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struggling-with-time · 3 years ago

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How to spiral out of control [Simpbur x reader]

Pairing: c!Wilbur Soot x fem!reader (Simpbur x reader)

Summary: How simpbur became simpbur. And how you grew up and lived with him.

Warnings: Obsession, unhealthy obsession, stalking, murder, drugging, unhealthy relationship, and Simpbur being a creep.

Words: 5K

Masterlist: Wilbur’s Masterlist - Full Masterlist

A/N: Listen I had brainrot. And I don't know how to defend this. (Also requests are still open! Click here!) And it's unedited for now it's 5:12 am here I will edit later today

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Wilbur was a pretty insignificant child. The death of his mother being one of the most interesting things about his childhood. While he claimed not to blame his youngest brother for the loss of his mother. He certainly had a funny way of showing his youngest brother affection.

Wilbur is the middle child of three. A charming but quiet and well accomplished older brother, who seems to never have to end to his dedication neither success. And his youngest brother, a loud ball of sunshine that just seems to make everyone in a good mood. Truly good with people, something Wilbur never seemed to grasp.

His whole childhood tainted by that fact. Always living in the shadow of his brothers, the clear favourites of everyone who came near the family of four.

So his grades was just average, never good enough to get acknowledged, never bad enough to need extra attention. Just average, like the rest of him. He grew up lanky, not athletic neither unable to run. Wilbur was grey in a family of golden people. His father raised them alone for most of Wilbur’s life. His father that despite never saying it out loud had clear favourites in his brothers. It was always, oh and Wilbur too!

Never him, never just him.

So, Wilbur spent most of his childhood lonely, disregarded and weird. A pitiful child. A pathetic child.

The thing is there was one thing, that made Wilbur worth anyone’s time. One person. You.

His childhood best friend.

Well, that’s what anyone who only knew Wilbur would say. Because you were the only friend he had. However, it was different for you, although the two of you were good friends, you wouldn’t call him your best friend for years. That didn’t happen till you became teenagers.

You had always tried your best to include the weird kid in playdates, birthday parties, and playground games. But nobody else seemed to find him worth their time, with his weird and morbid comments. But you persisted that he wasn’t that weird, besides his older brother was really cool.

So, you stick around, you stick around as playdates become hangouts, as dolls become makeup, and homework goes from learning to read to writing essays.

While you had many friends, both come and go and stay, Wilbur had been there for as long as you could remember. A playground proposal documented on home video. And a remake of it on the day of your school dance. You had played along, but it was known to everyone that your childhood friend wanted to be more than friends. But you stayed, smiled for the camera and laughed it off.

Then the school dance was over, and the last exam had been taken. That’s when you moved a country over, and slowly you lost contact with the people you used to call friends, but Wilbur stayed. Wilbur always stayed.

He finally got the spot as the best friend in your mind too. A definite win in his book.

Wilbur had always been odd, a bit to the left of normal. But now, with distance and screens in between you, he only started to act more concerning. This was around the time he started talking about feeling depressed and useless.

Of course, you always told him you didn’t believe that, what else were you supposed to say? Your friendship turning more and more into therapy sessions once a week for Wilbur on your end. While for him it was the highlight of his week.

Clicking the call button beside your profile picture, an anime girl from one he had recommended to you himself. One he had stayed up an entire night to shift through different animes to find the perfect one to send your way. One he was guaranteed you would watch.

“Wilbur, I should really get off.”

“C’mon stay on just a bit later, please.”

The silence deafening over the video call, he watches you intensely as you pull your legs into your chest, your shitty webcam standing beside you on your bed.

Wilbur reached out for the energy drink beside him, a new habit he has picked up. The more hours spent on the computer, the more he seemed to consume.

“Fine, just half an hour more. But then it’s the last half hour.”

Wilbur smiles at that, you choosing him over everything else in the world. He likes that, he likes that a lot. You valuing him. Spending time with him, and only him. Your attention is his.

“We could always fall asleep on call, then we could keep talking.”

“Another day Wilbur, another day.”

That. That sentence he on the other hand didn’t like. Not one bit. A promise never kept. A promise left unspoken and unpromised from your side, but a broken and abandoned promise on his side.

Then there was the wall incident.

Wilbur wouldn’t have told you if it weren’t for you noticing the hole in his wall. One that matched his fist quite neatly. His father had taken his PS4 in punishment for Wilbur using so much the WiFi plan to call you. At least that’s what he told you.

In reality, he had gotten into a fight with his older brother, his brother had asked about you, how you were doing, and if he could say hi during a call. There was something about the words that had irked Wilbur, something that set him off, something about him that made his brother seem dangerous to Wilbur. So, he had decked his older brother in the face. Causing a blackeye to occur.

In return, Wilbur now sported a big black and blue spot from where he hit the floor. His brother having immediately tackled him.

And to Wilbur that had confirmed his thoughts. Other guys are dangerous, he’s the only one you should rely on.

The wall had taken the brunt of his rage that night, a screaming match with his dad that ended with his little brother getting sent to his friends' house, and his PS4 getting confiscated until Wilbur had gotten a job and was able to pay back the damages.

And he did get a job, much to your surprise. But you had encouraged him throughout it all. A dead-end cashier job that only seemed to make his world staler and more bothersome than before.

A time where he searched for every distraction possible, gaming, music, you.

You were proud of him when he got the hole in his wall fixed, and even more when he kept his job. And Wilbur doesn’t remember you ever giving him more praise than the day he told you he was starting to investigate going to university.

Naturally, you helped him, and along the way, Wilbur picked up a guitar. A new asset to his den of depression that his room had become, decked in led lights, and overpriced RGB gaming stuff.

The university acceptance came rather quick, and suddenly Wilbur was packing up his life and heading to university. Boxes filled with stuff he barely remembered owning, and kitchen appliances that would never see the light of the day.

And he can feel you starting to drift, already busy with your own life. But he clings to you.

He stays, Wilbur always stays in your life. Even when you drift.

Wilbur knows it’s affecting him. It’s not hidden from anyone. The longer that goes between the two of you talking, the sourer his mood gets. The longer you don’t respond to him, the more messages he sends. The more information he craves to know.

Who are you talking to?

Who are you seeing?

Who is so much more important than him?

Hadn’t he always been there for you?

Hadn’t he always stayed?

You owe him.

Wilbur grows bitter and resentful. But not to you, never to you. But for everyone around you. His biggest joys in life now coming from the ungodly amount of caffeine he drinks, and whenever you reach out first.

This is why the day you call him asking for help is forever a day that will bring him joy.

“Hey Will, you’re really good with tech, and I was wondering if you wanted to help me start streaming.”

He chokes on the energy drink. He chokes on his words. He chokes on the air. He drowns.

His heart aching. His anger festering. His-

“Sure.”

He hears himself respond before he can even process the thought.

It takes him 2 days of absence from university, and what feels like 2 even longer nights, before he’s an expert on how to stream. He reads everything he can find, he watched everything that gets suggested.

You asked him for help, so he will help.

But Wilbur, spends these hours conflicted. You want his help, not someone else’s, someone lesser than him. Him.

But at the same time. His mind keeps wandering, isn’t he enough any longer? Isn’t he good enough for you? Why isn’t he good enough for you? Why? Why?

And thus, he learns you how to use the software, and beings alongside you. He finds comfort in knowing most of your streams whenever possible is spent with him on a call with you.

Although that happens after hours of pestering, that doesn’t matter. He gets to talk to you, while the rest is limited to a measly chat.

You seem to find yourself comfortably in the gaming category, slowly growing. Slowly rising.

Wilbur’s own streams, on the other hand, feels more like incoherent rants interrupted by his guitar plays. And once in a blue moon, you are on call with him.

It doesn’t take long before he gives up, watching you grow. Finding more comfort in watching you, instead of being the watched. Not that anyone really did watch him besides for you.

Wilbur stays out of a camera, as you only seem to grow more comfortable being in front of one.

The first time you have someone on a call with you on stream, who isn’t Wilbur. He just can’t help but break his bedside lamp. It’s a guy nonetheless. A guy from the internet. The type of guy Wilbur has never been shy to tell you horror stories about.

And this is where another bad habit of his started to emerge. He just can’t help himself. But you’re laughing with someone else. You’re smiling for someone else. You’re his. Not anyone else’s. His. His. His.

Wilbur is quick to find the donating button he had helped you set up himself. At that time it had only been used a couple of times. Nothing big. But Wilbur wants big. He wants attention. He wants you.

He fumbles with his credit card as he keys in the numbers, he’s a bit too familiarised with them. Because anything he can get from the internet will be delivered that way.

And then the notification pops up on your screen. A donation number you had never expected. And you start crying. Right there. Right on stream. And Wilbur sucks it up. He sucks it right up that you’re crying for him, whiling praising him, and only him.

The match you were playing ruined, and Wilburs smile only grows as he hears the familiar tone of discord receiving a call.

That night. You had ditched the fellow streamer to thank Wilbur and hang out with him.

Something you never thought you would regret.

But oh, how you did. How you did.

It takes Wilbur around 2 months to get used to a large sum of money means special attention to him, and only him. For everyone to see.

And he can feel you pulling away, so each time he donates, it’s bigger. Larger. Grander.

He’s never on your stream without a donation anymore. Never on call for free. But Wilbur doesn’t mind, because everyone gets to see you’re his.

And he keeps increasing the amount as you keep growing until he hits a stalemate. He’s using half of his paycheck on you, while he doesn’t mind going hungry a couple of days. His bills won’t wait for him. And he has been living away from home for far too long to ever think about calling up his father and ask for money.

Not to mention his oldest brother would never. Then neither will Wilbur. Because Wilbur is better. Better than all of them.

The larger your stream grows, the closer graduation arrives, and then Wilbur is sitting in another apartment. Another dead-end job. Another grey life.

Another dull life passing him by. Your voice constantly on loop his apartment. Constantly filling his life. As it always has. But to you, Wilbur is barely a part of your everyday. Only really showing up when a donation comes in. As you once again tell him not to spend money on you.

But he seems to stay. Wilbur always stays.

He’s the first to like anything you post on social media. Always online never off. Always lurking. Never missing. Never absent. He’s always there.

Wilbur never misses a stream; he schedules his life around yours. Even if you’re a country away.

And then one day you’re not. You’re not a country away, you’re moving back. You’re moving closer. And suddenly you live an hour away by car. Instead of an airplane ride, and shitty trains.

Suddenly Wilbur can see himself get a foot in the door. No longer grasping onto his parasitic parasocial friendship with you. He can see himself being more than the childhood friend who has always been there. He can see himself as the partner that always is there.

Wilbur is giddy the entire car ride. He’s giddy as he feels his bag burn on his shoulder. And he’s giddy until the second you embrace him in a hug and welcome him into your new apartment.

It’s bigger than the one you’ve had since university.

And then his future crumbles. You start talking about a guy named Jared. Fucking Jared. Why did even his name have to leave a sour taste in his mouth? A guy you met over the internet. Not just any guy. No specifically the fucker from the first time Wilbur had donated.

Apparently, he wasn’t a streamer, but a friend you had made during your 2 years you lived at university but never told Wilbur about. Not a single mention of him, and suddenly he’s all you’re talking about.

How could Wilbur have known? You hadn’t even mentioned him on stream. Wilbur always listened so carefully, writing down everyone you mentioned. You had called him attentive once, and he would never want to disappoint you. Maybe if he was attentive enough you would look his way.

Instead, here you are talking about this Jared guy. And Wilbur knows what he has to do. A thought he has been toying with for around 3 years now. Ever since you went to Disneyland together. A trip he paid for, and a trip that was streamed, so everyone could see you were his. You were always his.

That was easily his favourite video.

In the week up to the vacation, Wilbur had done everything he could to learn about cameras so he could help you, and do the most for you. He had even helped you sort through some of the non-streamed videos he filmed too for a YouTube video for you.

Which is where he found the clip of you changing.

The camera had been resting on your hotel bed, the video having a clear Dutch angle, leaving the hotel room slandered. But there you were, right square and centre still. Changing. It takes you a minute to finish before you turn around and pick the camera up again. Mumbling something as you turn it to show off your hotel room, and then the clip cuts to black.

He never told you about it, instead just saving that specific clip on a USB stick. A piece of tech he valued more than his life. Not that his life had ever been worth much in comparison to his.

Wilbur rips his bag open, careful not to make a lot of noise. He removed his clothes, and then the fake bottom. And underneath it reveals small security cameras.

Wilbur has never been more thankful for you being a heavy sleeper and letting him sleep on a mattress on the floor of your bedroom. He quietly sets up two in your bedroom, before moving into the rest of your house. One in your office that has been converted to a streaming room. His own personal angle to your public life.

Two more in the living room, he skips the kitchen and hesitates at the door of your bathroom. For the first time, he hesitates. His hand hovers over the doorknob, the other holding the camera.

“Wilbur?”

You’re standing in the hallway, sleep evident on your face.

“Will why are you making so much noise?”

“No reason darling, go back to bed, just needed some water.”

His breath is stuck in his throat until he hears you close the bedroom door again.

That was the first time he hesitated. And his last. He couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t afford to lose you further.

The rest of the trip passes Wilbur by as you introduce him to Jared. The douchebag himself. The asshole. The guy who dares take away what is Wilbur’s. Even on the ride home. All Wilbur can see is Jared’s image etched into his mind. His god-awful fashion sense. The way everything, he wore around you, just seemed to be a size too small. Nobody wants to see that fuckers’ muscles. Wilbur’s knuckles turn white, as he grips the steering wheel.

Jared has to go.

He’s ruining everything. He’s not part of the dream you told Wilbur you had. Jared has never been part of that. Wilbur was supposed to be part of that. Even if the dream changed through the year. Even if the one you’re living now is the unimaginable future the two of you imagined up at seventeen. But one thing was sure. Jared wasn’t part of that. Wilbur was.

Wilbur easily finds himself a new normal at home. The trip giving him a refreshed sense of hope. A plan in the making. His daily routine now including watching you all hours of the day. Not just your streams any longer. Every single second he can wrench out of those cameras.

And suddenly his friendship seems to improve with you too. Because now he can see when you’re sad and in need of a friend. He reaches out at the perfect time. Abusing your vulnerable state. Because it’s the best to do. It’s for the betterment of your future.

The more Wilbur is there for you, the more he resents Jared. He deserved to be in your bed, not that asshole. He deserves to reap the rewards of his hard labour. He is the one that has always been there because Wilbur has always stayed.

A simple click is all it takes for Wilbur and the item has been placed in a cart. Mere keystrokes and it has been paid. A single click and Wilbur has truly gone insane, as a packet is shipped off. A packet containing a bottle of sleeping pills.

The next time you invite Wilbur down, you barely recognise him as you open the door. Eyebags so deep you’ve never seen before. His entire body slightly twitching, and that manic smile on his lips. Wilbur brushes your concerns off, claiming that’s just what happens in real workplaces. Not that you would know anything about that.

Wilbur hates the feeling of insulting you, but you had barely responded the entire week. You deserved to suffer for a moment. Before he caves and apologises for being rude. That’s the moment you can see the resembles of his normal being as he hangs his shoulders.

Jared comes over that night. Just as Wilbur had planned. And this time he won’t hesitate. He even bought a bigger car for this.

Wilbur offers to mix the drinks, claiming to have learnt a new recipe. Which isn’t a lie, he has learned how to perfect just the right cocktail thick enough that covers the chalky residue of the pills. And sweet enough to make the bitter taste disappear.

He serves them, keeping a watchful eye as the night drags on, and Jared never seems to shut up. But Wilbur can deal with it for one night. Just for one. And then he won’t ever have to worry about Jared again.

He serves another.

And then another drink.

And finally. Finally. You’re starting to get tired. Slowly leaning against Wilbur. And he takes pride in that. Great pride. You didn’t choose to lean against Jared, you’re leaning against Wilbur.

Wilbur sits still until Jared too is starting to fall asleep. Wilbur is ecstatic.

He gets up slowly, gently laying you down, a pillow underneath your face. A blanket over you. He kisses your forehead and smells your hair. Taking in the shampoo scent still lingering.

Then Wilbur gets moving, he has stuff to do. Plans to execute after all.

He does his best to get Jared’s left arm over his shoulders. But their awkward height difference makes it difficult, but he can make it work. It has to work. He only gets one shot.

Wilbur gets the front door open before he realises a fatal flaw in his plan. He has to drag Jared down 3 floors worth of stairs. He realises he can’t do it the way he is now. He has to drag him down by his armpits instead.

It takes him the first flight of stairs to realise Jared shoes are making too much noise. He has to abandon them, Wilbur awkwardly gets Jared leaned against the wall before he removes Jared’s polished black shoes. Wilbur leaves them there, making a mental note to remember them when he comes back.

The rest of the stairs, while difficult and definitely breathtaking for someone who has no muscle strength. He makes it work. Wilbur actually makes it work.

He made it work. It worked. Oh god. It’s working.

Wilbur repositions Jared once more, his arm once again over Wilbur’s shoulders. The night sky greeting him as he steps out of the apartment complex. With great difficulty, Wilbur gets the two of them over to his car, where he throws open the trunk. In the proceed shaking the car, setting off the car alarm. Wilbur is quick to drop Jared as he fumbles after his car keys. It takes him nearly a full minute to turn off the car alarm.

Wilbur curses under his breath.

Annoyed with the time loss. He finally gets the knocked-out Jared into his trunk, and he shuts it again. Just as a front door in the apartment complex opens. A man steps out. He raises a hand to Wilbur, before pulling out a smoke.

Wilbur shuffles on his feet before raising a hand. And then awkwardly gets into his car.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

He has a body in his trunk. Now he just has to get to the harbour. Wilbur starts the car and starts the ride to the harbour a town over.

Half an hour has gone past when Wilbur is pulling the handbrake, and taking the keys out. He’s quick to get out, and even quicker to get to Jared. Wilbur keeps thinking about you. Your smile. Your kindness. Your voice. Your beauty. Your grace. As his hands are securing zip ties around the wrists and ankles of an unconscious man.

He has to go.

Wilbur reminds himself.

A cloth is tied around Jared’s filthy mouth, and then Wilbur is back to dragging him. It’s both easier and harder. Easier before he’s just dragging him across the pebbles and over to the brink of the harbour. Both of his arms are under both of Jared’s.

But it’s harder because if someone sees him it’s going to get difficult to explain. But nobody does. As far as Wilbur is aware.

So a splash is made by a body, and Jared is unceremoniously sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor.

Wilbur takes one more breath of fresh air. Before turning around and getting back into his new car.

He’s quick to arrive at your apartment complex. The man was no longer there. Wilbur goes to grip the front door. It doesn’t bulge.

Oh yeah, it’s locked.

He fishes the copy he made of your house key from his keychain and lets himself into the building he doesn’t live in. An invited guest, that has turned out to be an uninvited one.

He can feel the tiredness setting in his bones, as he ascends the stairs. And the realisation that he just killed someone hasn’t dawned on him yet. Instead, all his muscles are aching, and his eyes barely staying open.

He stumbles into your apartment. Another kiss gets left on your forehead as he goes for your bed. The smell is so nice. It’s so obvious to him this is where you sleep. And he’s soaking in each moment until his eyes are giving out.

His night remaining dreamless, instead, he gets awoken rather rudely around noon. You’ve pulled the comforter off him and told him to get up, so the two of you can spend some timeacting together. and Wilbur happily does that.

Not at all acing like a man who purposely took another person’s life mere hours ago. You rush him to get into his clothes. As you have something planned for rest of the day out of the apartment. You’re talking his ears off as you descend the first flight stairs your personal puppy in tow.

When you stop dead in your tracks. Wilbur nearly stumbles into you.

“Will, is that Jared’s shoes?”

And right there is in fact Jared’s shoes. The pair Wilbur had forgotten all about. The pair he had left unintentionally.

“Are you sure about that? Thought he already left.” Wilbur lies, he may be awkward, but he has gotten pretty good at lying to you through the years.

“Yeah yeah, you’re right. Why would he leave his shoes?”

The question gets left unanswered, and the tension is thick until you get outside, and the sun is shining. It seems it knows too of how good this day is for Wilbur, a dawn of a new era. Where you will finally acknowledge him as the perfect one for you.

The man from the nightstand once again with a smoke and raises his hand to greet Wilbur, once again Wilbur shuffles on his feet before he raises a hand back. You look at him weirdly, and Wilbur shrugs it off.

The rest of the day happening without any mishaps or other incidents. But the shoes just can’t seem to leave your mind, despite how hard Wilbur is trying to distract you.

And then the afternoon passes, and the night, and the car ride, and Wilbur is once again home. And as soon as the door closes. He crumbles down on the floor.

Oh god.

He did it.

He actually fucking did it.

He isn’t useless.

He’s fucking Wilbur, and Wilbur stays in your life. Even when you make such stupid mistakes as falling for another person. There’s only one person for you and that’s him.

You’re actually the first one to call him this time, and the smile never leaves his lips. Even if the call is about Jared. And how worried you are about not having heard from him. Wilbur just tells you; you should have listened to him. Guys on the internet are just like that. And that you deserve better. Someone like him.

You laugh at this and thank him for calming you down.

Wilbur suddenly loves phone calls.

This bliss is perfect for Wilbur you’re talking to him more and more. And he watches, god he watches you. Every step you take in that apartment is filmed logged on his computer.

However, all good things must come to an end, and Wilbur has barely pulled off his tie after work when a group of loud knocks sounds at his door. He isn’t expecting guests.

A group of men in blue uniforms greets him.

“Wilbur Soot, you’re under the arrest for the Murder of Jared Yarrow.”

Wilbur barely registers what’s going on, before he’s in a holding cell. A psych evaluation under his belt. A phone call to his father asking him to help him out.

The days bleed together in the unchanging environment, and suddenly a defender is telling him to plead for insanity.

Then the defender comes back again days later with a court date, and all Wilbur can do is count the seconds.

Time for the first time since arriving slows down when the doors to the court open and Wilbur is lead into the courtroom. And there you are, looking beautiful as ever. Tears and despair clearly written on your face. You look away from him, and it makes him stumble for a moment. A quick look to the other side, confirms his fear. His father is here. Alongside his brothers.

The trial goes over what happened that night, the evidence, the sleeping medication, the car. Everything. Yet even when his sentence is received, even when he is told he won’t see the sun again for a long time. There is only one thing on his mind.

They never found the cameras.

And he just can’t help but smile at that as he’s getting lead away to rot.

Because Wilbur has always stayed by your side, Wilbur always stays. -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

#wilbur soot #Simpbur #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x reader #simpbur x you #c!wilbur soot x reader #simpbur x reader #c!wilbur #c: simpbur #c!wilbur x reader #c!wilbur fanfic #c!wilbur x you #c!wilbur soot x you #dsmp #mcyt #fanfic #female!reader #delias own writing

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snailsnfriends · 4 years ago

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Dream SMP and the Effects of Grimdark Media: An Essay

Hello! For those who don’t me, I am snail, and I have been interested in the Dream SMP since October, but joined the Tumblr community not too long ago. As a writer and actor myself, the work of those on the Dream SMP has absolutely blown me away. However, I and others have noticed a trend in the writing of the Dream SMP: a good sum of it is very grimdark, and I began to notice people really feeling the effects of that, and I wanted to look more deeply into it, and how that can be altered.

NOTE: I am completely aware that all of the writers on the Dream SMP are amateurs, and likely do not have any sort of “training” other than what they were taught in school. I would not be critiquing the writing of the Dream SMP if I did not believe that it could be “fixed.” Later in this essay, I offer suggestions to “fix” the problem that I’m bringing up. All references to factual information used in this essay will be linked at the end.

Now, before we can talk about the Dream SMP and its writing, first we need to figure out what grimdark media is and how that affects those who watch it.

What is grimdark media?

According to the google the definition of grimdark is “(of fiction, especially fantasy fiction) characterized by disturbing, violent, or bleak subject matter and a dystopian setting.”

So now that we’ve established what grimdark is, how does depressing media, or any form of media for that matter, affect our emotions as the viewer?

As we are consuming any form of media, whether it’s a movie, a TV show, a book, a podcast, a live theatrical performance, or a Dream SMP lore stream, we as the viewers are completely aware that what we are watching is purely fictional, and that those who are performing are acting. None of the events are real, none of the characters are real, and none of the settings are real.

So why do we react so heavily to certain moments? Why do we cry during heavy lore streams if we know that none of it is real?

A lot of it has to do with the human capacity to feel empathy/sympathy. Empathy allows us to understand the experiences of others, even complete strangers. Sympathy, on the other hand, allows us to share the feelings and/or emotions of others. As we are consuming media, we are aware that all of it is fake, but we still feel empathy and/or sympathy for the characters. So much so that a physical response, such as crying, is a result.

Even though the characters of the Dream SMP are not real, a lot of their characters’ responses to traumatic events ARE, so we as an audience sympathize with them heavily. For example, c!Tommy shows very clear signs of PTSD after being killed by Dream, such as extreme emotional distress or physical reactions to something that reminds the victim of the event (c!Tommy freaking out after taking fall damage), trying to avoid discussing the even or avoiding activities, people, and places that remind the victim of the event (c!Tommy refusing to go into depth about what happened to him), memory problems (does not really remember how long he was dead for), easily startled, always on guard, extremely irritable, angry outbursts or aggressive behavior, and difficulty keeping close relationships (his current relationship with c!Tubbo).

Even though we as an audience know that c!Tommy and his experiences aren’t real, his reactions to these experiences are realistic, and can be relatable to a lot of viewers, those with PTSD and those without (which is why it is VERY important to be careful with your word choice when discussing these characters; this connects with the problem of villainizing characters with mental illnesses, but that’s another topic for another day). We as viewers empathize with c!Tommy because it is likely that we have reacted the same way to traumatic events, and we understand them fully. They may remind us of our past and/or current selves, so we react emotionally to them.

We as people also mirror the reactions and emotions of others. If someone starts to cry, real or fictional, it’s likely that you will as well. If someone is angry, you will likely get angry as well. This is not odd, and is very normal for humans to do. Regardless, getting angry or crying are emotional responses, and will hurt you in some way.

Another thing to note is that this fandom is made up of mostly minors, and some of the most traumatized characters on the Dream SMP are also minors. It can be hard to watch kids your own age go through so much, even fictional ones. As an adult, it can be just as hard to watch these young kids go through so much, especially when you try to compare those characters to who you were at their ages.

Even those who have not gone through these events will likely sympathize with these characters heavily because what they have gone through is emotionally heavy. Because of all of this, watching heavy lore streams can have a negative effect on a viewer’s mental health.

Okay, so why is the Dream SMP storyline at the moment so dark and angsty? Why do people keep engaging with it if it is negatively affecting their mental health?

This sort of “angst spiral” of sorts is usually something I notice in fanworks such as fanart or fanfiction. It is sometimes a lot more fun to write or draw heavy, emotional moments, and they garner more attention.

It sort of goes like this: the plot has a normal amount of angst in it for the story, and at this point it is balanced with more happy or “fluffy” content, the angst gets more attention from fans, the writer (or in the case of the Dream SMP, writers) notice this and write more angst as a response but it is still bearable, the audience feeds off of this heavily and create more fanart/fanfiction/theories based on it, writer really notices this and (understandably) comes to the conclusion that angst/grimdark things are the best/easiest way to get the audience excited for the plot, the plot gets very very grimdark and is not balanced out with any upbeat moments, random angst plots are started with no real ending in sight despite that not being the original plan for the character/plot (feet are too small for the big shoes) and the rare upbeat moments are short/not given any attention, and at this point, it can be almost unbearable to watch because the plot has become too grimdark. Once we reach this point, or even a few before it, it can cause a big toll on the viewers’ mental health.

The reason why someone who has been negatively affected by the grimdark content of the Dream SMP may still watch it is because the Dream SMP has not always been this way, and the writers have proven that they can do upbeat/fluffy content, so they keep watching. A big example of this is the Disc War Finale. Although the first half of it was more angsty, the final parts where everyone came together to put c!Dream in jail and to protect c!Tommy and c!Tubbo was upbeat and even a bit cathartic to watch. C!Tommy and c!Tubbo sitting on the bench, listening to their discs together in the end was much needed for the audience. This can even be seen in smaller examples, like c!Tommy exclaiming, “I’m free!” while flying around with c!Dream’s trident, or c!Tubbo and c!Ranboo adopting Michael and getting married.

The Dream SMP also may be someone’s hyperfixation, so they are unable to simply stop watching.

So now that we know all of this, what can the writers of the Dream SMP do to fix this, and what can we as viewers do to help ourselves out?

As I said in the note before this essay, I will be citing examples of a more balanced lore/angst plot that the writers have shown that they are capable of doing.

The writers:

Make designated lore streams shorter

The best example of this is c!Tommy’s 25-30 minute prison streams. These streams were short, sweet, and to the point. We got all of the “lore” we needed quickly, and if you happened to miss it, it was easy to watch it back later. If the lore bits were too heavy to watch, then you would not be missing too much.

I know that this is definitely not always possible, so this is most likely the best way to go:

Balance out lore and funny bits in streams

Cc!Tommy’s last lore stream, pretty much all of the Pogtopia streams, and most of cc!Tubbo’s streams are like this. They are a mix of lore and funny moments where the CCs are actually speaking and joking with each other. These are a lot easier to watch because it is not heavy the entire time. The joking moments provide a break in between the angst, and it can also be used as a good way to remind the audience that the Dream SMP is purely fictional. These streams are also better for those who do not really care for the lore and would rather just watch the CCs mess around with each other.

For me, these funny moments are what caused me to fall in love with the Dream SMP and the creators behind it, and I know that the same applies to a lot of people in this fandom. I think this would probably be the best way for the Dream SMP to operate around lore.

The viewers

Try to take a break from lore streams if it becomes too much

As I stated before, the Dream SMP is not real, but the characters’ reactions to events can be very realistic and hard to watch. If things become too much for you, try to take a break from it. Stop watching the stream, don’t go on social media if you follow stan accounts or Dream SMP dedicated blogs, and go do something that calms you down. If you feel that you’re feeling good enough to go back to the stream, go ahead! If not, then that’s completely okay too!

Follow lore recap accounts/blogs to stay up to date on the lore

The fear of missing lore streams is centered largely around missing something crucial. There are plenty of accounts on Twitter and blogs on Tumblr that recap lore streams so you can stay up to date on the plot without having to watch the streams.

The VODs will be there to watch later

If things are too much, remember that you do not have to watch the streams in real-time. You can always watch them later if you aren’t in the right headspace to watch them live.

Conclusion

The Dream SMP’s writing and acting is very impressive. The amount of awesome fanart, fanfiction, analysis posts, and other work is absolutely amazing. It is so cool that so many people enjoy this Minecraft roleplay so much. The amount of people who love it is good proof that the writers are doing an amazing job, and the amount of people having an emotional response to it shows the same thing. However, the amount of angst can be hard to watch and can put the writers in a tough spot to get out of.

I have a lot of faith in the writers of the Dream SMP, and I believe that it is possibly on the right track, with Tommy’s latest lore stream being an example of this. I really do think that the amount of grimdark content can be altered and streams can be easier and more fun to watch. Hopefully we’ll get a more mixed bag of lore and angst soon to make things more enjoyable for everyone involved.

Sources:

https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/post-traumatic-stress-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20355967

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-moral-molecule/200902/why-we-cry-movies

https://www.vice.com/sv/article/exqgqm/why-do-we-cry-when-we-watch-films

https://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/sympathy-empathy-difference

#dream smp #dreamsmp #dream smp analysis #dreamwastaken #c!dream #tommyinnit #c!tommy #tubbo #c!tubbo #ranboo #c!ranboo #long post #dream smp essay #snailtrail.slimes

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motherjoel · 4 years ago

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fine line series (spencer reid x reader)

part 2/3- falling

summary: you and spencer are facing the aftermath of a breakup neither of you were prepared for

a/n: once again, you don’t need to know the song to enjoy this but i recommend listening! it captures the energy/vibe i was trying to create with this lolll

wc: 1.5k

part 1, part 3

im in my bed

and you’re not here

and there’s no one to blame but the drink and my wandering hands

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of Spencer spending every free moment in bed, two weeks of you crying yourself to sleep. Emily told you that you had made the right decision, but nothing about this felt right. Work was different. The whole team knew what had happened, and for once you were glad that Penelope had a big mouth- you’d rather not break the news.

On the jet ride home from a particularly gruesome case, it took everything in your being to avoid curling up next to Spencer and falling asleep to his heartbeat. Instead, you took a seat next to Morgan and leaned your head on his shoulder. Morgan did his best to soothe you, but he didn’t have the somehow magical abilities that Spencer had of making you feel instantly better. You didn’t notice the longing glances from your ex from across the jet, but you purposefully refused to look at him- you couldn’t let yourself fall again.

Spencer couldn’t stand his empty apartment. He knew what emptiness felt like and because of this, he defined his life in two segments: before he met you and after. He hated knowing you were still out there hurting and his apartment had returned to the lifeless black hole he had known it to be before you.

He had stopped drinking after an intervention from JJ, but the empty bottles remained in his trash can. Spencer had made it a habit to stay at work after everyone had already left- he was known to be a workaholic, but sometimes he finished early- on those days, he stared at his files and thought about what he could’ve done differently.

The team didn't take sides- there was no reason to. Neither of you were in the wrong. Morgan had gotten closer to you, though, and Reid noticed. He tried to push down his jealousy however, as that's how he got into this situation in the first place. He felt like he had lost his two best friends in one fell swoop- Derek spent his time comforting you, and he rarely ever teased Spencer anymore with funny nicknames. Nobody joked around anymore, and it was like the office was sucked dry of joy. Much like Spencer.

One night, he almost called you. His finger lingered over your speed dial button for five minutes before he decided better of it and clicked a different number. The phone was answered with a groggy “hello?” It was midnight.

“I miss her,” he croaked, eyes red from the tears threatening to fall.

“I’ll be right over,” came the voice of Derek Morgan, the man who Spencer had originally blamed his unhappiness on. He hung up and let his phone drop to the ground, not having the strength to pick it up before curling onto the couch and hugging a pillow.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been- his depressive state was affecting his concept of time- but soon enough, he heard a knock coming from his door. Dragging his feet and holding onto the same pillow, he opened it to see his worried friend. Without another word, Spencer dropped his pillow and pulled Derek into a hug. He was surprised at first, but soon enough he returned the sentiment. After a minute, the two walked over to the couch and began to talk- something Spencer had missed so dearly.

“What if i'm someone she won't talk about?” Spencer asked, softly. Derek looked confused.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“What if… what if she just forgets about me? I’d rather she resent me then just-just forget about me. About us,” Spencer said, wiping his tears.

“She loves you, pretty boy,” Derek told him, honestly.

“She doesn't need me. I get the feeling she’ll never need me again,” Spencer said, so soft that Derek could barely hear him.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but… man, she needs you,” Derek confessed, thinking back to your late night phone calls and conversations on the jet. You needed him, and if anyone knew that, it was Morgan. “You just have to give her time. I doubt we’ve seen the last of Reid and Y/L/N,” Morgan said, placing a hand on his back.

Spencer didn’t have anything else to say. He simply hoped Morgan was right. Morgan stayed until Spencer fell asleep, and he actually slept through the night for the first time in two weeks.

After that night with Morgan, Spencer had begun to wallow less. He missed you more than he missed anything, but if Derek was right and you truly only needed time, he was willing to give that to you. As much as it was hurting him to see you, he wanted to attempt a truce- he wanted to be able to be in the same room as you and not have to cut the tension with a knife. So when you and him were the only two people in the breakroom getting coffee, he shot you a soft smile.

“The coffee is surprisingly good today,” he remarked, pouring himself a cup. It was a harmless comment, really- surely not enough to send you into a spiral. But it was the first time you heard his voice in weeks, or at least the first time he sounded semi-happy. Happier than you. Neither of you expected you to storm out of the room, and it took everything in Spencer to stay put- it wasn’t his job to comfort you anymore. So he just watched you go. He hated watching you go.

Your vision blurred with tears as you bursted into the bathroom, not bothering to check if anyone was inside. Sliding down the wall, you sat on the floor with your arms wrapped around your legs. How could he still have that effect on you? Tears were streaming down your face as you thought about how badly you had messed up, and it only took a quick smile and a few words from him to unleash the dam.

You wished you had checked the stalls before breaking down when Emily came out of one. She was shocked to see you on the floor for a moment, but soon understood as she quickly sat down next to you and put a soothing hand on your back. Your sobs continued as she rubbed your back, slowly calming you down. After a few minutes, JJ walked into the bathroom.

“There you guys are, I was looking for yo- whats wrong?” she asked with motherly concern, kneeling down next to you guys.

“I’m such a mess,” you looked at JJ as she mirrored Emily’s soothing motions. “I wish I could take it back, I can't take it back,” you cried softly into Emily's shoulder as she shushed you like a mother would her crying toddler.

“He still loves you, you know,” JJ whispered. You found this hard to believe, but if he still loved you half the amount you did him, it was a relationship worth saving. “He’s hurting,” she told you. You felt terrible that it was comforting to know he missed you, that he was in pain just like you.

“It’s going to be okay,” Emily whispered, pulling you into a hug. The physical contact was overwhelming at first, but you soon melted into her embrace as you hadn’t had a hug like this in awhile. JJ hugged you from the other side and you cried harder- you loved these ladies. As much as you missed him, knowing that everyone was rooting for you both was good. After you had finally calmed down, the three of you walked back into the room where the rest of the team was, scattering and trying to act like they hadn't just been talking about you. Spencer's face was red and Morgan was a little too focused on his paperwork.

As you walked up to your desk, Rossi was waiting for you with a coffee in hand. You thanked him for it and pulled him into a quick hug.

“You’ll be okay, kid,” he whispered in your ear mid-hug. You nodded and thanked him again before sitting down and checking your reflection in the mini mirror on your desk. God, you looked like a mess. You attempted to put yourself back together, fixing your hair and mascara.

When you were finished with the mirror, your attention shifted over to the picture frame next to it. It was of you and Spence, taken at the beach. You recalled the day fondly- it was a team beach day and you all had relaxed for the first time in months. You almost didn't recognize your happy faces.

With a sigh, you put the picture frame face down so you didn’t have to look at it. Spencer noticed this and tried his best to ignore it, but his heart was heavy as he looked at Morgan, who had also noticed. He gave him a look of sympathy before focusing back on his paperwork. Spencer spent the rest of the day stealing glances at you, your face sullen and pale. He hated knowing that he caused your pain.

taglist: @easygoingtheatre, @rexorangecouny, @kaytlyngraygubler, @fear-less-write-more, @yesimaunicorn

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peachyqueenly · 4 years ago

Text

The Night of Witches

Rated: T

White Lily Cookie goes to The Night of Witches seeking answers... but this time, she is not alone. Will this affect how Fortuna writes the story?

Link to it on AO3 (if you prefer to read it there): https://archiveofourown.org/works/31830856

//Quick note before we start!!

Firstly, I'd like to thank my friends Lou and Cas (if either of you are reading this, mwah mwah thank you for your help besties!!) for helping me proofread!!! Yall are the best and your suggestions definitely helped bring this work to life <3.

Secondly, feel free not to click this link until you either a. reach the part where they appear or b. finish the entire story, but here is a link to the design for an OC (or alt design, if you will) that appears here. I find having a visual reference helps me, so: https://twitter.com/PeachyQueenly/status/1399134036359106567?s=20.

Finally, just in case, a fair warning that there is an injury (someone loses a finger) and a death in here. I don't think I wrote it too graphically, but pay heed to the T rating.

Such a solemn place...

White Lily had told him it was just an evening trip. Nothing specific, just that she had some business to attend to outside the soaring peaks and sweet valleys of the Vanilla Kingdom. She told him not to worry himself to the point of crumbling... and at first, he felt bad for not believing her mournful eyes.

But now? He was glad to have trusted his judgement rather than her words... for once.

The smell of burnt dough and... batter? Like the lingering smell of the occasional Cake Hound attack. That was the first thing that registered in Pure Vanilla’s senses as he got lost in his friend’s frantic mumblings. Then, he noticed how dark and dreary this place was compared to the sunshine that blessed their home. Even in the deep shrubbery that was White Lily’s personal residence, the faint traces of sunlight could be seen in the sprawling vegetation was in no doubt comforting to one such as her.

Here, however? Nothing but darkness and a foreboding sense that something was... off. As if this was a place no mere Cookie was meant to be.

“The Night of Witches...”

The Night of Witches? He recalled hearing about that back in the two’s school days. Though, no Cookie was able to learn much beyond its name. Something about it being too dangerous for them. Or those who devoted themselves to its research leaving one day— like Lily did after her crime, only to never return. Sentencing their knowledge to secrecy forevermore.

That would all change tonight.

Pure Vanilla had situated himself not far from the display of desserts Lily herself hid behind. That’s when he saw... them.

Even more towering than those grand displays were three figures; cloaked in dark robes and large hats not so different from what the practicing wizards he helped train wore. Yet, their hats lacked the crispy charm their waffle cone attire had. Those jagged edges bringing with it an air of uneasiness—unlike the soft breezes that passed through his kingdom’s canyons.

“...AND WOULD YOU LOOK AT THESE! THEY LOOK AMAZING!”

… huh?

“PHEW! I BAKED A TON OF COOKIES!”

Cookies? Were these the celestials that blessed them with life—

“HERE, TRY ONE! YOU’RE GONNA LOVE IT!”

The crack that reverberated through the air could only be matched by one from all those years ago— that glass-shattering sound which marked his last day as a student of the Blueberry Yogurt Academy. Pure Vanilla never imagined there would be a sound more frightening and life changing than that.

… and yet, that crunch of a Cookie—one of their own—being bitten into. It was enough to turn even one as pure and sweet as he into a trembling mess. One hand covering his mouth as to contain the emotions that threatened to spill out as tears and screams.

White Lily, meanwhile, had never been able to maintain her composure well. Even back when she committed her original sin, the immediate regret and despair she felt was evident in her cries. And her inability to escape the doomed school without the help of her dearest friend. So, it came as no surprise that this revelation sent her into a spiral of mutterings, shaking, and... resolve? No, that last one was surprising. Her insistence that Cookies she hardly knew must escape was a sign of just how much stronger their endeavors with the other three had made her.

All her courage was met with were eerie smiles and silence, however. Perhaps these Cookies had already met their fate... doomed to become the next generation of tragedies.

How cruel... how defeating, Vanilla thought. No one deserved this.

“I...”

“--AAAAAH!”

Pure Vanilla’s eyes shot open as he watched the one dearest to him back away in despair, only to then fall backwards. Off the table edge she was so precariously situated upon. From his view, he had little idea what awaited her... but he was not about to let her find out.

He was not about to let her be subjected to more suffering than she already had.

The beholder always on his person could only glare and roll its eye as Vanilla threw it aside and dashed forward. Jumping into action—literally. He pushed himself forward with the swiftness of the wind, and his hand soon met with her own bandaged one.

He pulled Lily back over the table... throwing himself into the maul of the beast in her stead.

Pure Vanilla could only smile as gravity took hold of him. Smile as he always did... even as the rising heat threatened to crumble him before his body even touched that sickly-looking dough below. Regret could come later. For now, relief came out as a few stray tears and a soft whisper, "Thank you, gods��”

…

White Lily only sat there, wide eyed and shaking as she tried to process what on Earthbread just happened. The soft plop of Vanilla’s poor body made her feel the five four stages of grief in just ten seconds. Denial: there was no way this was happening. Anger: why did this have to happen; why did they have to continue to suffer? Bargaining: please, let the hands of time turn back and reverse this. Depression: this was all her fault.

Acceptance was the logical next step, but it was far too early for such a thing.

Her mouth opened and closed as wordless breaths came from trembling lips. Until, finally, she tried uttering one thing, “Vanilla—”

“WHOSE COOKIE IS THAT?”

Lily quickly covered her mouth, both to stifle her frightened voice and hold back the bile she felt bubbling up. Quickly, she took cover behind a stray plate covered in desserts. Such a sight didn’t do much for the sick feeling in her gut, but at least it offered her cover from the stares of those witches and ever-smiling Cookies.

“LOOK, IT FELL INTO THE ULTIMATE DOUGH!”

Fell? Into the Ultimate Dough? She had little to no idea what this Ultimate Dough was, or what it meant for Pure Vanilla. However, that was perhaps more terrifying than at least knowing her friend’s fate.

“”T’IS ALRIGHT! LET’S JUST BAKE IT AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!”

… Huh?

“YEAH, LET’S BAKE IT!”

No... please—

“LET’S SEE WHAT FORTUNA HAS IN STORE!”

Thick streams of syrup ran down White Lily’s face. She wanted to scream for this all to cease so badly, and she probably would have if she could. This couldn’t be happening. This endless night... their endless suffering had to end eventually, right? From their mad dash into the night following the destruction she caused, to this night they were taught was beyond sacred...

Her endless mistakes couldn’t continue to doom them both, right!?

She could only sit and watch as those cruel hands of theirs began to knead the dough. How each tool so effortlessly and callously did its job: the flattening done by the rolling pin... the cutting of the dough with a tool she remembered gliding her hand across all those years ago. How cold and hollow such metal had been...

Was Pure Vanilla feeling all of this? All the, no doubt, painful experiences such cruel gods wrought?

White Lily became consumed by thoughts such as these. It was all so gut-wrenching to watch, and yet she couldn’t pull her gaze away. It was all so disturbingly mesmerizing.

Soon, many bodies laid across baking sheets normally used as parchment by Cookies. Could one of them be the friend she’d go to hell and back to save? She almost hoped none of them were. As the unfortunate fate of these Cookies was not lost on her.

How could it be? Such a loud crunch left a stain no amount of scrubbing and scratching could rub off.

All those poor, unfortunate souls were then moved over to the oven almost every Cookie escaped from. Perhaps what were once thought as gods had finally grew tired of their endless torture and torment... for now, at least. Soon, they’d move from simply trying their handiwork to...

No, Lily couldn’t bear to remember what The Night of Witches meant for the Cookies who fell victim to it. To witness to it all again.

She needed to get out of here. Fast.

Trembling, White Lily began forcing her old, tired limbs to move. Her staff acting as a cane to support the weight of both her body, which felt on the verge of crumbling, and her new sins. Someone needed to get out of here. Someone needed to tell this story.

Pure Vanilla’s sacrifice couldn’t be for nothing.

… That was when a wave of doom washed over her. This feeling... this... scent. She knew it well. The smell of molasses and pomegranates: Black Magic unique to the priestesshood they visited as young wizards. How... could the witches have gotten a hold of such magic?

And, more importantly, why did magic familiar to her fill Lily with such fear?

She was given no time to theorize. Rather than the sound of breaking glass or crunching of their fragile bodies, the clanking sound of metal vibrated throughout the room. Catching the attention of anyone conscious to it: including the witches and White Lily. The oven doors... they were slammed wide open through no fault of the ones using them. Whatever the answer was to her previous inquires, it was coming. Soon. She could feel it.

A whisper fell from her lips, “What—”

“Ha... HA.... AH HA HA HA HA HA!”

If her magenta irises could widen any more, they did so as that howl echoed around her. A familiar yet twisted laugh. One that was far too sickeningly sweet to mean good fortune.

It can’t be—

“Haaa... who could have known?” relief and a newfound truth came from the reborn Cookie’s lips. A truth as clear as the finest sugar crystals. “Who could have known it was so simple!! All the world’s problems... they all have one simple answer!!”

Another clang of metal reverberated as it slammed the fork-turned-staff against the oven. The loud noise awakening the thing on its aforementioned staff—revealing a burning cyan iris. Such an intense stare could serve as a declaration of its own, but the staff’s commander still offered its own words to those there to bear witness, “Witches... Cookies... truly, none of them have the right, nor should be given the privilege, to define our fate.”

This can’t be real.

“Reborn in a new body... and with a new name. Yes, you lot may call me Black Molasses Cookie—the one true god of this world.”

Pure Vanilla?, White Lily thought: dumbfounded and speechless.

The Witches, meanwhile, gave Black Molasses not a second of respite. Or rather, one Witch didn’t. That one fool amongst them lunged forward in an attempt to grab what was meant to be a tasty treat to them. No doubt to crush and then... eat him. He was just a Cookie, after all. What harm could he truly cause?

“Ha... foolish—”

Two eyes opened and glared at those who should terrify all Cookies: one a familiar cyan to the trembling wallflower, and the other a red that burned a hole straight through her very soul. “As I just said...” he declared “Only I get to define our fates!!”

Seeming to know what its master wanted, a soft glow emanated from the staff before a beam was fired straight towards the Witch. That which wiped one of her elongated fingers clean off. Not a drop spilled from the cauterized wound, but the smell of burning... something made Lily feel even sicker than she already did.

Meanwhile, Black Molasses laughed as his first victim wailed in agony, “HA HA!! That’s what—” his incoming tirade was interrupted when those wails and screams of the Witches turned into a mad dash, “Awww, leaving so soon? Don’t forget—you left your cakes in the oven!!”

Everything happened so fast. Cake beasts arose at the slam of his staff— awakened by its call. Their feral growls and gnawing were not directed at Cookiekind this time, however. Instead, they chased after the fleeing Witches. Bearing their fangs until they found something to sink their fangs into.

White Lily could only stare in horror at what it was.

Pained and agonized screams left the Witch who, just moments ago, had the misfortunate of losing a finger. If only all she lost tonight was that finger. Now, the beasts’ crunching fangs tore at what was left of her withering body and corrupted soul. Until not a single wail was left. And all that filled the air was a metallic scent and the howling of beasts all too pleased with their work.

“Remember this night well, everyone!!! As, tonight, I have shown the world why I am to be the one who divines and rules above all!!”

The Cakes howled louder at such a declaration.

No. No, this couldn’t be... this wasn’t her dearest friend—

“Waah...”

Finally, a much more pleasant sound registered in White Lily’s senses. A child’s voice. How had she not noticed someone so young was but a few steps away from her. Were they cowering there the entire time? Alone? Regardless, she wouldn’t let them be alone for any longer. “Young one, Do you... we need to...” A surprised gasp came as, upon closer inspection, she noticed, “Your arm—!!”

“My, my~ and what do we have here?”

There was no time for her to push the issue. Quickly, White Lily assumed a defensive position in front of the young Cookie. Or... as defensive of a pose she could assume.

Her gaze betrayed her. For the agony and fear behind her eyes served to show just how despaired she truly was. Just how much she looked at Black Molasses and knew one thing: this was all her fault. Whatever happened next could’ve been prevented if it weren’t for her twisted, curious mind. White Lily had no right to convince him otherwise, and yet she persisted, “Vanilla, I—”

“Ah, you still see that old fool in me, do you now?” not a single ounce of respect was given to what Black Molasses considered a mere fragment of his past, “Tell me, dearest Lillia.” he jeered, “You saw the same thing we all saw. You, me, and even that child... yet you look on at my divine judgement in fear. Why?”

“I...”

He sighed. “Perhaps you consider my methods too cruel? Too beneath Cookies meant to help others?” with every word used to poke at her resolve, he took a step closer to both Lily and the child she kept guard over—blue flames rising and dancing from the back of his gown, “And what of you, young one? What do you think of this night Cookies are told is blessed and holy?”

“Leave them out of--”

“Black... Molasses Cookie...?”

“There, there. I hear you, child.” with a flick of his staff, White Lily was hoisted into the air and thrown to the side like a toy who had long outlived its value. A helpless yelp punctuated the thud that followed. Black Molasses didn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, his focus shifted towards the kid, “You who lost your arm— no doubt to those infernal Witches— understands the need for the world to be rebuilt, yes?”

The child nodded, “Hm... I guess... yes.”

“Then follow me.” A gentle smile accompanied his invitation. “I can not only provide that which you need, but I can also show you a better world. One built in my image... I need but your name and devotion.”

“... Red... Velvet Cookie.” the young one responded. The simple act of sharing his name serving as an allegiance to this new Cookie’s vision.

“I see, Red Velvet...” Black Molasses mused as his hand met with the velvet-soft locks of Red Velvet’s hair. Then, his attention turned back towards Lily, “And as for you~”

The previous impact had left White Lily rather shaken and dazed, on the border of consciousness and unconsciousness. Really, it was surprising she wasn’t out like a light by now. What with the exhaustion that came with tonight’s events and the thud she had experienced earlier.

“Still awake, are we?” a crooked smile, and then Black Molasses held her chin in his hand. Directing what little of an attention span she had left towards him. Only him, “Consider my mercy, in spite of your waywardness, a blessing.” he leaned in close, crooning into her ear “I have great plans regarding you. For now, have sweet dreams... then, warn the world of my name.”

Black Molasses then let Lily’s head drop back down before turning his back to her. Leading Red Velvet away from his disciple with some remaining doubts and back towards the oven. They had a great deal of baking to do, after all. Plenty of baking... especially of one particular soul who deserved the ultimate payback.

“... not that any such warning will stop me, of course.”

And with that, White Lily slipped into unconsciousness. That sickeningly sweet laughter lingering in the air as she hoped this was all just one bad dream...

//Hello!! Peach (Katie) here!!!! I'd like to thank you for reading my work-- it means a lot to me that anyone would be willing to check out my writing. Trying to figure out both White Lily's internal conflicts, and how Black Molasses would differ from Dark Enchantress, was a lot of fun. I definitely want to revisit this AU both in writing and drawing over time!!

If you would be interested in anything else I do (as I'm primarily an illustrator), check me out on Twitter @peachyqueenly, A03 @Peach_KT, and instagram @peach_kt. Thank you so much again, and I look forward to bringing everyone my next creation.

Quick credit to Cookie Run Kingdom for some of the lines-- as some were remained unchanged or slightly edited to fit the scene.

#cookie run #cookie run kingdom #white lily cookie #pure vanilla cookie #cookie run oc #black molasses cookie #red velvet cookie

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mother-snake · 4 years ago

Note

More letters? More letters.

I'm going to break a few hearts....

------------------

The pain of losing your child was an agonizing one. You could never stop thinking that you should have been in their stead, that you should have protected them, that you failed as a parent because..... Because your baby is dead and you couldn't stop it.

Virgil didn't know someone could get that pale. Or that they could have black vains. Or that they could cry black inky tears until their face was sticky and it was impossible to wash off.

It was a very sad day.

They just came home from a very sad event, that no one wanted to name because they couldn't accept that he was gone.

Virgil went to his room almost immediately after they got home.

Tears still streaming, he hadn't stopped crying since they found his baby

He walked over to his desk, where four letters sat. Each envelope was a different colour with a different wax seal to match it. He picked up the white envelope with a deep wine red seal, the only thing that was marking it as his was the dark purple ink used to mark his name and the #1

He tore it open carefully.

Hey Vee Anxiety

I guess if you have these letters I'm gone now. I also suppose that you know what happened to the dark side. If you don't, well its gone now. I'm sorry it had to be this way. But I had too.

You and Remus are the only sides with black hair now. How does that feel? I know your hair is dead straight, does it fall into your eyes? Do the others treat you differently because of your hair colour? Speaking of that.

I know I was a horrible child Anxiety, you loved me from the very moment you met me and all I did in favour was tell you I hate you. I don't hate you. I could never hate you.

I hope you gave me a nice send off. Was there daffodils? You know, daffodils were originally called Narcissus. They symbolize self love. I'm sure you know the myth, but it also ended rather tragically. I'm no expert but I think my life also counts as a tragedy. At least it feels like it.

It feels like no matter what I do, I get punished. Society says that you get punished for your wrong doings but what have I done wrong? I wish I had black hair like you. Things might have ended better.

I'm going to be writing a series of letters. Simply because I can't bear to say goodbye to all five of you at the same time. I'll write to you tomorrow Vee.

~Janus Sanders

The sobs only got deeper as Virgil read on. Memories rapidly repeating in his mind. Over and over. The sight of his child dead on the ground. Crumpled suit and knocked over goblet, his eyes were like glass and any pigment in his skin rotted away.

"DAD! Dad!!" the 17 year old looked down at the much younger side. Just passed 7. "Yes my little baby snake?" the child bounced up and down "I'm hungry!!" Virgil's smile creeped onto his face "Hi Hungry! I'm Dad!" the look on the seven year olds face was something he could never forget. Virgil let out a loud laugh, "Fine! Fine! Come on little snake, lets go get you some food" the child's face lit up. "STRAWBERRIES?!?" Virgil grabbed the childs hand. "We can have strawberries, little snake."

Virgil went downstairs and dug out the box of strawberries form the fridge. He ate the entire box.

The next day was just as horrible.

No one wanted to leave their rooms and deep sobs were coming from many doors.

Everywhere Virgil looked, he was reminded of his baby snake.

When he ran out of oxygen for the louder sobs, Virgil grabbed the second letter. A lilac purple envelope with a yellow seal.

Hey Vee,

The others are getting particularly violent recently. Often getting aggressive for no reason. Well unless you call me standing in my bedroom a reason. Well, reason or not. I have a new bruse or five.

How are the others holding up? I'm guessing not well. But maybe I'm just over estimating how much all of you care. After all. Why would anyone care for a side that has only made their lives harder? I personally don't see the logic in that.

But I don't know that much.

I'm going to be completely honest with you Vee. You are absolute shit at taking care of yourself when you are upset. Did you even eat dinner the night before? Wow. Look at me. I'm lecturing my father to take better care of himself while I'm dead.

I should get an award for biggest hypocrite. I haven't properly taken care of myself in years.

I'm serious about this though, don't isolate your self and spend time with the others. They'll be your biggest help in accepting..... In accepting that I'm not there anymore.

~Janus

Sucking in a shaky breath, Virgil stood and went to ask the others for their company. Because Janus was right, its easy to spiral by yourself. Then there was a knock on the door.

Logan wanted to watch some of Janus' favourite movies.

Virgil couldn't say no. Even if he wanted too.

~~~time skip~~~

Everyone was passed out except for him and Logan.

Logan had been very quiet lately, then again. He did barely leave his room for days

The end of Over the Garden Wall was playing. The characters were talking about something when Virgil spiralled back into the memories.

"DAD!" Virgil burst into the room, running to cradle his child in his arms, "Baby, what happend? Are you hurt?" small sniffles left the eight year olds lips "I dr- dreamt th-that you left m-me!" Virgil felt his heart clench. "I will never ever leave you, my little one" Crystal coated over the childs eyes, "Promise?" "I promise with all my heart"-

Virgil fell asleep with a heavy heart, knowing that he broke his promise to his baby.

The next morning was slightly better, not by much though. They ate breakfast together. Then, they returned to their rooms.

Virgil grabbed the third letter as soon as he walked into the room. The pale yellow cover wrinkling in his tight hold. He carefully broke the purple wax.

Hey Vee,

I'm scared. Wrath keeps banging on doors and I think I heard a window break. Apathy keeps trying to calm him down but it isn't working. Depression just left. I honestly don't know where he went.

This is why I need to get rid of the darks. I heard them talking about taking over the mind and I just can't let that happen Vee. What kind of self preservation would I be if I just let them destroy Thomas? A shitty one.

Thats why I made a poison. Its made from my own venom and it is lethal with less then a drop. I'm going to put the whole vial inside of the wine at the party in a few days. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't really plan what I write here. I kinda just write.

I really want a hug right now. I think I'll vist today or tomorrow. If I can get passed the others that is. If they find out where I'm going I might not get the chance to poison the wine.

~Jan

Virgil could tell that the writing was frantic. Some words slurrrd and squished together. Janus did come over to the mind that day.

A small hesitant knock hit Virgil's door. When he opened it, there standing was Janus, he looked up at him, "Can... can I have a hug Vee?" Virgil felt a small blossom of hope in his chest, "Of course, my little baby snake."

That blossom of hope died when he found his child's body. Cold and pale. He cried over the memory and over the letter.

The soft sound of jazz coming from Logan's room.

The next day, he grabbed the last letter. Hands shaking heavily, he broke the white seal holding the black envelope closed. When opened, a picture fell out.

Hi Dad,

I'm almost out of purple ink. Most of it got dried out after I forgot to out the cap back on. I'm sorry dad.

I'm sorry that I took your love for granted. I never accepted it as enough. Even when you did your damnedest to protect me and anyway you could. I used to be mad and upset and wanting to cry at every memory but now I wish I enjoyed those moments longer.

Thank you for indulging my strawberry habit. Thank you for holding me late at night. Thank you for introducing me to reading. Thank you for all the memories and hugs. Thank you for everything Dad.

None of this is your fault. You were the best father I could've asked for.

I love you

~Your Baby Snake

The picture was of him and Janus when the yellow side was nothing but a toddler. Bright golden ringlets sticking out in every direction. On the back was written

"To the best Father, Thank you"

Virgil's tears were interrupted by loud screams from Logans room.

They all bolted to comfort the blue side. Virgil's eyes drifted down to the his letter.

I love you

Virgil couldn't help the thought of his baby in a suit. Attempting to tame his blond curls while walking down the isle. His baby fell in love.

And he'll never get to experience the rest of it.

His tears only fell faster.

-------

Hahahaha

i almost cried tears, i held them in barely. fam were in the room. how dare you stab my heart like this?? i am wounded. (tho seriously, this is absoulutely amazing and i friggin love it to bits!)

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 5 years ago

Text

Shackled Ch 9

Summary: After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.

WARNINGS CHANGE EACH CHAPTER, PLEASE CHECK EACH TIME.

Warning: Show level violence, implied loss of family, grieving, depression, spiraling, cursing, Demon!Dean, emotional manipulation, mind fuckery, psychological manipulation, questioning one��s sanity, emotional exhaustion, depression, blood, consuming blood, sexual content, biting, mental/emotional/psychological abuse, pushing another to commit suicide, mental anguish.

Word Count: 2678

Author’s Note: Eternal thanks to @cracksinthewalls for edits, suggestions, and all the flails. This chapter was the first picture I had in my head of this story, so extra thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield for urging me to actually write it out; wouldn’t have this story without you. Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. .

In case you missed it: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 Masterlist

Chapter 9

After the emotional train wreck of the morning, Miriam’s body screamed for a nap, sleep, any respite from consciousness, but she stubbornly fixed her second pot of coffee for the day. Sure, it didn't actually work for the kids in the Freddy Krueger movies, but they’d been trying to stay up for days and days. She just needed to make it until Sam got back tonight.

Hopefully.

A very bracing cold shower helped sweep a few more cobwebs from the corners of her brain. After she’d gone through her gear and figured out the laundry situation, though, she couldn’t think of any further excuses to avoid the demonic elephant in the bunker.

Just saving my sanity and soul, she thought bitterly. That’s all.

Miriam brought a chair with her this time, thinking it would at least be more comfortable than sitting on the floor. She’d briefly considered bringing one of the thick volumes from the library, but she knew better than to think the demon would actually give her peace enough to read.

He greeted her with wary silence, his human eyes suspicious and watchful. She dropped into the chair and faced Dean, determined not to show any of the anxiety that clawed her insides.

She stayed back, well clear of the devil’s trap, though she didn’t know how much good that would do. If he could project himself into her dreams outside the room, could he read her thoughts outside of the circle, as well?

She crossed her arms, leaning back and studying his face silently. She’d be lying if she said he hadn’t aged well. She’d been so distraught about Aaron’s close call the first time she’d met the Winchesters that she hadn’t truly noticed just how pretty Dean had been. Seeing those old pictures of him had shown her current self exactly what her younger self had been too distracted to notice.

Now, though. God, it was like someone had hand-picked each of his features and thought, How could this get any better?

She shook her head at her traitorous thoughts, snorting derisively.

“It’s rude to stare, y’know. Whatcha been up to, Miri?”

Her eye twitched at his use of her nickname; only Aaron had ever been allowed to call her that. Of course, Dean noted her reaction, probably filed it away for further use. He took in her defensive posture and uneasy silence, and he grinned.

“Heard from Sam? What’s the hold-up? Couldn’t find a padre to do the blessing? Couldn’t get enough blood?”

A half-dozen questions popped into Miriam’s head, but she didn’t take his bait. After all, even if she did ask him, she had no way to gauge if he would tell her the truth.

“I’ve never lied to you,” Dean said. She scoffed, and he had the audacity to appear offended.

“You don’t get to play mindfuck and then claim innocence,” Miriam said. Her headache returned with a vengeance, and suddenly it was all she could do to stay awake. She knew she couldn’t stand up to a mental sparring match with him, but apparently she didn’t have the simple common sense to not engage in the first place.

“Never claimed to be innocent, Miri. Just said I never lied. I would love to eat you up, and if I get the chance, I’ll gladly show you how that little torture scenario earlier should have gone.”

“Yeah, well, Sam will be back tonight, so don’t count on that chance, princess,” she shot back.

Dean ignored her insult. “Lotta hours between then and now. How you wanna fill ‘em?”

“Not listening to you,” she muttered, and just like that she was finished. She stood, done with sentry duty, and turned her back on Dean. He was still bound, he didn’t actually need anything from her, and there was no point sitting around letting him needle her until he got even further under skin.

“You’re worse than a bad tattoo,” she said, then immediately wished she hadn't spoken. Ten minutes in a room with him, and her self-control evaporated.

“Still running that mouth, huh? When are you gonna learn your lesson, Miri? You don’t have any more brothers to lose.”

She stiffened, hands digging into the top of the chair. She heard the pinching noise of her fingernails cutting into the leather, but upholstery was the last thing on her mind.

“Don’t,” she spit out, not sure if she was telling herself or the demon.

“Sam and I never should have stopped that witch. You might have learned your lesson a long time ago, saved everyone years of trouble.”

A fury began to build in the back of her mind, hotter than any she’d felt before. Miriam had been to the depths of so many emotions in her life: the limitless if irritated love for her brother, the fierce pride of her first successful hunt, the guilt and despair of losing Aaron, the confusion and aimlessness of the last year without him.

But never in her life had Miriam felt anything as terrible and all-consuming as this rage.

“Y’know what, I’ve got a pesky little brother problem I need solved. You seem to be pretty skilled in that area; help a demon out?”

Anything else Dean was about to say was cut off by Miriam’s fist colliding with his jaw. The demon’s head snapped to the side, and he remained in that position as Miriam glared down at him, hands at the ready. Her chest heaved with the effort of holding back.

And then she saw the bastard’s shoulders shaking; he was laughing at her. He turned his head, licking the blood from his split lip, his grin wide and infuriatingly smug. She didn’t even realize she’d hit him again until her fist began to sting. There was roaring in her ears, and blood streamed from the demon’s nose.

And still he laughed.

She screamed, her words lost in a storm of wrath, her only thought that she had to end him now. Her vision blurred as she hit him again and again, the pounding in her brain reaching a maelstrom. And then, suddenly, everything shrank down to a tiny pinpoint in the universe, the two of them caught in the eye of the storm, the hunter and the darkness, everything else shut out.

“Do it, sweetheart.”

Miriam was bent over Dean, one foot planted on the floor, her other knee pressed hard into his chest, the hair at the back of his head clenched in her fist. She'd dragged his head back, exposing the thick column of his neck, and she pressed the demon blade against his Adam’s apple just shy of splitting the skin.

“Atta girl,” he said. His smile was knowing now, his voice the embodiment of calm as he pressed his neck against the blade. A thread of crimson appeared where metal touched his skin, and her fury wavered. “Go ahead and betray Sam’s trust. Isn't that what you do with brothers? Kill ‘em, betray ‘em, but either way you let ‘em down, right?”

Blood trickled down Dean’s throat, and Miriam’s frenetic heartbeat began to slow as her eyes tracked its path.

“Miri.”

Obsidian eyes caught her gaze; Dean’s expression was serene. As she watched, the bruises and cuts on began to close up, leaving behind threads and smears of blood without sources. He leaned towards her until their faces were inches apart, and she relented with the knife until it rested in her numb fingers against his collarbone.

“Use your words, Miriam. Tell me what you want.”

The dream reverberated in her abruptly still mind, and she nearly dropped the blade. He stared her down, lips drawn, canines bared.

“Make a fucking decision,” he said, and though his voice was soft, velveted, it carried easily around the room. “Say it, Miriam. Say what you want.”

I don’t want this, her mind echoed, but it was a lie now, just as it had been in the dream. She wanted to forget, to lose herself in something besides the pain.

I want him, she thought.

She dropped the knife.

The demon blade fell, struck the toe of Dean’s boot, and spun away across the floor. Her splayed fingers clutched the material of his shirt as her head swam. She lowered her knee from his chest, sliding it down until it wedged into the space between his hip and the arm of the chair.

Her breath came in fits and stops, harsh and ragged against the frantic pounding of her heart. Dean lifted an eyebrow in challenge, his only reaction as she swung her other leg up to straddle him.

She tightened her grip on the collar of his shirt for balance and leverage to yank him close enough to bring their lips together. She closed her mouth over the freshly healed cut and bit down hard as she sank fully onto his lap. She felt the vibration of Dean’s growl in her chest.

When she finally pulled away, the salty, iron tang of his blood coated her tongue. His lips curled up on one side, and he slumped a little in the confines of his chair, sliding down and spreading his thighs further apart beneath her.

“Sure as hell hope you fuck like you kiss.”

The air had taken on a surreal, shimmering quality, and Miriam had no idea if she was awake or asleep anymore. She moved with slow deliberation, feeling as if she was underwater.

Drowning, she thought briefly as she threaded her fingers into Dean’s hair and kissed him again. Her tongue swept across his, and he flexed his thighs beneath her. A sharp hunger lanced straight to the pit of her stomach.

“Lose your clothes.”

At any other time, Miriam would have balked at the orders, at the sheer arrogance of his words and tone, but she didn’t want to care, didn’t want to think or decide.

She simply stood and did as she was told.

“Let me loose.”

Even in her dazed state, she didn’t dare set Dean free from his bonds, not that she had any way of opening the handcuffs. Instead, she dropped to her knees and worked on his belt and jeans, loosening and opening until he was as bare to her as he could get.

He caught and held her gaze for a long, silent moment, the air muffled and thick around them. Apparently satisfied with what he read on her face, he nodded and wet his lips slowly with the tip of his tongue.

“Come here,” he said with all the command of a king on his throne. And she did.

His fingers rippled against the arms of his chair, his eyes heavy-lidded as she sank onto the length of him. Every muscle in her belly was tense and heavy, and her walls clenched around him. He exhaled sharply, head going back for just a moment before he leaned forward, locking her in place with the force of his midnight gaze.

“Again,” he said. And she did.

She rode him slowly at first, still warring with herself deep inside. This broke with everything she’d ever been taught as a hunter, everything she’d ever believed. But hadn’t she lost everything that mattered to her because she followed those lessons, those beliefs?

She had paid for this freedom in blood, both hers and Aaron’s. She didn’t deserve this; she had goddamn earned it.

She looked into the eyes of the demon before her, bottomless wells of oblivion. There was no hesitation, no regret or worry or doubt. His features were awash with simple, carnal pleasure, a hunger that pulled her deeper, beckoned her to take the plunge and lose herself once and for all.

“Take what you want,” Dean said. His voice was low, rough, and it rasped down her spine. She sucked in a breath, rolling her hips, and he bared his teeth in a feral snarl. Her head dropped, their foreheads pressed together as she moved against him. Her nails dug into the back of his neck as the storm within her built to a crescendo.

Jump, she thought, just let go and jump. End this, end the pain.

“Get out of your head,” he growled, the tendons of his neck hard and strained beneath her fingers. A shock of unmitigated lust spiraled out from Miriam’s belly, flaring through every nerve in her body. Her back arched as she let out a hoarse gasp, her hands clawing at his shoulders.

“Stop thinking, stop caring, and just fucking take what you want.”

Her teeth sank into the smooth, taut column of his throat. Darkness exploded through her vision as the storm peaked. A harsh, guttural groan worked its way out of the demon’s throat as he shuddered within her, his curses reverberating in the very marrow of her bones. She rose and fell a final time before shattering around him.

…

“So, what now? Whatcha gonna do with all that newfound freedom and...what do the kids call it these days? Self-awareness?”

She ignored Dean, focusing on dressing herself as quickly as possible. She’d cleaned Dean up after they finished, feeling clumsy and detached from her body, and he’d been uncharacteristically silent as he watched her.

Her emotions seemed to have short-circuited somewhere in the middle of the chaos. She should feel ashamed, terrified, appalled by what she’d done. She should feel any number of negative, repulsed emotions, and instead, she felt more lost than ever.

What did she want now? Aaron was still gone. She was still alone. She had no desire to hunt. Or really do much of anything. Except…

“I’m all for another round, sweetheart. Maybe if you scratch that itch another time or two, you’ll actually figure out how to make that freedom permanent.”

“What do you…” Miriam trailed off, icy tendrils shame and dread creeping up her spine.

“Don’t tell me you thought a big, strong man was gonna solve all your problems.” He laughed, and acid washed through her stomach. “Sweetheart, I’m a demon: guilt-free zone over here. You want free of all that human emotional bullshit for good?”

His smile was hard, predatory, and she swallowed against the knot of alarm that tightened her throat.

“We’re hunters. You know how this works: you want free of all the complications that come with that soul, you got two ways out. Let me go, we make a deal, I take care of all those pesky emotions of yours.”

He waited as the weight of his words sank into her before casually adding, “Or you could just go take care of the problem yourself like a big girl. Save us all a lot of trouble. What do you say?”

He laughed aloud again at her shocked expression. “What’d you think, that we’d be all cuddles and kisses now that we’ve fucked? You’ve been dancing around me since you got here. Maybe you’re still too much of a coward to say it out loud, but you know what’s pulling you to me. No one plays with demons for fun, Miri.”

The image of a mirror, a seedy motel room, a gun flashed through Miriam’s mind. She throttled down the memory, but it was too fast. He’d seen.

“You're a hunter who can’t hunt anymore. You got your brother killed. You were supposed to guard me, and instead you fuck me. What’s the point of you? You got nothin’ left. You’re useless.”

“I-”

“Look at yourself,” he roared, and she fell back a step at his sudden vehemence. “This here is rock bottom, Miri. You’ve failed at everything else. You gonna fuck this up, too? There’s only one place further down. You want oblivion, you wanna be done with this life?”

She tried to sucked in a breath through paralyzed lungs as she backed away from the demon. Her heart crashed against her ribs, and for the first time she knew what Dean was going to say before the words left his smiling lips.

“You got one way out now. So do everyone a favor and take it.”

…

Chapter 10

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unimpressedperson · 5 years ago

Text

Once in a lifetime, changes were not doubts | m.yg |

(Found this lovely, cutie utie pic on @mnygni‘s account)

Genre: Fluff, a bit of angst

Warnings: Existential crisis

Pairing: @cypher-yngi x Min Yoongi, reader x Min Yoongi

Word Counting: 1.5k

Synopsis: Once Emerson met with her old high school colleagues, she began questioning her own life choices.

A/N: Heeeeeey EM!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! I PURPLE YOU GIRL! IT’S PART OF YOUR BIRTHDAY GIFT! It’s a short one shot, sorry for the small lenght. This piece of writing was inspired by the song ‘Triste, Louca ou Má’ from a brazilian/mexican band called Francisco El Hombre. It’s such an empowering hymn. Hopefully you’ll like it ♥ Forgive any grammatical mistakes. Good reading xX

It’s highly unedited

The link for the playlist attached to the oneshot and your second birthday gift ♥: Emerson’s Greatest Hits

- x - x - x - x -

Emerson felt like Schopenhauer, facing existentialism and digging in her own thoughts, craving realization or new ideas. Although, her brain worked in a fast pace even during the ungodly hours of the morning. After so many sleepless nights, there were no clues on what's a proper slumber under blankets and anchored by pillows, only flying and allowing her body to float around through dreams.

Tired of stiring between the sheets, she took a deep breathe, opening her blueish-greenish eyes, staring at the darkness consuming wholly the bedroom. When you cannot rest peacefully, nights and days seem to last long, long dusks and long dawns. The yellow mornings and purple evenings all feel the same, no longer being capable to differ them.

She couldn't pierce her eyes closed anyway.

Still feeling the queer comfort of being left sitting in the dark, Emerson got on her feet, hazy with tiredness, awake with one thousand thoughts cruising, synapses and explosions, lighting the darkness behind her eye globes. Brain producing more energy than the whole neighbourhood.

It's weird to imagine how much electricity a body can produce, but cannot spread. Humans are nothing but a storage of unused energy. We are atomic and Emerson knew it, she swore that if the room was quiet enough, she could feel atoms setting, blood rushing in her eardrums, result of the heart beating, pulsating the red and white globes through veins.

Standing up felt weird, anything a palm in front of her face couldn’t be seem. The darkness is terrifying once you’re no longer hiding yourself from everything outside. Once you feel obligated to navigate along it, reach the light switch and hope it will be there. Not being able to perceive a fly in front of you is scary, and Emerson knew it.

Instead of turning the lights on, Emerson decided to keep walking through darkness, listening to shadows speaking. Telling her secrets only daylight can keep, nighttime is a loud speaker, a tattletale. Corners whispers, but once you drown it all in black, then nothing else contain their incessant talking, babbling nonsense.

Emerson listened to them, not stopping their ranting.

Darkness, sleepless nights, tiresome afternoons, nothing could quite hurt her anymore.

Nothing but loneliness.

Maybe, all the rating could not bother Emerson, their voices fulfilled the silence, not leaving room for loneliness. A loneliness daylight couldn’t occupy, fill to the brim. Shadows are full of sounds, everything seems livid in darkness.

Why turn the lights on, when the gloominess hugged so tightly those who accept it?

However, in that specific night, Emerson felt lonely, even accompanied by her ghosts, loud thoughts and thuds of her feet hitting the cold ground.

Emerson felt numb by sleeplessness, but awake with jolts of thoughts. Finally reaching the kitchen, after an eternity of walking and exploring the darkness, she got to the door and, only then, turning on the lights, hissing with clarity, asking for apologies from the shadows who were abruptly shut down. She could no longer bear listening to them. She was going insane.

The fridge was opened and Emerson grabbed a box of milk, not worrying about pouring the content in a cup, drinking straight from it. Long sips, nurturing her body and slowly blowing away the fog.

A long day ahead. A long day back.

Sitting on a chair and reaching for her laptop, Emerson began remembering the past day.

A high school reunion. Almost 12 years passed and yet douchebags were douchebags, people still talked shit about each other, but now whilst rambling about their conquerings, children, jobs, travels, fulfilled dreams, and well, Emerson felt like just Emerson.

A gymnasium crowded with people on their 30s, old students, old friends whose destinies run apart. They were now gathering 12 years of news, 12 years of events and occurrences. Dyed hair, wigs and a lot of dieting shakes, adults swimming in debts and bills, yet proudly bragging and showing off their achievements.

Emerson decided to sip on her non-alcoholic fruit punch and observe, questioning all her life choices, mainly the moment where she accidentally accepted hanging out with venomous colleagues. She was sitting on the benches and taking a mental note on never accepting anything without thoroughly reading ever again, specifically if the e-mail has her school emblem and the option to turn down.

Staring at everyone, showing off their kids and apartments, Emerson thought about life.

In ten years she rented her own small place, kept a good long-distance relationship with a korean music producer, a stable job as a psychologist, yet all the bragging made her question: How much did I actually change?

Growing old felt easy, but growing old comfortably always bugged Emerson. Once she left high school, her dream was to evolve, grow out of her shell and be Karen Horney for the teenagers. Unfortunately life ain’t that easy and concluding university costed too much of her sanity, despite all the loneliness and issues, she managed to survive.

Leaving the High School meeting felt reliving. What a waste of precious time, getting around people she hated or barely knew. It drained all the energy from her body and once she arrived at home, let her flesh and bones carve their shape on her bed, hopeful and wishing for some rest. But her brain couldn’t shut off and get in R.E.M sleep, going through everything that happened during all those 12 years.

In a well filled with loneliness and gloominess, Emerson met Min Yoongi through internet.

After finishing high school and entering university, Emerson discovered a profound love for acoustic rap. Her roommate showed a song from Rap Monster and his lyrics about anxiety and fear of failure, some of them masterpieces and within weeks, the girl was dipping down on a spiral of acoustic songs, charged with unhuman levels of sentimentalism and words. Among the talented rappers, a certain small yet rageful guy named Min Yoongi, or Agust D, started playing on Youtube.

Agust D, stage name from a korean rapper who moved to United Kingdom when he was 14, wrote about depression crudely, getting rid of metaphors whenever the subject was himself, but showing off his writing skills and capacity of creating parallels between rap and philosophy. Emerson fell head over heels for him and commented on one of his videos with such passion, expressing how grateful she felt for finding out about his work.

What actually surprised her was his answer: his personal e-mail address, an emoticon winking and other of a phone. He asked for her phone number in a subtle way. Smooth.

Their bonding was instantaneous.

Although he lived in Northern Ireland, too far from Emerson, yet they worked their arses off in order to meet monthly.

Her dating aspect of life was amazing, a long-term relationship with someone compatible and comprehensible.

Why did she feel so incomplete and lonely after all?

Staring blankly at her laptop screen, suddenly her vision got wet and blurry. Tears streaming down her face, ruining the make-up she applied in order to look more mature. Black eye liner? Ruined. Concealer? Stained. Mascara? No longer existing. Everything running down and breaking the coat of foundation.

Emerson wanted to improve herself and wished upon a star everyday.

She had an amazing life, with a good job and a stable relationship. Yet her brain couldn’t see how amazing she was. No one half as strong and tough could go through hard times on her previous job, all the bullying and mental health struggles without letting the existential pain drop them to their knees.

Her insatisfaction seemed pointless, whenever she thought about rationally, but couldn’t control her brain. Could not hold the negative thoughts down.

Everyone on that goddamn high school reunion seemed to have improved, matured and grow out their childish pants. Changing and living their best life, regardless of bills and difficulties.

Yoongi always bragged about how great his girlfriend was and her co-workers constantly compliment her skills, her empathy.

How could she not understand it? How could she still feel so lonely despite everything surrounding her?

Why couldn’t she feel like evolving and changing?

Out of nowhere, the ghosts decided to pronounce themselves even without shadows to support their voices, asking her why she was crying, who did hurt her and saying the sweetest words, slowly helping and making everything seem to be less lonely.

After crying a river, she cleaned the last remaining tears. The clear, small and, before contaminated by rests of makeup, the black eyeliner corrupting the pureness of each drop, now clean and sheer, the most raw demonstration of innocent sadness.

Indignation.

Rage.

Frustrations.

Among so many changes, ups and downs.

Evolution, it’s not solely a synonym for improvement. Changing, this defines the human evolution. It frustrates. It hurts you. Changing is painful. Emerson felt so much pain whilst watching time flying by.

The teardrops, now transparent, candid like newborn soul, brought to this world within seconds.

In that moment, pure, crude, bare, stripped of luxe, all the past risks and struggles drowning in realization, oh in that moment, Emerson realized her growth. Her changing.

The ghost now had only one voice and the source from every word was placed in front of her: the laptop.

“Hey, love, are feeling better now?” - Yoongi asked through a video call, his gummy smile flashing and making Emerson grin.

She was changing, growing, improving and slowly accepting it.

- x - x - x - x -

Hey babe, did you like it? Here’s the translation for the song I mentioned above:

“Sad, mad or mean

Shall be qualified

Those whom she denies

Follow thus method.

The cultural method

Of husband, of family

Take care, taking care of a routine

Only rejects anyway

Well known method

Those whom are painless

Accepts everything shall change.

That a man doesn’t define you

Your house doesn’t define you

Your flesh doesn’t define you

You’re your own home.

That a man doesn’t define you

Your house doesn’t define you

Your flesh doesn’t define you.

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own.

Cannot perceive myself on that word

Female: hunting target

Settled victim

I’d rather burn the map

Trace the roads all over again

See colours through ashes

And reinvent life.

And the man doesn’t define me

My house doesn’t define me

My flesh doesn’t define me

I’m my own home.

She’s gone senseless

Untied knots

Will live in her own.”

youtube

#bts fluff #bts angst #bts reactions #bts oneshot #bangtan sonyeondan #min yoongi #suga #rm #kim namjoon #bts #francisco el hombre #bts fanfic #happy birthday emerson #i purple you #bts ships

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matronaa · 6 years ago

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The Habits of My Heart || jjk

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Word count: 4,015 (holy fucc this is my longest one yet lmao)

Genre: Fluff, Angst ig idk, mention of smut? idk man dont ask me

A/N: This is kind of a vent post ?? I mean some of this is a real scenario and some isnt but like i needed to get some shit off my chest and this helped also this took so long and 4000 WORDS WAT i can normally barely get to 1.5k pls be proud okie bye

You had pushed the past memories into the back of your head, until now. Your years of high school flooded your mind once again when you saw him walk through the door. You knew it was a bad idea when you signed up for the music and band department at your university, but you had gotten rid of the constant anxiety after your first year ended. It was halfway through your second year, and you already regretted letting your best friend, Yoongi, sign you up again.

Through high school, you had avoided all music or instrumental courses to avoid a classmate of yours. Although you were never really friends, you had known him since middle school. Even though you used to talk, you completely hated him. You watched him turn into a complete fuckboy while going to school together, and despite knowing his ways, you still fell for him. It was something about his comforting and easy going demeanor that had you wrapped around his finger. Although you were almost completely sure you were in love with the boy, you refused to admit it. He could get any girl, and he knew it. He could barely go a month before he was in some girls pants, and there were hardly any girls that denied him. You were surprised he hadn’t gotten anyone pregnant. Though his player tendencies were always apparent, you still cared for him. Of course you didn’t want to, but it wasn’t under your control. He had subconsciously taken over your physical, emotional, and mental being. You slowly became more aware that your crush on him had escalated into something unhealthy. You were positive he knew you liked him, and him being who he was used this to play around with you. He would lead you on to believe he liked you, only to get a girlfriend and basically make out with her right in front of you. He did this numerous times, also sprinkling in times he was mad or ignored you for no reason. This sent you down a spiral depression, but at the end of the day he was always the last thing you thought of at night. You hated how you let him affect you, and you continued to blame yourself every day for the pain you went through. Even after high school, his name rang in your ears every time you saw something that reminded you of him. Jeon Jungkook. The boy who almost ruined music for you. Not necessarily listening to it, but you stopped loving it in the way you once did.

At your high school they offered rock band or singing classes in your music department, for teenagers who wanted to pursue a career or hobby in music. These two classes would collaborate to perform a battle of the bands every year. In your freshman year of high school, you signed up for the singing classes, where you learned how to perform and how to make or produce your own music. You had loved to sing and fell in love with the class. You were always in chorus or choir classes since elementary school, so you were amazed at the opportunity to not only sing whatever songs you want but to also write your own. You remembered when they announced the official battle of the bands' date, your friends basically attacked and forced you to sing for their band. You had agreed, wanting an excuse to hang out with them more, but you later regretted your decision. You soon found out Jeon Jungkook was the drummer for their band. It was so awkward at first, but you soon became friends. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t fall back into the loop you were in the years before, but you couldn’t ignore how much you loved the sound of his laugh, or how beautiful his smile was when directed at you. You found yourself prioritizing his happiness over yours, and you gave your heart what it wanted. Even after the battle of the bands, (which your band won) he continued to work with you when you wrote your own music. He seemed to love influencing the way you made music, often giving you advice on the audio. You sought after his approval, and although you had thought he changed, he returned to his old self. This continued on until you were both juniors. One late night you received a text from Jungkook right before you were going to go to sleep. You almost choked when you read his text.

1:07 am

I really like you, I hope you know that <3.

You didn’t believe him, and he spent almost 2 hours convincing you he did. He asked you out on a date that Friday, which you agreed to. The date was soon canceled to what you found the next day.

Mother nature had decided to pay a surprise visit, so you quickly rushed to the nearest bathroom to your class. You ran into the bathroom, hand already reaching into your purse to make sure you had a pad when you saw it. Jeon Jungkook, balls deep into your best friend. You gasped and locked eyes with Jungkook, then you looked at your friend.

“Don’t you ever fucking talk to me again. Either of you.” Was the last sentence you said before running out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into another to call your older sister to pick you up early.

Your depression was horrible, worse than ever. You sister talked you out of suicide multiple times, and you ended up staying home for a month before your parents signed you up to complete high school online. For the first few weeks you were gone, you continuously got texts from both Jungkook and your ex-best friend. After the second week, she had given up, but Jungkook continued to text and call. He did this until you finally answered and told him to fuck off. After that you never heard from them again. You thought you finally found people you could trust, people to make you happy. You were wrong, and they betrayed you and left like everyone before.

Although you stayed home often, you did make friends online. You met your best friend Yoongi in one of the live streamed classes you had to watch. When the professor asked a question for us to answer, Yoongi would always answer correctly, but not without a snarky remark. You couldn’t help but privately message him, and you both instantly clicked. You exchanged social media and soon numbers. You were inseparable, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. While getting to know him, you realized you had a lot in common. You both had depression and anxiety, and that influenced your taste in music and writing. When you graduated, you flew the hour flight to his town and finally met. He told you about the university he was going to attend, and about their music program. Although you were against it at first, he convinced you to send in an application. When you received the acceptance letter, you rented an apartment with Yoongi against your parents wishes. Although they were very supportive, they didn’t think moving in with someone you only knew for a year, let alone a boy, was a good idea. As much as they believed this, you knew the friendship you had with Yoongi was strictly platonic.

Your first year at the university was amazing. You made friends quickly, and you were never very stressed. All of your classes were fairly easy, as you were going for a degree in arts, so you had lots of free time. You and Yoongi often wrote songs together, him accompanying you on the piano or keyboard while you sang vocals. You were finally able to write out your anger for the boy who made school a living hell, and you never felt happier. That is until today.

You and Yoongi were sitting on the couch in the band room, your head in his lap as you both scrolled through social media. You heard a familiar voice from across the room, but you decided to ignore it as you watched a funny video on Instagram. You heard a laugh filled the room that made your heart drop. His laugh. You sat up and looked around the room, almost immediately locking eyes with him. Jungkook, the one you had successfully avoided until now. He flashed a small smile at you and waved shyly. He was wearing a red hoodie and black ripped jeans. You laid back down on Yoongi, ignoring him, and proceeded to spam your best friends messages.

“Y/N why are you texting me, you’re right next to me-” He began before you forcefully jammed your elbow in his stomach.

“Shut up and just text me,” you demanded.

You sat up and started to smack Yoongi, repeatedly saying how this wasn’t a joking matter as he continued to die laughing.

“Look, I’m hungry and I need an excuse to leave or else I’m going to die. Come with me and I’ll buy you lunch.” You said quietly. Yoongi gave in and stood up, and you followed him out of the band room.

Of course not before you and Jungkook locked eyes once again. You and Yoongi walked across the campus to the nearby McDonald’s, where you began to regret buying him food because he ordered some of the most expensive meals. How does a McDonald's order come to this much, you thought as you could almost hear your wallet crying out for help. You walked back towards campus while stuffing your face with fries and scrolling through Twitter. You didn’t normally get McDonald's because it was unhealthy, but you allowed yourself to indulge in their warm fries and delicious apple pies every once and awhile. You were about to show Yoongi something funny when he nudged you with your elbow. You looked up and saw Jungkook walking this way.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Hey Y/N! I haven’t seen you in so long!” He said, flashing his signature smile. Your heart dropped hearing his voice say your name once again.

“Hey Jungkook, how have you been.” You smiled as best as you could, trying not to show how nervous you were.

“Pretty good, just moved here so I’m still getting used to the place. How have you been?” You hated how he kept eye contact with you, it was one of those things that gave you a bunch of unnecessary butterflies.

“I’ve been good. Oh, and this is my friend Yoongi.” You said introducing him, needing a topic so there wouldn’t be any awkward silence.

“Hey man, nice to meet you.” Jungkook and Yoongi shook hands and you prayed for Jungkook to say-

“So I have to go to my last class for the day, but I’ll see you around,” Jungkook said.

“Alright, see you!” Yes! You were so happy he actually had to be somewhere. You and Yoongi waved goodbye as Jungkook began to walk in the opposite direction. You turned back to start walking to the band room when you nearly collapsed because of the bottled up nerves.

You felt bad after you forced Yoongi to listen to your 2-hour rant on how you never wanted to see Jungkook again and that the universe hated you, but he was your best friend and signed up for this when he signed the lease to your apartment. A few weeks past and your music class began to get less awkward than in the beginning. There was no point to try and ignore Jungkook because he was the type to never get the hint. You could ignore him for weeks and he’d still try and talk to you.

You walk into class one day with Yoongi to see a new assignment on the board. The teacher immediately lost his title of favorite teacher as you read the details. “You have 4 weeks to form a group, write and produce a song, and make it performance ready. Today will mark day one, form a group and plan out the most effective strategy to complete this task.” You started telling yourself in your head that it would be fine, and that Jungkook probably had his own band already with his set of friends. You began forming your group with Yoongi on the keyboard, your friend Jennie on guitar, and your other friend Lisa helping you with vocals. You realized you needed a drummer and you mentally cursed yourself. You walked over to one of your friends, Min Hyuk and asked him if he could join your band. You weren’t very close, but you talked often since you had a lot of classes with him the year before.

“Sorry, I’m already in someone's band. I think Jungkook is free though.” He smiled softly, completely unaware of your predicament.

“It's fine, thank you though.” You walked back to Yoongi after saying your goodbye, silently freaking out.

“Yoongi we’re fucked.”

“No, we aren’t” He chuckled.

“The only drummer left is Jungkook which I am not okay with.” You whispered to him.

“Ask him to be in the band, or I will.” He said sternly.

“Fine.” You whined as you walked across the room to where Jungkook was sitting, his focus down at his phone. “Jungkook.”

“O-oh hey Y/N, you scared me.” He jumped as he noticed your figure standing next to him. You watched him pull his earbuds out of his ear and you realized he didn’t hear you when you called his name.

“Hey, I wanted to ask if you wanted to join my group, we need a drummer.” You asked shyly, still unable to look him in the eye for too long.

“Yeah sure, of course.” He said as he stood up, smiling down at you. You both walked back to the group.

“I found a drummer!” You said, glaring at Yoongi. Lisa and Jennie introduce themselves to Jungkook and you all begin to work on a plan to complete the assignment. You decided that you would meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to work on the song but for now to just think of what to write the song about.

Due to popular demand and the ease, you decided to write a song about heartbreak. You were all sitting in you and Yoongi’s living room floor, sharing past stories that could relate to the topic in hopes of coming up with at least the chorus. You had slightly zoned out after Lisa’s story, as you didn’t want to bring up details from your own memories. Sadly, it was soon your turn to share your experience.

“Yah, Y/n, share your story!” Jennie said excitedly, flashing her adorable grin.

“Um.. well..” God, you hated being put on the spot. It gave you so much anxiety. “I just fell in love with someone I thought cared about me. But obviously, he didn’t.” You ended with a nervous chuckle.

“Give us details~ I want to hear the whole story.” Yoongi dragged on, earning a glare from you. Yoongi obviously already knew the entire story, and basically lived it through your past late night mental breakdowns.

“Well…. I knew him for a while,” You started as you brought your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. You placed your chin on your arms and stared at the floor in front of you as you continued, “He was a playboy, and knew very well he could get any girl. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for him of course, but I did. And he knew that.” You glanced up at Jungkook and immediately began to drown in his soft brown eyes. However, this time you saw something different in them. A hint of sadness, regret even. Although you didn’t mean for him to know you were talking about him, of course he could tell. “I wouldn’t say he used that against me, but I felt used almost constantly. But I looked past that because we were young and stupid, and I knew he was a good person. In the end, he lied to me and pretended to like me, just to fuck my best friend.”

You watched Jungkook slightly cringe at the last sentence. You almost let yourself feel bad for being so harsh and blunt, but it was his own fault. He’s the one who made the mistakes, the only mistake you made was falling for him.

“That's fucked up…” Lisa said, her eyes filled with sympathy. Almost immediately brightened right back up as she turned to the only person who hadn’t told a story. “What about you Jungkook? Have you ever had your heart broken?” It was obvious she had a crush on him, but she hadn’t admitted it yet and you decided not to ask.

“Hah, usually I’m the heartbreaker,” He winked, “No, seriously though? I have.”

You looked at him, both confusion and surprise plastered across your face. Since when did Jeon Jungkook have a heart?

“Like in Y/n’s experience, we knew each other for a while, and I fell in love almost instantly. In fact, I don’t remember a time that I didn’t love her.” Jungkook let out a sad chuckle as he leaned back against the bottom of the couch, his hands falling into his lap. You glanced away, but almost immediately felt his eyes burning a hole into you. You were always sensitive to his gaze, and prolonged eye contact with him tended to make you lightheaded. “But I made a bunch of mistakes, and although we were friends I turned her against me. I used to do that a lot.”

“Do what a lot?” Yoongi asked, his head tilting in curiosity.

“Turn my friends against me. I ended up losing all my friends in high school by the end of senior year. I was a horrible and selfish person back then. Luckily, I was able to apologize to almost everyone I hurt. Except for her.”

You turned to look at him again, and the hint of regret that you saw before turned into a sad, apologetic haze. He seemed to zone out as he was flooded with memories he had pushed to the back of his mind.

“W-what would you say to her if you could apologize.” Your voice seemed to falter, but no one else seemed to notice. Something told you he was talking about you, but there was no way. He couldn’t have actually loved you.

He stared deep into your eyes, into your soul. A glare you only remembered seeing in the most intimate and serious times you had with Jungkook, and you gave into his eyes as his voice gave you shivers down your spine as it went down an entire octave.

“I’d tell her I still loved her, and even if she never forgave me or if she didn’t care about me anymore, I’d still love her.”

_____________

“Okay, we’ll meet again on Monday, have a good night!” You said as you saw everyone out. You had finally finished the chorus for the song and decided to call it a night. You watched Lisa and Jennie walk out before you turned back to Jungkook gathering his things into his backpack.

“Hey, Kook, can I talk to you?” You asked quietly and he nodded in response. You brought him back to the kitchen and leaned against the counter. He seemed to copy you and leaned against the dishwasher across from you.

“What’s up?” He said, nervously.

“Uhm… Who were you talking about? Like we went to the same high school, so I was just wondering.” You wondered out loud. Jungkook's eyes flickered around the room, and he was obviously ansty. He sighed before answering.

“I think you know who I was talking about.” He said in a low voice, similar to earlier. He slowly walked over to stand right in front of you, and you were only inches apart.

“Oh really?” You said, raising an eyebrow. You felt yourself giving into him once again. No, no, no, no. Y/n, shut up you flirty bastard this is not the time. “Who?” Jungkook leaned in closer, pinning you with his body gripping the counter on each side of you. You could feel his breath fan over you, his eyes piercing through every defense you had against him.

“You.” He said before you felt his lips against yours. God knows how hard you tried to bring yourself to stop, but his lips were too soft and you were too weak. You felt his hands against your hips and you instinctively brought your hands up to tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue grazed your bottom lip and you instantly granted him entrance. He gripped your hips once again as he lifted you to sit on the counter before settling himself comfortably in between your legs. You moaned into his mouth as his hands traveled up under your shirt, only to return down to your hips the back again. He seemed to know every way to please you, which only made it easier to get his way with you. His lips drifted from yours down to your jawline, causing you to gasp softly as he sucked against your skin, raising bruises to the surface. He continued down to your collarbone.

Suddenly he stopped, his hands comfortably wrapping around you, pressing your body against his. He rested his forehead on your shoulder and lost himself in your scent. God, he missed you, but he never allowed himself to truly show to what extent. Your hands left his hair and fell over his shoulders. You leaned your head against his and relaxed into the hug, taking advantage of his closeness.

“I love you…” He whispered, in a way that he didn’t really expect you to hear him.

“I love you too…” You sighed, causing him to pull away.

“Wait really?” He asked, surprised by your response.

“Yes, you dumbfuck now keep hugging me.” You said as you grabbed at the air between you, signaling that you wanted him to come back to you. He leaned back into your arms before wrapping his hands under your thighs, picking you up.

“Which one is your room?” He asked as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“First one on the right.” You yawned, the feeling of tiredness overcoming your senses. You closed your eyes and heard Jungkook open your bedroom door. He turned on the light before setting you down on your bed.

“You’re such a baby when you’re sleepy.” He chuckled as you slowly crawled under your sheets.

“Shut up and come cuddle.” You smiled, your eyes still closed as you finally settled under your blanket and waited for Jungkook to join you. When he did, you noticed he wasn’t wearing the hoodie he once was. You scooted closer to him and felt him wrap his arms around you once again. Your nose pressed into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. You noticed he smelled different from in high school. It was more of a warm, comforting smell than his old cool and confident scent. You had fully given in to all that was Jungkook, and although everything in your being told you you shouldn’t be here with him, you were. And you loved every minute of it.

You loved every minute of Jungkook nervously trying to ask you to be his girlfriend. You loved every minute of his ‘weekly movie nights’ that included you both falling asleep on the couch, tangled up together. You loved every minute of him showing up without warning in the middle of the night, claiming he couldn’t fall asleep without you next to him. You loved his smile and the laugh you could bring out of him from your shared sense of humor, You loved the full year he waited before asking to have sex. And you loved every minute of the feeling of his hands roaming over you as you finally connected in a way you only dreamed of. You were truly in love with the man who slept next to you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/n: If you have any requests please feel free to suggest them, im slowly running out of ideas and i need some lmaoo

#jungkook #BTS jungkook #bts one shot #bts imagines #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #Jungkook oneshot #bts bangtan boys #jungkook x reader #bts yoongi #yoongi #min yoongi

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vintagesewingmachine · 6 years ago

Text

The Shadowsinger - Azriel - 2/?

Azriel struggles to contain his feelings- for Elain, for Mor, and for himself- and a jewel thief is running around Velaris, causing confusion. With Cassian in Illyria, Azriel feels alone with his darkness. Into this mess waltzes a stranger, an enigma who calls herself Amuten with a mysterious past and connection to Amren.

Warnings: angst, depressed thoughts, dark Azriel, cold Azriel, No worry, there is happy Az too. My OC is pretty important too (not really a warning just a side note)

<<Previous -- Next>>

Azriel quietly picked at his breakfast as familiar voices chattered away. Mor had spent the night somewhere else. He ignored the old pang of rejection and self-loathing.

“So, Az, what were you doing last night that prevented you from coming out with us?” Rhys raised a dark eyebrow.

Azriel leveled a blank stare at him before turning back to his toast. “Is it mandatory that you know where I was last night?”

Before anyone could reply, Elain rushed through the door.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, cheeks flushed and hair tousled. She was wearing a soft green dress with pale yellow embroidery.

Azriel immediately brightened. Elain, with all of her flowery bright goodness, made him feel less... well, less.

“Hello, Elain,” Azriel said softly.

“Good morning Azriel,” she replied brightly.

She took a seat across from him and smiled, serving herself a muffin and some fruit. His shadows retreated a bit, something similar to amusement and affection emanating from them. To clarify, the amusement was directed towards Azriel and the affection towards Elain. Azriel joined in the conversation more readily with Elain.

“Some new flowers have bloomed in my greenhouse. Would you like to see them?” Elain asked Azriel shyly.

Azriel smiled. “Of course.”

*****

A solitary male sat in a secluded section of Velaris’s library, flipping through old tomes covered in dust. It had been a week since he met Amuten. He had spent a few days with Elain, showing her shops in Velaris or helping her garden. The rest of the time he was doing spymaster stuff. Last evening and today, however, he had put some effort into figuring out what Amuten meant. He had found a mention of a powerful, mysterious female in an ancient tome from what seemed like another world. Which had led him here. But he and his shadows had yet to find anything more substantial.

Azriel squinted at the cramped writing on the page. It was in another language, one that had a lot of small pictures. But it looked like someone had written some notes at the bottom. With the name Amuten. It was from thousands of years ago. Azriel sighed. He probably would have better luck tracking the mysterious female down and asking her.

Fun.

He shut the book, stood up and stretched, extending his full wingspan (he does have the biggest after all, wink wink) which made his wingtips brush the bookshelves.

Yeah, he has a large wingspan.

Snapping his wings shut, he strode down the hall, smiling and nodding to the priestesses. He liked the library. It was quiet and had a lot of shadows, and contained centuries and centuries of knowledge.

A shadow curled up to his ear. The High Lord just received an interesting letter signed by several shop-owners.

Azriel immediately winnowed into Rhys’s office.

Rhys looked up, looking only mildly surprised to see his spymaster. He offered Azriel the letter, which the shadowsinger proceeded to scan.

Most Esteemed High Lord and Lady,

A situation regarding the Palace of Jewels in Velaris has become out of hand, pushing us to ask your help. If it weren’t so serious, we would have never disturbed you and your mate. But several shops, mostly jewelry shops, have been robbed of their most prized jewels recently. The strangest thing is that the first shop to be stolen from have had the large ruby and gold necklace returned, in the exact spot it had been before. We await to see if the thief returns the other stolen items. We do, however, wish your investigation. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely, (Bunch of shop owner names im too lazy to make up)

Azriel looked back at his High Lord with raised brows. “A jewel thief? In Velaris? That returns the stolen items?”

Rhys shrugged. “It would seem so. Care to take a look around?”

Azriel nodded affirmative and vanished into darkness.

*****

Sweat poured down Azriel’s body as a clash rang through the training area. He and Rhysand were stuck in a violent dance, involving sharp weapons. They had been going at it for a while now, and both had removed their shirts.

Rhys swung his blade at Azriel’s legs, and he jumped, but instead of landing he winnowed behind his brother and tackled him from behind, forcing Rhys to abandon his weapon. They wrestled on the ground for a bit before Azriel won by rolling onto his back with Rhysand on top of him, but facing up, with a dagger against his throat. Both breathed heavily for a moment before they jumped up in surprise.

“Oh!”

Elain was standing in the entryway, blushing as she took in the two male, shirtless bodies, glistening with sweat in the morning light.

“Elain,” was Azriel’s startled response. His shadows hadn’t warned him. They seem to make a game of not warning him when Elain was near.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Elain said, now blushing furiously as she looked at Azriel, stubbornly keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

A small part of him took satisfaction in the fact that she was flustered by his bare torso.

He immediately responded with, “No, you weren’t interrupting anything,” and took an involuntary step forward. Now Azriel was blushing. Why was he blushing?

Rhys snickered at the two blushing persons. Azriel shot him a glare and turned around to his shirt, shrugging it back on and then taking a long drink from his water. He drank for an abnormal amount of time to distract himself from the suddenly-thick atmosphere. He grew uncomfortably warm as he realized Elain was not-so-subtly staring at him as his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Rhys watched in amused silence.

This went on for waaaaaaaaay too long.

Like, Azriel drained his water, and then panicked without an excuse not to say anything, too long, before Rhys finally broke the awkward silence. Azriel cursed him for waiting so long.

“So, what can I do for you, Elain?”

“Oh, um, I was just looking for Feyre, but she’s not here, so...” More awkward silence.

Fun.

“Well, I’ll be going then,” Elain breathed, flustered, and hurried out of the room.

Azriel couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped his lips. Rhys swaggered up to him, smirking.

“Little flustered there, Az?”

“Shut-up,” the shadowsinger muttered.

Rhysand chuckled. “You know, she spent the entire time staring, wide-eyed, at you drinking that water. Apparently, you drink water rather erotically.”

Azriel choked, making Rhysand laugh harder. His brother patted him on the back heartily. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he whispered before winnowing away.

Azriel took a deep breath to cool down and wipe the embarrassment away, leaving a clean, cold slate. After centuries of keeping his emotions locked up tight, and wearing an inscrutable, unreadable mask, it had gotten to the point where most of the time he had to consciously remember and draw the emotion on his slate of a face.

All that was thrown out the window where Elain was involved. Even with Mor he was able to disguise his true feelings. He shook himself from his reverie. He had no business with having feelings about Elain. He had no emotions. He repeated this in his head whenever he felt something.

He never considered how depressing that mantra was, poor guy.

******

That night, he returned to his clearing. Another nightmare had torn him from sleep. This one was full of Cassian being brutally murdered, wings shredded, guts hanging out. The images were actually memories. It was the not-surviving part that fictitious.

He stared up at the cloud-covered sky from his customary spot underneath the cedar tree, not bothering to try and soothe the swirling dark emotions inside. Guilt. He should have been able to prevent those horrid things from happening to his brother. Fear. What if it happened again? Self-loathing. How weak did you have to be to be unable to save your own brother?

His eyes glazed over. Soon, he was in a never-ending cycle of those three feelings. Mor. Why did she constantly reject him? Was he not good enough? Is something wrong with him? Of course somethings wrong with him. He clenched his scarred hands together. Cassian. Did his brother hate him for not being able to be more helpful when he was being shredded? Of course not. Cassian was too good of a person for that. If Azriel was in his place, he would hate himself. Because he wasn’t a good person. How could he be, with so much blood on his hands?

His shadows became anxious, closing in on him, uncertain what to do about their singer’s roiling emotions that were as dark as the clouded night. Tonight, there were no stars, no light to help him. Just darkness. Soon the darkness was becoming too much, too much like that basement so long ago. Darkness surrounded him. His shadows reflected his fear and how pathetic and weak he was. They didn’t know how to help, and ended up making it worse. Azriel started breathing heavily, started rocking back and forth. Painful memories flashed behind his eyes.

The first time he interrogated someone for information. How many had he tortured? He had lost count decades ago.

Fifty years of his brother and High Lord trapped Under the Mountain. Why hadn’t he been able to help? He was too pathetic.

Broken.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Guilty.

The list went on, like a broken record inside his mind. Finally he snapped, with a shout, and the shadows fled in fear and confusion. He couldn't help the tears the streamed down his face as he spiraled down, and down, and down .

#azriel #just azriel #shadowsinger #shadows #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acowar #oc #a little bit #elriel #just a smidge #spymaster #angst #part two #the shadowsinger

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yvaquietdays · 7 years ago

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idealising the past and dreaming about the future

Last week, after I made the blog public, I received some pretty beautiful messages. Most of them were from folks who had been in the exact same position as me, whether living with depression or anxiety, or simply finding it tough battling through life’s disappointments. It was incredibly comforting knowing what I believed when I wrote that last post was so resonant; we’re all going through the same bullshit.

But a friend in particular, his name is Mat. He commented publicly on my post with some words that got me thinking. Imma share this here:

If I was arrested for any crime at all it would be for idealising my past self. That and eating too many biscuits. Who I was, who I thought I was. I laughed more, I cared less, I subscribed to nobody else’s version of me. But then I got depressed and worried all the time, and I lost that part of myself. The happy-go-lucky, ball of energy, motivated, determined young woman, gone. As slow and as unnervingly noticeable as a fart. Much in the way that Mat reminisces over his “extroverted, confident ‘me’“, I reminisce heavily upon the teenage me, the one who had stars in her eyes and never wavered in her confidence of her abilities.

Except, when I really think about it, when I’m honest with myself, and I face my self in the mirror, I know that isn’t true.

All that I’ve lost, really, are my rose tinted glasses.

I grew up.

I was never motivated, I was never determined. I was lucky. I can’t reminisce about the person I was because I know more about myself now than I did before, and I think the hardest part of climbing out of the pit of your mental un-health is accepting that life goes forwards, not backwards. I can’t unlearn all the things I’ve learnt since I noticed three years ago that I wasn’t happy. The truth is, I was unhappy before that. I’ve been fighting off that frequency sadness for as long as I can remember.

So I can’t go back and rewind the clock, because all I have is now and I don’t want to be that sad girl anymore. I’ve been thinking a lot about cycles, the 7-year-life cycle in particular. Wait, though- Before you flick back to whatever you were doing before you decided to read my blog, bear with me. Aside from whatever spiritual or philosophical connotations the idea might have, let’s look at it logically for a second. The first seven years of our life we spend smelling and touching and feeling out the world around us. Any mental learning is done almost subconsciously, depending on how our world treated us. We’re well on our way to becoming a real, pubescent adult when the second cycle rolls around, by which point we’re discovering our sexuality, relationships, viewpoints and intellect. This is such a huge exploratory phase for some. Then the third arrives, and we’re beginning to find out what the world is like without our parents driving the train. We’re figuring out where we place in the grand scheme of things, and wondering how you might change, politically, environmentally, socially. And then come our twenties.

Jesus Fuck.

WHAT HAPPENED?!

I think it is no coincidence that a lot of people suffer mental illness for the first time in this particular age bracket. I envy those who don’t. They tend to be some of the most driven, strongest people I know. But my friends used to call it “the mid-twenties fear.” Out of nowhere, we’re mentally and physically culpable for all our own decisions and mistakes, and all the ideas we had for life in those first three cycles have become somewhat buried under a pile of work deadlines, rent days and bills to pay. We don’t own your own home yet, we aren’t married, we have no kids. We aren’t in the perfect job yet, we haven’t even begun the successes that were supposed to come to us after we put in so much work at our GCSE’s, A-Levels, degrees!

We’re the guy cleaning our toilets now, we’re the ones buying the food. School didn’t prepare us (not in the UK at least) for how to deal with every day responsibilities; how to pay taxes, how to arrange loans, how to mentally cope with the resounding disappointment we feel at how our lives panned out in contrast to the grand ideals we had when we were in our third cycle.

Oof. I know. Heavy man.

(I have a big problem with how out-dated our education system is; instead of being career-driven, it is goal-driven. Degrees don’t work for everyone and they evidently do not provide for a stable economy. More apprenticeships, less pressure on exams (not everyone is good at those) and more practical applications, pls & thnx)

But here’s what I’ve realised. Life is a cycle. It’s not meant to go backwards, it’s supposed to continue on its round, picking up what we’ve learned and adapting itself as it goes. Why focus on what we haven’t got when we should focus on what we do have? And if something is ever spiralling, ever changing and evolving, how can we go back to the last cycle? Should we jam an iron rod in the spokes, forcing the wheel to brake suddenly and collapse under the pressure? Because that is what would happen. That is what happened to me.

I knew at the age of 18 my life wasn’t heading in the right direction, when I stared out of my university accommodation window at York Minster in the distance, listening to Stop This Train by John Meyer. The night was dark, and I sat curled on my redundant desk chair, wondering in a pale blue light of sadness, even then. Eventually I made the change, dropping out of further education and pursuing my joy, my music. But it did not alleviate the sadness. I continued on, all the while so scared of living life on my own, so scared of growing up. I lived in fear for years of never achieving my goals because I could not bear to be alone doing it. Isolation was my motivation and fear my hinderance.

I spent years dreaming and idealising this vision of the future where I was always winning, where I was singing and performing and recording and I was writing with everyone and everyone wanted to write with me, and everything was just going to work out (claps between words required). It was easier living in this fantasy life I wanted to build, but the escape was taking me further away from reality. Much like that incredible Pixar film, Inside Out, fear and sadness was in control of my actual life.

Things were going well for a while in that frame of mind, but then they didn’t.

When all those things I’d dreamt (I stress that I never visualised them, not in a positive way- I dreamed them- the difference is as vast as an ocean) didn’t happen, I kept harking on to that past self, wondering where it all went wrong, trying to get back that ambition, the endless streams of excitement, the riveting pangs of desire. It was all a lie I told myself. Because really, all I had in the pit of my stomach was dull and and grey; it was nothing, and I could feel myself hiding in that pit, far, far away from where I used to be. All of what I told myself was a lie, and I was starting to realise the truth of it.

I think that amidst all of it, life was telling me (whatever it was; nature, God, Buddha’s mates,) I ought not to hyper-admire my old self. Because in trying to become my past self, I was ignoring what I could become in the future. All of the little lies I told myself started to evolve on their own like that black icky shit from Prometheus (don’t watch it- it’s disappointing, just like your life), to the point that I forgot what I had done to protect myself; when all of those things I had lied with were stripped from me, I was naked and bare, and I had no idea of how I was going to move through the murk of it all. My self esteem was so low that the idea of performing made me anxious, writing made me cry, I sat in silence at the piano with a choke in my throat and my guitar lay in its case gathering dust.

But I was naked for a reason. I had to accept that I was relying heavily upon this idea of my self, not upon what I was. I was constantly seeking others’ approval, my only source of validation was what I thought others thought of me.

It has been empowering to know that the answer has been in me all along. I cannot blame others for how I view myself.

Life is a cycle. I am where I am supposed to be now. It’s not perfect, I’m still working on me and creating my life with my own hands, not someone else’s. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m trying.

But maybe this is my best self, because I’m so much more aware and emotionally awake. Maybe I’m the best I can be because I recognised my laziness and arrogance when I needed to, and in stripping these things away from my ego I am looking forward to being a better person, not the young complacent girl I was. And as a woman, cycles rule our lives. From the second cycle to the latter, our emotions and physiology is run by a monthly turn of events. Part of the reason I came off the pill was so that I could feel and trust this more purely. I was neglecting my basic instincts and self and I couldn’t have jacked up hormones hiding it away from me.

So everything comes and goes. The old girl goes and the new woman arrives. We have a chance to change every time. All aspects of life in this world run in a cycle. Water, fire, earth. It all moves and works in a cycle. Ice ages, the rising of dough into a beautiful donut, the melting of butter atop a mountain of cheese and jacket potato. Life and death. All the important stuff.

So I let the death of my old self instigate the birth of a better me. And one day I might shed this skin too and look forward to the next husk I inhabit.

What I’m learning is that nostalgia can be good, if you’re with your mates and remembering that time you threw up down the side of George Ezra’s tour van (true story).

But if we start becoming nostalgic about our selves, thinking of our current self in a negative way, dousing it in low light and bad reflective gear, and instead highlighting that past self with the glory light of hindsight, we can’t, and I believe, we won’t move forward.

We have to accept ourselves as we are now, and then build whatever we can upon the foundations that we create every second we’re alive. Because all we have are our own decisions, that ultimately we are in control of. How we respond, how we act, what we say; at the end of the day, that’s who we are. What you did today, that’s who you are, good or bad. No-one is perfect and life is a cycle. We always have tomorrow to try again.

We don’t have yesterday, so

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junker-town · 7 years ago

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Mayweather-McGregor and the death spiral of American sports

I used to work at the American casual dining chain Bennigan’s, and it’s really helped me think about the impending shitshow that is the Mayweather-McGregor fight.

This was in the death spiral days of their lifespan as a business, meaning no one had come up with a new idea at Bennigan’s for at least ten years, maybe longer. Instead, every “new” idea at Bennigan’s consisted of combinations of old ideas mashed together. This explains why, at some point, it is likely that the “onion ring-loaded tater skin” existed on the menu.

I’m not sure of that, though. I tried to block the whole experience from my brain because it happened at a very bad time in my life, when I was playing The Sims too much, didn’t know what I wanted to do, and lived off tips from sunburned Floridian office park drones biding their time between work hours and their inevitable and expensive semi-monthly DUI arrests.

What I do remember: The kitchen staff grumbling as they were told to stack the same ingredients in a thousand different ways, usually with gigantic hangovers, and often while having loud arguments with their girlfriends on flip phones and listening to Korn and DMX on an ancient boom box. They knew it was horseshit, and they pulled it hot out of the fryer and threw it on the plates because it was their job.

It was when I realized that to a very depressed person, Baudrillard might be right: Our culture might be a corpse, and everything you see in it and confuse for life might just be the nails and hair of the corpse still expanding after death. That’s a weird conclusion to come to while watching someone plate up a Monte Cristo and an order of the same chicken tenders the restaurant had served for twenty years plopped on top of a bucket of soggy penne noodles and recycled cajun sauce from a recently cancelled menu addition—IT’S BAYOU CHICKEN PASTALAYA Y’ALL—but it’s where I went.

I think about this moment in my life a lot. I also think about how people reacted when I told them how bad something was, that it was inedible, that it was actually the same things crammed together in increasingly ghastly and baroque combinations. I didn’t do this on purpose at first—it was an accident, a moment of complete frustration when someone ordered something terrible and I finally lost all hope when someone spotted a new Frankendish and asked, with a moment of deranged excitement, “is that...good?” I’d tell them the truth: It was crap, and I wouldn’t spoon it into a pig’s mouth with a stable boy’s filthiest shovel.

It almost never failed. With a confident nod, usually, and a gleam of conviction in their eye, the customer would sit a little straighter in their chair and declare: “I think I’ll try that, then.”

This may be where we’re at. I’ll limit it to sports, though you can feel free to take that dynamic and sprint as far as you want with it. The NFL is bad, so bad that even its own fans will declare it a blight on their own lives. Baseball is boring, college football is increasingly regarded as a tax dodge and festive violation of every labor law ever written, and NASCAR and the NHL have entered the “maybe I’ll just apply for a real estate license and see what happens” stage of late adult wage-earning. Horse racing is working as a greeter at Wal-Mart; Soccer continues to get promising jobs at startups that flame out after six months. (But there’s still so much potential, they say.)

The NBA is cool. We’ll just leave the NBA as being completely cool, and the lone, shining exception to the hellscape of modern American sports. I know it has problems, and I also know I would like one pocket of blissful ignorance to hide in while the rest of the world happens.

Boxing is American sports’ prized zombie. When it shows up, everyone freaks the hell out and pays attention. It’s horrifying, arresting, contagious, and probably a bad thing for anyone concerned with human life. Hang out around it too much, and it will eventually eat you. Boxing, as a major sport, isn’t exactly alive—but it’s certainly not dead, and when there’s an outbreak people can’t pay attention to anything else.

It’s also one of those sports that an easily break quarantine as a discipline. They can crash all the way over into something else entirely. That something ends up being less like a sport, and more like pure, horrific, and inevitably absurd spectacle.

Photo by Ethan Miller/Getty Images

Spectacles are an American tradition—not always a smart one, or a safe one, or even a sane one, but a tradition nonetheless. My personal favorite is the Crash at Crush, where an otherwise unremarkable railway agent in Texas decided that colliding two steam engines at full speed would make a great event. The boilers on both locomotives exploded shortly after impact, and killed two or three people sitting too close to the action, but otherwise he was completely right.

It says something real about the year 1896 that a.) a “fun” event killed some of its spectators, and b.) no one’s exactly sure whether it was “two or three” dead.

A spectacle—at least for me—crosses the line from sport when it gets out of being a carefully regulated matchup with set rules and disciplines, and breaks into being something that people will watch simply to see it done, rules and form be damned. The 1970s, with the birth of cable television and expansion of pay-per-view programming, were great for them in particular.

For instance: In 1976, Muhammad Ali fought Antonio Inoki, a Japanese professional wrestler, in Tokyo. The results were confusing for everyone involved, the crowd chanted “MONEY BACK” at the conclusion of the fight, and judges declared the fight a draw. Later, the dearly departed wrestler Bret Hart, who worked for Inoki at the time, would claim the Black Muslims threatened Inoki with serious bodily harm if he so much as tried to touch Ali—which, in retrospect, is probably why Inoki spent most of the time half-heartedly kicking Ali in the legs.

More to the point: When Evel Knievel tried to jump the Snake River Canyon riding a glorified bottle rocket, he signed up investors to broadcast the attempt on closed-circuit TV. He enlisted, among others, boxing promoter Bob Arum and the WWE’s own Vince McMahon. The story had a heartwarming conclusion: Knievel’s chute partially opened on launch, he then drifted off course and landed short of the canyon rim, survived with minimal injury, and everyone involved lost money.

These may seem like dispatches from a crueler, weirder, older nation you can laugh at from a safe distance. Reader, you may not, because in 2004 there was a televised hot-dog-eating competition between Kobayashi and a grizzly bear standing in front of an American flag.

youtube

The announcer Michael Buffer—again, boxing pops up here—made what might have been one of the greatest pieces of live sports commentary ever here when he beheld the bear taking a break after demolishing well over half his plate and said: “He doesn’t know it’s a competition.” This competition also featured forty-four dwarves pulling an airliner in a race against an elephant who was also pulling an airliner. This program made no bones about being anything other than a series of actualized problematic bar bets. Why yes, it was put together by Fox. Why did you ask?

There can’t be too much spectacle at once, if you’re into selling it for a living. Ask a WWE fan about how hard it is for anyone to measure that out properly. You’ll probably get a long, well-supported argument about “exactly what is wrong with Raw,” and detailed thoughts on how the WWE has mismanaged their biggest prospects, but it all centers around how spectacle—the thing the WWE in particular depends so much on—needs to be managed very, very carefully. Too much, too fast, and the audience can overdose and tune out with a quickness.

Mayweather-McGregor is clearly something beyond a fight. Categorically, it’s a spectacle, something between a dare and a show. Like all spectacles people will watch—not for the competition, but for the fact that it’s happening at all. Like a lot of spectacles, it seems to always involve someone from the boxing world, one of the last places in American sport happy to openly write checks for outright bloodsport* and eye-grabbing horror.

*Football at all levels, for legal purposes and brand management reasons, still likes to pretend it doesn’t do this.

The question for me is this: Is this something new, and ultimately depressing and calculated on a whole new level, or is it just another drunken wager made real? Netflix makes money leaning on data to produce things it knows its customers want—i.e., the now famous story about them producing House of Cards because the numbers already showed that it might work. People who liked Kevin Spacey also liked political thrillers; people who liked political thrillers also liked David Fincher; people who liked all of those things would probably like a political thriller franchise starring Kevin Spacey, and produced by David Fincher.

Netflix—or anyone else with the numbers—can do this all day. So can the people who make sports for you, and they very well might. With ratings falling for the NFL and a general panic setting in about the viability of large, bulky sports contracts, there’s no reason to think Mayweather-McGregor isn’t just a one-off spectacle, but the beginning of what is at least a steady sideline revenue stream based exclusively off the combination of existing ingredients.

Photo by Mike Lawrie/Getty Images

This isn’t saying that LeBron James will finally provide a real, visible answer to the question “Could Malcolm Gladwell beat you in a footrace” in a pay-per-view. Or it might be, and I’m completely wrong about what a sport is or isn’t, and how much pure, nihilist spectacle people might want in their lives at any given moment. Maybe the 2016 election changed that for me on a personal level. Maybe that goes back to watching people get told how bad something was, and watching them defiantly order it out of spite, contrarianism, and an unbending need to assert their unvalidated judgment at all times—even when doing that made no sense whatsoever, and in the end benefitted the worst people imaginable.

Maybe, at the very least, someone can make money off of it. It’s entirely possible that that’s the only real result or lingering after-effect here. After all, even if there’s not the actual possibility of something new and real in the fight, it’s another tried and true American business model at work: The chicken finger pastalaya, the combination KFC/Taco Bell, the Expendables franchise, the man-versus-bear fight you never knew you wanted, but watched anyway.

What that thing is probably depends on the observer’s mood. Mayweather-McGregor could be read as a kind of crowdsourced event, the start of something new made real, the beginning of something that ends with a sumo wrestler at last playing meaningful snaps at defensive tackle in an NFL preseason game because...well, because enough people wanted it to happen, and they showed up to watch it. It could also be one of the oldest tricks in the book: A guaranteed, for-pay disaster, built by cynicism and greed, and validated on the viewer’s part only by a desperation for something like novelty and a persistent morbid curiosity.

It could be the future of all sports, or none. I can’t decide which. That’s the problem right now with sports. Correction: That’s the problem with almost anything at any moment at all, really. It’s so hard to decide what’s alive, and what’s dead. What might be simply shambling forward through momentum alone.

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