#and he's made himself unrecognizable to the person he loves the most

[camelotluteguild]

honestly, of all the devastating lines in 5x13, one that’s overlooked is gaius saying he’ll have merlin’s favorite meal waiting for him when he gets back. like. after all of this, to return to normal life and sit down and eat his favorite meal

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Reader being self-conscious about something and Bucky getting upset because absolutely no one says or even thinks things like that about his girl

No One Disrespects My Girl » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You feel self conscious about what your new coworker said to you and Bucky gets upset about it and confronts him. No one says or even thinks anything rude about his girl or they’re going to have to deal with him.

Warnings: Fluff, language, Protective Boyfriend!Bucky, self consciousness, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you to the lovely anonymous person who requested this🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creator.

“Doll, I’m home?” Bucky announces, his voice echoing through yours and his apartment.

Bucky frowned when you didn’t greet him like you normally do. His enhanced hearing picked up the sound of your sniffles and cries coming from the bedroom. His mind began to think the worst. He immediately went to yours and his bedroom to see you crying softly in the fetal position. Bucky laid down next to you and pulled you against him.

“It’s ok.” Bucky coos softly, rubbing your back. “You’re ok.” He coos softly again.

Your cries began to die down after a few minutes. You sniffled and played with Bucky’s Army dog tags.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks softly.

“It’s about my new coworker Connor.” You tell him.

“Did he hurt you?” He asks, his protectiveness taking over him.

“No. He hurt my feelings.” You answered.

“What did he do to hurt your feelings?” He asks.

“He looked at me and laughed and called me ugly.” You told him.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. No one calls you names or even looks at you the wrong way without getting away with it. Bucky silently came up with a plan to make sure Connor never does that again while he continues to cuddle and comfort you.

“You don’t think I’m ugly, do you?” You asked, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts.

“No, of course not!” Bucky immediately answers. “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.” He tells you. “Never and I mean never say that about yourself.” He said. “That Connor guy is gonna pay for calling you that.” He says more to himself.

“What?” You asked when he said that last sentence, lifting your head to look at him.

“Nothing.” He kisses your forehead. “Are you hungry?” He asks. “I can get you something to eat from your favorite restaurant.” He suggests.

“Yes please.” You answered.

Bucky kissed your lips sweetly before getting up and walking towards the door.

“I love you, baby!” You shouted.

“I love you too, doll!” Bucky shouts back as he walks out the door.

Bucky had a plan in his head. He’s going to approach your coworker and make sure he never hurts your feelings ever again.

He went straight to where you work and waited for him. Bucky watched him walk out of the building and to his car. That’s when Bucky approached him.

“Are you Connor?” Bucky asks.

“Yea. Why?” Connor answers.

“Do you work with someone named Y/N?” He asks.

“That ugly bitch? Yes.” He laughs.

Bucky’s jaw clenched when Connor called you ugly and laughed about.

“Wanna know something interesting about her?” Bucky asks.

“Not really.” Connor says.

“I’m her boyfriend.” He tells him.

“Oh what’re you gonna do? Beat me up?” He mocks and laughs.

Bucky took his jacket off and dropped it on the ground, revealing his vibranium arm. Connor stopped laughing and his eyes went wide.

“Is that a real metal arm?” Connor asks nervously.

“Vibranium, actually.” Bucky tells him. “Wanna know what I can do with it?” He asks.

Connor stayed silent, not daring to say a word.

“I can knock you out with one punch.” Bucky’s vibranium hand made a fist. “I can definitely make sure your face is unrecognizable.” He says.

Bucky walked closer to him. Connor walked backwards till his back hit his car.

“Now, here’s how this is going to go…” Bucky starts. “If you ever and I mean ever say anything rude about my girl or even look at her, you’re going to have to deal with me. Meaning, I’ll hurt you. Understand?” He says.

“Yes, I understand.” Connor says fast.

“Good.” He says.

Bucky picked up his jacket from the ground and walked away from Connor, leaving him scared shitless.

Bucky went to your favorite restaurant and got what you always order and then went to the store to get some of your favorite snacks before going home. When Bucky got home, he heard the sound of the TV in the living room. He went to the living room and put everything on the coffee table in front of you.

“Hey, babe.” You leaned up to kiss him. “What took you so long?” You asked curiously.

“The line was long.” Bucky tells you. “Sorry I should’ve texted you.” He says, pecking your lips.

Bucky went to the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes and then went back to the living room, taking a seat next to you. He seen that you had already opened the bags.

“You don’t have to worry about Connor being rude to you anymore.” Bucky says.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“I paid him a little visit.” He says.

“Bucky, what did you do?” You asked.

“Nothing extreme.” He answers. “I just told him that he’ll be dealing with me if he’s ever rude to you again.” He explains.

“I- oh ok.” You felt relieved that Bucky didn’t beat your coworker senseless. “Thank you, baby. You’re the best.” You say.

“You don’t have to thank me, babydoll. I’ll do it no matter what.” He kisses your lips sweetly. “Let’s eat before everything gets cold.” He says.

In that moment, you knew you wouldn’t feel self conscious often. Bucky is always there to make you feel better and to protect you no matter what. Bucky always makes sure no one disrespects his girl ever or they’ll have to deal with him.

🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖🪖

-Bucky’s Doll

[seaslugfanclub]

Hi I'm a big fan of yours and I really enjoy the villains and y/n interactions. Btw I want to ask what made frollo develop feelings for y/n.

Do Judges dream of park attendants?

(Frollo x Reader)

TW: description of Panic attacks

————————————————————————

Out of all the Disney villains brought to life by Disney, Frollo is having the hardest time. All of his beliefs, everything he had sacrificed in his life have been destroyed in an instant the moment he opened his eyes in this Infernal theme park

Frollo doesn’t actually believe he’s alive anymore, that the Disney parks is his divine punishment

Though deserved, everywhere he goes he’s ostracized and humiliated. His fellow villains love to single him out to needle him, especially Hades.

He’s so tight that if you shoved a piece of coal up his ass, two weeks later you’d get a diamond

It’s obvious in the film that his mental psyche is as fragile as communion wafers, and this has been amplified to 100 now that he’s in a completely unrecognizable reality.

He hasn’t slept in months, barley eaten (he excuses this as religious fasting) and rarely talks to others

The only person who tried to regularly interact with Frollo is that scrappy park attendant, (Y/N)…

Usually it’s quick conversations, greetings and goodbyes, “how are ya?”s, and sometimes brief smiles. Something that both disgusts and confuses Frollo, a strange prickling feeling in his cheeks whenever he makes eye contact with (Y/N)

Panic attacks have become a regular occurrence for Frollo, usually when the sensory nightmare of Disney parks get to much for him, although he usually isolates himself to avoid being so vulnerable

Most of the time Frollo’s able to keep his emotions in check until he’s alone, so most of his panic attacks come out at night

One night his episodes were really, really bad, everything Frollo had tried to hold in finally boiled over, leaving the ex-judge crumbled to the ground, frozen in terror.

He didn’t need a fireplace to feel the licks of flames on his skin, and no matter how hard he clenched his hands over his ears, Frollo couldn’t stop the chanting echoing in his head.

It felt like a lead weight was on his chest, and dark spots were crawling into his vision, threatening to pass out

Frollo was too lost in his own head, mumbling prayers to himself as the crackling of fire and chanting drowned out all sounds, even the light creaking of his bedroom door opening…

“Pr- preces meæ non sunt.. dignæ Sed- sed tu bonus fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne…. Pie Iesu Domine,Dona ipse requiem…. Preces meæ non—”

“Frollo?”

The feeling of a hand resting on his head broke Frollo out of his mumbling. Through blurry vision the ex-judge made out a figure crouching above him, their hand slowly petting his hair. The sensation of soft fingers on his hair felt grounding, with each stroke the flames began to lull…. Has an angel finally come to end his misery?

“Frollo? Are you alright?

The black spots around his vision began to subside, as his teary eyes cleared enough to see the worried face of (Y/N), the young park attendant. At any other point in time, Frollo would’ve flinched away from their touch, cursing them out for having the gall to lay their filthy hands on a holy man, but all of his senses had failed him, and their touch had quelled the flames and disembodied chanting around him.

Starving for any source of familiarity, Frollos trembling hands reached to clutch onto (Y/N)’s pants,

“Je ne peux plus faire ça— Je—”

“Frollo, please- I can’t understand you…” (Y/N) pleaded, at a loss at what to do with the pathetic man before them.

(Y/N) was finishing their shift for the evening, their final task was to check on each villain to make sure they were set for night. They were walking down the hall to check on Sher Khan when they heard a thump behind Claude Frollos door, wall muffling the sound of weeping. Knocking on the door brought to response, and worried that the old man might’ve actually fallen and couldn’t get up, (Y/N) slowly cracked open the door.

Instead of being immediately kicked out by the ex-judge, French curses thrown at them— they found Frollo slumped against his bed, mumbling latin to himself, his eyes a thousand miles away.

(Y/N) was at a loss, they had never seen Frollo this desperate, this deep into despair. Even when they watched the “Hunchback of Notre Dame” and his song “Hellfire” was he this vunerable. This was unfamiliar territory.

But panic attacks were familiar, especially with how to deal with them.

“Frollo? You’re alright… Your minds just working against you right now.” (Y/N) hummed, continuing to pet Frollos silver hair,

“Here, I’ll be right back,” gently removing Frollos hands, (Y/N) grabbed a spare glass from his nightstand before rushing into the bathroom. Turning on the sink faucet, they filled the glass with cold water then crouched below the sink to open the drawers. They grabbed neatly folded a face towel, a Mickey Mouse insignia embroidered in the corner— (Y/N) wet the towel, making sure that it was thoroughly soaked then grabbed the glass, walking back into Frollos room, the man still on the floor, pale face just watching (Y/N).

“Try to drink something, I know you might feel nauseous, but I promise this helps,” They offered the glass to Frollo, who continued to just stare at (Y/N). After a few seconds between them, He hesitantly reached out and took the water with shaking hands.

As he began to take small sips, the cold water cooled his throat, and he could feel the water cool his insides as he swallowed. The flames were dowsed.

“It’s already 11, you must be exhausted… I think it’s best to try and sleep. Don’t even worry about changing, just get comfortable. I always feel better when I lie down.”

Helping him up, they watched patiently as Frollo collapsed into his bed, not even bothering to pull up the sheets. As he lay on his back, he finally closed his eyes, only for them to open again when (Y/N) lifted his bangs to place the cold wash-cloth on his forehead. His pale cheeks prickling again at the feather light touch of (Y/N) fingers and the cooling sensation of the cloth on his skin.

“Uh— whenever I get an attack, anything cold helps me bring myself back to reality.. and uh, and a wet washrag stays cool for a while, I like to wash my face with it to feel refreshed.” (Y/N) offered quietly, having a difficult time maintaining eye contact with Frollo.

Frollo was at a loss, never— never has he been the subject of such care from another human before, not as a boy, not from the church, not even from his lord. How could he even react to this? It was all to much.

He was tired, mentally and physically, darkness beginning to overtake his vision again, but this time from pure exhaustion.

Risking it a final time, (Y/N) gave Frollos hair one last pet, “I’ll find a way to take you off schedule for the rest of the week, I wish I could get you months off… I’m sorry. But for now, get some rest ok?”

With a final smile, they turned to resume their rounds, already late to check up on the others, but before they could step away from the bed, a hand grasped their arm, stopping them.

Turning back around, they looked down at Frollos pleading face, an almost manic look in his eyes.

“Stay… please… at least until I’ve fallen asleep..”

With wide eyes, (Y/N) looked down at him shocked, before sighing.

“Of course.. try to rest now.” They relented, taking a seat at the foot of Frollos bed. The others could wait.

Silence fell over the two, (Y/N) waiting patiently as a good 15 passed. Just when they thought he had fallen asleep a whisper escaped him,

“mon ange..”

And with that, sleep overtook Claude, no longer able to fight off his exhaustion. Warmth enveloping him as he dreamt of feather light touches and scrappy park attendants.

————————————————————————

Sorry if this feels forced or too OOC 😅, I just love Frollo so much, and taking care of others is my love language. When I tell you I need this man whimpering—

Translations:

“Pr- preces meæ non sunt.. dignæ Sed- sed tu bonus fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne…. Pie Iesu Domine,Dona ipse requiem…. Preces meæ non”:

My prayers are worthless, Yet, good Lord, graciously grant that I be not burned up by the everlasting fire. Lord, all-pitying, Jesus blest, Grant myself Thine eternal rest.

“Je ne peux plus faire ça— Je—“:

I can’t do this anymore—I can’t—

“mon ange..”:

My angel..

[velvetures]

could i request a ghost x “strawberry/cutecore/hello kitty” reader?! basically just everything is pink and they are super bubbly :>

pls and ty 🙏🏻

Simon "Ghost" Riley & Cutecore/Hyperfeminine Aesthetic

a/n: I loved this request... but it was my first attempt at the aesthetic/vibe as a whole and I'm not sure if I hit the mark. I used this pic as my inspo. ):( Summary: What it's like for Ghost to have an "everything in pink, please." gf, and what kind of feelings go along with it. TW's: suggestive content 18+ ONLY, established relationship, possessiveness?, def not proofread (the usual), fem!reader.

Of all the women that Simon ever entertained the thought of being, one like you didn’t initially even present itself as a remotely interesting option. The idea of someone such much different from himself sounded like nothing less than a good way of fucking up someone else’s -otherwise- normal life by inserting himself into it. You just always seemed so damn happy and excited about even the smallest of things; Practically amplifying the good feelings floating around in the air and blasting them right back at him. Never without something pink on and dressed up like you were minutes away from attending some kind of fairy party literally scared Ghost away from having anything to do with you.

You on the other hand, weren’t exactly sure what it was that made Ghost so averse to speaking to you more than a few words at a time. Yet made it your very private little mission of sorts to snoop and poke around until you found some kind of answer as to why such a massive and expertly lethal man couldn’t bear to stand within arms reach of you. He just intrigued you for some reason or another. Only getting glimpses of the man’s real self in his eyes -the only visible part of him- and having to make your next moves based off of nothing more than gut-feelings and the hope that you were reading his signals correctly.

At first, it crossed your mind that your preferred aesthetic of sorts could be a bit of the problem. For most people it might appear a bit too much, and when looking at Ghost dressed almost head to to in black with a skull painted on his masked face… there was good reason to assume it in the first place. What you didn’t know was that it was so much deeper than your affinity for lace-trimmed socks, Mary Jane’s, pearls, and practically anything hyper-feminine and in a shade of pink. Ghost didn’t believe you were weak or predisposed to acting childish. You held a massively significant job in journalism and worked harder than most people he knew at what you did. You just happened to enjoy everything around you looking like some damn cotton-candy tea party.

What bothered him was your sweet personality and an intrinsic value he held for just how fucking innocent you were towards him and everyone else around you. People could be utterly horrible right to your face, and you’d silently keep the hurt to yourself and never fight back against what they’d done. Revenge wasn’t something you cared for, while it was essential to Ghost’s motivation in his work and private life. For a long time he couldn’t balance his morals of being involved with you at all with the thoughts in the back of his mind about how much he might twist and form you into something unrecognizable. Something a lot less… pink. A person that didn’t enjoy such small little things like how a skirt had small pink flowers embroidered on it, or if the little bows you’d stick in your hair had a lace fringe on the edges.

Oh but how things changed when Ghost finally couldn’t stand looking at you without thinking about how nice it would be to have his arm wrapped around you, pulling you tight up against him to keep everyone from staring. The Lieutenant always had a weak spot for you and your sugar-sweet personality and looks. But goddamn did he start loving the color pink more than a professional murderer should. All the hues and tones of that fucking color began reminding him of you no matter where he was, or what he was doing. For the longest time, he’d been worried that he would be the one that changed you, all the while he was too deep inside his own mind to recognize that you were the one controlling the direction things were headed.

Just looking at you made him shudder with feelings of possessiveness and adoration. Standing there happy as could be with thigh-high white socks and a fluffy pink skirt, all dressed up just to go out to eat at a little late-night pub because he couldn’t stand the idea of having to show his face in the bright daylight. You knew to a certain extent that Ghost appreciated the way you lived your life just a bit more feminine than average… but the depths of his thoughts and ideas about you were surface level to say the least. He just knew what you looked like clinging to his arm walking down the street; His polar opposite and yet so happy to be close to him. A darling smile… pretty and glossed lips… frilly things on almost every piece of clothing you wore and just utterly adorable to him.

Knowing that gave him… fantasies.

Wanting to see all of the things he could buy for you to wear for him. Dress you up almost like his own little doll and get to show you off to anyone who’d look, only to have the pleasure of threatening them to do more than take one good glance. So delectable, squeezable; but for him and him alone. You were the princess Simon didn’t realize he wanted and unlocked this strange and insatiable urge to spoil the fuck out of you with every pretty pink or glittery thing you could wish for, just so he could take you home and watch you try it all on for him while sipping a bourbon on the couch.

Fuck… There wasn’t a better way to spend an evening. Well, almost.

Perfect didn’t count unless he got to see you under him, laying back on pink silk sheets you’d been adamant about buying for his house, watching your eyes roll back with every moment he made. Damn if he couldn’t make it more than fifteen minutes without needing to calm himself down, before needing to put you on your hands and knees so those pretty little fucking faces you made wouldn’t make him finish before he got started. If he was lucky he could leave hot and pink handprints on your ass for making him feel so good. Simon knew you weren’t sheltered. But to him you were still innocent. Kind in so many ways he didn’t comprehend or believe was humanly possible. For fuck’s sake, you allowed him to come into your life.

Him with his scarred hands, bullet holes, shitty disposition. A man who preferred destruction and death for it’s permanence and certainty. Simon, with his need to hide his own face and go by a name that lacked humanity. All of him starkly contrasted you in so many ways it made him spin with confusion and oftentimes guilt. Questioning why he’d been so weak as to touch you in the first place. Allow himself the chance at someone so full of life who could see the world -literally- through rose-colored lenses.

Yet you brought forth happiness and fulfillment that the soldier hadn’t found in his years of searching desperately for a purpose. He found someone he could visually see, and palpably touch who hadn’t been torn down or beaten into submission in one way or another. Sweet and innocent you had found such a simple yet powerful way of living life the way you wanted to. Ghost felt like he could protect you. Not only in the genuine aspect of loving you so much that he got physically ill at the thought of losing you to anything; but also because you were so full of life and love to give to everyone around you. He needed you. Selfishly. Then again, there needed to be more softness and genuine innocence and happiness too. And so long as he was alive and breathing, he’d always make sure you were safe.

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated <3

[anantaru]

— yandere honkai star rail boys

including blade, jing yuan, luocha, sampo x gn! reader

꒰ genre ꒱ — yandere, angsty, toxic, manipulation

— blade

yandere! blade, who won't ever leave your side in the early stages of your relationship, but the smoldering question, the raging reason as to why was deeply purled in an ulterior, much scarier motive.

it's not because of him owning possessive traits, well, he sure did but the motivation behind gracefully aiding you in everything you may require, always showing up to your doorstep whenever you wanted him to with that big, delicate smile on his handsome face and blessing you with sweet gifts of all kind, his reasoning was contrasting.

at any rate, blade can continuously see that you're slowly but surely getting accustomed to him, that you tend to find some sort of unrecognizable comfort and notable security in his calculated antics.

submit to him, to your fate, you do not have to do anything on your own again.

the voice in your head wasn't your own, it was blade's voice, bright, stern and utterly dominating. it's in your head but it wasn't you talking, or was it? it couldn't be.

when you come to terms with it, step by step, you are quick to notice that something changed because blade backs away all of a sudden, without somewhat announcing nor explaining himself.

you try to reach him, desperately, but you're being ignored, no answer, no message or a call being returned. proceeding, you attempt to idly greet him the very moment you see blade suddenly walk past you on a random evening, while at last, being ignored yet again.

the main impetus of his motives, what could it be? fine, to say it without beating around the bush, it's that blade will try anything in his power to make you the obsessed one.

— jing yuan

yandere! jing yuan who was using one noteworthy strategy to ploddingly drive you into his undying arms, so you weren't able to leave nor would you want to leave in the first place.

the golden eyed will make you feel like you're the most special, alluring, stunning individual he had ever laid his eyes on. most of all, will he turn everything around and act like you're in control of the relationship between you both.

hold on a second, it doesn‘t stop there.

for all intents and purposes has the capable and gifted general easily figured out that by giving you any form of large control, an illusion of indurated authority, he can covertly infiltrate that sweet head of yours to deviously influence and manipulate you how he sees fit.

following this pursue of action, you do not realize what you have gotten yourself into by the time it was too late.

for your own pair of thinking— to you it would seem like you are making important choices and solutions, yet not fathoming that in practice it was jing yuan who would put the hand picked ideas into your thoughts with subtle hints and little traces, you barely notice it.

you would end up doing whatever he wants and he smiles, kissing your lips and thanking you for taking such good care of him.

logically thinking, he does it because he wants you to become attached to him, he cannot possibly live a life without you, it's futile— you're the person he fell in love with, he couldn't imagine you walking away now.

— luocha

yandere! luocha, who, on the far side of the color of his innocent-looking, scintillating eyes, will be a crazy skilled liar who will look at you so sweetly that you cannot even process the mere possibility of something going wrong.

at the outset, he was agreeing and relating to everything you were saying or proclaiming, yet keep in mind, he puts it in a way that wasn't overbearing nor appearing as untrue— luocha knew what to say in order for it to come off as his opinion as well, as an oh so little coincidence that the two of you had so many things in common.

almost like you're made for each other, or, almost as if someone was trying to make it materialize as this.

again, you can envision him as a chameleon— following your first dates, he notices that he is wholly obsessed, it's the way you communicated, the small traits you possessed or how you'd slowly avert your eyes whenever he'd try to hold gazes.

luocha looks at you and visualizes a mirror standing in front of him.

for what reason you might wonder, let me break it to you; he needs you to be exceedingly trusting and unquestioning towards him, whatever he says, you wouldn't quiz it.

slowly, deep, decelerated steps, one by one so you wouldn't notice, luocha will gather all the information he had about you, favorite food, most dearest hobby, your habits, your views on life and the future, all written and memorized in his brain until he turns them into his own traits, characteristics of himself— because, ultimately, he was always a step ahead of you, easily lying through his gritted teeth without even realizing it himself sometimes ..

.. yet never letting go of the unfaltering control he now had acquired.

— sampo

yandere! sampo, who on the outside appeared to be rather bubbly and harmless, yet on the inside was excessively skilled in keeping you within his mind altering reach.

because love was scary, or so he thought and sought to point it out, it’s basically handing over a map of all your flaws and imperfections while putting faith in your partner to not abuse that power. 

in advance of your relationship, the man had already gained your abiding trust out of the clear blue sky— lets take this into consideration, whenever you encountered a problem, dear sampo was here to solve it almost immediately, without even trying his utmost hardest.

how come he had a solution to everything you needed, he truly was wonderful, or wasn't he?

and his extraordinary inducements of special care, how he made sure that you were contented and pleased in your life, all while in reality remaining unnoticed in the cruel darkness, as the very cause of those problems you have encountered.

it's quite silly he thinks, how creative he was, again using negative rumors to pull you into a corner, or stealing work utensils and important materials you needed, silently orchestrating a various square of people who will look down on you.

until at the very last, sampo proudly positions himself just right in your life, quite heroic indeed, and placing a fake security on top of your person ..

.. so you wouldn't have to worry about anything in life anymore and fully attach yourself to him.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[littlemoondarlingarts]

Did an artstyle study of the gorgeous art of @iliothermia and I genuinely learned alot so I'm very thankful that he gave me permission to do this 🙏🏻🙏🏻

As usual, rambles and process pics under the cut, be warned that I talk alot because this drawing was a true labor of love both for his art and Rouge

I wanted to use elements from his art but at the same time i know how deeply personal his art is to his own life and struggles and culture so i tried to be as respectful as possible (and if I failed at that please tell me I have no problem in deleting this) and tried to minimize my use of direct elements from his art to keep it to the skull which was heavily inspired by a drawing he has done, the waves which are such a beautiful staple of his art that I just couldn't not put it and the use of candles and small floral patterns and the style of the mold, but I tried to keep the rest to things that are symbolic to the character.

While he may have restraint to not explain everything, I'm not famous for that lol, so I will be explaining the symbolism behind my choices.

Part 1: the symbolism:

The red rose is Rouge's flower and it is heavily associated with him. The meaning of it being romantic desire and passion mixed with the thorns of it perfectly sum up his position as a beautiful black widow.

Voyeurism is a big part of this drawing and it is first noticed with the eyes motif on the roses' leaves, this symbolises his response to his trauma which left him feeling like an unwanted pervert on his own self. I can talk about this aspect of his story for hours but I'll spare you lol.

The X-ray cutouts are his complicated relationship with his own body and death, it is a thing that is constantly on his mind as he suffers from suicidal thoughts but at the same time he is always running away from it in fear, but he knows that eventually, he will have to stop running.

The candles melting represent him being only wanted when he is useful, when he is giving parts of himself up for others to use and abuse, when he is lighting their lives by slowly draining his own.

The piano is one of the rare things that bring him happiness and peace, but he needs to be heavily dissociated to be able to enjoy it which is represented by the hands being disconnected from the rest of the drawing and just floating in their own reality.

The snake represents two things, one is him being venomous to those around him, the mistakes he's made, the promises he's broken, the pain he's caused etc. But it also represents those who slowly wrap themselves around him in a warm embrace, presenting themselves as a saviour in his most dire times only to end up being the ones who will hurt him the most.

The book is about his obsession with keeping track of everything and of studying people, accidentally turning himself into an unwanted voyeur on their lives to the point where he has written the life stories of many people who would never want to be remembered through his eyes in his little books.

The butterflies are him, both in the way they are seen as "the good insects" and the beautiful delicate ones despite the fact that they eat flesh sometimes, it is also related to the way his simple presence for a few minutes in someone's life can create a whirlwind of change that will leave it unrecognizable, or he can simply be another body in their bed.

The hair turning into waves is meant to reflect the way he is always drowning in his own thoughts, a hand crafted constant state of misery.

The beta fish are some of the most beautiful and colourful fish out there, yet they are seen as cheap and easy first pets, leading to them being neglected and given environments that are too small and crammed, making their beautifully slow death the only thing they can offer to their owner. I don't think I need to explain more..

The skull is probably someone he's loved, or someone he's killed, or both.

The heart is his, it is rotten and covered in mold, any love he offers is tainted by his inability to heal and it is spreading to infect every aspect of his life.

Part 2: the inspirations:

The roses are a homage to the way Rachamim always places flowers in his art, either in the background or as a focal point of the illustration, most of the flowers he uses are cultural in nature, so I opted to not reuse any of them and changed it to a flower related to my oc.

Eyes are a repeated theme in his art, whether it be angel eyes, the evil eye or anything else, and as you can tell both of these are cultural and religious and while the evil eye exists in my culture, it does not in my oc's so I didn't use it. Instead I opted to pay homage to one of his beautiful merman drawings in which he used the plants to make an eye-like shape that stares at the viewer.

I thought I was being real smart in turning the hair into waves but yesterday I saw an illustration where he did the same so rip to me thinking i was being original lol.

The snake and butterflies are my way of replicating his use of animals while trying to not directly copy any animals that have a connection to himself or his culture/religion.

The beta fish is just to reference the ever present fishies in his art. I know he uses them because they represent friendship for him and they are the only animals safe from the evil eye (thanks for the fun fact) so I uh... I don't really know if this was disrespectful or not to be honest but I tried to use a different type of fish, idk this might still be slightly problematic and again I'm always ready to delete this if it makes anyone uncomfortable.

The waves are a direct copy of how he draws the gorgeous waves in his art, another case of something I fear may be crossing the line because the waves are drawn in the style of cultural jewelry 😭

The tiny flowers are an obvious reference to his own tiny flowers that decorate his art and characters.

The skull with the candles is heavily inspired by a specific drawing of his.

The cutouts are my way of paying my respects to my absolute favourite piece of art he's done without directly copying its concept because as far as I can tell, it is a very personal and emotional piece.

The mold style is a reference to his mold man (I forgot his name I'm sorry).

And the candles are another repeated motif in his art as well as the pillars and the pant style.

And ouf I sure do talk alot don't I? I just really love the amount of things I was able to cram into this piece and I haven't even mentioned everything😭😭 I will NOT be doing this again because I'm simply not as patient as he is and as proud as I am of the result, this was torture. I hope I didn't disrespect him, his art or his culture and I genuinely tried my best to be as respectful as possible but I might have some blind spots due to our experiences being so vastly different so again, please don't hesitate to inform me if you want this deleted!

[the-s1lly-corner]

Sorry to bother ya again, but my brain is literally on overdrive with this show and this clown who hws beckme my first kin and lives in my head rent free as she quietly sits there with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm blanket like she deserves, buuut

What if the gang found out the reader could abstract at will, including restricting it to certain parts of their body, ooor what if they found out you were a shapeshifter when you accidentally sneeze and turn into Wario or something

TADC cast x reader who can shapeshift!

i have returned from eating my silly dinner (sweet n sour chicken with rice!) it was very scrumptious i went ahead and did the shapeshifter idea since i feel that would be more fun to write (we can pretend they can still shift to mimic an abstracted body shhh) these ones are a little short i hope thats okay!

CAINE:

its not totally unheard of people getting unique abilities when they enter the digital world, its just not very common (this is a hc!), so when caine found out you could manipulate your appearance he wasn't all that surprised! i think he was more intrigued more than anything, because its not everyday you see something like that! he would be absolutely thrilled if you shifted into him; both from being amused of it and this man probably loves himself as much as someone can

will try to pop you if you mimic bubble, kind of feels bad for a second but your disguise was just so so convincing! say, were you by any chance an actor in your past life in the real world? you totally had him fooled!

POMNI:

pomni would be a little freaked out, especially if you just. suddenly sneezed and OH! now it looks like you're abstracting in front of everyone! first response is to run away before the transformation is complete, but when she notices no one else is freaking out (ragatha even blesses you!) shes more than a little confused

you offer to demonstrate your abilities to her, but she probably politely turns you down; she understands... for the most part... really its mostly just her trying to become used to the digital world as a whole

RAGATHA:

ragatha makes sure that you know that she thinks its cool; and as long as you're not morphing into a giant bug shes encouraging you to hone in on that cool power of yours! compliments whatever form you choose for the day

oh? you changed your hair color! she likes it, the new look is amazing on you! oh? you made yourself a little taller and gave yourself some new characteristics! points out nearly every detail shes noticed, no matter how small. ragatha pays attention, ragatha cares

JAX:

tries to drag you off to the dark side (ie being a menace to the others), whether or not you agree to be his partner in crime and 'use your power for evil' is fully up to you!

makes random requests to see just how far you can take your shapeshifting, usually listing off things at lightning speed to see if you can catch up.. if your shapeshifting takes a toll on you (like lets say it takes energy out of you) he might let up when he realizes how tired and pale you look all of a sudden.. at least for now

KINGER:

speedrunning to kinger for a moment before i forget this idea but imagine shapeshifting into him and hes just totally confused. leads to him making weird movements and you copying him (he thinks caine added a new mirror in the middle of the room for a solid minute before you break the illusion)

unless you have a set 'base form' hes going to keep thinking youre a new person if you drastically alter your appearance.. which, fair, since i think if you made yourself look unrecognizable, people would think youre a new person entirely. has probably introduced himself to you multiple times before realizing it was you

kinger gets a technical third bullet point but its not fluff. i just remembered the scene from steven universe where amethyst shapeshifts into rose in front of greg. but instead its kinger and instead of rose is queener/queenie. i hurt my own feelings. im gonna stew over this now

ZOOBLE:

honestly if you look just a mixmatched as them they would be into it and say you look cool. i had an idea that zooble has spare pieces and sometimes switches out their pieces for a new look, so imagine the two of you make matching looks or something, i think that would be cool

otherwise i dont think zooble would treat you any differently than if you were friends and couldnt shapeshift... though... i will admit, they think its funny when jax annoys you and change yourself in order to get him to back off. serves him right!

GANGLE

imagine she asks you to be a model for her art.. asking you to do different poses as well as different figures so she can better her craft. i absolutely love the idea of gangle being really into art, and this idea is just so cute to me

you have probably shapeshifted into her and pretended to be her when she needed someone to stand up for her... imagine how jarring it would be to see 'gangle' snap back at jax after he does something particularly mean

[fyodior]

⌕ pairing: alpha!gn!reader x omega!chuuya

⌕ warnings: piss, controlling reader (forces him to hold it all day), humiliation, handjob, slight dubcon, whiny chuuya, no pronouns used or anatomy described for reader; slightly ooc chuuya bc i needed to make him omega-y okay jeez MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED

⌕ word count: 1.9k

MORE A/B/O-TOBER HERE!

Chuuya was the sweetest omega you had ever met. Pliant, obedient, eager to please his alpha. He always did exactly as you said when you said it, and to his utmost ability. All he ever wanted was for his alpha to tell him that he did a good job and to shower him in affection. And of course, you had no problem with this. You would shower him in affection no matter what, but it was hard not to give in at least a little to his enthusiasm.

The funny thing was how stark of a contrast this behavior was to his outside persona. The Chuuya he presented as at work and in public. Within the Port Mafia, as a top executive, the only other people within the entire organization who even knew he was an omega were Kouyou and Mori. It was a requirement that Mori, as the boss, knew his secondary gender, and Chuuya trusted Kouyou. Instead, it was just assumed he was a beta.

Of course, there was quiet speculation amongst the lower ranking mafiosos, considering Chuuya’s short, skinny stature reminiscent of a typical omega, but no one dared voice their thoughts anywhere near the ruthless executive. 

But at home? It was like Chuuya was a completely different person. He was able to give in to his instinctual urges to act as the omega he was meant to be. The submissive, sweet omega who needed nothing more than for you to call him a good boy. It was exhausting, playing the part of a domineering head mafioso who spent his days either barking orders or neutralizing enemies himself. By the time he gets home, all the walls come down.

Chuuya loved having tasks. Things you’d ask him to do so that he felt worthy of your praise. Usually, it was very simple things - cooking a basic dinner, vacuuming the apartment, even something as basic as unloading the dishwasher if you knew he had had a long day at work. As soon as his goal was completed, he’d snuggle up next to you and damn near purr as he begged for your praise and touch. This Chuuya was utterly unrecognizable compared to his PM persona.

But sometimes, you really couldn’t help yourself. The urge to take advantage of his submissiveness wasn’t often, but when it bubbled to the surface, it was hard to ignore. Most of the time, when the desire presented itself, you pushed it out of your head. Chuuya, your adorable, sweet Chuuya, didn’t deserve to be exploited. Not in the way you desired. 

Though the most recent desire was strong. It was simple - you wanted to see Chuuya make a mess. Thoroughly humiliate himself. Cover himself in his own piss until he’s crying. The idea was too attractive to ignore.

“Chuuya, sweetheart?” you singsonged as you slid into the bathroom, wrapping your robe around you and perching on the counter. 

Your omega was getting ready for work, freshly emerged from the shower with a towel tucked around his waist and a toothbrush in his mouth. His ginger hair was wrapped up in another towel, sitting on top of his head waiting to be blow dried. 

At your presence, he immediately spits out the toothpaste in his mouth, all attention immediately on you. It’s fascinating, the spell you seem to have on him, even without releasing any pheromones. 

“You’re awake early,” he smiled, padding over to you to slot himself between your legs, throwing his arms around your neck. 

“I am,” you chuckled, resting your hands on his slim waist. “Because I love my omega.” Each word was punctuated with a kiss on his face, making Chuuya giggle and squirm. “But also… because I have a request for you.”

The omega’s eyes went wide at that. A task. “What is it?” His enthusiasm made you chuckle again.

“Well…” you stalled, running your fingers up and down his torso as you second guessed your decision. “I want you to… hold it.” His brow furrowed at that. “Huh?”

“Hold it,” you repeated yourself, gaining confidence. “Hold your pee, all day. Don’t use the bathroom once until you get home, okay?” 

The poor omega’s face contorted in anxiety and confusion. “You want me to… not pee? All day? Why?”

Your soft gaze steeled at his question. “You know not to question me, Chuuya. Do as I say.” 

His soft gasp of fear of disappointing you made your heart pang, but it was essential you consistently maintained your role as dominant alpha. “Okay,” he nods, “I… I will. I’ll hold it.”

Another smile broke out on your face again. “Perfect, baby. Now finish getting ready for work. Oh - and I’m trusting you, Chuu. Not to disobey me.” 

A dusty rose colored Chuuya’s cheeks as he averted his gaze. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good boy.”

-

Chuuya thought it would be a breeze. Just limit his liquid intake and keep himself busy, that’s all he had to do to keep the urge to pee at bay. The thought of seeing your face and how happy you’d be with him when he proudly revealed that he hadn’t used the bathroom once was more than enough to encourage him.

That was until he was unexpectedly thrusted into quite the physically grueling fight with a much larger group of gangsters than he had been prepared for, leaving him breathless and unable to keep himself from chugging water after. Surely he’d be fine…. 

An hour later and his bladder felt ready to burst. Looking down at his watch, he still had three hours before he could get home. Fuck.

‘I really gotta piss, can we please do this another day?’ He desperately found himself texting you. His heart thumped in his chest as he watched the chat bubble appear and disappear over and over. 

‘Chuuya.’ Was all you responded with. He knew what that meant. 

The drive home was painful, willing himself not to piss in his sleek luxury car, and by the time he made it inside your shared apartment, a hand was gripping his crotch as little involuntary groans slipped past his lips. 

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” you smirked, setting the book you were mindlessly flipping through on the coffee table and rising to greet your lover. Wanton eyes flicked down to see the shaking hand between the omega’s legs, biting your lip. “How are you feeling?”

Chuuya gulped. “You had your fun, can I please piss now?” 

You only laughed, setting a hand on his cheek. “Feisty now, are we? What happened to my sweet, gentle omega?” you goaded with a pout. “No need to be in such a rush, come sit with me.”

Chuuya was more than desperate to find refuge in the bathroom, but your mention of his secondary gender, how and who he’s supposed to be for you, had him crumbling. “S-sorry.”

The watery apology had you giggling. “C’mere, baby.” 

Doing his best to keep his thighs clenched as he followed you the short distance to the couch, he lowered himself slowly next to you. The desire to be a good boy for you, to do as you asked, was strongly rivaled by the overwhelming pressure in his bladder.

“How was work, hm?” you smiled, caressing the soft skin of his cheek. 

“Fine. It was fine.” His words are short and his tone is gravelly. The pressure is building, building, building, and his body is ready to give in at any point. “I really have to pee, honey.” Desperate eyes glanced towards the bathroom door, knowing he could easily make a dash for it, but you would be so disappointed. It of course doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and your excitement only grew.

“Well that’s no good baby,” you pouted, patting your lap. “C’mere, since you clearly had such a bad day, let your alpha make you feel better.” Knowing he’d likely resist, you released soft, musky hormones that always had your omega by the throat. And sure enough, without argument, Chuuya climbs into your lap. 

Back to your chest, you hugged Chuuya close, rocking him side to side. 

“ ‘m sorry you had a bad day at work, sweetheart,” you frowned. “Can I make you feel better?”

By letting me fucking piss, Chuuya thought to himself, but he dared not speak it aloud. Nonetheless, his full bladder quivered. This was miserable.

“ Yer already makin’ me feel so much better,” he chuckled halfheartedly, resting a shaky hand atop your own. The anxious pheromones emanating off him were a stark contrast to his words. You bit your lip.

“I really know what’ll make you feel better.” 

Deft hands circled around Chuuya’s slim waist to unbuckle his patent leather belt. Chuuya’s eyes went wide once he realized your goal.

“No, no, please no, it’s okay, y-you don’t have to, honey, it’s okay,” he groaned, shaky hands trying to push away your own. How disappointing.

“Chuuya.” No other words were needed to halt his desperate actions. 

The omega sat motionless in your lap, back to your chest, as you unzipped his dress pants and slithered a hand down his briefs. Little whines escaped him while he fought the urge to struggle. 

“Aww, this is exactly what my little omega needed to feel better, huh?” 

Despite his best efforts, his omega body couldn’t help but react to your alpha pheromones, cursing the way his cock twitched when you tugged it out of his briefs.

“Ngh- fuck,” he whined, wriggling in your lap. The urge to piss was blinding - he knew he couldn’t last much longer.

Especially not when you wrapped a warm, tight hand around his length, pumping it slowly but surely. It was only a matter of time, you knew.

“That’s right baby, give in,” you cooed, pressing gentle kisses to his neck.

Chuuya fought it, fought it hard - he groaned, moaned and whined, overtaken by the insatiable urge to relieve himself while you jerked him off.

It was taking longer than you wanted, though. You had figured the second you touched his small cock he’d be unraveling in your arms, but the omega was putting up a fight. 

“I said give in.” 

An especially hard tug gave you exactly what you wanted.

“Fuck, fuck no!” Chuuya gasped, a hand flying to the tip of his dick to halt the inevitable, but it was exactly that - inevitable. 

Hot liquid spurted out of his tip, spraying the floor and drenching his lap. The stream was steady and seemed to never end, a result of an entire day of holding it. 

Finally, finally you had gotten what you wanted, and your arousal was palpable. You continued to massage his twitching cock as his bladder emptied, prompting the omega to writhe and groan in your lap. 

“I’m sorry, fuck, ‘m so sorry,” Chuuya babbled while his body betrayed him, covering his face with his hands. He couldn’t handle the humiliation of watching himself piss everywhere. Finally, the stream petered out. 

Using your free hand, you tugged his hands away. “It’s okay, Chuu,” you reassured. “Look baby, look at what a mess you made. An absolute mess.”

It was true. A sizable puddle had gathered on the floor, the coffee table dripped, and his lap was a hot mess. Chuuya had no words. His face burned, and he wanted to puke from pure humiliation.

“Did such a good job for your alpha, Chuu. ‘m always here to make you feel better, yeah?”

[evilbihan]

A guide to writing Bi-Han

I've seen far too many fanfics/oneshots/headcanons and art pieces out there completely mischaraterizing Bi-Han to the point he becomes unrecognizable from who he is in canon. For fans who love Bi-Han as he is, it can be quite frustrating to see people misunderstand his character so much. This post is not meant to be criticism, but was rather made with the intention to sort out common misconceptions, educate and help creators of fanwork understand Bi-Han and his personality better.

RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS BROTHERS:

Bi-Han doesn't hate Tomáš. There's so much fanart out there depicting him as a bully or bad brother when that's as far from canon as it could be. You can read the in-depth analysis on their dynamic in the post I've linked, but to sum it up, Bi-Han had the option to pick any other Lin Kuei member to accompany him and Kuai Liang to the teahouse or the Ying fortress, but each time he picked Smoke. He could have chosen Sektor or Cyrax, both of which are more experienced and completely loyal to him, and yet he still chose Tomáš instead. He also appears worried when Smoke nearly dies after Nitara's attack. Yes, he snapped at Tomáš once, but siblings fight and say things to each other that are often uncalled for. The relationship between them cannot be meassured by one line that was said out of anger or the intro dialogues that are set after their falling out. According to Smoke himself, Bi-Han was always cold towards him, but that only suggests they were never close, not that there was ever any hostility between them or that Bi-Han was ever harsh/cruel towards him in the past. Tomáš also tries to reunite the brothers and doesn't want Bi-Han to be his enemy, even if he's disappointed in Bi-Han's actions. He even admits he used to look up to him. Some artworks, however, aim to make it look like Bi-Han is oh so mean to poor, sad Tomas, when that's a blatant mischaraterization of both of them, simultanously babying Tomas, a grown man, and demonizing Bi-Han, a tragic and traumatized character.

Kuai Liang and Bi-Han used to be close. Kuai Liang knew about Bi-Han's frustrations, Bi-Han knows all of Kuai Liang's weaknesses, they trust each other enough to rely on each other in combat and both feel equally betrayed by the other because of the close brotherly bond they once shared and because of the trust that existed between them. Kuai Liang was Bi-Han's second in command, Bi-Han respected him. He's never once seen belittling or insulting Kuai Liang, not even after they're no longer on good terms with each other. By the time the story of MK1 starts, Bi-Han has already reached the peak of his frustration, which explains why he snaps at his brothers so often, especially when their father is brought up, but at no time was Bi-Han ever abusive towards Kuai Liang or Tomas. He seems to have put a lot of trust in both his brothers and in return, they trusted him too. If Bi-Han had ever been a violent person with little love and care for his family, Kuai Liang and Tomas wouldn't have been so shocked at the revelation that he let their father die.

There was always a side of Bi-Han that cared about his brothers and his choices indicate that he still does. Apart from the most obvious evidence for this, the scene where he checks on both of them to make sure they're unharmed, there are also other subtle clues that he cares about Kuai Liang and Tomas. In his chapter, Bi-Han is the one who fights off all threats (Nitara, Ermac...) while also giving the easier and less dangerous task of staying outside to Smoke, the least experienced one of the brothers, as he goes to capture Quan Chi himself with the help of Kuai Liang. While he says he wants Kuai Liang dead in some intros, his actions contradict his words. He had the chance to kill Kuai Liang at the Ying Fortress, but chose to spare him. SPOILERS: The leaks for the dlc claim that Bi-Han will be trying to capture his brothers alive. He seems to have no interest in actually harming either of them, just in making sure they can't get in the way of his plans.

PERSONALITY:

Oftentimes, fanfics portray Bi-Han as this hot-headed guy with anger issues who is only capable of one emotion and it's rage. But Bi-Han's anger is not his most defining trait. There are so many more layers to his personality. Just because the story mode only showed us situations in which his anger is triggered doesn't mean that's all there is to him. He's not the kind of person to go around yelling at everyone he sees and getting angry out of nowhere. I also don't see Bi-Han cursing/cussing or insulting others. As grandmaster, Bi-Han represents the Lin Kuei and he's expected to act a certain way. @inflamedrosenkranz wrote a genius analysis on how out of character it would be for Bi-Han to curse and I strongly recommend reading it in addition to this post.

Bi-Han is not a mysogynist. This is something I see all too frequently in reader insert fanfics where Bi-Han is written as someone who doesn't take his s/o seriously or looks down at them because they're a woman. Meanwhile, Bi-Han shows nothing but respect and admiration for strong women. He seems to have looked up to his mother much more than to his father and just listen to his intros with Sindel or Kitana. He admires Sindel for her leadership and even encourages Kitana to take Outworld's throne. He also wouldn't have taken in Frost as his apprentice and wouldn't have allowed Cyrax into the Lin Kuei if he thought women weren't fit to be Lin Kuei warriors.

I know this will disappoint a lot of headcanon writers, but Bi-Han would never degrade/insult or otherwise humiliate his partner, be it through words or actions, especially not during intimate moments shared between them. His significant other directly represents him and his clan. He would not tolerate any sort of disrespect towards them, let alone disrespect them himself. If his partner were to ask him to degrade them, that would be an instant dealbreaker for Bi-Han. He would expect any potential partner to show the self-respect and dignity befitting of their role as the grandmaster's significant other.

I often see drunk!Bi-Han headcanons, but honestly, it would be out of character for Bi-Han to drink alcohol. First of all, he absolutely wouldn't be able to see the appeal of it and secondly, he would hate the way it makes him feel. I imagine he likes being in control of his own body, he likes knowing that he can rely on his reflexes should he need them and alcohol would practically render them useless. As grandmaster of his clan he needs to be an example for all the other Lin Kuei. He would also not want to take the risk of overinduldging and embarrassing himself in a drunken stupor.

People like to write Bi-Han as a grumpy and overly serious guy who can't crack a joke to save himself, but they forget he makes ice puns. Ice puns. Bi-Han definitely has a sense of humor. I just don't think he gets to show anyone that side of himself often.

Bi-Han is a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Yes, siding with Shang Tsung was a bad choice, but it was one he made out of dispair and his frustration played into it as well, clouding his judgement. The way Bi-Han tries to assess his opponents' weaknesses shows his strategic mind. He let himself be fooled once, but he's also young and still has a lot to learn as grandmaster. It's not a sign of him lacking intelligence, like some people claim.

GOALS:

While he's ambitious and wants to acquire power to some extent, Bi-Han is not the power-hungry and selfish character he's often wrongly depicted as. His intentions lie far beyond that and are much more noble. Bi-Han craves independence and freedom for the Lin Kuei. He wants his clan to get the respect and recognition they rightfully deserve after protecting Earthrealm for so many generations. He doesn't want to conquer all of Earthrealm and he has no interest in ruling other realms either. What he wants is a small portion of Earthrealm because he's convinced that the Lin Kuei deserve it. He wants a reward for all their years of loyalty and duty, not to become a tyrant.

To conclude this, I appreciate writers and artists who do their research before writing/drawing a character and I hope this analysis can be helpful to those unsure of how to correctly write Bi-Han.

If I can think of more examples to add to the list, I will make a part 2 of this post.

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

More headcanons of the Nimona trio being domestic dorks

Whenever the trio gets sick of each other they’ll ask the person in the trio they’re not pissed at to handle them

It always goes something like this “Ambrosius come get your kid they won’t leave me alone-“ “No Nemesis come get your husband he’s being a stick in the mud”

Or “Bal go get your son from prison he got arrested again” “Oh so he’s my son today?” “Yes when he’s stupid enough to get caught he’s your son” 

If you're wondering why Nimona doesn't just escape its cause they find it hilarious when Bal has to come to bail them out at random points in the day

There are also times when they’re proud or happy and they’ll say things like “I’m gonna go get my daughter ice cream” “Since when is she just your daughter?” “Since right now when she helped me fix my prosthetic” 

“Hey boss where’s my Nemesis I heard he got in a fight today” “I thought he was my Nemesis” “Not when he puts three guys in the hospital he’s not” 

Bal is one of those people who sees something and says “Why would I buy that when I can just make it” AND HE DOES

Nimona has a bad habit of fucking up speakers so Bal just set up a sound system throughout the house 

If the trio weren’t such antisocial losers with three friends combined their parties would be amazing

He made Ambrosius a skincare cabinet just so he could put actual medicine in the medicine cabinet 

When Nimona moved in he asked them what their ideal room would look like 

She gave him a rough draft and he did all of it

They spend a week tearing that room apart so they could soundproof it so she could rock out without disturbing the boys

She has sick ass LED lights and she’ll change the colors depending on her mood 

Ambrosius and Bal helped her paint the walls the most obnoxious shade of neon pink And then they didn’t complain when she spray painted over said walls 

It’s worth it to see her visibly relax when she enters her room

This man has gutted and put back together and rearranged their little house so many times it’s unrecognizable 

I also feel like everyone in the trio is a crafty bitch

They all have a million little hobbies that have produced even more trinkets that fill up their whole house 

Their house is this weird combination of comfy yet chaotic and it's a minimalists nightmare 

Cleaning is also a nightmare but they wouldn't change it for anything 

Back when they were in the institute Ambrosius was a terrible cook -♾️/10 his cooking would put people in the hospital 

After the knighting ceremony was the first time he was living by himself and didn’t have access to free food so he taught himself how to cook

Honestly most people would think he would give up

I mean there are only so many times you set water on fire before you throw in the towel

But he's a stubborn brat and cooking took his mind off of everything so he stuck with it

One day Bal came home to the smell of cooking and he assumed it was Nimona 

He swears to this day he had a heart attack when he saw Ambrosius in front of the stove and Nimona comfortably sitting at the dinner table not helping at all

He promptly dragged Nimona out of there like a bomb just went off and warned him not to touch Ambrosius’ food

He told Bal “The more you call it a biohazard the more I want to eat it” 

So Bal used him like a test dummy 

When Nimona finally did try it they turned to Bal and complained that he lied 

Bal thought he was being pranked until he was forced by Nimona to try the food 

And it was good 

More than good I was fucking amazing 

He asked Ambrosius quite frankly “Who are you and what have you done with my husband” 

Ambrosius just rolled his eyes and told him to eat the food

Bal never gave up on finding out how and slowly but surely he started asking like a normal person

And Ambrosius never answered like a normal person

His answers would range from “A chef never reveals his secrets” (“that’s a magician love” “just zip it and eat your food”) to “I’m never telling you so suffer and finish this meal I lovingly cooked” (“is it still considered love if you knew I was gonna suffer?” “Yes” “…. Makes sense”)

[etaleah]

I’ve been thinking a lot about Shadow’s characterizations in the Project: Shadow fan film, SA2, Archie, Heroes, ‘06, Prime, and Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog and why they’re all considered among the best. And I’ve been thinking about his characterizations in IDW and Boom, how they’re considered among the worst, and how much they clash with the other portrayals. I think I’ve hit upon the number one quality that Shadow needs to have to be written well.

Loyalty.

I’ll explain below the cut.

The best Shadow is one who is loyal to someone or something. Maybe he’s not always loyal to the right someone or something, but he is loyal nonetheless. It’s a core part of his character. He is ride or die to the very end for whatever friend or cause he cares about. Shadow is always ready to kill or be killed for whatever or whoever matters to him most; it’s what sets him apart from the others. The others have limits on their loyalty. Sonic will help you out, but he’s not gonna kill a man for you. Shadow will. He doesn’t have that limit. If you are Shadow’s friend and you need him to kill for you, he will do it. Period.

Here’s a recap of Shadow’s loyalty:

In SA2 and the fan film, it’s to Maria, and to a lesser extent, Gerald.

In Heroes and ‘06, it’s to Team Dark.

In Archie, it’s to Team Dark, Hope Kintobor, and Commander Tower. Sometimes it’s even to his own values like when he goes against Rouge to help Blaze in Treasure Team Tango.

In Sonic X, it’s to Maria and later Molly. Maybe even to the universe, given that he’s ready to kill Cosmo to save it.

In Prime, it’s to Green Hill. And later on, Shadow is also loyal to Sonic despite the latter driving him crazy.

In Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog, it’s to Amy.

And in his own game, Shadow can be loyal to Maria, Sonic and friends, Eggman (up to a point), Black Doom, or even Earth itself. Not all of those folks are worth his loyalty, but the fact is that Shadow still cares about fighting by their side. That key element of his personality remains.

And that’s what’s missing in Boom and IDW. Because in those, he isn’t loyal to anything. He isn’t ride or die for anyone. At least, not that we can tell. When you remove Shadow’s faithfulness to those he loves, you remove a lot of what makes him who he is and all that’s left is an edgy aesthetic that soon wears out its welcome because there isn’t anything to supplement it. And this is made worse by the fact that they’re never allowed to bring up or expand his backstory, so they can’t ever talk about why he’s like this.

I guess you could make the argument that Shadow is loyal to the world in IDW since he helps save it a few times, but he’s so mean and heartless to everyone in the world that it feels less like he’s fighting to protect other people and more like he’s just trying to save his own house so he still has a place to live. I mean, if he won’t help Rouge when she’s been kidnapped by Starline and he won’t help Omega when the latter has been smashed to bits and he won’t help the Chao get out of their cage and he actually has to be talked into saving a village from an avalanche and he seems to really dislike/be annoyed by everyone he comes into contact with…what exactly is he saving the Earth for?? It can’t be for the people living in it. He hates them. He doesn’t care if they need his help. So the only conclusion I can draw is that he’s just doing it to save his own skin. The only person Shadow shows even the slightest bit of loyalty to is himself.

And that makes him unrecognizable from the Shadow we know and love.

His loyalty is his greatest virtue, even when it’s misguided. Let him keep it.

[keresnotceres]

You, With the Watercolor Eyes

Ghost x Civilian!Reader (gn / undescribed)

[sfw] cw(s): heavy angst, mentions of ghost’s backstory, mentioned/implied self harm, disordered eating (aka ghost’s really bad habits).

1.3k words. not proofread. wrote this in, like, an hour.

While on deployment, Ghost has a recurring nightmare -- you’ve fallen out of love with him. The thought pervaded him for weeks, it wrecks him to a point his teammate notices a change in his demeanor, and he’s fallen into his old habits.

When he first woke up, he didn’t recognize the room he was in. Simon tensed under the thin sheet on top of him, hands twitching at his sides as if reaching for his pistol. Finally, he took into account the jacket hanging on the far end of his bedpost.

He remembered that he is Ghost. Simon does not exist here. And yet, Ghost felt his chest tighten as he recalled the dream that plagued him prior.

It was of you, his charming lover, untouched by the terrors of war and bloodshed. But not just your regular self, you were distant, callous. Something had caused you to change, something he didn’t know, something you wouldn’t tell him. He remembered trying to ask you what was wrong, and you only ignored him. It reminded him, briefly, of his father.

It wasn’t until a man with a blurry, unrecognizable face stepped into the room. If he squinted, Ghost could make out a gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead. When you made your way to the man, you fell into his arms, pressed up against him like he was a lifeboat and you were drowning.

“I don’t want you anymore.”

It was your voice, the voice that whispered “I love you“ in the night. The voice that muttered and screamed his name.

“I don’t love you.” Maybe it had been, “I never loved you;” Ghost couldn’t quite recall. Either way, they conveyed the same message: you weren’t in love with him anymore. You were leaving him for another man, one who could be with you, one who could say just how much he loved you all the time.

He couldn’t utter a word to you as you faded from his view, leaving him alone in an imitation of the living room in your home.

The next several days, Ghost felt more removed from himself than usual. The thought of you, the person he would rip the world apart for, the person who gave him something to live for, leaving him stayed with him. It haunted him.

Memories of his childhood surfaced, the thought of your relationship breaking down into what his parents had ripped into his head. When he was alone, Ghost would toss his gloves to the side just to feel his fingernails dig into his palms to try and feel a different pain. Soon enough, it evolved to drawing blood.

Ghost found himself skipping over meals to busy himself with other tasks, the hunger pains providing him with some sort of distraction from the gnawing hurt that the thought of not having you brought. Deep down, he knew that if you knew what he was doing to himself, you would plea him to stop. But the nightmare kept coming back, and so did the need to feel a different pain, and Ghost couldn’t stop.

Weeks later, the nightmares finally let him be. But the thought of you leaving clung to him like a wet shirt.

Ghost’s eyes glazed over the crowd of recruits in front of him, lingering on a few of the most competent-looking ones before he dismissed them. He watched inanimately as they dispersed, several clumping together to form a smaller, condensed group of friends. Others left on their own, likely to go find their own friends.

Ghost found that the others found him, more often then not it was Soap who came barging into his office to talk idly. It hadn’t happened in a few days, Ghost had taken advantage of not having a distraction to bury himself in paperwork, pushing away all the thoughts of you that clouded his mind.

He left the training area of the outside, making his way to his office. It had become some sort of hellish safe-haven. Ghost could slip away for a few minutes and Simon could claw his way forward.

There were very few times he thought of you normally, without the splotchy pain that came from his nightmares. Ghost found a difficult peace in the thoughts of you untainted by his unconscious, he’d caught himself reaching out to nothing as if you were there with him. It was then that the marred version of your relationship returned to him, you weren’t there because you left. You didn’t love him any more; how could you love a man like him?

While he thudded through the hallways, Ghost was unaware of an uncharacteristically silent Soap by his side. It wasn’t until he swung open his office door several minutes later and was stopped from slamming it shut by Soap grabbing it.

Soap frowned at him, stepping forward to push Ghost into his office without touching him at all. Ghost stepped back, disgust tearing at his throat at the thought of physical contact.

The two stood at a standstill, eyes locked, until Ghost was irked enough by the presence of something other than his own thoughts to turn on his heel and stalk over to his desk. He looked back at Soap, the action a silent question of ‘what the hell do you want.’

Soap frowned deeper and shut the door behind him. he crossed his arms over his chest and rocked forward a bit, stopping when he came to decision. “You’re actin’ wrong.”

Ghost’s eyes bored into Soap’s, unfeeling. “Pardon?”

Soap’s eyebrows set, his gaze hard. “Don’t act dumb. Actin’ more heartless than usual.”

Ghost set a hand on the desk, leaning his weight on it. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant.” His eyes strayed to the papers that littered the desk, organization thrown to the wind.

“Bullshit.” Ghost’s eyes flicked to Soap, a tide of irritation crashing in them. “Tell me.” Soap took a step closer, a look of determination clashing with Ghost’s displeasure.

“Got nothing to tell you.”

“You have quite a lot to tell me, Lt.” Soap stepped closer again, his hands thrown to his sides, one balling into a fist.

“Johnny,” Ghost started, an obvious anger in his voice. “Lay off it”“ Soap glared at Ghost, and with all the exasperation and concern he could mange through a fit of anger, he retaliated.

“Simon,” the same vigor Ghost has used present in his voice. “What the fuck happened to you?” The way Soap spat out the words make it seem more like a statement; Ghost almost saw his father in front of him.

Ghost looked at him, defeated, tired. “Nightmares.” Soap looked utterly unconvinced and Ghost could do nothing but cede to the look on Soap's face. Ghost choked back the urge to conceal his personal life, internally clawing at his chest to stop talking. “My partner.”

It took two words for Soap's demeanor to change entirely. In the next moment, he's suddenly John MacTavish, the military personality is thrown to the side. Ghost considers doing the same, if only for a few seconds of comfort.

“I'm sorry, Lt.” Ghost half expected Soap to say something else, to call him an idiot. “Was it bad? Did they...” Soap trailed off, not wanting to say what they both know he was thinking.

Ghost shook his head, “no. Left for someone else, left nothing behind.” Soap grimaced, his hand raised up slightly, but fell down.

“It wasn't real.” Soap offered his best solace, and it made Ghost scoff a laugh out.

“Sure felt like it.”

“They love you,” Soap's voice was oddly serious, “I know it.” Ghost peered up at Soap, searching his face for a hint of falsity. “You could call, check in. Sure they'd love to hear from you.”

Ghost's mouth twitched, not that Soap could see.

“I'll do it, even.” He offered, a twist of compassion seeped through his words. “But I'll talk about how you've been skipping meals. How you stay long past clock to do paperwork.”

“You will not,’ Ghost sounded almost like his normal self, and Soap smiled at him a bit wickedly.

“Then you better call before I do.”

[redladydeath]

Okay, so ever since Prototype Vox was discovered, I've been slowly putting together this backstory for him, and it's gotten... uh... long. Every section of this post was written at a different time, so you can track the development of this story as it goes on. Just wanted to share it again with the new additions included.

Alastor goes to speak with another overlord, trying to decide whether or not he should kill them. While there, he notices that said overlord has the most fascinating little toy/pet/jester. Such novel technology… he thinks he’ll take it, whether the overlord wants him to or not!

Alastor keeps Vox around because he’s cute and entertaining. As time passes, a legitimate friendship starts to form as Alastor realizes that Vox is far more than meets the eye— tricksy, devious, and intelligent. He learns that before he arrived in Hell, Vox was a handsome, well-respected adult man, and he isn’t too keen on constantly being mistaken for a child and treated like a joke by other sinners. A pity he has to live like that… but it’s not like there’s anything to be done for it! And Alastor must say, he’s fond of his little picture box the way he is.

With Alastor’s guidance, Vox slowly accumulates knowledge and resources and discovers that he can modify his body. He jumps on the opportunity at once— he doesn’t want to live like this anymore, and he’ll do anything to be respected (or at least taken seriously) by other people again. Alastor disapproves but holds his tongue.

Time passes, and Vox changes more and more things about himself until he’s almost unrecognizable. He and Alastor get into arguments about it. It’s galling to Vox that Alastor keeps insisting he was better off in a form he hated. Mix all this with the modernity and “morality”/standards stuff, and you eventually get Vox and Alastor falling out.

Years later, Vox hates that he was ever that weak and can’t stand being reminded of Alastor, their old relationship, or his early life in Hell. He works hard to destroy/bury any traces of who he used to be, but Alastor is a walking, eternal reminder of the past he’d rather forget. Alastor is loathe to admit it, but he still misses his old friend. Sometimes, he wonders if he ever truly knew him at all.

---

Freshly fallen Vox seeking out an overlord’s protection because, holy shit, if he tries to survive on the streets any longer, he’s gonna get killed, or worse. Most sinners get asked if they can do anything useful when they go to an overlord; Vox gets asked if he can sing, dance, and do comedy routines. He can, so he’s quickly scooped up by the overlord. He supposes he should be grateful that he was able to score a comfortable job doing something not terribly unpleasant, but the dehumanization of being treated like a doll or an adorable purse dog grates on him. He remembers who he really is (or used to be) and would do anything to be seen as a man again rather than a novelty.

---

Imagine feeling so utterly desexed by your body, finding someone you think you can trust to respect you, confessing that you’re in love with them, and they laugh in your face for thinking such a thing was even remotely possible. Alastor doesn’t do a great job clarifying that he’s disinterested in a relationship out of personal preference rather than because he doesn’t respect Vox, and Vox walks away from the encounter seething, believing that Alastor never saw him as anything more than a pet or a clown.

---

Man, this would especially suck for my hc version of Vox, who used to be a small-time Vaudevillian when he was a child. Like. Yaaaayyy, time to dance around and act cutesy for people who have complete power over you… again…… when you’re pushing forty…………

---

Vox was REALLY starting to feel like he'd made an irreversible mistake before Alastor came into his life. He'd been in the employ of his overlord for four years, and he could count the number of times he'd been allowed to leave their compound on two (four-fingered) hands. They weren't cruel to him per se, but they really did seem to see him as a pet– something to trail after them all day, do tricks on demand, and show off to colleagues at parties. Any plans he had for carving out a dignified, powerful life for himself were going up in smoke. He knew a lot of things from constantly overhearing conversations about the overlord's business, but he didn't have anyone to trade that information to because of his restricted mobility. He understood that he had some pretty unique powers, but he'd never gotten the chance to use them in combat, only to perform. It was becoming clear to Vox that the only way he was going to escape this doltish, embarrassing life was if someone killed his overlord (something he couldn't do himself due to the deal they struck).

And then the Radio Demon came walking through the door.

---

Vox really has no idea what Alastor's deal is when they first meet. Like. He kidnaps him but also says Vox can leave whenever he wants. But like. where is he supposed to go??? Alastor just killed his overlord, which, yeah, Vox wanted to happen, but now he's homeless and isn't sure how to proceed. Is it safe to stay with Alastor, or is he just going to kill him next?

Vox keeps up the "silly little cartoon" persona for a while because Alastor seems to find it amusing, but things gradually slip through the cracks. He's scared Alastor will abandon or kill him if he grows bored or dissatisfied with him, but... Alastor seems to like the real him? He actually lets him speak freely and talk about whatever he wants? He uses his tech powers to turn off the in-built censors that keep Vox from swearing?? When he realizes that Vox is actually really cunning, he wants to hear his feedback on things??? Sure, he still kinda talks down to him, but Alastor's like that with everyone. This... maybe this could be more than just trading one master for another.

---

Random thoughts about Vox’s overlord

She was enamored with him from the first moment she saw him. He was just so precious! And he was willing to do anything to receive her protection!

Her industry had nothing to do with entertainment; she took Vox in purely to be her own personal jester.

Not sure if she owned his soul or just had a deal with him to give him a safe place to live in exchange for his services.

Loved treating him like a doll. Would dress him in cute, oversized outfits, carry him around in her arms, and occasionally bring him to bed and cuddle him like some sort of plushie.

There were occasions, especially towards the beginning, when Vox would snap at her or reveal elements of his real personality. Those incidents would only lead to her doubling down on the demeaning treatment. She’d experienced mistreatment at the hands of men like him when she was alive and saw asserting her power over him as cathartic and karmic.

Usually brought him with her everywhere, but would sometimes leave him locked in her office/room by himself if she had something important scheduled. Vox had initially thought he could leave or at least walk around when she didn’t need him, but no. Besides, why would he want to leave? The streets of Hell were no place for a tiny, fragile thing like him!

Vox fucking hated her and was glad to see Alastor bash her brains in and feature her on his show.

---

Mainverse Vox died by being electrocuted by an ungrounded mic at work right before they went live. This Vox died by being electrocuted while trying to fix the family TV. His kids had been begging him to at least try to fix it since the repairman couldn’t come until the next day, and they didn’t want to miss their favorite cartoon. He was feeling indulgent that day and felt that, as the man of the house, he should be able to fix things without always calling someone else to do it for him. It didn’t end well.

---

Thinking about Vox and Alastor’s first encounter.

Alastor might have seen Vox before at an overlord event, being shown off by his boss or performing for her friends. He may have seen him for the first time when he walked into Vox’s overlord’s office and saw her toying with him. Either way, Alastor was immediately intrigued. He hadn’t seen many sinners like Vox, with his screen head and cartoony body, and could instantly tell he was a highly skilled performer. His eyes followed him, even as Vox’s overlord put him aside and ordered him to get her and Alastor drinks. Vox could tell Alastor was watching him but wasn’t sure what to do about it. It’s probably not a good sign when the infamous Radio Demon is eying you like you’re his next meal.

Eventually, the overlord noticed that Alastor was not paying full attention to their conversation and was preoccupied with Vox. The topic briefly switched to him before Alastor inquired if she’d be willing to bargain for him. Vox was horrified. The overlord attempted to politely decline; she couldn’t bear to part with her precious little poppet. He was hers, and it would be cruel to separate them— they adored each other so much, after all. Alastor just smiled blithely and clarified: he wasn’t asking.

All hell broke loose in an instant. One moment, Vox was observing a conversation between his boss and her colleague; the next, the office was crawling with shadows, and his overlord was pinned to the wall, impaled on a tentacle. Vox panicked and tried to flee, but there was no escaping that room. There are two options for what happens next: either Vox is seized by Alastor and teleported out of the building, or Vox’s boss screams at him to help her, only for him to glance between her and Alastor and fix her with an icy stare.

No matter what happened, the outcome was the same: Vox found himself teleported onto the streets of Hell with Alastor looming over him. He frantically attempted to talk Alastor out of killing him, but Al just laughed jovially and told Vox that he had no intention of harming him. Vox was free to leave whenever he wanted, but Alastor would like to see just how entertaining he truly was.

---

As they're walking, Alastor notices a weird clicking sound coming from Vox. He asks what it is, and Vox awkwardly explains that he's wearing tap shoes and starts trying to take them off as he walks. Alastor is amused and tells him not to bother. He'd love to see him dance sometime.

---

Val: Baby? What were things like before you met me? Vox: Awesome. I had- I had women all over me, they just couldn’t get enough. Everyone was always dying to see my shows. I was voted the hottest person in Hell. It was great. Vox’s actual early career in Hell:

---

Thinking about one of the times Vox “mouthed off” to his overlord. He may be a performer, but there’s only so long he can stay in character, especially when said character is so undignified. He refused to play along with one of her little games and snapped at her that he was a man, not a fucking show dog.

Next thing Vox knew, he was nearly blinded by pain as his boss twisted his antenna almost to its breaking point. Her voice sickeningly sweet, she told him she knew exactly what kind of man he had been— Earth’s crawling with them. But those days are over now. Respect has to be earned in Hell; it’s not just going to be handed to him like when he was alive. The afterlife has made him a joke, and the sooner he accepts that the happier he'll be. That’s what he signed up for when they made their little arrangement, after all. She asked if she was understood and kept twisting his antenna until she got a loud-and-clear “Yes, ma’am” out of him. With that, she snapped back to normal and either cheerfully ushered him towards [whatever she was forcing him to do] or dismissed him in her typical patronizing manner.

Vox broke half the items in his room that night in a rage. He tried to leave gouges on his skin and dents in his head, but he couldn’t manage it, what with his stupid, soft little hands.

---

It doesn’t really fit with my headcanon that Alastor was super white-passing when he was alive and spent most of his life pretending to be white in order to have more opportunities, but I feel like he may have felt a kinship with Proto-Vox due to them both being “outsiders”— people who are/were constantly dismissed by those in power and have to work twice as hard in order to be taken seriously, even though they’re more skilled and competent than everyone else in the room. And so it hurt all the more when Vox leapt at the first opportunity to change who he was in order to join the class of people who had once looked down on him. It didn’t fully click with Alastor that Vox wasn’t always like this– that he was trying to return to who he once was rather than abandoning who he’d always been.

---

Vox wasn’t exactly doing himself any favors in terms of connecting with the other sinners who worked under his overlord. He was so desperate to reestablish at least some control over his situation that, on the rare occasion he got to interact with people without his boss looming over them, he was insufferable, acting as though his position as their overlord's constant companion made him superior to regular employees. It never actually made him feel any better though, since most people either just rolled their eyes or testily reminded him that his oh-so-important job was to make a fool of himself all day and be doted on by his "owner."

---

To most outside observers, it really looked as though the relationship between Vox and his overlord was genuinely loving. She was just so affectionate with him. There was never a moment when she wasn’t tittering away at his jokes, or playing with his antennas or plug tail, or scooping him up into her arms or lap, or hugging or tickling or cuddling him, or covering him in kisses, or coming up with adorable pet names, or showing him off to others as though he were the rarest gem she’d ever come across. No one ever seemed to notice that Vox was never the one to initiate these kind of interactions. Depending on who you asked, it was either the most adoring master-servant arrangement Hell had ever seen, a (possibly biological?) mother-son dynamic, or just an INCREDIBLY kinky relationship. Vox played his part well, laughing along and hardly ever letting the smiling mask slip. No one ever could’ve guessed just how much he loathed her and the entire humiliating situation or how cruel she could be whenever he dared drop the act.

Well, no one except Alastor, that is.

---

Imo, Proto Vox would just sound like normal Vox slightly pitched up, but man, Hell giving him a lisp or some other "funny" way of speaking on top of everything else would be such a gut punch for him. His good looks and his charismatic manner of speech were key to his success when he was alive, and now both of those lifelines have been severed.

---

Personal, headcanon-specific thoughts:

Proto Vox’s outfit is very similar to a costume he wore during his childhood on Vaudeville.

Alternate option: While I hc that sinners spawn naked, if they don’t, then Vox spawned in the exact 1920s sailor suit he used to wear during most of his childhood performances.

His Hell form is a punishment not only because it robs him of all dignity, but because it’s a constant reminder of a part of his life when he had no power over his situation and was treated like an object meant only to entertain.

---

Thinking about how Alastor’s “a smile is a means of maintaining control” philosophy might strike a chord with Proto Vox. When he was alive (and later, in his career as an overlord), putting on a smile was a way for him to project the person he wanted others to perceive him as. If he looked the part, then people would believe he was the confident, steady, trustworthy man he presented as. After he arrived in Hell, though, a smile became a mask he could not take off. Hell had chosen a role for him, and if he failed to play it well enough, he risked permanent death or worse. He resented having to keep that mindless grin on his face at all times. This wasn’t who he wanted to be. This wasn’t who he was. The idea that he could use that iron mask to regain control over his life was foreign to him, but it made sense. Now that he was no longer chained to a master who kept him locked into that hated role at all times, he had a choice in how he wanted to use it— for day-to-day survival or to further his true ambitions?

---

Vox and Alastor’s first encounter was at an overlord party like something out of a Regency romance, except Vox was three feet tall and didn’t notice Alastor was watching him because he was too busy performing for his boss’ overlord friends. Alastor appreciated the skill on display in Vox’s routine and was intrigued by the unusual way his “owner” treated him. Sure, some overlords treat those under them as pets, but she was so overly cutesy and “loving” with him that it stood out, especially given the way Vox feigned reciprocation. Interesting.

---

A scene/story idea: Vox is sitting at a desk in a grand, spacious office. It’s late, and he’s just killing time, wishing he had a cigar (and a mouth to smoke it with) and occasionally scribbling down notes for future reference. The stationary he’s using has the date printed at the top, though. It’s his daughter’s tenth birthday. He reflects on how it’s been three years since he last saw her and the rest of his family and how he’ll likely never see them again. He hopes his wife is throwing her an appropriately extravagant party, at least. They’d gone all-out for their son’s tenth birthday; half the neighborhood was there, even one or two of the ladies from work who had blown him in exchange for putting in a good word with the producers. It was a great time.

And then his boss comes walking in, complaining about what a stressful day she’s had, and the illusion that this is Vox’s office shatters. He hops down to the floor, taking his dance/comedy routine notes with him. His boss is busy getting herself a drink, so he hopes she didn’t notice him sitting in her chair. He starts trying to engage her in conversation, switching to his work persona (cheerful, cutesy, and childish). She did notice him, but she just smiles indulgently and says he always knows just what to do to cheer her up— he looked so silly sitting at her big, important desk. Now, she needs a bit of comfort; they’ll be going to bed now. She scoops Vox up as easily as if he were a doll and carries him off to serve as her (very angular) teddy bear. Vox keeps the adoring smile plastered on his face and tries to put aside the burning shame and rage that this is what the afterlife has reduced him to: a child, a pet, a toy meant to entertain those who wield the actual power.

---

You know, come to think of it, there’s actually some basis to Alastor feeling a bit of a kinship with Vox. Aside from the obvious shared trait of them both being communications/entertainment demons, Alastor’s demonic form is a prey animal. Al never had to deal with the consequences of having that kind of form since he spawned so powerful (unless we’re going with the theory that he made his mystery deal right when he got to Hell and draws the majority of his power from it (which would be pretty interesting in this context…)), but still.

---

Made Vox's room in the Sims

---

Vox tried to walk out of his job once. His boss pushed him too far, and he snapped, yelling at her to find someone else to play this fucked up game with; he’d rather take his chances on the streets. Next thing he knew, he was bound, muted, and blindfolded, being crammed into a tiny suitcase. His overlord told him to reflect on what he’d said. There’s no life after second death, only nothingness. Is that really a risk he wants to take?

Vox was in “storage” for the next week. He didn’t try to leave again after that.

---

When Vox’s boss finally decided he’d had enough time to reflect, she opened the trunk to find Vox barely able to move under his own power. He was trembling like a freezing cat, having spent seven whole days bound in the fetal position, unable to move, speak, hear, or see. He couldn’t even unfurl himself from said position without her help. When she took him into her arms, he clung to her, any thoughts of hate or anger gone, replaced with a desperate desire for human connection after a week of nothingness. She cradled him in her arms— sweet as a lamb and without a shred of that odious pride she’d been working so hard to stamp out of him. Whispering kind, soothing words, she stroked his shaking, silent body as she carried him back to her bedroom. She dozed off with him in her arms, secure in the knowledge that her darling little doll had learned his lesson: being her toy is a privilege, and the only possible alternative for him is oblivion.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox and body dysmorphia

Vox hated everything about his body.

He hated being so small, not even half the size of most other sinners.

He hated his face, cute and goofy-looking. He hated his “missing tooth,” which only added to his childish appearance.

He hated his head, oversized and heavy. He hated how clumsy it made him before he became accustomed to it.

He hated not having a physical mouth and being unable to eat.

He hated his voice, higher pitched than it had been when he was alive. He hated the childish-sounding lisp he had been afflicted with.

He hated how he couldn’t swear or talk about adult topics without his voice being drowned out by an in-built censor.

He hated his body and its strange combination of wood and metal, both of which bent in ways that shouldn’t’ve been possible.

He hated his hands, soft and rounded and nailless.

He hated how he had spawned without genitals, completely smooth and sexless, like a doll.

He hated how no one perceived him as anything even remotely resembling a sexual being, even though he was a fully grown man who had once had his pick of beautiful women when he was alive.

He hated how he weighed almost nothing, making him easy for others to pick up or restrain.

He hated the way nothing in Hell was built to accommodate sinners his size, forcing him to climb (or be lifted onto) things as simple as chairs.

He hated the way his boss made him dress: in baggy outfits that made his smallness even more apparent, in children’s clothes, in silly, oh-so adorable costumes. He especially hated when she insisted on dressing him herself as though he were her doll.

He hated how often people mistook him for a child or deliberately talked down to him as though he was stupid just because of his ridiculous body.

He hated how people laughed at him and how he had no choice but to make them laugh in order to keep himself alive.

He hated how, in one fell swoop, Hell had robbed him of everything that had made him him. His good looks, his charisma, his respectability— everything. Never in a million years would he have anticipated that this would be his punishment for his misdeeds on Earth, for looking down on others and treating them like objects to be pushed around, but he had to admit, it was a pretty potent punishment nonetheless. And he would do anything to escape it.

---

Vox’s boss was kind of massively projecting her own resentments and trauma onto him. She didn’t actually know that much about him. It was pure luck that her impression of him as an arrogant chauvinist who had treated the people in his life poorly was… you know… accurate.

---

Vox realized that he had a voyeurism kink the third time his boss had sex with someone while he was still in the room. Probably not the outcome she intended, but it wasn’t like Vox could do anything about it anyway. He still felt sexual desire, but he’d spawned in Hell without genitals so that energy had nowhere to go. Just another lovely part of Vox’s Wonderful Afterlife.

---

Most sinners are horrified when they see their new forms for the first time. Vox was just devastated.

He was horrified when he first woke up, of course– transported to a strange new place, surrounded by giant monsters, and barely able to keep from swaying under the weight of his oversized head. No one paid him or his panic any mind save for a few smirks and chuckles. Vox found himself pressed up against a wall, out of the way of the flow of pedestrians, trying to process what was going on. Once he realized something was wrong with his body, he ducked into a nearby store, desperate to find a mirror (and get away from the crowds of fellow sinners). The store clerk let him in; they weren’t supposed to let newlydead into the shop since they usually just cause a scene, but Vox looked harmless, and they felt a little bad for such a tiny, fearful sinner. Vox made a beeline for the nearest mirror.

When his reflection finally came into view, Vox… he was lost for words. Seeing his childlike proportions, it finally registered that the world hadn’t gotten bigger; he’d gotten smaller. His body… there was something wrong with it. It was made of wood and metal like a puppet; only the materials seemed to bend like rubber. Worse than that, it was completely smooth and featureless; his genitals were simply gone. His hands were soft, rounded, and nailless, more like stuffed gloves than human hands. His head was encased— no, not encased, replaced with a television set that looked like it made up the majority of his body weight. Displayed on its screen was a face like something out of a cartoon: large, shiny, googly eyes, a wide mouth, and one conspicuously absent tooth. All topped off with a pair of floppy, overly long antennas that made him resemble some kind of insect.

Vox was speechless, staring at his new body. He felt tears bubbling up as he examined each part of it. He wasn’t sure how, but some part of him knew this wasn’t a dream and that this form would not be temporary. No tears fell though, trapped behind the glass of the— his screen. He couldn’t recall the moment of his death, but the realization of where he must be began to dawn on him. A soft, despairing sound escaped him, and Vox realized his voice, too, had been changed. He was not himself anymore, just this tiny, adorable thing, right out of one of the cartoons he’d been trying to repair the TV so his children could watch. A joke.

Suddenly, Vox felt someone grab him by the arm, dragging him away from the mirror, his feet barely brushing the floor. The owner had noticed a newlydead had snuck in and was having the prerequisite “What have I become?” freakout in their store. Carelessly, they shoved/threw Vox back onto the street and slammed the door behind them. Reeling, trying to wrap his mind around the gravity of the situation, Vox stumbled and collapsed on the sidewalk, surrounded by sinners who either stepped around him like he was nothing or paused for a moment to chuckle at the clumsy newlydead struggling to regain his balance under the weight of his massive head.

---

Vox's own shitty beliefs ended up being used against him during his early years in Hell.

In life, he'd treated his wife and son poorly because they complained about being unhappy with the way things were. Vox believed that if all your physical needs were met and you were able to live comfortably, you had no right to complain. He provided them with everything, and all he asked for in return was for them to be the happy, perfect wife and son he expected them to be. What was so hard about that?!

In death, the tables were turned. Vox was able to live comfortably in a safe environment, doing a job that most sinners would describe as incredibly cushy, but he was desperately unhappy. He was forced to play an inauthentic, demeaning role 24/7 and couldn't complain about it unless he wanted to be punished. Just sit there quietly and smile while the "grownups" are talking. No one wants to hear your silly little opinions. You should be grateful that you're even allowed to be here.

---

Words were Vox's boss' preferred weapon when it came to surreptitiously tormenting him, but she wasn't above using physical violence as a means of "discipline" either. Aside from the antenna and "storage" incidents, she'd occasionally employ "percussive maintenance" at the beginning of his time with her in response to breaks in character or sullen comments. Once or twice, she burnt him with cigarettes in response to particularly "bad" offenses.

---

Vox's boss would give him gifts sometimes. Little presents wrapped up all pretty with a bow. Sometimes, they were for special occasions, like the anniversary of his "coming to live with her"; sometimes, they were "rewards for good behavior." Vox would accept the presents graciously and then never open them, leaving them to collect dust in his room. There were a few occasions when she made him open them in front of her, though. Usually, they were just quaint little trinkets or clothes, but once, she gifted him a goldfish (or the Hellish equivalent) in a tiny bowl. It was the closest she'd gotten to something he'd actually want, yet it still felt like a veiled taunt. It didn't take long for the fish to die; its bowl was simply too small.

---

Vox does his absolute best to keep his past a secret from everyone, particularly Valentino. He knows on some level that it wouldn’t really change anything other than give Val and Vel something else to tease him about, but Vox’s ego is so fragile that he feels like he’d die if they found out. Unfortunately for him, Valentino is incredibly observant when he wants to be. He doesn’t know the specifics, but based on various little things from throughout the years and the pointed insults he’s heard Alastor throw at Vox, he can guess that Vox’s early days in Hell were... less than auspicious. However, he assumes Vox was just some corporate toady, and he would be just as shocked as anyone else to learn how Vox actually began his afterlife.

---

Playing with the idea that Vox’s boss hired him with no ulterior motives; she simply thought he was cute and would be an easy source of entertainment. However, as time went on and she got a better sense of what kind of person Vox was, she began deliberately tormenting him. The abuse and humiliation started off under the pretext that she was only doing it to “correct an attitude problem,” but it soon became clear that her real issue with Vox had nothing to do with his abilities as a performer.

---

It doesn’t really fit with the “lore” I’ve been putting together for this AU, but the idea of Vox trying to go in for various media/performance auditions and either being laughed out of them or told to look into less dignified roles is compelling to me. He looks and sounds so much like a goofy little child; why on Earth would anyone even consider him, especially when there are countless other sinners looking for work whose forms aren’t so distractingly cutesy?

I’ll be honest: Babydoll from Batman TAS is a significant influence on how I conceptualize Proto Vox.

---

Reminds me of @fakeannafromthebox's Caterpillar Val AU. Vox is so miserable. He wants to be back in his modified body NOW, but it's going to take a while for them to rebuild it. Val and Vel tease him about it at first... until they realize that Vox is genuinely really hurt by it. He never wanted them to see him like this.

The denizens of Hell are confused as to why Vox is suddenly on a month-long hiatus when he's literally never taken a break from the media before.

---

Been considering whether it should just be happenstance that brings Vox and Alastor together or if Vox should hit his breaking point, go behind his boss' back, and send Alastor a false message in her name, hoping that it will provoke him into killing her.

---

Had a mental image today of Vox sitting in on one of his boss’ conversations with a colleague, as per usual. He’s bored and miserable until the two overlords start discussing the Radio Demon. Vox has heard stories— might’ve even caught one or two of Alastor’s broadcasts— but he’s never heard him discussed like an actual person rather than an urban legend. Vox’s boss starts shittalking Alastor, and Vox suddenly gets an idea. He begins secretly recording her, capturing all her private complaints about him on tape. Vox is terrified of what she might do if she discovered what he was doing, but at this point, he's so good at masking his true emotions that she doesn’t even notice anything is off. Vox held onto that recording until he gained access to a communications device. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the ways this plan could go wrong and result in his permanent death, but… he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. He couldn’t bear to stay here any longer.

Alastor figured out it was Vox who sent him that message a couple years into their friendship, but he didn’t hold it against him. In fact, he was impressed with Vox’s determination, taking his fate back into his hands regardless of the risks. He eventually told Vox so himself when the topic came up years later.

---

Vox once made the mistake of snapping that he was not a child at one of his boss’ colleagues who had been talking about him like he was too stupid to understand what they were saying. Honestly, the momentary shock on the colleague’s face was not worth the ensuing, agonizing conversation where his boss muted him, apologized to the other overlord, then prompted them to try to guess his real age, and took far too much pleasure in explaining to them that despite Vox’s appearance, he was actually 41.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox sitting in on his boss' overlord meetings like the Egg Bois in episode 3. Most of the time, his boss would hold him in her lap like a doll, but sometimes, she'd leave him sitting on the ground until the meeting ended. He wished he had a way to put the information he was “eavesdropping” on to good use, but he wasn't allowed to leave the stupid compound without being accompanied by his boss.

---

One particularly dehumanizing experience Vox remembers far more vividly than he would like was the first time his overlord stripped him naked without his consent so she could redress him in a new outfit she’d picked out. This became a semi-frequent occurrence, but it never stopped making his skin crawl. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to someone like him, and yet here he was, robbed not only of the freedom to choose his own clothes but even to dress himself if his boss so willed it.

Even over half a century later, Vox still needs to be coaxed and convinced by Valentino to surrender control during sex. He has no intention of ever telling Val why having someone else undress him puts him on edge.

---

cw sexual assault

The first time Vox’s overlord stripped him naked was also when she discovered that he had no genitals. Of course, she couldn’t let that fact go uncommented on and groped between his legs to confirm, cooing all the while about how perfect Vox was. Vox didn’t even have time to dissociate during the experience; it all happened so fast. Before he had time to process what happened, he was already being redressed in whatever stupid outfit she’d picked out for him that time. The dissociation came later.

In hindsight, Vox thinks it’s sort of darkly funny how he felt as though he’d been sexually assaulted despite not having any sex organs at the time. It’s really not.

---

Thank you!!!

Yeah, Vox is extremely uncomfortable with thinking of himself as a victim. It's easier to just compartmentalize the experience and tell himself that of course he wasn't sexually assaulted– sex wasn't even involved!

At the time, he had no idea how to feel about it. Before he even had time to process the event, he was expected to just move on with the day like nothing happened. Vox wished he could've just forgotten about it– it only lasted for a few seconds, it "didn't count" because he didn't have any genitals to grope, and, in his successful-white-1950s-man brain, groping wasn't even that bad anyway– but the feeling of violation lingered, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss it or distract himself. He eventually managed to push those feelings away, but the memory will still pop up on occasion and he'll have to convince himself all over again that it wasn't any different than all the other times his boss manhandled him.

---

Oh, I'm glad you liked the post!

Yeah, I can see Alastor giving that roach speech to Vox when he's trying to convince him to stop modifying himself. Vox is just like "You think I'm a bug???" He never noticed; he was too focused on the cartoon/TV thing. Message not received.

Alastor probably has weird feelings about the way Vox's old boss treated him. On one hand, it's kind of funny, and Alastor's clearly not opposed to treating people like pets, given his later relationship with Husk. On the other... he feels a weird sort of kinship with Vox in so many regards, and his relationship with his overlord... [leak discussion] it's uncomfortably similar to Alastor's with his contract holder– tricked into a bad deal, treated with condescension, and forced to pretend to adore them in public [end leak discussion]. Alastor likes the idea of helping Vox gain power and rise above his station, but not him changing himself in order to accomplish that goal– he sees too much of himself in Vox to stand that.

Vox doing ad reads/voiceovers for Alastor's show is a great idea. Perfect way to get back into the industry without opening himself up to mockery; plus, he's got a wonderful voice. Would also give him another reason to hate radio once he and Al split: audio-only work will always be a reminder of a time when he couldn't bear to be seen.

---

Might incorporate how long it’s taking me to come up with a name for Vox’s boss by making it so he’s only allowed to call her “Ma’am”/“Madam”/“Miss” instead of her actual sinner name.

---

Thoughts on Proto Vox in the RAM verse

Proto Vox thoughts that heavily feature my OCs

---

Once he finally gained the ability to project a functioning mouth onto his screen, Vox got himself into some… interesting situations trying to keep up with Alastor whenever they went out for drinks. He didn’t care that he was half Alastor’s size; he’s drinking just as much as he is! Maybe even more!!

Those were some of the funniest nights Alastor had (and still has) ever experienced.

---

Thinking about Vox, dead for a week or so, with cracks in his screen and dressed only in a button-up shirt he'd stripped off a corpse double his size, pitching himself to his soon-to-be overlord and trying not to come across as desperate as he truly was. The streets of Hell aren't kind to anyone, but especially not to defenseless-looking, newly arrived sinners with body parts that could potentially be resold. In his short time in Hell, Vox had already had multiple people try to strip him for parts and had only escaped them by the skin of his teeth. He'd barely been able to sleep since he arrived, constantly on guard for more attackers. He looked a fucking wreck, but that only added to his charm, in his boss' opinion. He looked like a starving Victorian orphan trying to give a serious business pitch– so cute!

---

Vox wishes he could feel comfortable in his bedroom at the compound. Being in there means he’s away from his overlord— that he can finally drop the act and just breathe. It’s a nice room, too, especially compared to the living quarters of most other employees. Vox feels as though the privacy and comfort should be enough. But… it isn’t really his room, is it?

His overlord chose the decor: soft and twee and old-fashioned. She can start pounding on the door, ordering him to come out and join her at any moment. The fact she’s too tall to fit in the room is small comfort. It feels like living in a dollhouse; there’s the illusion of privacy, but one wall is missing, allowing the owner to move things around or snatch up the doll inside at a moment’s notice.

---

Honestly, Vox's boss definitely got her "money's" worth out of Vox. He wasn't lying about being a multi-talented performer; he had a wide array of skills.

He had extensive training and experience with dance and comedy (although he was 25 years out of practice) from his childhood on Vaudeville. He was a consummate singer, good at improv, and familiar with a handful of instruments, particularly the piano. He could act fairly well (although he was always more convincing when he came up with stuff on the spot) and had even become a perfect mimic due to his demonic form.

Vox's overlord couldn't have asked for a better entertainer, and she counted herself lucky that he just happened to wander into her building one day looking for work– she didn't even need to place an ad!

Vox was proud of his various skills– he sure as hell hadn't spent years working himself to the bone to hone them for nothing, after all– but he missed being the host rather than the entertainment. He hadn't had to perform like this since he was a child/teen, and it was just as exhausting as he remembered.

[unclewaynemunson]

Pt2 to this post is here 🤗 | AO3 link

When Eddie stumbles out of his room the next day, still half asleep and purposefully headed towards the coffee machine, he notices a crumpled piece of paper on the table. He frowns when he sees it's the note he tossed in the trash a day earlier. It's folded open again, and there's a mysterious, slightly gross looking stain on it, but the number is still clearly readable.

He takes a good few seconds to stare at the digits, written neatly with a blue ballpoint, as if the guy was doing his very best to make sure that none of the numbers would be unreadable. He can't believe that Wayne is invested enough in this to get the note out of the trash for Eddie, even though Eddie already made more than clear how utterly uninterested he is in this Steve person. He shrugs, crumples the note back up again, and tosses it back into the trash.

It goes on like that for a while: every time Eddie wakes up or gets back home, the number is staring at him from the table, only to be crumpled in Eddie's fist again and again and again. Neither Wayne nor Eddie say anything about it; it becomes a tacid game of who can be the most stubborn, and they both know that both of them can keep that up for a very long time. Eddie knows he could just tear it up, or burn it, or poetically bury it at the base of a tree at the edge of the woods outside the trailer. But something's stopping him. It isn't the guy, or even the idea of the guy – he's sure as hell that this Steve wouldn't be for him at all. No, it's the memory of the look on Wayne's face after he gave Eddie the number, all excited and proud of himself. It's the knowledge of how immensely lucky he is to have an uncle like that, who supports him and loves him exactly the way he is, even actively wants him to be happy with another man. It's the flash of disappointment that crossed Wayne's face that first time Eddie made a whole show of throwing the note away. That's the reason he eventually, after almost a whole week of moving the note from trashcan to table and back again, finds himself standing at the phone with the piece of paper in his hand. The note has become truly disgusting by now, with all kinds of unrecognizable smudges on it, but thanks to Steve's clear handwriting, Eddie can still read all the digits.

It doesn't take long before 'Steve Harrington' picks up the horn on the other side.

'Hey, um, this is Eddie,' Eddie says, suddenly feeling awkward about the whole thing and wondering if he should've thought through what he was about to say to Steve. 'You met my uncle at a baseball game, last weekend?'

'Oh!' Steve sounds surprised. 'Eddie! Yeah, yes I did – Wayne, right?'

'Hmhm.'

'I didn't really expect a call anymore, to be honest,' Steve says.

'Yeah, sorry 'bout that,' says Eddie. 'Listen, to be honest, I'm not calling because I actually think this is gonna be something. From what I heard – not to sound like a dick or anything, I'm sure you're perfectly nice and all that – you just, totally don't sound like my type, you know? But my uncle won't drop it, and it'd probably make my life a whole lot easier if I could just prove to him that not every random queer guy he meets is a good match for me, so... Do you wanna meet up for coffee sometime? We can establish what a terrible match we are, I'll pay for your drinks, and then we can move on with our lives without any gnawing guilt or “what if”s playing around in our minds, and we'll never have to think about each other again. How does that sound?'

'Um...' There's a pause of a couple of seconds on the other side of the line, then a small sigh. 'I guess the free coffee sounds good?' It sounds more like a question than a statement, and suddenly, Eddie feels a bit stupid about the whole thing.

'I'm sorry,' he blurts out. 'I totally get it if it's not really what you expected of this. You met my uncle, and I know he's pretty awesome, and, like, wildly attractive and stuff, but if you expect me to be like him – that's not at all what I'm like, you know. So it'll probably be good for both of us to get that out of the way. To establish that we are not at all attracted to each other and happily move on.'

'Yeah, yeah, sure,' says Steve. 'Sounds good. I can't wait to find out what a terrible match you are for me.'

Eddie is relieved to hear the guy softly chuckling. 

Pt3 Seriously the response to this silly lil AU has been sooo lovely, thank all of you so much for your kind words and hilarious tags, it made my day 🥹 Altogether the whole thing will probably get to +/-7 parts, so if you feel like that’s a bit much to keep following, please don’t feel awkward about telling me you’d like to be removed from the taglist, I don't wanna spam anyone!

Taglist: @phantypurple @love-kurdt @eddiemunsonswife @mackdaddyofheimlichcountyy @swimmingbirdrunningrock @paintsplatteredandimperfect @stevesbipanic @momotonescreaming @yourebuckingkiddingme @th3-r4t-k1ng @messrs-weasley @moonshadows-13 @im-sam-fucking-winchester @xjessicafaithx @yournowheregirl @henderdads @lwhoscribbles @courtjestermunson @steveisabicon

[lividstar]

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Eleven: You Wonder why I’m Bitter

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masterpost

៚ wc: 8.2k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ Alone and aching for the connection that once felt so natural, you reluctantly turn to an unlikely companion: Pompidou, who listens to you pour out all the longing you’ve fought so hard to bury. While you grapple with the emptiness left by Hongjoong’s sudden withdrawal, he, too, finds himself lost, wrestling with the very feelings he’s tried to deny. Haunted by memories and choices he can’t quite reconcile, Hongjoong is caught between the familiarity of the past and the confusing reality of the present.

a/n: was supposed to upload this on the 27th cause that’s my birthday but i just can’t wait any longer 😅 keep an eye out for the littlest of details because nothing is as it seems in this chapter :P lmk what you guys think!

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

First of all, I hate myself. Second of all, I hate myself. Oh, and did I already mention that I hate myself? I just don’t know what to do anymore! It feels like it’s been a whole decade ever since I last picked up a pen to scribble on this godforsaken journal… I wish I could just go back to the time I was writing the page behind the one I’m writing on right now and just cancel my flight to Paris. This is all so frustrating, you know? Fashion Week is nearing, and I am not prepared at all—no, not even a little. I’m supposed to be spending my hours inside the studio practicing runway walks and testing out facial expressions, but no! I’m way too afraid of crossing paths with Hongjoong to even think about the consequences of not taking my preparations seriously! And speaking of Hongjoong…

He’s driving me to the edge of my sanity. I don’t know what’s going on with him—okay, scratch that, I definitely do. I just don’t get why he’s acting so avoidant all of a sudden… I mean, like, okay, I would understand his unprovoked need for distance between us if we actually kissed that night, but we didn’t. The farthest step we were able to take was just him holding onto the sides of my face and me looking at his lips like I’m a starved dog looking at its first meal of the day before Wooyoung fortunately interrupted us—so why is he acting up?

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. Seriously, what’s his problem? He made me accustomed to his usual sweet and caring persona, and all of a sudden, he wants to act like this? What have I done wrong? Wasn’t it literally him who initiated the… whatever I’m supposed to call what happened that night?

I’m just concerned, you know. It’s been two weeks, and yet he’s still avoiding me like I’m the plague. I haven’t been receiving any messages from him at all lately, either. Even Madame Dupont is asking me why she no longer sees the “small young handsome boy” waiting for me outside the apartment building while leaning against his car. Wooyoung’s been trying to persuade me into confirming his theory that Hongjoong and I are going through a lovers’ quarrel for three days now, too. And guess who’s the most troubled of them all? Seonghwa. He’s been doing his best to put us back into speaking terms for a while now, and I don’t know why—I swear I didn’t ask him to do that.

Everyone is worried. Everyone but him.

You know, this brings me back to that unrecognizable faceless guy I see in some of my blurry flashbacks. I remember him asking me how long I’ve been bottling up my emotions, and when I told him I’ve been doing so for pretty much my entire life, he told me to consider writing in a journal.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

I just noticed that it’s been a while since I last wrote a journal entry, and… it’s been a while since I last let my emotions unravel. I remember the words that came out of his mouth that day.

“When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You know what, in a way, I think he and Hongjoong actually have something in common. I know I can’t say much because I only have one memory of this guy, but he spoke with as much wisdom as Hongjoong does. Also… “let yourself get lost in your own world.” That’s honestly the most Hongjoong-ish advice someone could ever give, given how he himself gets lost in his own world of artistry, too.

I just wish he’d stop ignoring me. I can’t help but feel like this is all somehow my fault… Am I just hurting myself by expecting things to suddenly go back to the way they used to be?

As you closed your journal with a weary sigh, your eyes drifted to the dim glow of your bedside clock reading 2:37 a.m. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic, yet you felt far from at peace. It was a night for sleep, yet your mind wouldn’t quiet; thoughts of Hongjoong twisted and turned within you, refusing to settle.

“Why does it feel like this?” you murmured, pressing your palms into your face, as if that could somehow soothe the ache in your chest. You longed for comfort, for answers, even for a brief respite from the confusion that had become your constant companion. “If only that faceless guy could telepathically whisper some words of wisdom to me right now…”

Two weeks had passed since you last shared any words with Hongjoong—two weeks where every glance, every passing moment, felt laced with an unspoken tension that only deepened the rift between you. It was all becoming painfully real, the shift so clear to everyone around you. But no one knew the truth—the moment you almost kissed, the silent proximity that had left you dizzy and wondering. Even Seonghwa, in his genuine concern, couldn’t know the pang of vulnerability that had filled that night, the fear and excitement mingling as you’d come closer than ever before.

Your mind flashed back to the other day when the ache of his absence had been sharpest. You passed by him in a hallway, hoping for a flicker of his usual warmth, his soft gaze that once reassured you of your place in his world. But he’d brushed past with such indifference—not even nodding to acknowledge your presence, a chill in his demeanor that left you hollow. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with a rising sense of loss.

Without thinking, you picked up your phone and opened your gallery. Photos of Hongjoong filled your screen, and your eyes drift over candid snapshots—some of you and Hongjoong working late in the studio, others of him laughing or looking thoughtful, moments caught by your camera that now feel like glimpses into another lifetime. There’s a picture of him outside your apartment building, waving you goodbye one evening. Another shot of him hunched over his desk in concentration, unaware that you’d snapped the photo from across the room. Then, there’s a particularly precious one of the two of you, taken in his office—which was likely Wooyoung’s doing.

As you scroll, an ache blossoms within you, spreading in slow, insistent waves that make your chest feel tight. You can feel the sting of tears welling up in your eyes, and it catches you off guard. Why now? Why does he, of all people, have this power over you? You swipe at the tears, frustrated by the sudden swell of emotion. It’s not supposed to be like this, you tell yourself. Hongjoong is supposed to be your friend, your mentor, the one person in Paris who helped you find your footing when everything felt foreign. But as the images blur beneath the glisten of unshed tears, you can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone whose warmth once felt like home, and whose absence now feels like a loss you’re not ready to face.

The soft scratching at your window pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. For a moment, you freeze, glancing back at the phone you’d just placed on your desk. Carefully, you grab your journal—a flimsy defense, maybe, but it’s better than nothing. Heart pounding just slightly, you step forward, inching closer to the window.

When you peek over, you’re met with a familiar sight: Pompidou, the resident stray cat who had made the apartment building his kingdom, sits with one paw pressed to the glass, his usual unamused expression aimed your way.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders as you let out a soft laugh. Setting your journal on the bed, you reach over to open the window, letting him slip inside with practiced ease. He slinks past you with the air of someone who owns the place and makes himself right at home, hopping onto your bed and circling until he’s claimed his spot in the center.

You sit beside him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur. It’s strange how much you missed him. For the past few weeks, your room felt emptier without his occasional visits—without that extra little creature who just… understood you, in a way. And now, with Hongjoong’s absence haunting you, Pompidou couldn’t have come at a better time.

The thought hits you harder than you expect: here you are, at your lowest, relying on a cat for comfort simply because the one person you’re used to confiding in has become distant, almost like a stranger. The ache in your chest intensifies, and before you know it, you’re lying down next to him, resting your head on the bed and gazing at his calm, indifferent eyes. It feels silly, pathetic even, to be speaking your heart to a cat, but in this silence, with no one else to turn to, you let yourself unravel.

“Pompidou,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady, “I… I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine, wasn’t it?” Your fingers tremble as they thread through his fur, a warmth grounding you in the midst of your unraveling. “I don’t know how we ended up here. He’s always been there for me, and now… it’s like he’s vanished. And I’m trying, I really am, but every time I reach out, it’s like he’s miles away.”

A sharp breath catches in your throat, and you look up at the ceiling, fighting against the tears stinging your eyes. “It’s probably all my fault,” you confess in a whisper that breaks. “Maybe I was too much, or maybe I should have… I don’t know, said something differently, done something better. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to eat dinner that night so that…” A bitter chuckle slips out as you squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s funny, you know. All my life, I’ve been terrified of being alone, of people walking out… and now here I am, trying to be okay with him pulling away like it’s nothing.”

Pompidou shifts slightly, his warm body pressing into your side, a small reminder that he’s there, and he’s not leaving. You let your hand drop to your chest, feeling the dull ache that’s settled there. “I just miss him, Pompidou. I miss the way he used to look at me like I mattered. Now, he can’t even look me in the eyes. And I don’t know why I’m clinging to that, why I’m hoping he’ll suddenly turn around and go back to being who he was.”

The silence swallows you for a moment. “Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the same pathetic teenager from Arcadia Bay who’s scared that she doesn’t deserve anything better. That she’s always going to be left behind, and this… this is just proof.” Your voice falters, words thick with pain you can no longer hold back. “And if he leaves, then maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better.

The pain is so sharp it almost feels physical, a hollow ache that makes every breath feel heavier than the last. You close your eyes, fighting against the helplessness clawing at your insides, but the words keep pouring out, jagged and raw, as though voicing them might lessen the weight—even if it’s only to a cat who can’t respond.

“Do you know what’s worse?” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will. “It’s that I can’t even be mad at him. I want to be—believe me, I’ve tried. I tell myself he’s the one pulling away, that he’s the one who’s changed, but then I start wondering… what if I pushed him to this? What if I’m the reason he’s slipping through my fingers?”

A soft tremor runs through your hands, and you curl them into fists, teeth gritted as you force the tears back. “I keep thinking… maybe he’s right to distance himself. Maybe there’s something broken in me, something that just drives people away. And the worst part is, I keep wishing he’d come back, like I’d somehow be enough if I could just—”

Your voice catches, breaking into a whisper as you bury your face in your hands, barely holding in the sob that threatens to spill out. “I just don’t understand. He was my safe place, Pompidou. For the first time in so long, I actually felt like I mattered. He made me feel seen. And now… now I feel invisible all over again, like everything we shared was just temporary, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Pompidou shifts closer, his soft purr rumbling beneath your fingertips as you stroke his fur, a small solace in the middle of this storm.

“I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I can go on without him,” you continue, voice cracking as the words spill out unchecked. “But the truth is, I’m terrified. I’m scared that if he leaves… if he’s really gone, I’ll be alone again, just like before. And I hate myself for feeling this way, for being so… so weak.”

The tears finally break free, slipping down your cheeks in a silent flood. “What does that say about me? That I’m so dependent on him, that I can’t even imagine my life without him? I thought I was stronger than this, that I’d learned how to stand on my own. But now… now it’s like I’m right back to that scared, lonely kid I used to be, clinging to anyone who shows me a hint of kindness.”

You pull your knees to your chest, holding yourself as tightly as you can, as if you could somehow shield yourself from the emptiness swallowing you whole. “I can’t stop thinking that maybe this is all I deserve. That maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe he’s finally seeing me for who I am, and he’s realizing I’m not worth it.”

Your shoulders shake as the sobs escape, quiet and raw, each one cutting through you like glass. Pompidou curls closer, his little face pressing against your arm, as though he understands in his own way. But his silent comfort only deepens the ache, a reminder that the person you need more than anything isn’t here, and you’re left holding yourself together with nothing but frayed threads of hope.

With a shuddering breath, you finally admit the fear you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. “What if he doesn’t come back, Pompidou? What if this is it? I don’t think… I don’t think I can handle losing him. Not like this.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, the words coming slow and soft as you gaze out the window, eyes unfocused. “I just… I miss him, Pompidou,” you murmur, fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets.

“I miss all the little things that made it feel like he was a part of me, like he was woven into my days without me even realizing it. I miss the way he’d send me random sketches, the ones that made no sense but made me laugh anyway, like he was letting me in on his little worlds. I miss… I miss how he’d always have this ridiculous drink order for me every time we’d meet up at the café where we switched up our notebooks with one another before we met for the first time. It’s like he knew exactly what I’d need, even if I didn’t.”

The memories wash over you, and you can’t stop the warmth from pooling in your chest as you picture those moments. “I wish we could go back to that time when things were… simple. When I could sit beside him without feeling like the whole world was shifting under my feet. When he’d laugh and look at me like I was… like I was something special, you know?”

Your voice trembles, and you tighten your grip on the sheets. “And the thing is… it was just easy with him. He’d be there, always making me feel like nothing could go wrong as long as we were together. He’d be there with his quiet, comforting presence, and I could just… be. I didn’t have to pretend or put on some mask. It was like he could see right through me, and somehow, he didn’t care about all the mess he found.”

You take a deep breath, the words spilling out like a plea. “I just want to go back, Pompidou. Back to before everything felt so fragile, before that almost-kiss, before this… this distance. I wish I could reach out and take it all back. I’d give anything just to have things feel normal again.”

Pompidou tilts his head, eyes blinking up at you, and you can’t help but laugh, a soft, broken sound that catches in your throat. “I know it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, how could I expect anything to be the same after that? But I can’t help it, Pompidou. I want to go back to when he’d smile at me like that, when I didn’t have to wonder if I was the one pushing him away.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of each memory anchor you down. “I miss his laugh. I miss his stupid jokes. I miss the way he’d lean closer when he talked about his dreams, his voice getting all serious like he could see every detail in his mind. And I miss… I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I belonged with him. I miss how he’d look at me with this warmth, like I was enough, just as I was.”

The words come out like a broken whisper, a confession you’ve been holding inside for far too long. “I can’t stop missing him. I wish… I wish I could go back to that last night before everything shifted. Before the night we nearly kissed, before I even realized what I felt. I wish I could’ve just stayed there, in that moment, without letting any of it change.”

You hug your knees, curling up as the ache settles deeper, heavier. “But I can’t. And now it’s as if I’m left with pieces of him in everything around me, and I don’t know how to put myself back together without him.”

You pull yourself up, exhaling slowly, and walk over to your desk. The room feels quiet, still heavy with everything you’ve let out, yet somehow emptier too, as if releasing the words has left you hollow. With a shaky hand, you pick up your phone and make your way back to bed, curling up beside Pompidou, who has already claimed his spot against your pillow. Settling into the blankets, you scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s icon.

It’s just his initials next to a simple photo he once sent—a candid moment he probably forgot about, something so ordinary that it’s precious now. The way he looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching: a slight smile, eyes softened by something he found funny, maybe even a bit endearing. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you let yourself scroll up, reading through old conversations like leafing through the pages of a treasured book.

Each message brings back flashes of shared laughter and late-night ramblings, little moments where time seemed to pause, and it was just the two of you—untouchable, safe. You linger on a message he sent on a rainy afternoon, a random joke he thought would cheer you up. Your lips curl into a faint smile, but it’s bittersweet. There was a time when it was so easy, so effortless, like breathing. He had a way of knowing exactly when you needed a reminder that he was there. But now, that comfort feels distant, unreachable.

A tear slips down your cheek again before you realize it, and you hastily swipe it away, but the sorrow wells up again, slipping past your guard. As if sensing your pain, Pompidou extends a soft paw, resting it gently below your eyes, and you feel his fur against your cheek, grounding you in a way that words can’t. His small gesture tugs a quiet, breathy laugh from you, despite the ache in your chest. It’s as if he’s trying to catch your sadness, pulling it away piece by piece, his wide eyes fixed on yours with an empathy you can almost feel.

You let your head fall, hugging Pompidou close, allowing yourself to finally surrender to the pain and let it wash over you without restraint. The loneliness, the longing, the hollow spaces Hongjoong’s absence has left in you—all of it spills out as you clutch the feline tightly, letting his warmth and steady breathing lull you into a fragile sense of comfort. The room seems to blur, softening around you as the weight of everything you’ve been holding back presses into you.

The tears come faster now, unstoppable, and your quiet sobs fill the silence, raw and unfiltered. It’s just you and Pompidou, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not truly alone. There, in the quiet solace of your room, you cling to that small comfort, letting yourself feel every ounce of longing, letting yourself miss him—fully, desperately, hopelessly.

—

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood in his office, the warm, nostalgic tones of “La Vie en Rose” playing softly from the record player behind him. His gaze fixed on the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. Each note lingered in the air, pulling him deeper into the web of memories he was desperately trying to forget. This song, of all songs—he could still remember how it had been playing when the two of you had stood together in the flower shop, laughing over bouquets and trading light-hearted jokes as if the world beyond didn’t exist.

Part of him knew he could walk over and turn it off. The music was his to control, after all. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The melody was the last fragile thread that kept him tethered to you, a reminder of the warmth he felt in your presence, the comfort of knowing someone understood him.

The dim light from the city outside cast a soft glow over his office, illuminating the expanse of papers scattered across his desk, the outlines of unfinished sketches and hastily scrawled notes, all reminders of the whirlwind he’d buried himself in since he started pushing you away. Each corner of the room felt saturated with memories of you—and it was strange how a space that had once felt so alive now seemed hollow, absent of the warmth you’d brought into it.

He tried to focus on the skyline again, his eyes tracing the glittering lights of the city. It was an attempt to ground himself, to pull himself back from the turmoil inside him. But tonight, every bit of stillness he attempted felt false, every piece of composure barely hanging by a thread. All he could think about was you—the absence of your presence filling every empty space in his mind, as if refusing to be silenced.

He turned slowly from the window, allowing his gaze to wander over his desk. It was almost impossible to remember the last time he’d felt fully at ease in this room. The stacks of designs that had once held so much promise now felt like hollow accomplishments, each one only reminding him of the fire you’d helped him ignite. His eyes landed on a small pendant lying amidst the clutter. The flower encased inside had faded slightly, its once-vibrant petals softened by time. He picked it up, cradling it carefully in his hand, feeling a strange tenderness rise within him.

You’d given him that flower, pressing it into his hand with a shy smile as you murmured something about it bringing him luck. He could still recall the way your fingers had lingered against his, the brief but electric touch that had left him wondering if you felt it too. “For good luck,” you’d said, your eyes sparkling in that way they always did when you felt especially close to him.

Hongjoong swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest as he held the pendant closer. How was it that something so small could carry the weight of so many memories? He closed his eyes, and the warmth of your smile flashed in his mind, as vivid as if you were standing beside him. But now, as he held the pendant, it felt heavier, like a tiny piece of the past he was terrified of losing forever.

In his mind, he slipped back to that night—the one that had started as an ordinary work session, yet had unraveled into something far more vulnerable. He could still feel the closeness of the room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows as you both worked side by side, immersed in the quiet moment you shared.

You’d shared things that night that were never meant to leave the room. He could still hear your voice, low and hesitant, as you revealed the fears you held closest to your heart. “Being left alone,” you’d admitted, your words raw and unguarded. The truth of it had lingered between you, a quiet vulnerability that had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

When you turned the question back on him, he’d hesitated, feeling the weight of his own guarded secrets pressing against his chest. But in that quiet space, under the gentle glow of the lamp, he’d found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. “Losing myself,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough for you to hear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Now, standing alone in his empty office, Hongjoong felt the irony of it all washing over him. He’d tried so hard to protect himself, to build walls so high that even you couldn’t reach them. But now, it felt as if he had developed a new fear bigger than losing himself—losing you.

A quiet knock on the door broke his reverie, and he tensed, slipping the pendant into his pocket as he turned. Wooyoung’s face appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Hongjoong standing alone, the haunting strains of La Vie en Rose still spinning softly from the record player across the room.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to the player, where the melody had been looping for what must have been the better part of an hour. “Still here?” he asked quietly, a hint of concern threading his tone.

Hongjoong forced a slight smile, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wooyoung stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Hongjoong. “You know…” Wooyoung began, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, “the world can see how miserable you are. Including her—especially her.”

Hongjoong stiffened, the forced nonchalance slipping from his face as he turned away, staring intently at the record player as if it held all the answers he was struggling to find. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.

“Hongjoong,” Wooyoung’s tone softened, a hint of exasperation breaking through. “I know you. I know how much you care about her. And I know you’re running from something you can’t outrun. But you’re not fooling anyone by pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with all the reasons he’d built to keep you at a distance. Each one felt logical, safe, a way to protect himself from something he couldn’t quite name. But here, with Wooyoung standing there, watching him with that steady gaze, he felt every layer he’d built start to unravel.

“I’m not pretending,” he said quietly, barely audible above the music.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning softer, almost pleading. “Then what are you doing, Hongjoong? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone too scared to reach for what he really wants.”

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, Wooyoung’s words hitting far too close to home. He felt the weight of everything he’d tried to suppress rising within him, a tidal wave of emotions he’d buried so deeply he’d convinced himself they were gone. But Wooyoung’s words had brought them to the surface, and now, there was no escaping them.

A silence stretched between them, and Hongjoong’s gaze fell to the floor. In that moment, he felt utterly vulnerable, as though Wooyoung could see right through him, could see the aching desire he’d tried so hard to deny. He didn’t have to say it—Wooyoung already knew.

Hongjoong’s fingers were still curled around the pendant in his pocket when Wooyoung let out a quiet sigh, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “So,” Wooyoung began, breaking the silence, “are you really going to stand here, pretending everything’s fine?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. He wanted to brush off Wooyoung’s words, to deflect with some casual response that would keep the carefully built walls intact. But his mind was a battlefield, each memory of you cutting through his defenses like a blade.

“Everything is fine,” he replied tersely. He didn’t meet Wooyoung’s eyes, focusing instead on a spot just beyond his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’ve been playing her favorite song on loop for the last hour. That’s why you’ve been holed up in here, avoiding anything that reminds you of her.” He shook his head, his tone equal parts exasperation and worry. “Hongjoong, you’re not fooling me. I know you, and I know you’re running from something—from someone.”

Hongjoong let out a low, frustrated sigh, finally looking up at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, just drop it, alright?” He forced a tense smile, attempting to sound dismissive. “This… whatever you think is going on, it’s all in your head. We were just friends.”

But Wooyoung didn’t budge. “Friends?” He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of disbelief. “You really want to go with that? Because the way you’re acting… it doesn’t look like you’re just missing a friend. You’re avoiding her like she’s a stranger, but then you’re here, playing her favorite song over and over, clutching onto that pendant like it’s the last piece of her you have.”

Hongjoong’s fingers instinctively tightened around the pendant, and he felt a pang of frustration rise within him. He didn’t want to admit that Wooyoung’s words struck too close to home. “I told you, it’s nothing like that,” he bit back, his tone sharper than intended. “You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his gaze not faltering. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a guy who’s desperately trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t even believe.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Hongjoong, you can’t keep lying to yourself.” Wooyoung’s tone softened, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to cut deeper than the words themselves. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know that you care about her. You’re not fooling anyone by pretending this distance is ‘better’ for either of you.”

Hongjoong’s patience began to fray, his frustration morphing into anger. He shot Wooyoung a glare, his voice rising. “It is better, Wooyoung. She… she deserves better. She doesn’t need to be pulled into whatever mess I am.” He paused, catching his breath, his anger mingling with something closer to desperation. “I’m not what’s best for her. And it’s better for the both of us if I keep my distance.”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening as he stepped closer, unwilling to let Hongjoong brush him off. “So, what? You think pushing her away, acting like she means nothing, is somehow good for her? You really think she’s better off without you?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, his tone final, but the conviction in his voice was starting to waver.

Wooyoung gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken truths. Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

The words hit Hongjoong like a slap, and a flash of anger surged within him, simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I’m doing this for her, so just… stop.”

But Wooyoung wouldn’t relent. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing this because you’re afraid. Afraid to admit how much she means to you. Afraid of what might happen if you actually let her in. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you think is keeping you from being with her… maybe it’s worth rethinking. Because if you keep running like this, you’re going to lose her. And then what?”

Hongjoong felt his control slipping, the carefully constructed barriers he’d built starting to crack under the weight of Wooyoung’s words. He clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “This isn’t about fear.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice softened, a hint of understanding breaking through the frustration. “Hongjoong… I get it. You’re scared of losing yourself. Of losing control. But she’s not the one who’s going to make that happen. You are, by doing this. By trying so hard to keep her out.”

Hongjoong stayed silent, his chest tightening as Wooyoung’s words began to sink in. He wanted to deny it, to push back with the same conviction he’d clung to for weeks, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in Wooyoung’s words.

Finally, Wooyoung let out a sigh, his tone softening even further. “Listen, man. I don’t know what almost happened, or why you’re so determined to stay away from her, but you have to ask yourself… is this really what you want?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to that night in your apartment—the feeling of your hand brushing his, the way your gaze had lingered on him, the unspoken tension that had nearly pulled him into something he couldn’t name. He’d wanted so badly to close that distance, to feel your lips against his, to let go of the fear and doubt that had held him back. But just as he’d leaned closer, Wooyoung’s call had snapped him out of the moment, bringing him crashing back to reality.

“Do you even understand how much she’s hurting, Hongjoong?” And there it was again—the harshness in Wooyoung’s tone. “Seonghwa told me she’s tearing herself apart over this. She doesn’t eat right anymore, and she barely even sleeps. She spends her nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where things went wrong, wondering if she’s the problem.”

The words landed like a punch to Hongjoong’s gut, leaving him breathless. Images of you flashed through his mind—moments when he’d caught glimpses of your smile faltering, your laughter quieting, the spark in your eyes dimming little by little. He’d told himself it was just his imagination, that you were fine. But Wooyoung’s words shattered that illusion entirely.

“She thinks she did something wrong, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung continued, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “She actually believes she’s the reason you’re running. Every time you disappear, every time you pull away, she thinks it’s because of something she did. And the worst part? She doesn’t even blame you. She blames herself.”

Hongjoong’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as guilt clawed at him.

“Seonghwa told me she asked him if she was too much. Can you believe that?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “She actually thinks she’s too much for you. That she’s somehow burdening you, dragging you down. She’s convinced herself that if she were just… less, maybe you wouldn’t be running.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, a wave of nausea rolling over him as he realized the full extent of the pain he’d caused. You—who had always been so vibrant, so unapologetically yourself—were now questioning every part of who you were, trying to shrink yourself down to avoid scaring him away.

“She’s not even angry at you, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice barely above a whisper now, each word a dagger aimed straight at Hongjoong’s heart. “She doesn’t hate you for this. She just… she thinks she’s not enough. Or that she’s too much. Either way, she’s convinced that she’s the problem.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He could feel the anchor of your pain weighing down on him; He’d done this to you—turned you into a shadow of yourself, left you grappling with doubts and insecurities that weren’t yours to bear.

“You’ve been so busy hiding behind your own fears,” Wooyoung continued, “that you haven’t even stopped to consider what this is doing to her. You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’re hurting her—over and over, every day, with every step you take away from her.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to justify this? How could he explain that he’d been running not to hurt you, but to protect himself? It sounded so selfish, so small in the face of everything you were going through.

“And you know what’s really twisted?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “She’d take you back in a heartbeat. Despite everything, she’d still look at you the same way she did before you started pushing her away. She’d still forgive you, still try to see the good in you, because that’s who she is. That’s how much she cares.”

Hongjoong felt something break inside him, a quiet, shattering realization that left him reeling. You would forgive him. He knew that. He could see it in his mind—the way you’d smile softly, the way your eyes would fill with understanding, even now. Even after everything, you’d welcome him back, arms open, heart exposed, waiting.

“She deserves better, Joong.” Wooyoung’s words were softer now, the anger replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her question her worth. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s somehow wrong just for being herself. And if you can’t be that for her… if you’re too wrapped up in your own fears to let her in… then you need to let her go.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him as he struggled to process it all. He didn’t want to let you go. He couldn’t. But the thought of holding onto you only to keep hurting you, to keep dragging you through his own tangled web of insecurities and fears—it was unbearable.

“She’s barely holding up. She hides it well, but Seonghwa can see it. He told me how she sits alone for hours, just staring off into space, like she’s lost something she can’t find. She keeps her phone close, hoping maybe, just maybe, you’ll reach out. But every time you don’t... it breaks her a little more.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully, each word slicing through him like a blade. He could see it so clearly now, every painful moment he’d forced you through. How you must’ve waited for messages that never came, must’ve spent countless nights wondering where things had gone wrong. The thought of you sitting there, lost in your own pain, while he’d been so focused on his own fears, was more than he could bear.

“And don’t think she hasn’t tried to talk to you.” Wooyoung’s voice turned sharp, accusatory. “Seonghwa told me how many times she’s wanted to reach out, just to make sure you’re okay, just to see if you’d give her even a scrap of reassurance. But every time, she stops herself. She doesn’t want to bother you, doesn’t want to seem needy. She’s holding back everything she feels because she’s afraid it’ll push you further away.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened slightly, but the fire of his conviction remained. “You need to understand, Hongjoong. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about her too. You’re hurting her, and if you don’t start realizing that, it’ll be too late. She’s going to break, and I don’t think she’ll come back from it.”

Hongjoong felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. The thought of you shattering into pieces because of his cowardice was unbearable. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He was only trying to shield himself from the fear of loss, the same fear that had haunted him since that girl from his past had walked away.

“I can’t… I can’t lose anyone again, Woo,” Hongjoong finally admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “What if she sees me for who I really am? What if she realizes I’m not worth it?”

Wooyoung shook his head, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s where you’re wrong. She already sees you, and she loves you for all the parts you’re trying to hide. You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re only pushing her further into despair.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. “How do you know? How do you know she feels that way?”

“Because I’ve talked to Seonghwa, and he cares about her, Joong! He’s seen her cry over you. He told me she broke down one night, just sitting on the floor of her room, wondering why you were so distant. She kept saying she must’ve done something wrong. Do you want that for her? Do you want to be the reason she loses herself?”

The image of you curled up alone, tears streaming down your face while grappling with your worth, sliced through Hongjoong. The sheer guilt of it settled heavily in his chest, suffocating him. He had wanted to protect you, but in doing so, he had only hurt you more.

Hongjoong lingered in silence, the weight of his unspoken fears casting a shadow over the room. He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze on him, a

persistent pressure urging him to confront the thoughts he’d been too afraid to voice.

“What if…” The words caught in his throat, his voice strained with the vulnerability he couldn’t hide. “What if I take the next step, and she leaves? What if she ends up leaving just like—”

Wooyoung interrupted him by reaching forward, pressing his fingers gently but firmly to Hongjoong’s lips, shushing him with an authority that surprised them both. “I know what comes next, Hongjoong,” he murmured. “You don’t need to say it.”

Hongjoong stiffened, pulling back ever so slightly, a touch of annoyance flickering across his face. “You think it’s that simple?” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You think it’s easy to just… forget?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, though he held firm. “I think you’re holding onto something that’s long gone, Joong. And you’re letting it get in the way of something real.” He paused, leaning forward. “So what if the girl you loved back in middle school left you? You’re still letting her be the one who decides what happens now?”

Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed, his defenses crumbling under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. He could feel the words bubbling up, the excuses he’d used to justify his fears over and over, but this time, they didn’t come. The silence between them grew heavier, and he felt himself shrinking under Wooyoung’s eyes.

“It’s not about her,” Hongjoong finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. “It’s just… this was exactly how it started back then. The same moments, the same feelings, and then…” His voice broke, a haunted look creeping into his eyes as the memories clawed their way to the surface. “And then it all just fell apart the moment she left without a word.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his gaze filled with something close to sympathy, but there was no pity there, only an understanding forged through years of friendship. “Joong,” he said softly, leaning even closer as if he could bridge the distance that Hongjoong had placed between himself and everyone around him. “So what if some things feel familiar? They’re not the same person, are they? You’re not the same person, either.”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest as he searched for a way to deflect, to deny the truth in Wooyoung’s words. “It’s… it’s not like that, Woo. You don’t get it.” His voice grew sharper, frustration edging his tone as he tried to hold onto the walls he’d built.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

Hongjoong looked away, his gaze hardening as he stared at the floor. “It’s not that simple, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to… to risk everything and then lose it.”

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hongjoong, I may not know exactly what you went through, but I do know one thing: you’re letting something from the past dictate your future. And that’s not fair. Not to you, and definitely not to her.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s words settle over him. Part of him wanted to argue, to cling to the fears that had kept him guarded for so long, but another part—a part he’d buried deep—knew that Wooyoung was right.

“What if I let myself try?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his words laden with the weight of years of doubt and self-preservation. “What if… what if I take that risk, and she ends up leaving?”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Joong, if she’s really the person you believe she is… then maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Because people leave, yeah. They walk away. But the ones who matter, the ones who are meant to stay—they won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying I should just… trust that?” His voice wavered, the question more for himself than for Wooyoung, as if he needed to convince himself that he could still believe in something other than his own fears.

Wooyoung’s mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile. “Yeah. Trust it. Don’t let something that’s already gone keep you from what could be right here, right now.”

“What if I let her in? What if I let her see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you fight for her,” Wooyoung replied. “You show her every day that she’s enough. You fight for her instead of running away. You have to be brave enough to take the risk, Joong. And if she does leave, at least you’ll know you tried. You can’t live in the shadow of your past forever.”

“But what if she sees me as weak?” Hongjoong countered, bitterness lacing his tone. “What if she thinks I’m broken?”

“Then you show her that even broken pieces can fit together to make something beautiful,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ve built this wall around yourself, but you’re just hurting the one person who’s tried to break through. You need to trust her. You need to let her help you. She wants to be there for you, but you have to meet her halfway.”

The truth of those words echoed painfully in Hongjoong’s mind. He had been running, terrified of the vulnerability that came with love, terrified of the chance that he could be left once more. But he could feel the edges of that fear beginning to fray under the weight of his guilt, unraveling with every word Wooyoung spoke.

“You can’t let the past dictate your present, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer now, a mixture of empathy and frustration. “You can’t keep running away from what you feel. If you do, you’ll end up losing her, and it’ll be your fault.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced as he thought of you—how you had lit up his life in ways he never thought possible. How your laughter had become a soothing balm to his weary soul. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth that was staring him in the face. The realization washed over him like a cold wave. “What am I supposed to do?” Hongjoong whispered.

“Fight for her, Joong. Show her that you’re not afraid. Be honest with her, and don’t let fear win this time.” Wooyoung leaned closer. “She deserves that much, at the very least. Fight for her—before it’s too late.”

“But what if it already is?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[ysmtttty]

Eris week Day 2: Childhood || Legacy

AO3 or read below

Once upon a time, in a kingdom veiled in shadows and cruelty, there lived a young prince who loved his family dearly.

One shot, 1.1k words; @erisweekofficial

Once upon a time, in a kingdom veiled in shadows and cruelty, there lived a young prince who loved his family dearly.

He was the firstborn son of a fearsome and wicked king, who ruled the land with an iron hand. The young prince, though cherished deeply by his gentle mother, could not escape the dark influence of his father. The king was determined to shape his son into a mirror image of himself, a ruler even more ruthless and cunning. He harbored the vision of his son surpassing him in every way, with no intention of easily relinquishing the throne.

As the years passed, the young prince's heart was slowly consumed by the darkness that surrounded him. It seemed as though the light within him had been snuffed out, and everyone believed that the king's corruption had taken root in his soul.

Yet, there was a time when the young prince was innocent and free, before the weight of the crown loomed over him. In his childhood, he spent his days playing with the puppies in the garden, causing mischief, and sneaking pastries from the kitchen, much to the annoyance of the cooks. He would sit by his mother's side, listening to the stories she told with wide-eyed wonder. She was his first friend, his greatest comfort, and the most precious person in his little world.

She used to be the first who greeted him in the mornings with motherly affection, and the last who said him goodnight, leaving a tender kiss on his forehead. In her presence, the young prince felt a sense of peace and calm that he found nowhere else. He would share with her tales of his adventures, proudly recounting how he had taught the puppies to sit or how he had made a sweet maid's daughter blush by giving her daisies from the garden.

Those were the golden days of his youth, filled with love and laughter. But as he grew older, the cruel king decided it was time for his son to learn the ways of a true heir.

On that fateful day, the king struck the young prince, hard enough to leave a bruise on his chubby cheek and bring tears to his eyes. The prince looked to his mother for protection, but she stood by silently, tears streaming down her face. She did not intervene; she could not and she never did. She watched helplessly as the king began to mold her beloved son into something dark and unrecognizable.

The young prince’s light-hearted nature began to fade, replaced by bitterness and cruelty. His words grew harsher, and his actions more brutal. His mother could only watch as the transformation took hold, as the innocence of her child was stripped away.

Despite the harshness of his new reality, the young prince still played his favorite game—pretending. But now, the game had changed. He no longer pretended to be a mighty warrior or a fair king; instead, he wore masks of cruelty and cunning, so convincing that even he began to believe in them. No one could tell he was still pretending, that beneath the mask, a flicker of his former self remained.

As time went on, the young prince was joined by brothers. They, too, were once full of life, with chubby cheeks, fiery red hair, and mischievous grins as they stole candies from the kitchen. The young prince loved his brothers dearly, and they adored him in return. But as they grew older, they too fell under the king's dark influence, becoming echoes of their father and eldest brother.

The young prince watched in silence as his brothers lost their innocence, as their childhoods were stolen by the cruelty of their father’s reign. He watched them suffer, beaten until they conformed to the king's will. And in that suffering, the young prince finally understood why his mother had never come to his defense.

He then realized that the mask he wore had become a part of him, fused to his very being. But then, a new light entered his life—his youngest brother, a child of pure love and light, untouched by the darkness that had claimed the rest of the family. This child was different, and the young prince vowed to protect him.

But the light was soon extinguished, shattered by the king and the brothers who had succumbed to his influence. The young prince fought back, rebelling against his father, enduring broken bones and shackles. Yet, even his pain was insignificant in a court ruled by darkness. No fire or light seemed capable of piercing the thick veil of cruelty.

Centuries passed, and the young prince grew into a cunning and dangerous man. His mask was no longer a mask; it had become his true face. His eyes gleamed with cruelty, and his emotions were buried deep within, never to be seen again.

But deep down, he knew what he had to do. He had to bring fire back to the court, to ignite a wildfire that would burn the corrupted kingdom to ashes, so that a new and just realm could rise from the ruins.

When the young prince finally ascended to the throne, the kingdom began to change. Though the dais of his throne was stained with blood, the cries of despair gradually faded. The death of the old king marked the beginning of a life that could flourish once more.

At first, the people feared the new king as they had feared his father. They had no faith in his kindness, for they had known only tyranny. But over time, the king’s actions revealed his true intentions. He ruled with a firm hand, but his decisions were guided by a desire to help his people.

Slowly, the kingdom began to heal, and the folk came to cherish their new king. Yet, some wounds took longer to mend.

The king's brothers, still twisted by their father's teachings, envied him. They dreamed of seizing the throne, of ending the life of the brother who had always been there for them. The king, now unable to undo the damage that had been done, could only watch in despair.

His mother, who had found freedom after the old king’s death, still loved her children dearly. She chose to stay in the kingdom for just a little longer, but even love could not erase the fear that lingered in her heart. She flinched when the new king raised his voice at someone, and she was more guarded around him, as if she feared he might hurt her too. The king noticed, and it pained him deeply, but he did not know how to fix it.

The new king had achieved everything he had set out to do, yet he had lost everything he had once loved. In quiet moments, he longed to be that carefree young prince again, playing with puppies and listening to his mother’s stories, far away from the burdens of the crown and the scars of the past.