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ratisnotcrying · 3 years

Text

you’re useless

Summary: “Well, maybe if you weren’t so goddamn useless then we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

Juno hadn’t meant to say it. He didn’t even really believe it. Maybe he would have, when he was still a PI, before he had first met Peter, but he had changed so much since then. He still had bad days, but he handled them better now. He knew when he was in the wrong.

Prompt: "You're useless." from palettes-and-prompts

Pairings: background Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel, background Buddy Aurinko/Vespa Ilkay

Warnings: implied child abuse, descriptions of violence, hidden injury, hurt/comfort

Word count: 2.6K

A/N: this is crossposted on ao3 - ik that repeticism isnt a word but im making it one for this fic

~~~

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so goddamn useless then we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

~~~

Rowan isn’t quite sure how they found themself on board the Carte Blanche and on the outskirts of the Aurinko crime family.

They had the typical, cliché backstory of a lone-wolf operating within the underbelly of society - a surface-perfect home life destroyed by something seemingly mundane blah blah blah, trust issues, a long line of enemies, enough friends to count on one hand, and nothing much else to show for over two decades of living.

One good thing about working alone is the need to get creative, and this is what had put them on Buddy’s radar in the first place. A few years ago, Rowan had been hired to acquire a tank of rare fish - this is about where they stopped asking questions, they didn't care as long as they got paid - and, after some very elaborate lies, an even more elaborate disguise and a rigged game of cards, they had managed to win a tank of the ugliest fish they had ever seen.

The part that caught Buddy’s attention, though, was the escape. Rowan had been found out before they had a chance to get out of the building, and had only managed to escape because they had memorised the security’s routes. It took a bit of guesswork, but they had been able to work out where the security would be coming from, found an unguarded window, clambered down a drain pipe, fish tank sloshing precariously in their bag, and landed near perfectly in a pile of rubbish bags outside the window - if you discount the broken bottle that had gouged their leg.

Buddy had picked Rowan up a few weeks after Juno and Rita, but it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, no matter how much anyone may have wanted it to be.

The problem wasn’t that Rowan couldn’t do their job - if that were the case they wouldn’t be here. No, the problem was that being thrown into close quarters with a bunch of strangers was… a lot. Especially for someone who had been alone for so long.

Rowan liked Jet well enough, he was straightforward and honest but intense; Buddy’s ‘take no shit but do no harm’ attitude aligned perfectly with her unwavering morals, and this was a welcome relief from the lies and deceit Rowan had lived with for so long. Rita and Peter were surprisingly welcoming, and Rowan formed a reluctant almost-friendship with Vespa. Juno, though. He and Rowan were too alike: fiercely independent, stubborn as a mule, and they both fell back into old habits as easily as anything.

Maybe this clash of bad habits, the deceptive comfort in being who you were, even for a moment, is how this job went so spectacularly wrong.

~~~

It was supposed to be a simple in-and-out job. Rita had taken out the security cameras, Jet was waiting in the car, and Juno was sneaking down the darkened hallways with Rowan.

“I still don’t understand why we need this goddamn painting. It looks like a baby threw up crayons and then just threw up on a canvas.”

“I’ve just eaten, Juno, shush if you don’t want me to throw up too.”

“Rowan, darling, please do not do that - this painting is priceless and highly sought after, which is why, Juno, we need to swap this for the information August Reid is refusing to give us. I did mention this in our family meeting before you left.”

Vespa’s aggravated voice piped up in the background of Buddy’s comms, “He was too busy swooning all over Ransom to pay attention.”

~~~

They had gotten the painting easily, so it was just a matter of getting out again. Rowan had been tasked with studying the guards’ shift patterns and routes, and had had no problem getting them in. Apparently, their luck couldn't hold.

They crept forwards, leading Juno left, right, left again, ducking this way and that to avoid the, quite frankly excessive, number of guards patrolling the halls. And that’s when it happened.

Rowan ducked right around a corner into another corridor, one that was supposed to be empty for another six minutes at least and there, at the other end, was a guard. A guard who was looking right at them.

“Crap.”

“What? Rowan we need to kee- crap.”

Both of their comms beeped, Buddy asking them questions with thinly veiled panic in her voice, but neither of them answered, stood frozen, eyes locked with the guard. Then all hell broke loose.

Everyone took out their guns and bullets started flying, the guard was shouting and footsteps could be heard thundering closer from all directions.

A tidal wave of de ja vu crashed over Rowan, “Fuck, this way,” they shouted, turning to run, voice tinged with something Juno didn’t have time to decipher, but Juno grabbed their sleeve and dragged them in the opposite direction.

“Hell no. You are done giving directions, I am not letting you get me killed here.”

They ran back the way they had come, and Juno skidded to a stop in front of a storage cupboard.

“Get in, quickly. There’s a vent at the top we need to get through. Do you think you can manage that?”

Rowan wasn't sure - there was a searing pain in their side that sent shocks of nausea through them with each breath and black dots into their vision with each movement. But this was their fault - they had failed at the one job they had - the one thing they were supposed to be able to do, they got themself shot and had put Juno in danger. They did not need to hold the job up any longer - they just had to get out of here and they could deal with the shot later.

It was a tight squeeze, both of them were crammed awkwardly into the vents, waiting for Rita to work out where they were so she could guide them out.

“Christ, it’s cramped in here - my side is killing me.” Rowan muttered to themself.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so goddamn useless then we wouldn’t be stuck here.”

Everything seemed to shift and sharpen, Rowan suddenly violently aware of everything around them whilst simultaneously being blurred by memories they had tried so hard to bury: Juno was trying to listen and see if they had been found, there was shouting from down the hall, the smell of musty metal was almost overwhelming and Rowan jerked as if physically struck by Juno’s words, completely at a loss for what to say. Luckily, Rita, who had been on the comms, was not quite as speechless.

“Mistah Steel! That is a horrible thing to say, how could you-”

“Goddamnit Rita, I don't have time for this - how they hell do we get out of here?”

~~~

Jet was still outside with the car, and took off at break-neck speed as soon as the doors were shut. Juno sat in the front seat, the painting on his lap, talking to Buddy about something, and Rowan was slouched in the back, trying to cover up the fact that their organs were about to fall out. Well, that was an exaggeration. Probably. Just to be safe they grabbed a jacket they had left in the car weeks ago and slipped it on, wrapping it tightly around themself to try and hide the blood and hopefully-not-organs.

Juno had gotten a bit banged up in the vents, so when they arrived back at the Carte Blanche he went straight to the medical bay to meet Buddy with the painting and then to get checked.

“Rowan, it is recommended that you also get checked out. You look very ill,” Jet said as Rowan turned away from the medical bay and towards their room.

“No worries, Jet, I just want to get changed first - these clothes are filthy.”

~~~

“It was a mistake, darling, the best of us make them.”

“Yeah, well, it ws a stupid mistake - all they had to do was make sure they knew where the guards would be and then make sure we weren’t there!”

Vespa growled at Juno, who was gesticulating wildly whilst she was trying to wrap a bandage around his arm.

“Juno, I don’t care if Rowan walked straight up to that guard and told him why you were there - we are a family, and you will not speak to any member of this family like that.”

“That’s another thing - I get why everyone is here except Rowan - you said it was some daring escape that brought them here, but after today’s performance… what exactly do they bring to the table?”

“I’m going to leave that for you to work out, Juno.” Buddy said tersely.

He deflated a little, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. Goddamnit.

“Are we about done here, Vespa, I’ve got places to be.”

~~~

Rowan would quite like a stiff drink right about now. Partially to actually drink, but mainly because they had run out of steriliser and this wound was definitely going to get infected and it would be this whole thing and they would get ill and-

“Get it together, Rowan.” They hissed, pulling out a sterile needle and taking a deep breath as they began to stitch themself up. This was not the first time, and likely wouldn’t be the last, that Rowan has had to do this - working alone and working recklessly meant most jobs ended with soft pink staining bandages and staining baths, throat and skin burning from cheap whiskey. Tonight didn’t have to be different.

The shot had skimmed their side so, luckily, no organs were falling out, but it was still going to be a bitch to heal, likely would be ripped open a few times and leave a nasty scar. This, unfortunately, was also not uncommon.

The painful repeticism of the needle going in and out lulled Rowan into a violent comfort they tried to avoid, the panicked calm soothing them until they couldn't quite hold back the memories they had been reminded of earlier.

Raised voices, gritted teeth and finger shaped bruises. Running, up stairs, through doors, arou-

There was a knock at their door. They flinched, snapping back to reality.

“Rowan, it’s Juno. Can I- can we talk?”

They almost said yes, just called Juno in like nothing was wrong. Then their brain kicked it’s way through the fog and realised they were sitting in bloody trousers, half stitched up wound and thread fully exposed to anyone who might walk in.

“Rowan?”

They picked up the shirt closest to them - part of a matching pyjama set - and tried to tuck the needle away so they could carry on when Juno was gone, and threw the door open.

“Sorry, I was just getting changed. Just sit anywhere.” They mumbled, haphazardly shoving piles of washing off of a chair.

“Thanks. Listen, about earlier, I know that you didn’t mean for that to happen. It’s been a rough week, not that that’s an excuse for what I said- are you alright?”

Rowan had half-sat, half-fallen back onto their seat on the bed and was focusing very hard on not fainting, so much so that they couldn’t really understand what Juno was saying. Maybe this wound was worse than they had thought. They nodded and hoped for the best.

“Right… Anyways, what I actually came to say is that I'm sorry I called you useless. You made a mistake, no one died, well I don’t think anyone died. Whatever, it couldn’t have been avoided. I know that I can be abrasive,” he said with a look that meant he had been told this many, many times before, “but that doesn’t mean that- Rowan, you really look like crap.”

“Wow, thanks, Juno, you say the sweetest things,” they took a deep breath and tried not to panic at the fact that they couldn’t really feel most of their torso anymore, “I know you didn’t mean it, we’re fine. Stop looking at me like that, I’m fine, I just need a nap.” The last words were pointed, hinting sharply at Juno to leave.

“Yeah, because slurred speech and sweating and shaking all scream ‘I’m fine’,” he paused for a moment and Rowan could almost see the cogs whirring, piecing together the information - bullets flying, the unidentified something in Rowan’s voice, the jacket they hadn’t been wearing before, the sterile wrappers on the bed… Then the last piece clicked into place, “Rowan, is that blood?”

They looked down at their top - their white pyjama top - as their vision began to fade out, their head too heavy to hold up and mouth too numb to speak, “No-”

~~~

When they came to, they were in the medical wing wearing a loose sleep shirt - distinctly not soaked in blood - and shorts. They tried to get up and go but a not-so-gentle hand pushed them back to lying down.

“Goddamnit, stop moving. You’ve already ripped your stitches once and you weren’t even awake,” Vespa growled, fussing with the bandages wrapped tight around Rowan’s middle.

“Sorry, I’ve always been lively in bed.”

“That’s cute, darling. What’s not cute is the stunt you pulled last night - if Juno hadn’t come to see you when he did... “ An uncomfortable look passed over Buddy’s face, “Let’s not dwell on that. I will want to talk about this later, but, for now, somebody else wants to see you.”

“Great,” Rowan tried to get up again, “Where are they?”

“Nice try, tough guy, but you’re staying right here until mean old Vespa lets you out.”

“Bite me, Steel.”

“No, thanks, I think I'll leave that to-” He cut himself off at Buddy's warning glance and didn't speak again until Buddy and Vespa had both left the room.

Rowan glanced at the bandage wrapped around Juno’s bicep, “Is it bad?”

“No, just a flesh wound, unlike that one you’re sporting - what was the plan? Stitch it up and hope you didn't drop dead in the middle of the next job?”

“Something like that.”

“Goddamnit. Okay, I don't know how much of what I said yesterday you heard but I'm sorry for what I said. I know we don't really… get along, but you remind me of,” he sighed, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Juno, I really don't need a pep talk.”

“Well, here's the thing - you absolutely do because this,” he gestured to the bandages and the bed, “can’t happen again. You can't see that we care about you - you wouldn't be here if Buddy didn't think you were worth something and Rita is the best judge of character I know; she thinks you’re great. You have a goddamn family here, Rowan, stop trying to push us out.”

Rowan sighed, and Juno graciously didn't mention the tears in their eyes. “I don't know how to-” Rowan shook their head.

“We aren't going anywhere, Rowan, I know that's not what you want to hear but I don't care. For right now you need to stay here and stop ripping out your stitches. Take care of yourself for once. Then we can work on whatever complexes you’re holding onto so tight.” Juno said, squeezing Rowan’s shoulder as he stood.

Rowan didn’t say anything till he was half-way out the door, “Hey, Juno? Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

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little-boats-on-a-lake · 3 years

Text

Part Fifteen (Part Two)

Potential tw: reference to self harm urges

He just didn't feel like going back to sleep. He doubted he even could if he wanted to. It would be better to just get a start on the day's work.

The weather was starting to change again. The harvest work was almost done. Sunny was so fast at it and she seemed to enjoy it. Except for the corn. They both hated corn.

The little fawn who had broken his leg seemed to enjoy corn. Gently petting the fawn’s head, he cracked a small smile as the tiny creature eagerly nibbled at his hand.

As if it could somehow sense his tension, the fawn stared at him before gently setting his head over the wisps of hair resting on his shoulder and licked at his ear. He giggled, a light and airy sound he doubted actually came from him.

"You're a friendly little one, aren't you?" He leaned against the little deer, feeling a quick heartbeat against his own. "Your leg healed ages ago. So why haven't you gone home yet?"

The fawn walked away from him and knelt down, resting against the soft place he had made for any of the creatures who needed help. It looked at him, as if to say, “What do you mean? I'm right at home."

Something flashed in his eyes as he realized he had never seen Sunny smile before as much as he had over the past month. Yes, he wasn't perfect and yes, he accidentally hurt her but they had both apologized profusely, even though she really didn't need to. Could she grow to love their home together like this little fawn had? A strange giddiness bubbled up in his chest as he imagined a life they could have together. He may not have had many things but he was happy. Maybe the two of them could be happy... together?

He left the fawn in his little shed with a quick scratch behind the ears and hiked back to the center around which his life was centered. And also the pantry. Today was bread day and the sun had only just risen. He may not have loved himself but he sure loved baking bread and that was enough for now.

The way the dough stretched out and wound itself around his fingers was a comfortable and familiar memory. Just like how Sunny would reach out and grab his hand when she dragged him to sleep at night. Not the time for that now-

"Not the time for what?"

He jumped back, arms held defensively in front of his dough. A laughter that chimed like a warm beam of sunshine drew his attention.

“How… how long have you been standing there!?” He didn’t mean to scream. But sometimes, a grown man just needs to scream to defend his bread from evil invaders who come to damage the bread.

It was so adorable when he got flustered like that. Felicity brushed off a small bit of flour that had found its way onto his forehead.

“Relax, silly. I live here too, you know?”

“I… uh, you-“ He stammered, trying to enunciate his words with sticky hands.

“Calm down!” She pushed herself up to sit on top of the edge of the table and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Wait, what are you-“

“Shhh. I’m tired and your shoulder is comfortable.”

“You- you can’t just!”

“I’m sleeping, you can’t just disturb a sleeping person.” She leaned in towards his neck.

He could feel her warm breath ghosting over his skin. It sent shivers racing down his spine, but a bubbly warmth rose up in his chest again. He thought it was going to rush out in an endless stream of words he wasn’t quite ready to say yet. The only word that came to his mind was yours.

He was. He really was. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly Sunny had done to capture his heart and soul like this, but if she asked for it, he would give it to her. Even if she would probably break it a million times over. He would give her everything he had.

What was it about her smile that made him feel like the world would last another day just because it was so beautiful? Why did every one of her freckles match a beauty he thought belonged only to stars in the endless night sky?He look over at her and he was reminded of how the sharp knife had stopped his breath last night. Where it was sharp, she was soft, sleepy smiles and gripped hands. Where the blade was dangerous, she was a source of comfort, warm nights with warm words and even warmer touches that held them through until the morning. How could he have ever thought the two were the same when they were so different in every way? Her eyes, endless pools of an abyss he could stare into for days, held so much emotion it hurt just to look at it. They quirked up, asking what he was doing, and it felt like the world itself dropped from beneath his feet. What was the world anymore, if he could comp-

“Your hair is getting so long.” She murmured, interrupting his trance. Sunny reached for a particularly long strand and lazily twirled it around her finger. He almost reached for it self-consciously until he remembered the dough covering his fingers. The dough! He was baking bread! Not now, obviously. But he was supposed to be!

He ripped his attention away from her and focused it solely on the bread before him.

It was hard when Sunny was right next to him, entranced by something as mundane as hair and looking like a dream from the heavens. Bread!

“It is getting a bit too long.” He said, desperately hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his heart today.

“I could braid it back if you want?” She suggested and oh, the thought of Sunny focused solely on him, tongue stuck out and eyebrows furrowed, was just a bit too much to handle.

“Uh, ah- I was actually planning to just cut it off.” He lied. Nope, nope, nope. He would most likely combust if she wove her fingers through his hair for something so mundane when he could do it himself.

He pushed the dough aside, finally ready to be baked, and brushed his hair back with his fingers. It was actually getting a little too long for his tastes.

“I guess I probably should trim it a little.” He murmured, eyeing the knife on the table.

He still really didn’t want to touch it.

He was staring at it for an awfully long time. Felicity didn’t miss how he was spacing out. And how his side of the bed was so cold when she woke up. And the way he was so jittery and shaky when she startled him.

“Do you want me to cut your hair?” She offered. He looked at her with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what she was offering. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you look as hot as usual.” She added with a wink, watching the pink creep over his face.

“It- me? It’s really, I mean I don’t thi-“ He stammered.

Sometimes when she was bored, Felicity would imagine how much he would stammer if she kissed him. Probably a lot.

“Come on, there’s better lighting outside.” For such a tall man, he was easily moved. She could drag him and he literally wouldn’t fight back. It was a little concerning sometimes.

She took the dark locks of hair in her hand and poised the knife above her fist.

“Wait! I need to.... uh...” Deep breaths, it was just a little bit of responsibility. She could handle something as small as that. “Wash! I need to wash your hair!”

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to wash hair before you cut it!”

“I… I suppose?”

“Just… wait there!” Felicity dashed inside and came out with a bucket of water and soap. “Sit over on the porch.” She ordered when he tried to get up and help her.

“You’re so bossy.”

“I am, thanks for noticing.” She sat behind him, slowly working the bubbly lather into his black hair. He leaned into her hands massaging the soap into his hair. Heart, you need to stop racing right now. There was nothing even inherently romantic, this was just so domestic and peaceful. Birds were singing in the trees and he was humming along lightly in harmony. The crisp morning air was starting to warm up enough for rays of light to dapple over them. It was beautiful in a way that never needed to try.

It was perfect.

She rinsed the suds out of his hair and wrung the water out of his hair with oddly skilled ease for someone who had rarely touched anyone else’s hair before. Soon enough, she ran out of things to procrastinate with. Deep breath. It’s going to be okay. It’s just hair.

She picked up the knife and held it firmly in her hands. It was extremely different from a sword. Swords were held towards an opponent, defensively drawn. This needed to be held to the side, working in tandem with her hands and his hair. Gah. The knife was placed firmly behind the hair and she held the hair firmly as the blade cut through the hair.

“I did it…” She mused, the lock of hair shining like a trophy in her hand.

“Why do you sound so shocked?” He laughed, but his smile quickly dropped. “Wait, you have done this before, right?”

“Nope!” Felicity chirped, cutting the hair off right below his neck.

“Wait, hold on-“ He protested before turning his head to look at her. Against the knife. Which was still against his neck.

His hand flew up to where her own had been and came away smeared in red.

“Oh…” His voice wobbled as he stared at the blood on his hand. His jaw twitched and set itself firmly, just like when he had an episode and he tried to pretend he was okay.

“Oh, goddess above, I’m so sorry!” Felicity resisted the urge to scream. It was an extremely unfortunate cut, considering how much blood was running down his neck. It... it was a lot.

“He... here. Hold... hold my hand aga-against the... thing.” His hand flickered with magic, but it was nowhere near his usual steady flame. It was crackling and broken and fizzled out before sparking up again.

“You can’t do it, can you?”

“I can! I just need to focus!”

She pushed his hand away.

“Teach me how to do it.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Right now. Teach me healing magic. Or may the Goddess help me, I will set my own hand on fire trying.”

They hadn’t tried anything with magic since what she had dubbed “the incident.” She was too scared of losing control again and he was probably still regretting hitting her with a damn frying pan. She didn’t mind. If anything, she was grateful he found some way to stop her before she hurt him.

“Teach me.” Felicity insisted, panic rising in her voice.

“Foc... focus your fi-fire. It... it pushes out the hu-hurt.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the underlying sensation he described as “fire” and thought of how she wanted to wash away all of the scars she had given him, all of the hurt she had caused.

How much she wanted to hold him and apologize for what she had done.

How much she was sorry.

A warm orange pulse lit up her fingers and drew closer to the fresh blood running down his back. It surged through the wound, healing the cut and barely leaving a scar. The change in his face was so clear, now that she knew what to look for. His jaw relaxed so subtly and his tensed hands unclenched. That little breath of relief he let out. When had she learned his tells and signs so well?

“How was that?”

He turned to look at her, studying her hands. Something about how intensely he looked at her made Felicity’s flutter. Even if it was just her hands. Even if she knew it would never be because she was beautiful. She knew she wasn’t. But a girl could dream.

“That was incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever healed like that.” Oh, and now he was holding her hand as if she was something precious and delicate. Wonderful. “Are you okay? Do you need to take a nap or do you want to have lunch?”

“I’m fine?” That… was an odd question…

“You aren’t tired? At all?”

“No? I actually feel really energized. Like I could run for miles.”

“Curious…”

He looked up at her face and oh, her heart had never felt more fragile. He was just so beautiful, it hurt to look at him in this moment, with the sun glowing behind him and his face filled with gorgeous curiosity. If there was a goddess, she had made him by hand. He was too beautiful to be made from the earth.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“…did you miss the part where you almost bled to death because of me?”

“You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t that bad. And besides, it was mainly my fault.”

“Still.”

“You healed it, didn’t you? That takes a lot of energy. I’d call it even.”

“I wouldn’t.” She pouted. Something by the corner of her eye caught Felicity’s attention. “Hold on.”

“What? You’re just going to get up and leave me here?”

“You big baby, you can get up if you want. But you can’t. Not yet. And close your eyes!”

“And yet I’m the childish one.”

“Shut up.” She threaded the strands through quickly, remembering the familiar rhythm.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“No, and I said to shut up.” She shot back playfully. She stepped over to the porch and sat beside him, holding her gift with gentle hands.

“Now?” True to his word, his eyes were still shut, but the rest of his face seemed determined to make up for what emotion was lost with his eyes.

“Now.” Felicity almost buzzed with excitement.

“For… for me? You… you made a flower crown? For me?” He stared at the cheerful wild orchids braided together.

“Yep!” She fixed it over his hair, which apparently curled as it dried. Why did he have to be so gorgeously perfect? The bright purple was stark against his black hair and fell over his eyes. He touched it in awe, a blush rising in his face. So adorable. She could adore that look on his face for years, never growing tired of his innate allure.

“And now we’re even. You look wonderful.” But then again, that wasn’t too hard for him. He was eternally wonderful, inside and out.

If you liked this, please remember to like and reblog! Every little bit counts! (And yes, the corn was a reference to @notdingalingalingalingrita’s slideshow fanfiction thing, love ya Charles)

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#writing #writeblr #fluff #original characters #oc #my writing #please #i am asking politely #please reblog this

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crash-cinematic-universe · 4 years

Text

Pigeon

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary: Peter Maximoff is blowing away with the breeze without you to anchor him.

warnings: allusions to self harm, angst, allusions to depression and disassociation

notes: whats that? did you say “hey G make another cavetown songfic,”? well, if you insist.

taglist: @lokiqueenofasgard, @creator-appreciator

based off of the song Pigeon by cavetown

Circling around the kitchen

Why has nothing changed?

Feed cucumber sandwich to a pigeon

Chipping nail varnish on guitar strings

Peter didn’t exactly know why he felt like he did. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was feeling-- he didn’t understand why he felt so hollow. He didn’t understand why the metallic silver of his life turned into a matte grey. All Peter really understood was that the empty cavity that was his chest made him uncomfortable. He wandered around the house doing the most mundane tasks in a desperate attempt to fill the cavity in his ribcage that was steadily growing more and more cavernous. Peter eventually found himself sitting silently on his doorstep, watching a flock of birds sitting on a power line. Something startled them, and they all flew off, leaving behind a small, sickly looking bird. That bird sat on the wire completely alone, and Peter felt much sadder than he believed he should.

Got a pillow case made out of money

Feelin' pretty fake when I wake up

Tissue paper castle paper caddy

Scaly little friend's got my backup

It’s no secret that Peter isn’t wealthy; like everything else in his life, his house is totally average. Peter hates that, he hates how painfully average he is even with his mutation. He despises blending into the background. So, Peter steals. He makes himself less ordinary by taking what makes others extraordinary. In the moment, it feels good. He loves the rush he gets from taking, from becoming whatever he steals. Stealing is exhilarating; it gives Peter a better high that drugs ever could, but regret usually follows adrenaline. Nothing that makes Peter “cool” is actually Peter. He feels like a doll with endless accessories but shallow eyes and an empty smile.

Didn't give me time to say goodbye in the way that I wanted to

So honey, close your eyes and stay like you're supposed to do

Don't you wanna give me time to write another song for you?

“I’m sorry.” Your voice wasn’t cruel or malicious but it still felt as if with every syllable that left your lips you were stabbing Peter in the chest. Peter couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His brain couldn’t process your words, instead trying to shut itself off so Peter won’t have to deal with his emotions. Peter never thought that you’d leave. The majority of his friends didn’t either, they believed that the two of you would die at each other’s side. Peter got reckless, though; he thought you’d stay forever no matter what. He stopped trying, he stopped caring, and he didn’t realize how much it was affecting you. You couldn’t take it, so you left. So, there Peter lied, his eyes trained on the ceiling. This isn’t how he wanted to say goodbye-- he doesn’t want to say goodbye. You sigh from across the room, defeated and deflated. Finally, Peter finds his voice.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me? I love you, let me prove it--” Your head drops and it becomes evident to Peter that you’re holding back tears.

“That’s the thing, Peter.” You voice is uneven and so utterly heartbreaking that Peter tears up too. “When you tell me you love me, you’re not saying it because you want me to know that you do-- you say it to make me want to stay. The intent is gone and I… I don’t think we can get it back.”

“What did I do? Please don’t leave me, please, I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” Peter’s emotionless voice was overcome with desperation and sadness and he was practically begging for you to stay. You walked toward him, and for a second he thinks you’ll stay. You gently take his face in your hands, using your thumbs to wipe away his tears. You press a soft, tearful kiss on his lips before resting your forehead against his.

“It’s not you, Peter.” You whisper. “It’s never been you.” With that, you pull away from him and walk out the door. Peter could feel the ghostly touch of your hands and the whisper of you lips on his, but Peter was completely alone.

Fuzzy feeling and I miss you

Why can nothing stay the same

Fucking stupid head I'm gonna kill you

Melt all your art and drink the paint

It wasn’t long after you left that the cavernous hole in his chest opened up. Peter didn’t realize how much he needed you-- without you he felt lost and empty, he yearned for your embrace at night when the darkness invaded his brain. Peter hates change, he always has, but this type of change made him want to pull all his hair out and wither away in a corner. Peter hated himself more than anything in the world because he loved you so, so, so much that he couldn’t handle not having you. He’s incomplete without you.

Peter despised his own brain. He hated how the most vital organ he has was actively trying to destroy him-- he often found himself wishing he could reach into his skull and pull out his traitor brain. He got angry, slamming his fists into his bedroom wall until his knuckles bled, leaving him to collapse onto the floor into a bloody, tearful mess. The silver man wanted to destroy everything he saw and finish with himself.

I am not a beast, I'm not a monster I don't care what you say You can't have the bad guys without a hero And I'm the only one who's got a cape

It became routine for Peter to talk down on himself. He convinced himself that he was evil and that everyone he loved secretly hated him. His eyes played tricks on him, his reflection sneering at him and clawing at his frail body. There was once a time where Peter was a hero-- a voice for the voiceless, a savior for those in need. He didn’t need to fight off the monsters in his head because he was too busy fighting real monsters alongside his friends. He’s not a hero anymore, though, and his friends are gone. He’s alone and the monsters that hid within his mind forced their way out. The thought made Peter cry.

Didn't give me time to say goodbye in the way that I wanted to

So honey, close your eyes and stay like you're supposed to do

Don't know how I'm gonna live without, but I'll stay strong for you

When you showed up at his door, he thought he was dreaming. He thought he’d gone completely over the edge and that his brain was fried and short circuiting. Then, your teary eyes met his and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling you into a tight embrace. His arms clung to you as if you’d dissolve, and you clutched him like he’d throw you out onto the street. Peter cried harder than he ever had that day-- his entire body vibrating with a rush of emotion that he couldn’t handle.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is soft and apologetic and tearful and Peter wants nothing more than to kiss the sadness out of you. “I was being petty and stupid and--”

“No,” Peter cut you off, his hands never leaving your body. “I wasn’t thinking and you were right--” He couldn’t continue, sobs wracking his body as he pulled you close and slammed his lips against yours. The kiss was desperate and needy and passionate, Peter’s hand clutching your shirt.

“I missed you so much,” You mumbled against his lips. Peter chuckles softly.

“I can imagine.” He kisses you again, his arms wrapping around your waist. You pull away softly.

“Will you let me stay?” Your voice is wispy and breathless and Peter thinks that’s what angels sound like.

“Always.”

#Evan Peters #peter maximoff #peter maximoff x reader #xmen fanfiction #xmen imagine #xmen songfic #cavetown songfic #quicksilver #quicksilver x reader

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drwnng-ophelia · 5 years

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Caught Between the Two of You | Richie Tozier x Female Reader

A/N: I can only apologize again for not finishing this earlier. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy the new chapter and where this story is going. I haven’t planned it out completely, but I think this miniseries is coming to an end soon-ish (maybe two more chapters, give or take).

After that, I’d be more than willing to get into some Richie Tozier (or even Bill Hader) oneshots if anyone’s up for that? Drop me a request if you’d like!

(Btw, dumblr didn’t really let me edit this baby, I hope it shows up the way it’s supposed to?? Please, let me know if the paragraphs are off)

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Female Reader (Pennywise/Female Reader)

Summary: You own the Derry Town House and are caught off guard by a group of friends who check-in. You get closer than anticipated with one of them.

Warnings: explicit language, smut, oral sex, unprotected sex

Word Count: 4,322 (sorry, guys)

For your convenience, here’s Chapter One, Chapter Two, and Chapter Three. If you’d rather read it on AO3, go here.

Chapter Four

It felt like your entire body had gone taut. How was this possible? Maybe Pennywise had found a way to fully conceal himself from you? And now he was playing with you again. Playing an evil, irreverent game that you would think beneath him.

“Don’t question this. I’m not one of his apparitions and we don’t have a lot of time so you need to concentrate,” your mother said, urgency in her soft voice. She looked just as beautiful as you remembered her to be. The pain of missing her struck you fiercely, ripping open wounds that had healed a long, long time ago.

“He will be here any minute. You must listen closely to what I have to say.” You didn’t think that Richie would believe his eyes or ears if he would see this. “I’m not talking about him,” she clarified, “But I’m glad your heart has found its way to someone else. Away from danger.”

“You know about Pennywise?” you asked, ignoring the fact that she could read your mind. She nodded curtly. “It’s my fault the group of friends, your friends, have fought him when they were children.” A chill danced down your spine and you blinked. “How so?”

“It was my task to maintain the balance. It was me who should have kept the Eater of Worlds in check,” she explained, silver lining her eyes, “But I was too busy cherishing my life. That wonderful, mundane life. You will not make the same mistake. You will restore pride to our lineage.”

The power that had awoken within you at such a young age…it had come from her. “What lineage?” You couldn’t stop your voice from trembling. Back then, your ascent had meant her downfall. Balance, such fragile balance.

“Salem witches. The women of our family were the most powerful amongst them. We’ve kept the line strong over the centuries. While our magic flourished, other witches perished, their magic running out. It’s nature’s way of telling us that we are only here to play one vital part, and I ignored mine. We’re here to make sure that the Eater of Worlds will take his rest. We’re here to make sure that he will not satiate his hunger until there is nothing left.”

Until Pennywise had devoured everything and annihilated existence as you knew it. She didn’t have to spell it out for you. You swallowed hard, an impossible weight suddenly resting on your shoulders.

“Your power awoke that day because you needed it more than me, because you know how to wield it, instinctively. Look at you, even as a child you were capable of containing this creature. And you didn’t even need your magic for it.” A proud smile spread on her face.

Whatever this was, wherever she came from, she truly was not part of the game.

Your chest tightened at her words, at her need to appear to you, and for the first time, you were truly afraid of Pennywise. “Mom, I…I don’t know what to do.”

“Of course you do. Use his love for you to your advantage. But always remember, no matter how tempting it might seem, you cannot end his existence. It’s tied to your own. He has been here before us, and he will endure.”

A thousand questions burned on your tongue, but you could see her image slowly morphing into your own features as if she was melting away. “Don’t leave me yet,” you begged and tried to swallow the lump in your throat.

“I must. He’s too close. Remember that I love you, remember that you’re stronger than I ever was. And remember to guard what you carry. Always guard what you carry.”

“I can’t carry this by myself,” you sobbed. But she was gone before she could utter another word. You pulled in a sharp breath, hugging yourself tightly as you sunk down on the bed.

If Pennywise was tied to your own life, then you couldn’t let the others kill him—or you would die with him.

You thought of the Losers who had paid so dearly for doing what your mother couldn’t. So many had died. Countless people had suffered. And this morning you had been willing to pay any price for restoring the equilibrium. If it was your own life…then so be it.

There was dark, destructive power within you. You had felt it, the first day it had awoken. This, all of this, led to you accessing that place again. Just one last time.

A soft knock on your bedroom door made your head snap up. Quickly, you wiped the tears away, forcing your face into neutrality.

“There’s someone here for you,” Richie said as he cracked the door open, attentive eyes scanning you. Your brows nudged together in confusion at his tone. Stern and sober.

“Who is it?” you demanded, ignoring the voice at the back of your head that reminded you that you would die soon, that your time with this man was limited. So terribly limited.

Richie met your gaze, a muscle feathering in his jaw. He was angry—and disappointed. “Someone who introduced himself as your boyfriend.” You closed your eyes and massaged your temples. “He’s not my boyfriend, I promise you,” you hissed, “No need to get jealous. I’ll throw him out on his ass immediately.” Pennywise would not come between Richie and you. Not now.

With determination, you strode into the living room, finding Pennywise with a bored look on his face. He was in his human form, not a hair out of place or a crease in his black three piece suit. Perfection. Walking, breathing, utterly dangerous perfection.

Instinctively, you checked your mental guards. He had probably always known that you were a Salem witch, had known about your strength. What he didn’t know, what he shouldn’t know, was that you had released that strength. That you were preparing yourself for using it.

Mike and the others wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, but Pennywise wanted to play. As long as he didn’t play dirty you would try to keep the others from attacking him. From attacking you. You would try to buy yourself time. Time to prepare. Time to spend with Richie.

“You need to leave,” you said through gritted teeth, folding your arms in front of your body protectively. A serpentine grin spread on his full lips. “Such harsh words for a man you love so dearly?” His smooth voice seemed to slither around you like a snake. “You wouldn’t know love if it spat you in the face,” you snarled.

Pennywise’s smile faltered ever so slightly. He had expected you to crumble, to give into him in front of Richie’s eyes. But you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, you would stand your ground. “Please,” you started, “Please just leave. I can’t do this right now.” Tears burned behind your eyes again and you failed to stop them from pooling over.

His handsome face softened when he saw you crying. Pennywise hadn’t seen you cry for a long time. After all, he had always ensured that there was nothing to scare or harm you, nothing that could give you any pain. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to reach out to you, but when you immediately took a step back, he lowered it.

“I’ll see myself out,” he said flatly, sapphire blue eyes finding yours. I’ll be there when you need me. I’ll give you today. A temporary truce. His voice was nothing more but a whisper in your head, a soft caress that brought the tears to a stop.

Terribly aware of Richie lingering somewhere behind you, undoubtedly a scowl on his face, you mouthed a thank you. Pennywise inclined his head ever so slightly and then sauntered towards the door. “I lied,” he said to Richie before stepping over the threshold, “I’m not her boyfriend. Although sometimes…I wish I was.”

Your heart stopped in your chest as your mother’s words echoed in your head. Love. His love for you. All this time, you had waited for Pennywise to admit that he loved you. And this, this was probably as close as you would get to hear him say it. You sucked in a breath, unsure of what words might tumble out your mouth. But before you had the chance to speak, he walked out, the door falling shut behind him.

“Sorry for the drama,” was all you managed to say instead, rubbing your face. Strong arms embraced you from behind, pressing you against Richie’s chest tightly. “I can tell that you’re upset.” His voice was gentle, an unspoken invitation for you to speak about what was troubling you. Richie placed a kiss on the top of your head.

“This might be over before we know it,” you muttered. “You could leave Derry. You could come home with me,” Richie offered quietly, “Let me take you away from here. Let me take care of you.” It sounded tempting, and you wanted to believe that you could get out of this alive. With him.

“I want to say yes.” You paused, afraid of making promises you couldn’t keep—promises that would break his heart. “What’s keeping you?” He whispered his question into your ear, his breath tickling you, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Instinctively, you tipped your head to the side, letting go of a shuddering breath as his lips brushed against your neck.

Richie’s hand wandered up and cupped your breast through your top. “You could start by saying yes to this and then we’ll take it from there,” he suggested, “We could take it slow this time. Would you like that?” He kissed your neck again, teeth grazing over your skin tenderly. “Yes,” you got out and wound yourself out of his hold so you could face him.

Losing yourself in him, even if it was just for a little while, was exactly what you wanted. “Whatever you need. I’m here for you,” Richie said as if he had read your thoughts.

“I think you know what I need already.” You bit your lip and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Before long, a trail of clothes led to your bedroom.

Hands were busy roaming naked skin when Richie broke away from you just to say, “Lie down. I still owe you.”

More than willingly, you obliged and relaxed against the smooth sheets. Intuitively, you opened your legs, making room for him as his kisses slowly trailed down. Richie stopped at your collarbone for a moment, sucking hard enough to leave an intentional mark on your body.

“The bruises from last night aren’t enough, huh?” you checked and gasped as his mouth closed around your nipple, your comment resulting in him biting you playfully. “Last night you said you were mine. I’m just reminding you of that,” he answered and his territorial touch, this newfound tone, kindled the hunger for him like never before.

Slowly, fingers danced up your thigh as his mouth wandered down, past your abdomen. Lust threatened to consume you. “Please, Richie,” you urged, squirming under his touch. “Please, what?” He looked up at you, blue eyes alight with power—power over you. Now, you were at his mercy. And he was enjoying it immeasurably.

“Please, just get your head between my legs already,” you got out, fingers weaving into his silky curls. A wicked smile appeared on his face. “I’m in no rush.” Provocatively, he kissed the inside of your thigh, his stubble burning against your skin.

“I don’t remember treating you so viciously at the arcade,” you reminded him. “Such a greedy girl,” he chided. And yet, you felt his hand wandering up, up, up where you wanted it. A clever thumb started to massage your bundle of nerves. “Is this what you wanted?” he demanded.

In response, you pulled at his hair gently. “Ow, a simple ‘yes’ would have done it, [Y/N],” he said and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Who said that little tug meant ‘yes’?” you teased, a surprised moan escaping you as he intensified the pressure at your sassy remark. “Use your clever tongue for something else,” you suggested.

This time, he finally did as you asked, his mouth moving to where his fingers had been only a moment before. You tipped your head back and gripped the sheets as he started to lick, his tongue stroking you expertly.

Richie drew idle circles over your skin, slowly moving up to give your breasts some attention. Reacting to your body’s needs instinctively, he changed his pace, and you let out a little yelp when he pinched your nipple gingerly. His touch slowly moved down the slope of your breast again, moving south.

You bucked your hips slightly, wanting more of him, but a strong hand pinned you down decidedly. His tongue didn’t stop its perfectly choreographed dance when he finally slid a finger into you. He let go of a moan himself, content with how wet you were for him, wet enough for him to add another finger. Unhurried, he started to plunge in and out of you, driving you positively insane with his rhythm.

A well-known feeling started to build deep inside you and just before you went over the edge, Richie pulled away. It was like a bucket of cold water and you took a deep breath before propping yourself up on your elbows. “Seriously?” you panted, a pleading look on your face.

Richie chuckled and sat up. “I thought it was up to me whether or not you deserved to find release.” You slumped down on the mattress again, cursing under your breath. “I wouldn’t have said that if I knew this was coming.”

You rolled onto your side, the need for him still pounding relentlessly between your legs—and seeing just how excited he had become while pleasuring you only made you want him more.

“I also said that I would tie you up and straddle you.” You arched an eyebrow, a vicious smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “But I’ve reconsidered. Your hands are far too gifted to be—” Richie silenced you with a sensuous kiss and you could taste yourself on his tongue. “Then let’s skip the tying up,” he suggested.

Richie sat up against the headboard and helped you ease onto him. While you got used to the delicious fullness of him, he kissed you lovingly, strong arms cradling you.

Now that you were in control, you started to move up and down, savoring each inch of him. Your movements were slow at first, allowing him to kiss you, to fondle your breasts, to grasp your behind. But although you relished this intimacy, this loving touch, you were desperate for the release you hadn’t gotten earlier.

Richie met you with a thrust every time as you started to bounce up and down. The sound of skin meeting skin mixed with your noises of pleasure roused you to increase the pace until you felt your thighs burn.

More. You wanted more.

You moved your hips in circles until you indulged in grinding fully against him. The friction this gave you made you tip your head back, your body tensing as you felt yourself approaching the edge.

Stars danced before your eyes when your climax finally ripped through you. When Richie heard you call out his name, your walls contracting around him, he found his own release, emptying himself inside of you.

Catching your breath, you rested your forehead against his, your hands cupping his face as he held you close. “If we survive this,” he said quietly, caressing your back, “promise me that you’ll come with me.” His lips found yours and his words settled like dust after an explosion. This was a promise you could keep.

If we survive this.

“I promise I’ll come with you if we survive this,” you finally answered, brushing some hair away from his forehead that was beaded with sweat. “I don’t want to leave you.” It was the truth. You didn’t want to leave him. Because if you wouldn’t die, you knew you’d fall in love with him, deeply and unconditionally. It was only a matter of time.

This was a different love than what you felt for Pennywise. Unlike the ancient creature, Richie could give you a future—could truly answer your feelings.

Richie kissed you lovingly and said against your lips, “Then let’s kill this fucking clown.”

The smile on your face didn’t reach your eyes so you just kissed him again.

You had almost fallen into a light slumber, head resting on Richie’s broad chest, when something tugged inside you. A tingling sensation traveled from deep in your gut to your fingertips. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Richie opened his eyes reluctantly when you lifted your head, brows nudged together in a frown as you looked around the room with confusion. “What’s up?” he asked, sounding sleepy. “I’m not sure yet,” you answered, the tingling inside you not subsiding.

It was your power. Your power was stirring—but not at Pennywise. He hadn’t lied when he had called the temporary truce. It was something, someone, else.

“Are the others back?” you asked, climbing out of bed. A shiver danced down your spine as cold air kissed against your naked skin. “I’m not sure. Why?” Richie put on his glasses, curiously watching you as you started to get dressed. “Something is wrong next door,” you explained after pulling on a sweater.

“What—how do you know? Did you hear something?” He looked towards the closed window, not a sound traveling in from outside. “I just…know,” you shrugged, throwing his pants at him. “Come on, let’s go.”

Ben and Beverly were sitting on the stairs in the lobby when you pushed open the door of the Town House, Richie following close behind you. “Did you find your token, Richie?” Beverly asked conversationally, the small smile on her lips fading when she saw the concern on your face.

“Did the clown get you, too?” Ben asked, getting up as if he wanted to help. Richie shook his head, “No, he was nowhere to be seen. She…she dragged me here just now. We were, uh, next door.” Ben pulled up his eyebrows and rubbed his neck in embarrassment when he understood what his friend was insinuating.

“Beep, beep, Richie,” Beverly muttered and got up too, reaching out to touch your arm. “What’s wrong, [Y/N]?” Her voice was soft but urging. “Do you feel it, too?” you asked and looked up the stairs, up to where something tugged, tugged, tugged at you.

“Feel what, sweetie?” she asked. You felt Richie’s hand at the small of your back, but he didn’t say anything—as if Beverly’s words had silenced him.

“Did…someone come in here? Not Bill or Eddie, but someone else.” You looked towards the door that led to the office, although you knew that Olivia wasn’t here either. “Who should be here?” Ben asked, straightening as if he was getting ready for a fight.

Suddenly, someone barged in through the front door, almost stumbling over his own feet. “Eddie, you look like shit. What happened to you, man?” Richie commented and you dared to look over your shoulder, attention shifting from the second level.

Eddie was completely covered in dark grime, panic and disgust flashing in his eyes. He was shaking and tried to push his way past his friends and you. “I need a shower, let me through, assholes,” he said and swatted Richie’s hand away as he tried to hold him back.

“You can’t go up there,” you got out, crinkling your nose at the foul smell that came off him. Everyone turned to look to you. “Listen, I need to get this off of me right now or who knows what kind of shit I’ll catch,” Eddie pleaded, rubbing his face as if he could get himself clean with his bare hands.

“Let me go up first,” you suggested. “No way am I letting you go up first,” Richie interjected. ��I don’t need your protection,” you claimed calmly, “I’ll go up there first. You can follow me if you want, but let me go first.” Your voice was strong, unwavering. The friends blinked at your sharp tone and Richie held up his palms in defeat, the look on his face telling you that he was anything but pleased with how you were acting. You decided to ignore him and started walking up the stairs, letting that tug lead you.

Eventually, you came to a stop, holding out your hand so Eddie would give you his room key. No one dared to say anything and you held your breath when you unlocked the door.

Nothing. The room was empty, the bed made and untouched. The window was half-open which seemed slightly odd, but nothing to be too worried about. Maybe you were getting paranoid?

But the tug was still there, tingling and ominous. You tiptoed to the bathroom, opening the door slowly and peeked inside.

The face of a maniac peered back at you, eyes wide with wonder at this unforeseen arrival. “He doesn’t want to hurt you, get away, little girl,” the delusional Henry Bowers purred at you, a silver knife gleaming in his hand.

Pennywise had put him up to this. So much for the truce.

You took a step back, knowing that you needed to stay between the friends and the lunatic. He would jump them immediately, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to hurt you. A human shield, that’s what you were.

Behind you, Beverly let out a small shriek when she saw Bowers following you into the bedroom. “Beverly, call the police,” Ben instructed and probably shoved her back into the hallway before trying to come to help you. Richie’s arm wrapped around your waist, pulling at you, but you dug your heels into the floor. “Time to die, Trashmouth,” Bowers spat, lifting his knife and taking another step towards you. “You get out right now, you hear me,” Richie hissed into your ear, “He doesn’t want you.”

“Exactly, he doesn’t want me. So stay behind me,” you urged, trying to wind yourself out of Richie’s unforgiving hold. Ben snuck up beside you, hands lifted so he would appear as no threat. “The police are on their way, it’s over for you Bowers.” You could hear Beverly whimpering from the hallway as she called for help, Eddie swearing colorfully.

“I’ll kill you before they get here,” the madman said, grinning from ear to ear, “Now get out of my way, princess. Let me do what he sent me here to do.”

“Ben, you need to back off and Richie you need to let go of me,” you said through gritted teeth. But Richie’s iron grip didn’t loosen and Ben didn’t move. Bowers took another step towards you and the tingling in your fingertips turned into an uncomfortable prickling. It was as if millions of small needles pierced through your skin. Blood started to rush in your ears, something inside you starting to push. “One more step, Bowers,” you warned, feeling like your power was suffocating you from the inside.

Darkness. It was the darkness you had felt that day when the children had died, the day of the carnage. You hadn’t been able to control it back then. What if you hurt Richie or the others?

Panicking, you clawed at Richie’s arm around you, thrashing until his grip loosened slightly just as Ben took a step towards Henry Bowers. Crazy eyes shifted from you to the handsome man. Bowers was just about to lunge when you finally wound yourself out of Richie’s hold. He would kill him. First Ben and then Richie. Richie.

You know how to wield it, instinctively.

Your mother’s words rang through you and you made a decision—you let the darkness wash over you, consume you, guide you. Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms painfully. And you willed Bowers to freeze. The joyful insanity on his face immediately turned into fear. Pure and utter fear, eyes meeting yours. “Witch,” he spat at you.

Power, pure and cataclysmic, rushed through your veins.

Kill him, kill him, kill him.

You barely registered that the other’s were saying things, that someone tried to pull you out of the room again. No, not just someone. Richie.

“You tried to kill him.” The midnight voice that came from you wasn’t entirely your own. Everyone fell silent, the pulling stopped. “I will kill them all,” Bowers explained, a grin on his face. You shook your head slowly, feeling how you descended deeper and deeper into that well of power inside you. “Not if I kill you first,” you snarled and with a simple snap of your finger his neck cracked, the sound crisp and unmistakable.

As his body fell to the floor with a loud thud, the knife clattering to the ground, your power retreated, slowly nestling itself back into its well. You sunk to your knees, seeing how blood seeped from Bowers’ eyes, ears, and nostrils, slowly trickling to the floor.

“What…what just happened?” Ben stammered. “How did you do that?” Richie asked, voice eerily low. You looked at the friends, tears sliding down your cheeks. “I’m not entirely sure,” you admitted, your stomach leaden when you saw the confusion and dread in their eyes. “Richie,” you started but fell silent, unsure of what you should say.

Beverly was the one who snapped out of it first, her steps tentative as she came into the room, taking a closer look at Bowers’ lifeless body. She grimaced at the body before kneeling next to you. “How did you do that?” she asked softly, “Just try to explain it to us.”

And so you did.

Taglist:

@lilwickedred @shockwavee @itssmaugtheterrible @ggclarissa @chillcan @jojo-buttercup @victor-criss-bish @discodeakky @kaetastic @discodiscodeaky @cigarettesandtattoos @ma-ntequilla @tozierskaspb

#richie tozier x reader #it fanfiction #richie tozier smut #it chapter 2 fanficton #it chapter two #richie tozier fanfiction #bill hader fanfiction #pennywise x reader

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evoedbd · 4 years

Text

Prevailing

Summery: Kya and Helena work through an expected meltdown after weeks of buildup. AN: PTSD isn’t always out of nowhere. Often times, it is a long dip into depression and nightmares, which makes it even worse because you KNOW it will happen but are helpless to do anything. I really wanted to try and show that in this piece. Warnings: Mild bondage. Helena's back history. Mentions of - Torture Murder Child abuse Sexual abuse Physical abuse Dubious Consent ************************************************** It was a completely normal day. Birds had just begun to wake, uttering their plaintive cries before they would have to start singing. Dew droplets had frozen to the window, frosting the glass. It was almost like staring into a fairytale for Kya, who watched the twilight evolve into morning.

Kya was a vision, captured in a moment any artist would dream of. Her soft skin was bathed in the first morning rays, introducing the subtle tinge of her flesh to a picture of black, whites and greys. The gleam specifically caught around the gentle curve of her bare shoulder, giving her a natural halo none would ever see. Her forehead rested against the cold glass as her flint coloured eyes captured the small intricacies of the morning outside. Sunlight kissed her cheeks; caressed the gentle slope of her jaw and the expanse of her soft throat down to her collar. The shadows of her raven hair only emphasised the ethereal glow of her skin, shading her so perfectly one might find themselves unable to discern her from a classical painting. It was where she appeared to belong; somewhere that the moment could be captured forever. Yet, nobody would. Not this morning. She kept her bare legs tucked underneath her, propping her up on the window seat as she watched the morning continue to evolve. She admired the steam rising from the footpaths and flowerbeds as the sun peaked higher. It was something one might see in a horror movie, the cheap steam effects, yet nature offered something far more peaceful. The serenity wasn’t ruined by the occasional early jogger, nor the early commuters in their suits on their quest for coffee before a gruelling day at work. More colour was introduced as the cars began to pass, rolling merrily down the roads with hopeful drivers. Maybe if they were early they’d get a better parking space. From the backs of the tall buildings bins got pushed out into the street and to the garbage trucks, manned by workers groggily trying to erase evidence of their visit before the population of Chicago awoke. Indeed. It was a perfectly normal morning. It was almost a pity that Kya already knew it was going to turn into an exhausting day. It wasn’t idle fancy or pessimism which dictated Kya’s belief. No, it was a slow crescendo. It was a belief born of weeks living beneath the cloying storm clouds, with every day that little bit worse. Every day, she had survived with the heavy feeling of dread building in her chest, pulling at her mind until the need to fix what was wrong in her galaxy became all consuming. Even then, Kya realised she could not do a single thing to prevent the storm. All she could do was be sidelined and watch, waiting for the lightning to strike before she could put out the flame. Waiting was agonising in the worst sense, not only for Kya, but for Helena as well. As horrible as Kya knew the storm was going to be, she was well and truly ready for the rain. For the wait to be over.

It had started out as something entirely mundane. Something millions of people did every moment in the Winter months. Shivering. Indeed, Kya had noticed how Helena shivered more and more frequently, despite the fact her magic kept her comfortably warm. The shivers did not stem from bursts of wind, or the seemingly ever-falling obese droplets of rain that blanketed Chicago. No. These shivers stemmed from words; syllables that sounded just a touch too familiar. Words spoken in just the right way, at just the right time. The structures of sentences did not matter, not once Helena’s ears had picked up that first sound. As time went on, it had only gotten worse. Soon, touches were met with flinching, as if physical contact scalded Helena’s pale skin. Skin which quickly became covered in too many layers. Between magic and fabric, Helena suffered unbearable heat daily. It was not uncommon for Kya to discover sweat drenched clothing neatly folded on the bathroom counter, and Helena standing beneath an icy spray of water. Never fully undressed, Kya noted.

Things had disintegrated even further than that. Helena began to lower her gaze, lower her voice and her expression. Her face was the same impassive mask Kya had seen in the courts. There were pauses between responses; words carefully chosen as to not offend. Her sentences were kept short. The less she said, the less she could be punished for. Then, Helena started to remain silent, unless spoken to directly. Never disagreed with those perceived in power. Then, ceased expressing personal opinion. She parroted the response she believed people wanted, even going against her own views for some individuals. Anything to please them. Only the softest, most desperate mumbles of opinion escaped her. Unconscious pleas that Kya leapt to serve before Helena could attempt to retract her words with a fearful apology.

It came later than Kya had expected. Even though she’d been braced for it, nothing could stop the American from flinching as if she may leap out of her skin once the pained, fearful scream broke the quiet morning.

Amidst a sea of dark cotton sheets sat Helena Klein. Well, “sat” was overly generous. Too peaceful for the dreadful scene Kya bore witness to. Not a single muscle in Helena’s body was still. Those muscles that didn’t actively move twitched beneath her clammy skin; a vicious undercurrent to the harsh paced breaths and half formed screams that followed. Words were mutilated by a constricting throat, scattered through breaths so fast that it seemed that retaining air would be impossible. Strong shoulders that often bore the weight of worlds had collapsed inwards, caving around a heaving chest. Ample breasts were noticeably crushed by Helena’s knees, which she had drawn to her chest. Knees, thighs and ankles all pressed so tightly together that pale skin turned colourless beneath the pressure of her tightly locked hands.

Kya knew the strength of those legs. She had spent years watching the vicious kicks in combat, or how they cuddled the sides of a horse. How Helena could march for an entire day, then bare the weight of another in her lap during more tender moments. It tore at Kya’s heart to see them now; trying to forge an iron wall to keep hordes of invasive trauma at bay. To keep someone out. It was the little details of the scene that scarred Kya’s mind. Helena’s ankles rubbed together, never crossing. She couldn’t afford the split second her tangled limbs might cost if she had to kick. Or flee. Toes curled, gathering the sheets beneath them, clawing to the vestige of safety. If her feet were beneath her, she wasn’t on her back. Wasn’t bound. Wasn’t prone for the following torment.

“N-haaah gaah! K-” Helena’s gasped syllables continued to break Kya’s heart. Helena was always an eloquent speaker, with a rich accented voice which never failed to enthral. Kya was almost certain that Helena could read a phone book and still have the American population swooning. Her words were carefully chosen and sincere, her dialect often reminiscent of the most classical poets. She crafted each sentence with purpose, seemingly on instinct. Words were so important to Helena. In every spell she crafted, in every heated whisper or soulful plea. Helena had been robbed of her voice many times, sometimes literally. To watch such a powerful woman, a warrior, robbed once more was perhaps one of the harshest things Kya had ever been forced to witness. And forced she was. No matter how she wished she could tear her eyes away, the horrific beauty kept her captivated. To look away would be a crime unforgivable. A betrayal to every promise Kya had ever whispered in the face of terror and shadows. At the time, Kya’s words had been the spark. They had bolstered the ember of Helena’s hope, allowing it to burn once more. To cast a glow that kept the darkness at bay. In truth, Kya knew that they would again. Eventually, she’d be able to utter those small promises and comforts which she had bound her soul to. For now, however, Helena was not the only one stripped of words.

Oh, how Kya longed to speak. She longed to lunge into the fray, sword raised against any who would harm Helena. If only what tore at Helena had form, then Kya could help beat it back. Not only could, she would. She would tear at every monster with her bare hands if only to give Helena a moment of respite. Alas, Kya could not move. Her hands were not designed to capture shadows, no more than a sieve was designed to capture water. However, her hands could cast shadows. Could create corners for the danger to hide. At this time, Helena’s mind could not decipher between pale and bloodless. Between the chipped nails of a working woman, and the talons of an evil Queen.

Kya wished beyond anything that she could approach, that she could wrap herself around Helena; become a shield against the night terrors. That the warmth of a loving hug would be enough to drag Helena back to reality. It was human instinct to offer physical comfort to those you cared about. This could never be, however, much to Kya’s pain. At the moment, Helena was gone. Trapped in a vestige of her past. A touch as light as a dove landing on one’s shoulder would likely be received as if it were the talons of a hawk. And words? Helena would not, could not hear words. Not when her demons roared and chanted for the blood of her innocence. Blood which had already been let from Helena long ago.

Tears poured silently down Kya’s pale cheeks; starting out blazing hot, only for the lingering trails to become colder than ice. It took effort to endure, to resist the ever-growing urge to rub at her sticky eyelashes and stinging eyes. As much as Helena was trapped in her past, she was still aware of the present. If Kya moved it would undoubtedly draw Helena’s attention. A hand raised to wipe away tears could be received as a hand raised to strike. The first of many blows Helena would have to endure if she couldn’t escape. Weak as she seemed now, Helena was a warrior. She would fight against any perceived threat, and right now she would take the entire world as a danger. Including Kya.

“Please... no... no. Please. Please, please, please! No! Not- NO!” The first coherent sentence Helena managed to utter drew a soft sob from Kya. So, it was that kind of terror. Helena’s first coherent sentence let Kya know the tone of her flashback. What type of Helena’s pain Kya would most likely be soothing. Were Helena to utter an apology, Kya knew it was guilt she would have to focus on. That Helena was tormented by the faces of those she had been forced to hurt or had hurt in her defence. Those she felt did not deserve their fate at her monstrous hands. Helena had been older then, perhaps broken enough that her mind had split and protected her consciousness from the worst of her deeds. These were the easiest to comfort, the mildest of her attacks. Pleading took several tones. Sometimes it was for forgiveness, for failure. Trying to soften the blows of punishment she never deserved. In these cases, Kya had to reinforce Helena had done nothing wrong. That she was not a failure. Whilst bad, Kya had almost perfected turning all of Helena’s degrading logic back on itself. Words were powerful enough to cut through, though it was often Helena herself to came to the conclusions. Kya’s validation was enough. Then... then there was this. The worst type of begging. The memories of when Helena had been reduced to a living toy for sadistic desires. The pains inflicted had scarred so deeply that a decade had not soothed them. Helena had been so young, so vulnerable when this had started. Her mind twisted in such cruel manners that she had thought this violation love. A love she had wholeheartedly returned. There was no reason to these. Nothing Kya could say to soften the fact that, to begin with, Helena was consenting. Helena would not always hear that she had been conditioned. That someone had abused their knowledge and power over her to make it seem like she was asking for the abuse she received in place of affection. Logic could not pierce these murky waters every time, if logic was welcomed at all. In this case, all Kya could do was wait until Helena came back to herself, then allow Helena to feel in control of their interaction.

It hurt. As if Kya’s chest was slowly inflating with blood. The pressure increased until Kya half feared her chest would explode like an overfilled balloon. Every breath was wet and gurgling as Kya drowned in her own tears. People often threw the insult of “animal” at someone eating with their hands or unruly children. Kya could almost laugh at them. None of those people knew what an animal truly was. She doubted that they’d listened to a graceful woman speak of times she was forced to eat from the floor for simply misspelling a word, or for begging the pain to stop after hours of knives across her skin. That they’d seen a woman who’d fought to save others reduced to a clawing mess in her own bed, soaked in her own fluids. They’d never watched a human gouge their own skin with short nails, desperately trying to clean their soul by tearing tainted flesh away. By bathing in their own self drawn blood. Kya doubted they’d ever have to help a near unconscious woman into the shower, then detangle a rat’s nest of moonlight hair. Surely, these people didn’t have an emergency box to help lure a human out of the deepest pits of fear. It was laughable they’d compare someone speaking with their mouth full to someone stripped of their humanity the ways Helena had been, the way her traumatic panic attacks continued to do.

Kya couldn’t help but acknowledge the burning behind her neck. It was almost like a twinge that crept along her neck to the base of her skull. Physically, it never changed, yet the emotional stabs that followed were akin to a knife stabbing into her brain. What right did Kya have to feel sorry for herself? To hate how powerless she felt whilst Helena went through this? Yes, it hurt, but this wasn’t about her. Kya only had to endure this when Helena’s body no longer could. But Helena? Helena dealt with this every day. Helena had survived horrors most people couldn’t comprehend, yet here Kya sat, feeling sorry for herself because she couldn’t be the angelic hero? Was she really so immature? Was her saviour complex so all-encompassing that it had to become her identity?

Kya took a breath to calm herself, barely noticing that the room had grown quiet. No, she reminded herself. It was not self-centred to feel pained that she could not help the person she loved. Her pain for Helena’s suffering was not born of a sense of failure, nor was it rejecting that Helena might never stop having such episodes. Kya had accepted that almost the moment their relationship had begun. Helena’s pain was part of them, even if they wished otherwise. It wasn’t for Kya to fix or change. This was why Kya watched every attack. Not out of some misguided hope to cure Helena like some miracle worker. Not because of some comforting words whispered in an effort to soothe. But because loving Helena meant accepting these attacks as part of life. It meant respecting that Helena’s trauma was never going away, no matter how far Helena came. The trauma left behind was part of Helena, just as much as the whip scars across her back. Kya was never going to ignore or deny its existence. Instead, she lingered to balance it. So that, when Helena called, she’d be there to soothe the pain. To give Helena a moment where the world was not on her lone shoulders.

Another breath. Quiet. Only the softest sound of hurried breaths, short and sharp. It was a sound reminiscent of a little girl in a horror film hiding from the monster; that suspended moment of horror before the music burst to life and the villain appeared right beside the helpless victim. The act of lifting her head to watch Helena felt akin to stretching a rubber band between one’s fingers, just waiting for the elastic to snap and all hell to break loose.

At least Helena looked softer now. If Kya was a ghost in the pale morning light, then Helena was an angel with shadows wings curling around her. Moonlight blonde hair tangled around her flushed face, complimented by the gleam of teeth peaking from naturally darkened lips. Shallow lines roamed her entire body, evidence of her own nails raking across her skin. The angel had defeated the demon this night, given only the crescents at her ankles even bled. White had turned to grey over Helena’s torso, her shirt damp with sweat. All this was insignificant to the oceans of sapphire blue which fought to reclaim the space invaded by blown pupils. Even with eyes filled with fear, something resembling clarity lapped at the thin ring of colour, a sharp awareness that pierced through everything once Helena’s gaze landed on Kya.

“Kya?” She seemed to plead; voice scratchy from how long she screamed. It was the first step, the sirens song that infused Kya’s limbs. Limbs that aimed to betray her as she began to rise to her feet.

“Mistress?” that word tasted foul on Kya’s tongue. It was not a playfully uttered word, nor a lovingly granted title. It was a test. A trigger. It was a risk, calculated for but a second. Kya loathed what she did, as she did every time. Unfortunately, it was the safest of two evils. This let Kya better understand the nature of Helena’s terror without having to directly ask. A breath. The tilt of a confused head. A steady blink. There was no flinch, no hiss. That helped. Wherever Helena had gone, it was more recent. It was not where consent was murky, where Helena would blame herself. It had been later, where Helena had no longer had the will to fight. A place Helena had dragged herself out of to protect Kya. The American could work with this, it meant Helena wasn’t at her lowest. She could handle the next step.

“Helena. Can you tell me where you are?” Kya requested, her mind silently pleading that Helena could follow the task. This was a distraction, a simple thing to redirect Helena’s focus to her environment instead of her memory. Once Helena had reassociated, it was safe to approach. Before then, the risk of Helena panicking again was too high.

“Bed… the sheets are dishevelled.” Helena’s response was almost as painful as a blow to Kya. Too short. Not precise enough. Still at risk of escalating. Kya swallowed, watching as Helena’s head turned around the room, eyes feasting on every small detail. Kya couldn’t quite decide if Helena was more like a meerkat scouting, or the calculating wolf. Whether she was still prey, or if she was a huntress attempting to lure her prey closer before striking. Was she the refined beast, or herself?

“That’s good, Helena. Would you please tell me where this bed is?” Kya had to praise. Lure Helena into a more rational state. The way Kya’s heart was pounding in her chest felt as if she were baiting a leopard. One wrong step and Helena could lash out. Or rather, Helena would slip back into that darkness nipping at her heels. Kya didn’t know which possibility was worse for Helena.

“Our residence… home. I’m inside, aren’t I, Kya? I see the window.” Helena’s words were slow, controlled with each breath she took. No longer did she take in the environment, or rather not with turns of her head. Instead, her eyes focused on every reflective surface, watching the doors through shadows.

“Yes. I am at home. You’re here, Gentle Heart. We are safe.” Helena’s gentle realisation earned a breath of relief. This was good.

“Yeah. We’re safe, Helena. What do you need? Do you want me to come closer?” Kya kept her questions neutral, avoiding any implication of her own desires. If Helena thought it was what Kya wanted, she was likely to agree to anything. A state that had been beaten into her, then abused. Kya refused to take that opening, refused to let Helena give that surrender. Kya had seen Helena’s conscious surrender, those moments she allowed herself to be guided or controlled. Where the fortress welcomed another. After seeing those precious moments, how could Kya even dream of taking a manufactured one? How could she violate that sacred trust?

“I am not certain… I crave having you near... But... hands...” She never voiced the request, letting the lack of actual words hang between them for the fraction of a second.

“Not a problem.” Kya was almost too eager to agree, her smile calm and radiant as she began her slow approach. It wasn’t hard for her to put the pieces together. There were only two reasons Helena would ever wish for Kya’s hands to be bound. One was quickly excluded, given the mood. Obviously, whatever had haunted Helena this time had included having her hands bound. Ankles too, judging by the scratches. The carpet was soft beneath Kya’s feet, comforting every step until she reached the foot of the bed. There, she waited, allowing Helena to process. She watched the blues of Helena’s eyes grow clearer, shifting from instinctual panic to remaining fear. From the belief she was in danger, to merely adrenalized. Helena’s body trembled, having nowhere for her energy to escape. Nowhere but fidgeting with the sheets in clenched fists. Words were not needed as Kya dropped to her knees, intentionally keeping her smile calm, touched with her typical goofy affection. By now, she didn’t need to look to know where the special box was. A box she dragged into the light.

To anybody else, the box would probably cause a flood of confusion. The assortment of objects did not belong together in any coherent world. On top of the pile lingered silken rope, coloured to match a rainbow and soft enough it would not leave marks behind on Kya’s flesh. Beside it, several bottles of water, of which Kya took two, along with a tube of cream. After this, she froze, calculating the other objects. The goofiest sleep mask she had ever seen, with large cartoon eyes drawn across the outside. A small length of leather, thick and dented with human teeth marks. A pen, filled with glossy blue ink, chewed down the length of the pen. Several small notebooks, each with different covers. One was covered with faux fur, whereas another was woven with sequins that depicted stars in the night sky. A children’s picture book telling the tale of a kitten chasing a ball of yarn. Beside the books, a small recording device, complete with a headset. The headset appeared to be able to be connected to another device, a music player of sorts. Several assorted kitchen utensils were tucked besides a miniature cricket bat, along with a stone that had been sculptured to replicate a basketball. Finally, a thick blanket was folded at the bottom, supporting the contents of this box.

“Rope. Cream. Water. Anything else?” Kya asked in her usual cheerful voice. This wasn’t something scary for her. This was the relief after the storm, where she could find her joy. Finally, she had ability to be useful. She could finally bring some form of comfort. Helena didn’t speak for a while, long enough for Kya to pop the supplies on the bed. She knew Helena was actively thinking, given the crease in her brow. An expression that often fell into something Kya couldn’t name, but she knew it would mean Helena was actively hating herself again. Actively judging the methods they were using.

“I’m so sorry, Kya. This isn’t natural. This can-”

“Don’t.” Kya gave her gentle yet stern warning, silencing the blonde.

“Helena, I give my full consent to this. You are not forcing me or doing anything I wouldn’t agree to. Right now, I wouldn’t care if this was illegal. This helps you feel safe and doesn’t hurt anybody. Besides, people pay to watch hot women tie up other girls. It can’t be that bad, right?” Kya tried her best to remain calm and serious, she truly did, but her mouth ran away with her. At her end statement, Helena gave a weak laugh, shaking her head in bemusement.

“More to the fools whom share such moments.” She commented shakily, reaching to take the supplies Kya had provided. With a soft gesture of her head, Helena invited Kya closer. The American kicked the box aside and walked to Helena. Before she could stop herself, her hands reached out to brush erratic strands of Helena’s hair back into the winter gold mass. The briefest touch of silk was addictive, enthralling even, but the closest to touching Helena she was willing to come without verbal consent.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t want to share?” Kya taunted, offering her wrists to Helena. The touch of rope barely registered compared to the warmth of Helena’s clammy hands. Too warm. To the point of hot. Still, the touch was so gentle and lingering, as if Helena was taking a moment to simply feel Kya’s heartbeat. A finger resting along the veins of Kya’s wrist before rope embraced her forearms. The silky texture was hardly foreign, nor trapping. Somehow, what was often considered something erotic was actually calming. It removed the chance her hands would wander into a triggering location, removed the possibility of mistakes. It also gave Helena a task, something to focus her keen mind on along with her dextrous hands. The series of knots were too dizzying for Kya to even dare to watch, instead she focused on Helena’s face. On how the blue was winning once more in her captivating eyes.

“You overestimate my generosity, if you truly believe I would share my soul in such a way. I would sooner see it in your hands alongside my heart, than exposed to the leering of others.” Helena’s answer was predictable, yet it still brought a large smile to Kya’s face.

“May I touch you?” Kya’s question was delivered tenderly. The words were not thoughtlessly blurted, not as they had been in the past, yet it didn’t make them any easier to contain. For everything Helena needed in that moment, Kya too had needs. The need to be closer, to soothe the tormented soul before her. Words were not enough, not when she had an array of senses to feed. She needed to be useful. To feel Helena begin to settle. To know the storm, for now, had passed.

“Of course. I am alarmed it took you this long to voice such a desire.” Helena voiced her thoughts with an arched brow a moment before Kya playfully lurched forwards. The American rested her forehead to Helena’s blistering shoulder, ignoring the feeling of sweat slicked skin in favour of cuddling closer.

“I wanted to make sure you were ok first. That was a longer one.” Kya confessed, unable to lift her head to look into Helena’s eyes. All at once, she was too aware of Helena’s pounding heart, of the feeling of static between their bodies. For a time, Helena did not speak. She simply wrapped her arms around Kya’s smaller frame, pulling the girl into her lap. Helena squeezed Kya’s body to hers, treating Kya like a child might treat their most treasured teddy bear. The warmth of the gesture was enough to fill the silence, to lull both women into a sense of comfort. Helena’s chin eventually came to rest over Kya’s shoulder, her head tilted so that her temple rested against Kya’s midnight locks.

“How long?” Helena eventually broke the silence, lifting her head so that she could gaze at Kya’s face. Of course, she wouldn’t allow herself to miss Kya’s reaction. Wouldn’t spare herself the pain of seeing what her condition had done to Kya. A quick glance towards the clock gave Kya her answer.

“Twenty minutes after you woke. But you started tossing a few hours ago.”

“Hmm. That explains the exhaustion I am suffering. Are these too tight?” Helena’s voice was softer, lowered enough that Kya would have missed the words if she had not been hanging on Helena’s every reaction. Experimentally, Kya gave the ropes a tug. As expected, they did not give an inch. Kya’s wrists in the loops were hardly required for the bondage to hold its shape, yet they found belonging simply enough. The ropes reminded Kya of Helena’s grasp, firm but never painful. Gentle, but unmistakable.

“Not at all. Digits are all functional.” Kya dutifully reported, wiggling her fingers playfully as Helena delivered the end of the rope between Kya’s waiting palms. All it would take was the slightest pull and the knots would come undone. For all Helena’s fear, she still tempered her own need for safety enough to grant Kya hers without needing to be asked. All that truly kept Kya bound was her own desire and willingness to be. It was, perhaps, what their relationship boiled down to. For every illusion they cast of Helena’s dominance, there was always an escape, both immediate and gradual. Helena always left herself vulnerable, even when she needed to be shown she was not. The rope, merely a trick to her layered mind. A sign of utter trust.

“I would loathe for that to change.” Helena jested weakly.

“Oh. So, you want me for my hands. That isn’t a lesbian joke of old.” Kya sighed, shaking her head in mock dismay as Helena chuckled. It was soft; low and rough in her throat, but it was a start. It was enough for Kya’s smile to become even more radiant. Warmth embraced her, lulling Kya to close her eyes as she left her hands extended. After a moment, the ropes around her wrists slackened, Helena changed the knots. Bound them. Undid them. Repeated the pattern.

“Alas, my wicked schemes are laid bare.” Helena quipped. It was touching, that Helena fought her exhaustion enough to try. Even after everything, she chose to fight. To fight every shadow in her mind, every demon devouring her from within. Her short nails dug into what remained of her humanity, and she clung with all her might. A small joke here, or a gentle smile after the exhaustion of another war within.

“It’s ok to be bare, Helena. I’m not about to run. Remember, I am not afraid of what was done to you. This is just part of us, and I wouldn’t trade us for anyone else. I’m here, no matter how many nightmares you have.” Kya sighed, turning her own head to watch Helena’s expression. She already knew what would happen. Yet, no matter how many times one watched the Sun rise, the beauty never diminished. It was the same now, for the expression Kya knew Helena would try to give her. No matter the actual result, the effort was beautiful. It was wholehearted. For this, Kya would gladly miss every sunrise.

“That, Gentle Heart, is my only salvation. That you stand by my side.” Helena sighed, her lips twitching into an almost hollow replica of a smile. That was alright. Eventually, Helena would give a genuine smile. Mischief would dance in her eyes once again, even roughen the timbre of her voice. Eventually that husk would be intentional, not a by-product of a sore throat. Until then, Kya was satisfied to keep smiling. To keep offering whatever she could to bring Helena back towards her humanity. To the land of the living.

#voltage lovestruck #love&legends #helena klein #helena x mc

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enneagramwingmiranda · 4 years

Text

Parks and Recreation: The actual enneagram types of Leslie, Ron, Tom, April, Andy, Donna, Ben, Chris, and Jerry

The Protagonist: Leslie Knope [Type 3]

“I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.”

Enneagram Wing: 3w2 (Achiever along with a helper)

"I care. I care a lot. It's kinda my thing."

Core Fear: Being exposed as or thought incompetent, inefficient, or worthless; failing to be or appear successful

Core Desire: Having high status and respect, being admired, successful, and valuable

Leslie feels her purpose is to make the world a better place, specifically Pawnee, since this is the place she holds dear to her heart and is the most reachable for her. Her identity is defined by her work and her drive and passion are what allow her to continue to move up the latter. She takes rejection and set backs hard, however, she always gets back up and continues to move forward to reach her goals. Her influence shapes the hearts and minds of her coworkers. She inspires them to be better people and to find what they are meant to do in life and do it. Along with her go-getter attitude, she goes above and beyond for her friends (2) and they greatly appreciate her care and efforts. As for her childhood wound, she has described her mother as cold and withholding so we can only assume that she received praise and attention only from the achievements she made. Her mother also works in government and only respects those with an assertive and dominant presence.

The Sensible Friend: Ann Perkins [Type 6]

“As Leslie’s maid of honor, I really need her bachelorette party to go well, which is why I’m stress eating gummy penises.”

Enneagram wing: 6w7 (Loyalist along with an enthusiast)

“I’m putting myself out there, meeting some new people, having some causal fun, and it’s awkward.”

Core Fear: Fearing fear itself, being without support, security, or guidance; being blamed, targeted, alone, or physically abandoned

Core Desire: Having security, guidance, and support

Ann is by far the most sensible character. She is the person everyone knows they can rely on. Andy unfortunately took advantage of this quality resulting in her becoming his caretaker rather than remaining an equal. Leslie appreciates her sensibility and this is what makes them such great friends. However, Leslie can trigger Ann’s already existing anxiety from her high expectations and good intentioned pushy behavior. Another side of the coin of is her fear of ending up alone. She is constantly dating and even settles a few times to avoid loneliness. It is when she takes the time to be single and soothes this fear that she and Chris end up together. Ann also has an adventurous streak. She likes to go out and have a good time. She just sometimes needs a little push from Chris, Leslie, or Donna.

The True Introvert: Ron Swanson [Type 5]

“That is a canvas sheet, the most versatile object known to man. It can be used to make tents, backpacks, shoes, stretchers, sails, tarpaulins, and I suppose, in the most dire of circumstances, it can be a surface on which to make art.”

Enneagram wing: 5w4|5w6 (Balanced)

“Don’t start chasing applause and acclaim. That way lies madness.”

Core Fear: Being annihilated, invaded, or not existing; being thought incapable or ignorant; having obligations placed upon you or your energy being completely depleted

Core Desire: Being capable and competent

Ron is an intellect, constantly going off on philosophical tangents about the corrupt ways of government, effective life hacks, and flawed human nature. He believes there is only one way to do things and his ways of going about things are very unique to himself (4). He is a non-conformist. He loves learning new things and adding to his craft. He is a breakfast and wood enthusiast. Ron is quite guarded and withdrawn from the world and prefers this. His childhood wound is that his mother was intrusive and over-controlling so we can assume he felt exposed and defenseless. This followed Ron in adulthood as he had many toxic relationships with women similar to her. Thus, Ron feels he is best served to live in isolation and fend for himself, as well as, rely on cerebral means rather than emotional means. Ron demonstrates his wing 6 with his desire to be safe and have security.

The Entrepreneur: Tom Haverford [Type 3]

“At the risk bragging, one of the things I’m best at is riding coattails. Behind every successful man is me, smiling and taking partial credit.

Enneagram wing: 3w4 (Achiever along with an individualist)

“‘Zerts’ are what I call desserts. ‘Trée-trées’ are entrées. I call sandwiches ‘sammies,’ ‘sandoozles,’ or ‘Adam Sandlers.’ Air conditioners are ‘cool blasterz’ with a ‘z’ — I don’t know where that came from. I call cakes ‘big ol’ cookies.’ I call noodles ‘long-ass rice.’ Fried chicken is ‘fry-fry chicky-chick.’ Chicken parm is ‘chicky-chicky-parm-parm.’ Chicken cacciatore? ‘Chicky-cacc.’ I call eggs ‘pre-birds,’ or ‘future birds.’ Root beer is ‘super water.’ Tortillas are ‘bean blankets.’ And I call forks ‘food rakes.’”

Core Fear: Being exposed as or thought incompetent, inefficient, or worthless; failing to be or appear successful

Core Desire: Having high status and respect, being admired, successful, and valuable

Tom measures his entire worth from his successes and failures. He is extremely creative and is constantly coming up with unique ideas to form a successful business.

The Misanthrope: April Ludgate [Type 4]

“I wasn’t listening but I strongly disagree.”

Enneagram wing: 4w5 (Individualist along with investigator)

“If you ever speak me to me in Spanish please use the formal “usted”.

Core Fear: Being inadequate, emotionally cut off, plain, mundane, defective, flawed, or insignificant

Core Desire: Being unique, special, and authentic

April portrays major apathy but it’s clearly done to hide her genuine care and insecurity. She wants to be unique and special, thus overdoing it with her quirky, odd, eccentric, nonconformist talk and lifestyle. Her speech and way of behaving is an oxymoron. She deep down wants what everyone else wants: real love, real friendship, and a successful career. As she grows up and matures, she moves further away from her exaggerated dark persona to a normal expressive, mature adult. However, she adds in whatever she needs to to maintain her individuality. April also values cerebral pursuits shown in her getting accepted to an exceptional veterinary school. Her wing 5 is what helps her identify with so much with Ron.

The Charming Goofball: Andy Dwyer [Type 9]

“It’s fine. It’s just that life is pointless and nothing matters and I’m always tired.”

Enneagram wing: 9w8 (Peacemaker along with the challenger)

“I’m not crying. I’m just allergic to jerks!”

Core Fear: Being in conflict, tension, or discord; feeling shut out and overlooked; losing connection and relationship with others

Core Desire: Having inner stability and peace of mind

The epitome of Andy’s character is his easy-going nature. He is also very caring and thoughtful. He rarely ever voices if anything is bothering him and we see him go through great lengths to end any conflict between he and April. He attempts to make things right with Ann after their break up but doesn’t succeed. Andy possess a child-like mindset and view of the world and this is what seems to serve as a coping skill for the trials and tribulations of life. This also makes him endearing and what makes him perfect for April as she holds a similar mentality.

The Nerd: Ben Wyatt [Type 1]

“I don’t even have time to tell you how wrong you are. Actually, it’s going to bug me if I don’t.”

Enneagram wing: 1w9 (Reformer along with peacemaker)

“Stick to the list and you’ll do great. I have total faith in you... (there’s like a 30% chance they’ll both die.)”

Core Fear: Being wrong, bad, evil, inappropriate, unredeemable, or corruptible

Core Desire: Having integrity, being good, balanced, accurate, virtuous, and right

Ben is straightforward and willing to tell the truth, even if it could offend someone. He likes things to be in order. He often feels like the odd one out in the parks department because he values principles and professionalism while his colleagues behave inappropriately. He admires Leslie for her quirky professionalism. Ben also desires a peaceful environment and will keep quiet about things bothering him resulting in passive aggressive behavior.

The Optimist: Chris Traeger [Type 7]

“The world is my gymnasium, Ron.”

Enneagram wing: 7w6 (Enthusiast along with loyalist)

“I am 100% certain that I am 0% sure of what I’m going to do.”

Core Fear: Being deprived, trapped in emotional pain, limited, or bored; missing out on something fun

Core Desire: Being happy, fully satisfied, and content

Chris is extremely positive all the time to cover up his true inner turmoil. He had a tough childhood and coped with the trauma by avoiding the negative emotions and putting his focus on his health. Thus he became a health nut. In the field of clinical psychology, he would most likely be diagnosed with orthorexia. Chris has a lot of anxiety about life and desires to feel a sense of safety in his life and relationships, thus making him fall into the wing 6. He desires the guidance and support from others (he started seeing a counselor 5 times a week during his depressive episode).

The Minx: Donna Meagle [Type 8]

“You better watch yourself.”

Enneagram wing: 8w7 (Challenger along with enthusiast)

“Treat yourself.”

Core Fear: Being weak, powerless, harmed, controlled, vulnerable, manipulated, and left at the mercy of injustice

Core Desire: Protecting yourself and those in your inner circle

Donna is the epitome of “an independent black woman who don’t need no man.” She essentially dos onto others what she fears they will do onto her. Thus, she manipulates and abuses vulnerable men to get what she wants and then leaves them. We can assume that something happened in her childhood that resulted in this relationship pattern. She discusses her grandma dying while having a threesome so this behavior was certainly model for her. She falls on the 7 wing for her enjoyment of life's greatest pleasures.

The Target: Jerry Gergich [Type 9]

“So I go by Terry now. They already had a Larry in the Parks department, and they suggested that they change my name to Terry. I told them my real name was Garry, and they said ‘who cares?’ What a fun bunch of guys.”

Enneagram wing: 9w1 (Peacemaker along with reformer)

“Well, you know it's like I always say 'it ain't government work if you don't have to do it twice.”

Core Fear: Being in conflict, tension, or discord; feeling shut out and overlooked; losing connection and relationship with others

Core Desire: Having inner stability and peace of mind

Jerry is clearly a peacemaker in that he keeps his mouth shut despite his constant abuse from his colleagues at the parks department. He identifies with Andy in that Tom was trying to dub him as the new office target due to his similar easygoing nature and clumsiness. He shows that he is a wing 1 in his values of goodness and morality.

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hirako5hinji · 4 years

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— BASICS.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE ? he’s 5'9½" - not the tallest, but definitely above average by asian standards.

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ? shinji doesn’t give it too much of a thought. girls appreciate his height, though - tall, but not tall enough that it’s a pain in the neck (literally) to look him in the face.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ? gilded strands, fine like spun silk, smooth and straight with a healthy, glossy shine.

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING ? slightly more than average, but not excessively so. his hair is already naturally fine and straight so he spends very little time styling it in the mornings. he blow dries after every wash, conditions religiously, and trims the ends each month or so because his hair grows quite quickly. other than that, there’s also a standard weekly maintenance with treatment to promote good hair and scalp health.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK ? he’s a believer of first impressions (first love, hello?) and in making an effort. he is fastidious about personal hygiene and self-grooming, and likes to look neat and sharp. shinji doesn’t care too much about what others think of his fashion sense - what matters is that he likes how he looks and how good he feels about himself.

— PREFERENCES.

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? both. ▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? both. ▸ FOREST OR BEACH ? beach. ▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS ? metals ▸ FLOWERS OR PERFUMES ? both ▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? he is attracted to appearances right out the gate, but personality is what ultimately decides whether he sticks around or goes. ▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? depends. ▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY ? both ▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? painful truths. ▸ SCIENCE OR MAGIC ? both ▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT ? the nature of his work is violent and full of strife, so he can never have enough of peace ▸ NIGHT OR DAY ? night. ▸ DUSK OR DAWN ? dusk. ▸ WARMTH OR COLD ? warmth. ▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? few close friends - but he is popular amongst his peers. ▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME ? both.

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ? risk aversive, hence more conservative than proactive in his approach even when the situation demands otherwise. prefers not to get involved with troublesome issues unless forced to move in a dire scenario. keeps his own counsel. very proficient in diverting attention away from and ignoring his personal problems. procrastinates too much. avoids responsibilities if/when possible.

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ? shinji has lost numerous friends, comrades and subordinates over his long tenure as shinigami, and each loss has only taught him to become more outwardly impersonal, internalizing grief in private. the lesson is this: people are best celebrated in present, not mourned in lament after they pass, and that’s why he’s always so generous with those whom he holds close bonds with.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ? the time spent in the human world holds some of his most bitter, yet also his fondest memories. coming to terms with the horrific consequences of hollowfication has been immensely hard, but some of his most carefree moments had also come from this period of time. travelling to see an unimaginably vast world with hiyori and the others. an existence free of responsibilities and duties affiliated to any organization. all the time in the world to pursue mundane interests and hobbies. and the family he has developed out of this tragedy, more precious than his own lifeblood.

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ? he refrains from making lethal moves most of the time, but once he has made an assessment and determines that deadly force is necessary, he tries to bring the encounter to a conclusive end as swiftly as possible. shinji does not particularly enjoy the killing but neither is he aversive to the act when it is imperative to do so.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ? it does not happen often, but when it does, he withdraws immediately and the floodgates slam up. shuts everyone and everything out, mostly for their own protection and safety because his control over every facade of himself is tenuous at most and highly unstable during this state. he internalizes a lot and is capable of bearing immense pressure, but when it unravels, it takes an overwhelming emotional toll on him, and a lot to slowly piecemeal himself back together again. the nipping, ever persisting threat of his inner hollow is grim motivation to keep from losing it altogether - no matter how much he breaks, he won’t ever let it out where it could harm the ones he care for.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE ? yes, but his full trust is not easy to gain because he is not one who lets his guard down, despite that laidback nature of his. there is only perhaps a couple handful of people in his long life who has earned that distinction, and only after many, many years of close interaction and comradeship.

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ? he is teasing and flirtatious by nature but in reality his favor is incredibly hard to catch. he takes his time to choose a partner, to the point where many would think him a commitment-phobe (not far from the truth), but when he finally does decides to settle, he is wholehearted and sincere about pursuing the relationship. in love, shinji is deeply affectionate and attentive. he is romantic and thoughtful towards his lover, and will go out of his way to pamper and dote on them, just to please them and see them glow with happiness. he is physically demonstrative, calmly communicative, very persistent and observant, with a high drive to care for and to tend to the needs of his partner. this means, he is not the kind to love selfishly, and will quite frequently put the desires and wants of his lover above his own.

tagged by: @heavcnlyone [ thank you, Bee - this was fun to do!! *__* ] tagging: @thistleblades (Rin!), @bleachintothemultiverse (muse of your choice, Phoenix!), @burekudaun-kyu, @meishutori, @moonlightdestruction, @elxfi, @solitariusdeluna, @kazeshinigami, @praedulcis--helianthus, @gcntlesouled (muse of your choice, MJ!), @dragonflyofiron and anyone else that wants to give it a go!

#Hirako Shinji #||мємє #;;нeαdcαɴoɴѕ

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dharc16 · 4 years

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It’s good to be back witches! I have been away for a while but I’m back with this post for all christian witches out there!

BEGINNING MAGIC

5 HARD TRUTHS ABOUT MAGIC

Of the many laws of magic, there are a few that you’ll never see on a T-shirt or affirmation board. Here, we’ll cover some of the tough stuff: The harsh, unsettling, the ambiguous facts of living an enchanted life.

This article was inspired by some recent discussions of false positivity—that is, the habitual repetition of encouraging words and images. In short, false positivity means well, but it does harm by shutting down discussion of anything problematic. You can’t hide the truth forever—and when you try, it seeps out in sneaky and unexpected ways.

There are certain aspects of magic that are difficult to come to terms with. The purpose of airing them is not to discourage anyone from their path, but to counter some of the shallow advice and empty promises that the witchy blogosphere churns out.

It’s time for some straight talk about magic—some Swords to go with your Cups, some Rue with your Roses.

IT'S NOT FOR EVERYONE

It's not for everyone.

Can anyone become a Witch? Any honest answer to this question is complicated. In some ways, yes—the magical arts are open to all who seek them. In other ways, no. Some people lack the gifts, the learning—but most often, the dedication—to become effective practitioners of the Craft.

These two are the fundamental magical skills: The ability to alter reality through will. And, the ability to perceive things beyond the normal senses. These experiences are part of our natural state of being. They are, in a sense, the birthright of every conscious creature.

Yet these abilities are constrained on our earthly plane and must be located and cultivated. You need a strong will to accomplish this. It takes repetition. It takes humility. It often requires help from others—partners, plants, disparate parts of self—whose cooperation you must earn.

In short, excelling in magic is just like excelling in business or music or athletics. Not every aspirant will have what it takes. Talent only gets you so far. Hard work isn’t always enough. Sometimes you do everything right and still don’t get the results you want.

It’s not easy. It’s not for everyone (or at least, not all of the time).

REAL WITCRAFT ISN'T PHOTOGENIC

Real magic isn't photogenic.

Thick black eyeliner, a bespoke cloak, moon tattoos, and a table full of Amethysts—that’s what magick is made of, right? Sure, if you believe the internet. Like so many other things, witchcraft has been co-opted in recent years by lifestyle bloggers and tastemakers, advertisers and influencers. Super-stylish, just-edgy-enough witchy pics go hand-in-hand with the idea that magick is a piece of cake.

What’s wrong with enjoying all these highly performative images of witchcraft? Nothing! There’s no reason a person can’t be genuinely magical and also extremely good at self-presentation. Visual art is a kind of magic, too. However, let’s not make the mistake of confusing Instagram witches with the real thing.

It’s even possible for personal magic and social media to work at cross-purposes. Oversharing violates the principle of magical silence—the idea that talking about your workings can dilute or disperse their energy. People who endlessly photograph their working tools, altars, and ritual garments are arguably siphoning off some of their power for the sake of likes and followers.

Thinking back about the most powerful magic I’ve witnessed, much of it has been in the dark, among old or shabbily dressed people, with nary a smartphone in sight. The most eye-opening books I own are crappy dog-eared paperbacks that would look terrible in a tableau with a crystal pendant and a sprig of Rosemary. Pinterest offers no altar porn for the third eye…you’ll have to find those goodies on your own.

MAGIC IS DANGEROUS

Magic is dangerous.

With experience, I see a grain of truth in this warning. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies out there, folks. Different magicians have different opinions about whether spirit entities have an external reality or only dwell within the mind of the magic worker. Spirit entities are real, they have independent consciousness, and not all of them have your best interests in mind. The dead are asleep in their graves, according to God, and are not trying to communicate with you. And those who believe that they can believe in spirits, or even worse, control spirits, are placing themselves in a dangerous position.

Let’s look at the energy model of magic. Playing with spiritual technologies — certain forms of meditation, invocation, astral travel, etc. — can cause extreme and rapid shifts in your energy body. They can wreck your appetite and mess with your sex life. They can effect changes in your mood and sleep cycle that will disrupt every aspect of your daily existence.

Other hazards of the occult are more pedestrian: You can become arrogant (common!). You can turn into a colossal bore who only talks to plants (and even the plants wish you would shut up). You can invite the scorn of people who don’t approve of your path, people who formerly respected you. It’s hard to keep your spiritual and mundane lives in balance—but it’s absolutely necessary if you want to make magic a lifelong quest.

Anything worthwhile carries some risk. With magic, we are talking about nothing less than the rapid evolution of the soul…so it only makes sense than the risks would be commensurate with the reward. Only you can weigh the dangers and decide if it’s worth doing. (See #1: It’s not for everybody.)

YOU DON"T NEED TOOLS FOR EFFECTIVE SPELLWORK

You don't need tools.

As a people who identify with the label “witch,” we often find that people want to perform “spells” to manifest what they need or want in their lives. Spells are nothing more than prayers to God, the source of all power. People use candles or herbs or the like to help focus their own minds and strengthen their intentions. There is no power inherent in the spells or the tools themselves outside of their ability to help us focus our intention. God and our own intentions are where the power lies. So the ultimate goal is to realize where our power comes from, and to come to the point where we no longer need tools to help us focus. With this goal in mind, we begin to understand the importance of meditation, which helps us clear our minds and focus our intention. Meditation is the best tool you will have in your arsenal.

THERE ARE NO EXPERTS

There are no experts.

“We’re all apprentices in a craft where no one becomes a master.” Ernest Hemingway was referring to writing, but the same can certainly be said of the metaphysical arts.

Magic is a vast and mysterious topic. There’s a natural instinct to look up to people who have been at it longer than you, or who seem to be more sure of themselves. But while some people are objectively more accomplished, there’s nobody who’s got it all figured out. We are all grappling with the inexplicable mystery of consciousness. We are all grasping at forms we can’t possibly see the shape of.

It’s scary to realize that everybody else is basically flying blind. But it’s liberating, too. When you stop relying on others to show you the way, you can begin to truly explore your own power. In turn, there's nothing wrong with learning from the experience of others. You simply have to find your own groove.

And there you have it...five tough nuggets. I don't expect that this will become one of my most popular posts ever, but I'm happy that I published it. What are your hard-won magical truths?

Adapted from Grove and Grotto

#christian witch #male witch #witchcraft #magic #witches

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madamhatter · 4 years

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With how infrequent the topic surfaces on this blog, yet given the current day and how I lack any seriousness when it comes to it, I am breaking that streak.

I’ve written a short but relevant headcanon. Be advised that it is NSFW and handling trauma.

In Regards to Sophie Hatter’s Sexual Activity.

By all accounts, Sophie Hatter is someone whose personality actively lives on wanting to please others and making others happy. It’s conditioned into her since young as her position as eldest of three will be fruitless and unrewarding, misfortunate and mundane. She has nothing to go for and look forward to. She must be happy where she stands and she believes she should be happy with the circumstances that were given to her. Sure, she might be ignored, overworked, and might have lost her entire childhood, but she should be thankful. That’s how warped her rationalization went throughout her teenage years when battling her animosity and misery over knowing this.

Soaking in the fact that her time and the chance to feel free was already limited, a teenage Sophie on the cusp of fourteen years old saw the only opportunity she had to feel some form of euphoria.

So, yes, Sophie Hatter is sexually active young through experimentation. The specific times would be between the ages of 14 to 17 while she’s still enrolled in her canon academy. Modern verse, it will be beginning at Year 9 and up to her GCSEs.

If there are any sudden changes like moving to a new school (HPA) or country (Japan in her band/producer verse), her exploration will be halted. She is as conscientious about appearances and reputation, especially in very new conditions that aren’t experienced with. She wouldn’t dare risk herself or the image she represents.

Her partners are consistently female-identifying and within the same age range of her (older, never younger than her but not above 18). The contact itself is never completely hands-on between partners and no penetrative acts are done.

As young and devoted to wanting to keep people close to her, wanting to please them and make herself useful, Sophie performs these actions herself. She’s been reworked to think herself as a giver and believes what she does for her work and for her family must be true for how she should have love.

These interactions, however, do not come from a healthy source. Sophie is as willing to be bent to do things for others and has been manipulated before for the sake of someone else’s happiness. The girls she has been, mostly older classmates who have less-than-kind intentions, have usually pressured Sophie to commit actions and with only the simple suggestion of it making them happy, Sophie submits. These are cases of sexual coercion and dubious consent scenarios where she is guilted and manipulated.

While confident in knowing her attraction, she is less than experienced in romance and understanding healthy ones. Sophie’s expectations in sex, after what she’s been through, were one-sided in both she received no emotional or physical pleasure and reciprocation. Most of the occasions were dulled after the years and different partners. She was still content with her partners’ reactions, but she felt more confused and unwanted as time went by.

With age came the realization, and with that dreadful awakening, then came boredom, unresponsiveness, and repugnance for Sophie. She wasn’t wanted, she was needed and then disposed of. Every inch of her body could be arguably used, that’s all that life can be worth now. Her mind reconstructs that these instances are her own fault, that she held onto a lie long enough to believe she actively lied to herself to get the attention and touch.

After all that was said and done, Sophie won’t ever admit the dimensionality and trauma given from these relationships. To her, they are only her mistakes and are not worth being discussed. Yet, they are also a result of her position in life and her fate -- it doubles as karma and punishment for trying to find herself happiness and excitement in understanding herself and building relationships.

Again, these are Sophie’s own thoughts on the matter and beyond the truth. Her own understanding of the world and how it should treat her is unhealthy and concerning.

Overall, Sophie’s history with sex has been very consulted and harmful to her development -- if anything, her own situation made this chance to explore far worse on her.

Additionally and important to note.

Historically, children involved with work, and depending on the field, from a very young age are susceptible to being abused by their employers and older customers. Sophie falls into the latter half and has felt very uncomfortable and endangered by those she needed to work for (ie: visiting homes for appointments or (modern verse) attending particular parties).

Her safety is less than noted by her stepmother, who’s been canonically noted as being both less than attentive and outright unaware of what the oldest daughter does or has been through. Sophie has been known to try to get out of the situation by locking herself up in the bathroom or dragging other people into a conversation.

Her reactions to being suddenly touched by her neck or grabbed from behind can be very volatile and leave her frozen and terrified. Depending too, she will get violent and it will result in rash flight-or-fight mode. These are due to her encounters in the past.

She has been in sexually compromising situations and in dangerous situations -- but she has managed to slip out or avoid any direct harm. These are rarely spoken of but, it is very much mentioned throughout my writing for when Sophie handles social events.

Sophie distrusts significantly wealthier, privileged and older men and women. Very few would have that trust, as she will no less behave and act respectfully necessary with them. She is more than actively aware of other younger folks around her and will weave herself forcefully into any interaction to keep them safe and away from these predatorial individuals.

#( in which we learn about the eldest ; headcanons )#trauma tw #trauma #nsft #nsft tw

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skiller0dani · 5 years

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Forgive and Forget | Niklaus Mikaelson

Summary: You come from a family of Werewolves that lived in the French Quarter when the Crescent and Kenner Families were in charge. Seeking revenge for Klaus’s family taking over once the Werewolves were driven out your Family plotted to murder Klaus, you begged Klaus to show them mercy. He didn’t.

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Werewolf!Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Yelling, Arguments, Swearing, The Originals Spoilers, Violence, Physical Fighting, Mentions of Blood, Mega Fluff, Angst,

A/N: I haven’t done a TVD related one yet!! Send me requests if you want me to write more! Klaus is my absolute favorite character, he’s so complex and broken and has so many layers. Every time you peel back one, there’s another one to unfold. Love him. He’s my precious angel baby. I should mention I haven’t finished the entire Originals Series, I’m barely in Season 2 so I might just make up my own little plot that works with this little thing I’m writing. I’m sorry if it’s not correct or doesn’t line up with the Show!

Also I use the nickname ‘dove’ in this story. I just don’t think Klaus would say ‘baby’ but he would say something cute like ‘dove’. Plus I think that nickname is really precious and adorable.

Masterlist

It was hard for you to be in the same room with him, let alone living in the same house. There was nowhere else for you to go, you relied on him so much you didn’t have a backup plan if thinks went sideways- they did. This time worse than all the others. It wasn’t hard to love Klaus, but it was even harder to forgive him when he let you down. It took some time but you normally came around and forgave him after a few nights of avoiding him and drowning your sorrows. This time was different, this time you believed he would keep his word. This wasn’t as small as ‘you lied to me’ this was bigger than that. Granted you had severe issues with your family, and it had gotten to the point you didn’t even know if you loved them or tolerated them, but never have you wanted them dead. You didn’t know what to do this time, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. So you stayed, it’s not like you had much other choice. Like clockwork the three gentle knocks that come every night sound against your door.

“Darling? Can’t we end this silly little fight? How long will it take for you to speak to me again?” Klaus said gently, with a slight edge to his voice. You stayed firmly on the bed, using all your willpower to ignore him. If you opened that door- it would end ugly. What he did cut you deep, ripped a wound open in your heart and this one was worse than all the rest. You love him, but you’re not sure this can be fixed. You feel a swell of emotion rush up on you, twisting your insides and forcing tears to your eyes. Klaus is impulsive when he’s angry, and he often forgets that his actions hurt the people he loves, and the part that hurts the most is that he doesn’t care. To him it’s a means to an end, a necessary evil. He assumes you will understand when he betrays your trust because he feels it’s necessary, but you’re losing faith in him.

You hear his gentle footsteps as he moves away from your door and one tear snakes down your cheek before you can stop it. You need to get air, go for a walk but when you’re upset with him he hovers around your room. In fear you’ll leave him if he lets you out of the house- so you often have to sneak out. Klaus is overbearing, and paranoid and it hurts you that he doesn’t trust you enough to come back. If he would only let you go once, just once so he can see that no matter how angry you are with him you wouldn’t leave him. But he’s driven you so far away from his heart you sometimes wonder if he loves you at all or just keeps you around so his bed stays warm when he’s away. You carefully slide the window open and climb down the terrace when you’re certain he isn’t outside your door. You let out a deep sigh as the cool night air hits your face, prickling your skin like small needles.

Pushing your hands in your pockets, you stroll down the stone streets, watching the stars twinkle, and the crescent moon shine. You watch mournfully as a young couple laughs in the street, leaning into each other. Living their perfectly mundane and normal lives, entirely safe and unaware of all that goes bump in the night. You envied that, you wished you and Klaus could have fallen in love in a different circumstance. Being with Klaus makes you feel eternally at peace, and forever in agony all at the same time. You embrace the crisp wind, loving the feeling of it stinging your skin. Sometimes you didn’t know if you were losing him, or if he was losing you. You know Klaus lost himself hundreds of years before he met you, but a small part of you hoped that the lost little boy carving gifts for his sister was still somewhere inside him. You love him, God do you love him. Every time he touches you it feels like you’re on fire, scorching on the outside but completely warm on the inside. It’s both riveting and painful, a combination of lively and dead. Yin and Yang, loving Nik is yin and yang.

“Thought I’d find you out here.” A voice says smoothly from behind you, but you already know who it is. “Elijah,” you smile as you spin on your heels to face him. He smiles in return as he opens his arms for you- and you practically collapse into his chest, feeling nothing but security in his embrace. “Niklaus was frantic when he noticed you were gone.” Elijah states, “not the first time.” You say numbly, and Elijah squeezes you a little tighter. “Expect broken furniture when you return.” He says and in your mind you think if, if I return. “I think you know what I’m about to say,” Elijah begins and he’s right. You know he’s going to implore you to speak to Klaus before you make any decisions. Deep down you know he’s right but you just don’t know if you can do that this time. “You and Klaus have forgotten what love feels like, truly. You know it means protecting each other from harm and the inescapable fear of losing each other but other than that, you’ve forgotten,” Elijah starts and you feel taken aback. That’s not at all what you thought he’d say. “All of this, the witches, the curses, the vampires you’ve forgotten how to love each other. Give him another chance, maybe he’ll surprise you.”

Elijah presses a kiss to your head before he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets leaving your heart and mind a tangled mess. You let yourself remember why you fell in love with him in the first place, his undying loyalty to his family. He doesn’t always show his affections in the best ways but deep down you know he has an unbreakable bond with Elijah and Rebekah. He wants to protect you, and sometimes he even wants to do the right thing he just doesn’t always know how to go about doing it. You fell in love with the artist, the man who would drag the brushes across the canvas with such ease. You’d see him standing by the window, brush in hand in the late hours of the night, where the moon was at it’s peak. You’d see the light reflect in his eyes, and as he painted the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen he looked utterly at peace. You fell in love with the boy who loves music, the man who would close his eyes when he heard a song that he loved. He’d just sit and absorb it, smile upon his lips. You’d hear him humming when he was in a good mood, his fingers drumming against the railing as he glided down the stairs.

He would take your hands when it was just the two of you laying in bed, he’d put a record on and you’d sway. He’d pull you close to him, breathe in your scent and feel peace just knowing you were there in his arms. You fell in love with that goofy kid you see on the inside, the way he would tease you to make your cheeks heat up. Or nudge you in the side to hear you giggle, or give you that look at dinner when you say something silly. A slow smile would make its way onto his lips when you realize how foolish you sounded, and you’d be embarrassed but when he laughed it would feel okay. You smile fondly at the memory, remembering him sit at the table across you and you felt...normal. You remember how normal he looked, like a regular guy taking his girl out to dinner. For one night you weren’t a Werewolf, and he wasn’t an Original Vampire, you were just you- and he was Niklaus. That lost little boy he thought died a thousand years ago.

Before you even realize it you’re turning around and heading back towards the house. Klaus made a mistake, and you haven’t forgiven him but Elijah is right. You and Klaus haven’t been like that in a while, you’re growing used to being upset with him and he’s growing used to being defensive and angry. You’re losing the lighthearted happiness your relationship used to be, and that feeling was cloud 9. It was so good you’re willing to fight for it. You push through the doors and make way for the stairs, pretending the smug little smile on Elijah’s face. Damn him, how does he always know how to fix it? You push open the door leading to Klaus’s room and when you see him you stutter to a stop in surprise. He’s painting, and humming along to one of his favorite records. On the canvas, you see a beautiful portrait of you. Your mouth hangs open, “Nik?” You say softly and he turns, his expression shifting from sad to worry.

“Nik please, promise me you won’t.” You beg, watching him pace back and forth. His fists closed and his jaw clenched, he’s taking deep breaths. His eyes are almost glowing, “please don’t hurt them. You can fix this without hurting them.” He gives you a look that makes panic seep into your heart, and when he turns for the door you’re up like a rocket. “Klaus, don’t!” You cry as the door slams shut.

“Y/n.” He says simply as you remain frozen in your spot. Neither of you know what to say, you feel such pain when you look at him. Pain because of what he’s done, pain because you wanted to leave him, just pain. “Let’s go somewhere.” You blurt and his eyebrows raise in surprise. Klaus places his brush in the glass of water he has and takes a tentative step towards you. “Let’s just go. Me and you. For a little while.” You say again, slower in fear he would reject the idea. The look on his face isn’t helping because you have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. He turns to your shared dresser and begins to throw clothes into it, and you watch stunned. You don’t know what you’re doing but if you and Nik are going to fix this, then you need to get away for a little bit. Just you two. He takes your hand and leads you down the stairs. You don’t know where you’re going but you know you want to go with him. You love him, you want to fight for him with every bone in your body.

The walk is long, and you stand a few feet apart as you follow to him an unknown location. You don’t say anything and the silence feels so heavy, so many unspoken things you’re too afraid to say. Klaus seems different than he normally is when you’re upset with him, he feels distant. Almost like he’s thinking and that scares you. He’s definitely not angry but when he’s angry you can usually guess what he’s thinking but now? You have no idea. You feel stings to your heart when you remember what he did, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to forgive him for this. You expected him to at least try to explain himself, or to check on you- you expected him to say something. But he didn’t say anything which concerned you more than if he was angry. You want to say something to him but every time you open your mouth your throat goes dry and it’s like there’s cotton in your mouth.

You stumble into the Bayou, seeing the blood and hearing the cries. “No,” Your eyes are wide in horror. “Mom?” You call, your eyes wildly dancing around for her, you hear coughs and sputters as the injured wolves spit up blood. He didn’t kill any of them but he hurt them, bad. “Y/n?” You hear her weak voice and you whirl around to see her huddled under a tree clutching her side. You rush to her side to see a deep gash slowly healing in her side. “Who did this?” You asked but you knew deep down who it was- but every single bone in your body was praying you were wrong. She takes your hand, you and your mother never got along and you were never around but seeing how much pain she was in brought tears to your eyes. “Klaus.” And you feel your heart break in your chest.

Tears spring in your eyes at the memory, your poor mother. He could have killed them and you begged him not to hurt them. You stop walking as tears fill your eyes and spill over your cheeks, why did he have to hurt them? You trusted him, you really believed he wouldn’t do it, but you were wrong. Klaus stops, having heard your quiet cries as he slowly turns to look at you. He doesn’t know what to do, this is his fault. He lets his anger completely take over, and he doesn’t feel satisfied until he’s punished those who’ve wronged him. But by punishing them, he punished you- and he hates that he hurt you. He would take it back if he could, but it’s too late for that. You stand and cry, lamely wiping away tears as they fell down your cheeks and Klaus feels more lost than ever. You pick up your pace and walk past him, just needing to get some space from him. Klaus follows you, knowing how dangerous the streets of New Orleans are at night. “Y/n,” He finally says when he sees figures gathering in the allies around the street. You ignore him and keep walking but when you hear footsteps you look up and see you’re being surrounded.

“Dad? What on Earth are you doing?” You ask as two of your cousins grab your arms and pull you backwards. Klaus gets a violently angry look in his eyes, “release her or you won’t have any hands to hurt her with.” He threatens, his gaze sharpening. Your Dad smiles, “oh Klaus, I don’t have any intentions of hurting her, but rather saving her from you.” He smiles and Klaus eyes begins to glow yellow and you know if you don’t get your Dad to back down then Klaus will kill them all. In the corner of your eyes you see it, the curved blade that you’ve seen used twice. Once on Klaus when it sunk into his chest and caused him unspeakable agony and then again on Elijah. “Dad stop, don’t do this. Don’t be Klaus,” You beg, pulling against your cousins trying to break free. The circle they’ve created around Klaus tightens and gets smaller, my Dad carrying the blade behind his back. “Klaus he has Papa Tunde’s Blade!” You cry before your cousin clamps a hand around your mouth. Klaus’ stance changes, as he prepares for them to lunge at him. Your heart pounds in your chest wildly as you watch your Dad glance around at all the other Werewolves Klaus injured.

“Now!” Your father cries and they all lunge forward at once, the Blade being passed around as each of them try to get close enough to use it. Klaus easily fends them off, throwing them down the street and breaking their arms. You fight against your two male cousins, desperately trying to get to Klaus to defend him. You see daggers the Wolves are holding slice Klaus’s back and arms, only making him mad as he kicks in their knees. There’s got to be more than 20 up against Klaus, and they can barely lay a hand on him. You stomp on your cousins feet and kick their shins, claw at their hands and arms doing anything you can to break free. Then your younger sister stabs Papa Tunde’s Blade deep into Klaus’s chest, his eyes flicker before he collapses to his knees. Tears spill over your cheeks as you use all your strength to throw your cousins off you. “Get him,” your Father instructs as the Wolves prepare to grab him. “No!” You cry as you push through the Wolves to get to Klaus. “He hurt us Y/n. He could have killed us-” You Father begins but you stand up, eyes wild with rage. “How are you better than him!” You yell, hearing Klaus’ grunts and cries of pain. “Go. Before I take this Blade out of him because if you’re still here when I do I promise he will kill you, and I won’t be able to stop him.” You snap, crouching next to Klaus again. “Come with us.” Your Father implores, “I never want to see you again.” You snap softly, your voice choked with tears seeing Klaus in so much pain.

The Wolves reluctantly leave you behind as you cry, grabbing your own dagger. “T-This is going to hurt, I’m sorry.” You cry softly, knowing he can’t respond. You cut down his chest where the Blade sunk in and you take a deep breath before plunging your hand in, reaching for the handle of the Blade. You wrap your fingers around it and yank it out of his chest and Klaus gasps, in both pain and relief. He lays his head back, gasping for air as you cut your wrist and place it over his mouth. He pulls your arm close to him as he drinks from you, you wince at the pain but you don’t fail to notice how gently he held your arm. Once his wound heals he releases you, and you help him sit up before you throw your arms around his neck. He pulls you into his lap as he winds his arms around your shaking body. “It’s okay love, I’m okay.” He breathes but you just hold him so tightly. Your body is trembling as tears steadily flow down your cheeks. “Y/n, I’m alright dove. Really.” He says again, rubbing your back and beyond grateful for your worry. A big part of him thought he’d lost your affections forever but seeing how you reacted when he was in danger made his worry ease.

Gently he pulls you away from him, but your arms are still secured around his shoulders. He looks you in the eyes as you hold tightly onto him, “I have the perfect place for us my love.” He says standing, and carefully setting you on the ground. You link your arm with his, on high alert in case anyone else attempts to launch an attack on him tonight. He leads you to the edge of town where a beautiful two story little cottage sits and your eyes widen when Klaus pulls out a set of keys. “This is your house? I thought-” “That’s mine and my siblings home. This is my home.” He smiles as you follow him up the porch steps. When he opens the door and turns on the lights you smile, his artwork is hanging from the walls and a piano sits against the back wall. It’s not a big grand house, it’s small and cozy. With a cute little kitchen tucked in the corner and two large couches sat in front of a TV. It looks like a family home, not a Klaus home.

Klaus takes your bags up the stairs as you take it all in, when you see it. A painting of a child, with curly dark hair and a smile upon her face. Her eyes are a bright green and shes sitting in a bed of flowers, the sun upon her face. “Who is this?” You ask, looking at the clothes he painted on her. They’re old, a style popular in the 20s. “A young girl by the name of Penelope, I met her when I lived here. She died in the fire at the theater.” He said as he gazed at the painting with me. “She was sweet, she loved singing and she loved to watch me paint. So full of life, and meeting her was the first time I ever desired to have a family. When she died- I was suddenly reminded why I can’t do that.” He says, a sad look on his face. You wanted to ask him about her, how did he meet her? Why had he never mentioned her before? But you didn’t you reached out and grabbed his hand and you felt him relax. Looking back at the piano, you pull him towards it. “Play me something.” You ask and he smiles sitting at the piano and pulling you down next to him. His fingers begin to dance along the keys, playing something beautiful, “is that Canon in D? by Pachelbel?” You ask and he nods, smiling at you. You’re taken aback by the feeling of this moment, you never knew he could play so beautifully.

You rest your head against his shoulder as his eyes flutter shut, a smile on his face and you see him- that little boy you fell in love with. The little boy who loves art and music, the little boy who loves to create things and makes little gifts for his sister. The little boy that isn’t full of anger and pain- the little boy who has faith in the people he loves. The little boy who has faith in himself, the little boy who lets himself love openly and freely, without hindrance or restraints. Your heart swells so big you fear it’ll burst with all the emotion you feel right now. You place your hands on the keys and play the Canon in D Duet, your heart feeling full. You play with him, feeling so close to him- like you’re getting a glimpse into his heart. Getting to see who he really is, on the inside. When the song is over he jumps right into Nocturne No.2, one of your favorites. He seems completely lost in it, and totally at ease, you’ve never seen him look so relaxed. Then he plays something heavier, something sadder, and you look at him- the most raw and vulnerable look on his face. That’s when you recognize what he’s playing, Moonlight Sonata.

You lean against him again, looking at all the art pieces he has hanging. There’s a painting of the ocean, and another of two blurry figures dancing in the moonlight, a purple hued mountain with snow melting off of it. They’re all so beautiful, and Klaus painted all of them. You feel your heart growing bigger and bigger for all the love you feel for this man. How have you never truly seen this side of him before? Has he kept it hidden away inside him, afraid of showing weakness to anybody? “You’re going to be such a good Dad,” you whisper, catching him off guard as he stops playing. His eyes flutter open as he looks over at you, “I mean look at all this. How did I not know you could be so gentle? That you could create such beauty, you painted Penelope. She looks so happy, so relaxed. How did I not know you were good with children? If you let your walls down just for her, your daughter, and she will be able to see all of this beauty and compassion. You don’t have to be defensive and guarded all the time, you can be this person. You don’t have to be him when you’re by yourself, you just have to trust me enough to stop being so defensive. You don’t have to pretend you don’t care around me because I want you to care.” You say, looking into his eyes.

Klaus stands and reaches for your hand, and you follow him up the stairs. At the very end of the hallway is a closed door, which he brings out a key to unlock. He looks nervous, like something behind this door is really special, you don’t know what it is but you know it’s taking him a lot to show it to you. When the door swings open, your mouth hangs open and tears spring to your eyes. The entire room is empty, but it’s been painted to look like the galaxy. It has actual lights in the ceiling, walls and floors. Bright white lights for stars, and the rest is black and purple and blue and beautiful. “Did you do this?” You ask and he nods, his hands in his pockets. “It’s beautiful.” You whisper, standing in the middle of the room watching as he closes the door, and you see the back of the door painted as well. “I did it for you, something secret I’ve been working on.” Klaus says and you look at him, his eyes sparkling as he looks around the room. He knows how much you love looking into the night sky, he knows how beautiful you think it is. You almost forget that angry violent man from a few days ago, the man that nearly ripped your family apart- literally. He looks vulnerable, scared. He stands nervously by the door when you approach him and press your lips to his. You lean into him, feeling him all around you- he is your home. “I love you,” You whisper when you pull apart. Klaus begins to lean down again when his eyes focus on the window- which he has also painted so you can’t see anything out of it. “What is it?” You ask when you hear a whizzing sound- as if something flew by you. You turn around when you feel a searing pain in your stomach, blood soaks into your shirt when you see it’s a bullet wound. Rage and panic overtake Klaus’s face, “Nik?” You ask before the whole world goes black.

#the vampire diaries #vampire diaries #the originals #originals #mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #niklaus mikaelson #klaus mikaleson imagine #niklaus mikaelson imagine #niklaus imagine #elijah mikaelson

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goldenkamuyhunting · 5 years

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Do you think Ogata is a sociopath?

Sorry for the late reply. Sadly this is an extremely busy working period for me.

Anyway…

is Ogata fitting sociopath trope?

It’s a really interesting question and also, if I’m not wrong, a hot topic for the fandom so I’ll try to answer it the best I can.

I’ll use as reference for the Sociopath trope tvtropes because it’s good enough to analyze a character of a litterary work.

So, for this trope, we’re given 5 defining qualities (I’ll copy the words of tvtrope below so people don’t have to go back and forth to check it).

1) Lack of Empathy and Devoid of Conscience: Their defining feature. Utterly ruthless doesn't begin to describe them: except for when trying to appear normal, they will disregard any social norms and semblance of morality in pursuit of their own selfish desires. The Sociopath will do whatever it takes: lie, cheat, steal, extort, manipulate, or use outright violence without the slightest hesitation, disgust or remorse, and for as little as Pleasure or The Evulz. Murder and violence have no more emotional weight than eating Chinese takeout or some other mundane activity, and they have no concern for the direct or collateral damage they do to other people, being unable to understand why anyone should. Likewise, they never truly understand the feelings of others on anything more than an intellectual level, and may even believe that everybody else is faking it too. As many Real Life criminal psychologists put it: "They know the words but not the music." Techniques for learning moral behaviour, such as reason, therapy, rehabilitation and behavioral reward/punishment, will not work on them or tend to only make their behavior even worse by making it easier for them to fake it. This is why the only thing resembling consistently successful treatment involves teaching them to avoid behaviors that have predictable consequences; they may still believe that consequences are bullshit, but if they have been made sufficiently aware of the fact that their behavior will always end up with them in jail, getting sued, or simply just getting jumped or killed when they fuck with the wrong people, and that they can't lie and fake their way out of it because people are wise to their game, they will usually shape up.

Noda actually debunk this in Ogata’s second apparition and it’s THE DEFINING FEATURE of the trope.

Not only he has Ogata decide they won’t kill Tanigaki in Huci’s house because Huci reminds him of his grandmother, whom he loved and therefore he doesn’t want to kill her (chap 43),

but he also have him to save Nikaido (Chap 45)

eventhough Ogata is sure it’s a trap (Chap 45).

In case people hadn’t gotten the message well Noda remarks his meetingwith Huci left an impression by having him remember her when Tanigaki mentionedher (chap 110)

making him consequently offer to help Tanigaki (yeah the way hewent at it was horrible) and in other small instances (like how although hedoesn’t believe in dreams he tells Asirpa he should write her instead than justsaying he should ignore her for being senile and naïve (chap 113)).

He also remarks that Ogata knew a wounded Nikaido would be a liability byshowing how one of the war techniques Ogata learnt in war was to woundopponents instead than killing them (chap 46)…

and underlines this again in thefight with Vasily, where not only it’s explained again how wounding opponentsis a technique used to damage enemies (Chap 162)...

but Ogata also comments on how Vasilywon’t expose himself for his companions as he evidently would be comfortablehearing their screams of pain through all the night (chap 162)...

which was what Ogata should have done instead than saving Nikaido.

We’ve other instances in which Ogata showed he’s not utterly ruthless,like when he saves Shinpei instead than letting his father kill him and onlyafterward killing the man (chap 59).

We’ve him claiming he doesn’t feel guilt for the people he kills and yethe hallucinates and is clearly haunted by the memory of his brother, whom hekilled (chap 164/165).

More recently instead we’ve the scene in which he comfort Koito (chap199)

...or the fact once he was left alone with Koito he didn’t harm him in retaliation for slamming his head against his nose but just tied him (Chap 200).

Noda likely created those settings exactly to debunk the defining feature of thetrope, so we won’t get the wrong impression about Ogata.

2) Consummate Liar and Manipulator: In the event they are ever targets of suspicion in crime dramas and thrillers, sociopaths are able to fool any Living Lie Detectors in the cast, pass polygraphs effortlessly, and fool even you, the audience, into believing they are genuinely kind and caring people who are victims of a "big misunderstanding" (assuming they are not so smugly confident of their own invincibility that they feel no need to hide their unsavory personality). Moreover, despite their lack of empathy, sociopaths are capable of using their knowledge of others' desires, emotions and insecurities to manipulate them for their own personal gain. Because of this, many of them are Faux Affably Evil. This is related to their lack of empathy and shame - they don't feel the slightest discomfort about lying or exploiting others, so they do so with the same ease in which normal people perform mundane activities. This is why you should always assume that any apparent epiphany from a sociopath is bullshit; as far as they're concerned, it's just another tool to get what they want, and they don't actually believe that they have done anything wrong. Don't let them know that they are full of shit, because it will just force them to become more slick, but do act with the knowledge that they will go right back to their old ways the minute that they think it is safe to do so.

Yeah, Ogata lies in Golden Kamuy. All the cast does, even Asirpa.

But the idea here is he has to be a consummate one, a GOOD one, a masterful one, not just a guy who here and there lies. He has to be so good at lying he can manipulate others though his lies.

And Ogata fails at lying. Noda debunks this as well in Ogata’s second apparition when he tells Tanigaki that he was joking when he said Tanigaki might have killed Tamai and Co and Tanigaki is free to remain in Huci’s house because Ogata will act as if he had never seen Tanigaki (Chap 43).

Tanigaki is so sure Ogata is being sincere he thinks he has to leave AS SOON AS POSSIBLE (Chap 43).

And I’ve spent lot of time discussing how his lie about Sugimoto’s final moments was a complete and utter mess, the clear sign the most Ogata can do are extremely simple lies because as soon as he tries to make up a story that’s as unbelievable as possible.

Ogata can be a good strategist during a battle.

We see it in the Barato arc, also in the sniper duel and, if we want, also in his recent escape. However he’s clearly not good at manipulating people in interactions.

He can’t win over their trust, which is a big requisite to manipulate people as he’s almost universally distrusted, we see it not only with Tanigaki, who simply didn’t buy his lie nor spilled the truth about Sugimoto’s involvement but also with Sugimoto himself, who’ll be more prone to trust Kiro or Hijikata, who’ll both betray him to try to get Asirpa, and even Tsurumi than Ogata even when it’ll be really obvious Ogata is actually right (remember the fake Ainu arc?), with Yuusaku, who won’t spend time with whose women nor kill a man, with Asirpa, who won’t give him the code and honestly, I’m not even sure his attempt at hinting Tsurumi’s involvement in Koito’s kidnapping will be something Koito will understand.

In order to be a manipulator is not enough to attempt to manipulate, you’ve to do so successfully. And Ogata fails at this.

3) Pathological Need for Stimulation: The Sociopath's raison d'etre (i.e.: an overriding goal which serves as one's "reason for existence"). Due to their inability to empathize or even care for those around them, sociopaths largely view their existence as boring or meaningless and therefore feel compelled to engage in "thrill-seeking" activities to alleviate their restlessness. How this manifests depends largely on the sociopath's personality. It can be as relatively benign as binging on video games, compulsively gambling, or leading highly promiscuous lifestyles. Far more dangerous examples are prone to satiate their lust for thrills by partaking in criminal enterprises, becoming serial rapists and/or killers, or (if they are unusually high-functioning) accumulating vast wealth and/or influence for the sole purpose of dominating as many people as they can for their own amusement. Due to their obsession with indulging their insatiable appetites however they want whenever they want, sociopaths have a very low tolerance for inconvenience or irritation which in turn leads them to have a pronounced lack of impulse control. Because of this, many of them are Ax-Crazy, have a Hair-Trigger Temper, and/or are Mood Swingers.

That’s hard to say.

So far Ogata never stated to find existence boring without action. Sure, he’s engaged in a very risky hunt and he’s rather reckless but does he has a pathological need for this or, like the rest of the cast, he’s just thinking this is the price to pay to reach his goal? He’s in this for the fun of it or he has a different purpose? Until we don’t know Ogata’s goal we can speculate as much as we want but we can hardly say for sure.

What we know is Ogata has a very good impulse control, that he’s usually very cold and even in the few circumstances we’ve seen him angry or in a tight spot he hardly lost it.

4) Shallow Affect and Complete Lack of Emotional Reciprocity: A Sociopath is physiologically incapable of experiencing a deep emotional attachment towards others but - being a Consummate Liar - learns early in life how to fake them. This shallow emotional life means that the Sociopath is unable to form sincere long-term relationships with anything or anyone, but will feign feelings of love and affection if they feel it serves their purposes. Most of the true feelings a sociopath harbors towards others, positive or negative, are rooted in an insatiable desire to dominate or control them. While narcissists desire to be loved or at least respected, sociopaths don't care whether others view them positively as long as they don't stand in the way of their own self-centered gratification. In the rare event that a Sociopath actually does form an "attachment" to another person, it rises no further than that between an owner and a possession and/or a valuable resource for advancing their goals. Thus, once such "friends" cease to be useful or entertaining, they will abandon them or, in some cases, even kill them without any hesitation or regret. Any emotional reaction to having committed a heinous act is met indifference at best and glee at worst.

Technically debunked again in Ogata’s second apparition.

As said before not only Ogata declared he had feelings for his grandmother but even went out of his way to spare Huci because it reminded him of her.

But I know this is viewed in a rather controversial manner.

In fact so far we hadn’t seen him developing a deep emotional attachment toward others as he remained a loner.

The fandom though was very impressed by two things.

One is his relationship with Yuusaku. It’s worth to note that Noda made very clear that Ogata wanted to avoid Yuusaku and not have a relationship with him at all (chap 164),

...and it was on Tsurumi’s request he ended up on having to try to deceive him and get them what they wanted. It’s also meaningful how Ogata never played the whole thing on the affection side. The most he did was to point out he and Yuusaku were brothers so they should get to mischief together, but he never tried to use feelings into the play, he insisted in calling Yuusaku ‘Yuusaku-dono’ and he never asked Yuusaku to do something because Ogata loved him or out of the love Yuusaku should feel for him.

Ogata is clearly not faking any affection for Yuusaku, he’s at most giving him some of his time. Yuusaku, who has already decided Ogata has to be delighted to have a little brother even when Ogata clearly hinted the contrary, might not see it but this speaks more of Yuusaku’s obsession to get Ogata to be his big brother than about Ogata’s attempt at faking feelings he didn’t felt.

The other thing the fandom likes to talk about is Ogata’s relationship with Asirpa.

That one is a rather controversial topic.

Asirpa is friendly with Ogata. Nothing over the top, she just deal with him with the same kindness she would deal with everyone else (actually she’s kinder with Tanigaki considering the guy threatened her and tried to use her as human shield and she completely forgave him that and saved his life. Twice).

Ogata’s interactions with her, for most of the story, are not responding to it at all.

He’s not faking affection, he’s just mostly not interacting and keeping on his own.

It takes him months to say ‘citatap’ as she repeatedly asked him and call Asirpa by name. It’ll take him even more to say ‘hinna’.

Asirpa decides to remain friendly with him. That’s Asirpa’s decision, it’s not Ogata’s actions, or more exactly his lack of actions that cause Asirpa to remain friend with him.

And Asirpa is clearly not the type who needs to be rejected to latch to someone as we see she’s just fine with being friend with Sugimoto, Shiraishi, Kiroranke, Tanigaki and others, who aren’t keeping distant, nor she’s so starved for affection just a word would win her over.

Even when he will try to get her to give him the code he won’t try to play it on the ‘if you care for me/trust me give me the code’ or on the ‘I care for you so I’m telling you what would be best for you’.

Really, to assume Ogata was faking affection with her would require accepting he can’t fake it to save his life.

5) Grandiose Sense of Self-Worth: The trait that ties it all together - the one that changes it from moustache-twirling evil into a mental disorder. Sociopaths will go so far as to convince themselves that they have succeeded in their plan, even as failure stares them in the face and snaps on the handcuffs. They genuinely believe it. They don't really care what others truly think on the matter, but they do care about what they say, and like to fill their social circle with people who say what they want to hear. Any others - even former 'friends' - will be dismissed from the sociopath's social circle simply for doubting them. They consider themselves better than anybody else and that they are entitled to special treatment - and they can't stand anybody being considered better than them. However, while the Narcissist is self-conscious of how they measure up to others' standards (and therefore will experience shame or guilt for failing them), a sociopath's grandiosity is all-encompassing to the point they have no concern how their actions reflect upon them UNLESS it threatens their ability to indulge their appetite for further stimulation. They are incapable of acknowledging personal responsibility for failure, and will always blame others, no matter how irrational it is. In fact, it's considerably difficult convincing them that the activity they have partaken in has even failed. This is all part of why a sociopath can't change - since they consider themselves to already be perfect, and refuse to acknowledge failure on their part, and consider the true opinions and feelings of others insignificant, they never try to improve themselves.

Honestly I wouldn’t say Ogata has a grandiose sense of self worth.

Sure, he knows he’s an amazing sniper and he occasionally brags about it.

Everyone does know Ogata is amazing at sniping. This is, after all, a fact that’s accepted by the whole cast and that’s actually proved more than once, after all Ogata fits the trope of improbable aiming skills with his impressive feats of shooting two deer at once or managing to catch three woodcocks with a less suitable rifle, exterminating a reindeer herd on his own or hitting targets with an impossible precision from an amazing distance.

Ushiyama too comments on how he’s Ushiyama, the Undefeated, even if he lost to Gansoku here and there when they only used fists (Chap 143).

Just bragging a little on a real skill isn’t a sign of grandiose sense of self-worth, just of rightful pride for it. Yeah, modesty is an important virtue but you don’t turn into a sociopath if you’re proud of what you can do.

What’s more noteworthy though is he knows he’s a rejected kid, anunwanted one, who wasn’t loved and that feels he lacked something fundamental. He’s aware of how, being an illegitimate, his existence was a source of shame for his father. He comments on how he knew he wouldn’t be able to persuade Asirpa, admitting his failure. He admits his responsibility in his actions.

Therefore I can’t really see him as a guy with a grandiose sense of self worth.

And so with this, we’ve finished with the defining traits for this trope.

Tvtropes also says:

Many of these traits are shared with other disorders, but it's the combination of them all that creates the trueSociopath.

In short you need them all to have a character that fits this TROPE (please, remember, this is a TROPE, the real personality disorder that goes with the same name is not something an ordinary person can find out in real people with this checklist, no, not even if, like me, they studied psychology in high school, this is a list for a TROPE as this is a fictional work).

As a result honestly I can’t see Ogata fitting into them because, for the first 2, Noda actually did his best to remark howthey don’t fit to Ogata from his second apparition, for the 3rd we can’t really say as we lack material, I’ll let the 4th up to debate and honestly, I don’t see him matching with the 5th.

As a trope Ogata fits the cold sniper with improbable aiming skills and an ambiguous disorder (at least for now... who knows, in the future Noda might tell us).

The one of the sociopath isn’t really cut on him.

It doesn’t mean Ogata is a good person, or that he only does good things, it’s clear he does a BIG DEAL OF TERRIBLY WRONG THINGS and we know sociopaths can do this sort of wrong things.

However Noda apparently wasn’t interested in making Ogata a sociopath or otherwise he wouldn’t have written scenes debunking a sociopath’s main characteristics and, believe it or not, in real life you don’t need to be a sociopath to do the sort of wrong things Ogata does so it’s not like Noda is being unrealistic.

Sorry to whoever wanted him to be one, I know each fandom loves to have its own memetic psychopath but as they’re not my cup of tea I fear I won’t partake into the ‘fun’ of turning Ogata into one.

Thank you for your ask!

#Golden Kamuy #Ogata Hyakunosuke #Ask

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calebgazesupwards-blog · 4 years

Text

{ the priest }

under the cut, i’m pleased to introduce: the aesthetic of caleb f. johnson

{ tw: for drugs and mention of self-harm }

a smile that is to big

caleb is, on the surface, a friendly and altruistic being. he will help you with simple physical tasks as well as listen to your mundane worries without interruption for a long while. afterwards, however, when he gives you advice, the smile is still there, disharmonising with the harshness of his words.

restless sleep

much like a drug addict, caleb cannot shake the thoughts on what he hungers after easily, not even at night. they wake him up, sometimes drenched in the kind of cold sweat that only a walk outside can help. if you find him then, you’ll meet the smileless side of caleb, the one where tone and expression align almost too well.

deafening ringing in a silent room

caleb hates silence. he believes it makes him hear the voices of the universe, the judging voice of god. he often has his mother’s old records playing. the shabby old organ, he detest however, and snaps when he hears it.

humming a haunting tune

when there is silence, he begins humming a melody. he’s not aware of it himself, but it’s the lullaby his mother would sing to him and his twin when she was in a good state of mind. some might recognise it, perhaps even remember the lyrics inherent to homington, filled with words and event from a time long before he was born, retelling the seemingly improbable sightings in the woods, in the haunted streets.

hidden scars

proofs of and ‘who he used to be’, his misguidance, the person he used to be. self-harm, always covered by long sleeves and lies.

crows pecking at flesh

they’re there, though, those scars, and he’s ever aware of them. that’s what drives him into his job, into his mission. he knows that if he fails, they will all be rotting soon, and not god will welcome their soul but crows will welcome their flesh. he is haunted by that thought, as though he can feel the pecking on his own flesh already.

meeting someones eyes in a crowd

during his services on wednesday and sundays, which he urges people to attend, he doesn’t just speak. he listens. not to the words of others said out loud, but to all the thoughts they keep to themselves, always trying to see who might be burdened with those dirty truths he hungers for.

feeling too empty, feeling too full

like an addict indeed, he can never stop thinking about the next dose, the next time he he can get his hands on what can bring him relief. he feels empty therefore, and at the same time is consumed by ever-circling thoughts about it, underneath the smiling facade he’s frantic, ceaselessly searching.

dirt under fingernails

possibly metaphorical, as he’s quite clean, literally. but he digs for those truths, and he’d go far to obtain them.

the feeling of power

as the translator of the words of god, he knows people trust him. it makes him feel powerful, and he knows how to use that power. will use it, one way or another. abuse it, if he must.

rotting wood

there are chambers on the second floor of the old church, the walls right behind the organ which he despises so, but most often he sleeps in his old childhood home. the old house, with the shabby furniture that doesn’t deserve the clean sheets that have been drawn over them, and the dust on the shelves and door frames that make it look as though it hasn’t been inhabited for almost 19 years again now.

a firm grip

when he knows there is something to be discovered, knows that someone is lying to cover one of those dirty truths he craves, he snaps. that’s when his smile falls and he exerts the power he believes is rightfully his. he’s never loud, never wild, but the grip burns all the same as the simmering within him, the boiling, becomes obvious then.

little white lies

as much as he despises other people’s lies, he lies himself too often, pretending that he has left his past behind, that he is better than all those who are still tainting this world, who are still being punished by god for their mistakes and dishonesty. don’t ever address it, he will never let you escape from his gaze ever again.

wearing a mask

so we come full circle. caleb smiles. smiles bright and broadly, gently, patiently, never letting people focus on his own turmoil, always making them focus on theirs. he tells himself he cannot let people see past his mask to save them from his pain, but in truth, it’s himself who he is trying to save. after all, if he recognised he has to beg for god’s mercy himself, would he still be able to guide others towards it?

#homesweethomeintro.#bio #{ dirty truths }

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sev-arts · 5 years

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Lucifer Approaches A Weeping Youth, Whose Shirt Is Torn From The Lashes of A Whip

"Well then, lost child, we'd like to hear your tale." "Why don't you go ask the Mother Superior then? She'll tell you what's wrong with me, in good 'n proper words even!" "We have heard her words and they didn't please us at all. 'Theft of Identity' and 'Blasphemy in the House of the Saint' can mean so many things, none of them paint a picture worth hanging on any wall, if you know what we mean. She can't possibly know you like you know yourself! After all you've been living with yourself every minute of every day since you were born. Come now. Humor us."

I knew it even when I was still a child, that I came out wrong when I was born. Maybe that's why the people that made me (I don't want to give 'em the honor of calling 'em "parents") took me and left me on the door of that church. Maybe they would've done it either way, I never met them and if I did, I wouldn't bother asking. I'm not saying the sisters that raised me were bad people either, they gave me food and clothes and a roof over my head, they taught me how to read 'n write and say holy words 'n whatnot, but they gave me a boy's name and a boy's room and sat me at the brothers' table. And that I figured, was what's wrong with me. I wanted to shout "that's not who I am" but I didn't have the words for it, being a small child 'n all. None of that would've happened if I had come out right when I'd been born, you see? And all I've done was to fix that in whatever way I could, not to harm anyone along the way!

There was this witch who had her hut way down the cliff where our old church is, right at the bottom of that cliff tucked away in a tiny little cavern. Now we weren't supposed to talk to her or go there since she was practicing the dark arts and whorin' around with infernals, is what the abbot used to say, but I figured since I was only going to ask her to turn something right, that would be fine. Since that would make me do my prayers better and stop me from asking the Saint for selfish things, so I'd be putting more good into the world than the evil I was doing by getting stuff from a witch. And it was around that time where your body starts changing for good too, so I said it's either now or never. She really was using the dark arts because she knew what I was visiting her for before I even said hello or anything, and she didn't ask for anything in return when I did ask her to fix me. It was almost like she was feeling sorry for me, bless her soul.

She carved this little symbol in my back and said it would make me grow right like I wanted to, but it wouldn't be fixing everything so I'd still have to shave my face like the brothers. And she said that I should never ever tell anyone she did this for me, which was kind of obvious. You're not supposed to tell anyone you've been doing deals with a witch.

Now they were still calling me by that wrong name and seating me with the brothers but I did start coming up with a plan in my head. You see they always sent out two of us every other year to do a pilgrimage to the chapel down by the Dry River, and one of them would stay there and the other had to go back home. Of course what I did was I volunteered to go there, and on the way I thought, I'd just forge the letter that the abbot gave us to say my name was sister Penitence and I was supposed to stay with them. I had learned to write just like the abbot did to prepare myself for that. But then all of that fell apart when sister Reah and me actually headed out on our pilgrimage.

I never really liked sister Reah on account of her being a snitch and a bother, and because she had eyes like a hawk that never let you out of her sight. And she didn't ever sleep either as far as I know, so there was no chance for me to grab a hold of the letter and switch it out for the fake one I'd made. I grew desperate. I didn't want to go back to our church on that cliff, you see? I would've rather died! And I guess the Saint or someone must've heard that from my thoughts and pitied my poor soul. Because on the last night before we reached the chapel a mighty thunderstorm had started brewing and our path was a narrow one right on the edge of the cliff with the Dry River canyon beneath us, and sister Reah (bless her wretched heart) had started letting her tongue go places, accusing me of succumbing to the viles of the feminine (as if she was not a woman herself!) with how my body had been changing. She knew, and she said she'd be telling the Mother Superior at the chapel all about that, so they would heat up an iron bar in the furnace and pierce my heart with it and many other cruel things. It must've been the Saint who heard me cry through the storm (who else would have been able to!) because right then and there a bolt of lightning struck the ledge at sister Reah's feet and it sent her plummeting down into the canyon below straight to her death.

That was a sign the Saint sent me that day, I was sure. The chapel sisters had already heard of our pilgrimage and sister Reah had always been known to have a couple of pointy hairs on her chin like a cactus does, so my mind was set. When I came to the chapel I told them the truth in the ears of the Saint, that brother Dirk had fallen to his death in the canyon and that sister Reah had arrived to live among them in holy seclusion. By the time they caught sight of the body, the vultures had already picked it clean of anything that could have been a face. And I never lied to them, I swear. As far as I was concerned, the Saint had struck down brother Dirk in the body of that wretched sister and left me to inherit her name and place return. It was a sign from our great father himself! Just like the old tales from the age of miracles! Who was I to argue with that! I never thought that what I'd done was blasphemous, that it could've been wrong in any way!

Can you believe we even held a proper funeral for poor brother Dirk?

"To be fair, that person died a long time before that day on the cliff, right?" "He wasn't ever real, if you don't mind. That wasn't any more 'me' than a shoe that doesn't fit right is my shoe." "We like the way you think." "Awful kind of you, but you are the Devil. Of course a bit of heresy'd make you smile." "Ah, we don't like that name at all. You might relate, it's a name the church gave us that paints us in a wrong light. It says 'evil god' and 'demon lord', when we're far from that. The name's Lucifer, God of Chances." "And I reckon a chance is what you're gonna offer me, right? I'll take, I'll let you know, I'm in no place to beggin' and chosin' at the same time." "That's... certainly the most direct anyone has ever been with us in a while." "I don't got anywhere to go, do I? My family has forsaken me! I don't have a home or a place I could go to anymore? You want to turn me into one of your demons? Let's do it! Not like I'll have time to change my mind when I'm dead on the ground with birds pickin' away at my ribs." "Macabre, we like it. We shall make a contract then, a deal between you Sister Reah and us. Your name and soul in servitude for one hundred years spent on the hunt for the nefarious Undead, in exchange for our patronage as your god and protector. You will answer to no mundane power and to no mortal ruler, no king or other god will lay a finger on you unless we will it so. We shall grant you no power that does not rest within you. Your name shall burn away to naught but ash, and with it the shackles holding back your true potential shall turn to ash as well. You are reborn under our hand. Do your work well and death will not claim you - until your time is served.”

#txt #souls foreclosed

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kemeticcalloutsfromthepublic · 5 years

Text

To Light A Magic Fart

We have been made aware that our latest commentary has elicited a rant.

https://web.archive.org/save/https://smarmykemeticpagan.wordpress.com/2019/02/12/liminality-divine-intervention-and-other-heresies/

We would like begin by saying the first half of this rant is not only a misdirect but a lot of personal stuff that is outside our targeted topics of commentary so we shall be skipping that.

“As I type all this, I feel a strange sense of bewilderment. I’ve read very little on liminal spaces, magical theory, mythic time, or Dionysus; and yet I’m sitting here, trying to tell my own story and no one else’s, and finding myself describing something that I somehow, recognize as being intimately connected to all of these things at once. “

We must inform you this is very doubtful. As someone who has crusaded against actual knowledge and those who teach it, study it, and understand it, you suddenly valuing any knowledge you are adamant against giving any sense of importance, this is a contradiction. We would like to remind you, you have spent years demonizing those who are academically minded, who would possess the best supply of these topics of information. We need to remind you, you have chased, and guided newcomers away from these very informed and academic individuals with a very glib and dismissive expressions that they are somehow morally and emotionally defective.

We need to remind you, you have spent more posts declaring how unimportant and meaningless academic resources, information, and knowledgeable people who covet such information, that it boggles the mind how you can sit here now and suddenly have an appreciation for information and knowledge. We must say that is highly convenient, almost like you are a bag of contradictions and hyperbole.

“ I don’t know. Maybe I can’t know. Maybe knowing how and why this is happening isn’t the point. “

We would like to mention that in every occurrence that knowledge is passed on from a deity it is made obvious that it is given by them. We would like to remind you, this would be conferred as a minor miracle and the god that granted it would not do so with a cloak and dagger delivery.

“Maybe no matter how strange and fantastic my real life is...“

We can not believe you, as you complain constantly about how you are incredibly oppressed and put-upon by the evil capitalist misogynistic patriarchy, holding you in a death grip of poverty...strange and fantastic is not the picture you spent years painting. If you’d like to recant those lies and give a more accurate depiction of your life, feel free, no need to keep up the pretense.

“... there will always be some way that I and everyone else can convince ourselves that there must be a perfectly mundane, scientific explanation for everything, that nothing truly magical could ever possibly happen in our actual, physical lives. “

We would like to say this is a gross generalization that disturbs us greatly. We would like to mention that, something can be scientific and still be magical. Magical events do not have to be beyond scientific involvement or divorced from the world in a separate sphere. They are part of the same world, they occupy the same space. Magic is everywhere, and science just helps us understand how that natural magic works. We understand the gist of what you are attempting to say but it’s so mushmouth muddled with it loses cohesion. We would like to simplify, you’re wrong. --Memphis

Not familiar with the idea that magic is only science we don’t understand yet, are you? The world is as magical as you make it. --Cairo

“In fact, if I had done what nigh on every single Hellenic polytheist told me, 3 years ago, that I absolutely must do before I was allowed to even talk to any of the Theoi; i.e., devote far more time, money, and energy than I even had... “

You’d have a functional well structured and meaningful religious practice that you can easily make a habit to exercise, in order to have an actual religious practice and not just invent it on a whim while screeching “muh poverty lack of resources”, in a religious practice that has its ancient methodologies of worship and practice well outlined with a knowledgeable community that could inform you of them and help you? We can see how dreadful that would have been! Better you avoided any of that ACTUAL respecting the gods with their own religious practices which are time tested and just dump a can of wine on the ground, belch and in tone “amen, bro”.--Memphis

If every single practitioner of a religion is telling you that you do something, perhaps that’s how the religion is actually practiced? Just saying.--Cairo

”I would still be refusing to accept the very possibility that the Theoi are real, and trying to communicate with me, and weren’t just trying to kick the shit out of me because I ‘m not “humble” enough to be allowed to even casually worship them, or even think about wanting to worship them. That is the extent to which I have been gaslighted by an ableist, sexist, queerphobic world...”

We must inform you this is not gaslighting, and none of this is true. You’re so buried helplessly in the twisted murky interior of your own ideology that you have bought into all the lies and fables it has generated. Snap out of it!

“It’s because polytheists are, for the most part, every bit as closed-minded and self-righteous as the Southern Baptists who told me I was an abomination and a Devil worshipper and a degenerate for being a queer witch who talked back to pastors and smoked weed.“

We must inform you, you are confused. These are your actions which you committed upon every community you attempted to infect like herpes. Anyone who didn’t bow down to every word of your vapid ideology was to be summarily purged. You created an entire callout blog (which we parody), to bully, harrass and purge people you deem morally corrupt and a heretic to your divinely sanctioned and holy edicts of social justice that must be obeyed to the letter. You terrorized this community for years with it, dividing it, polarizing it and demonizing our gods, twisting them into these token puppets you can make spit out any words you want to give yourself the squishy feels.

The only ones who act like southern Baptists or medieval catholic inquisitors, are you and your friends. Don’t try to backpedal that YOU are the victim here, you are the bully, the aggressor, the one causing harm.

Some sects of polytheism have actual ancient records detailing proper practices to how their religion is followed. While following them in personal practice is largely voluntary, they are the methods espoused to have been prescribed by the gods of their own religion. It’s just respectful to those gods to follow such practices.

”Because of all this, polytheists are perfectly willing to bully, threaten, gaslight, and otherwise abuse young, vulnerable people in their midst who even for one minute threaten their perceived “respectability” in the eyes of the mainstream and of their favorite Big Name Pagans. They are perfectly willing to ignore the real problems in our community -bullying, toxic groupthink, overwhelming authoritarianism, rape culture and misogyny, TERFS and other assorted trans/homophobes, bigots of every kind, ableism to the point that the first thing anyone says to discredit me is that I’m “obviously hallucinating” when I talk about astral stuff or magic (that’s not how hallucinations fucking work you fucking morons! Read a book every now and then, for chrissake), and goddamn actual Nazis- in favor of whining about how Pop Culture Pagans or “fluffy” people or “loudmouthed brats” are OMG THE REASON NO ONE TAKES US SERIOUSLY!1!!11!!! They do all of these things, and simultaneously fancy themselves particularly enlightened, superior to followers of “”Abrahamic religions””, by virtue of simply “following the old gods” and “being connected to nature”, or whatever.”

We are touched, this is clear vagueblogging about us. What was it you said...

Seriously though, you left this on our post as if you don’t care, and then wrote this thesis of how much it bothers you and you do care. You’re pathetic.

We must inform you, this is fundamentally untrue. You’re reaching again.--Memphis

Citation needed. This mod has actually heard more complaints that name you, Devo, and your friends specifically as making it difficult to practice, than heard such complaints about other online spaces.--Cairo

“Because of this shallow, petty, and toxic paradigm that permeates basically every single official pagan and polytheist space, it is almost impossible for most of us to really, meaningfully connect and communicate with our gods. Human beings are intimately social creatures; we are constantly, consciously and subconsciously, affected by the social environment that we are in, whether we like it or not and whether we know it or not. It’s basically impossible not to be drawn in by the assumptions everyone around you makes and operates on, even if we’re ignoring thoughtforms and energies and other woo stuff. Polytheists have convinced ourselves that anything we experience that’s in any way out of the ordinary; in any way not exactly what the historical record we currently have portrays…in other words, anything that might realistically be a part of interacting with actual deities and doing actual magic, absolutely will be called a delusion, an attention-seeking stunt, an idiotic act of hubris, an attempt to “start a cult” or gain coercive power over others, an evil and sacrilegious act, or all of the above, by anyone and everyone in our community who wants to discredit whatever it is we’re saying. No wonder even people who have fantastic experiences doubt themselves, or refuse to go public with it; I’m not a particularly sensitive person by a long shot, and I often have to steel myself to be honest online because of the (attempted) bullying and public shaming that I know for a fact will result from it.“

More about us. You must love us dearly. We must inform you, again you are entirely wrong. You literally told Set in that interview post, you would start a cult. You adhere to a collectivist ideology that operates on the concept of original sin and so everyone of that group must atone for the sins of the group for every instance in history. You follow an ideology that abhors individual worth and thought over the group opinion and the group’s collective thought, in which any dissent and the individual will be sacrificed to ensure purity of the group. You operate like a wanna-be cult leader who wants a cult.

You have done alot of evil in this community and you called it righteous because your ideology decrees it must be. Your every action is dictated by it, your every thought is shaped by it to the point you declared that a god who historically always supported a theocratic monarchy...suddenly fell in love with socialism/communism...an inherently destructive and genocidal form of government and philosophy. One that has claimed over 100 million lives, and more?! That is alot ot buy, smarmy, a LOT to buy. We didn’t even mention how he just outright confirms all your political points, thoughts, beliefs, and heralds them as divinely sanctioned?! We don’t have to know how the stove top makes the coil red hot to understand touching it will burn.--Memphis

Others have said it, and this mod will say it again: It is not that you are sharing your personal experiences that is the problem; it is that you are stating them as being as factually true as peer reviewed historical sources. You can believe what you want, but it is absolutely dishonest and disgusting to expect and insist that the rest of the community treat it as fucking holy scripture.--Cairo

“I’m not a particularly sensitive person by a long shot...”

We would like to say, considering you felt the need to write this dissertation of drivel, you most certainly are sensitive.

“If you say you worship Set, but then spit in the face of his ideals in almost every mundane action you take -from the way you treat people traditionally associated with him to the way you think and talk about mundane, real-world chaos, riots, criminals, and political violence- are you actually worshipping Set, or are you just worshipping your own assumptions about Set?“

We are amazed at how unironic you write this and yet, it’s like you wrote this looking in a mirror.

“And if the very fact that someone online who you don’t like has posted UPG about Set condemning your actions and behavior…causes you to post frantic, histrionic paragraphs about how the person in question is an evil, power-hungry, lunatic aspiring cult leader who is “evidently” crazy and lying and trying to manipulate the entire kemetic community and also is in league with the Sn/ake that wants to destroy existence itself, are you really prioritizing your devotion to Set? Or are you prioritizing your own ego, because you refuse to even entertain the possibility that you could be wrong and ought to change your behavior in some way in order to better honor him? “

Wow again, you gazed in the mirror. None of our commentaries, nor those of any of your critics, are frantic, nor histrionic, but it is apparent that you are and you do. They are not the ones fueled by such deep seething hatred and rage for anything outside your own myopic and narrow minded views. They aren’t the ones demanding slavish devotion to an ideology that history has proven is murderous and dangerous. They aren’t the ones who profess to be ‘on the side of the angels’ and in the same breath long for violent rebellious war to shred the country and slaughter millions. You are a hateful person devoid of compassion and an enemy of anything resembling freedom.

We see you have again mistaken UPG for something provable. If you had written that interview and stated that you wrote Set’s dialogue intuitively, or you interpreted them, rather then composed the transcript verbatim...we’d have been more lenient with our criticisms. We point out, every word of his dialogue was verbatim your own, that you have ranted about for the years. Every bit, from his diction, to his syntax, from tone to word choices was entirely from your own and not from an external source. The fact it entirely vindicates every word of your political tripe, your beliefs and ideology, to the decimal place, is evidence that it’s not from any external source, or external spiritual entity but from you. This was a complete fiction.

To state that “anyone who disagrees with smarmy, Set and his people gunna git’ya”, is such a colossal over reach that it strains believably. We are certain that any god who loves their devotee would say they will defend them against attack, but this. We must inform you this is something else entirely.

We are quite certain we don’t need to change our behavior to profess your ideals as our own and bow down to accept communism and socialism or even anarchism as the true path forwards. We don’t need to throw away any sense of actual morality to support systems that have led to more destruction and death then any others in history and recorded memory.

We are also not above admitting if we are wrong, but when it comes to you and how you abuse the name of the gods for your own twisted ends, we aren’t.

We are however, certain you are. You are so in love with your own ideological puppetry that you not only profess that a god has endorsed you 100%, promised to smite all who oppose you, promise you power and prestige as his precious prophet of his ideals (which you forced into him). So deeply entrenched in this ideology and stances of no matter what the cost, no matter how ridiculous, you can never admit to being wrong when facing any dissenting voices or else it instantly negates all of your teachings, beliefs, and words (which it only does because you made them so absolute), that you cannot admit you are wrong and can only dig deeper down this endless trench of foolishness and madness.

We have no doubts the S/na/ke influences you, it praises you, it agrees with you, it gives you whatever you want, the sense of righteousness that you’re never wrong and always on the side of purity, everyone else is evil, everyone else is impure, everyone else is wrong, everyone else is at fault...That is the danger of isfet and the parasitic spirits that serve it, and you let them in.

“ I believe that gods are huge, ancient, and multi-faceted, so sure, it’s possible that there’s a version of Set out there that likes racist bootlickers and encourages them to follow the law no matter the human cost“

This is among the most offensive things you’ve ever said. Historical record cannot be dismissed and hand-waved away of how these gods have acted in the past and expect they did a full 180. We would like to mention, that once again, like any good cult leader, you degrade anyone who dissents. We would like to state you are completely off the mark, you have no understanding of this god if you honestly think he loves communism and loves nazism and loves racism because ‘there MUST be an aspect of him that likes it’. We need to remind you, that would make him evil. This is a complete insult to a god you claim to love and worship. This is a damning and horrible thing to say about a god you claim to respect. This shows us you have nothing but sheer contempt for the gods, so you invent a twisted and corrupted idea of them. We need to remind you, it’s bullshit like this that makes us say your a delusional child aspiring cult leader who is aligned with the sn/a/ke, if you honestly think this about Set. We are disgusted, you do this noble god, so much dishonor. --Memphis

How dare you. How dare you insult a god you claim to be even an outlaw priest of with such a foul misunderstanding of his character?! Even for hyperbolic rhetoric?! Can you not have even the barest smidgen of respect for the god you claim to serve or worship? Or are the words that describe the most basic relationship of priesthood too uncomfortable for you?--Cairo

“ ... to “keep it real” by regurgitating tired and ignorant bigoted stereotypes and acting as though the fact the stereotype exists at all is somehow evidence that you’re right to be a bigot; and believe that “illegals” seeking asylum so that they and their families won’t fucking die are inherently dangerous enough to justify putting them in motherfucking concentration camps. But just because it’s possible doesn’t necessarily mean it’s very likely, now does it? “

We would ask if you ever get tired of making sweeping incorrect generalizations that make you look stupid but we already know the answer. If you’d like to discuss what we believe regarding various political situations, we at KCFTP would be happy to chat, but do stop shoving words and beliefs into our and everyone mouths that do not apply.--Memphis

Who the fuck is Smarmy even talking about here?--Cairo

“No wonder people react to anyone showing historically common, textbook behaviors of a person being called to spirit work or reacting to being in a liminal space or state of mind, with derision and scorn and bullying. Genuine liminality, one of the main historical requirements for communicating with gods or using magic, is almost universally despised and cursed by modern-day polytheists as heresy.“

We would like to say this literally never happens. This is a bold faced lie. We knew you could not help it!--Memphis

That is really fucking weird, every discussion I’ve had with other polytheists and pagans has touched on how to communicate with gods, spirits, and other entities, magic, or other things that require having a foot in multiple worlds. Everyone usually seems pretty eager to talk about such things. Unusual for something “universally despised and cursed.”--Cairo

“LGBT+ people are stereotyped as “special snowflakes” and yelled at about “assigning modern labels to gods” when we say that deities who canonically act as multiple genders or sleep with same-gendered-beings, are queer like us. “

We would like to clarify, no smarmy, that’s just you and your ilk...and it’s by other LBGT+ people...Stop trying to be some martyr, you aren’t. Go outside, get off the internet.

“ Young people are bullied and publicly shamed on a regular basis if they run afoul of the wrong “Big Name Pagan”, and people smugly tell themselves and each other that it is, somehow, for the kid’s own good because they have to be “taught a lesson in humility” and “being the bigger person” or some other fucking nonsense that sounds like it fell directly from the mouths of actual child abusers and predators. “

So anyone who disagrees with you are child abusers and predators now too!? We would like to say that is astounding, almost like it’s entirely fiction. We’d also like to mention, the only BIG Name Pagans around here are you and Devo, and you guys are constantly a problem. Maybe its you who needs to “be taught a lesson in humility” because you are no where near humble and you are among the most abusive individuals in this community.--Memphis

Said it before, will say it again. We have seen you and your crew bully and publicly shame far more people in this particular community than any of us. We’re not the ones who started the Kemetic Callout war, only the ones who have arguably been more successful at it. And your callout blog only has the people who talked back and wouldn’t bend, it doesn’t count the many who bowed and broke before your bullying or those who left here altogether.--Cairo

“Until sharing UPG that goes against the more popular narratives no longer makes one a social pariah among their polytheist peers, nobody should be surprised that it’s almost exclusively the heretical, disrespectful punks who are constantly being publicly snubbed and dismissed by their peers, who ever seem to talk about seeing any results or evidence that anything out-of-the-ordinary is actually going on. “

Translation: “Until I can share my UPG and it is believed as absolute fact without any question, and be heralded as the divine truth, the community is a shitshow!”--Memphis

As long as your UPG agrees 100% with your own personal and political beliefs, it will and should be questioned. Whatever your stance, the gods have a wider experience and knowledge base than we do and will always have a different perspective. Any spirit that tells you everything you want to hear and flatters you shamelessly is no god and has no good intentions towards you in the end.--Cairo

“Until we all accept that it doesn’t matter if Christians and mainstream secular people think we’re weird and so we don’t need to constantly jump through hoops to seem Academic™ and Serious™ and Normal™, nobody should be surprised that the only public discussions that don’t devolve into nasty name-calling matches are ones facilitated by a handful of holier-than-thou assholes who treat having a PhD in Philosophy as though it’s a permission slip from the gods themselves to be a self-righteous, know-it-all douche, and never really allow any disagreement with them on anything important.“

Translation: “We need to continue being edgy punk teens who disrespect gods and culture and snub actual belief systems by turning them into comical satires of themselves, until the people smarter then us give up and let us have all the power, while we use our UPG to try and seem way more divinely important then we actually are by assigning ourselves flashy titles and divine endorsements!!! Cause if the gods support US, then we can’t be wrong!”

We would like to remind you that history is fraught with oppressive regimes who used this tactic, one example is the Spanish Inquisition. Did you agree with them torturing and killing people to force them into conversion? Another example we would like to mention is the North Korean regimes. The ones who still have ACTUAL concentration camps.

We would like to mention, China now has concentration camps where they hold and torment innocent Muslim citizens, and Chechnya who still have death camps where they send gay and LGBT citizens.

We would like to mention these go entirely against your belief and political structures about LGBT+ issues, oppression, and gay rights. We notice you never mention those. We notice you never complain about them and how evil they are. We wonder, is it because it goes against your narrative of “communism is the truth and the way” or do you just not care?

We would like to point out it would seem like those are true injustices you could fight against and for...not...how everyone needs to behave and believe how you want.

We would like to set the snark aside for a second and say, we’re always up for discussions. We need to clarify that you always reduce the conversations to insults and calling everyone who disagrees with you “racist bootlickers”, so the issue is not on our side, but with you, so stop lying that we and all your critics are the unreasonable ones.

“And until we care more about taking care of each other than protecting our deities’ reputations, nobody should be surprised when our community remains a toxic, misogynistic, homophobic, Nazi-infested shithole, while everyone is more than happy to spend hours arguing about the particulars of shrine setups and deity name pronunciations and whether or not it’s okay to offer potato chips and Netflix binges to ancient deities who, ultimately, realistically are not that likely to give a shit either way. “

Literal Nazis wandered into our community and your reaction was “meh so what” and continued bullying other innocent people, who you labeled as nazis and racists. You’re a one tune piano smarmy, and you just keep tooting the same tune. It wasn’t believable when you were “the holy ambassador, ordained by Jesus, to the hellenics” it is not believable now.

“Until we fix the problems with our collective paradigm, until we fix the way we treat each other, until we genuinely value wisdom, compassion, humility, and courage over our reputations, we are all gonna have to accept that the gods we worship are not all that interested in revealing their actual, authentic, awesome, strange and unexpected powers to people who are determined to believe they are either incapable or unwilling to do so.“

We agree, you should start treating people better, starting with inatier and all the other people you’ve spent YEARS defaming, bullying, berating, harassing, snubbing, and demonizing.--Memphis

Actions speak louder than words Smarmy, and based on yours none of these are your values. We have seen you bully and cast aside community members who did their research and were willing to share, we have seen your utter lack of compassion throughout your time here with anyone who has the nerve to disagree with you, and the idea of you having humility is a joke. You worry more about being seen as your edgy, antifa, communist [insert additional labels here} self than about having the courage to suck it up, show some compassion, and value the wisdom of trying to mend the fences you have broken so badly over the years.

Additionally, we have had no problem seeing the many wondrous and varied faces of our gods because we are not hell bent on forcing them into tiny boxes that fit only our own personal beliefs. If this is a problem you have been having, perhaps you should take your own advice.--Cairo

My colleagues have added much to these particular points of your diatribe, but I’ll add my bit here. While it seems like you may be in a better place physically (despite claiming you know more about psychology and medicine than your previous doctors do), you seem to be going down a dark, dangerous road mentally. You might just find yourself in jail yet, or worse if you don’t reevaluate your thinking.

“The insomnia is what caused my other symptoms to get so bad that they become delusions, paranoia, mania, and once, auditory hallucinations.” So you’re admitting to having breaks from reality, along with your emotional instability. Yet, you get butthurt when people are skeptical to your religious experiences. I’m no psychologist, admittedly, but I don’t automatically trust random people’s religious experiences, much less someone with a history of psychosis. Whether it’s you or anyone else.

I would also recommend you be very, very careful using THC. I don’t know what medications you’re taking, but THC can interact with several different drugs, including Prozac. High levels of THC can cause paranoia and psychosis as well.

You’re trying to act as a leader and activist when you’re still dealing with some very serious conditions. This is why so many people recommend to not use magic or occultic practices when dealing with mental health. People are not being elitist or ableist when they do this. The whole purpose is to encourage others to first attain treatment for their conditions. You’ve been claiming your own voice as Set’s, threatening violence to attain your desires in regards to politics, and using magic to harm your political enemies. You refuse to understand the motivations of people who don’t hold the same political opinions - even “centrists”, so that even the politically moderate are your enemies. This is even a symptom of borderline personality disorder, which you say you’re diagnosed with. Clearly, your symptoms aren’t completely managed.

https://www.webpsychology.com/news/2015/09/01/dangers-black-and-white-thinking-228391

You have a long way to go in terms of healing. You can blame the outside world all you like for not getting treatment or for a lack of progress, but your mental health is YOUR responsibility and you need to take responsibility and fix yourself before you’re in any position to try and “fix” the world with your ideology.

I highly encourage you to take a break and get some further professional help; wherever you are and however you can get it. Your writings are extremely troubling to us here. The last thing you need is to get arrested or committed trying to “punch a Nazi” or “take down the system”. You’re going to really screw up any chances of getting on your feet, getting treatment, and doing something actually meaningful with your life if you continue down this road.

--Karnak

#kemetic #kemetic fandom #kemeticism #Kemetic community #The Epic Tale of Smarmys Insanity #A Shadow Over Tumblr #The Call of Cruelty #Today on Dr. Phil...

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notquitedickens · 6 years

Text

Internal Prejudice (Draco x fem!reader)

Requested: Yes (not that close to the prompt but it’s fine)

Word count: 1.5k+

“Why must she hang around those idiots all the time?” Draco mumbled, watching as (y/n) walked through the courtyard, sandwiched between the Weasley twins.

“What was that, Draco?” Pansy asked from across the misshapen circle of Slytherins. “I couldn’t hear you from over here.”

“He was talking to me, Parkinson.” Blaise stepped in, saving Draco from being pestered by the girl when in actual fact he couldn’t hear Draco even though the boy was sitting next to him.

The girl fell silent, glaring at Blaise for ruining her chances of talking to Draco. Draco had hardly sent a look her way over all the time that they knew each other, preferring to stand alone rather than dancing at the family balls. When he was forced to speak to her it was short and harsh, his thoughts much more occupied by the Gryffindor prefect who he spent most of his classes thinking of. She was older than him, only by a year, but had always seemed much more mature than any student in the school. He gathered it was from the fact that she was forced to grow up faster than most wizards and witches. That’s why he admired her, the way she was so mature and moved with such carefree elegance. He thought he went unnoticed like Pansy was by him.

“You know you could go talk to her right?” Blaise whispered, drawing him back out of his thoughts.

“She willingly ignores me at all times,” Draco states louder than expected, drawing the attention of the rest of the group.

“No, I don’t.” Pansy responds with furrowed brows.

“For fuck's sake Parkinson, he has never once been interested in you, let it go.” Another girl in the group scoffs, someone that Draco never really spoke to but still would prefer over Pansy any day. “Literally everyone except you can see how he looks at that Gryffindor.”

“You fancy a Gryffindor? You aren’t becoming a blood traitor like those Weasleys are you?” Adrian scoffs.

“Is it really being a blood traitor if she’s a pureblood?” Draco rolls his eyes, shutting up the complaints. “So what if she actually cares about something other than her status in the wizarding community?”

At that moment Pansy stormed away from the group, quickly being followed by Adrian. The rest of the small group maintained their positions in the group despite their confusion.

“Is someone making Malfoy soft?” Blaise smirked.

“Can it, Zabini.”

(y/n) watched the boat that was sitting on the lake that year gently rocking under the autumn breeze. The movement of burgundy cloaks across the deck was oddly calming as they sauntered across the deck like puppets. A few were balanced precariously on the railings at the side of the main decking, a pair of them in the crows nest and a handful making their way back to shore in the smaller boats that were brought alongside the large vessel. The boats came rapidly over the lake, much faster than the boats she had used in the first year to get to the castle. There was something about the lake that just brought back memories from any point in time while at Hogwarts.

“I knew I’d find you here.” George dumped himself down next to her. “I thought I’d just let you know that Malfoy is being nice to all of us, Harry included.” (y/n) chuckled, hardly believing the words that were leaving the pranksters mouth. “I’m being serious, he even asked where you were.”

“Georgie, Draco Malfoy doesn’t do anything without a reason. I’m sure him being nice could just be a cover-up for one of his families cruel schemes.” She rolled her eyes. “Remember Harry’s second year, that bloody family got your 11-year-old sister possessed just so the fucking dark lord can come back. The guy got defeated by a two-year-old the first time and by teenagers ever since. I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to last long if he does find a way to get back.”

He sat silently for a moment, thinking over the words that had just spilt out of her mouth in her wave of disbelief. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t find a way back.”

George pulled her into his side, soothingly rubbing his thumb over her arm. “Even if he does, you’re smart enough to survive.”

“Yeah, It’s you Weasley kids I’m worried about. I know Bill and Charlie can handle themselves but the rest of you need to be babysat even now.” She teased, despite the tears welling up in her eyes. “I just really don’t know what I’d do without you redheads.”

“Probably go and marry the girl or boy of your dreams, write a book like your grandad, somehow survive as long as him.” He shrugs, trying to cheer her up.

“That sounds so mundane.” She used the given leverage to change the subject. “I’d much rather have something to write about, perhaps I’ll become a curse breaker.”

(y/n) was blissfully aware of Draco’s attempts to get close to her during all of their brief yet pleasant conversations during breaks between lessons. During any free time that was mutually shared, she was around her other friends. He almost managed to sit next to her in the library before Cedric sat down next to her with a piece of parchment in his hands and a textbook that was identical to the one she was working out of. Neither of them left until it was time to go back to dorms, Cedric being the total gentleman and walking her back.

The second time he was inches from having a proper conversation with her was when she was waiting by herself in the courtyard. This time his opportunity was snatched away by his own best friend. Blaise had caught her, initiating a conversation about the next time her family would visit his, the two of them eventually leaving the courtyard and making their way elsewhere.

Blaise had led (y/n) into the Astronomy tower, fully aware that nobody would be in it at this hour. It had become a frequent occurrence since he came to Hogwarts, the two of them skipping dinner and talking like they would at every large family event that was held when the two of them were children. They had both been taught the pureblood ways of having flawless manners in public but neither of them was really capable of accepting the ideals that the traditional families kept. Neither of them was in traditional pureblood families, his mother never took part in the first war and hers fought alongside the Weasleys. However, when he went up to Hogwarts he was forced into acting stereotypically like a Slytherin pureblood despite hoping he’d be in Gryffindor like she was. It was the only time he could be himself.

“You know that Draco means no harm, right?” Blaise had asked at some point during their conversation.

“I know he wants something.”

“He wants you.” Blaise rolled his eyes at her obliviousness. “He likes you and wants to go to the Yule Ball with you.”

“Tell him I’m flattered but I’d much rather go with someone who isn’t a rude, racist, fake piece of shit.” (y/n) snapped, sick of everyone mentioning Draco to her these days because of his sudden change in personality.

“He hasn’t asked you yet?”

“He hardly speaks to me.”

“I guess he’s having second thoughts.” Blaise sighed, losing all faith in his friend now that he has lied to him about the progress of the relationship with (y/n). “You deserve better than Malfoy anyway, especially if he isn’t willing to break his status to even talk to you.”

“Says the guy who fakes being a stuck up pureblood.” (y/n) rolls her eyes.

“Now I have everyone in that house scared of me, it’s unnecessary to keep up the act. Why else do you think nobody has beat Malfoy into growing up? I’m willing to sacrifice a few of those assholes if you are willing to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

That’s exactly what they did. (y/n) arrived at the Yule Ball with her arm entwined with Blaise’s, her red gown strongly conflicting with his green tie. The two of them turned heads more than the champions did when they eventually joined that first dance of the night. The pair laughing about the first time they were forced to dance together by her parents years ago, back then she was taller now there was a clear difference. Shortly after the dance was over they were joined by the twins, George stealing you away for a dance while Blaise went to go get drinks when he was actually going to nag Draco just a little bit more. George had ended up stepping on her toes more than she would have liked, each time causing her to tease him about Bill being much better at dancing with her. They somehow managed to finish the song, Blaise returning with Draco in tow and multiple cups.

The group sat at the table, an odd mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins sharing the same table. Surprisingly they all held a calm conversation for at least an hour before another slow song began to play. A soft nudge from Blaise caused Draco to ask (y/n) to dance, which George rapidly accepted for her, forcing her out of the chair and towards the dancefloor. The pair started with an Umbridge-worthy gap between them.

“You know you could have just talked to me before the dance right?” (y/n) rolled her eyes. “You didn’t have to go through my friends. Although the change was appreciated, it did make all of us believe that you were scheming until Blaise told me you liked me, even if my first reaction was to call you names.”

He remained silent, thinking over his words but she beat him to it.

“It was fighting your internal prejudices that took you so long wasn’t it? It took me all this time to take in what Blaise told me as truth.”

“How are you so good with words?” Draco blushed slightly at how well she could read him.

“The great Draco Malfoy, blushing?” (y/n) teased, catching sight of her friends cheering them on and finally realising that they had started dancing closer together and the song was almost over.

“It’s caused by being around beautiful people.” Draco hesitated. “Who is willing to give me a chance?”

“Keep up being nice to my friends and I’ll consider it.” (y/n) winked, making her way back over to the table of her smirking friends.

#hp x reader #draco x reader #george weasley x reader #blaise zabini x reader #harry potter x reader #yule ball

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