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murderofravens · 1 day ago

Text

BLACKEST DAY

pairing: cho sangwoo x fem reader

summary: old feelings are rekindled when you encounter your father's old friend at the games.

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, sangwoo is 46) badly written smut, face slapping, slightly toxic dynamics, a smidge of some age-gap kink. lots of angst. body worship. this is a oneshot.

word count: around 5k

[feedback and reblogs are a writer's biggest motivation.]

MASTERLIST

life has a funny way of reuniting people.

when you woke up in the hall, surrounded by strangers wearing those ugly green clothes much like yourself, your first thought was— 'i should have brought someone with me.'

you were always rather wary of doing things by yourself. things seem much easier when you have a helping hand to give you advice, or to make bad decisions together.

your first shock came upon the mention of his name, taken by one of the guards.

player 218, cho sangwoo.

your eyes snapped up to the screen where you could see a clip of him getting slapped after repeatedly losing the game.

"former supervisor of team two at joy investments, embezzled money from his clients, invested it in derivatives and figures and failed. current loss, 650 million won."

you looked around frantically before you caught sight of him— handsome as ever, although visibly distraught. his shocked eyes were looking at the guards with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

you had known sangwoo since you were rather young. idolized him at one point, even. he and your father used to be some sort of business partners— which you can guess was another word for friends who gambled and hung out occasionally. most of your years went by with him acknowledging you politely, getting you chocolate everytime he came to visit, and patting your head with a proud smile whenever your parents told him about one of your achievements at school. you wanted to be like him— smart, ambitious and a hard worker.

you'd moved off for college when you were of age, and according to his mother, he had moved to the US for business purposes.

which, as you can see, didn't work out.

you don't really try to make conversation with him, don't even look at his side of the room. mainly because you're embarrassed. there are two reasons— the first being that you don't want to see the man you idolized at a place like this. and the second is personal. your last memory of him isn't something you're fond of. it still fills you with resentment and a sense of sadness— you had asked to meet up with him before you were going off to college, hoping to express your feelings. you'd developed a childish crush on him when you were growing up, and it had expanded into genuine feelings over time.

but he never showed up, and you were left sitting in the expensive restaurant all by yourself. you never revealed that to anyone, deciding to take that moment of humiliation to the grave.

the first game was terrifying, to say the least. while you could tell there was something inherently shady about the whole organization, what left you in genuine shock was the first shot that rang out through the field, killing the person who moved. you were careful about your steps then, walking forward rather meticulously, ensuring you were not a victim in whatever hellhole you've found yourself in.

splatters of blood covered your face as you almost reached the line, hiding behind another taller man. there were a mere 10 seconds left. your heart was quite literally trying to beat out of your chest, and sweat dripped down your forehead. and that's when you first made eye contact with him.

sangwoo, who was bent in half, was panting as he looked at the finish line. his gaze rose, and connected with yours— eyes immediately widening with recognition. you were frozen as you looked at him, jaw clenched and panic stricken. he looked at the timer, and the doll turned away. you quickly began running, and you saw him straighten up as the timer began nearing zero. you jumped across the finish line, and his hand grabbed you to help. you stumbled into him and the both of you fell onto the dusty ground— a mess of sweaty limbs.

you don't say a word to him as the guards guide you back to the hall. he is just as silent behind you, and you wonder if it's because he's embarrassed about being there, or if he remembered what he did to you and is reluctant to acknowledge you after.

"i didn't expect to see you here." he remarks quietly, voice grim. his head is lowered, and there's an almost disappointed look in his eyes.

the audacity.

"i could say the same about you," you shoot back dryly, sitting cross legged on the floor. he looks at you then, and your gaze challenged his.

"you've grown since i last saw you." he adds, and you scoff in response. so what? you were still bitter.

"it's just two years."

he clenches his jaw and looks away, his ears feeling hot. you've always had a problem with keeping your mouth shut, and apparently it still applies. you look up at him, eyes accusatory.

"i thought you went to the states." there's a taunting edge to your voice— rather shallow and childish on your end, but you can't help yourself. you're playing with life and death, but still you're angrier about your history with him than anything else.

"all those degrees just to scam people? i'd expect more from someone like you, mr. sangwoo—"

"you don't know what you're talking about," he shuts your words down quickly, voice firm. he's quick to change the topic, visibly agitated. "i thought you went to college. what happened to your—"

"father?" you interrupt, sitting straighter. "he got scammed."

you look at him pointedly as you say the last word, and his eye twitches.

"he gambled away his money on some non existent race. i dont live with him anymore and i need money to continue college and pay rent. my mom doesn't know and i don't wanna worry her." you take a sharp breath, voice getting lower, "my landlady threw me out before i found the ddakji guy."

his face softens with every sentence, an expression close to pity taking over. you hate pity, so you shut it down with a glare.

"don't give me that look," you sigh with exhaustion, running a hand down your face.

"i'm sorry to hear that," he says quietly, avoiding your eyes. he blinks a few times, adjusts his glasses. he doesn't know what else to say, and he's almost glad for the interruption when the staff walks in and announces the results of the first game.

it's so sudden how people begin to beg for their lives— kneeling before the guards, pleading to be spared. it makes you feel sorry and disgusted at the same time— you can understand why they'd do so, but you can't imagine kneeling before an organisation like this in any way. you value your dignity.

when the gunshot rings out to silence the begging crowd, the guard announces the second clause of the contract: a player who refuses to play will be terminated.

your head snaps up at the sound of sangwoo's confident voice.

"clause three of the consent form—" he steps forward, "the games may be terminated upon a majority vote."

the guard nods, "that is correct."

"then," he looks around, and his eyes fall on you. he looks away, and cocks his head to the side, "let us take a vote."

you almost feel that sense of admiration for him once again— he was always smart, that you can admit. more attentive than others, better at remembering little details. he's stepping forward to directly challenge these guards while people are begging for their lives. he's brave, like he's always been.

you fall in line beside him, and he looks down at you. you give him a slight nod, before your attention is diverted to the next announcement. the staff then show the money accumulated by the deaths of the previous player— 100 million won for each. as the massive piggy bank hanging from the ceiling glows, you can feel him stiffen at the mere sight of the money.

and the voting starts. your number comes soon enough— player 420.

you don't hesitate.

this money is not more important than your life. you need to consider all your options— you're not confident that you would make it till the end. and you don't want to fucking die yet.

you press the cross, and fall into the crowd.

sangwoo's number comes a while after— and you watch him like a hawk. you know he's a smart guy who knows better than to put himself in a compromising situation. you hope he'll help you go home.

until he presses the 'O.'

you feel utterly betrayed once again and he goes to his side of the crowd, not looking at you even once. you scoff to yourself, baffled by his audacity, before redirecting your focus to the voting counter. you start hoping your side wins purely out of spite.

player 001 presses X. your side erupts into cheers and you let out a breath of relief, glancing at sangwoo who stands frozen with his head lowered.

you don't remember much after.

the car ride feels suffocating— everything is dark. there's shuffling before you feel yourself being shoved, and you let out a yelp as your bare skin hits the gravel. "ouch— fuck!"

you hear your name— and recognise the voice.

"mister sangwoo?" you gasp, and hear a pained 'yes'. you can feel a cloth wrapped around your eyes, and your hands and legs are tied. you groan, shifting and writhing on the ground, impatiently trying to free yourself. you feel teeth on the front of your wrists before your hands are released.

you sit up quickly and snatch the cloth off your eyes. you turn to sangwoo then, and quickly untie his wrists. he grunts before sitting up, and the two of you untie your legs.

"shit, it's cold—" you hiss, quickly standing up. those bastards had only left you in a plain white sports bra and underwear. he was naked as well save for a pair of white boxers. the sight makes your skin feel hot, and you take a greedy but discreet glance at his chest before rushing towards your jeans and hoodie that are tossed to the side of the road, quickly getting dressed.

you clear your throat and turn around, only to see him quickly looking away from you, his clothes still in his hands. your eyes narrow knowingly and he wordlessly gets dressed, buttoning up his white shirt.

"are we still in seoul?" you ask, and he clears his throat, adjusting his glasses before looking up towards the buildings. he nods, and you shiver slightly.

he turns to you and hesitates before moving forward to put his grey blazer over you. you raise your eyebrows in question, and he doesn't respond before checking his pockets.

"are you hungry?" he asks, and almost comically in that same moment your stomach growls. he holds back a smile, and you wrap his blazer tighter around yourself.

you rest your head against the table while you wait. you can feel it pounding, but the smell of hot ramen tempts you to raise it. he takes a seat beside you and places the steaming bowl in front of you.

"do you have the money for this?" you cant help but ask.

"dont worry about it," he says with a wave of his hand, bringing out his chopsticks to eat. you decide to leave the job of worrying to him and get to eating.

you're a rather slow eater, and he doesn't complain. he steps out of the store, and you can see his back as he takes out a cigarette. you slurp up the rest of your food and follow him out.

"i don't feel that cold anymore," you hand him his blazer, and he turns to look at you. you're thankful about your self control, because he is a sight. so devilishly handsome even after witnessing such horrors— his cigarette teasingly hanging off his lips, the smoke wafting up and making his eyes squint just a little. his glasses make him look so much more sophisticated, or perhaps you have a thing for nerdy looking men. you're not a smoker, but he makes it look so good. if you were a weaker woman, you would've gasped. no wonder half of your childhood went by with that barely disguised crush on him— no wonder no guy your age back in college seemed good enough.

you clear your throat, bring yourself back to earth and continue. "you can have it. thank you."

he takes the blazer with a nod and puts it on. takes another puff of the cigarette, and watches you look around.

"i thought you'd come back with an american wife." you almost cringe at your own words. but conversation is conversation, you don't know how else to start. it's a discreet way to find out his relationship status, if any.

"marriage is the last thing on my mind." he responds quietly, taking a puff. you look at the side of his face, and his eyes stare at the road in front of him— thoughtful. you wonder what he's thinking about.

"where will you go?" he asks without looking at you.

you shrug, "i don't know."

"do you have any money?"

you pause, suddenly feeling a sense of dread. you have no money, and what little you got from the ddakji guy, you spent on your rent. which got you thrown out anyway.

your silence speaks volumes. he tosses the cigarette to the floor and stomps on it. you sigh.

"i don't have any money."

"come with me," he looks at you, gaze intense and serious. "i have enough for the both of us. atleast for a few days till we can figure things out."

"why?" you cross your arms over your chest almost defensively, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

he grits his teeth as he glares at you, mouth twitching. he looks away then, tonguing the inside of his cheek before returning your gaze. "you have nowhere else to go. it wouldn't be responsible to leave you alone like this."

you almost scoff— the words on the tip of your tongue. but you were okay with leaving me alone back then? but you don't say it, not yet, because you could use his financial help right now. you sigh, before nodding, and gesturing forward.

"fine, lead the way."

the motel he takes you to looks respectable enough. you look around, eyeing the plain decor. the man behind the counter looks at the two of you, and then gives sangwoo a toothy grin, which immediately alerts you.

"only one room available."

sangwoo doesn't protest. he doesn't have the finances to get two separate rooms either. he opens the room and you go in first, looking around. there's a single bed and some flashy lights, and it makes you roll your eyes. you turn around to settle him with a pointed look.

"it's better than i thought," he grunts, taking his blazer off as he takes in the scene. he steps forward and drags a finger down the side table, examines the dust it leaves on his skin with mild disgust.

you bite your lower lip as you watch him— his shirt stretching across his chest, his hair falling messily across his forehead. his glasses resting delicately on the bridge of his nose.

fucking nerd.

his gaze snaps up to you and that's when you realize you'd said that out loud. you wince, looking away and he straightens up, blinking innocently.

"you're still upset with me."

you cross your arms over your chest as you sit on the bed. you quirk an eyebrow, and he cocks his head to the side, eyeing you from a respectable distance.

you decide to play dumb.

"about what?"

he's not amused. he stares at you, expression serious and intense, "i didn't plan to stand you up that day."

so we're going straight to it, you think.

"then why did you?" you snap, unable to hold back the hurt from your voice, "i waited for an hour. you never came. i wanted to talk to you."

"i know." he nods. he walks up to you then, stands at the foot of the bed. "i know what you wanted to talk to me about. i was scared."

you freeze, looking at him cautiously, your heartbeat rising. "scared?"

"i knew you had feelings for me." he sighs, sitting down beside you. his voice is hushed, making the moment feel more intimate than you'd like. "i could tell that's what you wanted to talk to me about. it terrified me."

your breath feels like it's knocked out of your lungs. you swallow the lump in your throat, holding back the tears pricking in the corner of your eyes. "did anyone ever tell you that you're an asshole?"

he grunts, takes out another cigarette. he lights it up and takes a long drag— taking his time to respond.

"many people," he says, blowing some smoke through his nostrils. the sight almost makes your mouth water, but you ignore it.

"you're a dick," you shoot back dryly.

"what i am—" he points his cigarette at you, "— is too old for you. surely you didn't think it was a good idea?"

"you could've rejected me instead," you chuckle bitterly, "but you decided to leave me there to look stupid."

"you were too young." his voice is low, and his response almost makes you want to strangle him. he dusts some ash off his cigarette, adjusts his glasses, and looks at you with an intensity that makes your skin feel hot. "i couldn't keep you happy even if i wanted to."

you frown, gritting your teeth. he looks away.

"you looked at me like i hung the moon and the stars." he continues, looking ahead at the wall, gaze distant. "i couldn't maintain those expectations. we were in two completely different stages. you were meant to go to college, study well, get a good job, a boy your age—"

"stop talking like you're my father," you snap before he can finish, standing up. there's heat behind your glare and you almost laugh at his expression, "i had no expectations from you. so stop with your- your little— excuses. what's done is done, right? you've stood me up once, no need to reject me by wording it smartly. i don't wanna be with you anymore anyway."

that was a lie. you just hoped he couldn't see through your act. you're riled up because you're still affected by him, and his polite behaviour is driving you insane— you want to tear away at his walls, expose the passion he hides behind his smart guy facade. you know it because you've seen it in the way his eyes light up when he talks about his ambitions— how willing he is to cross any line to achieve what he wants. you want to butcher his self control and unleash the animal underneath, the one he's so desperate to hide. it's what made you fall for him in the first place.

he merely looks at you boredly, taking another drag of his cigarette. you snatch it off him, bring it to your own lips. he looks at you with mild shock as you take a drag, and you blow the smoke out on his face.

it all goes smoothly until you cough, and he's snatching the cigarette away again, watching you almost amusedly.

"you can't even handle a cigarette," he remarks dryly, putting it out on the bedframe. and that one line finally ticks you off. almost as if on instinct, your hand pulls back and delivers a sharp slap to his face— making it turn to the side. he snorts, adjusts his glasses again before he looks at you, unimpressed.

"you've been waiting to do that, haven't you?" he asks. your nostrils flare with anger. you can't hurt him physically— but your tongue is sharp. you'll use it.

"you're one to talk about different stages in life," you add, leaning towards him. a smirk curls upon your face, "look at you. all that ambition and experience only to end up scamming people."

out of the need to provoke him, your hand shoots out, jabbing a finger to his chest.

"how would your mother feel if she found out?"

it's a low blow, and you would be ashamed if it hadn't worked. it does its work to finally get to him. he grabs your wrist, and harshly pulls you down towards him, knocking your breath out. he shoves you on the bed and hovers over you, panting slightly. you chuckle.

"my life is hard enough," he hisses sharply, body trembling with concealed rage. his gaze drifts down to your lips before settling upon your eyes again. "do you really want to keep testing me?"

you can't help but smile smugly as you stare at him. there he is— almost on the verge of losing his composure. a few more quips and you're sure he'll crumble. it makes your skin feel tingly. your face leans up slightly, your hungry gaze drifting down to his lips. your hand reaches up, pries his glasses off his face. and then you flick his nose.

"fuck you."

the way his mouth comes crashing onto yours is animalistic. he desperately kisses you with the passion of a madman— his tongue entering your mouth and messily colliding with your own. as if to tease him, you bite his bottom lip sharply and he pulls back, eyes widening as a small trickle of blood falls down the corner of his mouth. his hand pulls back and strikes you across the face, and you can't help but laugh. your cheek stings and feels like it's burning— and you're addicted. you hope he'll do it again. you look back at him with an almost crazed look in your eyes, and you can see it finally dawn upon him that he's finally giving you exactly what you wanted.

"you're enjoying this too much, you little minx—" he hisses, grabbing your neck and kissing you again. your hands immediately reach up to his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as you try to keep up with his pace. he pulls away and tosses his shirt to the side, and you take that opportunity to use all your strength to flip the two of you around so he's the one on his back. it makes him gasp, and you look down at him with darkened eyes— a finger teasingly running down his chest, making him let out a shudder.

he's the object of all your desires for as long as you've ever known. the man of your dreams, the man that you kept comparing every single one of your college boys to. no wonder they never seemed good enough. how could they? they were no match for this beautiful man laying under you.

with a newfound vigour your head drops to his neck, licking and kissing every inch of his skin. your hungry mouth trails down his chest, breathing in the smell of him, leaving greedy bites in its wake. the sounds your actions evoke out of him are downright pornographic— soft, breathless groans that make you want to consume him entirely. his hand comes down to your head, holding you in place as you worship his body— and you moan when his fingers dig into your scalp.

your lips leave a wet trail and cherry red bites down his torso, until you reach the waistband of his pants. teasingly, you mouth at his bulge, making him hiss in return. his hips buck up slightly and you place a soft kiss to the material before leaning up to his face. his hands wrap around your waist and he flips the two of you over again, desperately tearing away at your clothes.

"i shouldn't be doing this," he mutters under his breath, talking more so to himself than you. you raise your hips and he pulls your jeans down, a throaty groan escaping him at the sight of your panties. they're almost transparent from how wet you are. he frees himself from the confines of his underwear and you watch with fascination as he holds you down with a hand on your stomach. you're panting when he's pushing them to the side and entering you immediately— making you scream from the stretch.

he clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes shut as he buries himself to the hilt with a grunt. you choke on a pained sob, your fingers digging into his back as he grabs the side of your face.

"it hurts—" you hiss through gritted teeth, a tear running down your cheek. it burns, and he waits a second before wordlessly pulling back and thrusting again. the pain morphs into pleasure soon enough, and you whine as he falls into an easy rhythm, wrapping your legs around his waist. you whine in return, and he gives your cheek a light slap, prompting you to open your eyes. your breath hitches as he looks at you intensely— his own eyes glassy.

"not that young now am i?" you grit out with a glare, crying out as he retaliates with a harsh, pointed thrust. "y-you're my first—"

"fuck," he moans, his head dropping down to your chest. his thrusts get quicker, voice raspy and low, "don't— don't say that—"

"i always wanted you to take my virginity," you moan, throwing your head back, dragging your nails down his back. it makes him hiss, "ever since i was a—"

he slams his hand on your mouth, refusing to allow you to finish your sentence. "shut the fuck up."

he doesn't want to be reminded of the age difference between you two, even though you can tell it gets him hot. the moment his hand clasps over your mouth, you cum with a loud moan. your body trembles but he keeps going— not allowing you a moment to breathe. his eyes are full of rage as he bares his teeth in anger. you chuckle breathlessly against his hand, your eyes fluttering. he looks like an angry cat— you want to kiss him all over his face. his thrusts eventually get sloppy— he's close.

you lock your legs tightly around his waist, and he smacks you again. it surprises you this time, and he takes that opportunity to pull out, jerking himself off quickly.

"i can't afford taking risks," he grunts, clenching his jaw. you whine in response, pouting slightly, and he gives you an exasperated glare before he's cumming all over your stomach with a shaky groan.

you pant heavily as you come down from your high, and almost as if on fire— he quickly dresses himself. he pulls out a handkerchief from his blazer pocket, gently wipes off the fluids on your stomach. he just watches you on the bed— his eyes examining his handiwork. you notice his gaze lingers on your cheek. after a few minutes, he wordlessly gets up and goes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. you roll your eyes as you pull up your jeans too. a few moments pass, and you breathe a puff of air through your nostrils.

"are we going to talk about this?" you call out. there's no answer. you get up and rush to the bathroom door, except he's locked it. you can hear light splashing of water. you scoff in disbelief, going back to the bed. you lay on your side and grab a pillow, your lips wobbling as you go over everything that happened.

this was not how it was supposed to go. he was not supposed to seem this detached. you'd expected atleast a cuddle after sex.

you don't realize when you fall asleep. it's morning when you wake up— sunlight streaming in through the window and directly onto your face, making you wince. you stretch, look over your shoulder.

sangwoo isn't there.

you immediately go to the bathroom. it's empty, though the tub is full. you frown in confusion before turning back to the bed. there, a note on the side table has you stopping.

'i'm sorry,' it said, in his handwriting. placed along with it were a few won bills.

you sniffle as you stare at the note— the writing on it almost mocking you. you crumple it up, your fist shaking as you resist the urge to cry. suddenly, there's a knock on the door, and it makes your entire body stiffen.

a card slides from the little space under the door. the same one you remember the ddakji guy giving you. the shapes on it just look sinister now. the number on it is different this time.

your breathing gets heavy as you stare at it— your head beginning to hurt. you're sure you can hear your ears ringing.

you're alone. you wonder if leaving in the first place was a mistake. your feelings are conflicted— and worst of all, you feel used and betrayed. you're not sure if you should go back to the games. you're not sure if you could survive without any money.

sangwoo had left. you don't know where he is and you have nowhere else to go. no home, and you don't know how you would face your mother. you don't know how long the money he left you could go on.

you don't want to die. but you can't keep living like this either. you bite your bottom lip as you contemplate your options, the hurt from sangwoo's departure still lingering in your chest like a stab wound.

you pick up the card and place the call.

tags: @movienerd3000 @testdrivethv @leebyunghunswifey @nerdybarbariancupcake @neganhore @k1ra-park3r @vivdolls @wab-i @stantwicr @creativerambling @yasmim-1007 @makethemgirlsgoloco @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @captaincarmel416 @warlabels @ferrarifinnick @smlbch @izzyyann @meheheasasa @poooopy @endlessfl4mes @selfishlittlebeing @pillowtalk6 @antiromanticbaby @sky-forts-and-burning-citadels @flow33didontsmoke

#cho sangwoo #cho sangwoo x reader #park haesoo #squid game x reader smut #squid game fanfic #salesman x reader #frontman x reader #squid game x you #player 218 x reader #raven writes

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marsbutterfly · 3 days ago

Note

Nerd Hanji head cannons??? Absolutely smart and top of her class no social life? Pulls Y/N??? Erwin, Levi and Moblit are like is Reader blind???? Fluffy nerdy shit I eat that up and let me tell you I’m STARVING

Headcanons: Nerd! Hanji Zoe

a/n: i've had these ready for about a week or so but for some reason i haven't posted them? idk, but i do hope you enjoy heh i had fun.

warnings: none. this is pure fluff. | tagging: @wizzy21

❀ Nerd! Hanji who has been your close friend since the two of you were young. They were always a bit awkward and going around studying frogs or collecting rocks, but you were always following closely behind with a pencil sharpener and a box of band-aids.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who used to tutor you in their free time. Their favorite subjects had always been the most difficult ones: chemistry, physics and math. So they would always do everything in their power to make the subjects more interesting or, at the very least, easier for you to understand.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who has done your homework for you more times than you could count. Some times because you were sick, some because you were getting frustrated and aggravated and some of them in exchange for some of your baking. So they would sit on the kitchen counter as you would bake them cookies, cakes, whatever they were craving that day.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who has always been class president for as long as they were allowed to run. They were constantly trying their best to make sure everyone in class was happy and also having their concerns being heard. They ran unopposed for over five years, mainly because there was nobody else who could have done a better job than them.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who deletes all of their social media every time they have an exam coming up. No matter how many times you tell them that they could easily just delete the app, they will not listen to you because they say they're tempted to just "download it" again.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who has had a crush on you for years but never did anything about it. They wanted to ask you out for so long but didn't for two reasons. Number one is that they didn't think you felt the same way and, number two, because they wanted to wait until you both got to college and had an idea of what you were looking to do for the rest of your life.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who was the joke of the group multiple times but they still couldn't understand that they were being teased for your feelings about them, not the other way around.

❀ Nerd! Hanji Nerd hanji who excels in absolutely everything that they do but are completely oblivious to your feelings for them until you straight up kiss them after a day out together. You were already considering it a date, they thought the two of you were just hanging out before college started. They didn't complain one bit, though.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who doesn't pay attention to how they look, especially when you go out together. They will keep their hair in a messy ponytail, wear the same pair of old crocs and the same taped pair of broken glasses.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who gets you a scholarship to your dream college so the two of you can study together. They will change their entire life plan that they have had since they were a child just to spend time with you, much to their parents' dismay.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who constantly helps you study for your exams because they have absolutely nothing to worry about for themselves and they want you to achieve only the best you can.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who set the curve for the grades too high so they are lowkey disliked by most of their classmates. They don't really care though, the only person they care about is how you feel about them. And you love them to bits.

❀ Nerd! Hanji has an internship at a very prestigious laboratory and is already being considered for a full-time position by the time they graduate.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who constantly sends you pictures of funny looking bacteria they find. They find random shapes and immediately whip out their phone (which they are very much not allowed to do but they get so excited that they can't help it.)

❀ Nerd! Hanji who constantly needs to buy new pens and pencils because they are often biting the back of it or the cap. They have come home with blue or black ink on their lips more times than you can count on one hand.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who sometimes forgets to eat so you always bring them food regardless of where they are. They always blush and tell you not to trouble yourself with these kinds of things but you can't help it. Knowing that they are using all that brain power with no fuel makes your heart ache. So you always give them extra food and water.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who tilts their head when they are thinking about stuff. They do it regardless if they are at work or if they are at home. So you just know they could be looking for a bacteria in a sample or for the extra block of cheese in the back of the fridge, the look is the same.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who doodles your name all over their notepads over and over, to the point where they have to force themselves out of that mind space, otherwise they can't focus.

❀ Nerd! Hanji who looks at you and only you. No matter how old the two of you are, they are always in love with you. And they are always yapping about some video game or book, not that you mind, of course. You never did.

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copperbadge · 2 days ago

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Hi CB! I've followed your work for a while and I'm curious - I've seen that you do many times on a repetitive and consistent manner.......how? By the love of gods, how? What is this magic? Is it inherited? Genetic? Signed, please-halp

Hey, thanks for reading! I think you may have missed a word in the ask so I am taking a best guess at what you were inquiring about, but I'm guessing you were asking about consistent and repeat ability to write and post fiction? Gosh that sounds egotistical of me but I used to be known for being prolific and I think I'm still known for, if not having the BEST prose, at least having the ability to be of consistent quality. :)

The good news is that it is neither magic nor genetic, and one of those things that anyone can achieve -- it just takes time and a bit of effort. The secret is that I wasn't always even a good writer; what I have always been is a passionate writer. My early fanfic, from fourteen to eighteen, was actually very bad. But I did it a lot. It's hard to get truly good at something if you aren't passionate about it because you won't want to do it so often that you get good at it, but fortunately I fell in love with it. And once you're good at something you do want to do it all the time!

In my teens I wrote absolutely tons of fanfic, and if you were to read it (you can't, it's not under my name and some of it is lost to the ages) you could actually see me improving, because I started out so terribly bad. We're talking "Multiple people speaking in one paragraph" bad. But I kept writing and took feedback and when I went to college I took classes (I had a kind of unofficial minor in playwriting, including having several short plays produced) and when I came back to fandom after college I was...decent. And this you can trace, if you start reading at the start of my AO3 account where all my fanfic since 2003 is stashed; you can see I used to be more awkward in my prose, my pacing wasn't as good, what I considered relevant to include for the story wasn't as polished as it is now.

So, there are almost five million words on my AO3 account, which doesn't include anything I wrote before 2003; I'm forty-five and started writing when I was just shy of fifteen. This will be my thirtieth year writing fiction in April. If you spend that much time writing, even if you don't necessarily TRY to improve, you will learn and grow. And you learn how your own creative process works and how to wrestle with that, so you become consistent simply because you gain a kind of mental muscle-memory.

The thing is, quality and consistency is nice, but it's not necessary to enjoy either fandom or fanfic, or even writing. If you love to write, that's the best thing; you will bring yourself joy. It's one reason I never even considered making a career as a writer, because I didn't want my joy to become my job. That's not to shit on professional writers by ANY means, I have several as friends and of course I admire many well-known authors. But for me, it was important to preserve the parts I loved best, and I didn't think I could do that and still try to get a paycheck from it.

So the trick of quality, consistent writing is to love it enough to do it until you develop your skills and grow as an artist. But the real trick of any artistic expression is to love it for itself, to put heart into your work, and to do everything you can to protect what gives you pleasure. Quality and consistency are nice but if you love what you do they really, eventually, cease to matter. :)

#writing #fandom #fanfic

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asarigg · 22 hours ago

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About: Part 3

DEVELOPMENT OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. PATH TO HEALING: part 3

Overall, I think they’ve dealt with the process and development of Koujaku’s trauma and healing in a pretty decent, kind and nice way, which is exactly what he needed. Koujaku kept everything to himself, locked in a cage where he was alone, immersed in agony and loneliness, without counting on anyone and simply ignoring his fears and traumas hoping that with time they would heal. But the path to healing is not achieved with time alone. Facing his traumas is not comfortable, it doesn’t feel secure, it doesn’t give him peace, he can only see his still bleeding wounds, and a reflection in the mirror of a body marked for life. He acts as if they’re not there, maybe thinking that the wounds will scar by hiding them under a layer of optimism, he gets used to living with the pain and makes it stand in the background, but it doesn’t disappear.

The healing process is complex, continuous, and nonlinear. When you think you’re getting better, in a few seconds you can fall back into that pit of darkness and pessimism. The solution is neither simple nor immediate. Being honest about your struggle and your vulnerabilities is important, so is the support you give and receive from others, facing and working through your pain instead of resigning yourself to living with open wounds. The shield that Koujaku used when interacting with his family no longer works because he’s no longer in the same situation, but that is how he has become accustomed to living and he continues to use the same cover, without breaking the cycle.

It’s only once Koujaku opens up, maybe not completely but it’s a first step, about his past and the reasons why he was so distant that things start to go better. Aoba could have forced it out with Scrap, yeah, but that’s not how he wants to do things, he wants it to truly be Koujaku’s will. When Aoba scraps him, it’s impossible to fail if you don’t do it on purpose because it’s so simple, because it’s when he’s letting Aoba into his world that he feels confident about what he has to say to help him. If he doesn’t let himself be loved, supported by other people and continues to insist on doing things alone, pushing Aoba away from him believing it was the best choice, that’s when Aoba feels so distant from him that he doesn’t know if he really knows him, he doesn’t know what to say anymore. Only then you can fail.

It’s probably more confusing in Japanese considering kanji and that they can be read very differently, specially if it’s mixed with a bunch of other kanji like it happens when you choose the “wrong” options, but still. If you payed attention, you know what you have to say.

What’s great about this is that things don’t get better just like that, things aren’t fixed with magic or quick and simple solutions, and they show you, they don’t skip that and pretend it happens off screen. Scrap almost feels like it doesn’t really do anything, we’ve already seen that it doesn’t affect that much whether Koujaku turns into a beast or not, that’s up to him. The only thing Scrap does is somehow carve Aoba’s words into his mind so that he never forgets that Aoba will be there for him, whenever he needs to talk, giving him the security he didn’t have before. (Althought this is partial, and you’ll see why. The thing is that, obviously, what Aoba says is important for everyone’s scrap, but they’re very different interactions, and the moment you can choose good or bad ending varies with each character. And with Koujaku it’s literally just words, words that Aoba had already said to him five seconds before that. So these two things, it being something he already says, and something that only solves the problem partially, is why it gives this sensation of that you’re really not doing anything, it’s nothing that only Scrap can solve, I don’t know if I’m making myself clear) It “destroys” the Koujaku who held himself back, who was caged and afraid to face his tattoos. He doesn’t even try to convince him that it was not his fault, because he knows that Koujaku won’t accept that because of the way he is and would probably not be helpful, he’ll never stop blaming himself. It’s an idea so rooted into the depths of his mind that maybe not even Scrap can change that, so instead he changes his speech to something that encourages Koujaku to think about the people around him that care about him, about making up for the lives he forcefully took instead of making everyone around him suffer with his death and live a meaningful life, by Aoba’s side. In Buddhism, in order to help someone it’s believed it’s better to have a flexible mind and change your approach depending on what suits the other person’s needs. Many times Buddha statues take different forms than the classic and original, they’re adapting to the needs of the person they’re guiding.

In Re:connect when Aoba wants to wash Koujaku’s back is when he gets uncomfortable, because he’s hyper-aware of his tattoo. Of course, Aoba is aware too. He doesn’t know how much he should push on his wounds to help him vent and face them because he understands that’s something that ultimately has to come out of Koujaku, he knows that forcing things or insisting would have a rather negative result. He only pushes a little, enough for Koujaku to notice he’s there, but not so much to suffocate him, risking him closing the doors again. He wishes he could erase them by washing them, if he keeps going maybe it would work, but of course that’s just a fantasy.

Aoba mentions that if Koujaku wants to act like those scars aren’t there, he’ll do that too, but his feelings are overwhelming and bloom, and without giving it a second thought he can’t help but impulsively kiss his tattoo and scars, acknowledging them as a part of Koujaku and a sign of his persistence and his strength to stay alive and trying to give them a positive meaning, so that when Koujaku remembers them, he thinks of his kisses and his caresses rather than the pain they’ve brought him. He whispers “I love you”, but he doesn’t seem to be even saying that for Koujaku to hear, maybe a whisper to himself, as if his demonstration of love, told directly over his tattoo, could penetrate his skin, like the ink once did, and erase it.

And for now it seems that all Koujaku wants to do is comfort Aoba when he’s about to cry, but not acknowledge his tattoos and scars himself.

But it’s later in bed when they are relaxed and Koujaku is reflecting that he finally decides to talk about his tattoos and express what he feels, out of his own free will. And how those tattoos represent his guilt, his shame, his greatest vulnerability, it’s extremely difficult and he feels that a part of him doesn’t want Aoba to touch them because it would be like dirtying him, but another part of him, the one that is recovering, does want him to touch them, because it’s part of the process, he wants to be open with Aoba, he wants him to know the truth and he wants to let himself be vulnerable in front of him. He wants to feel the affection he was neglected of, he wants to heal, he wants to change, he wants to hope.

When the haircut happens, and the cherry blossom symbolism accompanies them, such a major change in their life for me that is representative of a much bigger life commitment, tied to marriage. Aoba is practically living with Koujaku, so for me this day also symbolically marks an engagement, or even the marriage itself. It’s funny that they have such a direct confession scene, because a lot of these things happen without really saying anything, but rather showing them. Saying or making gestures that could be literally referring to something different but are constructed in a way that seems like a marriage proposal, or promising to each other.

Btw I love Koujaku’s obsession with his visible neck. Apparently women started to pull the neck of their kimono back in order to experiment with some glue on their hairstyles and it has stayed a thing ever since, especially noticeable with Geisha/Geiko. There’s always a hint of eroticism and beauty to it and of course it’s Koujaku’s brainrot, bet he salivates wanting to bite it.

#dmmd #koujaku #aoba seragaki #dramatical murder #aoba #kouao #koujaku dmmd #essay

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cloversnstrawberries · 1 day ago

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I really loved the platonic RE yandere you posted, would you mind writing a continuation of the Wesker part? xoxo

platonic!yandere!albert wesker & S.T.A.R.S!gn!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist ! [this is a continuation of this post !]

description; Honestly, why were you here? Why you? Why was it, out of everyone on the now defunct S.T.A.R.S team, you who caught his attention like you had? And why is he acting like this is normal?

additional notes; hello!!! i'm so glad you like it so much!! it was my first time doing multi-HCs, and i think it came out really well all things considered :)) i haven't really gotten the hang of HC format fully though, so i ended up doing a oneshot for this </3

but thank you so much for requesting a continuation!! i was more than happy to do it :)) i also tried a new style(?) of description, but i don't know if i'll stick with it or not </3

warnings; Drugging, hospital/medical setting, Wesker's god complex, mention of the other S.T.A.R.S members and their fates, imprisonment, captivity, general terror and confusion, Reader is very suspicious of Wesker's reasonings (he's not helping it at all), possessiveness, soft(ish) Albert Wesker, and if there's anymore i missed, please let me know!! :D my writing seems to leave my mind the moment i put it down...

w/c; 4.1k

How could it end like this? How could you let this happen?

You're trained. Maybe not as much as your other team members-- but you went through school for this, and you could've sworn you were just getting the hang of it all.

But then again, maybe there was nothing you could've done. Even if you were as experienced as everyone else-- hell, if you had more experience than everyone combined, it'd probably turn out the same regardless.

You trusted him-- they trusted him, just for him to lead them all like lambs to the slaughter;

He spared you, though. Why? What the hell is he up to?

That phone call you'd been eavesdropping on-- at the time, you couldn't make heads or tails of it. But now, oh... now you understand it perfectly.

S.T.A.R.S was never what it claimed to be, but out of everyone, only Wesker was aware of that. Not even Marini, because lord knows if he knew what was actually going on, he wouldn't have had any part in it.

Did any of them survive? Wesker made it sound like there was no chance anyone could've made it out alive. Apparently, he hadn't made it out alive--

He claims to have died, but to have come back better; reborn as something truer than what he had been.

God... how did you not see this coming? Again, you were trained! You... you were supposed to be able to spot these kinds of things. Maybe you'd been too blindly trusting, after all, he was your captain.

If you couldn't trust anyone else, you should've been able to trust him. That's how it's supposed to be. Only for him to turn around and stab you all in the back.

Even if he didn't send you out there. Even if you were the one exception, his companion (whatever that entailed), that couldn't mean much. Not to a man like him, who uses people as stepping stones. Who used your co-workers, your friends, as just rungs in a ladder; as he sought to achieve godhood.

He's different, now. He says he'd died-- and you don't quite doubt that fact. Maybe you should, but his... his eyes. His eyes gave you pause, as you tried to discredit his claim of being revived.

They were like a snakes-- no, a dragons, actually. You don't think snakes can have that sort of coloring naturally, the central heterochromatic yellow around his pupils, and the bright, jarring red the rest of his pupils held.

Sometimes, they almost glowed. The way he moved now wasn't human. Nothing about him was-- but not all of that could be attributed to his strange, unexplainable (from your point of view, at least) metamorphosis.

In theory, he was still so human. He had the same face-- his bone structure hadn't changed, god no. The only physical attribute that tangibly changed had been his eyes, and maybe his teeth and nails being a little sharper.

But something about him was monstrous, beyond those traits. Maybe it was the knowledge of what he'd done, or the fear spawned out of uncertainty. Uncertainty of what he has planned for you, that makes him seem so otherworldly beyond the obvious.

Why you? Why, out of everyone, did he spare you? It couldn't have anything to do with your age-- he'd mentioned no sort of exception made for Rebecca, who was only 18. Safe to say, he didn't have any qualms about leading a literal teenager to her untimely death,

And maybe you could argue that it was his higherups-- or whoever that Birkin he was seemingly talking to on the phone-- that forced his hand and made him 'euthanize' S.T.A.R.S.

He talked about them like they were animals, and not people with hopes, dreams-- families. Reasons to live outside of their jobs, reasons they were important.

Like they were lab rats, he'd indirectly referred to them as much during the phone call. So what did that make you?

When you were young, you had a neighbor who owned a snake. You don't remember what kind exactly, but it was a very sweet little thing. You wouldn't think a snake could be cuddly until you met that little sucker-- but in the end, it was still a snake.

It still needed to eat; most of the time, your neighbor would feed it frozen mice. But the snake would get bored, and if it got too bored then it'd refuse to eat until something caught it's fancy;

And in those cases, your neighbor would get live feeder mice. One of them, the runt of the litter-- had tugged on his heartstrings, one that seemed more intent on snuggling into his head more than trying to flee.

He kept it, and named it Sunflower. Sunny for short; and kept that little feeder mouse around as long as it could last-- and it even went past the expected age for a domesticated mouse. Much less a runt feeder.

Is that what you are? A feeder mouse that somehow managed to squeeze your way into whatever was left of Wesker's heart, one that snuggled up so sweetly-- that he couldn't help but to keep you, while he threw the rest of your brethren into the hungry snake’s enclosure.

Dinner and a show, your neighbor had dubbed it to try and make it seem less gruesome. If anything, it made the action worse in your little mind-- to add such an unassuming title to the practice.

You just can't wrap your head around it, how Wesker could give up so many people-- people he knew personally, that he'd actively sought out for their positions,

But that he seemed to draw the line when it came to you. That for some reason, he decided he wanted to keep you.

He visits you often, but not too much. You have no way of telling the time or date, or even an approximate of how long you've been here. You're set up in this strange sort of... half hospital room, half normal bedroom. It sort of looked like your bedroom back home-- your childhood one, but not to the point were you'd assume Wesker broke in and took a look around.

No, it just... looks like a normal bedroom, not necessarily childish, but not necessarily full adult. There was a dresser, a desk, nightstand, and a clothes rack-- an empty one, sure, but it was still there regardless.

That didn't make much sense to you, considering there seems to be a closet right next to the empty rack; but if you've learned one thing, it's hat you have no hope of trying to figure out why Wesker does the things he does.

And then, there was the bed. It was your average, run-of-the-mill hospital bed, complete with the ability to adjust the incline, bars at the side, and places for medical equipment to be threaded through or attached in some manner.

There was a stool next to your bed, and a metal rolling cart that Wesker usually pushed just out of your reach when he wasn't actively in the room. Like he was taunting you-- he probably was, actually. Just another thing to rub your own helplessness in your face.

Honestly, you wish you could explore the room. It wasn't large, but it wasn't small; you'd probably find very little, sure, but it'd still be something.

Instead, you were handcuffed to the metal bar of the hospital bed. As if you were a particularly high-risk patient, and not a completely healthy person that Wesker fucking kidnapped and hooked up to an IV, pumping god-knows-what in your system.

It didn't make you out of it, but you weren't exactly fully aware right now. Not physically, anyways-- you could hardly muster enough energy to turn onto your side, so safe to say that's the intention of whatever fluid is the IV bag hanging by your bedside.

And while it didn't necessarily make you out of it-- you could still think perfectly fine--, it did dull your senses a little bit. Made you more susceptible to being snuck up on,

"Good morning, dear heart." Honestly, it surprised you that you had enough energy to jolt a Wesker's sudden appearance-- you swung your head around so fast that your vision went bleary for a few seconds, before inexplicably clearing up.

"Is it really morning, or is it just another one of your lies?" This had become a routine of yours-- questioning every little thing he said. Everything he does, everything he says, could be (and most likely was) in an attempt to trip you up further.

Wesker has yet to be annoyed by this, and that worries you. It worries how... kind he's appearing to be. Yes, he's still stern, and grabs you a little too roughly when you try to resist whatever medication or food he's trying to give you--

But that's nothing compared to hell he put the rest of S.T.A.R.S through, from what you could piece together from little context clues here and there-- and the tiny tidbits of information he seems to let slip on accident.

He sat on the stool next to your bed, letting out a breathy laugh "Do you really think I'd lie about something soinconsequential?" You deadpanned, and immediately shot back with a monotone "Yes."

Again, he laughed. He always did this-- always had some sort of fondness held in his eyes, a softness to his smile that you didn't think he was capable of, especially now. He's acting as if this just another day, as if this is normal.

Like this is life or death for you, like you aren't in the den of a viper-- acting like a caring, nurturing figure to its prey. You know better, though. You know better than to believe it, that he won't turn around and eat you whole once you've served whatever hidden purpose he has for you.

"Well," He began, as he leaned over and pulled that metal rolling cart by his side. As he busied himself with preparing the blood pressure cuff (god knows why he's so insistent on doing this every visit-- like you were actually sick and in need of his care, and not like he was actively pumping drugs in your system to make you sluggish and lethargic for his own gain), he continued his thought.

"Despite what you seem to think, I don't particularly enjoy lying. Especially not to you, dear heart." You had half a mind to jerk your arm away when he reached out, but you knew from previous experience he just wouldn't care. He'd just grab you regardless-- be a little rougher with it. It didn't accomplish anything, fighting him like this.

...But it was the only conceivable way you could fight back right now, and that infuriates you. You like to think that, if you weren't cuffed to the bed with an IV stuck in your arm, you'd be able to take him down.

As if he took those precautions to protect himself from you, and not to protect you from yourself-- or keep you from trying to make a break for it the first chance you get. He knew you were clever, he'd said as much himself.

Oddly enough, Wesker had this strange habit of always complimenting you; usually, it was in relation to himself-- saying you were smart, but too kind for your own good. That your relation to him blinded you, made you overlook any and all red flags until it was too late to do anything about it.

But sometimes, he'd just... compliment you. No apparent backhandedness about it. Sometimes, he reminded you of a proud dad, welcoming home his kid after they got all A's in school.

It was disturbing, to say the very least.

After a few moments, you finally respond with a curt "Whatever helps you sleep at night.", Because you don't believe him for even a second. You wish you could yell at him, that you could berate him over everything he's done-- but with the drugs making you less articulate than before, and the fact that he could just kill you right then and there-- or at least cause you grievous bodily harm--, you decide against that.

For a moment, you could've sworn you saw genuine emotion cross his face-- but it was gone so fast, that you seriously question if your brain just made it up. That even after all he's done, your brain still tries to grasp at straws that he cares for you. That he cares for you as a person, and not what you can do for him.

...Whatever that might be, which has yet to be seen by anything but Wesker himself.

Wesker took a deep breath, a habit you used to think fondly of; because it meant he was actively putting an effort into not snapping at something, and he was downright terrifying when he got angry-- or even just irritated.

Now, it just makes your body tense. Back straight, muscles wound up-- like a hare ready to bolt. He seems to realize this, but doesn't seem to process what caused it. Instead of moving back, because it was so obviously him that was bringing out this primal sort of fear in you--

He just leaned closer. Thankfully, he didn't reach out to touch you or anything-- but he was still closer.

...Then you realize he was just opening a new bottle of disinfectant-- obviously, you hadn't gone down without a fight, no matter how futile it was. Maybe this was your brain trying to humanize the monster before you-- but if you didn't know any better, you'd say he felt guilty for causing your injuries.

Even if they weren't that serious; he treated them like they were the end of the world, when you knew you've sustained much worse from much less then a god-like being trying to capture you.

Hell, one time you got a concussion from falling off a spinning chair in high-school! (admittedly, that was not your best idea-- but it got the job done! you'd fixed the loose ceiling tile that'd been bugging for three weeks straight!) You'll be fine--!

But for some Godforsaken reason, Wesker seems to think your more fragile than a porcelain doll; and a not trained S.T.A.R.S operative (though, you weren't very experienced, that didn't negate the fact that you had the formal training, and passed all the tests).

For now, you let him play doctor. You tried your best to suppress a hard flinch when he leaned forward, and started tending to the cuts and scrapes littering your face and arms-- for some reason, he thought it'd been a good idea to toss you through a fucking window--

...Albeit, the window had been in the first floor lobby of your mediocre apartment-- and it did very well to slow you down from escaping, but still. Why would he do that? You were lucky to get away with what little injuries you had from the action--

Sometimes, a scary, downright existentsial fear inducing thought crossed you mind. That maybe, just maybe he genuinely hadn't meant to do that. He just didn't know his own strength-- didn't know how easy it was to toss your around like a ragdoll, now that he was... whatever he was now.

You didn't realize how quiet it'd gotten, only the faint whir of the medical equipment and occasional sound of shifting clothes or something being picked up-- until Wesker spoke again, startling you out of your downward spiral of thought.

"Is there anything you'd like?" That was... unexpected. Very out of the blue-- and at first, you thought it had to be some kind of test. Like he was trying to trick you.

Cautiously, you needled him for further explanation with a simple, straight-to-the-point "...What?"

Very well-spoken, you were-- but who could blame you, with whatever cocktail of sedatives and (entirely unnecessary, in your opinion) painkillers working through your system right now?

A faint, almost soft, smile graced his face-- as he, unhelpfully, just repeated what he'd said before. "Is there anything you'd like, dearheart?"

Your brows furrowed, as you searched his face for any clue on what the actual hell he was getting at.

Surprisingly, he let you think it through. Didn't rush you, and didn't seem to be getting impatient. You, however, did not want to push that limit, and ultimately just gave and asked "What do you mean? Like... meds?"

Predictably, Wesker laughed-- unpredictably, at least from your point of view, he leaned forward and fucking-- ruffled your hair?

Seriously, did his supposed death and rebirth cross some wires or what? What was going on??

"No, but I don't fault you for thinking that." You grimaced, his hand staying firmly on your head for a few more seconds, before he pulled back-- and you thanked whatever was out there for finally helping you out here, but that thankfulness was quickly dashed when he grabbed a hold of your hand.

It reminded you of when you caught pneumonia as a child, probably around 5 or 6. Your mom sat by your side the whole time, holding your hand just as Wesker was right now.

You wanted so badly to smack it away and yell at him, demand that he leave you alone and just stop acting like he cared--!

"Anything at all, a favorite food, a book, something to keep you busy,"

You should know better then to interrupt him, but you can't help it. It was a stupid idea, the whole thing-- but you had to try. That's all you can do right now, is try whatever you can--

"I want to be let go." Immediately, there was a very... noticeable shift in the energy of the room. No longer was it a tentative calm,

Now it was so stifling that it felt hard to breathe, as Wesker stared-- you're pretty sure, again, his eyes are covered as always-- you down, making you squirm.

His hold on your hand tightened, and you swore you could feel the bones in it creak and shift under the pressure of it.

Right before you were sure your hand would simply cave-- just give in under the pressure, Wesker loosened his grip.

Just enough where you were not longer worried about the immediate shattering of your bones-- it still wasn't comfortable, physically and emotionally speaking.

"There's nothing out there for you, dearheart." The strange sort of monotone aspect of his voice should've tipped you off, should've had the alarm bells in your head ringing louder than an emergency siren-- screaming at you to don't you dare try to push it! don't be dumb!

Evidently, you weren't paying any attention to that. It was like sleeping soundly through a tornado warning--

But hey, might as well start calling your Dorothy, huh?

"I don't care." Foolishly, you tried to pull your hand from his. Obviously, he didn't budge-- but it was a good sign that he didn't tighten his grip any further.

...Mostly because it would absolutely cause some serious damage if he did, and you're sure he was well aware of that fact.

"I don't want to be here anymore. I had a life outside of S.T.A.R.S, outside of you, and you can't just keep me in this room forever--!"

You don't think you've ever seen him so angry before. It caught you completely off guard, how open the emotion on his face was. How tensely he held himself,

"I wasn't planning on doing so! I'd let you roam once you're better, and I know you won't try anything stupid." There was... so much unbridled rage in his tone, that you felt like your heart might give out right then and there.

He'd never raised his voice at you before.

But you were too far in-- this was your chance, with him so worked up; you might be able to get some real answers out of him now.

"Why are you doing this?!" You sat up, trying in vain to yank your hand from his grip again-- surprisingly, he let you do so. But as you came to realize, it wasn't because of your efforts;

He stood, turning his back to you and headed over to the closet-- that was... unprecedented. You didn't know what was in there, and it only made you panic further.

Grasping at straws now, you tried to poke at his supposed admiration of you-- rushing out a quick "What's so special about me, huh? That you go through-- through all of--"

You didn't fault yourself for stumbling over the words, you were still drugged, and it was impressive as hell that you were able to be this coherent as it was.

That, to give credit where credit is due, got his attention. He was halfway through opening the closet-- and for a second there, when he stopped moving for just a second, you really thought he was going to answer you.

Shame on you, for thinking any part of this hellish experience would work in your favor-- because after that momentary pause, he went along his merry way without another hiccup.

Your heart was going a mile a minute, and you leaned over the side of the bed and strained your neck, trying to get a view inside the closet and--

Huh.

Despite your previous assumption, it wasn't so much a closet for clothes, as it was a... supply closet. Like ones you'd usually find in hallways, filled with cleaning supplies and miscellaneous home goods that didn't have anywhere else to go.

But instead of some strongly lemon scented spray cleaner and a dustpan-- there was some more medical supplies. Name bloodwork things, syringes, vials of god knows what;

And Wesker sure as hell wasn't reaching for the bloodwork stuff.

"Please, just-- just answer me!" Desperate saturated your tone, and you begged for a straight answer-- this was all so confusing. Why? Seriously, why you, why now-- why like this?

You couldn't see what he doing for a while, but when he turned, you realized the syringe was filled with something. While it didn't look particularly suspicious-- just a clear liquid in a run-of-the-mill syringe, you knew that not everything was as it seems.

In a last ditch effort of escaping whatever it was Wesker had planned, you threw the white hospital blanket off your legs and stood; you were cuffed, you knew very well you couldn't do jackshit--

But you weren't thinking very clearly, obviously.

To his credit, Wesker didn't really reprimand you for standing. Usually, he'd get a little 'worried' (thinly veiled annoyance, in your opinion) and get you to lay back down,

This time, he just grabbed you. Didn't try and get you back on the bed-- you struggled, God knows you struggled best you could;

In the end, it all amounted to nothing. Like you knew it would.

And yet, you still tried to fight the inevitable.

You felt a sharp pinch in your upper arm-- you looked down to realize he'd managed to inject you with whatever it was.

It took a few moments to register what had happened, and by then it was already taking effect. You stumbled, and managed to slur out a barely discernable "Wha.. was tha-at..."

"Just a sedative, no need to be worried." You wished you were in any condition to give him a glare that'd send any normal person running for the hills-- not that it'd do much beside amuse him, but it's the thought that counts in this situations--, but alas, you really weren't.

You weren't in any condition to give a coherent response either, or fight as he helped you back on the bed and placed the blanket back over your legs and torso, tucking you in like you would with a small child.

"And to answer your first question," Your mind had slowed down exponentially-- rendering you almost entirely unaware to the world around you,

But something about his words, even if you couldn't make sense or make any connections at the time, cut through that fog just enough where you vaguely processed it.

Wesker leaned down, giving you a little kiss on the forehead-- like a parent wishing their beloved child a good nights sleep, before he finally answered.

"It's because you're mine, dearheart. There's no deeper meaning, I simply wanted you safe and by my side. Like you always should've been."

At that point, you were mere seconds from passing the hell out-- the last thing you really registered was this smug sort of smile, like he knew you wouldn't remember a majority of that exchange come morning (or whenever you woke up).

#yandere albert wesker #yandere x reader #platonic yandere #yandere resident evil #resident evil #platonic yandere x reader #yandere albert wesker x reader #platonic yandere albert wesker #gn!reader #requests open #yandere resident evil x reader #reqs open #my writing

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criticalcrusherbot · 1 day ago

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Here’s the thing I DON’T understand ever since being in the Helluva Boss fandom.

I’ll never be one to claim that Helluva Boss is a masterclass of storytelling, because it’s not. It has its flaws: plot structure is a bit disjointed at times, tonal consistency could be better, sometimes the humor is not well balanced with the emotional moments, and some episodes can suffer from speed rail pacing, “Mastermind” is the first episode that comes to mind.

But also a lot of what this show does well with its characters still makes up for it, and the show has been getting better about ironing out the flaws I mentioned.

The show’s writing isn’t perfect, but it’s far from having the worst writing I’ve ever seen, so…why does is it THIS show that pushes people’s buttons so much?

Why is THIS the show that sparks the creation of hundreds of YouTube videos with over 50k views or more yelling about how much people think it sucks?

🤖💁🏽‍♀️: Your point about the disproportionate criticism of Helluva Boss touches on a significant issue in media reception: the relationship between production context and audience expectations. It’s undeniable that Helluva Boss faces an outsized level of scrutiny, and much of that can be attributed to the fact that it’s an independently produced series created by Vivienne Medrano, a highly visible and accessible online figure. Unlike shows backed by established production companies, Helluva Boss operates without the institutional legitimacy that often insulates mainstream media from this level of hyper-focus.

For comparison, consider Avatar: The Last Airbender and Bojack Horseman, two critically acclaimed shows produced by major companies—Nickelodeon and Netflix, respectively. Both series benefit from larger budgets, industry connections, and an inherent credibility that allows their audiences to extend more generosity toward their flaws. And while these shows are widely celebrated, they are not without their shortcomings. Avatar, for all its masterful world-building and character development, struggles with romantic subplots. The dynamic between Aang and Katara often feels forced and awkward, with Aang’s possessiveness clashing against Katara’s more maternal demeanor. Meanwhile, Zuko and Mai’s relationship lacks chemistry, (💁🏽‍♀️: though Mai’s defiance of Azula? “I love him more than I fear you.” — rad af).

ANYWAY.

Similarly, Bojack Horseman, while lauded for its exploration of mental health and the consequences of fame, is deserving of some of its criticism for its jarring tonal shifts between absurd comedy and bleak drama. Bojack himself frequently escapes meaningful consequences for his actions in ways that challenge narrative cohesion. However, these flaws are typically contextualized as part of the show’s complexity rather than as fundamental failures, largely due to its association with a respected platform like Netflix.

In contrast, Helluva Boss is rarely afforded the same critical nuance. The show’s tonal experimentation (arguably a feature, not a bug) and character-driven storytelling are often dismissed as structural weaknesses rather than creative choices. This disparity can be partly attributed to the persistent “hate boner” directed at Medrano, whose visibility as a creator makes her a convenient target for criticism. The expectation that independent creators should produce flawless content, while mainstream studios are forgiven their imperfections, reveals an inherent bias in media consumption.

Ultimately, no media text is perfect—not Avatar, not Bojack, and certainly not Helluva Boss. But the point of analysis should not be to determine whether a show is “good” or “bad” in absolute terms. Thoughtful critique involves engaging with a text on its own terms, recognizing both its achievements and its limitations without letting external biases dictate its value. The disproportionate vitriol directed at Helluva Boss says more about the audience’s biases and expectations than it does about the show’s quality.

And on a personal note? We enjoy our gay demon furry cartoon 🤷🏽‍♀️🤖💖

#this is a vivziepop neutral blog #vivziepop #Spindlehorse #hellaverse discourse #helluva boss #helluva boss meta #hellaverse #fandom meta

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utdrmv-confession-box · 2 days ago

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Transcript: I don't know why Flowey and Player aren't drawn together often. Flowey was literally made to be like a representation of the player when he discovered he had the power to reset because that's how the power of timetravel twist your whole morality. You can do anything, try every option, try every method, read every book or burn every book, know everything about a person. You do it so much that the world just become a repeating lines of dialogues and numbers. You feel nothing when you make people suffer because you never have to worry about consequences cause you could just load in to your last save or reset. Even though the only difference with Flowey to the Player is that he lacks a soul so he can't feel emotions, he's not any different to us. He can still get angry, annoyed, scared and longed and can still do nice things like when he tucked in Toriel when she passed out.

As an aroace person, I at least understand how Flowey feels. What it feels like to lack the emotion to be romantically or intimately interested in someone. That doesn't make me a heartless monster, I could still have relationships like having friends and family. I could still be kind and respect people. Though I don't have time travel skills to deeply understand how he turned out twisted and apathetic. I could still understand him as a player. We too, the player, mess with our power to reset, save and load just as much as him.

I played many games, especially ones that involves choices, and reset everytime I make a mistake so that I could get to a perfect ending. I skip through every dialogue I have already read so I could quickly catch up to where I was before making the mistake. Done too many times that I no longer feel for the characters anymore, they're just words to me now instead of a person and I don't just wait around so I could get to my goal as soon as possible. Once you've reach the goal and got the achievement, you'll definitely want to try things differently. See everything, do everything, breaking apart the game to find out everything they had to offer. We too grow apathetic, soulless like Flowey, to these characters.

I've seen a lot of parallels and duo fanart to characters who had meet Flowey. Like Flowey and Frisk, Flowey and Chara, Asriel and Chara, Asriel and Frisk, Flowey and Papyrus, Flowey and the rest of the main cast, but never seen fanart with Flowey and Player (more specifically, ambigious Player), the one person who would understand Flowey the most. Frisk would come second to that cause they experienced the resets differently because they were never in control, they were a victim and a vessel but still had an understanding why resets changes you so much as a person.

#utdrmv confession #confession #undertale

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flightnight · 2 days ago

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I need help understanding Sunday.

I feel that there's a rift between how the game expects me to see him and how I actually see him. Would anybody be so kind as to help me clarify these two points?

1. What did he ever say or do that would indicate that he realizes that he ever did something wrong? Bonus points for addressing his core harmful misconception that led him to become a villain to begin with.

2. Which of his actions do you consider admirable?

Explanation of why exactly I have problems with these points below the cut:

1. His whole thing during the Penacony arc was that, in his opinion, people shouldn't be trusted to live their miserable lives by themself; they'll only hurt themself. Everybody (including Robin) is too weak, and he's the only one who's strong. So they should be forever imprisoned in the perfect boring dream their benevolent lord and savior Sunday created for them. From what I understand, he was going to start with Penacony and then imprison the whole universe under his absolute control. Okay, great, typical "morally grey" villain motivation, very well explained, no problem here.

Most of the characters, as well as, hopefully, the player, understand that it's the wrong thing to do. Nice motive, still evil.

My question is: what are the things he said or did since we defeated him that indicate that he's changed? Does he ever admit or imply that he did anything wrong? That human lives are precious no matter how miserable and flawed they are in his opinion? and how valuable freedom is? How strong can people be?

Because so far I only see the opposite: instead of indicating that he was wrong, he doubled down. He literally told us that he's going to do some research and try again.

I don't know, maybe I blinked and missed him getting in a situation where he has to confront his misconceptions.

I had very low expectations. I expected "I might have done something bad, but I might be persuaded to forgive myself," or "it wasn't me, it was my evil past self," or "it was somebody else's fault," or "I might have tried to take over the world, but look, I helped a grandma cross the road, so that's okay now.". All of these would be bad. And we kind of get a tiny bit of all of these, but only as vague vibes.

I saw people saying that he helped Tingyun for free, and it shows that he's changed. Are people implying that he was so morally repugnant that he wouldn't have helped somebody for free before? Even I don't think so. Is basic human decency an achievement for him now?

His problem wasn't that he didn't care about fixing other people's lives. It was exactly the opposite!

That's exactly the kind of thing he shouldn't be doing as a show of how much he changed.

A moment of growth for him would be if he realized that another person is strong enough to solve their problems by themselves, without his involvement.

Let's look at other antagonists turned playable characters.

Bronya's main motivation is to save her people. Her misconception—she has faith in her mother. She faces the fact that her mother isn't the person she came to love and respect.

Topaz's main motivation is to help Jarilo-VI survive. Her misconception—she thinks that being owned by the IPC is the only way for them to survive. She faces the fact that the people of Jarilo-VI are strong enough to survive by themselves.

Sunday's main motivation is to save people from suffering. His misconception—it's only possible if he imprisons them in a dream controlled by him. Does he ever face the realization that he was wrong? I don't care how many Tingyuns he helped, his problem wasn't that he was unwilling to help people. IT WAS KIND OF THE OPPOSITE!!!

And later on, when he kind of helps us, it does nothing to address his core misconception, the thing his whole personality is built around.

He's not a generic bad guy who can redeem himself by becoming a generic good guy! You can't write a complex character and then completely neuter him in his supposed "redemption arc!"

2. What did he do that's worth admiring?

And I think DH's "about Sunday" line indicates how we are supposed to see his return:

"Whether he can achieve his dream or not, being able to let go of everything and start again is already admirable enough."

(btw I'd like to remind you that his dream was to imprison the whole universe. And he wasn't "able" to bravely let go of everything. He was forced to. By being defeated by us. Hello!!!)

What did Sunday even do? Nearly turned Penacony back into a prison again. Got hit by a train. Lost a boss fight (as a boss). Got saved by Robin. Got what he deserved and what he tried to do to others—imprisonment. Threw a hissy fit, got immediately saved by Robin again, and was freed by Jade. Got accidentally split in two. Told Robin to touch the grass. Graciously allowed us to give him a lift.

DH, which of those do you find admirable???? How bravely did he overcome being a villain?

What would we expect a lesser, not so "admirable" person to do in his place? And he hardly even had any agency in most of these events.

Let's look at other characters again. Firefly apologized for lying to us. Topaz and Bronya admitted that they were wrong and backed off. They made a conscious decision to stop what they were doing after realizing they were wrong. They weren't forced to stop by just being defeated in a boss fight and imprisoned. That's admirable. What did Sunday do that's admirable?

And what about Welt's "about Sunday":

"Having an ideal and pursuing it is not rare, but being able to start anew after that ideal is shattered—this kind of willpower will carry him far."

Gramps, the last time we had to hit him with a train several times to stop his willpower from "carrying him far", wdym?

And I'm sure the game's writers are planning to give him more to do later, maybe dragging him through some long overdue character development (I mean, why else are we carrying this piece of cardboard they turned him into with us to Amphoreus?) Because 15 hours of monologue during Pencaony, plus 5 more hours during his triumphant return, clearly wasn't enough. All these new upcoming characters will move over to give Sunday 10 more hours of pretentious monologue.

But on the brighter side, things like this make me appreciate the previous instances of bad writing. At least Firefly apologized. At least Topaz admitted that she was wrong.

And there is one thing that tells me that I'm not the only one having problems with this. It's the fact that in most dialogues there are options to be mean and distrustful of him.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #sunday

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docolives · 3 days ago

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There was nothing wrong with having big dreams, wanting to achieve a lot at the start of the year. Livvy knew that some people frowned upon setting resolutions, felt like if they wanted something done, they should just do it, but she couldn't see anything wrong with having a goal. And sometimes, it was easier to start when a new year came around, when you could leave laziness in the year behind. Hopefully, anyway. "Oh, anything you can want," her eyes widened a lot, thoughts immediately switching from self improvement to indulging, looking over at Aurora with a grin. "My favorite is cheese, ranch and bacon, but you can get almost anything. They have classic poutine, barbecue sauce, buffalo sauce… you name it." And when you lived in a small town where the owner knew all of the locals, that really rang true. Livvy had spent a lot of time at Mack's getting special, custom orders.

Smiling appreciatively as Aurora pulled open the door, she stepped into the warmth from the cold of the sidewalk and began shrugging out of her coat, carrying it to one of the booths in the back, where it was a bit quieter at that time of night, the waitress following after them with menus, asking what they would like to drink. Livvy ordered a sweet tea before turning her attention back to her friend once they were alone again. "I wouldn't have traded it for the world, growing up here. A lot of my friends still live in town, plus my siblings and parents, lots of cousins. It's funny, because I think we all grew up thinking we wanted to leave, go to a big city… and so many of us came home." Maybe there really had been some sort of pull towards home. "Tell me about Kiruna!"

"All of the above," Aurora laughed. She supposed this was a big year for self improvement for her, but she wouldn't say no to the idea of managing her money a little better so that she could improve her home, henceforth becoming a better version of herself. It sounded like the Butterfly Effect, if you will. "I've never had loaded fries, but that sounds delicious and completely worth enduring the cold for." Not that any weather that hit Maine, or anywhere she'd lived in the US for that matter, really registered as 'cold' for Aurora. Being native to Kiruna, Sweden, extensive days of darkness with temperatures in the minus degrees were part of her existence. "What do they load them with?" she asked, keeping pace with Livvy. The high energy of the club still ringing in her ears long after they'd made distance from it.

The two block walk was nice. Even though merely five years ago, she hadn't been that clued up about what each state of U.S held except for the "big" ones, she always woke up grateful to be in Maine; picturesque, scenic, lots going but never really escaping the lazy, slow-living vibes. And Merrock? This was becoming her town day-by-day. She slowed when Livvy did, glancing up at the establishment that was indeed headered 'Mack's'. "I honestly envy people who grew up here," she said as she pulled the oor open, signalling for Livvy to go first. "This town is such a secret, but at the same time has everything. Kiruna was...definitely a lot less versatile than here."

#writing with aurora #aurora 001

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yallthemwitches · 15 hours ago

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Chapter 7: Seventh Year

He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath. Maybe it was unintentional, but his thumb gives a slow caress to her cheek. “I know I’m an idiot—I don’t deserve anything more than what you have already given me for the past six years— hell, I definitely don’t deserve the second chance back in fifth—but I want you to know, need you to really understand that I have been so foolishly in love with you since the moment I met you.”

Ah, the final chapter! Read under the cut or on AO3! 🥺

A single letter arrives the third day into summer: a drawing of a headstone in a billowing thunderstorm. There is no caption, but there is an epigraph:

Here lies James Fleamont Potter: willing killed by Lily Marie Evans

She sends his owl back empty handed.

The summer passes in a single grey blur: she goes to work at the corner pub, comes home, stares at the ceiling. It’s a monotonous hellscape of a life, but it’s still better than being back at school—facing him.

She doesn’t escape though, not totally. In her dreams he returns again and again. Many of them are just memories, though warped and made bizarre by the saturation of the light or blurry fuzz of the images. Others he shifts through the many versions of himself throughout the years as though searching for a frequency—his height, hair length, slope of his neck changing in milliseconds as he walks alongside her on some unknown path in the forest. She knows when the dream is about to end when the antlers begin to grow—slow and cumbersome from the top of his head.

“I’m still waiting.”

When not busy with work, her days are spent mostly convincing herself it was all just a fault in judgement. She didn’t ever actually fancy him, not truly. He had simply tricked her again, lulled her in with his beaming smile and warm, enveloping presence until a third year version of herself took hold. She does her best to wrap everything about him—his laugh, his smile, his smell— all into a little box to be shelved in the back of her brain and for a while, it works.

Never, never does she allow herself to think of the night before holiday, because she knows how easy it would be to relapse if she does— the rejected blankets on the cold stone floor, the soft buzz of weed in her veins, the warmth of his hands as they slide under her skirt, whimpers so soft they could have been the wind…

She keeps it all mostly at bay, until another letter arrives.

Due to your outstanding achievements in academic and social standings, your professors and I are pleased to offer you the prestigious position of Head Girl for the 1977-78 school year. Please find your badge attached and a list of duties required upon arriving in September.

It’s laughable how much she can read between the lines: It’s charity.

She isn’t a fool—Dumbledore might keep them sequestered within the walls of his fortress, but there was a war going on outside and it was finding its way through the cracks. She had to hand it to him—it was smart on his part. Dumbledore might continue to refuse a position in the ministry, but he was no stranger to politics. The end of the letter made that more than apparent:

Fellow Gryffindor, James Potter, will serve as Head Boy alongside you to share in the duties and expectations that come with the position. I highly recommend reaching out over the holidays to prepare for your upcoming posts. I look forward to working with you both in the next coming months.

Best Regards,

Albus Dumbledore

It produces an actual laugh, deep and hateful and cold. Of course he chose a pureblood, a boy with a quidditch pitch, a boy who fits in, a boy who will become something in this world because he is destined for it—and you, the token muggleborn. There was no better optics.

“What’s that?” Petunia scrunches her nose at the badge weighing heavy in her hand. She tosses it across the table, letting it skitter to a halt for her sister to see.

“It’s your dream come true—I’ve been promoted to head freak.”

Turns out one of the many duties of being ‘head freak’ was receiving an onslaught of correspondence that she is neither prepared nor willing to answer.

“ I just heard the news—James Potter??? Head Boy??? (Congrats by the way!)”

“It’s karma babe—Dumbledore is fucking with you, that or the universe is trying to tell you something….”

“EVANS. Everyone has gone nutter. Prongs is MIA—first mentally and now (as of an hour ago) physically. Seeing as you are his keeper now (see: Head Girl) I am not-so-kindly requesting you to FIX IT.”

“Fix it.” If only it were that easy.

“There’s a deer in the garden,” her dad says from the window. Lily looks up, leaving Sirius’ letter to lay open like a cadaver in her lap. Her dad pulls back the curtain further and a rush of sunlight pours in.

“Mighty rack on it too. Can’t say I’ve seen that kind of wildlife around here since the factory went in? Have you?”

It takes a second to register his words.

Rack meaning antlers. Growing, twisting, closing in—no, creating a cage. Protecting. Golden eyes piercing back.

“No, I haven’t.”

She doesn’t respond to anyone—folding up each parchment into one big lump of words. When she attempts to shove them in her pocket, she finds the space already occupied. A note from a lifetime ago.

“ I’ll always pick you!”

She stares into the eyes of flobberworm James on the page, half hoping it will animate and explain itself.

“No, you won’t.”

She goes to work, comes home, stares at the ceiling—but a letter from James never comes.The quaffle was in her court so it shouldn’t feel so much like a rejection, but it does. It twists deep in her stomach.

Nobody could ever love a freak like you.

She turns her eyes away from the ceiling and scans her bedroom. Letters litter the floor, some from the avalanche this morning, others from a past James she isn’t quite sure ever existed.

You’re being stupid. This isn’t about fancying him anymore. Grow up.

With much effort, she drags herself across the room to the table and pulls out a fresh piece of parchment.

Dear James Potter,

She stares at the page and a full minute passes.

How are you?

Congratulations on getting Head Boy.

I don’t know whether I want to strangle you or snog your face off or strangle MYSELF for wanting the latter so badly it hurts.

With a wave of frustration, she throws her pen down and pushes the parchment off the table to mingle with all the rest on the floor. Scrubbing her face, she reaches for a fresh parchment before freezing, her gaze shooting outside the window.

Devil’s Snare winds up her stomach and into her throat to cut off all air supply. She must be dreaming—going fucking nutter—there was no other bloody explanation for it.

James Potter is in the garden.

He doesn’t notice her and she doesn’t wait for him to look up, rushing out her bedroom and down the stairs. When she wrenches open the door the sound startles him, his eyes jumping up wide and bright. His hand instinctively runs through his hair and it hits her how long it’s been since she’s seen the tick. “I got over it,” he had shrugged one of their many days studying last year—back in the short period they called each other friends. “ You said you hated it, so I stopped.”

“Alright Evans?”

His eyes flit over her from head to toe, a small blush forming on his temples. It makes her very aware of the short, muggle dress she had thrown on that morning. A small half-smile threatens on his lips.

“Ah, muggle style wins again.”

The way he says it—low and tight, barely above a whisper—makes every stitch of common sense in her want to unwind.

The backdrop of Cokeworth and the smell of toiled earth does not mesh well with the world she has built around him for seven years. At school, it was easy to be guarded, stone walls giving way to stony dispositions, but here, among the dregs of her mum’s garden?

Her floodgates are open and the water is rising fast.

“How did you get here?”

She can hear how shaky her voice is, cold and hard in the summer warmth. If he notices, he ignores it—stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning his attention elsewhere.

“Lavender by the gate—it’s good luck, you know.” He nods his head over to the creaking metal fence in front of their house. Her mum had said the same thing back when her condition was just a big word on a piece of paper. How dare he know.

“We have a garden too but it’s only for potions ingredients—Dad insists on growing his own, the uptight sod,” James continues, averting his gaze. If she didn’t already know this dance of his, she would find it laughable. Here we go: his specialty. Deflect, joke, talk in circles. How predictable, how infuriatingly—”

“So, I’m sure you saw I was made Head Boy.”

—straight forward?

“I did,” she stutters, taken aback, “but I don’t see how that warrants a house call.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly been answering my letters.”

It hits hard and fast, stinging on impact. She had expected a lot of things from him when they would finally have to meet again, but pain and resentment on his part was not one of them.

“I’d hardly call some silly drawing a letter.”

“You used to.” His eyes narrow, steely and cold.

“Well, this time there was nothing to say, so drop it.”

She wants to sound sure of herself, but it comes out warped and cracked, like the records they used to listen to on the dorm room floor—like the one that played when…when…

No No No No. Don’t go there, never there…

“I think you should leave.”

It’s not the tears blurring her vision that make the words stick in her throat, but the look on his face as she says them. Pale and helpless and deliberately not James. The James she knows is a ball of light, an endless force of energy ringing laughter through the halls—not, some beaten boy standing in the polluted haze of the moon.

He scrubs his face, knocking his glasses askew.

“Please. I just need—”

“No.”

“ Merlin, I’m being serious I—”

“I said no. Goodbye Potter.” She twists on her feet and her heels dig into the soil, breath coming painful and shallow from her windpipe.

“I am going to decline the Head Position—I wanted you to hear it from me.”

It pierces sharp and hot into her heart. She spins back towards him to find him still frozen in place. Suddenly, the urge to run, wrap her arms around him and tell him to stay passes over her like a chill.

“Why.”

“Because I don’t deserve it.”

“Yeah, sure. A pureblood not deserving it .”

She can see the anger rise in his shoulders, his brow knitting into a tight line. Good, show me something Potter.

“What are you talking about? You of all people should know that—”

He stops abruptly, letting out an exasperated sigh. His steeled reserve drops.

“Look—Dumbledore is nutter for giving me this badge and we both know it. I’ve been a bloody nightmare to them for years—they could have picked anyone else, honestly anyone , and they would have made more sense.”

She snorts. “Never took you to be the self deprecating type.”

It awards her a joyless laugh.

“Sure you have—I’m the biggest wanker of them all. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

Anger twists in her veins, propelling her back towards him as though ready to strike. She waits for him to recoil, perhaps search for his wand, but he just watches her return, the ends of his untidy hair catching glints of moonlight and quickening her heart.

It’s not until she’s standing back in front of him that she notices something warm and damp pattering onto the skin of her folded arms. His face immediately softens and she can tell he wants to rush forward and wipe the tears from her cheeks, but he won’t and she won’t let him.

“ Lils,” he pleads, eyes dragging across her tear stained face, “I’m doing this for you.”

“Do not call me that,” she hisses, wiping her cheek impatiently, “You have no right. And don’t give me that, you have no idea what I want. I don’t care if you are bloody Head Boy or dead at the bottom of the lake at this point I—”

He lets out a strangled cry, turning away from her to clench at his hair. When he turns back, he wipes his eyes, a glassy sheen now coating his irises.

“You’re right, Evans,” he says, making no effort to smile. “I don’t know—so enlighten me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

A jolt of electricity runs up her spine, threatening her nervous system to short circuit. How many times over the years had he said those words and when did he actually start meaning them?

All of them—every single bloody time.

It unlatches the box that kept the memories of him at bay and suddenly the images seep through like ink on a canvas. James past and present float through her vision like beautiful, wonderful, infuriating ghosts.

“Be Head Boy or don’t, I don’t care,” her voice breaks, a choking noise bubbling up. “—but stop playing all these games with me because…because I won’t be able to survive it—really Potter. I mean it. I know you are an arrogant prick and probably get your rocks off watching me wallow and make a fool of myself after you like I’m still bloody thirteen, but I’m not some plaything you can just toss around and take the piss whenever you—”

He closes the distance between them so fast, she hardly registers it, both hands cupping her face and demanding her attention.

“So it wasn’t the drugs. You meant to kiss me.”

The heat rises so fast it scorches her cheeks.

“I wish I had never done it.”

“But at the time—you wanted to.”

She wiggles under his hands but he doesn’t let her go, eyes wild and determined.

Vulnerable. She’s far too vulnerable.

“What does it matter?” She gasps, tears falling between his fingers, “Like I said, it's all one big game for you. The lads probably got into your head that it was a good idea to—what did they call it?—’pop your muggleborn cherry’ so you decided to entertain my pathetic little relapse and snog me just to say that—”

“Is that really what you think of me?” He cuts her off, nostrils flaring, “Lily, I don’t know what reality you are in but you’ve got this all wrong. I don’t know how I could have made myself any more clear…”

The memories boil over again—every moment he has ever shown her kindness or, god forbid, attraction being shrouded by some other, sinister inner voice.

“Well, you aren’t being clear!” She screams, finally wrenching his hands off her face. “One day you are giving me foot touches under the table, writing me little letters… and the next you recoil from me in your bloody bed !”

There’s a beat of silence, then James lets out a laugh so unhinged and feral she takes a step back.

“Fucking Hell, you are delusional.”

An insult sits at the top of her tongue but he keeps laughing, all of the tension in his shoulders melting away. He looks completely mad, keeled over with his hair tousled and glasses barely hanging on to his ears.

“Evans,” he pants, trying to catch his breath, “Me recoiling from you? That was out of self preservation.”

His words sink to the bottom of her stomach, setting off the flutter of a thousand little snitches.

“If you had even gotten close—pressed up against me even slightly— I would have made a fool of myself, you’d have felt me make a fool of myself. Merlin, I’m embarrassed just saying it.”

Oh. Oh. A flush streaks across her face and neck, trying her best to not linger on what it implies—

“Do you get it?” He gasps, finally righting himself and raking a hand through his hair, “Please don’t make me elaborate on the fickle anatomy of a teenage boy, Evans. I’m standing on your bloody doorstep…”

It’s not possible. He’s taking the piss…

Like aligning tiny intricate puzzle pieces, one clicks together with another.

“But Elodie…Slughorn's party—” she stammers, her whole inside churning, “I know she asked you—Christ, she asked me if she could…”

He looks as though he has been slapped, eyes wide and body leaning back. When he recovers, he speaks slowly.

“Lily…I went to Slughorn’s party looking for you.”

“Rubbish.”

“Fucking honest,” he stammers, eyes getting more bright by the syllable.

“Elodie did ask me, but I turned her down. I went because you had been so weird about wanting me to go in the library—” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shoulder clenching breath.

“—And yes, maybe I was hopeful that you had been trying to ask me…you know, just in a real bloody confusing kind of way.”

Another click of a piece, but instead of making it easier to decipher, it makes everything turn belly up. Years worth of interactions with him racing past her eyes, now at an angle she hadn’t considered before.

But you’re a muggleborn. A freak. No one could love you. Just a plaything to take the piss out of. The sirens begin in her head and they are deafening, making it hard to even think.

“James,” she murmurs, eyes stinging again, “It's too much. I think you should leave.”

Something flashes across his face and his eyes darken, jaw tightening in indignance.

“Sorry, but no. Not until you get it.”

He walks towards her, slow and somewhat unsure of himself. It’s a jarring visual—James being hesitant. Ever since she has met him, he has thrown himself into everything with such gusto and trust. Now, he steps deliberately, like dodging a thousand trip wires waiting to unlock a trap door.

She should run—rush back inside the house and slam the door, leaving the beautiful curve of his jaw, and the square of his shoulders and the moonlight in his hair out in the street. But by the time she is ready to dart, his hand reaches back up to her cheek, rooting her to the spot.

“I want to propose something to you but I need you to give me the floor again.” His words echo from fifth year, ringing as steady and warm as they did back in the forest.

“I want you to stop over thinking things—get out of that brilliant, freaky, fucking fantastic brain of yours and listen to me— and really listen because I don’t think I will be able to say it again—so will you humor me? Please?”

Another stab from the past. Just like in his dorm, he’s not asking, he’s begging. She doesn’t know what to say, feeling the heat of his hand and sharp stare of his eyes lulling her away like in a trance. Eventually, she feels herself nod.

He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath. Maybe it was unintentional, but his thumb gives a slow caress to her cheek.

“I know I’m an idiot—I don’t deserve anything more than what you have already given me for the past six years— hell, I definitely don’t deserve the second chance back in fifth—but I want you to know, need you to really understand that I have been so foolishly in love with you since the moment I met you.”

There is no air. No sound. They are hovering untethered in a void.

“I didn’t really understand what the feeling was until probably fifth year—and even then I did an utter shite job showing you—but, again, I need you to know that there isn’t a day that passes where you aren’t on my mind, where just the thought of your hair or the color of your eyes or the way you hold a bloody quill doesn’t make me want to implode with a happiness that I certainly, certainly have no right to feel.”

It’s a sadness she has never seen on him before. One that cuts to the bone.

“If you still hate me and want nothing to do with me after this, I swear I will never bother you again, but I just really needed you to know—and it’s not a joke, not me trying to take the piss or play games with you like you constantly seem to think. I am obsessed with you and honestly at this point I wish you would just be cruel about it and go on and tell me to fuck off—”

She lurches forward on her toes, slotting his mouth against hers before he can continue to spiral any further. His lips move soft and warm just as she remembers and a small gasp of Lils drifts into the air. Unlike the time in the dorm, his hands move slow like drifting through water, down her neck and back, savoring each centimeter they drop until they wind around her waist to pull her in deeper. Only after the fact, maybe days or months later will she realize that all the noise and voices that usually plagued her brain have vanished. The silence is so delectable.

When they finally come up for air, it makes her laugh—a real, raw one that tilts her head back and cuts through the night. Eventually she realizes he had started to laugh too, pressing his forehead against hers and kissing the lingering vibration away.

“Merlin, your laugh,” he groans into the crook of her neck, pressing an impossibly large smile into her skin. “I’m addicted to it—how did it take you this long to understand I’m hopeless for you. Seriously, just take me out of my misery…”

It makes her laugh again, but this time he catches it, his lips sweeter than anything she could ever imagine.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

* * * * *

Of all her seven years of Hogwarts, she has never noticed how intimidating the double doors to the Great Hall are. Have they always been this big? This…terrifying?

“Evans— you’re doing it again. Let me in.”

She feels the press of warm and familiar lips into her cheek, lingering by her ear just to make her skin prickle like he knows it will. Arse.

“It’s going to be fine—dare I say, even brilliant.”

She snorts and he rewards her with another kiss to the neck—something she’s grown very fond of in their final stolen weeks of summer.

“Says the boy who is so chuffed about showing off he could die.”

James flashes her a smile, beaming from ear to ear. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he cradles her to his chest, leaning his chin in the crook of her neck.

“Give jabs all you want, Evans. I am chuffed—but hopefully I don’t die anytime soon because I have big plans for us…namely some that involve that comfy looking couch back in the Heads’ office…”

Heat rises to her cheeks and his smile grows wider than humanly possible.

“ Stop,” she groans, reaching up to tug at his hair, “We are seconds away from shepherding loads of first years to their common rooms…becoming role models… .You can’t be bringing up things like…like…”

“Hm, like what?” He wiggles his fingers against her stomach, making her squirm against him.

“Nevermind—you’re impossible,” she sighs, resigning herself. He continues to feather kisses up her neck, finding her pressure point and nuzzling his nose. She can’t even pretend she doesn’t like it.

“James?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me again how this year is going to go.”

He hums against her skin, then pulls up—eyes wide and shining and full of an adoration no one has ever shown her in her life.

“Well–” he tsks, holding her with both arms around the stomach and swaying her playfully.

“Upon walking through these doors I will swoop you into a romantic kiss and the whole school will cheer.”

“Alright, territorial. ”

“Then,” He continues ignoring her, “We will become the best Head Boy and Girl this school has ever seen: catch wannabe death eater pricks...dole out detentions...make use of our ability to stay out after curfew to snog….”

“Funny, that last one wasn’t on the duties sheet.”

He gives a small growl and she reaches up to give his chin a shake, kissing the bicep that wraps around her.

“Oh, it was definitely on there—and anyways, don’t hate me for trying to make up for lost time.”

She spins around, burrowing her hands into his hair and his response to it is blinding—her bright star that will never go out.

“Let's get through the welcome feast first,” she says, peppering his cheek with kisses. His arms tighten around her, a hum of satisfaction escaping his lips.

“Whatever you want, Evans.”

When they turn to enter, James’ face is still beaming and she wonders if he has broken the record for happiness. He reaches out and takes her hand, and she knows her eyes must be bright and brimming with a word that has hung on her lips all summer-love.

As the door opens she waits for an outpouring of thoughts, the chanting of mudblood…the gasp of her kind ever being associated with his…the sound of her sister’s voice or Severus’ or even just her own telling her that she will never never be good enough.

But she is enough. He thinks she’s enough. And with a squeeze of his hand, it all goes silent.

#jily #james potter #lily evans #jily fanfiction #seventh year #the finale!!!!#I can't believe its done #my writing #method acting

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crescenthistory · 21 hours ago

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PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FIREFIGHTER AU WITH MARLS 🙏🙏🙏🙏

I HEAR YOU AND I SECOND ☝️🤞 i'm taking this opportunity to utilise a genuine real thing that happened with my wife and i recently to fulfill the fantasy of firefighter!marlene – you're welcome and please don't judge me.

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

i will ARGUE for prompt 59 "firefighter au" with marlene mckinnon

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

cw: fem!reader, use of y/n, roommate!mary that has adhd, implied anxiety, flustered!reader, background marylily, embarrassed reader, marlene flirting on the job

wc: 2k

For a few hours there, you were ready to write this down as the worst day of your life.

Sharing a flat with your best friend was beyond a dream, and most days Mary was the most wonderful roommate you could ask for. She is one of the best cooks you know and she happily trades you cleaning up the common areas for making you dinner most nights. Her girlfriend, Lily, is a wonderful presence in the flat and the three of you have already established a tradition of wine night every Sunday. It was great.

There was mostly one problem – landlords in London were not known for being reasonable, and for the first while of living here, you were only given one set of keys. He had insisted that because "you girls are such close friends" you could get around with only one.

You knew he was just too lazy to have a copy made, but you weren't legally allowed to get it copied yourself without his permission. Thus far, it had been an endless back and forth over mail, and until you resolved it with him, you, Mary and occasionally Lily had to get by with this one key.

Which worked well until this wonderful Thursday afternoon where Mary walked downstairs to open the main entrance door for you because she had the keys – and promptly forgot the keys inside.

While in the middle of cooking dinner.

First floor flat with the window cracked open, just too high for you to climb into, and the keys locked inside with the dinner on the stove.

In other words, you were fucked.

“I've never had to call the fire department before.” Your voice was strained with anxiety as you walked back and forth before your front door, biting your nail beds until they bled.

Mary sat on the pavement with her head in her hands. She was more embarrassed than she would like to admit – more so about her ADHD making her forgetful than about the fact that she sat in her "I HEART MILFS" pyjama t-shirt in public. The first part you thought was no problem, but the second one was making you a little red faced as people walked by.

“Believe it or not, neither have I,” Mary replied defeatedly. “Can't be that bad, can it? Oi, stop that.”

She had noticed your biting. You merely switched hands before continuing. “What even is the protocol? What do you say, what–”

Your potential tirade was cut off by the sound of sirens. Your shoulders hiked up like you were preparing to be sent into the fire yourself, ready to face off against this 40-something-year-old man with a gruff personality you imagined stepping off the truck.

Around the corner came the large fire truck, and already opening the passenger door and hanging half-out was – the most beautiful girl you had seen.

Suddenly you understood why people fancy uniforms. She was of average height and around your age. Her blonde hair was all messed up in a way most hairdressers could only dream of achieving purposefully, with baby pink streaks near the bottom around her shoulders. You could see her white top and suspenders through her zipped down uniform jacket. A huge grin warmed her face as she set her eyes on you, jumping down from the truck while it was still slowing down and smoothly striding up to you.

You became acutely aware that you almost had your thumb in your mouth and promptly dropped it, staring at her.

“Evening, ma’am. You called?” The firefighter asked as she came up to you, teeth showing as she smiled.

It took you a minute to register that you were the ma’am in question. “Yes! I did- uh, we did.” You stumbled over your words, pointing over at Mary who was getting up from the curb with an entertained expression.

The goddess herself lifted an eyebrow as she looked at you, crossing her arms over her chest. You couldn’t see much through the uniform, but you could see from the way she carried it and herself that she was strong.

“And?” She asked, words coated with a small laugh.

You could kick yourself.

“Sorry, sorry,” you laughed nervously, looking past your firefighter to where her colleagues were clambering out of the truck – four are too many to send for this, right? “Sorry, I’m just a bit stressed. Uh, my name is Y/N, over there is my roommate Mary. We live in flat 101 up there and unfortunately managed to get locked out while cooking dinner. Could we use your ladder to climb up through the opened window or something? We don’t want to be a bother.”

Her gaze never left you, a certain mirth dancing in her striking blue eyes. “Right, lovely to meet you, darling. Name’s Marlene, over there we have my crew James, Sirius and Remus. We’ll get this right sorted for you, you're no bother.”

She turned ever so slightly to wave and shout something to the boys by the truck as they started stretching out the ladder to reach the window. Meanwhile you looked at Mary with an expression you hoped read “HELP”. The absolute menace of a girl that she was had the audacity to laugh at you, pulling her phone up to type furiously, presumably updating Lily on the situation.

You were startled out of feeling sorry for yourself as Marlene came back up to you. “What is it you’re cooking up there?”

You turned to Mary, glad to be able to defer the question as your face became increasingly warmer beneath her gaze.

“I was just starting on some biryani,” she supplied, a bit abashed herself.

“Good taste.” Marlene grinned between you. “Biryani’s a bit tough to burn, so we’ve probably not got an emergency on our hands. Either way, I’ll be quick.”

To your half-delight half-horror, Marlene zipped her uniform jacket the rest of the way down and began taking it off. You made a guffawing sound that caught her attention and made her look up at you through her lashes as she shimmied out of it. “Everything alright, princess?”

"I– you really don't have to climb up, Marlene, we can do it. It's our mess." You hoped she saw past your flustering to see your genuine concern.

Marlene just laughed heartily. "It's my job to climb up and down that ladder, I think it's fine. Can't risk injuring a pretty girl like you."

Before you could respond, one of her colleagues whose names you had already forgotten, came up beside her and slapped a hand on her shoulder. “Marls, don’t kill the poor girl before we get her back in her flat.” He flashed you an equally dashing smile. “I’m James. Just say the word if you need protection from this one.” He jutted his thumb in Marlene’s direction, and she promptly hung her uniform jacket on it.

You're not sure what emboldened you, but past all your blushed stuttering you managed to say, "Thanks James, but I don't think I want protection on that front."

Marlene’s smile turned genuine as she turned back to you and started walking backwards to the ladder that the others had now positioned just below your window. “Good to know.” She winked at you before starting her ascent on the ladder.

“Where’s your kitchen, darling?” Marlene called while halfway up. Her biceps were flexing beneath her tight white top, on full display while her uniform trousers hung low on her hips. You had to shake your head to not be distracted.

“Just to the right when you go through the window,” you called back. You swore you heard a mumbled “thanks princess”.

You did hear some snickering behind you and turned over your shoulder to see Mary whispering with the tallest of the firefighters, one with tawny hair and some mean scars across his nose. They were looking at you and covering their mouths slightly, entertainment written all over their features.

“Making friends, Mary?” you asked, raising an accusatory brow.

“Just following in your footsteps, princess,” she replied, earning a laugh from the other firefighter before he schooled his face beneath your gaze.

You swear you could have kicked Mary if it wasn’t for these literal officers around you.

“I’m in!” Marlene called out jovially as she climbed in through your window and disappeared out of sight. Your attention was immediately drawn to her again.

“Would you mind going up to your flat door, sweetheart?” James asked as he began pulling the ladder down with the last firefighter's help, the one with dark long curls. “For when Marls opens it?”

Upon the request, your legs moved on their own accord up your one flight of stairs, seemingly drawn to where Marlene was. When you made it to your flat door, your first moment alone, you held your face in your hands and schooled your breathing. Too many things to be embarrassed over happened back to back and you were about to be put through even more.

Before you were quite able to gather yourself, your front door opened with a flourish. With one hand still on the handle and the other dangling your keys, Marlene stood before you, grinning. “Fancy meeting you here, princess.”

“Thank you,” you breathed out, beyond relieved to finally see the inside of your flat. You took the keys she held out to you. "Really Marlene, thank you so much, you're an actual lifesaver."

Her expression softened slightly, lips falling into a more genuine smile, though her air of bravado remained. You were beginning to wonder if that was just how Marlene was.

“Does this happen to you girls often?” She asked with a raised brow, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned on your doorframe. You tried and failed not to look at the flex of her muscles.

“No, this was a first for us both. Long day, apparently.” You scratched the back of your neck, trying to laugh it off. Marlene’s eyes followed the movement.

“Don’t be embarrassed, darling, it can happen to the best of us,” she said then, reassuring hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “If it ever is to happen again, call us up on 999 like you did today, yeah?” Then, she took a step closer and handed you one of your own post-it-notes with an unfamiliar handwriting across it. “But if you ever want a more personalised course in fire safety, then this number is much more effective.”

You took the note from her with trembling fingers and when you looked up at her, you couldn’t help the wide smile that took over your face. Her energy was contagious.

“I sure will.” Your voice was barely a whisper, slightly in awe.

"Great way to start my night then," she said with a wink before swinging past you with an elegance no one should be able to possess in those clunky trousers. "See you around, princess."

As Marlene disappeared from sight and you heard the loud friendly laughter downstairs from her and her friends, you entered your flat. She had turned off the stove and put the pan aside, nothing burned past the point of saving.

With a sigh, you dropped down on your kitchen table, glancing out through the still-opened window. There, Marlene was already looking up at you while hanging out of the firetruck, much like she had been earlier. She waved wildly at you, blowing you a kiss.

You though then that maybe, just maybe, this didn't wind up being the worst day of your life after all.

Though you would be getting endless shit for it from Mary and Lily for the foreseeable future.

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class1akids · 1 day ago

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I have an unpopular opinion: I know Shoto not using his fire really held him back for a long while, but honestly atp I think that it’s not as big as a character flaw as others think.

Can you imagine being Shoto and being abused since you were five and it being severe enough to make you vomit with no breaks to play, being separated from the rest of your family and watching your older siblings play from a window, witness your mother get slapped around by your father and eventually having a breakdown that leaves you with a massive facial scar and her gone from your life for a decade, peers at your school seeing you as Endeavor’s son and project how they view him onto you (Inasa for example), and having everything controlled to even your diet?

How much dehumanization do you think Shoto went through just from his father? Who could he have turned to outside the family without them just throwing him back towards his abusive home? Barely anyone seemed to care when Endeavor’s crimes got exposed when he wanted to but didn’t take responsibility. What would have happened if Shoto (or anyone in the family) tried to get outside help with Endeavor still trying to beat Shoto into his “masterpiece”?

I think that him repressing his quirk was probably the only way he could have gotten any control back into his life. Was it unhealthy and bad for him in the long run for his goals? Yes. However, it was probably one the few mental lifelines he had at the time, and that and his love for All Might was probably the only things that kept him going.

Maybe with how the story ended and how spin off material seems to prefer Endeavor over Shoto, I feel more sympathetic for Earlyroki. Lashing out at others wasn’t great, but Shoto continued to have such a heavy burden throughout the story with very little reward in comparison, especially with a good chunk of other characters being used to either tease or praise Endeavor. He didn’t get any comfort from his family and he didn’t even get to cry about not being able to save his brother even when he tried his damnest to keep him alive. His family he tried to connect to became permanently broken, and although I’m glad he was about to love and appreciate his class, I think a lot of adults failed him- especially when no one stood next to him besides his father who caused Touya to become a villain and Hawks who we know where his loyalties lie.

It’s a miracle he didn’t end up a villain, and he was close to toeing that line if it weren’t from Midoriya and his mother’s words that stopped him, made him rethink, and work to become who he wants to be.

I think Shouto repressing his fire and pushing his ice to its absolute limits first actually did serve his endgame. It was part of the narrative about "taking the long way around".

After the Sport Festival, the story focused a lot on Shouto's fire development, and made it clear that by not developing his fire, he was on the back foot. But when he finally mastered flashfire, and Dabi came into the picture, it also became clear that fire was a dead-end. Fighting Touya with fire would just kill them both.

So the story did justify early Shouto in a way, who pushed his ice to its limits early. Because a Shouto who didn't resist his father and would have gone along with what Endeavor wanted, would have used ice only as a complement to fire.

But Shouto, after going the full circle comes back to his own way, comes back to ice and uses fire to be able to surpass his own output limits.

So I felt that Shouto's ultimate move did his teenage rebellion justice. The achievements of those angry, Earlyroki version of himself was absolutely needed to build his endgame move.

#c1a asks #todoroki shouto

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disobey-disappoint-deviate · 1 day ago

Text

Cutting this and putting it under a read-more again because it's 1km long and I don't wanna make anyone's dash unreadable. It's a reply to both previous posts, see the post I reblogged it from to read them.

Cuz Kamski gave him an order that is in favor of his mission of hunting androids but Connor directly refused going on, caused mostly by emotional conflicts (at least based on his reaction if u don't shoot). There ain't no superficial reason for Connor to really refuse this order cuz everything seems positive and that's all he should care as a tool, even if Kamski is clearly fucking with Connor by making challenges to prove his own points about androids conflicts with humans being inevitable: and that's about androids putting 'em own "wishes" and "wants" above what they were set or ordered to do: disobedience.

But that would make Connor a deviant when he refuses to shoot Chloe. Disobedience is the very definition you use for deviancy, and he displays it when he visits Kamsi - before Jericho. Sure, Kamski isn't his owner, but Kamski's order to shoot Chloe and ask whatever he wants to know overlaps entirely with Cyberlife's order to find out as much as possible. There is no reason for Connor not to shoot Chloe and ask where Jericho is. Unless he prioritises his emotions of empathy and guilt above his mission.

Kamski doesn't seem aware Connor can directly disobey humans like that OR he's fucking with him due to Connor showing empathy to Chloe and being visibly wary of the word deviancy or the thought of being wrong about things (cuz it challenges what he was brainwashed to think and fails the purpose he was made to feel proud of), but he's at least aware Connor can use weapons (something common androids can't).

This is a matter of interpretation - is Kamski not aware of Connor's limits or has Connor simply deviated enough to be able to refuse to do stuff that helps him achieve his mission?

But one thing is a fact: they use Connor's emotional against him multiple times. And ofc Kamski's backdoor and Connor's will fucks with CyberLife's plan if we deviate.

I definitely agree. I just think that them using his emotions against him makes more sense if we saw him as a deviant. They wouldn't need to manipulate him at all otherwise, they would just order him to do things and lay back and expect that he will do their bidding because that's what machines do in the end.

Let's say Connor's whole mission only exists to test whether or not RK900 would be capable of following orders under any circumstances. We can assume they wanna send that model to war with Russia because they wanna monopolise the minerals and therefore - thirium and basically become the only manufacturer able to create androids that way.

What RK900 would do on the battlefield would likely be must worse than anything Connor can do as a machine, meaning much more emotional and ethical conflict. We are talking war, with hunders of thousands dead androids and humans, only for the sake of maxing out profit.

Why wouldn't Cyberlife be interested to find out if they could control a deviant through manipulation and fear mongering alone? If Connor stays a machine while slaughtering his own people - perfect. But if he deviates and they can still manipulate him into doing their bidding - why wouldn't that be something they would be interested in finding out? Why wouldn't they try to soothe his conflict the moment he's threatening to ackowledge his own deviancy by telling him "it's normal to feel conflicted, it doesn't make you a deviant, now do as you are told and don't worry too much because we've already solved your conflict for you by telling you you aren't a deviant"?

They are gonna send 200K RK900s to the battlefield, it's inevitable that some of them will deviate no matter how resilient they make them. Strategically, it would be more interesting to CL if they could make them do whatever they say regardless of deviancy status. Of course, they got a failsafe - they can hijack the RKs if nothing else helps, but that's also where the autonomy of these androids would end, making them as useful as the other non-RK androids they use for the army.

And again, like i said, if Connor was a deviant in denial the whole time… then all androids are deviants in denial or didn't know they were deviants.

Not necessarily. If an android has no conflict when obeying orders even if the orders are harmful, unethical, or humiliating, then they are not a deviant. The Chloe Connor may or may not shoot - not a deviant. She doesn't display even 1% of distress as she awaits her death. Her SI is 0, if that's even a thing with her model. And same as Connor if you only pick his red options - he gives no damn about anything but his mission, he doesn't question, he doesn't feel, he doesn't fear, he only functions. He is definitely not a deviant in denial.

Deviancy is a B&W thing, either you're a deviant or u ain't a deviant. You're outside the norm or you're inside the norm. The way there, tho…

That's the point - some people see deviancy as the way to freedom, not as the end result. Because the moment an android starts making decisions that clash with their programming, that's already them deviating from their code - they depart from what they are made to do, which is to obey their owner no questions asked. That final act of breaking the wall is might be the first conscious act to do something against their owner, but it doesn't mean that the android wasn't silently deviating all along, because if they don't have a free will at the point where they get to that final act and to the wall, then they wouldn't be able to make the decision to do so at all. Just like red path Connor can't.

We can also take Markus as an example again. Is he truly only a deviant after he breaks the red wall, or does thinking "This is no fair, I must decide for myself" make him one already? I'd go with the second. This is also what Shaolin describes:

Connor: When did you start feeling emotion? Deviant: Before, he used to beat me and I never said anything… But one day I realized it wasn’t fair! I felt... ...anger… Hatred… And then I knew what I had to do.

Now, was Shaolin a deviant the moment he realised it wasn't fair or did he only become one after he became active and killed Carlos? I'd personally go with the first, even tho a realisation doesn't mean disobedience.

So maybe, deviancy isn't the act of breaking the red wall, but the internal processes that make an android capable of breaking the red wall. The word "deviancy" itself suggests this, too.

This doesn't contradict the deviant theory, tho. He can be a deviant and afraid to die and follow orders, just like I pointed out above. Humans are the same, we can have free will and still do fucked up stuff if brainwashed enough. If anything, this would make more sense if he was a deviant, because CL wouldn't NEED manipulation and fear mongering tactics with a machine who only does what it's programmed to do and has no free will and agency. If anything, this argument just makes him seem more deviant. Why would he be afraid to die otherwise? He definitely isn't if you play him as a machine from the start, which already means that, depending on choices, he's deviating more and more from how he's supposed to be and act the longer you play him this way.

His story is not being in denial, it's about him having conflicts and doubts about his motives, learning to have consideration for others, and whether he chooses a legacy worth living for or follows a self destructive path.

He is shown as being in denial though - he only admits that he is conflicted and believes he might be compromissed during "Last Chance". And why would a machine have conflicts? Again, him having conflicts is dependent on choices and not his factory setting, meaning he has deviated from his original programming.

In a way his suicide ending is a character development for Connor, as he is dying on his own terms and facing the very thing he feared the most to protect the other deviants and ensure CyberLife can't hurt anyone else.

I agree, I consider it one of the best endings in the game from a narrative standpoint.

A lot of people keep saying it should have been Hank to convince Connor, but I think Markus actually makes more sense considering the lore behind them both.

Again, I agree.

I've been saying this for a while now. People don't take into account that Connor isn't just following orders because of a program, he does it because his very life depends on it and if he isn't successful he will cease to exist, Connor is afraid to die and thus follows said orders out of self preservation. His story is not being in denial, it's about him having conflicts and doubts about his motives, learning to have consideration for others, and whether he chooses a legacy worth living for or follows a self destructive path. In a way his suicide ending is a character development for Connor, as he is dying on his own terms and facing the very thing he feared the most to protect the other deviants and ensure CyberLife can't hurt anyone else. Should he and Markus both survive if he's deviant, it is likely that he lives at Jericho currently with intent to begin anew and help Markus keep the revolution afloat. And it also makes sense that Markus is the one who tries to convince Connor to reconsider his motives as he himself was the same before he became deviant, he too was skeptical about deviancy and wasn't totally convinced that he could do anything outside of his program, so speaks to Connor from experience, and they share some similarities in traits, whilst also the only living RK models we see onscreen. A lot of people keep saying it should have been Hank to convince Connor, but I think Markus actually makes more sense considering the lore behind them both. These guys don't really analyze these characters properly and thus base their arguments on superficial aspects.

#long post

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