#like I can get away with minimal self loathing when I’m in a relationship or whatever and am not as lonely but let’s be real | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkykeiji · 4 years ago

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break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

✰ ✰ ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

✰ ✰ ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

✰ ✰ ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

✰ ✰ ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

✰ ✰ ✰

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

✰ ✰ ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

✰ ✰ ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

✰ ✰ ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.

#zenin naoya x reader #zenin naoya smut #jjk smut #zenin naoya #zen'in naoya #tw:incest #tw death #tw toxic relationship #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY #whew okay

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dannyphantom-rewrite · 3 years ago

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Timekeeper's assistants AU

Alright y'all! This is gonna be my info dump post for the Timekeepers assistant Au- buckle up cause it's gonna be a long one!

Inspired by @queendibz post here

The entire purpose of the assistant squad is to keep all the time lines running smoothly- this can range from stopping a world ending event to making sure things misplaced by natural ghost portals get put back into the right time and place.

So First up on the crew list,

Dan:

-Dan definitely isn't a homicidal maniac anymore but he's not 100 percent "redeemed" either.

-I mean he's probably still a bit of sadist but he tries not to be?

-The best description I can give is that he's in recovery, basically.

-So, Clockwork knew that Dan would eventually bust out of the thermos just because it wasn't built to hold a ghost of his power level for a prolonged period of time. But beyond that?? He has no idea about anything in regards to Dan. Since Dan's creation was averted, his timeline doesn't exist anymore. He's a paradox that exists outside of time, and unfortunately, that means he's the one entity in the multiverse that exists in Clockwork's blindspot. There's no way for him to know what Dan's going to do next.

-Anyway, Dan eventually breaks out of the thermos fully intending to Fuck Shit Up, And Clockwork makes a point of informing him that if he leaves the clock tower he will cease to exist. (Like Dan, the tower exists outside of time, so he's safe there.)

-Dan is the first member of the assistant squad. Granted, it took a while for him to come around to the idea of helping Clockwork but he got there eventually.

-Dan is an entity that was born out of the rage and grief of two very broken people and he has so much shit he's working through as a result

-One of the first things he had to do was recognize and accept that he's an entity that's completely separate from Vlad and Danny. He might have all their memories and the weight of their mistakes on his shoulders, and on top of that, the atrocities he himself committed because of them. The first step is realizing that he doesn't have to be defined by the people that made him.

-It's a really fucking difficult thing to do tho and he's got a lot of weird emotions in regards to Vlad, Danny and the Fentons as a result. A near constant identity crisis, self loathing, daddy issues, something that could arguably be called an Oedipus complex, (FUCKING THANKS, VLAD)

-Cannot stand the smell of fast food, it makes him nauseous and the sight of Nasty Burger sauce alone is enough to make him vomit Ectoplasm.

-He's just a hot mess all around y'all

-He tries to keep his interactions with the Danny's as minimal as possible at first bc of this. The first time he meets them in person he shape shifts into Danny like he did in TUE and just pretends to be one of them. Some of them have had interactions with their respective Dan's already and would be super wary of him and probably pretty freaked out otherwise.

-Dan is eventually allowed to leave the clocktower for supervised "Field missions" with the aid of a time medallion to keep him from poofing out of existence, but it takes a while for clockwork to build up that level of trust.

-Dan's shapeshifting ability Actually comes into play a bit on a lot of those missions, since he can Mimic Danny it also makes sense that he'd be able to impersonate Vlad in the same way. Granted he's not incredibly comfortable taking on either of their appearances but it does help him hone his shapeshifting ability to the point where he's able to pick and choose features from both Vlad and Danny and sorta make his own human disguise.

-Most of the time he acts as the eye in the sky from the tower, monitoring for timeline anomalies and then notifying the appropriate member of the assistant squad.

-He has a room under the clock tower that he operates from. I kinda like the idea of there being like, catacombs down there? Anyway he's got all kinds of monitors and view screens and he very rarely leaves. It also doubles as his "living space." He doesn't need to sleep but he's got a big mess of a pillow fort that he crashes in regardless bc sometimes you just NEED to be unconscious for a while. The catacombs are also absolutely full of those little blob ghosts that wander around the zone bc They're attracted to the ecto energy the tower gives off. He's really annoyed by them at first but they grow on him after a while and now he just dotes on them.

-There's a specific throw pillow sized one that likes to hang out in Dan's room a lot and he ended up getting a little over attached to the stupid thing. His name is Dorian. Bc he's a gift.

-SIR THATS MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT BLOB

-Dan's appearance has changed slightly. He wears his hair loose now and it's kinda just this big fiery mane when it's not contained. His cape is more of a cloak now, it has a hood and he wears it sorta pinned together at the shoulder so the DP logo is covered.

-Dan's relationship with the rest of the Danny's is kinda weird, and a little strained. He has a hard time being around them for very long because, well, he used to sort of be them? Except not really? He does care about them tho, and the last thing he'd want is for one of them to end up like him.

-His relationship with clockwork definitely starts out pretty familial, after he becomes his assistant, anyway. There's room for that to develop into meddling minutes but I'm not entirely sure if I'm gonna go that route yet.

-The Danny's only ever hear his voice for a while before he finally let's them meet him for real, so they end up calling him Charlie for a while as a joke. Cause Ya know. Charlie's angels. Even after Charlie still ends up being his designated name on missions.

Mer! Danny:

-Was recruited bc a lot of the shit that gets sucked through natural portals ends up in a body of water somewhere and when that happens he's on call to retrieve it.

-Is Actually not at all ghostly! Mer Danny's situation is basically the plot of H2O (just add water), or if you haven't seen that, Aquamarine. And by that I mean he's only a merfolk in water.

-He's an electric eel

-His Jack and Maddie are marine biologists, with a particular interest in marine cryptids

-We're taking sea monsters baby!!!

-Not entirely sure how this Danny ended up half mer yet but I'll figure it out, lmao.

-14 years old

-His nickname/ designation is "Moray"

Crown Prince! Danny:

-Nickname/designation is Prince / Princey

-16 years old

-Not allowed to go anywhere in the zone without the Fright knight bc of some ancient ghost law bullshit, so he has a constant babysitter.

-He's next in line bc he sealed away Pariah, but can't take the throne until he is both, A) at least 18 years and B) Completely deceased

-Vlad is his Regent bc he did have a part in the whole sealing the previous king thing, but he's also not completely dead so his power is super limited there.

-As Prince Danny has the crown of fire in his ghost form, although now the name is kinda ironic seeing as it's completely frozen over. It's blue now and it smokes like dry ice.

-As Regent, Vlad has the ring of rage for "safe keeping"

-Vlad and Danny are pretty much constantly at each other's throats, fright knights probably had to shut down more than a few of Vlad's attempts to usurp the crown from Danny through combat.

-Princey deals with the timeline issues that involve the ghost zones' internal / political affairs, and he's gotten very well versed with dealing with the Observants.

Winged! Danny :

-15 years old

-Mallard duck wings

-His Vlad is a swan

-Comes from a family of waterfowl, Jack is a goose, and Maddie is a white swan. Both he and jazz are ducks bc of their grandparents.

-As Fenton his wings are white, like jazz, and as phantom they turn black with a green iridescent sheen.

-He's trans

-Nickname/ designation is inviso Bill. Bc ducks have bills haha get it-

-Ghostly wail?? Nah son he's gotta killer QUACK

-Absolute besties with Mer!Danny/ Moray, sometimes they go swimming together after a mission.

Clone! Danny:

-Physically he's a 12-year-old, but he's only been alive for a few months.

-Alt universe where Vlad manages to stabilize the perfect clone with his own DNA.

-Dani still exists, and the original danny from his time line also rescued the other problematic clones.

-Doesnt like the fact that he's a clone, and very much wants them all DEAD. Bc them running around is a reminder that he's not the real danny.

-Human half looks the same aside from the widows peak and the mallen streak. His ghost half takes after plasmius. Blue skin, and the Hazmat kept it's original white colors.

-Probably has fangs and a forked tounge.

-Not so much a member of the squad as he is someone that they need to be keeping an eye on.

-Does NOT get along with them.

-Dan enjoys making him uncomfortable.

-Designation is Masters / the brat (not to his face tho)

Family Breakfast AU! Danny:

-A BABY

-The boy is a fucking overpowered todler okay. He's an 8 year old.

-The biological son of his Vlad, was born a Halfa. Jack, Vlad and Maddie got their shit together and are in a healthy poly relationship.

-Got separated from Vlad one time in the zone and inadvertently adopted by the assistant squad and clockwork.

-His Vlad is aware of the squad and just. Dad's the crap out of the Danny's as a result. It makes for some..... interesting interactions.

-I can't think of a nickname so I'm just gonna be lazy and say he gets to be the one Tru Danny bc cute little kind privileges lmao.

Full ghost! Danny:

-15 years old, will always look 14.

-Nickname/designation is Toast

-Died in the portal accident and got fucking FRIED.

-He always smells like somethings burning.

-He's really bright and sorta sparks a bit, you can see his bones glowing through the hazmat.

-He still leave the zone to protect his version of amity, but lives with clockwork full time.

Canon Danny (NOT PHANTOM PLANET COMPLIANT) :

-Basically show Danny, except phantom planet never happened fuck you

-Joined the crew after the events of de stabilized

-Also he's trans fuck butch

-Franken! Danny

-Yall remember that Headless Danny Au? This is my take.

-Is Actually 20 years old, but physically stuck at age 14. Bc he's a walking corpse :)

-Came from a timeline that was directly parallel to Full ghost! Danny. He dies in the portal accident, but jack and Maddie are in the lab when it happens and manage to sort of bring him back using a combination of science and freaky ghost junk.

-So he's basically possessing/ stuck inside of his own dead body. Which, is thankfully not rotting or going into rigor mortis bc Ectoplasm is rather similar to formaldehyde, but he's not the most durable thing and bits and pieces fall off from time to time.

-Like his head. For example.

-He's pretty desensitized to it at this point and if he loses a leg after a ghost fight he doesn't see anything wrong with sitting down on the curb of a main street to stich it back on. His being dead isn't exactly a secret.

-Don't ever ask him to "give you a hand" bc he can and will not hesitate to pop one off and Chuck it at you.

-Said hand and any other body part will continue to function just fine even if it isn't attached to anything, btw.

-Nickname/ designation is Adam. Bc. Ya know. that's the name Frankenstein's monster gave itself.

Post Phantom Planet! Danny:

-A very jaded 22 year old who is driven only by spite and enough caffeine to kill a horse

-Very, very tired of the hero thing.

-Being a global celebrity isn't all it's cracked up to be.

-Decided to follow Vlads lead and fuck off to space for a while. Partially to get away from everyone and also partially bc he kinda feels responsible for the fact that the only other person like him and probably floating DEAD in the void somewhere? And yeah Vlad fucked up all on his own but what if he'd tried harder to get through to him things could have been different-

-Joins the crew after a natural portal opens up in space and decides to help out and use clockworks resources to try and track down his Vlad.

-Nickname/ Designation is Polaris, aka the north star.

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years ago

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Title: Pendent.

Written for a very lovely, very patient anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Bokuto/Reader (Haikyuu!!).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: F. Reader, Toxic Relationships, Co-Dependency, Mention of Injury, Threats of Violence, Victim-Blaming.

[Part Two]

You were better, when you were on your own.

It might’ve been because you were so used to being alone. You’d never been one for social circles, the idea of spending time with people you barely liked for any longer than you deemed acceptable, and with how often your parents moved, how many schools you’d been through, your relationships were bound to be short-lived, if they ever formed at all. You didn’t hate it. You should’ve, you had every reason to, but you didn’t. You were good with impermanence, superficial flare that would never have time to die out. You were good with what you were used to. You were better, when you got to work within the barriers you’d already grown fond of.

That might’ve been why Bokuto felt like such a dead weight. You’d had boyfriends before, both short-term flings and partners persistent enough to try to make it long-distance, but you couldn’t say any of them had care quite as strongly as Bokuto had, none of them had taken as much effort to keep happy as Bokuto had. He didn’t just want your affection. He needed your time, too, your loyalty, your attention, all the things you weren’t sure you wanted to give him, just yet. If you’d been a better person, you might’ve tried to give him what he wanted, attempted to think of him as a companion rather than an unending list of repetitive tasks, but you weren’t. You didn’t want to be. You just didn’t work well with Bokuto. That was the problem, really – the two of you just did belong together.

Well, that and he was fucking crazy, obviously, but you were beginning to think you might’ve been the only one who noticed.

Konoha certainly didn’t, at least. If he had, he wouldn’t be so aggressive, his arms crossed as he kept you trapped in an isolated corner of the courtyard, the school day over and most students long-since gone. He was standing too close, his chest nearly touching yours, but the rest of the team wasn’t any better, mingling around you in a loose half-circle. They didn’t want to be as straight-forward as Konoha, clearly. They didn’t want to live with the guilt. When they walked away from this, and they would walk away from this, they wanted to be able to minimize their role, mark it down as an act of necessity. They didn’t want to have to remember you, and you could only hope they wouldn’t give you a reason to remember them.

But, if this was going to be anything like the first time they confronted you, you doubted you’d get that lucky.

In his defense, Konoha was blunt. If he planned on wasting your time, he didn’t seem to want to waste any more of it than he absolutely had to. “We had a deal.”

It was your turn to cross your arms, now, to scowl. You weren’t as imposing as they were, not on your own, but you’d like to think you could’ve stood your ground. “It wasn’t a deal,” You started, slowly, keeping your tone calm. This wouldn’t be any easier if they thought you were as irrational as their captain. “You asked me for a something, and I gave it to you. I did you a favor. I don’t owe you anything, and I certainly don’t have to stand around being yelled at by the person I tried to help.”

Konoha opened his mouth again, his eyes already narrowed and his lips pulled into a sharp scowl, but another boy stepped forward before he could get anything out, his expression slightly more passive, albeit still concerned. It wasn’t an improvement. If anything, the genuine worry written across his face only made him easier to villainize. He was worried about Bokuto, not you. This was about Bokuto. Your feelings hardly warranted a passing thought.

“What Akinori’s trying to say,” Komi started, his name resurfacing from the dozens of hours you’d spent watching their drills, attending their practice matches, melting into Bokuto’s side after he guilted you into eating lunch with his team, rather than the other girls you were still trying to impress. If you’d been any more emotional, you could’ve hated him for it, loathed him by association. It was almost a shame that you weren’t. “Is that we just think you were a little hasty. I mean, I know we put you up to it, but…” He trailed off, purposefully, clearly hoping you’d be nice enough to cut him off. Again, it was a shame that you weren’t, and Komi went on with a sigh. “We just think the two of you made a good pair. There’s no reason to go and ruin that just because he found out.”

Your head felt fuzzy. You wanted to sit down. It was a difficult sort of discomfort, disorienting and instantaneous, but you didn’t let yourself linger on it. If you did that, you’d have to explain yourself, make your argument more sympathetic than logical. You’d have to tell them about the arguments, the way he’d kissed you, the bruises on your arm that still hadn’t faded despite your dutiful avoidance. You’d have to admit there were bruises at all, and…

That wasn’t going to happen. You already knew it wasn’t going to happen.

“Cut the shit.” It took you a moment to notice Konoha was talking, turned towards his teammates and away from you. A few months ago, you might’ve taken it as an insult, but that might’ve been Bokuto’s one silver lining – you got used to being pushed into the background, when he was around. Hell, even when he wasn’t, sometimes. “He won’t play. He hasn’t come to school in a week. He can barely get out of bed. The poor guy’s a fucking wreck.” There was a pause, something similar to a groan. He didn’t have to tell you it was your fault, not when you could practically hear him thinking it, whether or not his lips moved. “It’s sad. He’s fucking miserable. If you saw it, you’d know what I mean.”

“That’s not my problem.” It wasn’t. Bokuto could’ve hurt you. For a moment, he’d looked like he wanted to hurt you. That wasn’t something you’d forgive with a few tears and a little sulking. “I’m not responsible for him. I don’t want to be responsible for him, and I never have. If you need a babysitter, you’re going to have to look somewhere else.”

“It’ll only be for a few more months.” Like always, Washio was calm, composed, cutting in before Konoha could provide a decent rebuttal. “Just until graduation. He’ll probably be over it, by then, and you won’t have to worry about any of us.”

Until the next moody third-year decides he wants a pick-me-up, too.

“I’m not interested.” You let yourself scoff, look of to the side, pretend you had better places to be. You did have better places to be. Anywhere would be better than this, as long as it meant you didn’t have to think about him. As long as it meant you didn’t have to think about Bokuto ever again, you’d do just about anything. “You saw the way he acted, I couldn’t look at someone else without having to worry about whether or not he’d lose his shit. I wasn’t happy. Fuck, I was a second away from losing my shit. You can’t ask me to go back to that just so you can win at... what? Volleyball?.” You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stop. You didn’t want to talk about this. If you were going to spill your guts to anyone, it wasn’t going to be a dozen teenage boys who thought the only way to make their dear captain happy was to torture you, intentionally or otherwise. “If it’s only a few months, then the rest of you can wait it out. This isn’t my burden. It’s not my problem, and I don’t care enough to pretend it is.”

You didn’t want to hear his response. You didn’t want a part of this fight. You tried to walk away, to push past him, but Konoha only stiffened, catching you by the arm before you could take a full step. You flinched, going rigid as soon as you felt his fist wrap around your wrist, but if he noticed the way you drew back, if he heard the soft, panicked noise that slipped through your parted lips, he didn’t bother apologizing. If anything, into only seemed to inflate his ego further, to make him even more self-righteous. Like he was the caring friend, and you were the stone-cold bitch who was finally starting to see the weight of the situation. Like he was the one in the right. You couldn’t blame him, on that front. No one would be willing to go this far unless they really believed their own bullshit.

“I don’t think you understand.” He was speaking slowly, now. If he hadn’t made it obvious he was willing to hit back, you might’ve been tempted to smack him. “We’re not asking.”

Oh. Right. That changed things.

It was all you could do not to let your voice shake, as you forced yourself to spit something out. “And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

To his credit, Konoha didn’t try to make any idle threats. No, not right now, not when he was so determined to make himself the good guy. Not when it was already clear he’d convinced himself he’d do whatever he had to, as long as it was for Bokuto’s sake. “Bokuto needs this,” He said, instead, like it was all the explanation you could need. “Go back to him on your own. It’ll be easier, if you do.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you tore your eyes away from Konoha, scanning over the other athletes instead. You weren’t sure to look for, support or regret or just enough guilt to draw one or the other out, but you barely had a chance to look before your attention was drawn to a familiar face – Akaashi, standing at the edge of the group, eyes sheepishly focused on the ground. He’d been the first one you talked to, when you first transferred halfway through the year, the first person to offer to walk you home and to invite you to a game and to smile sympathetically, whenever you asked how long your ‘arrangement’ was supposed to last. You didn’t make friends, but if you did, you would’ve counted Akaashi as one. You tried not to get attached to people, but if you were any weaker, you’d be attached to Akaashi. He was a nice guy, despite the company he kept. You trusted him. Or, you would’ve liked to, at least. You could’ve, if you’d trusted yourself to.

You must’ve been staring for a second too long. By the time you thought to say something, he was already glancing up, consciously looking past you. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought he was embarrassed. Something near guilt, but not quite there. Empathy pulled in two different directions, but he’d already chosen one side over the other. “I think it would be… better, if you apologized to Bokuto.” He was talking to you. That, you could be thankful for. At least he was talking to you, rather than whatever enemy the rest of his team must’ve morphed you into before deciding to go through with their little confrontation. “He loves you. You should’ve heard the way he sounded, after he found out.” He faltered, for a moment, but the display of vulnerability was short-lived. “If nothing else, he really does love you.”

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. It shouldn’t have, you were sure of that.

That didn’t mean you could stop it from hurting, though.

You didn’t believe them. You weren’t convinced. You wanted to keep going, to try to talk them down, to do anything but roll over and throw yourself into the arms of their psychopathic captain, but suddenly, your throat felt dry, and it was all you could do to stay on your feet. You felt small, smaller than you had a minute ago. You felt vulnerable, even if you knew there was nothing they could do here, on school-grounds, where any passing teacher or student could see. You didn’t want to be here, you didn’t want to do this, but as you forced yourself to notice Akaashi’s careful aversion, how tightly Konoha was holding you…

You realized you might not have a choice, either way.

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stellocchia · 4 years ago

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This is part 3 of the Comprehensive Analysis of c!Tommy and c!Dream’s relationship during the Exile Arc

Part 1 - Part 2

Here we go again! When I started this I did NOT think it would be this long or take this much time, that said the Exile Arc is very nice to rewatch. There are a lot of little moments I didn’t notice on first watch.

Anyway, as always from here on out it’ll all be about the characters and we will be discussing some heavy topics so do keep that in mind!

We are now onte the 4th proper Exile stream: Tommy Is Holding It Together in Exile with Dream

This one peculiarly enough does not start with Tommy drowning. Also I want to mention that this is the second time during exile where Tommy mentions that he thinks he is allucinating. The first time it was in regard to seeing a group of mobs, this time it was in regard to Tubbo being on-line. Also at the beginning of the stream he finds a present left from HBomb consisting of 1 fire resistance potion 1 strenght II potion, Wait and a photo of the Queen, Tubbo and Vikkstar.

“We need to do something and quick today. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but every single day at the start of my stream Dream logs on uh... and I’m starting... *sigh* he said that Technoblade was over there” (moment when he decides to go scout out Techno’s cabin)

“Okay, what if- just- just to investigate it because I know- I know that big man Dream wouldn’t be too happy if he knew so...” (the manipulation is turning out to be quite effective)

By the way, the reason Tommy states for wanting to see Techno at this point is literally just too feel again like there was someone near (he did say “to smell” someone near, which does tie in with him saying he could “almost smell” Dream when he was searching Techno’s cabin when only Ghostbur and Tommy were there, which I’m sure we could analize further, but I won’t), not to team with him. Once again, :t no point was it Tommy’s intention for them to team up.

“I’m very lonely out here heh, I’m very lonely back home” (casual use of “home” to referr to Logstedshire)

“I wanna go back, I wanna go back. I don’t like this no I don’t like this now we’ve been away for too long” (panicked speach patterns get worse the longer he is away)

“Friend??? No, horse” (Lmao)

“Dream wouldn’t want me going in here...” “Dream wouldn’t like it if I was here! Dream wouldn’t like it if I stole! He’d loose his shit, he’d loose his shit. Surely not...” *Dream joins the game* “oh Oh OH NO! I’m in deep fried shit!”

I want to point out that I personally think a bit of time has passed since last stream, mainly because of this progression. At this point it’s not only fear of physical pain prompting him to act a certain way, it’s also Dream’s conditioning: suddenly what Dream wants it’s extremely important and the same goes with what he would and wouldn’t approve of. And, if I remember correctly, this particular scene was quite the eye opener for a lot of the audience at the time.

“Okay we run back we run back we run back we run back *screams* okay which way’s back? which way’s back? which way’s back? He [Dream] can’t know he can’t know” (panicked speach patterns once again, getting worse)

“I knew I shouldn’t have gone there, that was stupid that was stupid that was stupid” (self-loathing)

“Now how do I get home?” “No no, chat, we should just get home!” “We should probably get home quick” “Is anyone at home? Maybe Wilbur came home” (Logsteshire has now the title of “home”, but it’s definitely not safe)

“No!” *creeper blows up* “*sigh* I deserve that” (self-loathing)

“You know let’s clean up our land. What we need to do before... before He arrives. Maybe we should make a little safe spot, nah, there isn’t enough time today. You know I reckon after last night He is gonna be okay with us, He is gonna be much more...” (hard time speaking or thinking about Dream)

Tommy proceeds to seat down with the compass listening to Far and looking towards L’Manburg for a while. Then Tubbo (hallucination, which is quite worrying) comes out of the portal with the compass in hand and they stare at each other for a bit, after that he keeps seeing Tubbo (always hallucination) throughout the stream.

“I actually just woke up Tommy and I came straight here, to visit you” “Why would you go stra- straight here?” “Because I wanted to see you~” “Why?” “Uh, because we’re friends” “Oh yeah... hi Dream!” “Hello”

Dream arrives and blows up Tommy’s armour and weapons (I actually did not remember about Dream taking the weapons every time as well, but it does make sense in Dream’s f*cked up way considering that his intent was leaving Tommy entirely defenceless so that he would be more dependent on him). This time though, Dream makes Tommy light up the tnt, with minimal resistance from Tommy at this point (he just says: “I don’t really want to”, but he can’t bring himself to resist more then that).

I do find quite interesting that every time they seem to have the blowing up and insecurities part of the conversation at first and then basically re-start all over. It happened last stream as well. Also, Dream keeps accentuating 2 points to Tommy: how everything back in L’Manburg is better without him there and how, while it is basically effortless to come visit Tommy, he is the only one making the effort (even going as far as going to visit first thing in the morning).

“I’ve had a little idea by the way, I want to know what you think” “Okay” “And also if I’m allowed” “Okay” “*sigh* Basically, I’ve been thinking, you know how we made our Big Path to get home?” “Yes, it’s been a little while” “Yeah yeah, I’m thinking: I throw a party!”

So, couple of things to talk about here: Tommy feels the need to constantly ask Dream for permission (because Dream just puts so many rules to this supposed “exile”), another indication of some time having passed since the last stream for them, considering that the last stream was literally the day before irl (I’m talking about the “it’s been a little while” part) and also this is when we are introduced to the idea of the party.

“I’m allowed? I’m allowed?” “Yeah, can I come?” “Of co- uh- yeah” “Okay, they’re allowed to come” (talking about the party)

“Well Dream, is it me or is it you that’s been left by themselves for about 13 days now?” (irl it’s been 4-5 days, though at least now we have a bit of a timeframe for them as well)

Ghostbur arrives with Phil (who gifts Tommy the Tommy Slippers, which are a pair of diamond boots, a stack of black wool, 8 iron blocks and a Friendship Emerald)

“Guys are you- are you real?” “Am I real?” “Because I keep fucking seeing... I keep seeing Tubbo” (Tommy finally mentioning the hallucination to others, also Ghostbur pretends to see him, though it was confirmed later on that he wasn’t there)

“Dream’s here by the way, Dream’s always here” (now that’s kinda ominous)

“Dream, Dream I swear to Christ I think I just kept seeing Tubbo” “I didn’t see him, I never saw him once. Phil didn’t see him either, it was only you and Wilbur. Pretty sure he wasn’t here~” “My eyes are not the most reliable, I see lots of things”

I’d say from here on out is when Tommy starts trusting Dream over his and Ghostbur’s perceptions of reality. After all, as I said at the start, this is not the first, nor the last time where he questions his own perception of reality and, as we talked about in the last analysis, it’s not the first time that Dream tries to assert himself as his main source of information (callback to him negating having ever destroyed any of Tommy’s belongings). Also Fundy came to visit giving Tommy an efficiency II fortune I diamond axe (may I point out now how Fundy is literally the one person, aside from Dream and Ghostbur, visiting the most and how he is the only one aside from Ghostbur always saying “hi” whenever Tommy logs on? Their friendship is so underrated).

“I’m going- I’m going crackers...” “Hi Tommy! I think- I think I saw Tubbo as well” “Dream was Tubbo here?” “I did not ever see Tubbo, but I don’t know, I haven’t seen him” (confirmation of what I said before)

“Dream, now that you showed up everyone started to visit me again!” “Well I think it’s just because the- well, to be fair, are they here with you right now? They’re just running around, like, I don’t think they are here visiting you, they’re just visiting Logstedshire” “Oh” (Dream enhancing Tommy’s feeling of loneliness)

“He [Tubbo] told me he missed you” “Really?” “Well-” “Yeah! I gave him a compass that pointed towards you at all times and he siad ‘I really miss him'“ “Really?” “Yeah” (...) “I thought I saw the compass in a chest, like he threw it in a chest in the Community House, but I’m not- maybe it was a different compass, I’m not sure”

Ghostbur was actually a great support during Tommy’s exile. From pointing out the holes in Dream’s rules, to trying and reassure and support Tommy when he is feeling down, often going directly against Dream’s narrative, even going as far as creating a physical connection between Tommy and Tubbo through the compasses. It’s no surprise then that Dream tried to get rid of him right after this stream. Tommy builds his first girlfrend, “hot girl”.

“Hey Tommy, don’t you worry, I’ll be at the beach party!” (Ghostbur said, like a liar...)

“Wilbur did you burn my hit novel?” “No!” “I heard you did” “No!” “Did you know that that was the only book in history that sold better then the Bible?” “No! No! No! Didn’t do it!” (Ghostbur said again, like a liar...)

“Wilbur we need a chest room” “No I don’t really need one, I just go to L’manburg” “Low blow ghost” (Ghost [derogatory])

“I’m sleep deprived” (we’re back into character after the 20 minutes of them bullying Brand)

“I have a gift for you Tommy” *gives Tommy iron helmet, chestplate and pants* “Armour? For me?” “Yeah” “Oh thank you, thank you!” “You’re welcome”

Remember this part because Dream will use this as a point against Tommy when destroying Logstedshire, just like Techno does later on. In case anyone was wondering: if you give something freely to someone as a gift you have literally no right to then hold it over their head at a later date. That’s just manipulative as shit.

This neds with Phil, Dream and Tommy making a cake for the beach party and deciding on the last few details, and:

“We’re getting better everyone. We’re getting- are we- we’re getting better. I guess- I guess we’re bonding... *sigh* I guess...”

I’ll leave this off by reminding everyone that Dream and Tommy called Dream blowing up Tommy’s armour and weapons “bonding”.

#dreamwastaken #tommyinnit #ghostbur #exile arc #tw abuse #tw manipulation #relationship analysis #long post #my post #I was thinking of doing 2 streams at a time every time #but including the beach party stream analysis in this post literally made my tumblr crash multiple times #so screw that!

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renaroo · 3 years ago

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Other History? More Like Other MYSTERY

as in it’s a MYSTERY how the hell this got past an editor the week before Pride Month are you fucking kidding me?

I was kind of hoping for more than like... a week of being back on tumblr before I breathed fire and ripped a comic book to shreds. But we all know why I’m here.

There are so many preemptive things to get out of the way before I rip into this thing...

John Ridley as a writer in other forms of media has been incredibly accomplished and an important additional voice to entertainment industries. I do not wish to take away from that or to minimize the impact of voices like his.

But, you know, he’s a voice in media. Not the end-all, be-all to all marginalized people worldwide who can substitute his perspective for any nonwhite straight male voice. And I don’t think that has ever been more apparent than the continued spiral down the drain that has been every issue of The Other History of the DC Universe since the first.

DC’s “new” approach to everything being canon and everything mattering is dumb and filled to the brim with ways it’s going to backfire and reveal itself to be the eye sore of publications that it’s aiming for, but I was curious to see how they would try to incorporate these characters’ long and contentious histories in the comics with the real world issues they often were billed to tackle, and try to fit it into the current pop culture landscape. That was the whole reason I had my eye on this comic to begin with.

By the second issue we were getting some stark warning signs because as much as I appreciated hearing an authentic perspective on how the Teen Titans brand carried on while neglecting its landmark Black teen heroes (Mal Duncan and Karen Beecher), there was a note of cruelty added to the issue that felt otherwise misplaced and uncharacteristic of the tone being set.

There was no reason to have a significant portion of that issue dedicated to Mal and Karen’s monologues taking some aggressive words out on Roy Harper specifically for being an addict.

Perhaps it was a quirk of writing from a flawed perspective or a show of how righteous upset and anger could be turned outward to other people suffering in a vy for your own empowerment.

I’m now pretty sure that wasn’t it at all. I’m pretty sure because it kept getting worse every issue and it’s culminated in today’s issue where the retelling of Renee Montoya’s story managed to be petty, cruel, shockingly pro-police brutality int its adulation of Jim Gordon and especially Harvey Bullock, and managed to make a well-rounded and very beloved Latina lesbian and just retrofit every stereotype she never had before to her without regard for what it did to her story or to the stories of people around her.

Honestly, lapsed faith and a poke at the damage that Catholic guilt can have on especially queer believers is kind of my jam, so it’s not that I wouldn’t be down for a story with that perspective. I could even understand exploring that with Renee. But not at the expense of her established history.

Which is a question all of its own. Here we have the skeletal structure of Renee’s life events that we have read before (in much better stories), but they are surprisingly out of order and also shockingly twisted in a way to make EVERYONE as unpleasant as possible.

And in a way that has convinced me that either John Ridley has never read comics featuring Renee, or that he was mandated to change things that had no business being changed.

According to this issue Renee hated Batman and other superheroes? Which, ah, I don’t even know where that could come from. Ever since the animated series where she got started, Renee’s whole bag has been “the acolyte of Jim Gordon, only other cop who supports Batman”. Like I don’t even know how you get around that.

But according to Ridley she’s hated them all along as an extension of her internalized homophobia and self-loathing. Great.

What follows out of that is that apparently? Renee and Batman specifically butted heads over wanting to rehabilitate Harvey Dent? As in Renee wanted to help him and BATMAN was the one flipping out and saying Harvey was a sociopath and couldn’t be helped.

Like. I’m starting to question if Ridley has read Batman comics before. I don’t know where that interpretation could possibly come from? Bruce and Harvey were friends? Bruce has always held out hope for saving Harvey from his psychosis? It’s like. THE storyline for Two-Face.

The cop stuff... I don’t really know how to talk about the cop stuff to be completely honest. If you mention the LA Riots on one page and a few pages later try to frame it so that over policing and methods of brutality weren’t a thing until 9/11... I don’t know what to say to you.

I’d say maybe I was being ungenerous here except there were two characters who got entire full page spreads about what good cops they were. And one of them was goddamn Harvey Bullock with the explicit commentary that Renee USED to be uncomfortable with his torture methods and general brutality but figured it was “okay” because he knew how “innocent people screamed different” and that he “never collared someone and it didn’t stick” because. Y’know. Police violence and falsifying evidence never go hand in hand. what the actual fuck ever right?

The timeline for Renee and Kate’s relationship is also completely changed which means that we get to add a trope I just LOVE as a lesbian personally, which is that lesbians can’t keep relationships and can’t keep from cheating on their loving partners. Especially when they are butch.

And I’m not talking about Renee cheating on Kate. Oh, no. Ridley decided Kate was the Other Woman during Renee’s relationship with Daria.

And just.. the cruel commentary that Renee had about both Kate and Daria throughout. It made my skin crawl. The way she talked about other women in general made my skin crawl. “Uncomplicated women” “Broken souls” “Can’t be with someone better than yourself”

So I actually planned to go into a full rage post about just the queer content because 1. my lane and 2. it honestly affected me so bad I was shaking and tearing up in anger a bit. Every single friend I know who loves Kate and Renee, see themselves in Kate and Renee, have been the same kind of mess I am after this.

The NASTINESS of the internal monologue. I don’t know how to explain it more than this is how poorly men think of flf and to have one use a character so meaningful to the community to spout this hatefulness has revolted me in a way I... haven’t had happen to me for a while.

I was going to talk about the weirdness of just... randomly deciding to retcon Renee’s parents into being undocumented when that’s never been a thing before and just doing NOTHING with it the whole while after. Or how it’s pretty questionable how Renee suddenly became so adherently Catholic when it’s never been portrayed like that before (that’s Hel B’s bag, JPV if you squint) but it’s entwined with any of her commentary on her ethnicity p sus too but I don’t have the nuance for that discussion right now.

Rena Rants are back and what a fucking JOKE this comic was.

I didn’t pay for it and neither should you.

P.S. bringing back Tim Fox and calling him “Jace” is dumb as fuck too

#VICTOR #CHARLIE #Rants of Unusual Size #Rena Rambles #Wednesday Spoilers #The Other History of the DC Universe (2019)#Renee Montoya #the Question #Kate Kane #Batwoman #character assassination #for who?#take a pick #I didn't even touch on her calling Vic instead of #In the name of the moon fuck you my dude

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years ago

Note

BABE. WHAT IF GERALT DRINKS A LOVE POTION!?! WHAT IF HE?? CoNfEsSeS!?!?

This is why I come crawling into your messages begging for prompts. You get me, boo.

tw: love potion, Yen interfering but in a nice way

---

Yennefer had grown bored of watching the bard and Witcher dance around each other like courting swans. It had been years and they still hadn’t figured things out between them. It had probably been more than years; more like decades. The bard, something not-quite-human but not inhuman enough to be suspicious or a problem, was too frightened of losing Geralt a second time to say anything to him about his clear and obvious feelings.

The Witcher, too self-loathing and repressed to express anything other than frustration or exhaustion, didn’t know how to say anything for fear of driving his only friend away for good. She’d been watching the two idiots circle each other in an endless loop of yearning for far too long and the sorceress was finally ready to give them a little push in the right direction.

“Jaskier,” she drawled, approaching the bard after he’d concluded a public performance. “It’s been awhile since we’ve traded blows. How are you and that Witcher doing?”

“I am still the finest voice on the Continent and Geralt is the grumpiest Wolf Witcher to ever grace the halls of Kaer Morhen,” he winked. “How have you been, dear?”

“I remain the most ravishing woman alive, fortunately.”

“Of course,” he bowed in mock politeness. Their banter had gotten less fiery and more friendly after she and Geralt had come to their understanding about Ciri’s education. Split custody of an affectionate, exuberant magical child worked wonders for strained relationships, apparently. “What can I do for you on this fine occasion, Lady Yen?”

“Oh hush,” she came alongside him and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. He bumped his shoulder back against hers, falling into camaraderie as if they’d never parted. “I actually have something for Geralt this time, but figured you’d be easier to get a hold of. I was correct in that assumption, as per usual. I thought he might be missing his White Gull while out on the Path and I know how he stresses himself nearly to death, so I brewed up something fun for him to try.”

“He’ll be overjoyed to have an equal substitute to his Witcher liquor.”

She pressed a small vial of swirling gold liquid into Jaskier’s palm. There was a label hanging from the tag containing a blocky #9. The sorceress smiled warmly and shook out her heavy skirts, adjusting them to her liking before opening a swirling purple portal. “I have some things to take care of in the next county over, so goodbye for now, darling.”

“Good day, gorgeous.”

And just as soon as she’d appeared, Yennefer was gone.

---

“Geralt! Here, I’d nearly forgotten. Yennefer said this would work like White Gull next time you want to get pissed after a job,” the bard said, passing along the little golden vial. The Witcher pulled the cork, sniffed at it, shrugged, and put it away in his pack.

“Remind me to thank her next time we cross paths.”

“Already thanked her for you,” Jaskier winked. “No worries.”

“You terrify me, bard.”

“You love me, Witcher.”

“Hmm.”

---

“Geralt, what’s wrong?”

“That wasn’t… that wasn’t White Gull at all, Jaskier.”

“What was it, then!? Are you going to be okay!?”

“It wasn’t poison. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, so what was it, exactly?”

“It was a-” Geralt clapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head furiously. He took a few deep breaths before releasing a muffled, “I can’t talk.”

“What do you mean you can’t talk? You barely talk as it is! Do I need to worry about you or not? Should I send for a healer or no? Was I duped by a very clever, portal-making doppler or was that really Yennefer?”

Geralt glared but kept his hands over his mouth. Jaskier could see from his seat beside the Witcher that he was trembling in place. His shoulders were set in a tight line and his legs were bouncing in place. He was putting a great amount of effort into staying as still as possible and even with his great Witcher willpower was failing him. Slowly, carefully, Jaskier reached out one of his hands but Geralt shook his head and pulled himself further away.

“Geralt please tell me what’s wrong! I’m scared!” Tears started to well up in his eyes and his hands fluttered uselessly, desperate to touch but banned from doing so. Geralt hated seeing the fear mounting in Jaskier’s eyes, turning down the corners of his gorgeous mouth. “Geralt, tell me something! Anything, please.”

“Love potion,” the Witcher finally managed to grind out.

“Oh. Do you need me to leave so you can, you know, deal with it?”

Geralt growled and turned away, hands moving from his mouth to grip at the tops of his knees. His fingers dug into the material of his leather trousers and he grit his teeth. “No. Not that kind.”

Jaskier stood anyway, legs wobbling, and took a slow step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, she said-”

“She knew what she was doing,” Geralt snarled, standing also. He took a measured step in the bard’s direction and Jaskier’s hands rose again; he wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to ward Geralt off or to welcome him closer. “She knew she was meddling.”

“Meddling!? Geralt wha- what’s going on?”

The Witcher picked his way easily over the forest floor, closing the minimal distance between them. One of his hands reached to grip at Jaskier’s waist and the other cupped the bard’s jaw, holding him still and tilting his head back so they were making firm eye contact. “She’s tired of watching us stay quiet, Jaskier.”

Jaskier, for his part, was trying desperately to summon words enough to answer, but Geralt’s calloused thumb was brushing back and forth against the skin of his cheek and it was incredibly distracting. “I- uh, I don’t know wha-”

The Witcher pulled him closer. There was no pressure, no point of contact that Jaskier couldn’t escape if he wanted to; he just really didn’t want to move. This gorgeous dream was too good to be true, but he was very much enjoying it.

“Bard,” that low, hungry growl made Jaskier weak in the knees. “Do you love me, too, or do your racing heart and fluttering eyelashes deceive me?”

“I do,” Jaskier breathed, finally relaxing into his darling Geralt’s comforting embrace. “I love you so incredibly much. With every fiber of my being.”

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

The thumb on his cheek never stopped moving. That soft caress was the only thing holding Jaskier to the surface of the earth, it felt like. If Geralt let go of him then he would certainly float away into space and never return. The Witcher’s lips, chapped and warm and slightly parted, lit against his as lightly as any feather falling upon the surface of a calm lake. It was a chaste, anxious brush of skin-against-skin and Jaskier whined when Geralt pulled away too quickly for his liking.

The sharp, sudden sound broke something in Geralt’s resolve. His lips crashed down again and his hands tightened their hold on the bard, keeping him pinned in place for Geralt’s hands and mouth to eagerly explore. “Yes, Geralt, fucking finally.”

“I love you,” the Witcher murmured into his skin. He kissed his way along one pale collarbone and then the other, praying his love into every damp press of his lips. “I love you, Jaskier.”

“I’m writing Yennefer a thank you letter.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Geralt growled, the hand cupping Jaskier’s jaw moving down to encircle his waist. Better than I’d ever imagined, the bard thought, one leg lifting unconsciously up from the ground. Oh, my love, at last!

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vidavalor · 4 years ago

Text

Beginning to think that Sam was helping Bucky to hide...

The canon is asking us to believe that The Winter Soldier stayed hidden for ages without anyone being able to find him. Yes, Bucky’s skilled and all that but considering that The Winter Soldier ran away from Steve and Tony’s fight and disappeared... uh, exactly how did he stay disappeared for *that* long? Especially with Steve and Sam looking for him? Steve didn’t find him until the Sokovia Accords/Zemo situation forces Bucky out of hiding but Steve is also The Avenger who is the least technologically-savvy... but Sam? Sam is plenty technologically-savvy.

Do we really believe that Sam never found Bucky that entire time? Better question: Do we really believe that Sam-- based on everything we know about him-- would choose to tell Steve if he did? Because while I’m sure he didn’t love lying to his friend, Sam would absolutely see what would happen if he told Steve he had found Bucky.

Steve believed in the system. He believed in following a certain path. Sam had and has a different lived experience in the world-- one that causes him to think more critically of the ramifications of the system and a bit more big-picture than Steve did. If Sam told Steve that he found Bucky, Steve would say that the next step would be to get Bucky to come with him and the government would take it from there-- a government that likely was looking to hold Bucky responsible for his actions as The Winter Soldier or, worse, might see a weapon they could gain control over and have no interest in helping Bucky get beyond The Winter Soldier. Instead, they might be looking to use him. Steve knows that there can be evil factions within government but he chooses to take a rosier approach to all of it-- assuming that others will act with integrity and seeking to stop them if they don’t. Sam is different.

Sam is a war veteran who identifies with the PTSD Bucky is suffering and has seen plenty of other soldiers go through something similar, if not quite on the same scale as Bucky. He knows what it is to be a Black man in America and love a country that has a government that is set up not to favor you. He has seen how it has failed its veterans and he’s savvy enough to know that handing Bucky over to the government is basically handing him over to be at least imprisoned again, if not further weaponized against his will.

Sam found Bucky, probably not that long after Bucky disappeared. He was able to reassure Bucky that he wasn’t there to arrest or hurt him but to help him and Bucky took the risk to try to trust him because he had seen him with Steve and figured he might be able to. Sam never told Steve he found Bucky and on those nights when Team Cap did their own thing, Wanda wasn’t the only one who went to go visit someone she cared for in secret.

This would help to explain why Bucky and Sam are already at a state of Sam-can-touch-Bucky-without-him-freaking-out and Bucky-is-already-looking-at-Sam-like-he-hung-the-moon in Endgame. They’ve actually had a secret relationship for a couple of years already (pre-Blip, anyway.) Most of it by then also took place during a time when Bucky *was still technically programmed as The Winter Soldier*, which would also add to the levels of trust they’ve built up that we see, especially in the early parts of TFATWS, when they seem to already have more than we’ve seen them earn with one another.

To be clear: I’m not saying they were romantically/sexually involved necessarily when Bucky was in hiding. I’m saying Sam-- the war veteran, the PTSD survivor, the counselor-- took one look at Bucky and knew what telling Steve where he was would bring about and couldn’t do that to him. He felt Bucky deserved a chance to find his way back to his own mind and have a life and he wasn’t about to put a fellow soldier back in physical or psychological chains so he just kept missing that slippery Winter Soldier! for a couple of years while on the run with Team Cap, figuring that the on-the-run bit would eventually work itself out and he could go back to his normal life, though still keeping tabs on Bucky. He likely went further than just not telling Steve as well-- maybe helping Bucky with technology, cover IDs, etc, to keep him going.

In the process, they became friends, probably both beginning to feel more than that as time went on but not really pursuing it but that could also explain the contradiction between Sam being very aware of Bucky’s various struggles in a way that shows they’ve talked about them (as we see in TFATWS) but also giving him a lot of space and putting up necessary distance during that same time. His response to meeting Dr. Raynor is one of real relief and gratitude that she’s helping someone who is very important to him (he really sounds like Bucky’s husband, meeting his therapist for the first time-- all this before the couple’s counseling, of course.) I am not saying that Sam *should* be taking all this on because he shouldn’t be, regardless of whether or not he’s in love with Bucky. They’re friends and that alone means they need to be supportive of one another but it wouldn’t be ethically right for Sam to act as a therapist to Bucky, even if he wanted to. It has too many conflicts and it changes the balance of power in their relationship. I think what we see in the canon, though, could be explained as Sam was there when he was the only one Bucky had when Bucky was in hiding, which was also when they didn’t really know one another at first. The fact that Sam has taken steps to both continue to be there for Bucky as his friend and be supportive of him but to make sure that Bucky has other resources for this process is actually a really strong indicator that Sam's relationship with Bucky has evolved to a point where he would find it conflicting to be helping to manage Bucky’s trauma recovery. If he and Bucky were just casual acquaintances? If Bucky was just another vet at the VA, like the many Sam helped in his groups back in the day? Sam would be there to help devise those recovery plans. But that he’s taken a step back in that particular way? That he remains there for Bucky emotionally and supportive of him but gave him the space he needed in Wakanda and is happy that he had a therapist in New York? It suggests that Sam wants a different kind of relationship with Bucky-- at minimal, a very close friendship. More likely, a romantic relationship down the line, when and if Bucky was able to recover enough to be in a place to consider one. (Not that Sam was telling Bucky any of this until recently but...)

But yeah, while it seems like a couple of months at least have gone by between Endgame and TFATWS, even that amount of time-- especially considering Bucky going on a bit of a PTSD/self-loathing pull back towards the beginning and not really responding to Sam’s texts-- doesn’t seem like it’s enough time for the level of intimacy Sam & Bucky already have when we first see them together in the second episode. Them having a secret relationship while Bucky was in hiding, though? Slowly earning some trust from one another? It would also help to explain why Sam is the only one who can touch Bucky without him being bothered by TFATWS and how Sam knows Bucky well-enough to not give up on him, to know what his triggers are and to not miss a beat after Bucky went AWOL for a few weeks and stopped answering his texts. He’s not really upset about it and is teasing him basically the second they see one another again, which indicates both that Sam has enough affection for and understanding of Bucky that a few unanswered texts isn’t going to break them and that Bucky trusts Sam, even when he’s frustrated with him, and puts in the effort to make things work between them because he cares about him.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #the falcon #captain america #the winter soldier #tfatws #marvel #mcu

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liquorisce · 3 years ago

Text

High School Years, Ch 3: aftermath.

pairing: eren x mikasa (SnK)

rating: M. (nsfw)

Summary: for eren and mikasa, love was easy; they'd loved each other forever. but physical attraction? that's a whole other story.

read on ao3 | chap 2 | chap 1

The morning after the… “confrontation”, when they walk to school, they hold hands. It's a new dimension of their ‘relationship’, and the thought of calling it that, of calling Eren her ‘boyfriend,’ is something that makes her feel so many things.

“So um,” she begins, squeezing his hand a little bit, soft pink dusting her cheeks, as he turns to look at her questioningly. “... Are we going to tell the gang?”

For the briefest moment he looks confused, but when he sees her shy expression, not spelling it out because she doesn’t know how to say it yet, his eyes widen in understanding. “Ah that you and I...,” he colours, just a little bit, because it wasn’t until the words were literally at the tip of his tongue, that he realizes he doesn’t know how to say it either.

She’d said it last night, called him her boyfriend, and it did things to him, making his heart constrict with a nervous kind of excitement. Because he was Mikasa’s boyfriend, and that was something of an honour.

But another part of him, the part that recognizes what it means for a high school kid, just finds it completely lacking, he doesn’t want to announce that he’s ‘dating’ Mikasa Ackerman, the word simply does not do it justice. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to hear her name in the gossip rings, from the mouths of shallow, boring girls who have little better to do than keep track of their high school reality show or from the dirty whispers of teenage boys who can’t control their hormones (if Eren is one of them, he doesn’t acknowledge it).

“... Maybe we could just keep it quiet? Just for a little while…” He watches her expressions searchingly, and she does that thing that she does, hides into her bangs when she doesn’t want him to see what she’s thinking and he panics, just a little.

“Hey, listen,” he stops her by the wrist, before they round the corner onto the street of their school. “... It’s not that I want to hide it,” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers, because god forbid she thinks he’s embarrassed or ashamed or anything short of absolutely ecstatic, “You know that, right?”

She closes her eyes and she lets the waves of insecurity pass her by. Surely, there was nothing more to worry about. He’d made no secret of the depth of his feelings last night. “Mm-hmm.” She feels his minty breath cool on her lower lip and she reaches up to press her mouth against his. It’s tentative, the way she does it, reserved and shy but completely incomparable. It’s like everything she does, he thinks breathlessly, as he deepens the kiss. There’s no one like her.

She threads her hands into his already messed up hair, breathing harshly as she breaks away from his kiss. “I don’t mind,” she agrees, “... I think I’d like it to be just between us for a while…”

And because he’s so grateful that he’s in love with his best damn friend, who knows him and understands him like nobody else, he kisses her again… just because he can.

…

They know. He doesn’t know how they know, but they fucking know, and he mutters unhappily under his breath, “... fucking vultures, the whole lot of them.”

Armin smirks, not unsympathetically. They’d mutually decided to tell him (rather, he spotted them holding hands, and he’d almost cried in happiness), even though Eren had been somewhat sour about it, sulking when Mikasa had pointed out that they obviously needed to tell Armin. Eren was a brat, and a jealous one, especially where Mikasa was concerned, so despite having ample proof by now that the kiss between Armin and her had meant nothing, it remained a sore topic for him.

“Isn’t it easier this way? At least now you won’t have to stare down all the boys queuing up to ask for her number in the cafeteria.”

“... That’s not the point,” Eren sulks, even though he knows Armin has a point (he always does), the phenomenon he’d described was a canonical and frequent event that he actively loathes, because Mikasa was quite free with her personal details that way.

( It’s high school, Eren , she’d told him exasperatedly one day when he’d actually brought it up to her, if I don’t give them my number they’ll get it from someone else anyway. Besides, the block functionality is quite useful .)

Somehow Eren is fairly certain that knowing she was in a relationship wouldn’t be enough to deter potential suitors (/ fanboys) and as they walk towards their class, he spots the best example of this crass behaviour in none other than his horse faced friend chatting up his girlfriend, who seemed to be fairly liberal with her smiles.

Armin watches the scene from right next to him and snorts, barely able to contain his laughter. “... You’re so transparent, Eren.”

“Clearly the news hasn’t reached everyone,” he clears his throat, tearing his gaze away from the beauty and the beast, trying his best to remain civil and not scare his girlfriend away in less than 24 hours of them being, you know, together .

“This is what you wanted,” Armin reminds him, clapping his shoulder sportingly, barely able to contain his grin.

…

She tugs nervously at her hair, feeling ridiculously exposed despite the fluffy maroon scarf around her neck. She hadn’t been prepared for the events of yesterday, be it the emotional confession, or the heated kisses, or the possessive nips at her neck.

She certainly wasn’t prepared for the self consciousness that came with the marks he left on her, and had absolutely no knowledge of the make up skills required to cover it. (It hadn’t helped that it had taken Armin less than two minutes to spot the hickeys.)

But what she was least prepared for, is how almost everyone seemed to know, without her even having to open her mouth, and how they all seemed to have an opinion.

… Aw, but I was really counting on him getting back together with Krista… they were so cute…

… I wonder how long he’ll stay with this one…

… wait, Mikasa Ackerman? Aren’t they like practically siblings or something? Ewwww~

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to gag, or if she wanted to hide… or both.

She doesn’t hide. Because Mikasa Ackerman is a class act and despite feeling completely torn up listening to bitchy people talk about her like she does not possess hearing, she goes through the day looking outwardly untouchable.

But after trudging through the entire day of listening to absolute bullshit rumours and whispering, she’s pretty sure she feels a migraine incoming. Groaning to herself, as she takes out her notebook from her locker, she finds herself face to face with a chirpy voice that she once hated.

“... Hey,” Krista says, with a small smile. “... rough day, huh.”

Mikasa nods, it’s not that she dislikes the cute blonde in front of her (not too much, anyway), it’s just that today was not the day she wants to be visually reminded of her existence. Because watching her, in her white miniskirt and pink sweater, perfect blonde hair and her perfect smile, is reminiscent of all the days she hid in her room with only her insecurity for company.

“So um,” Krista begins, because Mikasa can be comfortable in her silence, just looking at Krista questioningly. “... Everyone’s talking about it, basically,” she blurts out, unable to help herself.

“And if you want to know whom to smack, it’s Hitch, because she says she saw you guys holding hands outside school and making out, and she snapchatted it to the whole world, because that’s what she does and,” - Mikasa’s eyes narrow and Krista takes a deep breath.

“Look, I just wanted to reach out, and you know,” she clears her throat, like it was obvious what she was doing here. Mikasa just looks blank, feels blank. “... Like, I don’t want it to be awkward or anything, between us,” Mikasa is genuinely confused at this point, because there didn’t have to be an us, between her and Krista, their social circles were comfortably distant enough to have as minimal interaction as possible. “... You seem like a great person, and honestly, I’m not even surprised you guys ended up together. It was just a matter of time, I guess.”

She smiles earnestly as she says this, and Mikasa finds herself liking the short blonde despite herself, and offers a smile back. “... Thanks, that’s sweet of you.”

“And um,” Krista offers, completely casually, “... I could lend you some concealer if you wanna… you know, cover that up.”

…

“Snapchat!” Sasha wails theatrically, “... I can’t believe this is what our friendship has boiled down to.”

Mikasa has the grace to look guilty. “Explain to me, bestie ,” Sasha can be quite scary when she has her manic face on, “why, I had to receive a snap from the school’s number one hoe, informing me of the fact that my best friend had finally hooked up with her absolute thirst trap of a roommate.”

She doesn’t have much to say to defend herself, she simply slinks lower into her seat. “... I’ll buy you lunch for a week,” Mikasa whispers, defeated.

“Oh you better,” Sasha declares, still fuming. “... Snapchat, are you fucking kidding me…” She turns around once more, sizing Mikasa up deliberately. “... What about that time I walked in on you guys, in the kitchen, and he didn’t have a shirt on?” Sasha narrows her eyes accusingly. “... Were you two already…? Did you lie to me back then?”

“No! God, no,” Mikasa vaguely wonders why she sounds so defensive and apologetic about her own love life, but she remembers that Sasha is upset and for what it’s worth, she loves her like a sister, so she says, “... I swear, there was nothing between us then. It only happened, like… last night.”

Mikasa blushes as she says it, and the twinkle returns to Sasha’s brown eyes. “You must tell me everything,” she commands, and despite her sighing and blushing and giggling, Mikasa does exactly that.

...

He waits for her as they walk back from school. This is new too. Well not entirely, they’d walk back together, the three of them, Him, Mikasa and Armin, everyday in middle school, but high school had brought them different routines, and a distance that he was happy to get rid of.

“So…” he says as he slips his fingers between hers. “So much for our plan to keep it quiet.”

She burrows her head into his arm, “... everyone knew. Literally everyone.” After a minute, she adds reproachfully, “The hickeys you left on my neck didn’t help, either.”

He grins despite the glare she gives him. Embarrassing or not, he didn’t regret it one bit, not the moments that led up to those anyway... the way she’d found herself on his lap, fitting so perfectly in his arms, and against his mouth. The way she’d gasped when he’d let himself explore the sensitive skin on her neck.

He understands her situation, but god, there was no way he’d apologize for the sheer sensation he’d felt in that moment.

Tugging at her scarf to see his own handiwork, he can’t help his disappointment when he sees only a faint outline of them on her pretty skin. “... I see you’ve covered them up.”

“Ah,” Mikasa grins, “... that was your ex, actually.”

She feels him still, letting go of her hand for a brief moment. “... What?” Eren blinks nervously. They don’t really talk about his ex, not much more than they did yesterday anyway, and he wishes they’d never have to, not now that he knows perfectly well how much it had hurt Mikasa.

“You… um, spoke to her today?”

Mikasa nods, “... She came by to say hello, yeah.” And because Eren looks extremely uncomfortable at the thought, she giggles and tells him, “She says she didn’t want things to be awkward between us.”

Eren groans, “... this sounds like the teaser to every high school drama ever.” But despite his sarcasm, he was worried because despite Mikasa’s unassuming popularity in school, she lived her life outside of the cliques, the gossip rings, the drama… and Krista, sweet that she was, was somehow always in the thick of it.

“Don’t worry,” Mikasa says sweetly, “... if you want me to tell you that we had a catfight over you, prepare for disappointment.”

He grins in relief and asks, “... Is it so wrong to indulge in the fantasy of you fighting with another girl over me?” And because he can’t help himself, he adds, “You’d win for sure, Mikasa.”

…

As long as she can remember, Mikasa had been in love with Eren. It wasn’t complicated, or confusing for her, she’d loved him and she’d always known it.

When she was younger she had less trouble expressing it, they played together all the time, and she shared her toys with him, her sweets, and promised his mom she would take care of him when he got into trouble.

During her darkest days (after losing her parents), he would look after her, keep an eye out for her, tuck her in sometimes and sleep by her side when she had nightmares. Back then it was easier to ask for his attention - Eren could you stay with me, she remembers her 12 year old self asking, sniffling in the night, with no inhibitions, just a young girl asking for comfort from the boy she shared everything with.

(He’d given her everything she asked for graciously, fussing over her in his own way, watching over her even when she didn’t notice.)

It’s the ‘how’ that increased in complexity, the way she wanted more and more as the years went by, until the point where her love for him was a complete stranger. It was frustrating when she first realized it, when she realized she looked at him more often than usual… when she realized she wanted him to look at her too.

Growing up they’d watch movies together, and she’d often wonder about the way the hero kissed the heroine at the end of the movie, and wondered if someday Eren would kiss her like that. Most of all she wondered if Eren thought about it too.

When he started dating, that became amply clear to her - he thought of kissing, and to her unfortunate attention, it became clear that he thought of much more too. Those months were incredibly difficult for Mikasa because not only did she have to go through life like nothing had changed - ostensibly nothing had, not between them - but she had to police every indiscrete thought when he walked around after his shower without a shirt on, she had to control her gaze every time it fell on his beautiful mouth, wondering exactly what it would feel like against hers.

And for the first time in the longest time, Mikasa could no longer love Eren the way she always had, openly and without shame, she could no longer ask of him his care and attention.

But it feels like overnight so much has changed, she can barely comprehend it. Eren is so generous with his attention (his love), she wonders if the last couple of years of distance was the doing of her own imagination.

He is so free with his touches, sometimes gentle on her waist, sometimes tender on her face, sometimes rough in her hair (this excites her most of all). She no longer has to wonder if he’d ever kiss her like in the movies, he kisses whenever he damn pleases, and it always, always takes her by surprise. And it is so much better than she has ever imagined.

…

He saunters in as she prepares the tofu carefully, and because Mikasa is a perfectionist in everything she does, she’s concentrating completely on flipping each piece at the perfect moment when they turn golden brown.

But because Eren finds literally everything she does impossibly cute, he wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her gleefully on the cheek. It has the desired effect, she gasps, dropping her fork, and he catches her in an open mouthed kiss.

He manages to distract her for a good couple of minutes until she smells the tofu becoming decidedly darker than golden brown. “Erennn,” she whines, “... my tofu is ruined!”

“I’m sure it’ll taste wonderful,” he says because she’s an excellent cook, but also because he’s slightly affronted that by the way she pulls away in complaint.

“Please. Go sit,” she swats him away, making him pout adorably. He does as he is told and waits till she plates the food minutes later, and he’s pleased to say that he was absolutely right, it did taste wonderful.

But he’s more eager to eat up as soon as possible and finish what he tried to start a few moments ago.

“What are you going to do after dinner?” The answer he wants to hear is I’d like to make out with my boyfriend , but just as he expected, Mikasa’s mind is on a slightly different wavelength.

“... Hmm,” she eyes him suspiciously, “... I guess I’ll finish cleaning up and read the latest chapter in English Lit before bed, and just drift off to sleep. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he states innocently. “... I’ll help you clean up.”

He changes the topic before they have a chance to linger, and does good on his promise to clean up as fast as he can. It’s ridiculous the way he’s acting, and he doesn’t understand it himself, but he can’t seem to help himself. He can’t seem to stop looking at her, can’t seem to stop craving her, whether it’s the closeness of her body or the taste of her lips, and he’s pretty certain the way he’s acting right now is downright embarrassing, but somehow since its with Mikasa, he feels emboldened.

Or at least that’s how he’d felt until recently. Of late there’s been just the slightest amount of doubt that’s crept in. He finds himself wondering if it’s just him who feels this way, this inexplicable urge, and he wishes that she’d be the one reaching for him more often.

“Thanks, Eren,” she murmurs, breaking him out of his intense internal monologue, when she reaches over and brushes a chaste kiss on his cheek. It warms him instantly, immediately making him want more.

He dries up and follows her out of the kitchen, and as she turns into her room, he grabs her wrist and says, “... Mikasa, wait,” and when she flips her head to look at him, he nestles her against the wall and whispers, “... I just wanted to say goodnight,” before kissing her full on the mouth.

For all that he internally complains about her not initiating their kisses enough, she responds beautifully to him, opening her mouth to him, and slipping her tongue inside, gasping when his fingers slip under her shirt, brushing softly above her ribcage. She slides one hand around his neck and the other clutches his shirt, pulling him so close to her, he revels in the feeling of her body pressed against hers.

He doesn’t even know how, or why, because he isn’t thinking when he’s kissing Mikasa, just going with it, running on the sheer feeling of it all, because he just gives into her - but she’s got both arms around his neck and he’s pressing her so firmly against the wall, tongue shameless in its exploration of her mouth, he slips one of his legs between hers.

She likes it, likes the pressure between her legs and she finds herself moving against him, grinding almost, embarrassingly, and she doesn’t even register consciously, until she feels him hard and pressed up against her thigh. She makes an embarrassing noise, something between a gasp and a moan, and suddenly his eyes snap open, all too conscious of their position.

She feels him twitch against her, and she can barely breathe with the excitement of it all, the newness… the feeling. He looks at her like a different person, green eyes heady and searching, holding her in a heated gaze. But in the most crushingly confusing move, he steps back and whispers “good night,” before turning towards his own room.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Any more of that and she would’ve melted into jelly all over the leg that was between her thighs. And instead of pursuing that intense, boneless feeling, she finds herself catching her breath alone in the hallway with a confoundingly novel ache between her legs.

…

He watches her at the tennis court the next day; he drags Armin with him.

He’s never cared much for the game itself, only knows the basic rules because Mikasa’s been playing for years. She has a practice match today, against Jean, and he’d claimed he’d only wanted to see ‘his girl’ crush that horse face to the ground.

But the more he sits next to Eren, the more Armin feels decidedly uncomfortable. “Oi, Eren,” he says, when he’s fairly certain he’s had enough. Eren looks at him annoyed for being distracted from the game. “... What?”

Armin pinches the bridge of his nose before speaking, because how does he say this politely? “... You’re staring.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t huh me! You’re literally ogling her,” he hisses under his breath, “... it’s embarrassing, so please stop.”

He feels his face burn as he splutters, “I, I’m just watching the-,” he’s quite literally red by this point, “... Armin, what the fuck?” He just wants to hide, and so he hides his face in his hands.

He was right, he was staring, and he knew this because his mind had memorized the way she looked in that outfit, white tank top low cut and body hugging and giving him an excellent view as she moved. And he didn’t even want to comment on the way those shorts hugged her curves and how it flowed perfectly into her long, glorious legs.

If he could kick himself he would.

“What’s going on with you?” Armin asks, after he gives Eren a moment to recover from absolute mortification. Hesitating, he says, “... This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you staring at her like this recently.”

He looks at Armin helplessly, because he doesn’t know how to put it into words. “You can talk to me,” Armin coaxes him, “... you do embarrassing shit in front of me all the time anyway,” he supplies helpfully.

There’s conflict in his green eyes as he considers just how to say it, if he wants to at all. He’s still not a hundred per cent over the fact that Armin was Mikasa’s first kiss and if anyone could hold a (pointless) grudge it was Eren.

“However if you still choose to not talk to me about Mikasa because you are hung up over a stupid drunk kiss, then that’s completely fine with me too,” Armin says, reading Eren’s mind cheerfully.

“... You didn’t have to bring it up,” he says sullenly. Armin rolls his eyes. “... You’re thinking about it anyway, so I might as well talk about it.” He’s known him far too long to not understand the very simplistic nature of Eren’s thought processes.

“... I can’t stop looking at her,” he confesses, deciding to gloss over the discomfort of their kiss and focus on the main problem instead. “I hadn’t noticed,” Armin quips dryly, and Eren glares at him - so much for ‘ You can talk to me, Eren.’

“I’m losing my mind here, Armin,” trust Eren to always be dramatic, without fail, “... You can make fun of me all you want, but everytime I look at her, I,” he inhales sharply. “... God, I feel disgusting. It’s Mikasa for fuck’s sake.”

And It’s Mikasa whom his friend had always been slightly unhinged for, but Armin thinks better of saying this.

“... I feel like I just don't know how to look at her respectfully anymore,” and he says

this almost choked, so distressed, that Armin tries very very hard to suppress a laugh.

…

She wishes she hadn’t done it.

In a rare moment of weakness that she now regrets, she had given into Sasha’s ever curious inquisitions into her love life. And by love life here, Sasha was explicitly digging for the good stuff.

“Eh?!?”

Mikasa waits patiently for Sasha to return from her high pitched look of disbelief.

“... What do you mean you haven’t slept together yet?” Sasha asks, a bit calmer this time, but still urgently distressed about the matter.

“We just… haven’t,” Mikasa explains rather unsatisfyingly.

“So… do you like, want to wait or something? I thought you’ve been in love with him since forever…”

No matter how much she’s accepted that fact herself, it still makes her blush when she hears it out loud. “... It’s not like, I want to, um, wait or anything,” she confesses. Because she’s found herself thinking of the same thing every night since the time Eren had her against the wall, pinned against him and his hardness. It’s almost like it created a monster out of her, a monstrous desire that has her eyeing him out the corner of her eye whenever she gets the chance. It makes her seek him out more often, seek him out after his workout, after his shower, innocently, by accident of course, and she’s ashamed of herself.

“... You just need to jump him,” Sasha says, with the utmost seriousness. Like she knew anything at all on this subject. “And boy have I got the perfect thing to help you.”

…

Mikasa Ackerman is a huge fan of Marie Kondo. It was one of the curiously annoying yet cute things about her that Eren has an impressively large list of.

She’s watched the Netflix show more times than he can count, follows her on Youtube, and once he’d seen her pray to her room or some shit before she started cleaning. It mystifies him, and he doesn’t care enough to understand more so he just goes along with it.

Today she’s decided she has way too many clothes and she will only keep what “sparks joy” in her, so she’s strewn out her entire closet and demanded in the sweetest way that he helps her with her mission.

(She throws in the offer of trying out all her outfits before she throws them out, and Eren is horny for a fashion show or the moments in between so he readily agrees)

“... I’m not sure about this one,” she says, eyeing herself in the green dress critically.

Eren’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “... You’re kidding, you look like a fucking goddess, Mikasa.”

She blushes happily with the compliment, but Eren isn’t exaggerating. It’s a slinky strapless number which was incredibly short. And it had a slit. According to Eren, the slit could not be emphasized enough.

“... Your legs look incredible,” he says, providing her the only decent compliment he can muster. The rest he does his best to convey with eyes.

“... It just doesn’t feel like something I wear usually, you know… so I don’t know if it sparks joy...”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Well, you should wear it. C’mere let me help you spark some joy,” he says, playfully pulling her down into the pile of clothes that made a poofy bed on the floor.

She giggles, settling over him happily, and for a moment his sappy little heart feels like it’s going to explode. He’s pretty sure her giggle is his most favourite sound in the whole world.

“... You’re insane,” he breathes, relishing in the way she feels on top of him, his hands sliding up her legs and resting just beneath the hem of her dress (just beneath her ass). She kisses him sweetly, tongue flicking gently on his lip and making him groan softly. His hands brush past her ass, caressing ever so softly as they come to rest on the small of her back.

She deepens the kiss, and he grabs her hips roughly, angling her mouth onto his in a way that suits him, gives him access and he sighs into her mouth. The view of her on top of him, is unparalleled, her thighs around his hips and her chest heaving temptingly with her harsh breathing. He closes his eyes and captures her mouth again before he makes a fool of himself in front of her again.

But she has her hands in his hair, and she’s pressing down, grinding down against his crotch, and he can feel himself pulse at every brush of contact, and he groans knowing fully well that there’s no way she can’t feel his length brush against her legs.

He doesn’t want to stop, or run away, because he’s ridiculously turned on at this point, and unwilling to let go of her, so he simply turns her around and pins her beneath him, taking advantage of the way she squeals, to slip his tongue into her mouth and taste her.

It’s so tempting having her beneath him like this, so he gives in and slips his leg between hers again, eager to have her rub against him like she did that day, with the faintest hint of a moan, like he hasn’t been able to forget.

His fingers entwine with hers and he stretches them above her head, wanting so much to just kiss her senseless, but they collide with a cardboard box and he spares a glance at it, in annoyance.

Until he squints and actually sees what it is. The label alone makes him blush, not to mention the contents that he could clearly see under the transparent plastic covering.

Mikasa looks up, dazed and a little bit disoriented from what was possibly the most intense make out session she had ever experienced. “... Eren?”

“Babe,” he rasps, choked, “... are you trying to tell me something?”

She follows his line of sight, and wants to hide, wants to die, wants to erase this moment from her very existence.

Her Sensual Pleasure kit, he reads, his mind effectively going numb as he comprehends the contents: a vibrator, a blindfold, some pink fuzzy handcuffs and what looks like a generous bottle of lube.

Somehow even though she forgot about this ridiculous thing, having stuffed it into her closet to forget all about the ridiculousness on her friend’s face when she gave it to her, it seems to have stumbled out into the light of day at the worst possible moment.

If she could murder Sasha and get away with it, she would.

“... I-It’s not what you think, Eren,” she mumbles, cheeks red and panicking, even though she has absolutely no idea what she wants him to think.

“I assure you,” he manages, “... I’m not really thinking right now, Mikasa.” Sure enough his mind had somewhat short circuited, barely able to handle the pressure of having his extremely sexy girlfriend beneath him and somehow simultaneously having discovered what appeared to be her sextoys .

Gingerly, he reaches for it, and he almost gasps, because the box had been opened and fiddled with. “Did you actually…”

He looks at her face, and it’s the colour of a tomato by this point, teeth biting her lower lip nervously, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or if he is even more turned on.

“The vibrator, Mikasa, did you…?” His voice is so hoarse just imagining, it superseded any fantasies he’s had up until this point. “... Eren,” she whines, embarrassed, hiding her face in her hands.

“Please for the love of god, Mikasa, please just tell me, baby,” he’s pleading because he really needs to know at this point. He needs to know if he’s been going to bed in the room besides her without the potent knowledge that she’s been using this to relieve herself at night.

When she nods, just ever so imperceptibly, he’s pretty sure he’s going to combust. “... What did you think of when you were using it?” His voice sounds like a stranger’s.

She looks conflicted, looks unbelievably embarrassed, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t imagining it when he hears the faintest whisper from her saying, “... you.”

But that isn’t going to cut it, because he’s spent countless nights with a raging boner and raging guilt, as he jerked off to the most tantalizing moments he’s had with her… and he barely ever manages to look her in the eye the next morning. So he has to, no, he needs to know that he hasn’t been the only one in this absolutely ridiculous situation.

He kisses her hard, teeth grazing hers, mouth eager and greedy, and she responds to him with equal fervour. His head drops to her shoulder as he kisses her bare collarbone. “... If you knew how many times I’ve touched myself thinking of you, you wouldn’t be able to look at me the same again.”

His words are a deep, throaty confession that he whispers on her skin, and it brings a tingle down to her spine and all the way to her toes. She thrusts her chest upwards against him subconsciously.

“... I think of you too, you know… all the time,” she confesses, forgetting the very meaning of inhibition. It’s hard to remember it when he looks at her that way, heat burning from his verdant eyes, his grip firm against her hips. She doesn’t want to; doesn’t need it, if it means she can be this close to him.

“... Do you think you can show me?” he whispers, barely thinking through his requests through his lust-filled haze.

He sees her hesitating, contemplating, and he finds himself praying as his fingers inch up the dress and dig into the curves of her ass, lips delicate against the tops of her breasts.

“Only if you show me how you touch yourself,” she murmurs, and he can feel himself twitch in excitement.

She backs up against her bedpost and slips out of her panties, and Eren is absolutely, positively certain, he has never seen anything more appealing than when she slowly, deliberately, hikes up that beautiful green dress and spreads her legs.

He’s so lost in the sight before him, he forgets what he’s promised until she says, steel eyes determined, challenging him almost, “... your turn, Eren.”

He shucks his pants off gracelessly, he couldn’t make it look as artful as she does even if he tried, but he’s happy to be free of the restrictive material as he springs heavy and erect at the sight of her. “... Could you um, pass me the lube,” he asks, and she does, but not before squeezing some onto her own hand.

It’s hypnotic how she rubs it into herself, wet, and pretty and pink, and he jerks into his hand, slick and wanting, as he whispers, “... God, you’re beautiful.”

His words only serve to enhance the needy pressure between her legs, the tingling feeling that her slow circular motions were only making worse. She picks up the vibrator and turns it on, pressing it to her nub, the way she’s done a few lonely nights by herself, wishing it was him against her skin.

It’s different this time, because even though it’s her and the silicone toy, Eren’s gaze is like liquid fire on her skin, dark and licentious, and almost greedy. She throws her head back, shivering with pleasure and gasping.

“... What did you think of when you played with yourself?” He asks again, and this time she knows he wants a more specific answer.

“Your fingers,” she mumbles, and she finds the pleasure makes her startlingly more honest. He could ask anything of her, and she would tell him.

The idea, the thought of it, makes him twitch happily in his hand, and he jerks erratically, feeling an unbelievable urge come over him. “... Did you get wet thinking of my fingers on you, Mikasa?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, blushing prettily, high off the vibrating sensations. Without planning to, he crawls over between her legs and kisses her deeply, murmuring on her lips, “... then let me touch you, baby.”

It was her who was being stimulated, but he nearly groans into her hair at the feeling of her soft wetness, the way it feels against his fingers, the way her arousal coats him so eagerly.

“... I’ve wanted to touch you for so long,” he murmurs hoarsely, rubbing delicate circles across her nub, diligently favouring the area she had favoured mere moments ago. “Then why didn’t you,” she gasps at the last syllable, at the sudden intrusion of his long finger having slid deep inside her.

“... Sorry,” he says, sounding far too turned on to be sorry, “... you’re so wet, Mikasa.” He’s in awe, almost reverent of how warm she is, how easy.

She hangs on to his neck now, teeth grazing his neck, whispering, “... I want you, Eren.” Her breath is warm and damp and he’s unmistakably certain of what she asks.

“... Are you sure?” He asks, panting, hoping to god she’s sure, because he’s so ready, he’s been ready for a long time now, and he can barely control himself from leaking onto his own hand, when she says, “Yes.”

He makes sure she’s comfortable, or as comfortable as she can be on top of her clothes, and he commits everything to memory, the way she looks beneath him, the way her breasts heave when he pulls off the entirety of that dress, the way her nipples stiffen against his warm kisses. “... Please,” she whimpers, when he takes his time with her, taking the peaks of her breasts into her mouth and teasing ever so slightly with his teeth.

“... I can’t help it,” he rasps, “I want to touch you everywhere, you’re so pretty, babe, I,” -

He chokes, cut off, by the feeling of her delicate hands circling around him, pumping slowly as she guides him to her entrance. “Shit, Mikasa,” he curses, closing his eyes as he feels the sensation of her warmth against his tip.

It’s not his first time, but he feels like a stumbling virgin, murmuring desperate things as he feels her sheathe him completely, pausing only to pay attention to her comfort. Barely coherent, he asks, “... you okay?” She nods quietly, and his eyebrows furrow, looking at her questioningly. “Feels… so full,” she manages, with a feeble groan, and he can’t help but grin at how irresistible she is.

“... That’s because I’m supposed to fill you up, babe,” he whispers, not caring how far gone he is, because he slides out just a little only to spread her legs for him again, and slide back in. He tests the rhythm carefully, watching her expressions for any sign of discomfort, but the way she squeezes her eyes, the way she throws her head back with a gasp, just makes him lose whatever little control he had.

“Please tell me if I need to go slower,” he tells her, but judging from her reaction, from her moans, she only seemed to be egging him on.

It’s too much, he thinks, too much for him to possibly handle, not with the way she bucks her hips, and definitely not with the way she clenches needily around him.

And in a moment that he’ll probably never live down, he groans, “Fuck, babe, I’m going to,” - barely realizing with some consciousness to pull out of her tight, wet, core, and spills onto her stomach.

Mikasa’s never seen him make a face like that.

When he opens his eyes, she’s looking at him in wonder. And he’s looking at the mess he’s made on her stomach, and even though a small part of him only feels arousal at the sight of that, today he just feels like a massive asshole. “Shit,” he curses, not happy with how this played out at all. He reaches for the panties she’d so easily discarded and mops up his sticky release, mumbling, “... God, I’m so sorry, Mikasa. This was your first time, I can’t even believe,” -

“Eren,” she interrupts, because she doesn’t have time for this, his self-derision can come later. “... I, um…,” she clenches her thighs together, and he suddenly realizes that he hadn’t yet completely fucked shit up, he could still make her feel good, and that’s all he wanted.

He settles himself between her legs and spreads her folds open for him, feeling a familiar twitch at the pretty sigh in front of him. “I’ll take care of you, baby,” he whispers earnestly, before she feels his mouth on her folds. He kisses her like how he kisses her lips, like he wants to consume her, and if she thought it felt good against her own mouth, it felt only a million times better down there. He’s generous with his tongue, probing circling, sending her into a frenzy that only he could have managed.

She threads her fingers into his hair, gasping his name, prettily, holding on to him as she rides wave after wave of pleasure against his tongue.

When he lifts himself up and looks at her, he grins, his mouth shining because of her juices, and she closes her eyes swearing to herself that she will never forget that sight.

He collapses next to her, this time of a happier countenance because somewhere in his mind he’s judged this to be a fair exchange, and because Mikasa knows him so well, she can’t help but giggle.

“I’m not usually like this,” he asserts, once he’s caught his breath, and she’s barely managed to catch hers. She raises an eyebrow at him, amused. Trust Eren to be bothered about the unnecessary mechanics of his ego, barely minutes after their first time. “... I swear, next time I’m not going to let you go unless you have at least three orgasms. Minimum.”

“I guess I’ll have to hold you to it, Eren,” she murmurs, chuckling. “And before you freak out about the other thing; I’m on birth control, so don’t worry.” There’s silence, remarkably guilty silence, because he hadn’t thought about it, and that’s ridiculous because he’d never done it without a condom before, and if he ever feels like the biggest idiot on the planet, it’s at this moment.

“... I fucking love you, Mikasa,” he says sincerely, thanking the gods and this insane goddess right beside him, and this time she can’t help but laugh out loud.

a/n: edit: two whole weeks after posting ao3, i finally got around to putting this on tumblr.

to all those who have been on this journey with me, thank you so much. it's been so fun with these guys in the hsy verse.

i can't believe the story is over; i'm not ready to let go. going forward i may or may not right 3 more chapters each focusing on armin, historia, and jean respectively. i'm still mulling over it :)

i've recently been made aware that some people who read my stories are minors and i should be more mindful. so the note below -

i'd just like to clarify that it's fairly normal to be 18 yo in senior year of high school (at least where i'm from), which is when this last chapter takes place, so i did not feel the need to write age anywhere. i just want to clarify this; im no one to lecture any body on the appropriate age to be sexually active - as long as the person who you're with treats you respectfully and honours your consent. and respect your own limits and body.

HOWEVER I WILL ABSOLUTELY TAKE THIS MOMENT TO LECTURE YOU ON THE USE OF BIRTH CONTROL - PLEASE USE CONDOMS. please discuss birth control or std prevention with a sexual partner. DO NOT BE LIKE EREN AND FORGET JEEZUS. i'm 27 when i'm writing this so the last scene was just meant to be funny, especially his unbelievable sigh of relief when he finds out she had the foresight to be careful.

anyway, see ya and if it might interest you pls check out my mikasa stripper au ;) i'm very excited about it.

#eremika #liquorisce fanfiction #eremika smut #eren jaeger #mikasa ackerman #high school years

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something-very-special · 4 years ago

Text

"Yeah, I'm... kinda special that way."

Minding my own business, working on another observations/impressions post, and then I realize I've accidentally spent half an hour theorycrafting based on twenty seconds of dialogue.

This got utterly out of hand. NieR conjecture, possibly spoilers, presumptions of deep lore knowledge.

This bowled me over: BroNier goes to visit Emil and they have an entire conversation about how Emil hasn't aged. I mean he hasn't (don't know if you noticed, it's hard to spot) but this was insane to me for two reasons: one, they didn't discuss this at all in Gestalt, and two, has Brother NOT been visiting him?! Popola mentions the letter with a familiarity that implies that Emil's name has become a regular part of the parlance between herself and Nier. Presumably they've kept up correspondence regarding un-petrifying Kaine, but I got a feeling from Papa Nier that he had been regularly visiting Emil, not just writing letters. Maybe it's because Papa Nier didn't even mention the difference so it just felt verboten that obviously it had come up some time in the last five years and they both just shrugged, but... Obviously the two still have a really good relationship so at least they've been keeping up correspondence (between Emil's insanely upbeat letterhead and the warmth with Brother greets him, which really hits in a whole different way by contrast to Brother's constant, simmering anger), but it was peculiar, and I don't believe that line was in the original. I still can't read Japanese so I'm talking out of my ass here, but I just feel like the entire exchange was much shorter (fitting with the conversation Papa has) and like it was added for the benefit of the audience. Kind of a 'no, we didn't forget to give him a new model, this is deliberate'. It does vaguely upset me that there was apparently a need to clarify. One of my favorite gameplay experiences was going through this with my friend-- I had done the full Ending D run so I knew exactly what was going on, but I was introducing the game to her in a Labor Day marathon so I was getting a lot of first-time reactions. She'd fallen in love with Emil at this stage, too, and was very excited to see how he grew up after the five year timeskip. I recall her audible confusion, and to have it actually addressed and explained away feel like a deprivation of a wonderful moment. Although the initial reaction is still there. I think I like playing this game alongside other people because, while I'll never be able to experience it for the first time again, I can do so vicariously through others. The person I'm playing with now is familiar with the original (from years ago) and also had a moment of audible confusion. Even disregarding that, it's difficult to be too offended because it introduces another bit of intrigue that's always been kind of on the back of my mind; how long has Emil been awake? I had been under the assumption that he had been put into a similar hibernation as the Gestalts (or at least some form of sealing, having fulfilled his duties as a weapon for a nearly-extinct humankind) and woken up relatively recently-- recently enough that he wasn't aware of his effective immortality, and of course being so isolated from the world and having his memories wiped the fact that he wasn't maturing just might not have registered (or maybe just been rolled in with 'I dunno man I'm a cute gorgon I'm already kinda weird!'). However, here, it's not only acknowledged, but something that he actively tries to brush aside when Brother asks him about it. "Yeah, I'm... special that way." So he's fully aware that, basilisk gaze aside, there something ain't right about him and it implies, if not shame, at least some level of discomfort. Which in turn leads me to ask a question that hadn't really occurred to me before-- how would he have had the experience to know Brother or Father's age and build by the sound of their footsteps? Obviously he's encountered people before; can't learn that just by listening to the scrabbling of your giant spiders. And that ties in to the observation that, of course, he's wearing the style of Seafront. If he didn't have his memory from the weapons laboratory then he had to have realized more recently the nature of his petrifying gaze; the statues in the courtyard are consistent with the 3300-era styles, which could be discarded as just

reusing extant NPCs until again you remember that they made Emil this complex and knew he'd only be around for an hour. It wouldn't have been out of the question to just put the male statue in a semblance of a suit-- just some little oddity. It's an unmoving model, after all, a relatively minimal timesink; how many hours do you think went into programming the seals? (A lot of hours. A lot of love. Look at those boys roll away.) So he must have encountered other people, from Seafront. The manor is considered 'haunted' in modern times, so it must not have been particularly recent, although probably also not that far back (it's hard to imagine they just never went to the library for decades-- although I assume that Rubrum actually wasn't active until after Weiss had been awakened, it was her activation that attracted the Shades, and it was this factor that alerted Sebastian to the possibility of being able to find the petrification research in her pages. That's all pure conjecture on my part). So long has Emil actually been awake and active? A while. Given his response to Brother mentioning he doesn't age, probably much longer than he would care to admit. Which leads to further conjecture, and of course this was always an eerie question: how did those statues wind up in the courtyard? Who were they? If Emil didn't remember anything from the weapons laboratory and just his more recent memories... why would he be so ashamed of his power? What did he do? By the time we meet him he's already, um... not doing so well. Kaine pegs him immediately as being the same as her; blessed with a horrific power, frightened and ashamed of what he's capable of, quietly harboring feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing ("You told me that even a life such as mine has value!"), and perhaps not... entirely... dismissive of dying. (He is, like, super okay with putting himself between Rubrum and everybody else in the library-- and Replicant actually changes Weiss' line from 'Brave words, but I see your knees quaking in fear!' to one that says it's pointless because everybody else is already too dumb to retreat, implying that Emil wasn't necessarily being brave so much as he put the worth of his own life below that of people he met anywhere from five minutes to twenty seconds ago. That or he knows he has about ten times as much HP as Brother does and with his staggering M. Def can tank hits from Rubrum for days.) I don't think it's a particularly hot take (even from me, on this blog, probably) to assume that Something Happened in the past that caused Emil to brand himself a monster and shut himself away in the Manor. What's only just really sinking in for me is just how far back int he timeline that might have actually happened, and how different the circumstances were when it did. How long has he been in the Manor, then? I used to assume a few years. I figured the statues were from before-- more concurrent with the audio drama, 'present day' more or less. Thinking on it again? It's... been a while.

#NieR #NieR Replicant #Theorycrafting #Emil #No. 7 #Writing essays about MY BOY EMIL I feel YOUNG AGAIN #But seriously did Brother just ghost him for five years? What a jerk.#Headcanon proposal: Emil didn't adopt Seafront's style. Seafront adopted Emil's.

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sepublic · 4 years ago

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Luz, Emira, and Edric

Clearly the twins gave Amity a lot of unnecessary flack themselves, but… I’m really loving the idea/concept of Emira and Edric ALSO being like her, having a mask they constantly put up, and it’s just less obvious because they’re seemingly more charming and confident, and their abuse manifests in different ways?

Again, we never see the twins interact with anyone outside of the family besides Luz… And Eda that one time, but that’s mostly because she’s already there, and even then their interactions are pretty minimal as-is. I imagine that as charming, flirty, and confident as the twins are, seemingly beholden to no rules…

…They’re actually really lonely? Like, Ed and Em are actually low-key insecure, or at the very least, they make a point to hide whatever ‘dork’ tendencies they have. I think it isn’t out of the question that Emira and Edric make a big deal of putting up the façade, the illusion of being confident twins who always know what they’re doing, who are too cool for school…

And, while they’re definitely not fans of school- I really love the idea that Luz has earned an implicit, yet powerful trust from them after Lost in Language??? Like she’s someone who’s willing to get into trouble and dumb antics with them, but at the same time, she’s an outsider who can tell whenever Ed and Em go too far with their sister. She’s someone who can make it clear to them that disregarding Amity’s personal rules and boundaries is NOT the same as, say, rebelling against their parents’ strict rules or against generic authority in general. Mostly…

I think of Luz as someone who the Blight kids can be comfortable around, all of them! She’s someone who doesn’t, and never judges. Around Luz, the Blight kids feel safe- Like they can drop the masks and façade and just be who they are, without fear of retribution, without fear of someone spreading the ‘truth’, without fear of anyone judging them or thinking lesser of them for it… I love the idea of Emira and Edric, these seemingly cooler twins and upperclassmen, allegedly out of Luz’s league… One day admitting to Luz that to THEM, she’s the one out of their league! That they’re amazed by her ability to just unapologetically be herself, out in the open, while Emira and Edric feel the need to hide that.

They’re still rebels in a sense, but in other ways the twins hide who they are, how they feel, because they don’t want to be seen as ‘soft’, because despite their best attempts the abuse of their parents DID really affect them! And I love the idea of Luz finding out after Lost in Language that the Blight kids all are actually really open in affection or would like to be, that they’d rather be down-to-earth… Adventures in the Elements was a different glimpse to ‘another side’ of the twins, in the sense that this was a more genuine part of them. It was how the Blight kids interacted with one another at home, whenever nobody was watching them…

After all, it IS the Knee, which is a pretty secluded location as-is, and the Blight kids didn’t expect anyone else to be there. The only ‘exception’ to this open trust is Eda, whom Amity clearly has some reservations towards… But while Ed and Em keep their interactions minimal, they’re also very open-minded to the Owl Lady’s ‘weirder’ ideas. Or at least, Edric is, but Emira is at least operating from a sense of safety rather than prejudice. They don’t bat an eye at Eda, probably because they’ve heard stories about her as someone who doesn’t care what others have to think, and it’s low-key inspiring to them… And they figure, if Eda doesn’t care what others think of her, maybe the same applies to how she thinks of others? LUZ seems to be open around the Owl Lady and trust her at least…

Plus, given how Odalia and Alador witnessed Eda’s first transformation, almost immediately after she rejected the Emperor’s Coven to its face- You can’t tell me they didn’t fill their kids’ heads with stories, ‘cautionary tales’ of Eda the Owl Lady, who defied the sacred will of the Titan by rejecting its messenger’s coven… And right on cue, was personally punished by the Isles itself by being transformed into a horrific owl creature! Knowing Ed and Em, they probably figured out that if their parents hated Eda THAT much, then Eda was actually a pretty cool person after all! There IS a lot of trust to the twins and Amity heading over to the Owl House during Enchanting Grom Fright, after all…

And while there’s no open interaction, Eda definitely appreciates their giant illusion of her! You can tell that through Luz, the Blight kids are getting to know and open up to Eda, or at least trust her to a degree because of Luz’s own opinion… And in turn, this lady is helping these kids find a home where they can be themselves, and maybe some other new connections and relationships along the way. Luz isn’t the only one who won’t judge, Eda is willing to let these kids be the goobers and doofuses they’ve always wanted to be, and it’s just sweet to me… Eda would trust these kids because that’s what Luz said, not to mention she likely knows how messed-up Odalia and Alador can be, as she may have interacted with them back at Hexside.

I can see her brushing it off as her trying to ‘stick it’ to Al and Odalia by getting their own kids away from them… But let’s be real, Eda’s mostly doing this just for the sake of the Blight kids, to give other people room to actually be themselves because she knows how much that means to them. And it’s touching to the Blight kids, to see an adult who’s seemingly closed-off, but provides so much more affection and unconditional love to them than their own parents ever did…!

But, back to Luz and the Twins- I think Luz would be very surprised to hear from them, be it implicitly or not, that they actually trust the girl… Because Luz is someone who was conditioned to under-value herself, to underestimate her own worth and importance to others. She’s pretty good at hiding it, but it’s still there, and it always blows her mind and makes her world when people openly tell her that she means a LOT to them!

I can just imagine a scene, where Emira and Edric show up to Luz, and Luz is excited, trying to play herself off as being really cool… And then they just swoop in for a mutual hug with her from both sides, because they’re really not feeling it, they’ve had a bad day and they just feel crummy… They really missed Luz and they want some emotional validation and affection for once, these kids are touch-starved even around each other! And Luz is just SURPRISED, that these out-of-her-league upperclassmen would choose to be so vulnerable with HER, of all people…

But then just as quickly, she takes it in stride and hugs them back. And then Luz and the Twins are silent like this for a long time, before Ed and Em choose to let Luz go, and without blinking or referencing what happened –unless they WANT to talk about it- Luz asks Emira and Edric how their days were, what antics they’d like to get up to, etc.! I love the concept of Ed and Em lowkey having self-loathing, wondering what anyone could see in the TRUE Emira and Edric… and then Luz just confidently reassures them, that they don’t need a mask to be so cool to her! And it’s both embarrassing and dazzling to the twins, that this girl seems so eager to impress THEM when it should be the other way around…!

And I can see Emira and Edric taking a LOT of cues from Luz, especially since she’s more of a rebel than they are, without being harsh to others- She’s an open criminal, she changed Bump’s mind on multi-track learning… She even managed to convert Lilith, their little sister’s former teacher and a contributor to her indoctrination, the Head of the Emperor’s Coven, to her side! Luz foiled a public petrification at the Conformatorium, personally overseen by the emperor himself- And wounded Belos!

I can imagine Emira and Edric maybe becoming insecure. Thinking Luz is too cool for them NOW, but she reassures them that’s never the case… Even as Luz inspires them to more openly defy the system in a different, more productive way. They’d probably follow Luz when it comes to a revolution, and convince Amity to do the same. They’re like Eda, in a sense- They learned to survive against some horrific abuse and indoctrination by becoming open rebels and troublemakers… But there was always that distance, that sense of loneliness, that feeling that they never accomplished anything and that their lives were wasted. That they could only ever be a nuisance to others, even if they weaponized and embraced this- And that deep down, there was an insecurity over who they were as they questioned if their own judgment was enough to say that they were lovable people.

But then comes Luz- And she tells Ed, Em, and Eda that they’re all great people. That their lives aren’t meaningless… She tells them they ARE lovable people, but she’s also someone who can help rein them in, teach them a thing or two! And it’s so reassuring to actually learn from someone else, instead of having to figure it out all on your own… And maybe with Luz’s guidance, these E-named troublemakers CAN make a difference! That they can be even more than what they already were, and learn how to help other people when that was always something they wanted to do, but were never sure how to accomplish!

Especially since Eda, Emira, and Edric both share that situation of having a sister they’re concerned for, a sister who’s too indoctrinated into the Coven System, and a feeling of failure at not being able to lead that sibling down the right path… Messing around with that sister, but ultimately lamenting the loss of their sibling’s personhood. So how inspiring is it, then… That Lilith, who is Eda’s sister, Head of the Emperor’s Coven, and also one of the people who influenced Amity into this same indoctrination… Changed her mind, that with Luz’s help, Eda managed to rescue her own sister! Maybe it’s never too late… Or at least, Mittens is DEFINITELY less indoctrinated than Lilith was. So if Luz can help, then I can see the Twins being willing to openly beg for her help, and Luz just reassures them that they neither need to ask nor get on their knees- She WANTS the best for Amity!

Obviously that leads to the twins being the OG Lumity shippers, in-universe! Luz is just SO cool, they’d LOVE her as a part of the family, they love what she does for Amity and vice-versa, because Luz means the world to them and they know that Amity makes her happy- And it’s the least they can do for Luz given all of the stuff she’s done for them, to engage their little sister with her! Luz has GOT the siblings’ approval, all right! It’s the two people they care for most, Luz and Amity, being together and happy… So Emira and Edric want to contribute.

And while Ed and Em like to joke a lot about flirting with Luz, about thinking she’s cute, and all that stuff… Really, I don’t necessarily think they actually see her in that romantic light? Not that it’s entirely out of the question if that’s what Luz wants, because they love this girl and want to give her everything- But not only is she with Amity and the Twins are not letting ANYONE jeopardize that relationship, least of all themselves… In general, they’re just grateful for Luz? They’re not looking for any romantic relationship in her, not necessarily? They love her as-is. Luz is someone they can be open around, someone privy to the Blight kids’ more open and vulnerable moments…

Luz is like family to them, and not just in the in-law sense! Emira and Edric may joke about flirting with Luz, but I don’t think they actually see her like that… And no, it’s not just me making room for Lumity, Vinira, and Jedric, nor is it JUST me acknowledging the age-gap. In-universe, even if that’s another reason… I think Emira and Edric just see Luz not as a romantic interest, but as someone they’re already close to and open with. And it’s incredibly sweet to me, honestly… Like Luz is an adopted Blight, a little sibling in a sense! One Emira and Edric of course respect and provide autonomy for, and they’d never force this relationship on her… But in general, I do think Ed and Em see Luz as like a kind, younger sister! So obviously that would not only make a romantic relationship weird to them, even if all three got a bit older later in the future; But Luz is nevertheless someone that Emira and Edric want to take care of and vice-versa, in the familial sense! And I can see them being concerned of becoming too clingy to Luz… But honestly, Luz has no issues, and hey- She gets to be with Amity more!

Maybe Emira and Edric become convinced that they can only ‘hold onto’ Luz, or at least justify their relationship with her, through Amity’s romantic relationship with Luz… But Luz reassures the Twins that just as she’d always love Amity, even if Amity wasn’t romantically interested- The same goes for the Twins, that she cares for them as their own people, and NOT just as Amity’s older siblings! And to be seen, recognized, and loved for themselves as their own individuals, not defined solely by their familial relationships or status as Blights… It’d mean a lot to Emira and Edric, I feel.

#the owl house #owl house #the owl house emira #emira blight #the owl house edric #edric blight #the owl house luz #luz noceda #the owl house amity #amity blight #lumity #the owl house eda #edalyn clawthorne #analysis #speculation

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bluesfortheredj · 4 years ago

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The Talk.

Talk of an STD and a little bit of depression ahead. No male named, so will tag all those I write for.

His fingertips glide over the warm skin of your neck, making their way down from your jaw to your shoulder, then he slips your vest and bra straps down to your arm while his tongue swirls around yours tantalisingly slowly. Your hands move from his waist to slip their way up the front of his shirt and eventually clasp together at the back of his neck. The kiss had made your mind go completely blank, but as soon as you feel your other straps fall from your shoulder you’re snapped back to reality with a gasp that breaks you from his lips all too suddenly.

“I can’t,” you breathe, letting go of him immediately and pulling your straps back into position, “I really can’t.”

“Do you not want to be with me?” he asks with a slightly furrowed brow.

“I do! I really do, trust me. But I can’t.”

“What do you mean by can’t? Talk to me, (Y/N), please,” he begs.

This wasn’t the first time you’d almost got caught up in the moment, it was so easily done; especially when he caressed your face so sweetly with his slender fingers while his lips left a trail of fire down the side of your neck. You’d always managed to stop in time though, but you knew your excuses were wearing thin and the truth would have to come out one day, and it was looking as though today would be it. Tears were already building up in your eyes and you knew you couldn’t sob your way through this difficult conversation; he needed to hear every detail loud and clear. No other relationship had got this far because you’d been quick to end things before the need for this conversation would arise, yet things were so different with him, and you hadn’t been able to do your usual dump and run.

“How about you go and sit in the living room and I’ll get us a cup of tea, yeah?” he questions desperately, trying to get you to stay instead of run judging by the terrified look in your eyes.

You nod slowly, “yeah, okay.”

He walks down the hallway, the two of you only reaching the bottom of the stairs anyway, and you watch him until he’s out of sight before sighing and making your way into the lounge and perching yourself on the edge of his sofa. It’s the longest five minutes of your life as you await his entrance and he can’t help but give you a smile when he sees you practically ready to run at the drop of a hat.

“You can sit back and make yourself comfortable,” he encourages softly, “it’s okay.”

“Oh… yeah,” you reply nervously as you shuffle yourself backwards.

“Where would you be comfortable with me sitting?”

“Uh… probably the other end?”

“Right,” he nods, stepping back after placing your tea down on the coffee table in front of you and settling into the opposite corner of the sofa.

There’s a long pause as you think carefully about how to say what you need to without bursting into tears or making a run for the front door to avoid it altogether, and your gaze alternates from him to your cup, then finally to your hands that are fiddling with the inner seam of your jeans anxiously.

“I… I don’t really know how to say this… I’ve never had to do this before… I’ve never come this far in a relationship because I’ve been so scared of this conversation.”

He nods slowly, unsure of whether to say anything or not.

“With you though, it’s different, and no matter how much I didn’t want to face this, I couldn’t bring myself to leave you.”

“Well that’s a relief,” he chuckles.

“I wouldn’t say that just yet; you haven’t heard what I have to tell you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

“You’re going to hate me,” you say, inhaling a sob that was threatening to escape as you reach for your cup.

From the corner of your eye you can see him moving to reach out for you, “no, please, don’t,” you say as you put your free hand up to stop him, “please.”

“Okay,” he whispers, knowing this must be serious.

The hand that lifts your cup shakes as it makes its way to your lips and you take a tentative sip of the hot drink before returning it to the coaster for fear of spilling it onto your lap. You take a deep breath and close your eyes as if you’re about to dive into a pool, then the words that had never left your mouth before suddenly come tumbling out in three quick bursts, “I’ve got herpes.”

You hold your breath and clench your fists as if bracing for impact with your eyes squeezed tightly shut, and your body is completely frozen in place while you wait for some sort of reaction; him getting as far away from you as possible, him grimacing at the thought of you, him shouting at you to get out of his house… the possibilities were endless. It must be only thirty seconds until you feel him moving along the cushions and pressing his body against your side as he wraps an arm around your tense figure, yet it feels like forever, and you’re still unsure as to whether you should relax or not.

“Talk to me,” he encourages softly.

You shrug him off as carefully as you can then huddle against the arm of the sofa until he backs away a little and gives you some space, then you cuddle your cup in your lap and keep your eyes fixed on the liquid inside it as you bite back tears.

“I don’t really know what to say,” you eventually reply, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Talk me through what happened,” he whispers, “you seem to expect me to be horrified at this revelation; why?”

“Because I was when it happened. I felt sick constantly, I was disgusted by myself, it made me feel dirty and repulsive, and…” you pause as you shudder at all those thoughts that had invaded your mind all those years ago, “…it was only the second person I’d ever slept with, despite what this sort of thing connotes. He went down on me, there was nothing visible around his mouth, but when I was diagnosed it was confirmed it was the oral type.”

You have to stop as a sob erupts and the first tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“When I told him he said he couldn’t see how it was him,” you scoff, remembering how hurt you’d felt when he accused you of lying, “as if I’d lie! Absolute bastard.”

“Oh, (Y/N),” he sighs, reaching out to your back and stroking it gently.

“Then when I confided in a couple of close friends I had one say ‘why don’t you just get with him, then it doesn’t matter?’ and the other who was male said ‘it’s a shame we can’t mess around now’,” you laugh through the tears before returning your cup to the table and dropping your face into the palms of your hands as you heave out one long sob.

He can’t hold himself back any longer and he leans forward to wrap his arms around your shaking body so he can then pull you back to rest against his chest while he lets himself fall against the back cushion, “it’s okay,” he soothes while he runs his fingers through your hair, “shhh. I hope you’re not friends with those people any more.”

You shake your head and he nods in approval, “good!”

“I won’t blame you if you never want to see me again,” you mumble, “I won’t mind if you want me to leave.”

“Leave?!” he laughs, “what are you on about?! Do you really think I’d chuck you out just because of this?”

You lift yourself off of his torso but still avoid any eye contact with him, “I would if I were you. You don’t have to deal with this if you don’t want to; it’s my problem.”

“First off it’s not a problem, and secondly you’re meant to share things when you’re with someone, so anything that’s bothering you is our thing to sort out, okay?”

“You’re being too nice. You can’t say this hasn’t changed how you think about me though, and I understand that you won’t want to touch me; I felt exactly the same. I was scared of my own body for so long, it took me years to build up the courage to touch myself after everything.”

“(Y/N),” he exhales sadly, “I’m not scared, and the only way it’s changed how I think about you is that now I know exactly how strong you are. I’m a little intimidated in all honesty!”

“Don’t be silly,” you scoff, then wipe your face with your hands, “can I use your bathroom?”

“You don’t need to ask. Of course you can.”

You scurry out of the room, still feeling those old emotions laying heavy on your shoulders at your admission, and as soon as you shut and lock the door to the bathroom behind you, you let out heaving sobs as your hands grip the sides of the sink. The shame, the sensation of dirtiness, the thoughts of self loathing all come rushing to the surface so quickly you feel as though you’re about to vomit. You manage to lift your eyes to the small mirror on the windowsill in front of where you’re standing and you immediately see a different person to the one you were expecting to see; you’re older now, stronger than what you’d been when it happened, and the changes in your face only reminded you how far you’d come since then. You take a deep breath before grabbing some loo roll and dabbing your eyes, then you click open the lock of the door and open in slowly. When you get to the living room he’s sitting there with his phone in his hand, his eyes fixed on the screen as his thumb scrolls.

“Did you know that around 70% of people have herpes but only about one in three will have symptoms?” he asks, his eyes not straying from the device, “so I could have it and not even know… plus apparently shedding of the virus decreases after time and after two years and barely any flare ups you hardly shed any of it, so the risk of passing it on is pretty minimal.”

“Yeah… I did know actually.”

“Shit, of course you did. That was stupid of me to say, I’m sorry. I’m just reading up, that’s all, and honestly none of this matters to me…” he pauses as he watches your face carefully and lowers his phone, “but I have a feeling that it’s not really the virus that’s the problem… it’s what it represents in your mind, right?”

You nod in reply; he was completely right and it had taken opening up to someone for you to realise it. There was absolutely nothing wrong with having herpes, you were one of millions, but the stigma and sequence of events that had played out during your time of being diagnosed was what had made you so terrified about admitting it.

“I’m really sorry,” you sigh, suddenly embarrassed about getting so worked up about it all, “that was more than a little dramatic.”

“Don’t be sorry! I’m honoured to be the first, and hopefully only, romantic partner you tell so of course it would be an emotional roller coaster for you. Don’t beat yourself up for feeling things so deeply, especially with everything that went on at the time and the shitty people you had around you,” he stands from the sofa and holds his arms out, “now will you please come here so I can hug you without you trying to escape me?”

You let out a short laugh at his question, “I think I can manage that.”

He leans his cheek against your hair as his arms envelop you into a tight embrace, “so… uh… when we do, y’know, I think you’re going to have to demonstrate what you like. I don’t wanna do it wrong after you having perfected it over the last few years.”

You lean away from him to see his face now slightly flushed, “I’m sure you don’t need any… oh! Right,” you chuckle, realising that he wanted to see you pleasure yourself, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“I can’t promise I’ll keep my hands to myself though,” he winks, giving your bum a quick squeeze.

You smile up at him then bury your face into his neck as you resume the much needed cuddle and he sighs contentedly as his arms hold your now calm body.

#gwilym lee x reader #ben hardy x reader #taron egerton x reader #richard madden x reader #imagine #fanfiction #male insert x reader

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hotchscotchh · 4 years ago

Text

Reimagined; Chapter 4 - Benjamin Cyrus

Hey y’all! This got a little out of hand lmao

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Warnings: Angst, smut hehe

Word count: 2.1k oops

Summary: The aftermath of Benjamin Cyrus

Read on AO3

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 5

Based on 4x3 Minimal Loss

Spencer couldn’t make himself feel anything but self-loathing in that moment. He knew that Emily didn’t blame him, she had made sure he knew that. He knew it wasn’t his fault. It was her decision. But still, can’t help but think “it should’ve been me. Why didn’t I step up first? I’m nothing but a goddamn cowa-” “Reid,” someone said, pulling Spencer from his thoughts. He looked up to find Hotch suddenly in the seat across from him. Spencer hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down his face until that moment. He hastily reached up to wipe them roughly from his warm, red cheeks. “Oh, Spence,” Hotch said, his eyes softening, stoic mask slipping away, “it’s okay. You’re here, you made it out.” Aaron was obviously oblivious to the guilt rolling off of Spencer, which was unusual. He was a profiler after all, a good one at that. Spencer just looked away, and it was then that Aaron realized. “Oh, that’s not it, is it? You can’t feel guilty, you know. It wasn’t your fault-” “Yes it was, Hotch. I could’ve- no, I should’ve- stepped up first,” Spencer interrupted, his voice weak and shaking, his hands trembling. Aaron reached across the space between their seats and grabbed Spencer’s hand before saying, “Reid, you know there’s nothing you can do now. Look, Emily is fine, maybe a little beaten up, but she’s alive. That’s what matters. And so are you. You’re both here, sitting in front of us, perfectly alive. Yeah, it would’ve been nice if we had caught the unsub without the two of you being kidnapped, held hostage, and beaten, but look at all the lives you saved. You got all of those innocent people out of that building without a scratch.”

Spencer just looked away again, a petulant expression on his face, making him look like a pouting toddler, but Hotch wouldn’t tell him that. Aaron let out a small laugh that he tried to disguise as a cough before taking a deep breath and beginning again, “this was definitely one of those cases, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling up to going out to a restaurant tonight. I’ll order something and bring it by your place.” Spencer began to protest, but Hotch cut him off saying, “that’s an order,” a teasing smile playing across his face. Aaron stopped rubbing his thumb across the young genius’ knuckles and let go of his hand. Spencer blushed and relaxed back into his seat, beginning to drift off.

----

Three hours later, Aaron Hotchner was sitting in front of Spencer’s apartment building, Chinese food in the seat next to him. Aaron was terrified of what he was planning to do tonight. He knew that Spencer would be at least interested in his plan, he hoped the man would even like it. But Aaron was terrified, anyway. Terrified that Spencer would be angry with him, terrified of how it would affect their professional relationship if it went awry. He was going to do it. That’s what he told himself as he slowly walked up the stairs to Spencer’s apartment. He made his way there on autopilot, not realizing he had made it to the door until it was opening to one grinning Spencer Reid, standing there is his Doctor Who themed pajama pants and way-too-big t-shirt. “Hey,” Spencer greeted, opening the rest of the way.

Aaron walked in, taking in his surroundings and trying his hardest not to them. Spencer’s apartment was painted an olive green. There was a leather couch, a wooden glider, a coffee table, a small table with two chairs and a chess board, a TV with an expansive DVD collection under it (Aaron wondered how many of them were actually in English), and a wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves. “Wow, this is… exactly what I expected,” Aaron said, letting out a laugh and feeling himself relax a miniscule amount. Spencer smiled, and Aaron knew then that he wouldn’t regret what he was about to do.

Aaron placed the bag of food down on the coffee table and moved to stand in front of Spencer. “Aaron?” Spencer breathed, confused by his superior’s sudden close proximity. Aaron took another step forward, leaving just a few inches of space between them. Aaron lifted his hand and placed it on Spencer’s cheek which had been marred by tears just hours earlier. He was happy to see that it wasn’t anymore, and unrealistically wished that it never would be again. Spencer leaned into the touch, their eye contact becoming intense. Spencer saw Aaron’s eyes flick down to his lips before coming back to meet his eyes. Spencer took that as a cue that Aaron was ready. Ready for what he had been ready for a few dinners ago. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Aaron wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move, so Spencer leaned in, slowly, giving Aaron time to pull away if he decided this wasn’t really what he wanted, but Aaron was sure. When their lips finally connected for the first time with both fully wanting what was happening, they lost sight of everything that was going on. Spencer forgot about his guilt. In fact, Spencer couldn’t form a coherent thought. And that was saying something. Aaron forgot all of his worries about this ruining his relationship with Spencer, he knew this was right.

They broke apart after a few moments, both out of breath and half hard. “Let’s eat before this gets so far we forget about it,” Spencer said, giving Aaron a light peck on the lips and moving away from him. “I definitely would like to continue this when we’re done though,” he finishes with a seductive smile. Aaron follows Spencer to the couch, looking not unlike a lost puppy. They both eat quickly, without speaking, wanting to get this seemingly menial task out of the way so they could continue what they had been doing. Spencer finished first, and as soon as Aaron finished, he pushed him back into the couch, swinging his leg to straddle Aaron’s lap. Aaron was the one to lean in this time, capturing Spencer’s lips in his own his hands landing on Spencer’s hips, and Spencer’s around Aaron’s neck. He licked his way into Spencer’s mouth, thoroughly enjoying the small sounds the man on top of him was letting out. Aaron could feel Spencer’s hard length against his thigh, and it made his realize his own. “Spencer, wait,” Aaron said breathlessly, regretfully pulling away from him. “I’ve never been with a man before.” “It’s ok,” Spencer replied, smirking. “I’ve got enough experience for the both of us.” Spencer leaned back in and began grinding down into Aaron’s lap. Spencer pulled away again, panting, “let’s take this to the bedroom.”

Spencer had been putting of an aura of confidence that Aaron hadn’t expected, but he wasn’t aware of the insecurities running through the younger man’s head. Spencer had been with his fair share of men before, so he was confident in that area. It was his body he was worried about. Spencer had a small cock. He knew the statistics, and he had estimated it to be around three inches. He didn’t want the real measurement; the estimation was good enough for him. He knew a small cock was a turn on for many dominant men, but it had also been an immediate turn off for some of them, and Spencer was unsure how Aaron would react.

They resumed their kissing, this time on Spencer’s bed with Aaron on top. Aaron slid his hand up Spencer’s shirt, indicating that he wanted it off. They parted and Aaron stripped off both his and Spencer’s shirts. He took a moment to gaze at the torso of Spencer Reid, and felt his cock give a twitch. Aaron knew he was attracted to men, he’d experimented before, but never like this. Never with someone who looked as amazing as Spencer. Aaron moved his mouth from Spencer’s mouth to his neck, sucking a mark on the pulse point, his hand reaching down and tweaking a nipple. Spencer gasped, his back arching off the bed. “You like that, baby?” Aaron asked, his voice deep and husky. Spencer moaned in lieu of a spoken answer. His hands were roaming Aaron’s torso, getting lower and lower before they reached his waistband. Spencer began working the button and zipper open, tugging, telling Aaron he wanted them off. Aaron got the message and took them and his socks off, leaving him in just his boxers. Aaron reached for Spencer’s button too, but before he could get too far, Spencer stopped him.

“Spence? Did I do something wrong?” “No, no, no, it’s just,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “I’m small Aaron, like, well under average small, and I know it’s a turn off for some men. I just wanted you to know.” Spencer watched Aaron’s eyes darken and felt his cock twitch against his thigh. “Okay, maybe not.” Aaron moved his mouth to Spencer’s nipple, Spencer’s hand landing on the back of his neck, Aaron’s hand returning to its earlier ministrations. Aaron had thought that Spencer would be loud in bed, but he never though it would be like this. So pretty, so… submissive. Aaron stopped to pull Spencer’s pants and boxers off, and his own boxers. “So pretty, Spencer,” Aaron whispered in Spencer’s ear, earning a loud moan from the man.

“Hmm, does someone have a kink?” “That’s a conversation for another time, Aaron,” Spencer replied, gasping and moaning as Aaron worked his way down his chest. When Aaron got to Spencer’s cock he stopped, made eye contact with Spencer and grinned before taking the whole thing in his mouth and sucking, causing Spencer to let out an obscenely loud moan, his eyes rolling back in his head, back arching. Spencer let him continue for a few moments before saying, “Aaron, you better stop. I want to come- ungh- while you’re in me.” That got a loud reaction from Aaron, which pushed Spencer even closer to the edge. He reached down and grabbed the base of his cock, trying to delay his orgasm as far as possible. With his other hand, he reached over to his nightstand, grabbing lube and a condom from the drawer. Aaron came back up to kiss him. Tasting himself in his lover’s mouth was ridiculously erotic to Spencer.

“You ready baby?” Aaron asked, taking the lube from Spencer and applying a generous amount to his fingers. Just because Aaron was inexperienced didn’t mean he had no idea what he was doing. “Have been for years, Aaron. Get in me.” Aaron let out a grunt before slipping a finger into Spencer’s tight ass. He thrust in and out for a few moments until he felt that Spencer was loose enough and added another, this time curling them up to find his prostate. Spencer let out another obscene moan, telling Aaron that he had found it. “Are you ready for me, Spence?” Spencer couldn’t vocalize coherent thoughts at this point, just obscenities (fuck, Aaron, just like that, shit), so he just nodded.

Aaron pulled his fingers away from the younger man, opening the condom with his teeth and rolling it onto his cock before lining himself up with Spencer’s entrance and pushing the head in. “Fuck, Spence.” “Mmmh, keep going,” Spencer moaned. Aaron slowly pushed himself the rest of the way in, “Shit, Spencer. So tight- mmfh- so pretty for me- ah.” “Fuck, Aaron, move, please.” So, he did. Aaron pulled all the way out before pushing back in. “I’m not going to last long, Spence,” he warned. “Me either,” Spencer panted. “Ah! Harder!” Aaron picked up the speed of his thrusts, lifting up Spencer’s hips to get a better angle. This only lasted a few minutes (though neither would ever admit it), Spencer coming in thick strands across his chest, Aaron coming into the condom, wishing it wasn’t there. They stayed in their position for a few moments, coming down from their highs. Spencer let out a small sigh when Aaron pulled out. “That was amazing baby, you’re amazing,” Aaron said. “I’m going to go get a washcloth to clean you up.”

----

Aaron had ended up staying the night, both unwilling to leave the other. The next morning, Spencer woke up to the feeling of a hickey being sucked on his neck. When he asked Aaron what he was doing, he simply said, “just letting everyone know you’re mine.” Spencer told Aaron that they would need to talk about this, about what would change, what this relationship would be, but they both decided it could wait until later that night. When Spencer walked into the BAU, he was greeted with wolf whistles and shouts of, “Pretty boy got some!”

#Spencer Reid x Aaron Hotchner #Spencer Reid/Aaron Hotchner #Hotchreid #Aaron Hotchner #Spencer Reid #angst #i-#dont know if this is actually any good lol #pls give feedback #i crave attention #emily prentiss #i definitely dont have a small c*ck k*nk

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thewatsonbeekeepers · 4 years ago

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Chapter 3 – Death Cannot Stop True Love… [HLV 1/1]

… All it can do is delay it for a while. Whilst Westley’s hair in that film horribly resembles my lockdown hair, more happily the fantastic movie The Princess Bride continues to resemble Sherlock – there was a very popular meta on the links between the two for a while there that can be found here: X.

This chapter is going to run through EMP theory as it begins, covering mainly the second half of HLV. It’s important to note, however, that the first half of the episode provides a lot of clues about the way certain images function in the mind palace, which backs up EMP theory quite nicely – the last ideas that Sherlock has going around in his brain before he is shot inevitably swirl around in there whilst he’s unconscious and form an important part of the train of association.

I toyed with the entirety of HLV being in EMP, because parts of it are weird (think Magnussen pissing in Baker Street, or the fucky MP glasses), but I ultimately dismissed it, though I’m willing to be challenged on this. I dismissed it as being a part of Sherlock’s post-wedding drug abuse for a few reasons. The first is that we only see Sherlock wake up from his drug abuse, not go into it – EMP is something that’s going to be hard for viewers to swallow, and Mofftiss are actually quite good at dropping big hints and drawing attention to the important bits along the way. That’s really not the case in the crack den, which is well integrated into the plot and has no traces of Sherlock’s mind palace. The second is that, actually, the premise of HLV is far too integrated into the main plot of s3 to be entirely MP – the CAM stuff and Janine at John and Mary’s wedding could be Sherlock extrapolating, but it seems like a bizarre extrapolation to make given how much fuckier the s4 mysteries are (London aquarium, Culverton’s drugging, the entirety of TFP) - the only MP fuckiness we get in HLV really takes place after Mary shoots Sherlock, like the restaurant scene with CAM or the Appledore Vaults being his MP. Mary shooting Sherlock also has far too many throwbacks with Norbury and Eurus in s4 to be completely irrelevant. So, with that in mind – let's go.

To understand what’s going on in HLV, we’re going to need to understand the metafiction going on – and this is where a good knowledge of acd canon comes in. Most of HLV isn’t actually based on His Last Bow, but on Charles Augustus Milverton X. To give a brief synopsis (although I would thoroughly recommend this story, not least because it’s incredibly queer) Holmes is engaged by Lady Eva Brackwell (Lady Smallwood in our world) to stop Milverton (Magnussen) from showing her husband some indiscreet letters she wrote to a squire some years ago. Holmes realises he can’t get Milverton under the law, so gets engaged in disguise to Milverton’s housemaid (Janine) in order to break in and burgle him. Watson agrees to come too. When they break in, Milverton is talking to another woman (Mary) who shoots him in revenge for Milverton’s use of information causing her husband’s suicide. She escapes and Holmes and Watson burn all of Milverton’s letters, and then escape. They refuse to help Lestrade solve the murder.

All of this lines up pretty evenly with HLV until the moment when Sherlock is shot. Admittedly there are minor changes to the Smallwood plot line (who committed what indiscretion), but these are minor and seem to be to make the plot work in the modern day – nobody cares if someone has a working-class ex anymore. But we get huge canon divergence from the shooting scene onwards.

Sherlock believes that Mary is Smallwood because of her perfume. This is a rational enough assumption to make, but it’s not just based on perfume. We know that since Lady Smallwood has engaged Holmes, Lord Smallwood has committed suicide – so she fits the profile of the blackmailee from Charles Augustus Milverton perfectly. She fits the patterns that Sherlock expects to see in his deductions. Mary does not – our first point of canon divergence. It sets up a painful parallel between John and Mary and the couple from Charles Augustus Milverton; they never name the indiscretion that led the husband in acd canon to kill himself, and given the company that Doyle kept (Wilde, Douglases including Lord Francis Douglas, who was thought to have killed himself shortly after being ennobled – much like the unnamed nobleman - because of his sexuality) it seems reasonable to assume this silence is euphemistic. Let that mirror linger in your thoughts, because it’s important.

Mary is the housemaid who has broken in to shoot Magnuessen/Milverton – so far so good. Although Holmes was hidden in the original stories, he was still present and sympathetic; the logical canon-following route here is for Mary to kill Magnussen, and that’s exactly what Sherlock expects her to do – but she doesn’t. She shoots him instead, and Sherlock can’t understand this. As we’ll see, he spends the rest of HLV trying to justify this pattern-breaking to himself, and is finally unable to.

Once Sherlock has been shot, the Molly/Anderson/Jim/Mycroft section which sets up EMP is fairly self-explanatory – the only thing I want to dive into here to point out is that this is the first appearance of Jim in the EMP, as a kind of restrained beast, and his most pivotal line is the fear he represents: John Watson is definitely in danger. This sets up what he’s going to represent for the rest of the EMP sequence. Other people have delved into the rest of this section before, and extensively – I don’t have a huge amount to add. We know John is in danger from Magnussen, because that’s ostensibly why Mary was there, but she didn’t seem to care as much as the housemaid from the initial stories did. We also know from the original stories that Magnussen has the power to make John suicidal, but in this story he hasn’t yet – but because of this, Sherlock senses that the danger is much more than a loss of reputation. It’s heart-re-starting-ly important.

The next bit I want to jump into is Sherlock’s conversation with Janine in the hospital. A lot of people have argued that this is one of the only real moments following Mary shooting Sherlock, and that Janine fiddling with the taps is part of what induces Sherlock’s fucky mind palace wanderings. I don’t buy into that theory – the more I think about this scene, the less it makes sense as being real in the context of EMP theory. The first reason for this is, very simply, that it means Sherlock has woken up after the realisation that John is in danger. The driving idea behind EMP theory is that Sherlock has to spend s4 making that realisation and trying to wake up – having that actually happen at the very start of EMP, only to be aborted, is bizarre. Secondly, it completely negates the idea that Mary’s actions are possibly fatal, which is a theme that reverberates through s4 (and all the chapters of this meta) - if Janine fiddling with the taps is what pushes Sherlock back into his MP, then by rights Janine should appear in S4, instead of the preoccupation it has with Mary and shooting.

What, then, is going on here? Sherlock is told by MP!Jim that John is in danger – and then imagines he wakes up. In his MP, Janine appears, puts him in pain and puts him back under. She, then, is the reason he can’t wake up. Janine has been Sherlock’s beard, and it’s quite possible to read her as being a symbol of Sherlock’s repression, but I think that’s a simplification; discounting TAB, Janine doesn’t appear again, and even then it’s minimal, whereas s4 is literally built around the concept of repression. As I go into in a lot more detail in chapter 9 (X), which is about the use of drugs to mask our darkest secrets in TLD, it’s the drugs that represent Sherlock’s deepest repression, in this case the morphine that he uses to mask the pain. Having Janine be the one who is fucking with the taps simply makes the link clearer, particularly when we might not associate hospital drugs with the other kind of drugs that Sherlock normally takes to take the pain away – however, it’s clear that the drugs that anaesthesise his pain do the same job as Janine – hide his queerness. Janine turned vindictive causes him intense pain, and he needs to turn back to the drugs to slip back under. Bearding was always temporary in this show, at least for Sherlock; drug abuse is a consistent problem and becomes a running metaphor for Sherlock’s repression in the EMP.

Janine being a symbol here helps me to make sense of the couple of lines that didn’t make sense to me otherwise. If Janine were real, getting rid of the bees would be awful – she gets the future our boys want and she destroys it. But if she’s a symbol in Sherlock’s mind of that bearding, and a barrier to waking up and saving John, then her sitting there, pushing him back into a coma and tearing away the future he longs for – that makes a lot of sense, and is 100% more devastating. The other line that has never made sense to me is Janine telling Sherlock that he could have just been honest with her, that she knows what kind of man he is. This line doesn’t make sense unless she means a gay man. I would be really interested to know how else this can be construed. This line can make sense in the real world if we accept that Janine is working with Mary – which must be true anyway, because otherwise Mary can’t get to CAM – and also wants Sherlock to get involved in that situation, although God knows why – the Janine-is-Jim's-sister theory feels like it might work here, but I don’t think there’s enough evidence for me to unravel it. If Janine genuinely does open the door out of affection for Sherlock, regardless of her relationship with Mary (the two aren’t mutually exclusive), Janine knowing Sherlock is gay doesn’t make sense at all - but Sherlock’s mind turning that beard back on himself to mock him? Absolutely makes sense. Remember, this is the loathing that pushes him back into the deep coma – this scene is really pivotal.

Sherlock vanishing from the hospital bed, despite being nearly dead, is pretty much medically impossible, and is probably the first impossible thing that we see happen in EMP – but it should be a red flag that that’s where we are. It’s also nice and symbolic of his movement away from that surface level, a level which we see him return to briefly in the hospital scenes in TLD when he realises his place in John’s heart. Touching stuff.

We then move into Sherlock’s interrogation of Mary behind the facade of the houses. In case we missed the reference, Mofftiss actually have the phrase the empty house used, a reference to The Adventure of the Empty House X, the story on which TEH is meant to be based. It is telling, though, that very little of The Empty House features in TEH, other than that it is the moment when Sherlock comes back. Others have commented on the minor relevance of Moran to the story and hypothesised that Mary is the real Moran – I think that the facade scene presents that as a genuine possibility. I don’t want to overstate the similarities that The Empty House bears to HLV, but Mofftiss do draw attention to it – and there is something interesting about the criminal being revealed by Holmes only after the criminal thinks they’ve killed him. That bears a particular relevance to Mary – and links her to Moriarty as his potential second-in-command. The most important link, however, is that in The Empty House, Holmes tricks Moran into incriminating himself by creating a dummy Holmes for Moran to shoot at. It’s true that Mary doesn’t shoot at dummy Sherlock (John) here, but the dummy is set up to incriminate her, and she acknowledges that this is a basic trick, one she should have known before. The links of the empty house and the dummy, both made explicitly familiar in the dialogue, do a lot to link Mary’s character to acdcanon!Moran.

This, however, all takes place in Sherlock’s brain. In several scenes, we’ve had Sherlock engage with two concepts in his mind that he can’t know about; one is Sebastian Moran in The Empty House, which only takes place in ACD canon, but even if you think that link is tenuous, he’s also engaged with his canon future as a beekeeper in Sussex. And then, on top of this, there is the problem of Mary versus the housemaid from Charles Augustus Milverton. My suggestion is that these aren’t just jokes put in by Mofftiss to say look-we've-read-the-books – Sherlock's mind is actually using the bees from the original stories to negotiate his relationship with his sexuality, and The Empty House to try to understand Mary’s motives. This is confirmed on a grand scale by TAB – he goes back to ACD canon!Holmes to navigate the problems of his everyday life – so Sherlock is not just a modern Sherlock Holmes, he is on some level self-aware of his existence as a fictional character. As we’ll see going through, his awareness of the existing canon of stories is fascinating and tied up in his repression – how do we break out of canon character, and what has canon been hiding, are two questions which repeatedly come to the fore. Mary is the character who most consistently breaks these canon expectations – a lot of TAB is about this – and that’s something he really struggles to contend with, and is one of the reasons that the reality of canon!verse starts to break down in TAB – it's not sustainable, and it doesn’t tell the full story. These two moments early on in EMP show him negotiating his identity and his experiences in his mind in relation to what he knows about Sherlock Holmes – an early iteration of a theme that’s going to become much larger.

The first thing Sherlock does after being pushed under by Janine is go and interrogate who Mary is in his brain, whilst also working out her impact on John. Sherlock comes up with a pretty reasonable background for who she is in the Leinster Gardens scene, but this isn’t really what’s important – it's the The Empty House parallel which sees him subconsciously making the link to Moriarty. ACDcanon!Moran, unlike bbc!Moran, was the last assassin sent after Sherlock from Moriarty’s network – this means that the dismantling-Moriarty's-network plot from the start of TEH becomes more than a fill-in-the-blanks montage, it means that the show retains its key villain to the end – it structurally works, in a way that other plot-level ideas haven’t. [@ eurus holmes. anyway]

Something that’s interesting here, is that there is a real shift away from the implications of the dummy in acd canon. In acd canon, Moran attempts to murder Holmes, which is a way of catching him in the act and sending him to prison. This is about catching Mary in the act in a similar sense, but it’s about being caught by John. This is interesting, because it shows that Sherlock’s priorities have shifted from acd canon – or, more accurately, we’re seeing the priorities that weren’t reported in the Strand. The emotional impact on John is far more important than the legal ramifications – and this in itself is the shift which the creators have been pretty emphatic about taking from the original stories.

John often represents the heart in Sherlock’s MP – I haven’t quite worked out how to distinguish between heart!John and Sherlock’s imagined John yet, and am flying on instinct, which is definitely not sustainable! But it strikes me that a lot about HLV and TST is about understanding the impact of this shooting on John, and that therefore this needs to be John as Sherlock imagines him.

We’re still with Sherlock’s imagined John as we move into “the Watsons’ domestic” in 221B – but, as so many have pointed out, for a domestic between the Watsons, they feature very little as a couple! The core emotional dialogue is often said to come between John and Sherlock, but despite Martin Freeman’s excellent performance in this scene, that’s not strictly true either. The centre of this scene is Sherlock explaining John’s love for Mary. It’s not about the Watsons – it's about Sherlock understanding what’s going on, which fits into EMP theory exactly. I firmly believe that Sherlock begins his EMP trip believing that John loves Mary, and slowly unravels the threads to realise that it’s actually him John cares about, and this scene is testament to the first part – the deduction that he makes about John loving Mary is flawless, but despite explicitly referencing himself, he fails to see the obvious – hiding in plain sight - that such a deduction could equally be applied to himself. He’ll get there in the end (TLD), but right now, that’s what makes this scene so painful for me.

Turning Mary into a client is about moving into the rational part of Sherlock’s brain, trying not to let emotion cloud it, even though it’s incongruous and unworkable. We’ll see Sherlock’s brain and heart slowly integrate, finally uniting in TFP, but for now he thinks rationality is the way forward. This also helps us to set out a framework for what happens with Mary in the EMP – clients are deduced, worked out, they present problems - never forget Mary being framed as the abominable bride – and that’s what is happening here. She is the first problem of the extended mind palace to be solved.

But this scene is metafictional too, because it gets to the core nub of Mary – as John puts it, she wasn’t supposed to be like that. And, canonically, he’s right. If we follow acd!canon, Mary is not meant to be an assassin, but more importantly for HLV, she’s also supposed to save her husband. She’s meant to be all-out devoted shoot-Magnussen type – but instead she shoots Sherlock. When John says that, then, it’s not just a nod to an updated show – it’s a genuine problem that Sherlock has to contend with, because in neither acd!Mary scenario nor housemaid!Mary scenario is she obeying the framework of a woman who loves her husband. This failing marriage is not in the stories, it’s not supposed to happen, and things that come outside of established canon come outside of Sherlock’s pre-programmed mould – we can think of this as a way of thinking about our own childhood programming to be straight/cis/etc., but in a more self-conscious, literary way!

And then, Sherlock’s response: you chose her. That’s why she’s different, and this is actually a vital line. It suggests that the programmed canon that we know these boys follow, because they have to – that’s not what this show is about. Our characters are agents, and for the first time in history, their lives are dictated by free choice. John chose this Mary, not the Mary of canon – and Sherlock himself makes explicit the comparison between John choosing Mary and John choosing Sherlock. The heart of the story is the choices that can be made for the first time. How incredibly exciting.

The ambulance people coming into Baker Street (seemingly without the door being unlocked?) is, I think, the real world blending with the mind palace world here – although not paramedics, there are people currently trying to restart Sherlock’s heart, and this scene shows us that he’s trying hard inside his brain, he’s working with them – he really doesn’t want to die. The idea of the outside world taking on a physical form in his MP is not incredibly hard to believe – I really recommend watching s02e02 of Inside No. 9, written by Mark Gatiss’s League of Gentlemen co-stars Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton, an episode which pulls this off marvellously, although with a big cn: for death. In this moment in Sherlock, we get the lovely lines

Sherlock She saved my life.

John She shot you.

Sherlock Eh – mixed messages, I grant you.

These lines are delivered so quickly between the two of them that it feels like Sherlock is talking to himself, like Mary isn’t even in the room. The way BC delivers ‘mixed messages’ – it’s as though there’s still a problem, bbc!Mary hasn’t been reconciled to good!Mary yet.

The next section on our whistle-stop tour is Christmas with Mummy and Daddy. Plenty of people have pointed out how Mummy and Daddy are very clear mirrors for our boys – you can see here X, or you can just look at this picture to be honest.

The Christmas scene doesn’t make sense in the timeline – there's a great timeline diagram here X that shows how much fuckier than any other episode HLV is (excluding TSoT and everything post s3), and that doesn’t even take into account all of the jumping between scenes that we see in the Christmas bit. Jumping from Leinster Gardens to Christmas to Baker Street and back several times is chronologically odd and doesn’t seem to serve a purpose, except to show that the rift between John and Mary has lasted for months – and even that didn’t need such a complex interweaving of flashbacks that is so at odds with the show. It’s also at odds with the plot – why on earth did Mummy and Daddy invite John for Christmas, if he’s no longer living with Sherlock, and even stranger, why did they invite Mary if John and Mary haven’t been on speaking terms for months? This isn’t the way human beings behave. There’s also an old adage in writing which says to never move a conversation to a new place – it’s a waste of time and space. Have the conversation here, or have it there. Don’t abort it for no reason – and that’s exactly what they do here. Mofftiss are pretty experienced, and I’m inclined to believe that they’ve done it for a reason.

So, in MP terms, why does Sherlock gravitate towards his family home instead of Baker Street as the location to unravel John’s relationship with Mary? Bearing in mind that this is a continuation of the interrogation of their relationship, it seems interesting that he chooses to juxtapose them to the only loving couple we see in this television programme. Like a lot of parallels in EMP, this is something that our dads choose to draw our attention to; Daddy says to Mary “you’re the sane one”, as though every happy relationship has a sane one and a mad genius. And they draw attention to it again – Mary points out that Sherlock brought them here to see a fine example of happily married life.

Except, of course, like so much of this interrogation of John and Mary’s relationship in HLV and onwards, this doesn’t quite ring true. Because, of course, there is no mad genius in the Watsons’ relationship, and in terms of sanity Mary is certainly not the sane one. It’s like Sherlock is trying to fit them into the domestic bliss mould, but they just won’t quite go there. The comparison won’t quite be made.

The conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft, who has been established as his brain in TSoT (I cannot find this meta! Where Mycroft is brain and John is heart! Can anyone help?), is pretty straightforward – the brain is interrogating Sherlock’s obsession with the Magnussen case and why he can’t just let it go, and the emotion we see here from Sherlock is more powerful than pretty much anything we get in real life. I actually think this scene is one of the most vulnerable moments he has in the show – and there’s no way that vulnerability would be to Mycroft in real life. There’s also, crucially, no reason why MI6 should actually want Sherlock dead this early. It’s another tell-tale sign that the surface plot doesn’t make sense – we should be looking deeper. Sherlock has just brought down a terrorist network – MI6 should love him. What Mycroft is actually putting forward is that already, way before Sherlock kills Magnussen, pretty much as soon as he enters EMP this is a two-way fork. He can choose to die at any point. But he doesn’t.

There’s something that I really don’t understand here, though, which I think is important – Sherlock drugging the family with the help of Wiggins. This motif of drugging is something which comes back time and again to represent Sherlock’s repression – but here he’s not drugged. Wiggins is also a symbol of repression, but again he’s completely sober. Any thoughts on this would be much appreciated – I don’t like loose ends, and I don’t believe that another use of drugs is insignificant!

Then we have a quick flashback to the canteen scene. A lot of EMP theory has drawn on the canteen scene, and how phenomenally dreamlike the entire situation is. There is no way this can take place in Speedy’s – in terms of the timeline, it can’t even take place in the hospital canteen! However, it seems to draw on a mental image of Speedy’s because of the visual similarities between them (referenced in this meta, although this meta makes the argument for the reality of the scene X). Magnussen doesn’t seem to even have a bruise, despite being battered by Mary’s gun. This scene cannot exist. Magnussen picking at Sherlock’s food has often been seen as a metaphor for Sherlock being sexually assaulted whilst comatose, which is something I buy into – the food=sex metaphor has been striking from the beginning, and it suits Magnussen’s power play. It’s also quite possible in this scene that Sherlock thinks that everything fucky is real, and the absolute fuckiness of this scene draws it out – this is the scene that foreshadows the realisation that Magnussen is working from his MP, and of course that’s a realisation that Sherlock needs to make himself. The scene opens with a moment of dislocation – is this the hospital canteen or not? – and is about Sherlock working out what’s happening to him.

What’s really striking is that John has brought his gun to Christmas lunch, however. Bear in mind John-being-suicidal is the realisation that Sherlock is going to come to in TLD, but it’s prefigured here. We haven’t seen John’s gun since ASiP, when it was used to indicate that he was suicidal. It’s suddenly come back, but Sherlock misses its significance – he expects John to have it, but he doesn’t focus on the significance of the gun itself. He’s still thinking in terms of Mary and Magnussen. What’s significant is that John throws him the coat, which has the gun weighing down in its pocket. This prefigures that scene in TLD -

Faith!Eurus, who is a mirror for John in TLD, is thrown the bag, and we see Sherlock weigh it and then realise there’s a gun in it – too late. A bag is the female equivalent of a coat (*cries about pockets*) and the throwing motif with the heavy gun inside it is a clear link between the two moments. Sherlock didn’t recognise the significance of the gun in the first one, possibly because he couldn’t process the situation without mirrors (more on the importance of Eurus as a series of heterosexual mirrors later). When he realises in TLD that he’s made a mistake, that there’s something he’s missed, the implication isn’t that he’s missed it in his analysis of Faith!Eurus, because in no sense of the word does Faith!Eurus exist. What it means is that he missed it in his first, cursory analysis of John. Not the heaviness, but exactly what it meant. The symbols of John’s suicidal ideation start to appear and threaten to break in right up until the end of TLD – this is arguably the first point we start to see them.

Hypothesis theory – that Sherlock is running simulations in his MP – is not something I hold with through all of EMP, but I do hold with it to the end of HLV. It’s something that we know Sherlock does in real life because of THoB, both in acd!canon and in bbc!canon – he stages something in order to prove it to himself. In this case, he’s not able to see the war between Mary and Magnussen play out, so he’s running it himself, and we’ve already seen him desperately trying to prove Mary’s innocence, and more than that her love for John. But this trip to Appledore will prove that impossible.

It’s possible that the Appledore Vaults being Magnussen’s MP is the first time that Sherlock recognises that this is a simulation, and that this isn’t real. He certainly looks incredibly distressed, although that could also be because of the immense danger he’s put John in. However, the vaults being a mind palace doesn’t make sense as surface plot, as so many have pointed out – we’ve literally seen the letters before. (I grant that Magnussen could be bluffing, but it seems odd to draw attention to the letters having a physical form nevertheless.) However, the fact that Magnussen’s MP is in vaults underground is really interesting – imagery to do with going deeper and deeper into Sherlock’s mind is pretty much always falling or sinking, as seen in both TAB and TST in particular. That idea of descending into one’s mind is prefigured very neatly here, and should get us thinking about height generally (I’ve talked about the reverse side of this in the previous chapter X). I also think, although am not an expert on sound, that we can hear a slight eerie dripping when Magnussen walks through the vaults, which ties thematically to the water that is linked to falling/sinking in the rest of the EMP.

Fast forward past the face-flicking, and Sherlock shoots Magnussen. This is the culmination of the metafictionality of the episode, and I think it’s really fantastic. The simulation that Sherlock has run to prove that Mary loves John has failed, because the only way to save John is to kill Magnussen and he’s the only one who can do it – so in short, Sherlock becomes the housemaid, not Mary. He takes on the role, and it breaks canon completely. He’s supposed to be above that, disinterested – but instead he becomes the woman who kills out of love for her husband. He is no longer filling the traditional role of Sherlock Holmes in the narrative. He has disproven the point he needed to make – and so, as brain!Mycroft seems to suggest, deeper waters still. The cut to little Louis Moffat screaming in the firing line instead of BC is another hint that this isn’t real – we might just about accept it here as showing Sherlock’s vulnerability, but given that the entirety of series 4 is about childhood trauma coming back up, the resurgence of a screaming child of Sherlock as he recognises his new place in the narrative is brutal. (Yes, Sherlock has a lot of gay trauma – we’ll find out more when we meet Eurus.)

Eurus, incidentally, comes up here – you know what happened to the other one. I want to home in, though, on Mycroft’s line about Sherlock, that there’s no prison that he could be incarcerated in. This is a bizarre comment, given the events of TFP – it could just be sloppy writing, sure. Or, again, these inconsistencies are pointing to something else, that Sherrinford isn’t a real place and that Sherlock’s death sentence is not a sentence, but self-imposed.

So much has been said, so eloquently, about the tarmac scene, that I don’t know that there’s much more that I can say. The importance of the plane as being Sherlock going to his death is really important as an image that will repeat later – again, see previous chapter X. I’ve also pointed out that there is no point at which Sherlock is told Moriarty is back, yet he seems to know it automatically – another suggestion that this is EMP, and there’s a lot more going on.

The final thing I want to focus on in this episode, though, is the east wind. The east wind is referenced in His Last Bow, which gets very little coverage generally in HLV. His Last Bow is (I believe) the final Holmes story, and the east wind that is coming refers to WW1 – Holmes tells Watson that there is an east wind coming and Watson thinks he means it’s cold, and Holmes laughs and jokes that Watson is a stalwart who will always be there. This is a touching moment to end the stories on, and might remind us of the It is always 1895 poem that will become so important in TAB. Except, this time, John accepts that there’s an east wind coming – he references it repeatedly, actually, as a threat, both here and in TFP. The east wind is the wind of change that comes through the changing years in acd!canon. This seems particularly important here – the social changes between 1895 and 2014 are vital for the next episode, highlighting the idea that the update of the show is a really central part to it. There’s no world war ahead of Holmes (please God @2020) so the wind of change must be referring to something else… I really couldn’t possibly comment as to why the change of time period might be so important!

This chapter has been a long one, but I hoped it help to set up EMP theory on firm foundations. We’ll move into TAB next – see you there!

#tjlc #thewatsonbeekeepers #meta #mine #my meta #chapter three: death cannot stop true love...#hlv #bbc sherlock #johnlock #bbc johnlock #mofftiss #acd #gosh i was rereading this chapter and boy am i proud of it #metatextuality is my fave thing #what a sexy episode this is

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