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meguwumibear · 1 month ago

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Three Little Words

After 48 hours of radio silence, Zayne decides to pay you a visit.

TW: omegaverse (alpha!zayne and omega!reader), brief oral (f) receiving, brief fingering, unprotected piv sex, knotting, minor scent kinkiness

You’re ignoring him.

You are.

In fact, you’ve been ignoring him for a whopping forty-eight whole hours. The two-digit number seems absurdly large to him—there are, after all, nearly nine-thousand hours in a year—but reminding himself of the scale does little to dispel the budding anxiety that begun to eat away at him after the first twenty-four.

It’s not like he expects you to answer all his calls or respond to all his texts. Zayne understands that you’re probably busy, that your dangerous work keeps you from your phone and that your needy friends often siphon away the remainder of your energy forcing you to party with them. His rational mind can think of ten, twenty, thirty different reasons why you haven’t responded to any of his texts, but his emotional mind—the mind in which he cages his alpha—ignores them all.

Two days without so much as a peep from you simply is unusual. It just isn't like you to leave him on delivered or send him straight to voicemail. Typically, when conversation begins to lull—he’s never been particularly good at carrying one—you often bombard him with lines of emojis he must decode like hieroglyphics just to drag out the exchange.

Though he knows he should let sleeping dogs lie, accept—like any rational man would—that sometimes texts go unanswered, especially texts punctuated with curt, dark periods instead of the welcoming curve of a question mark, he cannot. He doesn’t understand what he did to drive this wedge between him and you, but he is determined to remove it.

He spends the drive to your place convincing himself his visit is purely clinical; once he confirms your radio silence is a result of acute emotional distress and not life ending injury, he’ll leave you alone to sulk. Though he’s certain he is easily the best receptacle for your anger or anxiety or whatever it is you may be feeling, he will allow you to process the emotion however you deem necessary, even if that means ignoring him.

The sharp sound of his knuckles rasping against your sturdy doorframe echoes loudly around the abandoned hallway, disturbing the precarious peace. Zayne takes deep, steadying breaths as he waits for you to answer, hoping his concern hasn’t etched itself into his flesh or colored his skin.

It takes longer than it should for you to respond to the knock, and it soon becomes clear why. The door creaks open barely a fraction of an inch, but he can smell the silken honey of your heat laden scent anyway. The thick, heady odor sticks to your dewy skin.

Your bloodshot eyes widen in surprise when you see him, and Zayne’s sensitive nose doesn’t miss the way your scent changes as your, no doubt, foggy mind registers that an unclaimed alpha now stands before you, willing—maybe—but definitely able to provide you with a much needed knot. It sours briefly, before transforming into something down right syrupy sweet.

“Zayne,” you whimper, and oh how he’s always loved the sound of his name in your mouth, how the ‘z’ vibrates between your teeth, how the ‘aye’ sits in the back of your pallet, how the ‘n’ so sonorously slips out between your slightly parted lips. “Sorry, I-”

You slowly blink at him through dark, matted lashes, lids heavy, pupils blown wide. Whatever it is you want to apologize for stays stuck in your throat. White teeth worry at chapped lips as your eyes slip from him. They fixate on the dark toes of his shoes.

“Let’s get you back inside,” he says, voice steadier than expected given the animalistic way his mind and body are responding to your debauched state. His pants, for example, feel a good deal tighter than they did when he first pulled them on this morning.

You don’t open the door to accommodate him, and—despite the urgings of his inner alpha—Zayne doesn’t bully his way inside. He is in control of himself, of the shaking hands that yearn to press a cool palm against your feverish forehead, of the restless legs that itch to close the distance between him and you. Even as saliva begins to well in his mouth as he takes in lungful after lungful of pure, unadulterated need, Zayne is in control.

“But,” you protest weakly, lithe fingers gripping the doorway for support, “I’m in heat.”

Yeah, he knows. He can smell you.

“I understand,” he replies, wishing for maybe the first time ever to rid himself of the adhesive patches that help keep his scent at bay. His covered glands itch as they strain against the dense medicinal covers, secreting what little soothing hormones the compact space allows. “I want to help.”

Your brows knit together as you digest what he’s shared. Then your lower lip begins to wobble and salty tears begin to streak steadily down your darkened cheeks as you let out an absolutely gut-wrenching sob.

Both Zayne and his alpha recoil at the raucous little hiccups that escape from your throat as you try unsuccessfully to choke back your cries. Wolfish instincts scream at him to comfort you, but he isn’t sure how to without crossing any of the carefully maintained boundaries that the relationship he has cultivated with you are built on.

Tentatively, he places his palm against the cold surface of your door and begins to gently push at the barrier, just hard enough for you to register his ask. You could stop the door from opening, if you really wanted. You could stop him from entering too. Instead, you take a cautious step back away from the entrance, and allow him to shoulder his way inside.

First things first: he makes his way over to your kitchen and fills a glass with water. Omegas in heat need to stay hydrated, but their hormone addled bodies sometimes forget to complete even the most basic activities of daily living in the pursuit of a knot. If he had to guess, you haven’t had anything to eat or drink in at least twenty-four hours.

Which is why he can’t understand why you eye the hydrating liquid so suspiciously. You need it. Your already sore muscles will cramp without it. Your head will begin to ache. Hydration is a basic part of tending to oneself in rut or heat, and you’re already on, what, day two?

“You need to drink,” he tells you, which, to his confusion, only makes you cry harder. Omegas are prone to crying spells during heats—especially when they are unable to fulfil their sexual needs—but the tears are usually a result of happiness and pleasure. Something must be terribly wrong if the thought of drinking water has brought you to tears. Like he said at the door, he wants to help you through this. He’s trying to take care of you. Can you really not understand that?

“’m okay,” you slur out between sobs. “Thank you for checking on me. You can go now.”

Zayne blinks at you as if clearing his vision will make clear for him why you’re in such emotional distress. He doesn’t doubt your tears were brought on as a side effect of your heat, but your heat alone doesn’t fully explain the way your scent keeps getting sicker and sicker as you stare at the water he’s offered.

“And, why would I do that?” he asks.

“Because,” pause for another chest-rattling cry you’re unable to swallow down, “because you don’t like omegas.”

Hold on. What?

Zayne closes the gap between the two of you in three deceptively calm strides, water forgotten on the counter. He tucks his index finger beneath your chin and lifts it so that you’re forced to look him in the eyes. Yours begin to wander—looking anywhere other than at his—but they eventually settle where he needs them.

“What ever gave you that impression?”

Your eyes flick to his neck, where, hidden beneath his shirt collar, two scent patches prevent him from producing the aromatic oils his body, an alpha’s body, naturally creates to attract omegas, to attract mates. It occurs to Zayne suddenly the last time you ever caught his natural scent may have been the day before he left you all those years ago.

“That’s not why I wear them,” he tells you. Well, that’s not technically why he wears them anyway. The patches do keep away omegas, but they also help him wrangle his alpha. He doesn’t like how strongly he smells. Doesn’t want to stink up the office or operating room. Doesn’t want to scare his patients. And, he certainly doesn’t want to attract any omega who isn’t…

“Take them off?” you ask as your body begins to list towards him.

He lets you press yourself against his chest and nuzzle your nose against his pec. His scent is probably strong there, though he imagines whatever smell sticks to his chest is faded and dulled. The active ingredient in his soap is meant to neutralize his body’s natural odors.

“I can’t,” he says, as you continue rub your face against him, nose traveling left of his pec to the crevice of his armpit, where his scent is likely the most potent.

“Please,” you beg, neck straining to resume eye contact, if only so you can blink beseechingly at him with red-rimmed, doe-like eyes. “You said you want to help.”

“I do,” he affirms. He rubs soothing circles into your back to placate you. Perhaps if the two of you had discussed this prior—what you like and dislike in the bedroom—he could do more for you, but he doesn’t want to take advantage of you in your primal state. “Do you have any heat aids?”

Your cries have softened, no longer the violent, rib-splitting wails from earlier, but the tide of tears hasn’t completely stopped. He thumbs a few stragglers away, and you lean eagerly into his touch.

“Don’t want a heat aid,” you tell him, tongue darting out of your mouth to wet your dry lips. Zayne can’t tell if you’re intentionally trying to rile him up, or if you’ve surrendered completely to your inner omega. “I want your knot.”

Zayne strokes your cheek with his thumb, “I can’t give you that today.”

“Why not?” you ask him, squirming a bit to reposition yourself. Too late does Zayne realize you’re pushing your body firmly against his groin, “I can smell how much you want me. Your scent patches don’t mask the salt of your cum.”

Damn his alpha biology.

But, you’re not wrong; he does want you. He’s wanted you from the moment he first presented. He could picture, even then, sucking the smooth skin of your neck into his mouth and sinking his incisors deep into the depths of your scent gland, claiming you, mating you. That’s why he wears patches. That’s why he takes pills. His alpha craves you with a ferocity that he struggles to bring to heel.

“That’s your heat talking,” he replies, though he knows the words are a lie even before they leave his mouth. The patches and pills may keep his scent at bay, but they do nothing to suppress yours. It always sweetens when he’s near, and sours when you part. He’s spent every year since reconnecting with you attempting to convince himself that your scent changes like that around all capable alphas, not just him. That’s how scents work, right? They change based on the parties present. They communicate what a person feels.

“You’re wrong,” you snarl, top lip hiking in anger. “Stupid too, if you really believe that. Are you stupid Doctor Zayne?”

The answer to that, it turns out, varies depending on the circumstance. It would be stupid of him, for example, to carry you to your bedroom and tuck you back into your nest—his eyes find a few of his missing ties near the foot of the bundle, and he chooses not to dwell on what that could mean. It would be stupid of him to help you peel the sweat-soaked cotton t-shirt that you tossed on to greet him away from your sticky, moist skin. All this, would of course, be stupid of him because it just makes him want you more, more, more.

He does all this anyway.

“I’ll behave,” you whine, legs instinctually falling open, hands wandering south towards your glistening folds to part your lips for him.

Zayne tears his eyes away from your squirming form, determined to preserve what he can of your dignity.

“That isn’t the issue,” he says. The dulcet squelch of you playing with yourself takes up residence in his head, right behind his temple. He wonders how many times you’ve brought yourself to the brink of an orgasm within these past forty-eight hours, hoping to alleviate the lecherous itch only to agitate it further.

“Then what…”

The squelching stops. Zayne chances a glance at you, at your face only, not the supple flesh of your thighs or plumpness of your breasts or plush skin of your ass. Zayne is a gentleman in perfect control of himself. He’s thinking only about providing for you in your time of need. He is not thinking about crawling between your spread legs and attaching his tongue to your cunt. Not actively anyway. Those thoughts are intrusive, out of his control.

“Have you considered the risks?” he asks gently, eyes still glued to your face. Just your face. Just your lips and your nose and your lashes. Just your temple and forehead and cheek.

“What risks?” you demand.

“I’m not wearing teeth guards.”

He tried a few times, but the rubbery caps never sat right in his mouth.

“So?”

Astra save him do you even know what you’re insinuating?

“I could bite you,” he patiently explains.

“And?”

And mate you, his alpha brain unhelpfully supplies. You clearly want him too. Your neck keeps lolling to the side, baring your unprotected, raised scent gland to him. Traitorous fingers move without his blessing. A thumb presses down on the slippery skin, coaxing out some of its oils. You let out a sanguine sigh.

“Zayne,” you whimper, arching yourself further off the bed, pressing your leaking gland against the pad of his thumb. “Alpha.”

What a dangerous word. One you’ve never said like that before. It’s always spit out, harsh and angry, accompanied with the roll of your eyes. Now, you drag out each and every syllable, savoring the weight of the vowels on your tongue.

“You really don’t have a heat aid?” he asks. He doesn’t understand how you’ve made it through all your past heats without one, unless you’ve heat shared with someone else, with someone who isn’t him. One of your coworkers does seem unusually attached to you…some painter you met on the job does too. Something ugly coils in his gut at the idea of anyone else seeing you like this. “We’ll have to purchase you one for the future. Until then…”

Until then what? He really, truly shouldn’t touch you anymore than he already has. Not without your explicit consent. Which you can’t give in this state. Maybe he could use his fingers to satisfy you? His whole fist if needed. He isn’t sure what your pussy is able to accommodate or what will simulate the feeling of fullness you’re craving. If his fist isn’t an option, it’s possible you have something thick and phallic around the apartment somewhere.

Trying to picture the different ways to satisfy your needs proves fatal. The hallucinogenic lucidity with which he can suddenly picture you all fucked out on his fist nearly sends him into a fit of hysterics. Gods he hasn’t even touched you, yet he can feel a wet patch blooming in his briefs from his pre.

He needs to focus on something else. Fast.

There’s no heat aid, no silicone toy, no faux phallus he can use to help you. The only instrument in his possession is himself. He looks at your neat little nest—it’s a sparse, thin thing in need of additional blankets and shirts—and you seem to understand the question forming in his mind.

“Please,” you beg, your voice a siren song, drawing him near, pulling him under. When he doesn’t immediately succumb to the melody, the next noise out of you is a piercing, high-pitched trill.

Even if he wanted to, Zayne couldn’t stop his alpha instincts from responding to the call. His knees give out, and he topples onto you, long, stiff limbs tangling with yours. A disembodied hand claws at one of his scent patches, ripping the oppressive thing away from his neck so he can rub himself against your skin and scent you proper.

“Thought you said you would behave,” he pants once he has thoroughly coated you with his oils. His inner alpha screams at him to remove the rest of his patches, to let his scent mix and mingle with your own.

“Thought you said you would help,” you huff. Then, your lower lip begins to tremble. When you bare your neck to him this time, it isn’t to titillate or tempt him, but to hide the onslaught of tears that you can’t stem in the pillow by your head. “Do you not like me?”

Fuck. Maybe he is stupid. So stupid. Oh-so-terribly stupid.

“I like you,” he says, pressing his lips against your temple. Your breath begins to steady, so he repeats the three little words again and again and again until your heartbreaking sobs finally stop and your head is no longer buried in your pillow like an ostrich’s in the sand.

“I like you. I like you. I like you a lot.”

If he could effectively communicate just how much he likes you, he would, but he isn’t sure how he could possibly transcribe into written or spoken word his all of his mawkish affections. There is no language in all of history that could accurately allow him to share the characters or alphabet of his soul with you. So, instead of telling you, he’ll have to show.

He peppers wet, open mouth kisses that are more tongue than lip all the way down your body—shoulder, breast, naval—sparing no patch of skin, acutely aware of the spit forming in his mouth at just the slightest bit of your taste.

You taste like all of his favorite things. Like mooncakes and macaroons and the strange foreign sugar-infused, sometimes doughy, sometimes flaky pastries he gorges himself on to satisfy his insatiable sweet tooth. Danishes. Croissants. Pain au chocolat. Crepes.

The sheets beneath your cunt are soaked through with your fluids, which, his alpha brain tells him is an absolute waste. The licks he begins to lavish your folds with are born of salacious desire. There’s no skill or method. No rhythm or pace. Just his tongue against and your pussy and raw, animal instinct to lick. To devour. To taste.

He slips the muscle inside you, deep as he can get it, and he feels your walls constrict around it in an effort to fill itself up. If you weren’t in the throes of heat, he’d take his time with you—warming you up on his tongue, lapping away at your slick—but right now, you need more than what his tongue can provide. Two steady, long fingers replace his tongue, reaching, further, deeper into you. They slip in too easily, so he quickly adds a third. Index. Middle. Ring. All pumping in tandem against you, working you towards a release.

“More,” you whine, sinking deeper onto his fingers, stopping only when your hips kiss his knuckles.

Zayne uses the fingers already inside you to test the stretch of your walls, scissoring all three apart. Your pussy accommodates the spread with ease, so he slowly slides in the requested fourth, slotting his pinky up against his ring, its descent aided by the natural lubricant your body so dutifully supplies.

He swipes at your clit with his thumb, assessing the sensitivity of the tiny bundle of nerves. You flinch violently as he grazes it, body seizing as if electrocuted, which is a pretty apt comparison. That’s how the nervous system works, after all. A series of electric impulses traveling from neuron to neuron, carried from branching dendrites to sturdy axons to minute synaptic bulbs.

“Knot,” you beg, plead, pray. “Please alpha—Zayne. I wanna cum on your knot.”

Zayne’s throat bobs as he swallows down all the saliva that’s been pooling in his mouth. A knot is, technically, the quickest, most effective way for him to help you through your heat. If he wants to get food and water into you, he first needs to satiate your more libidinous needs.

It’s just, Zayne is your senior, your doctor, your friend. He is reasonable, responsible, rational, and his reasonable, responsible, rational brain begins to bombard with him a series of excellent questions. Questions like: What if it’s only your omega that wants him? What if all current desires are only present due to an influx of confusing hormones? What if, once the dregs of heat have abated, you’re horrified to discovered what actions you took in the midst of it?

What if—his inner alpha, which is not reasonable or responsible or rational but rather horny and base and hopeful chimes in—you really do want him? What if you always have? What if you’ve spent all your past heats alone because he never offered to spend them with you? What if you never had to spend a heat alone ever again?

“You really want it?” he asks, just to be sure. He doubts in the short span of time it took him to come up with the question, you’ve changed your mind, but he needs to hear you say it at least once more.

“I want it,” you affirm. “I want you.”

Zayne never could deny you.

He crawls out from between your legs and up your body so that he can lock eyes with you.

“Okay,” he relents. Most medical texts argue that omegas in heat retain some of their basic faculties. They can and do verbalize protests against incompatible alphas. If you keep asking for him, for his knot, that means there is a part of you that really, truly wants it, “but I want to discuss this further after. Once this wave dies down and we get some food in you.”

You seal the deal with a kiss to his jaw.

Zayne moves as slowly as you allow him to, which isn’t very slow at all. Now that he’s agreed to knot you, you are an unstoppable force of carnal desire. Each time he tries to kneel to kick off his slacks, you pull him in for another messy, open mouth kiss. His boxer briefs, at least, are easy to shirk due to the elasticity of the cotton, and his cock is fully hard with the beginnings of a knot already forming at the base.

He rubs the tip against your slippery folds a few times before sinking balls deep inside your wet, hot cunt in one smooth thrust. The taste of your sweet nectar still lingers on his tongue like a fantastical philter, keeping him drunk on you as his hips piston with purpose into and out of your pulsating core. His eyes find your swollen, unmarked scent gland and narrow at the thin, sleek skin. He slots his lips against your own to keep his teeth away from your drooping. vulnerable neck.

You cum before he even gets his fingers on your clit, pussy seizing around the swelling bulb of his knot. He always imagined his first time with an omega would feel earth shattering, but his fat knot slips in with a quiet, anticlimactic pop. Your greedy cunt clamps around it, and he cums with the thing pressed up against your womb, cock spasming against your tight walls. The sensation isn’t earth shattering, but it’s right. A key in a lock clicking into place. He is sheathed inside you and it feels good.

Sexually satisfied, you manage to nod off, coming to only when his knot has deflated enough for him to safely slip it out of you. Like a good alpha, he planned to grab you some water and snacks to refuel, but in your hazy, post orgasm state, you refuse to let him leave you alone, so he must bring you with him as he rummages around your kitchen for something caloric to feed you.

Only once he’s certain your belly is full and your mind is temporarily clear does he ask if you want him to spend the rest of your heat with you. The look you give him brings your earlier question to the forefront of his mind.

(Are you stupid, Doctor Zayne?)

Apparently, he is.

Because he could have had this years ago.

Because this feeling has always been mutual.

Because he’s going to make you his.

#zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne lads x reader #zayne lads x you #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #tw omegaverse #reader can be the game mc but doesnt have to be

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leroiestmortvivelareine · 6 months ago

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Strap in if you dare, I’m going to talk about Riko.

Yes, he is a Bad Person. Nothing I’m about to say counters that. However… evil isn’t always so obvious as to dress in black and torture everyone you love. Evil is insidious and nuanced - it can creep in when you aren’t expecting it and have no defences. We’ve been given this incredibly complex and interesting example of it, and we’ve been given it for a reason. Riko is a character worth trying to understand.

Could Riko ever have been saved, and if so what would it have taken? What if he’d been able to follow the Fox path to redemption instead of the Ravens to perdition?

Except both Foxes AND Ravens were traumatised… the thing that ruined Riko was power. Lincoln said it: “nearly all men can stand adversity but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” Who was Riko without power? It’s hard to see.

So I’m fascinated by a different question - how did Riko see Riko?

We know how the Foxes saw him: a low-functioning sociopath with zero coping skills and the personality of a cat trapped in a wall cavity. Presumably that’s not how he saw himself. What kind of headcanon did he construct for himself, what was his own personal mythology?

We know he wanted his father’s approval, he wanted to be number one. We know how badly he dealt with those desires being thwarted.

I know how it feels to be an abandoned child. You feel like the outer edges of a person, with this gaping hole in the centre. It’s not just that you lost a loved one, it’s - how can I say it - it’s like the clasp that lets you hold on to people has been torn out too. Everyone will leave now, and you know it.

(I didn’t cope by turning my bedroom into Abu Ghraib, though.)

It’s the worst of both worlds. His father is far enough away to cause that gaping wound, yet not sufficiently gone for it to ever close over and heal.

But… despite his impossible situation, Riko wasn’t withdrawing into himself. Resentment ate away at him and he liked doing side-projects of revenge, but it was hope driving him on. I see Riko as someone with a very hot flame in them, someone determined to succeed (like Neil). He was driven, even if the goal he chased so eagerly was an illusion. I think he saw his situation as a challenge, an opportunity to prove himself and eventually take his rightful place at his father’s side (surely that’s what Kengo really meant, surely this was a test, a test he can pass if he just wins one more time...)

Imagine something like… the second son of a Roman emperor, sent to some far-off outpost to get him out of the way subdue rebel tribes. A chance to make a name for himself, an opportunity to create an elite unit where violence and skill are everything, where winning is everything. A challenge he accepts with savage excitement.

And the world views them with the kind of awe once reserved for ancient Sparta. Unsurpassed warriors, impossibly focussed. Yes, they endure conditions no one else could even consider but they always win, and everyone loves winners. They are the legends of legends. Surely his father will see.

Kevin was his Lancelot, his shining sword, his right hand. Kevin added to Riko’s status, assured him he must be a hero if he had such a splendid champion at his side.

But Kevin is beautiful, so perhaps Riko’s feelings were more complicated than that, perhaps they were feelings he couldn’t admit he had. He could still work those feelings into the overall picture though… it’s all part of Kevin being his beloved champion.

Until the champion started edging him out of his own story and had to be sacrificed. A necessary sacrifice, but losing Kevin struck a huge blow to the mythology Riko built up about himself. He could no longer look in the mirror, side by side, and see Kevin’s glory (and, yes, Kevin’s dad) reflected back as though it belonged to him too.

Despite this Riko finds a way to keep winning, even without his champion. Surely that is even more impressive? Can his father see that?

Still no response. In the story Riko constructs for himself his father does no wrong, so this towering rage he feels has to crash down on someone else. He tells himself he is punishing his troops for daring to be unworthy.

Then there is Jean, someone from a caste so low as to be unclean, even subnormal, someone it would hurt Riko’s prestige to treat with any kind of respect. But Jean is also beautiful, and those feelings can’t be worked into the myth. Their outlet is the darkness behind closed doors, along with all the other feelings that don’t fit the story of the hero.

Harming his people, his intimate possessions, was Riko’s coping mechanism for rejection and humiliation the way self-harm in many forms is to many others. (Are you hearing me if I say hurting yourself is hurting your own Perfect Court, and there is collateral damage even if you think it’s just you, because people love you and suffer because of it? Are you hearing me if I say stop being Riko to yourself?)

And maybe his enjoyment of that cruelty was, deep down, a form of denial that the cruelty arose from anguish. ‘No I’m not upset, I’m not a loser, I’m in control, I’m doing this because I like it…’ Maybe even to the point where rendition becomes sexual.

But it’s starting to unravel. He’s lost his only friend and can no longer unleash his mounting frustrations on Jean the way he wants to; he’s running out of pieces for his board.

Then he finds the fugitive his family were chasing for so long. This is his big chance. He’ll have a brand new champion for his stable or a valuable offering to please his father, he wins either way.

He captures this feral child who tells him there is no empty throne waiting by the side of the emperor, Kengo never mentions his son’s name, Riko is nothing more than a joke in that far-off capital. So much scorn in those words that the carefully constructed mythology withers before it.

First the would-be rook took the queen, then the wild-card knight escapes again, and now the whipping boy / concubine / bishop is taken by a girl with a cross around her neck. The king has lost all his men… because that’s your REAL story, isn’t it: everyone leaves you.

And then… Kengo dies.

Yes, Riko is a Bad Person. No, I do not like him. But Nora gave us two boys who met their brother for the first time, two boys who cried out their brother’s name only to see their hopes shattered. And in that moment they were one, so I cannot dismiss this monstrous, horrible abomination no matter how hard I try.

I can however dismiss anyone who says Nora is not a goddess of writing.

#zankoku na tenshi no yo ni...#my complicated thoughts about the perfect court #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #aftg tsc #tfc #tkm #trk #tsc #the sunshine court #riko moriyama #kevin day #ichirou moriyama #the perfect court

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messylxve · 10 months ago

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goddess | elle greenaway x famous!reader

content warning: unlabeled sexuality, SA, douchy men, self-deprecating thoughts, soft elle, google translate spanish, laufey

divider by @enchanthings

It always goes like this

Could have predicted it

I’m so naive to think you loved me for me

It was almost humiliating how many times you’d been in this position. Heels were abandoned at the door, makeup streaked down your face, and your heart felt too heavy to even make it to your own bedroom.

You threw yourself on your couch, dragging a blanket over yourself and taking your phone out apprehensively. Through your tears, you felt the hesitation of dialing that number.

The number you knew through and through.

You knew it by heart.

‘She doesn’t want to hear from you,’ that little devil whispered into your ear. ‘She’s so sick and tired of you and your bullshit.’

A whimper escaped your lips. You wanted to throw your phone and let it shatter on impact. But you never did.

Instead you clutched it tighter and shoved yourself deeper into the cushions of your couch, the memories of that night resurfacing.

Kissed as I ran off stage

Too old to play this game

Guess you’re still growing up at thirty

You met him on a quiet Sunday morning. You were at your favorite cafe and there he was, approaching you. Calling you beautiful, unlike any other girl you’ve met.

But most of all. He didn’t recognize you.

You detested dating fans. You already got your heart broken there before. You swore off of that.

He showered you with so much affection, you completely missed the signs.

Red flags always seemed normal under your rose-tinted view of the world.

Were you surprised by me

When you took me home?

When the glamour wore off

Reduced to skin and bone

You should have known it was all a lie.

You should have known he was just like all the other

You don’t know how long you sat there, wallowing in self-pity, but the sound of your phone ringing took you out of it for just a moment.

You pulled it away from where it was resting under the couch pillow and your eyes widened at the name.

Elle <3

Once again, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over the green button. You finally picked it up on the third ring.

“Ellie, hi!” You cringed at the way your voice nearly immediately cracked as you tried to feign your usual chipper mood.

“Hey lovely.” Her voice sounded so comforting. Even with just two words, you felt a twinge of warmth attempt to spread through your chest. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, what makes you ask?”

“You sound like you’ve been crying. And it’s nearly midnight in LA, you aren’t usually this chipper this late unless you’re faking it.”

A sigh escaped you. You never could lie to her.

“You’ve always been so observant.” Your voice dropped the octave now that the facade faded.

“I hope so,” she chuckled lightly. “It’s kind of my job. Do you want to talk about it?”

‘She doesn’t mean it. She’s just being nice.’

“I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

She hummed in disapproval. “You know I always want the details from mi estrella.”

A sad smile slid on your face at the nickname given to you in your childhood; coined after you had gotten the solo in the choir concert.

‘Super star by day, best friend by night,’ 10-year-old Elle had quipped.

You huffed out a small laugh before it all fell away as you recounted your date that night.

“You remember Trevor right? Met him at that coffee shop on Melrose Avenue?”

You heard a pause on her end before she spoke again, her voice softer. “I do.”

“Well…I had a date with him tonight. Fourth one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

His lips pressed harshly into yours and his hands skimmed over your body as you struggled to keep up.

“I invited him to see me at a concert. My final one on my tour.”

I can’t even tell

Who you want to know

“Trev,” you had tried to laugh. “Slow down.”

Your words fell upon deaf ears as he kissed down to your jaw and began attacking at your neck.

“I um…I thought it was a good idea to invite him backstage when it was over…talk to him for a bit before I had to go out again.”

Elle listened as your tone got darker and darker, reliving your own fresh memories. She heard every bout of emotion in your voice. The pain that shone through from a broken heart.

He began lifting your skirt. You grew dizzy with nausea the more he continued.

‘This isn’t right,’ a tiny voice screamed at you.

“Trev—Trevor, please stop.”

Your hands found his chest, steadying yourself on it before pushing him away. “I said stop!”

“y/n…” Elle’s voice was a whisper now.

“I-I told him I didn’t want that. That I didn’t think we were there yet. He didn’t really like that…”

I’m a goddess on stage

Human when we’re alone

“What do you mean we’re not there yet,” he scoffed. “I’ve been waiting for basically two months for you to be ready.”

He moved in close again, placing a hand on your waist. “I’m so tired of waiting. I’ve listened to your stories, your music. Hell I even talked to that she-devil of a friend of yours, Bella.”

You couldn’t decide whether or not to feel disgusted or betrayed. “It’s Elle…You mean you didn’t want any of that?”

“I wanted you, baby…isn’t that enough.”

You cried freely now into the phone and Elle listened quietly, her own heart breaking for you.

“You’d be proud of me Ellie,” you sniffed. “I stood my ground. Told him no.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, regardless if she’d see it or not. “Yeah… He didn’t really like it though. I had to call security to escort him out.”

“Did he put his hands on you,” she asked.

You bit your lip, the line going quiet for just a moment before you spoke again. “Do you think I can visit you? Just for a week or so?”

She frowned at the sudden change in topic.

“Of course you can, lovely.”

That next day moved so painstakingly slow for Elle. It was a paperwork day which meant she got to sit around anxiously as she waited for another call from you.

You had already called twice. Once to tell her you were leaving your apartment, twice to tell her your plane was about to depart from LA.

Hours has passed and now she awaited your call telling her you were at the airport waiting.

“Alright,” Derek quipped, rocking back in his chair. “What’s up with you today?”

Elle looked over at the man, lifting an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at your phone all day,” Spencer claimed, not looking up from his paperwork.

Elle’s attention snapped between the two men before finally settling on Morgan. “So?”

Derek grinned. “So…? You hate the phone Elle, now you look like you’re waiting for it to come to life in front of your eyes.”

The girl scoffed out a laugh, shaking her head.

“You know what I think it it,” Derek continued. “I think you’ve got Mr. Mystery you’re waiting on.”

Her smile halted for just a second at his words. She twirling the pen in between her fingers once then twice. “You’re delusional Morgan.”

Almost right on cue, her phone rang and Derek let out a laugh seeing the usually preserved woman scramble for it.

“Agent Greenaway.”

“So professional,” you mused, a sly grin sliding on your lips.

A smile eased onto her expression as she turned away from Morgan’s prying eyes. “Hola amorcito. ¿Cómo estuvo tu vuelo?”

“It was good, I slept the whole way here.”

“Eso es bueno. Lo necesita.”

“Rude,” you fake gasped. “Are you calling me grouchy?”

“Sabes lo que quise decir y/n.”

Morgan and Reid looked at each other as they listened to Elle’s end of the conversation, completely clueless as to what you were saying.

“Estaré allí en veinte. Estar segura. Te amo.”

Reid furrowed his brows curiously. He might not have been a whiz in Spanish, but he definitely caught those last words.

“Alright boys, you better behave.”

Spencer frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The two of you had spent the rest of the day together.

You didn’t want to go out, so she took you straight to your apartment and there you had the time of your life. You two binged movies, played board games, and now you were cooking together.

It was pure bliss and you couldn’t as for more.

“I missed this,” Elle mused.

You sat perched on the counter, your head laid comfortably on the cabinet behind you and you passed ingredients to the cooking woman.

“Cooking,” you asked with a giggle.

She looked over at you with a laugh. “Pass me the oregano would you. And no I don’t mean cooking. I mean being with you. Phone calls don’t feel like enough anymore.”

You twisted your body around as you shuffled through her spice cabinet. “Yeah,” you mused. “Hearing your voice is definitely what keeps me sane though.”

Elle’s heart stuttered at those words. The cooking spoon in her hand slowed it stirring and she looked up at you.

“I can’t find the oregano,” you mumbled, your attention now fully on the cabinet.

“…it’s on the second shelf,” she cleared her throat, pointing up to where it should be.

“I’m looking on the second shelf,” you whined playfully.

“Here,” she moved away from the hot stove and in front of you, leaving over your head to reach it. “It was right…there.”

She didn’t even realize what position she had put herself in until it was much too late. Either one of your thighs laid beside her hips. You looked down at her and you could feel her breath on you. You could smell her addicting perfume that you found yourself missing every time you two were apart.

It was like an invisible magnet between you two, beckoning the both of you closer and closer. So close that you felt her lips brush against yours.

It was like an epiphany to you. Everything clicked in your head.

The pauses over the phone.

The nicknames.

Hiding your phone calls from her team.

But just as the fireworks began to rise, they sizzled out before ever going off.

She pulled away, clearing her throat awkwardly.

‘You’re so delusional,’ that ugly voice hissed to you. ‘She’s seen the real you. The ugly you. Why would she want that?’

You swallowed hard and blinked away your tears. “Elle.”

She didn’t look over to you. Just focused on finishing the meal. “Yeah?”

You released a dying sigh. “Do you…do you think I’m unlovable?”

She had never looked up so fast. You would have thought the spoon burned her from how quickly she dropped it.

“What?”

You felt like the question was a plot for attention, but it wasn’t. It was probably one of the most genuine questions you asked in a long time.

“I- never mind. I’m sorry.”

Elle looked at you as if you grew a second head right in front of her. “y/n,” she moved back to that same position she had just run from. Except this time, her hands fell to your cheeks, caressing them oh-so gently. “How could you ask that question?”

You frowned. “How could I not?” It came out as a whisper. A moment of pure vulnerability. The first of its kind since that phone call last night.

“I’m not that impossibly perfect, beautiful super star they all expect me to be. I’m just…me. No one wants that.”

Elle shook her head, eyes scanning all over your face before finally settling on your eyes once more. “I want that.”

She felt you freeze under her grasp, but she continued on. “Every single failed date and false expectation was never your fault. You are…so incredibly talented, beautiful, and utterly amazing. In more ways than people give you credit for. If all these other people can’t love you the way I do, for you, then they don’t deserve you.”

Your breath stopped in your chest. Stuck. Unable to move in or out. “You love me? Or do you love me?”

You put that emphasis on your final words. There was no other way it could have been interpreted other than

“y/n, I am so utterly in love with you. I have been for a long time.”

Your hands found her wrists where you stabled yourself onto her. A smile broke free from your shocked expression. With a broken laugh, you surged forward, pressing your lips onto her’s in a kiss.

“I love you too.”

Translations:

“hi lovely how was your flight.”

“That’s good, you needed it”

“You know what I mean y/n”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Stay safe. I love you.”

@mackannkees

AN: I can’t believe I wrote that all in one night. It’s officially 3am as of posting, I’m not expecting this to get much attention, this was more self-indulgence if anything. I hope u guys like it tho

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erogenousmind · 4 months ago

Text

No Complaints

Imagine being so deep in trance that fundamental concepts or feelings just escape you. It's easy to picture yourself sinking to the point that certain things drop out of your head. The number 4, the word "no", even your own name. But what if you were able to lose something deeper?

You can begin to imagine what it would feel like to be taken that deep. The long, slow journey deeper into trance. The fractionation. Dropping over and over and over again. Each time taking you deeper. Each time helping you surrender more of yourself to this experience. The level of rapport you build to go so very deep. The trust you have in your hypnotist. Giving them access to the deepest parts of you. Giving them control in such a profound way.

And your eagerness to achieve something so incredible. To give of yourself so completely to someone who excites your desire to give. To surrender. To submit. And so you drop. Down and down and down again. And gradually you feel your agency fading away. You were an enthusiastic participant. Wanting to feel your mind sink. Wanting to be opened. Following directions so well. Complying with every request, every suggestion. Because you knew that would take you deeper.

But as you sank down more and more, as your mind relaxed more completely, it stopped being a decision. It becomes automatic. You are told what to do, what to think, what to feel. You obey. Up. You begin to rouse. Sleep. The rest of the world fades away again. Up and down your mind is moved, no longer following but being manipulated directly. And it feels so good. The pleasure of turning your mind off is so perfect. Abandoning responsibility, abandoning decisions. It feels so freeing. And maybe that's because your hypnotist told you it would feel that way. Maybe the pleasure comes from their suggestion of pleasure. But none of that matters anymore. You have given up that control. And your body and mind respond as they are told.

And because you are no longer in control, because you are completely passive in this process of dropping deeper, you don't even realize how far gone you are. How your thoughts have stopped. No longer responding positively or negatively to suggestions. You simply obey.

And that's when things begin to fall away. Things that once seemed so fundamental. Notions like resistance, struggle. They cease to have meaning. It's not that you aren't able to put up a fight. Rather, the concept no longer exists in your head. You cannot resist because resistance no longer has meaning to you. There is only obedience.

And of course you are happy that this is happening to you. That such silly ideas no longer take up space in your mind, replaced instead by the pleasure of obedience. Of course this is exactly what you wanted. The opposite belief no longer exists for you. You would never complain or be bothered by the way your mind is controlled. By how completely you have been enthralled going so deep. Those concepts have faded away along with your resistance. Complaint is just a funny combination of letters. Only pleasure has meaning. And you feel such pleasure when you obey.

And so it goes, one by one. All those unnecessary things. Those frivolous, mistaken impressions about independence. About being something other than a deeply mesmerized thrall. About being so completed obedient and devoted to the pleasure overwhelming your senses even now. You have been relieved of them. They have been discarded.

And that makes it easier for you. Simpler. All you need to do is focus on doing as you are told. And enjoying the pleasure of obedience. And even the distinctions between those can melt away as you become more obedient and feel even better. Pleasure becomes obedience. Obedience is pleasure.

And you would never dream of having it any other way. Because imagining it any other way isn't something you ever need to be able to do again.

#for my muse

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prettyboykatsuki-moved · 1 year ago

Text

CIRCLE HAUNTS | TAKAMI KEIGO (HAWKS)

✮ tags ; dead dove: do not eat, gender neutral reader, no quirk au, horror + suspense, themes of cannibalism, implied / depicted cannibalism, noncon kissing + biting/drawing blood and flesh, intentionally open-ended, institutionalized cannibalism, white collar crime, yandere!hawks, 18+

✮ wc ; 9.9k (??)

✮ a/n ; another comm for the beloved @bitchkiss, thank you for your patience and also for letting me post.

✮ synopsis ; you move into a suspiciously nice house in the shizuoka prefecture, and meet your good-looking and unnerving neighbor. nothing is how it seems.

An abandoned house. Mostly functional in the outskirts of the Shizuoka prefectures in a lived-in district.

On auction for a little less than 7 million-yen. Located in a not quite suburb. Too much land between acres and backyards to qualify that way. All the other houses are within walking distance though, and there’s no shortage of places to go with a fair bit of time and energy.

By all measures, a perfectly good house in a perfectly good prefecture. Even now you’re not sure why it went on sale. You stare at it, outside cream colored with a gate and a cat bowl left on the porch from the previous owner - food gone to dust. Something looms on at the doorsteps, the sun-cast shadows almost as dark as oblivion night. In the front yard are wild strawberries and bushes of ivy.

It’s a home, no matter which way you look at it.

But you can’t bring yourself to walk inside.

You placed your bets on this house completely on a whim months ago.

You’d been looking for a house. No that’s not it - it was more that you’d started to look at houses. An important distinction in this instance, because you weren’t looking to move when you began. You wonder if it’s a rite of passage in your adulthood to peruse listings for places you can’t afford. Dreaming habitually of your landlord's body on a cross or of in unit washer/dryers. You weren’t unhappy with your living arrangements when you started doing it, but the longing for autonomy sunk its teeth into you and showed no plans of letting go. So browsing through houses idly, wine-drunk and exhausted, became something of a regular practice.

It was three months ago, during that practice (and after an especially scathing argument with your roommates) you’d gotten drunk and committed your usual routine. Cracked open a wine cooler, took off your clothes until you were down to your underwear, and cracked open your laptop to look at more property listings. That time, with a little more weary bitterness in your heart than all times before.

The search process for Japanese property could range anywhere from uneventful to laughably cruel at any given time. Whether it be listings for upend mansions in Tokyo or worn down one-bedrooms in Osaka. For every house that seemed livable, there were ten or fifteen completely out of reach or in complete shambles.

When you came up on thee listing initially, it felt too good to be true. A house in Shizuoka with lots of yard space. A house with decent upkeep and an even larger kitchen - and nice tatami in one of the siderooms. A beautiful house in a beautiful area, on auction instead of the normal sale. Some people had bid on it - but the pool was still low. Seven million yen was your final bet - the mortgage would only be a little more than your rent. You’d put your name down on a whim. With a laugh.

Laughed yourself unconscious and forgot about it until a month passed. A call from an unknown number to your personal cell.

A call from a realtor. Your name, miraculously, got chosen with the highest bid. The house was yours if you wanted it. You could move in as early as May.

You were convinced it was a scam at first - like any normal person with common sense would be. Immediately rejected. But the realtors assured you over the line that it wasn’t a scam, that the previous owners just didn’t want it anymore. Some kind of emergency. Of course - you didn’t believe them at face value either. So you did some research, went to tour the house, tried to gather information proving the whole thing was a hoax.

But there was nothing you could find even after plenty of internet sleuthing and asking everyone in your life to help you vet. When you mentioned to everyone, not a single person advocated for you staying in the city. Your job even offered to move you to the Shizuoka branch.

It was a good opportunity. There’s a coastal path not too far from where the house is. The previous family didn’t take the cat or any of his papers with him - but he’s friendly from what they say. There’s lots of space indoors and out.

It’s a cheap price, for a good house and you’d probably never get an opportunity like it again.

Something is wrong with it. You can tell that just looking at it now, despite how picture-esque it is on the surface. It’s a beautiful house. There’s even a second story and a balcony. You could plant a garden in the yard and still have space for grilling outside.

It’s a beautiful house.

And something is wrong with it - but you’ll never get an opportunity like this again.

Maybe you’re more of a conspiratorial person than you thought.

You look at the truck you’ve hauled all your things in. Your loved ones have been helping you in moving in the rest of your belongings over the last few months - so what's left is mostly lightweight knick-knacks and essentials. Clothes too. The car is parked along the side of the road with the back popped open for easy access. You shake yourself off your thoughts like you’re trying to banish them.

It’s a beautiful day outside. Early June heat that’s enough to warm but not enough to burn or swelter. The sun beats down on your skin, the sounds of gnats buzzing and the breeze rustling the overgrown fields makes your heart swell. You take a breath and remind yourself it’s a good opportunity. Stretching your arms over your head, your spine cracks. Putting your hands on your hips, you nod enthusiastically, encouraging yourself to try harder.

“Let’s just rip the bandaid off,” You mutter. You pull your keys from your front pocket, planning on opening the door first before hauling the rest in.

The sound of an engine makes you turn your head towards the road. A silver car, something compact - drives along the edge of the pavement. Your expression changes as the car starts to slow in front of the house. Your house. You’re never going to be used to that. Are the realtors coming for a visit? Your move-in date was set months ago, so they should know you’re here.

The car halts to a stop a few feet from your own truck, the tinted windows rolling down to reveal a good looking blonde man. He can’t be much older than you. He lets his arm hang out from one side of the window.

His hair is pushed back and shiny, and he’s wearing a button up shirt and brown pants. There’s sunglasses resting on top of his head. He kind of looks like a douche, but you try not to let first impressions sour your views. You give him a confused look, instinctively backing away as he smiles at you.

“You must be the new neighbor. Heard someone was moving into this place after the Nakamura’s left, but there’s always rumors like that floating around here,” He says, talking so much at once. You kind of have a hard time getting used to him.”But I’m glad to see that it’s true. Gets a little lonely out here if all the houses don’t have people in it. In my opinion, at least.”

You give him a blank stare. He holds out his arm to you through the car window. You have no reason not to take it, and it seems rude for you to decline - so you shake his hand. His grip is firm and assured, golden eyes narrowing into something pleased. You feel a shiver run through you.

There’s something about him.

“Uh, do I know you?” You say instinctually. This catches him off guard. He pauses before breaking out into a laugh.

“I’m Takami Keigo! You’ll hear people call me Hawks too though. I’m your neighbor. My house is..” He points north, “..the one ‘bout two minutes that way. I’m very involved with the community here. It’s pretty tight knit.” He explains to you. It doesn’t reassure you for some reason. You think it’s supposed to. “Is there anything I can help you with? Looks like you’re still moving in.”

You make an expression of distrust towards him but his smile remains unfaltering.

“I’m alright,” You supplement, trying to keep the peace. “I wouldn’t wanna keep you but I appreciate you coming to meet me.”

He looks like he’s considering the words, enough to turn himself around and leave. After a few seconds though, he pulls away and parks his car on the side of the road in front of your house. When he emerges from the front door - his expression doesn’t change at all. His smile is disarming. He’s not a terrible guy to look at - but you wonder what he’s doing so far from the city.

The way he dresses is metropolitan. His shirt is loose but his pants are fitted like their tailored - expensive fabrics that the big suits from your job wear. He’s wearing slacks when he’s not working, and loafer shoes that don’t seem suited for the outdoors. You’re not far enough in the country to be expecting country folk, but the area is relegated to families. Something suburban and simple about the people you’ve met so far, yourself included in some ways. No one like him.

You go with your gut about him and keep a distance.

It might be too early to completely shut him out - and you do want to get along with the people here if you’re going to take permanent residence. Not friendly, but comfortable. You figure it might be less precarious to go with whatever he’s interested in. He’s not going to harm you in broad daylight, not when he’s dressed like that. And you’ve already had so much apprehension since you’ve moved - you’re almost hoping there’s something you’ve overlooked about him. Something to assure you’re just engaging in some self-sabotage about everything.

You soften your posture and put on a business smile. There’s a ghost of something - intrigue maybe, but it’s gone before you catch wind of it. You wonder if you imagined it.

“Well if you insist, but I don’t want to leave you with nothing,” You offer to him, as charismatic and naive as you can spin yourself. Neither of you seem to believe it, and the whole conversation feels like a sham. But he hasn’t turned to leave in offense, so you keep going “I do have some drinks inside and I’m curious about the neighborhood.”

His grin widens.

“June heat like this is the perfect weather for a cold beer. Would be great with some meat,” He hums noncommittally. You try your best not to let your face crack into distrust. “What do you need? Just some boxes carried inside?”

You nod.

“Yeah. It’d be nice to only make a few trips here and there.”

“Easy peasy. You didn’t give me your name though. Little impersonal, don’t you think?”

You’d prefer he didn’t know it - but perhaps that’s asking too much since you’re letting him move things into your house. You give it to him neutrally, picking up a tote that you can carry along with your keys. Takami picks up your things swiftly. The boxes he chooses are heavy - you know that because of the way they’re labeled. The gesture is effortless though, and you’re not sure if it’s good or bad that you’ve noticed.

“Pretty name.” He tells you, and you do your best to not make a face. When he notices your staring, he tilts his head to one side. His teeth gleam an unnerving white. You can’t get over the yellow-gold of his eyes. “Surprising, right? But I’m stronger than I look.”

He waits for you to walk in front of him. Maybe it’s the paranoia, but it strikes you somehow. How he’s trying to appear. He’s perceptive. You walk in front of him, starting down the concrete path to the front of the house.

“Any reason or are you just a gym buff?”

He thinks about how he’s going to reply, but doesn’t meet your eyes to look at you when he does.

“Got into a lot of fights as a kid so I had to get strong. Something like that.”

When your eyes meet the second time, you can tell he’s seeing what you’ll probe out of him. Wanting to know what questions you’ll ask.

“Rough childhood, then?”

Bullseye, if his reaction is anything to go by. He hums and chuckles, still carrying the boxes. You fidget with your keys, the door sounding with a faint click as you push it open with the weight.

The lights are all turned off. It’s not your first time seeing the house - but the first time seeing it furnished in full. For weeks you’d been putting your furniture in it, and putting food in the fridge to make moving in smooth. All the other times you’ve been inside, you’ve never felt one way or another about it. Living there wasn’t actualized for all those months - but looking at your things, new and old, makes it all feel real.

It’s a moment too intimate for a stranger to bear witness to and you think he’s probably well-aware. He doesn’t say a word, just observes you from the corner of his eye. When you come out of whatever trance you were just under, he whistles.

“Nice decor,” He compliments - a fair attempt at lightening the mood. “Where should I put these?”

“Those can just go behind the couch for now, thanks.”

He listens to you wordlessly, dropping the boxes off. You watch the light of the sun reflect onto him. He’s yellow gold. You think your mother might find him good looking. He stands back up and meets your eyes. Piercing, underneath everything. He has marks on the corners of his eyes that give you the impression of a bird. A hawk scoping for something to peck at.

“Two down, about how many more to go do you think?”

“I think 6, give or take. And then some luggage with my clothes.”

“Let’s get to work then, shall we?”

You give him a tight lipped smile.

“Of course,”

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to bring all of your belongings into the house. It’s a short few trips and there isn’t really much small talk for the two of you to engage in during it.

Once it’s over you, you thank Takami for his hard work and reward him with a beer as promised. You’re sure he knows that it’s only formality - but he’s completely comfortable in overstaying his welcome.

The two of you sit on the steps leading up to the front of your house - a cold beer in hand. The sun is starting to hide behind the clouds, and that deep shadow seems to cast once again. Over the both of you this time, and not just on your front steps. You let your nail push the tab of the can open, a soft carbonated hiss sounding as you depressurize it. Takami follows suit. He holds the can up to yours and looks at you before you can drink.

“Cheers to our hard work,”

You try not to balk at him, indulging his odd behavior per your own sanity. He’s aware of your apprehension, but his persistence is almost impressive. Another tight lipped smile. “Cheers, Takami-san.”

You take your first sips in complete silence and don’t look his way for any reason. You need the brief respite of peace to deal with the terrible weight of the pit in your stomach, still lingering. You wonder if his presence is worsening it, or if this is another thing your imagination decides to supplement. The cool liquid and faint sourness of Sapporo ease your mind, if barely. You observe the can in your hand momentarily, pretending to read the label.

He takes a similarly long sip of his drink and then lets out a semi-obnoxious aah. You peer over at him.

“Thanks again for helping with the move.” You say, mostly trying to fill the space with conversation so you don’t have to talk to him more than necessary. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” He says, waving his hand around in front of him. “Like I said, it’s a pretty tight knit community around here. I’ll introduce you to everyone whenever you’re free. They’re good folk.”

There’s something in his voice when he adds the last words. You wonder if you’re overthinking it again.

“Is that so?”

He looks at you, but you don’t meet his gaze. “Mm. A lot of people move out here to get a break from the hustle and bustle of the city. Hard-working folks. Families. It’s good to know them,”

You wonder if you’re being too honest about yourself - but decide that there isn’t anything he could do with the information you’re about to tell him.

“Interesting. I always grew up in the heart of the industrial district, so that’s lost on me. I even lived in Shinjuku for a while.” You offer mindlessly. “A good change of pace I guess.”

“Oh, we’re the same then,” He offers. You want to ask him to elaborate on what that means, but he brushes over it just as quickly “You’ll like it here then. Just knock on my door if you need something.”

He looks at you again that time, some knowing in his gaze. You try not to react in either direction, just nodding your head silently as you drink more of your beer.

“Yeah,” You offer, not looking towards him, “I’ll do that.”

For all the evading you down when you speak to Keigo, it was no lie that you spent most of your life living in the heart of the city.

The hustle and bustle of Musutafu, in the industrial districts of various prefectures - all of that was what you were accustomed too. When you were in your late teens and moved out for the first time - you lived in Shinjuku for two years and worked in the nightlife trying to pay for your tuition.

You would’ve never predicted a suburb for your future. It’s not the environment you know well. You can’t help but wonder if it’s always so… quiet.

In the time you’ve started living in your new home, not much has changed in your daily life.

Your initial paranoia has faded out enough to go about your responsibilities in peace. The previous family’s cat occasionally returns back to the porch, and you’ve started to buy it food just in case it decides it wants to stay permanently. A brown tortoiseshell who is always a little worried. You eat breakfast at the same time, but sleep in later since the Shizuoka branch you’ve moved to is a shorter commute. You still take your daily walks, and sometimes you’ll take some time to visit the coastal path and lay your eyes on the open water.

(The ocean doesn’t feel as comforting as it once did. Maybe it’s symptomatic of your own grievances, but looking at the endless expanse - your throat closes with the fear of it swallowing you along with it.

If it did, who would come find you? So far from everything you know?)

You’re entering into mid June, brushing along the edges of July. The heat is starting to be too much. You can’t stay outdoors for too long without feeling like your whole body is going to melt into the concrete and evaporate you from the inside. The nights get chilly, but the days are long. Humidity makes your skin sticky with sweat, and you’re running up your water bill with just how often you bathe.

Everything here is by all means much more uneventful. Some parts of it unsettle you. The nights are eerily quiet and before dawn breaks, there’s always a thick head of something perspiring in the horizon like fog.

Most days, the only people you talk to in person are your co-workers. Your friends live back in your hometown, so you only see them on weekends. Same with your family. It’s just you, and some after work dinners.

But mostly you.

And Hawks. You call him Hawks, in your head and Takami when he speaks. But Hawks feels more apt.

Hawks, seemingly, does not care what face you show him. Nothing stops him from showing up at your door at one time or another - always before you’re going on your walks.

(You want to ask how he even knows your schedule, but you doubt he’d give you any straight answers.)

And he doesn’t leave. You don’t think he would, no matter how rough you were about telling to fuck off. How demanding. You don’t want to confront him out of self preservation. It’s not easy to tell him to fuck off for some reason you have trouble placing. When you normally would, when it’d normally be so easy. You do it at your job all the time, to men much more important than him.

When he comes by, he hangs at your gate and never crosses the threshold to enter. He won’t move unless he’s invited in. You give up on being nice. If you offer him a glass of water, he’ll always agree just to see your expression change. He’s polite to make you uncomfortable. Says please and thank you, and makes conversation with you like he’s interested. An amalgam of reasons that you don’t like his company. Inescapable kindness that lends itself to plausible deniability.

What do you do for work? Oh, what’d you study for? Where are you from? Where are your parents from?

You never want to answer his questions. But he stays, lingers longer if you don’t. He archives the information, you’re sure - but you don’t know what for.

He knows what he needs to know. You live by yourself and your family is farther away. But he always wants to know more, always lingers at the gates - waiting to be let in despite how tight you’ve got your fingers on the lock.

You try not to involve yourself with him more than necessary. You avoid him if you’re walking around the neighborhood for any reason, and you never ask him about himself. He never tells you about himself either - but you can’t be sure why that is. If it’s for your sake or for his.

You try not to get used to him, but it doesn’t surprise you to see him just outside of your door. Sun pours over him in white rays like melted iron, but he’s the same as always. Same smile, same golden eyes, same unnerving expression.

He waves at you politely as you let your bodycon bag hang off of one side - a single headphone in as you look at him. You don’t bother smiling.

If it bothers him, it doesn’t show on his face.

“Hi neighbor,”

“Hey,” You reply, walking closer to the gate. It’s almost routine, but you try your best not to get used to it. No point in getting comfortable. “You’re here again,”

He laughs good-naturedly. “I am. Good to check in, no? Don’t want you getting lonely out here by yourself.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,”

He laughs again, but he sounds more sincere.

“Going on another walk? You should be careful in this heat, you know. Take care of your body and everything.”

“I’ll be fine,” You offer, standing in limbo and waiting for him to leave. “Thanks for your concern.”

“So cold to me,” He quips. So he does know. “Hope it’s a nice little workout for you.”

You sigh as you make more small talk, mostly tuned out of whatever he’s saying.

“Got any plans for today, Takami-san?”

He pauses before smiling to himself. He lets his arms cross over the metal of your gate, but doesn’t flinch when the heated edge touches his bare skin. You wonder about it, go to ask - but he’s talking again before you can.

“I do, actually. Gonna go into the shop today and get a new fridge,” He tells you, his grin bright and unusual. You’re surprised. He never tells you anything about what he’s doing, no matter how casual. Nothing more than whether he’s working or not. “I’m out of room in my old fridge, so I’m upsizing.”

“Out of room?”

You ask before you can calculate the correct move. It’s a slip up, you both know it. His smile widens just barely, nodding his head and closing his eyes.

“Mm. Ran out of space. A lot of mouths to feed.” He says, and opens one eye playful. “A lot of people live with me. Too big of a house to leave everything all empty.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Oh my roommates?” Hawks says, and you nod. His smile gets bigger. “They’re kind of a rag-tag bunch. Not sociable like me. I can always bring them to meet you - if you’d like.”

“No need to trouble them.”

“But you should get to know the people who live here a little better,” He insists, finally backing away from your gate. “It’s good to be familiar with your neighbors. I’ll try and direct people to you. Word’ll get out faster that way,”

You go again to protest, but he cuts you off a second time - seeming faux apologetic about your upset.

“You should come over for dinner next week, too. Meet my roommates. At 7 ish, we should all be together. They’d love to meet you,”

You meet his eyes and wonder if his invitation is as deliberate as you assume. When you peer into them, you confirm that it is. He’s not forcing you. You’re sure that if you rejected him now, he’d return to the way he was. He might fake being hurt, but he’d still visit you at your door. He’d still linger, still be there. He’s inviting you in on purpose. Dinner with his roommates is a less than casual affair - and nonsense for your relationship.

It’s a bad idea, and maybe a trap. You’re almost positive of that.

But if you did go - it’d confirm things. You’re positive of that too. You’d know for sure if you were being paranoid, if you went into that house that looks just two minutes away and saw the inside of it. You feel your heart pump through your body as the sun moves away from the clouds. There’s no longer a shadow cast on your face. Just pure, blinding heat.

You shield your eyes with your hand, all too conscious of the heat crawling up your back and the tightness forming in your stomach.

“Sure,” You reply, noncommittally - trying not to show too much of any one feeling. No advantages. But you feel like you’ve already lost. “I’ll see if I can make it,”

“See you then, neighbor,” He waves, finally turning to leave. “Looking forward to it.”

He’s true to his word on multiple fronts. Which. Doesn’t comfort you.

An official dinner invitation, and more importantly - sending out the other neighbors to come and meet you. He’s made a point of making good on both vaguely threatening promises.

Like your old living arrangements, you don’t go out of your way to talk to anyone here. You’re busier in the Shizuoka branch (though you like it there) and you find that there’s more daily upkeep with the new and improved space. Plus it’s mostly family folks and retired couples - no one you have any business speaking with for more than five minutes. So you’re not really going out of your way to socialize.

You never planned on being buddy-buddy with any of the people who live in the area, anyway. Acquainted and friendly at best.

But in these last few weeks, folks from all up and down the streets have arrived at your doorstep bearing all sorts of gifts. Fruits and desserts and other housewarming things they think you'd find helpful. They come so often even you have a hard time refusing them, though you’ve wormed your way out of any of them coming inside of your home or crossing far-past the threshold of the gate.

On the surface, they’re good folks like he described them to be. There’s no distrust to the conversation, nothing they want to wield against you.

But something's off. And isn’t that always the case here? You’re starting to feel like you’re repeating yourself. Stuck in a loop, some kind of odd deja vu.

It’s two things you notice. They’re both minor, but they bother you.

The first is the way they describe Hawks.

Nothing but good things. Which makes you sound like a bitch, even to yourself. But it’s weird. The kind of kindness that doesn’t feel real. Empty praises like a helium balloon. Last week one of your neighbors described him as benevolent and his wife agreed whole-heartedly. Each time you wonder if you’re thinking too much about it. Benevolent isn’t a word you’d use to describe anyone you like, no matter how well acquainted.

You know people as charismatic as him so you know that it’s something people do. He’s a good guy, but you don’t know him so you say empty, kind things. Still, it bothers you. And it’s like they say. A friend to everyone is a friend to no one.

It’s uncomfortable that no one shows any sign of disagreement about how kind he is. That there’s no hesitant glances or country gossip. That not one old lady has pulled you in for gossip and wine. There’s no character. No humanity.

It’s backwards but there’s too much harmony. In the people, in the weather, in the road - paved perfectly with no cracks. Everyday of June since moving in has been nothing but blue, cloudless skies. A bright vivid sun concentrated into one shape, heat casting the illusion of waves. No June rain to water the gardens or wash off the dusty roads. No lightning storms that send all the animals howling, no winds strong enough to dust a city into the sea.

It’s not nothingness. There’s something to that at least. If it felt abandoned, it might feel less unsettling. An abandoned place is a familiar one, a memory from your hometown. An abandoned place usually means that someone lived there before you. At least ghosts are the promises of people, even deceased.

Is there something more nonexistent than a ghost, while still being material? You don’t know what that would be.

Hollow but not empty - the skeleton of a suburb. Like something has been carved out of it and replaced. Unnatural, man-made. It never fails to make all the hair on your neck stand.

Then there is the other thing.

Well it’s a stretch. Even you can acknowledge that it might just be coincidence. But nothing here feels like sole coincidence except for the fact you’ve been unfortunate enough to end up here.

A lot of people in town have… injuries. Particular ones. The elderly couple up the street has a lost leg and missing pinky between the two of them. Of the few other people living alone here - all three of them have some type of it - a part of them completely gone. A lost eye or arm, or visible scars along their sides like something’s been … cut out of them.

You know how it sounds. Even to yourself, you’ll reprimand your imagination. It’s not something you can discern meaning from, not something to draw conclusions from. This is Japan, a Japanese suburb with little kids playing in fucking mud and wild strawberries and bushes of ivy.

Maybe the people who retire here are veterans, or maybe Hawks has some kind of charity.

Maybe it’s something not sinister, because what else could it really be?

You keep trying to convince yourself that this time it really is your paranoia. Because even if you examine that, try to unravel - what does it leave you with but more questions?

You want answers. Need them so you stop tossing and turning. But even if you’re to get answers, you aren’t sure if you could trust them. You trust your gut - yourself and only yourself.

You know something is wrong, but just how wrong do things get before the point of no return?

But you can’t help living here if something is wrong. As wrong as you think. If it doesn't go away, what then? What happens to you? Neighbors keep meeting you and people keep being injured and tight-lipped and hollow eyed. Something is always waiting for you in the dark.

You want to get ahead of it, no matter how fucking sick it makes you. You have to know or it'll swallow you up.

You just want to put the whole thing to rest, and get answers. You’d take fake ones to placate you if they were believable, you’d take anything to get your fucking mind off of it.

But the longer you stay, the longer you live at the edge of the road, the longer Hawks waves to you as he passes by your place - makes you feel like you can’t rest until you know.

You need to know for sure.

It rains.

The day he invites you over for dinner, just two minutes down the street - it rains. Harsh, July rain that sounds like it’s running against the ground. Thudding as it floods the streets and turns the Earth to mush. You couldn’t have expected it. It’d been sunny in the morning, but it’d all gone gray outside while in the office. And then it got darker and heavier, like nightfall early.

You were soaked on public transport on the way home, tracking mud into your front door as you walked along the grass back to your own home. You had enough time, at least - between getting home and going over to shower and sit down.

In the two hours of your arrival from the office and your invitation - you pretend for a while that none of it is happening. You read on your couch and pet the cat you didn’t adopt. You listen to music and pleasantly paint your nails up until you have to get ready, because you don’t really want to get ready.

You’re being dramatic. Or you’re not. But you don’t want to go. You don’t want to know what happens when you get there. You think about canceling. Taking a raincheck because of the weather. Feigning an illness for your not-cat.

Something is wrong with this place, and it’s bothering you. But you don’t know if you’re prepared to find out what.

You decide to go, because the other option is remaining in the dark. You could tell him that you want to reschedule, but just like you trust your gut on most things - you get a feeling this is the only window you’ll get to find out anything important. Like if you do it another day, you’ll get the same hollow facade as always.

So you dress yourself slowly. You take an umbrella, and lock your door shut. You even say goodbye to that cat that isn’t yours. You’ll make it back in one piece but something will change once you go. Both of these you believe with full conviction.

But you go. You go.

When you get outside, you open your umbrella up and put it over your head - walking out past your front gate and onto the sidewalk.

It’s not a lie that Hawks is the neighbor closest to you. He lives within walking distance, less than ten minutes from you. The neighborhood is more compact closer to his place, your own house being more isolated - the first house when cars turn the corner.

You don't know what the house looks properly, only what it's like vaguely in shape and color. On the walk there, it’s the only thing your eyes can focus on. You stare at it aimlessly as it comes into your vision line.

It’s obscenely big. You don’t know how many people are living inside for that to be the case, but it sticks out. Even in your time in the city, you’ve never seen a house that size just out in the open, so protruding. It feels invasive.

You feel something forming in your gut as you start to approach the gate. It doesn’t look so different to yours.

Clearing your throat, you approach.

In the clear distance is Hawks, in front of the open door like he’s waiting for you. It’s still light outside, but the weather makes everything dark. The warm light pouring out of the open door casting shadow onto the concrete above it. Hawks runs to meet you at the gate to open it, not bothering to grab something to cover himself with. The rain soaks his head, makes his hair fall a little flat.

There’s a girl waiting by the door with him, younger than you both - who’s looking at you with a wide smile. Her teeth are sharp like fangs. You can see them from afar, and better as you get closer.

Hawks is quick as he unlocks the latch for you. He pulls the gate back and ushers you with his hands on your waist. Instinctually - you hold out the umbrella to cover his head. He gives you a smile as he leads you through to the front of the house. The rain feels like it gets heavier as he does.

When you’re underneath cover, you’re rushed into the foyer of their place before you can think twice.

The door shuts behind you, the noise of the rain muffled. You miss it and you want to go outside again. You look at the door as it shuts, and the girl with him closes it and looks at you.

She’s cute. She has to be a student, but she looks nothing like Hawks. He walks over to her and pats her head.

“This is Toga. She’s the youngest of us. She won’t be joining us for dinner ‘cause she’s going to see her girlfriend, but she wanted to see the new neighbor.”

You give her a passive glance. She smiles at you.

“Nice to meet you, neighbor,” She drawls the end of the word, then looks you up and down. “Hawks keeps talking about you all the time,”

“Aw, c’mon now Himiko-chan, don’t embarrass me in front of our guest,” Is what he says, but he doesn’t look embarrassed at all. “Take your raincoat and umbrella. Say hi Uraraka-san for me,”

“Uh-huh, I will. Bye-bye,”

You watch her get dressed for the rain and turn to leave. The brief sound of the rain returns and you’re all but too aware of how much you want to turn back from whence you came.

Hawks takes your jacket for you. His voice guides you to putting your shoes in the rack, telling you where the house slippers are for guests.

You’re not particularly trying to listen, but you’re out of your own body. The muffled rain thunders, cries out - makes you jump in your own skin. Lightning flashes through the whole house.

He looks at you bemused. “Just a little rain,”

“Right,” You reply, itching to get control of yourself “Been such a clear summer, so it spooked me,”

“Are you off put easily?” Hawks asks. You close up your umbrella and hang it against a wall “You seem like it,”

You shake the water off your face and neck and shake your head. “Not particularly. Just not used to living here yet.”

He nods sagely. “You’ll get used to it. But enough out of me, I’m here to introduce you to my roommates. You’ll have to forgive their curiosity, especially Touya.”

Curiously, Hawks doesn’t proceed with his usual testimony and fair. He doesn’t tell you that they’re good people, like he normally does. Just smiles, coyly, and gestures you to the corner of the hall.

From the kitchen on the other end of the foyer, you can hear sizzling and cutting - something being hacked away with a butcher's knife. Hawks waves your thoughts away as you turn your head towards it. “That’s Kurogiri. He learned we were having guests so he took up cooking. He’s the best at it, and I’m pretty decent. Himiko too.”

“Oh, that’s kind. What are we having for dinner?”

He stops to look at you. He holds his stare too long.“Meat. With some sides and rice, of course. I think it’s steak but Kurogiri doesn’t like western sides. You eat meat, right? You mentioned wanting to barbecue,”

You hesitate. Something slips in his face, but it’s gone before you can catch it. You nod. “I uh do meat. I try not to lately, to save money.”

He laughs. “Well, we have plenty to go around. Please eat as much as you like,”

You frown at him.

“...Thanks for the offer,”

He doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t make a punchy quip, or have a fresh joke like normal. Just nods aimlessly before giving you another familiar business smile.

“Lets not keep ‘em waiting,” Hawks offers, as he walks you into the basement. The darkness at the end of the stairwell puts a familiar gnawing in your stomach. “I’m sure they’ll want to meet you sooner, rather than later.”

They’re not what you expect.

His roommates. You’re expecting people like him. Metropolitan, overly friendly types. You’re expecting people he gets along with well, and some of them do.

But they’re nothing like Hawks at all, not even close.

Most of his roommates remind you of the kids living on the street during your life in the industrial districts. Rag-tag bunches who got in trouble with the law frequently, always in and out of the penal system.

Of his roommates, Shigaraki is the most antisocial. He doesn’t say anything when Hawks drags you to his room. Hawks doesn’t seem to be expecting anything either, but he does ask if the former will join you for dinner. Shigaraki looks you up and down, then laughs for the first time, and says not tonight. Hawks shrugs and moves on.

There’s Twice too, and he’s kind. Of them, you think he’s the nicest. He’s the closest with Toga. A bad past, he’s fond of Hawks (though you can’t be sure Hawk’s is fond of him.) Apparently he has some kind of condition and disorder, he tells you candidly - but he’s not unpleasant all the same. At the very least, he doesn’t offset some baser instinct to run far in the other direction.

You meet Magne, an older girl and another man who doesn’t tell you his full name. Hawks calls him Compress, but he introduces himself to you as Sako. He tells you he won’t join you all for dinner - holds your hand, places a kiss on the back of your palm as an apology. The gesture weirds you out, but you try to keep the peace.

Hawks tells you he’s a performer and you believe him.

The last person you meet is Touya.

Touya is interesting. He has thick scars along his face and neck, burn marks - but he’s got a handsome face. Hawks seems most hesitant to introduce you two, but they room together. You want to ask if that’s necessary, given that there’s so much space in the house but refrain.

When Touya greets you, his grip is casual and firm. He mostly seems disinterested, except when you’re in closer proximity to him.

Enough for him to flash you something pitiful. Something knowing, something… like he’s condescending you and pitying you all at once.

He’s the one, of all of them, that leers at you the most openly. He assesses you, polite in his introduction before turning to Hawks. They communicate something to each other wordlessly and you don’t like any of it. After whatever that had been, Touya simply turned to examine you, shrugging as he agrees to dinner and slinking back down into his room.

After a while, you go back downstairs. Hawks doesn’t tell you anything about his living space. Just sits you in a living room and chats with you until dinner is ready. Chats hollowly about the same pointless dialogue fodder he always does. He stares at you with each word, and you try your best to ignore the shivering it incites.

He’s relaxed with the charade here, but he keeps it up exceptionally well irregardless.

Nothing is strange in a way that makes all of it strange. The rain pounds against every window like it’s begging to be inside and the doors sometimes shake when thunder claps. But nothing is wrong in a way you can prove. His roommates are nothing like you thought they’d be, and only serve to prove that you know even less about him than you might’ve assumed.

He’s quick, on all fronts, to brush over any questions.

Whatever you want to know about, Hawks won’t let you. But it’s not out of secrecy. If he could tell you to be patient without spoiling your little game, you’re sure he would.

The pit of your stomach only grows heavier as the evening continues. Even though he hasn’t done anything to warrant your increasing distrust. Nothing feels as it seems.

It’s nearly eight o’clock when Kurogiri calls you all to have dinner.

Hawks send you into the dining room alone.

The walk into the dining room feels like it goes on forever. The hallway remains dark. At the end of the tunnel is a kitchen. A brightly lit dining room with warm lights and a table that seats many people. On the table, there's a bottle of sake and glasses. A pitcher of water with lemons cut into it, and plenty of sides.

On display though is meat. A lot of meat. Meat you can’t identify any one way, and that doesn’t smell like any other meat you’ve ever had. Hawks mentioned steak, and you can’t be sure it’s not that. It just doesn’t look like it from this distance.

The tables are all set-out, and there’s a steak on each plate.

Kurogiri is polite when he greets you.

“Oh,” He says, thinking to himself. “You must be the guest. Sit here. Keigo insisted I sit you next to him,”

You’re startled, but nod your head. “Nice to meet you, Kurogiri-san,”

He shakes his head. “The pleasure is all mine,”

You sit at the far end of the table, and let Kurogiri pour you a glass of water. The rest of the housemates start coming into the kitchen. Magne, and Twice, and Touya mostly - along with Hawks at the tail end. He comes around the redwood table to join you. He sits at the very head while everyone sits in what seems to be their own assigned seats. Touya sits directly to your right. Kurogiri sits at the opposite end of the table, glancing at Hawks.

“Master Shigaraki won’t be joining us?”

Hawks shakes his head. “Said he wasn’t. You can always bring him something to eat.I can take care of your guest.”

Kurogiri pauses, then looks at you. He shakes his head. “Just be careful, Hawks.”

“Have some faith in my hosting skills, Kurogiri,”

You watch on in silence as Kurogiri fixes things in a tupperware. Master Shigaraki?

“Sorry about the delay!” Hawks offers, all of a sudden. You look at the plate in front of you, and all the bowls alongside it before looking back towards Hawks. “Thanks for joining us for dinner. Please eat as much as you like and consider this our formal welcome to the neighborhood,”

Touya laughs hard beside you. “Laying it on thick aren’t you, Keigo?”

He replies in his unflinchingly calm voice. Touya must really get under his skin though, because you can hear his demeanor crack just barely. “Just being welcoming. Wouldn’t kill you to take a page out of my book, I don’t think,”

“Enough bickering,” He supplements, throwing his hands up. “Let’s eat,”

There’s a resounding itadakimasu around the table before the sound of cutlery begins to scrape against the ceramic plates alike.

For the first time all night, you check into your body and stare down at the plate in front of you. It feels like all your blood is rushing to your ears. Your heart pounds, blood thrumming through your nerves as you examine the plate. There’s a cut of meat on it, tender with herbs - and a side of rice and pickled vegetables. The ceramic plate it’s on is red, a deep sort of maroon. Painted birds decorate the sides along with thin leaves and branches. The other cutlery is nice. Heavy stuff, nothing cheap. Even the chopsticks have good weight.

You feel out of body as your hand reaches for them, swallowing thickly and not looking up at anyone for any reason. From the corner of your eye, you see Touya who seems to be watching your every move. Hawks doesn’t pay you any mind. You wonder why he’s doing so deliberately.

You use a spoon to help pick up rice. You eat the vegetables plain. It hurts to chew and swallow even though none of it’s dry. The lemon water you drink from the cold glass cup doesn’t soothe your throat.

The blonde glances at you. He reaches towards the sake bottle and cups circling the centerpiece of the decor and hands you a glass. “This’ll warm you you,”

You look at him, and briefly at his plate. He hasn’t touched the meat yet. You take the glass from him and sip in long drinks until you reach the bottom.

But the feeling doesn’t leave you. You wonder if you’re imagining it.

It’s meat. Beef, from what they tell you. You look up to see Twice across the table, tearing into the flesh with his teeth - and something inside your gut churns hard. Your focus is unbreaking as you see it. Teeth sinking into flesh. The outside a golden brown but the inside raw and red, fatty and bleeding. Twice’s plate pools with what looks like blood. Steaks bleed, you know that.

And everyone is eating comfortably, like nothing is wrong. Except Hawks. He has yet to cut into anything. He mimics you. He’s waiting for you to eat first.

“You should eat first,” He goes as far as telling you. His smile gleams. Pearlescent white teeth, golden yellow eyes, blackness in his pupils like oblivion. “Feels a little rude as the host.”

Fuck. Something is wrong. It’s screaming at you. The sound of scraping and chewing and swallowing becomes a cacophony as it grates on your mind. You try your best to be unaffected and drink more sake. You keep your voice calm.

You won’t panic. You can’t panic. You steel yourself.

“No no, please - go ahead. I’m a little tired so I don’t feel like chewing, is all. It’s fine, I promise.” You offer, then stare at him. “Eat.”

He looks at you surprised, and Touya laughs besides you.

He shrugs though, and eats. Unconcerned with you, with refined manners and well practiced etiquette. Hawks is polite when he eats.

He cuts through the thick hunk of meat with a sharpened knife in precise, even squares. He’s an expert at it. You watch as the outside cuts open. Underneath the brown is tender red. Bleeding red. It’s practically raw on the inside, blood spilling out from the open slices. It has that soft texture of raw meat. Hawks uses his chopsticks to grab the piece, and it yields underneath the pressure - squished between the ends.

You watch as he chews it. You watch carefully.

There’s delight in the act of eating. He savors when he chews, slow and deliberate and when he swallows - he seems especially pleased. His expression changes after the first few bites, repeating it over and over. You feel bile rise in your throat.

“It’s good you know,” Hawks hums, looking at you so deeply you feel suffocated. Flying close to the ground to pin you right when you’re least expecting, how typical. It’s so like him it makes you sick. “You should give it a try,”

You clear your throat.

“I will. I uh, I do need to use the restroom though.” You say quickly, trying not to heave. “Where would that be?”

Touya snorts. “Down the hall on your left.”

Before he can get a word in edgewise - you bolt. You nearly knock the dining chair over with how swift you carry yourself on your legs. You run, speeding off towards the bathroom. Grabbing the handle you nearly slam the door as you hurry yourself inside.

Your chest feels tight as a sense of nausea overwhelms you, mixed with some morbid sense of relief. You were right. You were right about everything.

They’re taking body parts - this much you’re sure of. You can think of what they do with them. Selling them is a lucrative business. But eating them? It’s a level of depravity so far beyond your scope - you can’t help but feel nauseated.

Your hands grip the linoleum sink as the fluorescent lights of the bathroom flicker overhead. Your complexion has gone pale with disgust. Your stomach feels especially tight, soured. It’s almost painful how sick you are. Sweat drips along your back and into your shirt - all down the crown of your head. White knuckling the edge of the sink, you stare into the linoleum and take deep breaths trying not to fucking puke.

You’re in too deep. You were weeks ago. Maybe the minute you clocked that something was wrong about him, like you’ve seen past a carefully set-up illusion.

By rights of the illusionist, it’s only inevitable that he comes after you. You either die with his secret or become part of his magic act.

You don’t know which things he wants more.

By the time you steady your breathing at all, you hear the bathroom door click open behind you.

You nearly scream.

Hawks closes the door behind him. The enclosed space of the bathroom makes your chest ache, as you back into the sink. He looks calm. You ready yourself to run.

His eyes no longer shine. They’re almost dull, copper in color as he stares at you with a lazed smile. It’s like the mask has all but shattered. Leaving you two in this cramped, airless, stale room. Your stomach clenches, muscles tight with adrenaline. You think of all the ways out, but Hawks leans his weight on the door to keep you from running.

“Relax,” He offers, no longer pretending. “I won’t hurt you. And you’d rather not get the attention of my housemates, I’m guessing,”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You fucking—you eat people?”

He smiles. “You know, it’s pretty clever of you to figure it out. Most folks here are too stupid to see through it, but you noticed right away. I was really interested in that when we first met,”

He stands up straight, readying himself to approach you.

“Stay the fuck away from me,”

He leans against the door and puts his hands up, but not because he’s trying to appear unthreatening.

“It’s a good gig. Cheap property, more people move in, more business. When someone proves loyalty, they get a cheap mortgage and live for a small price. Up until now, no one just moving has been able to get out of it. Except for the family before yours. Still feel sorry about that one.”

The dread that washes over nearly has you throwing up. You dry heave. Hawks smile only grows.

“But you noticed right away, which was interesting. So I started getting intrigued by you. I wondered how far you’d go to find things out, and it was farther than I expected. It’s good to be clever,” Hawks offers. He steps closer to you this time and you go to defend yourself, grabbing something from the counter to hit him with. You find nothing. “Not so good to be nosy. But you couldn’t help yourself, huh? I like the spunk, at least.”

“You’re a monster,” You say and you mean it.

“It’s a house full of them. I’m just the spokesperson. And this is a lucrative business practice. My colleagues aren’t the social type, so I handle all the HR. I can’t have some newbie who just moved in fucking the protocol,” Hawks hums, tilting his head at you. “In a way I’m helping you,”

“Helping me? How in the fuck are you helping me?”

It’s a swift movement where Hawks pins you. You go to move, to hit him - to scream. But Hawks is fast. He’s strong, and completely swift - and when he grabs you to pin you to the sink, you’ve never felt more completely helpless in your life. You bite his hand, but he looks at you steadily. Cold.

“No one will help you even if you scream, so don’t scream,” Hawks reprimands, almost bored. “Cops don’t come here anyways. I would know.”

He pulls his hand away from you.

“What do you want from me?”

Hawks looks surprised then laughs.

Before you can protest any further, you feel the grip on your arms and body tighten painfully. Hawks ducks his head down against your throat, and in one motion bites. He bites hard. You can feel it break the skin, and that time you scream. You pull away, but his teeth scrape and scrape and scrape till you’re bleeding.

He sucks the blood and licks the flesh, like someone might eat bone marrow from a carcass. You can feel it then. He’d devour you into nothing if he could - while you’re still all pieced together. You look at his mouth when he pulls away, covered in your blood. Some of the skin he’s taken off, just barely. Your whole body feels feeble as he goes again to lick up and clean the sensitive wound.

Your knees feel weak as he pulls away. Your blood is on his mouth. There’s surely more on his hands. You feel sick all over again. You’re gonna throw up.

“It’s simple what I want,” Hawk’s says, and then narrows his eyes at you “I like to play with my food before I eat it,”

Your eyes narrow.

“There’s no way I’d let myself wait around here to be killed.”

“Who said anything about killing, stranger? Just eating. It’s good practice to eat. We’ll eat together. We’ll eat each other. It’s romantic, don’t you think?” Hawks hums, hugging you to him. And it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, for exactly what he really is. “Eating together is a basic facet of a healthy connection.”

“A healthy connection? You’re insane.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m in like. Different things.”

You try again to pull away, but remain stone still in his arms. For now, there’s no escaping. But you thrash and thrash and thrash. It comforts you.

“I’ll never take it lying down.” You tell him, as seriously as you can.

He gives you a smile. It’s pearly white. It’s unnerving. It’s genuine. Your heart feels heavy as the weight and implications all sink in. Oh, he’ll chase you - if it means getting to eat you alive.

Thunder strikes the house. The walls shake. July is unwelcoming and gloomy.

But Hawks’ eyes shine yellow gold like a false sin as he looks down at you in awe.

“I’m looking forward to it, neighbor.”

#cannibalism cw #noncon cw #yandere cw #hawks x reader #bnha x reader #writing tag #sorry if there are . still errors

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artbyblastweave · 10 months ago

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Whatever else I may say about the writing of Fallout 3, Oasis is excellent on every level. Genuinely totally siloed from the main quest and the rest of the game world's communities, isolated from any area of the game world that you'd be likely to pass through on your way to another quest objective (maybe Fort Constantine, but you'd still have to detour pretty heavily.) Despite that, allusions to the place are seeded throughout the game- Three Dog talking about it on the radio as an urban legend, a single insane wastelander ranting about it before dropping dead in front of you. One of your rewards for completing the Arefu quest is that you'll have a cluster of locations in Arefu's general area marked on your map if you hadn't found them already; one of those locations contains an exiled, berserk Treeminder with coordinates to Oasis on his person, albeit without any explanation of what Oasis actually is. Actually finding the place is a very self-directed activity even if they hand you everything you'd need to get there. I feel as though there's a level of restraint on display from Bethesda here that you wouldn't get for settlement with a named quest these days- an asset as visually unique as Harold would absolutely end up with top billing in the main quest, you wouldn't be allowed to miss him. And anyway, once you get there, I dunno, there are interesting parallels. Inasmuch as Fallout 3 has any kind of actual deliberate theme, I'd argue that the theme is that you can't run from your problems, and you can't stick your head in the sand. A lot of the settlements you visit over the course of the game have the vibe of a whole bunch of people who are just sort of holed up and waiting to die, even the outwardly successful ones like Megaton and RIvet City. The entire main plot is triggered by James deciding to try and do something about the state of the world instead of just waiting to die of inbreeding along with everyone else under the Overseer's thumb. Everywhere you visit is experiencing some kind of watershed moment- something's gotta give. And then you get to this place that's outwardly a pretty sweet setup, but only because they're obscure- and that's not sustainable. You found this place, other people are going to, the only actual choice on the table is on what terms they're going to come into contact with the outside world and on what timetable. The possibility of reforestation is complementary to Project Purity; they make a big point of the fact that Harold can't do jack about the irradiated water even if the restoration of greenery would still be a major net positive. And it's not hard to draw a connection between the ending where you convince Harold to keep living because the Treeminders are dependent on him, and the whole "abandonment issues" beat that the Lone Wanderer is given room to have with their own father- you don't get to duck out on the world that easy, James Number 2. Lots of interesting little parallels swirling around in there, if you're an overly charitable apophenic such as myself

#fallout 3 #fallout #fallout 3 timeshift theory #fo3 #note that the sheer number of settlements that seem like they're pursuing really bad long-term strategies and kind of just waiting to die #is very heavily tied to my belief that the timeframe was supposed to be different #thoughts #meta #fallout harold #fallout analysis #effortpost

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jumpywhumpywriter · 7 months ago

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Villain's Coffee Shop part 6

Warnings: bleeding out, gravely injured Villain, stab wounds, corrupt Superhero

"Now you know why I spent my days fighting people like you," Villain snorted bitterly. "It's the only way I can make enough to stay off the streets and survive. By stealing and killing."

Hero's gaze grew distant, thoughtful, before there was a sudden flash of furry motion off to Hero's left that sent her springing from the chair, daggers in hand ready to attack the threat.

"Wait! Don't hurt him!" Villain barked frantically.

"'Him'?!" Hero squawked, but his words made her hesitate long enough to realize that it was... literally just a cat. Embarrassment flushed Hero's face as she sheathed her blades and sat back down. She stared at the scruffy cat, which had black fur... and it was missing a whole front leg, along with a large chunk of one ear.

Hero gawked at the feline as he bunched his hind legs and hopped up onto the table next to the couch, giving her a quizzical look. "You have... a three-legged cat. I am both surprised and somehow unsurprised at the same time."

"Somebody has to adopt the unwanted critter," Villain shrugged. "Like me. Unwanted. Only I'm not adoptable," he added quickly when he saw Hero winding up to make a snarky joke about it. "His name is Mocha."

"Seriously? You named it after a caffeine drink?"

"It's a cat that lives in a coffee shop, Hero. Mocha is an appropriate name," Villain argued defensively. "Apparently Mocha got into a fight with a loose dog, and no one wanted to adopt a mangled cat, let alone one that also had black fur. They're often considered bad luck. But I took him before he could be euthanized."

"That's... actually kind of sweet of you," Hero said, gently stroking the cat's head. Mocha purred loudly, an oddly raspy kind of purr like a broken motor, and climbed into her lap, kneading her leather suit with his remaining front paw and arching his back happily.

"Mocha is the sweetest cat you will ever find, you just have to look past all the scarring." Hero was taken aback by the fondness in Villain's face as he reached a weak, trembling hand toward Mocha, who instantly abandoned Hero to hop onto the couch and settle down on Villain's chest instead, still purring madly.

Villain sighed heavily, petting Mocha's curled-up form gently. Hero would have never guessed him to be capable of kindness, given his violent reputation.

"...Would you be willing to consider switching sides?" Hero asked softly. "Be a hero instead of a villain like you are now?"

Villain's eyes darted over to her, surprised. "I'm pretty sure it's too late for that," he rasped quietly. "I've killed too many people. I'm not worth your time."

"Maybe so," Hero agreed solemnly, "but you can always give it a try. I have connections, I could get you on our Hero team where you can use your powers to save lives instead of take them. And you wouldn't have to show anyone your face, either. We can design you a new mask." She bit her lip nervously. "...It's up to you in the end, but I get the feeling you've got a lot more good inside you than you're willing to admit." She put a reassuring hand on Villain's shoulder, and he flinched hard, disturbing Mocha who meowed in protest before settling again.

"Just... think about it for awhile, Villain. Can you promise me that?" Hero glanced around and snatched up a notepad and pen, scribbling something down and tearing off a page to hand to Villain. "This is my personal number if... you'd like to reach out." Villain stared numbly at the paper in his hand.

A chance. He'd said he'd needed a chance. Just one. And now he held that chance on a thin piece of paper. "...Thank you," he murmured after a brief hesitation. "And not just for this, I mean for... listening, I guess, and saving my life." Villain cleared his throat awkwardly, fumbling over his words.

But Hero smiled playfully, standing up and ruffling Villain's hair. "I look forward to hearing from you."

Villain scowled and ran a hand through his hair to flatten it back down. "I'll let that slide because I'm in so much pain I can barely think straight, but try that again when I'm at full-strength, and I'll destroy you," he grouched.

Hero laughed as she headed toward the back door. "Heal up, Villain, and then we have work to do."

Villain smiled faintly at Hero's back as she left, darkness in his gaze. Oh, he had work to do indeed… Hero was in way over her head dealing with him. He grinned down at Mocha, who affectionately nuzzled into his hand. “What do you say, Mocha? Should I cause some trouble?”

---The current, ominous end.

UPDATE: due to popular demand, I continued this storyline further!

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@federthenotsogreat @everynameistakencarrots

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annisassintchaska · 2 years ago

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The Interview: Lewis Hamilton x Black! Reader

It was time for the press conferences and so the drivers shuffled in unwillingly since they all hated this part of their job. Everyone took their seat and away went the questions. They had been twenty minutes into the conference when a beautiful young black woman raised her hand to ask a question. Lewis noticed her and immediately started smiling as he remembered her.

“Hey, I remember you! You were at the club on Friday!” He exclaimed in excitement as the lady’s eyes went wide at his declaration. “Lewis don’t say that here, you’re ruining my reputation” The woman countered as she blushed profusely causing Lewis to smile at her. She gathered herself and went on with her job. “Hi, my name is Y/n L/n and I have a question for Lewis” She said nervously as everyone kept staring at her. “I wanted to ask how do you feel now that you’ve extended your contract with Mercedes instead of going off with Ferrari? You had given everyone quite a scare when they found out about the contract” Y/n explained as Lewis listened attentively; something the other driver and reporters along with fans have noticed. “First off I want to say that I hope you’re doing well and taking care of your stability and to answer your question, I feel great. When I got the Ferrari contract I honestly didn’t consider signing with them so the document was just on my desk in my home office up until the last meeting, I decided that since no other team reached out and I loved my current team, I would stay here at Mercedes” Lewis answered her question fully. “Thank you Sir Lewis for answering and yes I am well and my stability is as stable as it can be” Y/n answered as Lewis but the inside of his cheeks, watching as she walked back to her seat.

The press conference went on for almost another hour when someone finally addressed the elephant in the room. A male reporter walked up to the mic asking. “Sir Lewis, you mentioned earlier that you had met Ms. Y/n at the club this past Friday and you seem really happy about that. Please don’t take this in a way of disrespect but I would love to know what could have possibly happened for you to actually perk up the you did when you recognized her?” The reporter asked making Lewis smile as he held his head down, meanwhile the other female reporters were giving the poor girl nasty side eyes and the unoccupied male reporters were either winking at her or admiring her beauty as they awaited Lewis’ response. “What happened was that I had gotten the chance to dance with the lovely woman as we were both abandoned by our friends that night” Lewis recalled shyly to which the everyone awed at him.

After the interview had finished everyone packed up to leave, yet Lewis stayed behind as he realized that Y/n had went to the restroom, so he carefully packed up her bag and waited for her. The woman was surprized to see the 7x World Champion waiting for her as she headed back to her desk.

“Hi Lewis, shouldn’t you be heading back to the hotel?” She asked curiously as to why he was still there. “Yes, I should be but since I wasn’t sure if I would see you around until next week, I decided to ask you before you went missing” Lewis explained as she nodded for him to continue. “Y/n ever since I met you that night in the club, I’ve become more attracted to you with each passing day. I’ve always admired you from afar and for me to get this close to you I don’t want to lose this opportunity. Will you please consider going on a date with me whenever you’re free? It doesn’t have to be out in the public we could eat in and have a movie night or we could do some fun board games or even skincare cause I know you like that” he pleaded as he watched her think. “Ok, I’m up for it, we can do it tonight seeming that we are staying in the same hotel, you have my number that you didn’t use earlier so now you can text me your room number and I’ll be there at 7pm” Y/n said as she patted his chest softly before making her way to the garage.

Lewis looked on in amazement, smiling wide and feeling like a high school boy who just spoke to his crush as he ran excitedly to his car to get prepared for his date.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x oc

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teecupangel · 5 months ago

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How would the assassins react to meeting the Teenage Mutant Ninja turtles?

Since you didn’t specify which TMNT we’re going for, we’ll make this a bit generalized and twist it a little bit.

The Assassins of old (with Layla and Desmond) get sent into New York. They hide in an abandoned warehouse while trying to get everyone up to speed.

The weirdest thing is that everyone is speaking English.

To be more exact…

Layla feels like most of them are getting ‘dubbed’ to English.

Desmond has no idea what this means because they sound fine to him. They sound like they’re speaking in English.

Even the people who should not be speaking English (like Arno, Bayek, etc) know they’re speaking in English and are confused by it.

They’re able to talk long enough to figure out some things, Ezio recognized Desmond and figured that backing him up would be for the best. There was no need for Desmond to lie to them, after all.

Desmond gets Altaïr on board by making him believe that he saw his memories and wrote something in Arabic on his palm that none of the others saw. Altaïr’s on board for now but Desmond knew that the man would find some way to get more information in the outside world soon so Desmond better start setting up a computer with internet connection and enough firewall to not get them pinged by Abstergo once Altaïr learned how to google.

The Kenway duo, Ratonhnhaké:ton and Edward get roped into his side last. Desmond talked to Ratonhnhaké:ton about how he’s also his ancestor but Ratonhnhaké:ton is a bit wary, considering the last time he believed someone with ‘knowledge of the future’ but he agreed to go along with it because Desmond sounded sincere. Edward joins them because he learned Ratonhnhaké:ton is his grandson.

… they kept the whole Haytham Kenway thing a secret for now because…

All of them were taken from certain ‘ends’. Altaïr’s last memory was planning to join Maria in her journey. Ezio’s last memory was returning to Monteriggioni and sleeping with Caterina Sforza. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s last memory was a peaceful day in the homestead a week after Achilles’ death. Edward’s last memory is docking to England, holding Jenny’s hand (and he also assumed Ratonhnhaké:ton is Jenny’s son).

And it’s not just them.

Layla talked to the other Assassins because she was given brief summaries about their lives as well as the Brotherhood’s Animus missions concerning their memories.

The problem was Basim.

Basim’s last memories is arriving in Baghdad as a novice.

But Layla knows that Basim is a Sage of Loki. She also realized that Basim doesn’t know Loki or his memories of Loki aren’t… ‘awakened’ yet.

So Layla isn’t sure how to act around him.

Desmond decides that they need a phone to call the Brotherhood and asked Layla what her ‘secret’ number and code phrase is to contact Erudito.

That was easy to do considering Desmond is good at pickpocketing (Edward absolutely believes he got it from him, Desmond isn’t going to tell him that it’s actually Ratonhnhaké:ton’s Bleed).

They learn two things.

The number Erudito gave Layla doesn’t exist. The number Desmond also received as an emergency call number from Erudito doesn’t exist.

And…

There is no such thing as Abstergo in this ‘world’.

No Abstergo.

No Animus consoles (and Desmond is disgusted by how greedy Abstergo has become, profiting over his genetic memories???)

Nothing.

And because they were snooping around in a New York that was both familiar and unfamiliar to Desmond, he gets ambushed.

Or so they thought they were ambushing Desmond.

Instead, Desmond leads them to the abandoned warehouse the others were staying and began to whistle the same tune Ezio would use when he was getting guards to a trap that his recruits could spring on as part of their training.

So it becomes an all out brawl that gets stopped midfight because they realized they’re fighting… uuhhh… turtles.

What.

And a lot of their names sound familiar to Ezio.

It was official.

They were in another world getting attacked by… teenage mutant ninja turtles?

#the reaction was a small part but i hope you enjoy the 'setup' instead nonny #assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #fic idea: teenage mutant ninja turtles #fic idea: crossover

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silkendandelion · 5 months ago

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Reminder that Kane was a part of human experimentation where he was given a serial number and a call sign instead of a name, and was made to do horrible acts before they abandoned him + his squad without checking to make sure they were ACTUALLY dead. And he's much less curious than anyone gives him credit for.

He's never had a sex-ed talk. Doesn't even know that self-pleasure is an option.

Well, Arcade continues to be burdened by the narrative, he finds out and cannot bring himself to let it go, it's not in his nature, he continues to assign himself responsibilities (esp about education)

Arcade: Where do I... even begin to give a man in his—how old are you?

Kane: I don't know what year I was born.

Arcade: (rubs his eyes) Late 20's a sex-talk from scratch? I suppose we begin with reproduction but I don't have any relevant reading materials. I'll need time to draw up diagrams, prepare for questions, etc.

Darling: (takes a bite of his radscorpion chili) You can like whoever you want to, Kane, remember that. I had this ghoul I was running caravans with, called him Cowpoke. When we thought we could get away with it, we used to [redacted] and [dolphin noises], but—

Arcade: OKAY Darling. Ahem. I don't think we're quite there yet, we'll save the more graphic anecdotes for after I've explained more than nothing at all.

(ED-E warbles electronically)

Arcade: I don't want to hear a beep out of you, you're an Eyebot. And 10 years old, go to your power bank.

(Darling sips his sarsaparilla among the thunk of ED-Es retaliation to the back of Arcade's head)

#we call it 'crack treated seriously'#and it's art #fallout au #fallout rp #fallout fanfic #fallout oc #fallout new vegas #fnv #fallout #arcade gannon #ed e #oc fanfiction #oc worldbuilding

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fromwhenceucame · 9 months ago

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Today was Not Great so it’s time to make my first ever real post on here I guess !!

Shoutout to @thehardestwater for giving me that one post about turning your favorite characters into warriors, I did that and thought about them way too much

First we have Chaeya, let’s go !!

I very, very loosely used real warrior cat design concepts in the fact Kaeya doesn’t have an eyepatch but instead a big ol’ scar (in star-shaped format). A lot of their designs are inspired by aspects of their outfits, like how Childe has the darker ginger around his chest/neck like his scarf, and Kaeya’s white fluff is his actual fluffy thing (but this time on his body, wow). I had to make Childe’s stripes swirly like water and Kaeya’s spots like stars (also the moon-shaped ear fluff, that idea came to me from a warriors MAP (edit: I found it!!! It’s Crookedgoose and the design for Moonflower (of course it was a Crookedstar map (my favorite little freak who I associate with Childe for no reason)) and also the fur on Kaeya’s back was inspired by another cat design of him I saw and I really wanted to include it)

In their warrior cats land, there’s 7 clans for each nation — so Childe’s in Snezhnaya clan (Snowclan) and Kaeya’s in Mondstadt clan (Windclan (very original)).

Childe is a highly respected cat in his clan, and they do things a little differently out there! There is no leader/deputy structure; instead, there’s the 11 Harbingers (“omens” instead, since “harbinger” isn’t a word I’ve seen in warriors as far as I know) who support their leader, the Tsaritsa… I don’t know off the top of my head if we know how many cryo archons there were before the Tsaritsa, but the original was definitely “Snowstar” and currently her name is “Icestar.” Childe is basically number 11 of Snowclan’s deputies…

As for Kaeya, he’s essentially Windclan’s acting deputy while the actual deputy (Jean) is the acting leader while the REAL leader (Varka) is away doing whatever he does. There’s a horseplace very close to Windclan (ironically similar to the real Windclan) that Kaeya knows everything about, the horseleader if you will, and he strongly enjoys watching them graze and gallop around when he’s not busy with clanlife. Pretty much everyone in the close-knit Windclan respects Kaeya because he is very cool (Kaeya does not agree with this, but okay). Also! The original “Windstar” (Venti) basically stepped down the moment Windclan was made, he’s not interested in that life.

And as for names !! They make me scream :]

Snowclan’s 11 Omens all have a new name based on what omen brought them to that position, that are formatted like the older clan names/tribe names, too. Originally, Childe was “Floodpaw” before he disappeared for a few days and came back a lil silly. After that, he was re-apprenticed to an Omen and given the full name “Floodripple” with his Omen name “Dark Waters of the Abyss” … sometimes I break my own rules (I don’t think “abyss” is a word warrior cats know) and that’s okay. Floodpaw probably still found a whale out there wherever he went to get trained by Skirk.

Kaeya would be “Frostwind” — the leader having honored him for his loyalty to the clan despite his loner roots (having been abandoned as a kit and taken in as usual, maybe Diluc is “Flametalon” for his fierceness because they definitely become warriors before The Incident) (Frostwind definitely doesn’t think he deserves that name, but okay).

Additional thoughts, Jean is “Dandelionroar” and has been acting leader for too many dang moons now. Barbara is most likely a medicine cat, but Albedo and Sucrose are also in that vein so maybe this Windclan does things a bit differently in regard to medicine cats. Dottore may be the medicine cat in Snowclan but he’s not. A very good medicine cat. Arlecchino’s Omen name could be “Flames of the Crimson Moon”

And yeah that’s all I got \o/ stay tuned for parts 2 and 3 when I post my other favorites from fe3h (Dimtiri + Sylvain + Claude) and hsr (Dr Ratio + Aventurine) my goal is to have a whole lot of them done before artfight next year — I hope they were neat, thanks for reading !!

#chaeya #childe tartaglia ajax #kaeya alberich #genshin impact #I don’t know how to tag this #should I tag warrior cats #I’m not going to but I considered it #my art yay #beloved

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island-in-the-shadows · 1 year ago

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Hannibal and Will Adopted Oliver AU Pt. 2

I literally have waited long enough to continue posting this one. Definitely owed it to @ib3li3v3you so here goes:

Pt. 1 here: https://island-in-the-shadows.tumblr.com/post/742073028536582144/my-hannibal-and-will-adopted-oliver-au-hcs

Oliver goes hunting on his own for the first time at 18 (so prior to arriving at Oxford). His dads are waiting in the wings, so to speak, in case Oliver fumbles. His hunting style is, given that he's a teenager, a little more conspicuous than his fathers'. His target had been scoped out for months, however. Got just the right person from his papa's (Hannibal) Rolodex of Rude.

Oliver wanted to try something a little different from how his dads do it which meant finding the rude man in question and seducing him while simultaneously remaining in the shadows. He really thought this out. Anyway, very looong story short, he basically does what cannibalistic spiders do to their mates. Except with a deadly syringe. His fathers' help him create a spidery display.

Oliver does start out eating regular, if incredibly fancy, food but does develop the taste for long pig and, in either case, has a fondness for Sweetbreads. Don't ask me why, I'm still not clear and do not want to probe.

Oliver seriously considers taking care of Farleigh for a while because he finds him unspeakably rude. However, Hannibal and Will advise him not to and recount how they have waited for the right time. Besides, they both know that Farleigh going missing would be noteworthy and possibly alienate their son from what he wants the most: Felix.

Hannibal sympathises with Oliver much more than Will does about the whole Felix thing. Will knows Felix's type and is just instantly on his guard. Hannibal, on the other hand, knows what it's like to fall for some pretty boy more or less at first sight.

This means that Hannibal is the one that gets the brunt of the calls when Oliver needs to vent about Felix. Yes, even when Oliver is so angry with Felix for abandoning him to shag some girl that he debates about killing him.

Back to Oliver's lies: Instead of telling Felix that his dad died, he says his mother died.

Will is the one that helps Oliver fully understand what it is that Felix wants. Except Will never suspects that Felix might want Oliver too. Cut him some slack, it's his kid and he mainly just wants the crush to go away.

Hannibal and Will argue about Oliver's obsession with Felix. Get in a fight about it. Hannibal believes Oliver and Felix are inevitable. Will thinks their son is going to wind up with a corpse and a broken heart.

The tack in the bike tyre was Hannibal's idea.

Oliver finds horror movies funny because, come on, he's literally seen and done worse.

Oliver does tell his dads that he's going to Saltburn instead of coming home.

Oliver knows how to cook though not as well as Hannibal. However, when he eats Venetia out, he thinks her blood would be wonderful in a Sanguinaccio Dolce. He wonders if Felix's blood tastes better.

His phone kept ringing while at Saltburn and Oliver kept ignoring it. The "HL" and "WG" brought questions from Felix, so he lied and said it's family members who are always asking him for something or to forgive his dad. Stupidly, this prompts him to change the name for both numbers and put "dad." (Let's remember Oliver is very smart but also very fucking stupid in canon; same goes here.)

When Felix answers the phone when "dad" calls, it's Hannibal on the other line. Hannibal follows his son's ruse and pretends he knows nothing about Felix. He does, however, get curious. Tells Felix that he would love to see Oliver for his birthday and that wouldn't it be nice if Felix came with him.

Hannibal lies and says that he's at something like a program for rehabilitation. Really wants to make it extra tempting for Felix. Gives him the address and says that oh this whole building was remade and blah blah he plays it up. He has a ball doing this.

On the drive to this place (not Prescot because, even though that's where Hannibal and Will found him, that's decidedly not where they live now.), Oliver at first doesn't recognise where they're going. Hannibal and Will and Oliver moved to this estate (one that Hannibal has long owned but barely used) a few months before Oliver started at Oxford and Oliver really only left it to hunt once and then to get on the trains and busses that would get him to school. [I did actually look for real estate for this and had fun doing it.]

However, when they turn into a familiar little road with all the familiar buildings before they get to the definitely familiar 16th century manor, Oliver starts to panic.

Felix comments on how nice it is for a rehabilitation program. Oliver is dying inside and he knows his dads did this on purpose.

Felix is, however, taken by complete surprise when he realises that Oliver's dad and his "friend" are the only people there.

Hannibal asks Felix forgiveness but that Oliver is so embarrassed of them that he had to lie. He reveals Will is his partner and that oh yes, shame about Oliver's mother dying all those years ago.

Will is polite but quietly observing. Hannibal is the consummate host. Felix is livid but polite. Hannibal likes that Felix keeps playing at politeness. Will finds it grating.

Oliver will pull Will aside and ask why? Will pats Oliver's shoulder, "We were curious what would happen, you should know that."

When Hannibal hugs Oliver goodbye he whispers, "Don't spoil the meat."

Ok this is long enough...will keep developing this for later with the big party, the maze, Felix surviving, and eventually becoming interested in more exotic meats. LOL

#saltburn #hannibal #cattonquick #hannigram #felix catton #oliver quick #just a bit of fun really

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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Many thousands of civilians have reportedly been killed. The number of people displaced from their homes is well into seven figures. Densely populated urban areas have been reduced to rubble. Supplies of electricity, food, and water have been cut off. Hospitals have come under attack. Many of those fleeing, injured, or dead are children.

I could be describing Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, which has raged on for almost two years now, or the terrible human costs of Israel’s military offensive in the Gaza Strip following the horrific Hamas attacks on Oct. 7. But I am referring to a conflict that has received much less international attention: the civil war in Sudan that broke out last April. Even as one lethal war captures the world’s attention, others roil on in the background.

Unsurprisingly, given its geopolitical significance, Ukraine has received considerable attention in the West, where leaders have been quick to condemn Russia’s war crimes. The new conflict in the Middle East has dominated headlines over the past couple of months. But Sudan’s crisis has gone woefully underdiscussed, like many others that for various circumstantial, political, or geographic reasons seem to matter less to the international community.

The West likes to think it has abandoned the racist habit of ascribing different value to human life in different places. We profess our respect for international law, which codifies the principle of equality. But in practice, our behavior does not always reflect this. Accusations of double standards from non-Western counterparts sting precisely because they have a point.

This is not to advocate for a zero-sum redistribution of attention and diplomatic energy from one conflict to another. Nor is it to say that we should care any less about innocent people killed, for example, in Kharkiv than those killed in Khan Yunis or Khartoum. Instead, more than 75 years after the United Nations adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the international community needs to rediscover the tradition of humanitarian universalism. We must avow in word and deed that all human lives possess the same value and that the killing of civilians is unacceptable wherever it occurs.

Never before in recent memory has this been more urgent. The world has entered what David Miliband, the president and CEO of the International Rescue Committee, has called an “age of impunity.” War crimes often go unpunished. Nations increasingly disregard the laws of war: Torture, sexual violence, acts of collective punishment, and indiscriminate destruction of civilian homes and services are tragically common.

In a fragmenting international order, old mechanisms such as naming and shaming no longer work. Multilateral peacekeeping operations are in decline. These days, when wars do end, it is more often the result of one side vanquishing the other than a negotiated settlement. This new disorder arrived gradually—as the optimism of the immediate post-Cold War era gave way to new wars, power shifts, and then global economic crisis in the 2000s—and then accelerated in the early 2020s.

Wars are now more frequent, they are lasting longer, and they are killing more people. In 2022, more than 200,000 people died in state-based conflicts globally—the highest death toll since 1986 (excluding unilateral acts of violence such as the Rwandan genocide). Mass civilian casualties in recent years include the massacres of Tamils in Sri Lanka; the killing of tens of thousands of civilians in Yemen; and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people in Ethiopia’s Tigray region. Such conflicts are forcing more civilians to flee, which is one of several factors that has driven the number of displaced people worldwide to a record 114 million.

Open Society Foundations, the philanthropy I run, provides funding to several of the largest humanitarian organizations to support their work on these overlooked conflicts. We also fund a range of advocacy and policy groups working to bring attention to the roots of these crises and mobilize the political will to address them. But this work can feel like a drop in the ocean. It needs more funding and scaled-up operations, particularly at a time when there is less news coverage of international conflicts, as media outlets have fewer resources to send foreign correspondents to distant war zones. When these conflicts are out of public sight, they too easily become out of mind for officials and politicians.

The time has come, then, for a new universalist global campaign for solidarity with victims of conflict everywhere that reestablishes the norm of equally valuable human life. This may seem like an obvious principle, woven as it is through the constitutions of multilateral institutions such as the U.N. But it is evidently getting lost in today’s world.

Civil society activists capable of crossing national and partisan divides should lead this campaign. They should cooperate with existing multinational institutions, such as the U.N.; nongovernmental organizations, such as ONE Campaign and Amnesty International; and far-sighted cultural and media figures with the reach needed to build momentum.

This global campaign should demand deeper pools of core funding for emergency aid, especially from groups of national governments, ensuring that aid responses do not depend merely on media attention or the largesse of individual governments. It should challenge both media and government to widen their attention spans and scope for empathy. And it should also demand swifter multilateral responses to crises, including by pressuring the U.N. Security Council to speak out immediately for basic humanitarian principles rather than deliberating for weeks.

Perhaps most fundamentally, the campaign should draw in a network of civil society groups, cultural leaders, and new generations of human rights champions to proclaim: no more hierarchies of civilian suffering, no more double standards, no more selective blind spots.

In an age of multiplying and interlocking crises, the international community must find room for solidarity for more than one or two benighted groups at a time. Global civil society should convene, whether in person or online, to launch this new campaign and reassert fundamental but increasingly sidelined principles of equality, solidarity, and shared humanity. As the English poet John Donne put it: “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.”

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sillyletterscomposingsillywords · 2 months ago

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can you speak more on buzot? why do you like him? i only really know of his death with pétion lol

His politicial principles

You will most likely hold your glaze on Buzot's name for the first time between April and June 1791, a period of high concentration of his speeches in Constituent Assembly given on various themes.

Buzot’s favorite idea was, probably, the one of separation of powers. Not necessarily the three branches of power, but any.

The declaration he wrote with Petion before his death starts as follows:

“The evils that Despotism had done to the Earth had, since long ago, inspired in us a hatred of Kings. It has always seemed to us absurd and degrading for people that the fate of Millions of them depended on the will and passion of one.

“It seemed to us it was revolting and dangerous that one man inherits the right to command his fellow men as a Sovereign.

“This system, the only one which weighed on the world for centuries, seemed to be the main Source of Mistakes, prejudices and evils which desolate and degrade a society of people.

“From the beginning of the Revolution we have hoped to see an annihilation of this fatal and criminal system.

“We have been constantly working to fulfill this object of our dearest wishes” (published in Vatel, Vol.2, p.360)

When the Constituent Assembly debated which form to use to inquire the King and the Queen returned from Varennes, Buzot defended, it was on 26th June, the need to entrust the questioning to the ordinary court without forming a commission of deputies to prevent mixing of legislative and judicial powers (Journal des débats et des décrets n°766, p13).

On May 17th, 1791, he spoke against re-election to the next Assembly and to executive power. "In general, the continuation of any powers and functions is a principle of corruption. <...> Could you forget your principles and your wise foresight for a matter able to compromise the purity of the legislative body and one day alter the respect and confidence which people have for representatives? And you place another one arm in the hands of executive power for it to grow insensibly at the expense of public freedom. <...> Do not believe that only entire corruption leads to the conquest of the majority in a big assembly. A small number of people, an eloquence of one orator, intrigues of another, some cleverly managed terrors can master it in spite of itself, deceive its probity, force it to abandon its principles, to show weakness and injustice it will later repent. And unfortunately, it is these infinitely dangerous and perverse people to whom ministries tend to attach themselves." (Moniteur)

On April 13th, 1791, he said that it is administrative power instead of the Minister of Colonies who National guard should obey to prevent the concentration of ministerial power (Moniteur).

He even proposed a project of dividing the Assembly into two equal parts formed by draw each month and discussing the same matters independently (21st May 1791, Moniteur).

He viewed the post of a deputy and the one of a Governor of the Dauphin incompatible. And the first was much more honorable for him: "I believe that it is unworthy of a Representative of the Nation to leave his post to be a Governor of the Dauphin." (28 June 1791, Journal des débats et des décrets n°768, p 9)

Another idea that needs to be noted is that all citizens must have an ability to participate in political life to maintain their republican spirit. On 28 April 1791 Buzot defended the right of everyone (not only active citizens) to serve in the National Guard (Moniteur).

He was amongst those who supported the right of petitions signed by organizations: "To leave the right of petitions only to individuals is to annihilate it. Wait until the despotism, which is already raising its head so proudly, will acquire the strength it is rising to. Who will then dare to defy the bayonets and be the first to sign a brave petition? Woe to that first signed. Even if there was someone brave enough to defy the power of the oppressor, the later would laugh at this petition. Whereas a petition which is a general wish strongly expressed by cities, associations and hundred thousand men would make the despots pale." (9th May 1791, Révolutions de France et des Royaumes etc., n°77)

It was 6th August 1789 when he said: “And first of all, I maintain that ecclesiastical property belongs to the Nation.” (Moniteur) He attacked the church as an institution, but do not hasten to classify him as a radical. On 18th April 1791 he supported the opinion that non-sworn priests must be allowed to worship (Journal des débats et des décrets n°693).

Who he was before

Such brilliant career in the National Assembly resulted in Buzot receiving, by the end of it, two offers: of a post of vice-president of the criminal court in Paris and of a president of the same court in his hometown. He chose the last.

François Nicolas Léonard Buzot was born in Èvreux on the first of March 1760. He is mostly known by the name François but Archives National and Louvet in his memoires call him Léonard. His father was a prosecutor and his maternal grandfather was a lawyer in the same court (baptismal certificate, published by Vatel, Vol.2, p.160). On December 26, 1787, he became a lawyer in the court of Èvreux and one year and three months later, on March 28, 1789, he was elected to États généraux (d'Actes de convocation et de députation aux États généraux, published by Vatel, Vol 2 p. 283).

“Born with an independent and proud character, never yielding to the command of any person, how could I support an idea of hereditary rule and inviolability of one person? My head and heart were full of Greek and Roman history, of great men who, in these ancient republics, honored people the most. I’ve shared their maxims from the youngest age. I fed myself with their virtues. My youth was almost wild. My passions, concentrated in my ardent and sensitive heart, were violent, extreme, but dedicated to a single object, always to it. Never debauchery will wither my soul with its impure breath. Lechery always horrified me and to the old age never a licentious word spoiled my lips. But I’ve known misfortune early, still I stayed attached to virtue, whose consolations were my only asylum. What charm I still feel when I recall those happy days of my life now never to return, when I wandered silently through the mountains and woods round the city I was born, reading some works of Plutarch or Rousseaux with delight or recollecting the pieces of their moral and philosophy I cherished the most. Sometimes, sitting on a flowering grass in a shade of dense trees, I, in a sweet melancholy, gave myself over to the memories of the pains and pleasures of my first days. At the evenings, the precious works of two good man often occupied and entertained me and my friend the same age as me whom death took from me when we were thirty years old and whose memory, always cherished and respected, protected me from many mistakes! That was my character, slightly changed by the clash of revolutionary passions, when I arrived at the Constituent Assembly.” (Memoires, p 24)

Development of his principles and his liaisons

Madame Roland opened her salon in the spring of 1791. Not surprising that one of its visitors was Buzot, a friend of Brissot and Pétion. They became friends. Rolands exchanged letters with him since they have all departed from Paris in September 1791, the letters which must have been nothing close to the tender, soulful lines madame Roland would wrote in little less than two years later. Yet these letters allowed them to thoroughly study the souls of each other and, having become intimate soon, brought up the love they found themselves in by the time they saw each other a year after. “Buzot with pure principles, courage, sensitivity and gentle manners has infinitely inspired me with esteem and attachment to him.” (Madame Roland, Memoires, p. 119)

Then, in the reopened salon, he would find two new close friends of him: Louvet and Barbaroux, whom he describes in his Memoires as talented and of great character (p.90).

On 24 September 1792, in the midst of a heated argument caused by Kersaint’s proposition of a law against those who instigate murders, Buzot climbed the rostrum to say:

“Strange to the revolutions of Paris, I arrived here with confidence that I would retain the independence of my soul. Good that I know what to wait for or to fear. What does citizen Kersaint propose? Firstly, to inform each of us about the actual situation in both the Republic and the capital. That is the first thing I demand to be clarified. Secondly, to discover if we have any laws against instigators of murders. <…> We need a public force to provide the compliance with laws. <…> I also demand a public force in which all the departments will participate, because I belong to Paris no more than to the other departments. That is my will, a strongly expressed which will not be suffocated by the declamations of those who speak about Prussians, whom I do not have the honor of knowing, because I lived in my department as if retired. <..> I ask for appointment of four or six commissaires for examining the state that Paris and 83 departments are in to propose in future a project of a law not bloody – I have always raised against those ones, I have fought against that Mirabeau, who had made a martial law – but gentle, which simultaneously reassures good citizens and gives justice to the miscreants. I demand the National Convention to be surrounded by force so imposing that not only did we have nothing to fear but also our departments were completely confident that we have nothing to fear. Oh! Some may think they will make us slaves of some deputies of Paris… I have said this word. It is not too strong. I ask the Convention to examine these questions and for us not to be portrayed as enemies of the people when we want to establish a government that will bring them peace and give them bread.”(Moniteur)

This proposal (which was adopted) and Girondins’ eagerness to bring the guard to life became later one of the reasons for accusing them in federalism.

“When I said yesterday that the Convention must be surrounded by the guard formed by men from all 83 departments, wasn’t I speaking in favor of this unity? I proposed this measure and I say that all we need to prevent the federal division, this tearing of the French republic is to bring departments here, is each primary assembly to send here a man as a guarantee of the unity. <…> One decree is not enough to establish the unity of French Republic. This unity must exist as a fact, as a union of people sent from 83 departments to surround the convention. But these ideas must be organized with care. So, I ask for these observations to be sent to the Editing Commission for it to present its report as soon as possible.” (Moniteur)

To the report on the departmental guard, which Buzot made on 8th October, belongs this definition of republic: “Republic is a holy confederation of people who see themselves as similar and proud, who cherish their kind, honor their character and dignity, work together for the happiness of all to better provide the happiness of every, because in society one necessarily depends on others and is made more significant, more solid by it; of people, finally, equal, independent, but wise and appreciating no rule except law emanated from the general will freely expressed by the representatives by the entire Republic. That beautiful association is not limited by the borders of a small land. It is one, indivisible throughout France. Its perfection, its safety is an interest of 25 million men.” (Moniteur)

What Montagnards called federalism was, in fact, an irritation from Parisians affecting politics under the name of the nation on the basis that they were the nurse of liberty and a fight against what Girondins saw as and called a tyranny of one city. And some party spirit, of course. An important part in this quotation is Buzot talking about cantons. He opposes Paris’ influence with every citizen in the Republic able to vote. During the debates on the king’s trial, he asked for an appeal to people. He would be happy to live in a direct democracy.

It was March 10, 1793. Cambacérès proposed proceeding to the organization of the (future-called) Revolutionary tribunal and the ministries, “the ministries which are now organized as if two powers existed”. He said: “All powers were given to you; you must exercise them all. No separation must exist between the body that discusses and the body that acts.”

“(Cries “to the vote! to the vote!” are heard in the big part of the Assembly. Some murmurs then follow the cries – that is Buzot appears on the tribune.)

Buzot: Citizens, I request the floor. (The murmurs on the left are heard once again) This noise tells me, and I knew before, that some courage is needed to oppose the ideas by which some want to lead us to despotism more terrible than anarchy. (The same murmurs) For every moment I live I thank those who let me to. I view my life as a voluntary concession from their side. (The murmurs continue in the very big part of the Assembly) But may they at least give me the time to save my memory from dishonor by letting me vote against the despotism of the Convention.” (Histoire Parlementaire, t.XXV, p.50)

A prophecy.

By that time Buzot was extremely unloved by all left. His endless attacks, sometimes absurd, e.g. his accusation of Robespierre and Danton being in the Orlean’s party (he did not believe it himself), his resistance to Dubois-Crancé’s army reform made him unbearable. He would become even more after his resistance to the Committee of Public Safety’s power expanding, his eager to bring Marat to justice (even more fiery because he had called him innocent for months before, but that is a story for another day). No one would forget that he stood for the stay of execution (and had an argument on that matter with Barbaroux).

On 8 May 1793 he tells the Convention the following story when one deputy reminds it to him.

“My servant was arrested on fifth of that month. He was riding a horse of my friend [Dugazon]. He was taken to the Garde-Meuble and asked to show his civil card. He had no. Therefore, I had to present myself four times to the Section Quatre-Nations, where I live. I was refused. The servant said he was mine and this single circumstance determined his arrest and imprisonment. He was being held at the city hall, and I went there with my claim. There I saw, among others, a man with big moustache and big saber, a type which can be frequently seen near the Convention. I was refused taking my servant back in front of witnesses. I asked for their names but was refused. A big man [the man with big moustache] asked me if I needed his help, "the one on the end of my saber" — he added. I answered that I'm ready for it, armed with my courage and some bullets. I went out. The guard decided to follow me. I refused him, but he still did. I came to the mayor who received me decently. I've been there for a very little time when a municipal officer and a military officer began to argue. The object of their argument was the arrest of the man with big moustache and the cause of the arrest was his treat to leave only with my head. This man was taken to the Committee of police and released by it, because he said he was a true patriot and a good citizen. Finally, after two hours and a half of interrogation, when all means to get my servant make contradictions ended, he was returned to me.” (Moniteur)

On 22nd of May Buzot spoke about big municipalities division (Moniteur, I recommend reading it), and on May 23rd about 10th March (Moniteur). He said no single word on 31st of May. On the 2nd of June he stayed at Meillan's, as many other girondins did, and had no intention of participating in the session. Having heard that the idea of proscribing thirty-four deputies instead of twenty-two had been suggested, Buzot rushed to the door, willing to die on the tribune of the Convention. While his colleagues were holding him by pure physical strength, Barbaroux, possessed by the same desire, managed to escape unnoticed (Memories de Meillan, p.52).

Who he became

He became the soul of the Federalist revolt. A great inspirator. Next to his and Barbaroux 's names Brissot, in Saint-Just’s report on 8th July, looks like a petty hooligan.

Madame Roland, an author of at once chaste and passionate letters, wrote him on 6th July: "I’m penetrated by your courage, your affection honors me and I praise everything that inspires your proud and sensitive soul." (Madame Roland’s third letter, published by Dauban, p.36)

Those were the days of energy and hope. They soon ended, being followed by "cruel adventures" (Louvet's word) about which Buzot, in one of many fits of rage, writes in his memoires: “Yes, to avenge! To avenge my friends, their memory on the barbarians oppressing us. That is my goal, my will, my hope! It takes me whole; I think of it all day, I see it in my dreams, to fulfill this duty is the only reason I live! And who of us could agree, without this reassuring hope, to wander in this senseless, torturing life from district to district, from house to house, sometimes staying in the wild and desert forests of Bretagne and Perigord, sometimes sailing two hundred lieus on the sea, exposed to illnesses, inconstancy of the stormy sea, invasion of English, pirates and to the danger a thousand times more cruel than all English and storms, to the danger of being recognized by French, finding hearts cold everywhere, indifferent, frozen with fear or terrible souls tainted with our blood? Could we have another interest? Who of us could agree, without that reassuring hope, to live in our free land after death of our friends and our independence. Alas! We desire no more! What is left of us except pain?” (p.128)

He always was a man of feeling more than a one of thought. And so to say, a man of a deep, strong feeling. All his memories (and they consist of three chapters written in different times and places and to be the last words) are written to splash out the emotions he could not take any more. “My heart cannot handle the feelings oppressing it. There are still some cruel ones I have to devour in silence! Great God! How long do I have to endure? How much is it left of me? You’ve given hope to an unfortunate man but hope also abandoned me! <…> I search in vain for something dear to me, that will force me to once again love life. But in an isolated loneliness I now find nothing. On a despair of no longer having tender, honest feelings. Of no longer having a heart able to respond and rekindle my life with its sweet flame. All is lost for me, forever lost! How terrible those words! They plunge me into oblivion.” (p.132)

His Memoires possess no structure of Barbaroux's or facts of Pétion's. They were written in the same time, Buzot and Pétion were working on them literally elbow to elbow, so it says a lot about their priorities.

Prone to melancholy (Madame Roland's description of him), Buzot rapidly changes his tone from flashes of high lyricism to furious screams but is always uncommonly permeated by sadness.

"Celestial ray, shining from Divinity itself, I bless you for the evils I suffer for you! Support my courage and make me, always faithful to myself, never be unfaithful to your laws.” (p.41)

“Pache, Garat, awful names! Execrable memories! What regrets, what remorse they cause in me! You are partly obliged to me in your sudden rising and I’m well punished for it.” (p.100)

He barely tries to properly explain his theories. The only one chapter that contains them is the one about federalism (p.149), but it still has nothing specific, only an idea of it being a reasonable system, still never ever proposed by him to France.

A consequence of this will to turn his soul inside out is a brilliant honesty he writes with. Not objectivity, but honesty of judgements he had the moment he was writing.

“Following the basis of known ideas of Saint-Just, Robespierre and Barère, I see only a fatal advantage of having a new revolution every new year until the people, tired by its poverty and anarchy, finally fall back, under their own weight, to the most absolute despotism.” (p.158)

“Danton loves glory not less than pleasure and money; he is indifferent to crime as well as to courage, cruelty for him is only a calculated mean; following his interests, he signed pardon for September prisoners as he signed their massacre. <…> I don’t consider him as envious as Robespierre and as stained with blood as Marat, but he drinks it when it’s in his interests. <…> His mind knows no culture, he doesn’t hear arguments, he has no knowledge in any field; he was born awful and becomes even more in his convulsions of anger.” (p.94)

“What will happen with humanity, morals, virtues if Robespierre, Barère and Danton die peacefully in their beds?” (p. 131)

The attitude is clear. Yet – Memoires had been already finished – Buzot wrote on a piece of paper: “I’ve just read about Danton’s trial, and I found myself regretting his death.” (p.195)

"Alas! In the sad refuge where I am confined, I feel no longer the gracious heat of the sun, I see no green of the fields, the murmur of the stream doesn't come to my ear to doze the pains of my heart. Nothing living mixes its tears with mine. I see nothing breathing, and hope itself proposes to me nothing but a funeral shroud! Oh! A few more days, a few days after the fall of our tyrants to fulfil the supreme duty that remains to me, and the dream of life can vanish forever! But if it is my destiny to, after long sufferings, perish in France, in the midst of executioners, surrounding and pressing me, oh you, who are interested in the glory of mine and my friends, do not fear anything undignified of us. Our souls have never feared death, but never will the assassin have the glory of contributing it. And till the last breath Pétion, Barbaroux and Buzot will be free!.." (p.187, and the last)

He killed himself together with Pétion on the same day and the same wheat patch as Barbaroux.

"We've discussed a lot and decided nothing. I will always remember the opinion that Buzot developed with great energy. The question was if we were accused, should we prefer a voluntary death to the ignominy of mounting the echafaud. Buzot preferred the last and proved that the death on the echafaud was more courageous, more dignified to the patriots, and, even more, it was more useful for the Liberty." (Brissot, Memoires, Vol.4, p.261)

(A copy of a portrait belonged to Madame Roland published by Dauban)

#gonna call it buzot master post #frev #french revolution #girondins #buzot #cant believe ive finally finished it

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