#it explicitly comes closer to breaking him than anything else has so far! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

demonicheadcanons · 3 years

Note

Can I get the brothers reacting to finding MCs sketchbook and it’s filled with drawings of the demon who picked it up? All of them are masterpieces and some are angsty or sad, others happy, some just them doing mundane things. When confronted, MC just says “Of course I draw you all the time, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You’re my muse.” Thank you in advance, if it’s too complicated you can skip.

AN: This cute prompt has been sitting in my inbox for far too long. Thanks for sending this in Nonny <3 I love this idea. I tried to keep each scenario short so I could get this done quickly, as you’ve waited long enough for it. Tried is the key word here ;u;

You’re maybe already dating the boys in these? Or very close? They’re not explicitly romantic but have some affection. I also didn’t make the MC say these exact words, or even anything at all in some of these prompts, but the general feeling is still there. I hope that’s alright!

Lucifer

You left the book behind when studying together, rushing off to meet up with Mammon after you realised you were late and would hear hell for it. He notices it sometime later, too busy relishing on even the short period of time he’d gotten to spend alone with you in relative peace.

He picks it up and, curious, with no worries that you might not really want him to look through it, he flips it open to the first page. He realises what it is right away, and continues to flip through the pages until he gets to a drawing of him. Its such a perfect represention of the moment that he can recall exactly when you must’ve drawn this.

You’d come into his room to have a break from all the noise in the rest of the house, and you had laid on your stomach on his bed and worked away at something as he went through paperwork at his desk. He’d wanted to ask you, at the time, what had you so focused, but he hadn’t wanted to ruin the sight.

He continues to flip through the pages, and frowns slightly for every drawing he sees of one of his brothers, but his lips twitch up every time there’s even a simple doodle of him. He counts, unconsciously, and realises you’ve drawn him more than anyone else. Pride swells in his chest, so very familiar and not at the same time.

He hears the tapping at his door and calls out, immediately, for you to come in. He knows that knock, after all, and you’re one of the few members of the house that he wouldn’t hear coming down the corridor. He leans against the front of his desk, holding your book open in front of him, not bothering to hide the fact that he’d looked through it.

The particular sketch he’s looking at is one where you must’ve been close - you’ve detailed in every long, delicate eyelash, his hair falling in front of his face and his lips slightly parted, only the faintest frown on his face as he focuses hard on his work. He smiles as he tips the book forward, watching as your eyes are drawn to it. To his surprise, you only smile, relieved, raising a hand to your chest.

“Thank goodness, I did leave it here after all.”

You walk over and hop up onto his desk, leaning towards him as you try to see which sketch he’s looking at. He slouches a little more to make you comfortable and shows the sketch.

“You’ve drawn me a lot,” he comments.

“Of course. You’re beautiful, how could I resist?”

He presses a kiss to your temple and rests his head against yours, smiling. He doesn’t often like people commenting on his appearance - he was confident enough about it, knew how he looked, but he didn’t need to hear about it all the time. Still, from you, it didn’t hurt. Especially not if you felt inspired enough by it to draw him.

[[Other brothers are under the read more]]

Mammon

Mammon had burst into your room and you weren’t there. Frustrated by your absence and unsure of when to expect you back, he decides to pick through your stuff. He wasn’t going to steal any of it - he’d been called out by Beel about that, before, and whilst he’d denied it at the time he knew it was true. He’d much rather steal something for you than from you.

The book is open on your desk to a page full of mindless doodles. It piques his curiosity, and he grabs it and sits down, kicking his feet up on top of your desk. It wasn’t like you were there to tell him not to, and you’d left without telling him where you were going so he was going to do whatever he wanted until you got back.

He flicks back to the start of the book, and honestly his first thoughts are about how you could easily sell these drawings for a lot of Grimm. Sketches of the Devildom, of flowers and creatures you couldn’t find in the human realm, of how the Devildom looked all lit up with the moon overhead, from the highest balcony in the RAD building. He’s in awe, mouth a faint ‘o’ shape as he continues to turn page by page.

The first drawing of him makes him freeze up. He was a model, Mammon knew he must be handsome. But he’d never felt it like he did now. In the drawing, he’s sitting on the floor, cushion in his lap as he plays some game on a controller. His expression is somewhere between frustrated and delighted, his hair fluffy and messy because he’d been running his hands through it.

He remembers - you’d been having trouble adapting to the Devildom so he stole- borrowed a console from Levi, but you were too tired to play. He played anyway, hoping that at least watching him would distract you enough, and to convince himself that he was in part doing it for him too and not to entertain some random human.

You walk in and he slams the book shut, but its too late - you’ve seen him holding it. You don’t seem mad about that, though, and instead glare at how he has his feet up on your desk. He adjusts quickly, fumbling as he tries to put on his confident act, walking over to you as he waves the sketchbook in the air.

“What’s this, then? You’ve been drawing me without asking me first?” he asks, teasing lilt falling flat in his voice. His face feels far too warm, as it often does when he’s around you.

“I couldn’t help it. You’re so pretty I just had to.” You shrug, nonchalant. You swipe the book from his hand and sit on your bed, tapping the space beside you. “How far in did you get?”

Mammon pouts as he goes to sit beside you. “Not far.” As he sits beside you, he grabs your sides and pulls you to lay down, holding the sketchbook open up in the air. He’s desperate for some attention right now, but he wanted to keep looking at your art. “Let’s look through the rest together.”

Leviathan

Levi was flustered. You’d been spending time in his room, and he loved your presence but it took him so long to get used to it each time that you stopped in to hang out with him. You’d brought the book you always had with you, and were working away on something, laying on your stomach on the floor with a Ruri-chan plushie in one arm.

He fumbles with his controller and sighs as he misses yet another jump in the game he was trying hard to distract himself with. Every time he glances over, he wants to ask what you’re doing, why you’re here with him when you could easily do your work elsewhere or with any of his brothers, if you were really happy to just sit in his presence like this. His voice dies in his throat and his face flushes when he catches sight of you, so he never does get to ask.

He’d messed up one too many times and was starting to get frustrated when he glanced over and realised you were looking at him, too. Heat floods into his face, and his frustrations die before he can even mumble out his signature ‘this is so unfair’. You smile, going back to your work before dropping your pencil. You wiggle around until you’re sitting, cross-legged, and hold out your sketchbook.

It was a drawing. You’d been drawing, and you’d been drawing him. Levi leans closer hesitantly, wanting to get a better look at it, trying not to think about how giddy and anxious your proud smile made him feel. He works up the courage to take the book out of your hands and looks over the drawing. It takes a long time before he can say anything, too busy focusing on all the little details - how his face is scrunched up from frustration and concentration, how his headphone cord is coiled around his fingers from when he’d been playing with it and hadn’t untangled it fully, how his head was tilted to stop his hair from fully falling in front of his eyes.

“You... its really good, but, I don’t... I’m not this handsome,” he mumbles, face bright red, and he flinches when you laugh.

“You are. More-so, actually, but its hard to capture from this distance.”

Levi can’t respond, just swallows. You sigh, something fond in it, and walk on your knees until you can fall against his side, cuddling up to the Ruri-chan plushie.

“Look through the other drawings. I only draw what I find beautiful. That’s why I drew you.”

His smile is faint, but its enough. He’s hearing your words, even if they’re hard to process for him. He relaxes and flips back to the front page, ready to look at the rest of your work with you.

Satan

Books were commonplace in his room. They were part of the furniture - quite literally, as they were piled up everywhere, even on top of his bed, although he’d made an effort to stop putting them there so long as you were spending time with him, so that you had somewhere comfortable to sit or lay whilst you were reading.

And yet, he always noticed when one was out of place, or when a new book had joined his collection without his knowing. Sometimes this happened because his brothers had found something interesting but weren’t willing to say aloud that it had reminded them of him, or that they bought it because he might enjoy it, so they’d simply popped into his room and added it to a stack. It was normal at this point.

That’s why he didn’t question it when there was a new book left on his bed, and when he didn’t hesitate to lay down and open it up, curious as to what story one of his brothers had left for him this time. Instead, he’s met with drawings. Amazing drawings of the Devildom, of his brothers... and of him.

There are notes, as well, few and far between, that allow him to place this as being your book. He knew that scrawl. He felt guilty to look through your sketchbook without your permission, but now that he’d already opened it, he was too curious to leave it be. He’d be honest about it later and deal with the consequences then, or joke about how you’d been drawing him without his permission so you were equal now.

The drawings were beautiful, more detailed that he’d seen for casual doodles left in a book without being shown to the subjects in them. He takes his time to look over each page carefully, each drawing filling his heart with something foreign, sweet and sticky like berry pie. He spends extra time focusing on each drawing of himself, wonders how and why you’d made him look so soft. It was hard for him to get portraits done as his presence could invoke anger in others and leave harsh and angry lines and brush strokes on the canvas, but clearly he didn’t have that same influence on you - instead, each drawing of him was more delicate than any of the others, like you’d put more effort in.

Satan returns it to you later, a smile on his face. He does apologise immediately, for looking at the drawings without your permission.

“Its alright. I’m just glad you found it for me.” You’re completely cheery, not bothered at all, and Satan sighs in relief.

“You’ve drawn me quite a lot,” he notes.

“Well obviously. I spend the most time with you,” you say, smiling when you catch the faint pout he covers up. That wasn’t what he had expected or wanted you to say, clearly. Nor was it all you had to say on the matter. “Also, you’re very beautiful. I wanted to try and capture that and keep a little for myself.”

He smiles now, content, and pats you on the head. “If you want me around, you only have to ask.”

Asmodeus

You’d been working away at something as he picked out an outfit and fixed his hair, and he’d been dying to ask but he just needed to adjust a few more strands first - you were going out to Majolish together and he wanted to look perfect. He always did, of course, but when the two of you were going out together he put in even more effort than usual.

When he finally finishes, he jumps up out of his chair and rushes over to you.

“How do I look?” he asks, beaming, full of confidence as always.

“Fabulous,” you say, reaching out to readjust a few strands of hair that had fallen out of place from his quick movements. He sits down on his bed beside you and pulls you up until you’re sitting beside him, hugging you around your waist.

“What were you doing whilst you were waiting? You looked so focused, it was adorable~” Asmo chirps, looking pointedly at the sketchbook. His eyes widen in genuine surprise. “Wait, is that me?”

You nod, lifting your sketchbook up so that the two of you could see it properly. You’d been drawing him, just little sketches as he flitted about the room doing this and that to get ready. You couldn’t have spent long on each one, and yet they captured him perfectly. He looked elegant in each, determined and beautiful.

You flicked back to the previous page before he could comment, and Asmo’s breath caught in his throat. This drawing was him, it was so brilliant an example of everything that he was. He was looking at you and smiling, and you’d captured the love and admiration in his eyes so perfectly he wondered if this was somehow a photograph.

Asmo tears up and hugs you tighter, burying his face against your neck. You can feel him smile wide against your skin. He stays like that for only a moment before his excitement bubbles up to the surface and he litters your cheek, nose, and forehead with feather-light kisses. He’d do anything for the one who saw him as he was.

Beelzebub

Beel had a pretty normal schedule for each day - he’d exercise, go to school, spend time with you and Belphie or his other brothers if they were around and alright with it, and of course, he’d eat quite a lot. You had a good idea of where he’d be throughout the day, and when you had the time for it, you’d accompany him so he wasn’t alone. Whether that meant sitting on the counter as he dug through the fridge, or laying on the sofa with your head in his lap and your feet in Belphie’s, you just liked to spend time with him.

And, a lot of the time, he noticed you had this little book with you. He’d caught you glancing at him many times, but didn’t think anything of it. He glanced at you a lot, too, so maybe it was only to be expected. He’d gotten used to the butterflies in his stomach when you two randomly linked eyes and you grinned, twirling your pencil around in your hand.

A lot of your time was spent together in relative silence, as well, and he was accustomed to hearing your pencil scratch against the paper. But he never asked what you were doing, because if you wanted to tell him you would. He trusted you to do that. And his trust paid off, when you were both watching a show together.

He notices early on that you're paying more attention to him than the screen, and when the episode finishes you tap him gently on the shoulder before stretching out your wrists. He looks to you, tilting his head in curiosity until you hold the book open in front of him.

It was a drawing of him, focused on the screen, odd lighting casting shadows against his form. He had something in his hand, some sort of food, but you’d put more attention into actually drawing him. So much attention that he was sure no matter how long he looked, there would always be something more to notice.

“Its me?” he asks, unsure lilt in his voice. He looks bashful, like he’s done something wrong. “Why?”

You stretch out your arms again, thinking, and finally answer, “Because you looked beautiful, and I wanted to draw you?”

It was neither easy nor hard to make Beel blush, and most of the time it just seemed to happen. You hadn’t caught onto the pattern yet, hadn’t been able to perfect it so that you could make it happen whenever you wanted. But you smile in silent victory now as his ears and cheeks flush a reddish pink, pairing nicely with his wide eyes.

His surprise gives way to a smile, and he leans over to wrap his arms around you, holding you close. All he can manage is a thank you, but with that you know how much he appreciates it, how much he appreciates you.

Belphegor

Belphie would often drag you off to the attic, and whilst he enjoyed the times where you would curl up in his arms and nap with him until you absolutely had to get up, he knew he couldn’t expect that of you constantly. You were still human, and you could only sleep so much before you had to get up to stretch or eat or just do something else to occupy your mind.

You’d built up a habit together, now, where if you wanted to get up you’d tap his arm twice and he’d reluctantly let you go. He’d stay awake if you left the room, just enough so that he’d be able to tell when you returned. If you didn’t, he’d have to go seek you out again by himself to drag you back with him and absolutely not just to make sure you were okay. If you did return, he’d go back to sleep and let you do what you wanted, opening his arms up if you tapped on them again to crawl back into his grip. It was peaceful, and though he never said it aloud, he loved it.

Often times, when he did wake up, you’d be sitting nearby in a little bundle of pillows and blankets that you’d made with a book and pencil in hand. You were quick to notice when he woke up, so Belphie could never just watch you to figure out what you were doing, which frustrated him to no end but at the same time it was nice to be known. Still, he was determined to figure it out.

His determination is unnecessary, because one day he wakes up and you’re looking straight at him, smiling contentedly. He woke up too fast, then, heart pounding as he tried to remember that expression. Did you admire him so much to look at him like that, even when he was just sleeping?

“You’re awake,” you say, voice light and cheery.

“And you were watching me sleep, as always,” Belphie scoffs, pulling the blanket up over his face to cover up his blush. “What’s new?”

You pout and stick out your tongue at him, and he lowers the blanket enough to return the gesture. It was hard to remember just how old he was when he acted like that.

“With good reason,” you tell him. He raises an eyebrow, and you smile and hold out your sketchbook. He takes it immediately, trying to act nonchalant as he opens it up and flicks through the pages. You barely catch how his eyes widen, how his breath catches and he slows down, taking in each drawing carefully.

“There are... a lot of drawings, of me sleeping,” Belphie says, swallowing, raising the book enough to try to cover his smile. Too late, you think. You’d caught him.

“You look cute like that. Plus, its the only time you sit still enough for me to draw you.”

“Or you’re just that obsessed with me. Weirdo.” He closes the book and hands it back to you, sitting up to stretch. He keeps his eyes on you, notices when you frown the tiniest bit. Was his teasing too much?

He sighs and slides out of bed, sitting in your pile beside you. He leans against you, like a cat looking for attention without wanting to admit it, and takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers.

“Thanks, MC.”

#surprise request! i felt like writing and it just all kind of flowed out with this one #Anonymous #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #my headcanons #my writings #fluff #i had a lot of fun writing this ashdashj even tho i only did bc i couldnt sleep ;u;

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novoaa1writes · 3 years

Text

candles

image source

pairing(s): dark!wanda maximoff x reader

summary:

you’ve been feeling strange for the past month, particularly when it comes to dating.

you do your best to ignore it, thinking it’ll resolve itself on its own—given time, that is.

it doesn’t.

(and it’s got everything to do with wanda.)

[also available on ao3]

word count: ~5,300

rating: mature

warnings: dark!wanda, NON-CON spanking (with a belt), NON-CON BDSM play, mental manipulation, partial mind control, emotional manipulation, mental coercion, trauma bonding, toxic dynamics, drinking, possessive!wanda, non-con mind-reading, vandalism, adultery (not in reference to you or wanda), brief instances of slut-shaming

notes: [requested by anon] reader’s sexuality isn’t explicitly stated, but ex-partners of different genders are referenced/mentioned

— —

wanda uses a couple bulgarian terms of endearment for reader here, so below is a lil’ list in the order of which they appear.

*note: all of these are exactly one letter away from being precise matches to synonymous terms in russian. HOWEVER, the bulgarian alphabet and the russian alphabet are different—granted, in fairly minor ways. for one, while both are comprised of cyrillic lettering, russian has 33 while bulgarian only has 30.

— —

You have no fucking clue what’d gotten into you.

One moment, things were fine—good, even. And the next… well.

You’ll explain.

It was something like 11:30 on a Saturday night, and you were drunk.

Well, not drunk. More like buzzed.

But whatever, right? Considering the week you’d had, you deserved to let loose, even if only for a night.

Monday night saw a very angry and decidedly unhinged soccer mom banging on your door, screeching vehemently about the ‘two-faced slut’ who ruined her marriage and demanding to be let in so that she could ‘make her sorry.’ Turns out, the older guy your roommate had been sleeping with as of late was married—not that he’d bothered to share that particular bit of information with her, obviously.

The two of you spent the better part of the evening barricaded inside, passing a bottle of cheap wine back and forth while trying to explain to the 911 operator that you weren’t messing around, that there really was an angry soccer mom on your doorstep and you were actively fearing for your safety.

She eventually left around 10:00pm—no thanks to the police, since the 911 operator hadn’t even bothered to give them a call. It wasn’t until the next morning when you left for work that you saw the woman’s parting gift to the pair of you: the word ‘HOMEWRECKER’ spray-painted across the front door in obnoxious red lettering.

Bye-bye, security deposit.

That same night, you made your roommate promise to start dating people in a similar age range—because really, the both of you were stressed enough as it was without worrying about coming in between yet another middle-aged couple’s dying marriage.

The rest of the week wasn’t much better.

On Thursday, your balding creep of a boss had made yet another blatant pass at you in the workplace, making you seriously consider (and not for the first time) the prospect of just quitting and being done with it.

Then, at shit o’clock on a Friday morning, you awoke to an urgent phone call informing you that an ex of yours (one you were actually on semi-decent terms with) had gotten into a fairly serious car accident, and still had you marked down as her emergency contact.

30 minutes later found you showing up at the hospital just moments after your ex’s current girlfriend had arrived, which then prompted the whole ‘you still being your ex’s emergency contact’ revelation when the current girlfriend demanded to know what you were doing there, which ended up being… well, you’ll just say it wasn’t pretty, and leave it at that.

And your ex was going to be completely fine, anyways. She just had some minor cuts and abrasions, and would need to undergo a fairly minor (read: minimally invasive) surgery over the next couple days.

Before leaving, you instigated a quick check-in with the doctors to ensure they had everything they needed—which then turned into you providing a list of allergies, as your ex wouldn’t likely be conscious for another couple of hours, and apparently the current girlfriend didn’t know of her sensitivities to penicillin and phenobarbital… which the current girlfriend was less than happy about, if the daggers she glared at you were any indication.

Whatever. You were just trying to help.

You thanked the doctors, told them to feel free to call you if anything went awry, then asked if they might tell your ex to call you when she awoke. You thought about offering some words of comfort to the current girlfriend as she sat vigil at your ex’s bedside, but the murderous glower she shot you the moment you got within ten feet of her was more than enough to make you think better of it.

With that, you left.

So… yeah. It’d been a shitty week.

And now, here you were: a girls’ night out at the lively nightclub you and your roommate had scoped out just last weekend, tossing back $12 cocktails and letting the trashy EDM beat blaring over the speakers drown out the rest of your thoughts.

You’d been feeling a little weird all week—all month, really.

As far as you were concerned, this was exactly what the doctor had ordered.

So, when a cute guy wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt that was at least a couple sizes too big yet did well to compliment his well-muscled torso came up to you and started chatting you up at the bar, you didn’t blow him off.

The exact opposite, in fact.

He was nice, and funny, and had a gorgeous smile that made your chest feel warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the alcohol. When he flirted with you, you flirted right back.

You felt a little guilty for doing so, though you couldn’t exactly put a finger on why that was. Either way, you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it for very long.

After all, you’d been feeling hints of that for the past month, if not longer. It seemed to happen whenever you flirted with a cute guy, or went out on another Tinder date with a pretty girl, or even hugged one of your close friends.

You’d get this painful tightening sensation in your gut, nausea roiling in your abdomen… a distant, lofty voice in your head telling you that this was wrong, that you already belonged to someone else.

Which was pointless, really. Stupid.

You were single.

Your last serious relationship (barring the one with your now-hospitalized ex-girlfriend) had been over seven months ago with an eccentric guy named Lukas. He was kind, well-meaning… a bit of a dork at his very core, but you always found that more endearing than anything else. You’d dated him for four and a half months before deciding to break it off; because as much as you cared for him and enjoyed being around him, you didn’t love him, and you knew by then that you never would.

You thought about him, from time to time—even missed him now and again.

And yet, the strangest thing about the shameful feeling you’d get whenever your roommate so much as brushed a friendly kiss up against your cheek—it had absolutely nothing to do with Lukas.

You didn’t know how you knew that, but you did.

Whatever.

This guy was not Lukas.

His name was Des—short for Desmond, you learned over your fourth sugary-sweet cocktail of the night. He was charming and slightly foul-mouthed, but conscientious and passably polite where it mattered. He didn’t grope your ass or stare at your tits, nor did he make any lewd commentary about your body in any capacity.

He also smelled… really good, like Old Spice and spearmint gum and the barest hint of cigarette smoke.

That was more than enough for you.

(Whatever, alright? Decent guys were in short supply these days.)

You smiled and let him buy you another drink, even after you’d insisted that he really, really didn’t have to. And when an obnoxious pop song with a beat that was far more catchy than you’d have liked to admit came over the speakers, you let him coax you out to the dance floor with minimal resistance.

It was… fun. You liked the way his hands rested on either of your hips—gentle, almost careful; holding you like he understood he didn’t have a right to your body, like he was more than content that you allowed him this to even think of demanding any more.

Despite the twinges of guilt flaring in your gut, you let yourself get a little more comfortable… dancing closer and closer to him amidst a packed crowd of writhing bodies, letting your breasts graze up against his chest.

It was teasing—provocative, even. A test, of sorts—one that Des passed with flying colors.

He didn’t do a thing to rush you, just kept dancing across from you with his hands on your hips and his darkened gaze on yours—seeming fully content to let you set the pace for the moment. And God, but the way he was looking at you… patient but eager, like he wanted nothing more than to crush your body against his own and grind himself into you like an animal—and yet, still, he held himself back.

You couldn’t help but find that attractive as hell.

Looping your arms around his neck, you let your body to press flush against his as you swayed to the beat of the song, not shying away from the slight stiffness you could feel growing against your hip.

That guilty, nauseous feeling in your gut pulled tighter.

You ignored it, and, when he leaned a little closer to shout over the deafening music, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”... well.

You wasted absolutely no time in lunging up on the tips of your toes to capture his lips in a messy open-mouthed kiss, the strobe lights of the club fading into obscurity around you. His lips were warm and gentle against yours—tentative, at first, until you pressed a little harder and traced the seam of his lips with your tongue… and, yeah; that did the trick.

A moment later, his lips parted to let out a quiet groan directly into your mouth as he began to reciprocate in earnest, setting every nerve ending on your body alight with electrifying want.

And that’s when it happened.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a twisted sort of clarity hit you square in the chest—slowly, and then all at once.

The next bits were something of a blur.

You tore yourself away from Des, turned to forcibly elbow your way through a floor of grinding bodies. You thought you heard him call out your name, and more than a couple people on the dancefloor turned to glare at you as you rudely brushed past them without care—but, whatever.

You texted… someone, telling them you were headed back to the apartment, so they shouldn’t bother waiting up. The group chat, maybe?

And now… Now.

Before you can blink, the past crashes into the present, and you find yourself back outside in the pitch-black night.

It’s dark… chilly. A brisk wind catches you the moment you stumble out onto the sidewalk, assaulting every inch of your exposed skin like scores of needles piercing your flesh. You whimper, shudder, and hug your arms around your body—trying to warm yourself back up like a scared little kid who forgot their jacket.

For the first time that night, you regret the tiny black babydoll dress you’d chosen to wear for the evening—and that’s not even to mention the four-inch heels.

It’s miserable, to be sure, but you can hardly focus on it for very long.

No, you have to go somewhere. You feel sick, and cold, and wrong in a way you’re loath to even begin explaining to anyone else.

And your head… you’re positively aching for something—someone to make this better.

You need… Wanda.

Yes, Wanda is the person you’re looking for. She can make all of this better.

You don’t know why, but you’re sure of it. You just need to find her. Hopefully she’s spending the night in her apartment on that super cozy sofa of hers, drinking hot chocolate and binge-watching something on Netflix like the two of you did a couple weeks back.

A fond grin curves your lips at the recollection as you stumble off down the sidewalk, headed for the nearest subway station.

Another wintry gust of wind hits you square in the chest, and you pinch your forearm hard, silently willing yourself to focus.

The station should be less than a block down, if you’re remembering correctly.

At the next street corner, you manage to brandish your pepper spray in one hand while you rummage around in your purse for your MetroCard with the other.

It’s cold as hell, and you’re probably a little too drunk to be walking through the City streets alone right now, but you don’t much care.

All you gotta do is find Wanda. That’s all.

She’ll make everything better again.

— —

Where everything else is confusing, there’s one part that seems to make sense—Wanda.

You nearly pick a fight with the card reader at the subway entrance when it makes you swipe your card three times to let you through, and even the stairs leading down to the lower tracks are more of a challenge than they probably should be… and yet, somehow, the rest of it is blessedly simple. A no-brainer, really.

You know which train you need to take… the blue one that arrives in four minutes. You know you need to stay on it for five stops before getting off.

Once you’re up at ground level, you’ll have a short walk ahead of you—one that you know like the back of your hand despite only ever having been to Wanda’s a couple of times.

You’ll enter Wanda’s apartment building, take the elevator right up to floor four, and boom! Home free.

You do exactly that.

It takes a short time (thankfully) and there’s not an ounce of uncertainty within you all the while, like you’ve done this 100 times before.

In seemingly no time at all, you’re there—standing on Wanda’s doorstep, knocking a couple times just beneath the burnished bronze ‘4A’ nailed into her door.

Your head feels all light and dizzy; you’re still shuddering from the time you spent out in the cold; but—

“One sec!” Wanda’s muffled voice comes from inside, the mere sound of it washing over you like a soothing balm—promising relief.

You’re safe now.

You made it.

— —

The moment the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Wanda Maximoff dressed in tiny grey pajama shorts, an oversized Star Trek T-shirt, and nothing else, it’s like everything falls back into place.

It’s like… like you can breathe again.

You’re still drunk, and shivering, and more than a bit confused; but now that Wanda’s awake and here and smirking like she knows exactly what’s happening even if you don’t, you feel… better, somehow. Not nearly so lost as you were before.

“Y/N,” Wanda greets, stepping aside and offering out a hand to help you inside. You’re quick to take it. “I was not expecting you,” she drawls, though everything about her demeanor is saying the opposite as she shuts and locks the door behind you.

You pay it little mind. “Yeah, I... ” you trail off, turning to face her even as an embarrassed flush warms your cheeks. All of a sudden, you can’t help but feel rather ridiculous for knocking on her door and barging in so late—especially without calling first. “I’m so sorry, I... I don’t know why I’m here.”

Wanda just tilts her head, appraising you curiously even as the ghost of a knowing smile curves her lips. “Are you sure about that?”

The heat in your cheeks seems to intensify tenfold at that. “I… I need to tell you something,” you hear yourself say, and the moment it’s registered, you realize that it’s true.

You feel… guilty, all of a sudden. Nauseous, too. Scared.

You danced with that guy—Des. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… You kissed him. Why would you do that?

In the present moment, Wanda nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like all of this makes perfect sense.

“Okay,” she acquiesces lightly, flares of crimson flitting through her measured gaze. “Is it something I’ll have to punish you for?”

‘Punish’ me? What—?

You feel Wanda’s presence in your head… inconspicuous tendrils sifting through your thoughts, worming their way through your scattered memories.

No point in lying.

“Y-Yes,” you hear yourself say. Much like earlier, it isn’t until the moment you’ve confirmed it aloud that you know it to be true. You danced with someone else. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… kiss you. “I… I’m so sorry, Wanda; I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You see the moment Wanda finds it—your memories of the nightclub. Meeting Des at the bar. Flirting with him… Kissing him.

The look on her pretty features goes from bemused to disbelieving to absolutely murderous in zero seconds flat, and the realization hits like a freight train that you’re really in for it now.

Fuck.

“Go to the bedroom,” she snarls, her typically blue-green eyes burning with scarlet light. “Then take off that slutty dress. I want you on the bed, face down, naked. Do you understand?”

Your head is spinning; confusion rears its ugly head in your gut even as every ounce of your being screams at you to just obey—‘cause if you can just do that, the rest of it will start to make sense. (Maybe.) “O-Okay.”

— —

You don’t know how you know the way to Wanda’s bedroom, but you do.

You slip inside a room shrouded in darkness, and no matter how it strains your eyes to look around, you don’t dare turn on the light.

It’s a modestly-sized bedroom with hardwood flooring, fairy lights along one wall, and an adjoining bathroom just opposite the entrance. There’s a tall, wooden dresser pressed up against the wall directly across from a large, king-sized bed. That’s pretty much all the detail you can manage to make out in the darkness.

Well, either way, you suppose it isn’t really your business.

Wanda gave you specific instructions, and you intend to follow them.

Not for the first time tonight, you’re quite happy about the babydoll dress you’re wearing—particularly for how easy it is to pull it up over your head and off, leaving you in panties and a strapless bra in a matter of moments.

You fold the dress neatly in your hands, then leave it atop the dresser. Your panties and bra come next. In seconds, you’ve formed a small, tidy pile.

As you step out of your heels and approach the neatly-made bed, you’re struck with the strangest sense of déjà vu… like you’ve done this before.

It lingers in the forefront of your mind as you crawl up onto the bed, biting back a groan at how easily the plush mattress gives way under your hands and knees.

God, you’d kill to have a nice nap in this absolute cloud of a bed.

You shake the thought off, simultaneously willing the haze of intoxication fogging up your brain to abate.

You’re not here to nap.

You settle face-down onto the bed, just like Wanda said. You’re careful not to rest your face on the pillows, though, since you have the distinct feeling that’s not something Wanda would want you doing without permission.

Instead, you fold your arms and rest your head atop your forearm, staring straight down into nothing. You scrunch up your features and let out a quiet huff as the black duvet tickles the tip of your nose.

It smells like her—all of it does. Cinnamon, vanilla, and something indefinable; something that belongs to Wanda, and Wanda alone.

You feel your body stiffen as a familiar set of footsteps draw near, approaching the room where you lie—naked and vulnerable atop Wanda’s bed.

The patter of Wanda’s gait becomes almost soundless as she enters, circling around the bed over towards the nightstand. You don’t dare to turn your head and watch as she pulls out one of the drawers, rummaging through it until she finds… well, whatever it is she’s looking for, you suppose.

A moment later, there’s the telltale chk! of a match being struck, and a hiss as the phosphorous tip lights itself aflame.

It’s quiet for a minute... then two. The only sounds you can hear are your breathing and the strike of a match every time Wanda lights another.

Gradually, gentle flares of light grow in your periphery, bathing the room in a dim, yellow-y glow. She’s lighting candles—a lot of them.

You’ve always loved candles.

A couple minutes later, she’s finished, and she returns to tuck the matchbox safely back in the drawer.

You lose track of her as she retreats once more, and your mounting curiosity is more than piqued when you hear her rummaging through the dresser near the foot of the bed; still, you don’t dare turn and look.

Instead, you wait, fetid nausea churning low in your gut, pinpricks of apprehension dancing across every inch of exposed skin. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage as she takes something out from the dresser drawer, then shuts it with an audible thud!

You swallow the lump in your throat and urge yourself to focus on your breathing.

In, out.

In… out.

“I’m disappointed in you, Y/N,” Wanda’s voice comes from somewhere behind you, genuine hurt coloring her hushed tone.

You have to fight the urge to shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “I… I’m sorry, Wanda,” you say meekly, pathetically, cheeks hot with shame.

And the worst part? You’re not lying.

You listen carefully for the sounds of her bare feet padding across the floor as she circles the bed once more, crouching down right beside you in the very corner of your periphery.

“Look at me,” she orders, gentle yet firm.

You do.

The moment you meet her gaze, you can’t help the errant thought entering your mind that she looks so pretty like this—face bare of makeup; long brown hair piled into a messy bun atop her head; dainty features cast into darkened shadows by the low, yellow light of burning candles clustered together atop the nightstand.

The muted light seems to soften her anger, her pain… allowing her to really look her age for the very first time since you’ve known her.

“You think too loudly, Y/N.” Wanda’s words are dry, almost teasing as they jolt you back into reality. “Focus on me, please.”

You do.

“You belong to me,” she asserts after a beat of silence, an uncharacteristically intent and almost solemn look splayed across her dimly-lit features. “I thought you understood that.”

The words confuse you even as they seem to resonate poignantly with some fundamental part of you… a part of you that categorically refuses to be ignored.

“Wanda…” you trail off, bewilderment and contrition warring violently within your chest until it aches to draw breath. “I’m confused, Wanda,” you whimper out finally, overwhelmed tears burning in your eyes. “I-I-I don’t understand what’s happening—”

Wanda cuts you off with a derisive snort. “Yes, clearly,” she agrees, her tone ripe with sardonic ire. “You’ve forgotten yourself. You’ve forgotten who owns you.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “Is that why…” You search Wanda’s eyes intently. “... I-I felt sick, an-and… guilty about dancing with Des.”

Something like anger flares in her gaze, hot and bitter, and you have to resist the urge to shrivel beneath it. “That boy had no right to touch what’s rightfully mine.”

“B-But then… why didn’t I remember?” you ask, utterly forlorn. “I-I felt it last weekend, too, but I… I didn’t—”

“Last weekend?” Wanda repeats, features hardening.

Oh, shit. You feel your cheeks get hot again. “I… I shouldn’t have brought it up, Wan’, I’m sorry—”

“What happened last weekend?” she interjects, her tone cold and hard like a double-edged blade. “You can tell me yourself, or I can start looking.”

You shiver. “I… I went on a-a… a date with a girl that I met online,” you admit, tears welling in your eyes even as Wanda’s jaw visibly tightens. “I-It was just the one time! A-And nothing happened; we didn’t even k-kiss! I just… I didn’t… I didn’t know—”

“Yes. You’re right; you didn’t know.” Wanda stands abruptly, then, and it’s at that moment that you see the folded belt in her hands—thick, worn leather with a sterling silver buckle.

An icy sense of dread blossoms in your chest, chilling you from the inside out.

Is she going to—?

“I was indulgent before… I let you get away with far too much. I will not make the same mistake again.”

With that, she turns to circle back around the bed, the belt buckle audibly jangling in her hands with every step.

“I have to punish you, принцеса,” she continues, her voice scarcely more than a whisper as she comes to stand near the foot of the bed—and somehow, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s no convincing her otherwise.

She’s going to punish you, and it’s going to hurt. Bad.

All at once, panic seizes you. You squirm, writhing in an effort to get up and off the bed—

Only to be stopped by tendrils of lurid crimson curling around either wrist, forcing them together just over your head like magic—glowing crimson cuffs holding both arms fast to the headboard. On a whim, you test your legs—tensing and pulling, only to be met with iron-clad resistance encircling either ankle in a tight, unrelenting grip.

Well, fuck.

“W-Wanda,” you plead, hardly paying any mind to the way your voice trembles. “Please, I—I don’t want—”

“I do not enjoy punishing you, мила,” she laments, almost sounding genuinely apologetic. It tugs at your heartstrings in a curious way—something you really don’t have time to examine right now. “But you did something bad. And when you do bad things, there are consequences. You understand that, don’t you?”

A tear trickles down your cheek, warm and wet as you steel yourself for the first hit. “Y-Yes.”

“Good girl,” Wanda lauds, and you can’t help the surge of warmth that washes over you at the simple praise—the pride that blooms in your chest at knowing you’ve finally done something right. “Now—try and relax, принцеса, okay?”

It’s all the warning you get before the first blow comes down upon your bare arse with a resounding Crack!

White-hot pain flares across your bottom, racing up your spine like wildfire and tearing a strangled whimper from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt—

Crack!

Holy fuck.

The impact of the leather against your naked cheeks leaves strips of fire burning in its wake, expelling all the air from your lungs in a choked-out rush.

“P-Please, no, Wan’,” you beg breathlessly, struggling in vain even as coils of vibrant scarlet hold you fast, “it hurts, please—”

Crack!

“This is for your own good, baby,” Wanda coos, sounding for all the world as though she truly believes every word of it.

Crack! This one lands directly across your sit spot, ripping a shriek from your lips as molten agony rocks you to your core.

“Wan’—Fuck, please, no—”

Crack!

“G—God, fuck, pleasestop, please—”

Crack!

“P—Please, hurtssobad, I’m—”

Crack!

“FUCK !”

Tears stream down your cheeks, wetting the black duvet beneath your face. You’re absolutely beside yourself with torment, your bare ass aflame with a pain unlike any you’ve ever known.

Crack!

… And the hits just keep coming—raining down stripes of blistering heat across your sore, bruised buttocks; pummeling your throbbing, exposed rear until it feels as though the entire area has just become one puffy, pulsating bruise.

Crack!

All the fight has completely gone out of you; now, your body completely slack—devoid of any resistance even as every hit seems to sear itself into your impossibly tender bottom like a third-degree burn… The pain is absolutely incredible, unlike any else you’ve ever known.

You’ll do anything—and you really do mean anything—to make it stop.

“P-P-Please, stop it, Wanda, PLEASE—”

Crack! Another hit directly across your burning sit spot rips a watery sob from your throat, followed by—

Crack!

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating until you pass out.

Crack!

Agony blackens the edge of your vision, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks as you await another strike…

But it doesn’t come.

Wh—?

“Have you learned your lesson, мила?” Wanda asks, and this time, her voice comes from closer… like she’s right beside you.

You don’t have it in you to be startled when a feather-light kiss lands itself between your shoulder blades, nor when one hand begins stroking up and down your heaving torso in soothing motions.

“Y-Yes! I—please, God, yes,” you babble, overwhelmed by the sensation of unadulterated pain branding every inch of your battered arse. “I promise I’ll never, ever, ever do it again, Wan’—Won’t ever be with anyone else—jus-just please stop hurting me—I’ll be so good, please—”

“Shh,” Wanda shushes you tenderly. You feel yourself twitch as the mattress suddenly dips beside you. “It’s okay, любима,” she soothes, coming to rest beside you. “Just breathe, okay? Breathe.”

‘Breathe’...

Your pulse thunders in your ears; your ass is on fire with an anguish far beyond your years; and yet, there’s something undoubtedly soothing about her words as they wash over you in gentle waves… something that tells you you’re safe.

Were you a little more lucid, you might’ve found that quite the nonsensical paradox—this feeling of safety and security with the woman who’d just beaten your arse raw without mercy no matter how you wailed and sobbed and begged for her to stop.

But as it is, you’re not.

Instead, you’re just broken and teary-eyed and in pain, and Wanda’s tenderness is a most welcome respite to alleviate that excruciating ache.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, even if it burns your lungs something awful, and force yourself to let it out slowly.

In, out.

In… out.

“That’s it, мила,” Wanda praises gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re doing so well… Just like that.” Her fingers come to rest beneath your chin, urging you to turn and face her…

And you do, far too exhausted to even think of doing anything other than what she tells you to. Your lungs burn; your nose runs; and the pain in your bottom hasn’t abated any—if anything, it’s intensified.

You’re more than happy to be given something else to focus on.

When you look at her, her blue-green eyes are wet—glossy with tears.

“Wanda?” you manage weakly, feeling your brow crease with worry. “You ‘kay?”

Wanda sniffles, huffs out a watery-sounding laugh. “Yes, Y/N, I’m alright,” she whispers, then leans forth to plant a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. “I’m just so very, very proud of you.”

Despite yourself, you feel a pleased flush spread throughout your body at that. “Really?” you mumble, exhaustion drooping your eyelids until it’s a challenge just to keep them open.

Wanda nods, a tear sliding out of her eye that you yearn to reach forth and catch with your thumb—but alas, you’re far too weak. “Really.”

You hum, burrowing your face further into the duvet beneath your cheek—even if it is still damp with your tears. “‘M sorry I was bad, Wan’,” you murmur, feeling darkness near on every side. “Didn’t mean’ta make you upset.”

“I don’t like punishing you, принцеса,” she says once more, and this time, you have no reason to doubt that she means it. Honestly, you don’t know how you ever could. “It hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”

You hum again. Your eyelids feel too heavy to open. “‘M sorry,” you say. “Gonna do better… make you proud… I promise.”

Wanda chuckles. The sound of it makes your chest feel loose and warm and happy. “You already do, darling girl,” she murmurs. You don’t know if it’s because she’s whispering, or you’re fading into sleep, but you can barely hear her when she repeats it once more: “You already do.”

Sleep descends upon you, then, and you succumb to it willingly, feeling safer and more at peace than you have in a very long time.

— —

tagging:

[marvel]: @normanijauregui

— —

end notes: yeah i don’t know what this is either. i was only aiming for maybe 1,000 words or something, but things happened and...

look. i haven’t been to therapy in a hot minute, ok?

link to masterlist

#stuff i wrote #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x f!reader #f!reader #dark!wanda maximoff #dark!wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader #dark fic #mcu fic #marvel fic #scarlet witch x reader #dark!scarlet witch x reader #dark!scarlet witch #reader-insert #requested

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linkspooky · 3 years

Text

White Wolf, Black Wolf: Yuji and Geto

Dualism, is a common theme in Jujutsu Kaisen. There’s a difference between binary opposites and a completementary pair. Binary opposites supposes that two ideas are complete opposites of eachother, they are enemies and therefore cannot coexist. Death is the opposite of life. However, ideas like the concept of yin and yang suggest that these pairs are not opposites, or even enemies, they just exist alongside one another. The feminine yin contains a single dot of the masculine yang energy inside of it and vice versa.

This pattern repeats itself with both Geto and Yuji. Two characters who seem like they are complete opposites, enemies, hero and villain and yet have far more in common with one another than one might thing. Each of them represented by a wolf, Yuji the white wolf, and Geto the black.

Dualism - describing how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.

1. You and the Worst Person You Know Have More in Common than You Thought

Both Yuji and Geto are sharing their body with another existence. Not only that but a sorcerer from the previous era. Sukuna started out as a sorcerer, and one from the golden age of sorcerers. We don’t know who is in Geto yet, but they’ve made it clear several times that they’re not a sorcerer from this era, mockingly referring to the sorcerers of this era as beneath them. The difference is, Yuji is the dominant personality and Geto is the subordinate one. They even fight for control of their body in the same way, by grabbing their neck.

Both Yuji and Geto have died, and then been improbably brought back to life one time already and had their body healed by the same person who seeks to steal their body. They also both died in front of their other half, their friend, Yuji dies heroically in front of Megumi sacrificing himself so Megumi doesn’t have to call Mahoraga, and Geto dies as a villain after his plan has failed executed by Gojo. Even the days they die are opposites, Geto dies in a clear sky and Yuji dies in the rain.

They both eat curses. Geto eats them physically in order to store them and use them later. Yuji consumes Sukuna’s fingers in order to grow stronger. Geto’s Jujutsu is themed around his stomach, Sukuna’s is cooking themed.

Yuji and Geto are both have savior / martyr imagery attached to them. They’re both people who have died, and come back from the dead at least once, and the jesus imagery with Geto is clear and explicitly referenced in hidden inventory.

Yuji wants to be strong like Gojo, but it’s clear he follows Geto’s philosophy of wanting to save as many people as possible. What motivates him isn’t a clear and strong sense of individualism, but rather the idea that the strong are duty bound to help the weak. Even when Geto’s completely out of his mind he’s still guided by that principle, if he has the strength to do it, then he’s duty bound to try to change the world in the way he sees fit. The thing with Geto is his ideals are warped, but they’re still ideals, he has principles guiding him. These ideals also shockingly sound similiar to what Yuji says, and the burdens he wants to carry.

It’s something that doesn’t change about Geto from the start to the end of Hidden Invenotry, the strong are obligated to help the weak, it’s just Geto flipped. he sees the sorcerers as the weak and oppressed people, and the masses as the strong ones.

Geto and Yuji are both people heavily preoccupied with doing the right thing, whereas Gojo and Megumi kind of don’t care (Gojo) / have already accepted the fact (Megumi) that they’re not really saving people with their actions. Geto and Yuji are reckless saviors, they kind of just want to save everybody they see suffering in front of them immediately without thinking through the consequences of their actions. It’s never been seriously analyzed why Yuji feels so deadset on saving others, but from early on he seems to like the idea that it’s a burden that only he can take on himself. It’s something he must duty. The same way that Geto binds himself by the idea of duty.

Geto and Yuji are just people who will take the whole world on their shoulders, and this isn’t just a parallel I’m making it’s one directly made by the narrative. When worrying about Yuji’s future, Yaga thinks directly of Geto someone who became overwhelmed by everything on is shoulders.

Geto wasn’t able to carry on as he once did, because he couldn’t carry the regret with him. That’s the parallel that the story is making with Yuji, that’s the danger Yuji is in.

2. Worst Person You Know Makes a Good Point

Chapter 132 there’s a definite change in Yuji’s demeanor. While we haven’t seen the full results of his change yet, not only has he been phsically scarred on his face, but it’s clear the deaths of Nanami, the people killed by Sukuna, all have served to harden him. Nanami wanted Yuji to remain a child a little bit longer, but Yuji has now become a jujutsu sorcerer. However, the words he declares to Mahito have two clear connections to Geto. One, it’s what Geto said to Gojo to stop him from slaughtering the star plasma vessel cult in the moment.

Gojo has feelings of course, but he’s not moved by them the same way that Geto and Yuji are. Gojo was in need of a tether in that moment and Geto’s words became his tether. Remember Gojo became so powerful as the strongest one he felt like he was capable of anything without feeling it, even slaughtering people on mass, but in that moment Geto became the link that held him back and reminded him he was human.

What’s ironic is that Gojo was moved by Geto’s words and held himself back, whereas Geto wasn’t. It was Gojo who stuck to those words a year after the fact. He was the strongest, but he doesn’t ever act unless he carefully considers it. He doesn’t just throw power around or slaughter people the way that Geto does.

What Yuji is vowing to do right now, following his duty as a jujutsu sorcerer without even thinking about it, is exactly what drove Geto apeshit bananas (you see because he loves monkeys so much. It’s a, ‘yknow, it’s one of them jokes).

Yuji thinks he can just keep going on without thinking and being nothing more than a cog, but it’s exactly that kind of mechanical subservience that completely wore out Geto. Simply going through the motions without questioning it is given to us as the exact reason for Geto’s downfall, it’s one of the most chilling sequences in the manga.

People aren’t machines, and they aren’t gears, they break down when they try to conform that way. So while it’s understandable Yuji would want to push away all his thoughts in the moment, it’s also not healthy.

The reason Geto became the way he is, is because he realized the laws he was obeying weren’t as fair as he thought they were. He thought it was his duty, and obligation to help the masses, until he looked at his actions with closer scrutiny and realized that wasn’t really what motivated him. Geto thought what he was doing was good, that he would save people, but then Riko’s death was a reality check to him that no one was getting saved by the current system. Yuji seems to have done the opposite of Geto so far. Perhaps I won’t save people. Perhaps I’m just a cog in the machine and my actions truly don’t matter as long as I can keep fighting with my comrades as a jujutsu sorcerer. However, that’s probably not going to work for him.

Yuji’s current comfort in his moment of crisis is that he’s fighting together with all of his comrades, that he carries the wishes of people like Nanami and that’s why he has to keep going, but Yuji also might not have comrades in the jujutsu world after this. We already see people like Kusakabe beginning to turn against him because of Sukuna’s rampage in Shibuya.

So my intention in all of this is to say it’s not black and white. (Because, get it?? black wolf, white wolf??? Okay, I’m sorry I’ll shut up). Geto wasn’t an entirely bad person, there was good in him too. There was still good in him. This is what Getwo says when he’s beating on Yuji, that if Geto had used his forces more like disposable pawns instead of family telling them to fall back and making sure they all lived he would have won.

The worst person you know, was still a human being who loved his family with all of is heart. Ideas like this challenge Yuji’s simplified reasons for fighting, and his naive view of the world.

At the end of the day Yuji and Geto have lots of similarities. They’re opposite colors, Geto black, Yuji white, but they are both still wolves. They’re both moved by deep emotions they feel at the pit of their stomachs. They’re both people who sympathize with others and want to save them, and at the same time get angry and want to kill their enemies. None of this is bad about Yuji in fact it’s what makes him unique among shonen protagonist, he’s not a wholly good person, but just as flawed as anyone else in the story. Nobara’s crazy, Megumi’s crazy, Gojo’s crazy, and then there’s Yuji who should have been the normal one who grew up with a normal life and who is just as crazy as all the rest.

If anything the parallels between Yuji and Geto show that Yuji is someone who has the chance to grow stronger than Geto by learning from Geto’s fault. Geto tried to carry too much, until the burden of saving the world broke him and he decided he could only save a few people the rest were just monkeys. It’s up to Yuji now to figure out what saving people means, and how he can help others without getting destroyed by the sense of responsibility or just killing himself and dying before he’s helped a single person. However, for Yuji to learn to be better he actually has to think about these things.

That’s also the second parallel to the “I don’t need to think about it’ Scene. (Besides, Sukuna who also declares that he’ll kill for no reason.) In the original Geto fight in the prequel manga Yuta declares this. He doesn’t know whether Geto is right or not, he doesn’t know anything about the world of Jujutsu he just wants to protect his friends.

Geto calls him egotistical. In the sense that just like a child, he’s only really thinking about himself and his own emotions. Of course Yuta thinks that way because he is a child, a traumatized teenager at that. However, one important detail about this fight is defeating Geto did not cause him to go away. Killing him didn’t actually fix the problem. Geto just came back a year later with somebody else in his body.

I think this is all leading up to a point for Yuji where he gives some serious self examination as a protagonist. It’s not enough for Yuji to just defeat his enemies. We even see that when after is triumphant moment with Mahito, Geto just wipes the floor with him.

Jujutsu Kaisen presents a very complex world, that’s not just black and white, not just winning and losing. The next big step in Yuji’s character development is probably going to be realizing this. That he needs to seriously think about his reason. That he needs to think about what he wants to do in the future. It’s not enough for him to sacrifice his life to save someone else, he’s not a hero, or some martryr to a cause. I think the most important thing Yuji has to learn at the end of all of this is to actually live, and find out why he’s alive instead of resigning himself to the fact that he’ll get executed one day. It’s only then Yuji will be able to reach his full potential as both a jujutsu sorcerer and a person.

He’s just a kid you know? The theme of the manga is kids should get to be kids. Yuji should get to grow up just like everybody else, instead of dying before he’s even old because he ate Sukuna’s finger to help someone else.

#itadori yuji #yuji itadori #geto suguru #suguru geto #jjk meta #jujutsu kaisen meta #jujutsu kaisen theory #jujutsu kaisen analysis #jujutsu kaisen

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jesusology · 3 years

Text

Haruka theory and thoughts under the read more! just me going through the MV and voicing aloud some thoughts, let me know what you guys think too!

（*´▽｀*）also this is super long i

opening scene! the necklace is obviously important to him. also it’s very cute. nothing to say abt this in particular but i just think it’s really cute

love the background choice and how the room looks in general. gives me a big liminal space vibe. i promise i’m getting to actual theorizing in a second here just

love how the scenery from the window changes when it switches back and forth between him and his younger self (?). i’ve tried searching what the symbolism is of a red sky (if there is any) and i did see that it could mean “the end” or it could be symbolic of danger and what’s to come.

ugh i love the water thing going on. first off, i’m a huge sucker for water imagery and the like and so you KNOW i go gaga for this. it has to be because haruka feels like he’s constantly drowning, like he’s suffocating on his emotions.

i’ve watched this MV at least fifty times and this still gets me upset. pretty obvious that what’s going on here is some form of emotional abuse as well as a co-dependence on Haruka’s part. Haruka clearly has a learning disability and it’s nothing he can control but the people in his life are blaming him for it and so he blames himself, too.

evidence of emotional abuse, being told things like how he’s pitiful or not smart, etc and of course Haruka is going to believe that hence why he’s always calling himself dumb and feeling like when he’s around others he’ll only make them sad because that’s exactly how it was for him at home.

also like how the background is all gray and gloomy and there’s his childish scribbling of a monster (?) hovering over. could be symbolic of a threat to what’s his normal life, like it could end so suddenly

the world around Haruka is changing. his parents are changing (i’m assuming they’re divorced but i don’t think that’s ever made explicitly clear), he’s growing up, but he also feels exactly the same maturity wise. he may be increasing in age but he still is exactly the same and the change is unnerving to Haruka and it’s become noticeable to his parents that he’s not “growing up” and doing “normal” things. his learning disability is holding him back from becoming what’s so normal for society, what’s accepted in society.

so he’s viewed as “weak”, it’s his ‘weakness’. and society eats the weak.

i feel like Haruka’s parents (perhaps namely his mom)(or maybe it was both his mom and his dad but Haruka’s thinking more about his mom because he was closer to her) were becoming fed up with Haruka’s inability to learn what is supposed to be ~oh so natural~ and ~normal~ so they quickly began to get frustrated. also, that drawing behind Haruka appears later i think....

Haruka realizes and recognizes what’s going on and this, in turn, makes him have feelings of self-loathing. why can’t he do what anyone else can? why is everything around him so different but he’s the same? why is he getting taller, having more expectation placed upon him when it’s just too hard for him? Haruka is grappling with these thoughts constantly and it’s making him feel like he’s drowning and no one cares to pull him up out of the water.

i’m gonna be honest, i have no clue what to make of the girl with him at the fireworks but i DO know that the fireworks are really important to him because i recall him answering that it was his cherished memory and he goes on to say the most expensive thing he’s bought was cotton candy and i’ll venture to say that it was at this fireworks festival.

i got nothing to add to this but i just love that line and it is important for you all to know this

are those yellow roses or marigolds? i’m thinking maybe they’re yellow roses which can mean either “jealousy” or “thinking of you”

i could be going off a wrong assumption here, but hey this is all just guess-work anyway... did he accidentally push the girl? and it somehow led to her death or at the very least a severe injury? i’m willing to bet it was more of an injury than death, but even so.

and if he DID push her, now it’s coming to light? like he did that, it was his fault (even if it was an accident, he would no doubt blame himself), and he’s a bad person who is only good for causing harm to others.

as someone who also sleeps with like five stuffed bunny animals, solidarity between me and Haruka. i want that rabbit it looks so cute

YAA there it is again! i don’t know what the heck it means but there it is!

the dog gives me pause because i’m not entirely sure what to make of it but i DO think this is where it’s important to remind people that the MV’s are based upon the prisoner’s own perception (i think. if i’m wrong, please correct me) and so we’re getting a lot of this from a biased standpoint.

again, emotional abuse that might seem “”””Harmless””””” to others but it’s anything EXCEPT.

did the dog run away? was he given the dog and Haruka now blames himself for letting the dog run off and perhaps the dog got hit by a car? (;﹏;) i feel like something that’s important is just how much self-hatred Haruka has and his tendency to blame himself for outside factors. i don’t think he LITERALLY killed the dog, but he feels as though he did so it’s become figurative.

also as far as his dislikes being “children” and “animals”, i think he’s jealous of them, maybe? like that could tie into the yellow roses and their symbolism signifying jealousy and envy. he’s jealous of the inherent “innocence” associated with them. he’s getting older, so that “innocence” that’s accepted with THEM is no longer being used with HIM. Haruka has what’s deemed as “childish” interests and i get the feeling he’s made to feel badly about it. no doubt his disability is tied in with this.

there’s those flowers again. and Haruka tries to drown his wants/needs in order to try and “repent” for being the way he is. it’s HIS fault, so he has to think everything is fine even though he’s NOT fine and he’s going to break at some point under the pressure of society/his parents/everything.

Haruka makes an effort to try to understand things in the beginning, but everytime he questions something that’s really ~obvious~ to everyone else he’s met with disappointed gazes and harsh critiques. so he stops trying to understand what he’s apparently ~lacking~ and he stops asking questions because that’s it! he’s dumb! he doesn’t get it so why bother!

i feel like by this point any praise to Haruka is better than nothing. rather than indifference or being ignored, he’d even rather be called “crazy”. i think Haruka just wants ANY attention be it good or bad - what he hates the most is feeling invisible or as if he could disappear and it wouldn’t matter to anyone.

i still feel like the blood on his hands is more figurative than literal and for reasons i’ve already explained so there’s no need to rehash it like i’m trying to meet an essay word count requirement

me too Haruka （；へ：）

his feelings of sadness and being unwanted turn to anger onto HIMSELF and it is what snaps the very thin thread he’s been living on

choking himself ties into the water motif we’ve got going on here. the drowning, the suffocation - no longer being able to breathe because everything is broken and it’s unfixable. and he’s the reason why.

i feel like his crime is somehow suicide/attempted suicide but if it IS suicide then i really don’t know how he could be with the other prisoners? unless they’re all dead and this is some form of purgatory or something but otherwise? i don’t know. i just feel like it could be suicide

now i will also say this. the puddle of blue surrounding “him” has to be blood and that kind of makes me wonder if i’ve been barking up the wrong tree here but. idk any ideas anyone else has on this would be appreciated and also please talk to me about MILGRAM because i’ve got a badddd obsession

what Haruka wants more than anything is attention and love. he wants love and yet it’s difficult for him to accept love because he doesn’t seem to have any “experience” with love. in the questions asked to him, he doesn’t even seem to really know what “love” actually is. he considers “liking” and “loving” to be the same thing, there’s no difference to him. if he’s getting attention it might not even matter to him because at this point something is better than nothing.

so yes! this is messy. and it’s perhaps even incoherent. if you read this thanks for coming to my TED talk i love Haruka so much. it’s probably become obvious that i’m a little biased bc i relate to him a lot. let me know your own theories too or thoughts on this, i’d like to know hehe （*´▽｀*）

#MILGRAM #haruka sakurai #milgram theories #i mention suicide in this as a heads up!#i cant believe i just spent like an hour writing this. hm. i am in deep #i relate to He.... and i love him #i wrote all of this at 3 AM bc i am off my rocker

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blush-and-books · 3 years

Text

always you-shaped thoughts inside my head

so, we found wonderland, the amazing fanfic by @pink-flame ended this week. as a result of my deep and sorrowful mourning, i wrote a fanfic for a fucking fanfic. yes, everyone, we have reached that point. so if you’re one of the unfortunate souls who hasn’t read it then you can start here and do not read this if you don’t want spoilers babes!!!!

anyways, i don’t want to talk about how much i cried when i wrote this. moving on. title from find u again by mark ronson ft. camila cabello and once again THANK YOU @pink-flame FOR THIS WORK, I LOVED IT, I LOVE YOU, ENJOY

A/N: the first part of this is a reimagining of a scene from the story, and the second part is more of a deleted scene. grab tissues if you’re one who cries easily. also tagging @bluefirewrites because i kept texting you while writing this

Julie doesn’t know in what timeline she thought that going to the bookstore would be a good idea.

Even with her back flat against the wall and Luke’s book clutched identically between her hands and the palms of every other eager fan in the room, she felt like she was too close. Like this was a mistake.

She was the one who insisted they don’t look for each other.

But here they were. Him, with a poem that crossed time with the silent, lost plea for her to come back to him; her, who chose to answer the call even if she knew she shouldn’t have. Julie should have realized that she couldn’t avoid him forever. Their paths were meant to cross in every universe.

When he takes the stage, she doesn’t shatter. Yet.

People are swamped beside her and Flynn on all sides, and she still feels like it’s just the two of them. Once he’s in her line of sight, it’s only him in the room, only him that exists.

In a world where she’s jumped to and from across time, Luke may be the most real thing she’s ever known.

The words he says as he reads and answers questions hit her ears as just a series of tones and syllables that are achingly familiar. He’s laughing through one of the book’s anecdotes and suddenly she’s back in the arcade, laughing with him at the pinball machine. He’s talking about the rush of playing their first sold-out show, and she’s back in the greenroom as he heatedly kisses her up against a wall after she spent so much time fighting for him to love her again.

He’s reading about his parents, and she’s back on that pull-out couch that was only comfy when he was in it; listening to him whisper about their fragmented relationship.

But then a 20-year-old pokes him about the poem. And he says he loves her -- well, not explicitly, but he says it’s about love -- and the other shoe drops.

Tears inundate her eyes.

“I have to go,” her voice shakes as a sob threatens to rip through her words. Flynn offers to join, but Julie needs fresh air and to be alone and to just let her tears fall onto the asphalt of an alleyway without feeling the need to explain herself. She will always be alone in these emotions, in this heartbreak, and that’s okay -- she just doesn’t want anyone to act like they get it.

So she passes her book to Flynn, urges her to get it signed, and flees out the side door.

Right before she’s out, the 20-year-old presses on about Find Me: “Well, what if they came to you now? What if they found you? Wouldn’t you be happy to see them?”

The exit slams shut behind her and she doesn’t get to hear his answer.

“Well, what if they came to you now? What if they found you? Wouldn’t you be happy to see them?”

Flynn watches intently as Luke’s eyes darken. The book feels heavy in her hands, and she feels like she is suddenly intruding on an intimate moment between Luke and Julie -- even with Julie gone.

She didn’t always understand what happened with her best friend. But this was clearly a mind, body and soul situation.

Luke has to clear his throat and blink rapidly before answering. “God, sorry, that one caught me a little!” The audience chuckles. “No one’s asked me that so far on this tour. That’s a good question. I probably think about it more than I should, but… I mean, first of all, they wouldn’t come and find me. I know them well enough to know that Find Me just… Went out into the universe with no expectation of a response. But if they decided too, I… I’d wanna make sure they were happy. And I’d probably thank them one more time for everything they did when I was younger. I would probably be in shock, honestly. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

Flynn is wiping her nose with a stray tissue from her purse before she can even register that she’s started crying.

The random people in the back row with her send her strange looks, wondering why she’s getting so emotional, but hearing Luke talk about her best friend like that…

“Do you still love them?”

God, this person won’t give him a break!

The rockstar visibly tenses up, and the easy grin plastered on his face breaks. That’s when his manager hustles onstage and announces that they are going to start the signing; and everyone needs to start lining up.

Flynn has to fight to get farther up in line, but it’s worth it when she reaches him.

“Hi,” he smiles, “who should I make it out to?”

The word makes her tongue feel like lead. “Julie.”

His head snaps up, and he’s fully looking at her for the first time. There are a thousand Julie’s in the world, but he knows it’s his.

“I’m her best friend,” Flynn continues, shifting her teary eyes down to her converse because fuck Julie wasn’t kidding when she said his eyes were intense sometimes.

“Flynn.”

“Oh... She told you-”

“Where is she? Is she here?”

She’s not even looking at him, but he sounds so desperate, and the water in her eyes swells as she glances at the exit off to her side. “Not right now. But she wanted me to get this signed for her.”

Luke’s Sharpie doesn’t move across the inside cover. In fact, he’s frozen; staring off in the distance with what Flynn is sure must be a whirlwind of emotion that he didn’t ask for. Flynn isn’t sure how to handle it -- they’re in public, and she’s minorly concerned she just sent him spiraling, and they don’t even know each other -- but she feels the need to relay a message since he’ll never get to hear it from Julie himself.

“She…” Luke looks back up at her; eyes boring into hers in a way that could tug the truth out of anybody. As she blinks, an enthusiastic tear drops onto her cheek, and she instantly lifts her index finger under her eye to catch anything else. “Fuck, my eyeliner. Sorry. Anyways-”

The words get caught in her throat again, so she has to take another deep breath. Helping star-crossed lovers communicate when they are almost thirty years apart is more emotionally taxing than she anticipated.

“She’s really proud of you,” Flynn finally manages with a voice squeakier and higher than she ever wants to hear it again. Another tear falls from her other eye. “She loves y- your music, and hopes that you have everything you wanted and she’s so proud of you for everything you’ve built.”

At this point, the crumpled tissue in her hand has been helping her dry her eyes because standing in front of Luke Patterson and trying to tell him that the love of his life still cares -- still watches from afar, still wants the world for him -- is making her realize the emotional turmoil that Julie must have been feeling all this time.

How did she do it?

In front of her, Luke is rubbing his hands over his face and audibly takes a deep, sniffly breath in. Turning to the same woman who got onstage to transition the event before, he informs her: “I need to get some air.”

“Luke, where are you-”

But he’s already forcefully pushing himself back in his chair, grasping the book off of the signing table, and darting out the same exit that Julie stormed through ten minutes ago.

When the manager turns to look at Flynn -- she bolts away and towards the front entrance. If Julie and Luke are about to meet in that alleyway, she doesn’t want to intrude. Even if she already fucked up both of their plans to never see each other again.

Julie is still hyperventilating and sobbing in the alleyway when the emergency exit loudly flings open against the wall of the bookstore. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself with a childish prayer to have Teddy Luke in her arms, because at least then there would be a little piece of him to stay with her when the rest of him is gone.

She’s expecting Flynn, or an employee on their smoke break, but not-

“Luke.”

“Julie.”

A whimper leaves her lips at hearing him say her name for the first time in so long. His own eyes are glassy, and even though he’s so much older his eyes are still the same. He’s still her Luke, and that’s such a dangerous idea to touch in this timeline but she can’t let it go.

“I’m so sorry,” she wails, trying to avoid looking at his heartbroken expression for too long. “I know, I said we can’t do this, I just-”

“Julie.”

“Did you want me to find you?”

Air puffs from his mouth in a harsh sigh as he takes a few steps closer to her; incredulously focused on the fact that she’s there, in front of him, real. “I- Of course, of course I did, Julie. I just didn’t think you’d come. But I wanted you to know I was looking.”

Her eyelids fall shut. More tears are pushed out, and she doesn’t know if she’s crying or laughing because of course Luke would look even when she told him not to. He respected her, and he respected her wishes, but he could never help himself from pushing the boundaries.

Achingly, she’s always been so grateful for that trait in him.

But now the two of them are awkwardly standing only a few feet away, and the urge to just feel him, assure that he’s solid in front of her is becoming all too real.

Gravel rolls under the soles of her shoes. “I loved the book,” she confesses. “All of the stories. I mean, I’m sorry about the- About your splits-”

“I shouldn’t have even tried with them-”

“But everything else, just…”

How does she say it?

“When- Back when, in the other timeline, and you guys were ghosts… Those stories were the kind of thing you had always wanted. You were so determined to get it, and-” She sniffles. “I’m so glad you got it.”

His lips turn downward. It’s a flash of the familiarly frustrated Luke who is trying to make a tough decision, but in this case, she doesn’t know what that decision is. All she sees is the wince at her saying it was what he wanted, and how happy she was that he got it, and-

A conceited part of her contemplates if he’s about to correct her, tell her that life hasn’t been great, say that he would have rather had it differently; but he doesn’t want her to think her sacrifice was for nothing.

Oh, God, please say he’s happy. She doesn’t think she could handle anything less.

“It’s thanks to you,” he responds instead, gulping down any more that threatens to come up. “You saved me.” Beat. “Are- Are you happy? Is everything in this timeline okay?”

Well, in her head, not exactly. Of course she still had her dad and brother and Flynn, but Sunset Curve never stayed together, she erased Carrie’s entire existence, and everything felt just a little tilted on its axis. Julie felt like a stranger in a world of her own creation.

She yearned for the days back in Wonderland where everyone belonged. They were a little scarred and a little broken, but they were home. Her house from the original 2020 timeline was her home. Luke was her home, and he was right in front of her; the only security blanket she has right now.

Once again, she finds herself bursting into tears and wanting so badly to reach out to him, to give him a hug and tell him she wishes that she stayed in bed in Wonderland with him forever. She wants to jump back down the black hole and go back to 1995 when things made more sense than they did now and Luke could be hers again; and not a distant love that could never materialize in the present.

Julie, miraculously, holds herself back. But watching Luke’s hands flinch at the sight of her crying doesn’t make things easier.

“Please don’t cry.” His voice is a whisper but the words hit with a force that almost buckles her knees. “Julie, please, take a deep breath.”

She takes in a breath that makes her lungs expand into her ribs. “I’m happy,” she lies through her teeth as she breathes out slowly. “I’m happy. We’re happy.”

“Good.”

Tears are running down his face. She recalls a time where it was easy for her to hold his face and swipe under his eyes with her thumbs until there were no more tears for her to kiss away.

In unison, they clear their throats and shift their eyes. The air changes; they know they’re in a public place again, and Luke is an adult musician, and he’s with a fan. He holds his hand up, the one that has the book, and shakes it a little back and forth.

“Flynn said you wanted this signed?”

A watery smile blooms on her face in spite of the bitter moment. “Yeah,” she nods. “Thought it could be another memento.”

To put emphasis on the idea, she lifts up onto her tiptoes and tilts her voice up. Make it a more positive moment. Don’t dwell. Stop crying.

You can’t change things now.

Luke pops the cap off with his teeth, and toys around with it in his mouth like it’s one of his marked-up guitar picks as he holds the book open and scribbles something (probably illegible) on the inside of the front cover.

Then, once he’s done there, he starts flipping the pages around like he knows where every detail of the story is and marks up certain pages with… Something. She doesn’t know. After he’s made his wanted notes, he writes something out on the last page before firmly shutting it and returning it to her possession.

“Thank you,” she smiles simply as she pulls the book from his hands and carefully assures that their hands don’t overlap. If she touches him, she falls apart.

Luke hums in response.

Stupidly, Julie decides that moment to open up the book and see what he wrote while he’s standing right in front of her. But she isn’t thinking about him, or looking at him -- she’s looking at the inside cover.

We were always meant to find each other. Don’t forget that - please.

Yours,

Luke

When a tear drops on the page, she quickly turns farther into the book because she doesn’t want her feelings to ruin his beautiful, even if messy, words. These words are all she’ll have after today.

The few pages in the book that he made notes on were just little things that she never knew she needed to hear.

The chapter about his first sold out stadium show? Thought of you the whole time

When he heard he was nominated for a Grammy? Wanted to call you first

The night he won his first Grammy? Almost thanked you in my speech

The last page he wrote on was the Acknowledgements page. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t that long. Luke kept a core circle of people and that was that. But below that short list, in bold, black letters:

To Julie Molina, who sacrificed everything so that I could be able to tell these stories. I wish she could have been a part of them.

Her tears slip from her face so clear and quickly that she’s surprised her tear ducts are generating such a mass amount. The words replay in her head, in Luke’s voice, over and over. The affirmation that he wanted her with him all this time.

But she had to go again. This had to be a one-time thing. This hurt too much for her to put either of them through it again, and besides -- now she had closure in his own writing; with her tears notarizing each word.

“It’s time, Julie,” she mutters to herself. “It’s time.”

To say goodbye. Again.

But Luke never answers. It’s dead silent, even though cars should be racing on the road behind them. When she looks up, Luke is frozen to the spot. Everything is, except her.

“Time is a funny thing isn’t it? Just when you think you have a handle on it, it manages to surprise you.”

It’s Willie, but not actually Willie. The one who was giving her the clues and trying to lead her in directions all over 1995; the one who she hasn’t seen in a really, really long time. For a moment, she doesn’t believe it.

But he tells her that fate is in her hands. This is her choice. And despite the doubt that lingers uneasily in her chest, she can’t help but be desperate for this to be real.

“Why not you? Who better than Julie Molina? Teenage girl with a good heart and music in her soul. Braver than most. Why not you?”

Julie jumped across time to save her boys, and now she is willing to make the trip again if it means there’s a chance of saving them all.

But there’s one more thing she wants to do. Just before everything either is perfect again or goes to complete shit.

Spinning away from Willie, she takes a second glance at Luke’s still frame and softens her face into a smile. He had been looking down at her while she was reading his notes with tears in his eyes and a sad grin on his face.

No one is looking or judging anymore -- so she stands on her toes and throws her arms around his neck, squeezing him close even if he can’t hug her back. She’s been dying to do this since she saw him in the bookstore.

And it feels like coming home.

“I’ll find you again,” she whispers into his ear that probably isn’t listening. “I promise.”

And without any more hesitation, she turns back to Willie with her chin up and shoulders back.

“What do I have to do?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The book never finds its way back to her the way that the bear does or the way that the ring does.

But that’s okay, because the bookstore does, and she’s with Luke when she registers that they are walking by the bookstore on their way to meet everyone at one of their favorite diners.

By now, Luke had been told everything. She felt herself starting to fall in love with this third Luke just as she had all the others, but could never tell if he was falling back in love with her. Julie found herself -- while this timeline was infinitely better than the old one -- pining for Luke to come back to her and love her like he did in two other lifetimes.

Their hands were brushing each other’s on the sidewalk when the bookstore sign met her eyes.

“Jules?”

Her feet are glued to the cement; her eyes are glued to the alleyway. Luke approaches behind her and lays a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

“Jules, are you- Is everything okay?”

“Can we take a detour, really quick?”

And suddenly, he’s letting her lace her fingers through his and pull him through traffic -- no crosswalk in sight -- across the street to stand in front of a bookstore that has zero meaning to him whatsoever. Julie selfishly revels in his calluses rubbing her knuckles and doesn’t make a move to let go unless he will.

He doesn’t. At least, until they hit the alleyway.

“Julie, what is this place? Why are we out here? Is this… Did I like it here, or something?”

They never spoke much about the Luke’s of other timelines. Julie quickly caught onto the fact that he got uncomfortable when she talked about guys with his name and face that he knew virtually nothing about even though he felt pressured to know everything.

But he dealt with her when she had moments like these. She never thanked him properly for it.

“It wasn’t like that,” she shakes her head, “we were here in the other 2020. The one where you were older, and this huge Grammy-winning solo musician. The one that was a result of what I did in 1995.”

The exit door is still rusty on the hinges. The brick is the same shade of red, and-

“Okay… And? What did you guys do?”

His use of third person is a clear message. “Him and I had made this promise in ‘95 that we wouldn't find each other, right?” “Because he would be old.”

“Yeah. But he published this book and had a whole signing tour called Find Me, and Flynn told me we should go, and… Basically, I had a mental breakdown at seeing him, and then he came back here and signed the book for me, and we talked, and-”

Her voice cracks. Her eyes feel wet.

Fuck.

Can’t she make it one timeline without sobbing in an alleyway?

A familiar hand rubs up and down her back as she stares, firmly, at the spot where her and Luke were so vividly standing and talking and pining for the other.

“Jules, hey, look at me.”

Because it’s Luke -- because it’s her Luke -- she listens to him, and rotates to face him. The soft fabric of his shirt hits her cheeks as he presses his fingers into the cotton and lifts his hand to wipe the tears from her face in a gesture that tempts her to cry more. Instead, she tries to laugh it off. “God, I really need to stop having meltdowns in alleyways, huh?” He stays quiet; looking at her in a recognizable Luke way that reminds her of all of their loving times in other lives. But she can’t get her hopes up. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like when I talk about it. Sometimes I just-”

“You need to,” he nods. “I get it.”

Her feet are planted identically where they were in alternate-2020. But Luke is in a different spot, because this is a new Luke. One that’s right in front of her, lightly holding her arms; not one that’s a few feet out of reach.

“He told me that we would always find each other.” Her voice is watered down, and quiet, but Luke is close enough to hear it.

“Well, he was right, wasn’t he? We did it. For like, the fourth time, according to you.”

And then, she’s hit with a Luke Patterson smile. She sees it all of the time now but it never gets old because he’s young, and he’s happy, and he’s here.

Her lips turn up to reflect it, and in a shocking turn of events: Luke instigates the hug.

They are nearly best friends, so they’ve hugged before. But this one is different.

His arms fold around her shoulders and tug her close and snug into his chest so that his chin is nearly resting on her hair. This leaves her able to press him close to her with her arms wrapped tightly and lovingly around his waist -- almost, dare she say it, like he was a teddy bear.

“I never said I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her forehead. “Or thank you, for that matter.” “For what?” “I’m sorry you went through so much for me. For us. It still affects you a lot and I’m sorry you have to carry that alone.” His chest rises and falls under her cheek as he takes a deep breath, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of feeling him breathe or hearing his heartbeat. “And thank you for loving us enough to do it. You sacrificed a lot.”

She is too choked up to verbally comment -- but she squeezes him tighter, almost tempting her arms to swish through him.

They don’t.

And Luke continues talking after a moment of a peaceful silence. “It’s kind of cool, though, for me to think about this person I have in the universe. You know? The whole thing with us finding each other. I always have you, no matter where I am. You’ll be out there.”

“Always,” she sighs into his chest, because she can’t help it. It took them a few tries, but here they are: In the same timeline, with full family and friends and lives, in a reciprocated hug.

“Always.” Luke repeats the word, almost feeling it out in his mouth. “Well, thanks for doing it again. Maybe let me do the work next time. You need a break.”

God, this Luke is always so good at making her laugh. Ghost-Luke was, too, but the other Luke’s and her were always swept up in emotionally-taxing situations for her to be laughing like she could when she was with this Luke.

It was almost as if this one had practice. Maybe those other lives were kicking in.

He was her final Luke, hopefully.

As she props her chin up on his chest, she gives him the widest grin she’s worn all day. “I would appreciate that. Just don’t take too long.” Her forehead nuzzles itself into his neck as she settles herself back into his arms; fully content to be wrapped up in him for as long as he will let her stay. “I’ll get worried.”

A soothing hand over her hair is all the confirmation she needs.

“Don’t worry, Boss. I’ll be there.”

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #juke #jukebox #jatp fanfic #juke fanfic #we found wonderland

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

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Persephone's Symphony | Day Two / Part One | Hades

Hey lovelies this isn't completely done (this chapter, I mean) but this was a good spot to post it because it's been a while and I'm proud of this part. The next part will be about the same length (I'm guessing) and will be the long awaited bathtub scene! enjoy, and sorry for how ramble-y this chapter is. It's on purpose LOL!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: PTSD in action on both parts, self-loathing

Word count: 2.7k

Previous | Next

Master List

Maybe saying yes is the wrong answer. It certainly goes against the protocol his commander explicitly told him to follow.

Stay inside, Barnes. Keep the curtains closed, limit the amount of lights on inside the house. Don’t let her out of your sight— not even for a second.

It was all basic, day one things that any rookie would know. Bucky is a lot of things but he isn’t a rookie— he’s been around the block his fair share of times and then some. Still, the last thing his commander had told him rings through his ears as he crosses the threshold of the Wilson’s family residence and feels the sun, warm and steady on his face— and on his one, good arm— for the first time in twenty-four hours.

Be a ghost, Barnes, or you might just become one; you understand me?

Bucky had answered yes, again— obviously. Maybe that’s just a thing he does; saying yes when he doesn’t know what else to say. Saying yes when he should be saying anything but.

But what?

But it’s not like it really matters— there was no other choice that time. He’s a soldier, he was given his orders, and— whether he likes it or not— Bucky always follows his orders.

The door creaks shut behind him, a little loud for his liking but the sound of the willow trees snapping in the yard are enough to drown it out for the most part— Well, Bucky always follows most of his orders.

That was also before everything went straight to hell, though— before no one thought to tell him that he's not dealing with a victim; he’s dealing with a survivor. Fucking military— he should have known they’d leave the important details out. They’ve been shoddy since the forties, always squirreling away information from the little guys. Eighty years later, one hundred and six years old, and he’s still a little guy. No closer to gaining an invite to the big kid table than he was at twenty-six when he still had two good arms. If anything he’s further away now, begging for scraps when there was once a point in his life where he at least had a seat somewhere.

With someone.

Nothing’s changed— nothing will change and he doesn’t expect it to— but this time there’s a difference.

There’s a big one.

It’s the canyon between grief and watching your family get slaughtered in front of you; the insurmountable jump from longing for those you’ve lost and having them ripped away from you so violently that you can’t function. Can’t sleep. Wake up scared. Jump away from every touch, every noise, like every shattered vase is out to personally kill you—

Why the fuck wouldn’t they tell him that the girl he’s supposed to be protecting has PTSD? He may be old— the term may be different now— in his day they used to call it shellshock— but it’s yet another thing that hasn’t changed. Nothing ever changes; not really— not for him.

Soldier.

Scientist.

Same fucking difference— the signs are still the same and she has all of them.

He would know— he should have known from the moment he walked through the door— they should have told him!

He saw the pictures. Saw the scarlet circles and lifeless eyes and blood. Fuck, there was so much blood and that was just a grainy photpgraph from a junky projector! He couldn’t smell it— couldn’t taste it— through the pictures but he has an imagination— well, what’s left of one at least. He can’t say he didn’t leave most of his creativity in those hills of Austria— gods only know he left most of everything else there— but even if he had left all of it he wouldn’t have to dig far for a memory of his own. They don’t tell you as a soldier that fresh blood smells like rotting honey— that it lingers in your clothes and hair and on your goddamn lips for hours.

Soldier.

Shooter.

Fucking psychopath with a gun and one arm and snow still shoved so far down his throat that he can’t breathe—

No, if they don’t bother telling their soldiers then there’s no way anyone thought to tell the cherry pie angel. They probably thought it would ruin her sweetness. They probably didn’t even think to tell her at all. Bucky definitely didn’t. He should have. If he had, maybe he would have been able to catch her before the flies ate through her wings completely. Maybe if he had just done his damn job instead of being sucked in by the sticky marmalade of her laughter then he would have seen the way she was melting right in front of his face. July in Brooklyn does that to a person.

It brings the flies to the cherry pie.

The flies to the rotting honey.

The flies to too fucking late— he had twenty-four hours and instead of doing something he just let her sink. Some guard dog he is.

Bucky watches as she gingerly sits on the edge of the white swing, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She lifts her feet as soon as she’s down, toes hanging a good few inches off the ground as they curl around the thick bayou air, clenching and unclenching rhythmically. They never touch the bamboo mat and her eyes never lift from the shoreline— not even when he takes a couple measured steps towards her. It’s unnerving, to say the very least.

“We can’t stay out here too long.” Bucky isn’t used to speaking this quietly but it feels like if he doesn’t level his voice to match the whispering of the wind across the bulrushes then he’ll be hurting her more than he already has.

Her answer isn’t any louder than his— the only reason he even hears it at all is because he refuses to look away from her. He only hears her because his eyes are already on her lips, willing her to stop sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. Please, please, please stop—

“I just need a few minutes.”

Her eyes are wide and rimmed with red, toes continuing to work against the breeze with the same automatic movements. Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench. He doesn’t understand. It’s like she’s trying to work the feeling back into them— or maybe like she doesn’t know that she’s doing it at all. Hell, if the way her eyes have glassed over means anything then he would wager that there’s a good chance she doesn’t even fully know she’s outside. Yeah, that’s shellshock alright. Clench. Unclench. Clench. He doesn’t realize he’s copying her movements until his jaw aches.

Unclench.

“I know, doll. I—” He finally tears his gaze from her rigid figure— from her bruised lips— looking as well to the horizon. Maybe she’s on to something; maybe the waves will tell him how to help her— “I know.”

Can they tell him how to help himself? He shuffles forward again, stopping at the edge of the swing, gaze sweeping from the water to the barriers of the premise. Who is he kidding— of course they can’t. This isn’t about his salvation anymore. Those days have more than come and gone. Now it’s about hers— it’s about an assignment and keeping ten toes and ten fingers connected to two legs and two arms. Right now is about an order and Bucky Barnes can certainly follow orders— maybe that’s all he can do.

He gives the shaking girl who— despite everything— is swathed so prettily in the shade of the porch another once over.

Maybe but maybe not too.

Maybe he can’t follow orders at all.

Maybe he can’t afford to think about it for too long.

Because if he can’t follow orders then what can he do?

Bucky is still staring at her when she speaks again but her sudden words still make him jump nonetheless. “There’s room.” Her voice falters for a moment, lips hanging open and eyes faraway, before she continues. “If you want to sit, I mean. There’s room.”

He shouldn’t— he knows he shouldn’t, sitting isn’t a part of his orders— but he does. He couldn’t say no to her if he wanted to.

“Thanks.”

He definitely doesn’t want to say no to her.

“Sure.” Her voice is barely a hum— barely there at all— and he can’t choose whether to look at her lips or her fingers, which are now following suit.

Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench.

It’s an impossible decision— much like the ones from his days as a soldier— but it demands a choice from him nonetheless— unlike the ones from his days as a pawn. Her nails drag over the wood, snagging every so often, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Clench. Can she even feel him next to her? Back in the day— before that day— he used to watch his comrades do the same thing. He used to do the same thing. Sometimes he still does. He knows exactly what he would want someone to do for him.

He makes the choice for an impossible decision, wrapping his hand around hers until their fingers are laced together. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

It seems to work, if only marginally, because she stiffens for a moment, fingers flexing around his. Bucky can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, the way she grips his hand so unsure of herself. Is she unsure of herself, though, or is she still lost somewhere in the depths of her mind, drowning in her rotten honey thoughts?

Her hand stills— an answer in itself— before her voice, slowed as though stopped by lips that have been glued shut, sounds. “Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

It’s not what he’s expecting but what else is new— neither was she and yet he’s here, listening to the moments they’re allowed to be outside— all of zero moments, that is— tick away as her toes clench and unclench.

Tick, tick, tick— what would his commander say.

“Yes.”

Steve used to ask him the same thing, Bucky adds silently, but only when they got older.

He supplies, “I think maybe that’s a part of being human.”

Tick, tick, tick— his commander wouldn’t say anything, he would just put Bucky on probation.

Still, he doesn’t rush her— he can’t. He won’t. She just told him she’s drowning; he’s not going to be the ocean to her frenzied attempts to stay afloat. He’ll just hold her hand, and keep looking over her shoulder, and then over his own, and when the time comes he’ll tell her they have to go, because that’s what she’s expecting. He would know— there have been times he’s wanted someone to do the same for him.

Tick, tick, tick— this is worth probation.

“I don’t think I like being human.” She hums back.

No, Bucky wants to say— no, I don’t either, doll.

Being human sucks and he’s not very good at it. He would know, he’s been a lot of things— been compared to a lot of things. Robot. Popsicle. Dog— yeah, he’s a real jack of all trades and so far human isn’t near the top of his ‘favourites’ list. Maybe that’s because if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be any of the other things either— maybe if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be so easily turned into a monster.

Tick, tick, tick— maybe.

Tick, tick, tick— have his thoughts always been so disorganized?

Tick, tick, tick— maybe it’s the shellshock.

Bucky doesn’t say any of that, of course.

What he does say is— “What would you like to be instead?” —as if he can make everything all better himself.

He can try, at least. He’s been compared to a slave too. Being hers doesn’t sound all that bad.

Thunder rolls over head and it sounds more like a grandfather clock— or the impatient tapping of his commander’s fingers— than anything Bucky’s ever heard. Still, he waits to move. Tick, tick, tick. He waits for a lot of things.

Bucky waits for the sky to turn grey— for the first droplets to mix with the salty bay air and blow against his neck and face.

It’s familiar, the sticky, salty rain, and he isn’t expecting it.

He isn’t expecting Delacroix to remind him so much of his own home in Brooklyn.

He isn’t expecting the way that sitting next to this soft creature feels so much like sitting on the docks with Steve the summer before his enlistment. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning— Steve had said it at one hundred but he may as well have said it then, at eighteen, too. Because little did Bucky know, Steve had always felt a little bit like he was drowning and now Bucky, at one hundred and six, always feels a little bit like a bad friend.

Like a bad brother.

Like a bad dog— he should have scented it out all those years ago but instead he just waited.

Tick, tick, tick— all he does is wait.

Bucky waits for her to squeeze his hand once more— for her tiny fingers to alert him that she’s ready to move.

Maybe if Bucky had waited until Steve had told him that he was ready all those years ago then Steve would have waited for Bucky to be ready too. Because as he sits here, his skin turning swampy in the sticky, salty rain he realizes that no, he wasn’t ready for Steve Rogers to leave him behind.

He wasn’t ready to face the world alone.

He wasn’t even ready to face Brooklyn alone. Sometimes he still waits at the deli for him and orders the hero sandwich because even though he doesn’t like the absurd amount of pickles, Steve always had. Maybe if he eats enough— and waits long enough— then Steve will come back.

Tick, tick, tick— for a man who isn’t patient, Bucky Barnes sure does do a lot of waiting.

Bucky waits for her answer— because that’s what matters most. Not Steve’s wishes, not his commander’s impatient tapping, not even his own nostalgia that’s starting to make him, too, feel like he’s drowning. He used to love swimming in the Atlantic but when he licks his lips and tastes salt he’s sure it would take a miracle to get him to go in again. It would take a hundred years— or maybe just eighteen— and a push from a man who left Bucky almost as fast as Bucky had left him.

“I want to be a god—” she says it so suddenly that he jolts, eyes scanning their surroundings before realizing it’s just her determined, honey hollow voice sounding from next to him— “I want to be god— or invincible— or anyone but me, I think. I just don’t want to be me anymore. So yeah, I want to be a god.”

She still sounds so far away. Like she’s underwater— like Steve that time he wanted to see if Bucky could hear him scream from under the surf. He couldn’t but he told Steve he could. It doesn’t matter anymore— not right now. Only she does and her airy confession.

It makes Bucky’s heart clench and, as a reflex, so does his hand.

He releases the pressure accordingly— in his hand, not his heart— unclench— and as he does she adds— “and I want to take a bath.”

In that moment, despite his worry for her, he’s ecstatic she isn’t looking at him because if she had been then she would have seen the way his jaw drops. It takes him a moment to answer— a moment to pull himself out of the gutter his frozen-robot-dog brain drags him to— but he settles on one thought in surprisingly record time.

He can’t make her a god but he can sure as hell watch her back if she wants to take a bath.

He can’t make it all better but he can do that no problem.

So of course he stands, squeezing her hand one last time before saying, “okay, doll.”

Maybe Bucky is following orders after all. Maybe it’s a matter of choosing which— whose— orders to follow.

____________

Tag list: @xhollycowx @remembered-license @dumble-daddy @hellotvshowtrash @thesummerbucky @elijahs-wife @cari1bunny @im-just-star-dust @motherofallthesmallthings @hazardoushallucination @em-august @nuttytani @brown-eyed-babes @imaginearyparties

(message me if you want to be added / removed from the tag list -- I'll hold no resentment if you do LOL)

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bodyguard!bucky #bucky imagine #bucky fic #bucky angst #Persepone's Symphony #wow this took a month and it's trash LOL

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daincrediblegg · 3 years

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ALPHABET HEADCANONS: JACK O’NEILL

A/N: This is it!!!! I’ve caved!!!! I need more content for this man and I’ve gotta create it myself, so enjoy these unprompted lil nuggets of fluff! And don’t forget my ask box is always open for more!!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Jack is super fuckin affectionate, but he’s more of a… show don’t tell kinda guy. He’s got a bit of a hard time necessarily talking about how he feels- usually deflects things with humor. But he shows it in other ways. In warm touches, in playful side-eyes. Unrestrained by being professional he will hug you all the fuckin time. No shortage of funny little pet names either oh my god it’s like he comes up with a new one every fuckin dAY.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Jack O’Neill is a really good best friend ok. You’ve seen how he is with the rest of SG1. The dude has so much chill (unless it’s a life-or-death situation obviously), is always inviting you to go fishing. He’s REALLY good in tough situations simply because of his sense of humor and general chill attitude. GREAT at reducing anxiety like guy is a human valium- always knows how to distract anyone before their brain goes into some sort of head-spiral about anything. Loyal as SHIT when you’re in with him he’s pretty much ride or die for you even if you don’t agree with him on everything he would still probably take a bullet for his best friends. Also the biggest hype man- whatever you’re good at he has 100% faith in you to do it right and will always shut down negative thoughts about your abilities. 10/10 on the bestie scale tbh the man is a LIFER.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He’s actually, perhaps surprisingly, a really snuggly guy when you’re in a relationship with him. He may be… a little touch-starved since the divorce, and kinda misses it, so expect an arm draped over your shoulder or around your waist whenever you’re in a room together, and to be damned near joined at the hip when you’re not in public. The man is an actual living cuddle bug and he’s so sweet jesus.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

At one point in time he’d have liked nothing more than to settle down, get a dog, just enjoy being retired, but honestly he doesn’t mind that that ideal is a little further away than he thought now that he’s in the Stargate Program. He likes what he does- as stressful as it is sometimes, but there’s never a dull moment. That’s for sure. He’s very good about cleaning and keeping things tidy generally (it’s that military training hard at work), but cooking??? Eh??? He’s passable, can make some basic stuff and ofc he loves to grill (expect very charred meat) but… just don’t ask him to cook anything too elaborate (like… this is a dude who thinks beer is a good omelette ingredient jfc do not let him near a stove for anything more elaborate than a fried egg he’s a fucking gremlin man).

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Quickly. And probably succinctly. The only time he’d really get blunt about something is if he had to end it with his partner for some reason. Just to spare himself and his partner the pain. It’s not without emotion though. Oh no. He may move on from things with relative ease- more likely than not without malice for the other person, but he’d never leave anyone without saying a proper goodbye if he’s the one who has to end it.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Probably not too quick. He’s not even sure he really wants to get married again after how everything with Sarah went down. He’d have to be pretty crazy about someone to want to try all that again, but if that happens… then maybe he won’t be thinking about it like that.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

H-… have you seen this man??? How tender he is with his partners??? It’s unbelievable that a guy like him has the capacity to be as gentle as he is but it’s breathtaking, and it’s only a glimpse of what he’s capable of. He may be a military man- but doing what he does requires much more care and dexterity than people think, and his touch only serves to show as much. This is the guy who holds your face or tugs you closer when you kiss him. This is the same guy who can diffuse bombs and wield a firearm like an extension of himself and handles you with the same amount of reverence and care if not more.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Oh he loves hugs. Loves them. May not do hugs quite as often as he might like actually. Hugs his close friends plenty and especially when they need it, but hugs you even more. He’s a really good hugger too. They’re just encompassing and strong and warm and if you’re not careful you could get addicted.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He waits on this one. For like… a long while. He probably knows it deep down long before he says it, probably won’t really admit it to himself for a long while even when he realizes that’s what he feels. But one day it probably just… slips out. Unprompted. And it’ll shock you both, but one thing’s for sure; he means it with his whole chest and nothing less.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Oh you have no jealousy troubles with this man. He’s an adult, and he recognizes that he’s not the center of everyone’s universe and that people can have just friendly relationships with other people of the gender they’re attracted to. He wouldn’t be in any kind of serious relationship with someone he didn’t trust them implicitly from the start. The man is truly a champ at being chill as hell. If he ever does feel it you’d probably never fuckin know it either. Guy can keep that shit close to his chest if he wants.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Warm, enveloping, grounding. The kind that make you feel like you’re sinking into something solid, that nothing could hurt you. If he’s kissing you he’s taking his time. Holding you close. Meaning it.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

ARE YOU KIDDING??? HE’S FANTASTIC AROUND KIDS!!!! EARTH KIDS?? ALIEN KIDS??? THEY ALL LOVE HIM!!! HE IS JUST DAD SHAPED!!!!!! TO EVERYONE!!!! He’s… not sure if he’d ever want to try to have another kid of his own, maybe, but he has SERIOUSLY considered adopting some alien kids in the past at MINIMUM and probably would if he wasn’t always going off-world.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

A lot of groaning, at least when he wakes up at first, probably some sleepy kisses while resisting the temptation to uh… get frisky before work. But he’ll get up, clean up, shave and do his silly little crossword (and he DELIBERATELY puts in wrong answers for funsies I know this in my heart). Most days he probably eats breakfast at the base, but on his days off he would probably take turns with you making breakfast- makes egg and bacon smiley faces when it’s his turn (and the occasional beer omelet if he’s feeling lazy). PROBABLY would pick up donuts for the weekend too.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Usually with a couple of beers, snuggling up under a nice flannel blanket and watching The Simpsons, or whatever else is on TV. Maybe some take-out from one of the usual places (I’m convinced he’s got like 5 or 6 places in town he’s a regular at that he goes to on rotation) . Probably gets a fire going if things are getting chilly up in Colorado. Just likes to settle in and maybe pass out on the couch a lil.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He’s a low and slow kind of guy. Both for his own emotional well-being and for his partner’s. He’s got some pretty nasty demons in his past, and they overwhelm even him sometimes. He knows that it’s important to talk about it, and while if he really loves someone he won’t mind sharing these things with them… it just takes time for him to work up the courage to face them again himself and put it all into words.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

With a partner, he’s just about as far away from easily angered as a guy can get. He’s actually very chill with the people he loves. There’s sincerely so very little that you could do that could piss him off to the point of losing his temper- and even then he’d never shout at you or anything- that’s the kind of shit he has to do and see enough at work, and he pretty explicitly never wants to cross that line with someone he’s in a romantic relationship with. And even if he is angry for some reason he’s never really angry at his partner- at least in affairs of the heart he pretty much always remembers the love he has for you comes first and foremost.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Believe it or not he actually is *very* good at remembering things about people. He may be one whole dumbass, and can’t do math, but that’s because most of his brain capacity is taken up with things about the people he cares about. Probably knows you down to your favorite food- enough to know to bring it to you to cheer you up, or suggest watching your favorite movie when you get home after a long day.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

He probably remembers the moment you met the most clearly- the moment when you were suddenly in his life even though he didn’t know what you would end up meaning to him down the line.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Jack is honestly the kind of guy who would rather die himself than stand idly by and watch someone he cares about die. This man would take a staff blast and so much worse for you and that’s a guarantee. But when he’s down that means he’s a little more vulnerable. He really appreciates it when he knows someone is gunning to keep him alive too. To know that despite his bravado and despite his own hero complex someone’s just as concerned with his livelihood.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He’d put a little effort in. He’s more on the low-key side, not as big of a fan of grand gestures, and of course sometimes the job gets in the way of putting plans into motion (and he’d need a partner who’d understand that), but if that does happen he inevitably finds a way to make it up- sometimes even ahead of time if he has even a shred of warning about some kind of impending earthly peril. But when he plans something it’s usually very sweet, and far from an unfun cliché (but at least one time for valentine's day you *will* come home to rosepettals on the floor leading to the bedroom to find him in some silk boxers on the bed because of course he’s the gift). But usually things with him are… I don’t wanna say spontaneous because he does usually have at least a little bit of a game plan, but he’s all for improvisation and just loves getting swept up in doing whatever with you.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

I wanna take some time to call him out thoroughly on the fuckin beer omelets thing my guy do you???? Have taste buds???? Listen. With other shit in there I might understand. Beer and cheese is a good combo. But???? JUST BEER IN YOUR EGGS AVAJSFHR!!!!!! Of all the stuff you’ve done in this whole series this is probably your greatest war crime and I’m gonna fucking invoke the 3rd amendment for it. Oh also his fridge is nasty and full of “science experiments” (which like... same) but guy I get why you always be getting take out now jesus fucking christ.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not overly. You’ve seen how this man dresses. He has his little inexplicably fashionable moments, but by *far* he’s more concerned with practicality at least where his attire and physical appearance are concerned. That being said, if you compliment him on like literally anything he will get a major confidence boost about it and will try to do it/wear it more.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

No… and yes. With all he’s seen and been through, he knows not everything is certain, not everything is meant to be and nothing is forever. But at the same time… he feels just a little better off with you around. He feels this kind of thing with everyone he’s really close with in their own unique way. He really doesn’t know where he’d be without the people he cares about who care about him back and can’t imagine a scenario in which he’d feel whole as a person without them coming into his life at the time they did. And you’re absolutely no different.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

So we know Jack has like the biggest fuckin sweet tooth. Pie, Cake, Donuts, ice cream, all of it. There’s always sweets in the house. And if you *make* some for him??? He will automatically love you forever. Also would probably be ok with you feeding him sweets. Warning tho: He’d probably do it back and get it all over your face and whoops now you’re making out covered in frosting and bits of cake and the only way to clean up is to lick it off each other’s faces oh no oh dear.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Petty, pushy people. Just doesn’t have the time. Jack can honestly vibe with just about everyone, even people who are wildly different than him, but the only thing that’s really an outright nope for him is people who are so wrapped up in petty problems they can’t see any kind of bigger picture. Or people who are just generally *too* pushy or overly dramatic about every little thing for little to no reason to the point of being just plain childish. He can handle just about everything else but that??? Nope.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Kinda sprawls out a lil in his sleep. Typically a stomach sleeper but shifts to his back sometimes (especially to cuddle). He’s always at least touching you in his sleep because no matter how much or little he just likes knowing you’re there.

#I will flood this tag at once or die trying #jack o'neill #jack o'neill x reader #stargate #sg1 #god damnit didn't show up in the tag so I'm reuploading #please let it work #stargate imagine #sg1 x reader #stargate headcanons

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just-jordie-things · 4 years

Note

hi! can you do prompt #7 for zuko? post-war were the reader visits the fire nation to see zuko after traveling with the gaang? thanks!

prompt 7: “i've missed you” kiss ___

You weren’t sure where you stood with Zuko, so you were a little nervous about going to see him.

It was clear since the day he’d joined the Avatar in the Western Air Temple that the two of you had something- nasty freakin’ chemistry as Toph had called it- and while the two of you never addressed it, you never really needed to.

So as you spent more time together, you got closer, more affectionate, and maybe you didn’t put a label on it, but there was no one else for you, and no one else for him. You shared a few kisses, snuck off on a few dates, and even shared a tent.

But then he was crowned Fire Lord, and you had business as an Earth Kingdom Ambassador to attend to. Apparently making peace across the globe was a hard thing to do.

You wrote each other often, sharing wild stories and boring ones, and always signing it with how much you missed seeing one another.

Four months had passed now, and Zuko had invited the whole Gang to the palace for a weekend of catching up and relaxing. It was clear everyone needed a break, and it had been too long since you’d all seen each other.

You'd been ecstatic, so much so that you could hardly focus on any of your tasks, all you could think about was being with Zuko again. Your heart swelled with love and you swore it could have burst.

But now, as you sat on Appa’s saddle and saw the palace become closer in view, you were about ready to start chewing on your fingernails.

What were you and Zuko? Why had you never thought to ask that question before? Are we still together? Were we ever really together in the first place? What if he’s with someone else? What if-?

“(y/n), quit overthinking,” Katara says, flicking her friend’s ear to bring her out your ear to bring you out of your thoughts. “I think you’re the only person Zuko even likes. Like at all”

“He likes me!” Sokka shrieks.

Katara winces.

“Really, (y/n), you’re definitely it for him” She says.

It eases your nerves a little bit, and you give her a small smile.

“Thanks, Katara. You always know what to say”

“Okay, so maybe Zuko’s in love with (y/n), but he still really likes me! Hell, I’m his best friend!” Sokka argues, but neither of you know who he’s arguing with.

Aang lands Appa a few minutes later, and you think you might pass out.

The excitement and the fear is mixing together and you’re starting to get a stomachache.

Zuko is standing on the front steps, eagerly awaiting you and your friends’ arrival. He looks so good in his robes that you’re now completely sure you’ll pass out.

“(y/n), come on,” Sokka mutters, shoving you slightly so you’d get off of Appa quicker. “You can’t just hide from him”

“Are you sure?” You grumble back, and slowly make your way off of Appa.

But before your feet can reach the ground, you’re scooped up, and you shriek in surprise as you look down to see Zuko’s wrapped his hands around your waist, and he’s quickly pulling you down.

“(y/n)! I missed you so much, you look so different!”

As he sets you down on the ground, you’re gaping slightly out of surprise, because in none of your imaginings of how this went, you didn’t foresee this.

“I- I do?” You mumbled, subconsciously reaching for your hair, thinking it must’ve grown since the last time you saw him.

“Yeah, but also the same, spirits, you’re so pretty”

Now you’re gaping and blushing, because you’d just spent all day flying through the air, and here he was in royal silk robes.

“Really?”

“Really” He grins back at you. He’s never been more confident about anything his entire life.

And then he’s cupping your face and leaning down and capturing your lips. Again, you’re surprised, but this you know how to react to.

You melt into him, which he gladly accepts as he drops his hands to your waist and deepens your kiss.

It reminds you of the last one you shared before you left for Ba Sing Se. And just thinking of the time you’ve spent apart makes you kiss Zuko even harder.

Aang, Katara, and Sokka are awkardly waiting by Appa, kicking at the ground and looking anywhere but at the pair who seemed to think they were alone for some reason.

When you parted, Zuko was still grinning, and he pushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I missed you too,” You told him, and he cupped your cheek lovingly. “I actually... I didn’t think that we... I mean, I wasn’t sure what we were, so I didn’t know if you...”

“Really?” Zuko asked, genuinely surprised.

You nodded sheepishly, before leaning into the palm of his hand.

He chuckles, and shakes his head at you.

“(y/n), I’ve written you at least twice a week for the last four months,” He reminds you, and you shrug your shoulders. “What part of me telling you- in every letter- that I love you and can’t wait to see you made you think that we weren’t together?”

“I mean- you never explicitly said- I don’t know, okay? I just missed you a lot and I didn’t want anything to change”

He has to laugh once more, before leaning down and sealing your lips in a kiss again. This one far more gentle than the last.

Sokka rolls his eyes when you started kissing again. He huffs and crosses his arms before leaning back against Appa, accepting the fact that he’d probably have to wait another five minutes before Zuko would notice him.

“Yeah. Nothing’s changed. (y/n’s) still the favorite,” He grumbles bitterly. “And I’m starting to think he likes her more than me!”

#atla #zuko #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #zuko scenario

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feeling-weirdy · 3 years

Note

This was in a recent ask, but the story potential is so interesting that I think it deserves the form of a drabble. So, a prompt: What happened during the Paprikash night before Clint arrived and Vision got yeeted through the compound floor.

It had felt like hours since their conversation in the kitchen. The paprikash had been deemed inedible, whatever he had mixed together had not been correct and so he had fallen back on his backup plan.

Pizza in hand, Vision stood mindlessly on the other side of Wanda's door, worried he may tip the scales further if he pushed her too far.

While she did well to hide it, he could feel the disappointment in her voice as he tried desperately to do what he thought was best for her. Perhaps talking with her previously would have been to his benefit, but it was far too late for those kinds of musings.

Vision tapped on the door, summoning a decent amount of courage as he pushed it open.

"I ordered your favorite: pepperoni and extra jalapenos.” Vision’s voice squeaked out, worry filling his mind as his eyes locked onto her small form hunched on the far side of the bed.

"Great," she said sadly, her eyes focused on the television in the corner of her room. An episode of Bewitched that he had watched nearly a half a dozen times with her flashed against the screen. He had come to realize that it was one of her favorites. "Just set it on the bed. I'll eat it later."

He nodded, obediently placing the box on the corner of the bed. Rather than leave, however, he stood still as the stale air between them grew with each passing moment.

"Wanda, I hope you don't think less of me for my actions. I admit they may not have been handled correctly, but I do not wish to make you a prisoner in your own home." Vision tried to explain himself, desperately trying to make her understand the reasoning for his actions. Her sad eyes flickered up to him, some semblance of betrayal hidden deep within her gaze.

"And yet, you won't let me leave,” she bit back, her teeth clenching together. He could see the glassy tint to her eyes that told him she was about to cry. Vision sat on the bed beside her, exhaling softly as he mulled over his options. Mr. Stark had explicitly told him that she was not allowed to leave the compound, but what would he have him do if Wanda forced her way through? Fight her? Force her to remain in her room?

The very idea was almost laughable.

Training was one thing, but he would never turn his hand against Wanda. It didn’t matter what promise he had made to anyone else.

"I will not keep you here if you truly wish to leave this place, but I do agree that it is within your benefit to do so for the time being." Vision’s eyes trailed over to her, the corners of his lips stretching along his face. “I would never force you to do anything.”

"But you want me to stay...I can't just hide away forever, Vis."

"I would never want you to, but as long as the Accords are on rocky ground Mr. Stark insists,” Vision explained.

"And how long are you going to follow his every order, hm?" Her words bit at him in a way he hadn’t expected. Was that how his actions came off to her?

Vision’s head fell, running his hand along the back of his neck struggling to come up with better explanations. "I only did what I thought was necessary.”

The air grew quiet between the pair, their eyes reached up, as if by habit, to the end of the episode as Betwitched came to an end. They watched the credits roll in silence.

“I’d be fine. Everyone would be. I can control it,” Wanda promised, her words sharp and calm as she focused ahead.

“Your power has always been unruly. You may not mean to bring about that sort of destruction, but given the current climate at this moment, I do not feel it is wise." Vision reached over, gently taking her hand with a smile. "I think only of you, Wanda.”

Vision watches her, taking note of every movement. She lifted her leg and tucked it under the other, twisting herself so that they were facing each other. Her hand slowly trailed along his forearm, soft eyes crawling up his body. Wanda was hesitant with her movements, but she didn’t allow herself to stop. Reaching out to his chest, her fingers tickled against the fabric of his sweater, her eyes still glossed over as if she was about to break down at any moment.

"So, you're doing this because you love me. Is that it?” Wanda’s voice softened, curious eyes shooting back and forth from his gaze.

“That is one of many factors, yes.” Vision reached out, cupping the length of her jaw in his hand. He ran his thumb against her skin, carefully taking in the warmth that she provided.

“Then prove it.”

“Pardon?” His head fell to the side slightly as he stared at her, clear in what she said, but uncertain as to how exactly he should execute such a task.

“Kiss me,” Wanda offered, raising up to her knees and moving closer to his body. Their lips hovered against each other, barely touching as Vision sat up to properly meet her. “Please.” Voice falling to hardly a whisper, he could feel her fingers meander underneath his shirt. The soft, tiny digits scraping along the hard metal of his stomach.

Pressing his lips against hers, a shock shot through his system. Desperately trying to hold himself back, Vision took things slowly. He allowed his hands to run along her waist as they pressed against each other, Wanda’s kisses becoming a lot more forceful as they moved on.

With hurried breaths, Wanda pulled his sweater over his head, closing the distance again once they were free of the fabric. Vision’s mind raced, unable to fully grasp any one thought in particular as enveloped each other.

He knew he needed to stop this, but the thought of ending this perfect moment pained him a great deal.

Vision pulled away from her mouth as she quickly removed her own top. “Wanda, I don’t think we should be too hasty.”

Wanda kissed him again, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pulled him against her.

“Wanda, Wanda...” He murmured against her lips, pushing her a bit more forcefully. “While I’m elated to move our relationship forward...you’re upset. Given our current predicament and what transpired earlier today, I do not feel this is wise.”

Wanda’s eyes opened and locked onto his, her wild emotions written along the creases of her face as she slowly distanced herself from him. Her gaze fell, sadness slowly flooding back into her face. Vision reached out, placing a hand along her shoulder for some sort of comfort.

"Perhaps in another instance...later. When you’re more centered. I don’t want to take advantage of the situation.”

She avoided eye contact with him, pulling her knees against her chest with a small sigh. “Just go then...I need time alone,” she mumbled.

Vision nodded, pushing himself up from the bed. “That may be for the best.” Quickly grabbing his shirt, he tried to hurry out of the room without it seeming too obvious. Once on the other side of the door, Vision pulled the sweater back over his body, carefully trying to still his shaking hands.

As much as he wanted to keep going, he was certain that was the right call. They would have plenty of time for all that if she truly desired him in that manner, but now...with everything else going on: He had to remain focused. Summoning a deep breath, he forced the nerves away.

A loud explosion could be heard outside, forcing him into a more focused state as he reentered the room to get a better view through her window. Wanda joined him, a worried expression crossing her features. A cloud of smoke and fire covered a small section of the forest outside of the compound. There was no possibility someone was foolish enough to attack their hideout, but he suspected it was someone with more intelligence than that. Regardless, he had to investigate.

“What is it?” She asked, mesmerized by the flames.

“Stay here, please.” Vision’s words were more of a plead than a demand, worry circling in his mind that she may try to flee while he was distracted. He had faith that she would remain, certain of her resolve to harness her power on her own time.

Phasing himself through the wall, Vision kept his focus forward. It didn’t matter what caused the explosion, he would keep Wanda safe at all cost.

Check out my other drabbles here or feel free to request some!

#scarletvision #wandavision #the vision #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #rini drabbles #CW to IW

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lifeofkaze · 3 years

Text

When Stars Ignite - Chapter 13

HPHM Rockstar AU

A/N:

General Warning: This whole fic has a general warning of being NSFW / 18+. We will give specific warnings for every chapter in itself, but several adult themes will be more or less present in every chapter, may it be explicitly or in mention. These include sexual topics, drug abuse, (ab)use of alcohol, smoking and a whole lot of cursing.

Specific Warning: Language, allusion to NSFW content

~~~

Find the masterpost here, the previous chapter here and the next one here. The songs featured before every chapter can be found on this pretty badass playlist here.

~~~

This work is a collaboration with @the-al-chemist

Taglist: @slytherindisaster @night-rhea @carewyncromwell

Drop of a hat she's as willing as Playful as a pussy cat Then momentarily out of action Temporarily out of gas To absolutely drive you wild, wild She's out to get you

~ Queen - Killer Queen ~

After Lizzie had left on that day back in August, Orion hadn’t been sure whether her words would follow action and there would actually be a next time, nor had he been entirely sure he wanted there to be one.

Not because the night he had spent with Lizzie hadn’t been fantastic, or either of them was feeling uncomfortable with it; but she had been his close friend and colleague for so many years now and Orion valued her presence in his life deeply. Changing a pattern that worked smoothly seldomly proved to be a good idea.

He had been glad nothing seemed to have changed between them when they saw each other next; Lizzie had acted just the same as always, focused on their music, laughing with him during breaks, maybe a little flirtatious, but then again, that was just her way.

Orion’s resolve to consider the fling with her done and dusted lasted about a week. He had walked her home from the dinner they’d had with the rest of the band; when they’d reached her flat in Chelsea, she’d waited in the door to the house, looking back at him over her shoulder with an amused expression.

“What now? Are you coming or not?”

He had to admit, the second time round, this time with their senses all together, the sex had been even better than the first time. His concerns about what it might do to their friendship were melting away with every kiss Lizzie left on his body, setting his skin aflame and shutting off his mind with that deliciously wicked smile of hers.

When they’d found themselves in his flat for a third time, he felt the need to stop her wandering hands while he still could.

“Wait a minute, we should really talk about what we’re doing here.”

Lizzie looked up at him incredulously, her fingers hooking on the seam of his trousers, her fingernails grazing his sensitive skin. “What, right now?”

Orion tried to ignore his urgent wish for her to continue where she’d left off and sat up. “Yes, right now.”

“Fine,” she answered briefly and removed her hands from his body, but not without running her hand over him one last time, sending a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t deny how much his body yearned for her but he pushed the heat inside his chest aside and forced his thoughts to focus on what was on his mind.

“If we want this to continue we need to talk about where it’s going,” he managed to say a lot calmer than he felt as he watched Lizzie slowly taking in his undressed body, a salacious smirk on her lips.

“I can perfectly tell you where this is going right now,” she chuckled but Orion didn’t let himself get distracted.

“I’m serious, Liz. As fun as this is, we’re actively breaking the rules here. We are part of a greater thing; the whole unity that is Equinox is more important than every one of us on our own. I don’t want to do anything that could harm the band.”

With a sigh, Lizzie sat up straighter, her expression serious. “Neither of us would ever do anything to put the band at risk. This here is not a relationship, Orion; we can stop this any time.”

She shuffled closer to him on the bed and put a hand on his arm. Her smile was now nothing but warm and reassuring. “Don’t worry, this is just fun, no strings attached.”

He wasn’t entirely convinced, however. “Things like this end in disaster more often than not.“

“If it makes you feel better, let’s make a deal,” Lizzie suggested. “We’ll do this as long as it’s fun and we both want it. In the case that things change for either one of us, we’ll just stop and go back to how things were before. How does that sound?”

Orion sighed deeply. “Do you really think it will work just like that?”

“Just like that,” she smiled, her hand wandering from his arm onto his chest, giving him a slight push so he fell over on his back.

“You’re thinking too much,” she purred as her lips trailed down his chest and over his stomach, coming to rest where hands had let off earlier. “Let me help you relax.”

And just like that, what had begun as a simple drunk one-night stand had developed into something that wasn’t just a friendship, but was far from a relationship either.

Even when their tour had started, they hadn’t stopped meeting in the dead of the night, the risk of being discovered adding an additional thrill, which Orion would have never guessed he’d find himself enjoying. Working off the adrenaline a successful show set off in their bodies soon became his favourite way of winding down. It wasn’t long before he’d actually started showing signs of impatience - something that used to be completely foreign to him - when Lizzie took her time before leaving the backstage area, joking around with Skye or Charlie, deliberately teasing him.

The curves of her body became as familiar to Orion as the neck of his guitar, and he knew exactly how to play both to coax the sweetest sounds from them. Lizzie began to learn every story behind his many tattoos, her fingers tracing the delicate lines as he told her all about them.

The harmony that had existed between them from the get go solidified, unexpected but not unsurprising; it felt like a natural extension to their friendship, raising their connection and understanding to a higher level.

Now, almost ten months since their first night together, he couldn’t even remember what it had been like before.

Orion was violently broken out of his musings by Skye snapping her fingers in front of his eyes.

“Earth calling Orion, you still with us, mate?”

She eyed him critically as his eyes snapped back into focus. “What’ve you been daydreaming about?”

He slowly pulled her hand away from his face. “I have been reminded of something and indulged in the call of the past for a moment,” he answered serenely.

“The way you’re looking it must have been a good memory,” Lizzie said innocently. Her eyes were sparkling as if she knew exactly what he had been thinking about.

He inclined his head, hoping his face wouldn’t give him away. “A favourite.”

Skye shrugged. “Whatever, let’s get those damn pictures taken and get outta here, I’m hungry. You’d better focus on the job.” She stopped, looking thoroughly bewildered. “Can’t believe I need to say this to you of all people.”

Still shaking her head, she grabbed Lizzie by the arm and pulled her towards the set that had been prepared on the far side of the room. The photographer was already instructing Merula on where to stand, Everett looking on from the sidelines.

It took them ages to get all of the pictures Rita’s magazine wanted done. After all of them had their portraits taken, they continued with group shots in various combinations.

When it was the girls’ turn, Orion joined Everett on the sides. The mood between the two guitarists had improved a little since Everett felt he got the recognition he deserved, but still, the atmosphere lacked the carefree camaraderie of the past. Orion struggled to find something to talk about with him these days, not wanting to provoke any of Everett’s bad moods.

As it turned out, their frontman had no desire to talk to him anyway. He was watching Skye, Lizzie and Merula pose in front of the camera intently. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest, a small grin forming on his face.

“You can say what you want, but our girls are quite a sight to see, aren’t they?”

Orion didn’t answer, only raising his eyebrows slightly. Everett took his silence as a sign to go on. “I mean, look at them.” His grin widened, taking on a wolfish touch. “Look at Lizzie, for fuck’s sake. Shame she’s always running ‘round all plain and simple, what a waste.”

Orion had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “Beauty comes from the inside, from embracing our nature as it is and carrying it to the outside. Lizzie is in tune with herself and that is showing. The way she prefers to keep it simple doesn’t dim her light, it enhances it.”

“I certainly wouldn’t say no to her glammed up like that, is all I’m saying,” Everett snorted.

Orion wasn’t surprised by Everett’s take on things, but he was astounded at how much his words were grating on him. Everett had been a flirt for as long as Orion could remember, but he had never objectified women the way he did these days. Ever since they had started their way to the top, the pressure they were constantly feeling had steadily increased. Everett was treating the girls admiring him just the same as he did anything else taking his mind off things; as a meaningless, replaceable means to an end.

He didn’t like hearing Everett talk about anyone like that, but especially not Lizzie.

However, Orion couldn’t deny that he had a point. As per usual, Andre had worked his magic on her for the shoot, creating a maximum effect with simple but well chosen measures. Lizzie’s light brown hair fell around her face in a heap of messy curls, her dark makeup accentuating her blue eyes.

The shiny leather leggings she was wearing were clinging tightly to her legs that were elongated by a pair of black heeled boots. A loose black shirt with the familiar logo of the Rolling Stones gave her the effortlessly nonchalant vibe that was so inherently her. She had tied it in a knot at the sides to shorten it, showing just the tiniest bit of her belly.

Yes, as much as he hated to admit it, Everett was right; Lizzie was a sight to see. Their eyes met briefly as Merula and Lizzie switched positions. Orion could see the smirk starting to form on her lips, like it always did when she caught him watching her.

She quickly regained control over her expression, flipping her hair out of her face and concentrating again. But her attention kept wandering back to him, a mischievous glitter in her eyes that Orion knew all too well.

When it was time for pictures of the whole group, he and Everett joined the girls in front of the camera again. To get a more compact looking picture of them all together, the photographer wanted him and Everett to sit on one of the sofas they had used for the interview, the girls grouped behind them, all trying their best to look as casual as possible.

Orion was sitting directly in front of Lizzie; he almost jumped when he suddenly felt her hand on his back, hidden from the others by her body that was very close to his. Her fingers tiptoed higher up until they found the exposed skin of his neck. Her nails were grazing his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind at the unexpected sensation. Orion could feel the intense energy radiating off her and had to fight the urge to turn around and catch a glimpse of her expression.

Looking at her camera, the photographer, a beautiful young woman in a blue headscarf, frowned and shook her head. “This doesn’t look right yet. I’m missing the energy, the spirit of your connection.

She contemplated for a moment before her fine features lit up. “I know; Merula, could you sit between the guys? The other girls, one on each arm of the sofa, please.”

They changed as she had asked them to, Skye perching on the back of the sofa next to Everett and Lizzie now sitting closer to Orion than before. But still, their photographer wasn’t satisfied.

“Lizzie, could you lean in a little?”

“Sure,” Lizzie smiled innocently, leaning closer to Orion until their bodies were almost touching. He could smell her perfume and the sharp scent of hairspray. When he felt her hand on his back yet again, conveniently out of sight of the camera, he shifted his position a little, ever so slightly leaning into her touch.

Encouraged by him playing along, the corners of her mouth twitched, masked by a little tilt of her head for the camera. Her hand traveled down his spine to the base of his shirt where she lost no time to slip it underneath the seam, her cool fingers brushing across the bare skin of his back.

Orion exhaled slowly, trying not to laugh at the light sensation of her fingertips. Lizzie knew that he was ticklish in that particular spot. She was trying to play him, testing his control over himself, just as she had done after their first show in London.

He couldn’t believe the risk she was taking; touching him like that in a dark nightclub under a table was one thing, but during a photoshoot, with all eyes on them? He’d never thought she would be so bold.

Her ridiculous recklessness was intriguing, however; just like everything about Lizzie it was playing with fire and the reward of being close to a blazing flame never came without danger.

A movement at the edge of his vision drew Orion’s attention away from her touch. His eyes flicked over to the other side of the sofa and he thought he could see Skye looking over to them. His heart suddenly racing, Orion leaned against the back of the sofa, effectively forcing Lizzie to withdraw her hand.

He glanced over to Skye again, but she was looking straight at the camera, her moody rockstar expression edged onto her face. She paid him or Lizzie no mind whatsoever, and for a moment Orion wondered whether that frown on her face had been nothing but a trick of his mind.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #harry potter hogwarts mystery #rockstar au #orion amari #lizzie jameson #lizion #skye parkin #merula snyde #andre egwu #jason everett #when stars ignite #wsi #besties collaborate #I may have figured out the tag problem yay

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britishassistant · 3 years

Text

The Villainous Paranoiac Experiences Culture Shock

The Hannya of the Gracey and its Kitsune.

Tricky, cruel, deceptive, jealous, ungrateful.

That’s what you’ve been called ever since Nanji settled. It’s been whispered behind your backs and said outright to your faces.

Ever since Chichiue told you to take a more appropriate form if you both were going to eat dinner properly with the family, and his eyebrows drew down when you stuttered out that you were trying, you were, but Nanji couldn’t change back from the red fox that quailed under the glare of Chichiue’s eagle.

You were sent to their room in the middle of the meal because of that, Asahiko-nii-sama’s exaggerated faces of disgust, Leota-nee-sama’s quiet yet smug vindication and Enji-nii-sama’s open glares of disapproval following you both as you left.

Seven isn’t an…uncommon age for a dæmon to settle. Unusual, to be sure, enough to raise and lower eyebrows, prompt the start of a inquiry before the asker remembers which family they’re about to question.

But it’s just edging into more common for “early bloomers” that it’s usually assumed that you were closer to eight than seven when Nanji did settle. Besides, there are kids out there who have had their dæmons settle at younger ages, after all.

All the studies you’ve read say this phenomenon is near uniformly a result of a traumatic event or hostile living environment. But that’s probably more of a generalization than anything.

Still. At least the names and insults weren’t so bad. They were just words after all.

At least the people using them would steer clear. Keep at least a two foot distance between themselves, the Hannya of the Gracey, and its Kitsune. As though you and Nanji actually had any power to curse anyone with.

At least they wouldn’t try to keep fucking touching your dæmon every five minutes.

So pause. Rewind a bit. You and Nanji and your old middle school crush and his dæmon (who you’ve certainly gotten over, and who does not look any better than he had in middle school now his Sonata has settled, thank you very much) have been transported to another world. This world is called Twisted Wonderland.

The people of this world are soulless assholes.

Because none of them have dæmons.

And the vast majority of them you have met so far are assholes, in some shape or form.

You have yet to ascertain whether the latter is dependent on the former.

And yet they keep acting like normal people in spite of this absence, rather than the traumatized wrecks that are in textbooks in history class, all dead-eyed and unresponsive. So maybe there’s something to the headmaster’s claim that their dæmons are…inside them, somehow.

Though that just gives you the awful mental image of a person lifting a mouse or an insect dæmon to their lips and just…swallowing. Nanji nips your hand for putting that lovely idea in both your heads.

But back to the topic at hand: The people here don’t have dæmons. They have never had dæmons. So it’s understandable that initially all of them don’t quite understand that there’s a difference between them and just another talking animal, like Grim.

That it is NOT OKAY to try to scoop them up or punt them around like they do to Grim (and honestly, you’re not really okay with them doing that to Grim either— it’s why you and Yuuken trade off who has the monster cat perched on their shoulders or in their arms and out of harm’s way whenever you both can). That’s just down to cultural differences. You can understand it, if you cock your head, squint your eyes, and are very, very sleep-deprived.

What is not understandable is the assholes who think it’s hilarious to try to keep touching Sonata and Nanji even after you’ve repeatedly told them “no”.

Some of that might be Nanji’s fault. Though at the time it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea, considering how many curious would-be touchers immediately jerked away and lost interest permanently after he blurted out, “It’s a sex thing!!”

(It’s not exactly a sex thing, more of an intimacy thing at most. But there’s something much more visceral and back-the-fuck-off about “touching a dæmon is like shoving your hands down a stranger’s pants” compared to “touching a dæmon is the realization of a very deep and intimate bond between you and your partner”.)

But of course, many is not all.

And there’s always going to be some assholes who think that seeing how easily they can get away with harassment is a “fun game” rather than a creepy and messed up power play. Just like back home.

Yuuken and Sonata have it much worse than you and Nanji.

You’d thought the muskox form she settled into was noble, dignified, a perfect embodiment of Yuuken’s diligence and strength. (No, it has not made your crush on him worse, shut up.)

The only problem is that a muskox is not as small a creature as a fox. So while you can physically pick up Nanji and move him out of reach if some punks decide they want to cause trouble, poor Sonata has no such defense. She has to move away if they get between her and Yuuken, and their distance limit is so much smaller than your own, and both of them look so trapped—

It surprises everyone but Nanji and yourself when you take a page from Deuce’s book and ball your fist up to punch the asshole trying to bury his hand in the thick fur of Sonata’s flank.

The resulting crack is not from the asshole’s nose breaking, unfortunately.

You haven’t ever really punched anybody before, hadn’t ever been in a situation where you were justified in your retaliation.

Of course you manage to fuck it up on your first try.

Nanji does not thank you for the resulting limp in his one good leg until your hand and his paw heals, even if he understands why you did it. You give him lots of petting in apology, carefully avoiding the spots where his fur is now patchy and the skin is ridged with scars.

(And isn’t that a fun experience, whenever the ex-overblots’ eyes wander over him, catch sight of what they inflicted on you both, and suddenly can’t look at anything else fast enough. None of them have actually, explicitly apologized to either of you for it.)

Yuuken and Sonata hover over you both like concerned mother hens, despite how often and repeatedly you tell them this is not their fault and you’d do it again in a heartbeat. Sonata actually offers to let Nanji ride on her back while he heals.

You try joking you’d get jealous, so it’d be better not to, only for Yuuken to offer to piggyback you around campus as well.

Ace teases you mercilessly for how strangled you sound when you squeak out that that won’t be necessary, and Nanji buries his head under his tail and refuses to come out for the rest of the day.

Deuce is more concerned with teach you how to throw a punch properly, so you don’t hurt yourself next time.

Jack provides Nanji with a smaller version of the splint he sometimes uses if he hurts his paws when in Wolf Mode, which does help a bit, even if it does feel slightly surreal to feel the phantom press of the medical implement on your hand.

Grim delights in setting the assholes on fire whenever they’re within reach. Whether he can get away with it is another factor he doesn’t seem willing to take into consideration.

Crowley scolds him and the rest of Ramshackle by extension for “violent behavior on school premises”, and resorts to subtly threatening to cut off your food money whenever you try to pressure him to actually do something about your harassers, as though it’s somehow your and Yuuken’s faults for having dæmons.

As though it’s Sonata and Nanji’s faults for existing.

You resort to scribbling increasingly insulting caricatures of the stupid birdbrain headmaster for your theory wall to vent your frustration, in absence of any concrete way to get back at him. Nanji chews the cushion in your armchair to near rags as you pin them to the wall with more force than is strictly warranted.

Yuuken and Sonata turn out to be far more proactive than you when it comes to dealing with grudges of this kind.

Or, at least, more willing to go along with plans that allow them to do so.

You know Ace had a hand in it. His brand of vindictiveness and humiliation is pretty distinctive. Ortho is also clearly a culprit, thanks to the technological mishaps that had one of your tormentors in actual tears. From the garish, clashing pink and petty sparkles that have been added to Crowley’s attire, you’re fairly sure Epel was involved too.

Sebek…is a participant you’re on the fence about, for his conflicting claims that it was a childish prank to pull on the bullies and headmaster and that both parties had whatever fate they now suffered coming to them. Even if he wasn’t directly involved, you’re pretty sure he was in on it enough to not spill the details.

But the sudden influx of logs, which would require someone with an above average level of strength and/or the help of an animal that specialized in moving large burdens over distance?

Combined with the fact that Jack and Deuce were as mystified as you, Grim, and Nanji at the results of the prank?

Well, even if Yuuken hadn’t shot you a subtle wink (which most certainly did not have your cheeks heating, no sir) in Ramshackle’s kitchen while the two of you prepared dinner to the sound of Sonata’s quiet laughter, you’re pretty sure you would’ve worked it out sooner or later.

For now, you and Nanji are just glad that they’re both here with you to help navigate this Twisted Wonderland of soulless assholes.

Even if some of them aren’t as bad as the others.

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thevalleyisjolly · 3 years

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Been thinking about Lapin and Cumulous (pretty much all the time, let’s be honest), and I think it’s really interesting how both of them, in their own ways, stand at a relational distance from the rest of the party, which has really interesting in-game as well as meta implications.

Because when A Crown of Candy starts, we have the House Rocks set - Amethar, Ruby, Jet, and slightly further away, Liam (by blood) and Theo (by allegiance and love). Lapin stands apart as someone whom we know from the beginning has a different allegiance, or at least, follows the orders of another entity. Which is kind of what we, as an audience, need at that point, because established relationships can be a little hard to break into! In-game, the characters have these deep bonds with each other, whether by family ties or by loyalty, and while those are fun to watch and speculate on the nature of, it isn’t always the easiest to connect with right at the beginning. Lapin, apart from being a fascinating character of his own, stands at a similar distance like the audience. Just as he gradually comes to cast his lot in with the Rocks family and become invested in their well-being, it mirrors our (the audience’s) own journey with coming to know the characters and becoming invested in their story.

(Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t part of Lapin’s meta appeal, that narrative-wise, he doesn’t need to become invested in the party, doesn’t need to care about them. He’s here because his patron wants him to be here, but there’s nothing that says he must become emotionally involved with them. And yet, and yet! One of his last acts in the world -and arguably his most meaningful- is to choose to care about these people, to give up his life for them, and I’m still not over how his last insight, his last roll, realizing that the Bulb cares for no one, contrasts so beautifully with his death - this sly, aloof chancellor with a barbed tongue dies because he chooses to care for someone. What a powerful ‘found family’ vibe indeed)

(In the same way your heart feels and your mind thinks, you, mortal beings, are the instrument by which the universe cares. If you choose to care, then the universe cares. If you don't, then it doesn't.)

Cumulous also stands apart from the rest of the party in a lot of ways. Like Liam, he’s a relation of the Rocks, but in an even more distant way, and he makes it explicitly clear to Amethar early on that the Rocks are not his number one priority - Candia’s magic is. By the time Cumulous comes in, we the audience have become very invested in the story of the Rocks family, and we’ve formed our own bonds with the characters. So it feels a little strange to have a PC who deliberately aligns himself outside those relationships that we’ve come to love!

But I think that at that point in the story, that’s kind of what we need. I would argue that more so than almost every other PC, Cumulous situates the events around the Rocks family as part of a larger context, a larger world. Jet, Ruby and Liam were still young and relatively sheltered, there was a lot about history and the world that they weren’t familiar with until they needed to be. Even Amethar and Theo, who lived through that history, had a limited exposure to the wider reach of the Bulbian Church. Within Castle Candy, the Church is something boring and stuffy and alright, you’re not supposed to do magic, you have to call it alchemy, but it’s more of an unpleasant and inconvenient institution than anything else.

Except then we learn that there’s more to the Church’s suppression of magic than just disapproval of witchcraft. We learn about how it’s a way of controlling people, and we also learn about how important magic is in Candia especially, how it’s a part of the land and the people, and all of a sudden, the Bulbian crusade against Candia takes on a far darker turn. Because crusades don’t just spring up out of nowhere, they’re built on years of ideology and fanaticism, and that has been what the suppression of magic, the rumours about Candia’s reputation for “alchemy,” the Ramsian doctrine, has all been about. What Cumulous brings into sharp relief is that fighting the Church is not just about personal revenge or who should be the rightful emperor, it’s about the Church’s decades-long plan to essentially commit genocide (as well as its decades of oppression and outright abuse, which it apparently had a free reign in).

(Jet, dear Jet, understood this first and fast. She got that it wasn’t just about her personal feelings, that the problem was in the institution of the Church itself, and she was the first one to devote time to researching what they actually said, what the Ramsian doctrine was, what their plan was, and I’m endlessly fascinated by the possibility of a season where Jet lives and we potentially get a closer look at this world element and see how the party interacts with and dismantles it beyond just killing the Pontifex)

I do think that as dark as A Crown of Candy got sometimes, there’s a far darker undercurrent that sometimes gets overlooked because we are so compelled by the narrative of the Rocks family. I also don’t think it’s any coincidence that the two PCs with the most pragmatic approach to combat and killing were Cumulous and Saccharina (there’s a difference between being efficient at killing and being willing to kill - all the PCs were pretty efficient at killing and being war guys, but only Cumulous and Saccharina really had the hardness and the instinct to kill). Because the two of them are the ones who have most directly seen the effects of Bulbian ideology and prejudice! For the rest of the party, the Church became an immediate enemy after the events at the cathedral. For Cumulous and Saccharina, the Church has been the enemy -and a powerful, ruthless one- for years. I remember a lot of jokes when the season was airing about Cumulous doing war crimes (and criticisms about whether or not Saccharina was guilty of war crimes...the double standard wasn’t great) but it makes perfect sense that they would be the ones with a harder line against the Church and a harder approach to the war. They’ve been in it far longer than the rest of the party.

Anyways, it’s important that Cumulous does stand apart from the rest of the party because he does stand as that wider perspective beyond the intimate revenge and the complicated inter-party relationships. And it really is something that requires that degree of separation, because Saccharina is another character who also reveals the wider context of the world, but a lot of that is often overlooked because of the compelling nature of her relationships with her family. Even her horrifying childhood is viewed more often as a reason why she should be sympathized with (which she absolutely should), and we overlook the disturbing implications about how a foreign Church was able to inflict this level of abuse with essentially free reign. So we need that strange, distant cousin swooping over our shoulders, reminding us every so often that hey, the story is about the Rocks but the Rocks also live in a wider society. Yes there’s a nasty carrot with a mace that we all really want dead, but the carrot itself is a symptom of something larger.

(Also, something something meta here about Cumulous himself choosing to care about the world, choosing to care about magic and Candia and chickens hiding in a linen cupboard, choosing to be a monk first and a distant cousin of the Rocks second, choosing to remain at that distance because there’s bigger things happening in the world than just one family, even his own family, and it’s worth sacrificing everything for)

TL;DR, Lapin and Cumulous both stand at a distance from the rest of the party, and the meta implications of this are really interesting for how we the audience interact with the narrative and the characters as a whole.

#dimension 20 #a crown of candy #lapin cadbury #cumulous rocks #long post #they're also the two party members that share no classes with anyone else #there is one (1) warlock and one (1) monk in the party and that further emphasizes how they stand apart from the party #with lapin; his distance makes his life and death more poignant because it becomes a narrative of choosing to close that distance #with cumulous; his distance becomes about something bigger than any one person or family & choosing to care about that rather than himself #i'm gonna have to write another meta about cumulous' self-sacrificial tendencies aren't i #this turned out several metas in one because oops i have a lot of thoughts about saccharina and the church #zac and emily's first PCs died and they both went 'oh you thought they were against the Bulb? i'll show you a real pagan' and then they did

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ejzah · 3 years

Text

A/N: Part 2 of Indecent Proposal. If you like Talia, this one is for you. Hopefully I did her justice.

***

Indecent Proposal, Part 2

“So what do you think?” Helena asked as they walked back into the mission.

“If her husband was involved in anything illegal, she didn’t know about it,” Deeks responded, heading straight for the bullpen.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Deeks.” He could feel Helena behind him, less than a foot away as he shifted things around on his desk.

He’d honestly been hoping if he ignored her offer, Helena would get the hint that he really wasn’t interested and back off. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

With an internal sigh, he turned around to find her leaning against Sam’s desk with a smirk that he was beginning to find extremely annoying.

“Helena, I don’t have any interest in-” She pushed off the desk and cut him off by pressing her index finger to his lips.

“I do love the sound of your voice, but now it’s my turn to talk,” she murmured, moving closer so there was just a few inches between their bodies. He leaned back as far as he could, pressing up against his desk as Helena followed him. “You know, I have dreamed about doing the most wicked things to you.”

She slid her hands up both his arms, stopping mid-bicep and sighed. Before she could say anything more explicit, Deeks gently yet firmly moved her hands, letting making as little contact as possible.

“We have work to do,” he told her firmly. “I’m going to fill Sam and Callen in on what we learned from Mrs. Werner.”

Thankfully, she didn’t try to stop him and he made his escape, heading towards the gym. Fortunately, she didn’t attempt to follow him.

***

“Deeks, you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Bertram?” Talia asked abruptly one afternoon, stopping him in the middle of the gym with all the subtly that she was known for. It was a week since Helena had hit on Deeks and he’d been avoiding her as much as possible.

“Uh, I don’t know what you mean,” he said, shrugging. Talia snorted and rolled her eyes.

“God, how are you so good at covers when you can’t lie about anything else? Every time Bertram gets anywhere near you, you practically run in the other direction. You’ve even been taking the worst jobs to stay away from her. So spill.”

She planted a hand on her hip, blocking his way. He could get around her if he really wanted to, but he also knew that Talia wouldn’t drop the subject and he’d rather not have the conversation leave this room.

“Fine. If you must know, she kind of, uh, she hit on me. Repeatedly.” He felt his cheeks flush a little at the admission.

“I knew it!” Talia hissed, surprising him.

“What do you mean you knew?”

She waved her hand dismissively and patted his shoulder, the gesture completely condescending.

“Oh please, she’s been eyeing you since the day she got here. You were just too unaware to realize it.”

“I think I should be offended,” Deeks muttered.

“I can’t believe she actually made a move when she knows you’re married,” Talia said. “I mean, that’s worse than me.”

“She made it explicitly clear that she doesn’t care about my current marital status. At all.” Deeks grimaced a little, remembering Helena’s last attempt to seduce him.

“Hm, I bet we could get her booted back to her old team for inappropriate conduct,” Talia mused, rubbing her chin contemplatively.

“Talia, no. I don’t want you to say anything to Sam or Callen,” he insisted. “Promise me that you won’t mention this to them, ok?” Talia regarded him for a moment, her expression unreadable, and then sighed.

“Fine. I won’t tell Sam or Callen.” She raised a finger. “But if I hear her making another pass at you, I’m totally sending Kensi after her ass.”

***

“Keep your hands off Deeks,” Talia said bluntly, bracing her hands on either side of Helena’s desk. The other woman looked up slowly, not looking particularly worried.

“Excuse me?”

“Deeks said you hit on him.”

“I don’t think it’s really any of your business if I did,” Helena commented, leaning forward. “If Agent Deeks wants to take me up on my offer, I say that’s his decision.”

“Oh no, I’m the only one who gets to flirt with him and make inappropriate comments,” Talia corrected.

“And what makes you so special?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m his friend, not some temp agent who’s trying to horn in on someone else’s territory.”

“You know what, I think you’re jealous. You spend so much time trying to get his attention and here I am. Younger, hotter, and smarter,” she suggested, tilting her head in a completely obnoxious way that. Talia very narrowly resisted the urge to grab a handful of her thick black hair and slam her into the surface of her borrowed desk.

“Listen, I knew Deeks and Kensi before they were together. I knew they were going to be a couple way before they did.” Leaning forward, Talia dropped her voice to a whisper and felt a touch of satisfaction when Helena’s eyes widened in surprise. “So don’t try to mess this up. Better people before you have tried and failed.”

“Is that a threat?” Helena asked a little hoarsely.

“Nope, it’s a warning. If I see you trying to mess with Deeks, I will come for you,” she said, taking a step back. There was a moment of silence and then Helena squared her jaw, a mutinous look coming into her eyes again.

“It sounds like you don’t trust Deeks to make this decision on his own,” she decided. “Which makes me think that I still have a chance.”

“Oh, he will definitely make the right choice and he’s fully capable of making it on his own. Because he loves wife more than anything. I just don’t think he or Kensi need this added stress on top of getting ready for a baby.” Helena started to say something else, but Talia raised a hand and added, “But I am fully prepared to call Kensi in if necessary. Because not only is Kensi a kick ass woman, but she’s also a kick ass agent.” As Talia added the last part, Helena’s face paled slightly as realization hit.

“Wait, Deeks’ wife is-?”

“Also his partner?” Talia filled in gleefully. “Did we forget to mention that part. Yeah, she’s probably even more terrifying than me, which is saying something. And completely capable of slaying you, even at 38 weeks pregnant. Especially since she’s pretty protective of Deeks right now. So if I were you, I wouldn’t do anything to enrage her.”

“I wasn’t trying to-“

“Break up their marriage? Like you could ever drive a wedge between Kensi and Deeks. She literally carried him through Mexico to save his life. They’re unbreakable.”

Helena swallowed harshly, the confidant, irreverent agent completely gone. In her place was a pale, visibly shaken woman. Talia nodded in satisfaction, accepting her silence as capitulation.

“You won’t say anything to the rest of the team will you?” she asked quietly. Which Talia interpreted to mostly mean Kensi.

“As long as you keep your hands to yourself, I see no reason why you shouldn’t leave this team in one piece six weeks from now,” Talia assured her, offering a dark smile as she left the room.

She passed Deeks in the hall a few minutes later and he frowned as she fell into step beside him.

“Why do you look so pleased with yourself?” he asked suspiciously. “Has Kensi been texting you my baby pictures again?”

“Nope. Let’s just say the Bertram issue has been taken care of.”

“What does that mean?” She just smiled turning in a half circle and offered,

“It means I got your back.” She smacked his butt as she passed and called out, “And your butt!”

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #Talia Del Campo #densi #Deeks loves Kensi #Talia loves densi #indecent proposal #ejzah fanfiction

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inkcavity · 3 years

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somebody with nothin' to lose. — [♡] ; | Gojo/Nanami

ʚ Hips rut desperately against Nanami’s own, desperate for release, and he keens as Nanami chokes his name on a gasp. It’s so good, only them in existence at this moment as they’re riding on high. Oh, if he could be like this forever, Gojo will never get off of his cloud. ɞ

✎ … Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento (NSFW) .

✎ … Warnings: Anal Fingering ; Anal sex ; blowjobs ; marking ; biting.

✎ … LINK.

“I don’t need you tonight.” But Nanami never needed him, not even when Gojo reduces himself to needy whimpers and lovestruck whines. Perhaps, Gojo realizes as he spreads Nanami’s legs, there’s nuance there. In the way Kento holds himself but his eyes seemingly betray him with a shimmering glower. In the way Satoru brushes it off as if he could find anyone else - and he does, oh he does - only to go running back to him. Little idiosyncrasies and miniscule peculiarities that keep them coming around full circle.

But he’s not particular on reading bodies. At least, he tells himself that - with Nanami, it’s a different story. All the little emotions, the body language, he’s sensitive to it all. From the blunt words of criticism that rain down on him to the slight stiffening of his posture when something goes awry. It’s too easy, he believes, to read Nanami, almost as if he’s an open book. The truth is, though, he’s anything but. But, ah, now is not the time to think about it too much - too much thinking when his destination is right in front of him. Nanami’s chest rises a centimeter, a relaxed expression painting the serious face he typically adorns. They’re both scadly clothed: Gojo shirtless in gray sweats and Nanami in an oversized sleep shirt. The albino traces a line from the blond’s knee to his ankle with his tongue, savoring the taste of his skin on his tongue.

Nanami makes no noise, simply watching with darkened eyes and hands crossed over his chest. There’s nuance here, too. Gojo’s eyes trail to Nanami’s own, watching light bounce and shimmer in his iris with bubbling pleasure. The color of his eyes is murky, as if drowning in dim lights; the color normally so clear becomes hazy under the moonlight and warm orange of the bedside table lamp. Pah, his interior decoration skills are much better than that of the hotel they’ve checked into, the colors clashing and the decorations rather boring, but the man in front of him probably has nothing to say about such eccentricities. Or, maybe, just maybe, Nanami hates them as much as Gojo does - the colors simply don’t do anything to grace the room, nor does the room itself explicitly complement them. There’s a strange surge of intimacy as Gojo thinks about taking Nanami in his room, fucking him against the walls and breaking several of his possessions. It’s far too intimate - cider is not.

No, Gojo thinks as he suckles a mark onto Nanami’s inner thigh, cider was simply not their color. Truly, it was non-offending, a color meant to neither express nor offend. However, with the slightly inhale Nanami takes as Gojo bites down on his thigh, Gojo believes they’d look good in blue. His blue. The blue of the bruises that flower on Nanami’s thighs as he bruises them with mouth, tongue, and teeth. A smirk plays on his lips as Nanami’s leg begins to quiver under his ministrations, and oh, does he delight in it. No matter how many other women and men he beds, nobody ever excites him as much as the blond beneath him. His hands travel to his hips, roughly pulling him closer as he licks his inner thighs, head falling under his sleep shirt. Like this, Gojo can see the swell of his cock straining in his boxers.

Gojo moans, biting down particularly hard on Nanami’s inner thigh, his own arousal stirring in it’s constraints. Eager hands peel away at the fabric separating them, delighting in the way Nanami’s cock springs upward when released. Gojo sucks in a breath, pulling away momentarily to stare up at Namami. The blond has a hand over his mouth, chest rapidly rising and falling from the pure pleasure he’s gotten from the bites and marks alone. Gojo licks his lips, delighted.

“May I?” His voice is softer than normal, but for Nanami, he’ll be kind. After all, it’s only kind. Dark green bore into his own fluttering blues, as if waiting for some cruel joke, but nothing passes. Once Nanami gives the view over an okay, he nods his head for Gojo to continue. Without another thought, he descends down onto Nanami’s cock without further adieu. With a hand on his naval, he pins the other man to the bed easily, feeling the flex and strain of muscle under his hand as Nanami’s back arches, head thumping back against the pillows as Gojo’s tongue laves at the underside of his throbbing cock while he sucks him off. Precum and saliva drip from Gojo’s chin as he bobs his head up and down in a fast rhythm, holding Nanami’s hips down from meeting his mouth with careless tandem.

With his free hand, he pulls a bottle of lube from his pants pocket, messily letting it spread onto his palm and run down to his fingers (he’s a man of many talents, being clean...is not one of them!) before running them along Nanami’s entrance. He’s tight, Gojo knows, and with the way he’s trying desperately to buck into his face, he’s clenching against nothing. Another moan escapes Gojo as he watches. Nanami was typically composed; a man who prided himself of being earnest and sincere and efficient in his work, even if it were not a pleasant job, but like this, he was anything but. Here, there is no nuance. His body language speaks exactly what he means - both of his hands entangle themselves in Gojo’s hair, jaw tense and lip bitten red and moaning freely into the electric atmosphere. Here, Gojo is free to have him how he likes him. Had this never been, had Gojo never gotten him like this, Nanami surely would have told him to get off of his cloud.

Nanami babbles something about Gojo, something about please - and oh, how he liked his little begs and moans - but just before Nanami can make another plea, he pushes a finger past the ring of his entrance, curling it upward and feeling him. Gojo’s stomach tightens as he continues to blow him, adding another finger once he believes he’s ready to take another, then another. His eyes water with effort and his jaw aches with pain, but he can take it. After all, between white eyelashes, Nanami looks so pretty laid out before him, body quivering beneath him and voice an octave too high. He pulls away with a pop, fingers still scissoring and opening him up as he stares at Nanami with a smile. (He never says lovingly, but if he’s honest, perhaps there is some love for the other man - for all the times he’s tried to resist, he keeps coming back.)

“Aren’t you a cute little thing,” Gojo says, honeyed words dripping from his lips like molten honey, caramel candy. He watches Nanami’s back arch as his fingers curl against a certain bundle of nerves inside him that makes him see stars, watches as he cums against his stomach, painting them both white. “Writhing and screaming my name. Just like you’re supposed to.”

Nanami, dazed, grunts. His hands clutch the rough sheets weakly as he hisses in over stimulation from Gojo’s hand still scissoring him, moaning as his nerves are aflame. “Shut up, Why don’t you get off of your cloud? I don’t need anything you’ve given me-” (liar.) And he’s cut off with another moan as Gojo pulls his fingers away. Perhaps it’s not love, Gojo thinks, but Nanami is savory on his tongue as he kisses him. Of course Nanami would deny him, but his body does not lie - he kisses him back with passion dribbling past his lips, tasting himself on Gojo’s tongue and melting against the mattress as Gojo positions himself between his legs properly.

Perhaps it’s not love, but then what is it? Lust alone could not bring them together like this, or maybe it could, but Gojo knows there’s something more as he lathers his cock in lube and presses past Nanami’s rim, something more with the way Nanami chokes on his tongue as his overstimulated nerves sear, something more when Nanami motions his hips to meet Gojo’s half way inside. Gojo sighs as Nanami’s nails run down his back, roses blooming in their wake as thrusts into Nanami. If he were somebody else, he wished he’d have nothing to lose.

Hips rut desperately against Nanami’s own, desperate for release, and he keens as Nanami chokes his name on a gasp. It’s so good, only them in existence at this moment as they’re riding on high.

Oh, if he could be like this forever, Gojo will never get off of his cloud.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk smut #jjk nanami #jjk gojo #gojo x nanami #gojo smut #nanami smut #ao3 #smut

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panvani · 3 years

Text

Rereading the official translation and coming across this line made me remember a particular nuance I think Kimura’s translation erases in the use of a gendered pronoun in Oswald’s line here.

To clarify, the original line was “このような形になってしまうのか” (kono you na katachi ni natteshimau no ka, literally closer to “this is the kind of form that has come to be taken”), which does not specify an object. The line was definitely about Miranda in context, but no female subject is mentioned until Vincent’s following line “あの女だ…悪いのはぜんぶあの女なんだ…” (ano onna da... warui no wa zenbu ano onna nanda..., official translation is basically literal) “This is how she was transformed.” is not an inaccurate translation of このような形になってしまうのか, definitely, but I don’t think it carries the full nuance of the original line.

Oswald’s lack of specificity regarding subject in Japanese was, based on framing, probably intentional, at least from the narrative’s perspective. If you were to show a Japanese speaker that panel out of context, they’d immediately assume the person being talked about was Vincent. If Oswald’s line, which originally does not specifically reference any single subject, was only intended to be about Miranda, why put it against Vincent, with Demios notably out of view? Why follow it with a panel of Vincent as a child, asserting it had to have been Miranda?

The thing about this line about Miranda being implicitly about Vincent is it sheds a lot of light on how I think the two are meant to be read-- not as two, completely separate, narratively distinct characters, but with Miranda as a reflection of Vincent’s own character.

I’m not saying that Miranda isn’t “real” within the context of the story, exactly. Multiple characters interact with her and acknowledge her existence, even those who presumably had no idea who Vincent was. Her narrative role, however, cannot be separated from Vincent’s, and her arc is intended as a supplement to his. There are a number of reasons why I believe Miranda is a reflection of Vincent, as opposed to simply someone who traumatized him, however. A good part is how Vincent refers to her.

(chapter 39)

There’s one other instance of a character claiming to have been spoken to by the Devil.

(chapter 32)

Break, in reference to his illegally contracted Chain, claims to have been spoken to by the devil. Break and Vincent’s characters parallel one another in a number of ways- both are manipulative, deliberately offputting, living in anticipation of their death (as was Lacie... that’s another post, though). Both, out of a hope to save their loved ones, begin to sacrifice others while believing their actions would eventually be undone.

The reason this particular line is important though is because of who precisely Break’s illegal Chain was and what he represented-- that is, the White Knight. Just for absolute clarity, to “white knight” means to put yourself in positions of conflict out of the egotistical desire to be viewed as a savior. The word generally has different connotations when used for women vs. men, but that’s what it is at its core. This is also what both Break and Vincent do, as a consequence of having been influenced by their respective “devils.”

Immediately following the conversation from chapter 32 screencapped above, Break says “So people become stronger by living ‘for somebody else.’ Then how to go about it rightly? What should one keep in mind...? It must be... Never using ‘for somebody else’ as an ‘excuse.’ I hope he too... comes to realize that sooner rather than later, hmm?” Clearly referring to Vincent in context.

How that ties into Vincent’s encounters with Miranda is in the specific phrasing she uses to convince him to open the Door to Abyss. Vincent immediately recognizes Miranda as something hostile. He’s always afraid of her, believing the moment he sees her that she is something that seeks to harm him.

(chapter 39)

Yet he believes her, because Vincent does not only want Gil to be safe for Gil’s sake. He wants to save Gil to be the one to save him. This isn’t to say Vincent was selfish for wanting Gil safe- I know there’s a massive discourse about how selfish Vincent is or isn’t, so I’m not going to go into it here, but it’s explicitly canon that Vincent was an abused child in an extremely unsafe environment who in this scene believed his guardian intended to kill his brother. But his subsequent course of action was definitely influenced by his specific desire to white knight.

Other than Miranda as a representation of Vincent’s desire to white knight, another major reason I see her specifically as an extension of Vincent himself and not simply a good manipulator has to do with what Vincent says in the second panel of that first screenshot. He claims his actions are Miranda’s fault, that he can’t be held accountable, since everything bad was only because of her.

The thing is, Vincent thinks what happened is his fault. He does. He insists it isn’t, because he wants to believe that, the same way you might insist it couldn’t have been you who ran over your cat when you find her body crushed in your driveway. No one wants to believe they’re responsible for suffering, especially not on the scale Vincent saw. It’s evident in Vincent’s actions that he blames himself, though. Why represent her as an abstract monster with no human traits whatsoever while Vincent goes at length about his own weaknesses? Why connect the color of blood and his eye? If he truly blamed Miranda, why not kill her instead of himself?

He also admits that he thinks it’s his fault, though only once. (chapter 31)

The last part of why I think Miranda should be understood mostly as an extension of Vincent is the most obvious one: Demios is a representation of mental illness. I’m sure other people have gone far more in depth about this in the past, but the Chain Demios and Vincent’s relationship to her is strongly tied to Vincent’s character and feelings towards his own death. She kills those he loathes, attacks those he loves (but is never able to kill them), manifests at his worst to destroy his mind and is kept in submission when he finally accepts support.

So, going back to the translation I wanted to complain about: in translating Oswald’s line as “This is how she was transformed,” Kimura’s localization specifies a subject that was likely deliberately ambiguous in the original text. In the chapter titled Vincent, where Vincent as an adult and child appear in the same space, his line about having changed into something different (something regrettable, as the しまう conjugation implies) is juxtaposed with an image of an adult Vincent. In the original text, the line highlights Miranda’s role as an extension of Vincent’s own character, while the translation erases this. The fan translation actually does a better job of representing this nuance in using a pronoun that does not specify gender.

Obviously this isn’t a dig at Tomo Kimura’s translation as a whole, just an analysis of a particular line as it relates to a particular character dynamic. Vincent is one of my favorite characters in Anything so I have a lot to say about him.

"Ohhhh but my beloved what is the point of Miranda being a reflection of Vincent's internal monologue as opposed to a completely separate character?" Well. You ever hear of a gender?

#logxx #pandora hearts #Vincent Nightray #meta #logam #animal death ment #vincent gender essays

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