#and one that will admit when they are out of their depth and refer me to someone else

[reidmania]

soon, you’ll get better | s. reid

summary; when spencer decides to get help for his addiction, you are right by his side the entire time, even when you are both more scared than you’ll admit.

warnings; fem!reader, early seasons spencer (s2) mentions of addiction, withdrawals, getting help, hurt x comfort, its kinda really fluffy though, mentions of tobias hankel, references possible overdosing, (nobody overdoses, reader is just afraid of it happening) this is comfort, pure spencer comfort tbh.

an; heart BROKEN guys. this one hurt. remember you are not alone.

‘I'll paint the kitchen neon, I'll brighten up the sky, I know I'll never get it, there's not a day that I won't try. And I'll say to you, soon you'll get better, soon you'll get better, you'll get better soon, 'cause you have to. And I hate to make this all about me but who am i supposed to talk to? What am i supposed to do, if theres no you?’

You sit beside him, your hand resting gently on his, feeling the tension pulsing through his skin. Spencer's fingers twitch, as though his body is having a silent argument with itself—one part of him wants to hold on to you, to feel your comfort, and the other part is restless, needing something more than your touch can provide. You know what that something is. It’s been between the two of you for weeks now, an unspoken weight that has grown heavier with each passing day.

The hospital waiting room is quiet, but inside your head, it feels deafening. Your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. The seconds drag on, and you know he feels every single one of them. You squeeze his hand lightly, drawing his attention back to you. His eyes meet yours, wide and anxious, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths. You see it all—the fear, the shame, the self-loathing. But beyond that, buried underneath, you still see the man you love.

"You're doing the right thing," you whisper, your voice soft, barely louder than the ticking clock.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His lips part, but no words come out. You don’t push him. You’ve learned that sometimes, silence is safer for him. His mind is always moving, always analyzing, always thinking ten steps ahead, but right now, he’s fragile. His brilliance can’t help him here. And that’s what scares him the most.

You lean in, pressing your forehead against his, grounding him in the moment. “I’m so proud of you,” you say, and you feel him exhale, just slightly. The warmth of his breath touches your lips, and for a brief second, you feel that connection again—the one that always makes you believe everything will be okay, as long as you're together.

It was difficult, sitting here and pretending like you weren’t scared. You were, you wondered if you had a right to be scared. Spencer was the love of your life, you had never once questioned that — and seeing him like this, well it wasn’t easy. Being here, wasn’t easy.

Spencer closes his eyes, a shudder running through his body. He grips your hand tighter, the pressure almost painful, but you don’t pull away. You want him to know you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

A nurse walks by, and Spencer's eyes snap open, his body stiffening. You can feel his heart rate spike, the anxiety flaring up again.

“I can’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice is tight, strangled, like he’s holding back something that threatens to choke him.

“Yes, you can,” you reply gently, running your thumb over his knuckles in slow, soothing circles. “Please.”

It was a plea, a genuine plea. You tried to be strong for his sake, he needed someone. You were his person, you would always be. But he was also your person — and the idea that if he didn’t get help you could lose him one way or another terrified you. It caused a genuine ache in your chest at just the thought of him not being him, or not being around at all. You couldn’t lose him, not at the hands of tobias hankel.

He stares at you, searching your face for something—maybe reassurance, maybe strength. You aren’t sure if he finds it, but he nods, his breath coming out in shaky bursts.

The doctor calls his name. The sound makes him flinch, and for a moment, you think he might bolt. You can see it in his posture, the way his muscles tense, his body preparing to flee. But then your hand tightens around his, and he looks at you again. And you know he’s staying because of you.

Together, you stand, and you walk beside him as he follows the doctor into the office. His steps are slow, reluctant, but each one is a small victory. When you sit down in the small room, the doctor’s eyes flicker between the two of you—taking in Spencer’s pale, trembling form and the way you hold onto him as if he might disappear.

The doctor speaks softly, his voice calm and measured. You hear him explain the treatment plan, the options for managing withdrawal, the therapy that Spencer will need. It all sounds clinical, distant, like the words are coming from a place Spencer can’t quite reach.

You glance at him, watching the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his eyes dart around the room, not settling on anything for too long. His mind is miles away, you can tell. But you’re here, anchored in this moment for both of you.

“Spence,” you say softly, turning to face him. He doesn’t respond at first, lost in the cacophony of his own thoughts. So, you reach out, brushing your fingers against his cheek. His eyes snap back to you, and you see the vulnerability in them, the sheer weight of everything he’s been carrying.

“We’ll take it one step at a time,” you remind him. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

His lower lip trembles, and for a second, you think he might cry. But he doesn’t. Spencer’s never been one to break easily, even when he should. You wish he would sometimes, just so he wouldn’t have to hold it all inside.

The doctor gives you both a moment, stepping out of the room to let the words sink in. Spencer drops his head into his hands, his shoulders slumping as though the world is pressing down on him with all its weight.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

You scoot closer, pulling him into your arms, cradling his head against your chest. His body relaxes, just a little, as if the touch of your skin can quiet the chaos in his mind.

“You deserve everything good in this world,” you tell him, stroking his hair gently. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m broken,” he breathes, the words thick with self-reproach.

You shake your head, holding him tighter. “You’re not broken, Spence. You’re just…hurting. And that’s okay. You’ll get better. You have to.”

Maybe it was a plea, maybe reassurance, you weren’t even sure. Spencer was single handedly the strongest person you knew, he didn’t deserve what had happened to him — nobody did. The signs had been there for a while, you noticed the change instantly and you tried to brush it off as him coping, but when it got to the point where you knew there was more, without a doubt — you had the conversation.

It took some convincing, and a few weeks before he even approached the idea — he denied for a while. You let him. You could only help him as much as he allowed you to, but then when he nudged you gently in bed one night and broke down — he wanted help, and you were happy to provide him with as much as you could, which also meant getting more help.

His arms wrap around your waist, clinging to you as though you’re his lifeline. And in a way, you are. But you know he’s yours too. You’ve never loved anyone the way you love Spencer—so deeply, so completely. He’s flawed, yes. But so are you.

When the doctor returns, you help Spencer sit up, though he keeps one hand resting on your knee, as if needing to stay tethered to you. You listen carefully as the doctor outlines the next steps, and this time, Spencer listens too. He’s scared, you can tell, but he’s fighting. For himself. For you. For what you both have.

And when you leave the office, walking back through the waiting room, you feel a shift. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Spencer’s steps are still hesitant, still burdened, but there’s a determination now. He’s facing it. He’s facing himself. And you’re right there beside him, as you always will be.

As you step out into the crisp evening air, Spencer pauses. He turns to you, his eyes soft, vulnerable, but this time, there’s a flicker of hope.

“I love you,” he says quietly, the words shaky but sincere.

You smile, your heart swelling. “I love you too.”

And in that moment, with the world quiet around you, “You will get better Spence.”

[systemsteamjunk]

Long Bad Therapy Rant

I will be leaving my therapist as soon as I can get any sort of assessments that she will agree to. This past session she stopped listening to me to google (google!!!) whether or not aspergers was still a "valid diagnosis" when I mentioned that I was pretty sure it wasn't. She then said it was only around June this year that it stopped being a valid diagnosis (I did not check but a lot of my autistic friends were like ??¿? it has been at least 5 if not closer to 10 years according to several many other professionals) and said she thought maybe I had that and not "full blown autism". I was talking about having others front and introduce themselves to my partner/my partner mentioning someone else being out and asking if I knew who it was, how I had been losing time and only able to 'know' vaguely what happened during that time instead of having any actual memory of it or not knowing at all and having my partner fill me in (if they were around; I lose a lot of time when they're at work so then I just kinda have to guess based on what the situation is and what changed between my last memory and present awareness) when I returned from dissociation station and she goes "I don't think you have DID, you don't lose time or have amnesia, maybe you are just depersonalized or splintering. I worked with someone who had DID once and he used to pretend to be Batman so I had the police watch him." Part of the reason I started seeing a therapist was to try and find ways to retain memory and she said we'll start with the fact that you have no memory of anything before high school and we'll do that by Asking Your Family For A Rundown Of Your Trauma (which I did one thing with and then she refused to help me process it when I asked for help and I Know that asking for a Quick Lil Timeline of trauma is a bad idea for me). Also did not know what OSDD was when I mentioned I started looking into these things because I had a friend with OSDD. Referred to alters as "characters". Also mentioned my issues with sensory overload and she was like "okay so what you do, right, is focus on all five of you senses" which maybe could work in some situations but I think if I am starting to experience sensory overload in public and then focus on what I can feel I will end up ripping off my socks and shirt and panicking. Yesterday I went to a work party with my fiancee and I was like "I cut out some sensory things and then when I got home I decompressed by doing as little looking, listening, smelling, tasting, and feeling as possible" and I think if I hadn't done that I still would be unable to put clothes on. Neither of these (autism or any specific dissociative disorder) are things that I feel I personally am able to self-dx so I do want some assessments done (even if she won't refer me to someone to do assessments for dissociative disorders, it would be helpful to get a general assessment; I will still be leaving even if that's the only one I get) and I am pretty sure I am part of a system and would just like some guidance on what to be looking into and would like a diagnosis to help when I'm dealing with Big Doubt Times and also to be able to look for someone who maybe specializes in whichever dissociative disorder I have or to get a more solid "you are not part of a system and should look into X instead". This woman literally thinks that all I have is anxiety (I am diagnosed with GAD, MDD, and PTSD) and apparently "aspergers" and anxiety is the only thing that needs treatment when the majority of my anxiety is managed with medication and things I have learned from other therapists.

[barbieaemond]

And I dream of a grave

Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.  

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.  

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.  

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

[girlwtdragontattoo]

Yandere elf x reader - Love Making

Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru! Go follow her and love her 🫶(pushes all of you to her blog)

I am out of ideas, y‘all. I am so happy you guys love my dumb smut lol 🩷 really thank you! Idk if I‘ll do any more, unless specifically asked. Also, if meru is ok with it ✨

Warning: 18+ content, drugging, general nsfw, oral !

—————

He smothered you with his length.

You got brief respite when he exited, gasping in short bursts.

Silas was caressing your face with both of his hands, holding you in place. His soft thumb pressed lightly into your cheek.

„Good, good~“, he cooed breathily.

In his mind, he was just giving you your nourishment. He didn‘t fully understand why the milking made him feel so lightheaded, why he longed to do it over and over again. But mothers wrote in the baby books that it is a precious bonding ritual, one they never experienced before.

And surely, this was a feeling he hadn‘t experienced before.

Silas let his darling suck his teats every day, but because he was an elf, his milk was stored elsewhere. Of course!

He had a collection of instructional manuals he had consulted (Romance Novels) and they referred to this act as „love making“. What a beautiful term! Silas felt giddy whenever he thought about it. That‘s definitely what the situation in the spring was, too - it all makes sense now!

Letting out a few breathy moans, he felt you lick his tip, as he thrust gently forward. He had prepared you again, giving you long and deep kisses to fully drench you with his aphrodisiac tongue. It was impossible to stop yourself. The way his kisses made you forget yourself, wanting him. You knew now how hard you could come with him just in you. It was annoying to admit, but you wanted more.

You looked up at him and a flush of purple filled his ethereal face.

„K-keep drinking, my precious…“, he huffed. He was holding himself, pointing it at your open lips.

You let your tongue fall out. You could see him gasp inaudibly from arousal at the sight of you. It was kind of fun to tease him. He looked beside himself, whenever he was close.

Your tongue brushed his tip again and he shivered. He was gently holding the back of your head, his fingers laced within your messed up hair. You could feel him push you forward softly.

Without warning you swallowed him as much as you could. Silas yelped at the feeling of you jerking your head forward vigorously. The sounds he made were so pitiful. You couldn’t get that much of him in your throat, but the mere velocity and sudden depth made the elf convulse and shake uncontrollably. He was trying to hold back, but it was futile.

He exploded with a guttural squeal. You felt his seed plummet into your throat and you quickly released your mouth to avoid choking. More overflowed onto your face, the most of it was dripping out of the sides of your mouth though. You swallowed harshly at the load.

Silas was immobile, his arms twitching by his massive side. He didn‘t speak for a while either, so you just sat there in silence with faint sounds of dripping.

Finally, Silas sat up with a flushed face. Dried tears stained his cheeks as his lip quivered.

„Darling… y-you were hungry, weren‘t you?“ he was trying to talk in his melodic voice, but you had taken his ability to be graceful.

You brushed some semen off your chin and stared at him.

„Oh, let me!“, he grabbed a beautiful doily he had been embroidering with donkeys and cows on it. He read babies like barn animals.

He wiped your face clean.

„There! All clean,“ he beamed down at you. Still feeling a bit sticky, you asked if you could go wash your face. He clapped his hands frantically, proud of you, for whatever reason.

Silas‘s semen didn‘t smell like normal cum. It had a strange, soothing scent to it. You stood over the basin and sniffed your hand a few times. What was in his damn bloodstream that made everything about him smell so fucking divine?

In the background, you heard Silas practice some lullaby, poorly.

Evidently, it was time for bed.

[daistea]

Since you take requests, would I be able to ask for something with Mithrun and Kabru with like a reader that's kind of dense with social cues/hints (especially if they're romantic)?

(I had people confess their love to me, and I still didn't get it till they put it in very clear terms)

(it's probably the 'tism, but I digress. )

I think it's potentially an absolutely hellerious dynamic since Kabru always plays 5D chess with every social interaction. As for Mithrun, I think it's funny to think how the other canaries would just be repeatedly hitting their head on the wall because their captain won't say it straight and they just don't g e t i t.

Ps: I absolutely love how in-depth all of your understanding of characters and their personalities are, and I just hxfhxdvgudts.

This blog just brings me so much joy

Yaaa!!

“Iᴛ’s ᴀ Dᴀᴛᴇ” Kᴀʙʀᴜ x Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, Mɪᴛʜʀᴜɴ x Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

gn reader

5000 words ;P

Warning: reader is very oblivious. Like incomprehensibly oblivious (for the lolz)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

♡ Kabru ♡

- Kabru has had little flings here and there throughout his life. He treated every partner with respect, of course, but Kabru wasn’t particularly looking for love. He doesn’t dislike the idea of love, it just hasn’t happened yet.

- So, when Kabru starts to genuinely fall in love with someone, it’s a new feeling. He’s observant enough to recognize what it is.

- Unfortunately, the person he’s falling in love with is you.

“He’s been unusually quiet lately,” Holm remarked. Who he was remarking that to remained to be seen. Mickbell didn’t care much. Kuro had other things to worry about. And Rin had already made the same observation three times earlier that day.

The first floor of the dungeon was always crowded, and Kabru’s ears were usually open for anything that could be of use. The leather armor merchant to his left had recently raised his prices. The cobbler to the right was in an argument with an older lady over the shape of a patch he’d made on her favorite boots. And Holm was concerned about Kabru’s recent lack of observations; as concerned as Holm could be.

“Is that really such a shock?” Kabru sent Holm a smile over his shoulder. “I’m not exactly a chatterbox.”

But he was aware of himself enough to know that his behavior lately had been odd. He was usually so good at hiding it, too, but the comfort of his friends seemed to lower his walls. Without realizing it, Kabru had spent their latest dungeon expedition sighing to himself, staring at walls, and missing the details of important things. On the third floor, they’d encountered thieves. His party always relied on him to clock the intentions of approaching adventurers— thieves tended to be overly familiar, friendly, and a bit too eager— but Kabru’s mind was elsewhere. The thieves attacked, and it had genuinely taken him by surprise. The fight wasn’t hard, but Kabru’s lack of preparation set off alarms in Rin and Holm’s heads.

“You’re not,” Rin agreed. Her brow furrowed and she got that cute little line on her forehead again. “However, you’ve really been out of it.”

“Have you been thinking about that person again?” Holm asked.

That person. That person? Kabru knew a lot of persons. The whole first level was filled to the brim with persons, half of them being his acquaintances. Kabru had zero desire to admit that he knew precisely who Holm was referring to, though, and decided to keep his gaze straight ahead as he weaved through the crowd.

When he didn’t respond, Mickbell laughed, “Yeah, he’s thinking of them alright.”

“Heat?” Kuro asked.

Mickbell scoffed from his place on Kuro’s shoulders, “Tall-men don’t go into heat! At least I don’t think so. But they catch feelings, like a cold. Kabru’s caught a cold.”

“Not sneezing,” Kuro mumbled.

“A feelings cold, I mean! The worst kind.”

That was one way to put it. Kabru couldn’t help but sigh as he led the party towards a quieter spot in the corner. Once they were out of the sea of people, he leaned against the stone wall and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t have feelings, I’m simply curious,” he said.

Curious. Right. Mickbell sent him a scrunched up, narrow-eyed look that was reminiscent of constipation. Yet, Rin interjected before the half-foot could say something heinous. “What’re you curious about, particularly?” She asked.

“Good question,” Kabru folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head in thought.

What was he curious about? You held so many secrets. You had this look in your eyes that drew him, a look that reminded him of a room in his mother’s house. She always told him to not go inside. Her rules only made him want to turn the knob even more. And when he finally did disobey her and go inside, all he saw were boxes full of ceramic unicorn miniatures. Still, the rush of satisfaction he’d felt at finally knowing what was in there couldn’t be matched. That’s what he wanted to do to you, open your door and take a peek.

Or, perhaps a ‘peek’ was an understatement. He wanted to meticulously inspect every inch of your mind with a microscope, to know the atoms unseen by the human eye, to be intimately acquainted with every molecule you possessed.

“He’s zoned out again,” Holm muttered, ripping Kabru out of his thoughts.

He looked up, eyes widening at the observation. Holm was right, he was zoned out again, staring at the dirt on the floor and contemplating you.

He forced a smile, “Don’t worry about me, really. I’m just preoccupied. It’s that person, I simply want to know their intentions.”

“Intentions for what?” Rin asked.

For everything. There was no simple answer.

“Oh hey,” Mickbell glanced over his shoulder. His voice was flat as he scanned the room, “There they are.”

Kabru followed Mickbell’s gaze, a straight line that led directly to you— all lines seemed to lead directly to you lately. His heart clenched in a way that was both unpleasant and addictive. Without realizing it, he pushed away from the wall and began striding toward where you stood.

“Wait,” Rin grabbed his arm as he passed. Kabru blinked, looking down at her and waiting for her to speak. She met his eyes and frowned, “I think you’re going to be disappointed. They’re not as mysterious as you think they are.”

Nonsense. You were incredibly mysterious. Kabru could tell you had secrets, layers. He dreamed of pulling them back one by one.

“They couldn’t disappoint me,” he sent Rin a smile that he hoped was reassuring— he knew it was, he’d practiced it in the mirror and on other people all the time.

“I think they will,” she argued.

“They won’t,” his smile faltered just the slightest. Rin didn’t usually get involved in Kabru’s… hobby. Did she know something he didn’t? He decided to not ask outright, accepting the challenge of figuring out the meaning behind her concern on his own.

Rin let go of his arm and Kabru was free to go. His mind switched elsewhere, onto you, and before he knew it he was already slipping through the crowd of bodies to reach you.

You were in front of the vegetable seller’s stand, inspecting a lumpy potato. Kabru knew the vegetable seller was cheating on his wife. Usually, he’d try to get more out of the man, digging deeper simply for the sake of knowing. Yet, you stood there, beautiful and mind-consuming. What did Rin mean by ‘I think you’re going to be disappointed’? Kabru was rarely disappointed with secrets.

“Hey,” he raised a hand as he neared. You looked up from the potato and returned his smile. There was that look in your eyes again, that closed door he desperately needed the key to.

He loved crowds. He loved the hundreds of voices. He loved listening to each one and assigning them meaning, picking apart their words, filing them away into neat little categories. Yet, the crowd might as well have disappeared. All he saw was you. All he wanted was you and your words and your thoughts and your fears and your goals and your likes and your dislikes and your intentions and your—

“Oh hey,” your voice cut through the wants like the slash of a sword, “Kapru.”

Kapru.

His brows furrowed and he plastered on a polite smile— also practiced in the mirror. “It’s Kabru.”

“Right, sorry,” you shrugged.

Were you playing with him? Were you sending your pawn out, a piece that you expected him to take for the sake of a larger, more powerful move? Was it bait?

“How are you?” He forced himself to ask, though he could hear the weakness in his voice. He desperately hoped you wouldn’t notice.

You only tilted your head in thought, “I’m fine. Just buying potatoes.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other,” Kabru said. It was a lie, you saw him last week. “My party and I are about to go back to the surface to restock. We could grab a drink if you wanted.”

“Why?” You asked.

Why? Why? Kabru couldn’t say why. He wouldn’t say why. ‘I want to take detailed notes on every word you say, every gesture, every breath’ wouldn’t be helpful to his cause in the least.

“Because we’re friends,” he slowly explained. Again, there was that hint of weakness lacing every syllable. He wanted to tear his voice box apart and reconstruct it in a way that wouldn’t falter every time he saw you.

But you didn’t seem to notice. “Alright,” you sent him a smile that made his heart clench.

Alright. Kabru’s smile relaxed, “Alright,” he echoed. “It’s a date.”

‘It’s a date’ was a common saying, of course. But it still held implications, it still held desires, it still signified something more— At least to him it did.

You remained unphased by it, though. Usually, when Kabru said that, there would be a laugh or blush or the widening of eyes. You gave him nothing of the sort. No flirtatious looks, no intention-laced smile, no flicker of recognition.

“See you then,” was all you said.

Rin was wrong. You couldn’t disappoint him. Opening your doors and peeking inside your mind would be so satisfying.

- You go on several dates with Kabru without realizing they’re dates.

- After one date when you make friends with the next table over and invite them to join your meal, introducing Kabru as ‘my friend’ and not ‘the man who is courting me’ or ‘my boyfriend’, he begins to wonder…

- Do you not realize that these are dates?

Kabru knew he had the tendency to stare, but he usually kept that urge locked away for the sake of masking. Always masking. Always aware of his surroundings and the people and the words and the looks.

He kept his staring urge hidden at first. Yet as time passed, as you went on more dates, he couldn’t help himself. He had to stare. He had to drink in every detail of your face, coveting it all as a desert wanderer would covet water.

And you didn’t seem to mind. You would give him this look sometimes, a look he couldn’t quite decipher. It was a mixture between affection and confusion and bashfulness. It was his favorite expression of yours and never failed to put butterflies in his stomach.

Kabru knew he was falling in love. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, but he’d never been truly in love before. At night when he forced himself into bed, he stared at the ceiling and mused on the future you had together. Neither of you had said anything to make the relationship official, but was that even needed? It was obvious that you were together— to him, at least.

Kabru held your hand as he led you through the crowded streets. Once you caught up to his side, he placed his palm on the small of your back. He wasn’t much for PDA, but it was a necessity when traversing the island together. He didn’t want to lose you in the crowd.

Once you were in a more quiet spot, he sent you a smile, “I have to ask, I’m too curious; What’s your favorite date that we’ve had together?”

You thought for a moment, “Hm… I would have to say last week. It was a Thursday. I like Thursdays anyway. I think it was the 7th? Yeah. June 7th, Thursday. That’s a good date, it’s a bit cool outside and all the flowers are blooming. But if I had to say which one was my favorite, I think it would be April 18th. I’m not sure that we spent that date together, though.”

…Okay.

Like the sunset rising over the mountains, it began to dawn on him.

Were you stupid?

No, you weren’t stupid. He had seen you in the dungeon before, how you fought and strategized and reacted. You couldn’t be stupid.

Then what? Were you playing hard to get? Were you teasing him? Was this a move on the board, your Knight piece pressing forward to continue the assault? Kabru needed to know.

He kept his hand on your back but his gaze straight ahead. “That’s nice,” he said. It wasn’t nice, actually. “What about when we hold hands? Do you enjoy that?”

You shrugged, “It helps us keep track of each other as we go through a crowd.”

“But I hold your hand even when we’re not around other people.”

The face you made betrayed your true thoughts. “Yeah, it seems like your hands are cold a lot. You really should start keeping gloves with you.”

“...Do you think I’m holding your hand because my fingers are cold?”

Another flash of confusion, another furrow of your brows. “Why else would you hold my hand?”

The sun rose completely over the mountains and the daytime, clear and bright, engulfed his world.

You had no clue.

- This stresses Kabru out immensely.

- He starts taking notes. He has a special little book just for you. A lot of the pages are filled with scribbles and question marks.

- He makes a plan on what to do. He’s going to up the ante, he’s going to make his feelings so clear that you can’t ignore them or be oblivious even if you tried.

- He starts getting more touchy. He kisses your forehead often. He kisses your knuckles. He’s around you all the time, every chance he gets. He tells you you’re beautiful. He says that he wants you to meet his mother. He talks about your future together.

- You say, “Oh, your mom? Cool. You think we’ll get along? I’m always up for making new friends.”

- “You want a future with me? Well, I’m free next Wednesday.”

“I like you,” Kabru was breathless and wide-eyed. His hair was a mess from how often he’d run his fingers through it. He was disheveled and hadn’t slept the entire night.

You glanced up from the book you were reading, “Oh? Cool, thanks.”

He sent you a look. “No, I mean I love you.”

“Yeah,” you flipped a page in the book, “love you too.”

“You do?” Hope bloomed and unfurled like a spring flower. Kabru felt his cheeks grow warm, a fire igniting within him.

“Yeah,” you said lightly, “I love all my friends, of course.”

That spring flower suddenly wilted. The fire was doused by a cold bucket of water in the form of your words. Kabru wanted to scream and bang his head against the wall.

“You don’t get it,” he hissed through clenched teeth, fingers tensing as he leaned forward, desperate. “I’m in love with you. This is really hard for me to say, but I think you need to hear it like this. I love you. I love you. I love you…” Somehow, his cheeks went even hotter. His adams apple bobbed as he swallowed his embarrassment, “I-I… Sorry. I just need you like I need oxygen. I…”

You snorted, “You don’t need me to breathe, I’m a person not an organ. You’re breathing right now just fine.”

He was not breathing just fine, but that was beside the point.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Kabru said. He could hear how strained his voice sounded.

You watched as he walked away, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight. Then he screamed. It sounded like he also kicked something, a crate or box maybe.

How odd.

- When it finally gets through your head, he’s actually a bit satisfied by your embarrassment at it all. Yes, please do acknowledge your obliviousness. Please do apologize for treating his love confession so casually. When you do so, he feels as if he could melt from the relief.

- He still wants to bang his head on the wall, though.

- And he’s spent a lot of nights screaming into his pillow.

- Kabru continues to play 5d chess with you, just simply out of habit, but you’re playing Hungry Hungry Hippos the entire time. He still finds himself trying to pick apart your actions and responses, but he’s learned how to take things at face value when it comes to you. It’s a difficult adjustment, but one he’s willing to make.

- He starts to learn, take more notes, observe your behavior. For dates, he lays it out carefully. You two are going to do this specific thing. Why? Because he would like to see you happy, and hold your hand, and kiss you. Why? Because he loves you. Now you get it.

- You’re fascinating actually. Genuinely, he starts to adore how your brain works. He wants to pick it apart and hold the pieces up to a magnifying glass.

♡ Mithrun ♡

- He does not care.

- Be as oblivious as you want, that’s not going to stop Mithrun.

- The Canaries, however, are going insane.

“How’s it going with them?” Pattadol asked. Her hands were folded in front of her in that polite way, the way that told Mithrun that his second in command had something on her mind. Pattadol thought she was subtle. She was not.

And he knew precisely who she was referring to. Might as well give her an answer that’ll satisfy her curiosity, lest she keep asking questions.

“Fine,” he answered, “just fine.”

Yet, Pattadol’s brow furrowed. Not a good sign.

“Just fine?” She asked. Her voice went up a pitch. “It’s just fine? Really?”

“Really.”

She unlaced her fingers and spread out her hands as if gesturing to something, but all that surrounded them was Mithrun’s under-decorated living quarters. There was really nothing to gesture at besides the wooden cabinets and the bed. Mithrun waited, aware that she was picking through her piles of thoughts— probably thoughts mixed with screams of frustration— to find the right words.

Finally, Pattadol forced a shaken smile, “It’s clear to anyone that knows you that you’re in love with them, Captain.”

That was what she decided to say? It was a bit blunt for Pattadol’s usual style. Mithrun only shrugged, “Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty obvious.”

“So why haven’t they noticed yet?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I want you to be happy for once!” Pattadol snapped, but she then took a deep breath, “Sorry, Captain, I didn’t mean to sound that way. This is hard for me, talking so openly about these things… But it’s so frustrating to watch.”

Mithrun could understand that. While he personally wasn’t frustrated by the circumstances, he knew that the Canaries couldn’t stand watching his interactions with you. It wasn’t a big deal in the long run, in his opinion. They’d get over it.

“Thank you,” he answered.

“Do you have any ideas on how we can do that?”

“Do what?”

Pattadol’s eye twitched ever so slightly. Her fingers tensed like claws, and Mithrun felt the corner of his lips turn up in a barely-there smirk. But genuinely, he wasn’t sure what she referred to. Did she mean the part about him being happy, or the part about you being oblivious? She should’ve been more clear.

“About…” she hesitated. Obviously she wasn’t sure what she meant either. She then nodded as if deciding, “About everything. About the obliviousness, your happiness, etcetera.”

He didn’t know what the etcetera referred to, but didn’t care to ask. “You don’t have to do anything,” Mithrun assured her as he leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. The wood creaked slightly from the movement. Everything on this boat creaked, as was the nature of boats, he guessed.

“I would like to do something,” Pattadol nodded, determined. “We all would.”

A shrug, “Alright. Then do something.”

- Pattadol, over-achiever and top student and certified Girl Who Cares Too Much, takes that as a challenge.

- Cithis only joins because she thinks it’ll be funny.

- Fleki also only joins because she thinks it’ll be funny.

- And Lycion also also joins because he thinks it’ll be funny (though he does care on some level. Not really about you, but about Mithrun. And it’s painful to watch.)

- Otta is forced to join.

- The attempts are weak at first, like dipping a toe into the water to see how cold it is. Mithrun only has so much patience for interference with his life, so they have to be smart and tread carefully.

- Pattadol gives Mithrun a hint. “There’s some pretty flowers growing beside the road over there. You should give one to them!”

- “What would they need a flower for?”

- Mithrun asks that on purpose. He knows precisely what he’s doing. Yes, people generally like receiving flowers, he knows that. But he also believes that flowers are useless gifts.

- “Then what present do you suggest?” Pattadol asks.

- Mithrun has an idea. He gets you soap. Everybody uses soap (hopefully) It’s a useful gift, and if he gives you the same kind he uses then he’ll get some weird sick flicker of pleasure from having his scent on you. (He wisely chooses to not say that part aloud.)

You held the little bar of soap in your hands as if it were an injured baby bird you found on the ground. Yet your feelings towards it were far from protective or empathetic. This soap said something. It had a mouth and it used it to scream.

You met Mithrun’s flat gaze, “Soap…”

He nodded, “Yeah. Soap. It’s a gift for you.”

For you?

Mithrun continued, “It’s the same kind I use. Smells the same.”

It felt as if you’d swallowed a handful of pebbles and they all had gotten stuck in your throat. “Do you… think I’m stinky?”

You cursed yourself for even asking that. What a useless question. Obviously, he thought you stank! He gave you soap! He was trying to tell you something, being subtle and polite for once! Usually Mithrun would just say it bluntly, but he’d been working on his desires lately. Perhaps he’d also decided to embrace societal expectations? You weren’t sure. But soap. Soap!

You didn’t notice how Mithrun tensed. You didn’t see him quickly blink several times and tilt his head. You didn’t see the slight widening of his good eye. “No, I—“

“I’ll go use this right now,” you interrupted, “I’ll go wash away my stench so you can finally stand to be near me.”

Despite the horror, you were a bit proud of yourself. You’d taken a hint, maybe you were getting less oblivious.

- In your defense, a bar of soap is a weird gift.

- Alright. Mithrun admits it, he needs help. He’s not so prideful anymore that he won’t admit that he doesn’t know what to do.

- Pattadol is really triumphant about that but does her best not to show it.

- Plan B: make it so obvious that you have no choice but to realize his feelings.

“This has to be the most physically uncomfortable I’ve felt in a very long time,” Mithrun said as he tugged at the ends of the fancy, over-decorated blouse the Canaries had put him in. “I honestly prefer Cithis’s frilly dresses.”

Which was saying something. Mithrun had a preference? That was a good sign.

“It makes you look handsome,” Pattadol said.

“The only thing it makes me is itchy,” he corrected.

The Canaries had somehow found a blouse— not a shirt or tunic, a blouse— that made Mithrun feel something other than indifference. He usually didn’t care about what he wore, as long as it was comfortable, but the clothes they’d stuffed him into were offensive to human-kind, like vegan bacon.

It had a big frill on the front and puffy sleeves. It was somehow both too flowy and too tight at the same time. The trousers weren’t much better, digging into his legs. And the shoes…

Mithrun didn’t want to talk about the shoes.

It was clear to him that Fleki and Cithis had only contributed to the outfit because they thought it would be amusing. Good for them, he supposed. Pattadol seemed to genuinely like it, Otta looked horrified, and Lycion was in some in between state where he wanted to show pity but couldn’t quite stifle his giggles.

“Remind me again what the point of this is?” Mithrun asked with a sigh.

“We got them to agree to a date!” Pattadol said, grinning, “I said outright ‘it’s a date’ so there would be no confusion. I made it clear that the date was with you. Now, if you show up looking like a million gold with a bouquet of flowers, they’ll get the hint.”

Mithrun did not want to do that.

Mithrun rarely wanted to do anything, but this just felt wrong. In his opinion, the relationship between you and him would develop naturally in a way that fit both of your personalities. He didn’t mind waiting for you to realize his intentions, he had time. As long as you didn’t fall in love with someone else, and didn’t stop him from staring at you or touching you, then he wasn’t in a rush.

But since the Canaries insisted, seeming to think that this was the right course of action, he would go along with it. Maybe it would be an utter disaster and Pattadol would realize that she knew very little about relationships— especially a relationship involving Mithrun. He was aware enough of himself to know that it wouldn’t be conventional.

With his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and the ridiculous outfit on, Mithrun entered the restaurant Pattadol had chosen. He found you immediately. You sat in a chair with your elbow on the table and your ankles crossed, waiting.

Mithrun held a bouquet of pink roses as he approached. You lit up when you saw him, but your brows then furrowed.

“Where’s Pattadol?” You asked.

His stride faltered, “She isn’t coming.”

“Oh,” you shrugged, “well since she set this up I assumed she’d be here.”

Why would she be here? It was a date Pattadol had set up for you and Mithrun specifically.

You probably didn’t know it was a date, he realized. Pattadol thought she’d been clear by saying ‘it’s a date’ but failed to realize that that was just a common phrase among people and meant nothing to no one.

Calm, he slid into the seat across from you and watched as you raised a brow, “What’re you wearing?” You asked.

“My team picked it out for me.”

“You look like you’re part of an opera or a ballet, like you’re about to stand beneath a balcony and start spouting poetry to your lover.”

That was a good description, actually. Those were the words Mithrun had been looking for earlier when he saw himself in the mirror.

He nodded, “Yep.” Then, wordlessly, he held out the bouquet to you.

Your eyes widened, “For me?”

“I’m handing them to you, aren’t I?”

Gingerly, you took the flowers and held the stem of the wrapped bouquet with both hands as you inspected each petal.

A flicker of surprising satisfaction ran through his chest. You liked the flowers. It made sense, most people liked flowers, even if he didn’t see why.

You dipped your head down toward them presumably to smell them, but your lips then parted and you dug your teeth into the nearest rose.

Mithrun froze.

You chewed on the rose, your nose wrinkling in disgust. You gave the flower a good shot, a proper taste, but it didn’t take long until you grabbed a napkin and spit up the pink slobbery mess into it.

“Sorry,” you sent him an apologetic smile and tried to hand the bouquet back to him, “they don’t taste that good, and I don’t think I could season or cook them in a way that would help.”

Mithrun knew he was staring. He knew he was making a face, slightly tilting his head down, intensity in his eye. The kind of face someone made when they were internally screaming.

He was not internally screaming, but he was thinking— about you, how your brain worked. And how it was so damn charming for some reason and all he wanted to do was kiss you until he was all you could think about.

He wanted something. The feeling was sweet, a shot of adrenaline, one of Fleki’s drugs. Addictive. Like the slow drip of honey. He could survive off that want for ages.

Wordlessly, Mithrun threw the bouquet over his shoulder to get rid of it. Judging by the gasp that followed, it probably hit someone in the head.

Loving you was as natural to him as breathing.

- Mithrun decides to not let the Canaries interfere any longer. He was wrong earlier in thinking he needed their help. He doesn’t.

- Also, watching them go insane over your obliviousness and his lack of communication provides a good bit of entertainment.

- When he finally decides to give into that all-consuming, new, exciting desire and kiss you, your response is, “But I wasn’t casting a spell, no reason to try and stop me.”

- God, he adores you.

- He takes kisses whenever he wants them, with no care about what you think his intention is.

- After a certain kiss that involves tongue and teeth and fingers digging into your waist, you start to openly wonder… Are you in a relationship with Mithrun?

“Yes,” Mithrun didn’t even glance up at you, remaining unphased by your rather serious question, “We’re in a relationship.”

He continued to jot down notes about a monster he saw, as if he’d just casually answered a question about the weather. ‘Is it going to rain today?’ ‘Yeah looks like it.’

You gulped, “How long?”

“A year now,” he kept writing. Truthfully, he’d been expecting this. A flash of disappointment crossed his mind; there goes one of his hobbies, watching the Canaries have a crisis over his love life.

You buried your face in your hands. Mithrun stopped writing and patted your head as if comforting a dog.

- The Canaries are pleased that this is over. But actually, they’re going to have to watch you not realize it when you’re engaged to the Captain.

- At your wedding you’re in regular clothes. Someone asks why and you say “Mithrun told me we’re going to a wedding. He didn’t say it was ours.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Hades’ favourite thing to rant about is how much his family forgets about and sidelines him. Nico has literally never once given the lecture his full attention, because why the fresh fuck would he subject himself to that, but he discovers, lying facedown on the floor of Cabin Three, that he must have internalised enough of it to remember some key points.

He is loathe to admit it, but Father is right. How come the Poseidon cabin floors are so nice and comfortable? The floor of Cabin Thirteen sucks. Whenever he has Floor Time in his own cabin, he gets bruised and cold. Injustice.

“Could you suffer quieter? I’m trying to study.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

“I’m not the one groaning in misery.”

“Shut up, Percy.”

Percy sighs heavily. There’s a loud thud as he snaps his textbook shut, and the creak of mattress springs as he shifts.

“You’re so fuckin’ irritating, you know that?”

“Coming from you,” Nico says indignantly, pushing up to glare at him. Percy makes a face back. “I am here, having a crisis, being vulnerable in front of you —”

“Oh my gods.”

“— like you suggested, to rebuild our tenuous relationship —”

“I wish the prophecy had killed me. Either one, I’m not picky.”

“— and you are studying! Nose in a book! You hate reading! You are doing this just to spite me!”

“I am doing this to pass my classes,” Percy snips. “Someone should send you to public school. You need to experience that particular level of hell.”

“Experienced hell already, thanks. Don’t need a redo.”

“Tartarus references don’t shut me up, Zombie Boy. I’ve been there too.”

“Ugh.”

Percy rolls his eyes, turning back to his textbook. Nico contemplates rolling back on the floor to Ruminate and Think (after the second failure in a row he has a much to think about, like what the fuck is he supposed to do, should he even fucking bother, is he doomed to life without love, etc, etc) but finds himself, instead, sitting upright. Watching his — friend. Watching his heavy frown, listening to the bit-back curses and the crinkle of pages when he holds the book too tightly.

He’s moody, today. Sullen. Ate his breakfast in silence and stomped off to the sword fighting arena, raising hurricane downpour around the open theatre to deter anyone from joining him. Coincidentally, Annabeth has not been seen all day.

“Are you okay?” Nico asks quietly.

Percy shrugs, glancing over then glancing quickly away. “Fine.”

“I mean. You flooded half the camp. So.”

“Just drop it, Nico. If you’re going to stay in here, be quiet.”

Nico bites back the automatic, scathing retort. Be quiet, Nicolò! Lalalalala! Don’t tell me what to do! Ugh! I hate having a little brother! Yeah, well, I hate you too!

A quick, cut-off choking sound cuts through his thoughts. He looks up, startled, to find Percy’s face red, to find him swiping angrily at his cheeks.

“Woah,” he murmurs, climbing hastily upright. He ignores the loud chanting in his brain telling him to leave, the discomfort swirling in his stomach at seeing someone cry, seeing another man cry, instead hovering awkwardly. Percy shrugs off the hand he touches hesitantly to his shoulder, and Nico holds it there, suspended, in between and outstretched.

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

Nico hesitates. Of all people, he…nobody wants Nico around, when they’re —whatever Percy is. Upset. The only thing he can probably do is make it worse.

But what can he do? Leave him? Get Annabeth? Jason? None of it seems right. Instead he stands, frozen, hand still half-outstretched, eyes wide.

“You can —” He clears his throat. “Um. Did something happen?”

Percy shrugs. His eyes remain glued resolutely to his textbook, although the pages are wet and warped.

“Cause you can tell me, you know. I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything.”

Gods, he is so far out of his depth. Could Kampe come back and attack? That would be easier to deal with. Nico could handle that.

“I don’t —” the pages of the textbook crinkle under Percy’s grip — “it’s fucking stupid, is what it is.”

Hovering is not the right call. He knows that much. He scans the cabin, evaluating his options — sitting back on the floor feels like a bad plan. He doesn’t think any kind of touch would be welcomed, nor is he entirely comfortable in giving it. He doesn’t want to crowd. He doesn’t want to seem too distant.

Slowly, carefully gauging Percy’s reaction, he sits on the bed, across from him. He leaves the textbook between them, letting Percy keep pretending to read it, and tucks his legs up under his knees. He fiddles absentmindedly with his ring, chewing his lip every time Percy sniffles.

“Why’s it stupid?”

Percy shrugs again. Nico resists the urge to shake him. How does anyone deal with this shit? What the hell is he even supposed to do? He’s not Jason. He’s not Annabeth. Hell, he’s not Will, who seems to read emotions intuitively, who seems to know exactly what to do when someone is scared, when someone is upset. Even when someone is angry. He tries to imagine Will, in his position. Sitting across from a crying Percy Jackson, saviour of the world. Yesterday, one of the younger kids had tripped and scraped half the skin off their arm on the basketball court. Will had been there with a soft smile and gentle, glowing hands, speaking quietly and cracking small jokes until the kid was laughing again. Nico tries to imagine that here, soft words and lighthearted jokes. It doesn’t seem right. Would he — touch Percy’s wrist, like he did with Clarisse? Drag the fight right out of him?

Is Percy even angry? Nico has seen him angry before. Murderous. Fuming.

He’s never seen him cry.

Percy’s voice is like palms scraping hard over sharp gravel stones. “I made Annabeth cry this morning.”

The way he says it makes it hard for Nico to actually understand his words. His tone of voice is — volatile, is the best way he can describe it. Loathing. Based on the curling self-hatred dripping from the sentence Nico would assume he’d tried to kill her — he says I made her cry like he doesn’t deserve to live for it. Like he’s hoping to be punished.

“That happens,” Nico says. He swallows. “When you — love people.”

He and Bianca made each other cry a lot. He just never — stopped, never gave her half a second. Sometimes she looked at him and he knew she wanted to hit him. She never did. But he knew and she knew he knew and sometimes it would well up in her eyes, and she would lock herself in the bathroom of their room and turn on the sink and cry and cry and cry. And it ached something nasty in the cavity of his chest.

Percy sneers at his hands, flexing his fingers. “People who love you don’t make you cry. That’s just — hurting. That’s people who hurt everyone around them.”

Nico frowns. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says venomously. “I’m supposed to be — I’m supposed to protect her. I’m supposed to keep her safe, keep her from people who cause her pain.”

“People like you?”

Percy nods.

Nico drags his teeth over his bottom lip. He thinks of bleeding fingers clinging to a tiny shaft of rock, thinks of dangerous green eyes, hard voices; thinks of a thick web clinging to a broken ankle and an abyss. Thinks of promises and oaths and choosing. Thinks of falling. Thinks of letting go.

“People who want to harm Annabeth do not jump into the Pit for her.”

The pages of Percy’s textbook have started to dry. The ink has bled, dark splotches in perfect circles. The fountain bubbles gently behind them, mattress creaking under shifting legs.

“You don’t understand what I —” He pauses, swallowing. “Did, down there.”

“D’you hurt her?”

“…I scared her.”

“Oh, well — Christ, Percy! Is that really what this — brooding is about?” He scoffs. “No shit you scared her!”

“…What?”

Percy looks at him, wide-eyed. Nico rolls his eyes.

“Aw, when you were fighting for your life in the place meant to tear your essence into atoms, did you do things that make you question your personhood? Your morals?”

“I —”

“Of course you did, dumbass! Of course you —” he takes a breath, trying to organize the jumble of thoughts in his brain — “of course the physical manifestation of darkness and distortion made you act differently than you would usually, Percy. Of course it — affected you. Gods. Of course you’re struggling.” He flicks Percy’s knee, looking at him with exaggerated exasperation. “Use your brain, why don’t you.”

A small smile quirks the corners of Percy’s mouth, although it fades as quickly as it comes. He wipes his face with his sleeve, breath shuddering.

“She didn’t scare me, though.”

“Not even once?”

“Not in the same way,” Percy admits. “I was scared, once, when I looked at her. In the death mist. But that wasn’t — her, you know? She could never scare me.”

“I mean,” Nico wrinkles his nose, trying to articulate, “I think that’s kind of abnormal?”

Percy tilts his head.

“I just mean that you have a very high threshold, Percy. For…what you’ll tolerate from people you care about.”

“Everyone has that.”

“Not in the same way you do.” He taps his knuckles, considering. “Tell me the truth — if Annabeth stabbed someone to death in front of you, in total cold blood, would you help her hide the body?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. He shrinks, a little. “Oh.”

Nico rushes to assure, placing a fleeting touch on his wrist. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I don’t think. It’s just —” He shrugs. “I’m used to scaring people, too. I don’t mean to. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what I — do, it’s not intentional.”

Percy opens his mouth, but Nico stumbles on.

“But you’re not — a monster, Percy, gods. No one thinks you’re a monster. Especially not Annabeth.”

Percy wiggles his finger under his watch strap, turning it tightly around his wrist, cutting off the circulation. Nico watches but doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not, either.”

Nico blinks. “Huh?”

“A monster,” he explains. “You’re not, either.”

“Oh.” Nico shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No, I mean it, dude, I — look. Listen.” Percy sighs. “You got baggage. I put some of it on you. I’m sorry.”

Hands around his — throat — angry, angry eyes — harder — bruising — you promised! you promised! you promised!

“It’s fine.” A pause. “I did shit to you, too.”

“It’s not fine. And I know you did. We can still —”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He sighs again, a long, defeated sound, and curls in on himself.

“One day you’ll forgive yourself,” Nico murmurs. “One day I’ll — me too, I guess. Me and you.”

Percy smiles tiredly. “And we’ll be okay?”

“No. You’ll still be annoying.”

He snorts. “Whatever. Drama queen.”

“Oh, I’m the drama queen, Mr. I Don’t Deserve To Be Loved.”

Percy snorts. He turns back to his textbook, fiddling with the dried page, and snorts again, trying to duck his head. Nico bites the corner of his mouth, hard. Percy glances up again, and Nico meets his eyes, and they —

Gods, they’re bad at this.

But suddenly Percy can’t choke back his laughter, and it’s wheezing and self-deprecating and still kind of teary and Nico is laughing, too, because thank the gods that shit is over. Percy’s red-cheeked and Nico is red-cheeked and neither of them are going to look at each other for a week, Nico’s sure, but for now he can roll his eyes at Percy’s melodrama and dodge his embarrassed shoving, and it’s fine.

“You should talk to Annabeth,” Nico suggests, when the giggling has toned down.

Percy picks at the torn-up skin around his nails. “Probably.”

“Are you going to?”

“Why were you lying on the floor?” Percy asks instead. It is the least subtle subject change of all time, but Nico takes it as the hint it is and drops the subject. It’s not his business, anyway. They’ll talk. He knows Annabeth better than to think she’ll let it fester, at least.

“Oh, you know. Crushing weight of being alive, mortifying ordeal of being known, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Oh my gods. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Well, serves you right then, you selfish bitch.”

Percy snorts. “What, I cry all over you and now it’s your turn to vent?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it works. Transactional and eye-for-an-eye. Exactly as friendship should be.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Percy says, but he can’t tamp down his smile any more than he can stop his eyes from rolling, so there. Nico is exactly as funny as he thinks he is, thank you very much. A regular comedian.

Percy snaps textbook closed and sets it on the bedside table. “So.”

“So.”

Nico squirms. Suddenly he’s not sure why the hell he came in here in the first place. Are the floors in Cabin Thirteen really that bad? Surely not. Surely Floor Time didn’t have to be in Percy’s cabin.

(He blames Father for this. He’s horribly nosy. No doubt he’s passed his nosiness onto Nico, irregardless of his lack of DNA, and made Nico the way that he is. He can’t think of a single other reason he ducked into the cabin after lunch, when Percy still hadn’t shown his face.)

“Dude, come on. You came in here and whined and huffed and made a nuisance of yourself for literally forty minutes, and now that I’m giving you the attention you begged for you don’t want it? Nuh-uh. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill about,” Nico protests, “gods, can’t a man just complain in peace —”

“Ha! Not sure you can call yourself a ‘man’ if you’re voice is still cracking, squirt.”

“I literally hate you. Not joking.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Percy raises an eyebrow. “Well, since my guts are already spilled out and flopping all over the floor —”

“Disgusting.”

“—so it’s your turn, now.” He pokes Nico’s bicep. Nico bats him away, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, scooting over to put more space between them. Thankfully, Percy doesn’t follow, and he exhales, settling his back against the bed frame. The mattress springs creak again as he readjusts. “You can tell me, you know.” Nico can hear the smile in his voice at the cheeky repitition. “I won’t — tell anyone. Or anything. Ahem.”

“You’re so annoying.” Nico picks at a loose thread in the knees of his pants, looping it around his finger.

Will thinks ripped jeans are stupid. He hadn’t said so outright, when Nico came back from his Aphrodite-Cabin-enforced shopping trip, but Nico had noticed his pursed lips and deliberately schooled face. When he’d pressed about it, pestering him until he’d given up with the very southern passive aggressive if you like, Nico, I love, don’t you worry about it answer, he’d gotten a forty minute rant about jeans that “sold less jean for more fuckin’ money” that made him laugh until he cried.

He yanks the thread and pulls. The hole widens.

“Oh my gods, you’re actually whipped. Is that what this is?”

Nico flushes. “Shut up.”

“It is!” Percy grins widely, wicked delight in his eyes. “You are literally thinking about him right now! You might as well be kicking your feet! You —”

“Shut up, Percy, gods.”

“I’ve never seen you so red,” he says instead, because he is incapable of following instructions. His smile fades, face softening into something more pensive. “You must really like him.”

Nico shrugs. Is that what he feels for Will? Gorgeous. I’ve been crushing on you forever. He likes a lot of people. You always know just what I need. A lot of people aren’t Will.

“He’s not scared of me.” No matter how much he fiddles with it, the metal of his ring is always cold. Cold hands, he supposes. He never heats up much. “Or. intimated. Creeped out. He thinks I’m —”

He clamps his mouth shut. A bubble of something expands in his chest, growing out of his lungs, past his shoulders, pushing his throat closed. He swallows, hard, trying to shove it back, but — Nico! Hey! You think I couldn’t stand to see a friendly face? No way, Death Boy, no more Underworld-y magic for you! I can literally feel you fading! My hands are still shaking — here, feel.

“Gorgeous?” The smile on Percy’s face is teasing, but much softer than before. “I heard he — said.”

Maybe it’s the redness of Percy’s nose that hasn’t quite faded, or his still-puffy eyes, but finally the bubble pops, and Nico sighs, tipping his head back until it rests on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes. After a beat of hesitation, callused fingers brush through his hair, ruffling it, lingering awkwardly before pulling away. He smiles.

“Yes.”

“…Really? He just up and told you, that he had a —”

Percy stumbles on the words. Nico peeks one eye open and grinning wryly. “Yeah. He’s a hell of a lot braver than I am. Or maybe he’s just shameless.”

“He was always really intense about being your friend.” Percy screws up his face, tilting his head as if envisioning it. “I didn’t understand what that meant, at first. I didn’t get…the reason? Behind it? If that makes sense.”

“You forgot about gay people,” Nico says drily. “I know.”

“This is true,” Percy admits. He grins, sheepish. “That’s an L on my part. Every time me and Annabeth went looking for you he’d somehow know about it and ask us a bajillion questions when we got back. I just thought he was really into necromancy, or something, but now it’s like…damn.”

Nico covers his eyes with his hand, fighting back an embarrassed smile. He thinks your eyes are a tie between moonstone and agate, in case you were wondering. There is literally not a single soul in this camp unaware about how much he likes you.

“You’d think it would be easier to get him to go out with me, then.”

“It hasn’t been?”

Nico throws his hands up. “No! He doesn’t — I got him flowers, Percy, and he ground them up to make a poultice. He thought the rock I got him was a bribe. I open every door for him and I always pull out a chair for him at counsellor meetings. I make sure to stand up first when we’re sitting together and offer him a hand. I don’t know what else I can — do, gods.” He makes a noise of frustration, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m being as obvious as I can be. What am I gonna have to do to get him to realise? Fuckin’ — tattoo his name on my forehead?”

Percy slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out his pen. He twists it around his fingers, fiddling with the cap, picking at the plastic casing. He uses the end of it to trace mindless swirls on his thigh, which Nico can’t help but feel is dangerous. One wrong move and he better hope Nico can drag him to the fountain fast enough to stabilize him. But his eyes are far away, teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“There is a chance,” he says slowly, “that he…knows.”

Nico frowns, turning to face him properly. He looks resolutely at his lap. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I — well.” He does finally uncap his blade, staring at the soft glow of the bronze, rubbing his thumbnail over the leather handle. “I. Knew,” he says haltingly. “That Annabeth liked me. I —”

Nico watches him carefully. This is…news, to him. He didn’t keep up much on camp drama about the two of them — for obvious reasons — but he hardly had to. Even during his brief, one or two day stops at Camp, Percy and Annabeth gossip was impossible to avoid. People talked about them constantly, about how much they obviously cared for each other, how oblivious, especially, Percy was. It used to give him a twisted sort of hope.

“You…knew? And you didn’t do anything?”

Percy winces. “She got frustrated with hiding it. She kissed me, once, before I blew up St. Helens. And I just —” He shrugs. “I couldn’t believe that someone like her would want anything to do with someone like me.”

It’s impossible to miss his meaning, to miss the self-directed bitterness at the end of his words. Nico recognises it because he practically invented it. Someone like me. Someone disgusting, ugly, unworthy. Someone bitter and twisted and wrong. Someone so undeserving.

“I think Will is like me,” Percy continues softly. “That — insecurity.” He says the word quickly, like he might be able to hide it in the rest of the sentence. “I think he thinks very highly of you. And I think it’s hard for him to believe that you want to — to lower yourself, to be with him.”

“That’s inane,” Nico argues. “He’s — bright and kind and smart and — he’s fucking everything, what is he —!”

“He grew up a healer in a camp full of warriors. Full of talented people,” Percy murmurs. “When you’re surrounded by people who know what they’re doing, it’s easy to feel like a loser.”

Nico opens his mouth, closing it again. On principle he doesn’t agree with Percy. It doesn’t make sense. Every single person at this camp has relied on Will in more than one way for as long as he’s been here — as long as he’s been healing them. How could he not know what his purpose is? How could he not realise his talents?

Ace bandage, sound and unwound. Hard blue eyes, self-directed sneer. I’m just a healer.

“He’s not a loser,” Nico says eventually. “I don’t think he’s a — loser.”

Nico thinks he’s quite a bit more than that, actually. In fact if all words in the any language he knows, ‘loser’ is probably the least apt to describe him.

“How do I make him realise? Make him —”

Percy shrugs. “Took Annabeth several years and I still think I’m — well. I still struggle. You’ll have to be patient.” He glances over, and that mischevious smile is back on his face, the one that promises trouble and guarantees Nico an excuse to kick him. “Or, you know, you could just tell him that you think he’s bright, and kind, and smart, and beautiful, and —”

Nico does indeed kick him. He falls back against his pillow, laughing, curled against his side.

“I did not — I did not say beautiful,” Nico says hotly, “that was not on the list, you total jackass —”

Percy only laughs harder, no matter how many times Nico kicks him.

———

next

[ghosts-and-glory]

Some Narinder character analysis for y’all.

This is a slightly re-edited excerpt from a much longer post of mine where I was specifically trying to provide a rebuttal to someone else. I’m kinda proud of some of my takes here and the write up took me hours so I’m gonna repost it here on its own.

I’m going into specifically into Narinder’s

Speech patterns and way of expressing emotions.

Implications of his post defeat dialogue

Relationship with Aym and Baal

Feelings on Ratau’s death

And a little extra on why do we “babygirl” Narinder

Full analysis under the cut.

The way Narinder expresses his positive feelings

First I gotta establish Narinder’s voice. Narinder seems almost incapable of giving a genuine compliment especially without turning it into something about himself.

Here’s three examples of him giving a complement to The Lamb. Taken from after defeating Amdusias and Shamura. He also complements The Lamb when you sacrifice Ratau but I’ll come back around to that.

I wanted to grab the entire quotes so it didn’t look like I was nitpicking.

"Very good, my vessel. It seems I chose well when I kept you from Death.”

First example, “very good,” is the complement, but immediately after he takes credit for this by calling you “my vessel” thereby claiming ownership over you. His vessel did well. And again “I chose well” doubled down and complemented himself.

“I admit, you have worn it (the red crown) almost as well as I could have myself.”

Again we see the complement layered in ego. “Almost as well as I” in other words you did well, but don’t forget I’m better. Also important to draw attention to is “I admit” this is a very explicit statement of his refusal to acknowledge the success of others.

"Your appetite for death is something I can admire, Vessel. But the Crown is mine, and none - NONE - are worthy. None other than I.”

Here he almost lays down a complement. “Your appetite for death is something I can admire” straight up, states his admiration. He seems to almost realize what he’s done and quickly pulls back into his ego, “But the crown is mine” “-none are worthy- None other than I.”

These are the three of the four ONLY times that Narinder ever says anything explicitly positive about someone else when he is a god. Thus establishing that the head ass cannot give out a compliment to save his life. The one time he gives you full credit for your actions he immediately pulls right back into his ego.

I cannot stress this enough. Someone who is characterized as cold and emotionally closed off as Narinder is WILL NOT suddenly undo this characteristic when they try and express a positive feeling.

Okay with that established we can look at his follower dialogue. Specifically these two examples from when you resurrect a follower and allow him to go on a mission.

“I cannot begrudge supplantation by one such as yourself.”

Literally saying I don’t resent you for taking my place. It’s not an explicit statement that he respects you but this is he weird fucked up little way of saying it. Of course he still lays it out in a way that’s self centred but we know from the way he has spoken that this is about as much verbal praise he is capable of giving.

The other one is a less explicit statement but I think it’s a interesting reflection of the final place of his character.

“…my thanks, Lamb.”

Being his last bit of unique dialogue, it’s an incredible ending to a character. He thanks you. That’s all he needed to say.

Narinder’s reaction to his defeat that he would rather die.

Let’s go over his dialogue in some depth.

"You weak, snivelling, foul thing. You - wait! Waaaiiiiiit!"

I’m starting with this line as it compels me the most. I find that there are two separate readings of this and I can’t really point to one above the other. On my play through I had assumed his wailing was more in reference to being denied death. It could also be read as him not wanting to be reduced to a follower and realizing what your mercy really means for his future.

“-are you to be a vengeful false idol, or a merciful coward? No longer can you blame your vile acts on me."

Okay, looking at the way he presents your two options he seems to push more for the murder action. “-vengeful false idol,” is how he refers to murder. It’s not exactly a glowing review but his use of the word vengeful is important. We know that one of Narinder’s main goals in the game is revenge, we he already acts with revenge I can’t say that he’s using this word as an insult. The false idol part of this statement seems like he’s attempted to separate himself from you, again for is ego.

Then he presents the spare option by calling you a “merciful coward.” The flow of this full sentence puts more pressure on this option. He presents it as the “or” the second option. This is the bad option, the option of a coward.

“So. vou are no different to me after all. You have become as I am."

I know this is a deranged order to go over these quotes but last we got murder. Compared to his spare dialogue this is incredibly sombre. We know from already establishing how big his ego is that saying you are the same as him is almost a compliment. I do find this dialogue incredibly interesting tho, I can’t exactly explain why but I can’t help but read this as damning as well. It’s like he means it in both ways, the ultimate fuck you. You are just as I am, for better and worse.

But from what we know about Narinder his edgy ass cannot express emotion. He wraps his statements in layers of irony and selfishness. Unless it supports the persona he puts on or inflates his ego he WILL NOT right out state his feelings or needs, especially when he was a chained god.

Relationship with Aym and Baal

Aym and Baal are incredibly hard to characterize. They don’t have much dialogue to work off of and only three characters every speak on them, Shamura, Narinder and Forneus. The context of the game does present them as more Narinder’s first (and second) hand, less followers more apprentices, almost, but where’s the fun in assuming.

"Intended as keepers, perhaps, but they were young and in need of guidance. Must I be blamed for my influence?"

I wanna draw attention to the specific wording of keepers. Again, based on the way Narinder speaks its safe to assume he means the formal meaning of a keeper, meaning a caretaker. It is unclear if Narinder was told they where his keepers or if he assumed so, but either way he still speaks on them as such.

For the sake of argument (and I don’t wanna rewrite this bit entirely) I’m gonna put the idea that Narinder brainwashed Aym and Baal against my presented idea of them being his keepers or apprentices.

The proposed idea of the brainwashing angle can be developed based on Narinder saying that “they where young and in need of guidance, must I be blamed for my influence.” This implies that, as much as Aym and Baal may have been sent as keepers, they where still young and Narinder could not help but be an influence on them. I am gonna come back around to this thread so hold onto this for a moment. Moving on.

“Two kits I did have, true love found! And yet one lackadaisy summer day, my beautiful children were taken away... a gift, they said, for the one they loved most, the one that waits...”

“Ooh, kits... I remember, I remember... two kits in my claws... a gift.."

It is unclear and morally dubious how Aym and Baal came to Narinder. First we’re not 100% where Narinder is chained. The wiki lists it as the afterlife and in dialogue Narinder refers to it as “at the gates between this life and the next, trapped at the nexus of what was and what wasn't.” (When he asks you to send him on a mission.) We can travel there both by dying and being summoned there by him.

Either way the assumption is that Aym and Baal had to die. (As an aside I have my own speculation on the conditions required for a person to be presented to Narinder or to be resurrected but that’s off topic.) The horrific implications being that either Shamura themself killed the kits or that they where already dying. However you cannot blame the reaper for ushering the dead away from life.

I’m going to work off of the cult specific definition and characteristics of brainwashing. It’s hard to characterize where Aym and Baal sit here as, again they have little dialogue and due to the nature of brainwashing it’s hard to spot. First I wanna grab my brainwashing resources.

I’m using Encyclopedia Britannica’s page on brainwashing, cults, indoctrination, manipulation as my primary resourse.

Again I kinda wanna apply a layer of irony to how literally I apply real life tragedy to this game that obviously uses cults in a comedic manner. I wanna focus in on the characteristics displayed by victims of brainwashing and the techniques used in brainwashing by an abuser.

Looking at the elements used in brainwashing the only one I can say off the bat that is present is isolation, obviously. But with that let’s grab all of Aym and Baal’s dialogue.

What is clear from their dialogue is their obedience to Narinder. They call him master while his keepers and still when you meet them later when adventuring. And physically we do see them by Narinder’s side the entire main game and they fight the Lamb first. But if we add some nuance and look at their role as keepers or my own theory of being apprentices both actions of obedience make sense still for those roles. On the same note they also don’t display traits you would expect for someone fully under Narinder’s control. They speak to the Lamb out of turn and attack without prompting from Narinder.

Other characteristics are hard to imply. With torture I do want to pass it off an unlikely as based on the way Narinder tries to manipulate the Lamb it’s only verbal and he cannot attack while chained and I don’t see that changing with the keepers. Traits like sleep, water and food deprivation can’t be applied for various reasons (mostly the being dead one) and we don’t know anything about Narinder and the keeper’s interactions in the past so I’ll have to disregard other traits like suggestion.

Baal: "It's you. Usurper of the Red Crown. The one who freed us."

Aym: "Ha! You are nothing compared to our Master. We have not been in this world long, but already I can tell you are weak. You lack discipline. Our Master wielded Death with precision and control. You allow chaos to reign."

Baal: "What my brother means to say is thank you."

Moving onto groupthink I can pretty comfortably say that this is not a present characteristic of Aym and Baal. In their limited dialogue we can easily characterize Aym as more outwardly defensive of Narinder but Baal is more reserved and even contradicts Aym and is able to speak freely of Narinder.

Looping back around to the way Narinder speaks on his influence on Aym and Baal. Again we know how Narinder speaks, he cannot give honest compliments and dodges affection like it’s a professional sport. With the way he will outright tell the Lamb to manipulate followers and then uses the words “guidance” and “influence” about Aym and Baal, he has to be avoiding admitting affection to the keepers. He does follow that up with “Do what you wish, scornful God. I care not for them.” But again does Forneus not also allow her kits to do as they wish?

My own reading of Narinder’s relation to Aym and Baal is that of mentorship but it could also be read as parental. But saying brainwashed is a big stretch.

His feelings on the death of Ratau

This is like another example of like, yeah, wow, an evil character does evil? Who could’ve possibly foreseen this? Sarcasm aside I do see his comments on this being a lesser evil.

First I do have to ask why, if Narinder held strong sense of unrest against his former vessel, did he not have him struck down? The main reason I can see is that Ratau is still devoted to the red crown, most clearly seen by the statue at the lonely shack which generates devotion.

Second, Ratau’s death isn’t on his hands, it’s on yours. I find his pride here is from The Lamb’s actions not the death of Ratau. You killed your mentor, he describes your actions as “treacherous opportunism” and says “A great Vessel takes their master's will as their own.” Based on his later dialogue this is likely more foreshadowing the Lamb becoming as Narinder is. Narinder tried to kill his siblings, and you did kill your mentor. “You have become as I am."

I’m gonna tangent quickly cause there’s a line here that is incredibly interesting.

"He renounced his position after striking a bargain that resulted in the sacrifice of a Follower. He was weak."

Incredibly interesting the way he condemns Ratau’s sacrifice of a follower. Narinder directly contradicts himself. It is implied that the follower was lost to another being that did not benefit Narinder, but the Lamb also sacrifices followers to the Fox and Midas. Just something to chew on.

Why do we “babygirl” Narinder and other evil characters?

This is kinda the last bit I’m gonna get into before I cap this off. It is incredibly funny for me to say “I babygirl Narinder” only to get a reply that’s like “I don’t think you babygirl him on purpose.” But I wanna talk about why this happens and why it happened to specifically Narinder.

When people complain about the fandom interpretation of Narinder I think they forget the tone of cult of the lamb. The closest thing I could think to call it would be a dark comedy kinda energy.

The game has very dark themes going on. Mentions of real horrible things like genocide, cults and religious abuse. But also just like look at the game, it’s visual style is so cute and non threatening, the bird characters have two mouths to commit to the bit. If you look at the way it depicts cults it’s very surface level, it’s more focused on being a satire on the common satanic media kinda look of a cult. Visually it bathes in its aesthetics, taking names from books like The Lessee Key of Solomon, uses villainous depictions of symbols like the pentagram or old Hebrew script, disregarding its nuanced origins.

And then they go onto do the funniest thing ever. The other bishop’s? Gross little freaks, based on commonly disliked animals, worm, frog, squid and spider. And then- and then they make the god of death, who they characterize and manipulative and evil, they make him a catboy. You cannot tell me they did not know what they where doing.

Why have I shot Narinder with the babygirl beam? CAUSE THE GAME DID IT FIRST!

I’m gonna call the god of death my little meow meow and point out his status as a Tumblr sexy man cause he’s a little guy and I wanna give him head scritches. But I’m also gonna call him a layered, fucked up and an incredibly interesting character in the same breath.

[6esiree]

Ulterior Motives:

Alastor x Reader x Lucifer

Notes: Even if I don’t end up going through with the story, at least y’all got this preview to read 😼 Reader is referred to as she once, and there’s a lil bit of smut in the end, but it’s not detailed.

—————

Among the stench of low-quality cigarettes and cheap booze that contributed to the sleazy environment of the casino, the heavenly scent of your Bourbon Strawberry & Vanilla perfume wafted into Lucifer’s nostrils, his chest rising and falling in silent recognition. Even after six of the twelve grueling hours of your shift and only one break in between, the supposed discounted aroma clung onto your clothes, obscuring anything unsavory wherever you traversed.

“Something the matter, sweetheart?” The sound of your voice suddenly penetrated Lucifer’s ears, much to his pleasure.

“You know, you can just call me by my name, right?” Lucifer said, immediately straightening his back.

“Is that what you want me to do?” You asked with a smile, planting your elbows on the counter in front of him, invading his personal space.

You were met with silence in lieu of a response, and while Lucifer’s mouth hung slightly open, it was as if his tongue prohibited him from formulating any words. You had no idea that he was utterly entranced by the way the dim pending light cascaded down your face, accentuating his favorite features. He would have never snapped out of it if a rather hefty patron hadn’t rattled the counter as they asked for a drink.

“What’cha want?” You slid away with a huff, unhappy over the disruption, but your smile didn’t falter once.

Lucifer’s eyes followed your receding figure, disappointment settling in the depths of his stomach, but at least you tended to work much quicker than you usually did when he asked for a drink. Cocktail, straight shot, or a beer—it didn’t matter, you somehow managed to stretch the seconds into minutes, and nobody but your employer had the right to complain when the King of Hell was requesting your services. That’s the only thing Lucifer loved about himself.

“Sometimes I hate this place, but then this happens,” You said when you reappeared in front of Lucifer, showcasing the tip in between your forefinger and middle finger, “Gotta pay the rent—the prices are unforgiving.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Lucifer chuckled, watching you stash it away under the counter. “Money, it’s important even in the afterlife.”

Tonight marked the third month that Lucifer had started showing up to the casino, but he invested all of his money into your bar, never sparing the 25¢ slot machines or the popular $5 Blackjack tables a second glance. Your knowledge about Lucifer’s personal affairs was severely limited, but the moment you caught him mindlessly twisting the golden wedding band on his ring finger, that was when you figured out what motivated him to come back.

“So, Lucifer,” You said, putting one hand on your hip, the other rubbing away at your chin in mock contemplation. “Are you sure that’s what you want me to call you?”

“Well, only if you want to,” Lucifer shrugged, the next part slipping past his lips before he could think about how strange it sounded. “I’d rather hear my name than what I assume you must call most people here.”

Your eyes flitted down to the man, the embarrassment evident in his face as you stared at him with an arched brow. It was too late to take back what he’d said, Lucifer realized; but if he added anything else, he’d risk making himself look like an even bigger fool. Oh, where had his eloquence gone to?

“Sometimes I refer to other patrons with terms of endearment, yeah,” You admitted, leaning onto the counter once more. “Okay, um, how about Luci? Does anybody else call you that?”

Unfortunately, the very woman who had driven Lucifer to seek comfort in the hands of liquor used to call him that. But as your warm breath caressed his face, your plump lips mere centimeters away from his, he couldn’t help but slowly shake his head. ‘Okay, Luci it is,’ You practically sung, the nickname rolling off of your tongue in such a beautiful way that it infiltrated his mind and replaced the memory of her dreaded voice with yours.

“Oh, and do you want another drink?” You asked. “Couldn’t help but notice how little you’ve had from yours.”

Throughout your entire conversation, Lucifer had been absentmindedly tracing the rim of his half-full glass, the grains of salt collecting underneath his claw. The last thing he wanted to do was admit that he had no desire to drink tonight, because then he’d have to explain his presence, or that you’d whipped up something shitty, because you hadn’t. So, he downed it, and all you could do was watch in awe how Lucifer swallowed the liquid without even flinching once.

“Hey, I wouldn’t have taken any offense if you’d told me you didn’t like it,” You said, taking the glass to clean. “That’s one issue down, at least.”

“Shit, yeah, the salt,” Lucifer mumbled.

“Here, lemme help you.”

You chuckled, slowly reaching towards Lucifer, granting him enough time to decline your advances. When he didn’t, you gingerly wrapped your fingers around his wrist, his stomach digging uncomfortably into the counter as you brought him towards you. The way you whispered ‘I gotcha,’ and grabbed a clean, damp rag to rid his claw from the salt compensated for the feeling, however, his heart touched by the domesticity of the act.

“I, uh—thank you,” Lucifer stammered.

And he would have gladly allowed you to hold his wrist for a moment longer if a certain someone hadn’t made himself known, the distant crackling of static making Lucifer retract his arm, earning a confused look from you. He couldn’t explain to you why he’d done such a thing, though, not when a ridiculously tall man clad in a red old-timey getup, pinstriped coat, monocle, and all sat down next to him in lieu of all the empty barstools.

“Pardon me, but is this seat taken?” He asked Lucifer, his voice reminiscent of an old radio.

“No, not at all!” Lucifer stiffly responded, a large, toothy grin taking over his face. “Go ahead, pal.”

“Excellent—oh! Where are my manners?” He said, turning to you, offering you his hand and an endearing smile. “My name is Alastor! Pleasure to meet you, quite a pleasure, darling.”

You couldn’t tell what Alastor was exactly, but he appeared to have deer-like characteristics. His antlers were substantially small, and his ears looked a lot like hair, so perhaps you were wrong. Nevertheless, your interest was piqued, the energy he radiated from his way of being rather enticing to you.

“Oh, um, likewise?” You said, trying to match his language, accepting his greeting.

A gasp escaped your throat as Alastor maneuvered your hand with a graceful precision, bringing your knuckles in for a gentleman-like kiss. Warmth spread across your features at the feeling of his lips pressed against your skin, and oh, Lucifer was silently seething at that. Even when Alastor finally parted from you, relinquishing your hand with a semblance of disappointment etched onto his brow, he made his displeasure known to him.

“My, no wonder you failed to show up to your dear daughter’s party,” Alastor said, interrupting himself with a bleat as he felt Lucifer kick into the back of his knee.

“Are you okay?” You asked, your eyes darting to Lucifer, but he simply shrugged. “Oh, a party, you say? What’cha doing here then, Luci? Your daughter invited you.”

“Just a slight cramp, don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Alastor coughed, swiftly returning the gesture, but Lucifer swallowed his pain rather well. “Anywho, good question. Lucifer here was invited, but he must have somehow forgotten about it, ha! Now that I’ve come here myself, however, I see what has him so…occupied.”

Before you could let the compliment sink in, including the fact that Alastor had made the man next to him out to be a neglectful father, Lucifer quickly added that he’d informed Charlie he’d be late to the party ahead of time, purposely withholding that you were the reason why. Still, that wouldn’t stifle Alastor’s efforts to make Lucifer look bad, irritated that he had to spend his own precious time and effort to fetch him like some wretched servant.

“Hey! I told Char I had some…things to tend to beforehand,” Lucifer said, playfully but not so playfully elbowing his side.

“Why, yes! You did tell her that, but do you realize how much time has passed since then?” Alastor practically spat, his sharp teeth glinting underneath the dim light as he smiled warningly at Lucifer. “I’m only here because I was asked to fetch you.”

“How the Hell did you find me?”

“Oh, I have my ways, dear friend.”

There was an unmistakeable tension simmering between the two of them, and you had no idea that Alastor would grant you the opportunity to find out by inviting you to Charlie’s party, his claws beckoning you. ‘Wait, my shift isn’t over and I can get fired,’ You weakly protested, but he took your hand anyway, materializing alongside you and Lucifer at the infamous Hazbin Hotel, the clanking of glasses, the flitting of cards, and the chattering of people flooding your ears.

“You guys made it, I’m so—who is this?” A tall woman gasped as she wobbly approached you, but all you could focus on was that she bore a striking resemblance to the King of Hell. “I’m Charlie, it’s so, so nice to meet you!”

“Uhh, yeah, it’s nice to meet you too,” You said, interrupting yourself with an ‘oof’ as Alastor seized your waist, swiftly bringing you into his side.

“This pretty little darling is the very reason your father was fashionably late!” Alastor unashamedly announced, his radio-like voice bouncing off the hotel’s walls.

“Ah, yes! I was just telling her about your project here, Charlie, and I guess I got carried away,” Lucifer quickly interjected with a lie, wrapping an arm around your waist from the other side, but Alastor just wouldn’t let you go.

“Wait, what?” You tried to ask, confused and overwhelmed over your current predicament, your eyes darting between the two men.

“That is so…amazing!” Charlie squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, I gotta go tell Vaggie that we have a new resident!”

That was the Princess of Hell? You wondered as she held one hand over her heart, the other occupied by a beer bottle, easily overlooking the contempt on their faces in her drunken stupor. Meanwhile, you were trapped between Alastor’s and Lucifer’s bodies, your face flushed in utter embarrassment as their claws unforgivingly dug into your hipbones, the bruises forming on there foreshadowing your future at the Hazbin Hotel:

A long whine escaped your throat at Lucifer’s slow intrusion between your legs, but Alastor quickly swallowed it. He had one hand wrapped possessively around your neck as he captured your lips, the other massaging you below to soothe the burn of being stretched. They loved you—that’s what they had confessed to you after many painful months, but neither of them could handle the idea of only one of them having you all to themselves. So what was their solution? This, and oh, were you in Heaven.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 179 }

company.

academy arc

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

{ let's end each other's lonely nights | be each other's paradise | need a picture for my frame | someone to share my reign… }

you walked to school in the early hours of the morning, simply looking down at the novel you were reading in your hand. a smile paints your features the more you basked and read each scene, and as you were in the midst of turning the page, you felt a strange sensation creeping up on you-

the sensation of being followed.

your steps begin to slow just then, unaware of the large hand that reaches out to you-

as sung jinwoo lets out a rich chuckle of your name, wrapping an arm around you as he brings you closer to the front of his chest.

“morning, angel.” he purrs into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. you give him a playful pout, lightly pushing yourself away from him.

you missed the lost expression seen in his gaze the moment you pulled away from him, trying to calm down your racing heart as you smoothed down the skirt of your uniform.

with a cough, you put your novel back within the confines of your bag, choosing instead to walk side-by-side with jinwoo to school.

you and jinwoo had a special relationship-

this didn’t mean that you two were a couple or anything, oh no.

what you meant was that you still had memories of another life with jinwoo…

where you and him were both hunters, taking on raids while supporting each other throughout it all.

jinwoo was your best friend during those times; he helped train you, a mere b-rank hunter, making you more proficient in your raids as you slowly rose up the ranks, given you freedom to attend more high level raids despite never being able to level up like he could.

your memories became a little hazy after the war, and once jinwoo used the cup of reincarnation one last time-

you found yourself being 14 again, living with your parents and little brother in your humble home. perhaps what came as the most shocking to you was how you retained all of your memories.

which was why you felt so happy when you and jinwoo ended up going to the same high school together. he was a great source of comfort during the times when memories of your past life became too much to bear.

ah, but you were getting ahead of yourself-

you’ve since then gotten better at dealing with the hardships of your past life, even getting the tiniest bit upset when jinwoo admitted to taking on all the monarchs on his own, spending a total of 27 years within some strange, dimensional rift. you knew that he had won the war all on his own while telling you how he succeeded his mission, now living his life as a normal human despite how truly godlike he was.

jinwoo’s knuckles were suddenly felt being gently placed against the top of your head. “you’re dozing off again.”

“what? i am not dozing off, woowoo.”

a blush immediately paints his features when you refer to him by that stupid nickname. “h-hey, that nickname is dumb as hell, and that’s not even how you pronounce my name! the ‘woo’ in ‘jinwoo’ is more subtle than that, like a soft ~u.”

“heh, whatever, woowoo…!”

you giggle when his eyes flash purple in annoyance, running to catch up to you, but all while hiding his grin.

you would never know the depths of his feelings for you, and that fact alone was killing the shadow monarch on the inside.

{ … }

you and jinwoo end up enjoying lunch together back in the classroom, with you taking casual sips of your juice.

“so do you have track practice today?”

jinwoo takes a rice ball from your lunch box as you stole a piece of his bulgogi beef. “yeah, i do.”

“hehe, did you want me to hang out with you on the field?”

a soft smile paints jinwoo’s features, “if you don’t mind, then yeah. i could use your company.”

a teasing grin paints your expression, “you still trying to get with cha hae-in?”

jinwoo chokes on his rice ball, “w-what the- you know about that?!”

“what? it’s so obvious that you’re still into her! want me to look her up and give you her number or something?”

you giggle in response, basking in jinwoo’s embarrassed expression. you recall how jinwoo was pretty much dating cha hae-in in the original timeline, and they were truly such a cute couple in your eyes!

two of the most renowned s-rank hunters taking on high level gates, never once failing their missions or goals. because of jinwoo’s blossoming romance, you, being simply labeled as his best friend, took a step back and gave them the space they needed in order to let their romance bloom.

and now, with time going backwards due to jinwoo’s actions, you were certain he was going to try and capture her heart once more, leaving you more than willing to play as his wingwoman once more.

despite your playful words, jinwoo appeared uncomfortable, shifting his rice around his lunch box with his chopsticks, eyebrows furrowed in response. noticing the change in his demeanor, you softly ask him, “are you okay?”

your question snaps him out of his reveries. “i’m fine. here, you can have the rest of my lunch… i’ll be right back.”

you could tell something was wrong with jinwoo, watching as he stood up a bit too fast for your liking when you stop him, allowing your hand to wrap around his wrist. “wait, where are you going?”

he looks down at you with gentle grey eyes, allowing the pad of his thumb to grace at your cheek as he wiped away an imaginary stain. after that simple touch, he points to your empty juice bottle.

“i was going to get you more juice. are you opposed to it?”

your eyes go wide, but you shook your head in response. “no, i don’t mind it.”

jinwoo gives you a nod, shaking your grip off of his wrist, leaving you utterly confused as you kept staring at his quickly retreating form.

“how strange…” you look down at your shadow, seeing a few, glowing purple eyes glancing back at you.

at least he still wanted to protect you-

even when you knew you did something to upset him.

{ … }

jinwoo told you he didn’t mind you watching him at practice-

but you didn’t feel like your presence was warranted after upsetting him at lunch earlier. so, you hid out at the library, working on some assignments while doing your readings for your classes. you had thoughts about going home first, but deep down, you knew that avoiding jinwoo wouldn’t help with making this whole situation any better.

as you were writing, you immediately became aware of the shadow looming over you, a pair of solemn, glowing violet eyes staring down at you with a neutral expression.

“why didn’t you join me at practice?”

you tremble a bit, detecting the accusation in jinwoo’s voice as you let out a sigh.

“how could i join you when you’re mad at me?” you whisper back at him.

hearing his scoff tones down your anxieties the tiniest bit, and you felt your shoulders visibly relax at the sound of it. you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze, seeing jinwoo leaning closer to you while placing a hand on the table.

he was dressed in his track uniform, consisting of a purple and white shirt with matching shorts. he taps the top of his sneakers against the linoleum floors, giving you a nice view of his muscular calves.

you were ready to tease him about it, your lips puckered up as a low whistle escapes from them when jinwoo suddenly wraps an arm around the back of your head.

your words die against your throat, eyes going wide when your face was pressed directly against jinwoo’s chest. he runs his fingers through your hair, a pained whisper heard coming from him when he asks,

“do you really not feel a single thing from me? am i doomed to remain just friends with you in this timeline, too?”

your mouth goes dry when you hear his question, and you were uncertain as to how to respond to him. you felt your lips open and close, yet still, not a single syllable would come out.

jinwoo lets out a disappointed ‘tsk’ then, shoving you away from him as he gazes down at you with a neutral look. “forget about it. just… forget about it.”

you watch helplessly when jinwoo picks up his duffel bag and backpack, facing away from you as your heart clenched painfully in response.

if you didn’t stop him now, then you’d lose him forever.

shoving back your chair with such intensity that it nearly falls to the ground, you grab jinwoo’s wrist once more. his eyes go wide, and you catch his shocked expression momentarily before standing on the tip of your toes to fully kiss him.

his reaction was immediate- instinctive even when he wraps his arms around your back, bringing you achingly closer to him all while deepening the kiss.

you lost track of time, uncertain of how many kisses you shared when you finally found the strength to pull away from him. he keeps both of his arms wrapped tightly around you, purple eyes gazing down at you in amusement and love, all while running his hands through your hair.

“i… i always thought that you always deserved a girl like cha hae-in… because, well, you know… she was pretty powerful… and gorgeous, too.”

jinwoo scoffs at your admission, but remains quiet, wishing for you to go on and explain yourself.

“that’s why, i kept all my feelings hidden for you.” unable to meet his gaze, you play with the front of his shirt, smoothing the fabric while picking away at the imaginary lint. “i always figured you deserved better than me-“

“tch, stop.”

jinwoo then gently pulls you back by your hair, eyes becoming more passionate when he crashes his lips against yours. you could only whimper in response to his sudden kiss, hands remaining curled up against his chest as jinwoo presses you even closer to him.

he pulls away first, lightly panting before admitting to you, “please… i never wanted hae-in… but you were so determined to set us up that neither one of us knew what to do.”

you blink up at him in complete shock. “what…? but, she had such a huge crush on you…?!”

jinwoo chuckles all while tracing the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip. “well yeah… she liked me, but that didn’t mean that i liked her. how could i like her when i already had you?”

your head was spinning, yet despite it all, you couldn’t stop the smile from forming. “eh? but didn’t you say you wanted to join track to meet her someday?”

jinwoo lets out a huff, bringing your frame into his chest once more before coming clean to you. “forgive me and my poor attempts at making you jealous. joining track was just an excuse, really.”

his admission finally earns bouts of laughter from you, feeling so relieved and happy that your feelings were requited after all. after spending a few more minutes in each other’s embrace, jinwoo gives your body one last squeeze before pulling away from you, giving your forehead a gentle kiss.

“how about i walk back home with you, then, we can talk about our plans for our upcoming first date.”

you giggle, watching as jinwoo packs up your notebooks and assignments before carrying your bag for you, giving you a lovesick expression while you cling on to his side.

perhaps dreams do come true after all…

a.n. - this is so self indulgent, but oh so much fun to write! (/ω＼)

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (16)

She never thought she’d be involved in a murder investigation and encounter her one-night-stand again, the awkward guy who isn’t exactly that good in bed—Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong… But as he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Part Summary: Spencer is faced with a dangerous confrontation. wc: 3.4k

Series Warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide, mentions of SA

A/n: this part went through so much editing until I was satisfied with it, also, can't believe this is ending soon!!

Other parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

EVERYTHING FINALLY FELL INTO PLACE. Although it took longer than it normally did to solve a case, Spencer finally gathered every piece of information, every obscure clue, and every small detail he unfortunately missed before to make a clear profile.

Eric Adler—or Henry Wyatt as Garcia discovered through her meticulous sleuthing—was a master of disguise. He had concealed his identity under a different persona, changing his name the moment he packed his bags and left the town he grew up in. Oliver confirmed this discovery when Spencer visited the hospital the following day, once he had regained consciousness.

"Eric... he's a stranger to me," Oliver had said, his voice carrying a tinge of disbelief, a foreign look gleaming in his eyes. "Henry, on the other hand, was one of my closest friends."

"I'm assuming something happened for you to drift apart."

Oliver's gaze shifted. "We grew up in a very tight community. Religion was all we were taught," he began, his voice tinged with defiance and nostalgia. "I guess we became close from our rejection of those traditional values and practices."

Spencer acknowledged his words with a nod. "Your files showed there were a lot of crimes you committed in the past."

"I-I was very rebellious."

"I would say forcing yourself on a young, innocent girl was more than rebellious."

Oliver winced. "Listen, I'm not proud of my past," he confessed, his voice carrying a hint of regret. "But yes, my friends and I grew up doing things that were out of morals."

Spencer studied him. "What happened then?"

"A lot of pointing fingers," he admitted. "Our community leaders eventually found out and threatened us with severe punishment. From the outside, it was simply community service, but from the inside, it involved a lot of restraints and, well, whips."

Silence stretched between them. "It was how they punished the bad," Oliver explained further, his eyes searching Spencer's for comprehension. "They always say it whenever they were going to abuse us; 'The wicked will not go unpunished, but those who are righteous will go free.'"

"Proverbs 11:21," Spencer mumbled under his breath, recognizing the scriptural reference.

A hint of surprise flickered across Oliver's face. "Are you a religious person?"

He shook his head, implying a depth of knowledge that surpassed the boundaries of religious beliefs. "Was that what made you drift apart?"

"Partly, yes," Oliver answered with a sigh. "We didn't admit to it at first, but then under the pressure and the constant threat of punishment, I guess I became weak."

"Did you betray him?"

Oliver acknowledged the truth with a slow nod. "We were both punished, along with the others who were involved, but our leaders always wanted one name whom they could sacrifice, a name who held all responsibility. The initiator of all sins."

"So you put the blame on him," Spencer summarized, understanding the dynamics that had led to the fracture in their friendship.

"It was the only thing I thought of doing to save myself," he confessed. "He became a sacrifice. All the punishment turned onto him until he was cast out of the community. When his family didn't even try to interfere, he eventually left town. Never heard from him ever since."

"And then years later you saw him again."

His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug.

"I didn't even recognize him at first. He had a different name, different hair, different style—he was practically a different person. When I realized who he actually was, I tried to confront him  but he never acknowledged me." He then looked away, the emotion in his gaze concealed. "I just thought he didn't want to be associated with the past anymore."

It explained everything. The revelation about Eric's past and the harsh punishments he had to endure shed light on the motivations behind his actions. It explained why he felt compelled to punish people, as it was the only method deeply ingrained in his brain.

Their shared upbringing, the weight of betrayal, and the scars of their past had shaped his sense of justice, leading him down a dark path of vengeance. And with that new knowledge in mind, Spencer passed on the information he had discovered when he came to work the next day.

Everyone was gathered by the round table, an unusual thing to happen given that they were typically scattered in their assigned tasks, but all of them were present for once. Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in contemplation after Spencer finished his thoughts. "So let me get this straight, Eric's vendetta against Oliver is personal. Goes beyond just catching a killer then."

"It's a cycle of betrayal." JJ, standing by the door with crossed arms, agreed aloud. "He attempted to shift the blame onto Oliver, something he also went through in the past."

Spencer nodded as he started to pace around the room. "Psychologically speaking, his actions seem to be rooted in a need for retribution, a manifestation of the punitive measures ingrained in his upbringing."

"So we're dealing with a man who sees himself as a guardian angel dispensing justice, even if it means resorting to extreme measures."

"A guardian angel while simultaneously executing his revenge," Emily mused from the other side, her words laced with a blend of contemplation and concern. "Very personal indeed."

Hotch crossed his arms as he stood by the table, and scrutinized his team with his usual detached and professional expression, devoid of any visible emotions. "We need to understand his patterns," he began. "If we can predict his next move, we might be able to intercept him."

"He clearly has a deep affection towards Y/n." Morgan offered, prompting Spencer to halt his pacing and turn his attention toward him at the mention of her name. "He probably has a list of people who he thinks have hurt her in the past."

Rossi studied everyone in the room, attentively listening to their thoughts. He tapped his finger against the wooden table, directing his focus on Morgan. "We should find out who might be on that list. It could give us insight into his next move."

Hotch agreed with a curt nod. "Morgan, Rossi, work on compiling a list of individuals connected to Y/n. Garcia, cross-reference it with Eric's history. Let's see if we can predict his next move based on the people he might target."

Garcia instinctively rose from her chair and nodded. "Yes, sir," and waltzed out of the room with determined steps, making her way to her office.

The others shifted from their spots, while Morgan, unlike the rest, kept his gaze on Spencer. He observed the frown stretching across his face and pondered whether to voice what he had in mind. He hesitated, acknowledging that Spencer's involvement with their witness wasn't strictly his business. Yet, considering the recent events, he felt compelled to express his thoughts.

"I don't want to be that kind of person to bear bad news, but I think—I think—there's a high chance that pretty boy here could be a target," Morgan declared. Spencer quickly met his gaze.

Everyone else, momentarily suspended in a collective pause, turned their attention toward him. He could feel their penetrating gaze, which started to make him uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. He didn't want to entertain that possibility, but it made sense. Considering Eric had been with her right after he had hurt her, he could very well be the next target.

JJ, breaking the silence, voiced what lingered in everyone's thoughts as she took a step closer to him. "We should keep you safe then. If you're a potential target, we can't afford to overlook any possibility."

Spencer glanced over at her, noting the concern in her eyes. He sensed a silent plea in the way she looked at him as if she were urging him to agree, to step back and act on what seemed to be the logical thing to do. However, despite that, the gears in his mind were turning. If he was a potential target, it could offer an easy opportunity to get closer to their Unsub.

"No," he said, a conviction in his voice. "You can use me as bait."

The room held its breath as his unexpected proposal hung in the air. The team, still processing the revelation of his potentially being a target, turned their focus to his daring suggestion.

JJ simply stared at him, dumbfounded by the audacity of the idea. "You're crazy."

"No, think about it." He turned towards Hotch, knowing the older man would at least consider his idea. "We can get to him by luring him in."

Hotch held his gaze. The weight of leadership rested on his shoulders as he considered the risky proposition. "Reid, it's too dangerous. We can't—"

"If Eric believes he has a score to settle with me, then let's use that to our advantage. We set up a controlled scenario, anticipate his moves, and ensure we have the upper hand."

Emily looked at him with worry, taking a step forward from the other side of the room. "Reid, it's too risky. We don't know how he'll react, we can't even guarantee your safety."

"Yes, you can. You'll keep an eye on me." His eyes traveled around the room, meeting each one of their concerned gaze. "It's not something we haven't done before; we've used this method to lure an Unsub, and right now, we have no clue where he is. The only way we can draw his attention is by using me."

Hotch's gaze shifted between Spencer and the rest of the team, weighing the potential outcomes of such a high-stakes plan. It was undeniably risky, but Spencer was right. This wouldn't be their first time baiting an Unsub, and given their past success, a part of him believed the outcome would work out according to plan.

After a moment, he slowly nodded. "Alright, but if we proceed with this, we have to ensure everyone's safety." He gave Spencer a pointed look. "Especially yours, Reid."

He quickly nodded as a moment of understanding passed between them. The room suddenly filled with noise, and amidst the bustling movements, he felt a desperate grip on his arm, pulling him away from the group.

"Spence." JJ's grip tightened as she voiced her concern. "You could be putting yourself in danger. What if this goes wrong?"

That was the thing. It was the nature of their job—there would always be different outcomes. There was no certainty about what could transpire. But with nothing else to do, Spencer was growing desperate for more answers, so he held her gaze, determination etched in his eyes.

"If it means stopping him and knowing her whereabouts, I'm willing to take any risk."

It was raining when it happened. It had been pouring for the past few days as they started to plan the operation. The team decided to elevate the stakes by choosing his apartment as the bait location, aiming to create a scenario that would be emotionally charged for Eric, potentially triggering a faster and more decisive response.

They studied Eric's patterns and behaviors, gathering insights into his actions and motivations. Garcia, constantly stationed at her desk, continued to monitor social media, public records, and any other available data to gauge Eric's movements. She had identified potential triggers that might prompt Eric to act, such as media coverage or public discussions related to Y/n.

In addition to electronic surveillance, Morgan and JJ conducted physical surveillance on locations connected to Y/n's past, anticipating that Eric might revisit places with emotional significance. They strategically placed themselves in key positions, ready to observe and intercept any suspicious activity.

And then the clock ticked away, the minutes stretched into an agonizing waiting game, every second pregnant with anticipation. 

Until it finally came to that night.

Everything felt strange. His apartment. The weather. Himself. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, and Spencer watched the raindrops hit his windowpanes from his couch.

Weeks ago, he sat in the same place where he was now. The only difference was that he was alone. There was no faint smell of chocolate or the sweet melody of laughter. She wasn't here, gracing him with her smile as she nestled on his lap. Her whispers of his name were absent, and the cruel thing was, he didn't even know where she was now. 

He had never felt so much pain before, the ache of not knowing where someone was, all the while having to keep his head up high. It was a facade he learned to put on. Pretending that the hidden cameras strategically placed in his apartment didn't unsettle him, or the discreetly wired microphone, or the inconspicuous headpiece nestled in his ear. He had to act as though the looming potential danger didn't faze him.

But then it finally happened, a sudden shift in the atmosphere permeated the air—like the calm before the storm. And in an instant, Garcia's voice crackled over the communication devices, urgency lacing her words. "I've got movement. Eric's online activity just spiked."

Morgan and Prentiss, stationed discreetly around the apartment complex, receiving the signal, tightened their surveillance. The external cameras around his building captured a figure approaching, shrouded in the shadows of the rainy night. 

Within the confines of his home, his senses heightened. The rain outside intensified. A streak of lighting flashed through the window. A loud sound of thunder echoed in the background. Spencer waited with bated breath, his gaze fixated on the front door. Then, with a creak, it slowly swung open, revealing a silhouette of a figure in the doorway.

Water dripped from his clothes, leaving a trail of wetness as he crossed the threshold. Their eyes briefly locked, and a smile played on Eric's lips as he observed the way Spencer scrutinized him, closing the door behind him.

"Dr. Reid," his sinister tone sliced through the silence, his words dripping with a twisted sense of satisfaction. "I see you've been waiting for me."

Spencer watched him, maintaining a composed exterior despite the tension in the air, and met his gaze with a steely resolve. "And I see you've been busy."

Eric cocked an eyebrow.

"Carving your path of justice one victim at a time."

His expression remained unyielding. Stepping further into the room, Eric left a trail of dirty shoe marks on the floor as his eyes observed the dimly lit apartment. "I'm just doing what needs to be done."

Spencer slowly rose from his seat. "And what is that?"

"Punishing those who have wronged her."

"You're not her savior. You're a vigilante with a distorted sense of righteousness."

"And that's where you're wrong. You don't know the pain she's been through. I'm the only one who can protect her."

Spencer silently watched as he continued to survey his apartment. Eric's eyes swept through all the framed certificates on his wall, his finger delicately tracing the edge of each frame. When he was met with silence, Eric turned back to him, narrowing the distance between them.

"You were always the one she trusted, weren't you?" He shook his head with disdain. "Yet you're the one who hurt her the most."

Aware that each word could either defuse or escalate the situation, Spencer continued to engage him. "I haven't hurt her," he responded carefully. "I've been trying to protect her from someone like you, someone who's lost sight of justice."

Eric let out a scoff. "You think I've lost sight? No, Dr. Reid, I've found clarity. I've seen the darkness that lurks in the hearts of those who pretend to be righteous."

"Your version of justice is a perversion. You've become the monster you claim to fight against."

The room crackled with tension as they held each other's gaze. "Do you even listen to yourself?" Eric retorted, his eyes narrowing with accusation. "You claim to protect her, yet she's left alone in the darkness you couldn't save her from."

The air in the room seemed to thicken as the weight of his words hung between them. His heart quickened its pace while he tried to maintain a calm facade. "Where is she?"

Eric's laughter cut through the air. "You think I'll tell you voluntarily?"

Spencer's gaze remained steady on him. "What do you want?"

The sinister grin on Eric's face revealed a gambit. "You." He took another step closer. "Come with me and I'll take you to her..."

There was definitely a but. It was never that easy, and the way he trailed off his words prompted Spencer to ask, "On what condition?"

He smiled, eyes narrowing as he conveyed a sense of menace while he delivered his proposition.

"Cut off all communication with your team."

Tension lingered around the room like an invisible web, each word contributing to the growing stakes. Eric's laughter, a haunting sound, followed the slightly alarmed look on Spencer's face. 

"You think I didn't know?" he taunted. "Two of your agents are outside this building, and come on, you could've hidden that earpiece better than that." He pointed towards the device. "Your hair might be long, but it's not that long."

Eric then picked up a framed picture sitting on his shelf. It was a photo of him and his team casually smiling to the camera. He remembered that day, it was one of the many times they visited Rossi's house for dinner, and Garcia decided it was the perfect time to capture the moment. To preserve the happy times, she had said, and true to her words, he was happy that day.

His mind suddenly raced, considering the options and potential consequences of complying with his demand. He finally responded. "What if I refuse?"

"Then you'll never find her," Eric retorted, looking back at him. "It's a simple choice. Sacrifice your precious communication or lose her forever."

He wanted him to step into his trap willingly. It was a cruel choice, and it seemed he wasn't the only one who agreed. As Eric's demand hung in the air, the team's voices crackled urgently through his earpiece. Panic and concern infused their words as they frantically implored him to reconsider.

"Spence, step back!"

"Reid, don't do it."

"Stand down, Reid. We're coming through."

The chorus of concerned voices reverberated in his earpiece, each team member contributing to their worry. Despite the chaos of emotions echoing through the line, Spencer remained outwardly composed, his mind working swiftly to navigate the dangerous situation.

"Don't—" he urged, his gaze piercing on Eric while his voice pointed towards his team. "Stay where you are."

Eric watched him with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Seems like your team is in quite a frenzy there. Are you really willing to risk her safety for their voices in your ear?" He continued with a sinister grin, reveling the chaos he had stirred. "Strip away your lifeline, Spencer. The battle is between you and me."

Spencer stood there, calculating his next move. He weighed the possible outcomes of his choices and realized that nothing good would come from either of them. Eric, observing his contemplation, smirked with a twisted satisfaction.

"Come on, Dr. Reid, time is ticking." He tapped the watch around his wrist. "Make up your mind."

Spencer inhaled a sharp breath. Eric was right, there was no time to waste. The more he contemplated his answer, the more danger she was in. He needed her safe. He needed to see her. He needed to know where she was. And there was only one way to find out.

At the other end of the line, Garcia, stationed at her desk, watched Spencer through the screen with a growing sense of urgency. His gaze slowly swept over the room, and she could sense the critical decision looming. Her heart raced as his eyes fell on one of the hidden cameras.

"He's onto us," she muttered to herself, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She tried to maintain the connection as he walked over to the device and unplugged it.

Garcia cursed under her breath. "No—" She pressed on her intercom, her voice tinged with frustration. "I'm losing him."

One by one, the video feeds from the hidden cameras in his apartment turned black. The loss of visual contact with each camera felt like a punch to the gut. Her frustration mounted as the screens blinked out, leaving her staring at a grid of darkness.

"No, no, no," she muttered, fingers dancing over the keyboard in a desperate attempt to reestablish connection. But there was nothing else she could do.

The earpieces crackled with an ominous quiet before a sudden crash echoed through, the sharp sound of impact reverberating. A groan. A thud. A grunt. The team exchanged alarmed glances in their respective locations as the audio crackled with static, and their heart raced at the uncertainty hanging in the air.

Then, abruptly, there was nothing else but silence.

>> NEXT PART

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Don’t forget to interact with the story!

[celaenaeiln]

Okay but you can’t just say “I'm not going to get into their brother relationship because that involves how Alfred treats Dick as a son rather than a grandson and is opening a whole new mansion of stuff so I'm going to wrap this up here” and not follow up with another post because that’s just cruel 😔😞 (aka this is me saying I really like & enjoy reading your interpretations and I need more of them HEHE)

😂😂😂😂😂😂

Thank you!!!! <3333

I love thinking about how Alfred treats Dick more of a son than a grandson because their relationship is different from Alfred's relationship with the other kids. Furthermore, it also explains a bunch of his actions.

First of, I know when everyone saw that Alfred had left Dick his entire inheritance they went "What the fuck." There were a bunch of jokes and questioning about why Alfred would do that and a lot of people have wrote it off as Tom Taylor's writing. But here's the thing. Tom Taylor has done a lot of stupid stuff in terms of characterization but he's done quite a few things right and one of them was adequately explaining Dick and Alfred's relationship.

I don't know how many people can read cursive but it says, "I invested much of this wisely and ethically...In fact, I planned to come to you for advice. Like Bruce, your mind is astonishing. You are a problem-solver and the world is full of problems." (There's actually panel during one of Dick and Slade's fight I have saved so lemme know if you or anyone is interested in Dick's innovativeness and how it makes his a terrifying opponent.)

Let me pause right there. This is Alfred's life savings. It's every piece of penny he's saved and every minute of his life is in that money. On top of what he says about Dick's intellect-and I agree and can prove it-he must've loved and trusted Dick an extraordinary amount to do this.

Alfred goes on to say, "I couldn't think of better hands to leave this fortune in. I believe you will see this, not as a personal gain, but as an opportunity. Because I believe in Dick Grayson."

He continues praising him and- HERE IT IS- "I am so very proud to call you my son."

DICK IS ALFRED'S SON.

This is the cleanest, clearest panel where he explicitly says it.

Hold on-this is the cleanest panel that says it? Wait a minute, let me retract that:

"Master Bruce was my son for a while. And then there was you."

THIS MOMENT HAS BEEN BUILDING UP ON US FOR YEARS. Tom Taylor wasn't doing lip service, he was just writing the inevitable!

I swear there's a panel where Dick refers to Alfred as his dad...

*Record scratch* WHAT DID ALFRED CALL DICK? WHAT DID DICK CALL ALFRED?

THIS IS WHY I LOVE THEM!!! THEY ARE GLORIOUS, BRILLIANT, UNDERRATED, AND NO ONE UNDERSTANDS THE FULL EXTENT OF EITHER OF THEIR ABILITIES, LOVE, OR DEPTH OF EMOTIONS.

THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS ON A DIFFERENT LEVEL.

Take the Ric Grayson arc for another example.

Background context: Dick-Ric-was sleeping on the counter and all of a sudden he was startled out of a nightmare thus accidentally ending up bumping into the guy next to him who was drinking. Of course the guy doesn't mind only because it's Dick but anyways, here Alfred makes his entrance. Another thing I love about about this interaction is this is one of the few times Alfred has ever admitted to being in the military. The only other time I can think of him openly saying that is when he's slapping Bruce around.

The worry in the man's eyes for his wayward son...when Bea is snarking with Dick about his tab Alfred decides to pay for him instead.

LOOK AT HIS EYES AS HE SAYS GOOD NIGHT! THE AMOUNT OF EMOTION HE HAS IN THEM IS PURE PERFECTION. THE MAN JUST WANTS HIS SON TO COME BACK.

Not to mention, Alfred adores Dick in a way he didn't even with Bruce.

"For a long time I would dread coming down to this dark hellhole. But the advent of young Grayson has forced an alteration in my attitude. The masters have made much progress in these few short months. I was opposed initially to the recruitment of the lad in Master Bruce's self-appointed 'War on Crime.' But I am prepared to admit my error. Master Richard has mad a difference for the better to our lives."

This is HUGE. Coming from Alfred, this is massive because Alfred LOATHES Bruce's "War on Crime." How much?

So much that he slapped Bruce bloody for it.

The pseudo-father and son beat each other to pieces over it. So after years of Alfred hating Bruce for what he's done, for him to say he only accepts it because of Dick-because of Dick's personality-is enormous praise and accomplishment.

Alfred loves Dick in a way he doesn't love anyone else. And before I get flamed by people for suggesting Alfred loves Dick more than Bruce, I want to say he loves Dick as much as Bruce but in a different manner. He doesn't see Dick as a grandchild who needs to be coddled and softened, he sees Dick as a son he can spoil and cherish.

Him paying off the tab was not only an act of kindness, but it mimicks the way a rich father gives everything to his youngest son. Bruce was the first born he raised but Dick was the baby of their family. This also ties in with how Bruce doesn't see Dick as just him son like he does with the others. To Bruce, they are just as much brothers as anything else.

When Bruce fires Dick from Robin after two-face, Alfred couldn't take it lightly. Dick wasn't just the light of Bruce's life, he was the fucking sun to Alfred's.

I started crying when I read this because the emotions and the pain he's feeling is so visceral. A man who has been MI5 and SAS (Special Airforce Service), who has fought wars, who has fought his son, lost his best friends, is breaking down alone at the top of the stairs over not having Dick as Robin.

You might think that's not all that sad. Worse things have happened. You're overreacting.

Tears are literally streaming down my face as I'm writing this review. Rudolph nose and ugly bloodstained eyes complete with it.

Can you ever imagine loving someone so much?

Crying in silence with a steady voice to never let them know your sorrow?

But sure, sure, he's cried when others were killed like this so I'll go into other special things.

Some of his best moments are with Dick:

The pure adoration in his eyes as he watches his young son go 'flap' 'flap' 'flap' with his older brother's too big cloathes.

He's laughing! Do you know the only times he laughs or grins like that?

That's right-with Bruce! With his other son.

With Dick, he laughs, gets angry, and actually shows interest in things not related to people's health. Dick humanizes Alfred.

Who is the only other person Alfred has gotten mad at? Oh yeah. Bruce.

There's another panel where Alfred just sits by his bedside holding his hand.

It's the little things that matter is a lie. When it comes to Dick, Alfred does things in fighter jet air shows level of affection which he learned just for this during his SAS days.

Their shared interests & mutual understanding

People always think Dick and Alfred have nothing in common between them. Dick is excitable, bouncy, and some other adjective while Alfred is calming, stoic, and butler-y. They actually forget that Dick and Alfred canonically bond of plays. Dick, as I said before, is a massive theater nerd. He loves plays. He really wanted to see that shakespeare play and Alfred said he would take him because he knows people there and then went on to complain about how his brother didn't even drop by to see him. I love their interactions because Dick brings out a different side to Alfred.

Das Rheingold was a German musical drama that was performed as a single opera at the National Theatre Munich. This is the link if you're interested in reading a short synopsis of this complicated play by the Metropolitan Opera. It's like a mix of "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Rings of Power."

Also the fact that Alfred is tying his tie like a father would tie his son's.

I know they make a crack out of it by using Bugs Bunny (Bugs Bunny is a fantastic cartoon! I grew up on it!) but Alfred knows that Dick loves opera and theater and is only asking if this particular play will suit his interests. Okay, great, we know Dick likes theater. You've said that and posted about it before. But how do we know Alfred likes it too and not just because he's British and posh and whatnot?

He has preformed at the London Theater, and this is another way he connects to Dick emotionally. When Dick complains about being Batman, Alfred is the one that tells him:

This is something Alfred understands about Dick that absolutely no one in the family does.

The two of them are show people. They know how to play the role they were given, and they know how to play it well. No one suspects Alfred the Butler of ruthlessly using firearms and no one suspects Dick the Light of the Universe to ruthlessly to manipulate allies.

Dick knows this about Alfred too and never presses for any answers. When Alfred's pulling out a bullet from Dick and performing high level medical techniques he should know nothing about, Dick asks him, "Where did you learn all this, Alfred." To which Alfred responds, "You would be amazed at what you can pick up by watching the Discovery Channel." Dick just gives a pained laugh retorts about his wonderful bedside manners.

They know.

What Alfred sees in Dick is a pure goodness that can't be emulated. He loves his son for how absolutely good he is and is devastated when Dick can't be with him. Of everyone, Dick is the one Alfred is closest to. Other members have their moments with him but no one continually seeks out his presence just for the fact they like him aside from Dick. The rest treat him as an important side character, not a parent. And Alfred responds to that devotion with overwhelming love of his own.

Alfred and Bruce's optimism comes bundled up in the form of Dick. It's stunning how it's always Alfred of all people who admits this. Alfred who isn't supposed to show favoritism or bias is the one that consistently acknowledges how important Dick is to the family and him. This solidifies the fact that Dick is Alfred's favorite.

Other moments that differentiate Dick and Alfred's relationship:

We're pretty familiar with this and many of us have laughed it off when Alfred scolded Dick (also Dick looks hot af here). But can you imagine even anyone else playfully mocking Alfred? THIS. BOY. IS. SPECIAL. Alfred doesn't even blink twice at the address, indicating how typical it is for Dick to act that way with him. You only do that to people you're best friends with.

Casual comfort, the two of them.

Dick and Bruce were brothers and how that ties into Alfred:

Adding to my "Light of Bruce's life" Robin Dick canon, Alfred told Dick that Bruce "would have self-distructed if he hadn't met me and learned responsibility. I made him laugh, and he was like the greatest big brother you could ever imagine...it was our town."

Bruce and Dick are so damn codependent.

Bruce would not have survived without Dick. That's all there is to it.

Robin Dick was the light shining through rain clouds, the glitter in the air, the angel with golden wings, the giggling sweetheart to Alfred and Bruce. He was sunshine, love, and joy and the men both adored, thrived, and cherished him for it.

And if Dick and Bruce were brothers then Alfred was Dick's father and he was Alfred's son.

[wannabehockeygf]

prompt 7 with zegras? they're in a fwb relationship and she's all i have no feelings but then she's BLUSHING

Fuck it I love you - Trevor Zegras

“wish that you would hold me,

or just say that you were mine,

it’s killing me slowly.”

prompt #7: “Are you blushing?”

summary: pillow talk one morning turns more serious

word count: 2k

pairing: trevor zegras x fem! oc

warnings: refers to sex i suppose?

notes:

- thanks for requesting someone new! keep ‘em coming or i am absolutely totally fine with writing about ck9, bb6 or am34… wink wink nudge nudge

- i actually kept this one short someone give me a cookie

- also i fear… i love trevor and dixie together

- the d’amelio’s didn’t do shit!! leave them alone pls

- i can never tell green or blue eyes apart. as a brown eyed person I’m always so lost so I’m sorry if his eyes are actually blue

He’s got a nice face… need i say more?

***

“Good morning, baby,” a raspy voice comes from behind you. You had been staring at the wall prior, relishing in the way the warmth of his bare chest feels against your back although you’d never admit that out loud.

“I told you to stop calling me that, Trevor,” you sigh, squirming underneath the ticklish kisses he’s peppering on the sensitive skin on the back of your neck. You can basically hear his frown, but he recovers quickly, “Turn around, please.”

With a small groan, you turn your body, only to be met with Trevor’s face, the goofiest smile you had ever seen plastered onto it. When he sees you, he jokingly mocks your frown. “What’s got you in a mood?”

You pout, although something about the sparkle in those green puppy eyes softened your defenses. “I dunno, maybe it’s ‘cause you keep acting like we’re in a relationship when we’re not.”

“And I’ve told you,” he starts, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, “That I’m happy to take you on a date. When you finally agree, that is.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you by twitching upward. His hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb tracing gentle circles that send shivers down your spine. “I don’t see why you’re so set on this,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

Trevor’s eyes search yours, the mischief replaced by a depth that makes your heart skip a beat. “Because you’re beautiful. And, you’ve got a great personality. What’s not to like?” he says softly, his breath warm against your face.

You break eye contact, staring at the spot where his collarbone meets his shoulder, the tan skin marred by a small scar. The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city waking up outside.

“Are you blushing?” Trevor’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you look back at him to meet that signature, toothy grin again. You hadn’t even realized it, but your cheeks were burning up by the second.

“Maybe it’s just hot in here,” you deflect, though you both know that’s a weak excuse. His grin widens, and he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. His touch is gentle yet possessive, suffocating yet enamouring and it makes you want to either scream or kiss him.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. The sensation makes your heart race, and you can’t help but lean into him, your resolve wavering. The scent of his cologne mixed with the faintest hint of sweat fills your senses, intoxicating and familiar. So distinctly Trevor.

Nope. Not doing this.

You peel yourself away from him, swinging your legs over his bed and standing up, still completely naked although you didn’t care as you searched for your clothes on the carpeted floor of his bedroom. “Not gonna happen,” you remind him.

Trevor watches you with a bemused expression, his eyes following every movement as you gather your clothes. His gaze is so intense you can almost feel it tracing lines along your skin, making you suddenly acutely aware of your nakedness.

"Come on, you can't keep running from this forever," he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. You pull on your shirt, the fabric feeling oddly constricting compared to the warmth of his bed. “You know, it’s okay to admit you like me,” he continues.

You snort, a futile attempt to mask the way your heart flutters at his words. “Like you? As if. You’re just convenient.”

Trevor chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, wrapping around you like the ghost of an embrace. "Convenient, huh?" he echoes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on the sharp lines of his abs, the shadow of stubble on his jaw making him look effortlessly rugged.

You pull on your jeans, the denim scratching against your skin, a stark contrast to the softness you left behind in the bed. "Yeah, convenient," you mutter, though your voice lacks the conviction you hope for.

Trevor stands, padding over to you with the quiet grace of a predator. "You can't fool me," he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple as he leans in, his fingers brushing a stray hair behind your ear. The touch is so gentle, so intimate, it makes your breath catch. "I see the way you look at me."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat almost painful. "You're imagining things," you insist, but even to your own ears, the words sound hollow. “Put some fucking pants on. I don’t need to stare at your dick while trying to get out of here.” You add on, grabbing your shoes, the leather cool and stiff under your fingers, and sit on the edge of the bed to pull them on.

Trevor laughs, the sound vibrating through the room, low and teasing. “Fine, fine,” he says, lifting his hands in surrender. He grabs a pair of boxers from the dresser, slipping them on with a casualness that somehow makes him even more alluring. The fabric clings to his lean frame, outlining the muscles you know all too well.

You focus on tying your shoelaces, but your fingers tremble, betraying your inner turmoil. Trevor moves closer, his presence a magnetic force you can’t ignore. “You coming tonight?” He questions, casually.

“To the bar?” You snap back, your voice coming out more venomous than you meant it, “Maybe. Depends how shitty work is.”

Trevor’s brows furrow as he runs a hand through his messy mop of dirty blond hair, “No, to the game. My game.”

You force a nonchalant shrug, even as your heart thrums wildly in your chest. "I don’t know," you murmur, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. "Depends if I have nothing better to do."

He tilts his head, studying you with those piercing green eyes that seem to see straight through your facade. "Right," he says slowly, his voice a rich, low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "Nothing better to do than watch me score goals and be amazing on the ice."

You can't help but snort, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Your ego is suffocating, you know that?" you tease, trying to deflect the conversation away from the uncomfortable truth lurking beneath. The truth that maybe, just maybe, you find his confidence intoxicating, and his presence addictive.

Trevor steps closer, and the familiar scent of him—woodsy cologne mixed with a hint of morning musk—envelops you. It's a scent that always clings to your skin long after you've left his bed, a constant reminder of moments you pretend don't mean as much as they do. His fingers brush your cheek, gentle but insistent, as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze. "I want you there," he says, and there's a raw honesty in his voice that twists something deep inside you. "Not just because you're my friend or because of this...whatever we have. But because I like you, and I want you to see me. This is my job, you know.”

You can't deny the effect he has on you, the way his touch makes you shiver and his words make your heart skip a beat. But you're not ready to give in, to admit that this casual arrangement might mean more to you than you're willing to acknowledge.

You push away from him, grabbing your jacket from the chair in the corner. "You don't have to put on a show for me," you mutter, pulling the fabric over your shoulders. The leather is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his gaze. "I'm just... someone you fuck occasionally, remember?"

Trevor's eyes darken, the playful glint replaced by something more serious. He steps closer, closing the distance between you with a grace that feels predatory, his presence overwhelming. "You know it's more than that," he murmurs, his voice low and intense. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "And if you don't, then maybe you're not as smart as I thought."

The sharpness of his words stings, and you flinch, though you quickly mask it with a defiant glare. "Don't flatter yourself," you snap, even as his touch sends a jolt of electricity through your body. "I'm just not interested in complicating things."

"Complicating things?" Trevor echoes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the heat of his body so close to yours. "You think this is simple for me? Watching you walk away every time, pretending like I don't care when you're gone?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing with each word. You can't meet his eyes, can't face the raw vulnerability in them. "I never asked you to feel that way," you whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "I never promised you anything."

"Maybe not," he concedes, his voice softening. "But that doesn't change the fact that I do. And you can pretend all you want, but I see right through you." His fingers slide down your neck, hand cupping your throat gently as he rests his thumb on your lower lip. "I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, the way you relax when we’re alone, the way you blush when I say something nice. You’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself."

You pull away, the intensity of his words too much to bear. You need to escape, to put distance between you and the truth he's forcing you to confront. "I have to go," you say, your voice trembling. You turn toward the door, your steps hurried as if you can outrun the emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

But Trevor isn't done. He grabs your wrist, his grip firm yet gentle, pulling you back to face him. The look in his eyes is fierce, determined, as if he's finally decided to lay all his cards on the table. "Running away isn't going to change anything," he says, his voice steady. "You can pretend this is just a fling, that you don't feel anything for me, but I know better. And deep down, so do you."

You close your eyes, the sincerity in his voice breaking through your defenses. It's terrifying, the thought of letting him in, of opening yourself up to the possibility of being hurt. But it's also exhilarating, the idea of finally allowing yourself to feel, to love, to be loved in return.

When you open your eyes again, Trevor is still there, watching you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. He leans in, his lips brushing against yours in the softest, most tentative kiss, as if he's giving you the choice to pull away.

But you don't. Instead, you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his hair as you pull him closer. The kiss deepens, and it's like everything else fades away—the fear, the uncertainty, the walls you've built around your heart. It's just you and him, and the raw, undeniable connection between you.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. "Okay," you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with a newfound determination. "Okay, I'll come to your game. But don't expect me to cheer."

Trevor chuckles, the sound rich and warm, and you can feel the smile spreading across his face. "I'll take what I can get," he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "And who knows? Maybe I'll score a hat trick just for you."

[thedeathdoctor]

Safe House of Horrors

Pairing: Symbiote Ghost x Eldritch Horror König x AFAB! Reader

Summary:

Warnings: smut -> monsterfucking, mind reading, tentacles, anal, voyeurism, masturbation

A/N: I hope this doesn't get too confusing, but I'll be using Ghost in bold like this to refer to the symbiote. If the word is unbolded it refers to Simon Riley himself.

based on this post by @tacticalanklebiter3000 and this post by @devilanon

Ghost scanned the new additions from KorTac as they chatted in the mess hall. His eyes settled on the big one in the sniper hood and the small one sitting opposite.

König, they called the large man. "King. Who names themself -King-?" Gaz had whispered to him earlier. You, the tiny one, carried the name Medusa, and was rarely seen away from his side. They were partners, but Simon couldn't help his thoughts of them together. Displays of affection between them weren't kept with the strictest of secrecy, and he couldn't help the mix of jealousy and desire that bubbled up in his chest at the sight. He hadn't realized how long he had been comfortable in his role as the biggest guy in 141, but König was bigger still - how did you manage to take him?

At times, the sounds of you and König in the midst of passionate lovemaking drifted through mercilessly thin walls and into Simon's quarters. All too often, your lewd vocalizations were punctuated by the undeniable rhythmic slap of his hips on your ass and the creaking protests of the cot underneath. Simon would let his eyes close and take himself in hand, imagining himself delivering punishing backshots, hands wrapped around your squishy waist as he fucked delicious moans out of you.

"You're thinking about them again, aren't you, Simon?"

The voice, an oily purr, snaked forward from the depths of his mind.

"Not you agai-"

"Not you thinking about him splitting her open again, Simon. Pretending you aren't thinking about how tight her little pussy is before he works her open enough to take his cock so nicely. You're pathetic, you know?"

Simon set his jaw and fixed his eyes directly on the tray in front of him.

"Look at you, pretending to be the ever stoic Lieutenant when both you and I know about how you really feel about them. The way you think of them as you rut into your pitiful hand at night, wishing that it was her touch you felt instead."

It hisses the words with such vitriol that has Simon replacing the mask over his face, cheeks burning with humiliation. He picks up his tray from the table, placing it in the proper receptacle, and leaving the canteen without a second glance towards the recruits.

Embroiled in silent back and forth with the voice, he did not notice the pair of eyes that followed him until he disappeared past the doorway.

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

Despite the depths of Simon Riley's depraved imagination, he'd never once wondered about what lay beneath the dark veil of the operator known as König.

But you knew.

Oh, God, you knew.

König had you spread out on his bed, lazily pulsing a tentacle in and out of your ass when he brought up an Idea.

"Liebling, what do you think of the one they call Ghost?"

"Ghost?" You cocked your head quizzically.

"The Brit who wears the skull mask. Lieutenant. Don't play coy with me, Schatz, he's talked to you once or twice."

Of course you knew who he was referring to. The other massive beast of a man on base. Delicious, gravelly British accent and intense eyes behind his mask. The strong, silent type who observed from afar and noticed every detail. Massive thighs with vascular forearms to match.

König, of course, already knew many of your shameless thoughts about the man when he'd probed your mind on more than one occasion. You had a type. He just wanted you to admit it out loud and see you so beautifully flustered.

"Yeah, but not many times. He doesn't really talk to anyone, to be honest. Not much to say about him."

"So you haven't been thinking about how ride-able his thighs look in his drop leg bag harness or the feeling of your neck in the crook of his arm as he fucks you deep into a chokehold, mein Hase?"

As he'd predicted, your face flushed as you attempted to deny the fantasies he'd pulled from your very thoughts.

"So...maybe...I've thought about him a little...! What about it, König?"

"He's an interesting one... Tell me, how would you like it if he were to join us in the bedroom... just as an idea..."

"You think he's the kind that wants to watch...?"

"Is that all you'd really want him to do? Just watch?"

"I mean... I wouldn't mind more... if that's what he wants..."

"But what do you want, Schatz?"

"You know what I want, Koni..."

A second tentacle slithered up your thighs and began rubbing circles around your clit.

"I want to hear you say it out loud to me. What do you want from both Ghost and I?"

Your breath hitched as heat began to pool in your core.

"I want Ghost and you to fuck me... wanna be shared... and ruined..." you whispered.

"Good girl."

König gave you a hum of approval and began to pulse the tentacle in your ass against your sweet spot, rewarding you for the response. He admired the way your slick dripped from your neglected pussy, adding more lubrication to the tight ring of muscle around him.

"Now, come for me. I want to hear how good I make you feel, Liebling."

Letting your eyes close, you imagined the pleasure coming from Ghost this time. König hardly needed to probe your mind to know this for himself.

On the other side of the wall, your moans grew more audible to the man stroking his cock. As he listened to your whines, he thought of how he'd love to eclipse your tiny body just like König, massive hands wrapping around your wrists and pinning you to the bed as he ruts deep into you. He wanted to earn every one of those delicious moans for himself, feeling you writhe with pleasure under him.

His motions intensified with your moans, seeking to release the moment you did, yearning to feel the same pleasure as you. Right as he felt himself on the precipice, he heard you whimper out a word he hadn't expected.

"G-Ghost!"

It sent him over the edge immediately, sinking to his knees and desperately trying to stifle his full-bodied groan. Trembling hands attempted to cup the tip of his penis as he struggled to keep each spurt of cum from making a mess of his quarters. Hot, milky fluid leaked between his fingers and dripped from his knuckles as he lunged for something to clean himself off with. The shirt from his earlier workout would have to do, and as he began to wipe himself down, a familiar voice spoke up to him.

"God, you're pathetic Simon."

[rainbow-crane]

In-Depth Analysis On All The DR Characters Because What, Are You Gonna Try And Stop Me? Who Are You, My Mom? Yeah, I Didn't Think So- Part 4: Yasuhiro Hagakure

I've actually managed to hype myself up a good bit for this one, despite the fact I'm not fond of Hiro. If there's anything I've learned since starting this series, it's that taking the time to actually absorb these characters and their full existence in the narrative reveals a lot more than you get just by playing the game normally, and I'm hopeful that doing that will make Hiro that much better of a character for me. So, let's dive in.

Per usual, this analysis uses only official materials from the DR series, primarily the english translation of the game. If you aren't that interested in lengthy yapping, then keep scrolling.

Part 1- Character Design

Yasuhiro Hagakure wears several layers of clothing, having a haramaki, white button-up, and his old high school uniform all on over a yellow shirt and a pair of baggy black pants tied up with a yellow bow. His old high school emblem is purposefully designed to look like the yin and yang symbol, and his hair is up in locs styled to bend backwards and stick out at odd angles.

Yasuhiro is a dual character, typically either being the most relaxed or the most panicked person in the room. This sort of duality is likely why he was given the yin and yang symbol, a symbol of balance, along with his talent. Yasuhiro was given the talent of SHSL Fortune Teller, or Ultimate Clairvoyant, and has a unique connection to the spirit world. This may also be why his hair is designed to stick out, similar to how when you touch an object with enough static, your hair stands up. In this way, we can see Yasuhiro is visibly connected to the spirit world at all times.

Part 2- Character Introduction

Hiro is actually the first character to speak in-game after Makoto's self-introduction, calling out in surprise when Makoto gets to the main hall with everyone else("Woah, hey! Another new kid?") He then continues on to be the first one we're able to identify as speaking after the class panover is completed.

This immediately makes him stick out, as this is the character the game makes a point to show you directly before anyone else- not Sayaka, Kyoko, Byakuya- nope, Hiro is first and foremost. Despite this, he fades into the background of the conversation almost immediately after as everyone else decides to introduce themselves to each other. When we get back to his introduction(one of the last ones we see), he introduces himself as someone who takes it easy, and tells you to do the same. We know from Makoto's internal dialogue that he has little to no knowledge on fortune telling, and thus, have almost no insight to Hiro's perspective. We also learn that within the psychic community, he's referred to as 'Supernova'. As he begins to speak, though, we learn exactly what the game's plan for his clairvoyance is: a big joke.

Though, he himself admits he's joking around, and invites Makoto to talk about Lemurian civilization. Lemuria is a debunked theory about a potential 8th continent that was believed to have sunk into the Indian Ocean, disproved by further research on continental drift and plate tectonics. Despite this, it still remains as a subject of conspiracy for many, and tells us a lot about Hiro's interests. Combined with his talent in fortune-telling, Hiro is someone with a fascination for what lies beneath the surface of human understanding. We also learn that he's of drinking age(20 in Japan, though this was changed to 21 in the English translation to reflect international drinking laws). He admits this is due to being held back a few years, waving it off as a 'long story' that we never get to hear.

As the class continues to talk, he remains completely calm, and insists it's all part of the fancy school's orientation. He continues to hold this belief even after Monokuma appears at the entrance ceremony, playing off Monokuma's threat of the killing game and Monokuma himself as a bit.

"Reveal the trick...?" "Yeah, cuz I mean... Y'know, this is all some kinda trick and all, right? So uh, like..."

So our first impression of Hiro is that he's a laidback older guy who isn't the sharpest knife in the kitchen, and that he's into conspiracies.

Part 3- Early Game Development

Once the game's officially started, Hiro very much takes a backseat so the story and mystery can develop, to the point where even when the entire class is talking about their explorations and what they found, Hiro remains silent, only telling the others to chill and continuing to say he believes this is all planned by the school. He appears completely unbothered by the whole situation.

"I mean, this was all planned out, right? The people in charge of Hope's Peak put this all together, right? Man, if I got stressed every time something like this happened, I'd have ectoplasm shooting out my mouth!"

Despite this, if you take the opportunity to talk to him in the laundry room the following morning, you get this:

Despite Hiro's insistence that this is all normal, he's run himself ragged trying to find out why they're trapped in the school. It suggests that his relaxed attitude towards the situation may be some kind of a facade to keep both himself and the others calm. He continues to insist upon it even after multiple days have passed, when Monokuma reappears again to give out the motive videos("Why the hell are you laughing?" "I'm just impressed at the total commitment to this whole act.") He refuses to acknowledge the mere possibility of this situation being an actual threat to their lives, even after watching the motive video of (presumably) his mother and sister in danger.

He insists on it to the point where he doesn't realize the truth of the situation until "Junko" is impaled with a ton of spears and dies right in front of him, and even then, his reaction is delayed, not realizing until Makoto and Byakuya check her for a pulse.

"Sh-she's... dead!? Then that means...! That means everything that's happened so far is real!? It's not a joke or whatever!? It's really real!? Hell no! Someone save me! Let me outta here! SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!" "You're j-just now accepting that...?"

He switches from total calm to ungodly terror, as he didn't experience the dread leading up to the incident that everyone else did. The horror renders him immobile for nearly the entire investigation, only pulled out of shock when Makoto shows him his broken glass ball.

"Did that guy totally dupe me!? He said it belonged to the pillars of history... Genghis Khan, George Washington, Napoleon... He said whoever controlled that crystal ball controlled the world! Was that seriously all BS!?"

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but how much did you pay for that thing?" "Everything I'd saved up from fortune-telling for two full years. Came out to be like... a million."

Not only did he pay that much for what was pretty obviously a glass ball, he fully believed that story despite the fact one of the named holders that 'controlled the world' was a failed emperor that died in exile. It is a hand-sized glass ball. Paying $1M in USD shouldn't have even been on the table in the first place.

Hiro goes into the next chapter still completely panicking, babbling on to Makoto about the 'ill omen' that is the items set in the display case and once again begging to the heavens to be released from the school.

"Ahhh! I've been struck with knowledge! It's an ill omen of total devastation and ruin! L-Let me outta here! Let me ouuuut!"

It's a bit late, as the only dangerous item from that case was used in the previous murder, but better late than never, I suppose.

Prior to the motive announcement, Hiro reveals that he was the one to pick up on the goings-on outside of Hope's Peak, having been in the dining hall and heard what he described as 'noises like a construction site'. It's important enough that Monokuma confirms the noises to be a) real and b) the result of some level of violence, as his provided explanations are an explosion or machine gun. So although Hiro himself hasn't had much of a story yet, he's still keeping his ears open and is at least paying some attention to the problem at hand now.

During the investigation, Hiro ends up in a much better position, now able to not go into total shock and do an investigation of his own. Although it doesn't yield many results, talking to him makes it clear that he's both trying to find something useful and trying to keep what information he does have private before the trial, which is progress. He's doing something instead of just sitting on his ass, and he's trying to remain secretive, even if he's really bad at it.

When the trial comes around, he's excited to provide evidence, being the one to tell the class about the e-handbooks in the mailbox despite insistence that he probably couldn't help anyway. Despite this, he takes it well when he's told he's wrong the second he's given a reason.

"No, she DID have a way! And I can tell you what it was!" "I highly doubt that." "Shut up! I'm telling you, I know how she could've done it!" ('it' being Chihiro entering the girls' locker room)

"She used the thing that was in the main hall!" "Huh? What thing?" "I'm talkin' about Leon's handbook, of course!"

"Why not!?" "Because Leon's handbook was broken." "Oh! Well then yeah, I guess that'd be pretty impossible, huh?"

Part 4- Midgame Events (In fact, we're gonna frame you for murder!)

Now that Taka's grieving, Hiro remembers he's significantly older than the rest of the class and decides to step up as the class rep and keep everyone calm and focused, at least until Taka can take over again. Although it doesn't last for very long, it's a nice gesture on Hiro's part, and shows some level of responsibility from him.

He's the one to direct the class to the 3rd floor and opens up to conversation about what they found, doing everything he can think of to both keep the class' gaze fixed ahead and try to rouse Taka from his silent state, though this falls apart the second Hina starts talking about a ghost.

Despite his efforts, Kyoko is the one who's really in charge here, and instead, Hiro becomes a messenger for her, alerting the rest of the class to 'bathtime' and acting as a voice of reason when both Hifumi and Taka become obsessed with Alter Ego.

"I happened to do a psychic reading for a certain famous CEO once... And that guy was seriously head over heels for a mannequin. He had a wedding and everything! And your eyes just now... I saw the same look in HIS eyes!"

"Oh, Taka! Are you back!?" "Who the hell's Taka!?" "Um... you?"

He also delivers letters to everyone in class when Kyoko has an important update on Alter Ego, assuming that the files have been decrypted. It's also worth noting he has remarkably clean penmanship, and this is attributed to his supernatural beliefs.

The following morning, when Hiro is one of the many students to go missing, Celeste sets it up so that almost everyone is led to believe that Hiro is the obvious culprit before he even so much as gets a chance to defend himself- falsifying and planting evidence, removing proof of innocence to the best of her ability, and manipulating Hifumi to help her- all with the stroke of luck in her favor that even after remembering his life before the game, Hifumi still couldn't betray her when he tried because her legal surname was the same as his first. On a surface level, almost every slip-up or seemingly stupid move was shrugged off as 'well, Hiro's an idiot anyway, so he probably didn't realize,' which is exactly what Celeste bet on. The only one who wouldn't automatically fall under this assumption (Kyoko) was so distracted by her own schemes that she was pulled out of the investigation for the vast majority of it. Even Byakuya completely fell for it until Makoto pointed out some of the inconsistencies to him.

But here's the thing: Hiro's gullible, not stupid. He may fall for other people's schemes, but he can just as easily craft his own and sell them, even when the person being sold to knows they're being duped to some degree. He's a businessman at heart, and you can't become a successful businessman if your schemes don't work. If Celeste wanted her plan to work, then she chose the wrong guy to frame. (The game never actually addresses this directly, but from a meta perspective, it's pretty obvious Hiro is just being used as a red herring, and it's all symbolized in his handwriting- Hiro is more put-together than he's given credit for, and that truth creates the physical evidence of his innocence Celeste couldn't change.)

I mean, Hiro deliberately plays up his own stupidity in the trial, taking the argument that was supposed to work against him and using it in his favor to convince everyone around him of his own incompetency. That's not the strategy of someone incapable of working out a survival plan.

"Come on, I'm not smart enough to think of trying to change my handwriting anyway!" <- a direct contradiction to when he writes Toko's name in blood in handwriting not of his own in the following chapter

Hiro being a red-herring suspect for a murder is quickly followed up with Hiro being a red-herring suspect for a murder. Yes, they do it twice, but this time, Hiro himself believes he's responsible. So there's enough differentiation to warrant it within the plot.

With chapter 4, Hiro's paranoia hits an all-new level. And for good reason, too. Not only have there been 5 attempted murders in the span of just over 2 weeks, 3 of which were intentional and 4 of which were successful, there's also a known serial killer chilling with the rest of the class that's known specifically for attacking men. Not only that, he was literally framed for a double murder case just a couple days ago, and to top it all off, Sakura, the visibly strongest person not only in the class, but also officially recognized as strongest person in the world, has been outed as a spy for Monokuma. So naturally, Hiro's a little on edge when he receives the invite from Sakura to meet in the rec room. So when he hears her muttering to herself-

"This is it... I'm going to end it today... I'm going to end... everything." "As soon as I heard that, I just knew... I knew she was gonna try and kill me! She was gonna kill me and make her escape!"

So, rather then let that potential end happen, he made the panicked decision to defend himself.

He admits to this pretty quickly in the trial as well, as the moment the dying message is disproven as being from Sakura, he caves and tells them everything that happened from his perspective. And he feels terrible about it, too, accepting that he has to die for what he did.

"Well, that's what happened. Go ahead, roast me, boil me, do whatever you want..."

Once Makoto and Kyoko are able to prove he's innocent, it's a massive weight off his shoulders. His fear and panic all but disappear, and he spends the rest of the trial in a much more relaxed state.

And once the trial is over, and they've all heard the truth about Sakura's case, he throws his full support to Hina and Sakura, unable to be mad at either of them.

"This is because of our misplaced hatred. I don't blame her(Sakura)! I CAN'T blame her! And nobody can blame Hina, either!"

Besides being a suspect in both murder cases, Hiro has another important moment in chapter 4. At breakfast on the first morning, after sharing his prediction of no more murders, he tells the story of his encounter with aliens, in which a burger that was supposedly 100% beef was beamed up by an alien spaceship. And because aliens supposedly steal cows, the meat separated and only took 30% of the meat. When he went back to the restaurant, they admitted to mixing pork into the meat. This story is representative of Hiro's own fortune-telling, as only 30% of his predictions are real and the rest are done just for money.

Part 5- Character Relationships

Though none of them are given a main focus in-game, Hiro has fairly important dynamics with about half the cast of THH. Actually, basically everyone that made it past chapter 2 has an established dynamic with Hiro.

5.1- Kiyotaka Ishimaru

Though it's a bit of a one-sided relationship, Hiro is the only character to show any concern for Taka going into chapter 3. After the brutal death of Mondo, Taka goes comatose, and won't eat, sleep, or speak to anyone. It's when in this state that Hiro attempts to get him back in action as class rep, more than once. Unfortunately, he never really succeeds, though this does leave us with the implication that he was the one who told Taka about Alter Ego, as it doesn't make sense for it to have been anyone else at this point.

5.2- Hifumi Yamada

Similar to Taka, Hifumi spends chapter 3 with a special interest in Alter Ego. Hiro is the one that tries to get through to him, calling out his strange behavior and likening it to a former client in love with a mannequin. The two of them also bounce off of each other quite a bit in the first half of the game during group conversations, and when they do, it often paints Hiro in a more reasonable light. As the older and therefore more mature of the two, he knows when Hifumi is full of shit and calls him on it, particularly when he's being horny("But he's a guy! And also a computer program!" "Oh, that aspect is no problem." "That... aspect?").

Hifumi later goes on to work with Celeste to frame him for the murder of both Taka and himself. It's unclear if he had any resentment for Hiro or if he just agreed with Celeste that he'd make a good scapegoat.

5.3- Celestia Ludenberg

Celeste frames him for murder, despite the fact that they didn't have much interaction before then. Why Hiro, though?

"Because you're stupid." "That's it!?" "And in that regard, I made the right choice. I'm so glad your stupidity surpassed my every expectation. Life must have been tough on your parents, though." "I feel like I could cry..."

Not only is this one final dig from her before her execution, it's also just blatantly wrong. Not only was Hiro not there for the majority of the investigation(by her design), but the supposed stupidity of his character she's referencing had almost no effect on the investigation or trial. Rather, it was the assumptions of the rest of the cast that benefitted her, with characters like Hina and Byakuya going along with the same assumption she wanted them to. He was almost immediately proven innocent by Makoto, and was only considered a suspect because Celeste herself kept hounding the idea.

In short, this proved Celeste the idiot. She didn't know her opponent at all, and so she lost, lying about it to the bitter end.

5.4- Sakura Ogami

Hiro's lack of a significant relationship with her is more important than what they did have. Throughout THH, Hiro consistently refers to Sakura not by name, but by the demeaning nickname given to her online, 'Ogre', due to how physically imposing she is. As such, the two never really connect, and when she's outed by Monokuma as the spy, he turns against her immediately, even when they were relatively friendly with each other up until that point. He doesn't necessarily want to distrust her, but not only is her allegiance under fire, but he's already been betrayed and directly put in the line of fire once. He has to consider his safety first, so he cuts her out with the others, though he does say if she makes good on her assertion to defeat the mastermind, that he'll forgive her("If she really can beat the mastermind like she said, that'd go a long way in my mind...").

But even if he isn't condemning her to hell like Byakuya and Toko, he still doesn't know her. He never bothered to try. So when she invites him to talk, he stays on his guard. The game has rendered him unable to connect to her, and so when he hears her speak of 'ending everything', he can only assume the worst. And it leads him to open the case of Sakura's attacker- not Toko, not Jack, not Byakuya. Hiro starts it. And he carries that guilt into her trial.

5.4- Byakuya Togami, Aoi Asahina, Toko Fukawa, Genocide Jill

Hiro has a fairly antagonistic relationship with the other non-main-character survivors(and Byakuya, if you consider him one). The 5 of them spend most of the latter half of the game at each other's throats, often for miniscule, petty things. This is mostly used as a source of comedy, with each pointing out the others' flaws and making each other look dumb. However, when it comes down to it, they can get along and cooperate when it's important.

He gets along best with Hina, as both were part of the overarching group from the beginning, and both are consistently present whenever the group splits up(for example, before Chihiro's body is found). And because Toko and Jack follow Byakuya around, and Makoto and Kyoko are the main characters, the two of them end up as an unintentional pair when it comes to group dialogue, even ganging up on Byakuya or Toko when appropriate. That said, Hina doesn't like him much, either.

5.5- Kyoko

Kyoko acknowledges Hiro's attempts to become the leader of the class in Taka's absence, and uses him to communicate with the rest of the class about Alter Ego when necessary. He acts as her messenger, suggesting she trusted him to some extent, enough to let him be the messenger. Their relationship isn't expanded upon outside of this, though.

5.6- Makoto Naegi

Despite his mounting paranoia and trust issues in the previous chapters, Hiro is shown to trust Makoto specifically, likely because he was the one to prove his innocence in both chapter 3 and 4. He holds Makoto in high regard, enthusiastically agreeing with Kyoko to let him hold the knife in chapter 5 and attempting to explain the dismantling of Monokuma to him: "I'll explain what's goin' on, Makoto. Cuz that's how much I like ya! Byakuya found this li'l fella layin' around, then we tore it apart!" "That doesn't explain anything..."

Part 6- Hiro's Clairvoyance

Despite Hiro's claims of only having a 30% accuracy rating at best, his fortune-telling and bouts of clairvoyance are accurate a good few times in THH. I'm not doing the math to see if it actually falls between 20-30%, but it is enough to be significant.

In the prologue and 1st chapter, Hiro insists that the killing game must be a prank because of his total certainty that the execs of Hope's Peak were the ones who locked them in the school. This is revealed to be true in chapter 4, when Alter Ego reveals the Hope's Peak Headmaster planned the shelter, and the board signed off on it.

In his 1st FTE, Hiro reveals he's already seen that his and Makoto's paths intersect, and that the mother of their children is the same woman. This becomes true if you get the bad ending in chapter 5.

The chapter 2 cover art has Hiro holding a manga with Taka and Celeste covered in blood, with the number 2 beside Taka. This accurately depicts that Celeste would kill Taka in the following chapter, and that he'd be one of two victims of hers.

In the start of chapter 4, Hiro reveals a prediction that there won't be any more murders. This turns out to be true, as the only other deaths after this are both by suicide.

Hiro's wild guess about what started the Tragedy was later proven in the series to be correct repeatedly- Hope's Peak students' deaths started and continued the domino effect of the Tragedy. Hajime became Izuru due to Natsumi's and Sato's murders; the student council were all slaughtered inside the school as the beta kg; the Reserve Course students killed all the Main Course students that weren't either 77-B or 78-B, and then committed mass suicide via brainwashing. All the students were killed.

Part 7- An Inner Look

During THH, we get a look at both Hiro's bedroom and his locker in the main story. This gives us a unique glimpse into his mentality that we don't get with anyone else in THH.

Interestingly, his room and his locker are very different, despite them both containing his fortune-telling materials. In his bedroom, his books are stacked fairly neatly on the desk, and his divination tools are organized, being set on separate tables with a protective tablecloth underneath. The singing bowl and incense- which work for ambience- are kept on one desk in the back, while his cards and dice are kept on the main table in the middle of the room. Meanwhile, his locker has his books shoved awkwardly into the bottom, while his divination tools are all lumped together on the top and have no separation or organization. The locker's state even leads Makoto to say that its owner "probably has organization problems in every part of their life". This may suggest that his room is clean for the sake of potential customers, or just that the lack of space in the locker was inconvenient.

Part 8- Late Game Events

When chapter 5 opens, Hiro's 'dumb guy' shenanigans are cranked up to the max. While everyone's investigating the 5th floor, talking to Hiro in the garden reveals his conspiracy theory on the inevitable global domination of the world by plants. He also gets excited about the 5 chickens, claiming the number 5 to "contain the mysteries of the cosmos" and says it's a good omen.

When he tells the rest of the survivors about the garden, he decides he wants to use the lawnmower to create crop circles, as a signal for help. What he fails to realize is that there are no crops in the school, and that no one would be able to see them from above if there were. It's this moment that Hina points out how ridiculous he's getting:

"What the heck's happened to you...? You weren't like this in the beginning, you know." "Well back then my personality hadn't quite solidified yet...!" "I didn't think it was possible, but I'm more disappointed in you now than I've ever been..."

This suggests Hiro's characterization, from the ground up, was designed to be laughed at. (That's a surprise tool that will help us later.)

When the other survivors decide to dismantle Monokuma, Hiro is the one who actually undergoes the process of dismantling and opening him up, with the only one we see helping with the parts to be Toko. This puts him directly under fire if Monokuma wakes up and decides to punish the perpetrator. It's safe to assume this is why he and Toko were chosen by Byakuya to do the actual dismantling. He also goes on to be the one to get the TV working in the data center, suggesting some level of proficiency with technology that's never explored again.

When the 5th trial begins, Hiro's panicking, insisting that Kyoko is a ghost("she's like the latest evolution in ghost technology!") and has to be corrected before the actual trial can start.

When the final investigation begins, and Kyoko, Byakuya, and Toko have all gone off on their own, Hiro decides he's going to go off on his own as well, declaring he's going to use his "totally awesome spirit power to figure out the mastermind's identity!" This declaration goes nowhere, as he's the only survivor you don't need to talk to before Monokuma's clue, and his only dialogue before the trial is him avoiding you. This 'totally awesome spirit power' is never used in the final trial, either.

When the final trial begins, Hiro is the first to make the accusation Monokuma wanted- that he was the only innocent one, and that everyone else was working together. But when Hina and Byakuya piggyback off of him, he's the first to realize that they've all been given the same evidence. Simultaneously, somehow, he's the last one to realize the evidence is fake("Wh-what? Wait, hold on... This doesn't make any sense... How can the three of us each have that kind of evidence!?")

When Junko reveals the truth to everyone, he's the first to beg for mercy. He's brought to despair- "We get it... We get it, okay? You're totally awesome, right? We get it already! So help us! I'll do anything! Just help me!" "A peasant begging for his life? How delightful! We've never witnessed such a travesty firsthand..." But when Makoto fights back, he's also the first one to embrace hope(assuming you shoot the characters in the order they appear):

"But to live means moving forward, right...? So even if it's hard... even if we're scared... we don't have any choice, do we? I want to keep on living! I want to open the next door! There must be something new waiting for me! So that's why... That's why...! No matter what, I need to get out of here! The whole fortune-telling thing doesn't matter anymore! What matters is my own gut feelings! I... I've decided to have faith in myself!"

He, along with the other survivors, votes for hope. Junko is executed, and the seven of them leave together.

Part 9- Ultra Despair Hagakure (yes we have to talk about this)

TW: discussion of pedophilia and incest. Skip to part 9 if you need to(5 paragraphs down).

Ultra Despair Hagakure, or UDH, is the spinoff-spinoff LN unlocked by completing "spinoff" game Ultra Despair Girls. It follows Yasuhiro Hagakure in Towa City as he's saved by former captive Kanon Nakajima, and the two of them try to survive the Monokumas and find a way to escape. The novel's state of canon is unclear, but it doesn't directly contradict anything in the main series continuity in terms of plot progression.

The problem with UDH (well, for Hiro anyway. Kanon is a whole other can of worms for the Leonalysis) is that UDH establishes Hiro as a pedophile. Kanon is 15, and says as much in her internal dialogue, but Hiro(who introduces himself as mid-20s) spends the LN being attracted to her, and that attraction combined with his money-hunger pushes him to stick with her, hoping to squeeze money out of her rich father upon their escape. He describes her as 'the type to have a baby by 21', and there are multiple instances of him being turned on by her, either while she's fighting the Monokumas or when she ends up physically leaned against him. All around, it's just a really unfortunate choice they made for his character that serves nothing to the main plot besides acting as a way to emphasize how cute Kanon is. Why did they choose to have Hiro act in this way towards Kanon? Simple: UDH is a fetish novel.

UDH adds no significant development to the worldbuilding or its pre-established characters, with two exceptions- Hiro, and Leon. Both become victims of immoral fetish content, though Leon at least gets the shield of plausible deniability from an unreliable narrator. Hiro doesn't get that since we see his first-person perspective. The plot of UDH is structured around Kanon, despite its being named after Hiro, and centers on her feelings of lust and desire for a relationship, using the setting of UDG as a backdrop. Hiro is an older man than Kanon, and Leon is Kanon's cousin. Both of these characters had their names and base personalities recycled to act as her love interests, as an excuse to write fetish content. It's as simple as that. And Hiro in particular suffers because he's the living and present man of the two, so to make the content, he's given perverted, sexual thoughts about Kanon, a 15 year old girl, as a grown adult in his 20s, not because it's something Hiro would've done, but because it's part of the older-guy fetish. It's unnecessary for his character, and doesn't appear at all in the next and final appearance he has in the series, nor does it ever come up outside of this LN.

UDH is a dark spot on the history of Yasuhiro Hagakure, and one of dubious canon at that. But it's still important to acknowledge that was written and released as official content within the DR franchise, and therefore, must be part of this character dissection. Ultimately, I've come to the conclusion that, due to the entire LN being primarily fetish content, it can't in good conscience be held up as part of Yasuhiro's own character. However, it is reflective of Kodaka's lack of care in the treatment of Yasuhiro Hagakure as a character.

Part 10- Danganronpa 3: Future Arc

Hiro, alongside Makoto, Kyoko, and Hina, are brought back as part of the lineup for DR3's Future Arc, participating in a new killing game with 12 new characters.

10.1- Character Design Pt 2

Hiro's design is updated to his Future Foundation uniform, with his pant sleeves rolled up, his blazer over his shoulders, and a bright blue tie. His locs are now pulled back, he's wearing thin-wire glasses, and he's pictured holding his crystal ball(though again, it breaks in the 1st episode).

10.2- Hiro's Subplot

In the first episode of the Future Arc, Hiro's left out of the meeting by the others and told to wait outside. He's then left out of the killing game and locked outside the building by accident when the exits are blown up, and left to fend for himself in occasional clips for over half of the season until Byakuya shows up to break into the building.

His only role in the anime is an occasional cutaway to him wondering what's going on inside, only to be shot at by a helicopter with a machine gun and barely survive unscathed. The anime straight up tells the audience the reason for this in one of the opening recaps:

He's the only survivor from THH not to play a significant role as well, as Makoto, Kyoko, and Hina are active in the kg, Byakuya is the one to lead the rescue effort, and Toko and Jack get a dedicated episode in Towa City with Komaru to hunt down Monaca. All this to say, his occasional bit of barely surviving is all he gets in comparison, which isn't much.

10.3- Byakuya Togami

As the only character Hiro has significant interaction with in the season, the relationship between Hiro and Byakuya is mildly expanded upon. Once Byakuya arrives, Hiro immediately falls in line beside him, following orders to lay explosives and try to break into the building, complaining all the while as Byakuya watches and directs him. It's all reminiscent of their relationship at the endgame of THH; however, Byakuya appears to be more fond of Hiro at this point, stopping him from triggering the trap in the lobby and keeping him out of danger at his own risk. In that vein of logic, Hiro being told to stay outside by not only Byakuya, but also Makoto, Hina, and Kyoko wasn't because 'no one likes him', it was because of genuine concern that he'd get caught up in something that wasn't his fault. It was because they liked him that he was safe.

Part 11- Racism in Danganronpa

As we've seen, Hiro is a character without much of a story to talk about. He's got his bit moments, and a banterous dynamic with the other survivors from THH, but even in his own novel, he doesn't have his own plot to speak of, nor does he ever receive any significant character growth in 8 years of DR history by real-world years. He is wholly a gag character, meant to be messy, stupid, and altogether unimportant in comparison to the rest of the cast. And to call this anything other than flat-out racism would be flat-out ignorance.

First off, in a series with over 100 characters, Hiro is one of 3-4 characters who are canonically dark-skinned(I can't remember if Akane was dark-skinned or is in "it's just a tan" club with Hina, Sakura, Teruteru, and Gonta). Of those, he's one of two black men, and the other is a racist caricature whose sole purpose is to die in demonstration of a 'game mechanic'(Daisaku Bandai). So already, we can clearly see that black men, as well as any other dark-skinned characters, aren't prioritized in DR's narrative.

When it comes to Hiro specifically, though, the specifics of his character- his design, his backstory, and the perception the other characters have of him- all at least partially stem from blatantly racist stereotypes. It's not just a matter of lack of rep, it's a matter of stereotypical and often outright offensive representation.

Scroll back up to see Hiro's THH design again. He's dressed in multiple layers, making him look 'grungy', like he doesn't care about his appearance, and he's the only dark-skinned character to have a black hairstyle throughout the entire series. There's a point in the game where, if you choose to speak to him in a group setting, Genocide Jill refers to him as "Afro Thunder" as a derogatory remark. Even from a character that gives everyone nicknames, this is clearly racism, as the other nicknames are plays on the characters' names ('Big Mac' for Makoto, 'Tick Tock' for Taka, etc).

While the details of Hiro's backstory aren't fully expanded upon, we do have enough information from his mother, Hiroko, and some of his dialogue in THH to have enough of an idea. Hiroko was a teen mother, and considering Hiro is in his mid-20s(23 at the youngest) while Hiroko is around 36 during the events of UDG according to the UDG artbook, that would mean she had him at age 13, at the oldest. In addition, Hiroko isn't dark-skinned, meaning that either Hiro got his color solely from his father, or his mother was biracial and just didn't get those genes. In addition, we know that his father wasn't around for most of his life, as he left Hiroko for an unspecified act she 'let go on too long,' which implies infidelity. We do know his dad was around long enough for Hiro to remember him, though, as he's able to recall an instance where his father burned their house down due to smoking in bed. Now, this may be on me, but the implication all this seems to suggest is that his father, who would've been black, left his family and left the teen mother to raise Hiro on her own, and that the one depiction we receive of him paints him as irresponsible for causing a house fire. It's not expressly canon, but it's the implication the given information leaves for the player, and is eerily similar to the stereotype that black men are irresponsible and absent fathers that knock up younger women.

Throughout all of THH, Hiro is perceived as stupid. Just about every character that interacts with Hiro calls him an idiot at least once, and he's repeatedly portrayed as not understanding what's going on around him. The only character that's ever less aware than he is at any given time is Genocide Jack or Toko, and that's because the two don't share memories. In chapter 3, his supposed idiocy is emphasized as the reason Celeste targeted and pinned a double-murder on him, and how she was able to get away with framing him for so long. Almost everyone agreed with her that Hiro's idiocy explained away the flaws in logic from his perspective as a killer. Byakuya even says as such("He probably thought that if nobody saw his face, it wouldn't matter if he was seen. Because he's an idiot, you see."). He falls for every little lie Monokuma drops over the course of the game, to the point where he contradicts himself at the start of the final trial. There's a moment in chapter 5 where Hina goes on about how stupid he is, and asks him what 10+10 is. It offends him to the point he forgets what question she asked, and when he asks her to repeat herself, she just says "Don't worry. You've already answered it." Even Makoto, the POV character who we're meant to project ourselves as player onto, goes on about how stupid and disorganized he is at multiple instances when talking to him. Not only do the other characters perceive him as stupid, but the game wants you as player to perceive him as stupid, too, at the detriment of his own characterization as a successful and sleazy businessman who's made millions. Stupid, disorganized idiots who spend $1M on a glass ball aren't normally charismatic and clever enough to be making that much at such a young age from the ground up.

And maybe, maybe, if Hiro were the only instance where a dark-skinned character were subject to this volume of stereotypes, and the rest of the dark-skinned characters were all excellently developed and unique and well, not written consistently with racist tropes, then you could try to make the argument that this was by mistake. That it wasn't fully intentional, or that the creator was just trying to make a variety of characters, whatever. But every single dark-skinned (or tanned) character in the series suffers from some kind of racist trope. If it's not this, or being a blatant caricature like Bandai, it's being a monster brute who's viewed as an inhuman monster(Sakura, Gonta), it's being an islander cultist who follows some indigenous violent god(Angie), etc. The racism within Danganronpa's dark-skinned characters is inherently a part of their characters, to the point where you cannot separate the sins of the author from the character. Yasuhiro Hagakure is a byproduct of racism, and it holds him back as a character from being expanded upon outside of what the stereotype allows so long as he's written by his creators.

Part 12- Fortune Telling Does Matter (Why we should care)

We've now thoroughly dissected Yasuhiro Hagakure and his role, or often lqack thereof, in the story. He's a gag character built on racist tropes that the creator didn't give a fuck about, and was lent out for a fetish piece. He's an idiot, a useless guy whose own creator built to be pointed at and laughed at. Why should anyone care about Hiro? The answer comes in the epilogue of THH, from Hiro himself:

"...Ah! I get it now! If there's no road, you just gotta build one! Creation... Fate is telling me to remake the world! That's... my hope! I've reached the next stage! The next chapter of Yasuhiro Hagakure's Life Story is about to begin!"

'If there's no road, you just gotta build one.' Hiro was made with racism, yes, and went underused in the source material, but that doesn't mean that was all there was to his character. If you dig into the work, you'll find a passionate man that cares deeply for his interest in the unknown, someone who researches and collects artifacts in his free time, and who genuinely believes in his clairvoyance, and used that passion and belief to build a career and life for himself. The pieces are in place for his story to continue, and if the source material won't do it, then well, can't we? Danganronpa is known for its love and attention to detail of its characters. Each and every character is designed with the potential to become the protagonist of their own story. That includes Hiro. He does have the potential to rise past the source material in the right hands, and those could be your hands. Who's to say? Maybe there's some unwritten genius hidden within that next chapter. That's the beauty of fanwork; untapped potential can become a fan favorite if you know where to look.

Afterword

"Hey guys, Sayakanalysis is taking a while, I want an easy one next." Well look how that turned out. This shit was NOT easy, not by a long shot. I've come to the conclusion that there is no easy character to analyze in this godforsaken series

That said, I am happy with how this turned out. Even if Hiro is a bit all over the place, I genuinely like him a lot more now! There's actually a lot of fun to be had with his character if you're willing to look deeper into him; that's what I want people to take away from this

Anyways, it'll probably be a nice long wait for the next one because uh. Junko is next. And V3 is basically the only time she doesn't show up soooooooo hope you enjoyed catch ya later

[writing-for-marvel]

Withdrawal

[He’s Hazardous To My Health Series]

Paramedic!Bucky Barnes x Resident!Fem!Reader

< < PART 2 | Series Masterlist | PART 4 > >

Summary: You wait for Bucky to call.

Warnings: strictly 18+ due to the AU, some angst and self doubt, references to sex, references to Bucky having a traumatic past

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: Will he call? Won’t he call? Let’s find out! Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

Bucky stares down at his phone and sighs.

He wants to call you, genuinely, so why is dialling your number so difficult?

Perhaps it’s too soon, is what he tells himself. It hasn’t even been a full day since the end of your date, calling now probably makes him look desperate.

Should he message you? Tell you that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you all day? Ugh, no… that seems extremely forward for someone he’s only been on a single date with, regardless of if it’s the truth.

There’s never been anyone whom he’s connected with enough to warrant a second date, let alone have him promising to call. He’s completely out of his depth, drowning in a sea of anxiety and no one has taught him how to swim.

Bucky knows he’s overthinking, but you make it hard to think clearly. You have his brain short circuiting, reforming synapses so that all his thoughts are rerouted to the same thing: you.

Turning his phone off, he sets it down beside him. Just because he isn’t calling straight away, doesn’t mean he won’t at all. It’s probably better to wait and not seem super eager.

Or is that counterintuitive? If you enjoy someone’s company, should you let them know so you can see them again as soon as possible?

Fuck, why is this such a daunting task? He’s never had an issue with talking or flirting with anyone before, it seems to come naturally to him. And yet the thought that he’ll say the wrong thing, and fuck up whatever it is between the two of you is making his stomach churn with prickling nerves he’s never experienced before.

Perhaps he’ll find the courage to call tomorrow.

* * *

“You seem distracted, what’s on your mind?” The familiar voice from the driver's seat of the ambulance pulls Bucky from his daydream.

You, is what Bucky thinks. You are constantly on his mind. Him and his best friend Steve are half an hour into their shift and you have not left the forefront of his mind in that entire time.

It’s like he’s in a trance.

“There’s this girl from the hospital…” Bucky trails off, unsure how to articulate exactly how you’ve bewitched him since meeting not even a week ago.

The night before last wasn’t just another hookup. At least, not to him.

“I’m gonna need a little more information than that Buck, there’s been quite a few girls of yours, especially from the hospital.” Steve laughs, but Bucky’s chest tightens at the insinuation that you’re just another fling, even though Steve doesn’t know any better.

“Two nights ago we went on a date, it ended up back at her place.” This is probably not news to Steve - he’s heard many stories about Bucky’s one night stands which would have started exactly like this. But there is one huge difference this time around. “And then I told her I’d call.”

“You’re thinking about a second date with her? She must be something special.” Bucky chuckles under his breath. Yeah, you really are something special. So fucking special.

“She’s beautiful, intelligent, funny, witty. When she was treating that little girl from the train derailment she was so good with her, kind and patient. I don’t know how to describe it, we just click. I don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to feel more than physical attraction for someone but with her it just happens, I can’t stop myself.”

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but Bucky’s already addicted to you. He’s only had one fix, but he’s already showing symptoms of withdrawal. Every second apart feels like an hour, craving your company and the rapture firing in every neuron of his body when you’re in his presence.

“Look at you actually falling for someone.” Steve teases, without even knowing the full extent of how enthralled Bucky is with you. “So when are you seeing her again?”

Silence fills the front seat of the ambulance when Bucky can’t answer the question.

“Bucky, you have to see her again! Listen to how you’re talking about her, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you actually speak about wanting to see someone again. You need to call her.” Steve stops at a red light and looks over to Bucky in the passenger seat. His best friend knows him better than perhaps he knows himself but doesn’t have the same obstacle with letting people in as Bucky does.

“That’s easier said than done.” Bucky can’t mask the dejected tone in his voice, and Steve recognises the crestfallen hang of his head, knowing exactly what he means without voicing it aloud.

“I know you've been through a lot in your life Buck, you’ve built walls up to prevent any more heartbreak…” Steve starts, but Bucky doesn’t need yet another reminder of his tragic backstory.

“Alright Mr I minored in psychology, I get your point. I’m damaged goods and don’t let people get close to me.”

“It’s just a second date, Buck, you aren’t asking for her hand in marriage. Just see where it goes.” Steve makes it sound so easy. Most people wouldn’t get so stressed about something they would consider as minor as a second date, yet Bucky feels like he’s about to expose the most intimate parts of his soul to someone for the first time.

“But I don’t want to hurt her. I know nothing about dating or being in a relationship.” Bucky pauses - the fact that he’s even considering something as substantial as a relationship with you punches him in the gut. He’s never wanted that with someone before. “And I don’t want to get hurt myself.” Because all Bucky has known is relationships breaking down. To him romantic relationships are synonymous with pain and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

“You’ll never know if you never try. I know you think letting someone in will lead to heartbreak, but what if it’s the opposite? What if by letting this person into your heart you finally find love and contentment?” Bucky has never allowed himself to imagine a life where that is a possibility - opening himself up to that prospect sounds like a recipe for more suffering. Besides, he’s been damaged goods for a long time, he’s sure there’s no one who would want to put up with him anyway.

“You really are a hopeless romantic.” Bucky comments, trying to avoid the questions Steve is raising, and divert the topic of their conversation.

“I want you to be happy, Buck. You’ve never afforded yourself that courtesy.”

Though his experience screams at him to run in the opposite direction, that this would be a horrible decision leading to further pain, Bucky finds it hard to believe someone as sweet and good-natured as yourself would ever hurt him intentionally. Even if there is only a slim chance that he doesn’t completely fuck this up, given Bucky cannot stop thinking about you, he supposes it’s worth a shot calling you.

“Well, maybe it’s finally time I do.” Bucky mutters under his breath.

* * *

You’ve been checking your phone periodically throughout the day to se if you have any new notifications from Bucky, but each time your phone lights up, a new wave of disappointment floods your chest.

You wonder if the notion of actually calling you, or simply messaging, has even crossed Bucky’s mind once since he left your place about 36 hours ago, or if he already knew it was an empty promise at the time he made it.

“Heard anything yet?” Wanda asks hopefully, but you shake your head in response. The first thing Wanda asked during your next shift together was how your date went with Bucky - between treating patients you described the picnic Bucky set up on the riverbank and (in slightly less detail) the euphoric night you shared when you made it back to your place.

“I’m stupid for actually believing he’s going to call, aren’t I?”

“…No.” Wanda offers after a brief hesitation which tells you more than the single word does. Sensing your regret in asking, she continues on. “Sweetie, only you know the connection you share, I can’t speak to that. If you feel like there’s something special there and he promised to call, then you have every right to believe him.”

Perhaps you’re being foolish, you should know better than to hang your hopes on a man who is notorious for being a fuckboy, but you really thought Bucky was being genuine when he promised to contact you. That the blissful night you shared, and the waves of ecstasy which melded into a flood of pure pleasure, meant more than just a one night stand.

Or at least it did to you.

“Just because he’s never pursued more than a first date with other people in this hospital doesn’t mean he isn’t now, or isn’t with you. Sometimes it just takes the right person, that could be you.” You take some comfort in the sincerity of her tone, but the voice in the back of your mind reminds you of what Wanda alerted you to prior to your date: no one gets a second date with Bucky Barnes.

“You’ve changed from giving me no hope to giving me false hope, Wan.” You joke, trying to brush off the conversation and not reveal just how heartbroken you’ll be if Bucky ghosts you, even with Wanda warning about his ways.

Internally you remind yourself that it’s only been a day and a half and to not be too mad at him, yet. Perhaps he intends to call, but hasn’t gotten around to it, though you’re pretty sure you’re only telling yourself that to stop the perpetual ache in your chest rather than truly believing it.

“He promised he would call, that’s not false hope.” Wanda advises, shooting you a look of encouragement as you both complete paperwork for your respective patients.

At that moment, the doors to the ER swing open and none other than the paramedic you were just speaking about walks in wheeling a patient.

You hate how good he looks, long chestnut hair framing his face and those dazzling blue eyes you’ve dreamed about shine from all the way across the room. He’s unfairly attractive, and he walks into a room like he knows it too.

Him and his partner consult the head nurse of the ER, who, after examining her clipboard for a moment, points towards your direction, making your stomach flip.

Steel blue eyes meet yours and for a moment your entire world stands still. The sounds of the busy ER fade away and even the presence of Wanda beside you dissolves into non-existence when his eyes find you and a smile overtakes his features. That damn cheeky smile which makes your knees weak.

He truly is infuriatingly beautiful.

“Hey.” Is all you can think to say as they approach, a lump in your throat forming which would prevent you from voicing any more words if your brain could think of any other than how strapping and handsome he looks in his uniform.

“Hi.” Bucky responds softly with a dreamy smile, eyes lingering on yours for a long beat before turning away. How could someone who looks at you with such warmth not want to see you again?

You shake the thought from your mind as your focus on the patient, a young man with scared brown eyes. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, even if you desperately want to look back at him and revel in the fondness brimming in his eyes which was so apparent during your date.

After Bucky’s equally tall, broad and handsome paramedic partner gets you up to speed on the patient's history, you get to work on taking his vitals.

“Rogers, Barnes, give us some space to work, please.” Dr Strange requests and without the chance to say another word to each other, both paramedics disappear out the corner of your periphery.

What you don’t notice is Bucky’s soft gaze on you through the glass walls of the patient room as you start your work up, believing that he had simply got back in his ambulance and out into the field.

“That’s her?” Steve asks from beside Bucky. He knows full well it must be you, he’s never seen his best friend look so enamoured with a girl, nor lost for words as when he set eyes on you, but he wants Bucky to admit it aloud.

“Yep, that’s her.” Bucky says with a pride that if Steve didn’t know any better, would suggest that her meant his girl. Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you, the corners of mouth tugging into a smile. His best friend has it bad, and he doesn’t even realise.

Steve suspects if he doesn’t remind Bucky they have a shift to get back to, he’d happily watch you work for the rest of the day.

He allows Bucky a couple more minutes of that luxury before heading back to the ambulance, knowing his best friend well enough to realise before either Bucky or yourself do, just how significant Bucky’s feelings for you are.

* * *

Bucky steps out of the shower, the warm water having rinsed the hard days work off himself.

He knows he needs to call you. Waiting any longer, especially after seeing you today, even if it were only for a brief moment, would surely only indicate disinterest. That’s so far from how he feels about you, so he decides needs to take matters into his own hands and fulfil the promise he made two nights ago.

A fresh swarm of butterflies fills his stomach. He’s actually going to do this.

He just hopes you’re after more than just another hookup. Bucky’s used to being the one only interested in sex, but if the roles are reversed this time, it’ll be his exposed heart being ripped from his chest.

No, he can’t think like that. He’s finally giving himself a chance at happiness.

Bucky reminds himself that you asked him to promise to call after your date. It’s not just him that wants this, you want him to call.

With that thought, he pulls out his phone and quickly presses on your contact, so he doesn’t chicken out, and with a shaky hand holds his phone to his ear. Bucky’s heart beats in his throat as the first ring sounds, and then skips a beat altogether when the click of you answering fills his ears.

“Bucky, you called.” He can hear the smile in your voice through the line, but what makes his heart clench is the trace of surprise he can perceive, as if you truly hadn’t expected him to call.

“I did promise to.” He reminds you, but it doesn’t entirely eliminate the bitter shame bubbling in the pit of his stomach that even though he did in fact promise, you didn’t fully believe him.

“I’m happy you did. I had a really great time the other night.”

“So did I.” Those three simple words don’t sum up just how much Bucky wholeheartedly enjoyed every second he spent with you, regardless of if that were naked in your bed or getting to know you on a picnic blanket as the sun set across the horizon, but in his anxious state he can’t find words more poetic to express it. “And I’d love to do it again if you’re up for it.”

“Hmm, I’m gonna have to think about it.” He can tell by the light tone of your voice you’re joking, but he supposes he deserves waiting for an answer considering he made you wait for his call. “Of course I’d love to go on a second date with you James.”

The combination of your words and the fact that you punctuated the sentence with his true first name sends Bucky straight to heaven. Everything about you makes him completely weak in a way he has never experienced before. All of those walls Steve seems to think Bucky has built around himself don’t appear to exist with you, instead, you’ve come into his life as easily as walking through a front door with a welcome mat out front.

“I guess I’m going to have to outdo a picnic at sunset then.” He chuckles to himself, knowing that he’s never had this problem before, but realising it’s a good problem to have.

You continue to talk well into the night, forgetting what time it is, and that you both have early shifts in the morning. None of that matters when you’re so caught up in each other.

Bucky simply enjoys the sound of your voice, and how it soothes the remaining anxiety which was swirling in his chest before calling you. He certainly isn’t hanging up first, not when talking with you has been the best part of his day.

He’s chasing happiness. And he might just find it with you.

Part 4 > >

Be added to the series taglist here

He’s Hazardous To My Health [Paramedic!Bucky Barnes] Taglist: @lavenderpenumbra @crazyunsexycool @eralen @buckbuckyoongs @blackwidownat2814 @roschele @crayongirl-linz @ozwriterchick @desert-fern @misshale21 @chalesleclerc164 @rookthorne @janineb86 @emmabarnes @scarletbich @fallenlilangel99 @princezzjasmine @mdrovert @thebuckybarnesvault @doasyoudesireandlive @solitarioslilium @iamfandomwasted @tanyaspartak @netflixxgoddess @pop-rocks-818 @dumdidditydumdoo @missvelvetsstuff @marvelhoeland @thesadcatto-queen @kayden666 @amiimar @razor-blayde @katheryn1 @safew0rd @kentokaze @thewackywriter @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @badasswlthafatass @Vickie5446 @loveoldmenlikelana @00cmh @pointless-girl @honeyglee @nerdxacid @moonymagician @ashhsage @prettylittlepluviophile @otomefromtheheart @sjsmith56 @mandijo17 @lokidokieokie @oceansandblackhearts @rebeccapineapple @soorwellystan @excusememrbarnes @lofaewrites @snapcapquartet @wishingwell-2 @unaxv @aya-fay

[spockandstars]

I was thinking about how Spock is intentionally paralleled with Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities in The Wrath of Khan, and now I am unwell!

At the beginning of the movie, Spock famously gives Kirk A Tale of Two Cities as a birthday present. This book was specifically included for its themes of sacrifice and resurrection, which obviously mirror Spock’s decision to give up his life to save the crew. Notably, Kirk’s final lines reference the famous closing of the novel.

Kirk: It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before... a far better resting in place I go to than I have ever known...

Carol: is that a poem?

Kirk: Something Spock was trying to tell me. On my birthday.

So what’s the importance of this line? The famous “far better thing” quote is from the book’s ending when Carton has just sacrificed himself for his beloved Lucie, giving himself up to be executed in place of her husband so that she may find happiness. (Live long and prosper, anyone?)

Interestingly, both Spock and Carton are emotionally repressed characters, and anguish over the depth of their love for the people who uniquely see them for who they are — in this case, Jim and Lucie. While I’d argue that Spock is more at peace with himself and his feelings for Jim after the events of the first movie, the point still stands that Jim is the one to truly understand him in a world that labels him as a cold and calculating being.

I believe that this is what Kirk’s line calling Spock’s soul “the most human I have ever encountered,” is supposed to represent. (Even though I agree with the criticism that it could have been worded better!) Similarly, Lucie is the one to recognize Carton’s inner nature in spite of his aloof facade, begging “I would ask you to believe that [Carton] has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep wounds in it.” (Book 2, Chapter 20.)

When Carton finally admits his love to Lucie, it’s hard not to see the resemblance to Spock’s dilemma in the first movie. You know, that time when Spock, in his heartbreak over something related to Jim (that were not given an explanation for), cries out “Jim! Good-bye my . . . my t’hy’la. This is the last time I will permit myself to think of you or even your name again!” before attempting to purge himself of all feelings in an ancient ritual, and failing because the Vulcan priestess can totally sense that he’s still thinking about Kirk. (Yup, that totally straight time!)

Well, Carton is in a similarly agonizing predicament, because he can’t get his feelings for Lucie to go away. He tells her, “I break down before the knowledge of what I want to say to you” and “I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire—a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away.” (Book 2, Chapter 13)

He also expresses that he could never separate his love for her from himself, saying that “Within myself, I shall always be, towards you, what I am now.” (Book 2, Chapter 13) Yeah, I know the fact this mirrors Spock’s famous “I have been and always shall be yours” is probably a coincidence, but I’ll be damned if I don’t mention it.

Finally, Carton expresses his love for her in his willingness to sacrifice himself for her sake: “For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you… there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!” (Book 2, Chapter 13.) Of course, Carton’s story ends when he sacrifices himself for her, fulfilling this promise. Hmm, now who else does that sound like?

This is definitely not a perfect parallel: Spock doesn’t start out as a lazy alcoholic, although there is an argument to be made that Carton’s low self-worth reflects Spock’s before he went on his conversion therapy fueled journey of self discovery. Additionally, I wouldn’t say that Spock’s love for Kirk is unrequited like Carton’s for Lucie, (as evidenced by many things, but I’ll primarily point to the events of The Motion Picture and The Search for Spock), but you could potentially cast Carol in the role of Darnay, Lucie’s husband.

The most important thing to glean from this is that Spock was very deliberately set up to be the Carton figure, which is interesting given that Carton’s actions are driven by his willingness to do anything to see his beloved be happy and prosper.