#insane fury outlet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marvelmaniac715 · 2 years ago

Text

This isn’t a fanfiction. I actually decided to write that essay I joked about in my last post. I just want to give a word of warning: I am probably not qualified to talk about this, I’m not a psychologist, I just wanted to give this a shot and write my observations on the Chucky franchise through the lens of parental abuse.

————————————————————-

After a long period of examination, I’ve concluded that the Chucky franchise is mainly about Chucky traumatising and interfering with the lives of various children. This could perhaps be an allegory for parental abuse and manipulation. In this essay I will examine Chucky’s relationships with Andy Barclay, Jake Wheeler, Barbara and Nica Pierce and Glen and Glenda Tilly-Ray-Valentine.

It is fair to assume that (before their murders) Chucky’s parents spoiled him. This is evident when they do little to nothing when he smashes his birthday piñata with a bat. The fact that young Charles is comfortable and unafraid of doing this in front of his parents suggests that something similar happened before and was not challenged or corrected. Perhaps overindulgence fed into Chucky’s anger issues to the point where, if denied, Chucky flies into a rage?

As well as parental abuse (which I will discuss shortly) Chucky has frequently engaged in domestic abuse as well as murder. His relationships with Sarah Pierce and Tiffany Valentine display a large amount of entitlement and mental instability, from killing his romantic partners’ loved ones to threatening their lives if not worse, Chucky’s desire for control is evident in his interactions with women. His murders could be seen as an outlet for his fury, he almost always seems happier (if not calmer) when he’s killed someone. In his own words, killing helps him to ‘relax’, and much like the destruction of the piñata, this form of destructive behaviour has been encouraged by people such as Tiffany and Dr. Mixter, who should have endeavoured to correct this behaviour yet refused to due to their own fascinations with Chucky’s insanity.

The first two victims of Chucky’s parental abuse are Barbara and Nica Pierce. Whilst it’s not explicitly implied that Chucky abused Barbara (probably due to a desire to raise her as his own) up until her death it is clear that she has been impacted by the traumatic events of her youth. She struggles to maintain a healthy relationship with her husband (probably recalling what happened to her mother, even subconsciously) and has a nanny raise her child. A reason for this (as well as for social status) could be either an inability to connect with her (not wanting to get attached in case she loses her in a similar incident to what happened to her and her mother when she was young) or a desire to protect her child with additional help, refusing to let Alice go through what she went to. The trauma that Chucky induced at an early age led Barbara to seek distractions or answers in life, through religion and an affair with Alice’s nanny.

Nica is an example of the longterm effects of parental abuse. Before she is even born, one of Chucky’s outbursts leaves her paralysed (years later, Chucky denies responsibility for this and insists that he is the victim). This betrayal makes it harder for Nica to trust people, especially when Chucky possesses her and tries to make her cooperate with him.

Whereas Nica Pierce is an example of the longterm physical effects of parental abuse, Andy Barclay is an example of the longterm mental effects of parental abuse. He first encounters Chucky as a child, and the doll sends the boy’s life into total upheaval, eventually causing him to be removed from his mother. Along with physical violence, Chucky tries to manipulate Andy into thinking that he was sent from his deceased father to be with him, almost trying to take Andy’s father’s place in his life. To this day, Andy cannot ever feel safe because he always fears that Chucky will hurt him again. If looked at through the lens of parental abuse and not a desire to steal Andy’s body, Chucky’s continuous attempts to hurt Andy could be attributed to a desire to control, cultivated in his youth due to a lack of intervention when Chucky first displayed violent tendencies.

Glen and Glenda are Chucky’s only biological children. His relationship with them contains a continuous cycle of punishment and reward: when they obey him they are praised and rewarded, when they disobey they are attacked and punished (Chucky even threatens to ‘punish’ them in the finale of Season 2). There is also clear favouritism, the child that seems similar to Chucky is praised and the one that favours peace is shunned (this could be attributed to Chucky’s underlying narcissism). One of this is when Chucky thinks that Glen is a murderer like him and calls him a ‘natural’, yet when Glen comes at him with an axe he doesn’t hesitate to attack because Glen is disobeying him (interestingly though, when Glen kills him, he is immensely proud because Glen is exhibiting behaviour that Chucky considers desirable in his offspring). Another example of this is when Chucky refers to Glenda as his ‘favourite kiddo’ when it appears as if they are going to free him: the child that is the most helpful or like him at a certain moment will become his new favourite.

The relationship in which the parental abuse is most apparent is the relationship between Chucky and Jake Wheeler. Following the death of his father, Chucky almost tries to take a parental role in Jake’s life, trying to mould the teenager into a younger version of himself and even snooping through his things. Even though Jake purchasing Chucky was by chance and Chucky needs any innocent person to kill in order to raise his army, I personally believe that Chucky’s narcissistic tendencies once again come into play and he begins to see Jake as a younger version of himself (this is supported by the fact that teenage Chucky looks slightly like Jake). There is yet another endless cycle of punishment and reward, when Jake agrees to kill he is rewarded with a pleasant conversation in which Chucky gives him advice and tells him about his childhood, but when he disobeys Chucky, (it is heavily implied that) he gets beaten. Despite apologising and claiming it will never happen again, Chucky attacks Jake in the finale of Season 1 and throughout Season 2. Another example of Chucky manipulating Jake to try and endear himself to the teenager is that he claims he is (at least) an ally to the LGBTQ+ community by mentioning his gender fluid children Glen and Glenda and insisting that he is not ‘a monster’. This too is proven false when he mockingly says to Jake ‘that is so gay’ in the finale, causing the boy to retaliate.

In conclusion, the Chucky franchise could very well be an allegory for parental abuse and manipulation, explored through Chucky’s relationships with the various children and teenagers he encounters. The violence that began unchecked in Chucky’s youth developed into murder and a ruthless desire to control anybody even remotely under his care, mentally and physically traumatising people such as Andy Barclay, Nica Pierce, Jake Wheeler and Glen and Glenda.

#chucky #chucky series #childs play #childs play 2 #childs play 3 #charles lee ray #tiffany valentine #dr mixter #andy barclay #nica pierce #sarah pierce #barbara pierce #glen ray #glenda ray #jake wheeler #horror #headcanon #curse of chucky #cult of chucky

59 notes · View notes

out-with-the-boys · 2 months ago

Text

The Dance- Chapter 06

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

“No, I believe you, Mom. You know you and Dad could never keep secrets from me, even before my powers manifested.”

“I just needed you to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, Morgan,” her mother replied, her voice tinged with frustration. “Your father and I are only just learning about this whole Compound V nonsense. We would have never let some corporate whack jobs experiment on our baby.”

Her parents might have been a thousand miles away, but Morgan could practically feel her mother’s righteous fury radiating through the phone. It was a familiar heat, protective and fierce, but this time, it only deepened the knot of unease in Morgan��s chest.

Pacing around her apartment, she’d been on the phone with them for over an hour, venting about the chaos of the last few weeks. So much had happened since she moved into the tower, and the pace of it all was becoming impossible to manage. Every day brought new complications, and it felt like the ground beneath her feet was constantly shifting.

Life really seemed to take a turn after the charity ball. A-Train had returned to work, but that came with all manner of drama. Ashley’s “Girls Get It Done” initiative launched soon after, alongside pre-production for a new Vought Studios movie, and both seemed to consume her every waking moment. Even worse, Stan had been slipping through her fingers, always too busy or too elusive for a real conversation, and that was enough to drive her insane.

But the most unsettling piece of all? Homelander’s sudden disappearance.

He’d been gone for days now. No one seemed to have any solid answers about where he could be, just a series of excuses that never quite fit. The Seven had been swamped with work, but Homelander’s absence hung over everything like a dark cloud.

The one thing that oddly brought any sense of comfort to her was that Charlie hadn’t gone missing alongside him.

And then, like a nuclear explosion, Vought’s biggest secret hit the world. The revelation that the company had been manufacturing superheroes for decades—quietly spinning the narrative around them—had saturated every media outlet that afternoon. At the epicenter of it all, seeing the chaos unfold at the tower, Morgan couldn’t make any sense of it.

“Except now these same corporate whack jobs have her on their payroll.” Her father’s gruff voice broke the silence on the other end. “I don’t feel safe with you there, Morgan.”

She exhaled slowly, trying to keep the tension from bleeding into her words. “I know, Dad. But it’s not as simple as just leaving.”

“I’m not asking you to walk out the door tonight,” her father replied, softer this time, but still firm. “But you can’t trust them. If they could do this to you—lie to your face, rewrite your life—what else are they hiding? You’ve got to be careful.”

Morgan pressed her free hand to her temple, the headache from earlier making a slow return. “I know. Believe me, I’m being careful.”

Before her father could respond, Morgan heard a knock at the door. The sound was sharp and impatient, making her stomach sink. Whoever was at her door had no intention of waiting.

“Mom, Dad, I have to go,” she said quickly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll call you later, okay? And tell Sammy I said hi.”

“Alright, pumpkin,” her mom said, sounding reluctant. “We love you.”

Morgan hung up just as the door swung open.

Stormfront stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a smirk that set Morgan’s teeth on edge. If she knew it wouldn’t cause more problems than it would fix, she would have loved to give that stupid smirk a solid right hook. One of the biggest things holding her back was simply the fact she’d wind up hurting herself more than Stormfront in the process. Telekinesis was always an option, but the idea of hitting her seemed so much more satisfying.

“Hey Boo, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asked with a bat of her eyelashes and a false smile.

“Oh, no, I was just wrapping up a call with my folks.” she said, mirroring Stormfront’s energy with a syrupy smile of her own. “Did you need something?”

“Nah, I was just swinging by to let you know Homelander’s back and Mr. Head Honcho himself just called a meeting.” she said far too casually.

Morgan blinked. Homelander was back? A chill swept over her, but she quickly pushed it aside. Stormfront’s gaze lingered, a little too long, as if she were waiting for a reaction. Morgan kept her expression carefully neutral.

Deciding not to wait any longer for a response, she gave her a quick up and down glance. “You know, I’ll go ahead to the meeting while you transform and roll out. Don’t worry, I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes on what you miss.”

Morgan should have known better than to take off her armor in the middle of the day. At the very least she still had her Kevlar bodysuit on.

“Yeah, don’t let everyone wait on my account,” Morgan replied with a tight smile. The door swung shut with a mental push before Stormfront could respond. Morgan didn’t care if she got out of the way in time.

Homelander’s return stirred a swirl of contradictory emotions. On one hand, relief—he was back within range. Given the duty Edgar had saddled her with, she couldn’t afford him running off like that. But on the other hand, unease—because now she was within his range too. Considering the day’s events, she could feel Vought’s proverbial noose tightening around her neck.

She pulled her armor into place, the familiar weight of it grounding her. Her presence here was important. Stan Edgar’s words came back to her, clipped and clinical: Your job is to keep him under control. I don’t care how you do it, but if you don’t, people will die .

That first meeting played back in her mind far too often, his implication chilling.

Mind control, isn’t that what you do?

She had refused. Using her telepathy to play puppeteer to someone like Homelander wasn’t a solution—it was a ticking time bomb. And if it went off, she would be caught in the blast.

No, her approach was subtler, more delicate. It had to be. She wasn’t going to rewrite his mind, wasn’t going to rob him of his free will—no matter how much Edgar might push her to. Instead, she walked the knife’s edge, nudging him in certain directions, steering him when she could. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than triggering his already unstable ego.

She adjusted her gloves with trembling fingers, staring into her faint reflection in the massive window of her living room. The armor kept her grounded, but the real weight pressing down on her wasn’t the titanium alloy. It was the tension of living in constant uncertainty—every interaction with Homelander a gamble.

Why had he disappeared like that? Did he need space after the charity ball? Had she triggered something when she’d opened up? The image of Madelyn Stillwell—unintentionally conjured in his mind—still haunted her.

His reaction to it—so visceral, so raw—had startled her in ways she hadn't anticipated. It wasn’t just the flicker of pain behind his eyes, but the sudden vulnerability he’d let slip for only a heartbeat before it was swallowed by the usual bravado. That moment had given her more insight into him than anything she’d picked up in passing thoughts.

Morgan inhaled deeply, brushing off her unease. This was no time to dwell. She didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing herself. Not now. Lifting her chin, she mentally steeled herself for whatever awaited her in that conference room.

However, as she made her way from her apartment with long, purposeful strides, Homelander was already leading The Seven out—his usual swagger laced with something sharper, more volatile. Inside the conference room, Stan Edgar stood calmly by the large table, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes tracking Homelander’s departure with cold intensity.

Morgan barely had to look at him to pick up the threads of what she’d missed. She let her mind graze his, and the scene unfolded in an instant.

First came the mission: an intercept on the coast, a boat carrying a supe-terrorist. Edgar’s plan was clear—use this as part of his new narrative around Compound V. The blame was to fall on Madelyn Stillwell, a convenient scapegoat to cleanse Vought’s hands of the mess.

That led to Homelander, simmering with frustration, who barely kept his temper in check. His resentment toward Vought was palpable, seething beneath the surface. You are my real family. This guy… He doesn’t care about us— the phrase rang out in his thoughts. Edgar, however, remained cold and unaffected, letting the tantrum play out.

It took only a moment for Morgan to absorb all of this, her telepathy cutting through Edgar's composed exterior like it was nothing. But he knew it too.

“Remember your job, Ms. Daly,” Edgar said, his voice low and controlled. His gaze locked onto hers, unwavering. Keep him under control.

Trying to keep Homelander under control without a heavy-handed approach was already easier said than done. Whether he meant to or not, Edgar had thrown a variable into the mix that made it even harder. Stormfront was there to stir the pot in any way she could, and that was enough to keep Morgan on edge all the way to a grisly scene where their perpetrator had last been spotted.

The Seven had found The Deep, an absolute wreck, over the body of a whale that had a speedboat run through it. Their target had most likely escaped into a nearby storm drain, and from what The Deep had seen, they weren’t alone. Morgan saw the glimpse of William Butcher, the alleged murderer of Stillwell, flash through his mind and immediately she tensed.

Stormfront was already hellbent on finding their target first with every intent to snatch victory from Homelander. At that, she had no intention of sparing the man either. If she were to alert the rest of the team to Butcher’s presence, she might as well be throwing a match into an oil refinery.

The trolley was careening down the tracks and Morgan had to pick which direction it was going to go.

Ultimately, Morgan made the decision to quietly tail Stormfront through the winding passageways that wove beneath the city. Something in her gut told her it was the right choice.

The air in the tunnels was unnervingly still, the only sound the distant, uneven footsteps of Stormfront ahead of her. Morgan reached out with her telepathy, cautiously extending her awareness through the surrounding walls. Her mind brushed lightly against each of her teammates', just to ensure they were all still alright.

Then, a sharp, violent tremor shattered the eerie silence, sending loose debris tumbling from the tunnel ceiling. Morgan flinched, her senses momentarily overwhelmed. The force of a telekinetic push from someone else buzzed in her brain.

Their target.

It didn’t take long for her to realize what had happened: the target had struck, using his powers to collapse part of the tunnel. Homelander was buried under tons of concrete, but Morgan wasn’t worried. He’d be out of the rubble soon enough.

Her mental tether snapped back to Stormfront just in time to sense her quickening pace, as if spurred on by the chaos. Morgan hesitated for only a heartbeat before breaking into a run. Stormfront was getting close to the surface, and whatever she was planning wasn’t good.

By the time Morgan reached topside, Stormfront was already marching through a massive hole in the side of an apartment building. The cries of terror rang through the air, but Morgan could also hear the panicked thoughts of civilians mingling with those of the target. Cutting through it all was Stormfront’s bloodlust—and not just for the man they were supposed to be tracking. No one in that building was safe.

Morgan felt her pulse spike. She had to stop this.

Stormfront’s electricity crackled in the air, her hands raised, ready to send a deadly blast toward one of the unwitting civilians they were supposed to be protecting.

“Stormfront!” Morgan shouted, sprinting toward her. “Stop!”

A silent curse flared in Stormfront’s mind as she lowered her hands, sparing the man she was about to execute—simply for the color of his skin. A half-baked plan surfaced in Stormfront’s mind as her eyes darted between Morgan, the terrified family between them, and the hallway where the target had disappeared. Too much chaos was unfolding around her for Morgan to stop what came next.

Arcs of lightning sliced through the air as Stormfront shot through the ceiling, careening toward the roof. With each floor she crashed through, the building’s integrity weakened more and more. That whole section of the apartment was set to collapse on everyone inside.

Morgan’s telekinesis had never been her strongest suit, but instinctively, she reached out to the floors above to steady them.

Everyone, please, you need to evacuate the building in a calm and orderly manner!

Her mental plea was as calm and measured as Morgan could manage as she touched the minds of the remaining residents. The family in the ruined living room looked stunned, but they quickly shook it off, making a hasty exit through the hole Stormfront had blasted into their home. All Morgan had to do was keep the building stable long enough for everyone to escape.

Maintaining her focus on the crumbling apartment, she tried to keep tabs on the minds of those trapped on the upper floors. With every ounce of her mental strength, she fought to keep the structure from collapsing entirely. Her ears began to ring as a trickle of blood trailed from her nose.

She was nearing her limit.

Her body trembled under the strain, and any thoughts of Stormfront or the rest of the team had all but vanished. She could feel her grip slipping as she counted the minds that had made it outside, but the number still wasn’t high enough. Not everyone had escaped.

“Psyren!”

It was impossible to tell whose voice it was—Starlight? Maybe Queen Maeve? Either way, the shout shattered her concentration.

Her mental reach violently snapped back, and the building collapsed. In a last-ditch effort, Morgan made one more push upward, softening the descent of a large chunk of the ceiling just before everything went dark.

It was hard to say how much time passed by the time her senses slowly flickered back to life. The first thing she registered was the weight pressing down on her chest—layers of debris pinning her in place. Dust filled her lungs, and she could barely make out the distant voices cutting through the haze.

“Psyren! Can you hear me?”

Maeve’s voice—urgent, panicked. It wasn’t a tone Morgan was used to hearing from her.

A soft thud sounded nearby, the scraping of rubble shifting. Then, a new sensation—the pressure lightening, piece by piece, as someone began to dig her out. A shadow passed over her face, and for a brief moment, she caught sight of Black Noir’s unflinching form pulling aside a slab of concrete with ease.

More voices broke through—civilians, their thoughts a mixture of panic and resolve. Some of them were joining the efforts, moving debris with bare hands. Her mind, still sluggish from the strain, latched onto their thoughts briefly. They weren’t just saving her—they were pulling others from the wreckage as well.

Come on. Get up!

She urged herself to move as Noir reached out a hand. Wrestling through her pain and exhaustion with sheer stubbornness and willpower, she clapped her hand around his wrist and held on with what little strength she had as he pulled her upward. As she got her feet beneath her, she stood unsteadily atop the pile of debris, swaying.

For a moment, everyone that wasn’t still digging through the rubble looked up at her, a stillness falling over them. Closing her eyes, she sifted through their thoughts. They were scared. Psyren, a symbol of indomitable force and hope, had almost fallen. She needed to show them she was alright.

Eyes snapping back open, she thrust a fist in the air, signaling their triumph.

A murmur spread through the gathered crowd, some of them shouting in relief, others just staring in awe. A faint smile tugged at her lips—she could hear the gratitude and hope in their minds, mixing with the pain and fear. Despite how much she hurt, and despite how much her body protested, she stood proud beside Maeve and Noir.

“Easy, Psyren,” Maeve murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently steady her.

Maeve’s hand was the only thing keeping Morgan grounded as the world tilted precariously around her. Every breath sent a sharp pain through her chest. Despite the armor, she could feel the dull ache of cracked ribs beneath it. Her head pounded, vision wavering in and out of focus, but she refused to let herself fall. Not yet.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, voice strained as she tried to wave Maeve off. “Just need a second—”

As she fought to even put words together, the rest of The Seven converged on the wreckage. Starlight and A-Train arrived first, Starlight’s face pale as she scanned the damage. A-Train’s usual bravado was missing, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, catching sight of Morgan. “You’re lucky to still be standing after that.”

Morgan forced a tired smile, but didn’t have the energy to respond. The strain of her telekinesis, combined with the injuries she was trying to ignore, had taken a far greater toll than she was willing to admit.

Then came Homelander, descending from above, landing with a force that sent dust swirling around him. His eyes flicked between Morgan and the surrounding wreckage, sharp and calculating. The fury still simmering from his earlier clash with Stormfront only intensified when he noticed Morgan’s condition.

“Psyren,” he said, voice low and controlled, “what the hell happened here?”

“I—” Morgan started, her breath catching as the pain flared again. “I kept the building from collapsing completely… Everyone’s safe… I think.”

But as the words left her lips, Homelander’s expression darkened. His eyes narrowed as he looked her over, and she felt the sudden shift in the atmosphere—a mixture of concern and anger that caught her off guard. The way he was intently scanning her didn’t help either.

“You’re not fine,” he growled, stepping closer, his voice almost a whisper. “You’ve got two cracked ribs, and you’re bleeding internally.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed. She could feel the ache in her chest but hadn’t realized it was that bad. Even so, she squared her shoulders, unwilling to show weakness. “I can manage—”

“No,” Homelander cut her off, his tone final. “You’re done here.”

With dizzying speed, he scooped her up, cradling her with an unexpected gentleness. For a split second, Morgan considered protesting, but the throbbing pain and overwhelming exhaustion kept her silent.

Maeve shot Homelander a sidelong glance but didn’t argue. Morgan blinked, trying to focus. Behind him, Stormfront lingered, a smug look still plastered on her face. She glanced at Morgan briefly before shifting her attention elsewhere.

“I’m taking her back to the tower,” Homelander declared, ignoring the looks from the others. His grip tightened ever so slightly.

Morgan could barely keep her head upright, the fight quickly draining out of her. She hated to admit it, but Homelander was right. She wasn’t going to make it much further on her own.

“Just… don’t drop me,” she murmured, a weak attempt at humor, her voice barely audible.

A rare, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got you.”

He lifted off the ground, and the wreckage of the building fell away beneath them. Morgan let her head fall against his chest, closing her eyes. She caught the tail end of his thoughts—anger still simmering over Stormfront. She had stolen his thunder. But at least now, he still looked like their competent, compassionate leader in the end.

Song: Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie Author’s notes: While I definitely had a few story beats from season 2 I wanted to include, there were definitely a few I wanted changed. I’ve really enjoyed pitting Morgan against Stormfront in this way. Not only is it a little cathartic, but I think this adds a certain layer to the dynamic that Morgan and Homelander are developing. I’m so excited to explore it further. Thanks again for reading! Let me know what you thought!

Next chapter.

#homelander x oc #homelander fic #homelander fanfiction #homelander

2 notes · View notes

sheepwithspecs · 2 years ago

Text

Paramour

|| PLvsAA || Rated T ||

Ao3 Link

When fighting is just an outlet for other emotions, something's bound to break eventually.

Their first kiss was entirely unintentional.

It had been a fight, one of the rare fights that went beyond the scope of their duties as Inquisitors, devolving into petty name-calling and well-aimed insults. She'd been on a role, having more than enough fodder from the 'Wild Ride' to insult not only his current place as the town laughingstock, but also his horsemanship. It always delighted her to no end to see his face flushing deep red with mingled anger and humiliation, to almost hear the grinding of his teeth by the motion of his jaw alone, the subtle clanking of his armor as his limbs shook with fury under her verbal assault. It was normally by this point that he'd make an exit, refusing to listen to her 'pointless, unfounded comments on his person'.

But he didn't.

The first second his mouth was on hers, she felt nothing but shock. Her arguments died in an undignified squawk, her mind racing to figure how he could move across the room so quickly, her ears bereft of her own shouting as well as his. Then, as the shock became kindling for her indignation, he seemed to understand the position he was in, the short length from her knee to his groin, from her claws to his face. He pulled away, his face equal parts staggered and unremorseful.

For a long moment, they merely squared off in silence, his unrepentant eyes locked in an impromptu staring match with her blazing ones. It was only broken when her hand—gloved, not clawed, to her own dissatisfaction—came up of its own accord and met his cheek with enough force to knock his head sideways. He blinked, tongue working in his mouth, and she wondered if she'd made him cut his cheek. Serves him right.

"What—how dare—who do you think you are?!"

"I had to make you shut up somehow…" He was breathing just as hard as she. "'Twas all I could think to do." Something about those words, spoken so matter-of-factly, only roused her ire more. Her hand came up to repeat the slap, but he was on his guard this time; he caught her wrist in an iron grip, holding her arm at bay while she struggled to land another blow.

"How dare you touch me," she hissed, only angrier by the fact that he was stronger than her, and had no reason to keep from flaunting said strength. "Give me one good reason that I shouldn't have you thrown the dungeons for harassment!"

"Verbal abuse from one's superior." His smirk was infuriating. "If you file a complaint, I'll be next in line behind you. I'm sure the Storyteller will be surprised at such vile words from a lady as professional as the High Inquisitor."

"You would use a lowly tactic like blackmail?" she spat, still working on wrenching her arm from his grasp. "When you accosted me? When you're accosting me right now?" He let go of her abruptly, and she nearly tumbled to the stone floor.

"Prove it." He raised his hands in a mocking manner. "Prove that I laid my hands upon you. Bring forth witnesses." They both knew she couldn't, that it was only his words against hers. That even with such a tight grip, he wouldn't have pressed hard enough to bruise her. His hand rose, one finger pointing to his face. "I, however, have a better case." Already, she could see the bright red of her handprint against his cheek.

"You deserved it," she scowled; turning away to hide her clenched fists. How dare he try to usurp her in such a manner! And… that was to be her first kiss?! She wasn't the most maidenly of women, but even she wanted something more than an angry gesture meant to keep her silent! She wanted to spit, even though it was only his lips against hers, nothing more.

"I never claimed otherwise, milady."

She hated the thought, but she wanted him.

It was her to kiss him next, many moons later when he just wouldn't shut up and her frustration levels were already at maximum capacity thanks to the old man's insane workloads. She realized on that day how quickly it could happen, how easy it was to stop the flow of words in a way that was almost guaranteed success.

He didn't slap her, though he did push her away. And he was angry, rightly so. But that didn't stop her from sneering down at him, nor did it stop his hands from yanking her back towards him a moment later.

After that, their fighting became charged in different ways. Their arguments, normally clipped and borderline spiteful, eased until they were throwing barely hidden innuendos and playful banter instead of snide comments. It got to the point that all she had to do was look him over, her eyes alight with glee as she pointed out how easily he managed to work his way up the ladder of the knights, hinting at how she knew some of them were not at all interested in the opposite sex. He was not above the same treatment, staring blatantly at her chest while he wondered aloud if she wore such tight clothes on Parade days for some secret, exhibitionist pleasure.

She-devil, tin man, harpy, hothead, kitten, pageboy. Even their insults lacked a certain bite these days.

"You two seem to be getting used to each other," The Storyteller remarked once, while praising her for the peace that permeated the Courthouse with the lack of tense screaming-matches from the Inquisitor's Hall.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Nitwit."

"Hardhead."

"Stubborn git."

"Immovable…woman."

"That place is a stain upon the town, and you know it." She fought the urge to cross her arms; such a tell would show defensiveness, a sign that he could wheedle his way through her resolve. It was fruitless—her mind was made up.

"'Tis a harmless place, with hardly any criminal activity. I'm more worried about the tree lines, where the witches keep popping up like mushrooms after a rain." He was as determined as ever. Though their fighting hadn't reached the pitches that it used to, these low-toned sparring matches were as exasperating as if they were shouting and gesticulating for all they were worth. It was fruitless, in a way—they were both as stubborn as a pair of mules in a farmer's field. Neither could outdo the other, and neither would stand down and let compromise take the lead.

"It's a fine thing when they're mourning the dead and we say "Ah, but look! There are no witches at the tree line; never mind the thieves that stole your purse and stabbed your father.""

"I rarely get reports of illicit activity there," he countered obstinately, lips pursed. He loomed over her, even with her high heeled boots. But her eyes being at the same level as his chin never deterred her from trying to stand over him. He respected her as the High Inquisitor; that much she knew. It was just in his nature to argue, the same as hers.

"Because it's an illicit place." She stepped close, scowling up at him. "There's no rhyme or reason to filing reports when you'll be arrested along with the rest of the criminals."

"'Tis not."

"'Tis so."

"'Tis not."

"'Tis so, and I've half a mind to incite you for suspicious activity. One would think you're harboring the criminals, rather then—" She stopped when he leaned down without pretense. Her mind harkened back to earlier arguments, where they always ended up with swollen mouths and nothing resolved. "Don't try to end it this way," she warned harshly, though she made no movement to back away and he wasn't crowding her in with his hands.

"Don't tempt me—"

"Don't you dare." Their noses brushed. "I'll arrest you this time, I swear it," He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her.

"You're full of hot air."

"Coward." Her lips brushed his as she whispered the word. She knew what was coming. Even so, she wasn't prepared for his teeth to catch her bottom lip teasingly. "Y-you—" He leaned back just enough that they could eye each other, his expression both guarded and heated.

"Leave the tavern to me," he murmured, eyes half-lidded as he bent towards her lips once more. She leaned back, bumping against the front edge of her desk as she evaded him.

"Sir Barnham." Her hand groped at her desk for something, some weapon, something. This whatever-it-was wasn't really teasing, not their status quo of bickering and mockery. This was different, a new outlet of emotion that left heat pooling in her gut and in her cheeks, which left her breathless as his parted lips brushed against her cheekbone. "S-Sir Barnham," she tried again, her voice pleading—but for what? For him to stop? Or… to keep going?

"Leave it to me," he repeated, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't worry about such paltry things, when you're needed for larger jobs. I can handle any criminals in that district."

"You won't convince me this way," she protested, though her shaky tone was saying otherwise. His hand rose to brush at one of the curls resting against her shoulder—surely it was just the cold metal of his gauntlet that made her skin so hot, the discomfort of it was the reason she lifted her head, not to give him better access to parts of her he shouldn't be touching in the first place…. "What are you doing?"

He pulled away, his eyes falling to the rapid rise and fall of her breast. This time, however, it wasn't for joking or petty jabs at a 'perverse nature'. He seemed to soak in the sight, gnawing at the inside of his lip while his hand fell to her shoulder, and then her waist. She stiffened, but to her own surprise she didn't stop him as he seemed to measure its span with his hand, fingers slowly drifting up towards her chest and tracing the seam of buttons on the front of her coat.

"I… I don't know," he admitted honestly, gauntlet gleaming in the light as it played against the darker fabric of her uniform. They both fell silent, watching the slow trek of his hand up her side. He didn't seem inclined to stop, and for the life of her she couldn't think of a good reason to stop him. They were coworkers and things were bound to be awkward later, yes, but it didn't override the fact that deep down, she had wanted to feel that metallic touch for a long time.

There was a telltale clang of iron footsteps in the hall that finally spurred him into action, his hand flying from her torso as though burned. He retreated towards the relative safety of his desk, staring at his open palm before clearing his throat and turning towards the door to great whoever had come to knock at it. She peeled herself from the desk, walking around to sit in her chair and busy herself—or pretend to busy herself—with the never-ending stacks of paperwork.

It would be a good three days before they could look each other in the eye.

"Lady Darklaw, I thought I told you to leave this district to me."

She froze, silently cursing. Why was he here? Making sure her face was schooled before she turned, she graced him with a longsuffering look.

"So you did. And lucky for you, I'm just heading home." It's not a lie; the Shades have contacted her about a problem in the woods, which she planned to see about. This was the easiest route to take. But now that she said aloud… it sounds suspicious. "Not encroaching on your territory," she half-joked with her usual sneer, hoping to throw him off the scent.

"You live this way?" He looked around at the dingy, derelict buildings. His mouth opened, but whatever he meant to say must have been deemed unworthy, or too rude. Perhaps a question about her pay?

"I-I'm taking a longer route home. I like to…." Any excuse her brain came up with seemed less than stellar. He waited, one brow arching when she took too long. Finally she sighed, making up a little white lie to please him. "Pssh. If you must know, I was giving two men the slip. I thought they might have been following me, but it seems I was mistaken. Or perhaps I merely walked faster than I thought I could."

"Two men?" His sharp eyes peered over her head at the dancing shadows in the alleys, the sky too clouded for the moon to offer more than a faint glow. "I'll walk you home, then. It may not be safe." His fingers twitched at his side, reaching for his sword. D-damn! He couldn't do that; her home was in a place that technically didn't exist!

"I'm fine," she excused herself quickly. "Trust me. You should go make sure any other young ladies don't get manhandled." She thought of his adoring 'fans', something like jealousy twisting her stomach. She pushed it back with a frown. "I'm sure they'll be grateful for it."

"Alright." She breathed a soft sigh of relief, hoping he didn't hear. "But I'll see you home first."

"That's not necessary!" Even in the dim lighting, she could see his eyes widen. Too loud! Now you really look shifty! "Er, that is—I can take care of myself." She envisioned her Shades, waiting in the dark and wondering where their mistress was. Why she hadn't come to them yet. "Really. I don't need—" She faltered when he stepped close, his eyes alternating between watching the shadows and her face.

"Lady Darklaw, it would make me feel better if I could see you safely to your door. I don't like thinking about… anyone trying to take advantage of you in the dark." She shook her head, motioning to the dagger she wore around her waist.

"I'm prepared for scenarios like that. And was I not able to outmaneuver them? I can easily find my way back home from here. I'd be more concerned about unarmed women walking these streets so late." Her voice was steady, assured.

"Still—" His brows furrowed, but her confidence seemed to work. "If you insist. But promise that you let me know anytime you feel unsafe."

"With pleasure." She nodded her assent. "Now, if you don't mind, it grows later by the minute. Good evening, Sir Barnham."

"Good evening, Lady Darklaw." She felt his eyes on her until she turned the corner. Walking quickly, she snuck to one of the Shades 'hidden' emergency bins, reaching in the dark and finding the spare Cloak of Invisibility that was kept there.

I'll find a way to carry one on me at all times now. It won't do to have him snooping around.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it !

It was easy to see how he'd snuck into the house, dressed up in a Shade cloak that seemed a little baggy for him. Her anger was not at him, though, but at herself. She watched him close the door quietly, the lock catching with a soft click as his eyes never left hers… or her eye, at least. She had to lend her Cloak of Invisibility to a new Shade who had lost his, along with a stern warning that he should find it sooner rather than later. She could have gotten a spare one on the way home, but she'd let herself be lulled into a false sense of security these past few months.

She should have known he'd find a way to follow her, even into the Woods.

"So… it's you, then." Her mouth opened to refute his statement, but she was struck dumb by the thought that he would recognize her voice, even as the Great Witch. He stepped forward and she stood, frozen by shock and horror from where she'd jumped from her throne when he pulled back the hood.

"Did you not think that I'd recognize this body?" he murmured, his hand reaching out and brushing up her waist. "Or these?" he continued, taking one of her clawed gauntlets in each hand. She stiffened as the air around them changed, charged with adrenaline. He was wary, his eyes checking the corners of the room. Looking for my Talea Magica, are you? His hands tightened around her wrists and she met his eyes through her mask, her lips parting.

It was a fight.

She managed to break free after a fierce, but almost silent struggle. He grunted as the force of her own muscles, however slight, were enough to throw him off-balance. She swung out, no longer caring if she cut him with her claws, but he ducked the blow and pushed, both hands pressing into her stomach with enough force to knock her back into the chair. She banged her head against the gilded edge, hissing in pain before kicking as he fought to get her dangerous gauntlets off her hands. He managed the left one, pinning her down with his shoulder as he worked on the right. She felt the heat of his body, saw the bare hands wrestling with her metal gloves, and realized—he's not armored.

Her teeth sank into his shoulder through the cloak, smiling as she heard his sharp yelp of surprise and pain. She fought against him, still kicking as she worked her left arm free. Spitting out the woolen taste of the cloak, she twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked backwards for all she was worth, tufts of hair coming out as he clenched his jaw and fought. Her right gauntlet came free and he threw it out of reach, momentarily caught off guard by the scar of fire on her hand.

Her only way was to escape. Throwing all her body weight on him, they tumbled out of the chair and onto the floor with a crash. Despite her bare hands being less of a match against him, she still slapped and punched and scratched until he rolled off of her. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for the secret door, only to fall hard on her face when he grabbed the end of her long dress and tripped her. Panting, she kicked at his hand, only to be tackled back to the floor and return to her previous bite-scratch-smack method. He managed to pin her arms to the floor, his heavy body weighting hers down so that no amount of bucking could offset him. He leaned in close, a red welt under his eye at odds with the scar on his brow.

Unable to think of anything else, she head-butted him.

They both let out a shout of pain, and then they were rolling on the ground with the sole intent of pinning the other long enough to catch their breath and gain an upper hand. While he was stronger and larger, she was lither and had enough adrenaline to at least match him, if not best him.

"Mistress? Venerable Mistress?" There was a bang out the door, the lock rattling as the Shade on the other side tried to open it. They both froze, him on top with one hand pinned and the other's fingers laced with her own, trying to arm-wrestle her away from his face. She took a breath and then his mouth was over her own, muffling her shout.

"Don't you do it," he snarled when he was sure she was out of breath. "Tell them everything's alright."

"Not a chance—" Again his mouth slanted over hers roughly.

"I can do this all day and the door's locked." Her hand trembled with the force of keeping it off the ground, lest he have her properly pinned once more. "Your call."

"V-Venerable Mistress? Have you taken a fall?" There was a panicked fidgeting. "Shall I call the others? Can you hear me?"

"I—I am well! Don't worry!" His fingers tightened, crushing hers between them. "Damn you," she spat in an undertone.

"I'm not the damned one," he answered harshly, eyes narrowed. "Take off the mask."

"No."

"Take it off." She heard the shuffling footsteps of the Shade as it left.

"N-o!" Her knees slid up faster than he could react, pushing him up and away as she kicked the breath out of him. He choked, sliding to the side and loosening his grip; she used the moment to her advantage, trying to stand and yank the tails of her dress out from under him and adjust her mask at the same time. Turning again to run to the escape door, she managed to get it halfway open before arms circled her waist and lifted her off the floor, away from the door. She gasped, grabbing his hair again and yanking up, this time taking a good handful before he dropped her. They grappled, shoving against walls and ripping curtains, cursing and growling like animals. Then, when she turned to slam her side against him, not realizing his hand was caught up in her veil, she heard a rip and felt the air on her upper face.

Her mask had torn in two, fluttering away from her and drifting towards the ground in a graceful mess of gossamer and dark cloth. Life seemed to slow down to a crawl as she felt her hair, unbound while wrapped up in her mask, come free and fall down around her. Her bangs fell over her eyes and she staggered back, pushing them away with bruised hands. They stood, the two halves of the mask between them as they panted and watched each other's movements. She waited for him to throw himself at her again, but without the mask he seemed more hesitant. She licked her lips, feeling the sweat dripping down her back as she took the time to push her hair into some semblance of neatness.

"So… all this time… you've been lying to m—to us. To the town." His breathing was labored, and when she looked back she saw his shoulders slumped, a look of pain on his face. "You've pretended to be helping us, when really this entire time you were one of them." His jaw twitched, hands fisting. "A… a w—a witch." He turned, kicking the chair with an exclamation of fury before running his hands through his hair.

"Sir Barnham, calm yourself." The words left her mouth before she could think about them, more from force of habit than anything else. He turned on her, eyes wild, before stalking up and slamming a hand against the wall. She flinched, shifting her eyes from the quivering curtain to his own, too close to her face as he glowered.

"Are. You. A. Witch." His voice held the hard edge of an interrogator, but his eyes… his eyes begged her to tell him no. She looked at the door where the Shade had been, knowing his gaze would follow.

"I am their witch," she admitted softly. This answer didn't seem to pacify him as much as it did her.

"But can you do—where's your Talea Magica?" She shook her head wordlessly. "Where."

"I don't have it."

"Where did you put it?"

"I… I never had one," she said honestly, her back beginning to ache as she pressed harder against the wall. He hesitated, stormy eyes watching her carefully.

"Can you do magic?" His hands tensed, fingers curling into the curtain. She knew what he was getting at. The only one who doesn't need a Talea Magica… the witch who can makes spells happen without the magical gems… technically, I am that witch. But—

"I am not Bezella," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Promise me." His lips trembled. "Promise me that you're not…" She kissed him properly this time, for once feeling like her reasoning was a good one.

"I'm not," she murmured against his lips. "I promise." He surged against her, pushing her further against the wall as he kissed her back. She smoothed her lips over the marks she'd made on his face, shivering as his hands found her waist and slid up to the golden chain, undoing the clasp and letting it fall between them with a sharp clank. "Zacharias…"

"Milady," he breathed back, working now on the ribbon that held her collar to her neck. She let him untie it, making a little sound when he drew it from her shoulders and let it fall to meet the chain as well.

"N-no, my name…" He didn't answer, his fingers pushing back the stiff collar, the remnants of her mask, and her hair until her neck was bared. He leaned down, pressing soft open-mouthed kisses against her rapid pulse.

"Hmm?" he finally grunted, worrying the sensitive skin with his teeth.

"I mean…" she pushed his head back, grateful that he didn't try to fight. Licking her lips, she took a deep breath. "My name. My real name."

"Lady Dar—" She shook her head.

"No. It's… Eve. My name is Eve."

"Eve." She couldn't help the involuntary jerk when she heard it repeated back to her. "I like it. It suits you."

"D-does it?" She felt like she couldn't think straight, her mind awhirl as he resumed his work on her neck, hips pushing against hers in a blatant invitation. She shivered again, taking a selfish moment to feel his hair instead of trying to rip it out by the roots. I've got to stop this. "Zacharias… we can't. I can't." It hurt to hear those words spoken aloud, no matter how rational. "You can't… you've got to forget this."

"Eve." She gasped when his hand ran over her breast, resting atop her heart before running back down to palm the weight of it. She closed her eyes against the blush that spread over her cheeks, trying to reign in her urge to push him to the ground and let him do what he pleased. "Whatever you do… whatever you're about to do… don't."

"W-what—"

"I won't tell." His other hand slowly, slowly rose to cup her right breast, waiting for her to push him off. It occurred to her that she could shout and scream now, to call for help, and it would catch him off guard. But she couldn't, not when he was staring at her so sadly. "Eve, I—I want to—I've never felt like this for anyone else before. I want to protect you. Even if… even if." He looked at the room, at the tattered halves of her mask. "Please. Let me stay and help you. I'll make sure no one finds you out. I'll give you alibis if people begin to get suspicious." He rested his head in the crook of her neck. "I'll take care of you."

For a moment she held him, thinking about the offer he'd made. Could he? Could he become a helpmate, an extra set of hands making sure this utopian society the Storyteller dreamed for his pet town stayed a reality? Were her days of loneliness over? Could she really be allowed a shoulder to rest her head on at the end of the day, a ear to listen to her troubles, a warm, calloused set of hands to shower her with affection when she was in need of it?

Foolish little Shade, little witch, thinking that it would be so easy.

"Zacharias." He lifted his head and she cupped his jaw, thumb running over the faint welt still left behind by her nails. She kissed him, again and again, soaking up everything he could offer for a time when he wouldn't be around. "You're going to forget all of this."

"W-what?" She looked into his eyes, at the unhidden desire burning there, desire not only for her body, but for her love, for her assertion that he could be her bodyguard, her helper, her lover. A tear slipped down her cheek.

"This is all a dream: a crazy, wild, amazingly detailed dream. None of it is true." She breathed in the air, the air heady with the scent of ink, wet ink. Susceptible ink. Ink she was immune to. But not him. "You're going to wake up in your own bed, and you won't even remember my name. It'll be as if you never set foot in these woods. None of this exists." True, the ink worked better with general statements. But a dream was a dream, right? And it was already working, he was nodding along even as his brow crinkled in apparent confusion.

"Eve?"

"Shh…" She kissed him again, one final time, her free hand searching for the cold silver she knew was in the pocket of her skirt lining. "Shh…. Just go to sleep." The tinkling sounded as terrible as a death knell, his lips sliding from hers as he slumped down on her in a dead faint. She clutched him to her, even as she fell to the ground, burying her face in his chest and letting her hot tears stain the Shade cloak while she muffled her cries. She stopped as quickly as she could, losing no time before unlocking the door and calling for her servants.

"Venerable Mistress! I'm so glad—what's the matter?"

"Take this man to the barracks and make sure he's in bed. Don't forget to take the cloak from him."

"Y-yes, Milady, only—" She waved a hand impatiently, trying to wipe her eyes as discreetly as possible.

"I've already dealt with his memories. Just make sure he wakes up in his own bed."

"Yes, milady."

"What happened to you?" Her breath caught in her throat, but she hoped she managed an even stare all the same. Barnham scratched sheepishly at a bruise on his arm.

"I think I got into a fight last night, but I must have been…" he trailed off, holding his head.

"I told you that tavern was no good," she remarked wryly, bending to her work.

"'Tis… ah, well." He yawned. "It didn't help that I had a strange dream."

"Oh?" He blushed, looking pointedly away from her.

"A-aye…erm—Milady, it occurred to me this morning that I don't know your first name."

"Why would you need to?" She eyed him sharply. "I don't need my subordinates getting too friendly with me, and I know you can't keep a secret to save your life."

"Urk! N-never mind!" He hurriedly disappeared behind his mountains of paper with another yawn. "Only… Eve?"

"W-what!?" Her hand froze mid-sentence.

"Did I guess it?" He crowed happily. "It was Eve, wasn't it? I must be physic!"

"Or bewitched!" The smile slipped from his face. "You tell anyone else and I'll personally see to it that you get a new office in the coldest dungeon cell."

"Y-yes, Lady Darklaw! I mean no!" She glared at him until he vanished once again, one hand reaching for his dumbbell as he began to write reports.

At least you have him this way. It was a small consolation, for what might have been had she been brave enough to allow it. But no matter. She went back to her own papers, letting the comfortable silence between them grow.

The Great Witch was far too busy for a paramour.

#plvsaa #plvspw #professor layton vs. phoenix wright ace attorney #professor layton vs ace attorney #barnlaw #Zacharias Barnham #Eve Belduke #Darklaw #oneshot #romance #angst #my writing

5 notes · View notes

anthonybialy · 4 months ago

Text

Targeted Memories

Donald Trump was nearly murdered a month ago. Oh: right. That sounds vaguely familiar. The terrible scene is as jarring to ponder as it is to have to bring back to mind. The assault should be easier to picture than a grocery list, but we spaced on getting food, too. While life always moves on, it’s now outpacing the topic sentence.

The most monumental incident of that night characterized our world almost through dawn. A moment that seemed certain to define the race and influence history is out of mind like a tweet about Jersey Shore. Ronnie was wrong whatever it was. The images we thought would haunt us as we tried to fall asleep have faded as our brains have shifted to needing a reminder to keep them in mind. It’s very 2024.

A supernova world features intensity that instantly fades. Ceaseless social media consumption does something to our brains, but the details about what just left my mind. Does anyone know my name?

Commies snuck in a win that we failed to notice. The Chinese spyware video application inflicted more direct damage with incessant videos than sending all personal information to commie creeps. I thought MTV destroyed attention spans, but it turns out watching one video at a time was our generation’s equivalent of the Ring Cycle.

The attempt on his life is not the only allegedly monumental news involving Trump that inspires afterburner fury. Intensity is matched by rapidity. The near-assassination is like his conviction. Can anyone bring to mind the crime he didn’t really commit? Democrats thought they’d get to call their villain a felon, but the lack of current event retention beat their fondness for technical correctness. Wikipedia substitutes for our memories.

Similarly, I remember his second impeachment because of the connected tantrum, but the first’s as foggy as algebra. The fact a scumbag’s enemies made up charges doesn’t aid visualization.

Trump is not helping himself, which is his brand. Claiming some shadowy deep state network sponsored the prototypical lone gunman is the most obvious way to dilute the advantage of getting winged, so of course some loyalists indulge. Baseless lunacy exceeding real trauma allows media outlets to focus on the insane blather of someone who was actually wounded. For someone who hates journalists, he sure provides them ample chances to correct overreactions that careen into deranged claptrap.

It’s not to blame the prey, but the person who gave a good 10-minute acceptance speech over more than an hour encourages discursiveness. Trump was impulsive about skipping around the dial long before he had access to the same wireless pocket rectangles that facilitates runaway trains of thought.

Raging out about whatever comes to mind that moment is way more satisfying than spending precious minutes pondering a solution, at least for now. Trump’s the ultimate Boomer in case anyone blames people cursed to be born in the 21st century as inventing inattentiveness.

Sympathy has limits, such as not voting for someone because of what someone tried to do to him. A raised fist in defiance of blood was his most genuine moment. But he would still be an undignified president who spends like a drunken Democrat. We already know. He held the job, remember? Goldfish brain is an acquired characteristic that only seems contagious. Nobody recalls how it started.

Lousy aim shouldn’t target the outcome. The election remains about an unpleasant phony posing as the most honest person versus the prototypical airhead who would sell out her pinko principles for a handful of votes. Not letting a failure at assassination and everything else dictate the future is a fitting legacy.

Everyone should remain ticked. Someone taking a shot at one of the finalists is an outrage no matter what. Decent humans don’t check whether or not they’d vote for the person who felt breeze from a bullet that pierced his ear. Emblematic federal incompetence enables inept evildoers in an illustrative moment for our time. The trouble is remembering the lesson. Some liberal zealots suffering through the Biden years still believe their faith works because they apparently enjoy having their worthless money stolen.

The upside of discarding thoughts of every moment that happened before this afternoon is the fiend’s irrelevance. The malevolent twerp can’t get comfortable on a mattress of flames on the upper bunk the same eternal cell as John Wilkes Booth even though he’s been banished from consciousness like it’s prom invitation season. Discussing how instantaneously news cycles change distracts from focusing on a story for a sixth minute.

Trump gets the most aid from his enemies. Falling for the trap is like a curse inflicted by Greek gods. Myths are neglected because no streaming service carries their stories. The plot thwarted by fate made Trump a victim, which is the worst possible favor granted to him. There’s nothing worse than letting a paranoid person be correct about conspiracies.

Yet the public is already forgetting his tale of survival as part of the commitment to fuming without knowing why. The thoroughly lousy shooter’s name is the one thing that should be forgotten.

#Donald Trump #social media #assassination attempt

0 notes

mixelation · 2 years ago

Note

One of the Akatsuki is hit with an Ella Enchanted style obedience curse/jutsu. Who would manage to hide that fact the longest?

For anyone unfamiliar with Ella Enchanted: the main character of that book has a fairy's "gift" (curse) that magically compels her to obey all verbal commands.

Akatsuki ranked by how well they'd hide an obedience curse (worst to best):

10. Deidara. Deidara goes into it thinking he will play it cool, gets one (1) command from someone, and has a screaming meltdown and then blows himself up.

9. Kakuzu. Kakuzu decides he can cover it up by either playing helpful OR going for malicious compliance, but then Hidan tells him to go fuck himself and Kakuzu abruptly remembers he hasn't had a real boss or anyone he's had to defer to in over fifty years. The rage.... is building. He is definitely going to blow his secret in a fit of fury. Kakuzu manages to hide his problem a little longer than Deidara because he simply murders Hidan before he goes and fucks himself.

8. Hidan. Hidan is less likely to fly into an unpredictable violent rage than the two people above him, but holy shit does he like complaining. He's also missing the part of his brain that's meant to keep him from revealing weakness to others, because who fucking cares when you're immortal. Hidan having an outlet for complaining is more important. He makes it through maybe four hours of the curse before he has narrate how annoying it is to someone.

7. Pein. Pein lasts about two days before he divulges his problem to Konan. He doesn't interact with very many other people, and he trusts Konan enough and also she is caring for his true body anyway. Might as well dump this on her too. Does a lot better than most people on this list managing the curse because he shared his secret.

6. Sasori. Sasori recognizes he needs to keep his predicament a secret and also has more self-controlt han the people ahead of him on the list. Unfortunately, Sasori is a control freak, and having other people be able to control him on a whim is driving him bonkers. His solution is to simply murder anyone who might speak to him. He's been churning out art like mad but even Deidara has noticed there's something deeply wrong with him. Like, in addition to all the other things deeply wrong with him.

5. Konan. Konan lasts just slightly longer than Sasori by simply complying without making any sort of comment. It takes a bit for anyone to notice anything is wrong because Konan mostly interacts with men who are running on 110% ego, so no one really questions her actions for.... a long time. Does Konan enjoy this? No. Is she going to ask anyone for help or advice? Hmm. Could probably have go loner than some people after her on this list, except she eventually decides to seek help from Pein.

4. Kisame. Kisame attempts to hide the curse by just... playing it as him being really polite. He uses the formal form for everything; why wouldn't he be this helpful and friendly? It takes an embarrassing amount of time for everyone to realize that despite the smile and polite speech, Kisame...... doesn't usually act like this.

3. Itachi. Itachi lasts a very long time by 4D-chess-analyzing every command. You could be like "Hey, shut the door behind you please," and Itachi will enter a five minute internal anime monologue about how to play closing the door as normal behavior for him and also if it will detract from his goals. He is slowly going insane from it, but he does make it work for a surprisingly long time. It helps that crying blood is just normal for him anyway.

2. Tobi. Tobi is the undisputed ruler of malicious compliance. He loudly announces "AS YOU WISH" immediately before carrying out the command in the most horrible way possible. Not only does everyone think Tobi is purposefully following every command, but every time anyone starts to say anything that could be interpreted as a command, they stop mid-sentence and cold fear goes up their spine.

Zetsu. On the rare occasions people see him, Zetsu just acts like this anyway.

#akatsuki ranked

78 notes · View notes

joachimnapoleon · 2 years ago

Text

"Utterly out of place"

But the one capital and supreme record of life at St. Helena is the private journal of Gourgaud, written, in the main at least, for his own eye and conscience alone, without flattery or even prejudice, almost brutal in its raw realism. He alone of all the chroniclers strove to be accurate, and, on the whole, succeeded. For no man would willingly draw such a portrait of himself as Gourgaud has page by page delineated. He takes, indeed, the greatest pains to prove that no more captious, cantankerous, sullen, and impossible a being as himself has ever existed. He watched his master like a jealous woman: as Napoleon himself remarked, "He loved me as a lover loves his mistress; he was impossible." Did Napoleon call Bertrand an excellent engineer, or Las Cases a devoted friend, or Montholon by the endearing expression of son, Gourgaud went off into a dumb, glowering, self-torturing rage, which he fuses into his journal; and yet, by a strange hazard, writing sometimes with almost insane fury about his master, produces the most pleasing portrait of Napoleon that exists. The fact is, he was utterly out of place. On active service, on the field of battle, he would have been of the utmost service to his chief: a keen, intelligent, devoted aide-de-camp. But in the inaction of St. Helena his energy, deprived of its natural outlet, turned on himself, on his nerves, on his relations to others. The result is that he was never happy except when quarreling or grumbling. Napoleon himself was in much the same position. His fire without fuel, to use Mme. de Montholon's figure, consumed himself and those around him. But Napoleon had the command of what luxury and companionship there was: the others of the little colony had their wives and children. Gourgaud had nothing.

--Lord Roseberry, Napoleon: The Last Phase

#Gourgaud #Napoleon #Saint Helena

37 notes · View notes

mistresslynndramione · 2 years ago

Text

Draco tortures Travers to death - From Wiltshire, With Love

Spy/handler war AU, complete! Chapter excerpt:

“Please my lord,” Travers screamed. “I’ve done nothing! Nothingggaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

Legilimency had failed, torture had failed. Travers continued to deny his role as the spy among the Dark Lord’s army. It was only death that awaited him now.

Draco watched as the Inner Circle took turns casting the Cruciatus Curse. They stood around Travers while his beaten and bloody body writhed on the floor, helpless. His agonized shrieks echoed off the ceiling. Draco didn’t know who had interrogated Hermione aside from his aunt, but it could have been Travers. It could have been any of them. Travers was simply unlucky enough to have left his cloak unattended.

“This is what we do to blood traitors,” the Dark Lord hissed, walking around the outside of the circle. “This is what we do to those that betray our cause.” He raised his wand and added a curse of his own.

Draco couldn’t be sure, but the Dark Lord’s Cruciatus seemed weaker than usual. The reduced power was more noticeable when Draco wasn’t screaming on the receiving end of it.

Draco’s Cruciatus wasn’t weak. Quite the opposite.

His imagination ran wild. Thoughts of his aunt giving Hermione the bruises he had healed, carving the words on her body or flaying her stomach and thigh were more than enough fodder for an effective Cruciatus. His curse was significantly stronger than when he had tortured Macnair or the Order members, and when it was his turn he didn’t disappoint. Ever since he saw Hermione, bloody and battered, he’d been consumed with fury and no outlet for release.

The Dark Lord noticed the surge in power and raised his hand to stop the next person. “Again, Draco.”

“Crucio!”

His hatred and desire for revenge blended with his magic, thrumming throughout his body while he held the curse in place. He felt stronger than he ever had before. Travers screamed until he released the curse with a dizzying rush. His aunt smiled as if she were the one responsible for his personal growth.

Draco returned her sinister grin.

You’re next.

“Again, Draco,” the Dark Lord’s voice was a soft caress.

Draco lost Tracey Davis in the explosions, and Vince and Millie were convalescing. His father was recovering from a burn injury as well. Some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in his year had died. They were all cannon fodder in this fucking war for a sodding half-blood using brainwashed pure-bloods to amass power for a cause he probably didn’t even believe in himself.

It was insane. This whole fucking war was insane and he hated them all.

“Crucio!” Draco’s deep voice echoed off the walls.

Travers screamed again and the Dark Lord nodded in satisfaction. Sweat broke out on Draco’s forehead with the exertion of holding the spell. Aunt Bella would suffer for what she did. Travers would suffer for what he did. They all would. He would make them pay. Draco’s arm quivered with the force of magic pulsing through his body, towards his wand, and bursting outwards in a jet of red light.

“Again,” the Dark Lord whispered in the silence following the screams.

“Crucio!”

The curse was more powerful now. His rage crept into his muscles and wrapped around his sinews and ligaments like icy tentacles. Draco could still feel the trembling in Hermione’s limbs and the mutilated skin on her body as he tried to heal what he could. He remembered Tracey and Vince on fire. He smelled burnt flesh. He saw Millie struggling with wood embedded in her thigh. He recalled the shuddering hug from his father after the raid, knowing how close they had each come to death.

Travers’ screams echoed in his ears and Draco grit his teeth, his breath coming out in sharp exhalations. Travers contorted his limbs and Draco twisted his mouth into an evil grin.

“Again,” the Dark Lord hissed.

Travers screamed and continued to plead his innocence. But it was no use. The Dark Lord knew there was a spy, and a spy had been found. Travers dug his fingers into the stone floor and blood streamed from his ears, nose and mouth. Draco’s grin widened maniacally at the pleas and he cursed Travers again.

His body was throbbing, and he grunted with pleasure while fury squeezed his limbs.

Noticing how the curse thrilled him, Alecto sauntered over and reached out to stroke his chest. He growled and shoved her away violently. She stumbled back, falling to the floor and gasped at Draco’s brutal rejection. Slowly, he turned to gaze down at her and grinned wolfishly. Her bottom lip trembled in terror.

Next.

“Leave Draco be,” admonished the Dark Lord. He waved his hand in Draco’s direction. “Continue.”

“Crucio!”

The dark and sinister magic of the Cruciatus seeped into Draco’s bones and curled around his spine. He threw his head back, laughing while Travers writhed on the ground in agony.

“Again.”

Broken, bloody, beaten and burnt.

He breathed in his hatred, and it pulsed through his body. With an exhale, he released it.

“Crucio!”

Travers screamed again, he sounded inhuman.

“Again.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Sectumsempra!”

Travers arched his back as large, deep gashes suddenly broke across his chest and torso. The blood splattered up, gushing out, and pooled on the floor surrounding him.

Draco chuckled darkly.

“Crucio!”

Travers screamed one last horrible, gurgling wail before falling silent forever. Draco’s laughter finally died down and he turned to receive the Dark Lord’s approval with a deranged smile.

Next.

“Well done,” the Dark Lord praised him softly. “Young Malfoy.”

Art by the amazingly talented translator and artist, @pir-piromanka, https://www.instagram.com/pir_piromanka/

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30318162/chapters/74730492

FFnet: https://www.fanfiction.net/.../1/From-Wiltshire-With-Love

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/.../304639668-from-wiltshire-with...

Russian translation: https://ficbook.net/readfic/11316327

32 notes · View notes

adamk201 · 7 months ago

Text

insane fury osc animation test

#insane fury #insane fury osc #osc #object show clash #object shows #object show #object show community #insane fury object show clash #outlet #insane fury outlet #outlet insane fury #if outlet #outlet if

14 notes · View notes

ericspinkhair · 4 years ago

Text

quarantine longings

pairing: best friend!kevin x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

synopsis: you and your best friend have sex because quarantine made you horny

warnings: best friends to lovers, takes place during the pandemic, spoiler of 356 days (but not the end, just generally the plot), no use of condoms but only the pill, creampie, sexual fantasies, fingering, hand-job, sex, slight angst at the end if you squint

a/n: I would literally die for kevin, I love him so much. I'll be writing a multiple parts series about him after I'm done writing scenarios for every member first.

requests are open!

masterlist + requests

you slammed your foot hard against the wall and cursed in pain. you hopped on one foot to your bed, holding your other leg in agony and tasted blood as you bit your lip to keep the volume of your suffering groans in check. someone knocked on the door.

'are you okay?' your roommate asked concerned.

'no, leave me alone, kevin,' you croaked out. you wanted to suffer by yourself.

there was an awkward silence and then you heard him sigh. soon after, the door next to your room closed shut.

why were you so frustrated, one might ask? well, the pandemic was kicking your butt and you just couldn't take it anymore. when the news of the virus had first spread, no one thought it would become this serious. but suddenly everyone was walking around with masks and spent most of their time staying at home.

after graduating high school, you and kevin had decided to move in together for college because both of you were broke and couldn't afford to live alone. you had been best friends since middle school and had been convinced that it was a smart idea at the time.

and everything went smoothly for the first one and a half years. however, after not seeing anyone else since the start of the pandemic over a year ago, it became increasingly difficult to share an apartment, but not in the way one might assume. you were neither sick of each other nor did you fight a lot. to tell the truth, it was quite the opposite.

earlier, before you had kicked the wall in anger, the two of you had painted together. kevin was majoring in art and, since you didn't have anything better to do, you joined him while he did projects for his classes. you might have been majoring in journalism but you had always liked drawing and painting, even though you weren't particularly skilled. you were a naturally clumsy person, always tripping over air and dropping things. today you were hecticly moving around your hands while telling him about a stupid video you had seen and you accidently let go of the brush in your hand. it hit the side of kevin's face, leaving a wide splodge of red paint on his right cheek.

to get back at you, he jerked his paint brush and splattered some green color on your white shirt. you saw this as a challenge and soon both of you were both drenched in the colors of the rainbow, laughing hysterically on the floor, not caring that you were spreading the paint on the poor carpet.

you turned your heads to look at each other and you felt absolutely in peace. you loved this man and couldn't be more glad that it was him and not anyone else you were stuck with inside of this apartment.

he stood up to take off his stained shirt and your smile quickly faded off your face. your lips slightly parted and you couldn't help but stare at his now exposed biceps and abs.

your mouth watered and you felt heat pooling between your legs as you took your time to study his architecture. thoughts about how badly you wanted him to thrust into you while his strong arms held you up invaded your mind. you tried to shake them off but it was impossible.

occasions like this were slowly becoming a common occurrence for you.

having mostly stayed inside for over a year, also meant that you didn't have sex for that long. it's not like you were the horniest person on the planet but you still had needs that were being neglected. with kevin being home all the time you didn't even dare to masturbate, scared that he would be able to hear you through the frustratingly thin walls. you must have gone insane with all the lust building up inside you and that's why you suddenly craved to have sex with your best friend. this whole thing was destroying everything. it was hard to act normal when he was making you this nervous and heated but you tried to pretend that everything was fine anyway for the sake of your friendship.

that was the reason why you were angry and had hurt yourself. you hated the way you felt about your best friend and you hated the pandemic for not giving you an outlet to escape so you could recollect yourself.

what you weren't aware of was that kevin was no stranger to the exact same frustration.

he would need more than his ten fingers and ten toes to be able to count the amount of times he had to run to the bathroom to hide his boner because he had done so much as look at you bend over or stretch. he didn't want to make you uncomfortable but it was a challenge to try and calm down his hormones.

whenever he jacked off, images of you flashed through his mind; your sweet curves and pink lips drove him insane.

last week, you two were cooking together and you had asked him to get the salt. he stood behind you to reach for it on the highest shelf. he was forced to press his crotch against your butt cheeks and his dick hardened against his will. he quickly handed you the salt, excused himself and ran off before you could figure out what had happened.

he might not have known the cause of your sudden outburst but he sympathized with your fury because he had a lot of pent up anger towards covid as well.

he lay in his bed and tried to focus on the book he was reading but he couldn't tune out the groans coming from the room next to his. he cursed.

'stop it!' he was panicking as he saw a familiar tent forming in his pants. your sounds triggered some weird perverted part of his brain that sent signals right to his genitals. his dick was hardening and he saw no other solution to his problem than to give in to his subconscious desires.

he pulled down his pants just far enough so that his cock had enough room to spring out. it only needed a few strokes before it stood tall and angry. kevin pressed his head into his pillow and moved his hand fast. he wanted to get over with it quickly. he emptied his cum on his stomach while imagining your greedy little mouth being stuffed by his cock. he lay there panting as yet another round of shame flushed over him.

'get yourself together,' he whispered, mentally slapping himself.

***

'do you want to order japanese or italian?' you asked kevin. today was friday which meant it was time for your weekly tradition of ordering take out and watching a movie.

'definitely italian. we've already had japanese for the past four days. I need something else for a change,' kevin complained and shuddered at the thought of having to eat sushi again. the japanese restaurant prepared absolutely delicious food but he just couldn't stand it anymore.

you laughed at his pained facial expression. 'fine, italian it is.'

within twenty minutes the doorbell rang and after about half a minute kevin came back with two huge boxes.

he opened them on the small table situated in front of your couch and the smell of freshly cooked pasta seasoned with basil made your stomach growl.

kevin wanted to dig in already but you stopped him. you had to choose a movie first.

'let's watch tall girl. I saw everyone hate on it on tiktok,' you suggested.

'I think we should watch 365 days, that was all over my for you page as well,' kevin argued. you hadn't heard of it so you weren't sure whether it would be the right movie for you. the rule was that it had to be as bad as possible.

'according to what I have heard, it's apparently even worse than 50 shades of grey,' kevin added which piqued your interest. the both of you had watched 50 shades about two months ago and you were honestly shocked by how awful it actually was. you couldn't understand why everyone had been so obsessed with it when it was first released. if 356 days was really worse, then you'd hit the jackpot. you clapped your hands.

'fine, you win. I swear if the movie isn't as horrible as you say it is then you owe me something!' he intertwined his pinky with yours to promise.

watching horrible movies was way better than watching good ones. making fun of bad storylines, stupid characters or horrible editing was one of your favorite past times.

'I guess I'll have to add are you lost, baby girl to the top 10 worst lines ever spoken. who thought ah yes this is sexy, let's have him repeat it over and over again', you complained, shoving some pasta into your mouth.

'so he's like I won't do anything without your permission while he is literally groping her boobs against her will, like make it make sense, massimo', added kevin, ruffling his hair in frustration. he almost completely forgot about the food.

'so let me get this straight: he drugged her, kidnapped her, tied her up, hung up a painting of her just because he saw her face when his dad was shot?'

'totally relatable.' both of you giggled.

you were enjoying complaining about the plot. it was horrible.

there were plenty of erotic scenes but they were honestly so funny and kinda gross that you could bare it without really being affected by them. kevin, on the other hand, had placed a pillow over his hard-on to hide the embarrassing fact that these terrible, smutty scenes had turned him on.

and then the infamous boat scene came.

massimo and laura had a huge fight, she fell of the boat, he saved her and now she was suddenly so in love with him that she begs him to fuck her. which he does.

you felt your panties become increasingly wet as the couple had steaming hot sex.

'this is embarrassing but I'm so horny,' you admitted but in a way that should have suggested that you meant it as a joke. something about this statement stirred something in kevin.

'well, what can I say?' he replied and lifted the pillow. your pupils widened at the sight of your best friend's bulge.

his eyes darkened and he looked at you with lust clearly written on his face. you reciprocated his stare with the same intensity. you tried to focus on his dark brown orbs instead of his boner but the image you had just seen was present in your mind.

his gaze shifted to your lips and, before you knew it, kevin climbed above you and pressed your back flat onto the couch.

your lips locked and you immediately buried your hands in his hair to pull him closer. you moved in sync, his lips fitting perfectly onto yours. you bucked your hips up against his crotch and earned a moan from kevin. he opened his eyes in shock as realization hit him. he quickly pulled away and jumped off the coach.

'I'm so sorry, y/n. I shouldn't have just done that. I don't know what came over me,' he apologized profusely, staring at his feet. did he really think that you didn't want this?

'give me your hand,' you told him and held out your hand.

'why?' he raised his eyebrows in confusion. you rolled your eyes.

'just do it.'

you took his hand and led it to your crotch.

'what are you- oh my god.' your juices had completely soaked through your panties and your sweatpants. 'you are so wet.'

'for you,' you added. 'there's no need to apologize. I'm literally begging you to continue.'

you didn't have to say that twice before he pulled you closer to him by your hips and engaged you in another desperate kiss. his hands were groping your butt while you let yours slide under his hoodie. you felt his naked skin and toned abs, as you rubbed his stomach. you lowered your hands and bravely palmed his boner through his clothes.

'y/n,' he hissed out against your lips. you hooked your thumbs in the elastic of his pants and underwear, and pushed the material down to his thighs. he struggled to get them off.

you stroked his hard dick as he slipped his hand into your panties to massage your pussy at the same time.

he slipped one finger inside and began working it in and out. you finally were getting the relief you had been desperately craving for for so long. kevin was skilled and your walls were trying to swallow his slim finger. you were quickly coming close to your orgasm after having abstained for more than a year. you pulled his hand out.

'I bet you can make me come even better with your dick,' you challenged kevin.

'you bet I will.' he was confident.

'let me just look for a condom.' he was already turning away to go search in his room but you held him back by the arm.

'forget about it. I'm on the pill and I want you raw. I want you to come inside me and not spill into a stupid condom.'

the idea of this sounded very tempting to kevin. he picked you up and threw you back onto the couch, drawing your hips closer to him so he could pull off all the pieces of clothing that were hindering him from accessing your pussy.

he propped up his arms next to your sides and spread your thighs apart. strings of arousal were hanging from your folds and he saw your hole desperately clench around nothing. his dick hurt from how much he wanted to finally be inside of you. he wanted to find out how close he had been able to imagine how you would feel around him.

your hole took him in easily, welcoming him happily by embracing it tightly. kevin swore he could've cum right here and there.

he went slow at first to give you a chance to adjust but you were already fully ready, rocking your hips forward to meet his thrusts.

he crashed your mouths together and you kissed him like he was oxygen and you were short of air. you smiled and your eyes rolled back, satisfied with how things had played out today and the prospects of coming looked fairly promising.

desperate for release, kevin picked up the pace, his eyes closed while fucking into you like a horny animal. he couldn't help himself and all the 'faster's and 'harder's spilling from your mouth only encouraged him to drive himself deeper into you.

you wrapped your legs around his torso in an attempt to regain the control you were losing.

'fuck fuck fuck,' you cursed, feeling your muscles starting to contract. kevin brushed away some hair that was stuck to your sweaty forehead.

'it's fine, I'm coming too,' he announced and it took only a few more thrusts before a body shaking orgasm flushed over you, making you see only white. this drove kevin over the edge too and he spilled inside you, filling you up with his hot cum. he continued to slowly ease his dick in and out of you, fucking his semen right back into you until you had ridden out both of your orgasms. he let himself fall onto the couch right next to you, panting hard.

'I very much needed this,' you sighed in content.

'same, I wasn't sure whether I could hold out any longer without having a proper orgasm.' he watched his cum drip out of you.

'we should've thought of this sooner,' you said. 'this was a great idea.'

kevin hummed in agreement.

***

so now you and kevin were having sex on a regular basis, your high score being five times in a day. it felt good to finally live out your sexuality and not having to restrict yourself. sure, you guys did it more than necessary but it was a great way to pass time and it felt fucking amazing.

today you had done it in the shower after waking up, then on the kitchen counter and you had just finished having sex in his bed.

he was spooning you from behind, his cock still placed inside of you. he nuzzled his nose into your neck.

'stop, that tickles,' you chuckled.

'sorry.'

after a while of comfortable silence you heard him let out a big sigh.

'what's wrong?' you asked as he pulled out of you. you turned around to be able to look at him.

'I don't think I can do it like this anymore,' he confessed.

'what do you mean?' you asked. 'are you talking about us having sex?'

he nodded. your heart dropped and you started feeling dizzy. you tried to search for answers in his eyes but he avoided looking at you.

'w-why?' you stuttered, trying to hold back the tears that were welling up in your eyes.

'it was amazing at first,' he started and finally raised his head to meet your gaze, 'and I went into it without much thought. I went crazy during quarantine and began fantasizing about having sex with you. then it became reality but now I understand that was probably wrong of me. I've always thought of myself as a gentleman, yet I slept with you without much thought. you see, my issue is this…'

suspense hung in the air and you were impatiently waiting for him to get to the point.

'I like you.'

you quietly gasped in surprise. you had been expecting him to say you were bad at sex and that he regretted everything but not this.

'I shouldn't be sleeping with you unless you were my girlfriend,' he finished off his ramble. you felt immensely relieved.

'do you want me to?' you asked him.

'want you to what?' kevin was confused. he had been a hundred percent sure you'd immediately jump out of the bed in disgust when he confessed.

'be your girlfriend. after all, I like you too, you moron.' you realized that you had known this for a while. you might have even been crushing on your best friend since way before the pandemic struck but it was kind of hard to track your feelings. still, you were sure you liked him too. now that he had admitted his feelings, you were able to admit yours not only to him but to yourself as well.

'wow, I didn't expect this,' kevin confessed surprised. you laughed.

'yeah, we should've realized this sooner.' he pulled you closer and kissed you. it was different than the other times. his lips moved softly against yours, in contrast to all of your rough and passionate kisses you had exchanged these past few weeks. he conveyed his emotions through the kiss.

'you're ready again?' you groaned as you felt kevin's dick harden against your upper thigh. he chuckled.

'sorry, you just turn me on so much.'

so then you did it for the fourth time. that day, you set a new record of having sex six times. you might have been happy now but still just as horny.

#kevin moon smut #kevin moon scenario #the boyz kevin smut #the boyz kevin scenario #moon hyungseo smut #moon hyungseo scenario #the boyz kevin moon smut #the boyz kevin moon scenario #the boyz hyungseo smut #the boyz hyungseo scenario #the boyz smut #the boyz scenario #kpop smut #kpop scenarios

425 notes · View notes

whatifyoulivelikethat · 4 years ago

Text

pause, m | myg | 2

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: Life is like a cassette tape. It seems like it’s constantly repeating, flipped from side A to side B, and the songs can’t be skipped. You can only pause, rewind, fast forward, play after you’ve already heard the song. After you’ve already lived it. All Min Yoongi knows is his own tape, until it smashes right at his feet, and then he has to learn to dance to a different beat.

warnings: rated M (18+) - please be warned this story has a physically and verbally abusive relationship; language; emotional manipulation; gender stereotyping; non-idol!AU; music producer!Yoongi x dancing fanatic!reader

rated M because I know how sensitive a topic domestic abuse is.

The music reader listens to is inspired by Frederic, specifically their songs ‘oodloop’, ‘OWARASE NIGHT’, and ‘Kanashii Ureshii’ and you can look up the MVs on YT. They have subs, yes the lyrics inspired certain scenes, no I have no idea what is going on, and I don’t know why they’re dancing like that lol

–

She slapped him across the face.

You froze.

The cassette smashed.

“I hate you, Min Yoongi!”

She shouted it so loud that you heard it over your music. Your finger instinctively went to your earbud and tapped it, pausing the sound. You couldn’t believe your eyes. What had this guy done? What had this guy done to be yelled at like that the second he stepped off the night train to stand in front of his girlfriend?

“Useless piece of trash, always fucking late!”

Slapping him over and over, so loud because the train station was completely empty except for you and these two, yelling obscenities and the guy was just standing there, taking it, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry for what? Why did she keep hitting him? Why? Stop it. Stop hitting him.

“Such a fucking waste of life, I can’t believe I have to be your girlfriend!”

Stop it.

“No one will ever fucking love you, you shithead, so I’m stuck with your stupid self!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

Mumbles. Fear.

Stop it!

“You think anyone will ever do anything for you the way I do? I’m all you have!”

Within two seconds, you crossed the space between you and them.

You smacked her hand away from him.

Pause.

You hesitated to press play. Standing in front of this random guy you didn’t even know, fury in your chest so strong that you forgot you were a stranger, glaring at this scowling, rage-filled woman with vehement disdain. You had no idea what the fuck was going on, you had no idea why he was being slapped so much, you had no idea why this woman was so angry and maybe there were very good reasons for it all, but somehow.

Somehow you didn’t think so.

Play.

“Stop it. He said he was sorry,” you barked, narrowing your eyes.

Her pretty face twisted with rage. “Who the fuck is this bitch, Yoongi? A whore you picked up?”

“I… I don’t know her…” the man behind you rasped, trying to move around you, but you kept yourself between the two, shouldering your backpack.

“I don’t know him. I just know you shouldn’t be hitting someone like that.”

The woman snapped at you, rising to her full height, challenging you. “This isn’t any of your fucking business. This is between me and him and doesn’t concern outsiders. Tell her, Yoongi.”

But you didn’t let Yoongi tell you, cutting him off as he tried to speak.

“This isn’t my business, but I’ve seen enough examples to be able to spot domestic violence when I see it,” you growled.

The woman scoffed, flipping her hair. “Domestic violence,” she snorted. “He’s a man. It’s not like I hit him that hard. I’m a woman.”

You curled your hands into fists.

“You stupid bully.”

The woman looked taken aback. “What?”

“I said, you’re a stupid fucking bully,” you snarled, taking a step forward and forcing her to take one back. “You think this is nothing, until you have children and your children have to watch this shit over and over, every night, thinking it’s right, thinking it’s the way it should be, but you’re fucking wrong, because this is not a relationship, this is not love, this is fucking bullying and you are a stupid, dumb bully who can’t admit you have an inferiority complex and your kids will spend years in fucking therapy wondering why they don’t understand how to make relationships with other human beings because their mom was a terrible fucking example, so do me a fucking favor and get the fuck out of here and leave this guy alone, because you are an absolute sewage of a human being.”

She gawked at you, slack-jawed, probably never been talked to in such a forceful manner before, but you didn’t care, because you didn’t spend years in therapy to watch this shit happen right in front of your face.

Never in your entire life had you ever been so angry at a stranger before.

The woman seemed to gather her bearings and spat at the floor, staining the concrete with her spit. You raised your eyebrows, unintimated. She stamped her foot at your lack of reaction, pointing accusingly at Yoongi behind you.

“Don’t you ever think about coming back home. I’m burning all your shit.”

She turned her heel and stomped away.

You almost expected Yoongi to run after her, but he didn’t. He just stood behind you and breathed laboriously. You suddenly realized that you might have done something mildly insane. She said she was going to burn all his shit.

“Hmph,” you heard the mumble behind you. “All I had was clothes anyway.”

You turned around. He wasn’t looking at you. His black hair was all over his face, and his face mask was half-pulled down, revealing his red cheeks. You looked away quickly, taking a step back.

“Are you… okay?” you asked quietly.

You saw his eyes shift around. He didn’t actually respond. Just shrugged.

You bit your lip.

Silence.

“There… are no more trains,” the Yoongi guy whispered.

“Y… Yeah.”

Silence.

The lights above you were harsh, casting large shadows all over the concrete. Nothing but the sounds of the city and the darkness above, the moon witnessing it all.

He turned away from you, walking over towards the benches. Walking away. The crumpled paper of a man, shrinking as he took one step, then another, farther and farther away from you, and you opened your mouth to shout after that black back, extending your hand in the air.

“H-Hey!”

Pause.

He turned his head around to look at you with broken and lonely eyes.

“If you want… I have a couch and some blankets.” You swallowed, knowing how crazy it was. “Because… You shouldn’t go back. I…” Don’t want you to end up like my dad. “Even if it’s one night.”

I want to break this cycle.

“Just one.” You lowered your hand, holding up one finger. “One.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything.

Only turned around wordlessly and walked back to you, stopping in front of you. Saying nothing.

He didn’t say anything the entire walk.

Didn’t say anything as you opened the door and gestured him inside. Showed him the couch, got him the blankets. Asked him if he wanted anything else. He shook his head instead of talking. You ran to your room and got him a spare pillow. Held it out to him. He took it silently. Ran off again and got a new toothbrush from your stash of toothbrushes. An unopened travel toothpaste. Asked him if he wanted anything to eat. A glass of water. He shook his head.

Showed him the bathroom. A shower?

Shake, shake.

Okay.

You told him if he was cold to let you know. You would find another blanket.

Yoongi said nothing.

You nodded and turned away, letting him be. It was hard to look at him. You didn’t want him to think you pitied him or anything. But he reminded you too much of your dad if you stared at him too long. You had gotten him everything you could think of and let him know that if he needed anything to tell you.

You went to your bedroom and let out a big sigh.

No dance party tonight.

You went to your computer and opened Spotify. Put your headphones on and listened to the music, letting it carry you away. Before you knew it, one song flowed into another. You slowly began to bounce your head to the music, the cheerful, quirky beats making you smile, your hands moving on their own, lip-syncing the lyrics.

A happy tune with sad lyrics, but it made you smile at the same.

You failed to notice Yoongi appear at your door, holding his phone. He needed a charger. Did you have one? And then he saw the back of your head, bouncing along, headphones on.

He retreated back to your living room, clutching his phone. Decided to go to sleep instead.

Hours later, you finally decided to sleep, placing your headphones down. Was Yoongi sleeping? You padded over to the dark living room, seeing a bundled form on your couch. His coat was over the blanket. His head was under the blanket. Was he cold? You went back to your room and collected a pink knit one. Walked back to the living room and moved his jacket aside onto the armchair, putting the extra blanket on top of him.

His phone was on your coffee table, flashing. It was low on battery.

You checked if it was Android or iPhone. Android. Good, because you didn’t have a lightning cable, although you would have gone to the twenty-four-hour convenience store nearby to get one if he did have an iPhone. Back to your room. Got a charger and struggled to find an outlet in the dark. You’d think you would know where your own outlets were, but apparently you were too sleepy to remember. You felt around in the dark and poked at an outlet, stabbing the wall repeatedly before plugging it in. Maybe you should have turned a light on, sheesh.

You snaked the cable around and plugged his phone in. It vibrated approvingly and you gave it a thumbs up, even though it was an inanimate object.

Let’s just say living alone made you weird.

You let out an exhale and wandered off to brush your teeth.

Not noticing Yoongi had woken up and been watching your struggle. Saying nothing.

Pause.

Fast forward.

Morning.

You yawned and nearly jumped when you saw the unmoving pink blob on your couch. Oh, right. You were surprised he wasn’t awake, but you shrugged. The blankets were over his head, blocking out the sun. You tried to stay quiet, opening your fridge, staring at the contents.

Staring at it with a million question marks.

You had… kimchi. Eggs. Cheese. Definitely expired take-out. You took that out and dumped it in the trash can, grimacing at it. A stranger didn’t need to see how disgusting that was. You went back to your fridge. Um. It wasn’t that you couldn’t cook, it was that you didn’t have jack shit. And if you cooked on the stove, you would definitely wake up Yoongi.

Your stomach screamed in rage.

Feed me!

Ah, well. Sorry Yoongi. You settled on a kimchi-egg-cheese pancake thing. Was it going to be good? Sure. Was it not the most elegant thing in the world? Maybe. What can you do?

You began to chop the kimchi.

Yoongi turned over on the couch, groaning. He heard the sizzle of the pan. Smelled spice. Eggs. The world was unfamiliar. No one was yelling at him to get up. No one was doing the blankets off of him and calling him a lazy pig.

"Motherfuc–!"

A female voice cursed in a loud whisper. You cut yourself off, muttering.

"Stupid oil, ugh."

Not his girlfriend.

Slowly, Yoongi pulled the blankets off his head. An unfamiliar scent, different laundry detergent than he was used to. The sofa smelled different too, like vanilla with a hint of stale popcorn. Probably from being dropped in the cushions and forgotten about until months later.

His stomach growled.

The smell of the food enticed him. He got up, seeing you at the stove, wearing black pajamas with the sleeves rolled to your elbows, and a cream scrunchie holding your hair up. You made a face at the pan and scolded it.

"Who's the boss here?" you hissed hotly at the sizzling food. "That's right, me, because I'm about to eat your ass, so simmer down and stop trying to singe my arm hair off."

Yoongi blinked.

He got off the couch as you continued your quiet tirade, shoving your hand into a bag of cheese and sprinkling it on top, laying down a generous layer.

You should cover it, Yoongi thought. To let the cheese melt.

You grabbed a pan lid, and covered it. The lid definitely went to a separate set because it was a different shade of silver, but it didn't matter. You mumbled triumphantly at the pan.

"Ha, take that, you stupid eggs, who's in the hot seat now, eh?"

Yoongi stared.

You lifted the lid and checked the cheese. A billow of smoke floated out. You seemed satisfied and turned off the gas. Lifted the pan and spun around.

Froze.

Yoongi blinked at you.

Your eyes were wide, still holding the hot pan.

Silence.

A good ten seconds past.

You slowly put the pan on the cork potholders at the counter. Two plates were at the counter with two sets of chopsticks.

"Uh... I made a kimchi-egg pancake t-thing..." you stuttered. "With cheese on top. You don't have to eat it. But I'm not going to poison you or anything. Er, well, that's something a someone who would poison you would say, huh? Oh, maybe I should have checked the expiration date on the kimc–"

"Why do you talk to your food?" Yoongi asked pointedly.

You turned bright red.

"Um... bad habit. 'Cause I live alone..." You shifted your eyes. "No one... to talk to."

Yoongi stared at you.

You turned around abruptly and grabbed a knife. Took off the pan lid. The kitchen was suddenly filled with the delicious smell of eggs and kimchi. The cheese bubbled as you cut it into pizza-like slices.

Yoongi sat down at the barstool, staring at it. He was the one who usually cooked. He hadn't had a home-cooked meal by someone else in forever. Not since he lived with his parents.

That was a long time ago.

"I seasoned the eggs beforehand and poured it on the sautéed kimchi..." You placed a plate with a pair of chopsticks in front of him, ears still red. You avoided looking him in the eye, scratching your cheek. "I, uh, have to go grocery shopping," you mumbled, taking a slice. "Sorry it's not that fancy..."

Yoongi picked up the chopsticks and took a slice. He blew in it carefully and took a small bite. Spicy, savory, delicious. He took another bite. And another. The food was hot, almost burning the roof of his mouth. This must be a dream. He wasn't in his nightmare. He wasn't going to question it.

As long as he wasn't in his nightmare, he could pretend this was reality.

Yoongi didn't notice you watching him with relief.

He took another slice. The meal was quiet, but not suffocatingly so. It was calm, only interrupted by chewing. You reached into the cabinet below you and produced a water bottle. Put it next to him. Didn't say anything. Yoongi are three more slices, throat prickling with the spice, lips puffy, before he opened the water bottle and drank from it.

"If you want, I can direct you to a shelter."

Yoongi put the water bottle down. Stared at his stained, now empty plate.

"Or you can call a friend to shelter you," you continued. "You can even get a restraining order if we involve the police–"

"No."

He said the word with harsh finality.

"It's not that bad."

It wasn't. He was just being a child, running away.

"... Okay."

Yoongi looked up. For a split second, there was immense pain in your eyes. Why? None of this was happening to you. You didn't know anything. You were just some stranger. Why was he even here? Why had he come here to sleep on some random couch? So dumb. Some random woman couldn't save him from his problems.

... Your kids will spend years in fucking therapy wondering why they don’t understand how to make relationships with other human beings because their mom was a terrible fucking example...

Yoongi stilled as he remembered your words from last night. That was far too specific. His brows furrowed. You let out a sigh and took his plate.

"Do you want a shower?" you asked. "I have spare towels."

Yoongi tilted his head. "I don't have a change of clothes." He stared at the hardwood floor. "And my other clothes are probably burned by now."

You placed the dishes in the sink and began to wash them.

"We can go buy some. I need groceries anyway."

He didn't understand why you were being so nice to him. It was strange. You didn't know him. Well, actually... he didn't even know your name either.

"Uh..."

You looked up from the dishes, hands covered in soap. Yoongi did all the dishes at home. He did all the housework, in fact. This was weird, watching another person do housework. His voice was quiet, timid, crumpled like a piece of paper.

"What's your name?"

"Do you want white or black?"

You held up two multi-packs of t-shirts in his size.

"Uh... Black."

You dumped the black in the cart and put the other back. Yoongi stayed behind you, not picking out anything. You were wearing your backpack, a black cap, red wide-knit sweater, and black jeans. Black combat boots, the familiar staple for you. The two of you are standing in an aisle at the local convenience store. Yoongi was still wearing the same clothes from last night – black parka, black turtleneck, black jeans, black face mask.

He mostly stared at the floor, following your boots.

"White or black?"

Yoongi looked up to see you on the other side of the cart, holding two multi-packs of underwear. White briefs and black boxer briefs. He felt his cheeks heat up as you blinked at him. Instead of speaking, he grabbed the black boxer briefs from your hand, intending to chuck them into the cart.

Except his jacket sleeve caught a strand of your red sweater, the Velcro sticking to and unraveling it, so that when he twisted his hand to throw the plastic pack into the cart, the yarn tangled around his fingers and got caught, rapidly getting pulled around. Your eyes widened, gasping as the red string was yanked from your sweater.

"O-oh!"

"Fuck!"

His hand was tangled in it and the part around your wrist tightened, the missing yarn causing the constriction. Yoongi cursed again, trying to shake free, panic rising. Oh no, fuck, what if you got angry? What if you started yelling at–?

You laughed.

You started laughing. Yoongi froze, slowly lifting his head to witness your laughter. Your shoulders shook, shaking your head, big smile on your face. The yarn hung in the air, shaking a little.

The red string connecting you to him.

Yoongi stared.

At you.

His heart thudded in his chest.

Thump.

"Hold on," you chortled, reaching over and following the red yarn.

Thump.

His heart was like a bass drum. Consistent and loud, rhythm in his own ears. You untangled the mess slowly, carefully, wrapping the exposed end loosely around your wrist. Finally, it was off his fingers. Your fingers were centimeters from the back of his hand. You grasped the red yarn tightly. Yoongi looked at the end, trapped in the Velcro of his parka.

Thump.

A fleeting feeling.

Happiness.

You ripped the red yarn off, the end frizzy and scraggly.

Another fluttering feeling.

Sadness.

You backed up, going back to the cart, tucking the end in next to your wrist, all chuckles. Thump, thump, thump. He couldn't breathe. It was impossible. What was going on? Why did he suddenly start shaking all over?

"I'm sorry," he blurted, breathless in panic.

You shook your head, waving a hand.

"Don't worry about it. This thing is old anyway." You pointed to the rack. "Is four enough? Or do you need more?"

"U-uh..."

"Let's get one more. I can always return it if you change your mind."

"Do you have a job to go to? Because I have to go soon," you were saying as you shoved the groceries into the fridge. Yoongi was unwrapping the plastic and cutting off the tags from the few clothing items you two had bought.

"Um... yeah, I work at a music studio..." Yoongi mumbled. "I make my own hours."

"And it ends right before the last train, right?" you affirmed, nearly dropping the green onions and making a mad dash for them before they touched the ground. Whew. You shoved them back in your fridge. You didn’t really have an organization system. You probably should. Being an adult was hard.

"... Yeah."

"Cool, you should take a shower now then. I'll get a towel, hold on!"

You scrambled out of the kitchen to find a towel in the linen closet, the fridge door still open.

"... Alright..."

Pause.

Fast forward.

Yoongi spent the entire train ride tense. You sat in your usual spot, humming along, bobbing your head to your music in your earbuds. Neither of you attempted to sit next to the other. Yoongi fully expected his girlfriend to be there as he stepped out of the train, at the last stop. He thought he was going to get yelled at once again. He thought she would be there to smack him upside the head again. He braced himself as the doors opened, exhaling deeply as he walked out of the sliding doors.

"Ugh, I need some energy," you mumbled behind him, yawning.

No one was there.

The bright streetlamps only illuminated the concrete.

"Hey, Yoongi."

He turned his head to see you tilting yours.

"You coming?"

You bounced on your heels. He remembered your usual routine.

"Wanna race?" you asked with a big grin.

Morning. Night. Morning. Night.

Empty station at the last stop. No one but you and him getting off.

Morning. Night.

"Hey, Yoongi."

Morning.

"You coming?"

Night.

“Wanna race?”

Repeat.

The cassette tape replayed over and over, flipped around in the stereo, day in, day out, stuck on replay, a weird reality that wasn't his until it became his, seeing your face when he woke up, watching you cook breakfast in the morning, chastising inanimate objects when you thought he wasn't looking.

Your lips asking him once again.

"You coming?"

Then you and him, breaking out into a run, racing to your apartment.

At first, Yoongi didn't smile.

Then one day, he did.

And he kept smiling, smiling as he ran breathlessly with you.

"What are you doing?"

You froze.

Literally one second before you heard those words, you had been wiggling your arms like an octopus in front on your full-length mirror, flapping the long sleeves of your over-sized blue sweatshirt, your billowy knee-length gray shorts following suit. You reached up to your Bluetooth headphones to take them off.

And realized, with heated cheeks, that the music was not coming from your headphones, but the Bluetooth speakers on your desk, blaring the odd twangs of guitar and quirky drum beats, paired with whiny, almost nonsensical lyrics.

You turned around.

Yoongi stood at the entrance of your bedroom door, staring. He was wearing a black t-shirt. Black sweatpants that were slightly too short, exposing his pale ankles.

The song went into the guitar solo.

He blinked at you.

"Uh... dancing?"

Blink.

Normally after work, Yoongi would either be asleep or watching television in your living room. You told him cable came with the apartment and you never watched TV, so he should at least watch some in your stead. You usually went to your room. The first couple nights, you only danced in your chair. Then you got up and danced next to your desk, and then you were back to your wacky mirror dancing, thinking that if it was though headphones, then Yoongi wouldn't notice.

But, of course, you had disturbed him with your music blasting through the speakers, which had never been disconnected all this time because, well, how were you supposed to know? They must have connected because your over-ear headphones died.

"That was dancing?" Yoongi echoed.

Your eyes shifted. "Er... it's stress relieving?"

Yoongi stared at you.

Blink.

The song changed. One of your favorites.

Your shoulders began to bounce. Your head tapped to the beat. Then your heel.

Blink.

"Are you possessed?" Yoongi asked with a deadpan look.

The tune was getting to the good bit with the xylophone. Fuck it. He had already seen you octopus it up. You began to bob your head from side to side, breaking out to a big grin, shooting him some finger guns before going back to your full-body jiggle and arm flapping, singing along on the top of your lungs, prancing around your room, Yoongi staring at you the entire time in mild shock. He probably thought you were psychotic, but who cared, because you were clapping along to the snare drum, skipping in circles, pointing at him at certain parts in the lyrics and playing air guitar.

His normally downcast cat-like eyes were huge.

You grabbed his hands at the guitar solo and he yelped, his arms rippling as you swung them around, you stumbling through the lyrics, singing the absurd words, and Yoongi gawking wide-eyed.

The song went to the final chorus and you wiggled like a fucking squid.

Only to see Yoongi burst out laughing and wiggle his arms with you, tiny wiggles compared to your full-blown tentacle swings, but it made you laugh too, because it was all stupid and ridiculous and very embarrassing.

With a start, you realized you had seen Yoongi laugh.

And he looked so wonderful laughing, perfect teeth and pink gums, huge smile and scrunched-up face, black hair falling back from the strength of his chuckling, revealing his lovely fair-skinned features and those cat-like eyes sparkling.

Sparkling with brightness.

The song ended and you were panting breathlessly.

Yoongi raised his eyebrows in disbelief, half-smirk on his lips.

"Your music taste is nuts."

You smiled as the next song started.

"Nah, this is just my nighttime dance party music. It's supposed to be crazy."

You flapped your sleeves to the beat of the drum. Grinned at him.

"Because every night should be a dance party."

And you started dancing again, Yoongi watching you and laughing, even joining in sometimes.

From then on, every night was a dance party. At one point, Yoongi started to bring you songs and weird beats he discovered for you to dance to. He even said a few times, "Hey, I made this. Can you make a dance from it?"

You'd dance to anything.

You weren't great at it.

But it was always hilarious.

And it was always worth it, watching Yoongi laugh all night.

Pause.

Fast forward.

Wait. Are you sure?

You can always rewind.

You don't have to press play.

Pause.

Play.

“Do you like rap?”

You were sitting next to Min Yoongi on the night train. There were still people around, not yet the last stop. He was clutching his phone, face mask on his chin. He looked a little nervous.

“Yeah, of course. I like all music,” you said cheerfully. “Something you want me to dance to?”

Yoongi chuckled a little, giving you that little half-smirk. “No.” He took a deep breath. “I’m a… music producer. And I… I make music. And I wondered if you wanted to listen to a little bit my mixtape.”

“I do.”

Yoongi looked taken aback. You grinned.

“I definitely want to listen to it.”

You connected your earbuds to his phone and listened carefully. His words, his beat, his rhythm. Yoongi sat beside you, wrapped in his black parka, looking nervous as he chewed on his lip, but you didn’t notice, bobbing your head to certain bits, mouthing the chorus, raising your eyebrows as he altered the framework of a traditional song. He had only five tracks on the playlist, but you listened to them all, holding his phone. When the playlist ended, you clicked back to your favorite parts and replayed them, over and over, listening to his strong, raspy voice.

Yoongi sounded confident when he was rapping.

Like he was meant to do it, perfectly expressing himself with his simple words and elegant phrasing, his anger, his sorrow, his hopes. You could tell there was an underlying theme, an uncertainty about the future. As if he was taking steps to an invisible, unlit path, and he wasn’t sure whether to run forward without a guiding light or go back to all he knew.

You handed him back his phone with a smile. You understood him a little better now.

“Well?” he asked, still biting his lip.

“I really like it,” you said. “Especially your vocals. It’s different from other voices I’ve heard.”

“… It’s not that–”

“And I like your lyrics. They’re simple, but they pack a punch and make you think.” You smiled widely. “I like music that makes me want to listen to it over and over again. That’s how your rap makes me feel.”

Yoongi looked stunned.

You pointed to his phone. “You could release it just like this, if you wanted.” You tilted your head. “Hm, maybe a few more songs though. It seems like you’re trying to tell a story.”

He blinked rapidly, putting his phone in his pocket. “Y-Yeah… I’m working on a few more that I want to add.”

You nodded. “That’d be awesome.”

The train screeched to a halt. There was no one in the car. That was your cue. You stood, stretching first and then shouldering your backpack. Yoongi stood as well, pensive and silent. The train doors slid open. He walked out first and you followed. Streetlights harsh and bright on the concrete. Yoongi did his usual routine of looking to the edge of the train station.

Both of you froze.

“Get the fuck over here, Yoongi.”

You recognized her. She might be wearing a different dress and a different coat, but it was the same woman all right, with the same harsh scowl.

“I knew you wouldn’t be a man and face the music. Instead, you went off prancing with some whore.”

“She’s not a whore,” Yoongi muttered, pulling up his face mask.

You didn’t say anything. There was a sudden pressure on your chest, an overwhelming, tense heaviness, because you knew what was coming.

“Are you telling me that you’re not going to come home to the woman you supposedly love, the one you were supposedly going to marry and give a comfortable life to?” the woman accused. “Are you telling me that you can’t take responsibility for your actions? That you’re not a man, but a child?”

Yoongi took a step towards her.

The weight in your chest felt like a ton of bricks crushing you.

Another step.

“Yoongi.”

He turned his head, dark brown eyes flickering to you.

You smiled.

Smiled even though the moment was killing you.

“I… I have to finish this,” he mumbled, the sparkle in his eyes dulling with every passing second.

You kept the bright smile on your face.

Like a cheerful-sounding song with sad lyrics.

“Okay.”

Pause.

You wanted to rewind. You wanted to rewind so bad, even if it was only to ten minutes before this painful moment. With a shaking hand, you pressed play.

“My door is always open for you, Yoongi.”

He made eye contact with you. He nodded.

“Goodbye.”

You turned and ran.

Ran and ran, hoping he was running after you, but you knew he wasn’t, you knew he was walking towards that toxic woman and you could do nothing about it, you couldn’t care, you just had to keep running, running and running until you hit your front door, fumbling with your keys and running inside, slamming the door closed.

You froze.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you ran to your room and threw up a specific playlist, a playlist full of cheerful-sounding songs with agonizing lyrics, hopeful beats tainted by upsetting words, and danced the night away, danced and danced. Not wanting to think about the blankets on the couch, the suitcase you had dragged out to let Yoongi borrow and put his clothes in, not wanting to think about his toothbrush on your bathroom sink, not wanting to think about all those nights dancing stupidly in this bedroom with him, and focusing only on dancing alone, singing the night away, on and on and on until you couldn’t stand anymore, couldn’t sing anymore, and you just fell on your bed and passed out, completely drained.

Physically.

Emotionally.

Empty.

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #bts series #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you

190 notes · View notes

alice-arrington · 3 years ago

Text

The door to the therapist's office seemed to keep getting heavier and heavier each time I'd try to push it open. I don't know if it was just in my head but it always requires all of my strength to simply walk through. Regardless, I've not missed a single appointment. Not once. Not that I'm eager to go... Because I'm not. I hate asking for help. It makes me feel like a nuisance, a burden, and I dislike bothering people with problems I should be fixing myself. But my episode at the coffee shop reminded me that there's no shame in seeking help. Especially after—... No, I need this. God knows how much I need this.

But it's one thing to see how steep the mountain is before me, and a whole other matter to actually climb it.

Months have come and gone since my first session and yet, there's not been much progress I can be proud of. A product of my great disappointment now lies deep in my bones, boiling beneath the surface — a quiet fury I try to keep buried. Fury borne from the sheer frustration that no matter how hard I try, I can't move. And I have no one to blame but myself. It really shouldn't be this hard, should it?

With Dr Barker's help, I've somewhat managed to redirect this anger, even if it meant exhaustion has come in its place. Nevertheless, I persevere. Or at least, I try. I owe it to myself, and to those I hold dear, to keep showing up.

Even in my struggle, Dr Barker has been nothing but kind and patient — most likely a required necessity in his line of work. But just the same, his efforts are not lost on me. Twice a week every week, he'd walk me through what I can but more often than not, whenever we'd get close, I'd shut down. I don't mean to, honest. But the very idea of actually unravelling the Pandora's box that was my midsummer's nightmare paralyses me in more ways than one. No matter how much I want to free myself from such a bind, I can't go any further. I always end up sitting there, frozen in such agonizing memories, unable to communicate how desperately I want this nightmare to end. And I become very, very aware of the deafening sound of the clock ticking away at every second, every minute, gnawing at me for quite literally wasting this poor man's time.

When I do find my voice again, I make sure to apologise. Profusely. And he'd understand. Of course, he would, never failing to reassure me that there's no rush. That we'll go on my own pace.

Unfortunately, that poses a whole other problem in itself.

As grateful as I am to be given all the time I need to heal, the longer I stand frozen on this side of the mountain, the more I lose myself. You'd think that as time passes by, trauma would get easier to face. I've come to learn that that's not necessarily true. If anything, time has only chipped away what little I have left.

Riddled with anxiety, I can no longer keep down any food I consume. Except for maybe bread and water, if that. Throwing up has become such a painful business that I've lost all my appetite. Sleep, on the other hand, has not completely evaded me. But it's no help, either. If anything, it makes everything worse. Whenever I close my eyes, flashbacks would come as vividly as if they were happening to me all over again and out of fear, I'm forced to stay awake for as long as I can. What little sleep I do manage, however, is often restless. This has led me to seek comfort in cigarettes, sex and alcohol. A band-aid to a gaping wound because my medications simply can't keep up.

Needless to say, all my efforts to stay sane is driving me insane. Imprisoned in my own mind, I can't even cry like I want to or scream for help like I need to. Instead, I'm spinning in circles and it keeps getting faster and faster and faster, plunging me right into the pits of depression with nowhere to escape. What was once my outlet has long since been forgotten — a time I never thought would come. I can't even remember the last time I've set foot in any of the clubs I used to sing at or put pen to paper and wrote anything remotely decent on a manuscript. No, music no longer lives here. And I'm afraid that before too long, neither will I, for I'd be no better than a shell of who I once was. And God forbid I let anyone bear witness to any more of this. Including Oliver.

Especially Oliver.

#[ alice castillo || journal 03 ]#[ ⚠️warning! anxiety & depression; ptsd ]

40 notes · View notes

evermorehaikyuu · 3 years ago

Text

It’s Nothing Special

MASTERLIST

BREAKING NEWS | WHITE WALLS | AU CONTRAIRE

She was supposed to be out by now. The news that Y/N had been in the hospital or in some sort of ward were seen as rumors, albeit some people insisting that it was true.

The rumors had spiraled out of control to the point where Tsukishima didn’t know anything. If he texted any other members of her team, they all said the same thing: I don’t know. He found it ridiculous that they didn’t know, but he had a feeling that they were hiding her status from him. To make sure he didn’t get his hopes up or because of something happening? Either way, he just wanted to know if she was okay.

Even Semi and Tendou avoided telling him anything. Tendou and Semi constantly looked pale whenever he asked and they quickly changed the topic. It didn’t help either that they were constantly worried.

No matter how much his own team tried to cheer him up, that lingering doubt still stayed in the back of his head: Will she come back to normal? After the little bit of news that Yuki was the Unknown Address, he could tell the entire experience was traumatizing. Who in the world would try to murder their best friend because they got everything that they wanted? You’d think they’d find another way to unleash their anger and to go so far so as to threaten innocent people’s lives...Yuki was definitely not sane. They should’ve found out earlier. He should’ve done something to try and protect her, but then again what could he have done? Tsukishima’s thoughts were too conflicting and lying down in bed didn’t help.

Meanwhile, Y/N was sitting in her new place, frowning. She was trying to sort out everything that happened in the last week. Thanks to the amount of rumors swirling around, no one would blame her for staying out of the face of the public for a while. She took that time to try and see what she could gather.

Yuki was the Unknown, that much she knew. But how long had Yuki harbored those feelings? And why did he decide to work with her? Why would he threaten innocent people? What was in it for him?

Too many questions with no answers at all. Perhaps that was the reason why she could feel Yuki slipping away since the start of the meeting with Karasuno. His jealousy was too much to the point where he had even tried to kill her. She shouldn’t have forgiven him and even so, she was furious with him. He did not have any logic in his plan for one. Two, it was utterly ridiculous. Here she was, a sitting duck, all because doctors thought that she was going slightly insane. Maybe she was a little shaken, but to go ahead and treat her like someone in a ward, that’s what made her frustrated. That was Yuki’s fault.

Someone knocked at the front door and when it opened, Y/N tensed. Even though she knew she had given a copy of the key to Suki, it didn’t help that she was now more paranoid than before. When the girl walked in with freshly dyed hair, she was followed by the rest of Y/N’s team. Suki said, “This place is messier than what I expected.”

“Can you blame me?” Y/N sighed. She knew the place was messy but she couldn’t find the time (nor the willpower) to actually clean everything up.

“Not really.” Hikari said when he walked in, holding a bag of things Y/N didn’t recognize. “It’s crazy, to think that Yuki would do something like that. I never expected it.”

Yukie and Kaori walked in next, holding bags of food. Yukie said, “Sakura couldn’t come. She has to study for some finals she said, but she really wanted to be here.”

“Are we sure she isn’t actually scared?” Y/N joked bitterly. Those rumors had gotten to her own team. She genuinely wanted to deck Yuki now.

Her managers didn’t comment on anything and they instead got to work as Suki requested. The house before her morphed into what seemed like a butterfly transformation. All of the empty mugs everywhere were whisked into the kitchen, the lingering smell of someone who had lived there but didn’t care started fading away, the newspapers giving any idea of what happened to Yuki were discarded, the chips of glass from when she had broken a plate in fury as well as several others got swept, and soon enough, the house finally looked livable.

Hikari sat across from her, handing her a mug of her favorite hot drink. Y/N mumbled a thank you, but she already expected what their questions were going to be. After all, she hadn’t answered their calls for weeks and in her fit of rage, she’d broken it. Luckily, it wasn’t an expensive phone but it just went to show how furious she was that no one commented on her not picking up calls or answering messages.

Yuki had brought out a side of Y/N that nobody thought was there and it was in the worst way possible.

Taking a deep breath, the light haired boy across from her asked, “Are you comfortable with us asking you questions and telling you things?”

With a sip of her drink, Y/N thought about it. It seemed like an eternity since she’d seen her friends and now she was just tired. She wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep for a good week or so. It was nice that Hikari was asking though. Knowing his job, it might’ve been inspiration for something or other.

It seemed like Hikari read her mind then. “I won’t take it as inspiration. I’m not that cruel. I know what you’ve gone through, I just want your consent to ask if this is okay.”

The other three girls arrived in the living room, taking respective seats and all eyes were on Y/N. There was just a shadow of a doubt crossing her face before she responded. “Okay.”

“Yuki was incarcerated after we got to the scene. He claims that he was trying to kill you and even though he said that he’d leave Karasuno alone, he said he wouldn’t. He wanted to save Tsukishima last to savor his look of pain once he admitted that he had killed you. The reason why he wanted to do so was because he was jealous of you. Everything you had, he believed it was because of him. There’s an investigation going on about your parents because he had said something suspicious about it.”

Y/N frowned. This was adding up, but in a way she didn’t want to admit. “Yuki had something to do with my parents?”

“Not him exactly. As I said, there’s an investigation going on. Along with that, they’re going to find your real name and you can decide whether to take it back or keep your stage name.”

“I’ll keep my stage name, thanks.” It was supposed to come out jokingly, yet it seemed like the past month or so had deeply scarred her. She had one coherent thought come out of her. Tsukishima. “Is Tsukishima okay?”

“I can answer this.” Kaori said, plucking out a snack from Yukie’s hands. “He’s been severely worried about you and calling us all. However, Semi had said not to tell him anything about you because he knew how you were.”

“Ah yes, the cameras, I’ve been waving at them the entire time.” That was a lie, she’d been cursing out Semi and Yuki the entire time, making vulgar gestures at the camera when she was bored.

Kaori knew this because when Sakura had watched the footage, she always reported that. It had made her laugh then but at the sight of the broken girl before her, it didn’t seem as funny. “Tsukishima is still worried about you and he really wants to see you soon. Let’s just say that he’s also been driving his company insane because he refuses to cooperate until he knows you’re okay.”

Y/N’s heart raced against its own will. She could still remember the conversations she had had with him and how he had been able to make her smile easily. Karasuno had told her that he completely changed when they were talking and he was even excited nowadays if he knew that she’d be somewhere. He refused to always say anything about them both, but Y/N knew that he was just someone that didn’t talk openly about private things. It was clear in their messages, now that she thought about it. It was clear how much they cared about one another. After all, would she have done what she did for anyone else? She’d like to think so, but honestly, it depended. At least it was Tsukishima and not anyone else. She didn’t want to think about that. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s why Karasuno has been on break for about a week or so now. Trust me when I say that we’ve had to blackmail so many news outlets to stop talking about both of you. But they still do.” Kaori shrugged before sighing. “This entire thing has caused a lot of chaos.”

It was true. She could see it from the bags under their eyes and how tired they were. A flare of love and admiration for these four came up from within her. They had signed a contract to work with her but she saw them as her best friends. All of this work to make sure that her privacy was ensured. Even Suki, who appeared to loathe Tsukishima, had worked to try and let him down gently.

Suki had chosen that moment to speak, in a voice that Y/N had never heard from her before. It was much more gentle and soft. “I think it’s best if you talk to him at some point.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she looked at her. “Have you gotten past the enemy stage?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say that if he makes you happy, I can deal.”

Yukie raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to see him soon?”

Y/N nodded. With that action of assent, Yukie grinned. “Good, because lover boy texted immediately. Come on. We’ll go to his company. Let’s get you ready.”

On the way to the company, Y/N could not stop moving. There was only the thought of what she would say to him. What could she say after this entire ordeal? Hi, I’m back, I missed you and it turns out I have genuine like like feelings for you but Yuki messed it all up--Yeah, scratch that, that was definitely not going to be something he’d tell him.

“Now you’re making me nervous and I’m not doing anything,” Suki joked, but the bitter tone behind it threw Y/N off.

“You okay?” Y/N knew her best friend like the back of her hand and something was up. “Is it Tsukishima?”

“Actually, no. It’s nothing really.” Suki looked at her sadly and shrugged. “All I’m wondering is why he did it until now. Looking at it from his point of view, don’t you think that he would’ve been smart to figure it all out earlier? What I’m saying is why now? What caused him to do something like that?”

Y/N had thought about that countless times. Considering the amount of openings she had had, it was just a wonder that he didn’t attack her from the start. Maybe she could go and talk to him or have someone else do so. But something wasn’t out in the open yet and she wanted to know.

Once they were at the familiar building, Y/N stepped out, staring up at it. “Is it too late now to go back?” She could feel the bile rising up her throat, nervousness infiltrating every part of her being. Maybe this was a worse idea than what she had thought.

“It’s just him, Y/N,” Kaori said gently, leading the group. They had gotten on an elevator to go to the very last floor.

Meanwhile, Tsukishima was pacing in that floor in the dance room. Yamaguchi, Kageyama and Hinata watched him curiously. Here the most monotone of the group was, extraordinarily worried for someone that shouldn’t have concerned him as much as it did. But as much as he denied it, those feelings were just feelings of love. Had he come to terms with them? Who knew?

Tsukishima looked up at the door for the umpteenth time today as if expecting Y/N to walk through or create a bigger possibility of her finally arriving. To his shock, the door opened and this time it wasn’t the others. It was Y/N’s managers as well as Hikari and Suki.

Yukie said, “All right, clear out, let’s give them some privacy.”

The other three started complaining, giving retorts as to why they should stay until Yukie grabbed Yamaguchi’s wrist, Kaori coaxed Hinata out of the door and Hikari made Kageyama follow him out. Suki went over to Tsukishima, her arms crossed as the door closed.

“Let me just warn you: she’s not the same. She’s changed. The girl still likes you though. Take care of her for me, got it?” With those words, Suki opened the door to show Y/N standing there.

But it didn’t seem like her anymore. The misery in her eyes was still there. Her posture was no longer like before, it seemed like she was shrinking back. It was clear from her trembling hands too that she didn’t know whether it was right to go in or not.

Tsukishima had wide eyes and when she walked to him, he didn’t think, he just acted. Pulling her in for a tight hug, he buried his face in her shoulder. “Thank God.”

“Hey, Tsukki.” Her voice was softer than before, almost inaudible as she hugged him back just as tightly. “I miss--” Her voice broke and Tsukishima could sense her on the verge of tears. He turned out to be right and at the sound of her crying, he felt like he’d cry along with her. If he’d ever get the chance, he’d have a long talk with Yuki at least for turning her into the girl before him.

When she had calmed down, he led her away to the wall and made her sit next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She was fiddling with her fingers, clearly thinking about what to tell him. Looking at the wall across from him, he decided to wait patiently until she was ready. It didn’t take long. After five minutes of silence, Y/N spoke up. “Yuki came after me. He wanted what I had for himself. I think the prospect of both of us collaborating was something he hated because it’d make us--well, me--rise to the top. He believed that he deserved that position more than you. That’s...basically it.”

The blond frowned. Yuki just wanted what Y/N had? Why did he stick by her though? “You don’t think that he actually, you know...”

“What, liked me as more than a friend?” Y/N scoffed. “They thought it was a possibility. I don’t know. I don’t really care.” However the way she spat out those words made it clear that she didn’t know what to think. “Not after what he did.”

These were the occasions where he knew immediately what to do next or maybe even have taken Tanaka and Noya’s advice. Now he was slightly lost. Scratch that, more than slightly lost. Instead, he let her lean against his shoulder for a while and it was quiet again. It was peaceful until he decided to speak up. “Have you eaten yet? I think we should go to this place I think you’d like.”

Y/N knew that he was trying his hardest to make her feel better so with a smile, she nodded against him. “Okay. Let’s go then.”

Neither of them wanted to stay in the past but the only way to go forward was dealing with it. They’d both be fine together and they knew that they’d be able to help each other out whenever it started to get bad.

Hmmm its almost done literally that’s so sad

Taglist: @chocolaterumble @ghostdaichi @akaashikeillmepls @goopycookie @halparkebitch @nctdream-boat @laninasinnombre @nataliahaslosthershit @words-in-air @virgoamajiki @paranoid-borderline-insane @mirikusashes @mint-mai @noyasimp @24nah25 @definitely-yours @chesirecatwaltz @theydy-madamonsieur @lilsimp @eruji-chan-pb @kiraakaashi @trifliz @nightshadeshimin @kac-chowsballs @its-the-aerieljeane @hqreisin @channiechanchan @fandomsgotmefucked @watermelon-sugar-is-my-drugs @bakugouswh0r3 @rizkei-iscurrentlydying @so-lo-stuff @jewlmin @kotarousbabyowl @lumin3xe @artemisnotfowl @random-fandom-girl-24 @darkangeldesignstudio @vhsryuu @chaotic-fangirl-blog @tycrackculture @4ck3rm4ns1mp @stupendousbonkcopland @encryptpta @bwnwlut

Taglist is now closed!

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smau #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima x y/n #tsukishima kei x y/n #tsukishima x you #tsukishima kei x you #tsukishima smau #tsukishima kei smau

30 notes · View notes