add, hating the unsure look on his face. I meet his eye, giving him a smile I hope is reassuring.

“Okay, let’s get you sitting down so I can fix you up,” he returns your smile with a slight upturn of the right side of his mouth.

I relocate to the little dining table Alex and I had bought at Ikea just a week prior. Harry isn’t far behind, washing his hands before joining me to tend to my wounds. He lays out everything he is going to need from the first aid kit before holding his hand out. Like an idiot, I stare at his hand without moving for a beat too long before jerkily offering my right arm up.

He laughs silently as he turns my arm over, analysing it carefully.

“So, do you often go for runs at midnight?” He asks as he unscrews the lid on the Vaseline.

“Yeah all the time. I just don’t normally take people from the street with me.”

“Is that all I am? A person on the street?” He tries to keep his tone light, but I can tell he was hurt by my choice of words.

I expect to feel guilty, but a burst of anger I thought I had long gotten over flares in my chest. It isn’t as red hot and overwhelming as it had been years before – I’d definitely had my fair share of time to cool off – but I’m still surprised by the sting of it.

He was the one that made himself a stranger to me, and now he’s upset when I’m stating the fact that he made a reality.

Despite myself, I tried not to come across too harshly in my response. I was never one for confrontation.

“I mean, I haven’t heard from you in six years.”

He is very careful not to lift his eyes from my injuries as he carefully applies the petroleum jelly. I stare down at him, desperate to catch his eye.

There’s a pause as I wait for him to offer some kind of explanation. Some perfectly good reason why my best friend and first love left town without telling me why, or where he was going, and then never contacted me again.

When he doesn’t fill the silence, I sigh as quietly as I can manage. You don’t really know him, I remind myself. I practically kidnapped him, I can’t just go asking him to rehash history. It was so clear that he was what he had wanted me to be. History.

“I just mean, I don’t really know you anymore. I’m sorry I grabbed you like that, I just,” I hissed at the sting of his first aid, “I was walking home from work and I saw these really sketchy looking guys.”

“Sketchy looking?” He finally looked up at me, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

“Well I guess they didn’t really look sketchy in their appearance particularly, it was more the fact that one of them was practically choking the other. They were arguing over something. I think it was something to do with some of the gangs around here,” I attempted a nonchalant tone, not wanting to worry him. The less phased I seemed, the better. I had caused him enough trouble. The only thing that was probably stopping him from running for the hills and never looking back (again) was guilt.

I go on to explain how I’d kicked that stupid beer bottle and taken off running, “which is when I ran into you. I’m really sorry about that, by the way. I’m so glad I didn’t take you down with me I think I would’ve died of a mix of guilt and embarrassment right then and there.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Ho-“he cut himself before his mouth could form that name he had so affectionately given you. “I’m the one who feels guilty, if not for my big, slow feet you wouldn’t have bit the dust.” I laugh at his turn of phrase.

His face suddenly grows serious. “Your head is okay, right?”

Instinctively, my left hand shoots up to the back of my head, ghosting over the slight bump hidden under my hair. The scar tissue was ever so minimally raised, only perceptible to a knowing touch. I retract my hand bashfully, slightly embarrassed by my knee jerk reaction.

“It’s fine,” I match his serious tone, before lightening it up, “as you can see, I managed to break most of my fall,” I gesture to my right arm he has paused work on.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer, discerning whether he thinks I am downplaying anything. He picks up the dressing, moving onto the next phase of his treatment plan.

“And they don’t feel broken? You can move your wrists okay without too much pain?”

My heart swells at his concern. I stamp out the small joy as soon as it flared up. It’s guilt that’s fuelling him. Nothing else.

I shake my head no. He looks up once more, having missed the gesture in his concentration. “Sorry! No. All bumps and bruises. I’m fine honestly, I probably majorly overexaggerated the whole thing and freaked out for nothing. I’m really sorry about all this, its so late at night.”

“Don’t apologise,” he says firmly. “It’s not your fault and you did exactly the right thing by making a break fo’ it. You never know what could’ve happened. Ya’ know. Out late. By yourself. In the dark.”

My face burned red with shame, but also defiance. I knew what I did was stupid and extremely risky, but I also didn’t think I needed a lecture about it in this moment. The fear still coursing through me and my scraped-up arms were surely lesson enough.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I countered.

We both knew my argument didn’t hold up very well. He was a man out alone at night. There was obviously a risk there, but it wasn’t the same.

We also both knew, I wasn’t really trying to start a debate. Just signalling to him I didn’t want to get into it and wanted to move on.

“I was walking to the tube from a mate’s place,” he explained simply, letting me off the hook.

He had begun to tape the dressing down to my skin, securing it safely. He worked expertly. Even if I didn’t already know, I would have said this was one of many times he had done some at home first aid.

“In a designer suit?” I questioned. There were two things I was asking, but also not saying. Was this the kind of ‘mate’ you wine and dine before going home with them? And what happened to that poor kid from Holmes Chapel I once knew?

“I came straight from work.”

Jesus he wasn’t giving me a lot to work with in the way of details.

“Oh,” I say lamely, not wanting to pry. As much as I could tell myself (and him) that I didn’t really know him anymore and he was basically a stranger, it still hurt to be treated like one. We used to be so open with one another. The one thing I ever kept from him was how I truly felt about him.

“I work in finance,” he offers up after a beat of silence. “It uh- I’m pretty lucky to have the job I do,” he alludes to his financial standing, obviously wanting to acknowledge the contrast comparative to how I knew him. A boy not even of eighteen, fending for himself while trying to complete his high school education.

My face practically split in two with the size of the smile on my face at his words. “I’m so happy for you, Harry,” I say, hoping he can see how genuinely I mean it.

“Thank you.”

“Are you happy, H?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Internally, I kick myself. Externally, I try to keep my face neutral, yet interested. That’s a perfectly normal question to ask. Totally.

“Um,” he switches to my left elbow, making quicker work of the smaller wound. “I think so. In my experience you never realise how happy you are until you aren’t. But still, I think I am.”

“Good,” I say firmly. “I’m glad.”

“What about you?” He turns the questioning back on you. “What’s your story?”

“Oh, you know. The sad story of the girl chasing a dream,” I nodded my head towards the sewing machine stationed at the other end of the table.

“Don’t say that!” His tone jests, but he is serious as he speaks. “I think it would be far sadder if I discovered that your talent was going to waste. I’m really glad to hear that actually,” he half says the last sentence to himself, concentrating on fixing his dressing properly on the more difficult angle of my elbow.

“There you go,” he gleams as he admires his handy work. “Good as new.”

“Thank you so much, Harry. I’m so sorry for all this-“

“Not your fault,” he quickly dismisses.

“Even so, I’m sorry for all the trouble. I’ll pay for an uber home for you or something,” I try to come up with something to offer him that can even begin to repay him for his help.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” His brow creases in concern.

“Oh, Alex should be-“ I smack a hand over my mouth, realising I never texted him to let him know I had gotten home okay.

“Oh fuck,” I remove my hand from my mouth. I gingerly fish my phone out of my back pocket, muscles beginning to protest, the impact of that fall settling in.

Four missed calls and a flurry of text messages. My phone had automatically turned onto ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode as scheduled at 12:30. I hadn’t been notified of any of it and he had definitely assumed the worst.

“Is everything okay?”

“I forgot to text him and let him know I made it home okay,” I don’t look up as I speak, opening our text chat.

From Alex: I’m coming home

Received ten minutes ago.

“Your boyfriend?” He questioned, keeping his face impassive. That had my head shooting up.

“Uh-“ I began, but cut myself off as the unmistakeable sound of heeled feet running up the stairs to our apartment ran out loud and clear.

Shit.

Before I could even think what to say next, Alex’s key was in the lock. The door swung open, smacking the wall with the force of it.

Both Harry and Alex’s brows hit their bloody hairline I swear. Or more accurately, Lexie’s.

There my best friend and roommate stood, in full drag, light catching the sequins of the pink mini-dress I had sewn myself. If I weren’t standing there with the guiltiest expression of my life, I would be thinking about how stunning she looked.

Harry looked between the two of you, as Lexie did the same. Both trying to catch their brains up to what they were seeing. I myself was at a loss for words. I probably should have started with, “Lex, I am so sorry,” but Harry broke the silence first.

“Wow, you look amazing,” he breathed, transfixed by the look Lexie had created. Drag was an art form, and she was quite the artist. He was not the first to become enchanted upon first look, and he certainly would not be the last.

Lexie narrowed her eyes at Harry, jaw falling slightly open at the audacity of the acknowledgement in this moment. She had little patience for besotted strangers in moments like this. Her narrowed eyes moved to mine, face filling with rage.

“Lex-“ I begin, but am cut off for what seems to be the millionth time tonight with the simple raise of her hand. The close of my mouth is instant. I was not about to make this any worse.

“Bitch, if you do not have a very good explanation for this,” she breathes deeply, trying to gain her composure, “I am going to fucking kill you.”

********

As soon as he is out of your apartment and onto the street, his phone is in his hand. Fingers not able to press to type the message fast enough for his liking.

From Harry: We need to talk. I saw her.

As soon as the message was delivered, he was returning the calls he had silenced in y/n’s presence. The moment she had turned her back and left him to wash his hands, he had turned his phone to airplane mode.

“Jesus Christ bruv, I thought you were dead,” Michael joked as soon as he picked up.

The two of them had parted ways for what should’ve been five or ten minutes. Harry hadn’t seen it happen, just heard the clatter of the beer bottle as it skated along the ground and the screeching halt in the argument. He had been waiting patiently for Michael to finish working in the shadowy doorway to the side. He hadn’t seen a thing, and he was sure from his concealed position, whoever had seen Mike hadn’t seen him. So, he obligingly offered to take a walk, ensure she hadn’t gone calling the police.

He had just been bored. Ready to go home and have a drink with Michael so he could have a bitch and a moan about work. It always left him feeling better when he returned on Monday. He was killing time, that was all. He hadn’t expected to stumble over the girl who had changed everything.

Harry didn’t take time to explain his extended absence, moving straight along to what he had called for. Just like Mike, he preferred to skip the pleasantries.

“I need you to subtly divert as much traffic from this block as possible,” he didn’t ask. He never asked. It was always an instruction with him. In this business, asking nicely didn’t exactly lend itself to going far.

“What’s this about?” Harry gritted his teeth. He did not enjoy having his authority questioned. The only reason Michael would get away with it was because of their pre-existing friendship. Even then. Harry was not exactly in a forgiving mood. Made all the worse when Mike added, “This isn’t about that girl from the alley is it?”

Michael had his answer when Harry said only, “Get it done or I’ll have your fookin’ head.”

chat with me about butterfly effect!

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justsasuke · 2 years

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Unhinged rant time (you’ve been warned):

The real [meta] reason Naruto and Sasuke can never really be compatible as friends or more if that's your thing is because they were literally created to be rivals.

They were made to foil each other and push each other to strength but not in a good way.

Now yeah, the writer did make them sort of friends by resolving their competitiveness with each other by forcing them to help each other (see land of waves arc, esp the tree climbing part onwards) but this doesn't last long into the chunin exams.

As matter of fact it kind of just dies there just like sarutobi (rip I guess).

Everything after that is literally Sasuke feeling inadequate bc Naruto appears to be growing in leaps and bounds (honey, he has a demon fox with unbelievable chakra reserves and special tutelage from a sanin, this isn't your fault) and Naruto desperately needing Sasuke to stick around/validate him/ continue being his rival??? for literally the rest of time and all eternity.

While that might be someone's thing and more power to you but objectively that's a trash dynamic and not good at all.

The way they were created and written isn't some enemies to friends trope or rivals to comrades. It's literally just toxic desperation, comparison, and aggressively threatening to maim someone "for their own good" (not sexy at all)

Just to be clear; this is a commentary on the meta of the story as well as the writing itself and not a commentary on the NaruSasu ship because honestly if I can ship Sasuke and Juugo (who is criminally underdeveloped as a character, and basically doesn't exist as a fleshed out character) and ignore the entire ending for Mental Health Reasons you can do whatever you want with the source material.

Just maybe fix the relationship in your head or make actually healthy HC's or AUs or whatever. Because the canon material specifically in relation to Sasuke and Naruto's “relationship” (I use the term loosely) is not coming from a good place nor is it any real kind of relationship besides as each others’ foils.

Basically my whole point in this post is that from a meta view Naruto and Sasuke were created to be each other’s “forever rivals” and while that does lock them into a sort of cyclical rotation around each other (kinda like the planets) that orbit is not because they’re being drawn to one another but is because they’re actually pushing each other away--much like magnets do when you try to put the wrong sides against each other. Healthy friendships or romantic relationships are formed from the ‘being draw to each other’ sort of orbiting and not the ‘dancing a set distance apart because we actually can’t get away from each other even though we’re pushing each other away’ type of orbiting.

so yeah, I’m not saying Naruto and Sasuke didn’t have any potential to be friends. They really could have been great. But alas, the writing and characterization and all the meta content of the story screwed it up big time.

#anti ending #Naruto #Sasuke #Sasuke Uchiha #Pro Sasu #Anti Konoha #Unhinged #yes this is becoming a thing

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kallypsowrites · 3 years

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Soulmates in the Grisha Trilogy

Someone sent me an ask asking ‘how did Leigh make the darkling and Alina perfect but connected opposites and not make them endgame (Or something to that effect, I may be screwing up the wording), and then in my tiredness this morning, I deleted it accidentally.

BUT this does bring up a topic I’ve wanted to discuss in the Grisha trilogy--namely the concept of soulmates. (Spoilers for the trilogy!)

Funny thing is, while I LOVE it when characters are paralleled, foiled, connected etc, I’m not automatically sold on the concept of soulmates for one very important reason--it often takes choice out of the love story and makes the end a foregone conclusion. I don’t like it when a love is predestined or certain. Soulmate concepts are only good to me when there’s a twist on it or something that keeps them apart. They gotta fight for it or, better yet, they have to choose it.

With the Darkling and Alina, there is a twist. They met at the wrong time. The Darkling has lost much of his humanity over the years (classic symptom of immortality) and he is bad at the emotions. And then, shortly after, they are ENEMIES. It’s a great, tragic ‘we’re meant together but the timing sucks’.

And honestly, I would be fine with that sort of relationship. I like tragedy. I like pain. And I acknowledge that in order to make Darklina endgame, Leigh would have had to write a very different book 2 and book 3. It was possible after book 1, but once book 2 happened, the Darkling was locked into endgame villain and their relationship was destined for tragedy.

What weakens this is her constant waffling on whether or not they are actually soulmates or whether or not there was real feelings, because on one hand she’s CLEARLY written that their are, but on the other hand, is her main heroine TAINTED if she had real feelings for the evil man? Corrupted? Terrible? You can only have one love, kids. One soulmate.

And here is where the stumbling block happens. She tries to make Mal Alina’s soulmate.

Now if I shipped Malina and I were writing them, I would have embraced the fact that Mal and Alina are NOT soulmates. This is a classic ‘predestination vs freewill’ dilemma. Like “yes, the fates are SAYING that this person is my other half and we are connected. But ultimately, it is my choice and I choose you.” That’s powerful. It’s powerful to say ‘my personal feelings are more important than any sort of cosmic connection and this is my choice at the end of the day’. Now I don’t ship Malina, but it seemed like Leigh might be setting herself up for that kind of dichotomy.

She does not. Instead, Mal’s an amplifier and soooomehow this connects him to Alina? I still don’t get why because Alina is not connected to Morzova’s amplifiers until she claims the stag. She’s someone who happened to get light powers and that’s not inherently connected to the amplifiers. Plus its confusing because the stag already further connected Alina and the Darkling? So your muddling your soulmate connection there.

This kind of plays into why the ‘Mal being an amplifier’ twist is bad and I’ll have another post on that. But Mal’s powers and Alina’s have never been paralleled or connected. They won’t be unless she claims him as an amplifier. And I still don’t buy the explanation of ‘Mal and Alina being close and in love drew the amplifiers’ because it does not fit with the magic system lore or anything else. Especially not with the stag. MAYBE with the sea whip because she already had one amplifier, but I don’t think a one time only connection qualifies as ‘soulmate magic’.

She uses this new thing about them being soulmates to claim that ‘even if they were raised in different circumstances they would have found each other’ which...no. Obviously they’re not the pair that’s connected and able to talk even at a distance and the way they were raised is actually EXTREMELY key to why they grew close. And she uses it to claim that Alina has only ever loved him. The stuff with the Darkling wasn’t like...real. Again. You can only love one person. Loving multiple people makes you bad :)

The thing about Malina is that ‘soulmates’ is not what draws people to them, at least from what I’ve read. People are drawn to them because they grew up in similar circumstances and when they were orphaned and alone, they had each other. They like them because they choose to be together. Not because of any destiny. Trying to make them ‘soulmates’ as opposed to just, you know, people who chose to be together, removes some of that agency from both of them and undercuts the ship. Because when it tries to do what Darklina does (the connection, the soulmate thing, the parallels) it PALES in comparison. I think she knew Darklina was popular so she tried to make Malina more grand at it just fell very, very flat.

So no, I’m not surprised Leigh didn’t make Darklina endgame. There’s was a tragic soulmate connection. But I will always be annoyed that she tried to invalidate their connection by proposing that Mal was ALSO connected with Alina and also the only one that mattered. It confused world building, character and themes, and was just very unnecessary.

#darklina #anti-malina #the darkling #alina starkov #shadow and bone #the grishaverse #ruin and rising

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beebrainedstudios · 3 years

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A Few Notes About ADSOM’s Writing/Themes Type Stuff

Because I’m in the mood to ramble and have a few opinions about some smaller things in the series that I actually think are really cool/smart writing. This is all personal opinion and is based on a bunch of half-formed thoughts and realizations, so if you disagree or think I missed something, please know I probably did, I’m just jotting this down for fun and have not fully explored all these concepts yet. They just seem neat at first glance. Also, other books have probably done some of this stuff too; I’m not saying Schwab is the only one who’s done any of this stuff, I’m just saying that it’s cool that it’s in ADSOM.

- First of all, props to Schwab for Alucard. I know there have been plenty of authors who have brought new characters in later in a series with no prior warning, but I have rarely seen one so immediately popular and gripping in a trilogy as Alucard except for Finnick from the Hunger Games. Alucard’s introduction doesn’t come at the cost of another character (as in, he’s not there to make someone who’s supposed to be bad look even worse) and his arc doesn’t supersede anyone else’s. He’s great, and the fact that he is generally considered part of the main group despite being introduced a whole book later is awesome and a testament to his character.

- Sort-of connected to the previous point, but I think one of the reasons Alucard works so well is that he doesn’t have a giant arc. Everyone else in the series has a fairly complex internal conflict going on (excluding Lila, but she still has a long arc even if it’s shallow) and Alucard does too, but his is one that suits his shorter presence in the story; he doesn’t have to become king/learn to stop running from responsibility/change allegiances every five minutes. He just has to figure out how to confess a painful secret to several people who aren’t willing to listen. Schwab, especially in ADSOM, isn’t afraid to give characters different size arcs at different times; if you graphed them all, it wouldn’t be a bunch of near-identical lines that could be mistaken for one, it’d be a bunch of crazy curves that start and end at different times and reach different heights. When authors who have larger casts do this, it instantly makes the story twice as engaging. Alucard’s just a good example of this.

- I know this one’s a bit more controversial, but Kell/Lila actually has a lot of narrative potential for Threads of Power. In the main series, it’s framed against Rhy/Alucard, which is already an established relationship (even if it took a break) where the two characters know each other well; this is why, once Alucard can confirm he never meant to leave, the two get back together relatively smoothly and happily. Their relationship is much more matured than Kell and Lila’s, which is why Kell/Lila’s chemistry can sometimes read as a little strange (at least to me), and why I don’t think it’s necessarily a perfect relationship just yet. Lila is a very strong personality with a bit of a demanding streak; Kell in turn has a massive problem with caving to others and refusing to stand up for himself (I’m gonna talk about this later). Left unchecked, this will become a problem, but if addressed in Threads of Power, it can lead to two really engaging arcs with Kell learning he does not have to be everyone’s emotional punching bag and with Lila learning that it isn’t enough to just stay in a relationship- there has to be give and take, something she hasn’t demonstrated well yet. Maybe they’ll even take a break in Threads of Power to give the pair time to mature (I’m personally rooting for Alucard and Kell to somehow get stuck together while Lila gets stuck with Rhy). IDK, I think Kell/Lila is cool, especially when taken as a work in progress over a fully fledged relationship.

- This is part of the previous point and part of the following one, but I think the fact that Kell’s personality and problems are largely focused on his tendency to avoid conflict is a really cool idea for a protagonist, especially a man (note that I’m not calling him weak here). This may not sound like Kell’s personality, but let me explain. Kell is insanely noncombative, and almost everything he does to try and solve a problem reads to me as him actively trying to avoid confronting someone about it. “I don’t feel like part of the royal family because I have no princely attributes despite being one in name, and while I acknowledge I’m lucky I still can’t get rid of these feelings”- Smuggles instead of talking to the Maresh (he tried with Rhy and Lila and look how that turned out). “I’m feeling pent-up because I almost died multiple times in less than twenty-four hours/have trauma and am being punished with isolation/no longer even being called a son despite the fact my magic acts up when this happens”- Competes in the Essen Tasch instead of talking to Maxim. “I hate you because you hurt my brother’s feelings when you abandoned him and I had to pick up the pieces”- Consistently antagonizes Alucard instead of really confronting him/letting him explain himself because that would mean that Kell’s ingrained-trained protectiveness of Rhy has caused another problem. Kell is a character who seems very proud and sure of himself, but when one looks closer, he actually has very little confidence. He has no self-respect, and that sets him up great for his narrative foil- Holland.

- Holland and Kell have a complex narrative relationship as two very well developed foils, and a lot of this has been addressed by the fandom before, but one of the most interesting points I haven’t seen much of is their thematic exploration of respect vs pride. Holland is a character who doesn’t like himself- this much is obvious- but while he takes no pride in his own actions, he has an insane amount of self-respect. He has to be literally forced into following another’s will, he doesn’t let other people’s opinions get himself down, he gives as good as he gets always no matter how hard it is. Holland has to be beaten into submission, and even then he simmers with righteous anger over it because he knows he should get to make his own choices. Holland has self-respect; I may hate myself, but that doesn’t mean I will let you disrespect me.

Meanwhile, Kell is a people-pleaser who puts on a facade of confidence who never actually uses it. Kell has pride in himself- in things like his magic, his coat, his wit- but he doesn’t actually have a lot of self-respect. He folds to anyone who is more demanding than him (AKA everyone else in the series), and the other characters abuse this constantly. Rhy, whether he means to or not, uses his influence over Kell to keep him from standing up to the Maresh over their constantly-shifting parenting positions. Maxim and Emira use their affection and respect like bait to get Kell to do what they want even when he’s uncomfortable. Lila can yell at Kell about his upbringing or accuse him of overprotectiveness (sometimes fairly, sometimes not) and Kell will simply stop talking. Kell just lets this happen; he doesn’t ever stand up for himself because he has been convinced things are usually his fault. I may like myself just fine, but I will let you walk all over me because it’s not my place to stop you and I’m probably the problem and also I shouldn’t have wanted XYZ in the first place. It doesn’t matter how much Kell debates with himself if he started the conflict or if he rails against the way he’s addressed- as long as Kell isn’t respected by his loved ones or the people around him, he won’t respect himself, and that is simultaneously really interesting and really, really sad.

- Also on the Holland and Kell front, Holland using Kell as the metaphorical scapegoat for his issues makes perfect sense, especially since I think he actually knows he isn’t in the right. Kell is often in places where Holland is at least uncomfortable and at worst in pain, and he is the tangible representation of Red London, the world Holland hates most of all. I’m convinced Holland’s brain put two and two together, which is why Holland often punishes/hurts/hates Kell for Red London’s systemic issues even when it is obvious to everyone involved Kell isn’t to blame. Holland lashes out at Kell in their first meeting because he’s offended that Red London is successful and White London is not; this isn’t Kell’s fault. He blames Kell for a)killing him and b)killing the Danes and stealing his vengeance; this also isn’t Kell’s fault. He even seems to get a little bit of satisfaction over the idea of sicking Osaron on Red London through Kell, despite the fact that making a deal with Osaron wasn’t Kell’s idea either; it was Holland’s (Kell didn’t have a choice to kill him and didn’t think he’d survive, but Holland still seems to interpret it as Kell banishing him to Black London, even though he would absolutely do the same thing in his shoes). Holland is a very angry person and Kell is unfortunately put in his way a lot, but I still think it’s neat that the very-rational Holland seems to have an awareness that this behavior isn’t fair/has unfair intentions but still is unwilling to stop anyway. He’s using this grudge as a coping mechanism and that feels really realistic to me.

- Minor point here, but the knowledge that eye color and stuff is incredibly varied and changes with magic use makes my little artist heart very happy indeed.

- I’m a big Osaron fan, and one of the things about him that I think is really cool is how completely unconcerned with revenge he is. Yes, he holds grudges against the Antari, but he doesn’t seem to care that he got locked in Black London for centuries. He has taken no personal offense over it, and that makes him seem even more inhuman to me- Holland spent like six hours in Black London and he carried that grudge for ages. Also, his complete certainty that he was not going to repeat the Black Plague in Red London is hilarious to me- he’s like a dog that keeps knocking its toy somewhere it can’t reach because it doesn’t compute that repeating the same action will always have the same result. Surely this won’t go wrong again, Osaron thinks, as the world once again starts dying off. He’s kind of an idiot, and I love that.

- The fact that Kamerov is both a knight and silver themed during a time when Rhy is throwing himself into his role as the Golden Prince may be unintentional, but is still cool nonetheless.

#i may reblog this later with more if i have any other revelations #but for now this will do #adsom #a darker shade of magic #shades of magic #ve schwab #agos #a gathering of shadows #a conjuring of light #acol #adsom theory #adsom headcanon #bee rambles #alucard emery #rhy maresh #kell maresh #lila bard #holland vosijk

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inspector-montoya-fox · 3 years

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let’s talk about why Justine Courtney is a badly written character

it’s been a hot minute since i’ve finished Investigations 2 but i can confidently say it’s very much one of the best Ace Attorney titles, perhaps even as good as Trials & Tribulations. but, that doesn’t mean it didn’t have its flaws, and i think, as much as i love her, Courtney was one them. loads of stuff didn’t really make sense, and her story arc as some sort of antihero didn’t quite gel. let’s dive into specifics (spoilers ahead):

i wanna start off by saying that this character genuinely holds a special place in my heart. if you follow me and my friend’s podcast, Turnabout Podcast, you might know that Investigations 2 was the first game i played without my friend giving me any previews or opinions because it’s the only game in the series that i played first. as such, when Courtney was first introduced, she made an impact by being a female judge sans the restraint of the court. you mean to tell me the judges in the Ace Attorney universe have... a waist, legs and feet !? when i tell you i thought this character was amazing, i mean it. easily one of the best things about my playthrough, something that surely wouldn’t change ever. but before i get into the bad writing, i wanna say that honestly, Courtney has some pretty nice moments in the game.

i think, first and foremost, diversity. like we can clearly see that the traditional Judge borrows heavily from what we all imagine a stereotypical judge would look like. bushy beard, black robes, bald (?). the only thing missing would be an over-the-top white wig with the curls. so, enter Courtney, this woman wearing her pink garment with some astral/cross details, braids in a circle with a thunder-esque fringe in the front, and holding a mini gavel to smash your skull in with. her attire and overall character design successfully portrays a woman who places her faith on the justice system above all else - and that’s a major aspect of her character. honey, she’s serving Florence + the Machine Ceremonials, divine eleganza. this is a prude above all else, and a firm believer that the justice system will prevail in the end, always and forever.

so, with this all in mind, you’d think we’d get a character who’s shtick is ‘blind faith’, etc. i mean, i love Ace Attorney but i have to admit most characters are pretty one-dimensional: Lisa Basil is a computer, Olga Orly is a reveal queen, Phineas Filch is a thief, and so on and so forth. it was a pretty big surprise when Courtney failed to maintain her single trait. the woman clearly doesn’t have a personality or a life outside her job; and even that would make for more interesting character development than what we got. instead, she starts off as an annoying foil to Edgeworth’s plans with some crazy-ass antics, and then proceeds to be excruciatingly irritating just because... she can ???? i feel like the writers had no idea what to do with her so they merged all their half-baked ideas together to form someone with enough systematic power to go against Edgeworth once he effortlessly put Sebastian Debeste in his place. lemme change the paragraph because i’m about to pop off.

Justine Courtney is like... 26 different people. she’s a mother, a judge, an investigator, a babysitter and a pain in the ass all at once. lil mama multi-faceted. the shift in tone doesn’t make sense and isn’t supported by anything in the narrative whatsoever. ok, she was basically playing lapdog to Sebastian in order to get closer to Blaise, i guess. but, why introduce her as someone who’s an avid justice system aficionado and supporter and not drive it all the way home or make it consistent throughout? that’s her entire thing in the Imprisoned Turnabout, talking about the Goddess of the Law and her motivations, but then in the Inherited Turnabout, she barely mentions any of it. instead of maintaining her black-and-white view of the law in order to develop it and make her come to a realisation that it’s not always like this, the writers tried shoving in other stuff like her playing secret agent trying to bust Blaise, or her being a mom.

the storyline at the end where she has a change of heart is completely and utterly unsupported by anything. why help Edgeworth when you’re the one who is to blame for everything !? you’re the reason he’s locked up !? again, if they had just stuck to one tone/ story arc/ theme, it would all make sense. black-and-white view Courtney would realise that Edgeworth is clearly a grey anomaly; mom Courtney would feel something for Sebastian because of her love for John; film noir Courtney would be a double-faced minx who reveals to Edgeworth why she was so eager to antagonise him. but when you put all of these together, it becomes such a convoluted mess that sees none of these aspects fully develop. most of these “character traits” also clash with each other at times, like how she helps Sebastian, an amateur prosecutor, put away people who are most likely innocent (apart from Simon Keyes) despite her undying trust and devotion in the law, or maybe even how her strong motherly instinct would probably prevent her from using Sebastian in order to get closer to Blaise and then ignore the kid’s meltdown in the final case.

and don’t get me started on the teen pregnancy thing. you had to know a secret or a reveal was coming, but that took me out of an otherwise outstanding case just because the Ace Attorney writers refuse to acknowledge that they have an issue with women and their ages. it was a horrifyingly disgusting experience for me doing the math during the Grand Turnabout and then, until it was revealed that John is actually her nephew, i couldn’t think of anything else. looking past how much of a horrible decision it was and how the writers don’t know how to properly give accurate ages to their female characters, it further took away from Courtney’s flawed character. you can’t just give this woman 209131 different storylines, neglect to develop them because she’s kept in the sidelines, and then place her in the forefront of the final major case. that’s not how it works? because when John was abducted, putting my hate for children aside, i genuinely didn’t really care about him. although, i have to admit, the mother-son moments were pretty sweet, and we often praise this on the podcast as well - i truly believe Courtney is an amazing mom, who wants nothing than the best for John. either way, the work wasn’t put in and as such i didn’t really care for a character who failed to gain my devotion and emotional attachment.

when you compare Courtney to other main female characters such as Franziska or Mia, the difference is undeniable. even when we compare her to the Judge, it’s clear that she fails to make an impression on the player because her traits are not consistent. ‘she lacked substance’ would be the TLDR version. if you want more Justine Courtney criticism, @ironicsnap quite literally pops off here and we discuss the age thing in detail. but to conclude, i think we should have gotten one version of Courtney. my favourites from the bunch would have to be “film noir” investigator Courtney or the “blind faith” one because i think that would make for interesting character development above all else. i would love to see Courtney be the prosecution’s pawn and then realise that and actually switch sides. if this was the case then she could return in later installments and interact with characters such as Kristoph Gavin, who have similar story-arcs.

#kinda got even more frustrated after illustrating the lost potential here #Turnabout Lost Potential #usually save such discussions for the podcast but happy i wrote this !#turnabout podcast #ace attorney #not sly cooper

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majorpepperidge · 3 years

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This robot has trauma

aka, Cheri has rewatched a bit of BLOSC now and still has plenty of opinions on XL, and how the sloppy wrap-up of his character arc makes me break out into angry hives

Note: There’s gonna be some self-interpretation/headcanon stuff in here as well as canon evidence. Weehaw.

ALRIGHT SO, let’s start from the beginning. XL was activated, and started blasting stuff with no self-control, was deemed dangerous, and deactivated. AND YET, we get confirmation in ‘Return of XL’ that XL and XR were built and programmed exactly the same, and XR didn’t go triggerhappy on his first boot. Why? We never get a real reason for it, but I have my own little idea.

I’m not a programmer of any sort myself, but one thing you often hear is how bugs can crop up in code out of nowhere and require a lot of double and triple checking to squash them. I’m willing to put a generous sum of money down that XL’s initial ‘freakout’ on his first boot was simply a glitch in the code (hey, even the unified LGMs can make mistakes, I’m sure) that could’ve been fixed with a simple reboot. How else to you test things? But Commander Nebula is already some sort of weird boomer (despite being in the INSTERSPACE AGE???) and pulled the plug without a second thought.

There’s the weird underlying theme in BLOSC (and in a lot of other sci-fi media, tbh) of robots being treated as second-class citizens so nobody really bats an eye at Nebula’s decision, but it was a pretty shit move. If the man had any sort of foresight, he’d realize that he kind of manifested his own destiny of if XL got reactivated, he’d be pissed as hell.

Which is of course what happened. We don’t see XL being reactivated, we don’t know the thought process he went through to get to the point of the opening of his intro episode where he starts rebuilding a newer, more deadly body for himself, but it’s pretty easy to imagine he’d blast through the denial stage of grief and go whole hog into anger. And I can’t blame him, honestly. Something that very well could have not been your fault (the aforementioned glitch theory) happens, and you essentially get killed? Yeah, I’d want revenge too. But it isn’t just simple revenge, is it? XL is angry, and hurt, sure. But there’s also that hint of desperation, of wanting to prove that he’s worth something to the galaxy and he shouldn’t have been shut down at all.

“Do you know what consumed my thoughts while I was locked up? I thought, and I thought, and I thought, about why they deactivated me but made YOU a Ranger!”

To rub salt in the wound of deactivation, XL sees XR. A functioning, accepted, Space Ranger. Why wasn’t XR shut down? Why did he get accepted and not XL? It’s a weird double-standard, considering XR is far from perfect (except to himself, he is perfect to himself) as a Ranger. Like I said before, XL confirms that he and XR were built and programmed exactly the same, so it’s baffling to him that XR even exists. I’m sure that they both think of each other ‘That could be me’.

XL is a foil to XR, obviously. Not just in the ‘one is good and one is evil’ kinda deal, but just in how they operate. We get plenty of proof that XL is genuinely smart as hell, building and designing weapons and plans, but he seems to have trouble with improvising. The minute something goes wrong with his plans, XL has a hard time recovering and ends up failing. XR, conversely, has trouble with planning, but is fantastic with improvising. He thinks on his feet, so to speak.

I’m...honestly not sure how to wrap this up so I’ll just put my final thoughts here

XL’s core motivation seems to be pinned on acceptance, and if he’d encountered someone that genuinely sympathized with him and tried to understand him, he wouldn’t have stayed a villain for long. His ‘redemption’ in canon putting him back under Star Command’s yoke in an essentially useless body with an essentially useless and thankless job isn’t how you redeem someone who was clearly wronged, and while he lashed out in an unhealthy and violent way, was still deserving of some form of sympathy. Putting him on a fucking mobile photocopy machine just shows that he’s still not trusted by Star Command, and they assume if he had a proper Ranger robot body, he’d just go out on villainy again. If BLOSC had continued, I can only imagine XL realizing the shit deal he was given on returning to Star Command, and getting angry all over again. Without true acceptance and help to recover from the trauma of being deactivated, he’ll keep repeating the cycle.

#BLOSC #Buzz Lightyear of Star Command #XL

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rouiyan · 3 years

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𝘖𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘚𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘚 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘞𝘏𝘖 𝘋𝘐𝘌 [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

⧏ the second volume of rouiyan’s debut series, till death do us part ⧐

synopsis: “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

✧ prince!lee jeno x crown princess!reader ✧ royalty au

✧ genres : fluff, angst ✧ word count : 5.0k ✧ disclaimers : brief descriptions of nudity (nothing sexual), allusions to sex (nothing explicit), malintent

read volume one here: of the heart.

when the moon, in all her glory, begins to set, Mother Nature begins each new day by inhaling the misfortunes of the day before and blowing out frigid breaths in their stead. this morning is no exception for nothing is so clear as the wisps of fog that lie just beyond the horizon, a velarium of sorts, over the forest canopy. the sun is a little early today, but it is for naught, since its rays are caught between the tendrils of fog right as they begin to show. perhaps Mother Nature woke up in a bit of a fit today, seeing as the skies are already oozing the grays before the blues have yet to surface. Her fingers gently stir the clouds to ensure that they collide right where the earth most needs it and She's joyful in the sense that Her work can be admired from far down below. after all, the paintings She conjures in the skies are nothing short of masterpieces.

like a ceiling folding in with the pressure of water leakage, the clouds from down below give off an air of distress. the air itself is heavily encumbered with a clarity found only after the rainiest of days. and if not for the sake of the story, the author could spend hours droning on about Mother Nature's tour de force, she really would, but instead she will insert a few lines from a symphony:

The autumn mist drifts blue over the lake,

The blades of grass stand covered with frost,

The flowers' sweet scent is gone,

An icy wind bends down their stems,

My heart is weary.

Der Einsame im Herbst (The lonely one in autumn), from Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde

in the exact opposite sense that Mother Nature loves her leaves, with tender fondness and a forgiving hand, prince jeno's father has never loved his second son more, with an impassioned sneer and a bagful of riches in mind. at least, that is exactly what prince jeno himself thinks as he skims through yet another letter, this time from his father.

son,

never did i think i would enjoy the prospect of a winter ceremony as much as i would this, perhaps you would also like to see an early coronation. i've made the necessary arrangements, i assure that you will not be suspected in the least but keep caution and wariness by your side, our family name is already a great deal tainted. thought not for long, i'll be sending a carriage to retrieve you for your rounds back home, we've ought to get going on them. the damsel is a sight for sore eyes, i presume, i'd hate for her to foil our ambitions; she is much in your hands to attend to now. i'll see you by the throne soon, my lad.

king of the southern mines, your father.

the prince's vision narrows upon the words 'coronation, arrangements, suspected, foil, throne,' and he is already a sight of frustration, fingers gripping the paper with such force that his short nails are digging into his palms through it. seething, he tears his eyes from the script before him but instead, they land on the previous letter sat atop the open escritoire. the one from his mother. the stamped edge of the paper lifts with the wind that filters through the window just above it and he has the sudden urge to let it be carried away wholly. jeno crosses the room in four steps.

with both the pages collected in his hands, jeno crouches by the mantle, the roar of a fire licking up before him. his face is drawn in concentration, jaw stiff and clenched. the lines of his brows are met with a furrow in between, set above the meek lines of his eyelids. his pupils dilate, albeit out of habitual need, in the reflection of the inferno before him. he's ever-so-aware of the distinct scent of burning coals that siphon and sharpen his reminiscence of home. it's sentient, the feelings of familiarity that overcome his senses, halting his movements, his fingers clutching the papers in a way that almost tells of longing. longing of a seemingly different world entirely, one that he has only ever known until a few weeks prior. being washed anew in distant lands and over the course of a single lunation, jeno finds that he's never felt more mismatched from himself, disconnected from the people who raised him in contrast to the people who have brought out the better in him. but the embers are not the only thing he smells, not the only he sees, or heeds to.

the pearly carrara marble of the mantle tells stories in the grayed lines that trail across its posh surface. his eyes rove over the white, the faith and purity of your heraldry binded with the emblem of your family. the white of angels, of untainted relations, sterility in empowerment, the inviolable you. the white tells stories that the black never could.

so jeno finds a warm pleasure in the way the flames overwhelm the papers with eager enthusiasm, the damned words of his parents receding into mere ash. prince jeno thinks he could forever part with the world if it asked him to feast his eyes on this very sight until the end of time.

despite arousing before the sun, you are disappointed when it starts to chase your wakefulness. there is something edging the growing unease in your mind, as if time is trickling down the drain of the past, too fast and too unforgiving. as if time is berating at your senses, telling you there is much more than what meets the eye but for the life of you, you cannot pinpoint what. for now though, you tend to the pressing matters at hand, jeno has been called home for his rounds, rather abruptly.

"perhaps i should go with you, rounds don't always have to be made by one per-”

jeno cuts you off effectively, "they are very much a one person duty," he assures pointedly. your nose scrunches, the light inconveniences starting to rub off on your exasperation. in a tired voice you mumble, "we could always change it up a bit, i'm sure." jeno chuckles heartily at that, his hand coming up from his side to rub out the lines of stress in your forehead.

"little miss princess, you're saying that as if you do not have rounds to complete of your own. i'm almost certain you host are a far greater amount of people that wish to be invited to the ceremony than i have-"

it's your turn to cut him off now, "why don't you stay with me then?" in attempts to enhance the force of your resolve, you uncover a hand of your own from under the sheets to comb through his locks. the way his eyes instantly close to relish in your touch paired with the little purr he gives is almost telltale of your victory. almost.

jeno pauses, his eyes flicker back open, and a soft knowing smile runs along the features of his face as he shakes his head, in knowledge of your artful tactics to wear him down. "and neglect my kingdom and their desires?"

you've left the feelings of frustration behind, instead deciding to fool around with the boy, to see what you can get out of him for good fun, "but we've yet to decide what flowers to use as centerpieces. and whether we're throwing a private or public ball. wedding preparations are surely more important than handing out personal invites…we can cut corners one some niceties." jeno knows better than to let his guard down. the jeno around y/n isn't to be trusted as easily. he settles for words of comfort instead, "i'll write."

"well, that's of course. silly of you to voice something as unequivocal as that."

a pause and his resolve is slipping, "maybe a few short visits back wouldn't hurt." you lick your lips in good-natured fun, another pause, "i'm sure my father wouldn't half mind if we cut it a week short." your eyes look hazy to him, though in reality they are simply amused, and drawing words from him he isn't even sure he's saying. "or- or maybe i could convince him, or try to at least…," he trails on and on.

your satisfied a certain amount and, suppressing a smile from giving away your plotted schemes, you mutter quietly, mostly for your own pondering, "i'm thinking alliums would make a statement, blue alliums." jeno gives a noise of confusion, unsure of how you've suddenly come to talk of flowers. "the centerpieces, i mean." jeno's silence only urges you on, "alliums, or blue alliums at that, are symbols of unity and good fortune. i think that'd make a nice combination with a base of milkweed, dignity and freedom, if my memory serves me right."

the prince has found his voice, "what of the rounds?" but he's met with a small chortle, "nothing, a month is a month, i'm sure we'll work around it."

"but, i- i'm not sure i understand. you were adamant enough a millisecond ago, and now-"

"and now i'm telling you i was toying with you, dear sir. such fun it is when you let on more than you'd like."

jeno's cheeks flush, the warm color dusting the bridge of his nose, apples of his cheeks, tips of his ears. your warm smile and benign banter bring him the simplest of joys. he's not sure he's ever felt this way before. familiarity. and, not the familiarity that comes from his assigned butler since birth, or the old lady at the apothecary he's been to all his life that's paid to tend to his wounds. not the familiarity that comes with blood and playing house, the type of sickened familiarity he feels with his brother, doyoung, that every second spent with him is forced. the familiarity he feels with you is by choice, by genuine and sincere desire. you want to wake up in the mornings with him by your side. you want to spend breakfast pushing each other's toes away underneath the table. you want to hold his hand when he walks you to your carriage. you want to make love with him in the most ungodly hours of the day. which is exactly what happens that morning.

a day is barely enough to do all the things you've penned in your journal. things to be done before you were to be married, with the one you were to be married to. the list had been written, curated, and refined by nine-year-old you, who you must say, had some very good ideas, though verily a romanticist.

jeno is departing tomorrow morning, as early as the sun will permit, and suddenly you wish that it would never rise again. whatever the case, you set out first thing this morning, hand tugging along a very tired prince, for the bathing pool. nine-year-old you must have misinterpreted the meaning of 'skinny dipping' for swimming but you thank nine-year-old you because things seem to have worked out in your favor either way. jeno is jolted awake by the gelid water, the seasons now mark three-quarters into fall.

"go in first," you state simply, hands on your hips and eyes drawn down into the water. the single toe you had dipped in to test the waters is frigid and frozen. jeno, who has yet to finish undressing himself, nodded at your words. if he were looking in your direction he would've noticed the smirk on your face. he stands straight, boxers on the ground behind him as he takes place by your side, "cold?"

"not at all, surprisingly," he's looking at you now and your countenance can't help but decompose in front of him, a small, unsuspecting smile adorning your lips. "oh really, can you attest for that?"

the smile is now blossoming unto your cheeks, "are you telling me to go in first?" the prince nods at that, fully aware of your schematics, "yes, i would like to see you enter the warm water."

"you agreed to go in first just a few seconds ago, don't tell me you've backed out on your word," a feeble matter against the boy but he defends himself by saying, "devious little princess, as if this wasn't your idea."

you're equally defensive when you point out, "not me, directly, but rather me as a child-" he pushes you in. lee jeno, second prince of the esteemed southern kingdom pushes you into the subzero degree bathing pool.

assuredly though, he dives in a few seconds after he's had time to relish in your shocked expression and piercing screams. he's coming up for air, his hands have found your bare hips to make sure that you resurface together. or drown together, you think, because it seems his foot is caught in the crevices between two rocks and since he's writhing like a madman, you're writhing with him too. it's a strange sight, two very beautiful individuals, absolutely in love but absolutely inane, for if jeno had thought to let go of his grip on you, you might've been able to unlodge his foot altogether if he had not been set on wrangling both your bodies about.

it's four minutes later that the two of you are on the leveled bronze rock, now, absolutely loosing it over jeno's lack of common sense. both of you are having trouble breathing, spurts of water still occasionally gushing past his lips. he thinks you're most beautiful in your bare skin, with nothing to define you but yourself. he's running his fingers up and down your torso, lips connecting with the surface of your neck. he appreciates that you kiss him with such avidity, you always do. jeno loves that you make it known to him, that what you say, you mean. and that even if you were never to utter a word again, he would still understand the sheer vehemence with which you love him.

you cross off paragliding, building a snowman, and studying together for a test. not because they've been completed but because there simply is no plausible way to get them done with the deadline closing in fast. the next activity you present to jeno has his eyebrows raised in intrigue. he's quick to reply when you ask him.

"a moon, a quartered moon." the knowing smile that grows on your face tells him he's chosen correctly.

jeno gives a squeeze to your hand as the needle comes in contact with your clean skin. the first few minutes are highlighted by the sensation of a million bee stings, racking through your brain, but the rest is relatively smooth sailing. yours comes out just as good as jeno's, a small moon, a quartered moon, tattooed into the skin just behind the left ear. there specifically, so that it's known by each other and each other only.

there will be months passed before the moon becomes a sort of unspoken but affirmative communication instrument. when jeno loves you a little too much, he rubs the inked skin softly. his sleepless nights are cured with the pad of your finger upon the spot. between the many general meetings you're required to oversee in a day, jeno waits outside the conference room for you to exit, his fingers stroking the moon for the duration of the few seconds allotted to him before you're whisked away again. the symbol of night is translated into accounts of bonding, the smallest of things giving way to happiness.

you would say the uses of the 'lovemark' are amplified as the sun retreats and the mascot of your relationship shines brighter than ever. it's evident in the look on jeno's face, especially, a few feet below you, peering up your skirt with a dumbstruck look on his face.

"jeno, dear, now is really not the time." the boy clears his throat and looks away, baffled at how you'd caught him anyways. your position is so frightfully awkward, one foot on the top end of your chamber's windowsill, another bent and hoisted onto the flat ledge of your roof. "come on up now, and get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. for heaven's sake, we're here to watch the sunset and stargaze, not to pound into each other."

the prince laughs at your offhanded remarks, arriving himself on the platform. the view is expansive in the way that you can see the forest from here, the ocean if you squint, the hills set in the far distance, and the sky has never felt closer to the earth while the things you've always known to be near appear smaller and more distant than ever. even the gregarious tree stalks of the forest rise to what could be measured as an only inch from this outlook.

"nine-year-old y/n seems to have known nothing but fun days." jeno muses, leaning his weight back upon his hands. your eyes are glazed in an omniscient mist, "i'd expect so, she was born and raised with everything." the prince picks up on the tone of distaste with which you'd spoken your words. he turns to you and studies the hairs that fall in your eyes, "hardly fair."

you reply not a beat after, "not at all fair. if i were to accomplish one thing during my run as queen, i'd give the children opportunities of a lifetime." the thoughts tumble out of your mind, as if you'd known of this conviction of yours since you were but a child. your drive as a ruler, firm and headstrong to implement your values and beliefs on your subjects has been the sole idea that's grounded you in the castle for your entire time being.

"and what if you cannot?"

your first reply is dealt with in humble humor, "at the very least, i'd like it to be engraved on my tombstone that i tried." the second, is laden with a sorrowful undertone, "housing, schooling, meals and warmth in the winter. we have it the worst here up north. if they are without school, they are left with nothing." jeno's head turns to yours, he sees the slip of a tear and he wipes it away, only to be met with another. your voice cracks in despair, "there are no mining jobs to take up, no farms to harvest, aqueducts to run. i dread that one day i must rule a kingdom of arts."

jeno tries, he really does, to gather you in his arms but your sobs rack your body with such force that he is left to comfort your desolations with words and a hand on your back, "what is there to dread? are the arts so difficult to maintain?"

bitterness forms at the tip of your tongue, "no, jeno. i regress in the face that art is invaluable. but the world seeks to attach a price to every viable thing, to label the passion of others. and now, now the arts are for the rich, only for the rich. have you ever heard of a hungry man paint instead of seeking shelter from the rain? a woman who writes prose instead of feeding her dying children? there is no one who can live solely on art but the heavens have sent me to rule a horde of those very people."

the prince knows you need to voice the thoughts weighing down your mind, so he gives them a platform, a nudge, "a kingdom of arts would be blessed to house a queen with intentions such as yourself, surely there are others who hold the same principles as you."

"no doubt," your eyes cast on the forming stars, "but as much as i would love to trail a path of meliorism and say that with a tide of willingness, there will be change, i must not forget the real nature of the world we live in."

"and what is this nature that you speak of?"

"the drive of greed and sadism, in exchange for the feeblest of pleasures."

the world comes to a still in this very moment. the moon begins her ascent. the stars unsheath their full luminance. the whites of their gleam reflecting on the rooftop on which the two of you are sat. time and space shrivel in the potency of untainted humanity.

"we will bring change, you and i."

you feel your heart calm as your rambling ceases. jeno looks over at you and smiles.

prince jeno is scheduled to return in twenty seven days time. there is something that feels wrong about him leaving. a feeling that if he leaves, all hell with turn loose and you will be unleashed unto the dogs for ravaging. there is a coated and unspoken thought that splutters in your mind whenever you even dare so much as to begin to think of it. the possibility that with jeno's leave, you'll be left with the realization that it was all a phase of infatuation. that when you see him again, all the feelings that you'd built up over the course of a month and a few days was just a glamourized dream. that he was never real; the real that you needed.

"i'll be forever thinking of those lips on mine, maybe even missing them," you let, comically. jeno eyes you conspicuously, "and i'll be forever thinking of you, as a whole, not just the lips unlike you. a little fixated you sounded there, mind you." his little sniggers are given in response to your hands pushing his chest in frisky response. the prince pulls you closer into a final embrace, the coachman of his black carriage is awaiting his departure.

he parts from you and you can't help but trail behind him down the paved path. he's over his shoulder now as you let loose a sliver of your deepest worries, meekly, "i hope we never change, jeno."

the prince halts at the bottom steps that curl into the palace. he sees you, feels you, knows you, for he quotes, “i will keep you,” he says softly, as sweet as black tea, “and i will keep you warm.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

jeno can hear the light pellets of raindrops hit the roof of his carriage. the gray skies are darkening by the second, it's telling him something that he's sure he doesn't want to hear. his fingers fiddle with the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, something you'd requested be made for him when his stay was first prolonged. the prince is entirely clad in white and he knows enough to imagine the face his mother will make when she first sees him home. lee jeno doesn't remember a time when he's donned a color other than black, but somehow, the white doesn't feel too far from home.

with the white, his mind flashes with the events of the past month or so spent in your noble abode. you, on the other hand, rarely ever wore a color other than white, the most differing shade being a cream or beige. but even with all the lights, you never seemed to mind when they were dirtied. almost always, a day in the fields or by the bathing pool would drench a good six inches of your skirts in mud and the unfurled hems of your frocks or crinkled fronts of those sweaters you so often adorned were always beyond your notice. you were free in that way, never stopping to fuss over the little things you deemed unimportant. jeno thinks if he could live that way too and though he isn't sure if he can, he knows he wants to.

jeno can hear the spindles of the carriage gyrating with added resistance against the now watered-down mud of the trodden roads. his eyes are caught in the sky that looks as if it's to detonate at any given second. he predicts the thunder before it rings loud in his ears and he hears the coachman slash a whip to a trepid horse, an echo of the natural phenomenon. he wonders what it would feel like to be the coachman, out in the clamorring downpour, or perhaps the horse, blindlessly running to the crack of a whip, or the trees even, awoken by the threat of a fire. he wonders if he has any desire to be the lightning itself, to jab at the delicate foliage as he'd like, to set fire to that of which he doesn't like, to wield destructive power. he wonders, but he knows he doesn't want to.

lee jeno is in his carriage when he realizes what it means to be free, but not in the hindrance of others. he realizes what it means, not to rule but rather to guide without the oppression of others. lee jeno is also in his carriage when the skies turn black and a deluge of rain is unleashed upon the castle of white.

a man a few inches brief to the prince, but of higher rank in swordsmanship, is propped on the limestone trellis that holds the awning in place, his two feet hooked between the vertical balusters of stone and fingers clung onto the ridge of the balustrade. he finds it ludicrous that every individual of importance he has ever met, is so caught up in their own belief that they are untouchable, where in reality they are the most vulnerable of all. he thinks this, specifically, as he upturns himself over the railing and onto the landing, only to see that the king's door are left wide open, the only shield of protection being the pristine white curtains glinting a sheen of blue in the moonlight.

renjun is humored when, upon drawing the curtains back, the king himself is simply laying there on the ground, unconscious as he was informed he'd be. the knight presses two fingers to the inner wrist of the withered man and finds that he still has a job to finish. brandishing a blade from the underside of his calf, he deems the inscription on the handle fit for the deed. he drives it into the gut but makes quick work of it, the sputters of blood that erupt from the now-awakened royal something he wishes the guards just outside not to hear. renjun makes further assurance that the blade is firmly put in place, the stout palladium shaft protruding from the king's abdomen like the ring of a windup toy.

a black body bag is used to sheath the quickly-paling bag of bones. it is left under the light of the moon, through a skylight rounded in the dead center of the palace. around the malefaction, stairs wind in all directions from the ground up and if there were even one maid to have crossed the landing once in the night, she would have been met with what looked to be an unassuming trash bag. but fate had it so the sun would rise before your dead father was stumbled upon, an inscribed shank planted between his internal organs reading, this star-like solitude (Giuseppe Ungaretti, from Last Choruses for the Promised Land: XVI (tr. by Patrick Creagh)).

the blood that seeps from the measly opening in the bag is not silver, nor is it gold. it is blood red. the red of a brazen senex that perhaps preceded and proceeded his times, entangled in the intricacies of the new age, the new game of politics he simply had no means to play at. akin to the webs of an arachnid, the string of fate hung around his neck, thin and unnoticeable, cinching with each passing second until Mother Nature deemed his time up. the blood that seeps writhes in the rays of the sun, twines like the veins in the marble beneath it. it seeps until the figure in the sack is drained and the clumping skin of human remains is the same shade as the white tiling. red against white, white against black, the black of a crying sky.

read volume three: dearly departed.

✧ end note — i had such a hard time trying to pull this outta my ass in a way that captures everything i wanted to say. so thank you for reading this piece. it’s one of my most favorite things i have ever written, undoubtedly.

#nct fics #nct scenarios #nct ff #nct jeno #nct lee jeno #jeno x reader #jenoxreader #jeno imagines #jeno fluff #jeno angst #jeno blurbs #rouiyan fics #rouiyan writes

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gukyi · 4 years

Text

step by step | knj

summary: being married and being in love are not the same thing. you and namjoon would know that better than anybody. but just because you married each other for business rather than by choice doesn’t mean you’ll never be able to love each other.

{arranged marriage!au}

pairing: kim namjoon x reader genre: fluff word count: 2k warnings: being awkward even though they’re literally married a/n: this drabble was commissioned for the #blacklivesmatter movement! thank you for commissioning me and supporting the cause. i hope that you enjoy!! this drabble definitely satiated my desire for an arranged marriage fic (actually, i think it made it worse?????)

The left side of the bed is always cold by the time you wake up.

By the time the rising sun is beginning to stream through the Venetian blinds that line the windows of the master bedroom, by the time the morning rush hour has started, by the time a new day comes barrelling into your life, it’s almost as if no one was ever there to begin with.

For two married people, you and Namjoon hardly ever see each other. Not when you work at the highest floor of two different office buildings, not when you come back home when the workday ends at five o’clock on the dot, and certainly not while you’re both lounging around his apartment, trying in earnest to make yourselves look as busy as possible.

Namjoon wakes up, brushes his teeth, gets dressed, and makes himself coffee all before your alarm even goes off. Before the light of a new day wakes you from your slumber. You know because when you wander into the kitchen, pristine and practically untouched, you can still smell the roast, smell the deep, rich scent wafting through the air. It’s the only hint that there was ever someone else there.

By the time you wake up, the dip in the left side of the bed has already vanished, the duvet neatly made, pillows perfectly fluffed.

It feels like you’re living with a ghost. One that makes particularly good coffee.

The fact of the matter is that you and Namjoon have never felt like you were married. You’re hardly even friends, just two acquaintances forced together by a long-standing business agreement and two fathers both of you have great difficulty standing up to. But a deal is a deal, even if it comes at the expense of your future. You will never be able to divorce him, never be able to separate yourself from him. Your family has relocated to a different city, you have no friends from university out here, and a pet has always been out of the question.

You only have him.

And it feels like he isn’t even there.

You tug yourself out of bed, hands smoothing over the duvet, flattening the remnants of wrinkles. The sheets are tugged taut over the mattress, the same way that housekeeping in hotels do it, so tight that you can barely stick your feet up at the foot of the bed. The door to Namjoon’s wardrobe is closed, dresser drawers shut. Not a hair out of place. Slowly, you rise, the old dress shirt from a past fling hanging down over your frame. Has Namjoon ever even seen you in it? He always goes to sleep and wakes up before you. When you see each other in the apartment, you skirt away, ordering takeout from different restaurants and watching movies in different rooms.

The smell of coffee floats towards the living room, that sort of warm, cappuccino feeling that makes your stomach growl. You open the fridge, and its contents look untouched. You’re not even sure if Namjoon uses any of these. Sometimes, a chef will come in to make some meals, leave them wrapped in foil or tucked into tupperware containers for the two of you to help yourself to, but most days there’s nothing except ingredients, waiting to be combined into something real.

You pour yourself a bowl of cereal and set out to sit on the leather couch, pristine, unwrinkled, uncreased, unstained. Once in a blue moon will you return home to see Namjoon sitting there, watching a movie on the flatscreen and rubbing at his chin, lost in thought. When he sees you, he immediately turns off the television and darts into his office.

The penthouse is big enough as it is, but it feels enormous with the both of you living in it, like a museum exhibit. The floors are always polished, the shelves are always dusted, the books are always away, the countertop is always clean. It’s the sort of thing you’d see on Zillow, the sort of photo that people put into folders on Instagram titled “Dream House!!!!”. You’d be shocked if anyone thought two people actually lived here.

You make yourself some tea, get dressed, and go to work.

You come home a couple hours later than usual. A big holdup at work concerning a client, something that you had to stick around personally to fix as opposed to letting your secretary take care of most of the receptionist work. It’s draining, but it’s life. Sometimes, you wish you could just disappear, vanish off of the face of the Earth. Create a new identity for yourself in a city far, far away, away from your work, and your family, and the man you live with who doesn’t dare speak a word to you.

The truth is, Namjoon already sort of makes you feel like you’re invisible.

When you return home, you find Namjoon sitting on the couch with a book in his hands, thick-rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he curls into himself, knees tucked under his chin while he reads. There’s an empty bowl that smells faintly of garlic and meat on the end table, two chopsticks resting neatly on top. He’s so absorbed in the book, so deep within his own head, that he doesn’t notice you come in.

For once, it’s nice not to see him skirt off like prey from a predator the moment he hears the lock of the door click. It almost makes it seem like the two of you really are married.

Namjoon’s not a bad person.

On the contrary, he’s rather endearing. He whistles when he showers (and sometimes sings if he’s feeling particularly brave) and makes sure all of the books lining the bookshelves are alphabetized. He commissions art from lesser-known artists to hang up on the walls, attaching a little placard at the bottom to make it seem like a real art exhibit. He didn’t freeze up when he found out the two of you were to be married, not like you did. He accepted his fate and told you that he swears it won’t even be like he’s there at all.

He’s rather good at keeping promises.

The unfortunate thing is that you figured out all of these things not from him showing you, or even telling you. You figured these out by noticing the changes in his apartment when he’s away at work, or tucked away in his office where you don’t have to meet his eyes. It’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder what more there is to him, what things you can only find out from him showing you.

“What are you reading?”

Namjoon practically jumps out of his skin when he hears your voice, legs scrambling off of the couch as he slams his book shut and looks up at you, like a student caught reading in class by a teacher. He looks torn, like he can’t decide if he should just duck his head and run or actually face his fear and speak to you.

“Oh, uh, it’s just a Korean philosophy book,” Namjoon says nervously, watching with trepidation as you sit down next to him, slow, slow, slow, until your back hits the cushion.

“Is it good?” You ask. You’ve spoken more words to each other in the past thirty seconds than you have in the past two weeks.

“It’s okay,” Namjoon tells you. At least he isn’t putting on a façade anymore. “I don’t really agree with this school of thought, but I thought it would be interesting to read.”

“Maybe you could tell me about it,” you suggest. It’s an open hand, an olive branch, a letter with a wax seal. It’s anything to make him feel like he doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around you. You aren’t friends, but you could be. You are married, but you can act like it, too.

“It’s kind of boring,” Namjoon tells you with a shrug. “I’ll sound like a Wikipedia article.”

“I don’t mind,” you say. You place a hand onto his lap, palm facing up. “You have a nice voice, Namjoon. I want to hear it more often.”

“Oh,” Namjoon tells you distantly, a hollow sound in the center of his chest. “I wasn’t sure—I mean, I guess I didn’t know that you didn’t mind this whole thing.”

“What whole thing?”

“Us,” Namjoon explains. “Living together. Being married. It’s okay if you think it’s weird,” he assures you, stumbling over his own words.

“Just because I think it’s weird doesn’t mean I don’t want to make the most out of it,” you tell him honestly, because it’s true. Being married to Namjoon was not your first choice. It wasn’t even in your top ten. But it happened, and there’s nothing you can do to change it. So you might as well make it count, right?

After all, the dream of a hopeless romantic is to only get married once.

“I think it’s weird, too,” Namjoon says.

“Good, I’m glad we’re in agreement on this,” you say, eliciting a soft, barely-there laugh from him. You’ve never heard Namjoon laugh before. Not at meetings, not at galas, not even when he thinks you’re not paying attention. It’s a nice, warm sound. You want to make him laugh again. “Maybe we can watch a movie later? Your choice, I’m fine with anything. Except horror, actually.”

“Oh, I hate horror movies,” Namjoon tells you. “They freak me out.”

It’s an interlocked hand. A single step. And it may be little, but a step is a step. A few more and you may actually be able to close the distance that sits between the two of you, like an impassable fog, a hazy, white mist.

“I think we have popcorn,” you say. “I could pop some while you tee up a movie. Surprise me.”

Namjoon smiles, and it’s full and whole and real. It’s genuine, wide and toothy. He has a dimple on his left cheek. You never knew that. Namjoon dutifully turns on the television, flicking through all of the available options, as you fish through the once-untouched cabinets. Even if it’s as if everything has been organized like a supermarket, when you open the box of popcorn, it’s beginning to feel lived in.

Three minutes later with a glass bowl of popcorn in your hands, you settle down onto the couch next to Namjoon. You aren’t close by any means, still a few inches apart, but you see the way he’s loosened up, unwound the wire in his heart. The movie begins, a foreign one that looks to be set in eighteenth-century France, and with every passing scene you feel yourself inching closer and closer to him, until your legs are touching and your shoulders knock into each other.

As the two leads kiss on screen, you slowly let your head rest on his shoulder. He stiffens up like a statue, body running cold, and then he relaxes. Says nothing.

Namjoon is someone you have learned about from the bits and pieces he leaves, open for the taking. But here, like this, he has become someone you want to know wholly. Want to memorize like the back of your hand. Marriage was not a choice. But what you make of it is.

Slowly, the apartment begins to feel full.

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget i’m still taking commissions!

#namjoon fluff #namjoon angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #bts imagine #namjoon scenario #namjoon imagine #bts au #namjoon au #w: step by step

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ninja-go-to-therapy · 3 years

Text

The Rescue

The day is upon us.

Fun fact, this chapter has been in the making since February 2nd of 2020.

Summary: two strangers break in.

Trigger Warnings: pet whump, dehumanization, stockholm syndrome, violence, kidnapping, death threats, possessive whumper, and just like... general uncomfy vibes associated with the aforementioned warnings. If that sounds like it would bother you, please don’t read!

3715 words

The day had been good.

The snowfall outside was thick and heavy, coating the world in white. It was pretty, and he’d liked looking at it through the window, curled up at his Master’s side while a fire blazed. Master had been reading something, absentmindedly petting him while he did so.

It had been warm and comfortable, and he’d loved every second of it.

Even if looking at the snow reminded him of a long time ago. When he had still been bad. When he had been punished more often, when he’d fought against what Master had wanted.

He shuddered just thinking about it.

But it was okay. He was good now. Master had put up with how much trouble he’d been in the beginning (and he was so, so grateful), and it had paid off. He was happy now.

The snow had been pretty.

Now, here he was, comfortably curled up on his bed and beginning to drift off to sleep, hair still somewhat wet from his bath. Master had given him a warm, fluffy blanket now that it was cold again, and he loved it so much he’d almost cried.

It was black, like his collar.

Just as he was losing his connection to consciousness, he heard a… commotion, outside the door.

He snapped his eyes open, suddenly wide awake. Was Master hurt? It had sounded like a crash. Had he tripped? Had something fallen? What was going on on the other side of that door?

The handle jiggled, and he felt dread coiling tightly in his stomach. Something was telling him that he needed to hide.

He sat up, but before he could get any further, the door came open, slamming loudly against the wall.

In the doorway, illuminated only by the light out in the hall, was definitely not his Master. Instead, there were two men, or maybe boys, dressed in brightly colored outfits. He stared at them. They stared at him.

The dread turned to nausea and a sick feeling crawling under his skin made him want to tear it all off. He grimaced at the imagery that brought to his mind, flesh being ripped from bone. Master would be upset if he did that. It would make him less pretty. And Master loved that he was pretty.

“Cole,” one of the boys breathed, finally snapping out of his trance. He had darker hair than the other one. Curlier, too. Quick as lightning, he was on his knees, directly in front of Pet.

He looked at the stranger in terror, not daring to move. He was going to attack him, or worse, and what then? What was he supposed to do?

The stranger lunged, and Pet squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a blow. But instead, two strong arms wrapped around him, the boy pulling him close.

“Cole,” he sobbed, tightening his grip around him. “Oh, first master,” he managed to get out between cries. “I knew you weren’t dead, I knew it…”

The other one joined the first stranger in entrapping Pet in their arms, holding him uncomfortably close. Only now that both of them were doing this did the shock begin to wear off.

Two strange boys had broken into his home, and now they were trying to restrain him.

He needed to… he needed… he needed to do something! He was too weak to defend himself, and with two of them, they could easily overpower him anyway. But he couldn’t just do nothing. Master would — oh. That seemed like a good plan.

They pulled away, and the blond one cupped Pet’s face, looking at him in what sort of seemed like misery in its purest form. Maybe there was some relief in there too. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.

Pet couldn’t take it any longer. He screamed.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, scrambling back and away from the two intruders until his back hit the wall. Even then, he didn’t stop screaming.

No words. He didn’t want to get in trouble for speaking. But he screamed as loud as he could manage, praying his Master would come for him. Would save him.

Panic lit in the one wearing blue’s eyes. “Stop screaming!” he begged, “it’s us!”

He couldn’t breathe. He needed help, he needed to get away. He reluctantly let his screams die down, knowing that if Master hadn’t heard him already, he still wouldn’t hear him if he kept going. He prayed Master had heard him. He needed to be saved.

“Jay,” the one in green said, yanking on the blue one’s arm. He looked like he was going to yell, but stilled as the blond jerkily gestured to the room itself.

He glanced in the general direction the other one had been pointing, and his face absolutely dropped. Pet just pushed himself further into the corner, trying not to imagine what they would do to him.

They would want to hurt him. They would maybe even kill him. Would they try to kidnap him? Did they have something against his Master? Was that why they were doing this?

Why else would they go after a pet?

“Cole,” the one in green said, tears shining in his eyes. “All this time…” he whispered, voice choked up. “I’m so sorry.” he was directly in front of Pet again, now. He had nowhere to run. “I’m so, so sorry.” He was being held again.

It wasn’t comforting, like when Master held him. It was scary and wrong and disgusting and he needed to get away.

He hated that they kept calling him Cole. That wasn’t — he didn’t — that wasn’t right. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t his name. He wasn’t Cole, he had never been Cole. He was a pet, and nothing more.

These boys were trying to hurt him. That was all that was important, anyway.

The blond one put his hands over Pet’s, a green light emanating. Pet only had a moment to be alarmed before the boy was… pulling his handcuffs off?

He stared at the boy in bewilderment. Why would he have done that? So it would be easier to take him, maybe?

The thought made him sick.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs above. It had to be Master. He was coming to save him!

The blue one slammed the door shut, barricading it with his body. “Lloyd,” he called, “get that fucking collar off of him.”

They were going to take his collar?

No! No, no, no, he needed his collar, he loved his collar, they couldn’t just take it! A soft whimper escaped him as he covered what he could with his hands. He wouldn’t let them take it without a fight.

“What’s going on in there?”

Master was going to save him.

“Lloyd!” the ginger snapped.

“I’m working on it! Cole is freaking out!”

There was too much chaos, too much stress. He’d never been more terrified before. From the other side, Master was banging on the door, doing everything in his power to get in. Master would protect him. He knew he would.

Tears built up in his eyes. There was so much noise around him. Strangers were trying to hurt him. Master had been locked out. Each pound on the door was like a hit directly to his skull. Too much, it was all too much.

The blue one looked panicked, stressed. No doubt because his plan (whatever that may have been) was about to be foiled.

The other one moved to gently try to pry Pet’s hands away from his collar, and it might have been the stupidest thing to do, but he was so scared and he couldn’t just let them take him away and he couldn’t let them take his collar away and he just wanted this all to stop and — he screamed. Again.

The one who wasn’t trying to attack him nervously looked between them and the door. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was preparing himself for something. Pet could only wonder what.

The boy stepped away from the door.

The door came open in an instant, which startled his attacker badly enough to give Pet the chance to escape. Immediately, he scrambled away, hiding behind Master.

For the first time, there was silence. And then…

“Let go of him,” the one in blue said, his voice coming out in a deep growl. Pet didn’t know why, but it sounded wrong. Like his voice wasn’t supposed to be so angry, or so serious.

“Not a chance,” Master glared, standing in front of his pet protectively.

Everything was going to be fine, he told himself. Nothing bad could happen if Master was here to protect him.

“I swear to the First Spinjitzu Master himself. If you don’t let him go, I will kill you,” the blond said, harboring a flare so fierce it could burn through steel.

“He’s mine!”

“No he’s not!” the one in blue yelled.

He was so scared.

The same green that had been used to take away his handcuffs resurfaced in the other boy’s hands. “Try me.”

When Master made no move to give him up, the ginger’s hands crackled with… electricity? Lightning? He’d always been scared of lightning.

“Cole,” the blond one said, “move.” He looked angry. Light was sparking from his fingertips, now, illuminating the room in a deadly shade of green.

“You can’t have him!” Master yelled, “He’s mine!”

The boy actually screamed at that, the glow travelling up his entire body until Pet could hardly stand to look that way. It was so bright. The energy almost crackled and popped, like an angry fire.

“Time’s up.”

The room exploded in light.

— — —

Lloyd and Jay sat exhausted in Cole’s bedroom, watching over his sleeping form. It had been far too long since either of them had come in here.

Honestly, it had been far too long since Lloyd had done much of anything. This last year may have very well been one of the worst of his life.

But now they had found their brother. He was back, he was safe.

Lloyd tried not to think about the horrors he’d seen in that basement. But he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering.

A cage. A dog bed. Chains. The collar that Cole had defended so fiercely.

And Cole… had been scared of them. He hadn’t uttered a single word, just stared at them with wide eyes, shrinking back whenever Lloyd or Jay had tried to get close. He’d been so uncomfortable, so terrified.

And then the monster who had done this to his big brother got in. Cole had gone to him immediately like a — he wanted to vomit just thinking about it — trained dog. If the room was anything to go off of, that was exactly the idea.

Cole had been stuck in that basement for a year, and Lloyd couldn’t help but think that it was a little bit his fault.

If he’d helped more, if he’d done anything more than lying in bed all day, miserable, then maybe they would have found him sooner. But no, Cole had been trapped there for so long and now… now he was hurt.

That was the only way Lloyd could really think to describe it.

Just thinking about the way he had screamed sent shivers up Lloyd’s spine. He’d been so desperate to get away from them.

Cole was strong. He was a leader, he was a rock. So to see him looking so small and weak, helpless, terrified — it was jarring in the worst possible way. He’d never thought Cole could be reduced to that.

And yet he had been.

The man who had done this to him — Lloyd couldn’t recall his name, and right now, he couldn’t give less of a fuck — had actually had the audacity to claim that Cole was his. What made it even worse, however, was that Cole didn’t protest at all. Like he actually believed it.

It was probably for the best that he’d been knocked unconscious. Lloyd hadn’t meant to — he’d been so angry, so full of raw emotion, his powers had just… reacted. Cole was in the wrong spot at the wrong time, and was sent crashing into the wall, slumping over.

The only reason it was a good thing was that, if he really did think he cared for the bastard who had hurt him, he would have been upset to see Jay and Lloyd beat him to the brink of death. It would have only traumatized him further.

Lloyd had never considered himself to be a violent person before. He always tried to find the most effective solution while doing as little harm as possible to his opponent, but this… this was different. He’d never hated someone so much.

And so he’d let his anger out, screaming and hitting and giving that man every bad thing he deserved. He deserved worse. He deserved so much worse. But eventually, Jay had pulled him back, told him that Cole was their priority.

He’d wanted to hurt him more. But what damage he had inflicted was still sickly satisfying, burn marks from both lightning and energy alike littering his skin. He hoped they were permanent. He hoped that man remembered every second of hurt they’d inflicted on him.

He hoped he would endure it a million times over.

But that wasn’t important right now. What he needed to be worried about was that Cole had already been scared of them, but now… now he was almost scared for him to wake up.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Cole. He really hadn’t. It had been an accident.

But Cole wouldn’t see it that way.

He would see it as a deliberate attack, and if he found out what they had done to his kidnapper, he would likely only panic even worse. No matter what angle you looked at it from, it was Lloyd’s fault. Again.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here when he wakes up,” he mumbled.

Jay opened his mouth, likely to contradict him, but Lloyd beat him to it. “I blasted him really hard. He’s going to hate me. Don’t try to tell me he won’t.”

Jay sighed, looking over at Cole sadly. “We don’t know how his mental state is right now,” he finally said. “I don’t really… first master, I don’t know how he’ll be when he wakes up or where to go from there or what to do no matter what happens.” he ran a hand through his hair, twirling a curl anxiously.

Lloyd could relate. He stood, approaching Cole carefully. He looked peaceful now, curled up on the mattress.

None of his old clothes had fit him anymore, so the two of them had needed to rummage around in the rest of the ninjas’ stuff until they’d found something that worked. Jay had always been a fan of oversized sweaters, and he’d been happy to give one of them up for Cole. It didn’t fit perfectly, but they’d figured it was the best they could do for now.

They’d also found a pair of sweatpants neatly folded on Zane’s bed, and had taken those, too. Lloyd doubted he would mind.

Lloyd brushed his fingers gently through Cole’s hair, his heart lifting the slightest bit when Cole smiled faintly in his sleep.

Maybe he would be okay after all.

— — —

Pet woke up on something soft. Softer than the floor, softer than his bed. What…?

Oh no. What if it hadn’t been a nightmare? What if it had been real? It was too soft, and he couldn’t feel the reassuring weight of his collar around his neck, of his cuffs on his wrists.

They’d taken him. They’d stolen him! Not only that, but they’d removed every ounce of his very identity! No cuffs. No collar. He was as good as nothing without them.

He could hear his kidnappers speaking quietly somewhere nearby, though he couldn’t make out any of the words.

He had to think. If they’d succeeded in stealing him, what had they done to his Master? What if they had hurt him? What if he was dead?

What did these bad people even want with him? Why were they doing this?

He wanted to cry. He was alone, and scared out of his mind, and he wanted his Master so badly. But Master wasn’t here. If he couldn’t have his owner, he could have at least turned to his collar for the smallest bit of comfort. But they’d stolen it, just like they’d stolen him.

This was so bad.

He was so bad.

He was bad for letting these people kidnap him and he was bad for letting them take his collar and handcuffs away, and he was bad, always bad. He deserved to be punished.

“Cole?” someone asked. It wasn’t his name. He hated being called that. But he knew they were addressing him. “Are you… awake?”

If they were asking, then they must have known. He didn’t know why they were trying to act so gentle about it. They were bad people. If nothing else, he could be sure of that.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, wanting to crawl out of his own skin. The two boys that had stolen him were at his side in an instant.

“Hey, hey, don’t sit up too fast,” the one in green said, reaching out a hand.

He flinched back. Green had attacked him. His body was still sore all over from it. Green wanted to hurt him. This he knew.

The boy’s face fell, and the other one stepped in. “You’re safe now,” he said, “you’re safe. You don’t have to be scared, Cole.”

Safe? Oh no, he was most definitely not safe. Safe would be being at home with his Master, not being dragged off to this horrible, unfamiliar prison by two strangers against his will.

“Do you… remember who we are?” blue continued, hesitant.

He stayed silent.

“We’re your friends.”

Friends did not kidnap each other, and pets did not have friends.

He turned away, hoping it wouldn’t make them too angry. What would they do to him? Torture, no doubt. They’d torture him, hurt him, try to break him apart into little pieces. And he was so, so scared to find out how.

“Please say something,” blue begged, “I know you always said I’m the motormouth, but please, say something. Anything.” He almost looked hopeful that Pet would comply.

He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t go against what his Master wanted, even while he wasn’t here. If the boys could get him to speak, what other bad things could they make him do?

He wanted to go home. He’d never been kidnapped before, but it was so stressful and terrifying and bad. He wanted Master to hold him and pet him and be with him. He just wanted Master. Why would the bad people take him away?

He sniffled, struggling to hold back his tears. Master loved it when he cried, but he didn’t want to look so vulnerable in front of the enemy.

A loud ringing sound cut through the otherwise silent room. Pet flinched back, startled.

“Ohhh shit,” the one in blue mumbled, fidgeting frantically with his phone. “It’s his dad.”

“Let me,” the one in green mumbled, taking blue’s phone and hurrying out of the room.

Pet found himself somewhat relaxed at the idea of there only being one of them instead of two. He was glad green had left. Blue had yet to hurt him, so he decided he liked him more. But liking him more wasn’t the same as liking him.

Blue sighed. “I’ve missed you so much.” Something about his eyes were achingly familiar. Or, no, not familiar. They had never met before. But his eyes were… they were sad, he decided. He knew what it felt like to be sad. He was sad to have been stolen.

Pet looked down purposefully, wishing his kidnapper would just get the message. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to hear them talking. He wanted to go home.

He didn’t want his head filled with lies, either.

The door flew open, and if it hadn’t scared him so bad, he would have wondered if these people knew how to open doors any other way.

“Cole!” an older man all but yelled, practically running at him and engulfing him in an uncomfortably tight hold.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Brookstone, I was trying to tell you—” the blond said, having rushed in after him.

Slowly, the man released him, backing away a bit. “Son?”

They were attacking him they wanted to hurt him he wanted to go home please just let him go home.

“Cole?” the man asked again, finally seeming to notice the way Pet was trembling. “It’s me. It’s your dad. I’m here, son, I’m here.”

He was lying.

There were too many people in here. He had only ever been around Master, and now he’d been dragged away by total strangers. He didn’t know them and they wouldn’t stop crowding him. He just wanted them to leave him alone.

“Why won’t he… why won’t he say anything?” the man asked weakly, turning to the other two. He looked desperate. “Why won’t he say anything?”

Subtle as he could, Pet backed away. These people weren’t sane. Screaming about children and friendship and trying to get him to talk.

He wanted to sob. He would take the pole over this. He hated the pole, but at the very least, he had the comfort of his Master when it was his punishment for something.

Here, he was alone, but he wasn’t. So many strangers. So many bad people.

He wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut. They wouldn’t stop talking, there was too much noise. He couldn’t handle this. He needed help, he needed to be alone for real.

Instead, from somewhere far away, he could hear the clatter of frantic footsteps — like someone, or multiple someones, were running — fast approaching.

Please no. Not more people. He couldn’t handle more people.

The universe did not care what he wanted, and in the doorway, three more people appeared.

Pet started sobbing.

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