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whump-me · 9 months

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Martyr, Chapter 27: Almost Like Starting Over

Chapter 27 of Martyr, a novel-length sci-fi whump story about a captured Martian rebel with a secret and the renowned interrogator who has waited a decade for the chance to break him. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: whumper POV, restraints, interrogation, aftermath of severe injury, verbal sparring, emotional whump

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Isadora

In some ways, it was as if the past few weeks had never happened.

Wraith sat on the far side of the metal table, just like the last time they had spoken. If she didn’t look too closely, she could imagine it was that day all over again, that some benevolent god had granted her a do-over.

But the longer she studied him, as she stood by the door, the more the illusion broke down.

The worst of his injuries were healed by now, but the deeper damage would take time. The medical team could speed the healing of his broken bones, which was the only reason he was able to sit upright in that chair. And Isadora knew from experience, thanks to a careless guard and a resourceful prisoner a few years back, that even a speed-healed broken bone took at least a month to stop aching with every movement. She saw that familiar ache echoed on his face, and in the way his lips tightened every time he made the slightest movement.

He had fresh scars to join his old ones, angry purple lines that hadn’t faded to white scar tissue yet. One of his cheeks was ever so slightly asymmetrical, from where the cheekbone had broken and healed. His broken fingers had healed as much as they were going to, but several of them stood out at unnatural angles. When Wraith flexed his hands, the fingers moved slowly and stiffly, if they moved at all.

And then there was the internal damage. Inside his body, where she couldn’t see the evidence, his internal organs were still knitting themselves back together from the damage she had done. Her medical team had told her—in a carefully neutral tone, to avoid the slightest appearance of criticism—that by all rights he shouldn’t have survived. Luckily for both her and her medical team, they knew that when she ordered them to keep a prisoner alive, it was in their best interest to make it happen, no matter how impossible it seemed.

His body wasn’t the only part of him she had left her mark on. He tried to look at her with his old defiance—it was almost painful to watch him try—but his gaze kept skittering away and landing somewhere on the floor or on his lap. His jaw was tense, his mouth a straight line with no hint of his old cocky grin.

She had finally done it—she had wiped that grin on his face permanently.

She wished it felt more satisfying.

She felt none of the triumph she had felt before whenever she had scored a point against him. All the old fury was gone, too. Where those things had been, there was only a hollow pit of deep cold. She was empty.

She didn’t know how she felt about that, because the part of her that had remembered how to feel was gone. The only thing she felt was… free. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing the truth, no matter how harsh that truth was—that she wasn’t the hero she had imagined herself to be, that she had sacrificed for nothing, that she was nothing. She felt clean inside, like a black hole had opened up inside her and emptied her out.

She slid into the chair across from him, and wished she could take satisfaction in the way he flinched back. “I’m only here to talk,” she assured him. “I think we can both agree I hurt you more than enough last time. If I do any further damage so soon, my medical team won’t be happy with me.”

“So you’re not going to try to beat me to death this time.” Wraith’s voice sounded so much more bitter when he wasn’t trying to sound like he didn’t care. “What are you going to do instead? Bring out another prisoner to torture as an incentive for me to tell you the truth? I’m sure you’ve got plenty to spare.”

“This conversation will just be between you and me,” Isadora assured him. “I have a… sensitive matter to discuss with you. One that requires privacy.”

She glanced up at the corner, where the camera was hidden behind the intersection of the wall and the ceiling. It wouldn’t see what happened in this room today. She had turned off all the cameras in this room before coming here, along with several others. Which meant she had to be quick about this.

“I can guess what you want to talk to me about. There’s only one reason you’d keep me alive.” Wraith let out a rattling sigh. His shoulders slumped as he sagged forward. “I’m not giving him up. If watching me almost die didn’t convince you of that, I don’t know what will.”

“I don’t want to talk about your leader today,” said Isadora. “I think we both know that isn’t a fruitful topic of discussion.”

Wraith shook his head slowly, his weariness evident in every labored movement. “I’m too tired for your games, Isadora,” he said. “I don’t care who wins this thing anymore, so long as you don’t get him from me—and I already know you won’t. So go ahead and do whatever you really brought me here to do. Beat me some more, if that will make you happy. Go ahead and kill me, if that’s your plan, although it would be a waste after all the effort you put into keeping me alive. I don’t care what you do—just get on with it.”

Isadora leaned forward, staring into those opaque eyes of his. “What would you do if you walked out of here right now?”

“Can we get on with the torture already?”

“Would you go back to the rebellion?” she pressed. “You can’t possibly be stupid enough for that, can you? Then again, you were willing to die for your leader despite what he did to you, which doesn’t speak highly of your intelligence.”

Wraith leaned back, wincing at the movement. “If we’re just here to shoot the breeze, I think I’d rather talk about you. I’m curious—do you still see yourself as that noble crusader, even after what you did to me? I wouldn’t be surprised. Someone like you can probably justify anything. That probably wasn’t even the first time you—”

“Answer my question,” Isadora snapped, cutting him off. A sharp ache ran across her chest, like the sensation of cracking ice.

Wraith let out a long breath. He looked like he was actually considering her question. His face looked different now, and not just because of the added scars or the subtle asymmetry in his cheeks. All his masks were gone. She hadn’t been able to recognize them once he had them up, but now the difference was stark.

After all her failed efforts, she had finally stripped away his lies and pretenses, all the ways he had deceived both her and himself. This man in front of her, weary but sharp-eyed, was the real Wraith. He was almost uncomfortable to look at. It was a strange sort of intimacy. Normally, she didn’t achieve that kind of intimacy with a prisoner until they were screaming under her hands. And then the fear and the pain got in the way of what she was seeing from Wraith now—this glimpse of his true self.

“What would I do?” he echoed. “You’re right when you said I wasn’t that smart, I guess, because I go back if he wanted me. In a heartbeat. Even knowing what a bad decision it would be. I would offer myself to him without reservation if he wanted what I had to offer. But he doesn’t. He wants someone who’s devoted to his cause. He cares about me, he always has, but he doesn’t…” He swallowed. It took him a few seconds to speak again. “He doesn’t want me,” he finished. “I don’t think he ever did.”

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Tagged: @straight-to-the-pain @soheavyaburden @gala1981 @whumpacabra @sacredwrath @suspicious-whumping-egg @sonder35 @decahedron-crabclaw @seasaltandcopper @tremendousenemyhideout @bloodinkandashes @whumplr-reader @whatiswhumpblog @delicateprincepaper @sunshiline-writes

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b737m · 1 year

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Part 5: What do I think?

Although Boeing’s desire to make the 737 Max as competitive as possible as quickly as possible is understandable — especially in a duopoly marketplace like narrow-body jet planes. The industry that they are in cannot afford to put the desire for quick profit over safety. Thousands of people fly in Boeing and Airbus jets daily, and these people must be assured of their safety. Now, not all the blame is on Boeing, the pilots in Lion Air and Ethiopian Airlines both made mistakes in handling the erroneous activation of MCAS. Some blame can be placed on the FAA, which was not as engaged as a regulatory body needs to be in the certification of a new plane. These issues appear at this point in the timeline to be rectified.

The FAA now has more oversight over aircraft manufacturers and the certification of new aircraft. It requires the disclosure of safety-critical information to the FAA, so that a system like MCAS cannot be concealed in the future. The legislation expanded the FAA's oversight and included whistleblower protections for the future. This legislation also includes other safety-related and oversight protections and requirements that will result in more scrutiny of new planes in the future.

The issues at Lion Air and Ethiopian Air are less clear-cut. With the increased scrutiny of new aircraft, it's more likely that pilots will be trained on new planes before flying them. But the safety issues at Lion and Ethiopian Air run far deeper than can be accurately covered here, so we will leave it at with better training, pilots will be better able to respond to incidents.

MCAS has been modified, it is no longer more powerful than a pilot could be. It takes data from both AoA sensors, and if they disagree, MCAS does not run instead, a warning is shown on the controls. MCAS can no longer repeatedly run as it did before, it will only run once, preventing the sine curve flight path that was seen with the crashed planes.

There are a lot of points in the timeline we’ve discussed that Boeing could have done a better job, however, I’d like to focus on the way that Boeing handled their messaging in the aftermath of the Lion Air crash.

I would suggest that Boeing fully release the information they have on MCAS along with training information on the 737 Max. With the training, they put out an update to the way that MCAS functions. They can require that pilots complete the training before being allowed to fly the Max again. Doing this voluntarily could go to build goodwill with the regulatory bodies — and anyone who may wish to sue or prosecute Boeing. Showing that they recognize that they made a mistake in how they initially rolled out the 737 Max. This alone should bring about a quicker end to the saga. If Boeing grounds the plane when the first report comes out about the potential future casualty rate of the 737 Max, and then trains pilots on MCAS and adjusts its functionality, Ethiopian Air ET302 may never crash.

I believe this is a utilitarian approach to resolving this issue. While Boeing may face more severe punishments (Like fines or prosecutions), it may be able to salvage its reputation. Not least of which, the 157 people who died on Ethiopian Air ET302. This benefits society more and certainly allows for a less messy end to the 737 Max saga. Being forthcoming with this information allows Boeing to protect their reputation, it may even prevent the damning documents detailing inside conversations about safety and requests for training.

Boeing doing nothing at this juncture leads us to the present where Boeing denied culpability and changes only came as a result of the Department of Justice investigation and congressional hearing.

Should Boeing follow the first suggestion with the exception of altering MCAS, they may just be prolonging the time until the next 737 Max crash happens. This only serves to draw out the investigation process, and could end up being worse for Boeing, as questions then could be raised as to why Boeing did not alter the operation of MCAS when they created the trainings.

Bailey, Mark, and Keven McAlester. Downfall: The Case Against Boeing, Netflix, 2022, https://www.netflix.com%2Ftitle%2F81272421&usg=AOvVaw3CSSsbMZpxvie5HD6N85Nq.

"Boeing - News Releases/Statements." Boeing, 22 Mar. 2021, https://boeing.mediaroom.com/news-releases-statements?item=130336.

"Downfall: The Case Against Boeing." Netflix, 2020.

"FAA to reform new airplane safety approvals after 737 MAX crashes." Reuters, 19 Dec. 2020, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-boeing-737max-congress/faa-to-reform-new-airplane-safety-approvals-after-737-max-crashes-idUSKBN29304N.

"U.S. authorities to assist in investigation of Ethiopian Airlines crash that killed 157." The Washington Post, 10 Mar. 2019, https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/trafficandcommuting/us-authorities-to-assist-in-investigation-of-ethiopian-airlines-crash-that-killed-157/2019/03/10/29b693ec-4349-11e9-8aab-95b8d80a1e4f_story.html.

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burgundy-and-navy · 1 year

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I'm so angry at how Ben's story is being treated. Lewis getting away with it has been treated like Ben just stubbed his toe but Micknine and the Panesars stories get carried on? Bullshit.

*spoilers for Tuesday episode*

In tonight's episode when they're trying to talk to Lola about telling Lexi, Lola gets upset and says "it's my choice and I say no" but I guess we're supposed to forget that a phrase like that could have an affect on Ben regardless of what she meant. 🙄 I honestly don't even expect anyone to ever mention what happened to Ben again, they seem to have forgotten about his overdose as well seeing as Lola hasn't said a word about it when they're talking about Lexi. Everyone praising Chris clenshaw when he's been this disrespectful to a serious story.

Sorry this is a wee bit late, but yeah I get the anger. Clenshaw's treatment of ben's sl is absolutely disgraceful, especially considering what the storyline is. One of the many valid criticisms of the gray sl was that it ended up being disrespectful/insensitive given originally that sl was about domestic violence, and there's similar insensitivity going on here.

I think that dance scene with Lexi marked the end of the active part of the story being done, and that was all really lovely (one day i'll write a meta about how during the storyline you can kinda mark the process ben's healing process through his scenes with lexi but that's a different topic). But just because the active part is done, doesn't mean everything is resolved. I know it's a soap and there is a move on approach in soap but move on is not the same as completely forgetting about it.

Imagine if, when Jean came out of hospital, ee pretended nothing happened. None of those conversations with Stacey, nothing of her reconnecting with her grandkids, nothing of her figuring out the nature of her relationship with harvey. Instead, there was a sort of quiet aftermath, small scenes of her sorting things out. Ben sl has had none of that, it's just been swept under the rug.

And it is a failure of writing. Bit bias cause I'm a ben fan, but I genuinely think the writing for the active part of bens sl was really well done, not flawless but few things are especially in soap. There was a brilliant merging of character-specific work for ben and all those around him (bar callum who got shortchanged in this, because dropping the sl means ee missed the part where callum got the character work Kathy, phil and even Kheerat got) and explorations of the issues involved. I think it was well paced and structured in there was basically an approach where it was a main sl one week and in the background for the next, and so on. Clenshaw could learn a thing or two.

But given the fact it is an issue based sl it is also kind of an ethical failure, because Clenshaw inherited a sl depicting one of the most sensitive subjects a soap can depict and representation of this sort is needed. There has to be some sort of narrative duty of care.

There just needs to be a mention of something. Have callum tell Jay he's doing the school run alone because Ben has a support group meeting to go to. It's that simple and at least there would be something. (in an ideal world I would give ben a parallel to the 1997 scenes when phil attended that mens only aa meeting, instead it would be ben attending a support group, but i'll admit that's a fantasy).

Instead we have nothing. we get barely 30 secs dealing with lewis and the charges, and ben being upset (although coping well all things considered) was framed as him being unreasonable. Nothing about moving in or sharing a bed. There was a time where ben was having a couple panic attacks a week, presumably he has triggers, he certainly did during the paul ptsd, but there's no follow up or resolution to that. It's get the point where I'm near wishing Lewis actually comes back some time next year so there can be proper resolution. I should not be wanting to see Lewis again.

It's such an obvious issue and fairly easily fixed with a bit of care, a few bits of scattered dialogue and decent narrative structuring.

But then again nothing is particularly well structured at the minute. Kheerat's exit gives some understanding to it, but the panesar sl is messy at the moment. All the parts are so, so good, but the pacing is wild. It doesn't know whether its coming or going.

Amy sl is also well done so far, but there was the weird break between the sl being hinted at and then actually starting.

The speed at which whit and zack showed interest in each other makes me feel like I've been hit by a train. Zack kidnapped a guy at gun point just cause sam asked but now it's all about whitney (also it properly pissed me off that zack was allowed to mention lewis but god forbid anyone involved in the actual sl gets to)

all that is emmy worthy compared to the mick and janine thing. There leniency given there were two seemingly last minute exits and they have to high profile exits to come, but ee seemingly has lost control over whatever that sl is meant to be.

I think lola's sl should have started next year, potentially the slot ben's sl had this year. It gives it more breathing room. Ben's sl could have had proper care given to its resolution. Lola wouldn't get so overshadowed/ compete with mick/janine, the panesars and amy (cause they have two incredibly important issues sl running concurrently. I fear something will get the short end of the stick). We could have had better build up to lola's sl, really focus on the fmaily unit, proper jola content instead of the most annoyingly heavy handed forshadowing. Imagine is we saw them slowly planning a life together before the diagnosis, reconnect and have a developed reunion, date and move in, maybe get engaged, instead of the quick ham fisted dialogue we got. Alongside that we could see background scenes of ben and callum figuring out what their marriage looks like in the wake of everything. Again, thats a fantasy, but it just feels everything is competing at the minute, and bens sl has majorly lost. The timing is off and apparently ee or clenshaw or the writers can't figure out a way to have deal with the aftereffects of the ben sl in any meaningful way alongside Lola.

Clenshaw is decent, he's doing good things, but he has made some mistakes that deserve criticism and there is no excuse for the failure that is how he has treated the ben sl.

#i think this turned into another rant lol #ask anon

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inhonoredglory · 3 years

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Run Away from Me: A Levi Meta

The core of this meta is to show that, IMHO, Levi’s violence against Historia in Chapter 56 is his emotional fallout from the torture of Sannes, as well as his own guilt at the person he had become. Coming from having only watched the anime, I personally found this placement in the manga of the Historia scene right after both the torture sequence and the Reeves Company alliance as incredibly meaningful, especially for Levi’s character and his emotional journey.

Levi is an immensely compassionate person, someone who wants to aspire to the “unimaginably altruistic” life of Erwin Smith (Isayama, SNK Encyclopedia). So how would this torture he had to inflict affect him? Because imagine for a second: This is the man who was the only one to truly react with horror and sadness at the knowledge that they’d been killing human beings all this time when they fought Titans. This is the man who went out of his way to ally with the Reeves Company in order to answer the Trost townspeople’s woes:

In Chapter 53, Levi is confronted with blatantly disrespectful Trost merchants who think the Survey Corps haven’t done enough to save their town. It’s the everyday things that burden these people—taxes, thieves, putting food on the table. Levi doesn’t once shoot back at them for their criticism. Instead, he listens. And then he spots a woman at the side of a merchant’s stall. She’s holding a baby and her eyes burn into Levi’s. She holds his attention while above him, the merchants continue their tirade. I think Levi’s thinking of his mother here: like this woman, she was a single parent raising a child in a city that is not unlike Trost now, a town abandoned and forgotten by society, poor and struggling. That child reminds Levi of himself, and this time, Levi can do something about it.

This is why Levi goes out of his way to ally with the Reeves Company. Levi and Dimo share a long, deep conversation, demonstrating that Levi’s alliance with them is more personal than merely the company’s strategic value. Dimo Reeves called Levi an “awkward yet kind man.” He goes on the say that Levi will “protect us and the barely-alive District of Trost, even though he doesn’t really have to.” This is Levi answering that townsperson’s accusation that “you in the Survey Corps aren’t working hard enough.” Levi entrusts to the Reeves Company the responsibility to bring the town out of poverty in the new world the SC will create. That’s his compassion, that’s his care, that’s his humility. That’s how he values the lives of people, not just by defeating Titans, but valuing their livelihoods. “A man like that must have come from absolutely nothing,” concludes Dimo.

This is the same Levi we find torturing Sannes.

In Chapter 55, the torture of Sannes happens because of the horrors Hange saw inflicted on Minister Nick. It is Hange’s passion for avenging Nick that drives the torture sequence, their anger at the tortures that had happened under the MP’s First Squad that motivates the payback inflicted by Hange and Levi. Levi’s violence is done, not out of his own desire, but primarily Hange’s. This is not to say that Levi was guiltless or without responsibility for Sannes’s torture; on the contrary, his actions weigh heavily on him, as will be discussed. But it’s interesting to note that out of all the tortures they did, breaking Sannes’ nose was the only retribution all Levi’s own (in reaction to Sannes’ justification of a series of horrific things the MPs had committed).

I also find it relevant that after everything they had done to Sannes, Levi was still visibly shocked at Hange’s overreaction to Sannes’ hesitation to answer their first real question. Because in Levi’s mind, everything they had done up to that point wasn’t torture—in one sense. It was instead a like-for-like payback for the horrors Sannes had inflicted on Nick. Note that it was Levi who had to pull Hange out of the emotional distraction of Nick’s death in Chapter 52, the same emotional distraction that drives Hange to overzealous violence here.

There’s an interesting parallel in what happens next with what Levi had gone through with Annie earlier. Levi threatened Annie with torture of her real body and said he enjoyed intimidating her as she was bound and trapped. Sannes confessed that for him, he enjoyed violence and tormenting the helpless—so why should he complain if these torturers, Hange and Levi, are the same as him? It’s a subtle parallel, but it’s a relevant theme in SNK that everyone, on all sides, are devils and monsters. Or as Sannes says later, “The world will always have people like us.” People who are violent, people who are lunatics, people who condemn themselves and get their hands dirty for the sake of some higher “good.” Sannes’ accusation isn’t lost on Levi, because this is the same Levi who looked at a struggling mother in a forsaken city and did something about it.

Justified violence is still violence. So what if Annie deserved to have her limbs cut off, time and time again, without relief of death? So what if Sannes deserves to have his fingernails torn off, one by one, without even a question put to him? They had, after all, inflicted death and untold horrors on innocent people. But does justice look like this? Does the name of justice absolve your hands from actions this ugly?

Morality is complicated. And Levi is the first to tell you that he doesn’t know how to slice it. “I’m not telling you what’s right or wrong. I certainly don’t know what is” (Chapter 59).

So now in Chapter 56, we come to the scene with Historia, right on the heels of that torture. The first red flag for me went up when Levi realizes he has “forgotten” to tell his squad about Historia’s true bloodline. It’s not that he didn’t intend to tell them, it’s not that he was not supposed to tell them. (Unlike, say, the entire Female Titan arc.) He forgot, and he’s clearly embarrassed when they confront him. Why? Because he’s not supposed to lose focus like that. But he did, because that information came from Sannes, and after that horrendous experience, Levi, like Hange before him, was emotionally distracted. That’s the only reason I can figure for Isayama focusing on Levi’s oversight like this, and showing Levi in such an obviously emotionally awkward place.

Hange isn’t here to translate for Levi, like she did when Levi berated Eren for being unable to harden during the experiments in Chapter 53. Levi takes the scenic, colorful route when explaining his feelings. To Eren, he admitted that his criticism wasn’t about blaming Eren for being unable to harden, stating that “going over our shortcomings and bitching about our situation is an important ritual.”

In this light, we can read Levi’s words and actions with Historia as a complicated picture of his psychological landscape. Notice how just prior to this scene, we saw Hange act out the aftermath of the torture by kicking the table. Levi too reacts, taking it out on Historia.

Imagine where Levi is right now. He’s taken on the role of Sannes in this new world—the executioner, the ultimate killer, Humanity’s Strongest. “Your hands are already dirty. You can’t go back to the way you were,” Levi tells Armin later, but it’s also what he believes about himself. All that idealism that brought him into the Survey Corps—a life bigger than being a thug in the underworld. Did all that idealism bring him here, to do this? He has to make it worth it, he has to make it count for something. It’s what he does every day when his soldiers die under him—he’s been there to make their deaths worthwhile. But who’s there to make the deaths and terrors he’s dealt out worthwhile for him?

Levi’s expression in the last panel is angry, yes, but also wracked with pain.

So when Historia says she’s unfit for the role of Queen, when she says she can’t be Queen because she’s not good enough, Levi snaps. “Then run,” he said, grabbing her. “Run away from us as fast as you can. Because we’re going to do anything and everything to make you do what we want.” Levi’s eyes are downcast, not looking at her, because what he’s saying is more about him than it is about her.

Because he knows he’s dark enough to follow those orders to do the worst things to a human being to make the entire world a better place. He knows it’s in his bones to commit these atrocities. He is afraid of what he found he’s capable of. He’s already come to terms with killing humans as Titans. He’s come to terms with torturing humans as humans. He knows he can and will do horrible, unforgivable things. That’s his strength, that’s what makes him valuable, useful, important. He’s not like other people—“I’m abnormal… probably because I’ve seen far too many abnormal things.” But he’s ready to condemn himself, to make his hands dirty for the sake of others. He’s decided he has to go full through with the darkness he’s committed, because how else can he justify what he’s done? “I’m fine playing the role of the lunatic who kills people like that. I have to be ready to rearrange some faces. Because I choose the hell of humans killing each other over the hell of being eaten. At least that way… all of humanity doesn’t have to be damned.” His are the hands that will be stained with blood, his is the conscience that will be stained, his is the soul that will sink to hell—all so that others’ innocence can be spared.

The 104th look at him like he’s gone mad, abusing a young, helpless girl like that. But they haven’t seen what he had to do. They haven’t seen how bloody his hands have gotten. His violence here is a desperate reaction to get someone to save him. He’s always been able to avenge the deaths of his soldiers. But this time, he is the one in need of redemption. He could not justify his violence completely, he could only plea for her to make them unnecessary in the future. By becoming Queen, it means he won’t have to keep torturing, keep killing, keep shedding human blood. Her becoming Queen means a peaceful transition of power. Her becoming Queen means he won’t have to pave the path to a new government with more blood and more guilt, at least, not more than he has to. He’s enslaved to doing what his strength allows him to do. He’s begging her to not let people ask that of him.

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dreamsclock · 3 years

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hey so you want to know something, imagine karlnapity, after the find out what he did to dream, I don't think that they'd be able to defend quackity after what just happened. torture isnt justified no matter what.

set after these snippets!! (1) (2)

warnings: trauma, crying, mental illness/deterioration, torture, abuse, torture/abuse aftermath, dark themes/content, c!quackity critical (not really but he’s written dark!)

They bring Dream to Kinoko Kingdom because he has nowhere else. It has nothing to do with the fact both of them had cried and cried after Quackity had left, and nothing to do with how desperately Sapnap tries to make up for allowing Dream’s torture to go on as long as it had.

Dream is wary, practically mute, for weeks and weeks, twitching at the slightest change in the volume of someone’s voice or shift in someone’s posture. He’s constantly on edge - doesn’t sleep much, eats less, interacts with Karl and Karl alone, the only one who hadn’t been there for his capture. Even then, their communications consists solely of Karl sitting outside Dream’s room door, engaging him in a rather one-sided soft conversation where he tells Dream about what’s been happening and tries to get anything out of him. On the good days, he gets quiet replies of noncommittal responses they pretend must be progress. On the bad days, there’s only silence,

On the worst days, Karl gets peppy optimistic answers they both know are lies to keep himself safe, because no matter how much they try to show him otherwise, Dream still believes they’re going to turn on him and send him back.

He still doesn’t speak to Sapnap. Which is fine, Sapnap tells himself, because their visit hadn’t gone well, and they hadn’t been on good terms in a long time. But at least Dream is here, and he’ll talk to him soon, won’t he?

Six weeks of Dream living with them comes and goes in the blink of an eye, and nothing changes. Until one night it does.

Sapnap staggers to his feet at the sound of shrieking, horrific noises and half-coherent pleads, barely awake enough to understand what’s going on. Dream. It’s coming from Dream. Normally he’d let Karl go instead - Dream is calmer around Karl than he is him, and as much as it stings he doesn’t want to upset him more - but Karl is gone and he can’t let Dream suffer like that.

“Dream?” He calls uncertainly over the noise, and Dream sits bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and terrified, connecting with his. Sapnap freezes. He hasn’t seen Dream with his mask off in years, and he looks vulnerable more than anything. “Dream, hey, hey, it’s- it’s okay. It was just... A nightmare, yeah?”

Dream doesn’t reply, not dropping eye contact. And then, when Sapnap opens his mouth to continue, Dream bursts into sobs that wrack his body, burying his head in his hands to stifle the sound.

And it’s a breakthrough, but fuck, Sapnap has never been good at dealing with the type of emotions Dream is going through. He’s been Dream’s sword - the fiery one, the one to jump in and defend Dream’s back without hesitation, but it’s hard to do that when the enemy attacking Dream is the memory of his fiancé. But it’s Dream, he’s his brother, so Sapnap approaches cautiously, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and noting just how tiny Dream seems now. He’s always been larger than life, laughing and loud and happy.

He’s so small now. Sapnap struggles for breath that doesn’t come. God, God, what the fuck had Quackity done to him?

“Can I hug you?” He whispers, and Dream flinches, but nods, silent, still hiding his face. He buries it in Sapnap’s shoulder when Sapnap gently holds him in an embrace just like they used to, marvelling that they could even still do this. Because he and Dream have a lot of bad blood, but before that, they’d had nothing but good blood, and despite everything over the past few years, he’s missed Dream, and misses his hugs too.

Sapnap holds him close and Dream actually relaxes into it, sobbing like the world is ending. Sapnap tangles his hands gently in the back of his best friend’s too-long hair, letting his palms heat up with a soft warmth like he used to when they had been kids. And for a minute, a blissful minute, things almost feel like they’re still fourteen and Dream has broken his arm and Sapnap is the only one around to comfort him.

“I’ve got you,” he promises Dream, voice catching, “I promise. I won’t ever let you go back there.”

Dream clings to him, adrift in his sobs. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “I’m sorry about Quackity. I’m sorry I pushed him that far.”

Sapnap feels grief rise up in his throat, and shakes his head, wordless for a second. Because it reminds him so much of Dream from before: always willing to take the fall for others, always so in tune with others’ feelings. “Don’t apologise for him. I’m sorry that I didn’t see him go down that path.” And then, quieter, “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you going down that path.”

Hands tighten around him, and Dream swallows, pulling back to look at Sapnap. His eyes are red and pale, but there’s a shadow of the Dream he remembers from their childhood lurking in them, just a glimpse of him. “I’m sorry,” Dream says again, quiet and soft, “I’m so sorry.”

It’s Sapnap’s turn to begin crying, despairing. “You don’t hate to apologise. You- Jesus, I’m just happy you’re okay. Well. I’m glad you’re... I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad I’m here too,” Dream whispers.

They stay like that until the sun begins to rise, both of them quiet, enjoying each other’s company. And when Karl comes home to find both of them asleep, still hugging each other, a faint smile finds its way onto his face.

#> my asks !!#> visiting dream spoilers #> my writing !!#tw prison arc #tw trauma #tw crying #tw mental illness #tw mental trauma #tw torture #tw abuse #tw aftermath of torture #tw dark themes #c!quackity critical #> my asks !!

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itmightbeneb · 3 years

Text

Syndicate AU fic: Ranboo wonderes what to do now that Dream is living in Techno’s house, had a plan to kill him but he doesn’t want to upset the people he lives with.

TW: abuse meantion, torture meantion, aftermath of torture, a single swear word, c!Tommy critical at some points

Techno had just made it back when the sirens sounded out across the SMP. Long, drawn out notes signalling what he did to everyone, well they didn’t know it was Techno who broke Dream out yet, but they did know he was out.

Phil, Ranboo and Niki were in the small underground room they had carved out for Dream, well hidden and almost impossible to find: the perfect hiding spot. Phil took one look at the state of Dream and rushed to make healing and regen pots. Ranboo left immediately. He went to Snowchester to see Micheal and pretend nothing was happening, but the image of Dream’s body, what had been done to him in the prison, couldn’t leave his mind. Tubbo was also there, probably also trying to avoid the reality of Dream being out. Ranboo avoided the rest of the Syndicate members that day, he didn’t want to interfere with their healing and brewing, didn’t want to interfere with their sympathy for a hurt man. He didn’t sleep that night, instead he lay awake, restless, wondering who could have done that to somebody else, and how Dream sounded when he screamed. He put on a music dick to drown out the sounds of screaming in his mind.

Quackity, it had been Quackity. They found this out a few days later - well Techno had already known from his stay at the prison - it hadn’t been Sam as they had suspected, or Antfrost or Bad, but Quackity, someone who wasn’t even employed at the prison. The man who led the Butcher Army to try to execute Techno.

Dream’s voice was barely audible when he had said the name, a hoarse whisper had sounded in the awkward silence that had permeated any room Dream had been in since he got there. His voice sounded like he hadn’t made a noise other than screaming in the last few weeks, and Ranboo supposed that he was probably right. The fact that Dream was in fact in front of them at the time was proof that he hadn’t told Quackity the revive book secrets - they all knew that book was the last thing keeping the broken man alive - so what else was there to do but scream.

It had been about three weeks since Phil and Techno had brought Dream - a bloody, barely alive Dream - back from the prison. Ranboo had wanted Dream dead, yes, but he couldn’t kill a man who couldn’t even walk, who had still healing wounds all over his body, who slept so much and yet couldn’t sleep at the same time. Ranboo wanted him dead, yes, but he wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t have helped Tommy try and kill him if he knew the situation, he told himself. Or maybe it was different hearing it to seeing it. Would he have even been able to picture just how broken the once tyrant was? He was better than Dream, he told himself, he wouldn’t hurt him even more. He didn’t know why it was a shock to him, to see someone like Dream so hurt. He still hadn’t seen his face, had always been out of the room whenever he had removed his mask, did he have a face?

When Sam and Quackity came looking, and Ranboo had lied to them. They had advanced warning thanks to Niki, and had hidden Dream in the syndicate room. Dream had been reluctant to go through the lava, even though he knew there was water right under it. Only when they got warning that Sam had come through their nether portal did he jump in. Ranboo didn’t know why he hoped it’d be enough. If Quackity and Sam killed Dream, that would make his work easier. Still, he was reluctantly warming up to the masked man. The man that had hurt his friends, his husband, everyone he cares about. Maybe Techno got away with not being hurt by Dream, possibly Phil, but with what happened with Tommy did he deserve any forgiveness?

“You still haven’t found him?” He asked, “Oh that’s not good.”

There was blood staining the handle of Sam’s pickaxe.

“He’s good at avoiding us, we think he must have help,” Sam said plainly, “He should be pretty weak still, if we can get him back before he regains his strength, there shouldn’t be need for alarm.”

Ranboo nodded, “Ah, yes. I’ll keep a lookout, but I haven’t seen anything unusual lately. If I do, Sam, you will be the first to know.”

He hadn’t wanted to address Quackity. As far as anyone knew, Quackity didn’t work for the prison. He only knew Quackity’s involvement from Dream and Techno. Nobody else on the SMP knew what was going on, apparently not even his boyfriends. Were they even together anymore? Nobody had seen the three together in a while, what would Sapnap and KArl think about all this?

“And how, Ranboo, do we know we can trust you?” It was Quackity. Ranboo forced himself to look at him calmly, to not let on that he knew what Quackity did, that he was possibly worse than the green monster underground.

“Because I want Dream dead,” truth, “but if that doesn’t happen, letting him rot in prison is the second best outcome,” lie, “especially if it allows us access to the revive book,” another lie. But Sam and Quackity seemed to buy it, though Ranboo had to remind himself not to underestimate Quackity. The man was far more cunning than he let on.

Ranboo made himself busy feeding the cat before heading to the meeting room. The cat, Patches, was a new edition. When Dream had found her, almost as thin as he had been, and somehow even scruffier, he had barely set her down enough to tame her. To the outside at least, the cat fit right in amongst all of Techno’s animals. Techno’s house was the perfect place to hide a stray pet in clear sight. Patches had fattened up since her arrival, as had Dream. Admittedly Ranboo hadn’t known Dream that well before all this, but he hadn’t recognised the man when Techno first brought him in. He was too skinny, too weak, too beaten up to be the man who had terrorised the whole server, who had blown up L’manberg.

Who had beaten Tommy to death.

He couldn’t move Patches, she was Dream’s cat, but when he killed Dream, when Dream was finally dead, he’d use water and boats to move her to a nice location where she would be comfy and warm her whole life. An apology for killing her owner, an apology for letting her be tamed by Dream of all people.

Ranboo made his way to the meeting room. Dream was sat in one of the chairs, fiddling with his sleeve.

“Are they gone?” He asked, his voice a whisper. He was so quiet, Ranboo had noticed since he had arrived, always speaking in a hushed tone. Ranboo knew he had the capability to be loud, he used to be a confident leader, then a mad villain, neither of whom had trouble making their voice heard. And now? Ranboo didn’t know what to make of who he was now. A broken person, perhaps, a reason never to take Quackity at his word. A person who had, long ago, hurt his friends. He had paid for that, though, Ranboo knew that. Dream had hurt enough, but he was still a threat. Nobody could learn in that prison, nobody could become better, Dream was still the horrible person that went in, just more broken now, he was still the person who had made exile happen, who had killed ghostbur, who had killed Tommy.

“Yeah, they’re gone,” he answered, and noted how Dream visibly relaxed. He wondered if the old Dream would so clearly let his guard down in front of others. Except, Ranboo noted, he hadn’t. Dream was still on high alert, it was just something about Sam and Quackity’s presence being confirmed to be gone that meant he could relax, just a little. His eyes still darted across the room, he was still on high alert. It wasn’t like he could do anything, he was far too broken to help if something did happen, but the man wasn’t done fighting yet. He’d be a pain to kill once he was fully healed, Ranboo realised, but still, he wasn’t the monster Dream was. He wouldn’t kill an injured man.

Ranboo collapsed into a chair, one not facing Dream head on, and tried not to think of how Tubbo would react if he found out what was going on. An awkward silence filled the room, Techno was never good with words and neither Phil nor Ranboo knew how exactly to deal with Dream just yet. Well, when he was acting up, or when he was breaking down, Phil tried his best, calming the situation down and helping the broken green man while Ranboo always stood awkwardly by the side, there only to offer healing potions, or gapples, the knowledge that he was there and not trying to hurt him. Would it hurt him even more when he found out that Ranboo wanted him dead? Or did he not care? Tommy had said that Dream didn’t care about anything, but he clearly cared about Patches.

Ranboo didn’t know why, but Phil had pulled him aside one day, a little after Dream brought Patches back, when he wouldn’t let anyone else near the small animal, and told him to never use Patches against Dream.

“Listen, mate, I know you may hate the guy, I understand. But, whatever you do, promise me you will never use that cat against him,” Phil had sounded so serious, and Ranboo wasn’t a horrible person so he had obviously agreed. Who would use something someone loved against a person? Hadn’t that been Dream’s plan for the vault? He wasn’t like Dream, he would never do that, even to someone he hated.

“And if that cat does die, don’t use her remains him either,” Phil had continued.

“Why would I do that? Who would do that?” Using a dead pet’s remains against someone, to try and manipulate someone. That was something only something old Dream would do, right?

“Tommy.”

Phil and Techno were discussing something in the corner, their voices low but not caring if they were overheard. Something about Kinoko Kingdom and how to deal with it being on top of Niki’s underground city. He was far too distracted by Dream’s fidgeting, he had started playing with his shirt sleeve again, before moving onto tapping the table. A constant reminder that the man who had hurt his husband, who had tried to kill tubbo, was right next to him, and Ranboo wasn’t doing anything about it. Not that he could with Phil and Techno in the room, and with Niki on her way, but still. The tapping continued, in no particular rhythm. Ranboo looked over to the masked man, who took his hands off the table slowly and went back to fiddling with his sleeve instead, and looked over to where Techno and Phil were.

“Kinoko Kingdom,” He said, his voice again quiet. Was it because he was so used to being talked over by now? So used to the knowledge that his words were only wanted if he said the knowledge that would lead to his death? Was it from all the screaming when Quackity- Ranboo didn’t want to think about it. It was probably him trying to lure them into a false sense of security, to help him get better then leave to hurt his friends yet again. That must be it, like Tommy had said, Dream was the master manipulator.

“Who’s in Kinoko Kingdom?” He finished asking.

“Karl, Sapnap and George, it was built above Niki’s base without her knowing,” Techno answered.

Dream just nodded and stayed quiet. Ranboo didn’t know if it was because he didn’t care about Kinoko Kingdom - unlikely considering who was involved - or if he lacked the energy to react more. He always seemed tired, never showing much interest in anything beyond saving Patches and training, although Phil always made him stop training after too long, claiming it’d only hurt him more. Dream always protested, wanting to go on longer even when it was clear his body couldn’t take much more. Always desperate to get stronger. This was one of the few things Ranboo understood about Dream, he didn’t want to go back to the prison. But, when he was strong enough, when he was powerful enough to take on the entire server again and not get thrown into the prison again, into that torture box, what would he do? He could do anything.

He used to be friends with Sapnap and George, Ranboo remembered someone saying, they used to be close. Then they weren't, and George was never around anyway. Even if they blew up Kinoko Kingdom today, he probably wouldn't notice until a few week's time. There was a time when Ranboo didn't have many friends too, especially no close ones. It was only really when Tommy was stuck in the prison as well when he became close to Tubbo, and he had talked to Fundy quite a bit before that, he hadn’t talked to Fundy for a while, in a very long time. He wondered how the fox was doing, where was he living now, anyway?

Tommy said Tubbo had married him "without his permission" what was that supposed to mean? Now that Ranboo thought about it a bit more, the more worried he got. Did Tommy really think Tubbo needed his permission to become close to someone? It may have been a joke, but if it was it wasn't an obvious one, and, if Ranboo was being honest, it was a bad joke. He'd think about it another time, when he didn't have to deal with hiding the man who killed Tommy, who almost killed Tubbo, from them.

A few minutes later, Niki comes into the room.

"Oh! It’s Niki" Philza greeted her with a smile.

“Yes yes hello!” She cheerily waved at everyone, always bringing a brighter air to the place, especially since Dream had arrived. She brought out a loaf of bread, “look, it’s fresh out of the oven, but I think the snow might have chilled it a bit, but you’re all free to try some.”

Dream reached out to take some, his hands were scarred and his fingernails were still missing, still growing back from when Quackity- Ranboo forced himself to stop thinking about that, not just before food at least.

Ranboo took some bread as well, it was still a little warm, not entirely cooled by the winter air.

Dream took some as well, writing something in his book before showing it to Niki. He didn't talk much anymore, maybe his voice still hurt from all the screams but Ranboo suspected it was more than that, even when he did speak it was always quiet.

Dream took off his mask so he could eat more easily, and Ranboo tried not to stare but he hadn't seen the man's face before.

He was pale, and looked tired. Too pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months, despite being back in the outside world for a few weeks now. And wasn't he supposed to have freckles? Ranboo remembered someone (was it Sapnap?) mentioning that he had freckles. Those too must have faded without the sun. He has scars on his face, which was unsurprising considering Quackity, and bags under his eyes. He was still healing from everything, meaning he had to sleep a lot more than the average person. He was still waking up every night screaming. When he bit down into the bread, Ranboo noticed a few missing teeth. Was that the work of Quackity as well? Or had months of only eating potatoes and not having proper hygiene taken its toll?

Dream looked at Ranboo, having noticed his stare and Ranboo quickly looked away. He didn't want to make him uncomfortable, not after everything he had gone through. Wait a second, why didn't he want to make Dream uncomfortable? This was the man who had hurt Tommy and Tubbo so much, who was the cause of so many problems on the server, who had killed Tommy. After Tommy had killed Dream's cat - well maybe not Dream’s cat but an animal who he cared about - and had hit him multiple times. And he had brought him back afterwards. Even Ranboo had to admit he would probably have snapped at Tommy if he was in Dream's position, he wouldn't have killed him though. He was better than that, he was better than Dream. They had both been in the wrong, and had only made each other worse by being confined together. Ranboo made a mental note never to let any of his pets near Tommy, and to keep him under strict supervision when visiting Michael.

Phil, Techno and Niki would be upset if he made Dream uncomfortable, that's why he didn't want to. That was the reason why and the small voice in the back of Ranboo's head was kindly asked to shut up.

A book was placed in front of him. Ranboo picked it up and opened it. It simply read: It's ok, I understand.

Ranboo handed the book back to Dream. "No. No it's not actually, I was rude there's - I'm sorry."

Ranboo bit into Niki’s bread, it was amazing, definitely better than raw potatoes. Ranboo made another mental note (he'd have to write these mental notes down soon or he'd forget) to ask Niki to make sure Dream didn't have to eat more potatoes.

A few days after that, Ranboo had to trade with Techno's villagers for a couple of things. He liked the new design of the house, the way Techno's and Phil's houses were connected but still distinct, friendship houses. Phil was a good builder even if he didn't show it that much on the server. Inside the house was Steve, as per usual. But what was unusual was the man who was curled up by Steve's side, sleeping peacefully. A man in a green hoodie, Dream. Patches was also there, stretched out in a position only a cat would find comfortable and squished between Dream and Steve.

Ranboo quietly made his way down the ladder, trying not to disturb what seemed like the only peaceful sleep Dream had gotten in a long time.

Techno was downstairs with the villagers, trading for some more golden carrots.

"Uh Dream's sleeping with Steve" Ranboo informed him.

"oh yeah, I was, I was thinking of, you know, lending him Baba so he could sleep easier when he wakes up," Techno replied, "you know, so I don't have to hear him wake up every night, not because I care or anything."

"no no, of course not. Yeah if Steve is helping him sleep I think lending him Baba might help as well."

"Yeah if anything I'm just doing us a favour, right?"

Ranboo suppressed a laugh as he finished trading and left, making sure to be quiet on his way out.

Ranboo was a rich guy, so it didn't take him long to max out a new netherite pickaxe. When Tubbo had asked why, he said that it was a gift for Phil, that he had accidentally broken it while mining out the new training area. He had lied to his husband. Ranboo was getting used to lying and withholding information, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. A few lies here and there to stop the nuclear war was almost definitely a net positive but it didn't stop him from feeling guilty about it. Served him right for being close to multiple people who loved to blow things up but weren't on the same side of history. If only people stopped choosing sides and stopped trying to hurt others then he wouldn't be in this situation, but alas, here he was making a maxed out netherite pickaxe for Dream behind Tubbo's back.

He was going to sit down and have a proper conversation with Dream, if it went badly then the pickaxe would go to Phil instead, or Niki for her underground city, but for some reason Ranboo had the feeling that it wouldn't. When he walked past the underground room they had dug for Dream (on his way to trade with Techno's villagers again), Baba had been moved in there. Dream was out, probably at Niki’s underground city or exploring the wilderness (ish, he still stayed close enough for them to come help him if necessary, he still wasn't fully healed yet). Ranboo would have to find him another time. He gave Patches a quick scratch before leaving.

"Uh hey" he had found Dream in the lower room of Techno's house, sitting by the chests, throwing something (Ranboo couldn't see what) to the foxes.

Dream looked up at him and gave a small wave. He was clearly getting stronger, he no longer looked like a walking corpse and actually had some meat on his bones. Phil had given him the all clear to start training again, to build up more muscle again after losing so much to inactivity in the prison. He'd have to start slow, given how tired he got so quickly, but Ranboo doubted it would take long before he was a threat again. And, Ranboo thought, if he could get close to Dream, he may be able to stop him from hurting Tubbo again.

He slowly made his way over to the foxes, trying not to scare them, and sat down on the floor. One of them had a sword in its mouth, probably Techno's fault.

"Sorry I've been uh," Prime, finding words was hard, "avoiding you."

Dream's fingertips glowed white as he searched his inventory for something, "oh, would- do you want a book to write in?" Ranboo asked.

Dream nodded and Ranboo searched through his inventory. He had a spare he quickly checked, empty, perfect. He handed it over to Dream, who started writing.

When he handed it back, the book simply said: I didn't expect you to be friendly.

"oh, hm, right yeah that makes sense. You're… you're not as bad as I expected you to be though."

The book was once again passed back and forth, this time it said: Techno would take my last life if I hurt you

"Is that the reason you haven't then?"

No that's not the only reason. You're close to Tommy, right?

"I mean I guess I am? The more I think about it the less…. I don't know. I just… I think he needs help, therapy, but we all know he'd just walk away." Tommy was a difficult subject. Ranboo liked the guy, he genuinely did, but he was annoying at times, not to mention overbearing. He could also be toxic at times, but then Ranboo was talking to Dream at that very moment, however toxic Tommy's relationship was with Ranboo and Tubbo, it was nowhere near as toxic as it was with Dream. But then Dream was the cause of that, not Tommy.

Dream took off his mask, putting it on the floor. His face was still too pale, but freckles had started to appear again. Ranboo often found Dream just sitting outside on the steps of Techno and Phil's house, taking in the sunlight that had been denied to him for so long.

The book got handed back.

I think we all need therapy

"yeah, yeah you're probably right. Puffy's gonna get a lot of work when people realise."

Dream frowned at the mention of Puffy's name, before writing again

She refused to help with mine

"Oh uh… that's… hm. That's not good. You've been talking to Niki a lot more though, right? She's not a therapist but she is a positive influence on pretty much everyone."

Dream nodded, and this time the book read:

Been helping out at her bakery, kneading dough is apparently a good way to take out anger, I don’t know if it's that effective though

Ranboo chuckled, he doubted much could help control all of Dream's anger, but if he was doing something about it, it may help a little. Ranboo realised that Dream was trying, and he didn't know why that surprised him. Ever since he had come to the syndicate, he had been trying to get better.

Dream's fingers glowed white as he searched through his inventory for something, eventually bringing out a loaf of bread. He broke some off and handed it to Ranboo. He quickly wrote in the book and showed it to Ranboo, it simply said one thing: I made this.

Ranboo tried the bread, it'd be rude not to after all, and it was good. Possibly not as good as Niki's, but then Niki had been baking longer than Dream.

"It's good!"

And Dream smiled, genuinely smiled. For the first time in so long he smiled. How long had it been since he created instead of destroyed? How long had it been since he had put genuine effort into creating something good?

He went to go pick up his mask, only to find Blitz was holding it.

"Fuck," the first word he had said all day. Ranboo started laughing, and after a few seconds of trying (and failing) to pry open a fox's mouth, Dream joined him.

It felt good to laugh, for both of them. Ranboo had spent too long lying to people and trying to keep secrets from everyone to let his guard down lately. And Dream, well Dream hadn't laughed properly since he had killed Tommy, but even then that was mostly because of the relief he had felt. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so happy, or free.

"Wait wait hang on," Ranboo said as he gave Blitz a golden apple. Blitz in turn dropped the mask for the apple, and Ranboo handed the mask back to Dream.

That night Ranboo left a chest outside Dream's room. It contained two things, the pickaxe and a note.

"Heard you lost your last pic, so I made you a new one - R"

#syndicate au #dream smp #ranboo #dreamwastaken #dsmp #NebWrites #dreblr #c.dwt.fic #c!tommy critical

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serendipitous-posts · 2 years

Text

Okay look.

When your expected to be the ‘perfect one’ in the family, you also become the most sensitive. People who are the ‘perfect one’ are often defensive and hostile to criticism because when you are perfect, any complaint against you is bad, and you need to get ahead of it while you can.

So.

I propose Mirabel was actually the one to start the whole tension thing between her and Isabela.

Not putting it all on her, obviously-Isabela has clearly internalised a lot of Abuela’s opinions of Mira, which makes sense since she’s by her side all the damn time. Her telling Mira to stay out of the way? Dick move

But in her room, she explicitly says “I’ve been stuck being perfect all my life, and all you’ve done for me is mess it up”. Nothing mentioned of her lack of gift. The fact that she says that implies that she’s mad at Mirabel because of her actions

Mirabel is very rarely portrayed as ‘the one in the wrong’ I guess is the phrase? Most of the time, she’s the one being wronged, which, like, fair. But we’re seeing this whole thing from her perspective, her thoughts, her emotions. We only get one side of the whole thing.

And it’s clear right from the very beginning that she is resentful of Isabela-look at how she sings about her in the Family Madrigal. She lets slip that she finds Isabela to be ‘kind of a prima donna’ and she’s very clearly jealous of her big sister.

And you think she was somehow better at hiding it when she was younger? In the immediate aftermath of her not having a gift, watching Isabela being paraded around town?

And the second Isabela hears about it, she has to retaliate. Has to. Because she’s perfect and any criticism has to be nipped in the bud (no pun intended) because then it could spread.

And so Mirabel thinks Isabela hates her for not having a gift. But she actually hates her because Mira is jealous of her and keeps making comments about her and That Cannot Be Allowed To Happen

It’s just. I find the idea that, instead of Isabela just looking at her younger sister and going ‘yes, you have no gift, you wreck everything ever’ it’s a little more complicated. That Mira also hurt the family without realising it. Just like abuela

#encanto #encanto isabela #encanto mirabel #mirabel madrigal #isabela madrigal

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

OH ANTONI 🥺🥺🥺 my poor baby. I hope he will find it within himself to come clean to Jake or SOMEONE about this :((((

(((ALSO CANT WAIT FOR MORR))))

One Two Three Four Five Six

CW: Wound cleaning, burns, touch aversion, aftermath of torture, BBU, conditioned fucky headspace

"Lift your chin for me," she commands, and he doesn't really remember that he could choose not to obey.

Antoni dutifully shifts, his eyes moving to roam over a line of framed photographs along the wall behind her. A wedding photo, faded with time, a much, much younger version of the woman currently dabbing a cotton ball dipped in something cold and stinging to the fresh burn on his throat with a man he's never seen. The two of them are smiling, holding hands, looking right into the camera.

Bright white wedding dress turned cream with yellowing paper, with time, covered in lace. Powder-blue tuxedo. Brilliant smiles.

She touches the cotton ball to his skin and he hisses, hands tightening where they grip the edges of the chair he's sitting on. The sting rockets through him, only a pale echo of the original pain, but it's enough.

It's enough.

Fuck, that's hot.

He catches the sob before it can leave his throat, forces the burn behind his eyes to stay there and not turn into tears. He will not cry over this again.

Not now.

"There we go, just a bit more," She says, her voice gruffly compassionate. She presses a small rounded bandage against his throat, her fingertips are warm against his neck.

His skin crawls at even this slight, indirect touch, but he doesn't protest.

He wouldn't dare.

"All done. That's not s'bad, I think with a good bandaging it won't scar half so bad as all its little friends down south," She mutters, more to herself than him, really.

Where her fingers touch, he feels the echoes of other hands around his throat. Thicker fingers, heavy with rings. Smiling down at him.

Beg for me, love.

"Please-" It's automatic. He's drifting, in and out of this old kitchen that still looks like it must have looked thirty years ago, when the man in the wedding photo would still be here maybe cooking or cleaning or chatting up a storm to anyone who popped by for a visit.

"Hm? You say something, sweetheart?" Miss Ruth looks at him, and those dark eyes are shrewd. They know more than anyone is supposed to, they know things Nat hasn't told her. Hasn't had to.

"Ah, no," He whispers. "Just. I am very tired."

"No doubt. I'll finish these up and you can get back to your own bed and no doubt you'll be glad to get there." She looks him over, and his eyes dance to hers and away again. Back to the photos.

He sees a family photo, the two people from before and a daughter and son. Everyone is smiling, looking carefully just off to the side. They wear matching outfits.

"Get a look at 'em?"

There's a 35th wedding anniversary picture with a big banner behind the happy couple. The two people, much older, stand in front a cake nearly as tall as they are, surrounded by others. Everyone in the photo smiles in sort of the same way.

The next photo is a birthday, he thinks. There's a boy and a young baby in the photo, and the man from wedding and anniversary photo isn't there. Miss Ruth, holding her grandbaby he thinks, is wearing all black. The photo was taken in a church, and there's a spray of white lilies just visible at the edge of the picture.

Another, with Jaden, who Chris plays basketball with. The kid who more or less effortlessly opened his life for Chris when Chris badly needed a friend his own age, or closer to it, to remember what being a kid was like.

He is reading, in images, the story of this woman's adult life. Marriage, and death, and birth. Children. Life going on.

A life he won't have, that he gave up every possibility of having, because of... of whatever is inside him that Mr. Davies knew about, that the people who just hurt him could see in him even though he cannot see it himself.

He must look like someone who deserves to be hurt.

"Young man." She taps on the back of his hand and he flinches, blinking at her, struggling to pull himself out of his reverie. Her words filter through his mind, shift into the language all his thoughts are moving in, come back out in hers. He swallows, feeling a lump in his throat that refuses to move.

"I'm... sorry," He says softly, with difficulty. "I did not hear."

"I can tell. I asked did you get a good look at whoever did this to you." Her eyes roam over his chest, his stomach. The circle of new burns, placed so carefully compared to the haphazard placement Mr. Davies had favored, no pattern at all. "Looks like they took their damn time, anyway, to get you so much."

"N-... no." Antoni's eyebrows furrow, and he tries to think, but all he can remember is their hands holding the lit cigarettes, the quiet one touching his face, ruffling his hair. He can't... he can't remember their faces at all. "I am sorry."

You're fucking gorgeous, buddy, you know that?

"Hm." If she's disappointed in him, nothing changes about her expression, still held in a kind of skeptical compassion as she wets a new cotton ball in liquid from a small frosted plastic bottle and touches it to each burn, one by one, in the circle. It's like a ritual, the sting, washing away a bit of sin with each hint of pain. He clothes his eyes and breathes carefully through it.

When he is done, each circle covered with a bandage that is shades darker than his skin, she steps back to look him over, critically. She steps away and he takes in deep breaths free of her air, the powdery scent of her. He breathes in her absence, no one nearby.

She returns with a washcloth and he takes it, scrubs at his face until his cheeks are red but clean, until you can't tell anymore that he cried while they burned him.

Good boy.

"You can stay here," She says, voice low now. "Sleep it off for a while. I've got a guest room."

"No. No, I will go home. Thank you. I will... I want to go home." He looks out the kitchen window right at Nat's house next door. No lights are on... yet. But there isn't much time before they will be.

"Fair enough. You plan to tell 'em what happened to you?"

He looks back at her, searches for the judgement, finds none.

"No," He says. Confesses, really, his sin. "I will not."

I will lie to them.

"That's your choice to make, I suppose." She lays a hand on his arm. He doesn't pull away from her. He wants to unzip himself from his skin and step out of it, let them all have what they seem to want to touch so much.

Instead, he holds himself perfectly still, until she pats him a few times and steps away again.

"I've done what I can do. You come back over here tomorrow or the day after and we'll look 'em over again and make sure they're healing up nice, you got me?"

"Yes," He says. He is good. He can be good.

"Right. Off you go, then, before your people wake up and you get to come up with a story about why you're in an old widow's house at 4:30 in the morning, hm? You're pretty enough, but you're no Wilbur." She laughs to herself, a dry and crackly sound, and he thinks that her laugh was the sort that could set a whole crowd to laughing, when she was young.

It still is.

The corners of his mouth twitch in an answering smile.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and pushes himself off the edge, standing up again. No one has seen his scars, no one but this old neighbor woman who looks at them like they are simply part of living, not something to be pitied. "I go. S-... thank you."

"Paugh." She scoffs, waves a hand in dismissal. "Go on, now. You've thrown off my morning coffee time. Tell your young man that Jaden will be over this afternoon."

She all but shoos him out the door, and the air is clear and clean and quiet. The only dirty thing is Antoni himself, smudged and mussed, still feeling in his scalp the prickles of Quiet One's hands, still feeling on his arms the sharp pressure of the shirt tied around his wrists.

Still aware of every single burn under the slight pull of the bandages pressed over them, the gentle sting that feels like a return to how he was always meant to be.

Even the walk from one yard to another feels like too much. Antoni's eyes move over the empty darkened windows of the houses all around him. How obvious he must be, if three people saw him in the darkness and knew him for a pet pretending to be human.

He shouldn't have left, shouldn't have gone on those walks. He'd left himself open and vulnerable, hadn't he? His scars are deeper than skin, and they must shine like the streetlights to anyone who knows what to look for.

Antoni stops at the porch, where he carefully lifts a loose bit of board from the porch railing, finds the small box hidden inside. The slightest scrape of metal on metal as he pulls off the lid makes him freeze, but no one is awake to hear it. He takes the contents of the box, moves it quickly back to its hiding place, replaces the board.

Like nothing ever happened.

Everything can be made as good as new, as long as it isn't him.

He slips inside the safehouse, where everything is still quiet, in the silent inhale that comes before the exhalation of morning. The clock in the kitchen reads 4:45, fifteen minutes until Jake's alarm will go off, until he - and likely Chris - will stir.

Fifteen minutes for Antoni get upstairs and look so deeply asleep that no one will realize he was ever gone.

No time to shower.

He will have to sleep with the grime of their hands still ground deep into every single pore. He will sleep with Deep Voice's we know what you are in his ears, with Quiet One's fingers tangled in his hair, running over his skin. He will sleep with Lookout's eyes locked on his chest as he presses the cigarette in.

Antoni hasn't worn a collar in years now, but he buckles it on, just one notch too tight like Mr. Davies would have, and climbs under the covers, pulling them over his head.

He breathes in as deep as he can, to feel the constriction. Breathes out, and runs his hand up over his chest, over the bandages that cover his burns.

They knew what he was.

Everyone always will.

Good boy.

The ashtray falls asleep humming a lullaby, afraid that if he pulls the blankets back down he will see bars on the windows.

#antoni sings lullabies #aftermath of injury #caretaker and whumpee #fucky headspace #bbu #box boy #box boy universe #pet whump #internal dehumanization #(a little bit)#touch aversion #touch averse #recovering whumpee #wound cleaning #hurt/comfort #angst #angst angst angst #come get y'all angst #whump

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fakeikemen · 4 years

Text

Katara's Grief

(This is my first attempt at a meta post and I know that this has probably been already done but I just needed to get it off my chest and go on a little rant and it kinda got long so bear with me.)

A lot of the hate on Katara stems from the fact that she keeps on mentioning her mother's death at every chance she gets and invalidates other people's pain to assert that her suffering is the worst of the lot.

And even though everybody is entitled to their own opinions, I'm gonna point out why I think the aforesaid claims are not exactly correct.

First we'll take a look at; Katara's Backstory:

We know that Kya is killed in a fire nation raid and that Katara had been the last person to see her alive before she leaves the tent on her mother's insistence. Only to come back a few moments later and find her dead body. This, in itself is a traumatising event.

So yes, her mother died. Other people in the story go through far worse. You're not wrong when you say that.

But what is more important in Katara's story is the aftermath of her mother's death.

As Sokka says while talking to Toph in "The Runaway" in B3 Ep7:

Sokka: When our mom died, that was the hardest time in my life. Our family was a mess, but Katara? She had so much strength. She stepped up and took on so much responsibility. She helped fill the void that was left by our mom.

As an eight year old, she had to force herself to grow up to step into her mother's shoes and raise herself and her elder brother and simultaneously look after the entire village after her father left to fight in the war. She had to do all of it by herself.

In face of all her responsibilities, she never really had the chance to simply be a grieving child lamenting the loss of her mother. She habituated herself to caring more about others than herself (We see this trait in the entire series as she acts as the stand-in mom friend for the entire Gaang with an exception of Suki and Zuko). She ended up bottling her feelings of grief, resentment, guilt and rage deep within herself.

She had to give up an extensive part of her childhood where most children focus on figuring themselves out, to become a mature and responsible person who was working as the immovable pillar holding up the family and even the whole village not much later.

She put up a strong front to help others and pretended to be fine even though she was hurting inside the whole time.

She could never find any closure from the situation. She never got over it.

Moving on to the criticisms:

1. Katara keeps on mentioning her mother like a broken record:

Here are the number of times Katara mentions her mother's death (not sure if that's all of it, lmk if there are any others):

1. In her first scene with Sokka

Katara: Ever since mom died, I've been doing all the work around camp while you've been off playing soldier!

2. A short while after she meets Aang

Katara: Well, I just want you to be prepared for what you might see. The Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they could have done the same to your people.

3. A short while after she meets Haru

Katara: I lost my mother in a Fire Nation raid. This necklace is all I have left of her.

4. A short while after she meets Jet

Katara: Sokka and I lost our mother to the Fire Nation.

5. In the swamp after she sees a vision of her mother

Katara: I thought I saw Mom.

6. In the Crystal Catacombs with Zuko

Katara: I don't? How dare you! You have no idea what this war has put me through! Me personally! The Fire Nation took my mother away from me.

7. A short while after she meets Hama

Katara: We completely understand. We lost our mother in a raid.

8. Repeated mentions in The Southern Raiders episode

(Most of the episode basically)

The first mention with Sokka is in the middle of a siblings' spat where she tells off Sokka for trying to act as if he were superior when it was obvious that in the face of the gaping hole that was left by Kya's sudden death, Katara had shouldered much more responsibility.

When she tells it to Aang, she uses it as a proof that the Fire Nation is capable of immense cruelty and destruction.

The Gaang travel all around the world and meet different people affected by the war in different ways. So when Haru, Jet and Hama narrate their own stories, Katara sympathises with them and talks about Kya's death in lieu of "I understand, the Fire Nation hurt me too."

After they got separated, Aang, Sokka and Katara each had their visions and after they get back together, they all mention their visions and so does Katara.

When left alone in catacombs with Zuko, whom she considered as the face of the Fire Nation— the same Fire Nation that had her mother killed and forced her father to leave to fight in the war, she has a meltdown where she rightfully accuses him of all the bad things he's done and then breaks down while talking about how the war has cost her i.e., by causing her mother's death.

The Southern Raiders is the episode where Katara hunts down the man responsible for her mother's death. If you think mentioning Kya repeatedly in this episode is uncalled for, then I don't know what to tell you.

In all the incidents mentioned above, Katara mentioning her mother's death is a very natural occurrence is the respective conversations. She mostly talks about Kya's death to either extend her sympathy or to use it as an example of the ruthlessness of the Fire Nation.

Another fact to be noted is that 70% of the Gaang's storyline is followed via Katara from a narrative point of view. Plus, being the mom-friend, she acts as the spokesperson. Considering that Kya's death is a major event that played a huge role in shaping Katara's life and is also the source of her severe, unresolved trauma, which acts as the driving force of her story, it is only natural that she brings up this topic whenever she is engaging in a deeper conversation.

It is us as the viewers who have seen her from the start and already know about her mother's death and we see her talking to multiple people about it. Which is why it might come across as repetitive to some people.

While, Kya's death is not necessary information that everyone needs to know, Katara talking about it never comes across as a forced or unnatural.

2. Katara invalidates others' pain because she thinks she has suffered the most:

First of all, if anything, Katara is the most empathetic person of them all. As the mom-friend of the group, not only is she their constant moral support, she also helps them untangle and sort out their own feelings. She is also able to tap into issues that aren't said out loud.

Instances of Katara helping and supporting Aang, emotionally are uncountable.

She is the first one to notice Sokka's sour mood in B3 Ep4 "Sokka's Master". And even though his insecurities seem baseless, she validates him (by saying "I'm sorry you're feeling so down" instead of something like "That's a dumb thing to say") and knows exactly what to do to cheer him up.

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway" she has the insight to understand that Toph's unruly behaviour is caused by the mixed feelings she has about her parents even though Toph's herself never talked about it.

She even reaches out to Zuko in B2 Ep19 "Crossroads of Destiny" even though she used to think of him as the face of the enemy.

But then there's The Southern Raiders.

Ah yes, that episode where Katara is extremely OOC and a total b*tch.

Agreed that she said some things that she definitely shouldn't have said. But like, she's just 14?? And has been hurting on the inside since she was 8?? And pretended to be fine just for the sake of other people?? Like, there's a limit to how much she can have her shit under control?? And she did a real good job of Sokka's upbringing and taking care of the village and taking care of Gaang on her own?? Some people out there are really willing to forget everything she has ever done just because she was mean for 5 minutes?? A traumatised 14 yo shouldn't be villianised and called toxic because she got mad and lashed out at people that one time??

But here's my take on the scene anyway:

When Aang gets to know that she's going to go face her mother's killer:

Aang: Um ... and what exactly do you think this will accomplish?

Katara: I knew you wouldn't understand.

Aang is a non-confrontational person who prefers running away from difficult situations as opposed to Katara who firmly stands her ground and is never afraid of confrontations. Katara had approached Aang only hoping that he would understand. But going by his dismissal, he obviously doesn't understand the burning need that she has to confront the man who had single-handedly destroyed her childhood. (Most people infer that what Katara means is that she thinks that Aang doesn't understand the pain of losing people. And so does Aang, I guess)

But things start getting even more tricky when:

Aang: Katara, you sound like Jet.

In all honesty, this is probably the most insensitive thing that she could've heard from anyone right then, let alone one of her closest friends. Hearing herself being compared to a homicidal maniac just because she wants to avenge her mother's killer. (No, I'm not justifying murder but there's a clear difference between homicide and avenging someone's death. And Aang may not be my favourite character but I do love him but this wasn't really a good thing to say either. And he wasn't even mentally distressed in the very least to be completely lacking tact or a filter.)

And then the situation escalates:

Sokka: Katara, she was my mother, too, but I think Aang might be right.

Katara: Then you didn't love her the way I did!

After 6 long years of Katara bottling in her dark feelings and letting them fester inside herself, she is finally letting them out and the first things she faces in a span of few minutes are outright rejection, invalidation of her feelings, comparison to a homicidal maniac and nothing akin to the unconditional support that she has provided to everybody. Her own brother tells her that he is siding with the boy who just compared her to a homicidal maniac.

Yes, accusing your own brother of not loving your mother enough is a very cruel thing to do. But both Sokka and Katara know that she doesn't entirely mean it.

But also, there is one very important factor in here:

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway", Sokka says to Toph:

Sokka: I'm gonna tell you something crazy. I never told anyone this before, but honestly? I'm not sure I can remember what my mother looked like. It really seems like my whole life, Katara's been the one looking out for me. She's always been the one that's there. And now, when I try to remember my mom, Katara's is the only face I can picture.

Katara overhears this conversation just as Sokka had meant her to.

This dialogue lets us know that Sokka's coping mechanism has made him suppress all memories of Kya and replace them with memories of Katara in order to attain a semblance of normalcy.

Both Katara and Sokka had very different ways of coping with Kya's death. Katara pressed down her feelings and tried her best to pretend to ignore them while Sokka partially succeeded in forgetting her.

When Katara first hears these words she is shown to be crying. But if she were to remember these very words while she was justifying herself infront of her own brother and a close friend for wanting to avenge her mother, it would've had a negative impact on her.

In her rage, she would've thought: "Of course he doesn't want to avenge mom. Because he doesn't think it's worth it and that's because he doesn't even remember enough of her to be mad about her death."

And for someone who has spent each day of the last 6 years trying to fill in the shoes of her mother and experiencing her absence everyday, the idea of forgetting her mother is a ridiculous concept to her.

Her thoughts would have quickly derailed to: "He didn't love her enough to remember her."

In light of these thoughts, saying "Then you didn't love her the way I did" doesn't feel out of the blue.

No, I am definitely not justifying what she said, I'm just laying out a possible explanation to why she said what she said.

Yes, she should've apologized to Sokka for this and I think that they definitely should've had a long conversation about their mother's death and how it affected them. Between Katara supressing her feelings and Sokka supressing his memories, i don't think they ever had this conversation.

But sadly we are given neither of these scenes.

Tl;dr: Everytime Katara mentions her mother, it's with good reason and I don't think it's fair to call a character toxic when they lack a mind to mouth filter for 5 minutes and say some mean things. And considering all that Katara has done for everybody, it isn't fair at all.

Peace out!

#antis really be out there ignoring everything she does to hate on her because of two lines she said #nvm katara is one strong badass girl stan her for good grades and clear skin #katara #atla #atla meta #meta analysis #avatar the last airbender #water tribe #kya #sokka #hakoda #gaang #atla gaang #avatar gaang #zuko #aang #toph #ira's posts

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prompt-master · 4 years

Text

Bear Trap (Part 2/3)

Art done by @doodles-by-noodles

Kyoko was hunched over Makoto, her eyes were darting from place to place over his body. Taking in every gash and tear before acting. Time was critical. She needed to know exactly how to treat him, or Makoto could die right there in front of her. Judging by the sound of his breathing, stressed and heavy, she could tell he’d already lost a lot of blood. Well, not that you needed her expertise to determine that. You could just look at the splattered pink around them.

“It doesn’t look good,” She had said to Byakuya. It doesn’t look good. Seriously?

“No shit it doesn’t look good,” he spat out, sounding as intolerable as he did the first day they’d met in the killing game “I do have eyes, you know.“

Her right eye twitched. The logical side of her said this was just how Byakuya handled stress, by disconnecting himself and becoming irritable instead. The emotional side of her wanted him to shut the hell up. She opted to spare him little more than a glare before placing a hand on Makoto’s neck to check his pulse. It was beating rather hard and fast. It was strange really. She felt as though he was already dead. But that didn’t make any sort of logical sense. He was warm, he was still bleeding, he was shaking, and panting. All of this was right in her hands to be directly experienced. But he still felt like he was dead, putting her fingers to his limp neck.

She had a morbid thought just then. About how her talents were used to help after a death, never really before one.

"You need bandages,” Byakuya said, ever so helpfully, “how else will you stop the bleeding? Or did the panic render you useless?"

Kyoko took a deep breath.

Makoto wouldn’t fight right now, not during an emergency, and neither would she. It’s just how he copes. It’s just how he copes…

"Tear up your jacket then.” She stated, “I’m not certain mine will be enough."

She had to spark herself into action. She couldn’t let herself fall to something as simple as shock. She had been given mortician training as a part of the Kirigiri Family teachings so that she would have complete expertise on how different injuries came to be. She could glance at the wound on his back and see that it was given to him by the claws of a Mono Unit at a rather awkward angle. As she tied torn pieces of her blazer around his wounds so that they’d hold pressure - she only had two hands after all - she was able to get the entire story of all the brutal suffering Makoto just went through.

She had seen bodies fresh from the morgue slapped down onto a table in front of her. She had witnessed the aftermath of horrors such as slit throats and dismemberment. She had once solved a case in which she found the victim’s severed head hidden underneath the floorboards in a safe. But Makoto’s disfigured leg, mangled to the point where she wondered how it was hanging on, bone sticking out after tearing through the skin, sharp from where metal teeth caused a clean break: THIS out of everything that she had witnessed in her life was what made her want to throw up.

His arm was also rather damaged. It was hard to make out under torn fabric and blood, but it seemed more salvageable than his leg…she just needed…

"Togami. Your jacket.” Her tone was unforgiving.

“I’m working on it.” Byakuya retorted back, a hint of offence in his voice.

It’s just how he copes. She felt like her patience for Byakuya was a rubber band in her hands, slowly getting pulled in either direction.

“Work harder."

"You should be concerned with yourself.”

Deep breaths. The band was taut, shaking from force.

“Is this the best of your abilities?"

The band snapped.

"At least I’m actually doing something to help him!"

Byakuya paused midway through tearing his blazer. Byakuya thought of himself as a capable man, but all his capable talents extended only towards self preservation. The one time he wished he had the skills to help someone else he could only stand and watch. There was nothing that Byakuya hated more than being helpless. Kyoko’s words reminded him of the time Aoi slapped him back in the killing game. One of the many wake up calls Byakuya had received over the past few years.

He could remember as clear as day, the wake up call that Kyoko herself had given him back when they hated each other. His fury at being incorrect over Sakura’s death, at not understanding the case, had all been snuffed out when Kyoko told him he simply lacked any emotional capacity to understand. Kirigiri Kyoko of all people.

Hearing her remind him of his uselessness now with such a harsh tone. Well, it felt like she hated him all over again.

He was still angry. Angry that he cared, angry that he wasn’t prepared, angry that he was faltering.

"What do you expect me to do?” He demanded. He spat out the words, but his heart was desperate to be given a task.

“Make sure our emergency call earlier went through. Update the Foundation on the situation.” Right, that all made sense. How had he not seen that before? It almost made the emergency feel like a quick business move. He could handle that. Kyoko looked up from tending a wound on Makoto’s stomach, the worry in her eyes made him feel sick. “…and when you’re done, try to keep him awake."

"Keep him-? He’s awake?” The boy had been so still and silent since they’d discovered his mangled body Byakuya hadn’t even considered that possibility. Upon further inspection Byakuya realized Makoto was never still or quiet. The distance he’d kept away from the scene prevented him from hearing the panting or noticing the trembling racking his body.

A simple “yes” was all he’d gotten in response. He didn’t push or question any further though, it was clear Kyoko had a lot to focus on right now. Makoto’s life was in her hands, and neither wanted him to die like this. Kyoko could only estimate the ETA on help arriving, and she was fearing they would be too late. Memories flashed through her mind of running stitches through the skin of a banana peel during training. But she had nothing to work with, and certainly nothing sterile. Kyoko didn’t believe in God, but she prayed that an infection wouldn’t strike later.

It was looking hopeless.

“They said they’ll be here with a helicopter in half an hour."

Right. She forgot Byakuya was even there. She tied another knot over a wound. Despite her heartbeat moving her entire body with its pounding, her hands remained steady. Just like when stitching banana skin shut. Another deep breath, her hands will stay steady. Any mistake could cause an issue. Mistakes could cause browning fruit to gush between the stitches. Nothing more than an insignificant rotting pile of ruined fruit splattered and smothered against the street like-

"Don’t just stand there, ” she took another deep breath, her hands will stay steady, “keep him awake."

When Byakuya came over to take place near Makoto’s head she waited for him to pass her the tattered cloths she’d been waiting for. She ended up discovering he’d already thrown them to her side. She needed to focus more. She was by Makoto’s lower body, only half a mind paying attention to what Byakuya was doing.

Makoto had never looked so disgustingly pale before, and he was the kind of person to lose all color when frightened. His mouth was slightly parted as his breathing continued to take a toll on him. A cold sweat had begun to break out on his clammy face, with a fever glowing across his skin from the blood loss and pain. What made Byakuya the most concerned though were his eyes, half lidded and staring at nothing in particular. His eyes fluttered, but his pupils were lazily taking in the world around him as if he was trying to understand what was going on but couldn’t take hold of anything tangible.

Byakuya held a hand up and froze. He was unsure what to do, all of this was out of his element. He wanted to push it all an arm’s length away. It was a simple task. Just keep him awake. But did he know what to do? In movies he’d seen people slap others awake. But Makoto was hurt, so shouldn’t he be gentle? Why was he even fussing over the method? There was no need to hesitate. He’d touched a corpse before, he could push through any nerves to handle this.

Byakuya put a hand to his face. After an unsure pause his thumb slowly caressed the skin of his cheek in an act of comfort that Makoto probably didn’t even register.

"Naegi, can you hear me?"

There was a delay in his response, eyes heavily rolling side to side before settling on Byakuya. After the first small victory he prepared to speak, licking his lips and swallowing thickly. The delay felt like hours.

"T'gami…..kun?” Makoto’s lips felt heavy as he spoke.

There was an ache in Byakuya’s chest that he wasn’t used to, “The one and only."

Makoto let out a breathy laugh. His face turned into this familiar dopey, trusting smile that he hated and loved all at the same time. His eyes seemed to lose track of Byakuya for a moment, he tried to match where they went.

"Hey, eyes on me.” Makoto’s expression seemed to sink a little.

“W-….where's….” He sounded completely breathless and confused, “where’s Kiri…?”

“She’s right here.”

His head barely moved as he tried to see past Byakuya. Through his blurred vision he could make out that familiar lavender hue. Even with the trembling caused from blood loss he relaxed at the sight, letting out a breath when he processed. He closed his eyes, he didn’t see any reason to be scared anymore.

“Hey, don’t you dare. Open your damn eyes.” Byakuya sounded angry with him, but he was too busy basking in relief.

“You're….both ok?” His voice was barely above a whisper, if it wasn’t so quiet around them Byakuya would have to strain to hear it.

“Of course we are.” It was that rare reassuring tone from Byakuya. Short lived before the anger came back, “I believe I gave you an order did I not? Open your eyes."

To stress his point, Byakuya patted the side of Makoto’s face repeatedly and rather annoyingly. Both of them felt like they should be worried at how hard it was for him to simply open his eyes. It was like prying something off of hardened glue. Byakuya grit his teeth, he had a dreadful feeling that if Makoto closed his eyes again they wouldn’t be opening any time soon.

"ETA?” Kyoko asked bluntly.

Byakuya didn’t take his eyes off of Makoto, “five minutes haven’t even passed yet.” So, they’re both impatient then. Makoto seemed to grin a small bit hearing Kyoko’s voice.

He’s conscious, Byakuya reminded himself, which means that he can keep him awake by talking. But what the hell could he say? His mind felt blank, desperately pulling at drawers to find a single conversation topic locked away in his mind. But Makoto’s eyes were still on him. Perhaps the contact was grounding enough? But for how long? Makoto’s breathing felt heavier than before.

“Why is he breathing so hard?” He opted to talk to Kyoko instead.

“He’s lost a lot of blood."

"He’s warm.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood."

"Shouldn’t that make him cold?"

"I’d rather it not get that bad. I’m sure his hands are cold if you check.”

She was right, his hands were icy cold. Makoto’s hands always felt a little chilly compared to his. Byakuya always ran hot like a furnace while Makoto was always chilly enough to wear multiple layers (I mean, a hoodie under a blazer? Really Makoto?). But this sensation felt like there was no blood in his hands. Wasn’t that a symptom of shock? His body was prioritizing vital functions just to keep him alive. Byakuya wished he could roll Makoto onto his back and elevate his legs like he’d been taught. But he’d seen the gashes on his back. It was the only injury he really took in.

“You idiot” the words came through grit teeth, “getting yourself into a mess like this for us to clean up. Typical."

Guilt could be read on Makoto’s face for a moment. “…yeah.” Byakuya once again felt a pang in his chest. Was that really all Makoto had to say?

Kyoko managed to do something while working that made Makoto wince. Byakuya didn’t think for once, he just continued to rub slow circles across Makoto’s face.

"Hang in there.” Makoto’s face hadn’t relaxed much, still strained with all the pain he was feeling, “I do not permit you to die like this. Understood?"

Makoto groaned in response, leaning into the hand that was cupping his face. Once again his eyes lost track, doing a big loop around before snagging back onto Byakuya.

"Hurts…” he said, breath hitching as more pain shot through his body.

“You can handle this much. You’ll be fine.”

Earlier Makoto felt relaxed when Kyoko and Byakuya had arrived. Their very presence gave Makoto a hope that he’d survive this. But Byakuya’s expression had gone from angry to worried. His eyebrows were furrowed, creasing lines across his forehead. If even Byakuya was openly worried…how bad was it?

Makoto felt another harsh shiver run through his body. His face felt hot but everything else was like sharp winter air kept blowing over his skin. As the shiver travelled up his spine it caused pain to flare again. He was met with a harsh reminder to open his eyes from Byakuya. His breathing felt even heavier than before, each breath taking more effort than the last. Byakuya’s face was shifting again, but Makoto could hardly make it out through the greying swirls of dots across his vision. Ah, Byakuya looked scared. So Makoto was going to die then? The only sound he could hear was his own rabbit quick heartbeat threatening to break free from his tattered ribcage. Byakuya’s mouth was moving, but none of it made sense to Makoto. He couldn’t even read his lips. One second it was quick, then slow, like time itself was blending together into something incomprehensible.

Makoto blinked slowly.

“Naegi?” Byakuya had gone from tapping his face to shaking his shoulder. He didn’t get much else besides a distracted groan from Makoto. “Naegi, can you hear me?”

“Don’t shake him like that!” Kirigiri scolded, frustrated as she tried her best not to let the movement interfere with her work.

Byakuya felt like a life was slipping through his finger tips. His own breathing felt tight in his chest from the pure anxiety that Makoto’s unresponsiveness gave him.

“Naegi if you don’t answer me right now…” his nails dug into the boy’s shoulders.

Makoto’s eyes rolled up, dropped down, fell to the left, all as if there was a weight to it. Another slow blink. More odd drifting. Not a single response from him.

“Makoto, say something…” Byakuya ordered, pausing to watch the boy’s face; his voice was quieter than he wanted to admit. “Makoto!"

Makoto sharply inhaled at the sound. Byakuya sounded scared. Byakuya was never scared. "Nn….” Makoto frowned a little bit in worry. He felt like he was drowning, being pushed beneath thick murky water and whenever he got close enough to the surface to even understand a little bit of what was going on he was shoved back down again. He could see Byakuya look towards Kyoko for a moment and watched his expression fall.

Focus…focus. If he could just make out the words they were saying. His vision left him for a moment, greying out as his body felt weirdly numb and tingly. It wasn’t a bad feeling. If Makoto were to die here and now…he’d be happy to die next to the people he loved with this strange not-bad feeling. It was much better than bleeding out alone and in pain surrounded by the mascot that caused all this suffering in the first place. He could just drift away, and be able to die peacefully, a luxury most people didn’t get any more. If he could see his own face he was sure a weak smile played on it.

“What do you mean?!” Byakuya snapped, he glared at her out of habit.

“I mean… just look…” Kyoko’s busy hands paused momentarily to grab more fabric from the dwindling pile. Byakuya looked away from Makoto’s face and his breath caught in his throat. The limb Kyoko was working on barely resembled a leg anymore. She had done a decent job at cleaning up the wounds but it only made it more apparent how… disfigured it was. Nothing about it seemed right.

“He can’t-” the words welled up in Byakuya’s throat. He couldn’t speak the words into existence. If he did, then it would become an undeniable reality.

But Kyoko didn’t have that same hesitation, “There’s no way his leg can recover from this, and that’s without factoring in the high risk of infection.”

Byakuya’s eyes were glued to the horrific sight. Despite the sight of death becoming background noise to them all, it put a pit in his stomach. He felt disgusting. Like any second now his lunch would come back up. Look closer…it was a miracle the leg was even hanging on at all. Kyoko was right. He would lose his leg.

Makoto, just barely through the swirls of gray blurs and black spots, could see the desperation and worry on Byakuya and Kyoko’s faces. It was only a small thought in the back of his mind at first. Just a little whisper. But eventually it became bright and loud. A scream next to his ears. A new hope.

He didn’t want to die. Not like this.

He couldn’t leave Byakuya and Kyoko heartbroken. They’d drown in the despair. Letting their trusted friend, their partner in survival, die after doing everything they could to try and save him? It would be heartbreaking. But Makoto couldn’t even make out the color of sky anymore. He couldn’t move his fingers. He didn’t know if it was possible for him to get out of this one alive, but he wouldn’t spend his last moments watching people he loves suffer.

“ ‘s… ok…y …gami” Makoto’s tongue felt like lead and moved sluggishly in his mouth. Byakuya wished he could take any form of comfort from the broken sentence.

The fever from Makoto’s face had gone cold, leaving him with all his blood washed pale skin on full display. Byakuya had to pause to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t talk like that, you moron. I know what you’re trying to do.” and he did. Byakuya knew that Makoto was trying to make himself and Kyoko more at ease. Even while walking on a tightrope between life and death the bot still wanted to make sure his friends were okay. Byakuya felt rigid in a mixture of irritation and worry.

“It… d’sn’t hur.. nymore…’s okay."

The words made cold fear run down Byakuya’s spine. He clenched his fists, glaring down at Makoto like he’d insulted him. But his voice was weak, "I told you to stop…"

"Really…I pr…mise…’s not going to be bad…"

Byakuya grinded down on his teeth with enough force to hurt his jaw. He exhaled harshly, ignoring Makoto’s words and turning to Kyoko, "Will you hurry up and save him already?!"

"I’m doing my best! There’s not much I can do!"

”’re both… really strong… you c’n overcome …‘nything…” Makoto felt a lump in his throat, he wanted to make it seem like everything was gonna be fine, but he knew that no matter what he said… Byakuya and Kyoko were smart. They were smart enough to know he was lying through his teeth. Maybe it was more for him than for them at this point.

“Dammit Makoto if you don’t stop fucking talking that-!“

"Tha…’s why I know….you’ll be okay…” He struggled to speak, tongue heavy as lead, and still he tried to make the words clear as possible. He was afraid, he didn’t want to go, not now. There were so many things left that he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do. He wanted to tell the two people in front of him how much he cared about them but all he could do was watch as their distress increased. His vision started to fade and he wanted to scream for it to come back. He struggled to breath.

“Makoto!"

Byakuya took Makoto’s face in his hands again. The light in Makoto’s eyes were completely gone, unable to properly process the world around him. Despite Byakuya’s pleas steadily becoming more and more desperate for Makoto to stay awake, he slipped through his fingers like sand. With his eyes drifting to the right, Makoto fell away from the world.

And both of them felt it with their own hands. They felt the exact moment Makoto lost consciousness for what could very well be the last time. They both stood there frozen in shock. Byakuya still had his hands on Makoto’s face, just watching as if any second he’d open up his eyes again and apologize for scaring them. Kyoko had her hands up, mid-wrapping wounds. She just stared blankly, unable to grapple with the idea that all her work may have been for nothing.

They sat in silence. No one moved.

It felt like gravity had increased, time had slowed down to a crawl and even the gentle whistling of the wind felt subdued and gentle, as if even it didn’t want to disturb them. Neither wanted to be the first to move. If they were to move, what were they even supposed to do? Both of their minds seemed to cloud. Was it even worth it to move? Was there even a point? There was too much to process, too many unanswered questions. Too many calls to feelings that would be left unanswered. And yet the world kept spinning sluggishly as if nothing had happened at all.

"Check…” Kyoko felt some clarity dig into her skull, sharp like a breath of cold air, “check his pulse."

"Huh?"

"Check his pulse…! Now!"

They both jumped into action. Kyoko grabbed Makoto’s wrist, pressing two fingers into the pulseline with enough force to bruise. It was manic and ineffective. She didn’t even think about how she had her gloves on, she just needed to know now. Byakuya was pressing his fingers into Makoto’s cold neck again and again. He kept missing the pulse point and getting impatient when he felt nothing.

When they found it, they both sunk back with relief. They could have passed out from the rush of realization. It was weak, and way way too fast, but it was something dammit. He wasn’t gone yet. With a shaky yet confident breath, Kyoko got back to work, hands trembling ever so slightly. Enough for Byakuya to notice, but not enough to comment on.

Byakuya slowly let go of Makoto’s neck. He dragged himself back to give Kyoko space. The pick up would be here soon. In an effort to keep contact with Makoto and stay out of Kyoko’s way, Byakuya positioned himself so that he could rest the boy’s head in his lap. He wouldn’t be caught dead in this position on any other day but in the moment that didn’t matter. He occasionally glanced up at Kyoko to watch her work, but stayed focused on Makoto. If Makoto woke up he was going to be right there and this time he wouldn’t let him slip away again.

The pick up was almost there.

#danganronpa #naegirigami #naegamigiri #makoto naegi #byakuya togami #kyoko kirigiri #fic #bear trap #whump #request fill #naegiri #naegami #dr:thh #dr3 #dr 3 #fanfic

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argumentl · 3 years

Text

The Freedom of Expression Ep 56 - Dir en grey live with audience scheduled! and, Thinking about the aftermath of inappropriate remarks.

K: Hi, this is Dir en grey's Kaoru, with this week's episode of The Freedom of Expression. Joe, Tasai, welcome. Um, I think it was two days ago, Dir en grey announced that we will do a live show.

T, J: *applause*

T: How long has it been?

K: Well, as for proper lives, its been since last year in February when we were on the European tour. We did do the no-audience lives since then, but as for lives with an audience, thats how long its been.

T: Its a big decision, isn't it?

J: Yeah, and people have been waiting, right?

K: Well, I think people will have a lot of opinions about it, and its a bit hard to say to people, 'Please come!'... Well, as for why we havn't been doing lives, of course its because of corona..there was a risk there. As for the live venues, within these restrictions we weren't sure whether we would be able to complete the type of show we wanted to do...Like, the audience can't use their voice etc. So I was a little concerned when I thought about that, but at the same time, it's strange to say 'it can't be helped', but I thought we could at least try it once. You know, like a live show within these restrictions. We might even get some new feeling or new atmosphere out of it that we've never had before. I mean, we might not, but like, rather than not doing it and worrying, we could just give it a try once, and it might even turn us in some new direction. Then after we do it, we can think about what to do next.

J: I see. Yeah, if you spend all your time thinking it over, nothing will happen, right?

K: Yeah. Well, its not bad to do that though, I just wonder whether we might be able to create a new kind of experience in this way. We won't know if we don't try..

Kami: Um, if you don't try, you won't be able to say what it was like, will you?

K: Well, yeah, thats right. I'd like to experience it.

T: Yeah, within the restrictions, see what type of performance you can create.

K: Well, and people are slowly beginning to restart this kind of thing.

Kami: Um, doesn't it kind of feel like having a school fieldtrip, but being sick so you couldn't go, and then afterwards feeling sad that you missed out?

T: Haha

K: No, its not like that.

T, J: Hahaha

J: Nearly, Kami.

T: Yeah, nearly.

Kami: I didn't get it.

J: Your example was very easy to understand, but it was wrong.

T, K: Haha

Kami: Ok.

K: Well, well, I mean, it wasn't the right example, but the feeling is similar I suppose.

Kami: Ah! See, it is similar! I was right!

J: Oh, Im sorry Kami.

T: Haha

K: So, we're gonna do it. So for anyone who wants to experience this, I'd like you to come and see us... Ok, well..

J: Yes, today's topic is...well, this topic is a little old already, its about Mori Yoshio and the Olympic committee. He has made a run of problematic comments like 'if there are a lot of women, the meetings will last longer', and 'famous people could carry the Olympic torch only through rice fields', and has been forced to resign. Well, this has been big news, but well, this program is about 'The Freedom of Expression', so from that perspective, could you not say that he just slipped up? He slipped up, but shouldn't he still have freedom of expression? Of course, I think these were careless remarks, uttered without a sense of responsibility, but whats the best way to deal with a situation like this? What about just telling the person in question to stop it? Is that enough? So, thats the theme today, in regards to freedom of expression, of course you are free to say what you want, but what should be done if what you say is thoughtless, or clearly at odds with the common view in society? Is it ok to just criticize the comments only? So its quite a serious topic about the freedom of expression today.

T: Well, as for me, if I had to say...I'd say im in the 'if it creates further discussion then its ok' camp. Um, he's a tv celeb now, but do you remember when Sugimura Taizō won his first election? He said, 'I want to go to the high-class restaurants', you know, like political meetings at high-class restaurants? And he was criticized a lot for that. But when I interviewed him in person, I asked him about how he had felt at that time, he said he was simply just curious about whether this type of thing really went on in the world of politics. It was a pretty innocent thing, but when he said it, he was called into question massively. Thats what he said when I asked him. So I don't really think we will make any progress in situations like this, if we don't stop and think about why a person might say things before we launch an attack.

J: I see. Kaoru, what do you think?

K: Nothings come out it in terms of making a bad thing better. I think its a good thing to start a discussion out of it afterwards.

J: Yeah

K: Of course if its wrong, its wrong, but it seems natural to ???*1

J: This all reminds me of this difficult word we hear in the media a lot, 'political correctness'. Like, being forced into the political medium ground, and if you ever make a small mistake with what you say, you'll be accussed of being wrong. People are scared of being targeted like this...Even when you see press conferences, people will only ever talk about thier own position, so as an observer, even press conferences get boring. I'd like people to speak their raw words more, I want to hear what they really think. But if they did, they would be accused of saying the wrong thing. Its like you said Kaoru, if their mistake was shared it might end up heading in a better direction, but if people just immediately and triumphantly scream, 'Thats wrong!', then I have a feeling its gonna carry on like this forever. Its important to think about whether the mistake can be repaired. Anyone makes mistakes. Whatever you say, it will be different from what some other people think. And rather than fixing the mistake, I think some people see it as a game of winning or losing.

K: You can't just say 'sorry', can you?

J: No, you can't. Why is that??

K: This type of person (*Mori*) can't say it for some reason.

J: Like, 'I'M SORRY, I'M REALLY SORRY FOR WHAT I SAID!!

K: ??*2

J: Then they would understand their mistake, and be able to fix it. I think that would be ok!

T: Yeah, we should give people a chance. If you don't point out their mistake, and let them say sorry..

J: Even though it would be good to create that kind of grown-up environment, with everyone on the attack so much these days, people are so cautious about what they say now, the press conferences are more like rituals. Its become a kind of never-ending ritualistic exchange.

K: If nothing is done, Mori will never learn, right?

J: Thats right.

K: If someone just tells him he needs to change his ideas, he can take that to heart..well, did he?

J: Haha, well, I don't know, when he's that old, I don't know. But I think he probably felt something, surely. Also, we ourselves are getting old, and when we get that old, some stuff that was correct for our generation will suddenly become wrong, right? We could say something, and people would be like, 'Eh?!', even though it was fine for our generation. We are bound to be caught up like this eventually. Honestly, there will be people who saw this press conference with Mori, who didn't realise what was wrong at first. You know, with Mori's remarks.

T: People from his generation may even sympathise with him, they might not understand.

J: Yes, yes, yes. But if it was made into a public discussion, they might start to understand the problem. There might be people in that generation who don't understand that saying this type of thing about women is complete prejudice.

T: But as you said Kaoru, when people get that old, the don't like saying sorry.

K: Ah, yeh.

T: So, I want people to be aware of the discussion that can happen after that.

J: It just makes me think eventually, we'll be in that generation. It will happen to us.

T: You might say this type of thing, Joe.

J: Yeah.

K: You already do, don't you?

J: Maybe. I might have harrased people without realising it. I might have said things to people which I thought would make them happy, but actually made them think I was really annoying.

K, T: Ah, yeah.

J: When you're in that kind of position with a huge public stage, you will suffer huge effects, but when you're in my kind of position, its not as decisive, so there is a possibility I'm also doing that. Its possible Im becoming like Mori.

T: Will your radio listerners be saying, 'Joe always says that kind of thing!'?

J: Yeah, now you mention it, Hiranabe was pretty bad. haha

T: Yeah, you could just write Hiranabe here instead of Mori, and it would fit. haha

J: Haha, he would definitely say that kind of thing. So, anyway, yeah, we have to be careful with this.

K: Well, even just discussing it like this is a good step.

J: It is, yes. Ah..Kami is quiet today.

Kami: Well, I thought this was pretty bad.

J: It was bad?　

Kami: Yeah, a long time ago I used to say things about women, and I got a fierce backlash, and realised I was wrong. Um, it was a road trip with a few adults to an onsen, we went in a few different cars. During the drive I was talking about how women always take ages in the toilet, and one of them said that she is actually really quick in the toilet.

J, T: Haha

Kami: It was possibly bad timing that she started to need the toilet just then. She said she'd be quick, so asked us to stop at the next convenience store, so we stopped at some place like that. And I was like, 'Eh?! Already?! You're back?!'. She was so fast! So after that, I repented, I realised it wasn't the same for everyone. Then I gave up the front passenger seat for her.

J: Hahaha

T: What kind of story is this?! Kami thinks the front passenger seat is some kind of treat?

Kami: Well, anyway, that happened to me. People usually have this image that women take a long time in the toilet, don't they?

J: Yeah.

T: Are they fixing their make-up and stuff?

J: Some might be, yeah.

K: Well, men also have the stand-up option, right?

Kami: I realised at that time that it all depends on the person.

J: I see.

T: Ah, thats good, Kami learned something new?

Kami: Yeah.

J: Yeah, in regards to toilets.

K: If you took a long time in the toilet at school, they used to say you were doing a poo, right?

J: Ah yeh. You had to do it quickly, or they would be saying it all day. They would be saying like, 'This guy did a poo'. I wonder what its like for kids these days?

T: Yeah, I'd like that to disappear. I want the toilet to be peaceful.

K: You felt something was coming if you went in the stall, right?

J: Yeah, they would throw water over the top, and shout 'This guy's doing a poo!'.

T: Yeah, yeah.

J: What was that all about?!

T: Well, I think boys' toilets should all be just individual stalls.

J, K: Ahh, yeh.

J: So you can't tell whether someones doing a no.1 or a no.2?

K: But recently there are people who sit on the toilet on their phones not actually pooing, aren't there?

T: There are, yeah. Even if I'm outside desperate to go.

J: Yeah, you can tell they aren't even trying to go, or they've already finished. Its totally silent in there. Or you suddenly hear them answering their phone. Its like, 'Hey! That cubucle is for doing a poo!'.

T: This is a big problem amongst men.

J: It is.

K: Ok, shall we finish on that note, haha. Please subscribe. Thank you very much.

*1,2 Couldn't catch/figure out.

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#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #tfoe #kaoru #薫

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bakugoshrimp · 3 years

Text

Heavy Hearts & Endless Starts

Where Bakugo and y/n have a huge fight and the aftermath of it.

Pairing: Bakugo x female!y/n (both are aged up and pro-heroes)

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: So uhh this is my first time writing something in years, and my first time ever actually getting the guts to publish it online. As a result, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be kind about it! Totally didn’t write this bc I don’t wanna study for my midterm tmrw

You thought it was just a normal fight. You were both stressed from the recent influx of villains and both had a lot on your plate. The pressure built up inside until you just couldn't handle it, and apparently neither could he. Bakugo had stormed out hours ago, muttering how he "couldn't deal with all this bullshit", and just left.

Hours you remained, simmering in your anger and worry and stress. It wasn't until when you woke up at dawn the next day in an empty bed and the unpleasant feeling of guilt rolling in your gut.

Getting dressed, you headed for the Ground Zero Agency, but the #2 Hero was nowhere to be found.

With a worse feeling in your stomach now, you headed to your own agency, hoping to find a villain to fight along the way that might help you release all this pressure inside.

It wasn't until midnight when Bakugo trudged in, boots muddy and still in his hero suit, a dead look in his eyes as he tiredly locked the front door, and began shucking off his wet boots, gloves, and other accessories.

You were curled up on the loveseat, half asleep and already dressed in a comfortable oversized sweater that you had stolen from your boyfriend, a mug of hot chocolate warming up your cold hands as you waited for him to come home.

"Katsuki?" you ask hesitantly, "Are you okay?"

The only reply you got was the faltering of his hands, before they resumed their work of removing his suit.

You decided to leave it alone; hoping that the next day, things would be better.

"Good night." you murmured, brushing past him and heading to your shared room, your tears already falling as you tucked yourself into your bed.

Confrontation was never your strong suit; it was always Katsuki who loved confrontation. But the loud temperamental hero was uncharacteristically quiet, and it was all your fault.

A week passed by, and nothing changed other than the tension between you two. Everyday was the same: you'd wake up in an empty cold bed, your boyfriend already heading off to work hours before dawn, leaving you to your thoughts as you head to your own agency. Coming home was the same, he'd come uncharacteristically quiet and you would head to bed feeling more hopeless and guilty.

It wasn't until news had come rushing in: the famous #2 hero of Japan. Ground Zero, was suspended of his hero duties and nearly arrested for nearly killing 15 petty villains, all of them under life support and in critical condition.

That's when you truly realized the extent of your mistake, and what you had to do to fix it.

"Where are you taking me?" His gruff voice never failed to pull at your heartstrings, despite not avoiding you for a week.

You were leading him by the hand, a blindfold on his eyes.

You had managed to ambush him when he came home early from his suspension, and kidnapped managed to convince him to come with you.

You suddenly stopped walking, causing Bakugo to walk right into you.

"HEY WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOIN-" Bakugo's rough voice barked, so at odds with the quietness of the scenery.

"Sorry," you smiled, suddenly nervous and jittery. "You can take your blindfold off now."

The sight that met his eyes almost took his breath away, despite it's familiarity. They were at a cliff, much similar to the one he took you years ago, the forest below a rainbow of colours, and the air crisp and cold in the fall weather.

The sight that truly left him breathless, was the woman in front of him, smiling at him nervously with an apology in her eyes.

His heart constricted painfully in his chest as he remembered the harsh words thrown that night, but he couldn't bring himself to look away, mesmerized in her eyes. Despite all that's happened, he's still as smitten with her, and the week apart had hurt him more than it hurt her, her words playing in his mind like a broken record.

Your lips moved, forming words that he couldn't quite catch as his mind replayed everything that they were and everything that had happened. You looked at him expectantly, causing him to snap back into reality.

"....Huh?" was the only thing that came out of his mouth, his mind forming a blank as he tried to remember what you had just said.

You nervously tucked your hair behind your ear and looked down at your feet. "I said Let it all out. The pain, the anger, everything. Just let it out." You said a bit clearer, looking up at him.

He smiled faintly with nostalgia, remembering when he did the same exact thing to you and said the same exact words, years ago.

You had screamed and cried and, when your voice went hoarse, you just whispered everything you had held in for years. You whispered the rest of the pain out.

So he turned to the edge of the cliff, looked at the sunset, and yelled. His voice was ripped out of him, cracking. He roared his pain, his frustrations, and his hurt out.

Too soon, he was done. He didn't feel done, but he was. He had no more to say, the knot in his chest loosening, letting him breathe properly for the first time in a week since that fight.

Turning back to you, he found you on your knees, shoulders shaking from the force of your silent sobs.

"I'm sorry." It was like a dam had broken inside of you, the waves of regret, worry, and sadness just washing over you. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault I didn't mean it I'm sorry I really didn't mean it 'Suki I'm such a goddamn dumbass I didn't mean it at all I'm so sorry-"

His quiet laughs interrupted you as he sat down next to you, bringing his arm around you, and tucking your head onto his warm chest.

"Yeah, yeah you are. You're the biggest dumbass, but you're my dumbass." He said, your hair slightly tickling his nose as he bent down to gently kiss it. "I love you too, and we'll figure it out together."

The vibrations of his chest had calmed your blubbering down to a peaceful quietness as you both simply enjoyed each other's presence and the comfort of relief of each other, the previous building tension gone completely.

It wasn't until long after the sun had set and the moon had risen did you both decide to go back to the car to go home.

Rising from your position, you stretched and straightened, looking over at the man next to you.

Seconds later he caught you staring, his red eyes filled with amusement. You refused to blush, instead opting to waggle your brows at him. "Race you to the car?"

"Oh you're f***ing on. On my mark-"

But you were already running, giggling as you ran ahead. "LAST ONE OUT WILL HAVE TO DO THE DISHES" you called out from behind you.

"WHY YOU LITTLE-" is all you heard before the telltale sounds of his explosions, clearly using his quirk to his advantage, and within seconds was ahead of you.

All you got was a glimpse of his smirk and his trademark "DIE" as he zoomed past you.

By the time you had reached the car, you were panting and sweaty, a smug Bakugo already in the driver's seat, waiting for you.

"You cheated!" You accused crossly as you hopped into the toasty car.

"Oi, it's not cheating when you head a head start, dumbass." He said, a sly smile thrown your way, his ruby red eyes twinkling in amusement.

You couldn't keep the smile spreading across your face even if you tried as you hmphed and looked away.

I think everything will be just fine

So uuhh Yeahh >_<. Thoughts?

#katsuki bakugo #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x y/n #bakugo katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #angst #a lil fluff at the end #shrimp attempts to write #bnha angst #bakugo x you

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 3 years

Note

I don’t get you, CJ. Why are you so quick to throw around the term “bad writing” when you don’t agree with something? Why not simply chalk it up to having different likes or dislikes than other people and move on?

Instead of deconstructing characters you don’t like, why not use your platform to empower other voices and highlight others with different tastes or opinions than you? Different people notice different things about the games. That’s one of the nice things about fandom.

You clearly love writing and analysis, but when you post answers to asks that hold different opinions than you’re own, you often go “you’re valid, but…” and launch into paragraphs upon paragraphs of your opposite opinion rather than truly exploring theirs.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I think your blog and analyses would be stronger if rather than dismissing plot points or characters as “bad writing” you step outside yourself and ask others what they see in that writing since it’s not connecting with you.

To be fair, anon, I don't get me either.

But I hear you, so if you'll allow me to do the thing where I launch into paragraphs upon paragraphs, let's talk about this.

I assume this might've come about because of the recent Violet talk here? Or maybe it's from older posts, I dunno, you didn't specify so I can only speculate and use the Violet posts as the main example here.

So here's the thing... deconstructing characters and storylines is something I enjoy doing. Hell, it's one of my favorite things to do. It doesn't matter if I like or dislike the character, or if I agree with plot directions, or if I think it's "good" or "bad" writing. That's how I work things out for myself, how I try to understand why I'm feeling the way I am about certain characters and story elements. I break apart the different aspects of these things and analyze them so that I can improve the content I create and try to avoid the same mistakes I've come across that I wanted to be better.

When it comes to me tossing around "bad writing", or just implying it, I'm not trying to say that "bad writing = trash, garbage, unenjoyable, anyone who likes this is a dingus, how could you?" it's more "I see flaws here and I want it to be better, I know it can be better and it frustrates me that I can't fix it," y'know?

And I'm fully aware that other people might not see it that way. With that basketball Violet post, I know that a lot of the Violet crowd are gonna read that and be like "no, I love the bell tower scene! It fits well with her character! What are you talking about?" and that's fine, I expect that. That post was me writing something that's been on my mind that I wanted to share, it wasn't me trying to scold anyone for liking it or trying to dismiss their feelings about it.

When it comes to differing opinions, especially on Violet, I've come to the conclusion that we just gotta agree to disagree. I've tried for years at this point to understand the appeal of Violet and gone looking for answers about her in hopes of being enlightened, and I have asked around.

In the past, I have made posts inquiring about what people see in Violet [Minerva, too] and why they prefer Violentine, and I got little to nothing in response. So I totally get where you're coming from when you say I should ask others what they see in the writing that I don't, but there's only so much I can do when no one is willing to answer me. So, I have to look around myself.

I've searched through several threads on reddit and none of them have been insightful, unsurprisingly.

That's what sparked my mini-rant about Louis before. On reddit, a lot of the answers on why people like Violet are either "she sided with Clementine, she's just really sweet deep down, she has more trauma, and lesbian," or "I like Violet more because Louis is a traitor," and what the hell am I supposed to get out of that, y'know? They're not really telling me anything, they're just looking to argue among themselves and I've had to throw in the towel on that one.

I've had better luck here, having read some truly insightful posts about Violet, her arc, and her relationship with Clementine. The conclusion I've reached it that the things people find appealing about her are things that I don't.

If you need an example, we'll use the aftermath of Marlon's murder when Violet turns on the group to defend AJ. Every post from the Violet crowd I've read that talks about that scene praises her for turning against her friends/family to defend AJ when they were gonna attack him, it shows what she's willing to do for them, that's something that drew them to her. Then there's me, who sees that as adding unnecessary aggression to the situation when none of them were going to attack AJ, they weren't looking at AJ, and none of this is helping. Neither of these interpretations are wrong.

Guess what I'm trying to get at is I'm one person, and having discussions takes more than one willing person.

Moving on, "when you post answers to asks that hold different opinions than you’re own, you often go “you’re valid, but…” and launch into paragraphs upon paragraphs of your opposite opinion rather than truly exploring theirs."

I've thought about this for a while, and maybe I do actually do this but don't realize it. I like to think that I'm engaging with the ideas that people send me, but I dunno, maybe I can be dismissive of things because I have a hard time being objective. That's something I've always struggled with, and I'm sorry if I ever came across as dismissive or didn't fully explore ideas, that's something I can definitely get better at.

As for "why not use your platform to empower other voices and highlight others with different tastes or opinions than you? Different people notice different things about the games. That’s one of the nice things about fandom."

I've done character nights, ship nights, season nights, etc. for about two years, give or take. That's what those nights were about. Usually, I'd put up a poll and we'd all vote on what we wanted to discuss, and then the floor was open for anyone to give their input, and we'd discuss.

I stopped doing them a little while ago because I was burnt out on themed nights. Remembering to make new polls, setting aside part of my weekends to spend hours answering asks the best I could, usually dealing with other projects on top of it all.... it may not seem like it, but god, those nights took a lot out of me. I loved doing it! Having those discussions were some of the best parts of running this blog, but now my new job has me working 40+ hours a week, four days with ten hour shifts and occasionally some overtime on the weekends, I just don't have it in me anymore to do it every single weekend. Not with how tired I am and with all the other projects I'm working on.

That's why I've started testing the waters with these shorter posts of me throwing out ideas or going on mini-rants. They're something simple I can do with no pressure, just me with an empty document getting whatever's on my mind out... and it helps that it feels like my last fuck has just flown away to the heavens to weave itself into the boat god's beard like as he sails among the clouds and stars..... so now I'm gonna talk about whatever I want and the fact that it's my opinion is implied.

I'm sorry if I'm coming off as a little defensive with this part, I tend to get that way whenever people tell me what I should or shouldn't do with my blog, even if they're just trying to be helpful and I don't believe you have any ill intent with your message. I've had this blog for three years now, and I've always had people telling me I shouldn't do character analyses, I should stay in my lane, just write fanfics and do character nights. I should answer more asks otherwise people will think I don't care. I shouldn't write headcanon posts, that's what other blogs do and I'll be taking content away from them. I shouldn't write that one au I've always wanted to because I should be working on [with you]. I shouldn't write anything but [with you.] I shouldn't talk about Violet because I'm a Louis blog.

And that's dumb. All of that is dumb! No one owns the concept of headcanon posts or character analyses! Just like how I don't own the concept of character nights!

Again, my last fuck is lost in Kenny's beard, I don't have it anymore. I'm going to write and analyze whatever I want, when I want, and the best I can do is promise to be better. My inbox is open, I'll try to answer and engage with you guys when I can, I'll keep doing these posts where I ramble about whatever topic is on my mind, and I shouldn't have to put a disclaimer of "This is all my opinion and it's okay if you disagree, I'm not trying to invalidate you" because that's implied.

Before I close out this long response, I do wanna add a thank you for the ask, I do appreciate the constructive criticism. Usually anons that have any problem with me after I talk about Violet will just call me a piece of shit and tell me to delete my blog. Maybe this helped you, maybe it didn't, either way thanks :)

#asks #twdg clementine #twdg louis #twdg violet

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nafeary · 4 years

Text

Cuddles and Snuggles with the Ikevamp Suitors

Anon asked:

Hello 👋, can I have some really short and maybe flowery scenarios of the Ikevamp suitors cuddling? Just some cute little paragraph (that can turn smutty but doesn’t have to be) I really really like your style of writing, you see. Thank you!!!!

Heya! I love love love requests like these, they really make my day. Considering I didn’t want to give everything the same plot, I figured I’d just allow my creative freedom to run rampage.

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much, but school is keeping me pretty busy (a week of holidays are coming up tho hehehehe). This has been sitting in my WIPs for an eternity, and I finished the last five bois today (it’s Sunday/Monday midnight by the time I’m scheduling this YEET).

I hope you’ll all manage to find some comfort in this, and I hope you’ll all enjoy (and remember to drink water~)

Also, I don’t care what Cybird says; Theo is 186cm and I do not take criticism on this.

Warnings: implied sexual intercourse (only for Leo tho), otherwise only toothrottingly sweet fluff... maybe angst, too. Blame Aki)

Napoleon Bonaparte

『laying siege to your heart』

Laughter prompted your body to tremor in delight upon seeing the form of your lover snuggling his blanket, spilling into the room in coaction with the afternoon rays streaming in buoyant ribbons. Napoleon lethargically peeked past his lashes, grinning as he grasped your hand to pull you into his awaiting arms.

Your head fit perfectly underneath his chin, your bodies an amalgamation of puzzle pieces enjoying their reunion. You allowed a few teasing quips to spill from your lips, regretting to have done so tout de suite as your body writhed beneath his butterfly kisses tickling your nape. The most darling sounding giggles encompasses your ears, eliciting some of your own as you tried your best to escape his tight embrace.

Eventually, he stilled, burying his face into the crook of your neck, and holding you for what felt like an entire eternity—no ounce of egomania weighed upon you, the fierceness of it brought forth by his sheer adoration for yourself. And even if he were to lay siege for an eternity, you couldn’t see yourself caring if you were pledged with no disparate treatment.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

『moonlight tryst』

If there was one thing you’ve come to cherish, it would be the time of the moon, when it reigned the sky in its eerie glory. You’ve never been able to see the stars’ purity, constellations clearer than ever before. Perchance, the appreciation stemmed from the company the firmament would gift you with, when the other half of your bed was frozen and weeping alongside you in abandonment. Yet, as you mused your loneliness, approaching echoes of heels hitting the tiled floor incited your gaze to leave the stars, instead turning to embrace the sight of your lover coming to join you to your tryst.

Stars melted into fervid streams of gems, pouring upon Wolf’s skin, hair, and eyes, aiding his appearance to leave you blinded beneath its ethereal irradiance. You picked up a ribbon le Comte had gifted you long ago, jesting the embroidered amethysts would gracefully accompany the composer’s own set of eyes; but the juxtaposition left you disenchanted at the blunt and transparent crystals, opting to tie his alabaster strands with it, shivering slightly as you parted a curtain over his nape.

He enfolded your hands with his, hastily trying to get it off. However, his lips were quickly claimed by his muse, pouring every emotion and feeling you could gather into it. You were glad for the minuscule distraction, even more so as his arms fell limp, succumbing to your passion—nay, not without teasing remarks, leaving your pounding heart at the wolf’s mercy, and carrying your cries into the night in concordance with the owls’ song.

Leonardo da Vinci

『the gift of light』

At times, your relationship felt like stumbling through an obsidian forest, the only object not the plunged into abyssal realms a map to show you the right path. The map knew everything, could achieve anything, would create the unimaginable, while you were left impotently relying one its guidance.

Leonardo was aware of these clouds obscuring your emotions, hindering your felicity, and he was unsure whether he should act upon it. Perchance, it would leave you in deeper misery, but he’d take the chance to undress the light in your eyes.

You essentially knew that that was what a relationship with Leonardo da Vinci would result in; after all, no one could possibly match his genius. Natheless, the string pinioning your souls was stubborn, and it would be near impossible for anything to deter you from this love.

As you straddled him, panting in exhaustion with sweat glistening like deep sea pearls across your bodies, he slid his hands past your ears, tugging on the ribbon keeping your hair up. They ran past your bare shoulders, a cascade of bougainvillea shadowing the outside world from seeing your lover’s flushed expression. With his hands still resting on your cheeks, he pulled you toward himself, capturing your lips with raw ardour. A gossamer simper slumbered onto his face just as the sun announced the arrival of dayspring, enkindling the forest in the light of dawn.

Arthur Conan Doyle

『cosy and secluded dancing』

A myriad of candles appeared to dance within the salon, frolicking in the gentle zephyrs through the opened window. The lovers exuded the impression of pure serenity, swaying in each other’s clutches in synchronisation with the flames.

A saxophone urged your feet to tap along the tiled floor, the beat accompanying the agute anecdotes Arthur shared with you. A simper blossomed on your face as the topic of them always managed to include yourself in some way or another; you’d taken notice of this the further you relationship wrote itself. And just like his words filled the paper with ease under the influence of his fountain of delight, so did the words pertaining to your mutual ardour.

As you allowed your lips to meet his nose, perplexity pulled your brows into a furrow—how anyone could just accept all the malicious comments of “mongrel”, “bastard”, and other vile slurs without retaliating in defense was beyond you, especially when a simple action like yours dissolved him into a fumbling mess, his footing faltering to and fro akin to the rustling branches outside. It was nothing but a mystery, but he was your mystery. And you had more than enough time to solve him, buoyantly filling the paper with breathings of your love along the way.

Vincent Van Gogh

『picnic in a flower meadow』

There was nothing but warmth—the ground, the breeze, the sun’s ever so gentle embrace on this bright autumn’s day, creating an atmosphere of absolute serenity.

However, the sun wasn’t the only one to embrace you. You felt your lover’s breathing gently caressing your face, his heartbeat beneath your head the sole sound next to the sunflowers’ ever so tranquil rustling.

Another breeze ruffled his flaxen tufts of hair, eliciting the tiniest of giggles as they brushed against his nose. As his hands rose up to brush your hair, he gifted to with the most brilliant grin, the epitome of an angel walking amongst mortals.

It made you nuzzle closer into his chest, inhaling the wonted scent of paint and dried sunflowers. Opting to enjoy these last moments of your picnic with the artist, your eyes fluttered close to the most ethereal sight on earth.

Theodorus Van Gogh

『unfeigned aftermath of a fight』

Ire was not strange to him, acquaintances till death, for sure. Nevertheless, these kind of manners didn’t appeal to him, but charading as the scapegoat for his brother’s wealth has made him into the devil’s advocate—and old habits hardly perish.

His hands caught the last few droplets of despair running down your chin, stroking your own pair of hands as he held you from behind. A few moments prior, he had shown you his quiet, oftentimes guarded, ardour, carrying these words to your ear. It left you nearly broken, the brush having stumbled across the artwork, red marks littering the void. But as fast as the shade spread, so did the greens and blues, the yellows and whites; if someone knew how to fix these mistakes, it was Theo himself.

In favour of his height, he straightened to place his chin atop your head, allowing you to lean into him. You couldn’t even remember what miscellaneous things you’d been fighting about, rendering your throats hoarse and your hearts wound; alas, as perilous as his clamours were, he never failed to apologise, whispering adorations as sweet as the saccharine treats he enjoyed.

Truly, as painful as some words could be, he always committed to proving you his worth. He just didn’t realize that that was irrelevant; after all, your devotion for him ran deeper than any slash could ever reach.

Dazai Osamu

『tranquil lazing in the garden』

Amidst the most delicate petals and the green leaves, the pond’s reflection of two twirling birds was similar to the lovers leaning against an oak, intertwined branches unable to release their hold.

You were situated between his legs, his broad chest acting as your pillow of comfort. It was a serene kind of purity, the meadow’s song—flora and fauna uniting to create a serenade of peace—coaxing your pair into a state free of despair and ire. That is, until he let his lips flutter down your exposed neck, prompting you to grip the flesh of his thighs a bit tighter.

The butterfly kisses didn’t appear to end anytime soon, not that you payed it much negative mind. A simper danced across both of your faces as a butterfly, with gossamer wings fluttering gently, landed on your lover’s finger, drawing a titter to resound throughout the garden.

He beheld your reach for the lepidopteran creature, the flaxen colours scintillant in your orbs. Perchance this little guy was an omen of genuine ebullience. However, certainty belay onto his thoughts, knowing that you were nothing but a sign of fortune, even to someone as tainted as himself.

Isaac Newton

『snuggles to chase away self doubt』

Unrelentingly, you pushed chocolate into his calloused hands, pledging that the tryto-something—“it’s tryptophan, darling”—would surely lift his solemn mood, clouds of doubt and pressure weighing upon him. He’d been used to the wallowing forlorn, solus; he’d been used to secluding himself apart from any comfort helping hands could give.

But now, now he’d been exposed to a star, more lucent than the North Star could ever dream to be, which shared its balmy rays with him, never imploring for anything in return.

As the slightly bitter treat melted in his mouth, he pulled the almost oneiric appearance of his sweetheart closer to him, your foreheads colliding together to display the sanguine shade of his fiery cheeks. Both of you chortled at his endearing ardency, finding yourself neglecting the light mound rising from the top of your head as you beheld his cherry blossom orbs.

He wasn’t a man of many words, his thoughts the stars he couldn’t fathom into constellations; and while all he could manage were the faintest pleas of gratitude, you knew that that was his crisp layer masking the dispatch of genuineness. Underneath, he was just as sweet and fulfilling as the fruit he so hastily denied. These obstinate and vexing thoughts pulled at the corners of his mouth, but you were swift in your endeavor to diminish them, letting your fingers glissade like zephyrs through the wild locks of salmon and ever so gently massaging him with their tips.

Jean d’Arc

『eskimo kisses and pep talks』

Jean oftentimes felt as if the world was weighing upon his lungs, threatening to suffocate him from the inside out. With his wings clipped and feet bound, all be could was sing in fear and cry for help, knowing he was undeserving of such feat. And yet, you were holding him closer than he’d ever been held before, kissing every scar, every painful remainder of his past, with the force of what could only be described as love.

He’d call himself vile names, thinking nothing much of it, and you’d never grasped what he meant. Moronic? His gentleness spoke of wisdom that many men could only dream of owning. Appalling? You would incessantly reassure him that his arms were your favorite place to while in, and that you wanted to feel his pulse through your veins. Ugly? His eyes met the moon and became almost prismatic as he claimed so, releasing that inhumanly beautiful hue of disenthralled, limitless amethysts, his skin reflecting the pale alabaster rays. How could a person so stunning and breathtaking be ugly? A person so kind and selfless?

Jean scoffed at your sentiment; withal, he allowed himself to succumb to his selfishness, brushing your nose with his own in an anguished assay to express his gratitude. You responded with a glee, succumbing to his endearing affection. He could only yearn for you to be able to withstand the barrel of infinity that he was bound to curse you with.

William Shakespeare

『interruptions ft puck』

You rose to the canorous breathing of your lover, nay, soulmate; that much was apparent judging by the euphoria encompassing your entire being at the sole mention of his name. It perplexed you how you were able to manage waking up to this empyrean sight without your heart granting the artist its last applause.

From his flushed checks, to his bare chest exposed to your own, to his lean arms reaching around yourself to tangle his fingers within your mane, more delicate and loving than the activities of the previous night required—you knew you were borne under a lucky star, whose only affiliation could possibly be be playwright claiming you his, cradling you with nothing but the zephyrs of a quiet twilight downpour.

You noticed a few candles he’d lit, most likely while you still rested, and they carried scents of raspberry sorbet, wafting around you in refreshing sprites. They were made my William himself, akin to the abundance of objects you’d sentimentally ramble about; and yet, he’d obstinately organise the most trivial things, no matter the obstacle of time and place.

Warmth engulfed your heart, your mind and being at how utterly cherished you were within his arms, and a few tears threatened their exeunt, but you suppressed your expression to the best of your ability, not wanting to worry him ignominiously. The fortunate appearance of your favourite character from the playwright’s own little story supported your despair de trop—even if he might not have intended to.

The little bunny hopped onto your lover’s head, staring down at you as if to mark his own territory. However, this attempt only prompted laughter to spill from your lips, and it amplified as William plucked Puck from his hair, placing him in midst of your tangled limps.

Comte de Saint-Germain

『napping in front of his fireplace』

The fireplace was ablaze, each scarlet flame radiating heat as the fumes frolicked in delight. With your legs angled to your lover’s lap and your fingers clutching his dress shirt, you were curled into the man’s side, the sofa cushioning your assay to sleep.

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt the snug quilt slide over your shoulders, meeting brilliant gold whose owner was busy with shielding you from the frigid cold. His hand released the fabric, instead opting to ever so carefully grasp your chin, as if frightened you were a withering rose.

Words of adoring troths danced on your lips, assuring him that you weren’t fragile, that he mustn’t fret upon your disappearance. He could only place a kiss between your brows, aware that silence weighed more than words ever could; his mirth was apparent as he pulled you closer to him, wanting nothing but to transcend time and space for his other half.

Sebastian

『oreos, milk, and ice cream』

There were certain difficulties when your heart belonged to two people, but even more so when it belonged to multiple places—or periods. Nevertheless, being employed to a time-traveling and immortal boss had its certain advantages.

You knew he longed for these items as much as you did, yet only organised them as you uttered these fantasies in a sleepy stupor. Enthusiasm spurring the atmosphere, you scooped the icy vanilla custard into crystalline bowls, improvident about the dampness coating your fingers. Before the fallen spoon could hit the ground, your lover caught it, trapping your back against his chest as he placed it back onto the counter.

His reverberating laughter prompted your own, enjoying the sensation of the flush body enbosoming your own. Arms winding across your chest, further strengthening the protective cocoon, a feather brushed your neck as he kissed with the ilk of cotton fields. You couldn’t halt the goosebumps from waltzing to the rhythm of his teasing, rather opting to stuff an Oreo past his appealing lips.

Tag list: @juminly @kisara-16 @sweetlittlemouse @thesirenwashere @nad-zeta @delicateikemenmemes

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imagine-lcorp · 3 years

Text

Folie à Deux (One Shot)

A/N: Hello guys!!! HAPPY HALLOWEEN AND FELIZ DIA DE MUERTOS/HAPPY DAY OF THE DEAD to all of you wonderful people. Here I come once again to share a lil one shot to celebrate this already gone spooky season but i hope you can still enjoy it. Bear with me as I try to pull some hannibal vibes over here. Let me know what you think and thank y’all for sticking around!!

Lena Luthor x Killer R//Word Count: 1,653

Content Warnings: Blood, Death, Murder, Guns, Corpses, Graphic Descriptions of Violence.

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folie à deux. /fôˌlē ä ˈdœ/ French (n.) lit. madness for two; delusion or mental illness shared by two people in close association.

"I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you." — Frida Kahlo.

Lena Luthor was no stranger to fear but never in her life had she faced such terror. She could feel it in the back of her head, making her afraid of every corner and shadow of her own house. She could feel it in her chest as she forced her lungs to take steady breaths to calm the erratic beating of her heart. She could feel it in her skin, tuning her fingers cold as she gripped her gun tighter, with every careful step she took to get behind you.

"You're home earlier." Your voice, as soothing as ever, made her stop dead in her tracks.

She saw you, turning around and looking at her with attentive eyes. When you noticed the gun in her hand, you tilted your head. You smiled softly, wondering how much time was left, either before the police and her friends arrived or before she pulled the trigger on you.

"Is that for me?" You asked and, in her shock, Lena managed a small nod. "Such peculiar gifts we come bearing, don't you think?"

Your smile never faltered. She could still notice it as you turned your attention at the painting that was now installed in the central wall of her living room. She stood a few steps behind you and observed. You had just finished it, that much she could tell by the faint smell of paint fume and bright tones of the oils.

It was wonderful, like nothing you had ever showed her before. A danse macabre done with a style so characteristic of you, in which two stark white skeletons seemed to dance and embrace each other. They were surrounded by a field of blood red poppies that, upon a closer look, resembled tiny skulls amidst an equal blood-red sunset...or was it a sunrise? She would have to ask you, just like whose blood was it.

"Is that blood?" She couldn't take her eyes off the painting. Not even after the question had left her lips and her instincts screamed at her to run for her life.

"Burnt sienna and a hint of Prussian blue. Although you know I prefer the real stuff, I wouldn't want anyone to take it away from you in search of evidence." You said, enjoying your own clever remarks. "What do you think?"

"I didn't think you cared about criticism in your work." Lena replied, unable to recall a time when you had ever asked someone else's opinion about your work.

"Art, like love, is the reflection in which we can see ourselves through other's eyes. So I care when it comes to you." You turned again to look at her. "Tell me, Lena, what do you see?"

Lena looked back at you and what she saw in your eyes made her catch her breath. Madness and love, all mixed up together. A look that seemed to reach within the darkest part of her soul and, instead of trying to give it light, you marveled at it.

"You." She said taking a deep, shaky breath. "And me."

With barely a hint of hesitation, she took the last steps forward, placing herself right beside you. She looked at the painting, both a love letter and an omen of death.

"When I saw the photos of the murders, all I could see was you. From the blood paintings hanging from walls to the bodies displayed in such surreal forms. The bullets and the knives, the wounds and the cuts. You were there, in every detail."

She could remember the first time she ever saw pictures from the crime scenes and feeling as if she had been seeing photos from a gallery exhibition. Each body they had found had been displayed in the most bizarre and beautiful shapes and poses. Bones, flesh and skin, all arranged in forms she didn't know were possible for the human body. She had been horrified at first about it all but, the more she looked, she hadn't been able to deny there was certain grace and elegance in the killer's doing. Whoever had done it, she had thought, was a genius of their own morbid talent.

"Then, when they gave me the list of victims, all I could see...was myself." She swallowed the lump in her throat.

Each crime scene had come along with a list of victims too. The police had identified them with varying degrees of difficulty. Some names had been hard to find while others had been too obvious to even pretend they hadn't recognized them the moment they had seen their twisted faces. However, as different those victims seemed to be between each other, what tied them together were their own crimes. Abusive husbands and wives, child molesters, unethical practitioners, corrupt officials and political leaders with their own dark intentions. People that, even Lena recognized, no one wanted wandering on the face of earth.

Your latest victim had been the judge that had let Edge go free on bail. All her efforts to put him behind bars for good had mean nothing. Then she heard the news. His body had been displayed on his own court, hanging from the ceiling in his black robes, with a band covering his eyes. His chest had been opened and in his hand he held a pair of scales. His heart laid there, weighed against a black feather, ready to be devoured.

The real shock of the murder, however, came after a single detail was revealed. Their blood. The judge and the rest of victims had been drained of their blood before exposing their bodies.

She had never thought too much about it, because there had been nothing to think about when you told her red was one of your favorite colors. It frustrated sometimes, as a painter, how hard it was to find a shade of red as bright and vivid as that of blood. Fortunately, you had learned a long time ago how to make your own red pigments and oils, using the blood of animals, usually pigs whose death was more meaningful than their lives anyway, you had said.

"I wanted to make something beautiful out of such grotesque people." You sighed and turned your head to look at her. "Turning lead into gold with every drop of blood and every stroke, each one an offering and an amend. Is my vision so different from yours? Is yours that different from mine if we want the same?"

"I wanted justice. This is not it." She said resolute, feeling again the metal of the gun against her fingers. "This is only the aftermath of your own judgment."

"Could you say then, in your judgement, if I was fair on my own?"

"If I say you were then every crime of yours is one I have performed too."

"And I recall, you would have wanted it a few times."

Were the deaths of those men and women justified? Had their own acts been so evil that you had to pay them in kind? She remembered how bad had she wanted it sometimes, to make justice by her own hand because it seemed more reliable than a justice court. That much she could understand about your deeds and maybe that was enough for her.

"It's all the same. If there is no justice, then let it be reckoning." You looked at the gun in her hand and raised a brow. "Isn't that why you have come?"

"I have to stop you." Lena said, and you would have expected her to be quick about it. For her to raise her hand and point her gun, to pull the trigger and be done with it in a heartbeat.

But she didn't move.

"Here." You moved your hand slowly towards hers. She didn't even flinch as she watched you hold her fingers against the gun and raise her hand towards your chest. The hand of an artist, the hand of a killer. "Turn my blood into gold. Let them have their reckoning."

Still, she didn't move.

It was the moment Lena understood it all and became truly afraid. Afraid, not about pulling the trigger, not about shooting you through the heart, but to have life and death dancing on her fingertips. To choose with no remorse but with a clear conscience and blood in her hands. So easy, she had thought, to end your life and watch it vanish through your eyes.

"I can't." She said, and you felt her fingers loosen up. "I do not have your talents for this."

You took the gun and looked at it for a moment before looking back at Lena. "You do. It just takes a little practice."

In the distance, the sound of sirens filled the streets. You had been left with no more time.

"Now, come. Justice is upon us, and we don't want them to think you have been making deals with the devil."

Without another word, Lena could fathom what would follow next.

"No." She said with nostalgia already brimming in her eyes. "We have just been dancing around each other for a while."

You offered her a hand, with the other still holding the gun. "Soon the music's over, so let's give it one last chance."

Lena took your hand and, in a confident move, you spun her around. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of your body against her as you embraced her from behind. Then she felt too the barrel of the gun against her temple.

"Once I'm away, please, remember. I've only ever tried to show you beauty." Your soft breath tickled her ear as you whispered to her. "Can you see?"

When Lena opened her eyes, all she could see was red. The painting hung in front of you and it seemed to her as if you were both facing a mirror.

She felt no fear this time. "It's terrific."

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