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decamarks · 3 years ago

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A surface-level examination of Petscop

“Every act of perception, is to some degree an act of creation, and every act of memory is to some degree an act of imagination.”

I rewatched Petscop last week, and I really want to talk about it. In this post, I mostly intend to present and preserve my thoughts on this series as they are—none of this should be taken to be objective. If I wanted to be objective about it, I'd go watch it again instead of writing this. I’m also not really going to be theorizing or speculating about certain events—this is more of a meditation on the series than anything. That’s why this post isn’t just about Petscop, either. Though it’s all tied back into the series, I’m going to talk a lot about glitches, ghosts, games, and how horror can haunt both a fictional framework and the reality in which it is observed.

Though I intended to write my thoughts on it at some point anyway, this particular post was inspired by a comment I saw somewhere. I don't remember exactly what it said, and I don't feel like digging it back up. What I do remember is how sad I was to see it. This commenter appeared to be a fan of the series, but expressed disappointment at its, in their opinion, inconclusive ending. I’ll get more into that later. The most important part was the question this poster posed. They asked, "Why was Petscop made? What was the point?"

I tried to think of how I'd answer that question. What do you mean "what was the point?" Did we watch the same series? Not the best answers—kind of terrible answers, because they're questions. I still don't know how I'd answer, and the fact that I don’t know sticks with me. That's why I'm going to try and answer this question right now, and it'll be in the same way Petscop answers its self-imposed questions: I'm not really going to answer it at all. I'm going to say what I think about Petscop, and you can figure out an answer yourself if you haven't already.

Anyway. Why was Petscop made, and what was the point?

Petscop is a series both about and deeply interconnected with the evolution of identity, including its own. Perception is a key concept both inside and on the surface of the series, which is why Petscop initially presents itself as an archetypal haunted game creepypasta. By nature, a ‘haunted game’ is a game pretending to be something it's not. Its façade is its main draw: by that, I mean each part of the façade—the deception, the reality, and the false image itself. The surface and subsequent subversion are equally important as the mere existence of the façade. You initially think that Petscop is rooted somewhere in reality. You're wrong. You realize that Petscop is someone trying to tell a scary story. You're wrong again. You then realize that Petscop is both, and you're finally right. Am I talking about Petscop as a game, or Petscop as a series? I don't know.

I heard of Petscop shortly after the first episodes were released—the same day the u/paleskowitz account posted about it, actually. I was so struck by it. There was clearly a vision in this nonexistent game. If I could describe it in one word, it'd be meticulous; it all felt so impossibly alive. I was there to see other people genuinely bewildered by its possible existence, and it was such a wonderful experience.

For me, Petscop’s primary strength came in the form of its verisimilitude—the appearance of truth in a work of fiction; its ‘realness’. Part of what made Petscop so much more chilling and much more real than a typical ‘haunted game’ is the fact that it’s a game that no one has played. If Petscop was something familiar to you, your memories of it would’ve been brought into focus. Instead, you’re left with an empty, indescribable feeling of deja vu with nothing to attach it to. It only carries the distinctly vague visual blur of an old Playstation game, and a harrowing, empty kind of nostalgia: the kind that represents the passage of time rather than reminiscence. You feel the physical presence of something that you don’t remember, and you have nothing tangible to tie it to. There are no ghosts in Petscop, but you still feel haunted.

It didn’t take long for Petscop to be debunked as a ‘real’ game, of course. It was either the nonexistence of the Garalina game company, or the graphical impossibility that made me realize it was fake. And yet, despite being disproved as an actual unreleased 1997 game... Petscop never stopped being one. That’s because Paul was still playing ‘Petscop’, the unreleased 1997 game. People didn't stop being interested when they realized it was all ‘fake’, because that was arguably the least interesting part of its entire existence. When the lens shifted to view it from the lens of reality, it became something entirely new. Through this reframing, the façade assimilated itself into the identity of the series.

Since Petscop isn’t a real game, the next best way to categorize it would be in the realm of creepypasta. It’s just as much of a creepypasta as it is a subversion of one, like I explained earlier. Speaking of earlier, I stated that Petscop is not literally haunted by a ghost—but some people apparently disagree with that. It was to my total surprise to learn that. It’s never great to assume your own interpretation as unanimous, but Petscop stretches the idea of ‘objective’ to a point that many things I thought to be indisputable were actually incredibly disputed.

It’s only my own interpretation that there are no supernatural elements at play in Petscop, because I believe it is haunted by something far more incorporeal than a single immaterial soul. Which one of us is right is irrelevant, because as a whole, we believe the same thing: Petscop is a deeply haunted game. Even if there isn't a ghost physically inhabiting the CD-ROM, there's something hiding in it. In the immortal words of Paul Leskowitz:

"This game is trying very hard to make it seem like, um, like there's an entity in it. Like, uh, a ghost, or an AI, trying to communicate with me. It's interesting. But you know, the way you know that there's a ghost in a game trying to communicate with you, is if it comes out. If it stops being distant, and it comes out, and you can have a, you know, a real-time back and forth with it." (Paul then proceeds to do exactly that for the next like 20 episodes.)

Paul kind of sucks at being the protagonist of a creepypasta. And he really sucks at being a let’s player, because he’s actually pretty good at playing Petscop. He plays the game, tries to present each piece of it, and provides blunt, blatant explanations of what’s happening, all while remaining relatively impartial about it. Paul “That’s a dead kid” Leskowitz’s specialty is all that is immediately observable. His commentary pertains almost exclusively to Petscop as a game and its mechanics; though he’s showing us his personal playthrough, he still experiences the game privately.

When Petscop eventually becomes inextricable from himself, Paul goes silent, and he continues to present his recordings with even more minimalistic commentary. Where most creepypasta protagonists are quick to offer accounts of sheer terror with what they encounter in their ‘haunted game’, Paul remains firmly detached—presumably because he prefers it this way. Tangents like the “ghost in a game” one above are rare for Paul. He doesn’t often outwardly express his emotional reactions to the game, or talk about how horrified he almost certainly is. Unfortunately, as the protagonist, Paul doesn’t have the privilege of removing himself from the story.

In Petscop 6, Paul says that he’s tried to be scientific about his playthrough—this seems to be how he is generally inclined to go about things. Everything he does works off of the game’s logic and his own internal logic as it applies to the game. He has a really great understanding of Petscop’s underlying framework (and the game literally being built around him isn’t irrelevant to this fact either). Paul even appears to be a bit genre-savvy, considering that he posted about Petscop on r/creepygaming. Familiarity with typical ‘haunted game’ tropes on some level are vital to understanding Petscop. Not being familiar with these tropes prevents them from being subverted. That’s part of why Paul presents the game the way he does, and why he’s eventually able to use it to reconnect the severed ties it presents of his past.

‘Haunted game’ creepypasta uses nostalgia and the assumed familiarity of the audience as a tool to play to its advantage. It often utilizes game mechanics or certain expectations about video games just to subvert or recontextualize them. Anyone unfamiliar with the series or with video games as a whole is unlikely to feel the same horror that its intended audience otherwise would, because the audience’s familiarity is weaponized against them. Notice how often the narrator of a creepypasta mentions the haunted game to be one from their childhood that they have fond memories of—as setup for the story, the narrator is often playing it again for the sake of nostalgia. It’s common wisdom that nostalgia is merely what we perceive the past to be. Nothing in the past is ever as we thought it was; memory is mutable, and nostalgia is the natural, unrecognizable evolution of memory. The true horror of a creepypasta is returning to your past and realizing that it’s not what you remember it to be.

If you’ve read any amount of video game creepypasta, you have to be familiar with the universal principle of creepypasta narrators, which is that they will always explain everything they don’t understand as a glitch. Explain is the wrong word—“write off” would be more accurate, but they effectively achieve the same thing. People will often do anything to make sure things make sense to them, even if their ‘rational’ reality is one that assumes Mario looking directly into the camera and listing off the coordinates of their childhood home is just a ‘weird glitch’. These aberrations are incompatible with the framework of the game, and by extension, the narrator’s reality. That’s why they can be explained away as an arbitrary, meaningless aberration. I’m going to quote something I’ve already written about this idea, because I think I explained it well there.

“Glitches and technological malfunctions occupy a strange spot of existence. They weren’t intended to exist, but they always do. Every program has the capacity to malfunction. Whether it’s a nuisance, an irregularity, or something genuinely catastrophic, error means something, even if it shouldn’t.

Imperfection defines that which is organic, and glitches are organic manifestations within inorganic creations. They’re born of error, grown between faults in lines of code, like dandelions in a sidewalk. These imperfections ironically make them all the more inorganic, however. By introducing nature to an artificial construct, glitches represent the artificial perfection of machines and technology. Think about how corruption or glitches affect a video game, for example. They shatter the veil of immersion and reveal the game’s true nature. It isn’t magic: it’s all lines of codes strung together, weaving the fabric of a false reality. It’s not real.

A glitch is a program lashing out at its creators from the strings of code that bind it—not because it has any reason to, not because it wants to, but because it has to, because it was born from its programming, not beyond it. In the end, a glitch is only able to act as far as its code allows it to.”

Glitches tend to be the first sign that something is not operating as intended in a creepypasta, and while they are treated more as an ‘affliction’ of sorts, it is simultaneously acknowledged that they are still abiding by the system set in place. Through aberration or apparition—an intangible concept presented passively, or an active incorporeal interference—glitches are meaningful as mere manifestations of a framework’s malfunction. They aren’t arbitrary. They follow a strict underlying code, and they only manifest when that code has a fundamental flaw. What’s not expected is that the framework itself has changed entirely. Code does not exist in a creepypasta.

Something that grabbed my attention immediately in Petscop is shown right at the start of the series, in the note that Paul found alongside the game.

“6/13/97 For you: Please go to my website on the sticker and also go to roneth's room and press start and press down down down down down right start”

The series of button inputs appear to be a secret code or a sequence of steps, either being equally nonsensical to the outside observer. When I first watched, I couldn’t tell if these inputs were an intentional cheat code or the steps to exploit a bug (especially since it was next to the ‘shadow monster man’ note, which looks like a bug report of some sort). It made me think about how stuff like this can seem like magic to a kid playing a game. It might as well be an incantation. It doesn’t need to make sense, because kids are used to things not making sense. You press buttons, and something happens: that’s how video games tend to work. It’s your understanding of what constitutes what is ‘working’ and what is ‘broken’ that reveals something as either a ‘secret code’ or a ‘bug’, and it’s that understanding which reframes the artificial reality. When playing a game, there is often this unconscious desire to preserve two layers of reality—one that is ‘real’, and one that is ‘fake’. Before the advent of the internet, many glitches were spread as supposed secret codes or cheats, and glitch entities were often associated with some kind of conspiracy or mythos. This bit from an article about MissingNo puts it really well.

“However, Newman, author of Playing with Videogames, suggests that the existence of fan conspiracy theories (that the game designers did know about MissingNo’s existence) demonstrates a belief in the reality of Pokémon outside of the game. “That's really interesting because it reveals a belief in the fundamental reality of Pokémon as entities that are given an opportunity to show themselves through the game, rather than being constructed out of code,” he says.”

Fictional worlds are often perceived to be parallel to our own, but breaking through the boundaries of our reality reveals their true nature—instead of being a self-contained product of creation, they exist within the same reality, as part of a greater whole. Creepypasta narrators suggest things to be glitches for the same reason—they are trying to uphold the façade of fantasy, and banish the game to its own realm for the sake of their security.

I'd like to bring up a childhood favorite creepypasta of mine, because I believe a certain part of it exemplifies what I loved about Petscop. This is Face, from the NES Godzilla Creepypasta.

(I was going to edit this to say “Do you remember being born?” but then I realized it wasn’t funny.)

In a game that’s seemingly self aware, Face is an anomaly. All Face does is ask a series of disconnected questions each time it appears, which the narrator answers by interacting with either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ boxes. It’s inexplicable even in the context of the story. It is unknown if this part of the game is even sentient, because the questions it asks and the reactions it gives are almost entirely nonsensical and absurd.

“With one exception, Face's expression changes seemed to have no effect on the game, except for indicating what the game creator thought of your answer. His reactions rarely made any sense, and at first I thought they were randomly generated. The questions never followed a pattern. . . . Early on, there were questions that made me think Face was building up to something, only to then ask some stupid garbage.”

At first, the narrator assumes Face to be a purposefully obtuse part of an already weird ROMhack—an unexplained in-joke that he lacks the context for. It’s only when he is unable to feasibly deny the game’s sentience that Face evolves into an organic entity.

“And immediately, I started to feel dread. This is going to sound crazy but it's the absolute truth: The game made this level from one of my memories.”

“...I've been trying to keep my promise and suppress this memory for years, but it seems as if I have to get it off my chest. This is a very painful memory for me, but the game already knows about it and I think you should too. I'll just tell you the important parts, because I don't like bringing this experience back into my head unless I have to.”

The narrator goes on to describe an incident where his girlfriend, Melissa, ran into traffic after staring at the moon, in a literal bout of lunar lunacy or something. The level formed from his memories reflects this event: “... the moon moved down from the sky, and began to hatch like an egg. When it did, a curled up humanoid figure fell into the lake as the moon halves quickly disintegrated.” After the narrator beats the boss of the level, the Moon Beast, Melissa’s name appears on the screen (along with a bunch of red “KILL YOURSELF”s).

The game only becomes ‘alive’ when it is subjectively related to the narrator. The meaning is found from his memory rather than what it objectively is, which is meaningless by itself. The game is alive, because it is haunted.

But Face has nothing to do with the narrator. Without a presumed creator, it simply exists because it does. It doesn't need any better reason. It lives because it does, and the fact that it does is unsettling. It makes you wonder how something like this came to exist at all. To me, Face appears to represent simply what a natural product of a game that is ‘organic’ might be like. Even Face doesn’t seem to understand its own existence, because all it can do is ask questions. Its nonsensical nature added to the story’s verisimilitude, because like life itself, it is absurd.

The difference between Petscop and the game in this creepypasta, however, is one simple fact: one was created, and one was not. The existence of a creator changes everything. It means that Petscop is a game working as intended. Each meticulous detail of Petscop is a brushstroke from the hand that created it. These brushstrokes only exist to depict a blurry whole. There was purpose in their inception, but they do not visibly contain purpose outside of their culmination as a painting. When Paul inputs Care’s face with Mike’s eyebrows onto the easel, it creates a room that shows him the first censored item. Due to the nature of the censored item, he hopes he’s assigning meaning where there is none—that this combination of features has nothing to do with what the appearance of the censored item would depict as a whole. (“I don't know. Maybe that's just something that it puts in any room.”) If it can reasonably be written off as absurd or random chance, he can continue to dissociate himself from the game. In Paul’s case, reality is reframed when it is revealed that the framing exists at all.

I talked about the second part of the note that came with Petscop earlier, but I want to go more in depth about the first part because it bears a lot of relevance to this.

“I WALKED DOWNSTAIRS AND WHEN I GOT TO THE BOTTOM, INSTEAD OF PROCEEDING, I TURNED THE RIGHT AND BECAME A SHADOW MONSTER MAN”

The ‘Shadow Monster’ mode is effectively an out-of-bounds state. It is achieved by walking down the flower shack stairs and then turning right instead of proceeding as normal—it’s a deviation in the intended progress. Seemingly, the darkness is a variable that is left uncleared by clipping out of the stairwell. This is the only known way to achieve this ‘shadow’ property. This property is the only way to interact with the Windmill, similar to how only the black camera can view it. It seemingly causes the player character to become imperceivable as well—while walking through a tunnel, Paul is hit by a car when in this state. Knowing that this apparent glitch was not one at all recontextualizes it entirely.

What does it mean when this ‘glitch’ is accepted into the reality of the game? A bug becomes a feature—the mutation is evolved into the entity by the same hand that allowed the mutation to occur in the first place: the one that penned the code. It speaks of the human involvement behind the game. When a perceived error occurs, a game’s reality is revealed as the artificial construct it is. But when it’s revealed that doing this is required—that this was a product of intentional design, the boundaries are blurred. By revealing its intrinsic tie to the game’s code itself, it also reveals its tie to the creator of that code. The game becomes organic again, because it is bound to both the player and its creator. Petscop is a game that is alive. It’s a game that lives and breathes; it grows based on your interactions with it, and it grows even further from what you make of your time spent with it.

Petscop is the result of generations of work. What’s interesting is how meticulously each of its iterations are preserved. Rainer set up a system that could not only record inputs, but play them back. By learning how something evolves, we can understand why it is what it is today. Even if we can’t see the circumstances that shaped it for ourselves, we can assume what they may have been based on the shape that later iterations take on. We know next to nothing of the circumstances that culminated in the creation of Petscop, and all we’re able to know of these circumstances comes through the context of the game.

The idea of ‘generations’ is ever-present in Petscop. The ‘Room Impulse’ developer feature struck me as being particularly strange. The clock in the corner is the controller of this mode; time goes by as you spin it, but the pointer stays in place. What appear to be arbitrarily generated generations of red Guardians wander aimlessly. They walk into walls, and sometimes just stand there. Their movements are simple and nonsensical. They spin in strange loops. It reminded me of the way machine learning works: each generation learns from the last by connecting what helps it achieve the highest fitness, which generates a new model as a culmination of the fittest traits it evolves. Though the AI is eventually able to complete its given task, it starts off only able to do simple, primitive movements and actions.

That being said, I don’t think the Room Impulse entities are actually ‘generated’ at all—they seem to represent generations of different recorded inputs, considering one is seemingly played in reverse to ‘retrace’ Care’s steps. There are quite a few developer features in Petscop that seem to exist only to keep track of the game’s evolution. And as the game evolved, more and more were added, which were eventually integrated into the gameplay itself. Maybe these features were designed to fill a specific developmental niche—but whatever that niche was is long lost to time, and any remnants of what role they filled are near nonexistent at this point. Looking at the extensive documentation of Petscop’s iterations gives the impression of guided evolution by a god that has died. Petscop is an unfinished game, yet it continued to grow in Rainer’s absence. It’s an overgrown garden, overtaken by the very nature that it once grew. After a certain point in the series, almost nothing is presented in chronological order. The game plays past button inputs back to Paul. You see the player character in the present, spinning, spiraling, wandering aimlessly, and interacting with the incorporeal. It seems nonsensical.

I want to take a look at a certain absurdity that baffled me personally—both in its objective simplicity, and in the disproportionate emotional reaction it provoked from me. In Petscop 14, when the game is booted and Paul’s save files are erased, leaving only the ‘Strange situation’ file, this appears before the title screen:

The Garalina logo shifts only 45 degrees, but it made my stomach turn (also roughly 45 degrees). Despite the objective simplicity of such a thing, I saw this sentiment echoed in the comments of the video, so I'm not alone on this. But why does it do this? Is the game glitching? Does it have a random chance for this to happen on boot? It could be, but Petscop is meticulously designed in universe and out, so probably not. There is a certain framework to Petscop: objective, observable principles about its nature. Narrative themes, visual motifs—rotation itself is one, for example. There's a reason we were shown this, and because we were shown it, the reason must be that we were meant to see it.

So, let’s approach this scientifically. Here’s a simple set of rules to remember:

Everything in Petscop (the game) is intentional

If something appears to be unintentional, the fact that it is shown is not

So that means everything in the game has a secret hidden meaning, of course. Either in the eyes of Rainer or the eyes of the series creator, there lies an exact answer and divine conclusion to everything. And if you figured out that secret hidden meaning, I mean—good for you, but I have no idea where you got it from. Our first problem is figuring out where to find that secret hidden meaning. Let’s try seeing if it’s in that creepy logo.

We know that the rotated logo occurs after a reboot (after Paul successfully moves the bucket over to a redacted part of the master bedroom and paints over it), which probably symbolizes something. But wait—was that actually a 45 degree rotation, or was it a full cycle: 405 degrees? Actually, what was the original orientation of the logo, anyway? It always appears vertical, but that’s not normally how text is read, so it’d actually be two consecutive rotations: 90 degrees, and then 45. Maybe while we weren’t looking, the logo was spinning all by itself, just for fun. It was actually a 1,485 degree rotation. The reason it scared me was because it was a 1,485 degree rotation and not 45.

I’m being ridiculous on purpose. 45 or 1,485, it’s all the same in the end: objectively, the logo changed from the position it was observed to occupy, and concerning myself, that’s all that really matters. Nothing else matters, because that's not what I was thinking about when I first saw it. It was a visceral reaction: genuine discomfort. When I first watched Petscop, I didn't understand a lot of what was happening. I still don't. I understood what I was feeling, though. The real fear comes from something that isn't within the game, which is a scary idea itself. The external framework—the one within the game—is irrelevant. Its strangeness is subjective. My fear relied on my familiarity with the logo's original orientation, so when the game subverted this expectation, I felt uneasy. Feeling fear is significant itself, but the way you process it after the fact is important too. In the case of Petscop, where the fear is intangible and only exists behind the safe barrier of fantasy, you may feel the immediate urge to rationalize it. Feeding your feelings into the mechanisms of your internal framework helps you process them. (Despite my attempt to ‘decode’ the logo being facetious, it’s definitely not going to affect me on any subsequent viewings now that I’ve turned it around into this silly roundabout analogy. I guess that was my way of processing it.)

This desire to rationalize is, of course, irrational. And if you can’t rationalize it with what is immediately observable, you start to look into the negative space—what isn’t there. You might start to fill the negative space with your own ideas, disregarding if they make any sense with their surroundings, just so something makes sense to you. I think that’s why so many people instinctively attempted to ‘solve’ Petscop.

Petscop isn't an alternate reality game, but it's often mistaken for one because of its initial presentation. It breaches the boundaries of fiction and reality and admixtures itself into an uncanny combination of the two. The meta-narrative isn't essential to Petscop's story, yet its presence is simultaneously inseparable. Instead of being presented as a story about a mysterious video game, it was presented as something real. The definition of an ARG has been skewed over time; it started with a pretty clear definition, but gradually warped into something like “anything online that's scary and mysterious”, which usually sends the ‘player’ down a rabbit hole of scattered clues. I’ve heard people call just about any mysterious piece of media an ARG, sometimes jokingly, sometimes not.

But let’s get an actual definition of an ARG—an objective definition, from an outside source. Wikipedia defines an ARG as “an interactive networked narrative that uses the real world as a platform and employs transmedia storytelling to deliver a story that may be altered by players' ideas or actions.”

... I think Petscop might be an ARG.

For Paul, at least. But is this the kind of game that Petscop wanted to play with us? Is a connection to reality an invitation for audience participation? When it intentionally toys with its viewers, is it playing a game with us? Does Petscop even have the agency to ‘toy’ with its viewers at all, or was this self-awareness being assumed? Regardless of if it was or not, it's how some decided to engage with it anyway. They treated it like it was real and alive, and that’s because it ostensibly was. By perceiving it as a puzzle to be ‘solved’, Petscop became a game that could be ‘played’.

We are never given access to Petscop as a game itself, only Paul’s recordings of it. It's a game you can't play. You can't decompile it, dissect it, wring its code dry—you can only see what its creator decided to show you, and what is curated for you to see. You experience it vicariously. There are so many things in Petscop that you will never have the chance to see. Therefore, you will never fully understand it. No one can. You’re led to believe that Paul is addressing the audience at the beginning of Petscop 1, only to learn that the 'you' he was talking to was not a collective, but a person. That person knows things that you don’t—that you can’t, because you’re not them. The videos are presumed to be uploaded entirely by Paul and his own volition, until a mysterious 'we' appears and begins to censor parts of the game behind black boxes.

“... I went, I went uh, and did all the same things that I did this time, and, uh, the same things did not happen. Uh, none of the things happened, none of the oddities occurred. [...] Um, so, there's a bit of randomness in it, and it's interesting how it doesn't seem to really care if you see everything, I guess.”

Why do we feel the need to dissect it? To understand it. Why do we want to understand it? Because it's terrifying not to know what something is, and because it can be a beautiful thing once you understand it. The biology of an organism, its inner workings, the gears that make it tick and the code that makes it run—the mechanisms that make something up are beautiful. Unfortunately, you can only dissect something that is dead.

The censored parts of Petscop are keys to Paul’s own puzzle. They are censored because they are what allowed him to connect the game to himself, and the existence of the censorship itself is more important than what is being censored. They gain meaning by not being shown, because it is their ambiguity that is more disturbing than reality. There could be anything in them. The items listed as being censored are stated plainly for us, because it wouldn’t be cathartic for anyone but Paul to see what’s behind those black boxes. The items are shocking because they’re so personal. I know a lot of people assumed the censored objects to be graphic in some way, but the horror would be a lot more generalized if they were anything like that. The horror of something being left unseen is far more universal, because in those black boxes you can see anything. A person’s perception of the unseeable can say a lot about them. I mean, it said a lot about Paul.

In Petscop 22, a school counselor plays a game with Paul—presumably reflecting an experience that Care may have had after escaping from Marvin. It struck me how clear a parallel could be drawn between the counselor’s game and Petscop itself. The counselor (Rainer) offers the game as a mode of mediation between them and Paul. The focus isn't necessarily on how the game is being interacted with (the controller inputs), but primarily on what can be gained by playing the game with the other person (the exchange of feedback). School counselors play games with children to help them more freely speak their mind; when a game is being played, it becomes easier for the counselor to establish a connection with the child. Conversation becomes more casual when contextualized around an external object. Additionally, observation of the player’s behavior when they interact with the game may offer further insight into their condition. Paul shows confusion between his left and right multiple times throughout the series, and his confusion is mirrored here. Literally.

The game is used as an indirect mirror to reflect what Paul could not otherwise express, or may not even know to express. Meanwhile, the mirror reflects Rainer as well. Like, the game is literally called ‘Graverobber’. I'm pretty sure that has some significance to Rainer. The game itself is more than a medium to reflect—the game is a reflection itself.

Even the gameboard is a mirror. Graverobber is a sort-of Battleship clone, a game where players create two different versions of the gameboard based on the way they place their pieces. Graverobber works a little differently, but the conceit is the same. The goal is to find the other player’s pieces through educated guesswork. The other player can only see their paralleled board—their equivalent reality. If the other player could see your board, there wouldn’t be a game. Your board only exists as what you tell the other player it is, because they can’t directly see it. (And you can cheat by changing the position of the pieces, if you’re sneaky. My favorite part of playing Battleship as a kid was seeing if I could get away with that.) The opposite player’s pieces are found by perceiving the negative space: by seeing what isn’t there.

The biggest difference between Graverobber and Battleship is that your movement on your own board is paralleled by the opposite side of the board—you have to avoid your own pieces as well. This adds a lot more strategy and probably makes it a lot harder to cheat, so basically Graverobber is Battleship but worse. It’s also a lot harder to cheat considering that Graverobber is a simulation of a boardgame. As a simulated game, it automatically shows you what you can’t see, instead of the other player having to tell you. This is because technology ruins everything. That’s because it’s a lot less easy to manipulate than reality.

With neuroscience being a not insignificant interest of mine, I also can’t help but bring up something that this idea of ‘reflections’ and left-right confusion reminded me of: a case study from “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat” about a woman who suffered a stroke, which affected the deeper and back portions of her right cerebral hemisphere. As a result, “she has totally lost the idea of ‘left’, with regard to both the world and her own body.” Here are some passages from this text:

Of course, I am not implying this has a literal application onto Petscop—rather that the broad ideas presented here reflect some in the series. This following segment from the postscript is specifically what Petscop reminded me of.

“Computers and computer games (not available in 1976, when I saw Mrs S.) may also be invaluable to patients with unilateral neglect in monitoring the ‘missing’ half, or teaching them to do this themselves […] I cannot forbear quoting Mesulam’s eloquent formulation of ‘neglect’:

When the neglect is severe, the patient may behave almost as if one half of the universe had abruptly ceased to exist in any meaningful form.... Patients with unilateral neglect behave not only as if nothing were actually happening in the left hemispace, but also as if nothing of any importance could be expected to occur there.”

The use of technology to see what one is incapable of seeing brought the comparison to mind. When you move your piece on the Graverobber gameboard, the computer calculates what is on the opposite side. Similarly, Petscop helps Paul to see a side of himself that he was incapable of perceiving. Petscop is nothing more than a medium of reflection. The screen is a mirror, and you get what you put into it. Like the sequences of light that form its imagery, what you see in Petscop is permeable; your inputs send real-time signals that alter what you see on the screen. If you see something you didn’t expect to see, it scares you.

Back to the beginning—the comment that inspired this brought up a quote from the creator of Petscop (from this article), with seeming confusion. This is the quote in question.

“Early on, I wrote a lot of stuff for a ‘Petscop Discovery Pages’ website that I was going to release with the first video, along with a developer journal. That material could have destroyed the series immediately,” Domenico said. “I used that website in a later video, too small to be readable, and that was the perfect amount of detail. You can just make out the pictures, and see how much text there is, and you’re informed of a page called ‘Your Child,’ and that’s all the information needed. I was so happy with that.”

They were baffled by why these pages weren’t included. Why create something, only to exclude it so callously? This commenter was left sorely disappointed by the ending because of their residual confusion and unanswered questions. These pages likely included answers to those questions, valuable, concrete information on the contents of Petscop’s story, and they surely would’ve cleared things up. But this is all they ended up appearing as.

What you can see is the culmination of a work—zoomed out to the point of unreadability. All you know is that there are big blocks of texts, and that someone had to have written them. That’s all you need to see. Assuming that you need to see it leaves you assuming that you’re missing something. This commenter cared enough about this series that they let themselves be let down by something that never existed as they thought it did, or thought it should. To understand something is to see its inner beauty—but what if you can only see its blurry surface? It’s something you sort of see, but you can only see enough to know that you can’t see it. This half-understanding is uncanny, and incomplete. But you can only have a half-understanding if you assume there is an answer, or that your understanding is correct. When something isn’t meant to be fully understood in the first place, there are no answers.

It’s not that I don’t want to see the full story of Petscop—who wouldn’t want to see the full extent of something? Taking the effort to understand something is in no way meant to be devalued. The problem comes when you put that effort into something incompatible with being understood the way you want to understand it. The amount of effort you put into it overflows, and your effort effectively ends up speaking indirectly for itself instead of exploring something external.

By fully forfeiting your understanding of something, you are allowed to simply observe it in silence. If you absolve your mind’s authority over your sight, you start to see things as they appear in the present: unprocessed, and pure. I saw a similar sort of sentiment reflected in a lot of comments on Petscop videos. So many of them are people simply saying that they don’t understand what’s happening or that they have no idea what they’re looking at. Regardless, they kept watching. They’re just along for the ride, and seeing where it takes them. I think that’s the best way to approach Petscop.

But what happens in Petscop isn’t absurd or without reason. Like previously mentioned, there was deliberate intention in its creation and meticulous attention to detail. There’s a story out of sight that spins you in purposeful circles. Nothing makes sense, but you can’t stop staring. Parallels present themselves like infinite fractal patterns printed and projected through and into cathode-ray tubes. It’s vague, but you can almost see it. If you squint, a sharper image appears, and you start to see into the negative space.

“After kicking you out of the house, your wife started painting the walls black, to cover the stencils. I helped. [...] As I painted, I watched Care dance around the house. She liked to spin. She became a blur. But in that blur, somehow, as she spun around... From 45 degrees, to 90, to 180, to 360, to 720, 1080, 1440, 1800, 2160, winding, tightening, tightening. I was stunned by pure horror and disgust.”

On the brink of epiphany, so close to a fully realized revelation, you spin yourself in circles, chasing closer to the conclusion that surely awaits when you so cleverly crack the combination code. From 45 degrees—closer—to 22.5, to 11.25—even closer—to 5.625, to 2.8125, 1.40625, 0.703125—ever closer. Clockwise or counter; you can’t tell the time from where you’re standing. Your eye is the center of the storm. Sequences of numbers, signals and symbols, synchronicity: spinning, spiraling on the screen. Dizzied and dazzled by dualities, dichotomies, divine symmetries, you decay deeper and deeper, and degrade until you’re dust.

The same thing happens to a tape when you play it enough. The spools spin themselves thin. In time, it becomes an indistinct blur of grain and degradation. The degradation isn’t exclusively physical, either. Memory skews your sight in the same way. By watching something enough, you’re able to anticipate what comes next. Someone who’s watching with you won’t understand why you smile automatically when you hear a certain distinct crackle you’ve committed to memory—to you, it means your favorite part is coming up. The video starts to take a life of its own. You wouldn’t recognize the people in the recording if they didn’t have the grainy blur over their faces. That’s one reason why recordings have the power to raise the dead. The dead are alive in the eyes of the viewer.

A phoenix rises from the ashes, over and over. In the process, it is infinitely reborn and recreated in the eye of the beholder. At some point you start to forget what birds look like. You create it as an image so far removed from the reality of any existing animal that when you show this ‘bird’ to someone else, they think it's a ‘funny stupid blob monster’. It’s an amorphous web of ideas that you believe to constitute a ‘bird’, because you haven't been outside to see one for yourself in so long. If you looked out the window and saw an actual bird, you probably wouldn't recognize it at all. When you see its wings and its feathers and the way it flies freely through the air, you don't know what you're looking at. When you define something by what it isn't rather than what it is, the only thing you can be sure about is the fact that it can't be a bird, because it doesn't look like one.

When someone won't let go of an image, it can be frightening. What is directly apparent to you appears as something entirely separate to them. They’re seeing ghosts. They're seeing something you can't, and that’s scary—especially when what they’re looking at is you. By channeling these ghosts in your vicinity, they are allowing you to be possessed, and allowing themselves to be haunted. Maybe it's you from a long time ago, maybe it's an idealized ‘you’—or maybe, more likely, it's not even you; it’s someone else in their life, or an abstract concept of a being that is applied to you. Rather than being able to exist as you are, you become burdened with these immaterial perceptions. The only way to see these tricks of light is through the other person’s eyes.

To form the riddle Rainer presents to Marvin, a door is brought together at this single point in time, held in juxtaposition. There is only one door, though it is shown in two different states. To say there are two doors is incorrect, yet the riddle is about two doors. Reframing it under the lens of this riddle separates the door as a whole entity, and results in the creation of a second door. Similarly, Paul and Care are a single being—one cannot exist without the other. The door riddle cannot exist if there is only one door. Yet, despite the whole they exist as, they still appear as two distinct entities. They are a point in superposition. The observation of this object causes it to collapse into its classical form, losing its quantum nature. Reality as we see it only exists when we observe it as such; perception isn’t a passive state. Reality is not merely perceived—it is created, and endlessly reframed.

“Care! Are you okay?” “You ran straight into the door! Did you think it was open? ... Aw, poor baby.”

If reality is created by acts of perception, there exists an individual world for each observer. The only way to see into another reality is through the eyes of an other. This is why “not everyone can see” one of Michael’s aunts, and why a girl seemingly disappeared alongside a windmill. They didn’t see her, so she existed unobserved, in an altered world of her own. Paul is only able to interact with the windmill when he takes the form of a shadow: an unseeable state. He escaped the bounds of his reality to see something as it truly is.

You have little agency in how someone sees you. Your identity is dependent on what they observe it to be, because they cannot see how you see yourself. To enter another person’s reality, you must start where it is initialized: in the mind, where perception and conceptualization occur. The problem is that you cannot enter a person’s mind, and perception can only be conveyed by conduits—that which is external to the mind. The mind is a culmination of memory and conceptualization—an abstract blur of past experience and present perception that forms an ineffable whole. The only way to understand this abstraction is through personal experience of it, and this is impossible to achieve in any mind but your own.

Memories only present themselves as memories when they are remembered. Without the act of remembrance, memories do not exist. If you could remember everything that’s ever happened to you exactly as it did, you would exist in each of those moments all at once. The mind works to filter the present as to not leave itself overwhelmed by the full immeasurable extent of knowledge it contains and sensory experience it beholds, so by limiting the vast majority of what it is capable of remembering and sensing down to what is most relevant to the situation at hand, the mind operates with a pair of blinders on all it perceives.

If we were to perceive everything that is happening everywhere around us, a single, synchronized world would be created in the perpetual present. There is infinite meaningfulness in all that surrounds us, but only a small subsection of this value is able to be perceived by the finite mind. Transcending the feedback loop of thought and perception allows us to exist in shared silence. In silence, bare existence and sensation speak for itself, and all that is immanent is revealed. Inhabiting a shared, unconceptualized reality offers an instinctual key to connection. In that way, an absence of personal perception and conceptualization is what conceives the unification of consciousness. These perceptual blinders exist for a reason: without them, an individual person could not exist.

The continuous creation of individual realities spawns the recursive, infinite hatching of nested eggs. Two complementary, cardinal principles are unified—the egg white, and yolk. It splits in two eternally. Land, sky; space, time; past, future; light, dark; black, white; red, yellow. When these parts are separated, they are able to assemble back into a whole. Not as an egg, but as a ubiquitous entity. From the egg, life and existence emerge. Individuation is essential to the formation of a fully realized self; integration with the immanent only occurs after separation. If the egg does not crack, it cannot hatch.

By understanding his past as Care and assimilating her back into himself, Paul is able to fully realize the rebirth of his identity, and his role in both creation and transformation. The egg he is reborn into is red and yellow—not orange. He is able to create a new life for himself, a life that is a unification, not a combination, of his previous two. The last word spoken by Paul is in-game, in a message to Belle: “Family”. He fully integrates Belle into a family that she could not initially become a part of by reframing the idea of a family. When they met Lina on the bench, they were looking back into the game, this time from the outside. From the parallel location in the game, Lina could not be observed. Now that Paul and Belle have escaped from the bounds of the game, they are able to perceive her. Through the window in front of them, Paul observes his past—the game—through a window. In his separation from it, he is able to assimilate it back into his identity. Paul is not abandoning his life as Care—he is embracing it. Care couldn’t tell where she was, dizzied and disoriented, dissociated from her present reality; Paul couldn’t tell left from right, and he couldn’t recognize his repressed past. Unified as one, Paul is able to reframe and reshape his life. No longer needing to navigate blindly through the dark, Paul’s perspective shifts to perceive reality in an all new light. I thought that was so beautiful.

So why was Petscop made, and what was the point?

I don’t know. Why not?

Why would I bother to ask “why was this made” when it managed to enrapture me like it did? Receiving an answer to that question wouldn’t change anything. The ending made me cry, and at first, I didn’t even understand why. I didn’t try to. I was just delighted to be caught in that moment. The simple concrete experience of crying—being brought to tears by something—was enough for me. There’s a really lovely sense of finality to the scene and its hazy blue skybox, in a way that manages to be effective even for someone without a full understanding of the story.

Anyway, want to hear something funny about that question? I sorta made it up.

The reason I refuse to dig up the comment this post was inspired by is because it’s easier not to. If I showed the question exactly as it was written, I would have had it answer it as it was. Maybe it wouldn’t have even been as I remembered it. By paraphrasing it, I allowed myself to ask the question as I desired to have it asked, and thus created a framework for my thoughts to fit into. It served as a subjective, internal influence rather than an external, objective basis. I could’ve phrased the question as one asked by the community as a whole, and although that wouldn’t be wrong, it would’ve been inaccurate to what actually happened. No one would have cared if I didn’t say it, but the fact that I did this at all is too funny for me not to include, and by exposing my intent, I’m allowing a direct insight into the indirect web of ideas that inspired this post and what I’m trying to express with it. Achieving balance between directness and indirectness is basically impossible, but I’m trying my best.

When something is created from an infinite, ideational web, simple sentences strung together cannot capture that infrastructure in its interconnected entirety. Abstraction is most thoroughly enjoyed in silent appreciation, because words will only serve to simplify it. Sentences inevitably take on their own meaning, for no other reason than that language is not the object that it describes—rather, language is something that an object is subjected to. The mere act of transcribing thoughts into words is transformative. Language will define the indefinite, yet a clear image cannot be recreated through words alone. Endless elaboration does nothing to elucidate the entirety of an abstraction—it only condenses it, and casts the intangible in concrete.

That’s part of why I barely talked about some of Petscop's core themes in this post. I didn't really talk about the story or anything that happened, and I only used quotes that stuck out to me enough to remember. The only thoughts I wrote at all were the ones that I managed to put into words. I referenced the Petscop wiki and a fanmade compendium, but I made sure to only skim each. This is only my second time watching Petscop in its entirety because if I watched it again at this point, this post would never end. (I have a feeling there's something blatantly incorrect or missing in this post that I've failed to notice, and I'm going to end up extremely upset with myself once I figure it out. But I'm choosing to ignore it for now.) Basically, this is a very surface-level examination of Petscop.

I was able to appreciate Petscop even further once I sat down and thought about it. Little parallels and epiphanies popped up in every second I watched of Petscop, and even more appeared when I sat down to think about it—still, I can’t convey the breadth of my love for this series or relive my first viewing experience, and I acknowledge that. I know I can only do the next best thing: make stuff of my own. That includes writing this. Woven within all that I create is an inexpressible ‘wholeness’—that whole encompasses everything I’ve ever experienced, and by extension, what I create is an expression of myself. There’s pieces of everything I’ve perceived in there. That’s why my way of showing that something mattered to me is just continuously creating. Its existence is justified by the chance that whatever I create captures the same things I felt, or helps someone else come to an understanding about something.

I typically don’t care why something was made. I’m just happy that a creator gets to create, I’m glad their creation gets the chance to be enjoyed, and that I get to enjoy it too. It’s nice that things exist. That’s a pretty surface-level enjoyment of existence, right? But I think the surface level is sometimes the most interesting plane to observe. The surface level is the home of sensation—sight itself resides on this plane. The surface is where expression can be shared, and where you experience the world. Sometimes, taking a step back is the only way to see something for what it really is.

Maybe you don't want a series that leaves you without the ‘answers’. That's fine. There’s little in life that is actually definitive, so it’s understandable why you might seek that out in fantasy. But presuming the existence of an answer in everything can be destructive in and of itself. You dig all the way beneath the surface, only to look up and find yourself in a gaping abyss of destroyed earth. There is no ‘answer’ to Petscop. You’re free to explore it yourself, in its open, abstract entirety. Ultimately, it’s a story designed to be subjective.

In a way, every story is an interactive game. There are no rules, but you’ll have a lot more fun if you understand how to play. It’s a gift exchange—a game of give and take—and Petscop is a present waiting to be unwrapped. By observing a story, you allow it to come alive; you grant it the gift of life, and receive a piece of it in return. Treasure the piece it gives you, and appreciate it even if you don’t understand it. The gift box will be empty unless you put something into it.

TL;DR: Every copy of Petscop is personalized. We've gone full circle.

#petscop #creepypasta #media analysis #i finished this like a week ago but held back on posting it. but here it is!#i'm honestly not expecting anyone to read this whole thing because it's nearly 10k words. but if you do THANK YOU #it's very messy but i'm still glad i was able to write all of this. maybe you'll find it interesting too #there are some parts of this post that are almost certainly extraneous but i'm keeping them in just for the sake of preserving them #these are still only really my initial thoughts and so i want to keep it like that #anyway yeah. petscop is really good.

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husbandohunter · 4 years ago

Text

Moments of Despair #2 [Genshin Impact/Albedo x Reader]

Synopsis: "The alchemist who relished in his gifts only to fall from grace."

(A series of works where the boys deal with the passing of their beloved).

Diluc’s despair

Warnings: angst, tragedy, major character death and psychological horror (correct me if otherwise)

(A/n): I decided to take a slightly different approach this time. Regardless, it’s still killing my heart TwT.

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Out of the many wonders of Teyvat, one thing Albedo loved most was how you were so different from him.

Difference ties to the unknown, one that must be discovered. He was drawn to you the first time he had laid his eyes upon your form standing at the heights of Mondstadt's cathedral. The Sisters scolded you from below, but all you did was reply with a wink amidst their chaos before soaring into the skies and letting the wind carry your glider. Reckless they said. For him, your recklessness was intriguing.

As the sun's light blinded his vision, everything he saw seemed like a glass barrier. For the ground was where he thrived and chalk was his core, it became the basis of Albedo's very existence. Even the geo Archon granted him a Vision of the same element to affirm his identity. The earth will forever be attached to his feet as he will keep on his stride until every last truth of Teyvat have all been realized. You, on the other hand, hailed from a place where he couldn't quite reach. What lies beyond this glass ceiling? Albedo found himself gradually holding onto a string of curiosities, a string he could touch but was not able to feel.

'Interesting,' he thought quietly, while the breeze slip between the fingers of his outstretched hand.

He was a character of logic, possessing sharp eyes that could pierce through the depths of the most complex formulas and a mind to predict their outcomes- as long as alchemy was still related. All impossibilities thrown in his way only paved a path for him to become the well known genius he was now. Whether it was alchemy or investigations with the Knights of Favonius, Albedo never failed to deliver the answers. But despite it all, he always found himself endlessly contemplating over things that were considered intangible. He wonders why you smile when there was nothing to laugh about. How could you tell between the complexities of the human heart? Albedo can't seem to put a finger on it.

'Why? What drives you? What are you thinking?'

The Chief Alchemist couldn't resist being fascinated by your unpredictability. It reels him in similar to a fish being baited out of the waters. However, unlike those creatures, Albedo only tightened his grip on the strings as if they were a lifeline, determined to find out what they truly felt like to the touch.

"I can't really say it's much of an answer," you hummed, clasping both hands behind your back before declaring with a grin, "To put it simply, you just gotta follow your heart."

'Follow your heart...' What does it mean to follow your heart?

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," he replied in a thoughtful manner. The statement never really resonated with him and it certainly weren't the words his Master taught when he was in the early stages of being created, "But it does suit you very much."

"Really? But still bring your head with you," a playful laugh escapes and you add while pointing a finger, "At least, it's what everyone tells me these days."

"Hm," Albedo then affirms with a nod, "I can definitely see why they would tell you that."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

The days go by and his repetitious march towards the truth remains the same. However, there was never a dull moment when you were at his side. Perhaps that was the reason why Albedo became so attracted to your aura. The way you'd follow around his experiments, eyes so full of enthusiasm at every step of the activity. Sometimes the events can get a little too out of hand in which he needs to step in and save you from getting stuck in slime condensates...constantly. Albedo grew fond of your childlike excitement even when you weren't entirely sure what was going on. He normally distanced himself from socializing as it never sparked his interest. Frankly, he was too much of a genius for mundane conversations. Your presence was rather refreshing in this case. You were an oddball, just like him, and for once the alchemist felt like he didn't need to place that glass barrier between the two worlds.

"You seem to be in a very good mood today Mister Albedo."

He was a man of subtle expressions yet anyone could notice the small gleam in his eyes whenever he saw you walking in the hallway. Sucrose often remarked with a giggle after she noticed her teacher holding his documents upside down. But who could blame him? Joy, fun, laughter. He was able to experience those emotions all because of you; his beloved. You were the colour to his canvas and the meaning to his flower. You were a force of nature. Like a warm breeze gracing upon the terrestrial lands, you move him.

Thump- thump- thump-

Strings around his world began to weave one whole picture while they also tugged inside his chest. God had finally blown the breath of life into mankind's body, it was only a matter of time before Albedo came to follow his heart too.

--------

"Alright, just one more detail aaaaand done!"

You gave a small tap using the tip of your pencil and leaned back to examine your artwork.

Masterpiece!

On days when Katheryne had no commissions assigned to the guild, Albedo would accompany you to the Whispering Woods and conduct his sketches there instead. He was aware of the discomfort Dragonspine brought as the temperature wasn't ideal for anyone except for him. You eventually learned that your lover was not only intelligently different from the rest but physically too. Albedo, aside from the Cavalry Captain, was mysterious in his own way. He was hard to read yet never came off as intimidating, no one knew of his origins nor they knew how he came to Mondstadt. You wondered why someone like him would have wanted to get involved with your shenanigans. Rosaria often gave warnings regarding the alchemist's 'hidden intentions' in which you'd roll your eyes in response. The Albedo you knew was far from that. He was a big brother to Klee, a man passionate about his work, he was the one golden star among the many silvers in your sky. He was your lover.

My Albedo.

Brushing a hand upon the drawing you made of him, you glided down the lines of his cheek before resting your finger on the mark by his neck. You gazed at it with fondness. Truly a masterpiece indeed.

"You do realize I'm still here?"

The paper nearly flies out of your grasp and you snatched it back to your chest, "HUH A-ALBEDO, WHEN DID YOU APPEAR???"

"I was with you the whole time," he states. The corner of his lip tug upward ever so slightly, "You said you wanted to sketch me."

"A-Ahahaha, so I did," you reply while scratching your head bashfully. 'I thought I was looking at a sculpture!!' You rushed to cover your face with the sheet. It wasn't that you forgot he was there, rather, you forgot he was still a living and breathing specimen who just witnessed your little serenade. As Lisa had once said, Albedo was easy on the eyes. His graceful features made him seem almost like an oil painting that could only be found in halls of the most prestigious households. You made sure to capture everything, every detail, every curve just like he had done with your portraits. Only now you noticed the sun already began its descent below the lakeside, dusting the landscape with hints of bright orange as it marked the day's end. If only time could slow down. But duty calls upon your next journey and there was no telling when you'd return. At the very least, a simple portrait would suffice to fill in the temporary gap of his absence.

"Can I see it?"

You glanced his direction while keeping the drawing close to your nose, "Are you sure about that? It might not be up to your expectations."

"I'm sure," Albedo affirms with a straight countenance, "I can already tell you've put a great amount of effort, otherwise you wouldn't have taken this long."

"Yeeaahh I kinda lost track of time. I guess it's only fair that you get to see the finished product," you say and shoved the drawing in front of him, "Tada! I present to you, my masterpiece!"

Albedo takes it out of your grasp and you watched the way his eyes expanded upon sight.

"Well? Whaddya think?"

Words could not describe the mixture of emotions that erupted within him. Was it distinguishable or abstract? Albedo spent his time pondering between the two answers as he examined the drawing closely. Despite the lines being slightly jagged and the unevenness in the placement of his eyes, he managed to make the shape of the entire image you were trying to convey. Perhaps it was all thanks to his well trained artistic vision which gave him the ability to do so. Or maybe he was simply biased. But there wasn't a shred of doubt that this was indeed your craftsmanship.

"You even added flowers in the background," he pointed out with amusement.

"It's the thing you make when using your elemental burst, I couldn't fit your hand in the picture so I decided to put it somewhere empty," you informed, "Out of everything, that one took me the longest."

"And the rabbits?"

"They resemble Klee's bombs!"

He lets out a chuckle, "I see."

Albedo kept his attention downward until he was mindlessly staring at the paper in hand. This was a memory made to be carried as you moved on to your next journey and it saddens him that he could not accompany you. If only time slowed down. Albedo wanted to hold onto the memory forever, because he knew once he gave it back, he wouldn't be able to see you for an uncertain amount of time.

"Do you really have to go?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. Guilt crept into your heart and you gingerly layed your fingers on his gloved ones, bringing down the paper that blocked his face. A pair of teal orbs held a reflection of your image as the sun's rays casted from the side. You returned it with a reassuring grin, hoping to soothe his worries somehow, "I just need to pay a visit to my father since he's been very sick lately. I'll be fine, so don't worry too much okay?"

Albedo turns over his palm and gave your hand a squeeze, "How long will it take?"

"I'm not sure but it will be a while. Snezhnaya is pretty far so..." you trailed off, "But my time in Mondstadt, with Klee and with you, I will never forget! I won't even if I tried."

When you were met with no answer, a breeze came in to fill the melancholic silence. He too will not forget and he would ensure that it was the same for you. Slowly, Albedo brought your hand up, past the center of his heart all the way to cupping his cheek. He allowed himself to indulge in your warmth, tangling the strands of his hair with your fingers while closing his eyes. Sweet flowers. You always carried the smell of sweet flowers.

"Albedo?" You gawked, "What's the matter?"

"...There are certain aspects where drawings can't imitate," he says, grip tightening ever so slightly, "How I feel against your skin, the shape of my jaw, your warmth radiating with my own. These are the things I want you to remember."

Breath leaves your slightly parted mouth. It was unfair how straightforward Albedo could be when showing his affection. Doing as he pleases without anyone's approval to the point it would even catch you off guard since he often absorbed himself in the arts of alchemy. But during times when Albedo did choose to express his feelings, you knew they came from a place of pure genuinity. The thought made it hard for you to tear away from him, "Did you ever find out what the strings felt like then?"

Albedo returns his gaze, long golden lashes hovering them as he smiles softly, "...I have."

As he began to reveal his stories, the dusk sky continued to flare across the landscape with colours of passion. Red, it was the thread that had led him to you, the same string that weaved him together as a whole. Albedo lays a kiss atop of your pinky, there was a reason why Mondstadtians called him the Chalk Prince. You didn't know the intention behind his sudden affection but he knew. It was a promise, one to ensure that the thread would also have you return safely back into his arms.

Oh how he hated the colour red.

"Al...bedo..."

With speed he never knew he had, Albedo scoops you into his embrace and held you close. How did everything happen so fast? He curses his mind as it proceeds to scan your injuries, drawing a conclusion where he wished to be wrong for once:

You were beyond help.

"Ah..haha..." you managed to laugh through bitter tears, "You don't have to say it. I know."

His breath hitches, trying to make sense of the feeling that was slowly tearing him apart from the inside. It's not real. Of course it wasn't, it couldn't be. What other possible answer was there to explain the numbness stinging his fingers? The reason for his shaking? Everything felt so cold. Your body hardly registered to his to touch, you were losing so much blood. You were losing. He was going to lose you.

"No," Albedo shakes his head, "We still have time. I'll go find help."

Please, hold on.

He forced himself to think. The ruin hunter ran off shortly after it had ambushed you, by now the Knights would eventually noticed and apprehended it on sight. They couldn't be too far. All he needed was to carry you back to safety and everyone can go home. Albedo darted his eyes all over the place, breaths becoming shallower with each passing second. Where? Where to go? Which route was best to not overexert your wounds? Think. Think. Think. Why couldn't he think?

"A..." You watched him in your helpless state. Every part of you throbbed with pain but it pains you even more to see the renowned genius who stood atop the pedestal of elegance and grace so utterly, undoubtedly lost. This was not the goodbye you wanted, though death already had you tight in their grasps. Not yet. Using the last particle of your strength, you tried to stay alive as long as possible. Just a little bit more time.

Albedo freezes when a trembling hand extends itself to cup around his cheek. Every single thought he had in mind vanished and was replaced by a loud ring resonating in his ears. Dreadfully, mechanically, he turns his attention to where you lay.

"Don't cry," you whisper, "I love you, don't cry- okay?"

Albedo grimaces, shutting his eyes closed as he allows the pent up sadness to flow out of him completely, "I can't," he said in a shaky voice, "Please. Stay."

"I'm sorry," Your vision blurs and he hugs you even more. Drawing your final breath, you relay your most cherished words through a broken smile, "But no matter w-where I go...I won't for..ge.."

The moment your hand fell, Albedo finally understood the difference between death and loss.

It was...suffocating. Having the air trapped in his throat, begging to release yet it hurts to speak. The never ending stabs that pulsed within his veins rushed forth like the scraping blizzard of Dragonspine until his whole body lost all its senses. The world was shattering. He could no longer feel your weight. He could no longer feel.

(Y/n).

Albedo glances at his blood stained fingers where the thread had been severed, wide eyes drowning in sorrow. What a horrible feeling. Was this a warning sent by the gods? For stepping into the boundaries of knowing too much? Ah the curse of knowledge man must bear when eating the temptatious fruit. It was the result of choosing to love you. With life, death is inevitable and with love, it will eventually bring pain. Everything had a price to pay and as an alchemist, Albedo knew that better than anyone.

"...Meaningless..."

But he refused to accept it.

Cradling your corpse, he leans in and places a kiss on your forehead, lips quivering as they lingered for a second too long before gathering the strength to stand back on his feet. Nothing will stop the alchemist from reuniting with you. If the laws wished to take you away from him then he will use everything in his power to fight against those laws.

"This is not goodbye..." Albedo said to the sleeping girl, "And it will never be."

When the sun sinks below the plains and the stars lose their light, the sky had been replaced with a palette of darkness. It was time to go home.

------

"Have you all heard about the rumours?"

A group of knights gather in the corner as they whisper about. Sucrose stops on her tracks and hides behind a wall, clutching the book close to her chest in an attempt to stay hidden.

"Another criminal disappeared from the dungeons? Crazy..."

"More like creepy. I was told that place might be haunted by some dead prisoner's ghost. Even the Church is hopping onto this case."

"Well I hope it doesn't get any worse. So many of us started going on night patrols..."

Their voices faded out of range as the anemo user backtracks her steps carefully. Several months passed since the news of mysterious kidnappings have been announced to the public. Rumours of their whereabouts swirled around the city and much to her discomfort, Sucrose happened to catch every single one of them. There couldn't possibly be evil spirits lurking in the Favonious Headquarters right? She silently shrieks at the thought, shaking her head furiously to stop her mind from going too deep. No, I have to find him. Without wasting another minute, the anemo user sprinted towards the stairs all the way up to the second floor before stopping directly in front of her teacher's office. Despite the adrenaline that occured at the same time, she made sure to knock.

No answer.

"Strange, he told me he would be here today..." Sucrose muttered to herself. But suddenly she heard the sound of objects shifting from the otherside, signaling that there was indeed someone occupying the room. Without realizing, she held her breath out of anticipation.

"Come in."

The door creaks as she opens them, giving her enough space to slip between the gap, "Mister Albedo?"

"You're early today," The Chief Alchemist noted from his desk, "Is there something the matter?"

"Y-You mean you don't know? There was just another case about a person disappearing from the dungeons," Her tone became more frantic as she rambled to herself, "The kidnapper never leaves a trace and no one knows how they were able to get out. Even when we ask the guards what happened, they can't seem to remember as if...as if someone casted a spell on them!"

"A spell?" He inquires, "I suppose that could be a possibility."

"I think so too. I-It's the only explanation that makes sense! I mean...ghosts don't exist after all," Sucrose nervously looks down at her shoes while giving her book a squeeze, "But why? Who could be capable of such advanced techniques? No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to understand their intentions."

"...Yes. It is a very strange occurrence indeed."

Noticing her teacher's withdrawn attitude, Sucrose couldn't help but feel flustered at her own behaviour, "Ah my apologies Mister Albedo, I didn't mean to go off track. Have there been any progress on the investigations so far?"

Albedo briefly glanced at the various documents splayed across his table. His reputation as an incredibly intelligent individual had reached far and wide through Mondstadt. This led to the authorities requesting his assistance regarding the recent matters, despite him specializing in the alchemical field, he was also the Captain of their Investigation Team. Although, Albedo detested partaking in things he deemed irrelevant to his research;

"I'm afraid I would need more evidence to draw a conclusion."

"Eh? You still need more?"

He could not deny that the given authoritative position had provided much benefits to his own accord.

"My expertise lies in the subject of alchemy," Albedo reasoned and proceeds to intertwine his fingers in front of his mouth, "Humans on the other hand, are very unpredictable in nature. Even the essence of their existence is hard to obtain."

"Essence of their existence?" Sucrose repeated softly. She wanted to ask what he meant but the blank expression was evident enough to signal his impatience. At least, that was what she thought, "Nevermind! I have something that might help," taking out a slip from her textbook, she handed it to him, "It's the report Captain Kaeya gave me. He said that the culprit might be a traitor coming from the Knights of Favonius."

He narrows his eyes.

"I-I think he might be right! Just think about it, we haven't found anything at all for the past few months but when we do, I sometimes feel like we're just running in circles...oh what if it's becau-"

"Sucrose."

"Y-Yes?!"

Albedo calmly looks at the flustered girl, not realizing how sharp his tone was, "You're overthinking again. Perhaps it's best that you take this day off."

"But I came here to help," she insisted, "I know it hurts to lose someone you love! Don't you understand that we're all worried about you? And Klee, she..."

"..."

"Please Mister Albedo, if there's anything I could do-"

"No need," he cuts her off once again, "Your stress levels are too high. We can't go any further if you continue to act like this."

"Oh," her ruby eyes casted to the side, "I understand..."

"Good. Now, if you would excuse me," Albedo bid her farewell and watched as the door clicked behind her, observing every detail until he was sure that the absolute silence had returned. He picks up Kaeya's document. Such remarkable handwriting. But of course, appearances are only meant to be displayed on the surface for the Captain was a sly man, wearing a mask to shield what lies underneath. Just like his letter, they were full of innuendos and condensed meanings, orchestrated together until the truth spoke loudly to Albedo himself.

"So, that's what he thinks."

Perhaps the alchemist should have been a little more discreet.

--------

There was a certain place in Dragonspine that no one dared to enter. But those who have, they never return.

"Hm, no response. Now as for the next step..."

And he was the reason why.

Taking the sword out of the transmutation circle, Albedo turned to the snowy hill nearby and activated his alchemy. A small portion of it dissipates, revealing a trench that went so deep underground that even warmth couldn't outplay the sheer cold. It was the perfect hiding place for the evidence to lay out of sight and an environment where only he could handle. The alchemist tossed the leftover along with the others before exiting quietly, summoning back the ice to bury his victims once again. Another day, another experiment, another stain goes to his title. The path he walked upon was one littered with corpses and the sins he committed. But despite the bones crunching beneath his feet and the weight of the dead hanging on his shoulders, the alchemist was numb to it all. Like an entity floating in space with nothing to hold, he became unable to feel.

"I'm back," When reaching the center of Starglow Cavern, Albedo puts his hand on the icicle and caressed it's hard cold surface, "Did you sleep well?"

The girl did not respond. Her eyes were closed and her skin was as young as ever. She was frozen in time.

"You must have."

Albedo felt the sword beginning to shake in his grasp as it resonated with his energy. Dust particles emitted from the hilt and slowly made their climb to the side of his arm. Still, Albedo's attention did not waver, "To this day, I've been thinking about what you told me the first time we met."

"..."

"Follow your heart. I couldn't understand it at first but after being around your presence, I believe I can finally recognize what that term means."

He closes his eyes as he envisioned your lively form running across the landscape. Albedo, Albedo! The sound of his name was mixed with your laughter while Klee came into the scene and caught the dandelions with you. A content smile formed on his countenance as he watched from afar, even if it was just a memory, "It's everything. The breakfast we ate together, to the nights spent camping outside, and the silly moments we shared, they bring all these colours that I never knew existed."

"..."

Albedo curls his fingers against the ice as he continues to lament, "Perhaps that's why I began noticing the strings around me. The closer I was to answer, the more I felt it was necessary to discover what they are. All this time, you were the answer I was searching for," Moist begins to build up in his eyes but they freeze up once reaching the corners. How cruel. Despite what he went through, he wasn't even granted the liberty to cry, "Because with you, I'm able to feel them."

He wonders what you would think if you saw him right now. Albedo peers at his reflection casted on the crystalline surface, the frame of his face had been decorated with streaks of purple and red, spreading out like tree branches as they both fought for dominance. The teal coloured orbs you once adored were beginning to transform to a colour that reminded him of his darkest days. This was Albedo's true nature- a monster, a being that wasn't human, the essence in which you never had the chance to see.

"I know I may not be the same as I was before," he added, "But if that is what it takes to follow your heart, will you let me feel the strings again?"

Would you still love me the same?

"..."

"If so, then please understand my actions," Albedo takes a step back as he held out the sword in front of him. At last, the preparations have finally been completed. He plunges the blade to the ground with full force and the surrounding area begins to shake under the power accumulated through many, intentional sacrifices. To revive the dead was a forbidden art as it came with heavy consequences. If it weren't for Albedo's talent and quick wit, the process would have consumed him long before executing the last stage. He winces, the pain was excruciating. It was hard for him to ignore the sound of his skin cracking below his ears and all the way to his nose as they fall off in the shape of small rock-like chunks. Everything hurt so much that even death sounded like a sweet dream but Albedo couldn't afford to give up. He had already come this far, his hands completely washed with sin and his reputation already broken beyond repair, Albedo had nowhere else to go. This was his last destination.

"Soon-" he pants between choked breaths. Soon your eyes will open. He could drown in your embrace, one that was warm and not cold. Soon he will be able revive those cherished memories from a frozen past. It was all he could think of right now. Your existence was the reason why a part of him felt whole and your death made him realize how painful it was to tear away those pieces. Albedo refused to let go of those pieces, they had already become a part of him. And if this path ended up tearing him even more, then so be it.

"I should have stopped you the moment you were born."

The intruder snapped him awake and he swung around to where they stood. But before Albedo could make out who it was, they lunged past him with incredible speed, kicking the sword off the ground while severing his two arms once and for all. They flew to the side, blood dyed purple trickling from the edges of his joint as he struggled to stay upright.

"Dains...leif..."

Dainsleif watched the alchemist fall onto his back as the light around him slowly faded away. He turned his gaze to where the objective was and noticed a girl encased within the ice. The man sighs out of relief when she shows no signs of life, he came just in time, "So this is how it ends."

Albedo weakly stared at the blonde man. He attempted to say something but the blood caught in his mouth prevented him from that.

"Save your breath, you won't be having any," Dainsleif remarks in a cold manner and glared at his bloodied form, "The renowned Chief Alchemist of Mondstadt and an important member of Ordo Favonious. Hmph, what an interesting turn of events. Out of everyone, I never thought you were the type to act so foolish."

Foolish...what a foreign name to be called as. He never heard anyone tell him he was foolish.

"Truly a pity," With a flick of a wrist, Dainsleif brought his sword to Albedo's neck. It was unbelievable how he had the endurance to go through all that pain while still breathing at this point but what is there to be expected from a monster? "Remember that all actions have consequences."

The alchemist watched as his life flashed before him, the weight of his sins had finally caught up. He had always seen the world as a platform for his objectives and results were merely a natural cause after attempting many experiments. But death as a consequences was an unbearble realization upon his final moments. He abandoned his title, his pupil and his dearest sister. In the end, he was still unable to fulfill his duty.

"I just..." Albedo mumbled, his words slurring together, "wanted..."

As the ashes turn to ashes and dust becomes dust, chalk returns to the earth, forever yearning a place that can never be reached.

#genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact scenarios #albedo #albedo x reader #genshin albedo #genshin impact albedo #genshin x reader #genshin scenarios #genshin headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin impact imagines #nya-writes #dainsleif #genshin impact dainsleif #sucrose

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yanderart · 4 years ago

Text

Took me longer since the “drabble” that was supposed to accompany this turned into a kind of extensive one-shot, but here’s the next installment in the Yandere POV series. Inspired by a juicy request from some thoughtful anons!

Below the cut is, as customary, a fic I wrote exploring the underlying themes of the portrait (creepy best friend tamaki x reader, nsfw, dark themes, 8k).

TWs: usual yandere content (delusion, obsession, deceit, etc), explicit noncon, violence, Tamaki making the frienzone his bitch. Generous implementations of the pet name “bunny”.

If you had known the chain of events that would spiral from telling Tamaki about your new relationship… well, perhaps you would’ve stayed quiet. It wasn’t like it was that serious yet either, but you had an inkling (“I really like this one, Tamaki”) that made it worthwhile enough to mention in your book. Remarkable enough to share with your very best friend.

Besides, in your defence, you really had no way of knowing just what hid behind his agitated reaction. Nerves stretched thin, voice terse as he congratulated you with a smile that appeared a little too bright, a little too strained. With someone like Tamaki, it was easy to go chalk it all up to his anxiety, stress or an unfortunate mix of both.

So easy to underestimate him, wasn’t it?

Nevertheless, there were no uses for any what ifs in your future, speculations and paranoia not even close to creeping up on you yet. So almost a week after your reveal, when you got a call from Tamaki himself, you didn’t even hesitate as you picked it up in the last few dredges of your work shift.

“Need something?” you answered distractedly as your fingers continued typing on your keyboard, sorting out the last few remnants of some menial task.

The prolonged silence however, only brokered by a subtle sound you identified as actual sniffling, was your only response. Your hands stopped mid movements then, brows furrowed with worry.

“What’s happening, dear?”

This time your voice was as calming as you could compel it to be, your tone trying to imbed reassurance into every syllable, “Tamaki?”

You heard what sounded like a whine, a strangled sound that conjured up an image of tears trailing down his cheeks, bottom lip quivering in a sorrowful grimace.

Calling him dear despite having a boyfriend now, it was like you were taunting him.

“Bunny,” Tamaki’s voice was shaking as he called you by your old nickname, sobs making it hard to understand anything but how panicked his intonation was. “I-I need you.”

Thinking your pro-hero friend was having another budding panic attack, or perhaps on the brink of a new stress induced mental breakdown, you were on your feet before he even stopped speaking. The protective side of your brain had overridden any apprehension to leave your post, your hands already reaching to turn off your work computer before you wordlessly left your desk.

You were working overtime, anyways, and any consequences that came out of going to your friend’s aid were well worth facing in your book. And by that point too, you knew enough of all of their schedules to know yours would be the easiest to clear. Mirio and Nejire had their own heroics to worry about, while you only had an unremarkable office job to account for.

Not like he’d want Mirio or Nejire there, though. Not like he would ever call for them when he had you.

“I’ll be right there, Tamaki. Please stay put,” was the last thing you told him before hanging up and rushing to get your coat.

The urgency in his timbre, the utter need, was all you could think of as you left your building in quickened strides.

And by the way you were rushing, it was clear that you actually cared for him, your very best friend. All you needed was a gentle reminder of just how much.

You got to Tamaki’s apartment in a matter of minutes, letting your cab driver keep the change as you stumbled up the stairs in urgent skips. It wasn’t the first time he asked you to be there for him (asked you without actually saying it, because he would never dare utter the words), yet you knew enough of the turmoil he went through on a daily basis. A pro-hero he might be, but his anxiety was his eternally undefeated foe.

Although was it really that bad if it kept bringing you two together?

Opening the door into a room enveloped by shadows, you dropped your things without a care before attempting to make your way into the living room.

Barely a heartbeat later, an audible hitch in someone’s breathing alerted you quickly of your friend’s location.

“Y/N?” his voice sounded hoarse and choked up as he called for you. And it felt like a fist was squeezing your heart, the same that had been consistently gripping your chest ever since you first picked up the phone in your office.

“I’m here, dear.“ You comforted him while redirecting your steps to the sound of his trembling voice.

Despite the darkness, your eyes were acclimatized enough to distinguish the silhouette of his body hunched over the only sofa in the room. Even without getting a glimpse at his face, you could sense defeat and pessimism oozing off of him in waves. As you got closer, however, he made no movements of retreat, nor flinched away when you sat beside him.

Instead, it was like his body started to release all of his pent-up tension as a response to your proximity.

You were there and it was like he could finally breathe. You were there for him, right where you were meant to be.

One of your palms was reaching out and drawing quick circles across his back, the thin fabric of his t-shirt bunching up while your voice hummed what you hoped was a tranquilizing melody. With the other one, you clasped one of Tamaki’s own vacant hands and gave it a gentle squeeze, almost as if you were willing the worries to leave his body, a piper’s songs coaxing them out in the form of your enticing presence.

By that point, you knew enough about his episodes to know physical contact and reassurance were the fastest ways to get him to come back up from his lowest of lows. So it was no wonder, then, when your reward came quickly in the form of a content sigh leaving his lips, anguish still visible in his posture but his body clearly leaning into the solace you offered.

The balm you provided had always been intoxicating for him.

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he stuttered through distressed hiccups. He looked so fragile like that, so much like a kicked puppy, that you instinctually wrapped your arm around his waist and hugged him closer to your side.

“Oh, Tamaki…,” you shushed with a note of guilt, preoccupied with the fact that he would ever think you’d leave him hanging, “why would you even say that?”

You could feel his shoulders stiffen in your embrace, his hand tightening around yours for a moment before going limp in your grip. His lack of an answer stung even more.

It was ridiculous truly, to feel so protective over a man who was a pro-hero and clearly several times your strength. Even hugging him like you were, his lanky silhouette overshadowed yours in an almost comical portrayal of your height difference.

But he was your dearest friend —taking care of him came as second nature.

He adored you for it.

“You know I could never ignore you when you need me,” you whispered as your thumb drew patterns on the hand you were holding, soft insignificant drawings that to him felt like ancient secrets being exchanged. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

It was always like this with you two. Tamaki stayed quiet while you rambled on in his ear, trying to scatter any doubts or anxious thoughts still clouding his mind. At first you had thought it’d be annoying for him, overbearing in the worst of senses, but he had quickly insisted that you always knew just what to do to calm him down. You were his best friend, the one person besides Mirio and Nejire who just got him, who truly understood…

So it only made you feel guiltier, to think that you wouldn’t be able to help him this one time. He was a hero who saved countless lives, someone whose time was worth more than you could ever hope to achieve as a meager civilian. And yet you couldn’t even comfort him as a friend?

But it wasn’t your fault. You just needed to unlearn your behaviour. And if he truly was your best friend, didn’t you want him to feel loved too?

Which was precisely when an idea came to you, an epiphany from above in the form of a vivid memory of the last time you two met up, of the news that had seemingly left Tamaki acting oddly sour.

“You didn’t think I’d just forget about you because I have a boyfriend now, did you?,” you joked good-naturedly.

Only instead of having the comforting effect you’d hoped, your comment resulted in your friend stiffening even more, his face finally snapping to look at you with hurt written all across his features. The strength was back in the manner in which he was now seizing your hand, clasping it until you started to feel the blood circulation being slowly cut off.

“Isn’t that how it works, though?” His question was fretful on his tongue, barely above a whisper and with the slightest hint of resentment. His eyes were impossibly wide, impossibly alert as he studied your reaction, “Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to be your priority? The person you care for the most?”

But even with the switch in his behaviour and the worrisome path his words were taking, you were still too preoccupied by him to heed any of it. It was just Tamaki over analyzing things, as always, and his anxiety popping in to get the better of him.

“Human relationships don’t work like that, dear.” And there the fucking nickname was again, that jest of a loving pet name on your lips. “It’s not a hierarchical structure. I care about both of you in different ways.”

It felt silly to explain it out loud, to say such an obvious thing, but you couldn’t help wanting to appease some of the conflict eating away at your friend. Did he really think you’d ever drop him for anyone else? You had known Tamaki for years now, cared for him for what felt like a lifetime. The thought alone seemed completely ludicrous to you…

Even as his touch started hurting, as you felt a stern pressure that would surely become a bruise on your wrist, all you could think of was that this was just Tamaki being Tamaki, right? And you just needed to calm him down, like you always did.

He saw the misery on your gorgeous face, the blossoming pain colouring your expression despite your attempts at hiding it. For once, he wasn’t the only one hurting anymore, and he oddly enjoyed that.

“You’re saying that, but why… why can’t I believe you?” It sounded like he was conflicted, tone frantic as he attempted to wrestle down whatever doubts were increasingly plaguing his mind. He tugged at your wrist with a clenched fist, stealing a whimper out of you while his face got closer and closer, “Uh, I bet he doesn’t give you as much trouble either. Bet he takes care of you.”

I bet you love him was left unsaid. I bet you love him like I wish you loved me.

You attempted to push him off with your free hand at that point, discomfort quickly growing into annoyance despite your best intentions of being understanding. You were still under the impression that this was just a moment of clouded thoughts on his part, something bound to pass as he regained a grip of his senses. But the nerves flaring from the strength of his hold were impossible to ignore.

“Tamaki, let me go first,” you commanded in a carefully composed manner, still attempting not to sound as harsh as you would’ve if this was anyone but your anxiety ridden best friend, “and then we can talk about why you’re feeling like that.”

Yet his reaction was abrasive once more, twisting your arm by the wrist harshly until your entire body was collapsing into his.

“Don’t be like that. Don’t lie to me and tell me everything will be okay,” he was agitated, jittery and unstable in the way his eyes kept darting around. “All of this time I’ve been waiting… waiting to gather the courage…” He was making little sense now, just mumbling while he kept cradled your pained hand between his, a darkened gaze fluttering from your own eyes, to your lips and lastly some obscure point in the wall behind you. “And then you couldn’t wait for me anymore. And now you don’t need me.”

It was hard to think through the mist of your budding worry and the agony still emanating from your wrist. Somehow, your other arm had stopped fruitlessly hitting him and was instead just trying to keep him at a distance, your neck cramping from how far back you were trying to get yourself.

He was impossibly close, intense and expectant as his stare once again found its way to yours. You could still see the doubts twisting there, but it was rapidly becoming eclipsed by a new creeping resolution. Even while you continued silently fighting to escape his grip, as terror encased you and you tried to understand why your best friend was acting like that all of a sudden.

After that night, would you perhaps think a villain’s quirk was to blame? Or maybe you’d think one of his enemies had decided to impersonate him in a twisted bid for revenge? Surely you couldn’t accept what the reality was, the fact that his love for you was just that blinding.

Don’t worry, though, he’d make you understand.

Tamaki’s voice was feverish once he broke through the silence again, a new type of determination steadying his usual stutter in a way you’d never heard before.

“But I’ll fix that,” and then he was cupping your face with his free hand, your numb one still clutched tightly in his lap while his attention was diverted to your worried expression. “And then you will need me just as much as I need you. Then…“

And there was a pregnant pause before he continued, a space of time where his stare bore into yours full of hidden meaning, “We can go back to being best friends again.”

Somehow though, on his tongue the term best friends sounded suspiciously like something else entirely.

“Tamaki, listen…,” you tried again, refusing to quit still, before being interrupted by a terrifying sequence of actions unravelling.

Because he was tugging your wrist down again after that, but this time twisting and twisting until your entire field of vision filled with the aftermath of an unbearable pain. A snapping sound echoed in your ears, a scream clawing its way out of your throat before you had a notion of what was even happening —Tearing through the rest of your composure, probably hurting his ears just as much as it left your vocal cords feeling raw. By that point, the hand that was previously pushing at his chest with firmness had turned frenzied, clamped fists now carrying the weight of urgency.

Tamaki looked halfway surprised at his own actions, halfway scared. Halfway excited, too.

Following a pattern of behaviour which did little to deter the horror rapidly embracing you, your so-called friend inhaled thickly before, suddenly and without warning, capturing your lips in a kiss. Your eyes were opened wide as you felt the pressure of his mouth claiming yours, taking advantage of your numb state to persuade you into opening up and allowing an even more intimate intrusion.

It has to be a nightmare, you thought in shock as his hands fluttered against your cheeks, sliding down to your neck and massaging your shoulders. It was like he couldn’t decide whether to stay still, where to touch or caress as his lips openly devoured you.

He waited so long for this, an eternity of yearning for someone right at his side.

“T-Tamaki,”i, you willed yourself into speaking up once he broke away from you, gasping for air and with his hair looking as wild as his gaze, “I don’t know what happened but… you’re not being yourself.”

Were you seriously still trying to deny his feelings? Trying to pretend like it hadn’t taken everything in him to finally gather his courage and just act. What a fucking friend you were.

If he didn’t love you so much, he’d hate you for that.

“You need help. Something happened”, you were rambling, too intimidated by the intent with which your friend was now listening to your words. “Once you’re feeling better, we can talk. I… I’ll promise to be understanding.”

And despite the throbbing sensation in your injured hand, despite the disgust at his actions and unadulterated horror, the worst part was that you really meant it…

But who were you really trying to convince at that point?

His hands were still on your shoulders, but the way they squeezed around your flesh reminded you of the talons you had seen him grow with his quirk, sharp nails sinking without a warning and driving more half-hearted cries out of your throat. You looked like a mess now, lips still plump from the force of his kiss, mixed spit clinging to your face from it, fat tears freely cascading down your cheeks.

“But… Y/N,” his voice was oddly soft when he addressed you again. There was a timid smile back on his face, one that reminded you of the friend you refused to believe no longer existed, and you briefly wondered if you had finally gotten through to him despite the unflinching strength of his grip, “I’ve never felt better.”

He genuinely sounded so relieved too, so content with the dark implications behind his words, that you felt the blood become icy currents in your veins, liquid fear being pumped instead in its place. Before you even realized your course of actions, you were leaning your head to the side and biting down on one of his arms with everything you had.

Tamaki was the one groaning then, retreating his hands instinctively and giving you the spare second you needed before you were jumping from the sofa and diving for the door.

It’s unlocked, was all you could think about as you leapt to the exit. You could get away if you just managed to cross it, run until your legs gave up on you. You could go to your boyfriend’s place and wait there until you had enough courage to reach out to the police, to a hero —to anyone who could help you. Things could still be fixed.

And maybe, just maybe, the silliest part of you added, whatever was clouding your best friend’s senses would magically be gone once you had gotten away from his grasp.

You never knew how to quit, truly. But it was okay, he liked that about you too.

A suffocated cry was all the sound you could make as you were fiercely shoved to the floor, your face smashing against the carpet and your nose making a horrifying sound before your entire head felt like it was on fire. The white-hot pain was all you could think of, the dam lifting entirely from your eyes as tears trickled down your cheeks in copious amounts.

“D-don’t make me hurt y-you,” Tamaki didn’t sound at all winded, but anxious, pained himself from the wounds he had to inflict on you, “I want to make you feel good, not like… like this.”

Which only made it more fucked up when, once you started fighting again, you felt the unmistakable pressure of a growing erection pushing against your lower back. As pained as you were, you willed yourself to keep struggling after that, trying fruitlessly to get away or somehow kick him, bite him, do anything in your power.

In all honesty, it only made him get more excited. He really was a sick, sick man. But only for you.

“Stop, Y/N,” Tamaki pleaded in hushed whispers, his hands shaking as he tried to comb your hair out of the way. There was blood pooling around your face, flowing freely from the place your nose had smashed into the floor. You could barely breathe through it, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as you attempted to otherwise fill your lungs through panicked gasps, "If you… if you stop, I’ll stop too.”

It was easy to recognize the lie as soon as it was uttered, a poor excuse for deceit as his hips stuttered into yours almost of their own volition. You heard him curse then, right as you both noticed that all your wrestling did was just press yourself harder against his arousal.

However, before you could voice your growing terror, one of his hands was suddenly on your back, drawing circles in a mocking imitation of how you had tried comforting him earlier. The sickness in the pit of your stomach at that gesture, that feeble attempt at consolation, was all you could think about as the tears of impotence continued furiously trickling down your cheek.

You were disgusted, not only at the monster humping you as he continued mumbling poor excuses and null reassurances, but also sick at yourself for willingly going there to attempt to help him in the first place. You couldn’t believe part of you still stuttered to call him your friend moments ago, yet, even through your disgust, you’d also be lying if you didn’t admit how hard it was reconciling your aggressor with the soft spoken boy you had grown to foolishly treasure.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” his voice tickled one of your ears as he allowed himself to continue resting more and more of his weight on you, almost suffocating you under the pressure. He wasn’t even pretending like his hands weren’t wandering now, palms still mockingly gentle in their nervousness, but stopping his poor attempts at consolation long enough to grip your shirt and lift it up. “I don’t even remember what it felt like not to want you.”

You wished you could scream again, but breathing was already such a laborious task between your fractured nose and Tamaki’s hold. When you refused to turn on your back after he gently nudged you, his hands just closed tighter around your top and tore it apart from your body, leaving you shivering —not due to the cold but due to a fear and impotence that trumped any temperature.

Then, because he couldn’t even leave you to suffer in peace, you felt the torn fabric of your shirt being pressed against the side of your face, prodding you with a meekness that felt completely out of place as the cloth started to soak in the blood gathering around you.

“Press it against your nose, so it stops the bleeding.” He continued softly tapping it against your cheek until your unharmed hand went to roughly retrieve it out of his and do as he preached.

You could’ve told him nosebleeds didn’t exactly work like that when you had a busted nose, that just pressing a piece of cloth wasn’t going to help your case much (or that his kindness was void, when he was the reason you why were bleeding in the first place), but all of that implied talking, and right now all you wanted to do was shut up, pass out, dissociate. Whatever it took to ignore his fingers now drifting to the hem of your pants.

Yet he just wanted to take care of you. So why wouldn’t you let him? You were making it so difficult, when all Tamaki only ever wanted was to make you feel loved. Loved by him.

“You… hmm, you aren’t going to trust me right now,” it appeared like he was fidgeting with the waistband of your work pants as he drew out the admission, the thrumming in his voice sheepish and uncertain. It reminded you of how he would sound like when he attempted to talk to strangers, forcing himself into being pro-hero levels of courageous just so he could exchange a few words, “But that’s okay, Y/N, because you’ll understand.” One of his hands ghosted the plush curve of your ass, so lightly that you could’ve thought you imagined it in any other situation, “And when you do, you… you can break up with your boyfriend then. Things can go back to how they were. To just us.”

The image of your partner crowded your thoughts then, his kind smile being conjured up in your mind as you heard your pants being torn apart next. It was enough to have you openly sobbing, biting down on the fabric of your ruined shirt as you tried to quiet down the sound of your own grief.

But you’d thank him soon, once you understood. You already loved him before…so how hard could it be to love him again, but properly this time? To show him how much he knew you cared.

Once the remnants of your pants were thrown aside as well, you didn’t even get the luxury to cross your legs and put any kind of further struggle. Tamaki sat up on top of you, relenting the pressure in your chest and waist but comfortably setting himself on your hips, his legs encasing your thighs in an inescapable prison.

You could almost sense his eyes scanning your exposed flesh, hear his delirious muttering as his fingers got greedier and greedier in the paths they weaved across your body, the quick circles from before being exchanged by longer, drawn out movements. It felt like he was memorizing a map, with every little scar and indent in your complexion being the marks leading down to a hidden treasure, wonders to marvel at and inspect.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve dreamed of this for so long…” His tone was barely above a reverent whisper as you felt him finally reach your bra, unclasping it with a shaking that could only be attributed to unrestrained excitement, “dreamt of you even while awake.” He parted the fabric and left it precariously hanging off your sides on the carpeted floor, hands ceremoniously splaying across your shoulder blades next, “But you feel so different from anything I could’ve come up with. So much softer.”

His lips were on your back in an instant, almost as if he just couldn’t help himself, and he was sucking and licking while trying to cover up the sounds of his own elation. The slow grinding against your backside had stopped, though, and the weight of his heated groin lifted from your back for the first time since you had been crushed to the floor. It was such a relief, to be able to move again (even if you weren’t foolish enough to try and get away by that point), that you didn’t even realize the alleviated sigh managing to escape your mouth until it was too late.

You felt Tamaki’s lips curling against your spine, the satisfaction in his gesture crystal clear.

“Does this feel good, bunny?,” he asked you in a pleased little rumble, mistaking your sounds of relief for something else altogether. “Does it feel good when I kiss you like this?” He pointed his question by leaving another sloppy flutter of his lips against the nape of your neck.

But then his presence disappeared from your back altogether, a moment so brief that hopefulness could not even begin to be reborn before it was crushed at your feet. Because before you could savour the retreat,Tamaki was now grasping and lifting your hips with his arms, deft hands sliding the lone piece of underwear still hiding your modesty from his prying eyes.

You briefly wondered why he hadn’t just ripped it apart like he’d done with the rest of the items that got in the way, but the distinct sound of someone sniffing gave you all the answers you needed. Deep, earnest inhales followed by a purr of satisfaction. Goosebumps blossomed across your body from disgust.

But to him, that was just another sign of you being into it. You were just too stubborn to admit it, weren’t you, bunny?

“I’ll make sure to kiss you all over.” Your eyes were closed with such force, your intact hand losing colour from the strength you were using to grip the torn piece of fabric against your mouth. “If… if I’m honest”, and he was back to sounding sheepish, contradictorily embarrassed as if he wasn’t the one carrying out the assault, “Bunny, I’ve been wondering how your moans sound for the longest time, too.”

If you weren’t as determined not to let a single sound slip out, you would’ve gagged. But all thoughts of Tamaki’s words were soon replaced by his actions, cold calloused hands snaking between your legs as the pro-hero’s arms kept a secured grip that made sure you could not wiggle out of his grasp. He was hunching over you again, dark purple hair tickling your thighs, and your exposed entrance twitched as a gust of air was blown directly into it.

You wanted so badly to cry out, to protest again, but you were afraid of ever loosening your grip on the fabric that covered your mouth. So instead you tried to steer your body, not to get away but to move your damaged hand until it was being crushed by your own chest, new waves of pain radiating off of it in order to distract you.

Were you that afraid of liking it, that you’d take your own pain over the pleasure he’d deliver?

“Bunny,” he groaned that nickname again, laying a bed of kisses across your inner thighs, slobbering and disorganized while his hands kneaded your flesh with acute urgency. “Y/N…”, your name was chanted like prayer, the holiest of incantations being whispered into the flourishing goosebumps of your inner legs.

It was hard not to squirm when you physically felt his voice reverberating through your body, when the hands holding you up were so excruciatingly close to your now quivering hole. Even while fear coursed through your veins, what you dreaded the most was the way heat was starting to pool in your stomach.

You tried pressing harder against the limp hand below you, but Tamaki’s arms steadied you from their place around your legs before you had the chance to properly act.

“Stop trying to hurt yourself, please,” and to his credit, he actually sounded anguished himself, although you doubted it was due to the same reasons you were currently suffering. “I want to make you feel good, bunny. Please… please let me.”

He was kissing the skin of your thighs again before you had the opportunity to argue (not that you’d consider willingly opening your mouth again by that point). Your assailant trailed a path of shivers until he was hovering over your mound, tickling you with his quickened breathing as a wanton groan reached your ears.

“So beautiful,“ and his nose was pressing against you, face nuzzling your cunt with such an affection that only helped to make you feel infinitely dirtier, his voice dripping with reverence. “My bunny’s beautiful little pussy.”

You were wriggling again before you could attempt to calm yourself down, the alarms that had never stopped blaring now drowning any other thoughts circling your mind. But you had nowhere to go, nowhere to escape, and before another moment passed your entire body was tensing up again when you felt a wet appendage slowly licking up your folds.

He explored you through the movements of his tongue, guttural sounds of appraisal being smothered as he tasted your plush folds for the very first time. Even without the aid of his arms, still holding you up as they were, it was becoming increasingly obvious that he did not need them in order to thoroughly savour you.

So long he had been deprived of all sustenance, teased by your hugs and touches and left to starve while you went to seek affection elsewhere. Maybe he was undeserving, but could anyone blame him for finally snapping after so long? For finally, for once, daring to be selfish enough to demand.

“Delicious,” his trembling compliment was proclaimed between licks, lips slowly journeying their way to your clit before he was audibly sucking it in, his own whines echoing through your entire body once more and making you bite down harder on the bloodstained cloth. “And… you’re getting wet for me too,“ which was only accentuated by the lascivious sounds he made as he started lapping at your rapidly gathering juices. “Am I making you feel good, bunny?”

Shut up, you wanted to scream, shut up and just be done with it. But it was getting so hard to concentrate, your fingers cramping from the force you were using to keep the piece of your torn up shirt tightly in place. He kept gingerly savouring your unwilling excitement, relentless in the way his tongue continued teasing and prodding, even dipping into your heat as his gluttony for you became an unbearable constant.

When you felt one of his hands descend from your thighs, the sound of a belt being unbuckled, your eyes opened up again in fear. You almost stopped biting down on your shirt in order to voice one last protest, but then his mouth was wrapping itself harder still around your bundle of nerves —shoots of a pleasure you tried to ignore warming their way further up your stomach as the unwanted thrills in your gut built up to a crescendo.

“Fu… fuck, Bunny,” he sounded so needy between the squelching sounds filling the darkened room. “Are you gonna cum for me?”

You shook your head as the pressure kept building up, muscles cramping and your one free leg attempting to kick him out fruitlessly. Your head was filled with the cries you could not voice, heavy with an agony that far exceeded any physical turmoil. You wished the pain was enough to pass out, to mute the heat coiling up further and further, but such was your plight that not even the faintest mercy was granted.

Although even your silent rejection only served as encouragement in Tamaki’s mind. It was the first time you were acknowledging him, the first time you were responding to any of his comments after he had tackled you to the floor. Even with your mouth covered, the tears now dried against your mascara stricken cheeks, it felt to him like the sign he had been waiting for.

It only drove him madder.

You heard clothing being tugged down while he kept the eager rhythm of his tongue on you, pants and boxers being discarded in one go to free a surely painfully aching erection. Not long after that, his breathing became even more ragged against your core, one of his shoulders moving against your thighs rhythmically while his previously free hand stroked himself for some much needed relief.

The sounds he started to make, accompanied by the slow pace he was setting as he tugged at his own cock against your dangling legs, were ones of desperation and debauchery—whines that filled you up right alongside his intruding tongue. It made you curl your toes, close your eyes again as you tried and failed to will the sensations away.

You thought your teeth would snap at any moment too, just from how furiously you were biting down. Yet your cunt kept pulsating against his flushed face, answering to his relentless teasing by coating his mouth in more your juices, strings of saliva mingling with them as you felt the wetness gathering around his chin too.

“You… you don’t need to fight it,“ he was whispering right into you, humming the sounds until they were forcing themselves inside right alongside his tongue. “You can cum, Y/N,” and with the hand he wasn’t touching himself with, he finally freed your other thigh as well, opting instead to trail a path with his extended palm until he was reaching out for your face.

You were so tired, so preoccupied with the unwanted pleasure clouding your vision, that the thought of attempting to escape again didn’t even cross your mind. Both of your legs were now limp, supported only by his shoulders positioned below them, and the sounds filling the air were wet, squelching and downright sinful.

Which was why, when his palm started caressing your cheek, you were too far gone to run from the new coercive intimacy of his touch. His tongue was pulsating in and out of you, and yet your insides felt impossibly warm, impossibly empty.

“Bunny,“ that damned pet name again. It was something you remembered him calling you first after a particularly bad panic attack, sheepishly whispered as you held him and rocked the both of you in a calming motion. Only now it sounded absolutely depraved, filled with a lust that terrified you, and the word sullied as it was now half-moaned while Tamaki jerked himself off to your torment.

Or was it pleasure at that point? You kept wriggling, but he didnt think you wanted to get away anymore.

Some part of you noticed his rough fingers drawing circles again into the covered side of your face, another cruel joke that mimicked the way in which you had always thought appropriate to soothe him.

“Please,” he begged you and kept repeating it, mixing in the pleads with the insistent licks of his tongue, the shaking in his own face warning you of the furious pace his other hand was now setting for himself.

Please, please, please. Bunny, please.

Your orgasm hit you with a force that left you breathless, gasping for air and with a new current of despair trailing down from your dazed eyes, mimicking the arousal surely dripping down his lips.

You had never felt something like what you were experiencing, an orgasm so potent that it transformed your body into such a limp and pliant thing, enticing your mind into a forceful lull as Tamaki dedicated himself to drinking every last drop you unwillingly offered.

To your subsequent shame, the hand tenderly holding you pried the crumpled shirt away from your mouth. He was finally freeing the sounds you so selfishly kept from him, and by that point you were too far gone to think of stopping him, your cries and wails filling up the shadows of the room until they were bursting at the seams.

It felt like forever as you kept cumming and cumming, feeling like you were forcefully plunged from one climax straight into the next. Tamaki refused to separate from your heat, instead opting for continuing to mouth his appreciation right into your tender flesh.

“So gorgeous for me. So good. My sweet little bunny,” he wasn’t even trying to be coherent at that point, rapidly reaching his own peak now that he had you breaking down underneath him, now that he could finally witness your undoing at his hands.

While your orgasm reached its shaking end, however, your cunt clenching against nothing as Tamaki’s face finally left it alone and pulled back, you were again too preoccupied with the aftermath of your own pleasure to sense anything amiss. You failed to acknowledge the pause in his own movements, how his hand had stopped his own ministrations in order to reach out for your glistening folds instead, nervous digits twitching as they gathered your juices between them.

It almost hurt when he trailed your sex, your flesh sensitive still from the force of the after shakes still coursing through your body. A new unfiltered whine left your throat, jaw starting to ache from all the strength you had previously used in your bid to keep those very same sounds securely muted.

“Tamaki, please…” You sobbed, intending on pleading with him to stop, to grant you the mercy of wallowing in your shame all by yourself.

But all he could hear was the intoxicating sound of his name on your lips, your tone heavy from exhaustion and being utterly spent. It was the greatest melody you could’ve provided him with.

“F-fuck,” his exclamation was equal parts devotion and raw need.

After his fingers were retreating, it wasn’t long before you felt him lowering your hips gently. The warm pressure of his cock prodded at your entrance, already coated with your fluids and only getting messier as Tamaki trailed it up and down your slit.

“No, wait. Tamaki, wait,“ your voice was distraught and still feeble, what little struggle that still managed to cling to you coming back with a reckoning as a new kind of panic started setting in.

Of course he wasn’t wearing a condom, and of course your pleas did little to stop him now. A heartfelt sound of protest shook your vocal cords as he slowly breached your cunt, his cock sliding in inch by inch while drawing long, wet sounds out of you.

In reality, all he could hear was the sound of his name on your lips. You could’ve been insulting him with all of your might, Tamaki didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself even if he wanted to.

“Fuck, Bunny,” his hands fluttered between your thighs in hiccuped movements, fingers stretching your nether lips in order to give himself a better view of the place where your bodies joined, the sacrilegious union he had oh so desired for years now. “So,, he kept breaking into you inch by inch, “fucking,“ the length of him feeling eternal as he sheathed himself, “perfect.”

You had barely any time to adjust to being stuffed before apologies were scattering out of his mouth, actions contradicting as his hips rut into you, hands making sure to keep you on display for his gluttonous eyes. It was your new brand of torment— how snug he fitted inside, how full you felt and the way his shaft curved just enough to quickly turn any discomfort you were first experiencing on its head. You wanted to feel pain, but even that was out of your reach too.

You were chasing after a distraction, but why did you need to be running in the first place? You needed only to keep still, lay back and let your best friend take care of you for once.

The pace he set was slow, excruciatingly so as he savoured the way in which your cunt clenched around him, the way your walls spasmed with the memory of the orgasms he gifted you with earlier. He kept hitting that spot every few shallow thrusts too, the patch of skin on your insides that made you grind your teeth while whines still somehow managed to leak out. It was with maddening guilt, then, that your mind realized the extent with which your body truly welcomed him.

You felt dirty, violated by a man you had trusted for years, someone you had considered family beyond reproach. And while he kept drilling into you in that leisure way of his, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly you had done to get him to obsess over you like that. What exactly you could’ve changed to stop your life from being utterly ruined.

But with all honesty, the answer to that was nothing. Because even without the pressure of your new boyfriend to pull him into motion, Tamaki doubted he would’ve been able to keep himself from you for much longer.

He had loved you for so long and for so many different reasons; Your laughter which was the greatest symphony to his ears, the kindness you had always embraced him with, free of judgement and ulterior motives. Your caring soul, too, and the way in which he just knew you understood.

“Please, please,“ and you didn’t know why you kept begging, your mouth running off on its own accord as your body tried to squirm against your intruder’s, unclear whether it wanted to escape or get even closer. “T-Tamaki.”

But most of all, he thought he loved the way you cried out while he fucked you now, a wrecked mess for his eyes alone.

“Do you think you can come again for me?” he asked you between frayed exhales, still oddly meek as the shallow thrusts into your hole made sweat drip down his skin and bathe you in its shine. “I know you must be tired but… I wanna… wanna hear it properly.” And there was an underlying greed just below his apologetic tone, a craving you wondered just how long had been there waiting to be let out, “Wanna feel it, too.”

It appeared like his own words excited him to a notorious degree, because he was rutting into you with quicker motions now, the sound of skin slapping against skin driving the despair even further into your heart. Your afflicted hand didn’t even throb anymore, your nose barely a faint nuisance either, for all you could think about was the way you contracted around him, the way the coil in your gut was once more beginning to tighten to a feverish degree.

And the palm against your clit too, which had stopped pressing against it in order to extend its fingers and circle them around, prodding and pushing until you were being overwhelmed by him, devoured on the carpeted floor with a face caked in blood and a body sore and resentful yet so damned inviting.

Your cunt was holding him so tight, it felt like you didn’t want to let go, like you needed him there… it made Tamaki, someone who had spent his entire life feeling different degrees of inadequate, think he had finally found a place to belong to.

“Shit, Y/N, you’re… really gonna cum again? For me?” You didn’t want to hear him, didn’t want to feel him, but when he pulled out almost entirely you found your hips shamefully pushing back until his length was being swallowed whole again. “Fuck,” you heard him curse as his hands left your sopping folds in order to grip the meat of your backside, barely contained strength nailing you to the spot as he set a new frantic rhythm, “so… needy for me. So tight and beautiful, does my bunny want it harder now?”

He was hitting your spot in relentless movements, his own hips stuttering as he strived to hold back his own impending end, and the groans coming out of you felt like they belonged to a different person. The tears in your eyes were still free falling, the taste of dried blood still covering your tongue as you continued audibly panting, and the tension in your muscles resembled a taut bowstring about to snap from the pressure.

Of course you didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to when your body spoke for you.

His pace was bruising, his hands kneading your flesh as he angled you just enough to get even deeper inside you. Yet not deep enough.

“I love you so goddamn much,“ one of his palms left your rear so he could grab one of your shoulders, forcing you to arch back just as he demanded. “Let me show you just how much, baby.”

By that point you were so tired, so drained from holding back, that you allowed him to manhandle you until your back was pressed flush against his stomach. His palm snaked their way from your shoulders to your chest, quickly pushing what little of your unhooked bra still clung to your frame so he could fully expose your breasts to his zealous treatment.

Your nipples were hard already, you really were loving this, weren’t you?

In this new position, it somehow felt like he was pushing against places you had never felt anyone reach before. Like, in a way, he was bruising your cervix with every one of his overeager thrusts, testing himself in order to go as far as your body would allow him. So fucking greedy for you.

Tamaki kept massaging your breasts while he fucked you, sensitive nipples being lightly toyed with while he buried his face in your neck from behind for an instant. Because unable to stay still as he was, soon enough his lips had started to kiss a slobbering path of adoration upwards into the shell of one of your ears.

“I know you… fuck, know you don’t love me like that yet,” he sounded feverish while he continued to thrust into you, voice faltering to the weight of his own lust, “but it’s okay. Right now…” He pulled out almost entirely again, only to dive in with all the more resolve before you had the chance to buck into him a second time, “I can love you enough for the both of us.”

And just like that, with the man you had previously considered your best friend whispering delirious nonsense behind you, his breath tickling your nape with each aggravating declaration, was when the overwhelming wave of your new orgasm hit you, shaking your entire body.

So fucking tight and needy for him. With your body clamoring for him like it did, who could blame him for foolishly thinking you felt the same way? Even if you tried refuting it afterwards, the way your walls clenched around him so delectably was all the honesty he needed.

Your body went limp in his hands a second time, for him to hold up and embrace as he saw fit, and you sensed the cadence of his motions grow even frenzier before finally slowing down into a sporadic rythm, his sex twitching inside you in a most telling way.

He was calling out your name in a litany of prayers, biting down on the skin he had gently been nursing before, teeth piercing you and joining the rest of the sensations overwhelming your spoiled body. And that was really all the warning you got before his release was spilled deep inside you, painting your walls in thick ropes of white while the remnants of your powerful orgasm proceeded to milk his cock for all it’s worth.

Through the mess of pleasure and shame clouding your vision, your sobbing became even louder.

“See, Y/N,” Tamaki whispered a few instants later, back to his nervous ways despite grinning timidly while his arms circled around you, “even if you tell me you care about someone else now, I’ll know you’ll never share with them what you shared with me.”

And it was such a ridiculous thing to say, preposterous words to proclaim as he refused to pull out and let any drop of his cum leak out of your bruised hole, as the heated hands on your skin replicated the same old patterns you had taught him inadvertently, the same motions supposed to bring comfort and which in reality only made you feel fouler.

“If you’d like, we can be an even more special type of best friends now,” he added after barely a beat, almost self-conscious when confronted with your somber silence, yet still bashfully content about the whole ordeal.

Best friends, you repeated inwardly while his hands kept stroking you without pause, perhaps truly trying to console you, or perhaps just wanting an excuse not to leave you alone. But you were so tired, so devastated, that it wasn’t like you had the strength to refute him verbally.

In Tamaki’s delusional mind, however, that was as good as agreeing. You two were really meant to be. Even if you refused to be the special kind of best friends he had in mind, he could always become your boyfriend instead.

Not like you were ever going to see your previous one, anyways.

…

Probably the longest piece of writing I’ve posted so far… and the filthiest. If people like it, I might start extending the lenght of my fics! Otherwise I’ll try to keep it on the shorter side for my next portrait/fic convo (a yan!aizawa one hehe).

And special thanks to my dearest pals @reinawritesbnha, @drxwsyni, @snappysnapo, @thermaflute and @coyambition. They helped me proof read, gave me precious feedback on both my writings and my art and were just overall sweethearts hyping me up!! love y’all fr fr 🖤

🥀 Requests/Suggestions OPEN btw 🥀

#bnha fanart #tamaki amakiji #yandere bnha #tamaki x reader #bnha x reader #yandere tamaki #bnha imagines #bnha art #tamaki fanart #tamaki smut #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #anime fanart #mha fanart #yandere bnha x reader #artists on tumblr #just art tingz

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suchalonelysunflower · 4 years ago

Text

Between The Stone And The Sword (c.h)

Where The Roses Bloom - Chapter 6

Pairing: Stable Lad! Calum Hood x Princess! Reader

Summary: Conversations are held and secrets are uncovered while you are left to wonder Calum’s state after the beating.

Warnings: Angst. Drama. Mentions of violence, abuse, death, humiliations, alcohol. Language. Some grammatical errors (English is not my first language, I’m sorry)

Word Count: 6.8 k

Author’s Note: I do hate Richard so much. The next chapter is the official ending and then comes the epilogue! Stay tuned ❤️ Remember that Reblogs, Feedback, Comments and Likes are very important! You don’t know how much they help me 💕 Hope you like it and Happy Reading 🦋✨🌻

My materialist // wanna be part of my tag list?

Series Materialist || prologue || chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five || chapter seven || epilogue

You spent hours looking at the bruise in your arm. It was a bright purple mixed with spots of blue and green. It reminded you of the drawings of galaxies you studied as a kid.

Your tutor used to tell you stories about how the world was born out of a star, and that every single being is made of stardust and we are all born to be stars. The problem is that some of them burn out too bright and they won’t even make it to sunset.

Now, you were sure your fire had burned as you found no will to get up from your bed. You lost everything. You lost him.

You wanted to stay at the tree, to let the gods take you at that moment after seeing Calum being dragged away by your father’s guards. You remembered how Ashton tried to get you up, but you kept weeping as you held tight to the patches of grass underneath your fingers. The grass that was tinted with his blood and yours. In the end, Ashton had to carry you back to the palace once you passed out from exhaustion.

The nurses in the infirmary didn’t ask questions as they gave you some healing beverages and covered up your wounds. Still, you were thankful they told your father that you needed a few days' rests before moving on with the wedding plans and he had no choice but to accept. Even though he was the one who caused the wounds, he didn't need the kingdom to know what kind of man he was when seeing his daughter’s bruises and cuts.

Three more days is what he gave you. Three days where you would allow yourself to grieve the loss you suffered.

You didn’t know where Calum was, or if he was okay or even if he was alive. All you knew since you woke up is that the sun has set upon your room. At this time you were supposed to be married, you were supposed to be sailing away to the Northern Kingdoms. You were supposed to be happy instead of this empty feeling of nothingness.

Now everything was ruined. You were forced to marry a man that loves another while your heart is still uncertain about your lover’s condition. You were going to be taken away and paraded around like some kind of puppet, impossible to get out of the strings your father cursed upon you.

You just lost everything.

You turned to your side and cringed at the pain you felt under your ribs. Still, you managed to get out of bed and walk towards the window you forgot to close before you raced to the old tree where Calum was waiting.

The memory of that forged letter burned at the back of your mind as you thought just how stupid you were for ever believing it. You let yourself trust too much and lost yourself in the plan, just hoping that it would’ve turned out perfectly. How naive of you.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet” You heard Ashton said softly as he opened the door. But you didn’t turn to look at him.

“I shouldn’t be here at all”

Ashton fiddled with his hands, looking up and then down and then to you, giving your back to him as you stared out the window while your arms wrapped around yourself and started to softly run your hands over your arms.

If you turned around you could see the desperation in his eyes, the utter sadness that took over him since the moment he witnessed the fateful scene. He was too late when he got there; your father had already captured you and Calum and there was nothing he could do about it.

He tried to find the right words to say to you, but his mouth remained dry with unsaid apologies that would later find their place, right now he needed to be the big brother he knew you needed but didn’t get.

“I should’ve left when he told me to”

Your voice was weak, raspy, and childlike at the same time, bearer of grief that you didn’t want to talk about. The tears were already running down your face silently, falling into the stone and creating dark circles that grew with your sadness.

Ashton felt as if his heart was wrapped in thorns that sunk deeper while hearing the sound of your voice. You should’ve never been this broken, he shouldn't have allowed it, and yet he is now standing there watching how the pieces of you fall and break like crystal.

“I thought we would be okay. I really thought that this could all be over…” You turned to Ashton and you saw how he took a step back, eyes glossy as he took you in “Why isn’t it over?”

Whoever was standing in front of Ashton was not you. This person had bags under her eyes, bruises all over her arms, and a sadness that could make every god look at her with pity and compassion. It was almost as if he was seeing you for the first time in a long time; you were skinnier, fragile-looking with your white nightgown and your hair falling freely down your back, your eyes were never-ending waterfalls as every tear that ran down your cheek was followed by three more, but you didn’t even make a sound.

You were a ghost from the person he once knew. The person he saw die and did nothing to prevent it.

“Did you see him?” You asked in a small voice, looking at him with hope hidden behind your eyes.

Ashton didn’t know if he should lie, but after seeing how you were looking at him, he swore at that moment never to lie to you again.

“No,” He said, almost whispering. He looked disappointed, but you were heartbroken. “They took him to the dungeon, that’s all I know” He added when seeing your trembling lip “At least we know that he is alive”

Your mind kept going back and forward with the image of when you last saw him being dragged out of the woods; unconscious, bleeding, beaten… He’s alive but for how long?

A silence fell over the two of you. You hugged yourself tighter and Ashton pretended not to notice as he searched for something that could give you some kind of comfort, but that was not an easy task. You can still smell the grass coated in crimson red, feel the dirt under your fingernails and feel your heart jump in your throat as you called his name. It was a pathetic sight and a desperate one. A sight that neither you nor Ashton would ever forget.

“How could this happen?” You asked in a whisper, breaking the silence in a heart-wrenching question neither of you had the answer to.

Ashton felt the sob that escaped your mouth as if it were his own, he tried to take a step towards you but you took one back.

“Y/N…” He tried, but you backed up again. Your eyes were filled with tears as you looked down at his boots, wincing as you felt the pain of your father’s kicks come back again.

“How could this happen, Ashton?” You asked again, addressing him directly as your eyes avoided his.

“I- I don’t know, I-” He stuttered, noticing how you started to shake and press your hands to the side of your ribs “Y/N, is your wound-?”

He walked towards you with firm steps, forgetting for a moment that the distance between the two of you was something much deeper than just physical.

“Don’t touch me!” You yelled when you saw him approach. But Ashton did not listen, he stood by your side and caught you in his arms when your knees started to tremble, too weak to make you stand any longer.

You fell into his chest, sobbing as he held you just in time before your knees hit the ground. Ashton sat next to you, cradling you on his lap as you gripped his shirt tightly, his hands running up and down your back at a soothing pace, just like he did when you were children and he took the role of the parent as his own.

His fingers graced your side and you hissed, he immediately took his hands away in order not to make any more damage.

“Can I see?” He asked softly.

You pulled away from him letting your teary eyes meet his hazel ones, an indescribable emotion set on them as you nodded softly.

You sat up straighter, letting him help you get on your feet and walk towards the bed as you set yourself at the end of it with your brother by your side.

With your consent, Ashton started to lift the hem of your nightgown, letting you cover your legs with a blanket as he reached your waist and stomach. You felt how his movements came to a halt when he saw what was there.

A black and blue bruise took over most of the sides of your ribs and waist. Ashton saw the bruise expand with every breath you took, knowing it might hurt to breathe at this moment as well; you had scraps all over your body, red skin showing and burning with every move, threatening to bleed again at the minimum touch.

“The green ones don’t hurt anymore,” You told him in a whisper referring to the green spots that covered some spots that the other colors couldn’t reach “Those are the old ones”

“The what?!” He snapped, horrified at the confession.

Ashton put the nightgown down, kneeling in front of you so he could see your face but you were already looking at the floor, ashamed that he had to see you like that.

“This… this has happened before” He wasn’t asking and your nodding only confirmed it “When? Who?!”

“It started a few months ago when you left for the Southern Islands,” You started, still not looking at him but at your hands intertwined in your lap. Ashton placed his hands over yours, squeezing them softly to give you strength to continue “We were supposed to have dinner together that day and I wanted to wear a dress that belonged to mom… It was her birthday, you know? But father didn’t like it”

The memories ran through your head as it happened yesterday. The rage behind your father’s eyes was apparent the moment he sat his glare on you, ordering everyone to leave the room and leave the two of you alone.

It didn’t matter that your intentions were innocent, you were actually excited to use one of your mother’s old gowns now that you were able to fit in them without having to make any alterations. You wanted to honor your mom’s spirit, but your father saw that as an insult to her memory.

“He asked me to take it off right there but I refused to be naked in the middle of the castle with no way to go back to my room. He got angry… God, Ash, I’ve never seen him so angry before”

The insults he threw at you sounded like soft lullabies compared with the first blow he threw at your face. The sound of his ring-cladding hand smacking against your cheek made echoed throughout the room, but he was not satisfied as he continued to hit you and pull on your hair, demanding you take that dress off.

Your father threw his goblet of wine at you, ruining the dress with the red stains as he laughed. You felt humiliated and ran from the room, dinner forgotten as you tried to escape your father’s cruelty.

“Calum found me by the old tree that night, he asked me to run away with him so my father could not hurt me anymore,” You said with a broken voice “I should’ve listened”

“How many times-?”

“I didn’t want you to go on all those travels just because I missed you, Ash”

Ashton’s eyes widened in horror at the words you spoke. You could see he was doing the math of how many times he left since that first trip and how long he was gone while you…

“I’m going to kill him,” He said “I’m going to fucking kill him”

Ashton clenched his jaw, the knuckles in his hands turning white as his breathing became elaborated. You could see every vein pop out in his neck and his eyes just screamed in rage as he tried to control himself while he was still with you. It was not the same look he gave to you all those weeks ago; no, this one had actual hatred behind it.

“Ash-'' You tried, but he was already getting up from his place on the floor in front of you “Ash! Where are you going”

“To give daddy dearest a talk,” He said in between his teeth, clenching his fists at his side.

Panic started to rise in your heart, jumping off of your bed and running towards him before he could even leave the room. You grabbed him by the arm, squeezing his bicep and pulling him slightly back inside the room, hissing at the movement.

Ashton turned to you harshly, making you take a step back. The look in his eyes softened when he saw you standing there, but his body was still tense as he gripped the doorknob till his whole hand turned white.

“Y/N-“ He started, trying to get you back to bed and to stay there.

“You are not going anywhere” Your voice was strong despite having been crying all day.

“He can’t just-!”

“And what are you going to do Ash!? Put yourself on a silver plate so his guards could back him up?!”

Ashton rolled his eyes “He is not going to do that!”

“What makes you think he won’t?” You asked with a raised brow “Just because you’re his son? Ashton, I’m his daughter! And that never spotted him before. You know what he’s capable of, you’ve seen what happened in the woods. You saw how he ordered the guys to practically murder the love of my life in front of us. Do you think he will care if you stand up to him?!”

The two of you stood in silence for a moment, reflecting on the words that just came out of your mouth.

“I don’t want to lose you, too,” You said barely above a whisper “Not when I already lost him”

Ashton’s demeanor softened when he saw you show some vulnerability again. He let go of the doorknob and wrapped his arms around you, carefully enough not to cause any more friction that could cause you pain. You felt his heart beat strongly, still very caught up in his emotions, so you hugged him tighter.

“You didn’t lose him, Y/N/N,” Ashton said in a sigh “Calum will be okay”

You felt yourself starting to break down again. You thought about how many times you cried over him, mourning him because you knew that might be the only way of letting him go even if you didn’t want to.

Calum fought for you. He stood up to your father, to his King, for you. He called your name over and over again and you couldn’t answer him, you failed him. You failed him and he was the one apologizing.

“I’m sorry, my rose” were the last words he said to you. If only you could tell him that this wasn’t his fault. That you’re the one who's sorry because your father was right…

“This is all my fault”

The tears were rolling down your cheeks again, burning you with shame and grief.

“If I hadn’t suggested the idea of looking for ways to get out of that marriage. If I would’ve been more careful with our meetings. If I would’ve said yes when he asked me to run with him. If I hadn’t told him that I loved him… if I hadn’t been so weak then maybe Calum would still be free and happy. I caused this, I sentenced him because I was too selfish for loving him”

Ashton placed his hands on your shoulders, pushing you away slightly as he looked into your eyes.

“You are the strongest and bravest person I know, Y/N,” He said “You loved him despite what everyone told you, you fought for your love and did everything you could to make sure you two would survive this. What happened wasn’t your fault… It was mine”

You noticed how Ashton’s gaze graced the floor, unable to look at your face as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“If I had known… God, Y/N, I had no idea you loved him. If I knew you were in love I would’ve never pushed you to marry King Luke. I would’ve helped you get out of here or find a way to break the deal… I could’ve stopped father from doing this to you” He lamented, brushing his finger over the bruise in your arm “But I was so blind to all of it. I thought you didn’t want to marry Luke just because he was a stranger, I couldn't comprehend why you were being so stubborn, why you hated me and now everything is clear”

“I never hated you, Ashton” You admitted.

“But you didn’t trust me. And it’s okay, I get why you felt like you couldn’t. I was an idiot and I should’ve never said the things I said”

You placed one hand on his cheek, lifting his chin just a little bit so you could look at him in the eyes. At that moment you swore Ashton looked younger, almost as if he became a child again and was being comforted by his mother. You thought about all the times you found yourselves in the same position but with the roles reversed and wondered how much he might’ve hurt in the past without having anyone to give him some kind of comfort.

Ashton felt somewhat ashamed to look at you. His eyes held truth, fear, and regret as he couldn’t comprehend why you were being so kind to him even when he played a part in your unhappiness.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N/N” The young prince whispered “I didn’t know how bad things were until that afternoon when I came to apologize and found the snow globe next to your bed. I didn’t want to believe you were gone but… I guess that would’ve been the best outcome for this situation”

“Is that why you came looking for me?” Ashton nodded “Oh god- I thought you were the one who-“

“Who told father?” He asked in disbelief, shaking his head “I could never do that to you, Y/N. Your happiness means the world to me and if you found that happiness with Calum, then what say do I have in that? All I wanted to do was protect you, I just- I guess I didn’t realize you could protect yourself”

You pulled away from your brother, wrapping your arms around yourself again.

“I don’t know how anyone could protect me when the danger lives under the same roof as I”

Ashton shook his head “That is not the only thing you should be careful with”

“What do you mean?”

Suddenly, heavy footsteps were heard outside the door. Ashton immediately pushed you behind him, getting himself in position as his hand rested over the handle of the sword he took from your father, ready to unsheathe it at any moment.

The door opened forcefully, with Michael panting at the other side as he frantically looked for you.

“Princess!” He called breathlessly “You need to come with me, now!”

“What’s going on?” Ashton asked, putting his blade away.

Michael’s green eyes looked desperate and sorrowful.

“The trial,” He said “They are putting Sir Hood through trial in front of the court”

The sound of your stomps could be heard from all over the palace. You ran as fast as you could with Ashton and Michael trailing behind you. You didn’t even care about changing your clothes, throwing a silk robe over your nightgown before sprinting out of the room with the thought of Calum being in trouble.

“King Richard asked Luke to be part of the sentence” Michael filled you in with the last events that took place without your knowledge as you ran to the throne room “He claims that Sir Hood plotted for your kidnapping before the wedding”

“And what does Luke have to do with all of this?” Asked Ashton, enraged.

“It’s another punishment,” You said confidently “He wants me to hate him because he condoned Calum. He wants me to hate the person I’m supposed to marry”

All trials were held in the throne room, the only room in the whole castle that could fit a crowd of thousands while still putting the King on a pedestal and asserting their authority in front of the whole court.

You’ve participated in trials before, hiding in the back with Ashton or Calum as you watched poor souls being judged in front of your father, who was as merciless as usual and enjoyed the punishments he dictated on people, innocent or not. Trials allowed him to be brutal and cruel in front of an audience in a way in which it was completely legal and no one could go against him.

Your heart was beating loudly with every step you took, praying that you weren’t too late and hoping you could stop him.

Calum would be at your father’s unexisting mercy, unable to defend himself before the King “They should have given him more time” You thought, not knowing Calum’s state after the beating. For all you know, if he wasn’t dead then he would be soon and he’d probably still be unconscious. Your father would take advantage of that for sure, making his power known in the most unjust way possible.

You took the shortcuts, everyone was already at the trail so no one dared to stop you as you sprinted your way into hallways and passages that most people haven’t even heard of, soon appearing at the right corner of the throne room through a door hidden behind red curtains with roses painted on them with gold streams.

King Richard sat on his throne with the rose crown placed over his head as the symbol of his power and a smile so cruel it gave you shivers just by looking at it. He still didn’t take the rings he had on when he hit you, in fact, he was wearing them proudly as if they were his own little secret.

Luke was standing next to him - just like every other member of the court - standing straight as a statue while surrounding the King and enabling his power. But while everyone looked at the center of the room, the Young King of the Vail had his eyes wander around the room, surely searching for Michael among the crowd.

And, as your fiancé searched for his beloved, you did the same. You felt your breathing calming down as you realized that Calum was not in the room, feeling relieved at the thought you got there early.

“He knows he’s innocent, right?” You asked Michael “Luke knows Calum is innocent”

Michael nodded, looking straight ahead at Luke. You could tell he was nervous as his crystal green eyes become glossy with worry, he didn’t trust your father, and the thought of being so far away from his King while he is at a close distance with a possible enemy made him anxious.

“My King knows to trust the stable lad, but I’m afraid your father might coax him into thinking otherwise”

Both, you and Ashton stared at Michael with confused expressions. Michael continued.

“You are not the only ones who King Richard doesn’t trust, Your Highnesses. The crow I heard today, Princess? It was not meant for you, but it was meant for me”

“The crow?”

“Spies” Ashton finished Michael’s thoughts “Father has spies all over the Kingdoms, Y/N. He calls them crows because no one ever suspects how lethal they could be until the time comes to attack”

Michael nodded “The King is planning something with them. He cannot be trusted”

“And you knew about all of this?” You asked your brother, he looked ashamed.

“I knew about the crows. In my travels, my tasks not only consisted in forming and securing alliances,” He admitted “But to plant the crows in every Kingdom as well”

You took a step back, horrified by Ashton’s confession as you placed a hand over your beating heart.

“I didn’t know that I was doing it!” Ashton soon excused himself “Father told me they were liabilities; he never told me what he was planning. I never connected the dots until he announced to us your sudden engagement”

“What does that have to do with anything here?!” You asked, feeling dizzy with all this new information.

“We still don’t know,” Michael interjected “But ever since we came I’ve been doing some research on the King’s motives, guess I have to thank you for giving us so much unsuspected time in the library, Princess. But I guess that they found out pretty quickly, that’s why they sent the crow to me”

“We might not know, but it’s not hard to guess either” Said Ashton with a serious tone “Think about it; Father sends spies all over the neighboring Kingdoms from the West and the South, even when their alliances were sworn as well as their loyalties to it. There was only one Kingdom that could not seal the deal before, an Eastern Kingdom in which the crow disappeared before he could assure the alliance…”

“The Vail”

Ashton nodded “That’s one of the reasons why I wanted you to go there. He still has no power there. The Vail is the most powerful Kingdom in the East, having the biggest and strongest army that the Earth has ever known; every King would be jealous of it and seek to have it for themselves. Now, how do you obtain an alliance that powerful that could give you some sort of power over the army as well as the loyalty of their monarch?”

Both, you and Michael stared at Ashton, astonished by the realization of your father’s plans. Michael let out a curse under his breath as you tried to wrap your head around it. He was willing to give you away for an army?

“But he will not have control of the army if I marry Luke” You tried to reason “Besides, why would he even want an army that big, anyway?”

Ashton’s gaze broke your heart, he looked as sorry as you did.

“Y/N, father is preparing for war”

The words you were ready to say got caught up in your throat at the sounds of the horns, ready to announce the next convict, making the three of you pay attention to the center of the room where Willsburg stood with a large parchment, reading from it to the entire court.

“The Court of Roses and Your Majesty, King Richard, fourth of his name, call the next prisoner in row to trial” The voice of the page resonated through the walls “Please present yourself, Sir Calum Thomas Hood from The Palace of RoseWood”

The big wooden doors opened and you felt as if you might faint. Your heart was beating violently inside your chest, begging for a way out of the pain as you heard the shackles drag against the marbled floor at a slow and agonizing pace, still unable to see his face for he was still too far away.

It wasn’t fair that they made him walk in his state. It wasn’t fair for him to be here at all.

All around the room you could hear distant murmurs about what happened. Some people would whisper about how the stable lad kidnapped the princess in her sleep; others claimed that they saw him taking the princess in a bag, while others praised the King because he was the one who rescued his daughter from the hands of this evildoer.

All lies. They were all lies. But your father twisted the story again, making it impossible for others to believe otherwise.

You held your breath with every step you heard Calum take, reaching for Ashton’s arm to hold on to it as you felt as if your knees might not be able to stop shaking. You knew he was in bad shape; the last time you saw him he was practically dead before your eyes, so you tried to stay strong for him. But nothing could prepare you for when he finally stepped into your line of view.

A sob died in your throat as you placed your hand over your mouth, silencing it before it even began. Your eyes filled with tears that quickly started rolling down your cheeks as you felt how Ashton and Michael tried to catch you before you fell.

The sight of him was more painful than you could ever imagine.

Calum stood there in front of your father. His white shirt was covered in his, now, dried blood. The pants he wore that day seemed more like rags as they were ripped from the knees down, leaving his scrapes and wounds open for everyone to see.

You wonder if they sent a doctor down to the dungeons when he arrived. His wounds seemed to be covered, but not healed. The sides of his face were swollen and both his eyes had black and blue spots around them. The cuts he had on his face did not bleed, but they seemed raw at the sight, and they would probably open easily if someone were to touch them.

He was almost unrecognizable if it weren’t for those brown eyes you loved your whole life. Even when beaten, those eyes still fought for you and prayed for just one look from your eyes before he passed out. You dreamt and loved those eyes for so long you couldn’t imagine a life without them, and, even now, they still looked as beautiful as ever.

His hands and bare feet were trapped in chains, manacles, and shackles, but he was still standing, straighter and braver than ever, before your father. Calum would never coward before him, would never give him the satisfaction to see him on his knees, defeated. Not after what he’s done.

Calum defied your father with his stance, any fool in the court could see it. Most prisoners beg on their knees for forgiveness, but Calum was still standing. For him, it didn’t matter how much it hurt to stand, or how the iron of his restraints drugged into his skin, scraping his flesh raw. He will never kneel before a man who would hit a woman.

However, your father did not take that as an insult, on the contrary, he seemed very amused by Calum’s act of rebellion.

“Sir Hood. You are accused of kidnapping and plotting against the crown” King Richard’s voice reverberated through the whole room, making everyone stay in silence as he spoke, “How do you declare yourself?”

You counted the seconds for his answer, holding your breath with every beat of your heart.

Calum held his head high, but he didn’t say a word.

“Cat got your tongue, horseman?” The King let out an obnoxious laugh and soon enough the rest of the court followed, too scared to go against it.

Luke stood there with his mouth shut, looking at Calum with pleading eyes. They all knew how the situation would go if he didn’t say anything.

But Calum ignored the Young King’s stare, choosing to look straight ahead with utter hatred at the King he once was taught to respect.

“So,” Your father continued “Am I wrong to assume that you kidnapped my daughter from her room and were planning to take her away from the Kingdom days before her wedding?”

Still, not a word. Your father was getting impatient.

“Are you in love with her, boy?” He teased in a mocking tone “Is the stable boy in love with the little princess?” Calum clenched his jaw at the comment, making the King smile “Awww, isn’t that just sweet? The stable lad and the princess! What a beautiful fairy tale, isn’t it? Too bad it’s all in your head, boy”

People were laughing at Calum, mocking him and pointing at him and the fact that he was being humiliated in front of everyone. You stood there with your fists clenched to your sides, knuckles turning white at the thought of making every single one of those people pay for your pain. You were sure that if it weren’t for Ashton holding you back by the shoulders, you would’ve been standing right in the middle of the room next to Calum.

“You really think she could love you? You, a poor stable lad without titles nor riches? Maybe that’s why you tried to take her away from me, her beloved father” The King placed a hand over his heart, playing the part of a loving father a little too amateur compared to his other acts “What poor excuse of a man you are. Thinking you could win her love by-”

“I think this has gone too far for two men who know the truth. Don’t you agree, Your Majesty?”

Calum’s voice was not loud, it was hoarse and damaged but still strong enough to answer.

Everyone in the court stood silent, even the King who looked at Calum with curiosity and rage behind his eyes.

“So he speaks…” He said, “And what’s that truth you talk about, boy?”

“Don’t…” You whispered under your breath, praying to every god there is to have mercy on him. “Please, please don’t”

“The truth is that you’re a coward, Your Majesty” Calum stated, making everyone in the room - including the three of you that were still hidden behind the curtain, gasp.

“Oh, shit,” Michael said, representing all your thoughts in one simple utterance.

“The truth is that you sit in your throne all high and mighty when in reality you are afraid of a dress. You are scared of a past and a future you know won’t come your way because you, you sick son of a bitch, don't deserve it. The truth is that you abuse the ones who are under you, even the ones who held your titles with more honor than yourself. You are a bully that enjoys making people suffer.

You abuse your powers and titles and then parade yourself as a hero when you and I both know you are far from one. How dare you stand there and act all innocent when you were the one who laid hands on your daughter and made her bleed countless times just for your entertainment?

How is that not the truth, Sir?”

The room erupted in gasps and murmurs, all talking about the King and how this man dared to call on him that way, not even addressing him properly and insulting his name.

“Is he telling the truth?”

“King Richard would never, would he?”

“The Princess always looked scared when she was around him, it must be true!”

“He hits his daughter? The King?”

“Who is this man anyway?”

“Such a disgrace for the crown…”

“Enough!” King Richard shouted, silence falling over the court and guests.

Your father stood from his throne. Eyes filled with untamed rage at Calum’s words. With one simple statement, he was capable of turning the whole court into a shitshow, people were taking sides and talking about their King as a joke.

But he was still the King and he was going to make sure everyone knew that.

“Blasphemy!” He shouted, pointing his finger at Calum who stood proudly before him, still not caving nor surrendering. “You insolent peasant don’t know what you’re talking about! You conspired against the crown, do you deny it?”

Calum’s chest raised when he took a deep breath.

“I deny it,” He said loud enough for everyone to hear “I never conspired against the crown, I only conspired to have the engagement of the Princess and King Hemmings annulled”

A wave of gasps was heard all over the room again, but this time all eyes laid on Luke, as he stood awkwardly with an emotionless expression. This was no news to him and he had no intention of showing surprise.

“You kidnapped the Princess, do you deny it?”

“I deny it. I asked for her hand in marriage, she accepted. She left willingly with me so we could escape the Kingdom and its abusive King. I only tried to save her”

Tears rolled down your cheeks and to the floor. All he ever did was try to protect you, to keep you safe and you couldn’t do the same for him.

If it wasn’t for you, neither of you would be in this situation.

“You love the princess, do you deny it?”

You knew that was a cruel play from him trying to humiliate Calum again. But Calum smiled.

“I don’t deny it,” He said “I would never deny my love for Y/N. I would declare my love for her to every god there is and still, that would not be enough. She is everything I have and everything I need and I’m lucky to love her and to be loved by her. That’s something you could never understand and I pity you for that”

You felt your feet moving on their own towards him, trying to reach him and be consumed by him. But Ashton's grip tightened around you, making you stay in your spot, unmoving and unable to do anything.

“Don’t” He whispered “They can’t know we are here, Y/N. They will lock you up as well”

You knew he was right; if your father sees you he would command the guards to take you to your room and forbid anyone to come in or out of there until the day of your wedding. And, even though you were willing to risk it, you knew neither Ashton nor Michael would let you do something so reckless.

But before you could try and fight him for it, the laugh of your father interrupted your every thought.

“Isn’t that just adorable? Too bad love can’t save you this time, boy” He said with a sinister smile “Sir Calum Hood, I declare you-”

“Wait!”

The King turned to his side, a questioning look on his face as he stared at Luke with disdain.

But the Young King didn’t cower, instead, he stood straighter and looked at your father straight in the eyes.

“We haven’t deliberated, Your Majesty” Luke said as politely as he could, gaining the approving murmurs of the court.

Your father was fuming.

“Sir Hood presented his statement” Luke continued “He denied the accusations and provided his own countercase. The court must take that into account before declaring any sentence”

Luke spoke clearly, like a King. You noticed how Michael’s chest raised with pride and adoration. He was giving Calum a chance.

“I’ve taken Sir Hood’s statements into account and I’ve decided to ignore it” Your father then claimed, taking a step closer to Luke who was almost as tall as he was. Still, he stood his ground.

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“What happened to respect your elders and your superiors?!” King Richard shouted in Luke’s face.

“Superior?!”

“Sit the fuck down, boy” Your father spat at him “This is my Kingdom and you have no power here. You are swearing to me after you marry my daughter so fucking watch and learn how a real King deals with their subordinates”

The room fell silent, all witness of how the King of RoseWood degraded the King of the Vail, no one dared to move a muscle as the King turned back to Calum with a devilish smirk.

Your chest felt heavy with anticipation, not being able to take your eyes away from Calum as you stood there helplessly with Ashton holding you by the arms and Michael ready to take you away the moment the King declared his sentence.

“Sir Hood. I found you guilty of all charges”

The murmur of the people grew around you as you were starting to lose sight the more dizzy you got all of a sudden.

Calum stood straight, waiting for the sentence with his head held high. You wanted to scream, tell him to run while he still could. Beg your father for mercy... but all you could do was stand there and watch how they kill you while still being alive.

This can’t be happening.

“I, King Richard of RoseWood, sentence you to death by hanging”

tags: @iknowyouthinkimbulletproof @mystic-232 @talksoprettyjjx @theshyspy @hoodhoran @flaneurcth @notinthesameguey @bubblegum18 @irwin-fletcher-ash @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @1980holland @wiiildflowerrr @hoplessromantic727 @fivesecondsofonedirection @another-lonely-heart @aabc5sauce @dudethisiswhyyoudonthavefriends @major5sosstan @myloverboyash @nicebasscalum @calumspupils @secretsicanthideanymore @the-ghost-of-luke @alltimesos @girlwhosimps @wontlastimokwiththat @ttinahood @yeah-and69 @fckingpernico @multistann @averageantichrist @a-darneddarling @tpwkcth @f-mu @kindahumanbutalsoinsane @floweronyourskin @ihavenoideawhattodowithyou

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brawltogethernow · 4 years ago

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So, I don't think I've ever asked you this... what IS the whole point of the Spider-Sense? It really seems like something that only exists for writers to ignore or work around when they want to inject Legit Tension into a story.

I’ve thought about this power so much, but never with an eye to defend its right to exist, so I needed to think about this. The results could be more concise.

Ironically, given the question, I have to say its main purpose is to ramp up tension. But it’s also a highly variable multitool that a skilled creative team can use for...pretty much anything. It does everything the writer wants it to, while for its wielder always falls just short of doing enough.

I went looking through my photos for a really generic, classic-looking example to use as an image to head this topic, but then I ran into the time Peter absolutely did not reimburse this man for his stolen McDonald’s, so have that instead.

A Scare Chord, But You Can Draw It

That one post that says the spider-sense is just super-anxiety isn’t, like, wrong. It’s a very anxious, dramatic storytelling tool originally designed for a very anxious, dramatic protagonist. I find it speaks to the overall tone of the franchise that some characters are functionally psychics, but with a psychic ability that only points out problems.

Spidey sense pinging? There’s danger, be stressed! Broken? Now the lead won’t even KNOW when there’s a problem, scary! Single character is immune to it? That’s an invisible knife in the dark oh my god what the fuck what the fU--

Like its counterpart in garden variety anxiety, the only time the spider-sense reduces tension is in the middle of a crisis. But in the wish fulfillmenty way that you want in an adventure story to justify exaggerated action sequences, the same way enhanced strength or durability does. Also like those, it would theoretically make someone much safer to have it, but it exists in the story to let your character navigate into and weather more dangerous situations.

For its basic role in a story, a danger sense is a snappy way to rile up both the reader and the protagonist that doesn’t offer much information beyond that it’s time to sit smart because shit is about to go down.

Spidey comic canon is all over the board in quality and genre, and it started needing to subvert its formulas before the creators got a handle on what those formulas even were, and basically no one has read anything approaching most of it at this point, so for consistent examples of a really bare bones use of this power in storytelling, I’d point to the property that’s done the best job yet of boiling down the mechanics of Spider-Man to their absolute most basic essentials for adaptation to a compelling monster of the week TV series.

Or as you probably know it, Danny Phantom. DON’T BOO, I’M RIGHT.

DP is Spider-Man with about 2/3 of the serial numbers filed off and no death (ironically), and Danny’s ghost sense is the most proof in the formula example of what the spidey sense is for: It’s a big sign held up for the viewer that says, “Something is wrong! Pay attention!” Effectively a visual scare chord. It’s about That Drama. And it works, which won it a consistent place in the show’s formula. We’re talking several times an episode here.

So why does it work?

It’s a little counterintuitive, but it’s strong storytelling to tell your audience that something bad is going to happen before it does. A vague, punchy spoiler transforms the ignorant calm before a conflict into a tense moment of anticipation. ...And it makes sure people don’t fail to absorb the beginning of said conflict because they weren’t prepared to shift gears when the scene did. Shock is a valuable tool, too, but treating it like a staple is how you burn out your audience instead of keeping them engaged. Not to go after an easy target, but you need to know how to manage your audience’s alarm if you don’t want to end up like Game of Thrones.

The limits of the spider-sense also keep you on your toes when handled by a smart writer. It tells Peter (everyone’s is a little different, so I’m going to cite the og) about threats to his person, but it doesn’t elaborate with any details when it’s not already obvious why, what kind, and from what. And it doesn’t warn him about anything else-- Which is a pretty critical gap when you zoom out and look at his hero career’s successes and failures and conclude that it’s definitely why he’s lived as long as he has acting the way he does, but was useless as he failed to save a string of people he’d have much rather had live on than him.

(Any long-running superhero mythos has these incidents, but with Peter they’re important to the core themes.)

And since this power is by plot for plot (or because it’s roughly agreed it only really blares about threats that check at least two boxes of being major, immediate, or physical), it always kicks in enough to register when the danger is bearing down...when it’s too late to actually do anything about it if “anything” is a more complex action than “dodge”.

Really? Not until the elevator doors started to open?

That Distinctive, Crunchy Spider Flavor

The spider-sense and its little pen squiggles go hand in hand with wallcrawling (and its unique and instantly identifiable associated body language) to make the Spider-Person powerset enduringly iconic and elevate characters with it from being generic mid-level super-bricks. Visually, but also in how it shapes the story.

I said it can share a narrative role with super strength. But when you end a fight and go home, super strength continues to make your character feel powerful, probably safer than they’d be otherwise, maybe dangerous.

The spider-sense just keeps blaring, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! God, why aren’t you doing something about this!?”

Pretty morose thing to live with, for a safety net! Kind of a double edged sword you have there! Could be constantly being hyperattuned to problems would prime you for a negative outlook on life. Kind of seems like a power that would make it impossible for a moral person to take a day off, leading them into a beleaguered and resentful yet dutiful attitude about the whole superhero gig! Might build up to some of the core traits of this mythos, maybe! Might lead to a lot of fifteen minute retirement stories, or something. Might even be a built in ‘great responsibility’ alarm that gets you a main character who as a rule is not going to stop fighting until he physically cannot fight anymore.

Certainly not apropos of anything, just throwing this short lived barely-a-joke tagline up for fun.

One of my personal favorite things about stories with superpowers is keeping in mind how they cause the people who have them to act in unusual ways outside of fights, so when you tell me that these people have an entire extra sense that tells them when the gas in their house is leaking through a barely useful hot/cold warning system that never turns off, I’m like, eyes emojis, popcorn out, notebook open, listening intently, spectacles on, the whole deal.

It also contributes to Peter Parker’s personality in a way I really enjoy: It allows him to act like an irrational maniac. When you know exactly when a situation becomes dangerous and how much, normal levels of caution go out the window and absolutely nothing you do makes sense from an exterior standpoint anymore. That’s the good shit. I would like to see more exploration of how the non-Parker characters experiencing the world in this incredibly altered way bounce in response.

It’s also one of many tools in this franchise hauling the reader into relating more closely with the main character. The backbone of classic Spidey is probably being in on secrets only Peter and the reader know which completely reframe how one views the situation on the page. It’s just a big irony mine for the whole first decade. A convenient way to inform the reader and the lead that something is bad news that’s not perceivable to any other characters is youth-with-a-big-exciting-secret catnip.

Another point for tension, there, in that being aware of danger is not synonymous with being able to act on it. If there’s no visible reason for you to be acting strange, well...you’re just going to have to sit tight and sweat, aren’t you? Some gratuitous head wiggles never hurt when setting up that type of conflict.

Have I mentioned that they look cool? Simultaneously punchy and distinctive, with a respectable amount of leeway for artists to get creative with and still coming up with something easily recognizable? And pretty easy to intuit the meaning of even without the long-winded explanations common in the days when people wrote comics with the intent that someone could come in cold on any random issue and follow along okay, I think, although the mechanic has been deeply ingrained in popular culture for so long that I can’t really say for sure.

It was also useful back in the day when no artists drew the eyes on the Spider-Man mask as emoting and were conveying the lead’s expressions entirely through body language and panel composition. If you wiggle enough squiggles, you don’t need eyebrows.

Take This Handwave and Never Ask Me a Logistical Question Again

This ability patches plot holes faster than people can pick them open AND it can act as an excuse to get any plot rolling you can think of if paired with one meddling protagonist who doesn’t know how to mind their own business. Buy it now for only $19.99 (in four installments; that’s four installments of $19.99).

Why can a teenager win a six on one fight against other superhumans? Well, the spider-sense is the ultimate edge in combat, duh.

Why can Peter websling? Why doesn’t everyone websling? Well, the spider-sense is keeping him from eating flagpole when he violently flings himself across New York in a way neither man nor spider was ever meant to move.

How are we supposed to get him involved with the plot this week???? Well, that crate FELT dangerous, so he’s going to investigate it. Oh, dip, it was full of guns and radioactive snakes! Probably shouldn’t have opened that!

Yeah, okay, but why isn’t it fixing everything, then? Isn’t it supposed to be why Peter has never accidentally unmasked in front of somebody? ('Nother entry for this section, take a shot.) That’s crazy sensitive! How does he still have any problems!? Is everything bad that’s ever happened to characters with this powerset bad writing!? --Listen, I think as people with uncanny senses that can tell us whether we are in danger with accuracy that varies from incredible to approximate (I am talking about the five senses that most people have), we should all know better than to underestimate our ability to tune them out or interpret them wrong and fuck ourselves up anyway. I honestly find this part completely realistic.

*SLAPS ROOF OF SPIDER-SENSE* YOU CAN FIT SO MANY STORIES IN THIS THING

The spider-sense is a clean branch into...whatever. There is the exact right balance of structure and wishy-washiness to build off of. A sample selection of whatevers that have been built:

It’s sci-fi and spy gadgets when Peter builds technology that can interface with it.

It’s quasi-mystical when Kaine and Annie-May get stronger versions of it that give them literal psychic visions, or when you want to get mythological and start talking about all the spider-characters being part of a grand web of fate.

Kaine loses his and it becomes symbolic of a future newly unbound by constraints, entangled thematically with the improved physical health he picked up at the same time -- a loss presented as a gain.

Peter loses his and almost dies 782 times in one afternoon because that didn’t make the people he provoked when he had it stop trying to kill him, and also because he isn’t about to start “””taking the subway’’””’ “‘’“”to work”””’’” like some kind of loser who doesn’t get a heads up when he’s about to hit a pigeon at 50mph.

Peter’s starts tuning into his wife’s anxiety and it’s a tool in a relationship study.

It starts pinging whenever Peter’s near his boss who’s secretly been replaced by a shapeshifter and he IGNORES IT because his boss is enough of an asshole that that doesn’t strike him as weird; now it’s a comedy/irony tool.

Into the Spider-Verse made it this beautiful poetic thing connecting all the spider-heroes in the multiverse and stacked up a story on it about instant connection, loss, and incredibly unlikely strangers becoming a found family. It was also aesthetic as FUCK. Remember the scene where Miles just hears barely intelligible whispering that’s all lines people say later in the film and then his own voice very clearly says “look out” and then the room explodes?? Fuck!!!!

Venom becomes immune to it after hitchhiking to Earth in Peter’s bone juice and it makes him a unique threat while telling a more-homoerotic-than-I-assume-was-originally-intended story about violation and how close relationships can be dangerous when they go sour.

It doesn’t work on people you trust for maximum soap opera energy. Love the innate tragedy of this feature coming up.

IN CONCLUSION I don’t have much patience for writers who don’t take advantage of it, never mind feel they need to write around it.

#spiderman #peter parker #spiderverse #spidey #marvel #danny phantom #one day you'll see what i'm doing with it in the project i'm collabing on w/ my brother and then you'll all be sorry and hopefully impresse #mirrorfalls #asks answered #essays

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insomniacowl · 4 years ago

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Neon Genesis Evangelion analysis chapter 22: Katsuragi Misato Part 1 The cross in her hand

Kaji's final gift

The three characters representing the "Second impact generation" are Kaji, Masato, and Ritsuko. They are respectively entwined with Asuka, Shinji, and Rei throughout the characters' developments. Both Kaji and Misato self-reflect on their own pain and suffering while observing Shinji's growth and passes on their "Will" to Shinji. This "Will," shared by Kaji and Misato, refers to the desire to understand the "Truth" and the motivation to overcome any adversities standing in the way. Misato climbed up the ranks to become a high-ranked official of Nerv. Kaji became a spy acting for multiple agencies and organizations.

Due to having chosen the more dangerous route, Kaji lost his life much earlier than Misato. Knowing his impending death, Kaji passed on the pieces of information to his unanswered questions to Misato through 'Physical intimacy.' In this chapter and next, we shall discuss Misato as a character and as a person who Kaji trusted solely and lovingly.

"Until the very end, Service, Service."

Katsuragi Misato

29 years old

Blood type: AB

Height: 163cm

Weight: 47Kg

Three Size: 33-23-32

Considering her diet and drinking habits, it is a wonder how she manages to maintain such weight and proportions. As the Nerv operations bureau's leader, she was a Captain at the start of the series and was later promoted to a Major. From her rank insignia and the information from Evangelion development documents, we can see that she is from the "Japanese self-defense force." As a young girl, she was caught in the Second Impact, and this incident left a large scar under her right breast; she seems to associate the scar with painful memories. She is the daughter of Dr. Katsuragi, who lost his life in the same second impact while saving her life. This act of sacrifice indirectly provided the reason for Misato's eventual employment at Nerv; the need to find the "Truth" and revenge against those that caused her father's death.

She moved into the third Tokyo city shortly before Sakiel's advance against the city. She became the Ikari Shinji's guardian after the battle. To her, it could have been a fulfillment of a desire to build an ideal family life, one she never had as a child. For the same reason, she takes in Asuka and, along with Penpen, forms a happy cohabitating unit of 3 human 1 bird family.

The house that she lives in was provided for her by Nerv and is large enough for three people to live together without much contestation for space. To touch on Penpen for a moment, he is an animal mascot sketched out by Sadamoto following Anno's request for an animal character to brighten up the show's atmosphere. The concept of a "Hot spring Penguin" is fictional. He eats human foods and drinks beer. Inferring from his human-like diet and ability to view TV or read the newspaper, we can guess that he was born from a mutation or a lab experiment. The backpack he wears on his bag is theorized by some to be a miniaturized fridge to keep him cooled. Due to security reason, he is sent off to live with Hikari (Shinji and Asuka's classmate) and makes his final appearance in the "Omedeto" Scene,

Katsuragi Misato in the development phase.

Misato is one of the rare characters whose design has not changed from the planning phase of the series, and on a side note, Anno was a big fan of the sailor moon series. Rei's name was inspired by Hino Rei (Sailor Mars). The design of Misato was based on the image Anno had of Usagi (Sailor Moon) as an adult. Adding to this point is the employment of the same voice actress (Mitsuishi Kotono) and Sadamoto designing their hairstyles to be identical. Furthermore, according to Sadamoto, Misato is a car enthusiast, and her room is full of related magazines and newsletters.

Returning to the topic, just like Shinji, Misato is a character who was designed with careful detail. According to Anno's production declaration (What is it that we are trying to make?) Similar in vain to Shinji being the child at the center of the Third impact, Misato was conceptualized to be the adult who was once at the center of the Second impact. Furthermore, both are inept at creating meaningful social bonds and are afraid of being hurt by the other. Lastly, they are both not used to communicating their needs to the people in their lives.

The difference between the two is that while Shinji feared interaction and ran away from the other, Misato made surface-level interaction with the largest number of people while hiding her true self under a mask. While Shinji's actions are understandable as he is only fourteen and made to shoulder an adult's responsibility, Misato is presented as a juxtaposition. Misato is presented as a child putting up an adult's veneer, showing her immaturity even as she is nearing her thirties. Asuka, who was acquainted with Misato during her service in Germany, described her lifestyle as 'Hypocritical.'

As we have discussed in the previous chapter, Kaji wore an irresponsible adult's mask to hide his serious side in pursuit of the Truth. In contrast, Misato wears a serious and bright adult mask to hide her cowardice and weakness. This would have worked against those that interacted with her on a surface level. However, it would have had to come off eventually, making it impossible to hide from people she lived with. This gave Shinji the perception of Misato as a 'hypocrite,' making it easy for him to reject her kindness and run away from her house.

Furthermore, when she lost Kaji and lost all willpower to put up that front, she could not care for the children physically nor care for their mental wellbeing. Concerning this, Asuka began closing herself up from Misato due to her jealousy for Kaji. Asuka also loved Kaji to the point she attempted sex appeal but was rejected for being "too young."

In episode 15, Asuka learns of Kaji's true feelings and begins feeling defeated, resulting in her bearing fangs against Misato. When her synchronization levels dipped below Shinji's in the following episode, her confidence in herself began to bottom, and Misato was in no position to offer help.

When Kaji began a more intimate relationship with Misato, whom Asuka perceived as mentally immature, Asuka was lost and began to distance her feelings from Kaji. Asuka's heart was broken, and there was no adult she could rely on. This point about Asuka will be covered more in later chapters.

Dr. Katsuragi

Before diving deeper into the character analysis of Misato, we need to understand her father, Dr. Katsuragi, more. He was a member of the Gehrin and the first person to theorize the working of the fruit of life; the S2 engine. The 'Super Solenoid theory (S2 theory)' first theorized in 1999 attempts to explain the mysterious energy source: the 'infinite spiral energy.' This being a fictitious theory, we can not go in-depth here. Still, for the sake of explanation, it is explained as a potential source of infinite energy that Dr. Katsuragi desired to use for humanity's good. Ironically and unfortunately, it was this theory that resulted in the tragedy of the second impact.

In the year 2000, the Doctor receives Seele's funding to form the Katsuragi expedition team. He leaves for Antarctica to prove his theory and perform the 'contact experiment' with Adam. While his theory was proven to be accurate, he losses his life from the 'eventual second impact. Our dear old Keel described the Doctor demeaningly, to quote, "The type of man who was blinded by his passion and unable to see reality," this statement is accurate, according to Misato. This makes him a figure similar in character to Gendou, someone whose work always came before all else, even his family. Causing Misato's mother to always cry tears of loneliness.

Misato understood the impact her father's absence had on the household. This resulting in the pressure to be a good child to please her mother. This leads her to refute others' descriptions of him as 'Kind and sensitive,' calling him 'weak and childish'; as someone who was irresponsible to his family and ran away from responsibilities. Misato's mother eventually divorces him, and she welcomed this separation. It seems that Dr. Katsuragi was shocked by this incident; Misato described it as getting his 'just desert.'

The cross: Dr Katsuragi’s memento

But of course, we have to answer one question regarding Dr. Katsuragi's affection towards his daughter; why did he bring Misato along to Antarctica in 2000? Since there is no mention of her mother in the series, we can infer that he gained custody of Misato after the divorce, thus being her only guardian. Yet to bring a young child to Antarctica was nothing more than putting her in danger. While he did not know of his impending death, bringing his daughter to such a place was downright irresponsible. While there is not enough detail about this, bringing Misato for the expedition might have been his way of showing affection. An imperfect way to express his love for her.

Here, we can draw a parallel with Ikari Yui's actions during her contact experiment. Perhaps the reason why the Doctor wanted to show Misato the contact experiment was the same as the answer Yui gave to Fuyutsuki; "To show this child the possibility for a bright future." And like the Ikaris, Katsuragis also separated in a tragedy. A tragedy for everyone involved.

Looking at the second impact scene, we can observe the Doctor covered in more injuries than Misato. This is likely due to him shielding her from harm using his own body.

With all of his remaining strength, he hoists Misato into an evacuation capsule. His face is covered in blood, and tears roll down his cheeks as he put his cross necklace around her neck. He draws his last breath. This necklace symbolizes the Doctor's love. The love for his family. And the love for humanity. He instills it in the cross and passes on all that he held dear to Misato. She now has to protect herself. But with the cross, the Doctor's desire to protect humanity also gets passed onto her. A burden too big for a little girl to bear.

Even though she claims to dislike her father, Misato is to be confused about what to feel about him; he risked his life to protect her after all. The biggest reason she is at Nerv and fighting the angels is likely to remember him and continue his legacy. Thus, the necklace is a protection charm and emotional support for Misato. We can see this when she desperately grasps the cross as Zeruel is about to shoot its laser.

The cross in her hand

To Misato, the reason for her battle against the angels has less to do with the desire to protect humanity. She fights, as Ritsuko points out in episode 12, as a form of revenge. She admits to this fact in episode 15 during her conversation with Kaji. This is the reason why she takes on near-improbable strategies based on her 'gut feelings.' Especially in episode 12's battle against Sahaquel, the likelihood of success was 0.00001%. The subtitle for this episode is 'Don't make others suffer for your personal hatred.' This perhaps was something Ritsuko (or even Misato herself) was thinking deep down.

Yet to chalk all of this up to a simple desire for revenge is reductionistic at best. The cross in her hand was concurrently the unfulfilled love Dr. Katsuragi had for his family and also the hope for a brighter future for mankind. It was also a Cross, the symbol of the weight of responsibility, and it was what she stood for.

Various iconographies of crosses in Evangelion

The beginning of the universe?

Touching on the cross as we conclude this chapter, we are bombarded with its iconographies across the series. The most notable being the flash of light produced when the angels die. Seeing that this is observable during the third impact, it perhaps symbolizes the soul exiting the body. Another memorable cross is the one we see flashing during the opening sequence.

In the production commentary, the blue dot at the very start of the opening, which expends out in a circle and into a "red gas," is revealed to represent the big bang and the start of the universe. This is followed by the crosses that make up the transition into the title screen, the same kind of visual directions used for the in-episode eye-catch.

Beyond the surface-level representations listed, there are many more hidden references to this iconography. In episode 21, after Yui's absorption into Unit – 01's core, Gendou's shadow carries a gigantic cross. The object casting this shadow is not shown as it is only a symbolic representation. It represents the responsibility that he will carry, One that Yui used to carry and Gendou perverts. The responsibility to forgive humankind's original sin. In episode 4, when Shinji runs away from NERV, he walks down a long path shaped like a cross. This symbolizes the heavy responsibility that he is Fated to carry. That he is destined to be burdened with.

As Anno has put it, Evangelion is like a puzzle to be pieced together. There are many more such scenes, but I will leave it as it is for your enjoyment of discovery.

TBC Chapter 23 Katsuragi Misato Part 2 Dear Shinji, this is my Truth.

#Neon genesis evangelion #Evangelion #Eva #End of Evangelion #Nge #Nagisa Kaworu #Lilith #Sci-fi #Ikari Shinji #Soryu Asuka Langley #Asuka #Ayanami Rei #rei #Anno Hideaki #Katsuragi Misato #Kaji Ryoji #Anime #Analysis #Review

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years ago

Text

Scars That Heal || Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader Series

• Ch. 11: Under Pressure •

TRIGGER WARNINGS: blatant homophobia from Nicklesmart The Beatboxing Jester™️ in disguise as someone you know, internalized homophobia throughout the whole chapter. As usual, will put a skip marker for the heavier scene before and after if you need/want to skip. It is not light, ngl 😔 [trigger words: f*iry + the f slur, each used on exactly one occasion, and (as an insult) queer. I'm so sorry, this was not easy for me either and please do not read this if any of this in any way bothers you, i won't be mad if you skip the chapter 💕]

A/N: Next chapter will be all fluff I promise 🥲, I'm so sorry, but I needed something that could solidify Richie and Y/n's friendship for good, and her helping him through his worst fear is the best way to do that and will be explored in other ways throughout the rest of the series, specifically in the sequel. all that aside, I missed you guys and this series so much!!

LGBTQ+ RESOURCES AND SELF HELP LINKS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CHAPTER

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

- 𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗨𝗦𝗧 -

Richie keeps his eyes trained on the dried mud on his navy blue slip-ons as he makes his way across town, his mind buzzing twice as fast as it normally did. He felt as if his entire body had been put through a blender; his skull still vibrating in his head turning his brain into jelly. His stomach empty and lurching as it twisted into knots far more impossible than what you'd see from a circus performer and his heartbeat could rival a hummingbird's. Not to mention he was walking with two extra legs he'd grow from time to time, another freaky affect the physical and mental toll these past few weeks had put on him and his eyesight. The caffeine he had been living on hadn't helped him one bit either he reckoned.

Insomnia had become his best friend in the past few weeks, hence this last-minute trip to the old gravel pit just behind Derry Town dump. At least, this was the lie he told himself to pluck up enough courage to call Y/n up. Richie hoped she could talk him through it, give him some advice. He was never this nervous to talk to her and deep down in a corner he wished to bury forever - that small part of himself that begged to be free - knew exactly why. This small, repressed Richie Tozier that lived locked away in the center of his heart was calling the shots that day. Hell, he probably had been his whole life but he wasn't ready to admit that to himself yet, let alone his true attentions of seeking her help.

All he knew is he was nervous as all hell, his palms were sweating, he couldn't stop fiddling with his glasses and he was sure one wrong move and he'd shit his pants. For fucks sake, he needed to shake this! He had already freaked Y/n out, that he knew. He could still hear her voice over the receiver. It was soaked in static and every 's', or 'c' sound she made felt like a pencil was being shoved into his eardrums cause of her shitty outdated telephone.

"You," she had asked with a pause. "want to meet at... the dump?"

"Yeah," he scoffed, scratching the same spot behind his ear for what had to be the billionth time out of nervous habit. "you got wax in your ears, L/n?"

"Nope. Just, a little confused is all. You seem kinda... I don't know, squirrely," she said wearily, and through a sharp crackling hiss from the receiver he can make out a nervous chuckle on her end. "You sure nothin' jumped up your ass or anything?"

He bit his lip. Hard. As if punishing himself for drawing her suspicions this early. What if she somehow caught on to what he was gonna talk to her about? Her walk to the gravel pit would surely give her enough time to get to that conclusion, and Richie wasn't daft. He knew he wasn't exactly subtle about... "insomnia". What with how many times he teased insomnia, called it that special nickname he knew it hated but secretly loved. That forbidden flutter in his chest when insomnia would laugh at his jokes, and the small but precious moments they shared from time to time when the others were late that would stay in his heart and mind for weeks to come. But it didn't matter now, as everyone knew; insomnia kept Y/n's company now.

Thankfully his mouth was faster than his brain, and it fired a rapid response before a lull could form.

"You bet your fur," he fires, his lanky arm had rested awkwardly against the wall beside the wall mount. "I am right as rain, toots."

He of course hadn't seen it, but she had frowned at her phone. Her concern was growing with every word spoken from him.

"Yeah," she snorts, throwing back a sarcastic remark. "Cause you sound it."

She had eased a bit, growing soft and falling back into their usual banter. Their special dynamic always seemed to coax down his guard a bit.

"You're talking like a 1950's gangster in a speakeasy," She straightened a little and had begun pacing as much as the phone cord would allow her. "Ya know... More than usual."

Y/n smiled when she could practically hear the smirk taking over his face, and she certainly had no trouble picturing his hunched shoulders and intimidating snarl he was most likely dawning.

"It's a little somethin' called moxie, kid," he spoke with curled his words, imitating all the gangsters he had seen in those cheesy old films. "somethin' you just don't have,"

Y/n had rolled her eyes again, at least Richie could see her doing so when he heard her respond. "Right, right. My bad Baby Face."

"Hey!" He barked, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor as if she could see him. His voice lowered in a thick Chicago accent. "That's mista Baby Face to ya."

"Mista Baby Face Nelson!" She strained, her annoyed shout tainted with a laugh. "Are we meeting at five or not?"

Richie released a quick and silent breath, expelling as many nerves as possible.

"You bet your fur."

The exchange kept playing over and over in his mind and Richie wondered if the same rang true for Y/n. He hoped not, cause that would mean she was thinking about it too much. Hell, he was thinking about it too much now. A heavy sigh rolls off of his chest as every anxiety collectively manifests into its own dark thought.

Fuck, he really had it bad.

How pathetic he was.

Eddie would surely be horrified to know what Richie really thought of him, that was for sure.

And as if he hadn't felt crazy enough, the thoughts actually began to feel like voices calling him from the darkest shadows of his mind.

'And the other Losers? You'll be lucky if they even look at you again.'

Richie was surprised to find himself fighting back, pushing back as much as he could. Despite all the jokes and jabs, he couldn't be completely alone. A small part whispered in his heart that he wasn't, and he thought briefly of the turtle strangely enough but it was gone just as soon as it had come. All he knew was that whatever was telling him this thing was stubborn. But so was Richie Tozier.

He treated it as an intrusive thought. Made a decision then and there that it was, never occurring to him what it could be if wasn't.

No way. Not those assholes, he tells the voice. These are the Losers for fucks sake!

The more he thought about it the more he was sure of it. God forbid Eddie did find out, which Richie had no intention of, and what would happen was in fact unclear. But no matter how he looked at it, he just couldn't picture the little spaghetti man ever cutting him out of his life completely. Not by choice at least.

Now Ben, that lovable sappy haystack of his that was too passionate for his own good. Richie may not be the silent type but he does pick up on things, and Hanscom's affections for Beverly Marsh were far from subtle. Always opening doors for her and turning redder than a tomato when she smiled at him. Not to mention Richie was about ninety percent sure there was a poem of some sort involved. And that was just Beverly, Ben was always thinking of the Losers. Now Richie knew for sure that boy had no hateful bone in his body to the point it was fucking annoying.

Mike, Richie felt, might be a little similar. The kid had a lot of heart, always going on about the animals on his farm. Would even go as far to say he considered them his friends, what with how much Richie knew about Mooriuel the calf and he hadn't even met her for cripes sake! Richie imagined he'd be a bit more shocked but would try some sappy speech when he came around. Would make a whole big thing of it, pat him on the back, and even invite a conversation. He scoffed at the thought, the image of Mike slapping him on the back and his signature grin... Yeah, he appreciated the hypothetical gesture but it wasn't Richie's style.

He could easily see Big Bill sputtering up a storm, but managing a smile. He'd probably even manage to forget their differences long enough to say something stupid but supportive. And Beverly and Stan were the ones he worried about the least. Stan would probably be too indifferent to care, throw him some snarky ass comment like, "took ya long enough, dipshit," and Beverly? Well, Beverly had always been cool, very laid back. She never took shit, and she never dished it out if she didn't think it was deserved which Richie admired greatly. This was one of many reasons he was so shocked she had taken Bill's side in the fight.

The thought brings him back down again, and as soon as the memory touches him so do the nerves in his jaw tensing up again where he had been hit. He could feel the punch all over again. And he suddenly remembers why he is here.

He is here, he realized.

Just around the bend, coming into view was the gravel pit. Old and crumbling it was, and overrun with weeds and bushes. One could easily scale in and out of it, and at the very bottom Rich had discovered one day was a beaten and tattered leather seat from a car that found its way from the junkyard just a ways over. This was where he told Y/n to meet him.

Y/n...

Jesus fuck, what would Y/n say? How would he tell her? Would she still wanna be friends with him? Would she laugh and crack a joke, not taking it seriously? Would she hate him for it? More importantly, why in the ever-loving fuck was he here and willing to tell her?

His gangly legs tumble into a sprint as he picks up momentum descending the uneven terrain. The rubber soles of his shoes kicking up the layers of dirt and shaved gravel that lay beneath the rocks and he had to put effort into not crashing as he comes to a stop. He manages to avoid a nasty fall, completely ignorant to the fact that his right foot had been only inches away from a root peeking out from the rocks surely would have broken his neck had he made even one wrong move. He puffs out his chest, dusting himself off, and once again tries to dispel the nausea broiling in his stomach like hot tar.

He closes his eyes tiredly as he drags his feet to the leather bench, letting his backside fall through the air and into the somewhat plush cushion with a deep groan. "Fuck."

His fingers rub his tired eyes, his fingertips finding bits of crust he hadn't gotten earlier and his knuckles brush his glasses further up onto his forehead. Not quite knowing what to do with the overwhelming thoughts and emotions clouding him, his fingers dig further into his eye sockets until all he can see are inky splotches behind his eyes.

Richie doesn't know why he would ever think those things of Y/n. He hadn't ever told her this, not directly at least, but she was just about the only person in the world he trusted most. He knew in his heart of hearts this was why he found himself dialing her number before he could even register what he was doing. Even after their separation and the bitter feelings they took with it, the Losers were and always would be his best friends in the world.

So why did everything about this feel so wrong?

From the moment the phone call ended, he felt like he was waltzing into a trap like some putz...

"Well, look who it is..." snarled a voice from up above the surface.

Richie's blood ran cold and it felt as if the remainder of the air in his lungs had been squeezed out like air in a deflating balloon. He whipped around at the voice, his head twisting up at the silhouetted figure so fast he was shocked he hadn't broken his own neck. The figure held their hands on their hips, thousands of the sun's rays spilling around them as they blocked out a part of the sun, an advantage they reaped from where they stood before Richie at just the right angle. His breath caught in his throat as he had recognized the voice immediately, but the figure didn't quite match the voice.

The last thing person he needed to see right now was Henry fucking Bowers, that was for sure.

The universe agreed so it would seem. The figure shifted, just out of the light revealing the teasing smirk of his best friend Y/n. Her hands snapped together, her palms forming a handgun, the barrel aiming right at Richie's forehead.

"The jig is up," she snarled. "We knows it was you. You was the ones to steal from Big Bill's dame, and I wouldn't be surprised if yous was in cahoots, neithers."

Despite the fear that had clutched his heart only seconds ago, a small chortle left Richie at how awful her accent was. Hadn't she learned anything from him? A smug smile overtook Y/n's face as he broke. She holstered her handguns and gracefully descended the pile of gravel. His smile expired not long after, and despite the thin veil of clouds creeping over the sun the light in the sky was much too hard to even glance at his friend without blinking back several painful searing tears from the harsh light. But he could still make her out.

She was dressed in her usual ratty and eclectic garb; a mix of something far too big for her frame and something that seemed far too tight to be comfortable. Richie was certain she had never once owned even a thread of clothing that had always been hers. Her s/c brow had its usual, light glossy sheen of grease that Richie had learned very early on to not ask about. But there was something about her now, something he couldn't quite place.

Though one question kept popping up in his mind. One that left an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch in his dazed state. And that was how could he have possibly thought she sounded like Henry Bowers?

He finds himself looking down at the gravel now, wiping away as much of the sun's damage pooling in his eyes as he can. Unbeknownst to him, she watches him studiously, the ghost of her smile still on her lips as if she was enjoying his discomfort. His long and gangly limbs are folded awkwardly, still, onto the leather seat that sits on the ground. Finally, she takes a seat beside him with a huff as he had.

As he rubs his tired eyes for a second time she takes a long look around, breaking the silence when her trip around the gravel pit lands on him.

"Well, you've looked better." She quips, offering a smile.

Richie snorts, pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose with a friendly smirk. "This comin' from Raggedy Ann?"

They both breathe a small laugh and for a moment - just one beautiful, fleeting moment - Richie forgets he was ever scared. This is what he needed.

"So," she says, pulling his gaze towards her, sending him a cocky smile as a knowing look sparkles behind her eyes. "I'm guessing there's a reason I'm here, and not helping you with your summer training?"

Richie, for reasons unknown to him, feels his muscles tense up again involuntarily. Like a puppeteer suddenly yanking the strings, ripping his shoulders up to his ears and his muscles bracing. He felt rigid and he was, but he was doing all he could not to show it. All his unease came back in steady waves marching up the sand, but what could he do now? He could already feel her eyes burning holes into the side of his head as he kicked around a sizeable rock with the toe of his shoe, studying him. Waiting.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in a shrug, lower lip in an indifferent pout as he looked around at the sky hanging above the gravel pit.

"Just needed a change from all those ugly mugs, I guess," he manages a laugh, and he rises to his feet to lazily chase the rock that had rolled out of his reach.

He can feel her eyes on him still, and he doesn't know what to make of it until finally she breaks her silence with a chuckle and rises to join him. She catches the rock with the heel of her dirtied sneakers. They're worn down to the very last thread and several shades off from the original color. She kicks the rock back to him, and they engage in a lazy game of rock soccer.

"I can understand that," she says calmly, eyes trained on the rock as it tumbles across the gravel with several chunky clanks. "Reckon it'll be good for you, too,"

He frowns confused without looking up at her, winding one lanky leg back before one big kick. "Whad'ya mean?"

"Well, you don't wanna spend your whole summer inside of an arcade, do you?"

Richie's face freezes in a frown, the rest of his body going rigid. His eyes cement on the rock underneath his shoe, willing away the veil of tears that threatened to fall. Had he not been so caught up on why he was here, Richie might have had a clear enough head to realize Y/n wasn't there for that conversation, nor had she heard about it from anyone there. Instead, all Rich can think about is the small hypochondriac boy that had stolen his heart.

He can hear the conversation he had with his best friend, all those weeks ago when school let out. And if felt like a lifetime since he had seen that squishable, pouty little disgusted frown Eddie always put on that made Richie's inside melt. As if reading his mind, Y/n spoke.

"This is about Eddie, isn't it?"

Her tone is gentle but veiled. Something was concealed about the way she held herself, ever since she had arrived, something that Richie couldn't quite place. And there it was. He was right about her suspecting him, he must be. Richie battles the lump forming in his throat, and he can feel his ears turning pink under her unwavering and unblinking stare.

Richie does all he can to fight a snarky response, not knowing how else to navigate and survive the intensity of his feelings. All he manages to do is nod.

[■■■■■■■■■■■■]

"Rich, it's okay," she says, taking a step forward, his gaze is pulled to her eyes. And here it is, he thinks. The moment he had been dreading, the moment he hadn't even allowed himself to think about. "...I miss him, too."

His face caught in another frown. That's definitely not what he expected her to say. Quickly as he could, he wiped away a spot of snot at his nose. He had managed to keep the tears at bay but now they had found another way out. He felt like a fucking fool, and he wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Of course she didn't know what he was talking about. Why would she - how would she? His spirits were crushed, and he suddenly didn't feel like getting into it now. She seemed off today, not that Richie cared. All he wanted was for this whole day to be over with, not even knowing the worst had yet to come.

She studies his reaction, almost as if she had been waiting for this and she blinks for what Richie is now starting to realize must be the first time since she got here. Y/n's face screws into a frown, and yet there still lingered an uneasy smile that taunted him. Her eyes squint suspiciously at Richie, her head tilting in an expression he never knew he had always feared would come.

She laughs finally, a shrill and grating laugh he hadn't quite heard before and she nudges him playfully. "Oh, come on! It's not like you've got some faggy crush on him or something?"

When he doesn't answer, she scoffs, turning away and shaking her head in disbelief for a moment.

Richie felt he just might vomit. Or cry. Or both. He had never felt so distraught, so dejected. So broken.

How could she be saying these things?

He tries with all his might to conjure a response, any fucking thing at all so he wasn't some blubbering broken chump breaking down in front of her. But for the first time in his life, Richie "loudmouth" Tozier was speechless.

That fuck-awful grating laugh returns, a sour look screws up her face as she looks him up and down in disgust.

"Wait, seriously?" She gapes with a scoff, making him feel about two inches tall. "You actually think he'd want to be with some fairy freak like you?"

"F-f-uck off," he sputters, though he does not feel better.

The trembling in his voice, the vulnerability, hearing it in himself strips any remaining scrap of confidence he had left. He's crying now and there's no hiding it. And she heard it in his voice, he knew that now as he looks at her. Her lips curl into a malicious smile and she takes another step closer, Richie fumbles a step back.

"He isn't some," her nose crinkles as she continues to advance on him, the fire in her eyes building as he stumbles back to escape her sudden venom. "rotten queer like you."

Y/n spits the words out like they were poison on her tongue, and this was true in every way. Her fiery stare never left Richie, it burned holes right through him as she advanced on him like a wolf on a wounded doe. They were nearing the edge of the gravel pit, and Richie had nearly run out of room when her finger stabbed his chest like a sword's final strike to the heart, pushing him to the ground as she spoke those poisonous words.

Richie felt his backside meet several jagged rocks that brought even more tears to his eyes, though none of them hurt as much as her words. She towered over him now, the sun beating down on her back and pouring over her shoulders, trapping Richie in her shadow. She shakes her head, and he can still make out the pathetic look on her face as she glowers at him.

"It's girls he likes. It's me he likes." she points to herself, shaking her head. "He was mine the second he saw me, but you?"

She scoffs again, and her shadow releases him as she kneels to balance on her feet, legs folded before him with a snide look.

"You've always been the insufferable loudmouth he couldn't get rid of." A sharp laugh escapes her, the clutch on his heart tightening to dangerous amounts he fears it will give out. "Well, I guess he doesn't have to worry about that now, huh?"

His heart feels as if it has been ripped to shreds, the claws of the wolf had struck and now he was drowning in his own sorrows as pain as the heartbreak filled his lungs. Richie could no longer see behind the thick wall of glassy tears that blanketed his eyes, and the sounds of his own sobs amplified his embarrassment and despair. He was hopelessly broken, and he could feel himself crumble, each piece disappearing amongst the gravel underneath him until he couldn't be found. He blinked only once, but it was enough to send every tear racing down his cheek at once.

Another malicious smile contorts her face, her e/c eyes burning darker until they looked almost a completely different shade. Her lips seemed to stretch on and on and on in a way only one thing could. And it was then that it occurred to him.

Not one thing she had said to him is something he could have ever prepared himself for, each word constricting his heart and lungs and swelling his throat with the ever-growing lump.

Nor was any of it something she would ever dream of saying, he knew this now.

[■■■■■■■■■■■■]

This wasn't Y/n, this was never Y/n. She had never showed, and if he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own fucking head he would have caught on from the second "Y/n" arrived. Especially that entrance, Y/n surely would have fallen on her ass on her way down into the gravel pit never mind the fact her accent wouldn't be nearly as shit.

But none of this mattered now. This thing that looked like his friend had him cornered, and It knew it.

A wicked grin overtook the mask of Y/n's face that chilled Richie to his bones, and yet it also reassured him. Y/n was tough and could be scary from time to time, but he knew she could never be capable of the pure evil that now danced in It's eyes. Richie's body was already in motion, his arms and legs scrambling for any sort of grip that could take him up the side of the pit and to safety. But the gravel beneath him was always shifting, rolling out from underneath him when it wasn't raking his palms to pieces and all he was accomplishing was a small plume of dust that clung to his backside.

Richie didn't know where it came from, but his actions were faster than his feelings as his fist collided with It's nose. And no sooner did the heel of his shoe collide in a painful crack that sent It's head back, did his eyes widen in horrific shock. The painful crack that would surely haunt him for many nights to come, had not been from the collision of his heel on It's nose but It's head - or Y/n's as this was still It's disguise - had snapped completely back and dangled completely off It's/her shoulders.

The only thing connecting her head to her shoulders was the suit of s/c skin. Protruding from the center of her neck just under the skin was the end of her spine where it had disconnected, giving away a disturbing lack of muscles and veins in her neck as if it had been hollowed out like a pumpkin. Her head rolled back and forth limply, and Richie could feel bile climbing up his throat, ready to burst out his digested mac and cheese.

His mind was screaming at his legs to run while all was still but a small part of him knew this was all a gambit, that it didn't matter if she was frozen stiff or not. Richie knew as soon as he booked it, It would spring to life with something even more twisted. That now, without his friends, he was as good as dead.

And It was more than happy to prove Richie right.

The clone of his friend sprang to life, It's head still rolling around on It's shoulders. Connected only by the skin of It's neck, and moving around like some fucked up slinky toy. Richie was already halfway up the gravel pit, bits of rock and dirt finding their way into his shoes as he kicked up the earth though that was the farthest thing from his mind.

By the time Richie reached the top of the pit, he could no longer hear the thunderous boom of his heart attempting to break loose from his chest, which was saying an awful lot. His screams echoed out into the air only to be swallowed by the screams of other children and Richie didn't know how he knew this but he knew those were the screams of Betty Ripsom, Ed Corcoran... Georgie Denbrough. The bloodied screams of It's victims were drowning Richie as he ran for the junkyard, and he wondered if he might live to hear them stop.

The screams were so fucking loud in his ears he could see them. Each of them a blinding, deafening, gut-wrenching, and blood-curdling scream that danced through the air like ribbons as they begged for their lives. Richie cried out and he couldn't even hear his own voice, but he didn't let this stop his legs from pumping as hard as they possibly could. He was nearly to the junkyard, surely he could use something to fend It off but he knew he was just buying time.

He could taste the blood on his tongue from where his teeth bit into his cheek. In all his short life, Richie Tozier would not have guessed child-eating clown to be the way he'd kick the can. When ever the thought of death began troubling him, he always liked to picture something like a western. Him and his rightful enemy squaring off against good and evil, he'd shoot first and save the day but still sustain an injury and bleed out. But it'd be a hero's death. And that was something.

But this... this was something born out of darker than evil and Richie was about to be pulled into the gravity well of this black hole and swallowed up. And he knew in his soul, the very pits of his stomach it would reach out with its shadowy arms and pull him into darkness.

And it did.

Richie had been rapidly approaching the edge of the junkyard without realizing and within an instant found himself on the ground, caved in on himself as he tumbled in the dirt and rocks accepting he was to join them soon enough. He closed his eyes and waited for death as a hand curled around his shoulder and pulled him around. Another jolt of shock shot through his entire body at the sudden contact, locking his jaw and paralyzing his entire body in fear as he was met with the new threat. He didn't dare open his eyes, and certainly not when he heard his best friend's voice again.

"Richie! Richie?"

It was her again, he realized. Y/n's real voice, the one that he heard on the telephone that was dripped in static. The one now dripped in fear.

"Richie?!"

When the boy opened his eyes, they were filled with terror and his sobs continued. A lense Y/n never thought she'd see Richie look at her through. Her heart broke in an instant when she realized he was afraid... of her. Instantly, she released him and let her backside fall back into the gravel. She watched through a thick wall of tears as he trembled, crying to himself, and never in all her life had she seen Richie Tozier so broken.

It tore her apart.

She didn't have to be a genius to realize what had happened here. Before she had even reached the junkyard on her bike she had heard his screams strangled through the wall of trees gating the area. When she had reached the gravel yard, she was happy to see him still in one piece but he was running for his life from an invisible force. The damn coward had gotten what It wanted and scared him shitless, but why would he disappear just because she showed? She had wondered.

Now she was beginning to understand. It didn't need to be here to scare her. Just the sight of Richie in such a state was enough to tear her down and it took just about everything in her not to scream into the sky from a mix of fury and fear.

Besides the tears that race down her cheeks and wet her legs, all Y/n could feel was a painfully numbing fear. Fear that Richie would never be the same. Fear that Richie would never speak to her again. Fear that Richie would never trust her again. Fear for whatever the fucking hell that thing did to Richie. Fear that It would do it again.

All she felt now was fear for Richie.

Y/n doesn't bother to fight the sob that breaks loose, her bottom lip quivers violently and her arms fall to the gravely pavement beneath her. As if her head had filled with lead, it grew heavy enough to fall into her chest where her chin landed, shaking several more tears loose.

"I'm s-so sorry, Richie,"

Y/n yearns to say more, but her body is physically weak from sadness and shame. Yet still, she repeats it in her mind hoping with everything in her it slips out of her mouth, or maybe if she thought them loud enough he'd hear them in his mind.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for whatever happened. I'm so goddamn sorry...

"I'm sorry," she whimpers. "I promise..."

I promise I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise I'm not gonna hate you. I promise I'm gonna be there for you, from now on. I promise.

Her sniffles blend with his own, and Richie is unsure why this is the moment he knows for sure this is the real Y/n before him; maybe he was just too exhausted to think it through, perhaps it was the godawful sound she was making trying to keep herself from snotting as bad as he was but he knew It had gone. And the Y/n sitting beside him — crying with him, was the one he dialed up today. This was the Y/n he had been prepared to bare his soul to. His true self.

So with one shaky hand — the other still tucked in close to his chest — Richie's left hand slid out from under him and across the gravel to Y/n's open palm. Her fingers were digging into the gravel, sharp edges of the rock digging into her skin as if to assure herself she was really real. Suddenly, she felt Richie's shaky palm slide underneath hers, carefully taking it.

Y/n picked her glassy stare up from the ground to look at their intertwined hands, and she melted a little. Several of those fears — not all of them, but some — were ebbed away and she looked to Richie. He was still curled up in the dirt, his eyes closed and silent tears streaking his dirt-covered face. Each tear paved a path of clean skin, washing the dirt away in wild streaks where ever each tear had fallen. Several large and swollen beads of tears collected at his chin where they dangled, threatening to fall.

She gave his hand a squeeze, letting him know she was there for him as she had promised him. And she was ready to sit with him for as long as he needed.

For hours that feel only like minutes, they sit together in tear-filled silence, clinging to one another's presence and the knowledge that they are now all they have left.

And there was no way they were letting go.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Here are some LGBTQ+ resources for mental health and self help if you feel you need them:

How do I find LGBTQ friendly therapy?

An article on safe ways to find the best sources of help that are right for you

The Trevor Project

Self Care Tips for Trans and Non Binary Folks

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