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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Love Me Now, Love Me Always // F.W.

Summary: Five times Fred has been in love with you, and the one time he tells you.

A/N: This is my entry for @kalimagik‘s magical winter writing challenge. My prompts were friends to lovers and my other is in bold in the text. I hope you like!!

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pining, light angst

Word count: 3k

One:

It was in the height of summer when Fred Weasley came to the realisation that he was in love with you.

It was the height of summer; temperatures teetering on the edge of the twenties – no mean feat for a British summer. It had been dreadfully humid; to the point where Fred was pulling his shirt away from his torso in a futile effort to keep the sweat from soaking through the thin material.

Cold drinks and ice creams were on the menu the day that Fred realised he was in love with you. From fairytales and stories, Fred wondered whether he would feel this grand moment in which he knew he had found the one he wanted to love for the rest of his life. His own mother had regaled him stories when he was a young boy about witches and wizards like themselves who had found their one true love; of brave princes who fought magical beasts to save the princess and ask for her hand. He had heard them all from being a youngster.

However, for Fred, it had been a smile and a laugh.

You had spent the majority of the summer with Fred at the Burrow. Your family travelling abroad to see distant relatives in Europe, and you had chosen not to go with them; instead, asking Molly Weasley whether she would mind you staying with the Weasley family until school started in September. Molly had accepted; she would never leave one of her children’s friend out in the cold.

It had been weeks of laughter and mischief filled smiles. Fred felt certain that he had not felt this happy in a long time; the attention he so happily soaked from you bringing colour to his cheeks.

A smile and a laugh; that was all it took for Fred’s heart to skip a beat and his mind to come to terms with the knowledge that over the weeks you had been staying with his family, Fred had been falling deeply and irrevocably in love with you.

The realisation knocked him breathless as he continued to listen to your laughter; your reaction from a story told by Ron. The words faded to white noise as he focused his entire attention on you; your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes lit up under the summer evening sun. His eyes poured over every inch of you and he simply couldn’t help but question whether he had always been in love with you or whether this was a new development in your long friendship.

Tossing your hair over your shoulder, flashing a warm smile in Fred’s direction before returning your attention to Ron, Fred thinks that no, he’s always been in love with you.

Then and there, he’s more than certain that he always will.

Two:

“Are you trying to get yourself killed or expelled, is that it?” You demand, hands firmly on your hips as you glare at the redhead.

Fred has the decency to look somewhat ashamed of himself as he avoids your gaze, looking absolutely anywhere else in the room than at you and the disappointed look on your face.

“The prize money…” He trails off, making a dismissive gesture with his hand; wanting to explain it further but not able to find the right words.

Your eyes soften at his explanation, understanding dawning across your face. “Fred,” You whisper, “This isn’t the way to go about it.”

“Then what would you suggest?” He snaps, instantly hating the acid behind his words as he watches the hurt bloom in your eyes.

You throw out your hands in exasperation, “I don’t know! A bank loan or something. We can figure it out but entering into a competition that risks your life is not the way to go about it.”

Fred remains silent; feeling thoroughly put in his place. You cross your arms; trying not to let the hurt you feel so deep inside show across your face as you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing such a thing?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but quickly shuts it. He doesn’t know what to say; he doesn’t know how to tell you about his plans for the future, about how he sees you by his side through it all. He hasn’t the foggiest on how to explain his deepest desires, so he settles for silence for now.

You hold a hand to your stomach as your other reaches up to only juts contain the sob that bursts free. “I was so worried. If your name was pulled out of that cup, Fred Weasley, I don’t know what I would do.”

Something in Fred softens; his heart yearns to take you into his arms, to kiss you senseless as he reassures you he would never do something so utterly reckless again. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he reaches out for you, a hand beckoning for you to join him on the hospital bed.

You scramble to him, settling next to him on the bed, automatically resting your head on his shoulder and grabbing his hand. He squeezes your hand; silently comforting you as he dares to press a kiss to the top of your head.

A friendship this old, there were very few boundaries. A friendship this old, he was bound to have feelings for you. The realisation from the past summer becoming all too clear as he takes in the tension coiling your body tightly, as the kiss he presses to the top of your head does very little to relax to the tightly bound muscles.

Truthfully, he adores you. He would never utter the words to anyone else but you for the fear of having the mick taken out of him, but he does. He adores you entirely, and to see you almost broken at the idea of him possibly entering such a competition – it stirred something in him. A desire to never put you through something like this again.

He presses two more kisses to the top of your head, still worried about the tension tightening your body. “Love,” Fred starts; voice low so other students can’t listen in, “I need you to know, I have absolutely no plans on leaving you without telling you.”

You sniffle, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “Good,” You whisper, “Because you definitely do not have my permission to go anywhere, Weasley.”

Fred chuckles, tugging you closer, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart as you cuddle closer to him. He drops one more kiss to your head before murmuring, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Three:

Eyes wide, you glance around the brightly coloured shop. For anyone else, the orange and purple design would be classed as gaudy, but for the Weasley twins, this was nothing short of an explosion of their personalities.

Fred follows you like a lost puppy; hands fidgeting at his sides as he clenches them into fists and then relaxes them once more. A nervous habit, you realise. He waits patiently for your thoughts as your eyes continue to dance around the shop. Repressing a grin, you turn your attention to Fred. His eyes are bright with questions already waiting, poised on his lips as he tries his best not to bombard you and beg for your opinion.

Spinning in your spot, you release a happy laugh, all the while exclaiming, “Fred, this is wonderful.”

“You think?” He asks, a note on insecurity in his tone.

You grin, nodding your head, “All of this, Fred, is wonderful. It’s going to be a hit, so many are going to love it.”

It almost overwhelms him then. His feelings for you. They rise from his gut; almost cutting off his air as the words he has wanted to say since that fateful summer threaten to choke him. He gathers you in his arms, spinning you in a circle, “Thank you, love.”

For Fred, opening the shop was his dream. However, watching you stand in the middle of the shop, a wide smile on your face as you take everything in, Fred is almost overcome with the intensity of his desire to take your friendship to the next level. Not yet, he tells himself, everything was still so new with the shop and something dark was brewing. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.

Not yet, he tells himself, but soon.

Four:

Endless screaming; endless shouting; endless fighting. That was all it had been. For hours, the castle once thought of as a second home for many students had been the battleground for the opposing sides of war. Those siding with the Dark Lord making it their aim to destroy such a symbol of power and innate goodness; those against him doing their best to keep the castle standing whether it meant laying down their life in the process.

Fred’s mind had been one thing through the whole battle: you.

Even as the wall next to him began to crack; even as it shattered into a million pieces and he was blown out of the way by a spell from Percy, his only thought on his mind had been about you.

Desperately, Fred stalks the lines of injured and dead in the Great Hall. Frantically searching for a glimpse of your hair or a flash of your clothes; anything that would answer the one question circling his mind.

It’s the sound of your cry that has him whirling towards you; relief already being written across his handsome features as he spies you sprinting towards him. He spies blood on your face and on your clothes, but he doesn’t dare ask where it stems from, he doesn’t dare ruin the sweetness of this moment.

You come to a stop in front of him. No words dared uttered as eyes scan the other, worriedly checking for any sign of injury. “I can’t lose you,” You cry, “You have to promise me you won’t leave me.”

Fred hauls you into a hug; crushing your face to his chest as his arms wrap around you so tightly that it almost crushes the breath from your lungs. His hand runs down the length of your body, starting at your hair and ending at the small of your back, “Never. I never plan on leaving you.”

Both of you stand there; clinging onto each other for dear life, inhaling each other’s scent. He smells like brick dust, but underneath all the dirt and blood, you can still smell the citrus and cedarwood that you have come to associate with him.

Gently, Fred rocks you from side to side. To so many, Fred is known to have rough edges. To be loud and spontaneous, and to act before thinking. However, for you, he would be soft. He would be the comforting presence in your life; to be the one to whisper reassuring words and sweet nothings whenever you needed.

He wanted to be the one to love you for however long humanly possible. He just needed to work up the courage to confess.

Five:

The nightmares are the worst part of it all. The constant nightmares that make him question whether he’s awake or asleep.

You’ve taken to sleeping on the couch. It started a month after the end of the war; your flat too small for you to feel comfortable enough on a night. Fred would never tell you this, but he’s glad that the size of your flat drove you to his. Knowing you sleep mere feet away helps him return from the terror inflicted in the night.

He doesn’t like to think of how many times he has woken you in the night. His screams permeating the night air as his fear invades every room of the flat. He doesn’t like to think how often you calmed him down; your fingers carding through his hair until his heart slows to an acceptable pace.

It’s as you crawl into bed with him; a side of his bed already stained with the smell of your perfume, that Fred admits to himself, he is doing better. The healing process has started; the nightmares only being part of it.

Fred believes it’s down to you. You push him to work on himself; to fight through the terror that keeps him in its grip every night. To talk about what happened and his near death experience; you were the first he confessed everything to. He couldn’t face George; he couldn’t face explaining just what went through his head as he readied himself to meet the winged clutches of the reaper.

Fred knows it’s down to you, and he loves you more for it. In the early months after the war, he thought you would leave. He thought that after the first few nightmares, you would call it quits, distancing yourself from him in preservation of your own sanity. He didn’t like to admit to himself how often he kept himself awake with that very thought; how long would it be until you walked away and out of his life?

The time never came, however, and he loves you all the more.

One:

Fred tells you he loves on a sunny day in March. Over a year since the end of the war, and over a decade of friendship, Fred simply cannot remember a time when he didn’t keep you close to his heart.

The day had started off by following its usual routine; breakfast then opening the shop. From there, Fred would manage whatever customers would walk through the door, greeting each and every one with a smile and a pleasantry. He may be a famous prankster, but that didn’t mean his mother had raised him to be impolite.

You join him just before lunch; bell ringing above the joke shop door as you walked in. A smile already on your face at the mere sight of Fred working so devotedly. The smile that breaks across his face when he spies your presence has your heart racing and your palm sweating; you don’t think he even realises the effect he has on you.

“Fancy grabbing lunch with me?” You ask, hoping he says yes.

“When do I ever say no to you?” Fred jokes: mischief bright in his eyes as he grabs his coat, shouting to George that he would gone for a bit.

You never grab lunch. The weather being too nice to spend it inside a café. Outside the shop, you turn to the tall redhead to find him already watching you with a look you cannot decipher. Smiling, you ask, “Shall we just walk instead? The weather is too nice to eat inside.”

Fred chuckles, dramatically bowing at the waist before exclaiming, “After you, my lady.”

You snort, stepping past him to continue up Diagon Alley, heading towards The Leaky Cauldron. Fred asks few questions about the destination you had in mind; just that the hustle and bustle of muggle London becomes apparent as you turn right outside The Leaky Cauldron.

Fred grabs your hand part way through the walk; an almost absent minded action that has your heart fluttering in your chest. Briefly, you wonder if this is it, if Fred is finally going confess that he reciprocates the feelings you’ve long held for the redhead.

As you both continue to walk, each step if more tension-filled than the last. The electricity between you crackling almost audibly.

He pauses suddenly, his feet no longer moving forward as he’s overcome with the depth of his feelings for you. He tugs you to a stop; wanting to smile at the puzzled expression on your face. “Fred? What’s wrong?” You ask; nothing but concern lacing your voice.

“I need to tell you something,” He rushes out, “It can’t wait any longer.”

The crease between your eyebrows deepens; it takes everything within him not to reach out a finger and smooth it down. “You can tell me anything, Fred,” You state firmly; fingers squeezing his tightly before letting them drop.

“I’m in love with you.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you. I want to love you today, tomorrow, and every day from now on, if you’ll let me,”Fred gasps; the emotions choking off his voice as the sentence ends in a whisper of a plea.

The tears fall down your face freely. “You do?” You sob, voice breaking from the emotions building inside of you.

“I do,” He states. His voice more confident as the feelings he has had for you since he was sixteen years old take root within his heart. The very muscle growing in size to accompany the scale of his feelings for you.

“I love you too,” You confess, your teeth worrying your lower lip as you wring your hands together.

Something within Fred snaps, and before you’re fully aware of it, he has you in his arms. He pulls you tight to him; the length of your body pressed entirely up against his as he buries his face in your neck, practically shuddering with relief.

It takes a moment for Fred to regain composure, to pull his head from the safety of the crook of your neck. He smiles down at you; a wide grin that only heightens your happiness. You reach out tentatively; gently running your thumb across his cheekbone and down the length of his face. He captures your hand in his, pressing a kiss to each fingertip, all the whole his gaze never leaves yours.

He searches your eyes for a silent answer to a silent question. Nodding, you stand on your tiptoes, desperate to reach his height. Timidly, you brush your lips against his. A barely there kiss that has Fred’s veins igniting to flame.

He drops your hand. Instead, he curls his fingers around your waist, tugging you even closer to him as the pressure against your mouth increases. Fred’s mouth insistent on yours as his desperation to memorise every inch of you reaches fever pitch.

You wind your arms around his neck, gasping against his mouth as his hands begin to travel, splaying against your lower back. Fred takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss; he tastes of the tea he drank with his lunch. You cling onto him tighter, wanting nothing more than to take this further until the need for air becomes too much and you reluctantly pull away.

Breaking the kiss, you murmur into the small space between you, “Love me now, Fred. Love me always.”

********

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @theweasleysredhair @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @idont-knowrn @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @teheharrypotter @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @breadqueen95 @acciotwinz @slytherinsunrise @kylosleftbuttcheek @remmyswritings @xfirstfemale-marauderx @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @ria-rests-here @superbturtlemakerathlete @inglourious-imagines @ithilwen-lionheart @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @ilovejjmaybank

Fred Weasley taglist: @whiz-bangs78 @susceptible-but-siriusexual @seppys-return-to-madness @hexmione @ickle-ronniekins @oh-for-merlins-sake

#fred weasley x reader #fred x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley #maggieswinterwritingchallenge

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galactic-pirates · 2 years ago

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Hey I think we’ve had a miscommunication. Probably entirely my fault as like I said I have never used the meme format to make a point before. It was probably too complex which is why I wrote too much and the font is so tiny.

What the writers motivations were for why they wrote it is… well a friend just explained to me Watsonian vs Doyalist textual analysis which is basically in universe vs out of universe. I was coming at this from an in universe perspective. What happened, happened, and if the characters were real people (obviously they are not) about how they would process that/feel about things etc.

I am incredibly conflict averse which is why I tagged the way I did. I want to stay in my lane. If Shaw is your blorbo I am honestly happy for you. Seriously not being sarcastic. Fandom is an expression of love. Different characters resonate with different people etc. so I’m not in any way saying you are wrong for your feelings.

Purely talking about this from a character perspective my point actually had very little to do with Shaw at all. It was entirely about Seven’s (potential) POV/reactions as related to prior trauma. She’d been in an abusive relationship, and Shaw’s actions (while much less than what Bjayzl did) would have been like a callback. That part wasn’t Shaw’s fault, he wasn’t to know about triggering trauma/bad memories. The end part of my point, about how it was worse coming from the Captain, is again from Seven’s POV, because Janeway I guess and Picard maybe and how ultimately Seven wouldn’t have expected that behaviour from StarFleet. Not to say that StarFleet hasn’t disappointed her before but the Captain was someone her subconscious could have reasonably assumed would be a safe person, someone she could trust and Shaw wasn’t that.

If you’ve ever been in a long term abusive situation you form certain behaviours to protect yourself. When you get out you swear it won’t happen again but triggers are triggers. You want to think you’d fight but those self-protective behaviours are fairly ingrained, it’s instinct to curl in yourself and just endure. Obviously this isn’t going to be true for everyone but it’s my perspective, and my read of this fictional character. Now there wasn’t much to go on at all in season three but enough for speculation, and perhaps yeah a lot of projecting. Seven is so strong and so for her to simply accept it. I couldn’t help but go “oh. Conditioning from Bjayzl” and that was my point.

And in the spirit of attempting to avoid miscommunication. As I felt you missed my point I would like to address my understanding of yours. I wasn’t arguing at all that the writers shouldn’t have written that Shaw did what he did. In fact I was going deep with it, finding meaning and connections, and yeah all the shades of grey and varying levels because life is messy. We all have our own perspectives based on life experiences/beliefs and that is true for characters as well. I would agree with you that’s the interesting part. I wouldn’t remove this plot element even if I could. I’m just exploring the consequences of it.

#meta #seven of nine #long post #star trek: picard #hope this is clearer now

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

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OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them.

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE.

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at.

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes. Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town.

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed.

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.”

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off.

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar.

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while.

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you.

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch?

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor.

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth.

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction.

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle.

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands.

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor.

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.”

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind.

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves.

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious.

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his.

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer.

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off.

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move.

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take.

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along.

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it.

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness. It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins.

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar.

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer.

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well.

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter.

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers.

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law.

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him.

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered.

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too.

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight.

The white shine of his hair always gives him away.

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?”

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against.

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke.

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.”

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger.

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?”

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it.

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark.

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze.

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his.

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now.

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness.

******

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him.

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension.

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions.

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine.

******

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened.

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation.

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features.

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness.

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly.

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion.

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists.

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens.

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might.

Late one evening, your phone rings.

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive.

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly.

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor.

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so...

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you.

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you.

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.”

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this.

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want.

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting.

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him.

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him.

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you.

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you.

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips.

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks.

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on.

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult.

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth.

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you.

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips.

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh.

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes.

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth.

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front.

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good.

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands.

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes.

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking.

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips.

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him.

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking.

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration.

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him.

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his.

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you.

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him.

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue.

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you.

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience.

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?”

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection.

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor.

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you.

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head.

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different.

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed.

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher.

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.”

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes.

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished.

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous.

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs.

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent.

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind.

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have.

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality.

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going.

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin.

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall.

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub.

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it.

He’s never been alone, not like this.

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same.

He needs to see this through.

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away.

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple.

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go.

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin.

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme.

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

#asks #answered asks #pal muses #on Tomura’s dick #and his trauma #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura x y/n #tomura x you #tenko shimura #shimura tenko #reader insert

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scripttorture · 4 years ago

Note

One of the central characters in a fantasy story I'm writing has torture as part of her backstory. She was captured by an evil race, and one individual in particular put her through a "training" regime designed to turn her into a useful/trustworthy slave. Specifically the goals of the training were:

- destroy her sense of self / agency

- overwrite her ingrained response of healing herself when injured (she has magical healing powers)

- an affectionate or worshipful disposition towards her captors

- immediate obedience to any command

I feel like both physical and psychological torture / mental conditioning are probably appropriate, though I'm leaning away from including sexual abuse. I honestly don't know much about torture at all and the only things that come to mind as producing a result similar to what I'm looking for are the Game of Thrones torture sequence and the use of obdience collars in the Codex Alera book series. The latter is very interesting to me because it is a magical device that inflicts pain in reaction to disobedience but also inflicts pleasure to reward obedience.

I guess I'm just wondering if you have any advice for what kinds of methods would be good to include in a process designed to produce obedience, rather than torture for its own sake or to extract information, as well as if there are any common pitfalls I should try to avoid in writing about such a thing.

The training itself won't be in the book, but I need to be familiar with it for backstory purposes because later in the story this character encounters her torturer again, and is subjected to some further abuse before she finally overcomes her fear and kills him.

Alright well I’m going to be straight up with you: the scenario you’ve presented is a very common torture apologist trope. It’s incredibly unrealistic. And it’s unrealistic in ways that support torture by claiming it can be ‘useful’.

Which probably means that you’re new to the blog and haven’t heard me give this talk before. That’s OK, we all learn sometime and it’s not my intention to shame you for the fact you’re not as obsessed with this stuff as I am or couldn’t afford to shell out for the books.

Torture does not produce obedience. The best evidence we have right now suggests it encourages active resistance.

If you got a lot of your inspiration from Game of Thrones then frankly I’m not surprised you came up with apologia. The torture in that series is incredibly badly handled. And a big part of the point of running this blog is that most people are getting their information on torture from shows like that. Which happens because the research is inaccessible and hasn’t been popularised the way fictional tropes (sometimes fictional tropes literally started by torturers) have been popularised.

The important thing is what you choose to do now.

I’m going to break down the problems here and make some suggestions for what you could do instead.

Firstly: there is no torture or abuse that will guarantee obedience. Pain does not make people meek or compliant or willing to follow commands.

Torture survivors are not broken.

They are not ‘controlled’ by their torturers and the suggestion that they are is used in the real world to bar real survivors from treatment. It is also used to bar them from entering safe countries and to argue that they shouldn’t be allowed visas or passports.

The best statistics we have for any sort of compliance under torture come from analysis of historical French data where torture was used to try and force confessions (something we know torture can sometimes do).

The ‘success’ rate averaged at 10%. Under torture 90% of people will not comply long enough to sign their name.

Secondly: torture does not and can not ‘make’ a victim feel ‘worshipful’ towards their torturer. The suggestion is kind of like asking if someone can tap dance immediately after removing the bones from their legs.

Torturers have no control over a victim’s emotions. They have no control over their symptoms. They have no control over their beliefs.

And there is no such thing as a torture that can change someone’s mind in a way torturers can control.

Once again, this fictional trope is used by politicians and the media to justify marginalising real torture survivors.

I have read hundreds, possibly thousands, of accounts from torture survivors. I’ve read historic and modern accounts. I’ve read accounts from all sort of people from all over the globe. I have never seen a survivor say anything positive about their torturers. I have never seen anything close to toleration.

A lot of survivors are blisteringly angry at their torturers. A lot of them feel overwhelming levels of spite and some report literally putting themselves at risk of death in order to spite their torturers. And yes, a lot of them are afraid too. None of these emotions are mutually exclusive.

Affection is impossible. We are not wired that way.

Thirdly: I understand that ‘evil races’ are a long standing fantasy trope but it would be remiss of me if I didn’t mention the racism inherent in that idea. That some people are ‘born bad’.

I’d strongly suggest you look up the Black, Indian and First Nations people that I know are on this site critiquing these kinds of fantasy tropes. Because they will be able to explain it better then I can.

Fourthly: the term ‘psychological torture’ is a pretty common dog whistle for torture apologia.

Most of the time tortures that people dub ‘psychological’ are things with real, physical effects that lead to lasting injury and death. They just don’t tend to leave obvious external scars. I use Rejali’s term ‘clean torture’ for these techniques. Researchers distinguish them from scarring tortures because they are harder to detect and prove in court.

The majority of survivors today will have experienced clean torture. They will have no obvious physical scars. But they will still be disabled. They’re ‘just’ less likely to see any form of justice for it.

Fifthly: torture is a terrible training method because it decreases a person’s ability to learn.

Torture causes memory problems. It also often causes lasting physical injuries that make performing basic tasks more difficult. And it causes a lot of serious psychological problems which make performing basic tasks more difficult.

A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture.

I probably sound quite angry here.

I write fantasy and I also write about torture a lot. But I can’t imagine that it’s just flavour for a fantasy world or some artefact of the past. Torture is a real, present threat in the country that I grew up in. If I was to return now I could, literally, be tortured and executed.

If you want to include torture in your world, in your story then you are committing to telling someone else’s story. You are representing an incredibly marginalised group of people and you are presenting that representation to a third group, one that has never had contact with real torture survivors.

Are you comfortable with the idea of telling your peers that survivors are still controlled by ‘the enemy’? That they’re passive? That they don’t have the capacity to make their own decisions?

Are you comfortable knowing that the popularity of this message keeps millions of genocide survivors in refugee camps, blocked from citizenship, aid and safety?

I understand feeling attached to a story and a character. And I understand that this information is hard to find. Hell I’m probably going to end up with the only English copy of one of the pivotal textbooks because I’m shelling out to get it translated.

You say you want to write a torture survivor. With respect I don’t think you know what a torture survivor looks like.

I think the most helpful, and kindest, thing I can do here is describe what torture does to people. Because I can’t tell you whether that’s something you want to write. I could try and rebuild this scenario for you (and if you decide you’re interested in that after reading all of this and all the links then I suggest looking through the blog tags for ICURE, torture as training, Black Widow and Overwatch.) But I think you need to decide whether you actually want to write a torture survivor first.

Here’s a post on the most common torture apologia tropes.

Here’s the post on the types of memory problems torture commonly causes. I strongly recommend picking at least one.

Remember that this would never go away. Improvement and recovery in torture survivors means learning to live with symptoms. The symptoms themselves are permanent.

It’s a hundred different alarms set up on their phone to try and make up for the forgetfulness that makes them miss appointments. It’s the little bottle of perfume in their pocket to bring themselves back to reality when they get intrusive memories at work.

Here’s a post on the other common symptoms.

You want something in the range of 3-5 of those, though more are likely if your character is held for years. Each of them should be severe. Every single symptom should have a large, negative, impact on the character’s daily life.

Do you know anyone with chronic pain? It warps their world. Work can become impossible. Basic household tasks like getting dressed, cooking, cleaning the dishes are done through gritted teeth or not at all. Hobbies and ‘fun’ activities dwindle as they struggle to find a way to do them that doesn’t hurt. Interaction with other people, even loved ones, can easily become barbed.

Because the pain makes everything more difficult. It means everything takes more energy, more effort. Which means that things fall by the wayside, whether that’s by a pile of mouldering dishes in the sink or snapping at a child. It means tears and the social judgement that follows them. It means the world narrowing as it gets harder to go out.

Do you see what I mean? Every part of life.

That’s an example for one symptom. You need to work out at least four. Then figure out how they interact. Then figure out what the character can do to make her life better.

With chronic pain that can mean painkillers but it’s always more then that. It’s re-learning how to do things; how to put on trousers without aggravating the bad knee, how to sew with one hand. It means learning to cut down on what they do and it means learning a new sort of flexibility; accepting that there are days when the pain is too much.

It can mean having the same conversation about disability over and over again. With family, with friends, with colleagues. ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘I can do that sometimes but not always.’ ‘That will hurt me.’ ‘I can’t use that chair.’ ‘I can’t get my arms that high above my shoulders.’ ‘I need help with this.’

And that sometimes means learning a kind of patience that is really barely held back rage. Or perhaps I’m projecting a little with this last one.

If you’ve never met a torture survivor, if you’ve never looked at a survivor’s work, then all this is difficult. You’re trying to imagine something from first principals with nothing to fall back on.

So let’s bring some survivors into the discussion here. Some reality.

Who’s listened to Fela? How about Bobi Wine?

Fela Kuti was the father of modern Afro beats music. He was tortured multiple times and during one attack, which destroyed his home, his mother was murdered by the military. When he got out of jail Fela marched her funeral procession past the biggest barracks in Nigeria’s biggest city. He wrote two songs about this attack and he doubled down on his opposition to the military government.

Fela’s music started causing riots.

You can read what I have to say about him here. You can listen to his music on youtube.

Here’s an interview with Bobi Wine, which was conducted shortly after he was tortured in Uganda. He talked about how he was determined to go back and continue fighting. Which he did. He even ran against the president.

I’ve also got a short piece on Searle who was a cartoonist captured by the Japanese during World War 2. His drawings of what happened in To the Kwai and Back are worth seeing. Especially if you want to write atrocities on this scale. They will show you the scale and how to focus on the small, human elements despite that overwhelming scale.

Alleg’s The Question is pretty much a must, it’s one of the most thorough accounts from the Franco-Algerian war.

Monroe’s A Darkling Plain is also a must, it’s a series of interviews with survivors of various different conflicts and atrocities. Some are torture survivors. Some are not. It is essential reading because it shows the variety in survivors as well as giving a sense of their lives beyond the symptoms.

Finally Amnesty International has literally hundreds of interviews and studies available for free online.

The most important decision for any story with regards to torture is whether it should be there at all.

So much of this topic is intimidating and so much of it is difficult to write. Not just in the ‘oh this is horribly effecting’ sense but in the ‘I have twelve things to juggle in this simple scene’ sense.

Ask yourself what torture adds to this character and this story. What does this backstory actually give this character?

Because if the point is to have her vulnerable and then ultimately triumphing violently over her attackers I don’t think you want a torture scenario. You could get the same thing from a bad guy trying to drug her and having the kidnapping fail when she fights him off, clumsy but effective nonetheless.

And she could still come out of something like that traumatised.

Right now I really don’t see this adding anything but torture apologia to your story.

Handling torture well in a story means accepting that it can’t be the same story without it. It means watching the characters and narrative warp under the weight of it. It means lasting effects, for all the characters and for the world itself.

I believe you are capable of writing that if you want to, pet. But this ain’t it.

Edit: I’m having trouble seeing the beginning of the answer here. Can anyone let me know if there are formatting issues again please? The first word in the htmal is ‘Alright’ but what I’m seeing on tumblr starts 8 paragraphs in.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

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communist-shark · 3 years ago

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Working on a ‘ethan and eveline have to talk it out’ fic and its making me really focus in on the exact nature of the mold and Evelines form of controlling others. First off it should be stated that there is some contradicting information on how it works. Papers in re7 from Marguerite indicate that the infection process and the deterioration of the Bakers minds took several days, versus whats shown in Daughters, which seems to just be over the course of a single day. While I think Daughters is good extra content, it makes more sense to me to use the info provided from the main game as the strongest evidence for ‘canon’ functions of the mold. Firstly because its main game, and because with my theory its more logical.

It makes sense that Evelines powers take time to set in. The Connections weren’t quite yet ‘done’ with making her into a viable sellable bioweapon, so while creating and infection are quick process’ by themselves, control and manipulation are not. Eveline kills Ethan at the start of 7 to infect him, and he displays only ‘mid stage’ infection by the end of the game, with rapid healing and seeing her projected hallucinations, but is never under her control. The most useful moment of figuring out Evelines relationship to controlling others is in (the best scene of 7) the conversation with Jack. Its emphasized that direct mind control is not quite what is happening here. When Ethan says “So she infects you, and then she takes control?”, Jacks response is, “No, not exactly, son. She just-she forces her way into your mind and your soul and...you can’t fight back. You are connected to her and you can’t resist the urge to...”

Another key moment is when we realize that Lucas isn’t under Eveline’s control, and hasn’t been for quite some time. We know that Lucas is still at a ‘mid-stage’ infection as Ethan, with extreme healing, as well as hearing and seeing Eveline in his head, but Eveline is unaware that that part of her connection to Lucas was severed.

Mind control is often written as a psychic power that takes a lot of active attention and effort to do, so I find it interesting that this doesn’t seem to be the case for Eveline. The connection of the mold is the only thing she seems to register when it comes to who she knows is in or out of her system, regardless of what level she can control them. I think the most important phrasing in Jacks lines are “force” and “urge”. Force does indicate an effort on Evelines part, an active choice in thinking “I want you to do this”. Urge however...an urge is impulsive, usually sudden desires. Its comes across much more innate and intense.

Evelines mind control, to me, is a form that speaks innately to her childishness. It is an emotion based mind control, that syncs Evelines moodiness to her infected, with only a general idea of making them follow her specific commands. Even the fully infected, like Jack and Marguerite, are not under her full control in terms of their total thoughts and actions. Jack, under Evelines supposed full control, doesnt like that Ethan is ‘replacing’ him as ‘Daddy’. Mia, still infected, leaves Ethan alone after cutting his hand off. Her body still having the black veins shows she’s still under Evelines control, so it may not have been so much Mia being able to fight back Eveline as Eveline getting bored of harming Ethan and that bouncing back to Mia (until she likely realizes Ethan hasn’t passed out/died from the blood loss and sends Mia back after him again). Its not extremely attentive, because most children aren’t. She likely didn’t realize Lucas wasn’t in control anymore because he still was assisting in capturing, torturing, and killing people, something she was already making him do. Lucas’ innate moodiness of an asshole who never grew out of his shitty teenager phase makes it basically impossible for Eveline to tell the difference.

As Jack says, “The girl just wants a family of her own”. Jack saying this has a lot of importance that could be a separate post onto itself, but for this post whats relevant is I imagine he doesn’t just say this because Eveline forced his family to belong to her. He could feel it, like he had to feel every emotion she projected onto the Bakers. She wants love, she wants connection, she wants a family so much. Eveline was never going to have full control of others because, to an extent, she doesn’t want to. She wants a family who plays their roles, and everything else falls to the wayside, because she gets to play the youngest child, and that’s all that matters to her.

#re7 #eveline #jack baker #ethan winters #long post #meta #my post

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joysmercer · 3 years ago

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[early season 3, except Nina’s there so the timeline’s slightly different]

"Neens, wake up. Nina. Nina Martin. Niiinaaaaa,” a voice whispers at increasing levels of urgency.

Nina swats the hand on her shoulder away. “Jesus Christ, Amber, it’s like 3 AM. Go to bed.”

A beat passes before Nina processes her own words. “Amber!” she cries, sitting awake immediately. “What are you doing here?”

Amber looks down sheepishly. “I came back.”

“What happened to fashion school? Was Alfie trolling you again? Because if so, I will—”

“No, no, the place for me was real,” Amber assures her. “You don’t have to kill him. At least, not for this.”

Nina breathes a sigh of relief. “So, why aren’t you over there right now? I thought you were gonna enroll immediately. Trudy even baked you a goodbye cake and everything.”

“Welllll, I kinda decided not to go.”

“What? Why not? You were so excited when you found out. It’s been your dream since you were a kid.”

Amber rolls her eyes and gestures to Nina’s bed. “Can I—?”

Nina nods and Amber carefully sits cross-legged in the middle of it. She reaches for one of the extra blankets strewn about, but her hands start to tremble so badly she’s unable to wrap it around herself properly. It’s then that Nina notices the tears in her eyes.

"Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Nina says comfortingly, reaching across and taking Amber’s hands in hers. “There’s always next year. Plus, I’ve missed having you around so, so much, and it’s only been two days. I had no idea how I was going to manage Sibuna without you.”

Nina waits until her friend finally cracks a faint smile before she continues. “And you know what? This means we still get to celebrate your birthday properly tomorrow!”

Amber immediately brightens. “Oh, my birthday! Wait. Wasn’t it already my birthday?”

Nina winces. Oops. “Did I say your birthday? I meant Corbierre’s birthday! Victor’s planned a whole fête, as he called it.”

“Corbierre. Victor’s stuffed bird. Okay, I know he’s weirdly attached to that thing, but this is a lot, even for him,” Amber says, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah, well, you know him. Always up to something,” Nina chirps, hoping Amber wouldn’t press the issue. Unfortunately, she has no such luck.

“Nina Martin, what's going on?”

“Okay, well, it’s not just me, but basically the guys felt bad for acting like idiots over my Frobisher vision during your actual party”—Amber visibly grimaces at the memory, and Nina doesn’t blame her; the fight led to the demise of all three relationships in the household, including both of theirs, and a month-long detention for everyone—“so we all got together to organize a bigger one for tomorrow before we knew, or, I guess, thought, you were leaving. You cannot tell them you know.”

Amber makes a zip motion across her mouth. “My lips are sealed!”

Nina returns Amber’s elated grin but sobers up soon after. She still hasn’t forgotten what led them to this conversation in the first place. “So, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but why did you come back?” she asks.

“Oh, Nina, it was awful,” Amber says sadly. “Daddy came with me, obvi, and I was so excited to show him around and meet my instructors and everything, but he kept talking about how he expected more from me and how this isn’t a ‘good career path’ or whatever. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be a pharmacist like he wants me to—really? Me on a farm?”

Nina’s heart sinks. She knew how proud Amber had been when her father complimented her designs just a short while ago, and how excited she was for the opportunity to make it her career. “I’m really sorry, Amber. I was so sure he was on board after your amazing Business Studies project.”

“Our Business Studies project,” Amber corrects her. “I mean, I did do all the designs, but it was your report that made us winners.”

“Oh, stop it.” Nina blushes. Amber laughs, and a dormant set of butterflies, once reserved only for someone she’s now barely on speaking terms with, suddenly reawakens in the pit of Nina’s stomach. That's…different.

The feeling doesn’t get any better when Amber abruptly jumps off the bed, pulling Nina up with her. “You know what I need right now?”

“Huh?” Nina’s brain takes a temporary vacation as Amber’s clear-blue eyes glimmer at her mischievously.

“A midnight feast in the cellar,” Amber whispers. “Go open the door from the kitchen; I’ll wake the other girls up.”

Nina nods, unable to form a coherent sentence to actually reply while Amber still holds her hand.

Before she can turn toward the other room, Amber suddenly presses a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did, just by being here.” Amber smiles. “Oh, this year is going to be So. Much. Fun.”

Nina raises a hand to touch the spot on her cheek. Watching Amber skip away, she can’t help but agree.

#house of anubis #amber millington #nina martin #nina x amber #namber #hoa fanfic #it was absolutely not supposed to become namber okay. that was not the plan. not that i had a plan but that was not it #it just. happened #as they deserve tbh #also #i came up with way too much backstory for this that didn't make it in so like. if you want to hear more from this au please ask LOL #hoa: nina season 3 au #my writing #myposts

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bouncingkadachi · 3 years ago

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Blessed Rain

Summary: A Hunter’s weapon of choice says a lot about them. OR: Kyle upgrades his weaponry and gets caught red-handed in the act. Luckily (?) for him, only Tsukino seems to know exactly why he's having an emotional crisis over this.

Word count: 3,260

Note(s): set post-game

Also available on AO3!

Kyle’s had his new bow for a good couple of weeks before the feel of the limbs and the weight of the draw became comfortable enough for him to consider upgrading it. If he’s going to be injured, he reasons, he’d rather it be purely by way of monster and not because he pulls a muscle wrestling with a bow that hasn’t been properly broken in. His wallet despairs as he forks over the zenny, but this’ll hopefully let him take on some of the bigger hunts like the ones that Reverto goes on. It’ll all be worth the investment up front once he has his completely finished bow and restocked his coatings and finally drops the last of his coin on a couple new talismans.

He refuses to think about the implications of his reasoning with a literal coin, rolling it around and around his fingers as he pushes through the market throngs towards the smithy’s. Perhaps he ought to have a change of scenery—the fog-shrouded summits of Terga were said to be particularly beautiful at this time of year, and the heat in Lamure was becoming just shy of unbearable.

The final product that the blacksmith puts into his hands when he finally makes it to collect is nothing short of gorgeous. Blessed Rain is sleek where his old Rex bow was bulky, far lighter and certainly not as clunky. The upgrades on the riser gives the entire weapon a pleasant solidness in his hand, yet the delicately reinforced plating on the limbs doesn’t retract at all from its flexibility. The decorative grip protector gleams. Just looking at it makes Kyle excited to shoot.

“Bring her back if you’re finding that you need anything adjusted,” the smith tells him after Kyle’s diligently inspected every inch of the bow. “Kept the poundage the same for you, but added another inch to the draw length like you asked.”

“Thanks,” Kyle says. Eventually, he’d like to work up to the point where he can up the poundage again. Even just another five pounds would be good. He can do most of the hunts in his skill range alone now, but extra firepower would make him just that much more efficient, or that much of a better support for team hunts.

The smith laughs when Kyle sheepishly admits this. “Well, I always like to help a Hunter improve, and you know where to find me,” he says cheerily, clapping Kyle enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Come by again anytime if you need a tune up or want to test out something new.”

And with that, he waves Kyle away so that another Hunter can step up, holding a tired-looking sword and shield and looking equally exhausted. “Aye, rookie Hunter?” Kyle hears as he wanders off to find a more relaxed corner of the market in which to admire his new bow some more. “If you’ve got the materials I can repair and upgrade that for you.” The conversation peters out and melts into the general din of the marketplace as Kyle slips into the crowd, taking care to step out of the way of a Felyne carrying an absolutely massive basket groaning with produce. He watches the precarious load totter away, trying and failing to locate Tsukino in the brief respite the parted crowd affords him. They’d split earlier that morning and he hasn’t seen her since.

He still hasn’t managed to find even a whisker of Tsukino’s whereabouts by the time he settles into a decently quiet nook next to a stall selling all manner of spices. Pity, because the dappled light spilling through the colorful drapes of the marketplace catches so beautifully on the milky-white sheen of the bow, and he’d been looking forward to showing it to her. As a Hunter, Kyle will always care more about weapon practicality than aesthetics, but as a normal human being he certainly won’t turn down the opportunity to have both an aesthetically pleasing and perfectly functional weapon. He’s still grinning a little when he goes to strap the bow to his back, and it’s in the process of looking up that his gaze catches onto wide eyes staring plainly at him from across the street.

He freezes, arm suspended awkwardly halfway to sheathing. His beautiful bow glints damningly in the bright Lamure sunlight as his unexpected friend wades through the throngs of people towards him, gesturing for him to stay put with a wave of her hand that really can’t be mistaken for anything other than a greeting.

“Hey,” he says cautiously and lamely when she finally reaches him. Belatedly, he remembers to lower his arm. He is momentarily thankful that she doesn’t try to reach up for his face in the Mahanan greeting, although his goodwill evaporates when she leans in to inspect his bow, body thrumming with unexplainable anticipation.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” she says finally. Kyle can’t help himself from preening just a little, shifting his grip so that she can get a better look. After all, what was the point of spending all that money and materials if there was no one to excitedly show the end product off to? Besides, it’s been a while since they last saw each other. Last he heard, she had been traveling, keen to finally see the world on her own terms and at her own pace.

“It’s fresh off an upgrade,” he answers smugly. “Easier to handle than the Rex.”

“Slightly less intimidating though,” she chimes in, and Kyle bristles, not liking where this conversation is going. And true to form, she goes in for the kill: “Mizutsune? I recognize the plating.”

Kyle can feel the flush crawling up to his ears. Logically, he knows that there’s nothing for him to be embarrassed about. It’s a mark of good smithing that one can tell at a glance which monster a weapon was inspired by, and a Mizutsune was both powerful and extremely iconic. This bow in particular had good stats and the ability to fire rapidly, which admittedly took him some time to get used to after focusing mostly on piercing shots. The paralysis coating that works so well on this bow has also already saved his skin on more than one occasion. There is little more a career Hunter can ask for out of his weapon. It’s not like he’d been heading out to Pomore Garden at any given opportunity and holding onto an increasing multitude of Mizutsune materials just because he wanted some physical reminder of what was probably the most pivotal moment of his life, something that never failed to put a very complicated and jumbled mess of emotions deep within his chest whenever he thought back to it.

He’s starting to feel very, very hot under his collar. The sun is terrible. He resolves that his next big hunt really needs to be somewhere outside of Lamure.

His friend, however, just looks more and more baffled as he launches into an unprompted defense of his newest purchase. Every time she opens her mouth, Kyle talks a little faster. Eventually, she doesn’t even bother trying to interject, which is arguably worse, because instead she just looks progressively more and more thoughtful. Kyle wished desperately for Tsukino to peel away from whatever hidey hole she was tucked in. Then, his train of thought screeches into a rude and abrupt halt.

“What,” he croaks. “What are you doing.”

One of her brows quirks up. “I sure hope your eyes are still working because that’d be a detriment to your job,” she says plainly. “What does it look like I’m doing? I promise it’s not a trick question.”

What she’s doing is holding Kyle’s hand—the one not clutching his new bow—the one that had apparently been waving about with increasing agitation as he jabbered on and on. What Kyle doesn’t understand is why. It’s not like he just did some impressive shot to give them the edge in a battle or anything else that was cool and hand-holding worthy. He’d just been yammering about bow mechanics, and maybe embarrassingly dipping into his talisman hopes and dreams. He stares a little helplessly at his trapped hand. Her kinship stone winks up at him.

“Look,” she says patiently, when it becomes very clear that Kyle is going to need a moment before he can get his brain back online. “There’s nothing wrong with a bow made from Mizutsune parts and I am the last person who will ever turn down pretty things. What I was going to say was that this is an interesting departure from your whole—” She pauses, as though looking for a specific word. “Well, your whole image as a very grown-up and serious and intimidating Hunter or whatever it was you were trying to convey with that scowl you used to like so much. And you weren’t letting me get a single word in.”

“You’re getting plenty of words in now,” Kyle scowls, just to be contrary. “And I’ve grown since then.”

“Someone’s in a mood today.” She smiles, crinkle-eyed, up at him. Kyle very seriously debates wrenching his hand out of her hold like he did the last time this happened and then pointedly doesn’t act on the impulse.

“Why’re you in Lulucion?” he asks instead with a truly remarkable level of self-restraint. “Thought you’d never want to come back again after what happened.”

She shrugs, the greatsword on her back heaving with the movement. “Guess I’ve grown too,” she says loftily, though she sobers quickly. “I was actually visiting my grandfather. He used to go back to Mahana around this time of year… he can’t do it anymore of course but I’ve got Ratha now, so I figured I could do it instead. And then I figured I’d stop by Rutoh before going home, to see Ena and Alwin and wheedle a few more stories out of them.”

She lets go of Kyle’s hand. He tries not to miss it. “Even Ratha can’t make the trip in one go, and Lulucion was closest, so we’re stopping to rest. I dropped by the Scrivener’s Lodge earlier because I was hoping Reverto could give me a few weapon pointers as I’ve saved up just about enough for an upgrade, but they told me that he was out on an urgent mission and wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Oh,” Kyle says, a little stung that she hadn’t come specifically to see him first, out of all the Hunters in the city. He’s slightly mollified when she grins at him, though.

“And then I met Tsukino by the cannons. She said I could find you here, so here I am.”

“I don’t know anything about greatswords,” Kyle blurts out, and immediately wants to kick himself. She blinks at him, and then bursts into laughter.

“I was just going to ask the smith,” she wheezes when she’s got herself somewhat back under control. “Can’t I see a friend just to say hi to him anymore?” Kyle stares very intently down at some of the finer detailing on his bow.

“Where is my Palico anyway?” he finally settles on, falling into a tried and true grumble. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

She waves her hand vaguely in the air. “Navirou said something about getting donuts. I wasn’t really listening.”

But there was a donut stand right here in the marketplace, Kyle wanted to cry out. He should have seen Tsukino by now if they’d really been going to buy snacks! And how was it possible that he had missed Navirou in his entirety, between the Felyne’s penchant for wearing ridiculous little outfits and his inability to shut up?

“Why? You have a hunt you need to run off to?”

“Yes,” Kyle says hotly. It’s a lie. He’d accepted a subquest that wouldn’t depart until later that evening for the sole purpose of testing out his new weapon in a relatively stress-free environment. Before that, he’d just planned on hitting up the shooting range in the training arena to break in the new string. His schedule was very, very free. Tsukino was perfectly aware of that.

His eyes widened. Tsukino had been with him on every excursion into the Gardens. She went where he did (usually), and it’s not like Kyle would ever begrudge her a visit home. But she’d been with him every step of every single Mizutsune job he’d ever taken—had watched him craft traps when he needed to capture and had kept watch for opportunists hoping to sneak up as he’d carved. She’d been the one who’d recommended the spinner for all the excess purplefur he was ending up with. At first, he’d simply thought that she’d wanted the thread to mend some of her own items, or to send back home to her brethren, but instead she’d tucked each skein of vibrant, silk-soft thread into the bottom of his pouch with gentle paws, cryptically talking about how strong a material it was, and how nice it looked when woven. Kyle has never touched a loom in his life, but now he’s looking at someone who he definitely knows has.

His stomach drops. Hadn’t Tsukino looked particularly smug ever since he’d lingered on the blueprints for Blessed Rain after getting a look at its stats and required materials?

“She got me,” he groans. His friend just looks at him bemusedly, though perhaps with a touch of wariness at his ferocious frown. Hastily, he tacks on: “It’s nothing. I, uh—I just remembered that I needed to tell Tsukino something. Important. Later, when I find her again.”

“Alright,” she says, though she doesn’t quite look like she believes him. “A quest’s a quest, though, so I won’t keep you here. The bow really is pretty though. I know I just said it doesn’t match your image and all but I really don’t think you can go wrong with something you like. You’ve got the skills for it, anyway.”

“Thanks,” he croaks, feeling a little overwhelmed. He manages two whole steps out of the nook before he pauses, worrying at his lower lip. “Actually,” he says sharply, spinning around on his heel and nearly causing his friend to startle right into a spice display. “How long are you staying for?”

“However long it’ll take to upgrade my sword, I guess,” she says after she collects herself, the words lilting into a question. “Three days or so, I guess?” She skirts nervously away from the glaring vendor, careful not to overbalance on her greatsword.

“Cool,” Kyle says with a nod, steeling himself. “Great, even. Look, how about this. Your last visit to Lulucion was terrible—” an understatement, “—so when I get back from my hunt I’ll show you some of the better sights Lulucion has to offer. There’s a hole in the wall that I think you’ll like. Dad used to take me after hunts—they grill really nice queen shrimp. And the parapets—you can climb them, and they’ve got all these little carvings in the stone that you can search for like a scavenger hunt.” He’s keenly aware that he’s rambling again, but she looks interested, so he barrels on. “I’ll come pick you up tomorrow just as soon as I can get a nap in. We can stay in the city or take Ratha out to the Barrens, down by the water. Just make a day of it.” He’s pretty certain that he looks at her with something akin to hope as she considers. It feels like a lifetime before she finally comes to a decision.

“I want to take Ratha out in the evening,” she says finally. “I don’t want him to be cooped up too long here ever again.”

“Yeah,” Kyle breathes out, the word rushing out of him in a flood of relief. “Yeah, I can work around that.” She beams at him.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she says, sincere and looking more than a little surprised despite herself at the prospect of looking forward to doing anything in Lulucion. “I’m staying at the inn closest to the stables. Pretty sure I’m the only Rider there currently so they’ll know who I am.” Kyle nods, and lets himself get his hand squeezed again, though not without her hands first hovering in an instinctual bid for his cheeks before she remembers herself.

“Good luck on your hunt. If I see Tsukino I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

“She’ll show up in due time,” he mutters darkly. “I’ll let you know if Reverto gets back early or if he’s just been loafing around this entire time. For your next upgrade or whatever.” She laughs, bright, and then slips off into the crowd to wrestle her way into the smithy’s queue. Kyle is left staring in her wake before his gaze is drawn back down to his bow.

“This is all your fault,” he tells it. Predictably, it doesn’t answer. Also predictably, Tsukino takes that exact moment to drop down from seemingly nowhere.

“I didn’t know we had another job lined up,” the Felyne says delicately, carefully brushing crumbs off of her coat. Kyle groans, sheathing his weapon.

“Don’t tease me,” he huffs. “I’m going to the shooting range. Are you coming?”

“Hmm,” says Tsukino. “I suppose I can spare the time.”

“Of course you can spare the time!” Kyle hisses, indignant. “You just spent the day eating donuts and eavesdropping!” He pointedly doesn’t look towards the smithy, where his friend was patiently browsing the display while another Hunter was getting their hammer looked at.

“One must always be prepared with the latest intel,” Tsukino says mildly. “I’m glad the upgrade went well.”

“It’s got good stats,” Kyle protests weakly in what is quickly becoming a tired argument. “The rapid shots have been going very well. And I had a surplus of Mizutsune parts.”

“Yes,” his hunting partner agrees readily enough. “Have you thought of what you’re going to do with the thread?”

“This conversation is finished,” Kyle says abruptly, making a very determined push towards the market’s exit. “Either come or don’t, so long as we meet at the gate for tonight’s hunt.”

Tsukino looks at him with exasperated fondness, which is frankly a little insulting, but readily falls into step next to him. Kyle wonders how many rounds he’s going to have to shoot in order to clear his head again and rid it of thoughts of Hazepetal Garden or Mizutsune or high-grade thread that he’ll never use himself. He’ll examine them again someday—because he’s not a coward—but that day is most certainly not today.

He does his rounds in the training arena and marvels at the way the string slides off his fingers with a satisfying twang, even though it’ll still be a good few days before it’s fully broken in to his liking. Tsukino’s saved him a donut, the cakey sweet sticky with honey and practically melting in his mouth. He’s got some free time even after stocking up for the evening hunt, so he takes a few minutes to browse the quest board, taking careful note of the jobs that were situated near the Harzgai Rocky Hill, or the ones from further afield in Alcala that’ll take him closer to Rutoh. And when he leaves the city, he pointedly doesn’t look up at the familiar shape circling in the dusky sky, even as he knows that they’ll surely see the last rays of the setting sun winking off of the plates of his bow like a beacon.

#was anyone going to tell me that HR Kyle gets a MIZU BOW #You were just going to withhold this vital piece of information from me?#anyway here's 3k words about the significance of Mizutsune to one (1) boy that I love #I wrote this specifically with my idiot in mind #but asides from the gender and a few other lines I guess you can generalize to any other Rider #monster hunter kyle #monster hunter stories 2 #Annie writes

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st-just · 3 years ago

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Semi-Coherent Thoughts on Caste

(since I forgot to finish the draft I had on finishing this, might as well make it a full review)

It’s an interesting book, in that it’s a well put together argument for the contemporary liberal commensense on racism in the published and edited book form. If nothing else, it saves me the embarrassment of drawing a line between ‘article worth referencing’ and ‘some guy’s hot take’ when it comes to defining that.

The book’s central thesis - that the American racial hierarchy is best understood as a caste system with white at the top, black at the bottom, and everyone else awkwardly shuffled somewhere into the middle as convenient - is, like I said, basically the consensus position in liberal circles at the moment, if not quite in those terms. Wilkerson actually follows through on that and spends a decent chunk of the book detailing and comparing it to two other caste systems - mostly the Indian example, though with occasional digressions on Nazi race laws and antisemitism. (I’m honestly a bit curious why she didn’t use the racial system in, like, Mexico or Brazil since they seem like fairly obvious comparisons. But it’s pretty clear from the book that it’s the Indian caste system that caught her imagination. Well, and on a persuasive level it’s probably useful for the main comparison to not be based around white people)

Wilkerson hits all the requisite basic points - ‘white’ and ‘black’ as identities were invented in the New World to justify the slave trade and prevent the lower order of European indentured servants from allying with African slaves on class lines; slavery was an engine of atrocities, a major source of wealth for white Americans, and societally brutalizing, basically training white society that black people’s suffering was utterly unimportant; the Redeemed South post-civil war was run by exactly the same people as the old slave system was very nearly as oppressive and enforced with exemplary brutality (with plenty of blood curdling anecdotes of lynchings to make the point); race was and is a totally incoherent concept and outside of the central places for NW Europeans and Sub-Saharan Africans who counted as white and where other people slotted in the hierarchy was, if not totally arbitrary, then entirely down to the politics of the moment; processes like redlining and exclusion from the GI bill prevented black families from building wealth or entering the middle class the way others were able to during the 20th century - like, if you’ve been even slightly keeping up with The Discourse, nothing particularly new, though nicely written and well put together with footnotes.

(Though I mean, discussing it in terms of ritual pollution makes the way white communities literally paved over public pools and abolished public school districts rather than integrate them marginally more comprehensible.)

When the book gets to the modern day, it gets much less interested in describing the caste system or what it’s like living under it in general than in the experiences of black people who gain access to areas or positions still viewed as white-by-default. Which is to say, there’s a casual mention here or there about the wealth disparity, but in terms of focus it’s overwhelmingly about successful, wealthy or credentialed black people, since America’s generally traded explicit racial segregation for segregating by class instead. Which I mean, does make sense, both in that ‘being poor is shit’ provides significantly fewer news stories of particular outrages to draw upon and because that’s very much the group Wilkerson’s in and she uses her own experiences as illustrative examples throughout the book. And, as far as being a persuasive work goes and given the really obvious intended audience of ‘white democrat who voted for Biden and really hated Trump but hasn’t paid much attention to the whole racial reckoning that’s theoretically happening”, someone whose Just Like You getting mistreated entirely and obviously because they’re black is probably more convincing than trying to explain the cycle of poverty or War on Drugs and how it ties into mass incarceration (which got bizarrely little attention). Still, like, it gets noticeable after a while.

This isn’t helped by a deeply uncomfortable chapter analogizing human society to the pack structures of dogs. Like, it’s certainly not the only thing the book’s about, but there’s very much a view floating through it that humanity does have an inherent hierarchy of talent, and that one of the greatest injustices of racism is that it deprives humanity as a whole of the genius and leadership of the ‘natural alphas’ (her words) with the bad luck to be born outside the upper caste, and forces people temperamentally unsuited to the command and rule into the role just because they were born to the right parents/with the right genitals/skin tone/etc. Which is all very r/neoliberal, but sure, except it does make the general lack of concern for nature’s cashiers and ditch diggers a bit disquieting.

Also I know ‘solutions’ chapters in books like this are inevitably slapped together at the last minute, but I’m mildly shocked by how, well, milquetoast the book’s proposed answers are. Like, the book goes from an anecdote of the author panicking after Trump got elected that we’re heading into a new 1880s to a heartwarming anecdote about how she was able to bond with a MAGA-hat wearing plumber over both missing their dead moms and make him treat her like a real human being through that. And then the explicit proposed solutions are ‘do a Truth and Reconciliation Commission” and “bond with black people over hobbies or shared experiences or something and treat them as individuals”. Which, sure, good advice, but also feels pretty woefully inadequate given the previous 400 pages.

But yeah, interesting enough read. And now I really need to find a good book or three on Indian history.

#books #caste: the origin of our discontents #isabel wilkerson #in this essay i will #book review #history #racism #this is theoretically a writing blog

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flickeringart · 4 years ago

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Virgo Sun and Moon Combinations

Planets represent different energetic principals in the life of an individual – the signs show what filter these energies express through.

Having an inner planet (or luminary) in the sign of Virgo gives the personality a shrewd, analytical quality. No matter what other placements the person has, the methodical and adaptive nature is going to come through.

To simplify;

The Sun represents individuation, ideal self-expression and conscious self-actualization.

The Moon represents instinct, emotional nature and personal needs.

Virgo Sun – Aquarius Moon

This person’s path of individuation involves coming to understand the components of physical life as intimately as possible. This means that a sense of self is found through in depth observation of what works and doesn’t work in terms of handling everyday life. A lot of emphasis should be put on following the empirical trail of cause and effect, but not to establish a deterministic view that life is fundamentally working like a wound up toy and that there’s no free will. The person should seek to understand life in order to work with it in order to gain a sense of autonomy. Emphasis should be put on attempting to do the right thing in terms of carrying out behavior. The emotional temperament is quite level, not too dramatic unless it is to prove a point or initiate change. The instinct is to understand one’s own needs on an intellectual level and relate to them as abstractions, as phenomena of the human condition. There’s likely a strong urge for independence and self-possession in this person. Being dominated and disrespected would be the worst, especially since there’s an idealistic streak to the temperament. Behaving in a way that fails to indicate that certain essential humanitarian values are in place makes this person’s skin crawl. The person needs space in relationships more than anything – being burdened by too much confusion or chaos doesn’t work well. Some people are comfortable with intensely personal experiences, which is not the case for this person. There has to be space around everything that is experienced, a kind of detachment from the up close and personal. One could probably navigate any terrain as long as one wasn’t “in it” completely. Change is always felt to be possible to this individual. The mind or the “soul” has to be held in the greatest esteem as to not let it be tainted by the limited and temporary. Although the temperament is idealistic, the path of selfhood is more concerned with the realistic. It’s concerned with the resources and conscious cultivation of health on a practical level. In many ways, this combo lends itself well to living in alignment with convictions while remaining open to reconsidering and redoing things in order to improve well-being. The fixed temperament stabilizes the personality while there’s a continuous striving to become more nuanced and flexible as part of the individuation process. Overall, there’s the potential to be of true service in the world, and to show an ethical and liberal disposition. One should be cautious of the tendency to become obsessed with perfection in oneself and other people to the point of detriment. It’s good to have high standards but they shouldn’t become a burden.

Virgo Sun – Taurus Moon

The person would strive to develop the observational and analytical faculties throughout life while being temperamentally suited for the long-term grind. A stable and functional base of material safety is sought first and foremost to meet the personal needs. As it relates to individuation, there’s more of an emphasis on curiosity and processing information rather than merely settling into a comfortable life. The person would find a sense of selfhood through caring about organizing and structuring things and to make it work practically. Usually there’s a lot of reassessing and adjusting that is going to be part of the person’s life path. The intellect is supposed to be sharpened and put to use as to facilitate a smooth process of living. The emotional nature is quite compatible with what the definition of the ideal self, which makes it so that there’s not tug between potential and innate temperament. The overall personality is earth based, which comes with all the positive qualities of practicality, duty, good work ethic, patience, stability and serenity. On the flip side, there are the negative qualities of stagnancy, blind stubbornness and avoidance of change. The more the person self-actualizes, the more flexibility and adaptability is going to show. The innate temperament is quite fixed and reliable in that the person will instinctually gravitate toward what’s familiar and constant. Too much unpredictability and uncertainty makes the person worried and anxious. The person needs to know that he or she owns things permanently and be reassured that some things aren’t going to alter with time. There’s a need for permanence that has to be considered and met. Physical comfort is extremely important and should not be overlooked. Fortunately, this is also part of what it means to be stepping into one’s identity. To organize the physical components of one’s life situation and to make them work in harmony as to secure overall health and well-being. It’s important to not fall into the trap of micro managing everything and cultivating a sound judgment on what is worth obsessing about and what is not. With a double earth combo it’s advisable to not become too dogmatic and fixated on ritual. It’s easier said than done, because it’s true that the routines that we stick to can make or break us, get us to where we want or in the opposite direction. It’s good to attempt to take a more broad perspective and detach from the outcome enough to not be blinded by the fear of not doing things right. Life has it’s own invisible intelligence and not everything depends on us being on top of things in order to prevent disaster.

Virgo Sun – Scorpio Moon

The person strives to be self-reliant, methodical and reasonable. The person is set on a path of self-sufficiency and a path of acquiring skillsets that are useful. The person should strive to anchor his or her life in service – being receptive to what any given situation calls for in terms of adjustment. That which can be done should be done in this person’s opinion - it should be done with humility and genuine desire to be of assistance. Virgo Suns are people who strive to better themselves, to facilitate and make way for the optimal expression of life. This requires openness and discernment as well as good observational ability. In combo with a Scorpio Moon, the personality is set up for laser sharp focus. The emotional nature is intensely linked to the person’s individual self; everything that is felt is taken personally. The person is quick to spot threat and very careful to let people in. Vulnerability is guarded carefully. One might be prone to quickly be triggered into defense mode and as a result, attack or isolate in order to cope. The person is probably afraid of their own ability to feel and afraid of other people’s ignorance and lack of awareness. There’s usually a lot of pent up anger, or more accurately – rage. There’s not much that this person forgets because there’s the experience of being permanently damaged by things. Emotions are given enormous importance and are not just something one goes through. It is who one is on an innate, instinctual level. For this reason it becomes very important to this type of individual to control emotions because they are so intense and fearful. This can become a vicious cycle because the more rigid and controlling one becomes, the more the emotions are suppressed and allowed to fester. The analytical Virgo identity might try to rationally deal with the inexplicable intensity, trying to make sense of things intellectually. Sometimes this works and sometimes it doesn’t because the conscious mind can only brush the surface of what is going on most of the time. However, with this combo it seems like practical skills will have to be developed in order to navigate the emotional climate. The person may go through daily deaths and rebirths; feelings of being in control and out of control yet there’s probably a deep need to transcend all of it. There could be a lot of dabbing in the mysteries of life, the underpinnings of reality. This combo likely produces a reserved individual that has a strong magnetism and shrewd judgment. The person would strive to look put together and impeccable – strive to have an eye for the details and technicalities of things. No doubt the person would come off as intimidating because of the secretive and intense vibe, not to mention the proclivity to be critical and realistic. There would also be the impression of strength and efficiency on the more positive end of the bargain.

Virgo Sun – Leo Moon

The practical busybody is combined with an open display of emotion. This combo could be a person who is concerned with making things work practically while needing to get recognition and attention for it. These signs together present a bit of a paradox because Virgo is the humble servant and Leo is the divine child. The person strives to be of service – to be someone who is self-possessed and willing to be put to use in the world to serve. The personal temperament on the other hand is dramatic and big – one wants to be treated as someone special, someone who is talented and worthy of admiration. The person might experience a disharmony within relative to these distinctly different pulls if one hasn’t worked out a way to make room for them both yet. If the need for appreciation isn’t met, the person might turn sulky, bitter and resentful. There might be an attempt to create drama or inflate the emotional experiences in order to make people take notice of the inner experiences. Leo Moon can be the epitome of a drama queen, as it tends to blow things up in order to enhance a sense of significance. However, the Virgo ideal is not on board with any of the drama and disarray. A solar Virgo wants to actualize qualities of proper conduct and proper living. This usually doesn’t include exaggeration or unnecessary demonstrations of one’s worth. In Virgo’s mind people should know their worth, not resort to “shameful” self-expression and self-centeredness. One’s worth is shown through diligence and intelligence in the way one handles life. There’s more of a respectful approach to Virgo, although the person might slip-up in moments of stress and become overly critical of the environment and of other people. In general the person has high standards and could turn sour if other people get more love (attention) and rewards for their work and efforts. The person can’t stand not being given their due – even if one probably claims that “it doesn’t matter”. The key is, of course, to not focus so much on others and focus in on one’s own uniqueness and talents. One doesn’t have to prove or compare oneself to other’s so called “success” - it never really works. It’s wise to hone in on what makes one feel strong and important, on what generates confidence and steer one’s thoughts and actions in that direction. The path of self-actualization is to develop useful skills in order to serve life and to serve the self. The lunar needs will benefit greatly from the confidence boost of “being good at something” which might lead to less friction felt on an emotional level. Acquiring skills will make the person feel worthwhile and of value to others and the self.

Virgo Sun – Libra Moon

The orderly and detail oriented ideal self is combined with a relationship- oriented temperament. This combo is the definition of “perfection” or “pleasantness” because the person is preoccupied with other people and creating social harmony while striving to be humble and put-together. The person probably has an exceptionally likable air. There’s probably an innocence that is unmistakable that stems from a need for harmony and an ideal of orderliness. On a temperamental level, the person needs to be liked and will do anything to gain other people’s approval. This is not done by down right agreeing with everything other people think - it’s done through skillful diplomacy, of defending an ideal of fairness at all costs. Friction is unbearable to this person and there’s always an attempt to make it go away by adjusting and modifying. There’s sensitivity to roughness because the person craves the light and easy more than anything. Overall the personality is very unsuited for coarse and “less than civilized” behavior. The person is set on perfection when it comes to planning, processing and relating to other people. The sensitivity to imbalance can be both a blessing and a gift. On the one hand it can make others feel judged, on the other hand it can make them feel respected and protected. There’s always a tendency with the Libra Moon to not take sides but to always side with the idea of the ideal and attempt to adjust things accordingly. The Virgo Sun doesn’t operate from an ideal but from the standpoint of what could facilitate everyday life and lead to optimal and well-rounded health. Virgo works from a standpoint of examining life and taking action according to what is practically needed in the present. The person would appreciate neat simplicity. Everything that is done should have a purpose, ideally. However, the instinctual needs might occasionally push toward indulging in pleasure for pleasure’s sake. It might not be the most practical and healthy choice that is made from this space, but there’s little risk of over doing it since it all stays within what is considered to be “right” according to a certain standard of pleasantness. Moderation would be the unconscious program this person is running on. It is accomplished by constantly checking the self to evaluate what is working and not working. The person’s ultimate fulfillment lies is adapting and adjusting to evolve and become better through trial and error.

Virgo Sun – Capricorn Moon

The process of individuation is characterized by constant improvement, of adjusting and modifying components of physical life in order for it to be purposeful. The innate temperament is concentrated, serious and restricted. There’s probably difficult for this person to let emotions flow freely without attempting to keep them in place. There’s fear of sensation getting out of hand and hindering one’s ability to keep up with one’s ambition. There’s an innate need to achieve and accomplish something tangible that will meet one’s needs but it seems to require effort and temporary deprivation. The concept of “work” is ingrained in the person. Nothing is free of charge. One can’t expect to get any true fulfillment through luck– that’s just not how the world works. One has to organize and limit the self in the right way in order to yield concrete results. Safety, comfort and satisfaction are not gained through letting things be. The base line is always misery and disorder but one can work upwardly to reach heights of joy. If anything, this kind of person has the potential for making something happen in the world of form through deliberate strategy. The Virgo Sun seeks to be of service to be genuinely helpful in terms of work while the Capricorn Moon provides an innate work ethic and a patience to see things through when the going gets rough. That being said there’s always a risk for depriving oneself too much with a Cap Moon. A lot of guilt and fear can lie at the core of motivation, making the work more destructive than constructive to the person. It’s very important to not let the concern of failure dominate one’s whole existence, although it’s easier said than done with this combo. Self-care and self-acceptance play a big role in living a happy life – without a dose of ease along the long road of life the goal won’t be worth it. With this combo there’s the proclivity for judging and critiquing excessively to the point of it becoming depressing to the self and to others. It’s not always helpful to jump in and be the fixer of everything - sometimes things don’t have to be forced, they can be trusted to work themselves out. Being busy isn’t always the most productive; sometimes space is needed to receive some clarity on how to proceed. Taking action and going to work on something is what this person is going to excel at. Assessing what a situation needs and providing it will feel wonderful because it’s in alignment with one’s ideal self. Although the emotional temperament is strained and austere, it’s deeply invested in doing what is “right” and not being too demonstrative about it.

Virgo Sun – Cancer Moon

This combo reflects a gentle and humble person that is instinctively caring and keen to be of service. There’s going to be something pure and innocent about the person, which is not to imply that one exudes weakness, merely that one is self-possessed and sensitive. The person likes to be someone who can look after him or herself, but at the same time craves to be cared for by another person. There might be a strong need for close personal relationships with a simultaneous striving to rely on one’s own capability and discernment. On the one hand, the person would like to rationally observe and think and reach conclusions on his or her own – to take action according to the gathering of facts. On the other hand there’s a tendency to come off as needy and moody, to let complaining and whining take over. A Cancer Moon is a tricky one, because it has a direction and an agenda but it won’t pursue its needs upfront. It pursues closeness through displaying sensitivity and vulnerability and appealing to people’s sympathy – not necessarily in a clingy way though. A Cancer Moon usually offers understanding and emotional support in return for being listened to. They don’t tend to judge people for feeling, but they certainly condemn that which is harsh and attacking. Instinctively, the person is defensive rather than assertive. The Virgo Sun would help to keep the person keep occupied with something concrete instead of staying stuck in protection mode. The solar Virgo always seeks solutions and answers; they aim to be resourceful and effective. More than likely the person would develop great skills to deal with overwhelm and mood swings through organizing the daily life in the right way – managing diet or routine in order to remedy the worst of it. The person would likely have an air of being “a good and decent person” without any frills or excesses. Cutting to the point of what is important and avoiding the unnecessary makes for a good life. It’s the little things that matter; the day-to-day living that is treasured the most. Being able to enjoy the ordinary is what this person does the best. Truly, the person just want to be caring and of the utmost use when it comes to their own and other people’s well being. There’s great potential for intuitively sensing what others are experiencing emotionally which blends well with the desire to be of service. This person is not only concerned with the physical but with the emotional as well – the soul has to be fed first and foremost.

Virgo Sun – Aries Moon

The ideal self is methodical and practical while the instinctual self is impulsive and assertive. There’s a lot of energy to this person that needs an outlet. There’s a thrill that’s experienced through projecting and extending energy outwardly. What this person needs is very simple, to be protruding and uncompromisingly expressive. Usually one gets away with it because it is done in such a genuine and uncalculated manner that it won’t produce long term grudges in other people. The person is very direct and forceful temperamentally, but it’s not sprung out of festering emotion. One moves on and forgets quite quickly even though things can get heated in the moment. The ideal self, as represented by the Virgo Sun, is however not entirely compatible with the instinctual Aries mode. Virgo is quietly observing and getting things done in order to purposefully put things in order. It’s deliberate and thoughtful in action and method. Nothing is left to chance because life is too important to not take seriously. There are too many components and factors that are necessary to make up a good life – the devil is in the details. The Aries temperament can unfortunately function counter to the Virgo ideal, causing a great deal of tension and frustration within the person. Instinctually, the person is not humble and doesn’t like taking advice or asking for help. One just wants to express for the sake of expressing – it doesn’t have to be perfect or profound in anyway. Emotionally the person just wants to be allowed to be direct and honest without having to modify behavior. To have to mold oneself to a social or societal standard is a nuisance because it denies the spirit within to be what it wants to be at any given moment. This combo would indicate a person who is impulsive and competitive in nature but strives to be meticulous and careful. It could become a little confusing, not only to the person in question but to others as well. On the one hand there’s a modest and analytical self that seeks to have everything in order, on the other there’s the need for letting out the force of energy because one has so much of it. When there’s too much energy that wants out it is usually a risk of being too quick or hasty as to ruin whatever one is working on. Fortunately the Virgo Sun might provide the necessary influence to take a step back and carefully assess how things should be done to produce the best results. One might have to keep in mind that physical life requires some precision not only force.

Virgo Sun – Gemini Moon

This combo makes for a mentally active and busy individual. There’s always something going on with this person, there’s restlessness and sensitivity to the environment. The person lives through the intellect – it is one’s primary tool of operating. It’s great for interacting and communicating, learning and acquiring skills but it can also be a burden. If there’s too much stimulation and an overload of information that has to be processed the person doesn’t cope well. Mental fatigue is the single biggest risk for this person. It’s very difficult to stop the mind from constantly running. The person needs to be stimulated and becomes bored if the mind is not fed “quality food” on a daily basis. The person strives to be of service, to put acquired skills to practical use. The person is probably highly esteemed because of one’s casual yet methodical approach to life. Somehow this person would always land with their feet on the ground no matter how chaotic things get. The personal process of individuation involves being resourceful and useful. Whatever the occupation and life situation, the person should hone in on the analytical and processing skills. This would be the most fulfilling, no matter the circumstance. On an instinctual level there’s less of an emphasis of putting one’s skills to use and more of an emphasis on being stimulated. In a nutshell the person simply needs to talk and write and communicate without any serious regard of the outcome. Temperamentally, the person is better suited for creative endeavors than mere methodical and systematical ones. Temperamentally, there’s a need to use the mind and freely conceptualize of things. The personal ideal however, is more deliberate and critical. The person should strive to develop a more grounded approach that is not too eccentric and fanciful. The mundane and ordinary is what stands as the ideal. Cultivating humility and a good work ethic would prove rewarding. Since both the Sun and Moon are mutable, the overall personality would be open to adapting to new situations – there’s a desire to progress and evolve with this combo. Rearranging and reinventing would be appealing. The person is very skilled at taking what’s in front of them and making it work somehow. There’s both a creative-intuitive streak and a detail-protocol- obsessive streak that can be found in this individual. There’s a bit of friction between these two modes of approaching life, but it can serve to stimulate action.

(Buy products with my art)

Virgo Sun – Virgo Moon

This person is a Virgo through and through in terms of personal ideal and temperament. Daily routine and self-sufficiency would not only be what is sought as an ideal but what is deeply needed for this person to feel safe and emotionally fulfilled. There would be an urge to exude capability and intelligence, a need to be on top of everything that has to be done to secure the order of physical components. This is a person that can be trusted with making sure that nothing has been overlooked or missed in the process of organizing or putting together something important. On the downside, the meticulous and detail-oriented disposition can result in the person being tightly wound and stressed. The most important thing is to keep things simple and to the point, which of course requires a whole lot of sorting through the irrelevant details of life to get to the important bits. There’s no end to the process of discerning and adjusting. Other people might be extremely appreciative of the honest and humble quest for order and correctness, but they would not be as appreciative of the critical and nit-picky tendencies. Virgos are very observant and nothing escapes their scrutinizing eyes. This would not only be intimidating to others but it could become a burden to the person in question as well. The act of judging and labeling in order to make sense of things makes for a tense atmosphere with no room for mistakes. The person should take care as to not intellectualize and analyze everything because it leaves no room for freedom of movement and spontaneity. The desire to have everything be perfect is not always beneficial because it allows for no relaxation and trust in life. Having to monitor and control everything only leads to more and more problems to manage. Some things are out of one’s control and one can’t be efficient to the point of nothing ever going wrong. Of course, this doesn’t mean that it’s not worth trying. With this combo there will be a perfectionistic tendency present whether one likes it or not. The person would be well suited to work with something that requires refined skills and a sharp intellect. One would do well with things that can’t be left to chance, that depends on accurate observation and alertness. In relationships there might be shyness and reservation – one would prefer to talk about things that one is familiar with, that falls under one’s domain of expertise. Treading into unfamiliar territory often makes the person uneasy and insecure.

Virgo Sun – Pisces Moon

This is an interesting combo because Virgo and Pisces are opposite signs. The person’s path of individuation leans in the direction of developing skills and methods for handling physical life in a proper way while the instinctual nature is ethereal and diffuse. Emotions are constantly fluctuating and gripping the person from out of nowhere. There’s intimacy with the transient, which conjures up feelings of sorrow and being robbed of the beauty the world has to offer. Yet it is in the frailty that beauty is revealed and it touches this person deeply. Although the person feels the most like the ideal self when there’s efficiency and order present in their life, on a temperamental level there’s a longing for oneness that can border on destructiveness. There would be a strong tendency to romanticize life, to be consumed by fantasy rather in the cold and unglamorous reality of the physical. There’s a polarity conflict between the personal ideal and the personal temperament. The ideal involves practicality, usefulness and moderation while the innate nature is soft, boundless, bittersweet and resigned. The process of individuation does not accommodate for the emotional nature, which makes it so that the person has to consciously make room for both without forgetting about one or the other. It might be easy to project one or the other onto the people in one’s life because the polarity is too difficult to contain within oneself. The person might not like being described as soft-hearted even though it would probably be an accurate description. Capable, self-possessed and skillful would be traits that the person would like to be associated with. Intellectual, analytical and shrewd would be traits that resonate well with the ideal self that wants to be actualized. The person would likely be very sensitive but unwilling to openly show it or admit to feeling any powerful emotional reactions. With this combo it’s particularly important to not try to control or criticize unruly emotions too harshly because it will only enhance the inner disharmony. What can be done however is to deliberately make room for creativity and free flowing activity as to emotionally purge and process everything that is going on. Health is not only about routine, diet or exercise – it’s about being present and open to feeling life unconditionally without any attempt to fix things or put them in order. For this person it’s important to allow emotion to have a free outlet – preferably through some creative medium. Whether it’s art, music or poetry something else, there’s enormous richness that is waiting to be channeled.

Virgo Sun – Sagittarius Moon

This person has a life path of managing mundane life and perfecting methods of living while the temperamental nature is individualistic and spontaneous. This obviously presents a conflict because the path of self-actualization requires concentration and the temperament is too boisterous and freedom hungry to be bothered with tasks that require detailed knowledge. The person needs to live in a big way, on the wings of faith, yet would find that one keeps returning to the theme of living humbly and responsibly. The person would love to learn, experience the world and live without another thought of tomorrow because this is the need that sits at the core of the personal emotions. Freedom is very important; in the sense that one must feel that one has free will. This means that chores and strenuous labor must be done because one has willingly taken it on and not because someone else has demanded it. Being tied down is the worst experience. Variety is essential to this person’s well-being. If it’s withheld, there’s nothing that prevents the person from leaving the situation or stop caring about it all together. There’s a casualness and boldness to the emotional nature that will have varying effect on others. Some will appreciate the simplicity of it; some will resent the insensitivity that it entails. The Virgo ideal would temper the boldness of the Sagittarian instinct slightly because one would consciously prefer to be seen as humble and modest in expression. However, sometimes reactivity will get the best of the person and the Virgo ideal is thrown out the window. When there’s not too much emotional charge and pressure and one has space to consciously choose how to be, the Virgo qualities are going to front more easily. There’s a general proclivity for studying and learning with this combo. From the Virgo end it stems from a desire to be helpful and of service in honor of life, from the Sagittarian end it stems from a spiritual quest to understand and explore the totality of the universal self. Ultimately, the enthusiasm and inspiration that is innate to the person is fueling the ideal of dealing with physical life effectively and with confidence. The tension created between the two signs stimulates action and dynamic activity. The person is controlled and outgoing, careful and impulsive. Life is taken seriously, but it’s also just an opportunity to have fun. It would be important to make sure to not restrict the more adventurous streak of the personality too much, otherwise it might come out with force due to excessive repression. It’s much better to make room for the more instinctual needs before they make room for themselves. Certain needs, if ignored for too long, will operate unconsciously and steer life “off course”.

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amjustagirl · 4 years ago

Text

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 3k

Summary:

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears the echo of birdsong in her laughter, her song to the gods in the wind.

(Loosely inspired by Kimi No Nawa)

Masterlist link here

AO3 link here

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

The first time it happens, Akaashi is in his third year of university.

The upside of staying in Tokyo for university (his mother cried when he got into Waseda, her alma mater) is that he sees his family almost every weekend for cosy family dinners. The downside of staying in Tokyo for university is that he really has no excuse when his parents insist on carrying on Hatsumode, the first prayer of the new year, at the crack of dawn at the shrine close to their home. It’s not that he minds the tradition per se, but he did just spend all night rushing his projects just so he could adhere to the unspoken rule that no work should be done during the New Year holidays and spend some time flying kites with his little cousins.

Still, there is something magical about starting the New Year watching dawn break and the world awaken from its slumber just as he reaches the summit of all twenty six steps to the top of the shrine, shrouded in the bare branches of the wisteria trees. He tosses coins into the box, drops into a deep bow twice, chin at waist level, clapping twice before bowing a final time. His mother buys far too many omamori, presses at least half of them into his unwilling hands when the omikuji he draws has a great curse scribbled on it. He’s not superstitious, so it doesn’t bother him, but he knows his mother is, so he does accept the omamori with some grace, though he draws the line at the love charm she tries to sneak into the pile.

‘Mum, I’m too busy at school for a partner’, he tells her firmly. ‘Why don’t you pass it to Yuji-kun, he’s already started work, but hasn’t found a girlfriend from what Oba-chan tells me’. His elder cousin shoots him a particularly malevolent glare that he meets with a placid smile as his mother diverts her attention to him instead.

The faintest shiver runs up his fingers when he deposits the old charm he found in the corner of his closet, grey and faded with time, in the koshinsatsu osamedokoro, the omamori drop off open only during the first day of the New Year. The shiver turns into a ripple of cool water racing up his wrists and roars into an tsunami of dread when the attendant tells him all deposited charms will be burnt in the ritual fire in a fortnight’s time, but he writes it off as a symptom of his lack of sleep and starts to turn away.

There’s a sudden echo of a nightmare of raging flames that prompts him to swivel around to snatch the omamori and stuff it back in his pocket, muttering apologies to the shocked attendant. Later, when he has time to process his impulse, he’d find it strange. In the meantime however, the festivities wait for no one, so he distracts himself by eating far too much dango and mochi in between rounds of tossing kites up to catch the wind. His uncles slip him full cups of sake and sweetened rice wine to his mother’s disapproval, which in hindsight he should have heeded, as he stumbles to bed that night, head heavy with alcohol.

That night he dreams of a girl with curly hair, lying in a field of endless gold - daffodils to mark the dawn of spring.

‘Also known as narcissus’, he hears himself say, hears himself narrate the myth of a man so entranced by his own reflection in the water that he lost his will when he realizes he cannot have his object of desire. A girlish voice lilts teasingly – ‘the flowers are too pretty to be ruined by your obsession of stories written by grumpy old men’. He wakes up with the ghost of laughter on his lips, but there’s a lingering sense of loss budding in barren soil of his heart.

It does prompt him to pop by the florist near his parents’ house to order a bouquet of daffodils for his mom to be delivered on the first day of spring. He’s accustomed to the old couple running the shop, so he pauses just for a second when he walks into the store to find a new girl at the counter. She must not be used to customers yet, dropping the bouquet she’s working on when she notices him.

‘Hi’, she stammers, cheeks pink. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to make an advance order for daffodils please.’

‘For spring?’ she asks, and he nods, writing down his parents’ address when prompted. ‘That’s a good choice!’

She waves him off with a cheerful – ‘please come back again’, and he does not notice that there are stars in her eyes.

His mother drags him back to the shrine on the third day of the holidays, and he obliges her, ever the dutiful only son, even though the frigid temperature makes his breath puff up into clouds and the tip of his nose turns numb. The old omamori is still snug in his jacket pocket, and as his fingers brush against it, he can feel the threads of the charm unravelling, the fabric almost fragile in its worn, threadbare state but he does not attempt to dispose of it again.

‘What are you going to do once you’re done with your degree, Keiji?’ His mother asks, when they stop by an old teahouse for a cup of steaming genmaicha, the aroma of roasted rice tea warm against his cold nose.

‘I intend to apply for a job at a publishing company after I graduate’, he tells her seriously, and she nods, encouraging him to continue. ‘I’m hoping it’s something to do with my major, preferably Japanese literature, better yet if it's poetry, but in this market, I’ll take what I can get’.

His mother nods, smiling at him fondly. ‘I remember you used to be obsessed with Shakespeare and Greek myths when you were younger, all the way through high school, and your father and I thought that you’d end up majoring in that in university. You really surprised us when you chose to major in Japanese literature instead.’

‘I don’t know why, to be honest. Maybe I had a good Japanese literature tutor?’ He laughs, fiddling with his teacup.

‘Mm I don’t think so though. I remember you complaining that Raku-sensei was so dull he caused everyone to fall asleep.’ He shrugs, and though she stares at him curiously, she does not pursue the line of conversation any further.

That night he dreams of waking up in an old wooden house, shivering in a thick futon, the smoldering embers from the irori, mere inches from his face. It’s so very different from his childhood bedroom filled with modern appliances and walls of books neatly shelved in alphabetical order, but he doesn’t notice that in the dark. Instead, he reaches for his phone to check the time, bolting awake because that can’t be, he never misses his alarm, mentally calculating that he must leave the house in exactly fifteen minutes to make it in time for practice when a little boy bursts through the door.

‘Nee-chan’, the little boy whines. ‘I’m hungry. Time for breakfast’.

Did he just say Nee-chan? Scratch that - since when did he have a little brother?

He scrambles out of bed, groping his way in the dark to the washroom. The cold water should wake him up, but when he looks up at the mirror above the sink, the face he’s staring at does not belong to him. No - it belongs to a dark eyed girl with curly hair - but it doesn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense, because when he reaches a trembling finger to poke at the mirror, he is she or she is him -

The ensuing panic and confusion makes him jerk out of his dream, but when he rushes to the washroom to check that he’s still himself, he is relieved to see that it’s still him - Akaashi Keiji, with dark circles around his eyes, staring back in disbelief.

He chalks his strange dream up to the stress he carries around from trying to clear all his course work so he can audit additional classes over the next term.

Except the dreams don’t stop, not even when he moves back to the university dorms. He keeps waking up drenched in cold sweat, clutching at his arms even though they’re clear of the scratches he sees in his dreams, red and raw and stretching all the way up his elbows.

‘Be kinder to Hana-chan, Keiji-kun’, he hears the call of the same girl in his mind and he shudders, unsure whether the disembodied voice floating through his mind is a memory from his dream. ‘She’s going through an awfully tough time’.

‘It doesn’t give her the right to hurt you like that’, he can hear his faint disapproval.

‘Never mind that, it’s not a big deal. What are we reading today – don’t tell me it’s anything like Hamlet. That was horrendously depressing.’

‘Midsummer’s Night Dream? It’s a romantic comedy at least.’

‘Only a nerd like you would read Shakespeare in high school – and it’s not even in Japanese!’

‘Hush – you don’t get to complain when I’m reading it out to you.’

‘What on earth is going on’, he mutters to himself. The copious amounts of frigid water he splashes onto his face is no antidote to this madness.

‘Sato-san, are you feeling alright?’ he asks his grimacing classmate in concern, lines of pain etched onto her face.

‘I’m fine, Akaashi-kun’, she manages to spit out, clutching her stomach with white-knuckled hands. ‘It’ll pass in a bit, I hope’.

‘Are you sure you’re fine? I could help you to the nurse’s office if that helps’.

His classmate shakes her head, a blush staining her cheeks. ‘It’s just that time of the month. I apologise if that’s too much information to be polite’.

Ah. But somehow even though he has no sisters, and his female classmates in high school were oddly reticent about their periods (strange, considering it is part and parcel of being a mammal for far more than a millenium) the steps to deal with this particular conundrum come to him so naturally it’s almost as if the answers were presented to him previously in a dream.

‘Here’, he passes Sato-san painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle he’d managed to talk the university nurse into loaning him, and Sato practically whimpers in gratitude.

‘You’re a lifesaver, Akaashi-kun’, she tells him and he nods, content that he’s solved the problem so efficiently.

That night he wakes up in her body again. The room is dark, save for the sliver of white light between the blinds that allows him to discern the growing crimson stain between her legs.

‘Don’t you know all women have to deal with this nonsense every month? But I’ll tell you a trick - painkillers, chocolate and a hot water bottle will make you feel as right as rain’, he hears her voice declare in his mind, and he startles awake to find himself back in his own bed, blessedly clear of any bloodstains.

It must be a dream borne out of what happened today, he tells himself firmly and shrugs it off. The rest of his slumber is thankfully shorn of dreams.

But then these dreams start to crash into his sleep like a series of never ending waves, and he’s a short hop, skip, jump away from falling off the cliff into a distracted madness, the rate his sleep keeps getting disrupted. He keeps waking up in her body, it makes him feel like a creep, wearing her skin like an ill-fitting glove, and he decided does not think about how strange it feels to have twin lumps of flesh in front of his chest (his mother raised him to be a gentleman, after all).

The contents of these dreams are relatively cyclical. He wakes up at dawn, puts on her school uniform, makes breakfast for the little boy - Toya-chan over the primitive hearth before rushing to school through dirt paths lined with trees. His - or rather her classmates stare at her with a mix of condescension and apathy, and her hours in school are spent in a lonely silence, save when Hana-chan gets up in her face and screams absolute nonsense about staying the fuck away from her, which seems a little dramatic considering she’s the one doing the confronting, but it’s just a dream, so he keeps telling himself. It’s not like he can change anything about it.

‘Does it bother you? That you’re alone?’ he asks her one day.

‘Not really. I have you and Toya-chan, don’t I?’ she responds.

‘I suppose’, he says, voice trailing off.

He catches glimpses of sun drenched afternoons spent in fields of flowers, glances of dusky evenings spent in the forest basking in the light of the setting sun. He agonizes over stacks of homework, digs for mushrooms in the damp earth, climbs through wire fences to scavenge for eggs in neighbouring farms.

‘Aren’t your parents worried about you and Toya-chan?’ he can hear himself question her one night.

‘My mom is dead and my dad can’t be home often, he works on construction projects around Sapporo. He sends cash to me and Toya-chan, and it isn’t always enough, but he tries his best ’, she answers, her voice feather light.

‘I’m sorry’, he tells her a little awkwardly, thinking about his happy family and wondering how it’d feel like to have them torn away from him so early on in life.

‘Don’t be’, she replies, ‘Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to have good parents who’re dead or absent rather than horrible parents who’re still alive’.

He jolts awake again, relieved to find himself back in his bed. It’s barely four in the morning, but he’s not going to be able to sleep after that, so he resigns himself to using the time to get cracking on his college assignments anyway. But he makes sure to call his mother once day breaks and he’s sure she’s returned from the market with groceries in tow, telling her awkwardly that he’s just calling to catch up and hopes she’s been well and ok bye mum I love you very much, heart pounding when he hangs up abruptly.

He has a standing appointment on the first Thursday every month to meet Kenma for coffee at a café a stone’s throw away from Waseda. They both order black coffee, which is strange for Kenma considering his legendary sweet tooth, but he knows Kenma too well to know that the ridiculously successful game streamer is only drinking coffee to stay awake, the shadows under his eyes deeper and darker than those under Akaashi’s own eyes.

‘Doesn’t Kuroo-san nag you go to bed at a decent time?’

Kenma doesn’t even bother to flick his eyes up, busy gulping mouthfuls of the bitter liquid. ‘Speak for yourself. Not sleeping well either?’

Akaashi shrugs his shoulders helplessly, stirring his coffee. ‘Mm. ‘I’ve been having strange recurring dreams and it’s been affecting my sleep’.

Kenma merely hums in reply, and Akaashi finds himself spilling out the entire weird series of events – though to be absolutely accurate, his dreams aren’t real so they can’t be termed as events, but they’ve been haunting him for the past month so they might as well be at this rate. He explains about finding himself in the body of a high school girl with curly hair and a dimple on one cheek, how he’s lived her life enough in the past month that he can map out her days with startling certainty, how he knows it’s not real – it can’t be real, but his dreams glimmer with such vibrancy that they feel real.

‘Am I going crazy?’ he asks.

‘I highly doubt it’, Kenma says, tapping his chin in thought. ‘Maybe it’s like one of those exploration video games where you have to take your time to discover its world to figure out the narrative the game is feeding you.’

Trust Kenma to relate everything to video games.

‘That was singularly unhelpful’, Akaashi says dryly as Kenma chuckles quietly in response.

He is almost afraid to fall asleep again but his eyelids are weighed down by weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation and soon he finds himself again in her body.

It’s a clear winter’s night. He’s huddled under a thick blanket to shield himself from the bitter cold, watching the embers in the hearth glow yellow and gold.

‘It’s late. Can’t sleep?’

‘Mm’ he replies. ‘Wondering what tomorrow will bring.’

‘You’re overthinking again, Keiji’, she chuckles. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be just another day. You’ll wake up back in your warm bed at the crack of dawn for volleyball practice, attend classes in your fancy private school, and play even more volleyball with your beloved Bokuto-san’.

He rolls his eyes heavenwards at her words and her laugh this time is loud, bright.

‘You know I only speak the truth. Now, since you need to wake up ridiculously early tomorrow, why don’t I tell you a bedtime story so you can fall asleep.’

‘I’m not a child’, he replies dryly, but does not object when she starts to narrate the tale of a princess exiled from the moon, who is raised by a humble woodcutter and his wife to become a renowned beauty, with five suitors seeking her hand. ‘That’s mean of her’, he mumbles as she describes how the princess rebuffs her suitors by setting them impossible tasks, drifts to sleep as her voice softens as she describes how the princess falls in love with the Emperor, but breaks both their hearts because she knows she must return to the moon someday. He’s fast asleep when she reaches the ending where the princess leaves all her memories on earth with tears in her eyes, gifting the emperor with an elixir of immortality which he burns, because he declares life isn’t worth living without her.

‘Goodnight Keiji’, she says, her voice shimmering in the still night air.

For the first time in a long while, Akaashi wakes up at peace.

Taglist:

@1tooru @animeflower26 @kageyamakock

#hq #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #hq imagines #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu writing #hq writing #haikyuu angst #haikyuu romance #akaashi keiji #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x y/n #haikyuucreations #akaashi headcanons #akaashi angst #haikyuu fic rec #haikyuu scenarios

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shihalyfie · 3 years ago

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Kizuna drama CD: Detail spotting and nuance analysis

02 involved displaying its group dynamic through mundane interactions and wacky hijinks, and the circumstances of an eight-year block of time between Kizuna and 02, plus the fact that Hikari and Takeru operate separately from the others due to the movie’s circumstances, mean that the drama CD centering around the group is actually our most reliable source of info regarding how they’re doing at this time and how their group dynamic is going. Much like 02 itself, getting a lot of this nuance requires reading between the lines, so let’s take a closer look!

Since this is a drama CD and not animated material, I’ll be going through this in bullet points instead of screenshots.

The fact that the drama CD itself deliberately uses the same format as a 02 episode carries a very strong implication that, unlike their seniors who are going through an existential crisis about how much of their childhood experiences they can bring with them into adulthood, the 02 group is still roughly able to recreate the same atmosphere they had eight years ago. Noticeably, the ending song chosen for this is the first ED (Tomorrow My Wind Will Blow), the more lighthearted one used for the first half, before a lot of really emotionally vicious things started happening to them.

The phrase “it’s been a while” and variants thereof come up between this group a lot within this drama CD (and once in the movie itself, from Hawkmon to the others). Look closely at the circumstances of this drama CD and how everyone seems to be very intimately aware of each other’s situations, and the fact that this story obviously takes place only a short time before the movie itself -- so it really hasn’t been a very long time at all, but apparently even that much is considered a “long time” for them. (It also seems like they’re going out of their way to make sure they’re still keeping in regular contact even when they can’t actually meet up.)

Daisuke says, very clearly, that Iori was the one he intended to approach “first” because he was so busy -- but he’s shown walking in with Takeru, meaning that the two of them are on very good terms now and seem to have been hanging out independently.

Daisuke wanted his plan to be a “surprise” reveal to the others, and the actual practical purpose of his plan (it being a career study trip for him) seems to have been very low on the priority list to the point it takes the CD’s entire half-hour runtime for him to finally bring it up. Before then, he’d been cheerfully fantasizing about all the fun things he’d get to do with them, and it even says a lot that he’d also wanted to discuss this at a karaoke bar of all things, so, really, in his head, “hanging out with friends and having fun with them” is the actual priority (especially since there’s basically no reason he needs to have the others on his ramen research trip, he just wants them there because he does).

The fact that the boys have to sneak in the Digimon to avoid getting extra charges means that society will now recognize them as patrons to be regularly charged.

Daisuke is asked by Iori which people he intends to bring to his trip, which implies that the 02 group isn’t technically an exclusive club or anything...but then Daisuke proceeds to list off the 02 group by name, implying that this group does indeed have a particularly elevated level of importance to him.

Look carefully at the nuances surrounding whom Daisuke wants to invite to his trip: he wanted to invite the seniors as well, but resigned himself to the fact it’d probably be impossible because they were too busy...only for the others to point out that the rest of the 02 group is also busy, but everyone is confident that they’ll make it work, and Daisuke wants them there to the point of listing them by name. So in other words, Daisuke likes everyone and would like everyone around in the ideal situation, but when push comes to shove, the rest of the 02 group is whom he really wants to have around, and said group can be reliably counted on to do whatever it takes to make it work.

The way everyone casually describes each other's circumstances (and in specific detail, not just generally describing what they're up to) says a lot; Armadimon's still talking with Hawkmon about Miyako (meaning Miyako and Iori are still regularly in contact), Takeru's up-to-date with Ken's life to the point of knowing his upcoming schedule, Daisuke's fully aware of how busy Iori is, and, later, the one to affectionately greet Hawkmon is none other than Wormmon, who, back in 02, used to only really be close with Ken himself and V-mon. You can see that everyone’s still constantly involved in each other’s lives, including their own partners being up-to-date on each other (compare the more distant relationship their seniors are portrayed with in the movie itself, both with each other and with their partners), and you can also see that Ken and Wormmon have fully integrated themselves into the group to the point it’s a completely casual affair (Iori, the one who infamously had the longest and most drawn-out process in accepting Ken, is the one to personally ask him about his preferences).

That said, note that Takeru and Iori still seem to be on surname basis with Ken, even despite obviously being much closer with him than they were before; unfortunately, it seems that having been on surname basis with him so long in 02 became a habit, leaving Daisuke and Miyako as the only ones currently known to have switched to given name basis with him.

It’s interesting that Ken, not Daisuke, is the one explicitly stated to be keeping up with soccer to the point of having schedule commitments, whereas no mention of this whatsoever is made with Daisuke, and it’s entirely possible that Daisuke actually quit playing it in an organized fashion. This is, however, consistent with their personalities, in that Ken would likely want to keep up with organized extracurricular hobbies, whereas Daisuke may enjoy soccer as a hobby, but not enough to continue committing to a high-level team. (Remember that Daisuke took a while to get a regular position even back in elementary school; as much as he liked the sport, he also wasn’t particularly outstanding at it, and especially not in comparison to Taichi, Sora, or Ken.)

Miyako leaving for Spain seems to have been a recent thing, since it has to actively be brought up in conversation as a reminder (and Daisuke seemed to initially have not taken into account that she wouldn’t be easily able to join the trip in that case, since the issue of the D-3 hadn’t come up yet). When she shows up later in person, everyone’s shocked, as if it’s unnerving for her to be back in Japan already.

Daisuke still seems to have a thing for Hikari, but note that this doesn’t really go beyond “wanting to hang out with Hikari a lot”. Also, he says this in plain view of Takeru without bringing him up at all, and Takeru himself has nothing to say about it (not even awkward laughter), meaning that he really has no object in this whatsoever.

It’s interesting to see that Armadimon, who used to have to ask about how human society works quite often in 02, is now well-versed enough in Japanese culture to be really passionate about it.

As usual, Iori does not mince words (when it's about Nagoya specialty food, at least).

Also as usual, Ken is surprisingly academic about his interests and a huge nerd.

Note Takeru's awkward "I don't really want to insult you, but also, that's weird" reaction to Ken’s speech about the hot springs -- very classic Takeru, not quite being honest for the sake of keeping the peace and awkwardly trying to be nice about it -- in contrast to Daisuke, who just honestly goes straight for the commentary. That said, regardless of how unusual of a hobby everyone around him clearly finds it, note how they all still decide to accommodate it anyway and support his interest in it.

Hypocritically, V-mon calls Daisuke out for being “embarrassing” regarding his fixation on Hikari, only to suddenly get caught off-guard by Tailmon shortly after...

Hikari's behavior has the most clear-cut contrast from herself in 02, consisting of her very assertively stating what she wants, for herself -- very important because her problems in 02 revolved around her compulsively being unable to voice her own thoughts if it meant putting a burden on others. Here, Hikari gets argumentative about what she, personally, wants to do. Given that she doesn’t quite act like this in front of her seniors in the course of the movie, and is depicted as being particularly in-sync with Miyako here -- and given how Miyako was instrumental in reaching out to her during the events of 02 -- it’s pretty easy to see how Hikari became able to assert herself like this.

Similarly, much like how Tailmon was portrayed as lightening up a bit between Adventure and 02 thanks to her new, happier life, here, she seems to be exactly on the same page as Hikari in terms of wanting to fight people for something materialistic.

Hawkmon says that it's "only natural" for them to show up whenever this group is getting together, and, indeed, Miyako was technically uninvited because everyone thought she was busy in Spain -- but was clearly in contact with them (or at least Hikari) to know that this meeting was happening. (There’s probably a group chat.)

This is implied to be the first time the 02 group has seriously considered using D-3 gate exploitation to visit each other and to travel. The group had already made use of this exploitation during 02 itself (to have Palmon delivered to New York back in 02 episode 38 and to meet up in the Digital World), but it is true that they hadn’t been necessarily using it even when it arguably would be more convenient than Tokyo transportation and Imperialdramon. So in other words, for the last eight years, through all the meetups they seem to have been having with each other (and remember, Ken lived in Tamachi, not Odaiba, at the time of 02, and there’s no guarantee that nobody in the Odaiba neighborhood didn’t move at some point), they were perfectly fine with using the inconvenience of Tokyo transportation to meet each other, or to meet up in the Digital World instead -- but then Miyako found herself in another country, and decided that she wasn't going to stand for being separated from the others for too long.

As usual, Hawkmon still has to be Miyako’s concerned minder when she’s on the verge of going out of control.

Miyako had already been implied to be in Barcelona thanks to the scenery outside her window and the movie end credits, but her speech about Spain drives it in even further with the Gaudí references.

Despite Spain being possibly the one of the worst possible options for what's later revealed to be Daisuke's motive for this trip (ramen research), it seems that Miyako baiting him with mention of the soccer league was enough to get him momentarily distracted (and also indicates that Daisuke still clearly has an active interest in soccer even if he may not be regularly playing anymore).

Speaking of which, it’s pretty obvious that Miyako knew exactly what to bait Daisuke with in order to do this.

Takeru, the group's resident moderator, is of course the one to step in and prevent Tailmon and Armadimon from wreaking too much havoc (Daisuke is mostly just slightly intimidated) -- but you might also notice that he's otherwise not saying anything about the group's chaotic antics, and in fact is guilty of enabling them even further...

Daisuke continues to have his penchant for pointing out the elephant in the room -- he's exactly right, how is Wormmon supposed to put on skis?

It is, of course, only natural that Miyako would be sensitive to knowing about currency exchange and the use of American dollars in the Digital World, given that she presumably hasn't forgotten the Digitamamon incident from 02 episode 14.

For the first time in 19 real-life years, we finally learn what Daisuke’s original motive for wanting to get into ramen making was: in true Daisuke fashion, he himself has no idea (but he just really likes ramen).

Daisuke "credits" his friends for giving him insightful advice and helpful resources in thinking about his career and future plans, but, as it turns out, everyone else wasn't thinking nearly as much of it -- either they hardly remember it, or it wasn't actually supposed to mean anything insightful. It's obviously not to say that they're not fully supportive of him (the events of this drama CD blatantly indicate otherwise), but rather that Daisuke attributes everything important and helpful in his life to his friends to ridiculous degrees, even when it's something completely ordinary like a train ticket that anyone should know about.

As always, Daisuke is very realistically aware of his own limitations, admitting freely that he was actually lacking in experience and insight to follow his dream (especially since he took the "advice" from his friends very, very seriously).

Note how quickly everyone changes their tune and immediately decides to unequivocally support Daisuke the moment they realize there's actually a very important reason to him that he wants to go on this trip.

Also note that when Hikari compliments Daisuke, Daisuke is completely at a loss -- yet again, Daisuke's been so busy rolling around for Hikari's approval that he hasn't accounted for what to do when he actually gets it.

Daisuke picking New York, of all locations, as his stop to research ramen certainly explains why Ken has to ask "why ramen?" during the movie itself -- as this drama CD indicates, and as per the events of 02 episode 50, he absolutely knows why Daisuke would want to get ramen, but ramen in New York, which isn't exactly the cultural center of ramen making, is a different story.

The fact that this was a planned multi-day trip also explains why the group changes clothes and is in New York for multiple days over the course of the movie (because they probably had a hotel, too). It also further contextualizes the likely reason Miyako felt like dealing with Menoa’s request was too much work -- she wanted to be on this trip instead -- and says a lot about how she’ll dump a request on her seniors when it’s too much hassle for her, but accept that same request back if it’s something she gets to do with her friends.

Takeru and Hikari are explicitly stated to be scheduled to join the trip on the second day, meaning that them operating separately from the quartet during the events of the movie was sheer scheduling circumstance -- and since we find out in the movie that Takeru was the one to inform Yamato about Daisuke's whereabouts, this CD here clarifies that Takeru has this knowledge because he himself was set to be on this trip (and would have been, if the events of the movie hadn't gotten in the way).

Probably the most interesting take-home from this narrative is how absurdly close the 02 group is portrayed as, and in very, very stark contrast to their seniors in the movie itself -- who are said to be drifting apart as they all find their individual paths. Here, the 02 group is the opposite; while they do seem to have their own goals (Hikari and Daisuke are outright identified as having some of the clearest ones), it’s obvious that those goals are secondary to being able to hang out with and support each other (in other words, they still have those goals, but they’re much lower priorities for them). This is consistent with how these dynamics were portrayed back in 02, since the Adventure group had been portrayed as being prone to drifting apart as early as Our War Game!, whereas the 02 group was built from the ground up as needing each other’s mutual support much more deeply -- it’s just that, now that they’re all much older, this distinction in group dynamic is much more prominent.

#digimon #digimon adventure 02 #digimon adventure last evolution kizuna #detail spotting #shihameta

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