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ominous-feychild · 6 months ago

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✦ OC Questionnaire Tag 3 ✦

Following tag from @honeybewrites !

Featuring characters from Sun and Shadow: Freya, Crow, Daleira, Valyarus, Soren, and Grimnir! As well as a surprise visit from someone else...

Notes: Valyarus is Daleira's adopted dad, Lynsmouth nobility, and a faerie; Soren is Freya's dad, strongly hinted to be ageless, and worked as a sailor; and Grimnir is Crow's dad, the famous criminal detective of Lynsmouth, and known to work under an alias and masks to hide his identity.

Featured Questions (not all characters will answer): - "Sun or moon?" - "Would you rather drown or be buried alive?" - "How many people have you killed?" from @the-golden-comet - "Do you believe in fate?" kidnapped from the-golden-comet's post

"Sun or moon?"

Freya, the MC of Sun and Shadow who's explicitly sun-coded: Freya: Well... even before I found out about the whole "my dad gave me a magic restraint from a really young age without telling me and I actually have magic" thing... I'd always liked being out in the sun. I'd feel more refreshed, energized. I thought it was just normal, yknow? Like, who doesn't like being out in the sun? But apparently it's A Normal Magic Thing™ to feel better in your element? Even though I felt awful for a while without the restraint... apparently that's something called "magical sickness" from having too much uncontrolled essence? That's what Daleira said at least... I don't know. Regardless, um, sun, obviously, haha. 😅

Crow, the "shadow" of Sun and Shadow: Crow: Moon. The daytime is too bright and it's a lot harder to blend in. I mean--(*pointedly wiggles the sunglasses they're always wearing*)--I need these to be able to actually see thanks to my damned curse and how bright everything is. Then, like, I need to stick to the shadows at day because I just feel worse under sunlight, you know? So, yeah. Moon, easily.

Daleira, the OTHER, secret "shadow": Daleira: Sun! (gotcha 😉) It's thanks to the sun's energy that our world goes round--well, metaphorically speaking--and it would be almost unrecognizable if the sun didn't exist! 😊 Well, I mean, now that I say that... I guess the same applies to the moon, huh? Like, it's thanks to it that we have the tides and-- (*continues rambling about Science*) --wait what was the question again? Oh, right! "Sun or moon?" I would probably still pick sun, haha! 😊

Valyarus: This is an odd question. I would dare to say sun. Nights tend to be much more dangerous, both in the Faewildes and in this world. Criminals adoring the darkness and all, yes? Besides that, I am also weaker at night. So that should be an easy answer for me, no?

Soren: I'm brought back from the dead and/or a potentially disastrous situation in order to answer arbitrary questions? (*heavy sarcasm*) Interesting. How kind of our all-powerful gods to give me this opportunity. (Look do you want this break or not?) ... fine. Yes. (*Clears throat*) My wife and children all had sun- and light-allegiances. I feel that should speak for itself. However... as a seaman, the stars have always been my best friend, and it would be a nightmare to navigate without them. In spite of that, if you told me to choose between my daughter and the night, I would choose my daughter in a heartbeat. Happy? (*he asks, glaring at the camerawoman* Very, great job, Soren! 😉 *he scoffs*)

"Would you rather drown or be buried alive?"

Freya, who in the first chapter of SaS got traumatized by nearly dying in a shipwreck: Freya: Be buried alive. Next question, please and thank you.

Crow: Easy! I'd choose to be buried alive! Being encased in a coffin--or even just dirt--would surround me in shadows and I could just teleport out through them, ha! Daleira: Crow, you're supposed to take this at face value. There's no way getting out. If you had to die either way, which would you pick? Crow: (*scowling*) But that doesn't make sense! I could just teleport out! Daleira: Yeah, well that's not the point! It's supposed to, like, find out your personality and stuff! Which you'd, uh... consider to be the least painful death?... hm, that's actually really dark when you think about it... Crow: Exactly! Besides, it doesn't say I have to die through it! Just drown or "be buried alive"--not that I die in the process! (*smug birb.png*) Daleira: Um... actually, "drown" does imply death. Crow: Wait, what? Daleira: It's in the definition! "Drown: verb; to die through submersion in and inhalation of water!" Crow: ... and why do you have the exact definition of "drown" memorized? And where did you get it??? Do you have a dictionary lying around somewhere in your workshop??? Daleira: (*flushed*) Just--answer the question! Crow: I still pick being buried alive. It doesn't mean I can't escape alive, sweetheart. 😘 Daleira: (*groans and puts her face in her hands*)

Daleira: Unlike Crow, I'm actually going to answer this question as intended. 😒 While both are deeply unpleasant ways to die, I'd probably choose to drown just because it's quicker than suffocating in a coffin... or loose dirt. (*shudders*)

Valyarus: (*pleasantly; if not a bit smugly*) I could and would do neither. As a faerie, I could simply teleport out of either situation. Daleira: 😒😒😒 Daleira: (*takes a slow, deep breath... unlike someone in the situations posed in this question!*) Dad, the point of the question is "imagine you don't have any other choice". Like, if you had to pick one, which would you pick? Valyarus: (*quizzical look*) Well that's just incredibly dark, isn't it? Who would pose such a question? Daleira: (*exasperated, throws up her hands*) I don't know! Could you please just answer it, Dad??? Valyarus: (*gives a long, drawn-out sigh... also unlike someone in the situations posed in this question!*) If you insist, dear. I suppose... I would choose being buried alive. In your hypothetical situation, unaware that I was completely doomed, I would likely choose it knowing it took longer and spend a majority of the time I had trying to figure out a way out... only to die. Valyarus: But, Dally, you are aware that even if our bodies die, we do not, yes? Daleira: 😃 (*internal screaming*)

Soren: (*completely unaware of the events of the first chapter of SaS in this case--*) I would choose the sea--or, drowning, that is. I was born by the ocean, was made by the ocean, and lived through the ocean. I see no better way to die. Or a more fitting one.

Grimnir: In those cases, I'd assume I'd be being assassinated by some of my enemies... and so they're planning for it to be as painful as possible. In which case, it would likely look like this: my to-be killers choose to drown me. They repeatedly dunk and pull my head out at intervals maximized for suffering, but just barely below the time my body would force me to inhale. Ideally, none of them would have control over water magic, or they could simply let me breathe it in and draw it from my lungs. Which would likely be doubly as unpleasant as traditional water inhalation. Regardless--they would repeat this process until I finally suffocated or they got bored. And then they would kill me. Alternatively, my captors could've chosen to kill me through burying me alive. In that case, they'd do so without a coffin. That way, I'd be suffocating, buried within whatever material they thought would make me suffer most. Due to the phrasing of this question, I would assume it could not be anything inherently dangerous, otherwise I would die of exsanguination, poisoning, or whatever else. No, instead, I'd suffocate. In this case, it's unlikely my captors could interrupt or pace out my murder--unless they periodically buried, unearthed, and re-buried me, which simply seems like more effort than it's worth and comes with risk of a coma instead. Between the two situations, I would choose to be buried alive. Though, I hope you aren't intending on trying anything... I may be a detective, but I have a lot more tricks up my sleeve.

"How many people have you killed?"

Freya: Nobody??? What???

Crow: What do you mean? I'm a detective, not a murderer! Obviously I haven't killed anyone!

Daleira: (*voice uncharacteristically quiet*) It... depends on what you count as a "person." And... whether you're counting accidents... which you probably are. Regardless?... a lot.

Valyarus: I have killed very, very few people. If they even counted as "people" by the time I killed them is a better question. But... if you consider the fact that I, myself, am not human, and that those of us in my position call all of us sentient beings "people"... then I have killed very, very many people. That's why I'm in the position I am today. I am very powerful. And, sometimes, death is necessary to protect those looking up to you as a leader.

It's been a bit since Elvalen has joined Lynsmouth, though. I think I've gotten a bit rusty. 😄

(note: Valyarus has accidentally killed a lot more people in a similar manner to Daleira, but is not counting them due to it being "part of a faerie's nature", unintentional, and frankly unavoidable to an extent. Up his perceived creepiness/danger level as you deem necessary.)

Soren: Depends who's asking. If this has any possibility of reaching my daughter, none whatsoever. Otherwise... more than I wish. But being what I am, death is sometimes inevitable. Other times, it's simply the only correct choice. Would you rather leave a monster alive, or kill it where it stands to save its victims, both present and future? I think there's only one right answer there, and I have a number of people who'd thank me for it. ... even if my daughter would not.

Grimnir: Depends on what you mean by "killed". Does it count to put them in prison, knowing people can and might target them there? If so: I don't know. Definitely more than I can count. Otherwise... only a few. And only when necessary, in self-defense.

"Do you believe in fate?"

Freya: You mean the idea that our lives are predetermined from the beginning, that our decisions are set in stone before we're born, and that nothing we can do will ever change that? Of course not. And even if it did, I'd assume magic itself would interfere with how Fate wanted to make things.

Crow: I'm... not sure. I've never thought of it before to be honest. I'd guess there's probably some god out there capable of it?... though if you think of it that way, wouldn't all gods be Fate in one way or another? Like, they're all always just... sitting in their godly domains or something, watching us, seeing everything and making decisions off of it right? So from our point of view, wouldn't that make them the puppeteers of our fates? So I'd say it depends on what you consider "fate" to be. Is it an active force keeping things to a certain "timeline" or set of events? In which case I'd say no. Or is it a set of actions carried out by beings that can see so much more than we do, that are capable of comprehending things that we can't, and actively try enforcing their wills on us? In which case... I'd say yes.

Daleira: Fate? Like "things are destined to happen a certain way"? I wouldn't know! Haha, there's so many things in this world that it's impossible to know! Like, there's billions of lifeforms breathing, existing!, making decisions all at once! Could there possibly be a reason behind it, some sort of consciousness pulling everything in a certain direction to make sure different events come true? Possibly!

... what do I think of that?... hm. That's a great question. I... don't know honestly. I like the concept of free will, would like to think we all have complete control of our lives and where they go... but that just isn't realistic! Even if fate didn't exist, our lives are all still pushed and pulled in every direction by those of the people around us. And by nature! The world constantly throws things at us, and all we're able to do is react to it! Even if we make our own decisions, they're based on our life experiences and the examples we've seen of others... so it's impossible to say "free will" truly exists, either.

Valyarus: Fate? (*snickers*) Which kind of "Fate", the idea that Grand Destinies follow people, that some people are destined to come together and "complete" one another", or something... Or the cold and merciless goddess known for doing whatever it takes to achieve her goals?

Don't misunderstand me--most gods are "cold, cruel, merciless" and all those good things. But I've heard special things of Fate. She sees everything that has happened, everything that is happening, and everything that will happen at all times. She's able to make decisions with more information than anyone else. She's been able to plan out her actions and puppeteer everyone else from the very beginning of time. She's known for acting irrationally, having her son carry out the most out of place things... for what? What cause? What purpose? We don't know. We can't. What we do know is that she's willing to do anything. She and her son--acting on her behalf as all avatars do--have done some things even the other gods wouldn't dare do. Although, I don't think it's for a lack of willingness so much as it would otherwise get in the way of their goals to actively commit atrocities.

Regardless, oh--I do believe Fate exists. It's very hard not to when you've spoken to her son firsthand and he responds to you before you can even speak. I wouldn't recommend it, by the way. I've met some very disturbing creatures before, but he was... different.

Quinn: Well, that's just rude. Valyarus: Quinn: After I helped you and everything. Valyarus: How... how did you get in here? Quinn: Not telling. 😉 Want to apologize? Valyarus: Valyarus: (*indignant!*) I see no reason to. Quinn: Of course. No problem, then. Just... be careful around birds. Valyarus: (*silent, confused panic???*)

Soren: I believe Fate exists, yes. Whether or not that's a good thing depends on the day... and if you're in her way. Thankfully, it does not seem like I've done anything to cross her... at least, not for a very long time.

Grimnir: (*deadpan*) I would assume so. Otherwise, I'd worry who I gave my eyes to.

Your questions: - What would you do if you watched a starving child steal something expensive without anyone else noticing? - If you could go back in time and say anything to your younger self, what would you say? - What would you sell your soul for? (Metaphorically speaking, doesn't have to be literal. In other words: "What is the most important thing to you, that you would do anything for?")

Tagging (with no pressure) @darkandstormydolls @yourpenpaldee @.honeybewrites @fantasy-things-and-such @themboty @the-letterbox-archives and whoever else wants to join!

Divider from @cafekitsune

#Crow's over here just giving the DEEPEST answer to the fate question I'm ngl.#Like I was just including it for the memes of Grimnir asking who else he gave his eyes to 🤣🤣🤣#But then Crow had to come in and give an actually well-thought-out answer.#I'm ngl I was NOT expecting it #I was actually expecting them to turn it into a joke like usual.#But like... it's not actually that Crow isn't smart btw.#Or is incapable of taking anything seriously.#They just choose not to 99% of the time haha. 😅#Btw Grimnir actually wasn't kidding about giving up his eyes to “Fate” btw.#At the very least #as far as he's aware #he traded his sight to an entity claiming to be the goddess of fate.#Won't tell you whether it actually WAS or not 😉#or what he traded it for #but I feel like the fact that he traded his SIGHT to “Fate” should give some hints. 😉😉😉#Addendum:#I wrote all those tags after writing Freya's/Crow's/Grimnir's in that order #I'm actually quite surprised at how Quality the answers to that question all are haha.#Valyarus over there is giving HELLA worldbuilding and foreshadowing 🤣😉#and ironically showing that Crow was actually right (in-universe) about their theories oops.#Genuinely I wasn't PLANNING on confirming Crow's “theories" haha.#But Valyarus knows quite a bit about the gods for a number of reasons and that's just how he'd answer. 😅😂#Fate in-universe is highly feared due to everything Valyar mentioned if you couldn't imagine.#Though some of his information is false actually.#What?#This is CHARACTER asks #not “author asks”#You ask the characters and you get misinformation misunderstandings and lies 🤣#That's how a majority of those who know of Fate (the goddess)'s existence see her though.#There's a handful of people who like/don't see her as evil tho.

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ananke-xiii · 1 month ago

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I started writing about resurrection because, to me, the “Mary Winchester is complete” excuse in S14 is bullshit and the same goes for Billie and her “life’s unfair but what can you do?” speech to Rowena in S13. I’ve talked a little bit about Rowena and soonish I’ll post something about Mary because “About Mary, never enough”. But, before that, I need to say something about Chuck and Amara… and Oskar.

Mary’s death is, of course, once again a catalyst for plot advancement but, in this reading of mine about resurrection, it’s also the straw that breaks the camel’s back for Chuck. Because, after all, souls are “complicated even for him” but, more importantly: “even if I could, would you really want -- I mean, after what he did?”. It’s the switch between the “I could”, the “would you want it?” and the final “what he did” that signals the lie for me. In other words, Chuck just doesn’t want Mary back. So, of course, I must ask: why? Before answering, one little thing must be taken into account.

Now that the show’s over we know that Chuck is a hands-off God only when it comes to humanity minus Sam and Dean. After all, their story is the show’s story so this totally makes sense within this framework. But if I follow this line of reasoning, I find two very specific plot-points that wouldn’t really make sense for S14-S15-Chuck… or would they? I’m talking about Amara and Jack, perhaps the only two entities that have the possibility to end his own personal story. To me, the things are two: either Chuck willed their appearance in the story or they were collateral damage that he thought he could handle (and, in part, he wasn’t 100% wrong).

The first scenario fits my interpretation of Chuck as a gambling addict who has very, very deep and dark desires of complete annihilation. It’s a take that renders Chuck a more interesting character but it diminishes other characters’ relevance in the story. But it’s still possible and one day I’ll perhaps write about this in more details.

If Amara and Chuck are collateral damage, however, it means that it’s not just Sam, Dean and Cas who defy predestination but also… Rowena and Lucifer. Their actions (the destruction/creation of a “child”)(I know neither Oskar nor Jack really are “children” but I’m speaking more in archetypical terms rather than actual, factual ones, perhaps “Son” is a more appropriate word) aren’t God’s will, therefore they have de facto a very prominent role in Chuck’s narrative.

I’ll be honest with you, I have something written about Lucifer, Kelly and Jack that I don’t know if I’ll ever post because it’s a bit intense and I hate everything that Buckleming, or whatever they’re called, have done with that particular storyline. It’s both very uncomfortable and comical which makes things even worse. Also, I’ve been meaning to write about Oskar and Rowena for a while now so I think it’s fair to focus on them.

I’ve said that I’d have preferred if it were “Death’s death” that opened Amara’s cage and not the spell from the Book of the Damned but that’s just wishful thinking. The reality is that the cage was opened because Rowena finished the spell for the “cure” of the Mark of Cain, i.e. she metaphorically killed/sacrificed her soul in exchange for her freedom (oh, Rowena! The fact that something very different, yet very similar will happen again in S15 will forever sadden me). The last ingredient of the spell recites as follows: The caster's heart: The life of the thing the spell caster loves most. “Life” here means “blood” while the “caster’s heart” is, symbolically, Rowena’s soul because she basically must kill her “heart” for the spell to work. Which means that, without her heart, she’ll be “lifeless”, "soulless". It's "an eye for an eye" type of "exchange" (hello Equalizer/Hammurabi). It’s a really, really high price to pay for her physical freedom and for her metaphorical and unaware, brief freedom from Chuck’s narrative.

Who’s Oskar? He’s the child of the Polish family that gave shelter to Rowena, possibly the only people in her whole, sad story that ever showed true compassion for her. Oskar was sick at the time so Rowena cured him thanks to a spell (remind you of something?) and also gave him immortality (this is a bit weak and it’s clearly there because Rowena is 300 years old or something so they had to justify Oskar’s existence in the world, lol, me not like)(Wishful thinking, again: Oskar’s story could’ve been so much more interesting if he had, I don’t know, more than two scenes in the whole season).

My friend Wikipedia tells me that “Oscar” means “deer-loving one” or “friend of deer” and it’s the name of a character in Irish mythology of which, I’m afraid, I’m very ignorant so I cannot tell you much (here the Wikipedia page if you care). What’s more, it’s also the name of the dead son in “The Poems of Ossian” by Scottish poet James Macpherson. I only remember vaguely from my high school years that the Ossian cycle was much discussed because many believed it was a hoax? I don’t really remember much but it’s “nice” to notice that the writers took the trouble to associate Rowena, who’s Scottish, with a Scottish poem. Not that we needed it but it’s a huge foreshadowing because Oscar is, in the poem, a “dead son”, but it also shows that they at least put some care when they were crafting her story and this consoles me a little bit.

But Oskar decides to re-name himself as Seth and this is another huge red flag because Seth is Adam and Eve’s third son after Cain and Abel. The fact that Oskar/Dead Son/Seth/Third Brother is sacrificed by Rowena basically means that Sam/Abel won’t be killed by Dean/Cain (in case we needed further proof but okay, I like it). He is, from a narrative function pov, S10’s very own Adam Milligan, Macleod edition.

Oskar's life and Rowena’s soul are sacrificed because they are the price to pay to remove the Mark on Dean’s forearm. But since the Mark is not passed down to anybody, the cage is opened and Amara is “born” into the world as a… baby. A baby who eats souls to grow up. She’s a soul eater. Unlike Chuck and his lies, souls are not that complicated for Amara. By the end of S11 and after having consumed a good number of human souls, Amara gifts Dean with Mary. She resurrects Mary as a gift. Body and soul, the full package. Which is interesting because Billie clearly says from the beginning of S11 that, from now on, what's dead stays dead. Cough, cough, cough. So someone is not following the rules and this time it's not Sam, Dean, Cas nor even Chuck but it's Amara.

So Amara’s relationship with souls is quite… uncomplicated? She needs them, she gets them. She thinks Dean needs his mother, she gives her to him. Although I find it very telling that Amara is depicted solely as an agent of destruction while it’s her “missing” half, Chuck, her brother, who’s got the task of creation. She can, however, re-create her brother’s creation. I have to highlight this because in S11 another notable cage gets opened and Lucifer also runs free in the world. Again. By S12 he’ll also share his father’s fantasy of solely male creation ( while Kelly is unfortunately characterized from day 1 as the real, ultimate, disposable vessel).

I think Rowena and Lucifer managed to escape Chuck’s controlling narrative simply because… Chuck didn’t pay any attention to them. Didn’t care about them. Sam understands that Chuck is a huge scam, a hoax if you will, and he calls him “stupid and crazy”. Chuck's not interested in Sam's story and that'll cost him a bullet in the shoulder. His obsession with the “Dean kills Sam” plot totally distracted him from the underlying, compelling story linking Rowena, Oskar, Amara, Lucifer, Sam, Mary, Kelly and Jack. Which is the story of the expendables, the "sacrifices", the vessels, the enslaved and the caged. Chuck's narrative focuses, on the other hand, on the ones who, supposedly, should perpetrate violence.

Which is a bit of a pity because, the other side of it, it's the story of the birth and rebirth of the Rejected "Evil" which, in a wonderful paradox, is also the story of the Soul. It's not a morally flat story, mind you, because the Soul is definitely not the Good That Wins, she's starving, constantly mistreated, abused and nevertheless always there, the Real Immortal, peeking out, terrific and absolute, enraged, bruised, aching, demanding to be listened. It’s really, really too bad that the Soul won’t make it by the end of the show. Because, we’re told, She’s complete. I say bullshit.

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junebugwriter · 1 year ago

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Loki Season 2 Doesn't Understand Loki

The fundamental flaw in a season that means nothing

Spoilers below.

I think we need to talk about Loki.

People who know me know that I don’t like superhero and comic book movies. I love them. And that’s why I’m so critical of them. I can blame my brother on getting me into comics in high school, but the fact that long after that I keep coming back to the well speaks to what I love about them. Comics are the blending of prose and visual artistry, of character and medium. Every comic is a conversation between artists. Television and film, likewise, are another variation on that same theme.

However, like any other kind of media, its greatest strengths can also fall victim to their greatest enemy: the companies that own them.

Marvel Studios and the Marvel Cinematic Universe began as a simple concept: translate the idea of comic book universes onto the big screen. Let the comic company own the movies that bring their stories to the masses. When Disney bought Marvel, lock stock and barrel, it also brought truckloads of cash and prestige with it. This proved to be a Faustian bargain in the end, because what happens when the infinite money machine begins to grow too large to handle? Things begin to break down.

Loki Season 2 is this metaphor brought to life.

Everything Will Be The Same Ever Again

The first season ended promisingly enough. Loki and his alternate timeline gender swapped variant Sophie finally find He Who Remains, the man behind the curtains that the Marvel Cinematic Universe has been building up to. He’s the one who pulls the strings, paves the road, and decides the Sacred Timeline ™—in other words, this is the man who decides Marvel Canon.

Season 1 ended exactly as I hoped it would: Sophie, tired of being controlled, did the thing that gods of mischief and chaos are supposed to do. She killed the man behind the curtain. In so doing, she unspooled the Sacred Timeline ™ in the name of free will, allowing for infinite universes to be borne from the infinite choices made every moment by every being in existence. She gave birth to the multiverse. She broke the system.

Obviously, this could not last.

Loki season 1 promised that the universe would be forever altered by the actions of Loki and Sophie, and for a while, this seemed to be the case. Most of the recent phase of Marvel output has revolved, for better or worse, with the introduction of the concept of multiple realities. This has been used somewhat as more or less a vehicle for Brand Integration ™ and less as a vehicle for, you know, good storytelling. Yes, we’ve been promised Fantastic Four and X-men movies, but those aren’t even really in the works currently. They’ve been stuck in development hell for years since acquisition. All we’ve gotten is a couple of winks and nods, a musical sting, and N’amor, which all things being fair, was great, but N’amor has always been his own thing and a mutant in name only, story-wise. Otherwise, it’s been fine, but far from the promised chaos that Loki season 1 alluded to.

Additionally, there’s the problem of character. Loki in mythology is less a villain but more of an antagonist, a trickster character that causes problems and meddles in the affairs of others for little reason else besides “he wanted to.” He’s mercurial by nature, and that works very, very well for mythology. It works for the purposes of “this is how the world is, this is why things are the way they are, and this is how the world will end.” Loki’s presence is not malevolent, but rather genuinely chaotic. He will do what he wants, and usually only to satisfy himself. He often seems unable to really control himself, let alone anyone else. He does things because he loves just making things happen, and if he winds up with what he wants, it’s all the better.

In the comics and the films, he’s much more cast as a villain. In the films, he desires the throne of Asgard, to be the rightful ruler of people. Failing to win Asgard, he seeks out Earth as an agent of Thanos. Failing that, he meanders long enough in the background to have fun when dealing with Thor, and that’s about it. He finally dies an ignoble death by Thanos, and that was to be the end of him. Loki the TV series is not the same Loki we saw die. This Loki is an alternate timeline variant, and after having his ego broken by the Time Variance Authority, he seeks out another variant, Sophie, who has been causing problems for the TVA.

If all that gives you a bit of a headache, don’t worry. That’s just the comic fan experience. Comics, and superhero stories, are of a kindred spirit with Soap Operas: not only are they highly melodramatic, often made up on the fly, and filled with colorful characters, but they’re also designed to go on FOREVER. That’s the beauty of them. The characters, and the universe, frequently default to a certain status quo. Sure, every few years, something comes along that promises to Change the Universe Forever, but that often amounts to one weird tweak and then it's back to the races as usual. The bad guy comes along to challenge the hero, hero must thwart whatever plan the villain has, and all is well. That’s the rhythm of the comic book story, and that works quite well for executives... to a point. So, what happens when people start to get tired of the same old story? They change the status quo on paper, and hope nobody notices that the structure of it all is still intact.

That was the promise of Loki Season 1. See? We have a multiverse now! Please, be distracted by this CHAOS long enough to not realize that we are still in control of everything, and everything is fine.

That last sentence? That’s the plot of season 2. See, Sophie killed He Who Remains, and the multiverse exists. The TVA is designed by HWR to maintain the Sacred Timeline ™. With the Sacred Timeline ™ now in chaos, everything in the universe is going haywire. That means timelines are unraveling. The plot now follows Loki, his hetero life mate Mobius, and a cast of fun, colorful characters, racing against time to keep time from unspooling, and the multiverse from completely falling apart.

Mr. Loki’s Wild Ride

“Loki” is a show meant to turn Loki from the god of mischief and chaos to... a hero, somehow. One who wants to fight to maintain an autocratic, bureaucratic organization that wasn’t very good at its job in the first place because the alternative is... chaos. According to the plot, this chaos takes the form of nothingness. Lack of existence. See, without an imposed order, nothing can exist! Therefore, reality NEEDS someone or some entity to maintain order in some way so that everything can keep on existing.

But why is this the case? Why does reality need a temporal loom or a man behind the curtain? The show doesn’t do a very good job of explaining why everything ceases to exist the moment that the Temporal Loom, the machine that maintains the Sacred Timeline ™ other than “that’s just how it all works,” and really, it doesn’t even tell us that. It just shows time unraveling, sans explanation. How did time exist before the Temporal Loom, you ask? Loki, for all its technobabble and endlessly recurrent exposition, is not actually interested in explaining that bit. You see, it was chaos and war and death before, or it’s nothingness. Which is it? Why is it? It’s a nihilistic and frustrating bit of worldbuilding that leads to nothing.

This nihilism is a kind of narrative reinforcement technique. By the end of it, Loki has figured out how to control time itself, after much trial and error, as well as another conversation with He Who Remains. Yet in that conversation, he learns a fundamental truth about the MCU: He who makes the difficult decisions gets to sit on the throne. He Who Remains is supposedly one such person. In his stead, at the end, Loki does the same. He wrests control of the timelines, bundles them up into a cape, and seats himself on the throne of He Who Remains. As such, he recreates Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology, the tree upon which all the realms rest. You see? Everything goes back to normal, now that someone is in control.

But wait a minute. Why would Loki ever make this choice? Loki early in the show figures out he doesn’t want a throne. He doesn’t want control. All he ever wanted was to be loved and known and understood. That is the true desire at the heart of his character. It’s beautiful, and poignant, and speaks to my own heart. In Sophie, he found someone who does know and understand him. Is it narcissistic to love a gender variant of yourself? Probably! But it makes sense for him. Because he is a mercurial person. He doesn’t really understand even himself, and because of that, it results in mischief and chaos. That’s who he is. He is a chaos god.

By the end of the show though, he’s learned and grown... what? To love order? To love bureaucracy? To love control? That’s what it’s saying when he takes the throne! I understand that this is Loki learning what it means to be a hero, but is that really what it means? To let go of your defining characteristic? To lose what makes you... you? To undergo true ego death so that the world itself can keep on spinning upon your skeleton? For all its over-explanation, Loki the show isn’t interested in answering much of anything. It’s poetic that he gives up his life so that reality can continue, but this seems rather pointless, in the end. Instead of embracing himself, he denies his identity to sit on a throne he doesn’t want. That’s no god of chaos and mischief. That is the god of stability, order, and the status quo.

That’s not Loki.

Pay no attention to the executive behind the curtain

I understand the mercenary reasons for these choices. I understand that the universe must keep spinning, and the infinite money machine must keep on making money. But to do so, they need to kill the defining characteristics of their beloved characters, and that just makes it all so thin, flimsy and frustrating. There are some amazing moments in this show! Everything with Sophie, Mobius, and Ouroboros is excellent. The characters make this nonsense story shine, long enough to make you hopefully realize that it doesn’t even make internal sense.

As someone who analyses stories for a living, it’s impossible to see this apart from the concept of capitalist realism, whose central maxim is this: It’s easier to believe in the end of the world rather than the end of capitalism. Substitute “capitalism” with “the underlying bureaucracy upon which the world rests and runs itself” and that becomes just the text of Loki. It’s easier to imagine the end of reality than the end of the TVA, and the end of the autocrat who sits on top of the pyramid. The Universe is run by a corrupt pyramid scheme, but it’s that or nothingness! So, you NEED someone to run things like this, otherwise it’s all void.

That’s what this story is saying—but why does it need to say this? Why do we need someone sitting on a throne? For a character like Loki whose entire character is anarchy incarnate, this simply just rings hollow.

And so, I am frustrated. I want to like “Loki.” It has some great moments and is a lot of fun. But at the end of the day, it does the character of Loki wrong but having to reinforce the status quo, and when your central character who is defined by causing mischief, maintaining the status quo is a terrible way to end your series.

#blog #tv #television #loki #marvel #marvel cinematic universe

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necromancyandtendrils · 7 months ago

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Anonymous asked:

Why do you still call those "beasts" your friends when they literally kill so many innocent cookies and destroy homes and land itself? Yet you called them your friends at least be grateful that witches didn't crumble them instead of locking them away

[ This is a long one~ ]

There was a deafening silence that hung for what felt like forever. She was taken aback by the putrid ignorance that oozed from this anon's words, she was struggling to collect herself.

"Of course, OF CORSE you would say something like that! Do some of you not even think before you spew such thoughtless things?! I am not an idiot, Anon! I was there when I saw all but one of them turn! I saw the destruction, deaths and sorrows of so many cookies!"

She stopped herself with a loud huff, she wasn't going to blow her top over someone who obviously wouldn't understand. But she might as well humour them and TRY to explain herself.

"Let me put you in my shoes and metaphorically make you walk a mile or so in them, shall we?" She slowly began to circle the Grayface, her slitted yellow and pink eyes locked.

"Do you really think you would call it mercy if you were locked away in isolation, in a magical tree by the ones you call a god? What your so-called Gods did to them was worse than death!" As she continued to speak, she was quickly losing composure, it was obvious she carried a lot of spite and sorrow over this whole thing, honestly, could you blame her?

Her voice started shake as she continued on, "Crumbling them would have been the nicest thing they had done! Even if it would mean I would be completely alone! At least MY friends would not be locked away and slowly driven into absolute madness in isolation!"

. . .

"I never wanted my own friends to suffer like this... It's why I believe the witches' actions were far crulier than any cookie has ever done. I miss them all. I just want them back... But they need to understand their REAL target. And it's not the cookies of earthbread. My friends are all sick, and it's the witches' fault they were corrupted in the first place..."

#[ ooc ] ── * mun ( reid rambles )#[ oc lore ]#“Another one down!” ── * Askpost/reply #[ ft. candyeyecookie ]#“The Power of Silence” *── [ ft. Silent Salt Cookie ]#“Oh the bitter-sweet days” *── [ ft. Eternal Sugar Cookie ]#“Your sudden apathy is a mystery...” *── [ ft. mystic flour Cookie ]#“Be strong Blue...” *── [ ft. Blueberry Yogurt cookie ]#“I thought you were better than this...” *── [ ft. Shadow Milk Cookie #“Will it ever be the same as it once was?” *── [ ft. Silent Salt Cookie ] - (User)

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kayotic-catgirl · 7 months ago

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tmagp 16 liveblog in a post lets go!!

today is best day ever. i get two cats AND new tmagp episode !!!!!

WAS THAT A FUCKING HELLO JON

ohhh alice is traumatized now oh nooo baby honey are you okay

AW CELIA HOLDING ALICE IS CUTE. DRAWING THAT LATER MAYBE. the horrors tho </3 WAIT SINCE WHAT MISS DYER (theory at the moment: her parents)

"i believe you" "no you don't" OH MY HEART HURTS SO MUCH. alice sam and celia dynamic makea me cry

HELLO CHESTER I LOVE YOU hearing the jarchivsit voice say "hashtag goth girl" is objectively hilarious to me

.......INK5OUL!?!?!!?!!!?????!???!?! I KNEW WE WEREN'T DONE WITH THEIR ASS THEY'RE SPEAKING HOLY SHIT THEY HAVE A VOCI wait no that was madam e speaking. NOW INK5OUL IS SPEAKING

oh my godall this slang usage hit me over the head like a meta pipe. WHAT DO YOU MEAN "TOTALLY VEGAN". ARE THWRE SUCH THINGS AS NON VEGAN TATTOOS,?? (if this is an actual tattoo term let me know!) oh god madam e please stop speaking (affectionate). OH, SO ONLYFANS IS CANON IN THE UNIVERSE OF TMAGP NOW. OKAY. IM SURE THIS INFORMATION WONT HAVE ANY CONSEQUENCES WITHIN OUR FANDOM

damn ink5oul really speedran that shit..girlboss (gender neutral)

MADAM E PLEASE SHUT UP. I CANT HANDLE YOUR INFLUENCER SPEAK. LOVE YOU THO. OH MY GOD INK5OUL INSINUATING THAT MADAM E IS A POSER IM SOBBING . the SOUND EFFECTS WHAT. DO NOT INSERT A "BRUH" INTO YOUR PODCASt ....true goth culture is digging graves? i thought it was mostly music and politics based but sure what do i know

im sorry but if i were madam e and thr hot person who tattooed me askee me to dig a grave to prove my gothness and said "don't make me break your heart" i'd listen. not because i need to prove how goth i am (because im not really a goth), but rather because im a horrible bisexual. not saying i want ink5oul but i understand

CIRSED TATTO BULLAHIT ERM WHAT THE SIGMA?????

oh madam e is going THROUGH IT. sorry girl </3 oh thabk god the cats are okay though

OHNONOOHNOOHHHHNO OH FUCK

fuck that was fucked up. that episode was so godamn interesting and the fact that the metaphorical hurt turned into literal hurt is so good for my brain. EATS THE CASEMENT.

poor alice, she's. not well. :((

if i had a dollar for everytime i was standing while listening to a magnus podcast and actually sat down in response to one of the characters telling another to do so, i'd have two whole dollars. wonder what that means.

lena gwen toxic doomed yuri (can't believe thats my only takeaway from that scene)

GWENDOLYN JUST GIVE UP PLEASE. STOP TRYING TO STAY WITH THR HORROES. YOU'RE GONNA GET YOURSELF MORE TRAUMATIZED AND MAYBE KILLEd

in conclusion: WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK/pos. THIS EPISODE WAS SO COOL AND THINGS ARE GETTING WORSE AND OHHHHH IM GONNA DIE

#tmagp #magnusposting

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invinciblerodent · 1 year ago

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I think after defeating Ketheric is the first time in the story when I'm letting my boy let his unending kindness.... falter a little bit. Just a little.

Semi-coherent 3 am ramblings under cut.

It seems like almost an "act 2 end" staple for me, but... this "midpoint climax" in many games IS, I feel, the natural point for a lot of good-aligned, well-intentioned protagonists to crack a little, and Arvid is no different.

Like. He just came back from what was essentially his *worst fucking nightmare*, having fought the avatar of a quasi-god (and learned that he's gonna have to do that, oh, two more times, just for funsies), having talked his boyfriend out of exploding himself (which was a very shitty, if short conversation, because apparently Gale is nothing if not easily convinced by the words "choose me, the one who loves you"), and overall having a CONSIDERABLY WORSE THAN AVERAGE TIME FOR THE PAST, OH, SEVERAL DAYS (with the Shadowfell, and the watching allies die left and right, and the GOING BACK TO THE MIND FLAYER FLESH-CABINS WHICH IS FUN), and already everyone wants MORE from him.

You know, as if this whole day wasn't, like, one deeply traumatic experience after the other. As if these past weeks hadn't been pushing him slowly towards a breaking point.

The dream visitor is acting... kinda suspicious and cagey, as per usual (she's dodging questions and speaking in confusing metaphors while doling out insurmountable-seeming tasks, which is just 👍👌🤙🖕), Wyll is immediately having himself a little storytime moment that he probably should have thought to have weeks ago ("btw my eye is a sending stone that enables Mizora the Literal Devil to track my every move" IS KIND OF A BIG DEAL, MAN, YOU COULD HAVE, IDK, MENTIONED THAT SOMETIME OVER THE PAST THREE WEEKS OR SO), Gale is understandably feeling wild and wired after that weird, partially self-imposed near-death experience (which, idk about you, but an "I'm glad we survived babe, are you okay" would have been at least appreciated BEFORE the whole "YO DID YOU SEE THAT POWERFUL ARTEFACT, I WANT IT" thing), everyone in that damn room wants something else from him ("hey, sorry I was an asshole earlier after you saved my life, why don't you help me more! Won't tell you how or why or with what tho!", "hey you're back having done what's supposed to have been impossible, so what's up with Thaniel, the issue you solved literally a week ago already, I wasn't paying attention lol", and the likes, even Withers is being fucking weirder than usual)...! Jaheira and Astarion seem to be the only ones to offer any kind of praise, or optimistic feedback, which is already weird...!!! But the others? "Oh, hey, you're back. So, when are you gonna do that again (or this other, different thing for me)?"

Like... thanks? I guess I'll just go fuck myself then???

The poor boy just wants to take the most intense bath of his life (sit in a lake somewhere for a few hours, get the illithid-sludge off his body and scrub his skin until it's no longer blue but flushed, raw, and purple, maybe then he's going to feel clean again and less *hyper-aware* of the wriggling in his skull), get roaring drunk to at least momentarily forget the monumental task ahead, cuddle up to his dog, owlbear, and/or boyfriend, and go to sleep in a fetal position for the next 48 hours. Maybe cry a little or punch something, he hasn't decided yet.

Just... everyone seems to be forgetting that he's just Some Guy. Even if he turned out to be some chosen one, he's unaware of it. As far as he knows, he's just a random priest from the countryside who only ended up in the city like a year ago because the church there needed a new healer, and suddenly, after getting abducted and his BRAIN wormed, he's everyone's go-to guy for god-killing. He barely knows anyone, has no family (or really friends or personal connections deeper than the superficial outside of the party), nobody misses him where he's from (which is no longer his home, but neither is Baldur's Gate), and he doesn't even know if he's doing the right thing at any given time, messing with forces he doesn't understand. But everyone just wants MORE, and MORE, and MORE, and he's giving more and more, as much as he can, only he's not sure how much more he has left.

So yeah, he's gonna snap at- and be a bit short with Art, even if Halsin doesn't like it. Yeah, he's gonna be a little snide to the cagey gnome that all but told him to fuck off previously. He's gonna be a little impatient towards the skeleton-man doling out poetic brain-teasers for him to solve while he's still bleeding profusely, from several wounds. He's gonna give a couple fewer fucks about Isobel's reunion with her gf after having already figured out who she is (it's. Not like that was a hard feat. Those dots were not particularly hard to connect. He has an intelligence of 10 and he still figured it out.) than he would otherwise. He's, like, happy for them and all, but would be MANY TIMES happier if someone just handed him a sandwich and a glass of water, and said "hey, good job".

I have not yet gone back to camp or left the building after the return last night, but I'm hoping there's gonna at least be a chance to unwind before we'd march on. :/

#squirrel plays bg3 #bg3 act 2 spoilers #Arvid Trygg

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charmercharm3r · 2 years ago

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Body by Heart

LMH

Masterlist

wc: 12.9k (it's killing me I couldn't get it to 13k)

Synopsis: Fate is twisted in so many ways, but that doesn't really apply when you're frozen in time.

warnings: smut, sexual explicit content, demon!minho, they're both switches by now lol, implied past minsung, gets really sappy and I love it, not really proof read I'm really sorry if things get confusing

Part 1: Heart by Heart

Part 2: Soul by Heart

Part 3: Body by Heart

He’d rather be anywhere but here, surrounded by anyone other than the three demons that stood in front of him. Two centuries hadn’t been long enough when Minho had last told them to go to Hell, metaphorically and literally. At least they did what he asked.

But besides the never ending feud with himself, second on Minho’s “to kill” list was the one “brother” that just happened to be front and center of his commando show. Steam practically shot from his ears, “you’d better have a good reason for dragging me from—“

“Your human fleshlight?”

A triumphant smirk was sprawled across the younger demon’s face. Still bare and aired out, Minho took two powerful strides to stand in front of his face. Through his teeth he said, “from my soulmate, Jisung.”

Jisung, a loud, scattered demon that Minho purposely avoided. There was a reason he refused to acknowledge his brothers, and he happened to be it. Minho occupied the storms while Jisung ruled over the seas, a deadly combination that when met, created typhoons and hurricanes that could wipe out civilizations. It just so happened that Jisung loved the rain.

The smile on his lips refused to disappear as he tipped his head at the silver haired demon. “There was a long period of time where you called me your soulmate. Things can always change.”

Minho’s eyes were dead set on the younger who couldn’t take his own off the body that stood before him. “I’ve been wrong before. My eyes are up here.” Jisung turned his back, pretending to look around the room before nonchalantly gazing over his shoulder, “sorry. Old habits die hard, hm? You always did like eye contact.”

“Why are you wet?” Another presence Minho chose to ignore asked, bringing his attention back to the other two demons. Jeongin, the youngest of his seven brothers whose specialty lies as messenger between the heavens and Hell. Translation, he doesn’t do much now that gates everywhere are closed. He had Minho to blame for that. It was a dumb mistake where he accidentally set a storm on the same day as the god’s gathering and drenched every single attendee. Gods being gods, they threw a tantrum and have kept the heavenly gates shut for almost a century.

“He’s standing there with his dick out and you’re wondering why he’s wet?” Changbin, right hand man to the guy in red himself who also happened to have the power of influence— even on demons, which is what made him so special. He could talk anyone into doing whatever he wanted.

Anger coursed through every one of Minho’s veins. “If you aren’t going to tell me why I’m here, I’m leaving,” he turned to walk towards his front door.

“You broke the one rule,” Changbin called out, making Minho stop in his tracks. “The one rule we have.”

He didn’t look back, everything in his body telling him to just make a run for it. “To be fair, we have many rules. Whatever I did couldn’t have possibly been so bad that you three had to show up here.”

The silence was deafening, worse than when he spent twenty years by himself. But when everyone refused to answer, Minho faced his brothers again. Seldom, disheartened expressions cradled their faces, looking anywhere but him. “No,” he affirmed strongly. The lack of response made him second guess his confidence. “I didn’t.”

Jisung took the initiative to speak again, “two kisses,” he twiddled with his thumbs as he regained his place next to the two demons. “One in front of the heart, one behind.”

“I did not condemn her. That’s impossible.” Minho wanted to be mad at Jisung for the smug smile that never faded and the way he seemed to be enjoying his ex-partner’s suffering. However he was beginning to be more angry at himself. “There was twenty years between the two–“

“Twenty years for you, brother.” Changbin was telling him things he already knew, but still refused to accept.

The realization hit him like a freight train. The sound of his own blood running through his undead veins echoed in Minho’s ears louder than the consequences that his brothers were explaining to him. One of them emerged from his bedroom and tossed some clothes at his chest while another led him to the couch. Everything moved in slow motion, words became gargled together as Minho zoned out.

He remembered everything about that night that Chan granted his wish, everything except for what he actually wished for. But he knew it wasn’t to be turned into a demon– hence the resentment for the older.

That also meant he remembered the physical agony, every little tweak of his muscles and scraping of his joints rubbing together. Minho could practically hear his hair growing right from his skull, feeling the blood pooling under his skin with no heartbeat. That was the most jarring part of the transformation, everything he felt was so human. He knew his body still technically worked the same except for his heart that laid as deadweight in his chest. Part of him knew he would survive, but he also knew you. He wasn’t sure his human-shaped glass sculpture could take it.

Changbin continued to talk to him as he slipped his pants on, but Minho couldn’t register a single word until your name fell from his brother’s lips. “We need to get her here before she goes on a killing spree.”

“Take me back,” he whispered, eyes boring into the brother in front of him.

Again, the three other demons went quiet at his request. Even Jisung, who ghosted along the edges of the room, had no words. Changbin squinted his eyes, “did you hear anything I just said? You’re being summoned by Lucifer himself, you can’t leave.”

“Lucifer can kiss my ass,” he stood angrily, slipping the shirt over his shoulders without bothering to button it up. As he trekked towards the front door again, a hand strongly gripped around his bicep. Jisung looked up at Minho, eyes big and pleading. That look brought back a lot of memories for him again. It was an expression that used to have Minho falling to his knees, willing to do anything for him.

He had to remind himself that that was a long time ago. Jisung was no longer the same person and history will always be just history. As the younger stared up at him, he fought the urge to push him away. “If you go,” he whispered, “we can’t help you.”

Minho didn’t take himself as someone that needed saving, he was kind of insulted that Jisung would even suggest such a thing. Shrugging Jisung’s hand away, he snarled, “I never needed your help.” It was a cheap shot, but as icing on the cake, he shoved the younger back by his chest and made him stumble. Changbin and Jeongin stood, warning Minho with their eyes not to leave. “Try to stop me and I’ll leave all three of your asses in the mirror dimension.”

Shooting daggers, he looked down at Jisung, “especially you.” Ignoring the obviously pained look on his face, Minho left.

The water pounding against your body hurt, like millions of bee stings that just kept coming. Sandpaper scratched against the inside of your skull and could barely open your eyes, the white light of the bathroom suddenly feeling all too bright. Rose overpowered your sense of smell, something you could briefly recall loving now being too sickly sweet and making you feel nauseous. You felt stuck in your own skin, trying to claw your way out by dragging your nails over your arms, chest, stomach, everywhere. But to no avail, all you could do was leave deep red scratch marks that were on the verge of drawing blood.

With shaking hands, you reached up to scratch at your scalp, pulling your hair so hard that absolutely would’ve been ripped out if you could feel your fingers. Then through the sound of your nails dragging along your skin, the water hitting the shower floor was like someone beating a drum next to your ears, rattling and pounding you further into the floor. It took all the strength you had to reach up and shut the water off.

It was relieving to an extent, as if you could finally catch your breath. But as you sucked air in to fill your lungs, you coughed it out just as quick. You tried again, ribs restricting you from taking in the oxygen and forcing it back out. You reached a numb hand up to your neck, erratically feeling for a pulse only to find that there was none. There was no thumping of your heart, no rise and fall of your chest as you attempted to breathe. Yet, you were alive somehow. In unbearable pain, but alive.

Aching all over, you pushed off the wall and rolled onto your knees. Your hands against the white of the shower floor were so similar in color, pale and wet and… glittering?

Uncoordinated and feeble, you got yourself to your feet and wiped away the water that you were sure was playing tricks on your mind. You rubbed your skin raw until there was no moisture left, but the shimmer never drifted from your skin. Every stumbling step you took to reach the bathroom mirror was like walking on needles. You swiped away the fog on the glass to find your reflection.

What stared back wasn’t you.

An entirely new person was in your home, standing where you stood and looking straight at you. This new person was beautiful, plump skin that was glowing, full rosy lips, and eyes that were pitch black.

Your voice caught in your throat, fingertips running along this new version of you in the mirror. Was this another one of Minho’s tricks? Was he playing mind games with you? Why did he leave you again? Who are you?

The steam that filled the bathroom started to subside, condensation on the mirror beginning to drip. The clearer the room became, the more disorientated you felt, your head spinning in tighter circles. Amidst your nausea, you noticed a slight shadow over your shoulder in the open doorway, turning and coming face to face with a man who’s name you didn’t know.

The intrusion didn’t frighten you, perse. It was absolutely something you should be concerned about, people entering your home uninvited, but a raging energy coursed through you. The figure stepped into the frame of the mirror, big and bulky and towering. For some reason, they didn’t feel threatening the nearer they came, finally coming into the light. His eyes were the same as Minho’s– now yours, as well– but almost instantly, he blinked them away. The stance he took made him seem as though he tried to be intimidating, but his face was soft, gentle.

He came closer hesitantly, maintaining eye contact as he blindly draped a towel over your shoulders for decency. His fingers accidentally brushed against your skin, instantly raising goosebumps and a low almost growl rumbled at the back of your throat. There was a flip in your emotions, aching disappearing and suddenly surging with the strength of ten thousand men. You couldn’t figure out how to make it stop as rushes of adrenaline made your veins pump erratically. Part of you wanted to bare your teeth at the man, fighting against the urge to rip out his spine all because he’d barely touched you.

Almost inaudibly, he said, “you’re okay.” His words made the hairs on your skin stand even straighter. You tugged the towel tighter around you, trying to ignore how scratchy it felt.

Tears almost flooded your eyes as you powered through the painful vibrations of your vocal chords, “what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” the man raised a hand over your shoulder, but you flinched and he paused, “I’m trying to help you. If you’ll let me.” When you didn’t respond, the palm of his hand just barely rested over the top of your shoulder. Almost immediately, all the viciousness and uncomfortable feelings disappeared, somewhat feeling normal again. You just about relaxed into his hand and let out a sigh. The man watched your eyes close, hoping that when you opened them, they’d be back to normal. But as his hand guided you to slowly turn and face the mirror, you were met with the same demonic being wearing your skin.

“Not sure if your boyfriend mentioned me before,” his hand didn’t leave you, keeping his volume level to a minimum to compensate for the sensitivity. It didn’t necessarily register how he’d described Minho, but you were sure it’d be brought up again later.

You shook your head, no. “I’m Chan, his… oldest friend.” You didn’t respond, the adrenaline starting to make your body shake again, slowly but surely. “He’s sort of being reprimanded at the moment, probably doesn’t even know what’s happening to you. But I owe him a favor. A lot of favors, actually.” Chan’s features softened more than you realized they could, as if he was wrapped in some sort of sadness.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you. God knows what he’ll do if something does.” A shortened laugh puffed from your lips, sarcastic at the way he didn’t consider this feeling to be that “bad.”

Chan ignored your scoff, gently trailing his hand down to yours and pulling you out of the bathroom, into your bedroom. The cold air wafted painfully against your skin, like you were stuck in the north pole butt naked. Whatever relief you felt from the first few seconds of his touch was fading quicker now, pinpricks stabbing the bottoms of your feet with every step.

Your wet clothes were ripped apart and strewn in various places of the room alongside Minho’s, piled on top of one another as evidence of his existence. The vague memories of the past moments with him ran through your brain again, almost being able to feel his hands on your body with your new overactive imagination. It was like Chan sensed this, taking his hand away from you and rushing to pick up the soggy clothes, tossing them into the bathroom then shutting the door. He rummaged around your room, finding a shirt and pair of shorts for you to put on, turning to face the wall while you changed. You had asked him to wait outside, but he was reluctant, “can’t have you going on a murder spree in the two minutes I take my eyes off you.”

You didn’t know what he meant by that, you didn’t feel like wanting to murder anyone let alone want to even talk to someone else while in your current state. But you complied anyway, avoiding touching your own skin as you let the towel drop to the floor and slip the clothes on.

The buzzing of the lamp in the corner was annoying, you almost threw whatever was in arms reach at it just to make it stop. There was also the urge to rip the air conditioning unit from your wall just to turn off the freezing atmosphere. Then on top of that, it felt like your tongue was too big for your mouth and there was no way to let it rest comfortably. Everything was too much.

“I feel like…” your voice was weak, but still made Chan jump and face you in an instant. He waited for you to continue. “Do you see that?” Chan looked around, trying to spot what it was you were referring to.

“No? You alright? Look like you’re about to–“

You practically floated to where the clock on your bedside table sat. The red lights flickered in a way that made your pupils dilate rapidly, unable to focus on anything but the flashing numbers. Before either you or Chan could react, you were slamming your fist onto the top of the electronic clock, smashing it.

The flickering stopped, but your eyes couldn’t focus any better. Chan stood just as still as you, watching as you lifted your fist from the now crumbled plastic.

“Feel better?” There was a moment of silence as you contemplated his question.

Your ears perked at the sound of your next door neighbors turning on their shower, their footsteps stomping loudly from behind the wall. “No. It’s too loud.” You were about to raise your fist again, every intention of putting a hole in the wall, but the other demon grabbed your wrist before you could.

“Maybe don’t…” he suggested, keeping the grip on your arm as you tried to pull away. The longer you fought against him, the less you wanted to throw the punch, beginning to feel just as relaxed as you did the first time he laid a hand on you.

“How do you do that?” You shrugged yourself out of his grip, pacing around the room to turn off the lights, shut off appliances, get rid of anything that felt like a sensory overload.

“The same way you’re able to feel the electricity buzzing through the floor.”

“I couldn’t until you just said it. Thanks.” Sarcastic, you let your body fall back onto the bed, trying to ignore the vibrations from said electricity that dully tickled your toes.

Chan smirked to himself, only able to see the way you covered your face with your arms through the little light that shone through the open door. “What you’re feeling right now,” he pushed the door closed ever so slightly, making it easier on your eyes.

“I think we’ve figured out your perk.” You didn’t respond, not caring as the bed dipped next to you. “I could ease all your emotions with a single touch. Neat, right?” He laughed to himself, but the sort of laugh someone does when they feel like they’ve been given the short end of the stick. Sorrow and disbelief.

“We don’t know how we get our perks. Not everyone gets one, they just sort of happen. Our brother, Changbin, has a theory that it has to do with aspects of our human lives. Once you come to terms with it, you’ll be able to control it.” Chan didn’t raise his voice more than he needed to, the whole time he’d been with you he spoke at no higher level than a mumble. But even that was almost too loud.

In your head, you thought of all the ways that Minho had touched you, his skin against yours. The smell of him was still so present on your bed sheets, you wanted to flip over and smother yourself in it. But it was riddled with rain, smoke, like something burning and you couldn’t escape it.

Just stop, you thought, exhaling as deep as your lungs would allow and letting your darting eyes close.

Although you didn’t need the air, it didn’t stop you from being able to take in scents. It felt strange, only taking in short puffs of air enough to feel it in your nerves then release it immediately. Such a humanly habit that was only natural to continue doing.

When you tried to look for the scent of him again, there was nothing. It was as if all the scents in the room disappeared. Your eyes shot open, looking frantically around the room only to see Chan staring at you with caution. Nostrils flaring, you almost resembled a bloodhound with the erratic way you were sniffing. “What is it?”

“I– I can’t smell anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know! It’s all gone, I can’t smell him anymore!” You yelled louder than intended, making Chan tense beside you. But he didn’t shy away, staying true to his word and reaching his hand out again to ease your anxiety. As soon as the calm flooded your body you gripped tightly onto his hand that rested on your shoulder, eyes starting to water.

You were scared, now. Not by the strange intrusion from someone you weren’t sure you could trust, not by the fact that Minho had vanished into thin air, but of yourself. All you did was think about how much your blood curdled at the rotten smell and suddenly your entire sense of smell was gone. If that was all it took to rid it, what about your other senses? “Stay calm,” Chan reassuringly squeezed your shoulder, like he knew something you didn’t. “Think. How did you do it?”

The question rang in your ears. All you did was think. Think, think, think.

Rotting and smoke suffocated your nose again, sickening coughs escaping your chest. “Of all things, superhuman fucking sense of smell?” You spoke more to yourself than Chan, disappointed that that was your prominent human feature.

“Don’t underestimate yourself.”

His words reminded you of a bittersweet memory, when he’d done that exact thing. It left a sour taste in your mouth until the rest of that night ran through your mind. The savory touches, flittering kisses and the taste of his skin. But with every wonderful remembrance was accompanied by the twisting of a knife in your gut, pulling your head from the glittering haze of him.

The demon beside you did his best to ease you, but the only other thing your mind could process besides the worsening body buzz was Minho. “You said he’s in trouble. I thought demons don’t follow rules.” The darkness in the bedroom wasn’t enough, shutting your eyes again and staring at the back of your lids.

“Minho doesn’t follow rules. Which is why you’re… going through some things right now.”

“You call wanting to rip my own skin off ‘going through something?’” Chan didn’t mind the sarcasm that dripped from your words, seeing so much of his friend in you just by the way you spoke. He was beginning to understand why he’d made such a big deal about the soulmate factor.

“I’ll admit, your case is a bit strange, a lot more sensitive than normal demons during the transformation. You sure you don’t feel like tearing someone apart?”

“The only thing I want to tear up is your tongue from your mouth if you don’t stop shouting at me.”

“Not shouting— if anything, I’m barely speaking. But I see why he made such a big deal about you,” he smiled, a sort of proud grin that a mother makes at their child.

Just then, an almost silent woosh slurred in the corner of your bedroom. You’d almost had half the mind to think nothing of it, probably just another earthly sound that just happens.

But then it got louder, only ever so slightly but enough to make you sit up and stare pinpoint at the mirror in the corner of the room. There was a strange tinge to it, something like a ripple that there was no way anyone else could’ve caught, including Chan. He followed your gaze, squinting as he attempted to see what you saw. You felt entranced by it, feet unconsciously carrying you to stand before your reflection.

You could see Chan, still sitting on the bed, you could see the mask of your previous self, but there was another thing that lingered behind the glass. The mirror shuddered the teensiest bit again, making you tilt your head at the movement that happened just above your stomach. When you peered up slowly to look straight on, there was a flash of him. Just a glimpse, the silver hair and black attire that made his skin glow disappeared in a millisecond. Your throat tightened, lifting a hand to place onto the mirror. It rippled again just under your palm as soon as you’d touched it.

It happened so quickly, you were standing in your bedroom then the next moment you were being suffocated by the smell of him. Your face was being pressed into a searing hot chest and arms locked you in place against the body. There weren’t any other words that needed to be said, you knew who it was. Your own arms flew to embrace him, feel every inch that you could and engrave the softness of his skin into your brain. You could do that now, truly feel him. One of his hands caressed your hair while the other stayed firm on the small of your back, almost shielding in a way. Nonetheless, you felt safe.

But the joyfulness of his presence was short lived, the uneasy stirring in your bones resurfacing and making you lightly push him away to see where it was you were. It was the hyper awareness that made you look everywhere except his face. Your bed was on the wrong side of the room, lights just slightly dimmer, there was no humming of any household appliances, peaceful if you could call it that. There was a slightly more fabricated smell to the room, like fake sugar, the kind that made you nauseous if too much was consumed. Without the touch of Chan’s powers, you were relaxed.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t be any more beautiful,” the same chocolatey voice rang like harps, symphonic and pure. His hand on your back slid up, bringing you chest to chest while the hand in your hair gently cupped your cheek. It raised goosebumps, but in a more euphoric way rather than uncomfortable, his skin on yours.

His fingers guided your eyes up to meet, falling onto the black abyss he had to match. It was like the puzzle pieces fell more into place, completing a picture you didn’t realize was being drawn. You could see stars, glaciers, oceans, solar systems that all reflected back to the two of you, hidden deep within his eyes. It wasn’t adrenaline, like before when you were together, but something much greater than that. Electricity was nothing compared to the urge you felt, the overwhelming need to protect him, shield him from any harm. What made it even better– you knew you could now.

You could see every detail of his face, smooth skin and perfectly plump lips, the endearing little mole on the tip of his nose that just added to his modelesque features. There were no thoughts in your brain as your fingers found themselves gently running over his cheekbone, trailing down to his lips and letting the pads just linger there. Minho softly smiled into your touch, relishing in the way your body temperatures were now the same. “You’re so… pretty,” the words fell from your mouth before you realized.

“Was I not before, doll?” Minho toyed, knowing exactly what you meant.

“It’s just,” both hands came up to cup the sides of his face, brushing back his hair and exposing his forehead, “I can see you now. Really see you.” Lines formed at the corners of his eyes as his smile grew larger, slipping the handle on your cheek to tangle in the back of your hair and pull you in. When your lips met, there was an explosion of emotions, feelings that jarred your body and made you internally buzz. Love and lust were the two most prominent, together they made you want to just take a bite out of him.

Minho didn’t rush the kiss, didn’t move too fast or too slow, letting you feel every muscle beneath his skin collide in sync with yours. He was much plusher than you recalled, but that was just because of the transformation. Everything he did felt sweeter, ecstasy as he left closed lipped pecks all across your face and made you giggle in return. It was as if he was all you needed to feel okay.

“I can feel you,” you whispered, “everywhere.” His lips made their way down your neck, tugging you lightly by the hair to expose more. The burns his kisses left behind were amplified that much more by your sensitivity, body melting into his. You were so close to entirely forgetting about the outside world, until you heard the faintest woosh again. “M– Min, I think–”

“No, no. Don’t think. No thinking,” he said as his hands traveled anywhere on your body he could get to.

“There’s a–” Minho’s teeth nipped into the crook of your neck, a quiet moan interrupting you, “the mirror.” He stopped instantly, head snapping and turning you so you stood behind him. You saw the short ripple again, but much less than when it was Minho behind the glass.

“Where?” His eyes darted all around the frame. He could see Chan on the other side, with the perk of his powers, but was confused as to how you could as well. The two of you stood in silence for a moment, waiting for it again.

You saw the movement, so feather light across the glass, “there.”

Minho had no idea what you were seeing, sure it wasn’t the same thing he was witnessing, looking back and forth between you and the mirror. “How do you see that?” When you shrugged, he tilted his head at you. “You amaze me,” so casually rolled off his tongue, as if he said it every day.

He placed another gentle kiss to your lips, “stay put.” Brushing your hair from your face, Minho looked into your pitch black eyes with his own. “I mean it this time. I won’t let them put a hand on you, but you need to stay here.” You drew a cross over your heart with your fingers, kissing it then putting the digits to his lips, to which he followed and pecked as well. As reluctant as you were to let him go, Minho left you with one last reassuring smooch on your forehead and stepped into the mirror, leaving you in this offputting dimension by yourself.

In the middle of your actual bedroom stood Chan, who was still waiting and wondering how it is you disappeared. When he saw Minho emerge into the plane, it made sense. As soon as the two made eye contact with each other, Minho’s head fell back in an exasperated and sarcastic laugh. “Please tell me you were here to steal her from me and not to try and ease your conscience.”

“I’d be lying to you if I did,” the older demon crossed his arms over his chest, finding his feet interesting.

Minho thought back to all the times that Chan had been there for him, sticking by his side even though he knew that he’d get caught in the fall out as well. It hurt his heart, the same man who’d done him so wrong could also do so right– for him. “I thought you said you couldn’t help me.”

“No, I said I could only do so much.” Chan looked back up at his brother, the two caught in a moment of sadness, regret, carefulness as they tiptoed back and forth around one another. Minho wanted to address it, his reason for existing and all the other times that his brother saved his ass from punishment after punishment.

But in reality, to him, there were no words that could do his gratefulness justice. Chan being there for you today was just what he needed to realize that. So, in Minho-like fashion, he gave his brother a smile, light and quick but still heartwarming. “I’d really rather prefer it if you were trying to take my soulmate from me.”

“Actually–”

“I also would prefer if you didn’t start sentences with, ‘actually.’”

“You’ve got a bit of a bounty on your head. Nothing a few decades of hiding can’t fix but…” Chan looked over Minho’s shoulder at the mirror. “Is she really worth it?”

His breath caught in his throat, surprised his brother would even ask such a question. “You know my answer.”

Nodding and smiling at the floor, Chan started walking towards the door. “I guess I’ll see you later then?”

“I’ll probably see you before you see me, brother.”

Chan winced at what he implied, knowing well the extent of Minho’s perks. “Please don’t show up in my mirror. That’s terrifying.” They laughed, both of them chuckling at the memory of antics Minho used to do as a newborn demon. When the laughter died down, Chan spoke again, more serious this time. “After this is over, I don’t think I can pull any more weight for you.”

Immediately Minho shook his head, “you won’t have to. I have everything I need.” He thought of you waiting in the other dimension for him, probably twiddling your thumbs and exploring his little hide away bored out of your mind. He knows this because that’s exactly what he’d be doing if he were in your position.

There was a brief moment of silence while Chan contemplated what he’d do. His eyes went back and forth between Minho and the mirror, ultimately smiling and nodding again before taking the door handle and leaving.

It wasn’t so much a sigh of relief that left Minho’s lips when his brother was out of sight, but anticipation. There was no way he nor you were going to come out of this situation unpunished. But for now, he had time– so much time. And with you, alone and untouchable.

Minho turned off all his useless overthinking for now, he’d deal with the consequences later. His dick had a mind of its own when it came to you, already sporting a half chub just at the thought of the person waiting for him on the other side. So he’d given himself a few moments to check out his hair in the reflection, touch up his appearance and hype himself up. He knew he didn’t need to do this, but Minho was just always so giddy around you, needing to collect himself and be the soulmate you needed him to be.

When he’d worked up enough courage to step into the mirror space, you were sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed. Whether you heard him enter or not, you didn’t move. Another fond smile spread across his face at the sight of you, smooth legs out on display in the tiniest shorts, shirt riding up to expose just a bit of your stomach while your hair covered the pillows like a halo. Minho wished he could’ve taken a picture of you, just to remember the moment where he finally had you all for himself.

The sound of your voice pulled him from his trance, “your walk is so cute.” The compliment took him aback for a second, smirking wider and padding to the edge of the bed, kneeling at your feet. “I can hear every step you take.”

“Should I be thanking you?” You giggled, feeling him climb higher up the bed between your legs with his hands running up them, fingertips just barely touching your skin. It still raised goosebumps.

“You never have before,” the joke came out sounding more serious than intended, you hoped he didn’t take it the wrong way.

But Minho knew you better than anyone. He gently took the undersides of your thighs, scooting closer on his knees and lifting them to wrap around his hips. Taking his time to respond, Minho couldn’t help but want to feel every bit of you, cheekily slipping his hands under the legs of your shorts as well as your underwear, kneading the skin of your love handles. “Maybe I should. You should know how much I appreciate you.”

With your eyes still closed, you focused on every movement he made, every caress of his hands and how hard he tried to calm the tremble in his bones. You’d felt all of it, buzzing through the bed springs. “You appreciate me?” It was playful, you just wanted to rile him up— not like you needed to do much. “Hm, I was hoping for a little more than that.”

“What else do you want me to say? You won’t even look at me,” his voice dropped an octave, teasing. It wasn’t a command, but you obeyed anyways, opening your pitch black eyes to stare up at him.

You felt at ease upon seeing he didn’t put up the human facade anymore, letting the darkness take over his pupils. Minho towered over you, complacent with his hands still attached to your hips beneath your clothes. He was just barely near your core, but it still sent little shocks through your body in arousal.

“My good girl,” the corners of his mouth tweaked, “you want me to praise you? Thank you? Tell you I love you?”

“Tell me you love me,” you requested embarrassingly fast. You’d felt small under him, but veins coursing with the strength of gods. The buttons of his sheer shirt were still undone, showing off the smooth planes of his abdomen. There was a scar across them, faded and undetectable to human eyes. You spotted it now, mentally slapping yourself for not doing so earlier. It was endearing, reminding you that he was once human, too. But none of that mattered if he didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.

Minho tipped his head down, tracking his eyes from yours, to your lips, down your neck and chest until he came to the exposed flesh of your belly. He snapped the leg bands of your underwear before pushing your shirt higher, stopping just under your breasts for decency, if that’s what he thought.

His palms were warm against your stomach, sneaking their way behind your waist as he dipped his head in to drag his lips over your belly button. “No, I don’t think I will, doll. Wanna know why?“ He asked, eyes peering at you through his lashes. Your hands found themselves carding through this hair, tugging softly as you nodded, yes. “Because we have forever together.” Kisses peppered themselves over the expanse of your midsection, his soft lips tingling your skin wherever they touched.

Your eyes threatened to close again, this transformation making you feel overwhelmed in sensation. Everything from his touch to his soft puffs of breath, the sheets beneath you and the vibrations of his words, all made your head spin and stomach twist.

“I have forever,” Minho continued smothering your belly in kisses, using his arms snaked around you to pull you impossibly closer, “to feel you. Forever to hold you, please you, worship you. Make you feel things you’ve never felt before.” He forced himself back up, stripping the shirt from your body to finally free your breasts. Immediately, he used his thumbs to tweak over both nipples, circling them before lowering his face in the valley of them.

His hands ran up and down your entire upper body now, engraving you into his brain like a map to follow. All you could do as he laid more kisses up the center of your bare chest was shut your eyes and let your head fall back, letting the smallest groan escape. Upon hearing you, he used one hand to trail down the center of your belly again, getting to the waistband of your shorts and doing nothing but play with them. “Minho,” you breathily called out.

Dipping below your shorts and underwear, he snuck around to grip the flesh of your ass, biting into your chest, “that’s not my name.”

“It is until you tell me you love me.”

Minho stopped dead in his tracks, coming up face to face with you. When you opened your eyes, he was staring with the utmost devotion, longing, and desire. His lips almost quivered, “I won’t tell you I love you.”

Your heart wanted to shatter, knife twisting in your chest as he continued to look into your spirit. “If I tell you I love you, you’ll say it, too. I don’t think I can handle that.”

That was the icing on the cake, the final nail in your coffin as you took his face in your hands and pulled him in close. You searched for any reason why you shouldn’t feel this way for him, why he shouldn’t for you. Just as you could feel everything in the natural world, it was like you could feel his soul, as well. There was a warmth to it, like freshly made bread or a puppy running to greet you. Something of an epiphany washed over you, a film reel passing through your memories and suddenly, you understood everything. How he’d “heard” you that first storm, how he knew everything you’d fantasized about, it made sense. Because now, it was almost as though you saw right into his very soul, as well.

“Minho,” your thumb smoothed over his lips, gently pushing him to lay on his back and take over on top. His hands snuck under the back of your shorts again, lightly gripping your ass as you sat on his aching crotch. Just the pressure of your body weight on him had Minho groaning quietly. But your touch electrified something within him, nerves amplified in a way he’d never felt, even before when he was with you.

“I don’t care if you like it or not,” the protective way you caressed his cheeks made the fire in his heart burn brighter. “I love you. And Chan, Lucifer, God– whoever be damned if they try to take you away from me again.”

Every slide of your skin on him made Minho crumble into you. You could feel him simultaneously relaxing and anticipating your next move. His eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of one of your hands finding solace in his hair while the other trailed down to wrap around his neck gently. Lips parting and letting out a shaky breath, Minho whispered, “I can feel you, too.”

Your hips grinded slowly into his, friction of the clothes both of you still wore being uncomfortably delicious. He used the handle on your ass to push and pull your core along his restrained dick, so close to biting his lip to contain any moan that wanted to slip. Whereas you let your cries of pleasure out, sighing as your arousal seeped through your underwear.

As badly as you wanted to focus solely on Minho, his comment stayed etched into your mind, unable to shake the way he’d suddenly been able to understand what it was you were physically feeling. Keeping your hands steady in his hair and on his neck, you leaned down to place a quick kiss to his lips before bringing up your concerns. “You should know,” he chased after you for more kisses, eyes still closed. “Chan mentioned something,” more quick pecks in between words, “about a perk.”

Minho muttered a mindless, “mhm,” as he dug his fingernails into your skin. The more he guided your hips along one another, the less you were able to put your thoughts into words. It took you a few more moments of grinding and soft kisses to remember what it was you were trying to say.

“I think–”

“What did I say about thinking?” He pushed his hips up while pulling you down to rub harder through the fabric, sending shocks of pleasure through you. Your hands somewhat spasmed in his hair and neck, clamping around both and causing him to cry out in pleasure with you. “God, you feel so good,” he mumbled. It seemed as though he was completely oblivious to what you were trying to hint at, not that he’d have understood immediately anyways.

It was dawning on you that there was much more to your perk than you’d initially understood. The unusual way you’d been overly sensitive to the elements of the natural world began to make sense. Being able to lose and regain your sense of smell couldn’t have just been a random fluke, not when even Chan found it strange that you could feel the smallest of sensations. Maybe, there was more to it. The way Minho was practically purring and writhing beneath you made you want to experiment.

You forced yourself to part from his lips, letting go of his throat to bite into it instead. As soon as you did, Minho had moaned the loudest you’d ever heard from him.

He felt as if he was on fire within his own skin, but in the most pleasurable way possible. Every touch, lick, kiss, bite, it made him feel as though he was drowning in ecstasy. As soon as he’d let the moan escape, Minho’s own eyes shot open at the sound that he emitted. It shocked the both of you, to say the least. You pulled away from him and sat up straight in his lap. The two of you stared at one another with wide eyes and surprised expressions. Minho looked as if he was about to burst into flames while you smiled, wanting to hear him moan like that again. “Baby,” you quietly said.

“Mhm,” Minho all but choked.

“I think I have a perk you’ll really… really enjoy.” A look of confusion spread across his face now, the gears finally turning.

“That was you? H– how the fuck did you do that?”

“I’m not totally sure,” you replied honestly, letting your hands run mindlessly through his hair and up his chest. Even as you did just and only that, Minho’s eyes struggled to stay open, his stomach contracting beneath you. “I can feel every one of your movements,” your voice dropped to a whisper now, coming back down to nibble on his ear lobe. “Can smell the pheromones dripping off of you,” the hand not tangled in his hair circled around his nipple, not doing any more than that and he was already trembling. “I can hear how you’re trying so hard to not scream my name.”

As you detached yourself from him long enough to fumble with the button of his jeans, Minho found the strength to open his eyes again. However he couldn’t help but fall victim to the euphoric feeling of your fingers just barely brushing against the skin of his pelvis. “Some sort of sex perk? That would make sense why your pussy is so good,” he joked, even during such a heated moment.

You’d gotten the button undone and unzipped, coming back up to face him. “I don’t think that’s what it is, but I appreciate your love for cunt.”

“No, no. Not cunt. Your cunt, doll.” The lewd compliment made you smile, assisting him in removing his pants as you connected your lips again. However, you were still covered. Just to show him you weren’t still just a delicate human, you quickly ripped the material of your shorts, earning an approving smile and laugh from Minho.

“Aw, you’re so cute, doll. So strong now, aren’t you?” He was still teasing you, even though he was the one on his back. As sexy as it was, his playfulness fueled your urge to just eat him up, make him beg and plead for you and your body.

Minho kept a firm hand on your hip, toying with the waistband of your underwear while the other dryly and lazily pumped his cock, angry and red. You could tell he was needy with how hungrily he looked at your soaking cunt, arousal messily spread to the front of your panties. “More than you think,” his tongue poked out, licking his lips. “Do you trust me?”

The question caught him off guard, making Minho snap his head up. Although he narrowed his eyes at you in suspicion, he still said, “with my life.”

You giggled deviously, kissing him again and running both hands through his hair. Gripping the roots, you tugged his head back, “good boy.” The praise and your hands on him again sent blood rushing straight to his cock again, twitching against the inside of your thigh. “Do me a favor and take these off for me,” you guided his hands to the band of your panties. Minho ripped them apart as well, throwing them along with your destroyed shorts and other clothes. He smiled up at you proudly. However, his smirk was wiped clean from his face immediately.

A light smack was sent across his cheek, making him whip his head to the side in confusion. He couldn’t think of a response before you said, “that wasn’t what was asked. And after I had just called you my good boy.” He let out a short whimper, still stunned as he faced you again. “Was that good of you? Ripping my panties like a horny little school boy?”

Minho was confused, for sure. No one had ever treated him this way before, so used to be the dominant one in bed. However, you had a knack for surprising him.

He suddenly felt the overwhelming need to please you, shaking his head, no. You looked down at him, tilting your head in the cat-like way he’d do to you. Staring into his glazed over eyes, you sat yourself fully onto his erect cock, feeling the heat from his body flush through your core. Just barely, you began to slick up and down his shaft and spread your arousal. Both you and Minho threw your heads back, your hands running up his chest for stability. You felt as though you were on fire and drowning in his scent.

You’d insulted him by calling him a school boy, but the way the two of you animalistically grinded and humped into each other resembled just that. It was sloppy, uncoordinated, and so lustful that neither of you could truly control yourselves. If you’d had just a little less of a mind than he did at the moment, both of you could’ve come from that alone.

However, the tingling in your fingers as they scraped down his abs and had Minho mewling reminded you of the new powers you held. Halting your brainless humping, you brought a hand to cup under his jaw, squeezing his cheeks and making his lips pucker. You gave him a hardly satisfying kiss, having to force his head back into the pillow as he tried to chase after you again. “You trust me, but don’t listen. How does that work, baby boy?”

The corners of his lips perked, “I don’t listen to anyone, doll. You should know this.”

“You will if you wanna see my new party trick.”

Minho hummed, looking at the ceiling in false contemplation. He’d known all night he was going to do whatever it is you wanted, planning from the very beginning that it was going to be all about you. But if what you wanted was for him to submit, he’d make you work for it just a little. “Okay, love. You’ve piqued my interest.”

You smiled down at him, cupping his face again with both hands and leaving a sweet kiss to his lips. This one, you savored, keeping it soft and sensual by starting out closed-lipped. He just felt so plush against you, it was almost dizzying. So slowly that he barely noticed, you slid your hands around the back of his neck and pulled at the nape. It began to get more heated, running your tongue along his lower lip as he whined softly into your mouth. The feeling of your nails against his scalp was both calming and arousing, making Minho grip harder at your hips.

It was almost inaudible when you pulled away from his lips, Minho reluctantly obliged as you kept him in place by the hair, “sight.”

He’d almost missed the word as he shut his eyes to blink. It wouldn’t have made any sense to him if he opened them to find you looking back, but he didn’t. All Minho could see was black, darkness while his eyes were wide open. For a second he wanted to panic, start calling out for you even though your entire body weight sat on his leaking cock.

With the loss of one sense, the overpowering of another started to arise. Minho could feel every fold and crevice of your sopping cunt wetly rubbing against him ten times that of how much he could while he could see you. He wanted to jump out of his skin at the tingling of your hands running down the lengths of his arms, intertwining your fingers. “Steady, baby,” your voice was loud and clear in his ears.

“How did you— where—“

“I told you, you’re gonna like this. Now,” you started leaving gentle kisses to his cheeks and forehead, working your way slowly to his lips again so as not to startle him. ”Let me take care of you.”

You kept one hand locked with his, releasing the other to track up and down his torso, slowly inching your way further south. “Have I ever told you— fuck!” The feeling of your fingertips coming in contact with the tip of his cock cut Minho off mid sentence. His eyes rolled back and shut completely. “Tell me what, baby boy?”

You began to shimmy down his body, leaving light kisses on his chest, sometimes dragging your tongue just to give him a different sensation. It rose goosebumps on his skin, making you smirk proudly— not that he could see it. You just toyed with his cock, swiping the leaking precum from his slit. That alone made Minho shiver, physically and fully recoil in stimulation. Another whimper left his lips loudly. Just as you’d gotten to the V-line of his lower body, his hips bucked up and almost hit you. To keep him in place, you let go of his dick all together and pushed firmly into his pelvis but not without a fight.

“How f— fucking unreal you are?” The stutter in his words made you temporarily forget about his spasming hips.

“Funny. I remember you telling me otherwise.” Minho couldn’t concentrate much on your words, too lost in the feeling of your teeth now sinking into the skin around his cock. You bit and sucked and licked everywhere except for the place he wanted most. Though he couldn’t see it, you were leaving nasty red marks all across his pelvic bone and base. The fluttering in his gut only grew along with his desperate attempts at rutting into you.

His moans grew impossibly louder, higher pitched the closer your mouth got to his cock. You continued to hold onto his hand, squeezing it reassuringly when Minho started to get riled up. Like now, he was having trouble controlling the twitching of his dick and hips, making it difficult for you to continue leaving hickies on his skin. At a particularly hard nibble, Minho squeezed your hand hard as he simultaneously let out another whimper. You paused, looking up at his face to find his eyes still screwed shut and his lips between his teeth. He looked so cute, already fucked out and lost to the pleasure you’d hardly had to work to give him.

But to keep him grounded you squeezed his hand back, coming up for a second to place a peck to the back of it. The muscles of his stomach relaxed for a moment as he readjusted his grip. You stole his comfort from him too soon, unexpectedly kitten licking up the length of his cock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all he could manage to say— or rather, cry.

With your other hand you managed to keep his dick upright by the base, also keeping him pinned to the bed. But when you restricted his hips, Minho’s thighs began flexing instead, twitching and threatening to clamp closed with you between them. Not that you were necessarily opposed to that, his thighs were just as delectable as the rest of his body. When your tongue finally reached the tip, he did just that.

You were trapped between his legs, what would’ve been crushing for a human was perfectly comfortable to you. In fact, you could feel his muscles beneath the skin struggling to keep from contracting harder. “I’ve hardly touched you and you’re already a mess. What am I going to do with you, baby boy?”

“Please, please,” Minho whined. You were almost worried that he’d draw blood at how hard he was biting his lip.

“Please what?” You flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, running it up and letting the tip of the muscle trace the vein underneath.

As you got to the head, you continued to tongue at the ridge where it met the length. “Nghf—“ he muffled his cries. “More. Please, more— too much.”

“Be specific, do you want more or is it too much, baby?” The heavy lifting and falling of his chest was still a natural response, even if he wasn’t fully breathing.

“More! God, more!”

“Hm, god?” You smiled up at him, feeling Minho squeeze your hand tighter. “I kinda like that.”

“For fucks sake, Y/N—“

Before he could finish, you took the head of his cock into your mouth, lapping your tongue over the slit lightly. Minho’s whole body convulsed in pleasure, marinating in the feeling of your hot, wet mouth surrounding him. Every one of his nerve endings were scorched, the loss of his eyesight heightening everything else within him. By now you were sure that it was your touch projecting his sensitivity, afraid that if you let go of his hand he’d lose the sensation.

How could you take that away when he looked so pretty on the verge of tears?

Your tongue circled his tip for a second, letting him get used to the feeling before sinking further onto him. The lower you got the tighter he squeezed your hand. You’d somehow managed to bottom out, lips reaching his pelvis as you moved to grab at his thigh. Minho’s own free hand found its way into your hair. He wasn’t pushing down, but rather fighting the urge to.

Guttural groans roared from him, clearly overwhelmed and loving every second of it. The lack of need for air made keeping him lodged in your throat much easier, not to say that the position was necessarily comfortable. However, hearing him cry the way he did made it all tolerable.

The clamping of his thighs around your upper body made it hard to direct Minho, having to pry his hand from your hair so that you could pull it into a ponytail for him to grab. You could tell he was holding back, fingernails now digging into the top of your hand that stayed entangled.

It didn’t take him long to understand your intentions behind pulling your hair together. Almost immediately, he took hold of your makeshift ponytail and lifted your head up slowly. You used his thigh as an anchor while he guided you. Slowly, Minho relished in the feeling of your lips and tongue surrounding him, eyebrows furrowing as he dragged you up and down. When you moaned with him completely sheathed in your mouth, he lost all resolution.

His hips rutted up while his hand kept your nose pressed to his skin. The tip of his cock hit the back of your throat harshly, causing you to gag and almost cough. With the handle on your hair, Minho guided you faster on his dick, thrusting up and meeting halfway. Saliva dripped from your mouth and made a mess over his V-line. If you were still human, the impact might’ve hurt. But all you could hear were his sweet sounds echoing back.

Minho used you for a bit longer, but his stomach began contracting harder and you knew he was close. He’d suddenly pulled you off his cock entirely, grunting deeply and reluctantly as he did so.

“Fuck— give me my sight back. Need to fuck you now,” he said before you could even wipe the drool from the corners of your lips. Just as you raked your nails over his thigh, you whispered the command again. Minho’s eyes snapped open to the sight of you with your own spit dripping down your chin.

Using the grip on your hair, he tugged you up his body, all but falling onto his chest as he messily connected your lips. That was when Minho was finally okay enough to let go of your hand and caress both your cheeks. Somehow he’d managed to roll the two of you over, slotting himself between your legs and leaning onto his knees.

The smell of your arousal was incredibly strong, much more than Minho’s, practically soaking the sheets beneath you. Without leaving your lips, he ran his hands down your torso to hook under your legs. He held the underside of your thighs for a few moments, kneading the flesh of them as his tongue took in the taste of his own cock. Your hands on him kept the sensitivity of his body at an all time high, never ceasing even now as he was able to see you. The accidental swipe of his length against your untouched cunt made you moan into his mouth.

Hungrily, Minho pulled away from your mouth only to reattach at your neck, roughly biting and pulling at the skin. He did that all the way down your chest, leaving a rather dark hickey in the very center of the valley of your breasts. It was carnal, the intensity at which his tongue lapped at your nipples and teethed the nubs. You couldn’t stop yourself from arching deeply into him. “Your fragile little human isn’t so fragile anymore,” you said dreamily, almost hazy as Minho continued to leave teeth marks down your stomach.

He continued to nip lower towards your core, hiking your knees up and chomping at your fleshy thighs in the gentlest yet most primal way possible. “Really, now? Mind if I test that theory?” You giggled, lightheaded.

“I thought you said you wanted to fuck me.” When he’d come to face your cunt, he took in as deep a breath as his constricted lungs would let him.

“I do. You just smell so fucking good, even better than before. I don’t even know how that’s possible,” he purred into your pussy, nose just barely nudging your clit. “Just a taste.”

Minho licked one single stripe up the center of your cunt, taking his time over the bundle of nerves. The feeling had your toes curling, chest rising from the bed and back bending at an unholy angle. If Minho thought what he was feeling was as good as it got, you were absolutely ascending. And all he did was lick you.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the euphoric feeling of him suckling at your clit, suctioning you in and slurping noises bouncing off the walls from the slick. For some reason, you couldn’t take your eyes off him, ravaging your cunt like it was his last meal on earth. The fact that he stared back only added to the tension, piercing black eyes almost looking right through you as your jaw slacked. Minho’s hands keeping your legs up allowed for you to take full control of his hair, pushing his face deeper into you as you attempted to grind your hips harder against his tongue. He let you use him, let you smother him into your core as he held you to the bed. If it were anyone else, Minho would’ve hated the assertiveness, always opting to be the one in control. But there was something so sexy about you taking what you wanted, mewling out like you were in heat all because of him.

He doesn’t know why he did it, maybe because the cute aggression he felt when looking at you made him want to take bites out of you. But Minho lightly teethed at your clit, hardly grazing them when you screamed the loudest you had all night, orgasm suddenly taking over your body at the strangely wonderful feeling. It caught him off guard, letting your thighs slip from his grasp and trap his head between them as your body convulsed. It felt as if your orgasm lasted forever, feeling as if your vision would never return from the bright white and body never stopping its spasming. Not that either of you minded, Minho was more than content with staying with his nose to your cunt for as long as you’d let him.

Your moans turned into whines as you finally began to come down, though Minho couldn’t pull away even after you’d released him. His tongue was smoothly running through your folds, overstimulation kicking in as the tip ran over your clit. When you recoiled, he smirked into you, tracing circles around your entrance. That alone was enough for the sensitivity to turn into pleasure again. Minho was gently kneading at your thighs again when you yanked him up by the hair– so hard that he almost winced.

His body fell on top of yours again, lips crashing and teeth knocking. The lustful kisses soon turned sultry as you both regained your composure. It only took you a handful of seconds to get distracted by how soft his lips were, even more now that he was covered in your essence.

Minho made the kisses sweet somehow. Despite him lifting and tossing your legs over his shoulders, his still throbbing cock sweeping across your pussy, the pecks he left didn’t feel anything but sensual. There was no more rush to get the deed done and no urgency behind his lingering touches. Your arms snaked around his neck as his large palms calmingly held onto your love handles for the nth time that night– another part of your body that he just couldn’t stay away from.

But he paused, stopping his kissing attack and bringing up one hand to tip your chin higher. “So beautiful,” he whispered, “and all mine.”

Your fixation with his lips was just as present as ever, hand coming around to press your fingers to them. “All mine,” you repeated back, unable to think of anything besides how warm he was against your skin.

It felt like hours before either of you moved again, just staring into one another’s deep black eyes. There didn’t feel like a need for words anymore, until your hips twitched up and smacked against his cock. That was when Minho’s eyes rolled back, the aching in his lower region suddenly coming back to him.

You almost wanted to whine for him to take you, trying to find friction against him as you aimlessly and pathetically rutted up. “We have all the time in the world, doll,” Minho whispered as if he could read your mind. “Let me appreciate you.”

“There’s that word again,” you grunted, teasingly pinching his bottom lip between your thumb and pointer finger. “I don’t want you to appreciate me. I want you to fuck me.”

His mouth slightly dropped in disbelief, giving you the opportunity to shove your thumb in. Immediately his lips wrapped around the digit, tongue circling it while lightly biting down to keep you from moving. “Good boy,” you cooed, pushing your thumb deeper. Minho watched you intently, noting the way the praise made him shiver as you bit your lip in adoration.

When you pulled your hand away and held your palm open, you commanded, “spit.” How quickly Minho complied made even his head spin. Eyes never straying from his, you reached between your bodies with a smirk for his cock. His eyes fluttered at the feeling of your wet hand around him again and lazily pumping the length. You didn’t necessarily need the extra slick, but it was such a turn on seeing how easily he followed. Aligning the blunt cockhead with your core should’ve been enough for him to enter, but Minho awaited your orders.

“What are you waiting for?” You’d already known the answer, but you wanted to hear it from him.

“Permission,” the octave his voice fell to was almost a growl, deep from within his chest as he restrained from bucking into you.

“So cute. You’re so strong, aren’t you?” His own words being thrown back at him made Minho whimper ever so slightly. As if against his will, he nodded. The condescending smirk that played on your lips made him twitch, “go ahead, baby. Use me.”

He sunk into you then, head falling to the side of yours as he did. The stretch of your walls had your mouth dropping and letting a stifled groan sound. It didn’t take much effort for him to reach his hilt against your clit, but used every ounce of strength he had to not physically cry from the pleasure. He’d felt every little pulse of your cunt engulfing him, almost as much as you could feel him halt in your gut. After a moment of just feeling one another, Minho gathered the energy to lift his head and rest his forehead against yours, looking down at your tummy. Just as a gag, he shoved himself deeper into you– if that was even possible. The tip of his cock jumped from under your skin, proof of how far inside he was.

Minho let out another animalistic groan, barely pulling out just to stuff you full again. And again. And again. Shallow thrusts in a grinding motion had you clawing at his back as he kept his eyes open in search of his bulge inside you.

You followed his gaze down to where your bodies connected, seeing exactly what it was he couldn’t take his eyes off of. “Fuck– so big.” Your words made him go practically nonverbal.

He’d been trying so hard not to take advantage of your kindness even though you’d given him the okay, holding himself back from focusing solely on himself. But he couldn’t stop it, readjusting to sit up straight on his knees and tower over you. The loss of his weight on you made your mind slip a little, wishing that he’d stay. However he reassuringly kissed the inside of your knee as if to apologize for the wreckage he was about to leave on your cunt.

The grip on your love handles slid up to the tops of your thighs as he pulled out all the way, pausing for a second to meet your eyes before slamming back into you. Minho didn’t look away for a second as he repeated the action, loving how your face contorted in heightened pleasure. He could still feel the sting of your scratches across his back even now as your nails dug into his forearms, grabbing any part of him you could reach.

Even when you struggled to maintain eye contact, eventually your eyes rolling back and shutting, Minho couldn’t look anywhere else. He was in love with every little thing you did, every small twitch of your lips, scrunch of your nose, and incoherent slur of your words, he was helplessly enamored. If there were an explanation for the feeling in his chest as you cried his name, he’d become a fucking poet. But there was none. No words could have possibly described how awfully light you made his deadbeat heart feel, yet still so heavy with fascination.

In that moment as he watched you lose yourself to him again, Minho wondered if there truly was a connection between a demon and their perks. Before you, he knew his strengths, how attractive he was and how he could easily get what he wanted on looks alone. Perhaps that’s why he was blessed– if that was the right word for it– with influence over the reflective space. Before you, he was obsessed with his own self preservation, even if he broke every rule in the book that contradicted that.

Now that there is you, frail and precious and definitely not in need of his protection, he wanted nothing more than to be your suit of armor. Maybe you were just what he needed. He’d put together in that moment that you held a physical perk, not an interdimensional one like his. Whereas Minho’s allowed for surface level evaluation, yours emitted something deeper. Being able to control his senses showed him everything he wasn’t paying attention to in this frozen life. Even before your transformation, your touch was all he needed to feel complete again. There was something worth surviving for.

Your walls pulsed around him harder, overwhelmed by your two scents mixing together in the air. He’d come to his senses, overcoming the initial carnal desire to pound into you and falling back onto his knees. Gently, Minho slid your legs off his shoulders and wrapped them around his waist, locking himself between them. His hands roamed all up and down, settling on your ass by lifting your hips for better access. Not once did he look away, he couldn’t. When your eyes focused on him again, neither could you.

Your eyebrows knitted tighter together as his hammering slowed to a rhythmic grind. You wanted to feel him, need him to be closer somehow. As Minho stared down at you, occasionally letting his eyes wander to your jiggling breasts, you clawed at his forearms. He’d picked up on this eventually, letting you tug him down so you were chest to chest, but still keeping a firm grip on your ass. It was lazy how you wrapped your arms around his neck while he buried his face in yours, not letting more than a centimeter of space fall between the two of you.

“Doll, you’re so needy– crushing me,” he lovingly joked into you. If he hadn’t spoken up, you wouldn’t have noticed how tightly you held on.

But you didn’t care, only barely loosening your grip. “Not close enough,” the words fell before you could truly comprehend them. That seemed to happen a lot around Minho, heart speaking louder than your brain.

His hands slid up at your confession, laying you into his lap and continuing to slowly wave his hips into yours. The length of his arms came around your back, also coming to the conclusion that you’ll never be close enough.

There was no more lingering adulterated lust, just the pure need to feel one another as deeply as physically possible. But that was more than enough as you started feeling the heat in your core building brighter. Every little ridge of and ripple of your impending orgasm, Minho could feel along his cock, tugging him closer to the edge right alongside you. But it was your words that sent him head over heels off the cliff, “you’re like a dream I never want to wake up from.”

Minho wasn’t a hundred percent sure you even realized you’d said it, probably too lost in sensation to put two and two together. Not until he was biting into your shoulder and groaning did you feel him sheath completely inside you and release. The warmth of his seed and rubbing of his pelvis to your clit oh so nicely made you cock your head back and let your orgasm take over your body for the second time. He continued to rut into you sloppily and in short strokes, prolonging both of your highs as you melted into one another. Minho couldn’t think of a single word to say as your walls milked him for everything he had. One of your hands stayed glued in his hair while the other grounded you both, running soothingly up and down his back.

He didn’t want to move from his position on top of you, feeling content and weightless. Post nut clarity was a very real thing, however. So Minho sat up, bringing you with him so you were perched on his lap and looking down at him. From between your shoulder blades, he traced a hand upwards to cup your cheek. The only indication that you were alive and, well– you, was the blush that made your face glow. “If I’m a dream, you’re a drug,” it came out almost inaudibly, a whisper. “Medicate me until there’s nothing left.”

You couldn’t help but brush your hand through his hair, exposing his entire face for you to admire. The stupid smiles and comfortable silence that followed was more than enough for you, wanting to stare at him forever in his post orgasm radiance. “Can we stay here?”

“We can stay for as long as you’ll let me love you.”

The four letter word rolled off his tongue so nicely, “so you love me now?”

Minho jokingly rolled his eyes, “was I not obvious enough? Need me to show you again?”

Exhaustion started to take a toll on your body, the overwhelming of your new being finally hitting its mental limit as you slumped your body into him. Minho noticed, gently laying you back into the pillows and nuzzling at your side, not letting you go for a second. Your eyes started to close as he brushed your hair from your face, placing soft kisses all along your cheeks, forehead, and lips. The plush of them was sweet, comforting like a lullaby. Just as you were about to drift off, Minho shifted and rested his head on your chest, laying his ear over your heart.

“I won’t tell you I love you,” you were able to catch him muttering, “I could say it a million and one times, in a million and one lives and it will still never be enough.”

“Good thing you’re stuck with me for a million more lives,” was the last thing you found the energy to say before letting the drowsiness fall over you.

This time, he was able to as well. Minho could sleep knowing you’d be there in his arms when he woke up. “A million and one.”

A/N: aaaand that brings this miniseries to an end!! I had so much fun writing this and seeing all the reactions to the (shitty and mean) cliffhangers that I didn't expect people to want more from. I'm ending this on another open-for-interpretation-ending only because I don't think anything I write past this could do them justice.

I know I've been kinda IA for most of this summer but that's cus I've been working a butt load lol. Most of the inspiration I get has been from music and recently I saw skz during their concerts and had the privilege of getting barricade for the shows I attended! They're all seriously so much prettier in person and I hope everyone gets to witness it at least once in their lives.

anyways this outro is getting long so leave feedback and let me know what you think! My asks are always open for requests or just chitchatting hehehehe. Much love!

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hamliet · 3 years ago

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Hello! I have a question about the Brothers Karamazov if you're interested! I just reread the book and loved it as always, but I the one thing I can never figure out is what is the deal with Ivan and Smerdyakov's relationship?? I can't tell if Smerdyakov genuinely liked him or just used him? Anyways love all your head canons and fanfics, thanks for reading my ask!

You can always talk Dostoyevsky to me!

So I think it is ambiguous on the surface, but if you dig into both of their characters the answer becomes clearer.

Considering the novel's basic tenet of "Ivan is always wrong" (I'm hyperbolizing and being slightly facetious) and that Ivan POV is closer to being about "use," I'm inclined to argue Smerdyakov really did like Ivan, but because Ivan is Ivan and Russian society is Russian society, that care turned to resentment.

See, Pavel was Ivan’s youngest brother, and yet was never acknowledged as a Karamazov, even though it was obvious that he was Fyodor’s son. Even though he lived with them, he was raised by the servants who beat him (while Grigory also basically raised Fyodor’s other three sons for the times they weren’t off with other relatives, I doubt he was abusive like he was to Pavel). Pavel wasn’t afforded the education or opportunities Mitya, Ivan, or Alyosha were. There’s a class aspect here, too, of course--Pavel is a servant.

The closest anyone in their entire family ever came to acknowledging Pavel was Ivan having those conversations about philosophy with Pavel. Pavel wanted a brother, even if he wouldn’t acknowledge it to himself, and Ivan wanted a pupil. That’s the tragedy--Ivan didn’t get what Pavel was really after, and maybe was incapable of acknowledging to himself.

Furthermore, these conversations are the closest Pavel gets to separating himself from his birth reality. His mother was intellectually disabled, and Pavel is also looked down upon intellectually-speaking--but the reality is, as we find out, Pavel is actually acutely intelligent.

When Pavel kills Fyodor, I think it’s pretty clearly out of resentment and anger for the way his father not only brought him into existence (raping his intellectually disabled mother), but treating him as a servant and giving him his patronymic Fyodorovitch, but not his surname. That’s insulting enough as is, but to make it worse, Pavel’s last name is made up and cruel: Smerdyakov, meaning the stinking one, meaning that people are always seeing Pavel as scum from the streets, as dirty, as unintelligent.

I see no reason in the novel not to think that Pavel’s framing of Dmitri and manipulation of Ivan is motivated by anything different than his motivation for killing Fyodor: it’s resentment, and fundamentally, it’s about loneliness. Lest I seem like I’m being too soft on Pavel, I’m actually drawing this sympathetic portrayal from the novel’s most righteous character, the character who embodied the novel’s themes: Father Zosima. Pavel in the end commits suicide, but here’s how Zosima says we ought to view suicides:

But woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offence to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day.

Zosima continues on to associate suicide with a deep sense of isolation, of feeling cut off from society and from God. Check and check: Pavel is cut off from society because of his origins, his name, and is even cut off from his family while existing in the same house (if that’s not a metaphor for society ignoring the hurting, the ones they inflicted pain on, while they’re physically present in society I don’t know what is). He is also cut off from God because of his birth origins (being the product of an exceedingly cruel and sinful act; Dostoyevsky has a particular condemnation for rapists, likely stemming from a documented experience he had as a child).

But to feel isolated, one has to want to connect. To feel lonely, one has to want someone to care. That’s Pavel.

For Ivan’s part... for all Ivan’s intelligence, he lacks basic empathy rooted in reality. He likes empathy in theory, but he neglects active love (another key point of Father Zosima’s, as seen in this conversation with Mrs. Khokhakov during which she describes her own loneliness and isolation:

“Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see that scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and I’m the only one who can’t stand it. It’s deadly—deadly!”

“No doubt. But there’s no proving it, though you can be convinced of it.”

“How?”

“By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul... active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared with the love in dreams. Love in dreams thirsts for immediate action, quickly performed, and with everyone watching. Indeed, it will go as far as the giving even of one's life, provided it does not take long but is soon over, as on stage, and everyone is looking on and praising. Whereas active love is labor and persistence, and for some people, perhaps, a whole science.”

Ivan claims to reject God and all sorts of things based on the empathy he feels for children who have been wronged, but he does not actually put that empathy into active practice with a literal abused child who is his actual blood brother sitting right in front of him. This is incredibly tragic, and it’s why Pavel uses Ivan’s theory to justify his murder of Fyodor. He does so by basically stating that he’s the tool in Ivan’s hand, carrying out his ideas.

In his death, and in his confession to Ivan, Pavel achieves two things: firstly, he offers Ivan a chance to offer him approval, and secondly, he proves Ivan wrong, showing Ivan how flawed he was and how useless his theories are if they achieve nothing but death and ruin for Ivan’s loved ones (and for the entire family that rejected Pavel). It’s paradoxical, for sure, but it’s Dostoyevsky, so would it be anything else?

#ask hamliet #fyodor dostoyevsky #the brothers karamazov #pavel smerdyakov #fyodor karamazov #ivan karamazov #father zosima #russian literature

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bisaster-energy · 3 years ago

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merlin and/or mcu for the blorbification list <3

Hi nemy !!! I'm gonna do Merlin and then later I'll probably post a whole separate one for MCU (god that'll be a long post)

Blorbo: oh Merlin my Merlin :) from boy to man shouldering the responsibility of all of Albion without so much as a thank you I kiss him goodnight in my head. Everyone who's anyone loves at least a little bit (even if they hate him) it's just how it works!! A god amongst men living like a servant. Insane. Magical entities speak directly to his brain and he just has to pretend to be Some Guy visiting nobles feel like their world has turned upside down when they see him tell a joke that makes the king guffaw. The other servants swoon when they see him. He looks out of his window in the dark of night looking to the stars like they'll answer "why" or "how" or even "what for". I could talk about him until it kills me

Scrunkly: Gwen!! She's everything to me ooohh my god. She's so lovely and also will stab you. She's awkward as hell and is constantly putting her foot in her mouth but it's so endearing. She steals the hearts of so many! The king of Camelot could be out for blood she'd be like "Arthur" and he'd be like "yes darling :)" like she has him and everybody else absolutely whipped. Do not let her and Merlin gang up on you they'd be unstoppable 😩 she's the queen of Camelot and she's perfect in the sense that she's not

Scrimblo bimblo: elyan without a doubt. No one wears a hoodie like him 🥰 he's small he's ace and he's here to fuck shit up. his sister is the queen loser watch your kneecaps cos if he catches u talking shit it's over. Percival carries him around sometimes :) he verbally destroys the knights (specifically gwaine) at any point in time just for kicks! He's also very soft and kind (don't get me started on the ghost of the druid boy I'll cry) anyway wdym he's dead he's right here putting the racist who challenged him in a duel to shame

Glup shitto: GWAINE the absolute madlad!! He probably doesn't count as obscure but he should've been in the show more!! Every time he's on screen I'm like "THERE HE IS!! THE BOY! what atrocities will he commit :)" from the first time we met him we were as enamored with him as Merlin was. Mans was in the middle of a bar fight and stopped to flirt with the Twink with the cheekbones and honestly that's on code. He's noble and hates it but he'd go riding into hell for the prattiest one of all because Merlin is the love of his life and he'd want him to. Merlin his first friend who'd never tire of him never ask him to change loves him just the way he is. Merlin braids his hair Merlin berates him while tending to his wounds Merlin is everything to him. But he also found friends in circles he doubted he ever would before coming to Camelot. Him shooting the shit with knights who woulda thought. He calls the crown prince Princess and I love him I love him

Poor little meow meow: somehow Arthur goes right here. Idk why but he gets a lot of hate but I love him he doesn't deserve it 🥺 he treats Merlin like shit even after he's had character development that should've CHANGED THAT so I DO metaphorically pinch his arm on occasion. Maybe if we had a spritz bottle for when he's being nasty :) anyways he's pathetic he always listens to his father but it's never enough he fell in love with two servants who are too good for him and his self worth is based entirely on other people. He's a bisexual dumbass who's closest knights are all really hot guys. hm. He's done a lot of bad things but he's also so so good the future if his kingdom rests with him and in his eyes it's his burden alone to bear and I think a blanket and some hot chocolate would do him good!!

Horse plinko: Leon my beloved <3 aptly named the long suffering because the pain never stops!! From "poetry lessons" to straight up not being able to die this man has had it rough and I'm only gonna make it worse. I love him but I love him more while he's contemplating yeeting himself onto a sword. the knights (AND THE KING) fall asleep during his speeches. He's the actual mom of the group and don't let Lancelot fool you into thinking he's some how more nature than the rest of these assholes (to be fair Leon has his moments of mischief as well 😌)

Eeby deeby:

I hate him your honor.

Tysm for the ask nemy!!!!

#morgana is ALSO my poor little meow meow!! she would've fought uther in hand to hand combat if she could.#she despaired at people she didn't know were hers being burned and was locked in a tower for caring #she was so kind and also fierce as all hell. definitely brushed Gwen's hair before. wore flower crowns and beat Arthur's ass at swords #sometimes at the same time!!#but her heart was eaten away by bitterness and hatred a man she'd never call father at the center of it #i mourn her and who she used to be as well. whether kind and cheeky or hateful she was morgana and i love her #Lancelot is another Scrunkly because i will coddle him til the end of the earth #he has so much love and he's so unfailingly good it makes me ache #he loved merlin and then gwen and arthur as well and he gained a family in camelot and #the self sacrificing bastard died for them #he cosplays as a responsible figure but he's just as much of a little shit as any of the other knights #Merlin's first friend that knew everything about him and he could talk to him about anything #arthur did wanna fuck him and he might've at some point #agravaine is also being sent to the eeby deeby he's a fucking creep #nemy is one of the blorbos from my dash :)

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parrishh · 4 years ago

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about to write the world's longest post (a review? maybe?) because i don't know anyone else who has read mister impossible yet and if i do not write my thoughts down SOMEWHERE i will either combust or eat my own foot, probably (spoilers, obviously)

genuinely brokenhearted (and cried a lot) over ronan in this book. part of what i loved so much about cdth was the sense that ronan had at least made some progress in regards to his mental health, self-love, etc. and now we're seeing him in such a dark place again that it hurts to read. it was sad enough believing, for almost the entire book, that he was blindly idolizing bryde for this reason (declan's "ronan is a follower" speech in the cafe with carmen actually killed me), and i thought maggie was just going for the whole "unhappy people are more susceptible to cults" thing. but to find out that he MADE bryde? that he felt so alone and so hopeless that he dreamt THAT? this read like some sort of super-villain origin story. i know ronan believes he's doing the right thing, saving dreamers and dreams and all that, but at the core of it all he's really doing it because bryde told him to, and bryde only exists because ronan subconsciously hates his life so much he'll do whatever it takes to make himself a new one. that just makes me incredibly sad

uhhhhhhhh bad day for pynch stans. we didn't technically get the dreaded break up, but it feels like we did anyway. even the sweet moments (e.g. ronan's memory of adam's gloves) are immediately followed up by something sad (e.g. the memory not being enough to keep ronan from sticking with bryde) (also, fletcher tells the moderators that they're broken up, so does that mean adam told all his college friends he's single?) there are several moments in which ronan makes it very clear that he will (and does) prioritize what he's doing with bryde over his relationship with adam (hanging up on him at the end? what the fuck) and like, i'm definitely not saying his boyfriend should be the #1 most important thing in his life because that's not healthy, either, but the dude is clearly very unhappy & insecure in the relationship. i still think (hope?) that they'll get a happy ending because ronan definitely cares about adam deeply (not wanting bryde to say the word tamquam, keeping adam out of his dreamspace so he doesn't lose harvard, etc.) but things are looking pretty grim right now :/

adam loves ronan so much it makes me crazy. he could easily say "fuck this" after ronan doesn't speak to him for weeks, especially knowing that ronan's capable of reaching out because he still talks to declan and especially after being blocked from ronan's dreamspace, too. i would be pissed if i heard from my bf for the first time in weeks and found out he only called because he needed a place where he & the guy he ditched me for could crash. but adam still spends the free time i'm sure he doesn't actually have keeping tabs on ronan and reaching out to declan and pretty much doing everything in his power to help. and oh my god even after ronan hangs up on him we still see him scrying to try to get to him and i need to move on now before i scream (but first, declan lynch = #1 pynch stan??? the number of times he mentions adam when thinking about the things he wants ronan to keep safe, help me)

speaking of adam, i had to put the book down and take a lap after his first appearance. i cannot believe this boy is charging harvard kids for fake tarot readings and making hella cash off of it. KING. genuinely some fantastic adam content in this. i love that he talks to the gray man. i love that we are reminded that he's literally brilliant. but also, he makes me sad, too. when declan mentions how ronan is the ONE person who adam opens up to and how all of his harvard groupies are just "ducklings"........honey, i love you, please, please, please make some real friends

hennessy's pov also breaks my heart. it's maybe even worse to read than ronan's because she's fully aware of how unhappy she is and the bluntness of it slaps you across the face. the memory of her mom's painting was genuinely chilling (the lace pattern on the floor - was that how the Lace started? am i understanding that correctly?) and the fact that it was so dreadful she accidentally made a sweetmetal....poor hennessy :( also, the things she said to jordan, right after she made half a dozen real ass people crash their cars and didn't even bat an eye about it....yikes. i'm glad she teamed up with carmen and liliana, though. i love my team of wlw girlies (also really interesting that carmen/liliana believe the Lace is something out of hennessy's control while ronan/bryde believe it's something she can get rid of if she just tries hard enough. what the fuck is the Lace, it's driving me nuts)

CARLIANA KISS CARLIANA KISS CARLIANA KISS

jordan's pov!!!!!!! delicious, finally some good fucking food!!!!!!! i'm happy that she's starting to see herself as her own person, independent of hennessy, and the whole forgery/original work metaphor was really cool (her first original work being a portrait of declan 🥺🥺🥺) i loooooove her relationship with matthew and how she speaks to him and that they're able to connect with each other because they're both dreams. i love that she's able to make him feel more human

JORDECLAN KISS JORDECLAN KISS JORDECLAN KISS (but i'm even more hung up on declan just casually talking about MARRIAGE, oh my GOD)

declan my beloved....my sweet......absolutely obsessed with him saying "screw politics, i'm leaning into my crime side" and OBSESSED with him being happy for once. i know the other shoe did drop and now things are all messed up again but it was so nice to see him so content, at least for a little while. he needed a break (also was laughing my ass off at all of ronan's dream creatures just climbing onto his bed in the morning and his screaming and how matthew was so used to it he BRUSHED HIS TEETH before going to help. iconic)

matthew's pov was also really upsetting but 🥺him deciding he's tired of just being treated like a pet and that he deserves to have a future so he goes to sign himself up to finish high school 🥺

quick note but the whole sweetmetal thing is really interesting as a concept. loooooved the way maggie incorporated the gardner museum heist into the story

THE ENDING???? WHY THE FUCK IS JORDAN AWAKE. WHY THE FUCK IS RONAN STILL ASLEEP. WAS ADAM STILL IN THE MIDDLE OF SCRYING WHEN THE LEY LINE DISAPPEARED, AND, IF SO, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN FOR HIM. WHY ARE LITERALLY ALL THE MODERATORS DREAMS. WHAT IS HAPPENING

#this is a literal essay god help me #actual word vomit #this book is going to haunt me for the next year and a half i don't know what to do #mister impossible #mi spoilers #mister impossible spoilers #wrambles #tdt

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thestuffedalligator · 5 years ago

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On a small farm outside of a small town in Canada, a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback rode out through a hole in time and space.

One of them had a thick leather glove, on which a golden eagle perched. Its handler reached up, slipped the little hood off the eagle’s head, and flicked his wrist. It took off, caught a thermal, soared in a lazy arc, dove, spread its talons forward, and then hit a window with a thunk.

Daniel DiSebastian, who was fifteen and on the other side of the window, stared. The eagle had managed to sink its talons into the mesh of the window screen before it stunned itself. It was hanging upside down. Over it, Dan saw a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers standing in formation in his neighbour’s field.

He stared for a moment longer. Curiosity won over self-preservation, and he walked out onto the porch of the house for a better view.

There was a ripping noise, the sound of panicked flapping, and something huge and tawny swooped low over Dan’s head. He ducked and only just managed to see the golden eagle fly in a wide circle back towards the horde of waiting soldiers. He heard a distant shout. Then two-hundred-and-forty of the soldiers drew their bows and fired into the air, creating a screaming cloud of arrows that blotted out the sun before raining down in a lethal shower.

Eighty-seven of these arrows hit Dan.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. When he did, the horde was already gone.

Eleven months later, Dan was mostly sure that whatever had happened that day eleven months ago had not, in fact, happened.

He was very happy to accept that it hadn’t happened until he walked into a Tim Hortons for a coffee and a donut and walked out to find a golden eagle perched on the sign for the drive-through.

Dan blinked. The eagle blinked. It took off with a heavy thump of wings, and Dan noticed the four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback in the parking lot.

There was a whistling noise. Dan was hit by one-hundred-and-seventy-nine-arrows.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. The horde was gone again. One of them had stolen his donut.

It was already dark when Dan and Cameron Burnaby walked out of the theatre.

“God, what a bad movie,” she laughed. Her breath came out in puffs of vapour in the November air.

“Like not even so bad it’s good,” Dan said. “It’s so bad it goes all around the world and crosses back into bad.”

“It’s supposed to be the last one, right?”

“That’s what I heard?”

Another puff of laughter. “Hope,” Cameron Burnaby said, grinning. “That’s what you hope.”

A huge bird took off from the sign over the theatre. Cameron Burnaby oohed at the sight and watched as it flew away.

Dan looked at her. This was nice. It was slow, but it was nice. It was nevertheless slightly spoiled by the little anxious voice that banged around in his hindbrain. It had been a year since his last attack. It was bound to happen eventually, and he had no idea how to bring it up in conversation. ‘So, I see you like the Mongolian beef and broccoli. Speaking of Mongolia, have I ever told you that I’ve been killed by Mongols four times?’

He had to tell her. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe they were done. It had been a whole year. Maybe killing him four times was enough for them. Surely killing somebody once was enough for most people, right?

Cameron Burnaby turned back at him and grinned. “So!” she said. “Was it the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen?”

He shook himself out of a vision of archers on horseback. “Nope, not even,” he said, walking forward again. “There was this one movie that came out last year. It’s about a guy who kidnaps tourists and turns them into walruses, it’s amazingly—”

Dan slipped on the ice. His leg flew up from underneath him. He felt sudden weightlessness and there was a crack as he landed on the sidewalk.

Everything hurt. Stars flashed across his vision. They faded to reveal the face of Cameron Burnaby, mittens clasped over her mouth. “Are you okay?” she asked.

No, Dan thought. “Yep,” Dan groaned. He pulled himself up onto his elbows. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

Cameron Burnaby offered him a hand. He took it, she pulled him up to his feet, and the two were suddenly standing much closer than he had expected.

Dan swallowed. He was suddenly aware of a thousand tiny details. The snowflakes that hung in her hair. The freckles on her nose. The shape of her lips. The terror in her eyes which were looking at something just over and past his shoulder.

He was briefly aware of seventeen arrows hitting the back of his skull.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Cameron Burnaby was retching in the snow.

“What the fuck was that?!” she finally said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a mitten.

Dan considered a variety of responses. He decided that they all sounded stupid. He settled for the only one he knew was accurate. “A horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers,” he sighed.

“They – you—” She gestured wildly. “Your face.”

Dan winced and eased himself onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he said.

There was a pause. “Has this happened before?” Cameron Burnaby asked.

Dan thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Five times, counting this one.”

“So this is just a thing that happens.”

“It – yeah,” he said. “I think so. It is.”

Cameron Burnaby nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

Another pause. A car drove past. Cameron Burnaby stood up. “I’m going to go.”

Dan nodded. “Right,” he said. “Some other time?”

There was no answer. Dan closed his eyes. He laid down on the sidewalk and listened to the crunch of snow under boots until they died away. Snowflakes landed on his face, tiny pinpricks of cold which stung and faded almost instantly as they melted.

There was a thump. Dan opened his eyes and looked over. There was a golden eagle standing there, twisting its head to glare at Dan.

Dan glared back. “I hate you,” he said. “I really, deeply hate you.”

The eagle, apparently satisfied with the answer, took off.

Another two-hundred-and-forty arrows sprouted from the sky.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Physically, at least.

Dan had made the account because it had been five years since his date with Cameron Burnaby.

He looked it over again. The picture wasn’t great – he had tried several different angles and decided that he just didn’t have any good angles – but he was at least a little proud of the summary. Bi fella seeking someone to run from these time-travelling Mongol hordes with. Is that a metaphor? Contact me now to find out. Likes: coffee shops, people watching, history podcasts, dislikes: horses, arrows, people on horses with arrows, the CW show Arrow.

It was a long and glorious joke. Just like him.

He closed the app when he reached his car. He needed to drive. He didn’t have a specific location in mind. He just needed to drive somewhere. Anywhere.

Sometimes on drives like this, he’d drown out his thoughts with gory history podcasts. This time he let his mind wander.

Here he was. Daniel DiSebastian, twenty-four, killed by time-travelling Mongols twelve times. The butt of some cosmic running gag. Living in a cheap, empty condo in the city.

He turned a corner. Even the streets were empty this late at night.

Supposed to be empty. Dan turned onto the highway and was faced with a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers.

The car squealed to a stop. Dan stared. He’d studied – or at least, he’d listened to a few podcasts about the Mongols. They could pull back the string of a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound bow twelve times a minute and could carry one-hundred-and-fifty arrows in a quiver.

A part of his brain wondered what they could do to a 2004 Chrysler Sebring.

The rest of his brain said: Fuck it.

What happened next happened very quickly. Dan heard the engine scream as he floored the gas. He heard one-hundred-and-twelve arrows drum on the roof of the car. He saw another twelve as they punched through the windshield. Through the web of cracks he thought he saw movement, saw the cavalry part like a sea.

Then he was in the middle of the horde. Horses and men and spears were tangled around him, a whirlwind of screams and smells. He felt the car lurch as it ran over something. A few bodies threw themselves onto the hood of the car and were thrown off. Something landed with a thump on his roof.

And then he was on the other side.

The car screamed through the dark until it found its way back to the parking lot of his condo. Dan parked quickly, threw open a door, ran out, and retched onto the asphalt.

“Who’s the joke now!” he screamed between gags. “I’M DANIEL MOTHERFUCKING DISEBASTIAN!”

The parking lot echoed his name. His breath was ragged, and his throat burned. He felt his heartbeat slow to the point that he could make out individual beats, and then he noticed the arrow stuck in his sternum.

He touched it gingerly. “Oh fuck,” he hissed. He tried to pull it out. “Fuck me, seriously.”

Something went thump behind him. Dan turned. A thirteenth-century Mongol soldier had let go of the roof of his car.

He was holding a curved knife.

Dan died slowly.

It was, he decided, a lot worse than dying instantly.

So here he was. Daniel DiSebastian, twenty-four, lying on the asphalt, killed by time-travelling Mongols thirteen times. He stared up at the sky, trying to see stars through the haze of the city.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A profile picture of a man with a beard and a tattooed feather on his neck had sent him a message.

I’ll bite. Is it a metaphor?

Dan looked at the profile picture. He looked up at the sky. He wiggled his thumbs in thought before he tapped out a response. That’s a great question.

Their first date was that Saturday.

They went to an old book shop. They bought each other a book. Theo had bought Dan a copy of The Song of Achilles, and Dan had almost managed not to laugh, and promised Theo that he’d explain the joke later.

They walked out of the shop together.

The sun was blotted out.

Dan died instantly.

He woke to the sound of running feet.

Panic started to seize up in his chest – oh god they were here they wanted to crush their enemies and see them driven before them and hear the lamentations of the women – when he heard the shrieking giggle.

Panic paused. Mongols didn’t giggle. Did they? No, not as far as he knew. So it wasn’t Mongols. Who giggles? Kids?

The kids across the hall. Of his apartment. Yes. This was fine.

Adrenaline sizzled on contact with relief and boiled into seething indignation. “Somebody’s daddy should have been castrated,” he muttered.

Theo twisted beside him. “It’s like, eleven in the morning, babe.”

Dan glared at the stucco surface of the ceiling. “Fine,” he said. “They get a pass. This time.”

Theo snorted. He turned his phone of with a click, and he rolled to wrap his arm over Dan’s chest. “Don’t get maaad at them,” he said, nuzzling his chin into Dan’s neck.

“I’ll get as maaad as I want,” Dan said, the whine of the defeated.

An hour later, Dan pulled on his pants. “Remind me what we need again?”

“No, I’ll go with you,” Theo said. “I can’t trust you to buy groceries anymore.”

“Rude.”

“Rude and true. We still have fifteen bags of Tostitos.”

Dan sighed. “Is that just going to be a thing now?” he asked. “The Tostitos Incident?”

“I already have your tombstone planned. ‘Here Lies Daniel DiSebastian. He Once Bought Twenty Bags of Tostitos Chips By Accident.” Theo wiggled his fingers in the air to draw quotation marks around the words ‘By Accident.’ “We Don’t Know How It Happened Either.”

Dan wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, it’ll look great next to yours. ‘Here Lies Theodore Oliveira, Stung By Bees Forty-Five Times Specifically On The Crotch.”

“Now hold on.”

“We Don’t Know How It Happened, But We Can Guess!”

Theo shook his head. “Cool,” he said. “Cool, cool, cool. So because I learned a thing about Cleopatra, I’m the guy who wants a vibrator made of bees.”

Dan shrugged as he pulled his coat on. “I mean, you seemed pretty keen about it.”

“Fuck you, Tostitos.”

“Mm. Love you too, Cleo.”

When they were in the parking lot, Theo said, “You know I love you too, right?”

Dan looked over. “Yes?” he said. “We’ve been living together for a year, babe.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—”

“If you didn’t then I’m shit at reading signals.”

Theo grinned. “Yeah, your Bi-dar is total garbage.”

“I can’t connect to the Bi-Fi.”

“You need some…” Theo grimaced. “Bi-focals? To see who’s attracted to you?”

“That was terrible, Theo.”

“Yeah, but you’ll get bi.”

Dan snorted. “Jesus Christ. Anyways. You were saying?”

Theo shrugged. “I dunno. I said fuck you, and you said love you, and…” He blew the air out of his cheeks. “This is the longest I’ve been in a relationship, and I think I know what’s normal for us? But sometimes I’m not sure I know.”

Dan laughed, grabbed the lapels of Theo’s jacket, pulled him down and kissed him. “Fuck, I don’t know either. But I haven’t been normal in years, Theo. This is a ‘not normal’ I can take.”

Theo smiled. “How’re you feeling today, by the way?”

“Good!” Dan grinned. “I’m feeling good.”

There was a thump. Dan looked over and saw a golden eagle take off from the tailgate of a parked truck.

“Actually, hold that thought,” he said, taking a couple steps back.

Two-hundred-and-thirty-nine arrows came screaming out of the sky.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. He heard Theo asking if he was okay.

“Please tell me you saved the donuts,” he muttered.

There was a pause. “Y’know, you keep saying that, and I’ve never actually seen them steal anything from you.”

Dan screwed open an eye to glare. It didn’t last. Theo was squatting on the pavement next to him with his chin in his hand and a smile crinkling the corners of his mouth, and goddammit, he was cute.

He tried anyways. “Excuse you, how many times have you been killed by thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers?”

Theo shrugged. “Exactly zero,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen you get killed by thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers three times now, and I have the benefit of watching what they do while you’re out of it.”

“Oh, what, so someone else stole that donut? Some asshole was like, ‘Oh dope, a dead kid and a donut, yoink!’”

Theo grinned. “I’ve seen weirder things happen.”

Dan stared up at the sky. “Y’know what?” he said. “Totally fair.”

Dan got up and lived.

At least until eight months later. But he’d get better.

#narrativia #fantasy #writing #fantasy writing #absurdism #posting an old story because #look #i've had a bad day #i just want to post a story i know is good

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