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sporadicspores · 11 months ago

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Spores and Stars

Chapter 1 - Acclimations

Chapter CW's: mentions of trauma, physical assault, potentially distressing trauma-related dialogue, night terrors/trauma related nightmares, grief, choking/asphyxiation (in a dream but still lol) A/N's in tags for background info

Vrisryn was irritable, to say the least. It had been over a hundred years since the elven druid had last felt any anxiety or fear even remotely close to the levels of stress which they’d endured throughout the last 24 hours. Circumstances beyond their control had become a theme in their life long before this, but a being abducted by mindflayers while on a routine stop in the city only to awaken on their crashing nautiloid? That definitely warranted a top 3 spot in the stories of unfortunate events which had become such a trademark experience for them.

Surviving the nautiloid crash and escaping illithid captivity was only the start to their newfound troubles. Other discomforts and concerns took form in the shape of discovering the fate that awaited those who become infected with illithid tadpoles, as well as the strange companions they had reluctantly picked up along the way—the abrasive but adept githyanki, Lae’zel; the untrusting & mysterious half-elf cleric, Shadowheart; the seemingly clumsy but endearing human wizard, Gale; and the pale, snide high-elf Astarion, who Vrisryn couldn’t help but notice hosted unnatural fangs and two inauspiciously placed puncture wounds along his neck.

How subtle, they had thought to themselves when his dagger pressed along their neck–right before they rightfully headbutted him off of their person. Vampirism and the undead were not completely unfamiliar subjects for a druid of the Circle of Spores, and while the potentiality of being in proximity to such undead didn’t particularly phase the wild-elf, they couldn’t say for certain that the other party members would be as unbothered as they were by such a discovery. They chose to act oblivious to the matter for the time being. A notion for him to share and a trouble for another day, they figured after he had agreed to travel with the group.

Vrisryn was not fond of being close to people, and traveling with others was a foreign concept altogether. Circle of Spore druids were particularly known for their preference of solitude, and even among their circle, Vrisryn was considered a recluse. Despite the wild-elf’s natural charisma, socializing was NOT something Vrisryn found enjoyable—let alone comfortable. They considered such things a necessary nuisance. Between the circumstantial & personal risks that forming close bonds carried for them and the fact that they had spent roughly the last century relatively alone in the wilderness, they had little reason to welcome any opportunities to grow close to people. Any form of socializing or interpersonal connection was something that they had learned to allow only when absolutely necessary.

Vrisryn had no interest in close bonds with others. The bonds they had forged with nature and the wilderness had sustained them more than well enough the last century. Companionship with people was not something they had sought for since their youth; connection and intimacy had long-since been cast out of their mind and heart, believing that such frivolities to have been privileges long-since spent from the past. Even when it came to acquaintances within their Druidic Circle or work, they kept most exchanges to solely business-related matters; where they could name many associates, they would be hard pressed to claim any being as something even remotely akin to a friend–short of potentially Psilofyr, whom they refused to acknowledge as such.

No—the druid had not felt any sense of true connection or understanding since the few years they had spent recovering from and adjusting to their spellscar in a myconoid colony. They had found themselves in the care of the strange creatures and the mad-mushroom deity after the traumatic loss of their prior life to the Spellplague which infected their homeland during the Year of Blue Fire. Where it stood now, they had grown to prefer solitude, and worked intentionally to maintain that detachment from others. It was a choice that had served them well both in their heart and with their druidic work.

They didn’t see it as a sacrifice, but rather, as an act of acceptance of their own fate. Death had made it clear where they stood in the story that was their life. And who were they to disrupt nature’s holy balance by protesting death’s decision, let alone for the sake of their own selfish emotions or desires? The bitter acceptance of their circumstances had taken a long time to adopt after they had recovered from their creeping madness, but once it settled into their soul, they found them disconnected from the reverence they once held over the living, as well as life itself. Being invested in other people was a luxury and a distraction that Vrisryn could no longer afford. They had come to find that their indifferent attitude towards subjects such as death, violence, or tragedy—as well as their general interest in the macabre—tended to fend off most that dared to seek connection with them, anyway. It was easier to remain on the outskirts, misunderstood, and drifting along nature’s intended course.

Now, these damned tadpoles and their ability to psychically link any fellow infected threatened all of the security and familiarity Vrisryn had previously found through isolation.

So: irritable would be one way to describe Vrisryn’s mood as they settled into camp. The first day of traveling with others had been treacherous and wearing. Between the tadpoles themselves, the forced acquaintances (not to mention the subsequent bickering amongst them–who knew less than a handful of strangers could find one another so disagreeable), the skirmishes within the decaying temple, and the literal skeletal withered freak that had crawled out of the sarcophagus in the crypt underneath? It was safe to say that exhaustion had crept up on the druid faster than ever.

Vrisryn was also clearly weaker than they had been when they were kidnapped; the effects of their newfound tadpole infection wiping away much of their prior strength and stamina. Some cantrips and basic first level spells were all the druid could manage to produce at the moment, and it was a miracle that their Spellscar wasn’t already rearing its head given the circumstances. By sunset, a migraine had seeped its dreadful way into Vrisryn’s skull. Whether it was from their Spellscar, the tadpole’s squirming, or sheer stress and exhaustion was unclear—but it had become disorienting enough that the druid had demanded they make camp for the evening far earlier than they otherwise would wish to.

Thankfully, reprieve was found nearby at a scenic spot along the nearby river. The druid had felt suddenly lighter upon finding the idyllic strip of land, and its vantage point and the stretch of woods separating it from the main roads made it easy to feel safe within. As safe as one could hope to feel given the circumstances, at least. They had begun the work of setting up a firepit and bedrolls before any further input from their traveling companions could be made, short of an abrupt noise of displeasure from Lae’zel. Such expressions had become white noise by that point due to the frequency of such exclamations.

Vrisryn adorned a smug look while taking in the sight of their traveling companions settling into camp for the night, recalling how much they had each begged them to move on and away from the scene while they searched desperately for their own headpiece and armor once outside of the decrepit temple. Each companion had exclaimed that the search was for naught, and each had shut their mouth as Vrisryn continued to procure bags and effects that belonged to each of them. In true nature, they had found their belongings last, after four hours of increasingly frantic searching – three hours past finding Lae’zel’s, Gale’s, Asterion’s, and Shadowheart’s own possessions. It was always satisfying for Vrisryn to watch others eat their own words around them.

Afterwards, Vrisryn wandered aside the river, leaving without a word in search of a shred of privacy as their exhausted party members hitched tents, organized camp supplies, and unpacked their personal belongings from bags nearby the fire.Hiding behind the mass of rock that separated this stretch of the river from the eyes of the rest of the camp, they stared into clear water at their own dirty, knackered reflection. The druid ran a hand against the top of the cold, calm river, just barely grazing it as they said a tender thanks to the universe for the reprieve of the nature around them. Vrisryn could hear the muffled, occasional banter and bickering of their traveling companions nearby; but it was mostly blocked out by the gentle babbling sound of the river mixing with the stream of thoughts bombarding their mind. Everything felt incredibly raw after this day, and they found themselves overwhelmed with the unfamiliar sensations and the sheer weight of the emotions of it all. Their lungs and stomach felt tight and tense, and the migraine had become nothing short of excruciating. They weren’t adjusted to feeling so strongly about anything these days. Their anxiety built as the implications of the current circumstances sank into their reality.

It was most common for them to experience the symptoms and side effects from their Spellscar at night, particularly after stressful days. That being said, resting within the eyes and ears of others tonight was a huge risk. Despite their fatigue, Vrisryn worried over whether they’d be able to find any rest this evening. Typically, they were still able to restore energy from trancing as any other elf; but ever since they had retained their spellscar, they had discovered that their body required the type of sleep that human and half-elves needed. Often, this would occur after their more arduous travels, unnerving experiences, or grave wounds. They hoped to the hells and back in spite of the obvious odds that their body would not require such deep vulnerability tonight, equally fearful of if they’d even be able to settle enough to trance. If they did find reprieve only to wake their newfound companions with any of the side-effects of their Spellscar, who knows how those around them would react to such a thing? Especially given the events that had already unfolded through the day—they found it easy to assume that the best case scenario in that situation would result in being abandoned.

Usually the druid would be thankful for a chance at abandonment and its promise of sweet isolation, but the circumstances were too dire to take such risks right now. Despite their longings for solitude, they needed all the brainpower they could get if they wished to find help with this whole tadpole problem and refrain from turning into a mindflayer. There was power in numbers. Still, they all had little reason to trust one another, and these new associates would likely see no reason to stick around with someone who held such baggage and risk.

It could potentially even be fatal to show such vulnerability; particularly, in the case of the blade-happy githyanki who would likely mistake the unfamiliar Spellscar symptoms as proof that Vrisryn was transforming into an illithid and react far before clarification could be given. Astarion had all but started their introduction with a blade to Vrisryn’s throat, so they couldn’t imagine he’d be particularly willing to stick around at any sign of further risk or burden either. Though, they also felt he could be just self-absorbed enough to completely overlook any effects they’d endure through the night. Shadowheart and Gale seemed the most fond of the druid at this point, and while they had sensed a kindred spirit of sorts in each, they by no means felt they knew either well enough to place even the slightest bit of trust in their character. Abandonment was still far more likely than acceptance, and despite their nature, their wisdom of the daunting odds stacked against them made it impossible to justify any permanent disbanding from their companions for the foreseeable future.

It’s also not as though Vrisryn could fault their companions if they did react that way in that event. The druid wasn’t particularly fond of this newfound situation either, nor trusting of those embarking on the journey with them–they too would be equally willing to cut off or cull any signs of danger or unneeded weight among the others at this point. Though, that could be the exhaustion speaking more than their actual beliefs or morals. They weren’t squeamish to the idea of violence any more than they savoured such measures. But any way they spun it, they found themselves at the same conclusion that these were still far too dire of circumstances to throw caution to the wind.

Vrisryn cupped their hands beneath the cold water, splashing it along their face as they stared out across the river, still lost in thought. The scent of vittles cooking in the fire wafted from nearby had grounded them back to the present somewhat. The sky was darkened now, with only a sliver of burnt orange-daylight left along the horizon as the speckles of stars and a bright, full moon washed across the sky overhead. The elf exhaled before stripping from their scale mail armor and washed themselves off quickly in the river, dampening their hair in the process but not bothering to clean it. Afterwards, they slipped into simple, comfortable threads that had been picked off the belongings of those they’d fought earlier in the day. Death’s blessing serves life’s purpose yet again, they thought to themselves reverently. Blessings be to the eternal cycle; may the spores of rebirth favor the fallen.

Turning from the corner of the rock, Vrisryn all but jumped out of their skin at the unexpected sight of the aforementioned skeletal enigma they had freed from the dank crypt earlier in the day standing nearby. The undead's blackened eyes stared intently at the druid, obviously having something he wished to say. Oh hells, they thought tiredly as they shook their head and sighed once more, approaching the creature with their arms crossed and a lifted eyebrow.

“We meet again, as predicted,” the undead greeted in its strange diction. “I shall be here in thy camp, for whenever thou hast need of my services.”

“Not to be rude, but… what exactly are you?” Vrisryn replied somewhat wearily.

“There are many answers to that question. None are important.”

“It’s important to me. Nature has an order, and while I have no issue with undead… Skeletons aren’t supposed to be able to talk.”

“Correct.”

Vrisryn squinted in displeasure.

“…Are you going to explain further?”

“No.” His response was firm, with a tone cautioning to not press the matter further.

Vrisryn narrowed their eyes at the undead before letting the subject drop with a roll of the eyes, too exhausted from the day to press the matter. He clearly wasn’t any threat, at the very least.

“What kind of services can a skeleton even offer?”

“Should thou or any of thy compatriots perish, I will cleave soul to body once more.”

This piqued Vrisryn’s attention immediately. A flicker of something between hope, excitement, and dread settled into their stomach at the prospect of such magic. The ability to retether the dead to life again, despite the circumstances? It was frowned upon within their circle to seek such channels, as it was considered an offense akin to stealing food from the mold and mycelium they worshiped. Yet, a part of Vrisryn’s heart had always hoped to find one capable of such skills… after all, if one was capable of such a feat, was there a chance that he could…?

“That’s incredibly powerful magic. Why is it so easy for you?” They questioned, failing to mask their obvious intrigue.

“Because it is my calling,” the withered man in front of them retorted matter-of-factly. “There is little else to explain.”

“You mentioned a cost. What is it?”

“A matter of coin, 200 gold, to be precise.”

“Could you… revive others, besides the companions I carry now?”

An unreadable expression passed over the wrinkled, misshapen face in front of them. Something between disappointment and understanding, perhaps even pity–though, Vrisryn themselves could not decipher the look.

“No. The threads of fate have already woven thy story; I shall only offer aid to thy chapters' future, not those of thou’s past.”

Reality quickly settled back in where the flicker of hope had taken hold moments ago. Disappointed but not surprised, Vrisryn’s expression sobered again. They nodded curtly, wincing as their head pounded harder with the motion, tadpole squirming behind their eye, before walking away from the undead man and back towards camp. There was nothing else to say on the matter, and the being didn’t seem privy to share much else at the moment anyway.

Returning in search of food, Vrisryn found Gale was standing in front of the campfire, clearly brooding. Each companion had set up their personal spots rather efficiently. To the side, Lae’Zel had somehow managed to create or procure a whetstone and was sharpening her blade, visibly irate in her own right. Shadowheart seemed deep in a prayer or perhaps meditation, and Astarion had buried his face within some large, dusty book. Vrisryn approached Gale first, though they had only done so to obtain some of the food nearby, not for conversation.

Just as they came from behind the wizard, he let out a deep exhale, and spoke:

“Go to Hell.”

“And a good evening to you, too.” Vrisryn answered sarcastically, bemused by the unexpected greeting as they reached for a serving of their supplies.

“Hah! You’re a good sport,” Gale responded, before beginning his tirade.

“Go to Hell. An everyday expression. So trivial, it’s almost meaningless—but we’ve seen Hell. It’s real. And it isn’t trivial.”

Vrisryn watched the flames in silence, taking a bite of the roasted sausage and carrots they’d obtained, unsure of what to say or where this exchange was leading. Still, they stood watching and listening to Gale intently, enticed by his sullen remarks.

“Devils, dragons, mindflayers — they used to be abstracts. Pictures on a piece of paper… What a difference a day makes. Now, we have tadpoles slithering through our heads like carnivorous foeti,” Gale turned now to face the druid, heavy and worried brown eyes locking with theirs. “That’s not abstract.”

There was a profound sadness and lethargy in the man’s expression that Vrisryn could tell was borne far before the illithid experiences they shared. Despite this, the flickers of orange from the nearby fire across his face painted the wizard in a charming light, Vrisryn noted. He had a comforting, charming visage, in spite of his pessimistic words and downtrodden aura. At least everyone in this little entourage is easy on the eyes… they thought shamelessly. Little victories, I suppose.

“We’re in deep shit, Gale; I can’t argue with you on that. Brooding will get us nowhere. Action will,” they finally offered, unable to spare any words of real comfort or reassurance at the moment amidst the waves of pain shooting through them. There was a moment of weighted silence between them once more as they both stared at the fire.

“This ballet of flames invites reflection,” Gale replied after some time. “But point made; you’re right. Let’s be up with the lark – find a healer before the wee one gets hungry.” He tapped his head with a smirk, emphasizing exactly who the wee one in question was. Vrisryn winced again as their tadpole squirmed almost in response, causing further tension in their sore skull. They felt dizzy for a moment from the pain, but if Gale had noticed anything, he made no sign of it. His back was now turned to them as he cast his thoughtful gaze silently towards the fire.

Behind them, Vrisryn noticed that Shadowheart had stood up from her prayer at some point during their conversation. The half-elf was eyeing the two of them suspiciously, though she turned her head away as soon as Vrisryn went to meet her eyes. Putting aside her seemingly aloof and untrusting nature, Shadowheart had earned Vrisryn’s trust the most thus far. Clearly the feeling wasn’t yet mutual, but Vrisryn wasn’t particularly bothered by that. Maybe it was the druid’s bias for clerics due to the deep gnome–Smilvi–who had helped nurse them both physically and emotionally, during and after their creeping madness in the Underdark.

Favoritism for clerics aside, Shadowheart had proven fairly trustworthy and sound of mind with strong, individual morals that the druid could respect. Regardless of her icy exterior, they had gotten the impression that Shadowheart harbored a secret softness, as well as some sense of care or favor for them. At the minimum, she had at least been kind & respectful. She had gone as far as to show concern over Vrisryn’s well-being when the decision to recruit Lae'zel was made. Even if it was only due to their help on the nautiloid or a need to not face the odds ahead alone, the consideration was welcomed. Plus, they could understand her wariness and respected her obvious affinity for privacy.

Vrisryn walked in the cleric’s direction despite the beckoning of the nearby bedroll they’d laid out for the night. They figured they might as well make a round along the camp to check in with all of their company before settling down for the evening. At the very least, doing so reduced the risk of being bothered by one of them with questions or concerns later. Vrisryn doubted they’d be particularly understanding towards any disruption of the limited rest they’d be getting tonight.

“What were you two talking about?” Shadowheart probed in an accusatory tone as they approached.

“What do you mean?” Vrisryn replied, slightly taken aback by the cleric’s tone. That wasn’t a question they were expecting.

“You and Gale.” She clarified, casting a scowl toward the man’s direction. His back was still turned to them, lost in thought near the fire.

“We were just discussing the next steps.”

“I see,” She said, pausing for a moment to cast her glare back towards the wizard. “I’d be careful with Gale.”

“You don’t trust Gale?” Vrisryn asked, an eyebrow raised in question. The man hadn’t particularly struck them as fallacious or deceptive by any means, let alone given them any reason for concern.

“He’s a wizard. All they care about is power.”

“Well, I wasn’t confiding in anyone. I was just talking,” the druid replied defensively, shifting their weight and placing a hand against their hip with a look. The abrasive and negative attitude radiating off each member of their party was beginning to wear on their already thin patience, and they didn’t care for others questioning their judgement.

“So am I,” Shadowheart retorted coyly. “If we’re to survive, we need to trust each other… You seem reliable. I think you know how important it is that we find someone who can cure us. Best if we focus on that.”

“Let’s not abandon all caution,” Vrisryn warned. “This is unfamiliar territory, and there is power in numbers, Shadowheart.”

“Caution is a luxury we don’t have,” Shadowheart sighed. There was a glimmer of approval and understanding in her eyes at the response of Vrisryn’s words, however. “Let’s rest and wake up at first light.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Vrisryn replied as they walked away, shifting their attention now towards the pale elf with his head buried in a book. As they approached, Astarion clapped the book shut and tossed it on a nearby pillow.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” he started.

Oh, here we fucking go, Vrisryn thought, sighing and preparing themselves for this nights next batch of draining social interaction. Couldn’t they just get a short, simple exchange with one person tonight? Whatever was coming from this exchange seemed to hold promise of being particularly tiring, even more so than Shadowheart’s distrust and Gale’s sorrowful droning. Not to mention that they still had Lae’zel to check in with.

“And I think there’s something I should tell you,” Astarion continued in a lulling tone. “Nothing big or terrible, just a… small, little detail about me that hasn’t come up naturally.”

The pale elf moved his hands and shifted his weight in nervous contrast to his inflection as he talked, flourishing the words with his body language. Vrisryn assumed it was an attempt at either some sort of seduction, or perhaps just some form of self-soothing. His anxiety was palpable, and Vrisryn could tell he was struggling to figure out how to approach this matter delicately. If they hadn’t been so exhausted and irate, they likely would have provided more in the way of encouragement or support. It was obvious this wasn’t comfortable for him, but Vrisryn was far too spent to offer such grace to these strangers tonight. Instead, they stared directly at the elf with a firm gaze and a growing annoyance while awaiting his confession, wishing for him to get on with it and spit it out.

“It’s just that I happen to be a — ah, what’s the best way to put this…? …A vampire? A-ha!” His gray-white eyebrows were raised and pinched in anticipation, and an almost shy smirk accompanied his nervous laughter. His eyes looked similar to those of a cornered animal, waiting to see if they needed to bite.

“Well… yes. Obviously.” Vrisryn replied dryly, expression appearing unwaveringly detached and disinterested. Astarions eyes widened for a moment, brows raising, clearly taken aback by the druid’s indifference. He cleared his throat before dropping the expression and replying:

“R-right. Well. Glad we got that out of the way! So… Was there anything else?”

“Hmm…” Vrisryn pondered for a moment, looking up and to the side as their mouth pinched to one corner in thought. They fiddled with the ball of their lip ring between their teeth as they thought.

“I’ve read some texts on vampirism while studying within my circle, but I’ve always wondered how much of it was accurate. Many of the script on the subject is either riddled with obvious bias, or baseless smut. So, I’m curious – how does one become a vampire, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion drawled, still fidgeting around in those oddly flamboyant, fluid-like movements as he spoke. Something about the motions amused Vrisryn.

“Just find a vampire that will drink your blood and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet. In theory, the next step is to drink their blood. Once you’ve done that, you’re free and a true vampire.”

“In theory?” Vrisryn probed.

“People think that the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake,” his eyes shot to Shadowheart with a look of distaste before locking back to Vrisryn’s topaz and green eyes.

“It’s not. The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. They’re scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts,” Astarion bent at the waist here, leaning in towards Vrisryn at this point. His red eyes lowered and appeared hungry, as if to further illustrate his warning, and his arms spread around him in a sort of shrug as he continued.

“So, why would any vampire give up control over a spawn to create a competitor? Trust me. It doesn’t happen.”

“Interesting… Tell me some more about yourself.” Vrisryn demanded, their interest suddenly whetted by the first bits of vulnerability offered by any of their companions that proved to be a distraction from the tadpole still thrashing in their skull.

Astarion was entertaining to speak to so far, and somehow Vrisryn found that talking to him didn’t unnerve them as much as talking to the other party members did. Possibly, it was just a side effect of the high-elf’s apparent comfort at hearing his own voice in social exchanges–or, it could simply be because vampirism was also particularly intriguing to Vrisryn. Vampires had always seemed to them to be a new, potentially even superior form of being that tiptoed between nature’s lines of both life and death. They had been curious about the conditions and effects of vampirism since they first read about it long ago, and Astarion’s willingness to share with them had pushed aside their usual reluctance for conversation for the moment. However, Astarion’s tone had shifted apathetically and defensively at their probing.

“What’s to tell? I was sired by a vampire named Cazador. Everything before that is so long ago it’s ancient history. And everything that came after? Well, I’d rather not reflect on it.”

“You must remember some part of your life before that?” Vrisryn questioned, unsatisfied with his lustlacker response.

“I was a magistrate, working to keep the peace in Baulder’s Gate. Imprisoning trouble makers– that kind of thing. I can’t remember much, truth be told. Centuries of torment will do that to you.”

Vrisryn had scoffed internally at the idea of this man as a judge; it was certainly believable given his attitude. Their judgment quickly resided though, as they related all too well to that last statement, and nodded once in response before continuing with their questions.

“How were you turned?”

“I was attacked. A gang of vagrants-a tribe of wandering ‘Gur’— took issue with a ruling I’d made. They beat me to death’s door when Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me; to give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death on the street’, I took him up on the offer.”

Astarion looked down at the ground, his mind seeming to trail off somewhere else as he continued.

“It was only afterwards I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.”

“Well,” Vrisryn responded somewhat uncomfortably. The air had turned a bit too vulnerable for their tastes now, and the bitterly sad expression on the pretty spawn left them feeling unsettled.

“I appreciate your transparency. It, uh, may be best to keep this between us for now though, yeah? I had already figured that to be the case, but I don’t know how the others would react to the news of a vampire in our camp right now… everyone seems on edge tonight, and tomorrow will be even longer than today. We can discuss it more later; for now, let’s just focus on recharging.”

Vrisryn walked away without waiting for a response, eyes locked instead on the nearby bedroll and campfire awaiting them. However, just past the promise of reprieve, Lae’zel’s eyes burned disgruntled holes into Vrisryn’s person, causing them to shudder ever so slightly. There was no denying the gith’s menacing and intimidating aura. With another forlorn sigh, they moved towards the githyanki and prepared themselves for (hopefully) the last interaction of the evening. Vrisryn could already assume what the exchange would entail: complaints about the decision to make camp, an urging to hurry along to this crèche she kept mentioning, and a heavy dose of criticism over anything perceived to be unaligned with the githyanki’s desires.

“A monster forms inside us, and you think to be idle?” Lae’zel began to chide. “I knew your kind to be fragile, but I didn’t foresee the severity. Cease your chatter and be quick about your rest. We must locate a crèche.” “This crèche notion of yours - are you sure it’s our only option?”

“You would doubt me? I do not trust a common healer to extract a ghaik tadpole without killing its host. At a crèche, a ghustil may cleanse us - SAFELY.”

“Still,” Vrisryn countered, too tired to question what in the realms either a ghustil or crèche was.

“We’re hardly going to turn while taking a rest… are we?”

“The parasites inside us do not rest. Even as we speak, they defile our brains and warp our bones.” The strange, yellow-green irises paused for a moment, taking stock of the seemingly fragile elf in front of them before begrudgingly accepting that their alien companion indeed would need rest before they would be able to prove themselves to be of any further use to the githyanki. She flicked a hand as if to discard the thought from the air between them.

“Take your rest. I will stand watch. Should a single tentacle split your skull, I will not hesitate to end you.” Lae’zel retaliated.

“Well, thank Ao for that.” Vrisryn muttered as they strode wearily towards the bedroll by the fire, settling into it and laying their cloak across them as a blanket. They were thankful to finally be alone with their thoughts as silence settles into the camp around them, leaving only the sounds of nature's ambience filling the cool night air.

At least no one has to worry about being bitten by the local oversized-mosquito tonight with Lae’zel keeping watch…

Vrisryn had anticipated restlessness and insomnia when they finally laid in the bedroll, especially with Lae’zel’s promise of taking watch resulting in a perpetual feeling of being watched by a predator among the rest of the camp. The druid had turned back and forth uncomfortably for hours, the tadpole exasperating the pain in their head. However, exhaustion had ultimately won over both their anxiety and the tension of their migraine. The conversations with their party had drained them far more than initially anticipated, and their body slipped easily into a meditative trance once the comfort of the campfire and stars moving by overhead lulled their eyelids shut.

In their partially-awake state, the day’s events replayed themselves clearly and precisely. The disorientation and confusion upon awakening on the strange, fleshy nautiloid ship. The struggle to land the crashing monstrosity amongst devils, mind devourers, imps and illithids which they encountered alongside Shadowheart and Lae’zel. The intensity of the crash after; a mindflayer’s burning, hateful eyes the moment before they fell from the ship and were knocked unconscious; Shadowheart’s strange reluctance to share any information about the strange artifact she clung to. The exchange of finding Gale stuck in his portal, and the simple amusement that had stemmed from snarkily slapping his hand before helping him out of his portal; freeing Lae’zel from the tiefling’s trap, despite her refusal to thank them; exploring the abandoned temple on the hillside, and the fight with those who had taken hold within. Then, the experience of meeting Astarion.

Unbeknownst to Vrisryn, their enervation had caused them to slip into a full slumber by this point. While their mind replayed the event, their subconscious twisted from a mere trance into a full sleep as a dream subtly wrapped around their mind.

“Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain-things cornered!” Astarion called out from the cliffside in their dreamstate. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others?”

“Kill it yourself - you look capable enough.” Vrisryn felt their lips form dryly, mouth parched and chapped from the dehydration and stress of the day, the scent and taste of smoke from the crash overpowering their other senses. They were still wounded from the last three “brain things” they had encountered in the ship below and didn’t feel particularly inclined to help any more stragglers along the road. They were hungry, thirsty, lost, and irritable, and had shrugged carelessly at the pale elf before they turned to continue along the path in the opposite direction. As they moved, they thought to themselves how the dirt looked suddenly and unnaturally fluid; strange. Different. Wrong… What’s happening?

“Oh, and I was so hoping for a kind soul. Well, not to worry!” Astarion spoke snidely.

In a blink, Vrisryn felt a cold arm hook around their neck and yank them in a swift motion to the dirt alongside the stranger. They struggled against him with a grunt, head panging from the impact, and attempted to sit up as a dagger was pressed near their throat in retaliation of the movement. The rouge had used a knee to pin down their weight near their calf, locking them firmly and uncomfortably in his grasp. Vrisryn glared from under him nastily as they felt the same flash of panic overtake their whole body as it had earlier; this sensation was familiar, and while few would be calm with a blade pressed to their throat, Vrisryn had a uniquely personal reason to feel anxiety at the situation. The thought crossed their mind that this seemed far too vivid of a sensation for a normal trance, but before much more could be considered on a subject, they were pulled back to the dream.

They felt their head cloud with the sudden flashback to the last time they’d been in this situation; this was a stranger, but then, it was someone important. Someone close. A swell formed in their throat, which began to close around itself as their heartbeat quickened and a cold sweat broke across their flesh, body shifting into fight-or-flight. The slightest noise akin to a whimper left them as they struggled against him, attempting to roll out from underneath him quickly; but their movements were too frantic, too predictable. Astarion pressed them down more firmly with a hushed “Tsk!”, bringing his face closer against their lowered, pointed ear.

“Shhh, not a word. Let’s try to keep that lovely neck of yours in one piece, hmm?” He lulled, his breath and lips brushing ever so slightly above their ear.

“And YOU - keep your distance,” he spat towards Gale and Shadowheart, who were watching the events unfold with their hands atop their weapons. “No need for this to get messy.”

The events began to warp here; and deeper in Vrisryn’s subconscious, they felt the offputting sense that this was no longer simply a trance’s replication of their day, but rather something else entirely. If it had still been a trance, Shadowheart would have interjected here before Vrisryn inevitably headbutted the vampire off of their person and discussed things more civilly. Regardless, the subconscious awareness that this was not how the events had actually transpired did little to rouse Vrisryn from the distorted sleep. Instead, the pale elf in their mind nicked a part of Vrisryn’s neck, causing a pearl of blood to trickle down their throat as the features on the pretty elf’s face began to blur and morph unnaturally.

“Though, making a mess seems to be your specialty, darling. And to simply give you freedom is certainly more generous you’ve been towards others, isn’t it? Even death would be far too merciful for you, you wretched traitor.”

Vrisryn’s heart sank as their eyes attempted to focus on the shifting presence over them; Astarion’s curled, white locks had changed shape, sprawling far past his shoulders, morphed and shifting to a familiar walnut shade; his red irises now became amber, and previously palled skin was tanned and peppered with freckles and thick, plush fur. The voice speaking to them had shifted as it spoke as well. It was familiar, but different – deep, loud, and certainly not Astarion’s.

Treolam, their mind cried in realization. Their dream self had formed the name around their mouth to speak it at the same time, but no noise came out with the movement. Wetness pricked at the inner corners of their eyes, and their blood ran cold.

“What could you possibly have to say to me, my sweet slaughterer; my corrosive consort! Come back to tell me how my elders were right about you and your allegiance!?”

The apparition spoke harshly, but it sounded crude and particularly corrupt among the warm, playful, almost loving tone of the satyr’s voice. Tears began to spill from the druid’s eyes at the sight of him–in the dream as well as the waking world–and they struggled against the grasp atop them, reaching in an attempt to place a hand along the man’s bearded face to no avail. The pressure atop them was sharp and heady, and Vrisryn made a pathetic gasp as the blade cut a bit more into their neck, leaving little rivers of blood spilling from their skin. Suddenly, a thick ooze began to crawl across amber eyes above them in twisting, thorny patterns; first appearing as a bright-blue but then shifting to black, darkening them. A warped, wide smile was plastered on his otherwise pained expression.

“I thought you wanted to see me again, Vris! Do you know the trouble I went through to find you here? Amuremsis bet me I couldn’t find you again, and I bet you thought you lost me again, huh? Oh, little love, I told you before! So long as the fey runs wild, I will always be able to find a way back to you.”

Vrisryn choked at the reminder of these words; the precious and private promise he had sworn them in their youth was now being twisted and contorted in a foul meaning by this apparition. Yet, it felt so real; he felt so real. Vrisryn could smell the woody musk of him, feel the wirey yet plush fluffs of fur on his arms, limbs and torso against their flesh, see every freckle and callous against his leathery skin. Their heart ached to hold him, to kiss him, even in spite of his cruel words and the blade against their throat.

“Treolam, I–”

“Shhh shshsh, you have to listen, little lamb, NO SPEAKING,” he interrupted, dropping the blade in favor to wrap both his hands around Vrisryn’s neck in a chokehold that silenced them with a whimper. The placement of his grip threatened to block and even crush their airways completely, lest they remain still where they laid in the crook of the satyr’s elbow.

“It’s so important you follow these instructions! You don’t want to lose me again, do you? You still want and trust me, DON’T YOU?”

The entirety of his eyes had glazed over with a slick blackness now; tears of blood streamed down his face and dripped along Vrisryn’s cheek as he placed himself directly atop them, pinning them fully into the earth beneath them, which had become the consistency of a thick fluid and sank beneath their weight. It had the same sensation of sinking into mud or quicksand. He removed one hand which now was smeared in Vrisryn’s blood, replacing it with the dagger once more before issuing his commandments.

“You can never forget me, you can never forget what you did. YOU killed us, all of us! You left me, and you failed to protect anything you loved. You always will, you know this. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF THAT IT WAS OUT OF YOUR CONTROL! You killed us all–your kin, your clan, your home. You broke us! You destroyed us! You ABANDONED us! You let me and Amuremsis go–you should never forgive yourself for what happened. You can never escape this. We will haunt you fore-”

Suddenly, the crackle of a firelog buckling into the embers of the dying fire back in reality jolted Vrisryn from their slumber. Their eyes shot open, and for a second they remained still and rigid, as if the apparition from the dream still had them in his chokehold. Cold air highlighted the wet tears streaking their cheeks, and their chest moved with heavy, short breaths. After just a moment they realized that it had been a nightmare, and their hands shot towards the sides of their head frantically; feeling for the all-too-familiar halo of the static, icy sensation which they’d come to associate with the activation of their spellscar. Their fingers met only flesh though, and they exhaled the breath they had subconsciously held with relief before glancing around camp to get their bearings. Lae’zel was still up, keeping watch as promised, though she had been turned towards the surrounding woods rather than towards the party at the moment. No one else was awake yet.

Luck is on my side tonight, they thought.

They couldn’t have rested for more than three hours. Typically, they would want to trance for another hour or two to feel fully rested–but despite the nightmare which always accompanied their body’s affliction with sleep, they found themselves fully awake. Their migraine had faded to a dull, hazy feeling, which was uncomfortable but bearable. Their body still felt heavy, though Vrisryn felt that had far more to do with their nerves about being in the company of others and the tadpoles in their head than anything else. The others were still asleep, and based on the coloring of the sky and the stars’ placements, dawn was not far off–two hours at most.

Regardless, Vrisryn knew rest of any sort would be lost to them now, and they opted instead to take this chance for some well-deserved solitude before their companions awoke and their adventure began once again. Pulling the sack of camp supplies close, they reached for another log to add to the dwindling fire, as well as some bread and cheese to curb their appetite. They wiped the remnants of the nightmare induced cold sweat off with their shirt before switching back into their armour and walking to where Lae’zel stood watch.

“Do githyanki not need sleep? I can watch until everyone else is up, if you want to rest a little.” Vrisryn offered genuinely, their raspy voice morphing into a yawn at the end of the question. Though it was extremely subtle, Vrisryn could detect the faintest expression of exhaustion on Lae’zel.

“Tch’! There is no need for rest in the astral plane–sleep is considered a triviality in a realm where time ceases to exist.“ A small sigh escaped her mouth after the claim, giving proof to her own exhaustion.

"Though I admit that it seems my body will need sleep in this Fay-run. I accept your offer; but do not think me to be vulnerable. Even in sleep, I shall wake to tear you from navel to neck should you provoke such a need.”

“I don’t think anyone here wishes to raise your ire, Lae’zel. Go - rest. I’ll just be scouting the area nearby.” The druid shifted into wild shape before Lae'zel could respond, assuming the form of a red-coated wolf.

Lae’zel had looked befuddled for a moment, and Vrisryn considered that they may have never witnessed someone use wild shape before. Regardless, she walked away with another “Tch,” before settling into a bedroll within her tent. Vrisryn was starting to become more and more unbothered by the githyanki’s mannerisms and threats, figuring it was just the only way that she knew how to communicate. She was not the first gith Vrisryn had encountered, and what little Vrisryn could recall of the Githyanki’s alien culture was not for the weak of heart or stomach. The others the druid had met first hand were far more provokable and venomous than Lae’zel seemed, at least.

It would be unfair to expect their companion to be anything but what they are. As they had told Shadowheart at the start of this, dangerous company was exactly what you needed in a fight – and Vrisryn had no qualms with the blunt or brutal nature of their companion, given what they appeared to be up against. It would just take time to grow accustomed to such aggressive reception, especially during such early hours.

The elf turned their attention now to their surroundings, sniffing the air in their new form. The heightened senses from the wolf-shape flooded their mind with various sensations and impulses. No danger, though; nothing but prey. The instinct of their wolf form took over, and the higher parts of their mind figured they’d earned some down time to enjoy the canine form. It was comforting to be in wild shape, blending into nature fully and thoughts of tadpoles, illithids, healers, and the uncertain road ahead blurring as a new purpose took over: a hunt. The wolf was easy to be lost to, and Vrisryn particularly favored this form when they felt the urge to run.

It was the perfect form to take for this morning, where the need to vacate their current surroundings and the company inhabiting it had itched as uncomfortably under their skin as the tadpole did from behind their eye. Even in wild shape, they could feel it; though, the instinctual pull towards the hares, boar, and deer inhabiting the woods around the camp and the hunger in their stomach helped to detach from the sensation and its accompanying thoughts. Wide, heavy paws hit the ground in a full sprint and hot air panted from the canines mouth. A flood of scent washed in, and in spite of the worries that Vrisryn hosted, the wolf version of them hopped around delightedly, a playfulness taking over the form they now inhabited.

The druid spent the next hour and a half hunting in the woods surrounding the camp; though, they released each prey they caught. They felt no hunger for food, only for relief this morning. In wolf form, it was easy to let worry melt away and enjoy the innately optimistic nature it offered. They had nearly lost track of time frolicking with a fawn when they noticed the orange sunlight creeping halfway up the horizon. With a whine and a yawn, they shook their thick coat and stretched their form lazily. They allowed themselves a quick roll in the dirt, and after a few playful sneezes as well as a friendly nuzzle against the fawn they'd been playing hide-and-seek with, they began their trek towards camp. For the first time since they'd embarked that morning, they took their time walking along the woods.

Everyone back at camp had woken and began packing their belongings, eating, and bickering once more. Vrisryn's wolf-heart panged with an urge to run away, to return to the solitude and comfort of the woods nearby; but their higher logic still won in spite of it. As they returned towards their belongings, Shadowheart caught sight of them first; and to Vrisryn's surprise, the cleric gasped, grasping at one of her hands suddenly and looking utterly... frightened.

Granted, Vrisryn did forget that not everyone was used to wild animals just walking up on them. They shook themselves out of the wild shape, lifting themselves from the dirt and brushing off the debris before locking eyes with a now very-relieved Shadowheart.

"Sorry - I forgot you hadn't seen me in that form yet. I always forget that most people are intimidated by the presence of wild animals," they contended.

Shadowheart threw her gaze up and to the side, thick plaits swaying behind her shoulder with the movement as she scowled.

"It's fine, though I almost sent an arrow your direction. Best warn me next time you intend to take such a form."

Vrisryn nodded, and moved towards their bag to organize their supplies for the day and begin planning what direction they would embark in next. Lae'zel was rushing them each to hurry up, and Astarion was complaining loudly about having to start traveling so early. Gale was barely awake yet, sleepily munching on food and seemingly tuning out all else.

It appeared it was going to be a long day indeed.

to be continued...

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 tav #bg3 tav fanfic #uhhh honestly i have NO idea how to tag this so LMAO #bg3 #vrisryn #my character #my writing #idk why i'm adding tags for anything other than my own blogs organization but i'm doin it anyways #bg3 vrisryn #^ usin that tag just incase something crazy happens n people actually read this or sumn lol #A/N this was extra fun to me bc the whole astarion confessing to being a vampire on the first long rest ACTUALLY fucking happened to me lma #A/N it was very clearly a glitch and happened on my reload (my og run w vris corrupted) but it humored me so much i finally was like #A/N alright fine i'll fucnk write this shit!!!! fine!!!!#A/N i've wanted to start actually posting my work about vris somewhere for a hot min now so i figured i might as well throw it here #A/N like ahhh yes a sideblog dedicated to vris the perfect place to infodump into the void #A/N who knows maybe one day someone other than me will read it too lol #A/N also i like the idea that lae'zel did actually notice that vris was like crying/distressed in their sleep #A/N but she ignored it thinking it was simply like a show of weakness and was disgusted by it rather than thinking it was the tadpoles LOL #my posts #spores and scars #spores and scars ch1

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handfulxfhearts · 2 years ago

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OC Bio: Web Knightly

TW: PTSD, s*xual abuse/assault, suicide mention, self h*rm, depression, alcohol/drug misuse.

Age: 32 years

DOB: 30th October 1990

Nationality: British (British father, Scandinavian mother)

Gender: cis-male (he/him)

Sexuality: bisexual, pan-romantic

FC: Tobias Forge

Web was born on Tuesday 30th October, 1990, in Kensington, London, as Damien Knightly, to parents Roger (a British national) and Anita (a Swedish artist). He had a little sister, Kara, who was three years younger than him. Web was extremely close with his little sister and very protective of her, taking on his role as older brother with pride.

On his seventh birthday, he lost his parents and his little sister in a car accident. He was moved into a residential care home, with the aim to have him fostered, however this never happened and he remained at the care home until he was 18. During his time there, Web endured SA by the home’s manager, Carl. This repeated abuse has led Web to believe that he is only good for one thing, which has affected many attempted relationships in his life. During his time at the home, Web was also bullied by three older boys in particular, who initially coined the nickname Web as an insult; they stopped using it as such when Web turned it on its head and started referring to himself as such. The three particular boys who bullied him had also been abused by Carl, before Web’s arrival, and they inflicted similar things onto Web. He began using self h*rm and alcohol as a coping mechanism during his early teens, which he still struggles with now, as an adult.

Despite his traumatic childhood and teenage years, Web excelled at school, particularly in the subject of Music. He learned to play guitar when he was quite young (Carl paid for private instrumental lessons on guitar and piano and bought Web his own guitar as a way of keeping Web quiet). Despite the reasons for being given these opportunities, Web found that he was a natural musician and gained very high grades at both GCSE and A Level, allowing him to enrol at Brighton Institute of Modern Music after finishing high school.

During his second year of university, he met Shay, a nonbinary bass player from the Midlands, who he became close friends with. The two even dated for a while, but Web struggled to maintain the relationship, eventually coming clean to Shay about his past, after a very drunken night out. Shay suggested they end it, but remained close friends. To this day, Shay is the only person who knows Web’s full history.

He currently maintains a permanent residence in a loft in Brighton, with his roommate Melody, who he and Shay met at a strip club. He likes to travel a lot, with his band, and as a solo act.

For a time, Web was admitted to Brighton’s Recovery Centre, after a largely alcohol induced su*cide attempt. He remained there for several months, but did not get completely clean due to some staff and other patients offering him alcohol in exchange for certain acts.

Personality Traits: comes off as initially hostile; very shy and anxious, very caring and kind but nervous. He is quite quiet but can become quite talkative and jovial when he starts to get used to you. He is very creative and artistic and is often strumming away on his guitar. He is fairly well-spoken (except when drunk) and polite.

Appearance: Web is 5ft 10ins, slender and toned. He enjoys going to the gym sometimes. He has a multitude of self h*rm scars upon his forearms and upper arms, as well as the tops and insides of his thighs and is rarely seen without long sleeves. He has a single cobweb tattoo over his left shoulder, and has his nose, navel, ear lobes (x3), and tragus pierced. His nose is wonky from being broken in a fight when he was younger. He has long, just-past-shoulder-length dark brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. He has a very gothic/grungy fashion sense. He often goes commando.

Triggers: his birth name (no one has called him it since Carl), being told he’s a ‘good boy’, to ‘relax’ or to ‘lie back’ (even if these things are said in total innocence, he reacts very badly to them), driving at night, driving alone. He struggles with compliments as his past dictates that means someone’s after something.

Occupation: freelance musician, occasionally works in Shay’s record store when he needs some extra money, on a zero hour contract.

Mental/Physical Issues: lactose intolerant, PTSD, depression, anxiety, night terrors, sleep paralysis, until he was 15 he used to hallucinate his dead family (he sometimes still sees them during sleep paralysis), uses casual sex as a coping mechanism which has affected many attempted relationships. He’s supposed to wear glasses due to an astigmatism in both eyes but only wears them when driving. He sometimes wears contacts but he’s lazy. Broke his nose in a fight.

Other info: Web has a ‘hard to place’ accent, embodying both his father’s British accent and his mother’s Swedish. For the most part he could get away with it being considered British, but there is often a very obvious Swedish ‘twang’, especially if he’s been drinking.

#oc bio #web bio #original character #;; ooc #web knightly

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savefrog · 2 years ago

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Ai art is worthy of heavy critique, is potentially EXTREMELY damaging for artists and I think NFTs really showed how shallow and vapid generated artwork can potentially be. Ai Art in the hands of soulless corporations is a genuinely disgusting proposition.

But i literally cannot deal with some of the arguments i am seeing trying to argue against it on the basis of it “not being art”, as someone who has attended five fucking years of art history classes and has done art their whole life. These arguments will not win this fight and will only serve to tear down other forms of art in the process!! We can be nuanced! Let’s go through some of the ways I’ve seen people try to “define art” in the past few weeks:

- “Ai Art isn’t art because it requires thought/meaning” dadaism specifically tried to create art that was nonsensical and random ( pulling words out of a hat in essence, if not literally, was common) in a way that was intentionally “anti art”....and guess what, it was art too.

- “Ai art isnt art because it requires years of experience” beginner artists aren’t making art??? People even study the art that infants and toddlers make and what it means for brain development, I’d personally consider it art. Also, what will happen when we have an ai that has been training for years, do we then have to define what constitutes experience?

- “Ai Art requires the skill of an artist” Readymades. Maybe you have not been in a debate over The Fountain but whether or not you like it, its art. So is Piss Jesus. and a random fucking snow shovel

Here is a description of that snow shovel which talks about how readymades re-contextualized art. You could argue that an ai artist inputting prompts is “creating by simply making choices”, as Marcel Duchamp said, making this argument A CENTURY OLD:

- “Ai Art requires the artist to directly create the art, something else is doing all of the work” bad news about many pieces of conceptual art. (Actually many pieces of art in general including many classical works but that’s moreso a debate about credit rather than human involvement.) Anyway, not really sure how to describe in full why this doesn’t work as an argument but provide an example: Here is a bot that buys things off the Dark Web. This is art too. Even if you do not accept it as art, it has been recognized as such. There are also art pieces that involve the viewer, animals, nature, etc “doing the work”. It is going to be extremely difficult to define how much of “the work” the artist has to do for it to constitute as art.

- “Ai art isn’t art because art must be entirely original” Collage. And, once again, Appropriation art as a whole.

- “Ai Art isn’t art because art elicits/requires emotion” Emotion is extremely subjective. Look, I get what you mean when you look at the 50 billionth big titty ai generated girl, but you are going to have a hell of a time demonstrably proving that it does not elicit emotion (and, well....I guess horny is an emotion 😔). I am also just not an emotional “feelsy” guy, do I not make art? Also, someone could prompt an ai with keywords that are extremely personal, input the description of a dream they had, recreate a traumatic scene from their life, etc is that not emotional enough? Is the AI art eliciting emotion by making you mad? Where do we draw a line?

- “Ai Art isn’t art because it steals and inserts pieces of others’ art rather than references” Ok this is just. factually wrong. Neural Networks do not store the original pieces or copy/paste. This image in particular drives me up a wall because that is NOT HOW IT FUCKING WORKS:

it’s ok if you hate ai art, THIS IS STILL JUST NOT HOW IT WORKS

How a neural network ACTUALLY works (and forgive me, i am not an expert in this, but this is how i understand it): it will analyze something and associate certain features to a variable (For example, anime eyes). It stores these values, not the images. After getting many many samples, it can adjust for variations (Anime eyes are something round, or sparkly, or sharp, but are all usually a white shape with a black outline and color inside with white spots). It then generates outputs using those parameters, oftentimes creating many many different versions until a desired outcome is finally reached. Ai is getting REALLY GOOD at replicating those patterns, and it might produce results a little too close for comfort when it comes to seeing a certain image over and over, but the ai is not thinking “oh and now to insert this eye from another artwork”, the ai is moreso thinking “According to my training there should be some sort of black circle here with white pixels inside and inside that is some sort of color and...” with a lot of room for variation because it is not working from an original, just patterns it noticed (although I wouldn’t put it past some companies to implement a hidden copy-pastey feature. Like how some phone cameras now automatically replace the moon with a high-res photo- (OK WAIT ACTUALLY GOOGLED THIS, IT HAS BEEN DEBUNKED LOL) But even if that were to be implemented, that is not the kind of ai art that’s being questioned here, the point is that ai art does not inherently do this) Neural Networks are literally designed to work similarly to the human brain, so it is shockingly similar to a human using a reference, though without much other intuition and context (Hence the wrong numbers of teeth, weird undefined areas, etc). The way it is TRAINED can be the use of art without permission or compensation. You can also argue that it steals an art style, this is something that I think could become a huge debate! These are worthy points of contention and something I am personally against, but also does not itself mean it is not art.

- “There’s no way to use ai art as a tool” ok but people can and have. even if you haven’t seen it personally. they have. I could use it for backgrounds in a comic, I could use it to generate color palettes or to use in a larger collage. Maybe a lot of people are not approaching it in this way, but this is a very decisive statement for something that can easily be proven false.

- “It’s not art because it’s ugly/generic/has errors/some other subjective thing” im not going to argue with you if you think art has to personally appeal to you or “be correct” to be art lol

- “Ai art isn’t art because it is bad” Art can be bad. it is still art. Morals do not effect whether something is art. So much NFT art fucking sucked, i hated it, but it was art, just shitty art. Frida Kahlo herself painted a commission intended for a grieving mother that I found very morally reprehensible (Link to the story as it contains a detailed depiction of a real suicide). it is still art.

please stop debating against ai art by trying to define art. you will lose. This is an argument that will not get us anywhere. Even if you disagree, it will not make any change. We have been there many many many times before. art cannot be neatly defined and there will always be some sort of weird exception to whatever arbitrary rule you make. And part of art is intentionally so, much art exists SPECIFICALLY to challenge definition. If you try to pigeonhole art, artists will specifically break that rule.

When photography was first invented it caused a huge upheaval. Artists were no longer required in order to depict life. No longer did you have to sit for ages for a portrait because it could be done in a fraction of the time (though taking a photo DID take a long time back then, it was comparatively WAY faster). It was thought that realistic art would be made obsolete (and remarkably, many still value “realistic” art over other forms...) The result was the art world swerving more towards non-representational art; expressionism, impressionism, cubism, surrealism, abstract art etc. Because it was what cameras could not depict and people ultimately will always always have the urge to create.

they weren’t going to uninvent the camera. they aren’t going to uninvent Ai generated images. But we can still push for the respect of artists, push for companies to treat artists fairly and push for art posted online to not just be seen as public domain. We can fight against websites like Deviantart trying to make it “opt out” to not have your artwork sampled without your permission. We can fight against companies sampling artwork that they do not have permission to use.

The existence of ai art is not going to keep me from making my art. I will always be making art. ai will not be able to pinpoint precisely what I want and it does not replace the escapism i get from making something and testing my personal skills. it will not stop me from iterating or improving on my art (in fact, i personally love trying to redraw ai generated pokemon as it helps me break away from the generic creature “archetypes” i may get stuck in, and re-interpreting the ai blobs is fun mental exercise. I also love the bizarre dreamlike nonsense early ai generation spat out, and could see that being really effective if integrated into some larger concept.) The issue is not that people are calling the wrong thing art or doing art wrong or whatever and it’s pointless trying to universally define art and ai art.

The issue is whether i am going to be paid for my art and whether my art might be used by someone else for profit/without permission. The issue is if it’ll be possible to find work. The issue is art having to be a commodity because the world around us only values production and shallow aesthetics. The issue is companies repeatedly taking advantage of artists. The issue is that people fucking suffer when they don’t have those jobs that barely respected them in the first place. A lot of it is capitalism baby!!!!!!!!!

#dullblogging #long post #i have complicated feelings about ai art!#but seeing people try to be the first person in history to successfully define art is making me mcfucking lose it #you can advocate against the mistreatment of artists without like. being blatantly wrong about art history.

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thecarnivorousmuffinmeta · 3 years ago

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What would happen if you were sent back and ended up in the orphanage with Tom Riddle—and say you also had magic?

Oh boy.

Well, there's a lot to question here. Judging by the... spirit of this ask, I presume I'm... pretty much reincarnated. I'm in the orphanage, I'm much younger than I am now and a child, I'm pre-Hogwarts age, and I retain my current knowledge.

For the purpose of this ask I suppose I also retain my current mental faculties. Despite being in the body of an eight-year-old, I'm not The Carnivorous Muffin at eight.

Welp, there's a lot to consider here.

First, I probably don't realize I'm in Harry Potter for quite some time and instead assume I've been reincarnated to some parallel universe. It's the 1930's, I'm in England in the depression, WWI has occurred and the vast majority of major historical events I know about seem to have happened in the right order, and this Earth is eerily similar to the Earth I left behind.

Strange that I appear to remember everything of my past life with my adult mental abilities, but alright universe, I guess that's how we're going to play this.

What I do know is that I'm dirt poor, presumably still a woman which does not bode well for my career prospects, and if I want any prospects in life period I'm going to have to fight tooth and nail for it. It'd be great if I got adopted to help with this, and might be nice to have people in my life who love me, but there's a lot of orphans in the world and a lot of orphans who are much less weird than I am.

The orphanage is the orphanage and not great, Mrs. Cole is overworked, the orphanage is chronically understaffed, and the kids are running wild beating the shit out of each other.

Being a girl, I probably don't have to worry about getting the shit kicked out of me quite as much, but I still probably try to keep my head down and don't aggravate the particularly beefy looking orphans.

Yes, there's some very angry gremlin named Tom Riddle around who will shove you down the stairs in retribution, but that's just a weird coincidence. And then supernatural shit starts happening. Billy's rabbit hangs itself, people get injuries when Tom is nowhere near them, and I start wondering if this is really the Tom Riddle.

I'm in Wool's Orphanage, my matron is Mrs. Cole, Tom Riddle is running around lighting things on fire. It's possible, though it could all be a strange coincidence.

Now, how things go from here depends on how controlled my own magic is. Since accidental magic typically does manifest at least once or twice, it probably does manifest for me for.. something. If Tom Riddle's there to witness it then...

Well, I imagine he's very offended. Here he was, special, different, better than everyone else, and then some girl in the orphanage (who dares to get very good grades on her assignments in school) has it too.

And I just stand there, smiling, going "Tee hee".

He probably confronts me to prove that he's better at it than I am, and he probably is unless the universe hates both him and me, but having someone else with the Shining around probably prompts him to take me as his protégé (in part so he can show off and in part because he's genuinely excited to be able to share this super cool talent).

I am now apprentice to eight-year-old Tom Riddle. Whoop de doo.

Well, I don't remember this part of Harry Potter, so now I'm probably confused as to where I am again. Regardless, I try to advise Tom on how to tone it down and not, say, traumatize Amy and Dennis for life and antagonize all the other orphans forever. He probably doesn't take me seriously. What do I know, I can't even light that patch of grass on fire?

Hanging around Tom Riddle gets me a reputation to, given the difference in genders, probably a fairly nasty one at that. When Dumbledore arrives he's undoubtedly told hot gossip about how eleven-year-old Tom and I have had sex in a ritual to summon Satan. Dumbledore takes this seriously.

Dumbledore probably meets us both at the same time and it's a disaster. I tried my best to prep Tom without revealing I'm a prophet, Tom first doesn't believe there might not be others, then doesn't believe they would be antagonist/anything but amazed by how awesome he is.

Well, Dumbledore lights his wardrobe on fire while I sit there. Dying inside. Dumbledore probably also does something to me too, to teach me some kind of lesson about something.

I imagine he temporarily disfigures me/makes me appear very ugly, then sticks a mirror to the wall, that way I realize that looks aren’t everything/being a whore is wrong. Tom, still traumatized over the wardrobe, is no help and my magic’s probably not controlled enough to do a thing about it.

I spend a day looking like a pig, Tom and I are given just enough money to buy new wands and second hand/barely functioning everything else and given the world’s worst directions to Diagon Alley. Thanks, Albus.

Well, months pass, we get our wands, Tom gets excited for Hogwarts and I... start seriously considering the future. WWII is coming, the Blitz is coming, Tom and I live in east London and must be able to evacuate during the bombing of London (which went on well past the Blitz to the end of the war). I also start considering my future in the wizarding world. Do I now actually have career prospects?

Probably not because I’m muggle born and a woman. My best bet is doing very well in useful subjects and finding employment with the goblins, I can’t imagine they have the same hang ups as the wizarding world.

Tom wants to go to Slytherin, of course, I tell him this is a bad idea. “Gee Tom,” I say, “Not sure how I know this but I have this feeling that Slytherin is filled with people who loathe our very existence and will shank us. Why don’t we pick Ravenclaw or Gryffindor instead?”

No one shanks Tom Riddle! Tom says. Tom is still eleven and while he admits that sometimes I may, in retrospect, have been right about certain things that doesn’t mean he wants to go to the house known for hard work. That’s code word for everyone there being a moron and having no other redeeming features than tenacity. As for the other two, Ravenclaws sound like smug, elitist, nerds and Gryffindors like dumb jocks.

Better to be known for ambition, cunning, and actually being competent.

Well, there’s no talking him out of this one, and goddamn it we’re all each other has.

I’m the closest thing Tom Riddle has ever had to a friend in all these years and in the orphanage the only one who could hold a decent conversation with him. And while it’s not my moral obligation to keep Tom from becoming a domestic terrorist, and there’s no guarantee I even can, dumping him for one of the other houses and drifting apart won’t help.

Not to mention that, after all these years, I’m undoubtedly lonely, I’m in this foreign land, and he’s now the closest thing to a friend I have.

Looks like I’m going to Slytherin, YOOOOOLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOO! I shout as a battle cry as tears run down my face. I may have to convince the hat to put me in Slytherin, but like all human beings I am a mixture of many qualities. I’m not cunning in the least, mind games exhaust me unutterably, but I’m full of ambition.

This confirms every bad opinion Dumbledore had regarding me and Tom.

For the next several months, Tom probably beats the shit out of dormmates who steal his things/harass him. He beats up mine too because feminism (TM) means that he should treat all people equally when guilty of the same crime. I... am not sure I can win that fight so I just resign myself to having to adopt some of Tom’s tactics to make sure I’m not shoved in lockers, have tampons thrown at me, or pig’s blood dumped on me at the prom.

Once again, everyone thinks Tom Riddle and I are dating. I don’t even know if they’re wrong at this point.

Well, being in class with eleven year olds who seem to have had little to no prior education, Tom and I are undoubtedly blazing through class. I imagine I’m bored out of my mind (the Hogwarts curriculum sounds unbelievably boring) and Tom is... well, probably devouring the library but probably also bored. I decide to try and see if I can find some real history texts on this world (there are probably none, the wizarding world seems to only have two historians and both... have a different approach to history than current modern thought as I know it) and discover what magic even is. That shit is fascinating: wingardium leviosa is not.

Dumbledore likely gives neither me nor Tom points in class, I think the house cup is stupid, so I really don’t care. I have no interest in playing quidditch, neither does Tom, so that doesn’t happen.

The second world war starts up, Tom, me, and the muggle borns are the only ones who give a flying fuck. I work harder on figuring out how to get lodging during the Blitz/the bombing of London. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cole hates me too for being the Bride of Satan, so that’s a no go. Third year, 1939, I probably write her in earnest anyway telling her to PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, send Tom and I instructions for the summer/where the orphans are staying/how they’ve been dispersed to the countryside. As a back up plan, I try desperately to shmooze shopkeepers in Hogsmeade during every Hogsmeade weekend to get myself and Tom part time jobs and lodging over the summer. As a back up back up plan, I spend my time badgering Tom to become very good at survivalist wandless magic and if the Lord has pity on me gain some ability in it myself.

Hopefully, either Mrs. Cole or one of the Hogsmeade shop owners take pity on us. If not, then Tom and I are going extreme camping. Given Mrs. Cole (and the brain damage brought on by Dumbledore erasing memories left and right) and the likelihood of Hogsmeade shop owners just not getting it, Tom and I probably go extreme camping.

(Tom, meanwhile, asks Dippet and Dumbledore if we can stay in Hogwarts over the summer. He’s told no exceptions. London’s being bombed, you say? No exceptions. Toodles. Tom is never the same.)

Me, Tom Riddle, a tent we made ourselves, several rabbits we had to catch and skin ourselves, and the pitiful fire that we can keep going through pure will alone because if we try to use real people spells then we’ll get arrested. It has the benefit of making Tom feel very manly and impressive, catching his own food, but both of us are well aware that this sucks.

But hey, we aren’t dead.

Well, I’m sure Tom doesn’t appreciate that and this is where I imagine he seriously starts talking about violent revolution. I imagine much of my time is spent discussing the merits of not violently overthrowing our ant overlords. I imagine a thirteen-year-old Tom isn’t impressed by my pacifism, but he’s not married to Voldemort yet (probably).

Then I imagine the horcrux thing comes up and... Well, I will argue hard against it. Humans die, it is a truth of the universe, and simply something we have to accept. Horcruxes are not a measure against that, they can be destroyed, given infinite time they will be, and the sacrifice they require is too high: human life as well as the very essence of who you are.

What is a soul? I’m not sure, we never really learn in HP canon, but whatever it is, it is in some way the essence of yourself. If you take half of it and throw it somewhere else, you will cease to be you, someone or something else is walking around in your body while the other half of you exists in endless agony.

If you must chase immortality, create a philosopher’s stone (as I darkly wonder why it was that couldn’t be replicated and what Flamel had to do to make it in the first place). On second thought, maybe we should search for the Holy Grail.

Whether I can talk Tom out of this or not is... unclear. I’m going to say that I can, in part because I imagine he’ll want to show the chamber off to me, tell me when he realizes he’s Heir of Slytherin, and in doing so I can prevent the basilisk incident from occurring. Without that, there’s no dead Myrtle, which means no first victim. That summer, when he goes to the Gaunts, I’ll go with him and convince him that it’s not worth it. He can just turn around and leave these people alone, I hopefully can talk him down. Which means no second victim.

I start writing Flamel to see if Tom or I can get an apprenticeship (Dumbledore probably beats us to the chase and poisons him against us, but it’s worth a shot).

Then, should all go well, I can convince Tom to find employment with the goblins rather than shady antique dealers on the bad side of town. Hopefully, I can convince him to never become Voldemort, and instead we travel the world together looking for the origins of magic or something.

Dumbledore goes around taking people’s memories of us in preparation for when Tom becomes a dark lord and I his lady of the night darkness.

TL;DR Apparently my life would become an SI/Tom Riddle fic. So, thanks anon.

#harry potter #harry potter meta #harry potter headcanon #tom riddle #albus dumbledore #anti albus dumbledore #meta #headcanon #opinion

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Consciousness Of Guilt

Chapter 1

Summary: It’s a year since Ransom was murdered, and you’re settling well into your new life in Boulder. It hasn’t just provided you with a fresh start-it’s brought you a new sense and purpose, an appreciation for the things you took fore grated, and the friendship of a former ADA…

Warnings: Bad Language, allusions to past abuse (Non Con/Dub Con) but nothing explicitly described in this chapter.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

W/C: 5k

Consciousness Of Guilt Masterlist // Main Masterlist

A/N- So, here it is! The sequel to Murder, He Wrote . This is the last time I’ll post this note, however, please be aware that the prequel is a Dark series. Whilst this is not, it will contain flashbacks and themes as we progress, however nothing will be as dark as MHW. Chapters will be clearly labelled with appropriate warnings. If anyone is uncomfortable with the themes of a certain chapter, I will be more than happy to post/provide abridged versions which will not deviate from the storyline.

Sunrise. You used to hate the coming of each day. It meant another monotonous day in your young adult life. A 'depends on the day' type of job at the paper in which you got your start, it meant earning little for the slave work you put into each piece or research. It meant another day you'd woken up in fear, not knowing what was coming next. Then, for a little while, sunrises were okay. They were a soft glow across the room, illuminating hard lines and soft curves, whispering words and lingering kisses. And then, they became fearful again, bringing the unpredictable nature of a life in which you were trapped.

But now, over the last few months, since taking up your new hobby, sunrise had become a beautiful thing. The feeling of peace and comfort washing over you like a warm rain, bringing the redeeming nature of a new day as vibrant watercolours paint the new-born sky. Whether you caught it from the East side of your condo; your master balcony and study or your garden, or even your hikes, you appreciated every, single sunrise as if you were seeing it for the first time ever, each and every day.

For this morning's sunrise, you were perched along Boulder Creek Path, a trail that runs from the foothills to across town, a typical recreational getaway for many locals and tourists. You looked out over the bridge as the creek flowed beneath your feet. You were lost in the serenity of it, the bubbling water lulling your mind into a deep mediation that washed peacefulness through your entire body.

A year ago today, your life changed and you were freed. Free of the nightmare that had plagued you, robbing you of nearly a year of your life. The months that followed weren't so easy, but once things settled and the fires were extinguished, you found peace.

You found you.

Your phone buzzing in your pocket brought you back from your reverie, pressing your thumb onto the screen to unlock it. You opened your messages tab and tapped the most recent incoming text.

A smile flicked on your face as you slipped your phone back in your pocket. It didn’t escape your knowledge how Andy didn’t need to even ask what coffee you wanted. But then again, this wasn’t the first time you’d had breakfast in the small, independent coffee place not far from your home and place of work. You knew when you arrived that a large caramel vanilla latte, with an extra shot would be waiting. But no food, your order varied depending on your mood.

Twenty minutes or so later, you parked your sting-grey Jeep Grand Cherokee SRT 4x4 back in your garage to your condo at the corner of 9th and Pine Street and set off on the short ten minute walk to your designated meeting place, centred near the town square, not far from your office which was a gorgeous old red-brick building on the corner of 16th and Walnut Street.

As you approached, you didn’t spot Andy’s black Audi TT in any of the spaces littered around but it didn’t bother you. Barber was reliable, if he said he was going to be there, he’d be there.

And sure enough, as you walked along the side of the cafe you, spotted him at your usual, preferred table by the large window, overlooking the street. He saw you approaching and smiled, giving a small wave.

The smell of roast coffee beans, baked treats and other delicious aromas hit your senses as you opened the door. You approached the table and Andy stood up to great you, smiling. A light grey tee sat exposed under a partially zipped up light weight blue leathered hoodie whilst dark and crisp denim covered his narrow hips and long legs, his go to well-worn black work boots on his feet. His hair was styled and soft looking, his beard always trimmed and neat. He gave you a strong, yet gentle hug, a juxtaposition he managed effortlessly before he turned and waited for you to sit first before he took up his previous seat, nodding to your waiting drink.

“Thank you.” You beamed at him, taking a quick sip. "Of course." He smiled as he took a drink of his own coffee, straight black, before he leaned back a little. His left arm rested over the back of the booth bench, the platinum of his wedding ring catching the early morning sun which streamed through the window. You momentarily glanced at your own hand, bare of the heavy rings which had been taken in the ‘mugging’. Mind you, you wouldn’t be wearing them even if you still had them. Your story was a lot different to his.

“So, where'd you go this morning?" his soft baritone drifted across the table and you glanced back at him. "Fiddled around down Boulder Creek Path." "You seem to be getting around better now." "Yeah, thank God for GPS. Did I tell you that last week I was looking for some store Amber vaguely told me where about it was and ending up like thirty minutes down the highway towards Denver." He laughed, his whole body smiling, radiating genuine amusement. "You have more faith in GPS than me, when I first moved here I got pulled over for going the wrong way down a one way street because it told me to.” You grinned as he shook his head. "And that annoying voice! I want to wring her damn neck." You gave a chuckle but before you could reply, the middle-aged woman, who owned the café, interrupted you both with her usual familiar greeting and the smile she reserved for Andy. “Hey Patti, how are ya?” He smiled back. “Same old, same old.” She winked back. “What can I get you kids today?” “Y/N?” Andy looked at you and you smiled. “Can I get an almond croissant and a granola pot, please? With the blueberry compote.” “Sure honey, and for you Mr Barber?”

“French toast please, all the trimmings.”

A fizzing filled your ears as you were suddenly back on a clinically clean, modern kitchen, nervously scouring a fridge and cupboards for something to make your captor breakfast with. You swallowed, taking a deep breath, counting backwards from five as you always did to keep the memory from swallowing you.

“Hey,” a gentle touch to your hand jolted you back and you looked at Andy who frowned. “You okay?” "Yeah, no, I mean yes, I'm okay. It just…it dawned me this morning that this was the best thing I could have done for myself. Like there's just a newfound peace that's settled with me, you know?" He just smiled as he squeezed your hand before slipping his away. “Yeah, I do.” No more was said about it, and Andy didn’t press. He never did. In the eight weeks or so that had passed since you’d met him that Friday evening in the bar, the pair of you had struck up a friendship that was based on a mutual understanding. You both carried a heavy burden of a traumatic past on your shoulders, but you had an unspoken rule. He had never mentioned Ransom. And you, in turn, never broached the subject of Laurie or Jacob. You understood you were both moving on with your life, both wanting to heal from the past and you wanted to spend the rest of your life never in fear again. Instead, a simple chatter always flowed between the two of you, and today was no exception. You barely stopped to thank Patti for dropping your order off at the table. Current work was never a topic of conversation, although office gossip featured on occasion, but mostly it was always about happenings around town, him asking about you, your parents and your old job, the two of you talking about your favourite places in Boston. You never missed certain facial and eye cues Andy gave off at the mention of certain things, but when you saw them, that sag in his smile or the far off look his eyes would give, you'd change the subject. You ate in comfortable companionship and after another coffee, Andy asked for the bill and then pulled out his card to pay. "Next one is on me, you paid for the last two and coffee all this week." You gave him a stern look as you headed towards the exit. “Well, if you wanted you could grab us a beer later.” He shrugged, pulling the door handle to open it, allowing you to step out before him. “I gotta nip into the office for a coupla hours but...” "Breakfast AND drinks?" You smiled as he fell into step beside you. The July day was starting to warm a little now, the slight chill of the early morning all but gone. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually like hanging out with me." “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I just find you slightly less irritating than everything and everyone else.” He teased and you laughed. “So... Happy hour?" "Yeah." You nodded “It's a date." Andy confirmed and you quirked your eyebrow, trying not to laugh at the look on his face as he realised what he had said. “A date?” “Well, I don’t mean a date date but...” You felt the heat in your neck a little, so to save your embarrassment and his blushes, you smiled, "it's a date-not-date. Say Oskar’s, 6:30?" "Oskar’s." He confirmed. "I'll save you a tall, cold one." “You’re an angel, you know that?” "I wouldn't go that far. My halo is held up by horns” “Even Prometheus was an angel at some point, Y/N.” He replied as you reached the corner of the street where you would part. Him towards the office, you back home. You rolled your eyes and shook your head. "I'll see you tonight." At that he gave you another quick hug, his hand rubbing your back over the top of your light jacket before you headed your separate ways.

You enjoyed the walk home. It gave you the perfect chance to just mellow out and walk off a bit of your breakfast. You tucked your hands into the pockets for your vest, your white thermal keeping your arms covered. You headed down Pearl Street, watching as the little shops and boutiques began to set up their patios and side walk spaces for their Saturday. You took in the clean fresh mountain air deep into your lungs and allowed a warm smile to cross your lips.

From Pearl to 9th you went, hooking a right up 9th until you walked to the corner of Pine, and onto the porch of the nice and spacious condo you closed escrow on just weeks ago.

That deep feeling of home greeted you as you stepped inside, wiping your boots on your door mat just before kicking them off and setting them by the back door you’d come through. The cream walls invited you in, the oak furniture and fixtures, a feature that reminded you of home, the decor you grew up with, a safe place.

You'd bought the condo outright with the money you'd inherited from Ransom's untimely death and subsequent estate. You knew before you'd even stepped foot into the property initially, that it'd become yours. The week you closed escrow, you and your parents moved you into the three bedroom, three and a half bath condo, never looking back.

The open floor plan and panoramic views had stolen your breath and it was then, the first night your parents had left you alone, too anxious to sleep alone, you had fallen in love with the sunrise, seeing it from your front garden patio, bundled up with tea and a wool blanket. All three rooms in the space had no adjoining walls and their own en-suites. The master bedroom, your room, was massive. An en-suite with walk in shower, soaking tub and Jack and Jill sinks. Two walk in closets that you knew you'd probably never fill completely, an Eastwardly view and balcony. The two spare rooms, were separated, one on the second floor down the hall from yours where it's balcony looked West, as it were above the garage and the third on the top and final floor with its own balcony. That was your office space, a spot for you to work and to breathe in the fresh air.

Everything in that condo was yours, down to the logs you'd put in your fireplace and the silly little amenities you'd given yourself from knickknacks to the colour of your dishes. There was one space however you left untouched. And only your parents had been inside to pack away your unused things as storage space. That room was your basement. You didn't need to go down there, you figured if you needed something from there, you'd go buy it anyway. All that was truly stored down there anyway were things from your childhood your mother insisted on you bringing along.

As if her ears were burning, your phone buzzed from your back pocket, revealing your mother calling.

"Hey, Mom." You answered.

"Hi, honey. I was just calling to see how you were doing. Check in on you." You could hear the worry in her voice and you couldn't help but smile.

"I'm really good, Mom. It’s been good here." "You still hiking every day?" She sounded hopeful now. "Lately it's just been on the weekends. I've been really busy at work, which isn't exactly a bad thing either." You had made your way to your room, looking for some lounge pants to change into while you continued your conversation. "Well, busy is a blessing. Do you have anything planned for today or...." "Uh, well I just had breakfast with a friend from work who I'm also meeting for drinks later." You smirked at the thought. There was a joyful sigh that poured into your ear from the ear piece, "Oh, this friend wouldn’t happen to be the mysterious Andy you’ve name dropped the last few calls would it?" You hesitated, "y..ye...yeah." Then you heard the tell-tale sound of your mother's chuckle. “We’re just friends.” "I'm not saying anything." You could picture her with her hands held up in defence. "You sound happy." “I am. I feel okay, more than okay even. I’m good.” "Alright. Well, don’t waste your day. Enjoy it. Your dad and I will talk soon." “Yeah, listen Mom, why don’t you come over for a few days in a couple of weeks? You’ve not been since the week you came to help me move in. It would be nice to show you round now I’ve got my bearings.” "We would love that. I'll have your father look at booking some time." “Okay just let me know. Tell Daddy I said hi.” "I will, sweetie. Love you, bye.” "I love you too, Mom, bye." The seventeenth of July, a date that you hope one day will come to mean nothing and be like any other day. But for now, it was a sting that reminded you of all that had happened. Not unlike Halloween, a day in which you'll forever hold in a fearful anxious place in your soul. It served as a reminder of the moment your life had taken a very dark turn, a darkness that you were still, in a lot of ways, finding your way through. Ransom. His name still tasted sour on your tongue. But left a sadness over your heart like a sheer curtain. You had truly hoped he wasn't going to revert back to the beast that held you captive. But you were wrong, and post the revelation of the real reason he had taken you, he’d been far more brutal and cruel than he had with you before, something you’d thought was impossible. And he’d broken you for a second time, or so you’d let him think. Desperate to escape his clutches, you’d done the only thing you could- you’d killed him. Whilst you may not have held the knife, you’d arranged it all. And, even though it had been an absolute last resort, you’d be lying if you said there hadn’t been a satisfaction to watching him bleed out and choke on his own blood. The realisation that had clouded his arrogantly handsome features as he came to understand it was your doing would be forever etched into your brain. That said, it made you feel a little bit queasy when you thought about how taking someone’s life could make you feel a sick sense of pleasure. The nightmares had plagued you for months after. The torture which sleep brought you only ceased around the time things were settled within the system between you and his parents. With a deep sigh and the need for distraction, you set about some spot cleaning in between loads of laundry and by early afternoon you had settled in on your couch with a beer and your latest box set binge. Not two episodes in and your phone pinged next to you.

With a smirk, you snapped a photo of your beer bottle in your hand and a few moments later his response came through.

The angel made you laugh, a direct reference to his teasing before. But before you could reply, you got another text with simply saying “fuck it” along with a picture of a tumblr of whiskey on his desk. With a snort you replied

With a smile you tossed your phone down onto the seat beside you, and resumed your watching.

***** Andy was kidding when he playfully said he'd be there by 6:45, fully intending on their agreed upon 6:30. But, he was late. He'd been so involved with his brief that he'd lost track, and for the first time since meeting her, was late for a meet up with Y/N. She was fully understanding as he'd text her apologizing for the time as he'd rushed out of the office and quickly headed for Pearl Street. He'd gotten very lucky with close parking and literally stepped inside Oskar's Taproom promptly at 6:45. He found Y/N sitting at the bar, her hair down, a nicely fitted black tee and skinny denim jeans, her foot tapping against her bar stool in waiting. Next to her was an empty stool and a full, cold looking tall pilsner on the bar, saving his space.

"Hey," he said as he leaned into her, a gentle hand on her back, getting her attention.

Y/N startled a bit but realized it was Andy and grinned, "'bout time! I was going to get started on yours without you." She nodded to the cold beer. “I’m so sorry.” He shook his head, “I just got caught up.” "Well, you haven't stood me up yet, so I trusted you'd show." “And I did tell you 6:45 before. You know, on account of you being a cheeky little shit.” She rolled her eyes at him, "whatever." She smirked. He slid onto the stool next to her and took a long pull of his beer, damned it tasted good. He gave an appreciative sigh and turned to her. “So, do anything much this afternoon?” "I did absolutely nothing, well nothing of importance. Talked to my mom, did laundry, you know nothing exciting." “To be honest, sounds like a pretty good afternoon.” He chuckled. “Sometimes there’s nothing better than laying in front of the TV with no where you have to be.” "Cheers to that," she raised her glass to him. He clinked his with hers and returned the smile she had. The blues band that was set to play happy hour was starting to tune up and it gave Andy an idea. "What do you say we find a spot in the patio, little less noise." “Sounds good.” She nodded. Andy flagged the bartender down for another round to take with them. But before Y/N could pick up her glass, Andy took it for her and gestured with her head for her to go on in front. She looked a little surprised at his act of basic good manners, and not for the first time. He'd often seen her look at him in a similar way when he held doors open for her or helped her with her jacket. It made him wonder what kind of asshole Drysdale had been. But, then again, he got the impression it hadn’t been a particularly happy relationship to start. Not that it was any of his business, nor was he one to talk. The last seven months he’d been married to Laurie had been as strained as they'd ever got. They found a spot at a two top near the corner of the patio at the gate that separated it from the sidewalk. Andy waited for Y/N to sit before he set their glasses on the high top table and took his own seat. "So...much better," he leaned in across the table. "Love this place, but it's not always the best for conversation." “Yeah but it has a good atmosphere.” She smiled. “I like it. Not the type of place that-“ she stopped dead and took a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter.” He half smiled, "you know, I've been meaning to tell you, it's okay to talk to me about anything you want. No pressure, no strings. Just a friendly ear." She smiled. “I know, thanks. And the same goes for you too.” For the first time, an interesting silence came between them. They each sipped their drinks in an almost a mirrored like fashion and chuckled when through. "I think that's the first time we've ever not had something to say." Y/N shrugged. He nodded, and then she took a deep breath. “I was just gonna say its not the type of place Ransom would ever have taken me. He’d have thought it beneath him.” "I think that's the first time you've ever mentioned his name." He pointed out. "Yeah, I try not to. It's uh," he watched her as she struggled to start her story, playing nervously with the earring in her ear. "Complicated." He leaned on the table, his forearms crossed and supporting his weight. He wanted her to know she had his full attention. “Well, from what I know about him, which granted is only what I saw on the news or heard around Boston, he certainly enjoyed the finer things in life.” "That's one way of looking at." She chuckled dryly. "It wasn't an easy marriage, despite how short lived." "Well, I was with Laurie since law school and we still had our ups and downs. I don't think marriage is easy in general." Andy admitted. "I was with Ransom less than nine months before we got married. It, uh, lasted three weeks."

Andy paused, “okay, so granted Laurie and I were a whirlwind what with her falling pregnant so fast but... I’ll give you that one.” “A whirlwind?” She asked and Andy nodded. “Yeah, we hadn’t even been together a year when she got pregnant with Jake. Not gonna lie, I shit myself but...” he sighed, swallowing. “Well, he was worth it.” "I'm sure he was." She nodded. Andy cleared his throat. “He was a good kid, despite what he, well what he was accused of.” “I can’t even begin to imagine how that felt, for any of you.” She said gently. “Fucking shit.” He said bluntly. She blinked and then the pair of them laughed quietly. "I'm sorry, Andy. And I mean that in all sincerity." He sighed and gave a soft little smile. “Thanks. You know, for the most part it’s just happy memories. But then sometimes it’s hard...” he trailed off shaking his head, “but of course you’ll know that.” “Suppose so.” She shrugged. “I doubt our marriage was anything near as loving as yours. I, uh...well, Ransom was mentally abusive, very controlling. Getting married wasn't exactly what I'd wanted but, I felt trapped in a way." She paused as he listened intently. "I guess it's harder to explain than I thought." She bit her lip and then shook her head. “Then the asshole went and got himself killed.” "I hate that you had to witness that." She shrugged and her finger swiped at the condensation on the outside of her half empty beer glass. “It was a year ago today.” “Jesus fucking Christ.” Andy shook his head in shock as he took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry.” “I’m not.” She sighed. “And I know that probably sounds awful but... I don’t mourn him, I can’t. Not after everything. I’m just glad to be away and out of it. Fuck, that makes me sound like a really cold hearted bitch.” She scrunched her nose and chuckled a bit. Andy cocked his head to one side, studying her face which was, despite what she said, laced with sadness and he took a deep breath. There was more to her story than she was telling him, he could see that, but he had his own secrets too. And he found himself realising he didn’t care. Moving away post the accident that claimed Jake and later Laurie’s life had been a way for him to leave all that shit behind. And she was trying to do the same. “Okay, let’s make a deal.” He leaned forward. “No reverse gear. We look forward and not back, at least not at the hard stuff.” It took a moment for her to process it, and Andy watched her expression behind her eyes as he did so. Then she smiled, "deal." Andy smiled as she reached for her beer. He watched her pretty face as she drained her glass, setting it down in the table before she leaned towards him. “Have you eaten? Because I’ve suddenly got a hankering for something greasy and very bad for me.” “Sounds like someone I used to work with.” Andy shot before he could stop himself and Y/N threw her head back in a loud laugh. “Lawyers for you.” “Hey, not all of us are jerks.” He pouted and she shrugged. “Jury’s out.” She winked. At that Andy raised his brows, downed the rest of his pint and then stood up. “Something dirty and greasy that isn’t an attorney coming up, I’ll grab us a menu.” They each ordered a greasy, filthy cheeseburger with all the fixings and two smaller beers a piece to go with it. They moved their conversation away from their pasts and talked music as the band played some songs they were familiar with. Y/N finding the perfect moment to joke with Andy again about his age versus hers, despite it being maybe seven or eight years. Neither seemed to mind. Again, when the bill came, Andy slapped his card down before Y/N even had a chance to grab her wallet, which caused him to laugh loudly at her pout. “You’ll just have to get it next time.” “Oh," she smirked, "so that’s your game? You paid, so I owe you a next time?” He shrugged. “Would that be such a bad thing?” She bit her lip and grinned with a shake of her head. “No, not really.” “Good, I’ll hold you to that. And, as a lawyer I feel obliged to tell you that’s a legally recognised verbal contract.” “Uh, I’m sure there’s a rule that a social agreement made between friends is done so without an intention of being enforceable.” Y/N shot back and Andy felt his mouth curl up on a little surprised smirk. “Therefore no intent, no legal comeback. Your move, Counselor.” He laughed and shook his head. “Nope, I got nothing.” “In that case, I call recess.” She grinned. “Oh faahk off with the legal puns!” Andy snorted and once more she laughed as they stood up, their night at an end. He walked behind Y/N with a gentle hand on her back as she weaved through the tables on the patio, eventually ending up on the sidewalk out front.

"Thanks, for breakfast, dinner, drinks," Y/N shook her head, feigning annoyance. Andy smirked, "thanks for meeting me. You're not walking home are you?" "I can, it's not far." She replied, folding her arms over her chest.

"Absolutely not, I'll take you," he nodded his head in the direction in which his car was. He gave a small wink when she accepted his offer. He held the door open for you as you slid into the passenger seat of his Audi TT. You quickly realized that this was the first time you'd been in his car and the very first time he would see your doorstep. However, the thought of both those things didn't bother you one bit. In fact, you found yourself more comfortable than you'd expected.

All in all the drive was no more than five minutes, and if he hadn’t been going that way already, you’d have felt like a complete fraud, but he assured you it was on his way.

You helped yourself out but Andy waited for you around the front hood and walked you to your doorstep, lit by the lantern porch light your Home Owners Association contract insisted be up. "So, this is me," you sighed. Andy had his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans and he rocked a little on his heels as he waited for you to open your front door. When you'd opened it, he scratched behind his neck and said, "so I'll see you Monday?" "Yeah," you agreed. He turned to go but you called out to him, "Hey, Andy?" He quickly turned back to you, his one foot on your stoop, the other the next step down, "yeah?" In a sudden moment of courage, you stood on your toes and placed a soft kiss to his cheek. His smooth cheek and the slightly rough yet softer than anticipated scratch of those dark whiskers, intermittent speckled with auburn, felt amazing against your lips. And fuck, did he smell amazing. Which you knew already from the tight and friendly hugs he'd seemed to start giving you. The first hit of his aftershave was always the same, dominated by a white-out of bergamot and pepper, a bright flash of sweet, dewy citrus that is both crisp and clean, underpinned by a freshness that was both light and gentle and completely different to the heavy sandalwood based fragrance you’d grown so used to. It was brief, but when you pulled back, you gave a content huff, “Huh.” “What?” He was clearly puzzled. “Your beard. It’s kinda soft.” “What? What the hell did you expect?” He laughed. “I dunno, maybe a toilet brush type bristle.” “You kiss a lot of toilet brushes Y/N?” “Try not to.” She winked. “Thanks again, Andy. I enjoyed today.” He chuckled and shook his head as he watched you turn back to your door and finally stepped inside your home. Before you closed the door, you turned back, noticing he was watching you go in. "Bye."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

**** Chapter 2

#consciousness of guilt #andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans characters #reader insert

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annie-blackhill · 4 years ago

Text

Aight, I know that I've been away for awhile but now I'm back and I have ideas babes!

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Warnings:

Depression

Anxiety

Past panic attacks

Mentions of past domestic violence

Abusive childhood

Post traumatic events unconscious coping mechanisms

Unconscious flinching out of instinct

Sudden panic when hearing fighting between a man and a woman screaming very near

Loss of breath

Domestic violence

Blood

Panic attack

____________________________________

Dazai Osamu

________________

Safe and Sound

________________

Dazai and (Y/N) have been in a relationship for two years now. They're so in love with each other that everyone at the ADA are questioning the fact as to why they weren't married yet.

Dazai really loves (Y/N) and she loves him just as much back. They both really love each other and they both understand each other the most too.

But there were still some things that Dazai didn't know.

The main reason why (Y/N) and Dazai weren't married yet was because Dazai wanted to get her parents' blessings first. He was so excited to get their blessings, to meet the people who brought his perfectly imperfect lover into this cruel, tainted world.

He was eternally grateful to them for bringing her into this world, although the cruel world had tainted her and made her the broken person she is now, he still loves her for her. She's the only reason he has to live now. And he loves her for that.

Whenever Dazai asked (Y/N) about her family, she would tell him stories about when she was a child and how her dad would bring them to the beach every weekend because they lived near to the beach or when they went back to school shopping together.

But that was it. Her dad never really appeared in her other stories much. He would pop in at some point of the tale and then disappear. Her mum, was mostly the one to witness her achievements.

But (Y/N) has never described her parents' proud expressions whenever she achieved something.

At times, when Dazai did pry lightly, she would turn the story somewhere else, mostly to her friends.

He knew that she didn't really have a good primary school life, seeing as she's told him before that she's been bullied at that time. She's described them as the loneliest years of her life and how much she's hated herself those times.

Whenever (Y/N) talked about friends, it would be about her friends from her high school life. Her high school was much more on the better side.

She had been a prefect in her high school years, since her first year to her last year.

The only bad memories she had was when she realized that being in the first class and being the top of the class meant the other students would sabotage her and the two times in her senior years where she had to fight back as self-defense when she tried to break up a fight and they started to hit her too.

Dazai wasn't daft. Of course, he picked up on all the signs she showed that she wasn't really fond of her parents.

At first, he thought that it was just because of a small fight they had. But two years have passed in their relationship and (Y/N) hasn't cracked even the least to tell him why her childhood stories are only until a certain age or why she's never told him how proud her parents were of her.

Dazai was worried. In the end, he decided that maybe her parents just have a slightly tight relationship with each other.

Dazai decided to not ask. He let it slide and slip past them. He never touched the subject of her parents for the half of the second year of their relationship.

As the other half year of their relationship rolled in, Dazai and (Y/N) had saved enough money to buy a cozy little apartment near the ADA and move out of the ADA's hostel.

The day they were moving in, the couple were greeted by the middle aged woman who lived next door with her husband and 4 year old daughter.

She had been a very sweet auntie that welcome the sweet couple to the apartment complex with open arms and a sweet smile.

More than once had she cooked good food for the duo since they always returned late from work.

"You two kinda remind me of how my husband and I used to be when we were younger and so in love," the auntie would say to the duo all the time.

The little 4 year old would also come by and play around with the loving couple whenever they were on leave.

Auntie would always try persuade her daughter from "disturbing the lovely young couple" as she would always say to her daughter.

"It's alright, auntie! I love kids! (N/N)-chan and I are planning to have a few little munchkins like this when we're married too!" Dazai would assure her, while playing with the little girl.

But there was always something about how (Y/N) would send the auntie knowing looks as though she knew something that he didn't all the time, so he decided to pay more attention too.

When Dazai did start to notice more, he noticed the dark bags under the auntie's eyes and he noticed how tired she always was.

The more he noticed the more concerning she looked to him day by day.

"Auntie, would you like to join us for tea, today? Osamu and I wanted to play with that sweet little angel," (Y/N) invited the auntie.

"WHO'S THAT AT THE DOOR???!!!" the booming voice of the male from inside the auntie's house shook (Y/N) to the core and it ignited old memories that she didn't have to remember.

"Auntie, you really should come. Osamu insists! You know how he gets when he doesn't get what he wants! He'll be whining all day long like a little baby!" (Y/N) tried to convince the auntie discreetly.

"I ASKED 'WHO'S THAT AT THE DOOR'! ANSWER ME YOU USELESS WOMAN!!!" the man shouted from the bedroom again.

(Y/N) flinched. She was regretting sending Dazai to the store now. They had been running low on groceries and she had sent Dazai to the store, as she would say "please contribute you're lazy arse to do something in this household, my love" and he had carried his lazy arse to the store near the apartment complex.

After Dazai had left was when she started to hear the shouts and yells from the next door auntie's house.

Even as the bad memories plunged her being, she had forced herself to go and at least try to save the auntie before anything bad happened to either her or her daughter.

But even then, if you looked closely at (Y/N) you could see that she was trembling badly and that she could barely stand on her two feet.

"Auntie, come on please!" (Y/N) begged in a mutter exclamation.

"I'm sorry," the auntie murmured before closing the door on her with an apologetic smile.

"Auntie, no!" (Y/N) exclaimed.

And that was when she heard the terrible screams and the yell. The cries of the little 4 year old teared her soul apart into the smallest of pieces.

"NO, NO, NO!!!!" (Y/N) yelled as her mind turned blank and the memories flooded her brain.

Her mind turned so blank that she forgot that she was slamming her fists onto the door and that she had an ability.

The memories of how her father would come home drunk and lay on the sofa. Of how her mother had found out that he was having an affair. Of how, he would beat the living daylights out of her mother.

(Y/N) never told Dazai any of that. She felt ashamed to tell him that her childhood was the most terrible thing to ever happen to her.

A blood curdling screamed pierced the air along with a loud cry and that was enough for (Y/N) to snap out of her traumas and remember that there were lives on the stake right now.

She finally regained her senses fully and remembered that she has an ability.

Using her elemental abilities, she bent the wooden front door so much that it broke it half and broke off of it's hinges. The lower half flew to the side of the corridor almost hitting her while the other half flew into the house and hit the middle aged aggressive man that was about to beat his wife over the head with a glass flower vase.

The auntie stood in shock as the younger woman ran to her and hugged her.

"Auntie! Are you alright?! Are you bleeding anywhere?! Do you have any fatal injuries?!" (Y/N) questioned quickly as she held the shorter's woman's face in her hands and looked her over, making sure that she wasn bleeding anywhere majorly.

"Why you little freak show! You must one of those freak shows that are born with those little abilities! How dare you interfere with someone else's family problems?! Youngsters these days don't know how to respect their elders! Let me teach you then!" the man yelled at (Y/N) as she stood in front of the trembling woman, making sure that the older woman was perfectly hidden behind her.

(Y/N) slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans. She clutched the holster of her gun.

"Step away, right now before I seriously hurt you," (Y/N) warned as she held her left hand out to stop him from coming any nearer to them.

The man took off his belt and folded it into two, straightening it out with a snap, which caused both women to flinch as more dark memories flooded into (Y/N)'s mind.

"I said STOP RIGHT THERE!" (Y/N) warned yet again. It was against the law for her to shoot him and she couldn't even use her abilities against him as he was a normal civilian.

She was trying her best to not hurt anyone here and let the civilian authorities handle the ruthless man.

The moment the man raised his arm was the same time (Y/N) slipped her gun out of her back pocket and shot his arm.

The man let out a cry of pain and fell back from the sudden pain. He looked at the younger woman, wide eyed as she held the gun tight and pointed the barrel to his forehead.

"Armed Detective Agency member, (L/N) (Y/N)," (Y/N) announced as she showed him her ADA card.

The man backed away more at that. His eyes wide as he realized that she was a member of the authorities.

"(Y/N)?!" Dazai shouted as he entered only to see the bloodied situation of the man and the two trembling women.

"Where's the child?!" Dazai asked immediately.

"Sh-she's in her room," the auntie answered meekly.

Dazai nodded. He looked down at the man, disgust, venom and a desire to kill clear on his face.

The man even then, still tried to gain Dazai's pity as Dazai was a fellow man too.

"S-sir! All I was trying to do was educate my wife to be more better and obedient! I wasn't trying to do anything other than that! I swear!" the man said.

That only made Dazai even more disgusted as he spat on the man's face in disgust. He stomped his foot harshly on the man's hand that was holding the belt.

"You disgust me you old fool! You're an utter disgrace of a human being! I'm disgusted to see people like you are still alive! Terrorizing women's lives! Making them only feel like obedient dolls that should only do whatever you say!

I'd rather kill you then let you go to jail and then get back out after a few months! People like you shouldn't exist at all in the first place!

Your wife is supposed to be your life partner! Not some maid or toy that would do everything you say! You're supposed to live life and do everything together!

I can't believe you even had a child with her only to state your dominance over her and make her unable to run away from you!

You disgust me!" Dazai yelled at the man as he twisted his foot on the man's hand more and stomped it over and over and over again, intent on breaking it.

(Y/N) shielded the auntie's sight form her lover's rage as he broke the man's hand and rendered it completely shattered under his shoe.

"Osamu..." (Y/N) called out for him.

Dazai raised his head to look at his lover, tears streaming from his eyes from utter pure white hot rage.

"Are you alright? Are the two of you alright? Is that little angel injured?" Dazai's voice turned so soft that (Y/N)'s heart broke at the mere sound of it. He sounded as scared as she was feeling.

Dazai went over to the two women and squeezed them into a light hug, he buried his face into the crook of (Y/N)'s neck. (Y/N) hugged his waist, her arm practically limp, but her hand still clutching the gun tight just in case the man tried anything, her ear was placed against his frantically beating heart.

The older woman had wrapped her arm over his back and was hugging him tight, scared out of her life and grateful for the presence of the two youngsters at the moment.

"Osamu... We need to call the police and the ADA, specifically Kunikida-san. We need to explain a hell load to them all," (Y/N) murmured lightly to the shaken man.

Dazai nodded lightly at her statement before pressing a light kiss to the crook of her neck and removing himself from the hold of the two women.

"Auntie, do get your little girl and wait outside of the house. (Y/N) and I will call the police and our co-worker to handle the mess here," Dazai informed the older woman.

She merely nodded, not trusting her voice to be strong enough to answer him as she went to the little girl's bedroom to get her out of the house.

Once the child and woman were safely out of the house, Dazai dialed Kunikida while (Y/N) dialed the police station.

Both at had arrived at the house. The man was brought away on a stretcher by the paramedics as (Y/N) was explaining to the police as to why she had used her gun.

Kunikida and Dazai, both standing on either side of her, trying to justify the reason as to why she did so and the police accepted the reasons in the end.

Dazai said his end of the story and then they moved on to ask the wife and the child about their ends of the story.

"(Y/N), you know you shouldn't have used your gun. I'll have to confiscate it for now. You'll only be allowed to use it on missions. I'm sorry but those are the rules that you need to follow after that little act of 'misusage' as the police says," Kunikida sighed as he took the gun lightly from her slightly slackened grasp on it now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was scared and he raised the belt above me, ready to hit at any moment---" her voice cracked and she couldn't continue the sentence anymore.

Kunikida held her hand softly as Dazai brought (Y/N) into a soft side hug, holding her softly and rubbing her shoulders.

"I know and that's why I'm the one that's supposed to be saying sorry for taking away your gun, (Y/N)," Kunikida said.

"Hey, hey. It's alright, the both of you. I'll pull some strings here and there and make sure, (Y/N) gets her gun back, alright? Easy peasy!" Dazai lightened the mood up a little.

"Sigh, thank you, Dazai. For making this easier for all of us," Kunikida said before excusing himself, saying that he needs to fill out a few more forms at the police station and make sure that neither Dazai or (Y/N) get accused for anything that they didn't do.

Dazai proceeded to lead (Y/N) back to their little home as the auntie and her daughter were led to the second ambulance by the new paramedics.

(Y/N) leaned into Dazai as she curled up onto him. He held her close and tight, knowing full well that she was shaken up from the encounter.

"Osamu... Remember how you always asked for the truth about my childhood... What you witnessed today that was happening to that auntie and her daughter? That's the real truth to my childhood.

But no one saved us. And as I grew and my dad lived his other life with his little affair, he would come and go to let off steam on my mother and my mother started to blame me for how miserable our lives were.

That's why I never had a past occupation like everyone else. I had been working with the ADA ever since I was 18 and I ran away from her.

The president helped me. He helped my mother by providing her safety and a new home.

My father is still out there, somewhere with that other woman.

And I... I've never seen my mother since the day I ran away. She must be happier now," (Y/N) said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Dazai hugged her closer and kissed her forehead.

"It's alright, love. You have me and the other ADA members for you as well now. Hell, even the Port Mafia is with you right now after how much you helped them out when we were all having trouble with The Guild and Fyodor. You have all of us here for you.

Most importantly, my love, you have me. I won't let anyone so much as hurt you even a little bit and go off the hook.

I swear," Dazai murmured softly into her ear and she snuggled closer to him, their feets touching and their hands interwined with each other's.

____________________________________

"Port Mafia strikes again as a man who was arrested yesterday due to commiting domestic violence was murdered by them brutally in his own jail cell much to the surprise of all the police officers present.

Police officers were considering requesting the Armed Detective Agency to further an investigation at first, but has now decided against it as the chief of the police station has deemed it as a waste since the man was a criminal," the news reporter announced on the morning news as (Y/N) sipped her (bitter/sweet/neutral) (coffee/tea) and Dazai adorable chewed his crab sandwich.

"Who did you ask to do it?" (Y/N) asked immediately as soon as Dazai swallowed.

"Chuuya was more than willing after I told him the story. I didn't even have to tell him which police station and cell that scum was in, he ran off and figured it all out himself and finished the job," Dazai answered before continuing to adorably eat his crab sandwich.

"That scum deserved it," (Y/N) agreed as she continue sipping her (coffee/tea).

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Awareness Note:

Stop domestic violence. The pain lingers on even after the relationship has ended. No one should have to be bounded to a spouse that only views them as an object and an inferior instead of a human being and an equal. No one has to go through physical and mental pain with a monster that prefers to take control of everything. No one has to go through such pain.

Marriage isn't pain! Marriage is a bond of two people who love each other!

If it hurts both physically and mentally, then it's not love.

Know the difference.

#stopdomesticviolence #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x y/n #dazai x you #dazaibsd #dazai oneshot #dazai x reader #dazai x reader fluff #comfort

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orionshounds · 4 years ago

Text

I’ve been knee deep in dsmp lore streams and I just want to ramble about it

Dream smp lore is so good, it’s so good!!! Not only is the story itself just fascinating, but how it’s presented so uniquely through the medium of minecraft of all things is just so cool. One of my favorite parts of the lore is seeing how everyone on the smp has their own “style” they present it in, and watching them find the way they find the most enjoyment in is so cool. Literally no two streamer’s lore stream quite like each others and it’s just incredible! It just speaks to the flexibility of roleplay as an artistic medium and really shows everyone’s individual personalities.

Wilbur was dramatic as hell and wrote eloquent speeches. He started a drug operation under the guise as a country, and it lead to a revolution in which he was able to explore the spiral of a man who loses control of everything he had built. And after his arc and he wanted a break from the server? He created ghostbur, an amnesic comic relief with just enough touch of tragedy that he is still able to make heartbreaking monologues when he wants to.

Tommy is able to run around with his friends and cause as much chaos to his heart’s extent, but there is so much more than meets the eye. He is incredibly social and isn’t afraid to start conflict with a lot of people, bringing them into the roleplay. He doesn’t back down from storytelling either. His character goes through terrible situations and he fully explores the trauma that comes from those experiences. His character goes against the “stereotypical” trauma I see alot in media; instead of being shy or scared he’s reactionary, he’s angry, he’s violent, he’s depressed. I’m actually really impressed with the heavy subject matter this 17 year old teen has managed to portray (I’ve connected with it quite personally at certain points), while still being able to keep the light hearted fun that’s so intrinsic to his personality.

Tubbo isn’t really interested in serious lore as much. Even in dire moments he tells jokes and just has fun. So, in his recent lore, he just streams as normal while putting mysterious writing on screen that he doesn’t acknowledge or have to explain, which I think is just a genius work around for him to participate in lore. He still has his dedicated lore streams sometimes, and when he is in the acting zone he has some of the most powerful moments out of everyone on the server.

Ranboo, while having stake in the greater smp lore, is much more character focused. He presents his lore through long monologues and fucking heart-wrenching voice acting. He loves working in themes of horror and causing a specific feeling in the viewer. So he chooses specific music as a themes for events/characters and creates visual queues in his overlays to draw out that desired reaction. He also values improve a LOT, if something unexpected comes up he just runs with it and he has made huge changes to his lore as early as 30 min before a stream.

Technoblade, while arguably one of the most powerful people on the server, prefers a more light-hearted yet dramatic approach to lore. When Dream was at his house looking for Tommy, Techno had no problem joking around and making fun of him for being homeless. He tore down an entire nation on the server and had so much fun doing it! He’s more of an antagonist than a true villain in my opinion. And lets not forget how dedicated he is to the game, he’s cracked at the craft. He spends hours grinding and creating farms on the smp, for amazing pay offs (his several vault reveals, the withers, etc), most of which weren’t even on stream!

Karl Jacobs is extremely social, so he created Tales from the smp as a way to involve TONS of people in lore while exploring the past and future of the server (it was also a way for viewers who weren’t that well versed in dsmp lore to join and not have to worry about it!). And through this premise, he took the opportunity to develop his own character on the smp; making an incredibly tragic story of a time traveler trying to save his home while slowly loosing his memories. Not to mention the beautifully shot cutscenes of the Inbetween and the Other Side. He includes so many people behind the scenes as well, collabing with other members on lore, hiring building teams and people to make intros and credit scenes, and promoting fanart and fansongs from the community!

Quackity explores his lore through heavily scripted events and amazingly shot cut scenes. While the way he expresses his lore comes at the cost of improv, the payoff of the visuals and story is well worth it! The shots he makes of the smp is downright gorgeous, no to mention he’s the first person to include irl footage in his lore (not counting facecams)! He’s not afraid of thoroughly examining his own character, being one of the only people I can think of that shows us “past events” leading up to something that has already happened.

Badboyhalo, Antfrost, Ponk, Skeppy, Captain Puffy, Punz, Awesamdude, Hannahxxrose all work together on shared lore and the payoff is amazing! By introducing the Egg, a constant antagonistic force that constantly pulls on character’s relationships with each other, everyone is able to stream together to battle for or against the egg! There’s also plenty of room for people to do individual lore that's more intimate to their respective character. They spend hours changing vines, putting up posters, slowly shaping the smp in a way that makes it exciting to watch streams to see just what has changed everyday. Because there’s so many people necessary to tell the egg’s story, it does comes at the cost of time (the egg has been around FOREVER). However, they all work together super hard and I just admire their commitment to the story they’re trying to tell!

And Sam! He has several different “Modes” his character is in (and an entirely separate character, Sam Nook) that he gets to explore lore with. He’s a terrifying warden, he’s a money motivated businessman, he’s a conflicted lover, he’s a traumatized victim of the egg, and just so much more. Through having so many different “roles” in the rp he gets to explore relationships and plotlines with a whole array of people. Not to mention he’s absolutely cracked at redstone and has some of the most impressive builds on the server.

And Puffy! So much of her lore is calling into question the morality of the server and really makes you step back and think critically about the characters. Her character also has, in my opinion, one of the most interesting relationships with Dream, the main antagonist of the entire server, which is just fascinating to watch unfold. Not to mention she’s one of the first people to start exploring the backstory of her character!

George doesn’t exactly do lore. In fact he’s slept through so much of it it’s become a meme. And you know what? That mad man took that and ran with it. He explains his absence in the story by having his character literally being asleep through it, creating mystery where there used to just be an absence. He’s able to goof off with his friends and have borderline nonsensical streams, then at the end sucker punch the audience emotionally by “waking up” and have the viewers question just what was real and what wasn’t?

The smp has the freedom for people who want more independent lore to be able to explore their character’s that way as well!

Hbomb, Connereatspants, and Purpled don’t have a lot of lore on the smp, generally only coming on to have fun with everyone, but when they do have their moments it unfolds in very interesting ways!

Sapnap, Eret, and Schlatt maybe aren’t as active as some other people, but when they are on they actively participate in lore and have lasting impacts on the story (Ex: Eret’s betrayal, Sapnap’s visit to dream in the prison, Schlatt becoming president).

Philza mostly does his own thing, improving the server or making some bomb ass builds. He has incredibly devastating roles in lore (killing wilbur, blowing up L’manberg for the final time, starting the syndicate with Techno), but he also has quieter moments that speak to the depth his character has, such as fishing with fundy or reminiscing about his dead son and how it went so wrong. Like Techno, he doesn’t like to take lore completely seriously, often laughing no matter what’s happening or teasing chat after something big goes down, but his character is solid with a lot of potential for future lore.

Foolish has only started on his character and its already super interesting. The hints at his dark past as a “god of death” and his current conflict with the egg are intriguing as fuck. Not to mention the MASSIVE builds he does for everyone, helping to progress their lore as well.

Fundy has a lot of freedom with his character to participate however much he wants in lore. While generally he’s a trickster who loves to prank people he has enough tragedy build into his backstory he’s able to break the viewer’s heart with a flip of a switch. Not to mention his recent, almost surreal, stream that explored his character’s disturbing dreams that may or may not predict the future.

Niki is very character driven, exploring her character's grief of losing her best friend and her anger of being ignored in the very country she helped create. She has incredibly emotional moments, and even though she’s on her own building an underground city she still participates in other lore via teaming with jack manifold or the syndicate.

Jack Manifold’s lore is VERY character focused, and while he’s described his story as a “B plot that occasionally intersects with the main plot”, the story he tells is still fascinating. Being pushed aside not taken seriously his whole life, his character develops into a fun cartoony-esque villain who begs to be taken seriously, that has the depth of a truly conflicted person who is torn between wanting revenge on everyone who’s done him wrong and just wanting a friend.

Last but not least, the man himself, Dream. The most fascinating thing about his lore is that absolutely none of it is from his pov. All we know about his character is only from what we see from everyone else’s povs, and in his case it leads to a very intimidating villain! Not to mention, mans owns the damn server and yet has made himself the main antagonist! He is the only character I consider a “true villain” on the smp. His voice acting and writing is downright sinister. I could write a fucking essay on how his character’s obsession with power has led him to the point he thinks himself an unstoppable god

Everyone on this server is stunning and I love all of them!!!!!

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hongism · 4 years ago

Text

mists of celeste ➻ 37.5

➻ characters: yeosang, wooyoung, yunho ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst ➻ word count: 3.6k ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: past abuse and dubious consent are discussed - no graphic depictions of any of the above, depictions of piercings and needles. this interim deals with heavy topics relating to a whorehouse and it is not required to read this interim to understand the rest of the story. it is an optional chapter as all interims are, so please skip over this one if you are not comfortable with the warnings tagged ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part 4.5

“I’d like you to give me more piercings.”

“I—”

The blunt statement catches Yunho a bit off-guard, moreso than he would like to admit, and as much as he tries to hide that shock, it still slips through nonetheless. He blinks back at Wooyoung with some wonder in his eyes, enough to make the other man tilt his head in question. Yeosang stands beside him as well though the Elitist’s eyes remain unfocused and noncommittal. It’s been quite some time since Yunho gave Wooyoung any piercings — god, how long has it been? Two years? Maybe three? Surely that can’t be right… — and the doctor is absolutely no stranger to the reasons why Wooyoung would be asking for such a thing now. However, because he tries to be a good and fair doctor, Yunho never goes through with the piercings unless he and Wooyoung have talked things through.

And by that, he means therapy, basically. Checking in on where Wooyoung is at mentally and emotionally before doing anything drastic. Yet that also brings more challenges than anything else because out of everyone Yunho has ever treated in his years being a doctor, Wooyoung is by far the more difficult. He doesn’t like talking about himself, his experiences, his feelings; he despises the thought of sharing intimate and vulnerable parts of himself outside of Yeosang, but according to the Elitist, it’s near impossible to get Wooyoung to speak even when it’s just the two of them together.

Yunho would call it a phenomenon of trauma but frankly, it makes a perfect amount of sense.

Given what Wooyoung has been through and experienced — between being a slave and suffering at the hands of not one but two cruel masters — Yunho truly cannot blame the young man for being so hesitant to talk about his feelings. But, as he said, he knows vaguely how Wooyoung must be feeling if he is coming to Yunho for more piercings now.

“You hardly have any room left on those ears for more piercings, Woo,” Yunho comments through a slightly strained smile. Wooyoung opts to simply wave a hand through the air in response. Yeosang glares at the floor. “Take a seat.”

There is a large amount of struggle in this for Yunho. On one hand, he wants to be firm, stand his ground, and say absolutely not until Wooyoung opens up a little. On the other side of things, Yunho understands that this is what Wooyoung needs to cope with whatever trauma he experienced while being held captive. Yunho doesn’t know all the details, of course, he merely knows that Wooyoung was held in a cell on a ship with San and Mingi for several days before being sold to a whorehouse in Lynder. Then he stayed a few days in that whorehouse. He no doubt had to work against his will, no doubt gave in and didn’t fight what he was told to do even though he didn’t want it, and it no doubt brought back horrid memories from his time as a slave. Yunho isn’t stupid. Such a thing would be taxing for anyone.

The other thing Yunho is grossly over aware of is the fact that pain, to Wooyoung, is nothing. He still has a hard time wrapping his brain around that. Wooyoung… feels pain to a certain degree like any other person would but he has conditioned himself into not feeling it the way others might. The slice of a knife against his arm would be nothing but a pinch of a needle on his skin and wouldn’t bother him one bit; all it is to him is a small pinprick. He asks people to go harder on him when sparring. He punches closed fists against his thighs when he’s upset. He enjoys getting piercings after going through something that would otherwise be traumatic for others. Because it doesn’t hurt. Yunho recalls asking once about it because at the time he didn’t understand that either.

“Why do you ask for piercings as though you want to be hurt? If you don’t really feel that pain? What do you gain from it in that case?”

“Because it’s a pain that I get to choose. All my life I’ve been subjected to pains that are not my own doing or that I didn’t ask for. But in asking for a piercing and choosing where it will go and when it will happen… I get to choose that pain. Getting to have that after suffering pains I didn’t want feels liberating in a way. I enjoy it, as bad as that sounds. It helps me cope with what I’ve been through. Like, for every pain they force on me, I choose a new piercing. Eye for an eye but… on myself, I suppose?”

“Where would you like them?” Yunho inquires, shifting over to shuffle through his cabinets in search of his needles and barbells. “Just one or are we doing more than that?”

“Two this time, I think,” Wooyoung hums as he sits down on the edge of the first bed in his vicinity. Yeosang falls down on the bed next to him without a noise, still staying silent even though Yunho can clearly see how much this bothers him. Which part of it bothers him exactly is a mystery to Yunho because it could be any combination of things. The doctor wants to ask Yeosang if he’s okay with this but that would be a tragic mistake on his part so he bites his tongue instead. It would seem too much like giving Yeosang all the power in Wooyoung’s decisions, and doing such a thing to a former slave would only be detrimental to long-term progress. Besides, he doesn’t need the verbal confirmation when he can clearly see how much Yeosang does not want Wooyoung to do this.

Yunho’s hand hesitates over his growing collection of piercing rods, and he glances back at Wooyoung once more.

“Where are you wanting them?”

“Nipples!” The combination of Wooyoung’s blatant enthusiasm as well as Yeosang’s far too deadpan expression sends Yunho reeling, and he chokes around nothing but air before truly processing Wooyoung’s request.

“A-Ah, I see, of course. One moment,” Yunho murmurs, blinking down at his collection with a bit of bewilderment before picking out what he thinks to be the right size barbells. He’s not unfamiliar with these sorts of piercings — ones on the body that is — and he has found himself well acquainted with certain body parts of the crew to a point where he is no longer uncomfortable with doing things like this for them. Wooyoung is one of the few (the others being Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Y/N) who Yunho is not well acquainted with in that way, however, so this does come as a bit of a surprise. “Your shirt… would you mind taking it off?” Wooyoung strips himself of his top in the next second, and Yunho watches the way the fabric catches on his metal collar before springing loose. Then his eyes settle on the expanse of freshly exposed skin. It elicits a sharp gasp from Yeosang as well, one that Yunho matches in intensity because… well. Yeah. Yunho isn’t sure how to phrase what comes to his mind then.

“Wooyoung,” Yeosang exhales as he balls his fists around the sheets. Wooyoung stares forward at Yunho with a certain expectancy, like he’s challenging the doctor to not breathe a word about the sight before him, but Yunho would rather lose that challenge right now.

There are… bruises against Wooyoung’s waist. Vaguely shaped like large, manly hands that press the outlines of fingers into his tanned skin. They wrap about the young man’s lithe waist and leave little to the imagination about what sort of scenario and position Wooyoung must have been in when receiving such bruises. The sweeping sensation in Yunho’s gut is so strong that it nearly makes him sick on the spot. Yeosang just looks angry at this point, and Yunho cannot blame him all too much for that. With a sigh, the doctor sinks onto his stool and presses closer to the bed until his knees bump against Wooyoung’s.

“Wooyoung, we need to talk about… this.” Yunho motions to the other’s torso, unable to peel his gaze off the ugly marks.

“What is there to talk about?” Wooyoung sounds almost genuine when asking the question. “We all know the nature of working in a whorehouse. There’s nothing to discuss.”

“That’s not — you didn’t — Wooyoung.” Yunho may or may not be bordering on desperation when he exhales this time. He has dealt with a lot of different scenarios and situations as a doctor, but something of this degree is far out of his wheelhouse.

“I asked them to be rough,” Wooyoung admits through a whisper so quiet that Yunho at first thinks he misheard what the man said.

“W-What was that?”

“I said I asked them to be rough.” Wooyoung’s repetition doesn’t make it any easier to hear. Almost worse. Definitely worse. “I told them to rough me up a little, make me hurt some, I asked them to treat me that way.”

Yunho spares a pleading glance in Yeosang’s direction, hoping that the man will have some insight on this part of Wooyoung since that is far from Yunho’s specialty. He doesn’t know… intimate details about Yeosang and Wooyoung’s more physical relationship, but Yeosang would surely be the person to ask for confirmation about this side of the man. Instead of a small nod of approval or some sign that this is normal, all Yunho sees is a horrid scowl.

“You — did you want them to be this rough with you?” Yunho asks, tone falling into a more quiet one now.

“I asked them to make me hurt, Yunho.”

“That wasn’t the question, Wooyoung. Did you want them to do that?”

“I came here to get my fucking nipples pierced, not to be interrogated pointlessly,” Wooyoung snaps back. This time he pushes some venom into his tone but it rolls off Yunho’s shoulders without sticking one bit. “I like pain during sex. I like when Yeosang pushes me around and hits me some even when I’m fully in control. I barely feel it anyways so why should it matter at all? Now are you gonna do this or not because I’m sure I can do it myse—”

Wooyoung moves to push up off the bed and make for the door but Yeosang is quicker to wrap his hand around Wooyoung’s wrist and pull him back without a word.

“Did they do anything you didn’t want?” The Elitist asks through tightly gritted teeth.

The hesitation and silence speak volumes, Yunho is hurdling towards a conclusion he does not want to hear, and he is ready to cry by the time Wooyoung finally opens his mouth and answers the question.

“No, they didn’t. I got lucky. I got fucking lucky, Yeosang. All my clients in those days were fucking kind and only did what I told them they could because the workers knew I was fresh meat. They knew people like me needed to be treated gently for the first few weeks so they only sent clients with good and safe track records to my room. Those clients only ever did what I told them to, only did what I said was okay, didn’t touch me if I said no. I got lucky.” Wooyoung spits the words like he hates himself for speaking them, and Yunho thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that the man was not as lucky as he says he was. He should be relieved, grateful even that he got lucky, but he only sounds enraged.

“Were there…” Yunho starts but his question dies a bit early on his tongue. He swallows around nothing, pulling a pair of latex gloves off his workstation and working his fingers into them as he mulls over his next words. When the last of the latex snaps around his wrist, he finally speaks again. “Were there ones who weren’t lucky?”

“Every fucking night after my clients left, I got to listen to the prostitute next door sob alone in a room with no one to help him. And the very first night I tried to talk to him through the fucking wall and ask him if he was okay and if he was hurt, and he told me I was lucky to be fresh meat. That they would listen to me because I was new and still had some hope left in my eyes. While he didn’t get that chance, he didn’t get to dictate what he wanted or didn’t want because people just took it from him for so long that he lost the will to ask. So yeah, there were ones who didn’t get lucky. There always are.”

Yunho opens his mouth but closes it just as quick, expression a cross between blank and just flat out dumb because he doesn’t know what to say if there even is something to say.

“That’s not your fault, Wooyoung,” Yeosang says instead, but his grip on the other’s wrist releases. “What happened to him is not your fault.”

“What was it that your mother said when you picked me out of a line of slaves? That I was lucky to be picked? But why did I get to be lucky while others suffered? Why did I get to choose not to be hurt or in pain while that prostitute was stripped of that choice? We were all whores for sale in that place so what did I do to deserve being treated better than him? What did he do to deserve being treated worse?”

“Woo…” Somehow the Elitist manages to sound genuinely saddened by the words.

“The very least I could do was ask to be treated the same as him, was it not? But I couldn’t even have the courage to ask for that? The only thing I could do was ask them to hurt me even though I knew it wouldn’t really hurt. How lucky I was, right? If I’m not hurt, then it doesn’t matter who else gets hurt in the process, does it?”

“Wooyoung.” The edge in Yeosang’s tone pushes forward, bordering on threatening, but Wooyoung is hellbent on speaking his mind right now and any threat from Yeosang won’t stop him. Yunho has the thought to intervene and stop them but he knows — he knows how badly Wooyoung needs this right now. If this will help him cope with what he had to go through then Yunho is in no place to stop him.

If this is what he needs to make Yeosang cope with it too, then Yunho again is in no place to stop him.

“How does it feel, Yeosang? Knowing that the only reason I was hurt in there is because I asked for it? Do you still think we got lucky?”

“Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“No, because if it had been you in there, things would have been different. Because you — you are lucky, Yeosang. You always have been and you always will be. Yet no matter how many times I tell you that, you still refuse it. You—” Wooyoung stabs his index finger hard against Yeosang’s chest, voice coming out a bit choked and wet now “—could have sat there for weeks and listened to that boy next door cry and sob without an ounce of sympathy. Because that’s what an Elitist would do. That what you were raised to do, that’s in your blood, how your brain works. But it’s not how mine works. So you don’t get to sit there and tell me that I made the wrong decision.”

Perhaps Yunho is too used to conflict and gross distortions of communication because when Yeosang stands down rather than fighting back against Wooyoung’s words, he’s overwhelmed. Simply put, he is overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how else to describe the swell of emotions in his chest. But Yeosang just lets his shoulders sag and his face falls flat once more, anger ebbing out of his expression like Wooyoung has a tight grip of control over him. Yeosang isn’t a person to stand down so easily; he’s stubborn, has a short fuse and even shorter patience that causes issues more often than not, and he hates when things don’t go his way. Yunho merely assumed the same would apply to his relationship with Wooyoung.

It doesn’t, as it seems.

“Then what would you have me do, Wooyoung? Let you bend until you break without batting an eye? Watch as you blame yourself for something that happened to a person you didn’t even know? Who had been there well before you? Letting you torture yourself for things that are out of your control is not logical or fair; I don’t need to be an Elitist to realize that.”

“You can be as upset as you want, I don’t mind if you’re upset, that’s not what this is about!” Wooyoung argues back, voice climbing in volume a bit. Yunho takes it upon himself to lean away from the bed a bit, and he does his best to make himself seem as insignificant as possible while prepping his clamps and needles. “It doesn’t matter if it was my fault or not. What matters is that he suffered while I did not. And even asking to be hit and pushed around and bruised wasn’t enough because I was still asking for it. I’m… I’m not saying that I wanted my choice taken away — I would never ever ask for that or want that in any capacity. That’s the worst possible thing that could ever happen to a person. No one deserves that. No one. It just didn’t feel fair enough even though it was all I could do to make it feel fair. So yeah, I got fucking lucky, I guess. But he didn’t do anything to deserve to be unlucky.”

“I’m not saying that he did, Woo,” Yeosang whispers to the space between them. “I’m certain that he was a good person who got a bad hand in life, and I’m sure he deserved much better than what he was given. You always ask me to consider your thoughts and feelings on matters. You tell me that it’s because I’m an Elitist that I can’t understand you. You say I just have to accept things and move on, but you don’t — I’m not some emotionless husk, Wooyoung. Being an Elitist doesn’t make me not feel anything. Just because I think with logic more than emotion doesn’t mean that I can’t have emotions. For every fucking night you were gone from my side, I suffered too. It felt like I was losing you to the fate you wanted to fight together, and there was nothing I could do except wait. I was lucky too. Lucky that I didn’t have to wait longer or fight harder to get you back. Lucky that we got you on the first try. Lucky to have you even sitting before me now. It’s not… the reason I keep saying that we got lucky isn’t because I think everyone else in that whorehouse deserves the fate they were given. It’s because we had the chance to fight what fate gave us and took it.”

Yeosang manages a shaky exhale. He blinks down at his hands without saying anything for several moments, but doesn’t look back up at Wooyoung even when he decides to talk again.

“For the first time in over fourteen years, I didn’t get to be your shield. I wasn’t at your side. It wasn’t as simple as coming home from a mission and having you by my side, in my bed, or being in your arms. None of that was even an option because it wasn’t a mission and there was no guarantee of if you would ever come back. I have dedicated my whole life to protecting you because I promised to never let you be hurt again. So you want the answer to that question? How does it feel knowing that the only reason you were hurt in there was because you asked for it? It feels like you’re fucking spitting in my face, Wooyoung, and taunting me for my failures because I wasn’t there to stop you.”

That causes Wooyoung to backtrack in an instant. Realization sinks through his skin, and Yunho doesn’t doubt that it hurts more than any pain that he could inflict on himself. Because that’s the thing about love — it can simultaneously bring you the greatest joys in life as well as the deepest ruin.

And right now?

Yunho can clearly see the ruin in Wooyoung’s features as much as he tries to contain the emotions. Yeosang doesn’t stop there, and it’s with a small shake of his head that he lifts his chin to look Wooyoung in the eye again.

“I’m not blaming you, Wooyoung. I know the kind of person you are, I know how deeply and strongly you feel, especially towards injustices and unfairness like what that boy experienced in there. I know you did what you thought you had to, and I’m not blaming you for making those decisions. But do not ask me to love you even a fragment less than I do now. I knew a boy who was in that very same position once too. Who didn’t have a choice, who couldn’t make any decisions for himself, who didn’t get to choose his pain. I knew a boy who sat on the other side of a metal divider in a bed too small for his body and cried because of how unfair life was to him. And I promised that boy I would get him out and save him and keep him safe from harm at any and all costs. I can’t keep that promise if you won’t let me.”

The breath of silence that ensues after Yeosang speaks is thick enough to choke Yunho, and he pauses his movements in the wake of that quiet because it just feels utterly wrong to even move right now. Wooyoung is dangerously still, perhaps more still than Yunho has ever seen him before. Then a tear escapes the corner of his eye and rolls down the ball of his cheek to pool at his jawline before dropping to the bed. It breaks the dam of the frozen atmosphere, and Wooyoung careens forward to smack his fist against Yeosang’s shoulder.

“You stupid little — how can you say cute shit with that stupid lovesick look on your face? And I’m supposed to be okay? God, I’m gonna suck the soul out of you later for that, you absolute sap. Then ride you until you cry for good mea—”

“Um, too much information, hello!” Yunho intervenes before Wooyoung can even think about finishing the thought in front of him. “Listen, I’m all for sex but I do not need to hear those kinds of details. Just… practice safe sex and wear protection. That’s all I need to know about your sex lives, please!”

“I’m just trying to show my appreciation here,” Wooyoung argues through a wet sniff, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Yes, well, save the appreciation for later. I’m still piercing you, am I not?”

“Was that enough talking for you then?” Wooyoung offers a small laugh that sounds more pitiful than anything else, but Yunho isn’t about to call him out on such a thing.

“You tell me, Wooyoung.” Yunho shrugs a bit and glances over to where Yeosang is sitting, watching the way the Elitist folds a hand over Wooyoung’s without hesitation. “This is about how you’re feeling and where you’re at mentally and emotionally. I’m not the person who gets to determine whether it’s enough or not.”

“No, i-its — I feel… better getting to tell someone that. And getting to reassure you guys that it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Even if I still feel a bit of guilt about it, I know I couldn’t change it even if I tried. But yeah, talking about it — that helped.”

“I’m glad,” Yunho hums through a smile of his own. “I know you’re probably sick of hearing me say it over and over, but my door is always open if you’d like to talk more about it. That goes for both of you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Yun, don’t worry! But right now I’d like for you to put that needle through my nipples so I can get on with choking on Yeos—”

“Nope, okay! I’ll put this needle through your tongue to shut you up instead, how about that?”

✧✧✧ a/n: okay so!! i felt like this chapter was kinda necessary? considering what we saw wooyoung go through and i didn’t want to bury what he went through or act like it didn’t happen but bec of the heavy nature of the topics i wanted to make sure that it wasn’t absolutely crucial for anyone to read this and feel like they were missing out. these are serious things, they are important things, and as always i tried my best to represent those things as best i could and as realistically as possible to avoid any romanticizing of these topics so i hope i was able to convey that and the feelings the characters had well. please please please take care i love u all as always be safe and stay healthy !! i’ll see you guys soon with another chapter!

also it’s been a minute but this survey is always open for you guys to take whenever you like!

taglist: @faeriewoobin @sugarrimajins @atinyinwonderland @sparklychangbin @jeong-uwu @jeonartemis @anothershorthuman @xxbluestrifexx @haotheheckk @noonawriter @lostscenarios @nlost21 @mirror-juliet @okokokok123-45 @purple-aeon @theoinkypiglet @toothlessshiber @atinyarmyx1 @simpforhyunjin @hwangwoosan @softyubi @drumboydowoon @chatsgotmytongue @just-a-starfruit @babydolljo @scintillating-souls @khjssss @rawrrainn @hewwo-from-the-other-side @icekdy @eggteez @bangtanxberm @uglychildd @lucymultistan @revehosh @choistan @vampyrejimin

#mists of celeste #abuse tw #blood tw #interim #not tagging as usual bc of the heavy nature of the chapter!

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