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diejager · 1 year ago

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Hi hi I love your monster fics you don't have to write anything about this I'm just a little curious on how you think the boys are react to their human reader getting turned into a monster and then reacting to the painful process and you can choose whichever monster and whichever way I'm just a little curious

Pairing: Monster!Task Force 141 x reader

Ce: mentioned torture, blood drinking, biting, vampire!reader, forceful transformation, canon-typical violence, imprisonment, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.7k

Let’s imagine you were contacted by Laswell before the MW2 campaign, freshly given the rank of corporal and still as dumbfounded that Price had asked for you. You had the time to connect with the other men - monsters - and get to know them, to see farther than the image they portrayed to others: broad, gruff and dangerous beasts of the 141.

Graves caught you and Alejandro, locking you in different isolation cells that were made to hold hybrids. You were bitten pale in the darkness of your isolation, your cries and whimpers of being sucked nearly dry reached the other men who were equally unfortunate. Alejandro seethed, growling and turning in his cell, he swore curses and threats at Graves and his gang of servants. He turned you the same night, weakened and dying, ichor dripping from your wounds. He used your moment of submission, of weakness to feed you his essence, a part of his being in his blood. He cradled you as he drank the last of your life force from your veins, making room for his own to fill the emptiness in you, to remake you into his own. Your body was wracked with jerks, limbs shaking and twitching, and you convulsed in a cry of pain, every fibre of your essence remaking itself into the thing he created: a thrall.

Alejandro, the one who bared witness to your change and suffering in his cell, felt guilty for not being strong enough to escape, it weighed heavily on his mind that he had been the first to get captured and in turn, hadn’t been able to protect you. He’s the first to rush to your cell once he’s freed, if you jump on him in hunger or remained seated against the corner of your cell, restraining yourself from jumping Alejandro, he’d let you drink from him anyway. Partly a token of apology from him, for failing you and himself, and another part because he wanted to be the one to curb your hunger and rage from your transformation. It would be an honour to help you ease into the life of a monster, even though he seethed with wrath and dripped with threats. He’s a shifter, his bones crack and bend every time he shifts, so he understands the pain of changing, he - and Soap, he guessed - could relate and ease the first pains. With his shifting came enhanced strength and agility, easier to withstand your onslaught of attacks when you trained with him. He doesn’t use his claws or teeth on you (unless you’re playing bite with him like you do with Soap, he wouldn’t mind leaving a mark or two on you.), but will take your charpentes nails and practiced blood manipulation that you trained with Ghost. He doesn’t know how dangerous or potent his blood is to vampires and thralls, if his blood enhanced your abilities, made you weaker or sent you in a frenzied state that made you high and dazed, so he let’s you feed on him occasionally.

Rudy - Rudolfo - was the seconds behind Alejandro, he bared witness to you cradled in his colonel’s arms. Shock and confusion were his first reactions, followed by devastation and guilt. Devastated that you’d been forced into the life of a monster, the world-shattering change happening under stress, anxiety, pain and betrayal. Guilt that he hadn’t been there when you were taken, vanishing in the dark before all of this happened, he couldn’t have done anything to stop Graves from turning you. Although he wasn’t one for violence - unnecessary violence that would cause the death of a person in the most painful and violent ways - he felt anger pulse under his skin, threatening to burst from his bulging (in anger like in animes cuz it’s funny to imagine that) veins. Rudy would be there to help you through the transition, being the one who’s closest to being a human, he could pave the way to control yourself. He would let you fed from him, his mostly human constitution would be nourishing and safe for you than the rest of the men on the Task Force. He might dangle this opportunity over their heads, brag about how he’s the lucky one in all of them when you aren’t looking. If he could - and if you’re comfortable enough - he’d take every feeding in public, smiling smugly in the frowning faces of the rest while you fed.

Ghost, all he could see was red the moment you were taken from him. He had to watch you convulse and cry, the little human from his Task Force - under his protection in las Alma’s - tumbling over the edge and flinch every time he tried to touch you. He knew the possibility that Graves would turn you - he’d made it apparent in his jokes when you first joined them - but that didn’t help the waning fear and anger that churned in his soul. He couldn’t do much to soothe you when you whimpered painfully, all he could do was to hold you as you clung to him, whining at how much your body burned and hurt, as if every fibre of your being was being ripped apart and put back in the wrong places. He knew the danger of having Graves’ thrall in his team, but he couldn’t let you waste on your own. Once he made sure Graves was dead (he’s as destructive as he is suicidal, Ghost would’ve bathed Graves under enhanced UV lights that would burn the vampire but he wouldn’t let Graves die. Stuck in a constant loop of burning and healing, having his blood rendered useless and weak to him. If only Soap hadn’t blown him up in a tank, Ghost would’ve had so much fun torturing Graves for the things he did to you.), he would help you control your powers, master them and use it against others; never again would he let you be captured. Wraiths were deadly creatures, hybrids even more so, so he wouldn’t let you drink from him, not until Laswell had some tests ran on his blood’s constitution for your safety.

Soap, in all his life, never felt more angry with himself and Graves. At himself for not reaching you in time, and at Graves for his transgressions. He sympathized with your transformation, the pain and anguish he felt from you. He held you tightly in a comforting embrace on the ride back to Alejandro’s safehouse, whispering sweet words to your trembling figure. The moment he had his hands on Graves, he made sure he died burning in his tank, sending it sky-high in a grandiose explosion. Every thrall would feel the death of their master, including you. So when you cried about feeling empty, he held you, telling you: “Dinnae worry ‘bout it, m’eudail.” while caressing you. Soap’s a cuddler, he’d cuddle you while you slept on his bed for comfort, letting you bite a him if he bites back. He’s mouthy too, he’d make the best of every situation he or people he cared got into. Now werewolf blood, some find it revolting - mostly pig-headed pure blood vampires like Graves and the like - and others drink it as often as human blood, but you feed from him when he bares his neck to you, smile cocky and posture relaxed. He also likes to show the others - both Rudy and him - their marks, two small puncture wounds on their neck and shoulders. Soap loves close-combat training and will fight you, let you run free with your vampiric strength that would break and kill humans. He’d laugh and chuckle when you try to chase after him and tackle him, it’d be like two kids playing rough.

Gaz felt guilty about not being in Las Almas to help you, only seeing you after you were rescued and trying to adjust to your new skills, and like the rest, he’s angry, feeling the agony oozing from your every pores. He regretted not following you that night to Mexico and now, leaving you locked in a cell where Graves’ influence wouldn’t reach you while they went to retake Alejandro’s base. Although he hated not being the one to end Graves, he was grateful that Soap went wild with explosive, truly the demolition expert of the Task Force. Everything he knew was from the four men’s retelling of the events prior and after your rescue, there was little he could help but work through comforting you with his calming and gentle tongue. He’d make use of his wings to wrap you in a soft and warm cocoon when his talons were too much of a risk to place on you. He knew you liked his fuzzy wings, so why not use them for your comfort. He could fight you, but his constitution meant that he had hallow, but sturdy bones, a thrall’s strength would hurt but not break them like Price, Alejandro or Soap. Gaz’s a bit sensitive, he knew that but still wanted you to be able to depend on him when you were hungry, he might whine here and there, but he liked the thought of having a bit of him inside you.

Price took it the hardest, it was his Task Force, his responsibility to take care of his pack - his dragon’s hoard - and you were the most vulnerable one and the baby of the team, so you held more weight in his heart. He was disappointed in himself for not seeing the trickery from Shepherd, the red flag of finding America ballistic missiles on the mission and not connecting it to the General or the USA. He blamed himself for your change and your temporary imprisonment while they went to kill the one who did it to you, who brought you so much suffering. Anger filed his quest and protectiveness made it successful, taking down your torturer so that you could live influence-free of Graves. Price, like a father-figure, protected and cared for his family and he failed. He could trust Gaz, Soap and Rudy to comfort you, to ground you to earth. He could trust Ghost and Alejandro to teach you, to help you protect yourself. And he, all he could bring himself to do without feeling shame, was to urge you to rest. Little acts that would give you more time to rest and less duties, he had experience and restraint, he would help where the others lacked. He’d refrain from letting you drink draconic blood, the power and potency of it would overcharge you for a time. Perhaps he’d let you take from him before an especially difficult and dangerous mission, but outside that, he’s known for his self-restraint.

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cherryredstars · 4 months ago

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Hi cherry!!! I just saw that you finished jjk s2, so I was wondering if you might write something for nanami? Ik you haven't written for him before but I would love a smut scene please 🤭

Imagine stamina training with Kento!! (gn!reader)

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Makeshift Leash, Penetrative Sex, Indirect Mentions of Choking, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation

Your whole body feels on fire.

The back of your thighs burn and your arms tremble when you try to lift your upper body. Your hole is sore and aching from Kento's rough thrusts, your sensitive bits twitchy and throbbing from his mean pinches and rubbing. Your nipples are permanently hard from the friction of the bed sheets as your body jolts higher up the bed. A constant pressure rests again your throat as the cheetah print fabric circles your neck, sporadically yanked as it wraps around Kento's large fist.

You have no choice but to follow the rough tugs, your head thrown back as he preforms another 'breathing exercise'. You let out a strangled moan as Kento counts each second close to your ear, your mind becoming hazy from the lack of oxygen and the painful spikes of pleasure from his cock feeding into you. He release you with a groan, letting your head fall back to the sheets as he loosens his grip around the tie.

"Good. Take a break."

You pant heavily, body shaking with each of your inhales. Your body trembles under him, disgusting trails of sweat running down your body as you try to endure his training. You let out a weak sound as you feel the bubbling of release in your stomach, and Kento tsks behind you.

"Hold it," He demands, cruelly snaking his fingers to the front of your body to tease the sensitive place between your thighs.

You cry out a protest, quickly cut off as he tugs on the leash again. You can feel tears streaming down your face, blurring your vision. Kento's body press down into yours, and you whimper weakly as you try to withstand his weight.

"You will listen to what I say and hold it." He hisses into your ear, teeth gritting as you pulse around him.

You nod as best as you can with the tie pressing into your throat, hands balling into the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself. Your body is on the verge of giving out completely, your bones are starting to feel like TV static. You aren't sure how much longer you can hold out, and Kento can tell by your mix-matched breathing. Still, he lets you sit in your misery for a few more minutes before giving you mercy.

"Come."

You do instantly, letting out a loud cry as your body collapses. Your body spasms as you release, your body growing hot as Kento reaches his own peak inside of you. You sob horribly into the bed, overstimulation working itself into your muscles as your body prepares to shut down. Sleep is at the forefront of your mind as Kento massages your back and aching thighs, heavy sighs of relief melting from your lips.

It's short lived when you're tugged back again, choking on your next breath in surprise. The pressure is worse with the limited amount of energy you can spare to hold yourself up, your body trying to fight its way back down despite Kento holding you up.

"Good, again."

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apas-95 · 4 months ago

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The cyberisation surgery takes months of desensitisation and sensory-deprivation training to prepare for, if not years for full-body prosthesis. Calibration and acceptance of new perception is as important as withstanding the transition process itself. Like all brain surgeries, cyberisation is performed while the patient is conscious. The period between total severance of the original neural connections and the establishment of the cyberbrain is the most critical. Psychological damage at this time can result in catastrophic integration failure. I thought my training had prepared me for it. When it happened, though, there was something new. Without the noise, without even the most slight sensory input, I could pick up on what had always been in the background, something that was drowned out even in the total silence of the deprivation tank. I felt everything. The entire world. I felt the operating theater around me, felt myself being lifted carefully away from my old body as it was carted to storage. I felt the emergency generator in the basement and the six thousand kilometers of rock beneath that, and the solar wind flowing out in every direction. They call it cyberisation psychosis; or hypothesise it's retroactive memory, the brain trying to write over an empty segment. But I know what it felt like. It felt like dying.

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gonzo-rella · 6 months ago

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Together in the Shadows | Eloise Bridgerton

MASTERLIST | AO3 | KO-FI

NOTE: I prefer to write the reader as gender neutral, but as Bridgerton is set in a very gendered time, that poses a challenge. The reader in this is implied to be, societally, a woman; they are alone with Eloise without worrying about scandal, so this implies that the reader is perceived as a woman. However, I've deliberately been as vague as possible about the reader character to make them as close to gender neutral as possible and haven't explicitly referred to them as being a woman so that some nonbinary and trans folks like myself can feel comfortable reading this fic.

Relationship(s): Eloise Bridgerton x fem-coded/possibly gn!reader (romantic)

Summary: Your sister's last-minute ball is disastrous, but at least it allows you to spend some time alone with Eloise.

Warnings: Nothing beyond kissing. (Let me know if I need to add any)

Word count: 0.8k

(A/N: I'm so in love with Eloise Bridgerton. I want to be in a secret situationship with her, so here's my attempt at exploring that. Also, I haven't actually written a lot of fics that include kissing, so I'm glad I got some practise in writing something I normally don't write. A lot of my original projects are romcoms (including a Regency-inspired duology and a zombie apocalypse story) so it'd help me out a great deal if you let me know what you think of how I did writing the romance in this!)

“Is it not a bit chilly to be out here, Miss Bridgerton?” A grin tugged at Eloise’s lips. She stopped dead in her tracks and peered over her shoulder, not quite looking at you. For a moment, she listened to your footsteps as you paced towards her, though the rustling of grass under your shoes was barely audible over the piercing noise of the string quartet that carried itself through the windows and doors. She scrunched up her nose at the unfortunate sound.

“Perhaps. But, I am afraid I may spiral into a state of madness should I stand in that room for a second longer. I can, however, withstand this cold and my mama’s scolding of me for my absence.”

You wore a mocking frown as you finally reached her side. You were both illuminated by the golden light that shone through the windows and the pale glow of the moon. She turned her head to look at you. For a moment, you forgot to breathe. She was naturally beautiful, but seeing her in this lighting… she looked ethereal. It took you a moment to compose yourself enough to form coherent thought and speech. You weren’t sure that she had noticed the momentary falter.

“In my dear sister’s defence, she poured her whole soul into planning this spectacular event this afternoon.”

Eloise snorted.

“It certainly is a spectacle. I shudder to think what Lady Whistledown will write about it.”

You chuckled and linked arms with her. Briefly averting your gaze, you looked through the window at the attendees who were pretending to enjoy themselves or whispering to each other, presumably uttering some cruel things about this awful ball. Meanwhile, Eloise’s eyes flickered down to where the pair of you made contact, then back up to your face. The skin of your arm brushed against hers, and the gentle friction generated a light tingling sensation that flooded her whole body. She almost couldn’t keep herself upright, and she tightened her grip on your arm to steady herself. Despite the cold night air, her cheeks burned. With her free hand, she reached up to feel the warming flesh of her face. Heat seeped through the fabric of her gloves to her fingertips. The second you returned your attention to her, she quickly lowered her arm, embarrassed.

“However scathing it may be, I assure you that my sister will be delighted to have even been acknowledged,” you said. You paused before continuing. “Given how dreadful everything is in there, I shouldn’t think our absence will be noticed. Would you like to wander the grounds so we do not freeze to death?”

A breathy laugh escaped her lips.

“Of course. Might we wander far enough that we can escape that cacophony? Somewhere that will afford us some… privacy, perhaps?”

You grinned back at her.

“Certainly, Miss Bridgerton. I know the perfect place for us to enjoy one another’s company.”

Stealing a final glance behind you, you led her to a secluded part of the vast garden, where you would both be hidden by grand hedges. You let go of her arm and turned to face her.

“Is this to your liking?”

A smirk tugged at her lips.

“Anywhere that you are is to my liking.”

“That is so very sweet, I can almost forgive how nauseatingly trite it is.”

She rested her hand on her chest in mock-offence.

“Oh, how you wound me.”

Of course, she can’t have been that wounded, given her grin.

“Would you feel better if I offered you a kiss?”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“And, that is not trite?”

You shrugged innocently, unable to suppress a smile.

“I could not think of a more creative way to ask if I could kiss you. I know how you value originality.”

Without hesitation, Eloise placed her hands on your cheeks, and brought your face close to hers. Her breath fanned your skin. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched her gaze flicker to your lips.

“Being direct would have done,” she muttered. “After all, I have been waiting all night for this.”

“Then, why wait a second longer?”

Eloise let out a low chuckle, then closed the gap between you entirely. The kiss was gentle at first, but within seconds her hunger for you became clear. One hand moved to the back of your head to bring you in closer. The other remained planted firmly on the side of your face, her gloved thumb grazing your cheekbone. The motion was so light that you gasped quietly into the kiss, to Eloise’s delight. Her lips moved against yours with fervour, as though she was determined to take in and savour as much of your taste as possible. You rested your palms on her shoulders, and as your hand drifted up her neck you could feel her racing pulse. Then, your fingers became entangled in her hair. You tugged on it softly, and a quiet hum escaped her lips.

Reluctantly, she pulled away, but she only managed to get her face an inch away from yours. She laughed quietly, while you couldn’t help but grin.

“Was that to your liking, Miss Bridgerton?”

“You are always to my liking.”

#eloise bridgerton #eloise bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #x reader #x gn!reader #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral!reader

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thefiery-phoenix · 7 months ago

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Yo I'm actually obsessed with your writing😭 I'm going crazy send help. Anyways can you please do a yandere Dg with like a broken reader? I just love the thought of him pampering us🥹 Thank you and feel free the decline 🫶

Hello and thank you for liking my work, I really appreciate it :) And sure

RIGHT WHERE YOU BELONG(YANDERE DG X BROKEN READER)

You didn't know when your life went all wrong and took the wrong tangential turn, you were supposed to get good grades, make your parents proud, make a good name for yourself in society and follow your passion and dream of becoming a writer someday. Yet there were days when you felt like you were a burden to people, not withstanding the fact that even your own parents kept yelling that at you whenever you didn't get good grades and didn't live up to their expectation of being the perfect golden child for them. No matter how many accomplishments you had, you felt empty inside. You feel like you've forgotten how to live the essence of life itself, you forgot how to feel happiness since a long time. You felt like there was an empty void in your heart and you just...stopped feeling one day and became completely indifferent to everything around you

You thought you'd die alone and there were times when you felt like you were better off gone when a certain pink haired idol ended up kidnapping you and made you live with him. You regretted the day you met DG at the PTJ company and you mentally cursed yourself for falling for his tricks and manipulations that led you here in the first place. When you woke up on his bed confused and bewildered of what happened, he kept rambling something about how much he was going to love you and how he'd take care of you from now on and you laughed at him when he said those words. "Don't bother...please... I don't deserve it...'' you said as he frowned. "Now why would you say that?" he asked you, as his eyes narrowed but spoke in a gentle tone. He had to know what exactly made you feel like this, why were you so...indifferent and what made you develop a sense of apathy towards your surroundings

He wasn't considered a 'genius' for nothing. He could tell you were bothered by something, you were silent most of the time but your eyes spoke tales of sadness, which frankly hurt him. It hurt him to see your beautiful lotus like eyes carry the burden of sadness. "When are you going to kill me?" you asked him one day during dinner as the two of you were at the dining table. "What?" he asked you slowly as his voice was laced with concern and his heart pounded at your words. Why on earth would you say something like that? Your words sent a chill down his spine, he despised and hated the thought of being away from you for even a second and here you were asking him to kill you?

"Why would you say that? Tell me...talk to me'' he said as he set down his chopsticks and held your hands in his and rubbed gentle comforting circles on the back of your hand. You opened your mouth but no words came out, as usual. It was like they were stuck at the back of your throat as you tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat but your trembling lips and eyes conveyed another story. "Because I'm useless....'' you mumbled as you looked at the table and avoided his gaze. DG looked at you with his soul piercing gaze but his eyes softened and he could tell your life before you met him was harsh. You didn't hear his move as he pulled you to the couch with him and he wrapped his arms around your waist. "You're NOT useless. You hear me? I adore everything about you. I'll tell you this as many number of times as I have to, I love you'' he said as he caressed your cheek lovingly

"But why me? I'm no one...I'm...I'm nothing special'' you mumbled as he gently placed a finger on your lips and shushed you. "Shhh....sweetheart. No more self doubt. It pains me to see you so critical of yourself. I adore your beautiful mesmerizing eyes, every time I look into them, I feel like I get lost in them. I love your lips, they're so soft like the petals of a rose..'' he trailed off as he gently placed a kiss on your lips which made you squirm and you looked at him with a vulnerable expression for the first time. Deep down, he was glad he was getting closer to breaking down your walls of self doubt and self hatred. "Your mind is the one playing tricks on you sweetheart, just listen to me and only me...nothing else matters. No one else matters. I love you...and I'll never leave you. As for why I chose you, it's simple really. You managed to enter my heart and when I want something, I take it. As simple as that'' he said with a soft amused chuckle

The both of you just sat there for a while on the couch together as the dim lights and the jazz music playing in the background made you feel slightly at ease. Your bubbling self hatred didn't exactly disappear but it decreased slightly at his words. "Come on my love, it's time for you to sleep'' he said as he carried you bridal style to your room and held you close as you drifted off to sleep. You might have entered the land of your dreams but he was still wide awake, thinking about the words you've said and how your words sent a cold chill down his spine. The thought of losing you made him...enraged in such a way that not even words or numbers could do justice for

He slowly got down from the bed and caressed your cheek lovingly before he headed out into the living room and started doing his research of what exactly led you to such a state in the first place. He found out about how your parents always demanded you be the perfect golden child for them, how everyone always expected you to help them and yet when you needed help the most there was no one for you to depend on, how you always shouldered your own burdens and how people around you looked down on you just because you had the passion and dream of becoming a writer, calling your passion 'useless' because they were too narrow minded. He could feel red hot anger coursing through his veins as he thought of the number of times you could have cried to yourself alone, with no one to help you as his heart stung from the mere thought of imagining your cries for help getting ignored by the vast sea of people who just used you for their own personal gains

You were burned out. You needed a break. You needed someone to tell you that they were proud of you for once and that was just what he was going to do for you. He immediately developed a strong sense of hatred against those who ridiculed you so much to bring you to such a state, judging you for every single little thing. Who the HELL were they to judge HIS sweetheart like this? His mind flashed back to the number of times you looked at yourself in the mirror, your eyes filled with insecurities. He was going to get rid of every single insecurity of yourself you've ever had. He was going to spoil you with his love and you were just going to have to accept it. He thought of paying a little visit to those hypocritical pests later at some point in the future, to make them pay for every single time they made you cry or feel bad about yourself. It's not like such scumbags would be missed in society anyway so don't feel too bad when they land on the news the next day showing that they were brutally tortured before they were killed

He was going to make sure to spend more time with you, you really needed someone to keep an eye on you since he had the paranoia of you doing something drastic at some point which he couldn't allow to happen. He mentally reminded himself to get rid of the knives and switch off the gas in the kitchen so you wouldn't be able to hurt yourself. He'd encourage your passion for writing, you could have all the books you heart could ever desire and he'd love to read every word you've written. His intention was to never shoot down your dreams but for him to create a future for the two of you together. He was used to superficial people being with him only for the sake of his status or influence but he admired the way you were genuine at whatever you said and did. You could deny it all you wanted but despite your broken personality, he could see you had a heart of gold. A beautiful gentle heart and a soft soul that plenty of scumbags took advantage of that just made him mad to the core

DG sighed as he placed his file containing information regarding you back in his drawer and locked it, something you didn't need to find out just yet as he made his way back towards you and got on the bed as he held you in his arms and stroked your hair and placed a gentle and soft kiss on your cheek before he drifted off to sleep, you being by his side, right where you belonged...

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violenteconomics · 26 days ago

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Your first year oneshots are so big-brained I love reading them all :)) What would the first year gang do if they found out Yuu had found a way home but because of timing issues, they didn't get to say goodbye? (Other brainrot idea which could be with this idea or seperate, Yuu Hometown event where the First Year gang get to visit Yuu's world for a couple of days 👀)

anything 4 u, baby.

the idea of what the first-years will do after yuu goes home is already sad, but you dare bring up the possibility that yuu won't get to say goodbye??? how could you /affectionate

like, i sort of imagine this to be a "seven years later" scenario, where all of the first-years have drifted apart without yuu's grounding presence. they were the ones who brought them all together, after all, and now they're just... gone. (inspired, i admit, by this AMAZING first-years fanfic right here!)

the freshmen have all done their best to move on with their lives — ace has joined riddle's popular legal firm as his suave and smooth-talking legal partner; epel is at harveston, working on an potion that's going to revolutionize farming forever; jack is a rising star in the world of winter sports; deuce is working hard as a respected member of the royal guard; ortho has founded a popular video game studio that specializes in rpgs; and sebek has begun a humble little life as the owner of bookstore, too burned by the best friendship of his life ending in such an abrupt manner to even think about returning to how life used to be.

but the stories of their once legendary friendship continues to spread through the halls of night raven college, even though it's been a while since they've graduated. nobody really knows their names, but they do know them.

the intelligent heart. the good-natured spade. the honorable wolf. the persevering apple. the optimistic flame. the loyal knight. and of course, the underestimated companion.

they've become legends, almost like the the great seven of old, for their ability to withstand so much, yet come out stronger all the same.

(until they day they just... disappeared from public view altogether.)

and so, everyone notices when history starts to repeat itself.

at this point, jack has taken a mentee under his tail — a young teen named magne beihof (twisted from sven from "frozen (2013)"). one day, magne comes running up to him, excitedly holding an invitation to night raven college. jack congratulates him, but secretly, he can't help the feeling of dread crawling up his back... and he's not even sure why. maybe because sven's too nice for nrc, but he's strong enough that jack's not too worried about that. he takes him out for carrot soup to celebrate, but the trepidation never goes way.

it comes to him when magne leaves for school, and starts writing to him about how weird his orientation was... about a random girl who just showed up, claiming to be from another world... about a nice person he met from ignihyde... until magne's eventually going on and on about how nice his new friends are and how much fun they're having and how stressed his housewarden has been lately...

and jack panics.

he furiously starts looking up the mailing addresses of the others and writing to them. he doesn't if they'll answer or even read it, but he just has to tell someone before the worst can occur.

to his surprise, they all end up responding, agreeing to meet with him at his house to discuss it further. turns out, this pattern of history repeating itself goes even further than just story beats. ace and ortho's interns, one of deuce's junior knights, one of epel's baby cousins, and the kid who comes by sebek's bookstore every saturday are all freshmen at night raven college... and all of them are part of sven's little friend group.

on a whim, jack writes yuu a letter, too, that simply says:

Yuu,

I'm worried.

Jack

he obviously doesn't expect a response, so he leaves the letter on the top of his bookshelf, expecting it to just collect dust. so imagine his surprise when it goes missing, and suddenly there's a letter on his bed, with a stamp on it from a place he doesn't recognize.

he reads it, and it says:

Jack,

I can't find my little sister.

Is she with you?

Yuu.

and jack's world comes crashing down.

///

(or, to make this less ominous, maybe the new freshmen plot never happens, and jack just decides to write letters to yuu who somehow recieves them. this eventually spirals into the freshmen making a large package and stuffing themselves inside to test a theory, only for yuu to open the lid and find their long-lost friends inside.

cue a fluffy reunion, and a nice yuu hometown event :3)

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst first years #sebek zigvolt #jack howl #ortho shroud #ace trappola #deuce spade #epel felmier #twst yuu #anything 4 u baby

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rosaliin-blog · 3 months ago

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JUST IMAGINE hurt/comfort ends silly

Imagine kenji holding your hips, his face on your chest crying and whimpering and you put your head on top of his, it's such a tender moment!!!

Kenji: *sniffles sniffles* "I'm trying my best Y/N, what am I doing wrong!"

he sobs quietly into you...just feeling frustrated about everything.

Y/N: You stroke his dark raven hair to ease his sobs "Everything will be okay Kenji....just try to breathe"

Kenji: He trys to breathe but it comes out choked "What if I can't find my mom....whar if I arrive too late to....save..her!"

He holds you even tighter but gently so he doesn't hurt you......Kenji just feels so exhausted from trying to get a lead on his mom since that call he got from her a month ago.

Tonight he finally broke down in tears

Y/N: You slightly tilt your head downwards to kiss his forehead then slowly lift up his head with one hand to kiss his cheeks, his nose and his eyes.

"Kenji...won't you look at me"

you smile tenderly at Kenji despite his face looking all puffy and tear stained.

"don't be so negative there's still hope, and you will be there at the right time just focus on doing the best you can!"

You finally give Kenji a kiss on the lips and that seems to do the trick, snapping him out of his spiral of self doubt.

Kenji: He buries his face even more into your chest and looks up at you smiling with eyes filled with so much love...wonder...almost as if he were looking at the moon itself.

"I love you Y/N....I don't know where I would be without you...I love you!"

His mood seemed to lighten up and now he's laughing and kissing Y/N softly everywhere, in the same spots you kissed him.

Y/N: You laughed along with him and returned his kisses "AAAAA why you keep attacking me with kisses Kenji!!-"

He stops the kisses

Y/N: "why did you stop?"

Kenji: "You didn't say it back"

Y/N: "Say what back?"

Kenji then gets all grumpy and refuses to reply so you shower him with kisses and he still doesn't reply

Y/N: " Oh so now you all grumpy...fine...I'll just have to tickle it out of you!!!"

You try around his lower back, his neck,mostly areas you can reach until you touch his jaw and he starts to tremble trying to keep his composure together.

Y/N: "I'VE GOT YOU NOW KENJI NOW SPILL THE SECRETS!!!!"

Kenji cannot withstand your powerful tickle attacks and laughs yelling out "FInE...I'LL confess my sins!!!"

He brings his lips close to your ear and whispers

Kenji: "You didn't say I love you back~"

(Kenji's voice is deadly ya'll 😩)

You roll your eyes at how grumpy he got before, so now you copy him and whisper in his ear.

"I love you too Kenji!~"

You both went back to sleep still cuddling each other till sunrise and eventually getting your legs so tangled with his it took you 11 minutes to untangle mostly, because Kenji didn't want to and wanted to stay in bed all day with you.

Ok I hope you all liked it...um this is my first time ever writing something like this lol

If you got any opinions or something I could improve on you can just comment down below!

Also hi everyone I'm back from my internet break!!!

#kenji sato #ultraman #ultraman netflix #kenji x reader #Kenji needs comfort and love #Kenji loves youuu #Y/N's kisses are magical

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illumalux · 7 months ago

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Life Series Victors as Tarot Cards

A presentation on why we’ve got it all wrong when it comes to grouping life series victors.

This post will continue on with the implication that ZombieCleo is a Victor, simply because she is. She won real life, therefore she's a victor. Argue with the wall.

Now, I see your celestial trio of the first three winners. This should never change. This feels the most apt, it centers perfectly, and each of the things it represents are present in multiple different categories. Obviously in space, as everyone has adapted to, but also in a Minecraft world, and what I see as more important: in a tarot deck.

Think about it this way.

The Watchers, in whatever form you think they (or we) take, are collecting these Victors. Each one means a different thing, survived a different landscape. While I understand the celestial motif of the first three Victors, and how it fits into their characters, I would argue that many others are far too grounded for that.

It’s a collection, remember? What is better for assembling a set than a deck of cards? Especially ones that meddle in Fate, something the Watchers seem to adore.

So here are the cards each Victor represents, with card meaning and my defense as well. This will go in chronological order of the seasons.

Before I continue, I just want to give a disclaimer. Every tarot deck has a slightly different explanation for what each card means. The definitions I use are a mix of three of my decks and the official Rider-Waite-Smith deck's explanation, so if there are inconsistencies with what your deck says or what you know, please don't come for me.

Grian, Third Life:

XIX. The Sun

Beyond the obvious desert motifs (a whole extra post in and of itself), the Sun is representative of not only Grian's gameplay, but also how the Watchers (those collecting this deck) feel about him. Grian is one of them, so he naturally starts out in their good graces, with a greater level of respect.

Rider-Waite-Smith defines the card as one of success. Of course the Watchers will gloat when their baby wins. Even if he wasn't meant to, it did inevitably mean that throughout his game, Grian was inarguably one of the largest sources of negative emotions, second only to the Red Army. Again. Extra post on its own. When he won, it saved anyone the satisfaction that might negate their negativity, alongside the delicious outpouring of grief that was the final duel of Third Life.

Reversed, the Sun is a card of depression. As I just touched on, one of the most defining moments of Grian's game was his final victory. When the ending came down to himself or his greatest ally, he went about it in the way that caused probably the most pain to both parties involved. It pushed him to the very brink, ending in him defining his own ending just moments after winning.

Scott, Last Life:

XVII. The Star

Even ignoring the starborne origins and headcanons, as well as the crown of stars included in his skin (Void below, these posts write themselves) this one looks like a super simple explanation, but actually requires me pointing out something that may not be obvious to some Watchers: Scott, in every game and Iteration has made it a point to rebel against the rules in whatever way he can. I could go into full detail, but thats a lot of words and I don't need anyoen to get bored. (Void, this series and side tangents that require other posts)

In third life, a game about death and destruction, and the originator of factions, Scott took a very different route: he got married and built a house in a flower field. When grief finally found him, he refused to give the Watchers any satisfaction, literally crystalizing his grief into a part of his character design (and one that would remain for two to three more seasons, depending on your thoughts on the coral pieces). In Last Life, he is the singular person in all five seasons (technically two, but shhh this is more dramatic) to withstand the Boogeyman curse, something the Watchers installed purposefully to make people kill allies. Double Life, obviously, as Scott rejecting the soulmate the Watchers gave him. Limited life, in which kills gave more time, Scott did not die a single time without giving life freely, either to an ally or a temporary ally.

That got long. Anyways. Scott's game has always been one of hope, spreading positivity and refusing to be pushed around by the Watchers. And that's exactly what the Star means. Upright, this is a card about hope and perseverence, pushing through challenges, which is exactly what Scott does. He refuses to let the Watchers' actions upset him and continues to play the game for his friends and for the future and nothing else.

Even reversed it still fits. Reversed, the Star means loss or abandonment. I've already used up too much time on Scott here, so I'll let you pick your favorite instance of that.

Pearl, Double Life:

XVIII. The Moon

This one is far and away the easiest. Like the previous two Victors, Pearl's story connected her with her symbol even before she won. But blood moons and wolf packs aside (as that's a whole different post for a whole different day) when you take a look at the definitions provided, it becomes even clearer.

The Moon is a card of transformation and change, as well as revealing one's inner self. Rider-Waite-Smith attributes hidden enemies, darkness, and terror with The Moon. While I'll happily analyze every single one of Pearl's actions as the Scarlet Pearl, I think this one is plenty self explanatory. After her rejection early on in the game, she immediately isolates herself and latches onto the night motifs, leaning in to what everyone expects her to be.

The reversed meanings also explain Pearl's arc in Double Life perfectly: confusion, mixed messages, and disbelief. This perfectly encapsulates Pearl's feelings at the very beginning of the game via her rejection by Scott and subsequent abandonment by Martyn in an attempt to get back into Cleo's good graces. Her instinctual reaction is one of shock, not understanding why Scott would choose to pick a soulmate when she was right in front of him.

Martyn, Limited Life:

XVI. The Tower

One of my favorite cards, the Tower is instantly recognizable. While most of my analyses aren't about how the card looks, I feel like it's important to share this time around. The most common image consists of a tower and one or both of two elements: lightning, and people falling. As a card, it represents sudden change, destruction, and chaos.

If anyone here is not yet convinced that I'm correct, please go rewatch Martyn's last LimLife episode, then come back and argue.

You're back? Great. We agree? No? Fine, I'll explain.

This fixates mainly on his winning game, but I'll touch on the rest of his games as well. LimLife ended with a huge betrayal on Martyn's part, one characterized by being so insanely sudden. (Of course it's the Watchers meddling. But the Tower isn't always about your own choices being your downfall.) He quite literally snapped as if hit by lightning (see description of the card), and this spells the beginning of the end for him.

Similarly, in all of his other games, Martyn finds himself with one pivotal moment that spells his downfall. The Red King, Betrayal at the Southlands (and honestly his worst move in DL was abandoning Pearl to try and beg for Cleo's forgiveness).

Funny enough, the reversed meaning of this card is almost a perfect match. I don't think this needs too much more explaining.

Scar, Secret Life:

X. The Wheel of Fortune

I adore Scar in these games. Every single season seems absolutely plagued by chaos. The worst season, obviously, was the one in which he gained his crown. Poor guy was just trying to make friends, and it seemed like every new secret was the exact opposite of what he wanted.

The Wheel is just what it sounds like: it's the card of luck, destiny, and fate. I won't add a new paragraph for the reversed meaning here either, as it means the exact same thing as upright, but with negative connotations in the form of bad luck and misfortune.

Scar is plagued by the whims of luck left and right. It seems like, more than any other player, Scar is unable (whether by others, fate, Watchers, what have you) to take full control of his own story and take actions that he wants to take, instead limited to where the current takes him.

But in the end, that chaos is what gives him his win. The lack of alliances and freedom that the game forced on him was what eventually lead him to be unmoored and able to volley his pain wherever he wanted, leading to a mostly painless win.

Cleo, Real Life:

XIII. Death

A little on the nose, I know, but which of these choices aren't? For a series entirely based on improv, there are a stupid amount of coincidences present.

Now, I know this is far and away the shortest series, so I'm going to analyse Cleo as a player across all of her seasons, not just her winning game. Sorry Real Life. You should have been longer.

While the meaning of the Death card may seem obvious, it's twofold in actuality. In some historical decks, even, the card is instead named Rebirth. I know how ironic that is that the zombie is the one who stands for death and rebirth, but again. Blame the stupid narrative, not the poor me trying to make sense of it.

In what my lovely mutual Honor called "phoenix behavior", I'm going to focus specifically on her deaths and rebirths, specifically BigB's betrayal in LastLife. Cleo takes her death hard, as anyone might. But her rebirth comes with change. The minute she respawns, it's with a different understanding of the world around her. She immediately embraces the change that has been given to her, burning down the Fairy Fort and ditching her alliance for a new one.

The reverse captures Cleo as a character over her seasons better than anyone on this list. While the upright meaning of the card is change, reversed it signifies stagnancy, obsession, and immobility. This can be seen almost perfectly with her thoughts on alliances. Scott remains forever in her good books, even over the course fo multiple seasons, simply because he has never wronged her. Even when they aren't direct allies,she still cooperates with him whenever, simply because she retains her previous feelings about him. The same can be said for BigB, but in the opposite direction. From the moment of the betrayal onwards, she refuses to trust him, going so far as to warn Pearl away from allying with him in LimLife.

Bonus: Jimmy Solidarity, the Canary

XII. The Hanged Man

But Moon! you shout, throwing your complimentary bucket of popcorn at me. Jimmy isn't a Victor! He's the exact opposite!

Yep.

That's why he's so soggy and why he goes on this list. You wanna argue that he doesn't have the same lore impact as a Victor? Too bad. Can't hear you. Jimmy gets his own card.

Initially, I was kinda sad that I already used the Tower, because that's the portent of doom and gloom or whatever, perfect for a canary. But then I spied an even better, even more Jimmy card.

The Hanged Man is the card of sacrifice. While I could go on a whole rant about the Fool's journey and how it is represented in the Life Series, that is Extra Tumblr Post Number IDK Anymore. Instead, today I'm going to stick to the basics. To specify sacrifice, the card doesn't just mean giving up. It signifies self sacrifice specifically. And what is Jimmy if not a semi-willing first sacrifice to get the chaos rolling?

How many times has he gone out to stop his friends from being the one who has to herald the change? The canary knows that he will sing the final notes, but so long as he can ensure the miners don't have to, he will descend once more.

Conclusion:

Now. Did I spend more time on this post than I ever did on an English Lit essay? Maybe. But as much as I love the space motifs this fandom has, I fundamentally disagree when we get to the latter winners. Come on, guys. Tarot decks are right here.

If I missed anything, or I misrepresented a player's game, please tell me. I can't be everywhere at once, and I'm always happy to learn more about some of the players I don't watch as regularly.

Anyways, this was way more fun to write than I expected. If anyone wants to see me give cards to the rest of the players who have yet to win, or an analysis of anything a mentioned in my tangents, please let me know.

Special thanks to @honorsongs who kept me company through this whole process and gave me many a suggestion when I lost my train of thought.

#moon rambles into the void #life smp winners #life series #traffic smp #trafficblr #scott smajor #zombiecleo #grian #inthelittlewood #goodtimeswithscar #jimmy solidarity #tarot card organization supremacy #why wouldn't the watchers want to collect them to keep in a box lets be real #what else are we doing by organizing them?#pearlescentmoon

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literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months ago

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Writing Notes: Symbols

To describe a physical symbol, it might be easier if we first focus on its individual elements, then perhaps integrating all of these elements to create a more coherent whole. Below is an overview of elements or basic shapes that we typically find in symbols.

The Basic Shapes of Symbols

There are elemental structures that occur repeatedly, not only as component parts of more elaborate symbols, but also with rich meanings of their own.

It’s probably true to say that the simpler the symbol, the more scope there is for interpretation; ergo, the more meaningful it is and, paradoxically, the more complex it becomes.

These primary shapes transcend barriers of time, geography, and cultural context, part of a universal language that goes before, and beyond, words.

SPACE

The elements of a symbol are defined only by the space that is a part of its construction.

Like the wind, the effect of space is gauged by its effect on the things within it or surrounding it.

The concept of space, the void, is a profound part of our experience.

To reach a state of “emptiness” is, for many, the ultimate spiritual experience and a way of connecting to the Absolute.

To be aware of the possibility of space within a flat, two-dimensional representation is to give that shape substance and a new kind of reality that lifts it off the page and makes it real.

The realization that “nothing” can be “something” marked a profound leap forward in man’s development.

All creation myths begin with a Void, symbolic of potential.

Although attempts to explain the concept of space are inevitably faulty, it might help to think of a blank page.

Before a mark is made upon the paper, the potential for what might appear there is so vast as to be unimaginable, a consideration which causes consternation for some artists and writers.

Without this space, there is no arena for anything else to exist.

This absence of any thing means that no thing is the most important symbol in the World.

DOT

A dot might seem to be an unassuming little thing, the first mark on the pristine sheet of paper.

In this case, the dot is a beginning.

But see what just happened there? The dot, an essential component in the structure of the sentence, closed it, making it a symbol of ending.

Therefore, the dot is both an origination and a conclusion, encompassing all the possibilities of the Universe within it, a seed full of potential and a symbol of the Supreme Being.

The dot is the point of creation, for example the place where the arms of the cross intersect.

The dot is also called the bindhu, which means “drop.”

The bindhu is a symbol of the Absolute, marked on the forehead at the position of the third eye in the place believed to be the seat of the soul.

The presence of dots within a symbol can signify the presence of something else.

A dot in the center of the Star of David marks the quintessence, or Fifth Element.

It also acts as reminder of the concept of space.

The decorated dots that surround the doorways of Eastern temples are not merely ornamental devices but have significance relevant to the worshippers.

Dots frequently appear in this way, acting as a sort of shorthand for the tenets of a faith. Examples:

In the Jain symbol, the dots stand for the Three Jewels of Jainism.

The dots in each half of the yin-yang symbol unify the two halves: one dot is “yin,” the other “yang.” Together they demonstrate the interdependence of opposing forces.

CIRCLE

Effectively an expansion of the dot, the circle represents the spirit and the cosmos.

Further, the circle itself is constructed from “some thing” (the unbroken line) and “no thing” (the space inside and outside this line).

Therefore, the circle unifies spirit and matter.

The structure itself has great strength—think of the cylindrical shape of a lighthouse, built that way in order to withstand the fiercest attack by a stormy sea.

The physical and spiritual strength of this symbol are there because the perfect circle has no beginning and no end; it is unassailable.

This power is the reason why the circle is used in magical practices such as spell-casting.

The magic circle creates a fortress of psychic protection, a physical and spiritual safe haven where unwanted or uninvited entities cannot enter.

Hermes Trismegistus said of the circle: "God is a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference is nowhere."

Where would ancient man have seen the most important circles? Obviously, in the Sun and the Moon.

As the Sun, the circle is masculine, but when it is the Moon, it is feminine.

Because the passage of time is marked by the journey of the Sun, Moon and stars in orbit around our Earth, the circle is a symbol of the passage of time.

In this form, it commonly appears as the wheel.

Because the circle has no divisions and no sides, it is also a symbol of equality.

Example:

King Arthur’s Round Table was the perfect piece of furniture for the fellowship of Knights who were each as important as each other.

ARC

Perhaps the most prominent arc of the natural world appears in the elusive form of the rainbow, which primitive man saw as a bridge between the Heavens and the Earth.

As a part of a circle, the arc symbolizes potential spirit.

The position of the arc is important:

Upright, shaped like a cup or chalice, it implies the feminine principle, something that can contain the spirit.

If the arc is inverted, then the opposite is true and it becomes a triumphal, victorious, masculine symbol.

As such, the arc can take the form of an archway.

The vaulted or arched shape of many holy buildings, from a great variety of different faiths, represents the vault of the Heavens.

The arc shape often appears in planetary symbols.

VERTICAL LINE

Man stands upright, so the vertical line may represent the physical symbol of the number One, man striving toward spirit.

This simple line is the basic shape of the World Tree or Axis Mundi that connects the Heavens, the Earth and the lower regions.

It is not only a basic phallic symbol but also signifies the soul that strives for union with the Divine.

The upright line tells us where we are at a precise moment; think of the big hand of the clock, vertically oriented at 12 o’clock.

HORIZONTAL LINE

Represents: matter, and

the forward and backward movement of time.

This line also signifies

the skyline or horizon and man’s place on the Earth.

CROSS

Here, the vertical and horizontal lines come together to create a new symbol—the cross.

There are countless different types of cross. Despite any embellishments or devices, however, the basic meaning of the cross stays the same.

The earliest example of the cross comes from Crete and dates back to the fifteenth century BC although the sign is much older than this, ancient beyond proper reckoning.

It is an incredibly versatile and useful sign with many interpretations.

As the convergence of the vertical and horizontal lines, it symbolizes the union of the material and the spiritual (think of the sign of the cross given by Catholic priests).

As a geometric tool, it has no equal; if you put the cross inside the circle, then you are able to divide the circle equally.

Similarly, the cross is said to “give birth to” the square.

Because of its four cardinal points, the cross represents the elements and the directions.

Examples:

In the West the cross equates with the number 4,

but in China, it is associated with the number 5 since the “dot” in the middle of the cross, where the two arms intersect, is also included.

The cross is sometimes disguised as another symbol, such as a fourpetaled flower.

All over the world, the cross is a symbol of protection.

SQUARE

Said to be the first shape invented by Man, the square represents the created Universe as opposed to the spiritual dimensions depicted by the circle.

The square represents the Earth and the four elements.

Plato described the square, like the circle, as being “absolutely beautiful in itself.”

Like the cross, the square is associated with the number 4.

A square has four corners; to speak of the “four corners of the Earth” is something of an anomaly since the Earth is round, without corners.

All the symbolism of the number 4 is encompassed within the square, and it is interesting to note that, just as the square represents the created Universe, in the Hebrew faith the Holy Name of the Creator is comprised of four letters.

The square gives man a safe, static reference point, and a stable, unmoving shape as opposed to the continual motion of the circle.

Temples and holy buildings are often built in the form of a square, solidly designed to align with the four points of the compass.

Examples: The Ka’aba at Mecca; the base of the Buddhist Stupa; altars.

Square shapes define limits and create boundaries.

To speak of someone as being “square” means that they are fixed and unchangeable.

LOZENGE

A diamond shape often with rounded (rather than pointed) ends, the lozenge is often overlooked, but is actually a representation of the female genitalia.

As such, its most popular appearance is probably as the vesica piscis, the sacred doorway through which spirit enters the world of matter.

In heraldry, for example, the lozenge is used in place of the masculine shield, to denote a coat of arms belonging to a woman or a noncombative male, such as a member of the clergy.

TRIANGLE

The triangle shares all the symbolic significance of the number 3, as a shape, and therefore represents the many things that come in groups of three, from the Holy Trinity to the triple aspect of the Goddess.

Triangles appear in lots of different signs and symbols.

In ancient times, the triangle was considered synonymous with light, and the meanings of the triangle vary according to which way up it is:

When it sits firmly on its base, then it is a masculine, virile symbol, representing fire.

The other way up it becomes the water element, a chalice shape, emblematic of the feminine powers.

Balanced on its point in this way the triangle also represents the yoni, further underpinning the Goddess aspect.

The equilateral triangle is a harmonious form, used to indicate the Higher Powers, providing a framework, for example, for the All Seeing Eye of God.

As a symbol of strength, the triangle reinforces the corners of the square, both physically and meta-physically.

The solid shape of the triangle also makes its appearance in yogic positions, for example in the Trikona Asana or Triangle Posture.

DIAGONAL

The square can be divided into two diagonal triangles.

Because the length of these shapes has no simple relationship to its sides, the Greeks concluded that the diagonal must be a symbol of the irrational.

Therefore, the diagonal, or oblique, has come to be associated with the incomprehensible, occult world.

ZIG-ZAG

However it is interpreted, the jagged shape of the zig-zag carries with it the idea of heat, energy, vitality, and movement, the archetypal sign for lightning or electricity.

The double zig-zag that makes the astrological glyph for Aquarius could be water or it could be the life-force itself.

The serpent that spirals up the Caduceus is a softened zig-zag shape.

There is an inherent danger in the zig-zag, and the deities that carry it in their hands do so as a sign of their own authority and power.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes: Symbolism ⚜ Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps. Do share with me your writing if it does. I'd love to read your work!

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rancidpancakebatter · 9 months ago

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For Him - [P.P.]

Pairings: Peter Parker x Depressed!Reader

Summary: You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

Word Count: 7.0k

Content: THIS FIC IS CENTERED AROUND A DEPRESSIVE EPISODE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMTION.

Depression, language, Mentions of self-harm, Mentions of suicide ideation, friends to...open to being more?, Whump comfort, No actual harm comes to the reader, Happy Ending

( Masterlist )

A/N: I'm trying to get back into writing (I know I've said that before) and while my series are on pause, I've been trying to get back into a schedule with it. This piece is very personal to me and is very much something I wrote for myself. I'm sharing this only because I hope it can bring others the comfort it brought me. Or something close to it.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!” Peter watched you helplessly as you continued to sob.

Your cries ripped from your chest, and you wished to reach inside the fresh gashes, grasp your heart, and grind it to dust. Anything to make it stop. It felt as if the tissue of your cardiac muscle was pulling itself apart, each painful pump shredding the fragile tissue further. You weren’t sure how much more you could take- how many beats you had left in you. You felt delirious.

It’s common knowledge that when your body is going through immense pain, such as breaking a bone, it goes into shock. Your sympathetic nervous system shuts off momentarily because your brain makes the executive decision that you can’t handle it. You wondered how much pain you could withstand before your body tapped out.

Everything was too much. Your brain couldn’t keep up. Neither could Peter. He watched on in horror as you screamed, clawing at the carpet, pushing your face into the ground, cradling your stomach, and rolling back and forth.

You were fine. He doesn’t understand. You were fine. You had been a little distant lately, but he had learned that was a pattern for you. When the months got colder and the nights got longer, you needed an adjustment period. Your space would get messy, and your naps would get longer. But you were always fine.

You had been ghosting Peter for six days (after two weeks of not seeing each other and you flaking on plans), and he had had enough. In his line of work, he tended to worry, however irrational that worry was, it was still there, palpable. You hadn’t been to class all week, he went to your job to surprise you, but you weren’t there either. He thought maybe you were upset with him, but the nagging thoughts racing through his mind couldn’t let you be. If something was wrong, he needed to know.

Peter has had a key to your place since you moved in. He was the only person you trusted, and you knew that sometimes he hated going home, finding it hard to leave “work” at work. You loved that your apartment was a safe place for him. Somewhere, he could rest his head and forget, for a moment, about Spider-Man and return to Peter Parker.

To say your place was a mess was an understatement. You were respectfully tidy; your space consistently looked lived-in, as opposed to Harry’s place, which always looked like a catalogue.

The smell of rotting food triggered his gag reflex momentarily. He soon got his bearings and saw dishes piled everywhere; the full plates looked almost untouched. Various fast food containers littered every surface. Clothes were draped over random furniture, and he could smell you too. He didn’t smell your strawberry shampoo and cocoa butter lotion but rather sweat and musk.

He entered cautiously, calling out to you, but heard no response. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for any possible distress. He worried for a minute that his Spidey-Sense™ wasn’t working. Obviously, something was wrong, but his sixth sense remained dormant in his nerves.

Then he heard it, breathing, a heartbeat. He moved in its direction, slowly approaching the couch. Curled up in a ball, you lay there, surrounded by malodorous clutter. You looked very uncomfortable slotting yourself between mounds of tupperware and dirty clothes. He called out to you again but got no response.

He lept over the back of the couch, landing in front of you, disregarding anything in his path. He brought a hand to your face and the other to your exposed wrist, checking for a pulse. You turned your face away from him, and he felt a rush of emotions surge through him.

Firstly, he was elated: you were alive, your pulsed drummed with the precision of a seasoned battlefield drummer, and you didn’t seem to have a fever or show any other indications of illness.

Secondly, he was angry: he hadn’t heard from you in a week, but he sees your phone on the floor in front of him. You were trying to move away from his touch as if his hand on your face was the broccoli your mother demanded you eat before leaving the table. And when he called to you, you didn’t respond- despite very obviously being awake.

Then, he was worried: he watched as your fingers trembled, your hand limp as he held your wrist. You looked dull, as if someone had turned down your saturation, drowning you out in the background of surrounding hues. Your eyes were glassy, seemingly unfocused as you stared ahead. You looked despondent, a husk of his dear friend.

He called out to you again, and you let out a small whimper. He was beginning to panic. You, on the other hand, were trying to find the will. The will to care, to respond, to look at him, to live.

“(Y/n), can you hear me?” again, you gave him nothing, and he felt panic rise in him again.

“(Y/n), come on, you gotta give me some sign of life.” You focused all of your energy, fighting desperately against your brain, and blinked, long and slow.

“Was that on purpose? Was that your response?” You blinked again, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

“Are you okay? You’re freaking me out, Bubs.” You blinked twice, and Peter stopped for a moment.

“Is two blinks a ‘no’?” You blinked again.

Peter ran a hand through his hair, and you realised he was stressed. You wanted to care so badly. Your friend was hurting, and it was your fault, and you couldn’t even care. Some friend you are. Peter deserved someone better, someone who could be there for him, someone who didn’t completely fall apart when the world became too heavy, someone who could convince themselves that breathing was a good thing. You felt someone shaking you.

“Hey! (Y/n), come back to me, buddy!” You blinked again, and the shaking stopped, but you could still feel his eyes boring into you.

“I asked if you were on drugs. Are you overdosing right now?” You blinked twice. You were feeling tired again. How ridiculous that you can lay here all day, but having to blink is too exhausting? You let out a yawn, and Peter relaxes some.

“(Y/n), can you try and talk to me? I’m freaking out here.” With a great amount of effort, you opened your mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

It was barely audible; your voice croaked due to its inactivity. You blinked a few times, forcing yourself to look at him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes were wet. You had done that. The ache in your bones grew and spread at the realisation. Peter just shook his head.

“I don’t need you to be sorry; you need to tell me what’s going on.”

To anyone else, he would have sounded cold, but you knew this tone. Peter was working a case, searching for clues, answers. You were dealing with Spider-man. You felt bad that you had drawn that out of him, that he was so distressed he had to put on his suit of armour.

How could you tell him? There was nothing going on. Not one thing, at least. It was a bunch of small things that you were handling like a baby. Your parents were upset with you, your grades were slipping, your job was stressful, you were constantly fatigued, and everything just felt like so much work. Work that you didn’t sign up for. Work that you were done doing.

“(Y/n), what’s going on?”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice at you, but he was growing annoyed with your crypticness. He wanted to help you- wanted to make sure you’re okay- and he couldn’t do that if you didn’t tell him.

You let out some sharp breaths that almost resembled crying, but no tears left your eyes. You wondered if you had run out; if your brain had decided you had met your quota and had cut off your supply. Or maybe you were just so dehydrated that you didn’t have enough water to spare.

You watched as a single tear rolled down his cheek. You had made him cry. You were uncaring and cruel. You were hurting him. You were a shitty friend. He was so worried about you, and you did nothing to ease his concern. He had called you many times, and you would watch as your phone danced on the table. You would listen to his voicemails, at first light-hearted before quickly turning to panic. You stopped listening to them three days ago, unable to process his emotions as well as your own.

“Bubba, please. What is going on with you? You haven’t answered my texts, you haven’t been to class, you haven’t been to work. I’m really worried. Please, please talk to me.”

He was begging and the thought broke your wretched heart. You attempted to curl more into the couch, to hide away from the pain you saw in his eyes. His hand on your shoulder stopped you, and you didn’t have the strength to resist.

“I’m sorry.”

You watched as Peter’s face contorted wildly between emotions: anger, fear, concern, sorrow. He chewed on his lip as he looked you over again. His mouth gaped as if he was tripping over his words before they could even leave his mind.

“Why? What-? Did you do something?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

How could he even ask that? He knows what you did. He had just listed half of your offences. How could he even stand to look at you? You were a monster, vile and vicious.

You blinked again, and Peter frowned. You knew he wanted to hear you speak, that it would ease his worry, but you couldn’t. Saying the words is hard, flexing all those muscles to use your voice. Too much. It was all too much.

“What did you do?”

You can hear the fear in his voice. It makes you sick to your empty stomach. The weight of his question weighed on your chest.

You knew what he was asking. It was a question you had been asked many times by your parents, by professionals, and your friends. You had lost many over the question. Some of them running away screaming at your honesty. Others have told you it’s not your fault, they just can’t carry the weight. So they leave you to carry it on your own.

You recognised the way his eyes quickly darted to your wrist, then moved to any possible exposed skin. You saw the way he checked his surroundings, looking for anything there. You knew what he was looking for, even if he didn't.

You almost wanted to laugh at that. It was funny to your fucked up brain. They always want to know. They insist on it. They have to know if you’ve done something to yourself as if their knowledge could rewrite time and change futures. As if they know they have the special combination of words that would make you see the light and bring you back. As if they could say something-- anything --you hadn’t heard before. But that wasn’t the funny part. The funny part was being right.

You knew that it was getting bad again. You knew if Peter saw you like this, he would get scared. You knew he would assume the worst. And here he was, doing just that. The funny part was knowing that when people see depression, they expect it to just be this, and if it’s not, you’re fine. And when it does look like this, you must be suicidal.

And honestly, you wish you were. And you shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. At least then you could do something with it. But instead, you’re curled up on your couch, immobilised, waiting for the storm to pass. You look and feel pathetic. But for now, it’s funny. Mostly because you can’t handle how frustrating this is.

You tug your sleeve down, and Peter’s eyes track the movement, tracing over the smooth skin as it’s revealed. His body remains tense even as you stop. You move the other one, and he’s just as attentive. When both wrists are revealed to be fine, you expect him to relax, but he doesn’t.

You watch as his chest rises and falls, not quickly but noticeably. As if he’s trying to stay calm. You appreciate that, though feeling like a bit of an ass for it.

He takes a deep breath, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “So then, why are you sorry?”

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt like crying again. It was too much. You knew what you had done, how shitty you had been. It’s all you could think about as his calls continued to go unanswered and your filth continued to pile around you. But he was asking too much. You didn’t want those words to leave your lips. You didn’t want him to hear them.

If he did, he might realise you’re right. He’d leave you here, and you’d never hear from him again. He’d be another soul lost to your devastation. Another broken person you made by knowing you. He’d realise how you tainted him, recognise you as sickness, and cut you off. And you couldn’t be mad at him when he did it. Because he would be right.

Or he would defend you. All that Peter Parker love pouring from him, insisting that everyone is good and deserves a chance. He would ignore all of your words, writing them off as nonsense. And maybe, maybe you’d start to believe him. You’d let him convince you that you’re okay. But soon, he would realise that he was wrong about you.

Either way, he would leave you. So maybe if you push him now, it won’t hurt so bad later. If you don’t let him build you up, you won’t fall as far.

So you said nothing, holding his gaze until you couldn’t anymore. His face shifted again, and you couldn’t take it. It was too much. It was your fault. You managed to roll over from your side to your stomach. You paid no mind to the various objects falling off the couch; you didn’t care that Peter had to dodge the debris. Especially when it distracted him long enough to let you hide. You buried your face into your crossed arms but didn’t close your eyes, the dark pocket you created being more than enough.

You felt hollow. Like life had finally broken you, taken everything that you were. You weren’t yourself anymore, just a husk. One that wouldn’t eat, or change clothes, or leave the house. But you weren’t empty. No, you had been carved out, but disgust and anger filled you now. But those big feelings left you feeling tired, tired constantly. No sleep was restful, no break long enough. It was baked in, carried in your bone marrow.

Peter was silent and you listened closely to his breathing. You couldn’t understand why he hadn’t given up yet, why he was sticking by your side. So you told him to leave.

You waited patiently for him to shout, for his footsteps to fade away, but he didn’t. He remained there, where you could feel his eyes on you. It was pissing you off.

“Leave!” you tried again, the sharpness of your tone muffled by the couch cushions.

You waited again, and this time, you heard movement. You heard a piece of silverware land softly on the coffee table and trash move around the floor. Finally, you thought. But then you felt a weight lean against the couch, then soft noises coming from a phone.

You peeked your head out to see Peter sitting on the floor, his back against the couch, scrolling through Instagram. He didn’t chuckle or laugh. He wasn’t really looking at his phone. His eyes were darting over to you every few seconds. You knew he knew you were watching him. This game went on for a long time. Nearly an hour passed in silence, one watching the other.

“I’m not leaving,” he said eventually, “not without you.”

That exhaustion was melting now, and all that left you with was anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit, then tucked your head back into your arms.

“I don’t think you mean that.”

Oh, fuck him. You snapped up, your arms supporting your body as you glared at him from the couch. He looked surprised, but not frightened. Peter had put himself in a terrible position. You were swirling with hatred, and now he had made himself a target. You couldn’t help the words tumbling from your mouth.

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!” you shouted, your voice crackling like flames. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel! You don’t get to come in here where you’re not wanted and fuck with me. I don’t want you here! I don’t want to see you again!”

He winced at your words, and that made you feel a little powerful. You were hurting so much, seeing him feel a fraction of it made it feel smaller.

“I haven’t talked to you in days and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll just pop over.’ What a fucking joke!”

You laugh, though there’s no humour in it.

“I was worried.”

His eyes are wet again– his voice is so small –like he was seconds from breaking.

Good. Let him break as I have. Maybe then he can see, and understand. Or maybe he’ll leave, get the hell out of dodge. Doesn’t matter.

“No, you were selfish,” You bite. “You got lonely and figured I would be there. You didn’t want to think I just didn’t want you anymore, so you showed up. Because you know no one comes looking for you. Not without the suit.”

You watch as he recoils. He’s looking at you like a monster, and he should. You are. His mouth hangs open, his eyes locked onto yours. The air feels stiff, like a sheet of glass waiting to be shattered. He sniffled a little, and suddenly you didn’t feel so powerful. The game’s not fun if he’s not yelling back. He’s not telling you that you’re right or wrong, he’s not mad. He’s just hurt.

The anger drops from your face and now your eyes are wet too. You feel like you might vomit, but you know that’s just a bluff. You can’t remember the last time you ate something. Or more than three bites. Food doesn’t smell yummy anymore; it doesn’t taste flavorful. Your empty stomach isn’t as noticeable, and chewing is too much work for such little payoff.

Peter’s eyes soften slightly, like something’s clicked for him. His brows pull down and his lips pout.

Pity. He’s showing pity. You’ve hurt him, and he pities you.

You rise quickly, and Peter is quick to his feet to meet you there.

“I’m sorry,” you say, covering your mouth as you feel your breath quicken. You were going to break down again. “You should leave.”

You pushed past him, ignoring his calls after you. You beat him to your bedroom, where you shut and lock the door. Both hands cover your mouth as the tears begin falling and your chest starts heaving. It hurts; the muscles sore from how often this seems to happen.

You hear him jiggle the handle, calling your name through the door, begging you to open it. You sink down, your shirt bunching against the wood as you descend. But you wait. You can’t let it out now, not with him here. He shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to put up with it.

Eventually, the knocking stops, and you hear him walk away. You wait longer still until you finally hear the front door open and close.

Then you scream.

It’s deep and guttural. A middle finger to the universe. It’s pure agony released from your throat. It’s all the words you can’t say fast enough. A battle cry from a broken soldier.

You continue to weep, crawling towards your bed, littered with clean clothes you haven’t folded, books you haven’t picked up, and various other trinkets you haven’t put away. But then the exhaustion comes back.

You curl in around yourself, crying out again in frustration.

You’re weak. You’re tired. You’re cruel. You’re pathetic. You’re fat. You’re too skinny. You’re disgusting. You’re heedless. You’re everything, but never enough.

Peter had never felt so defeated. He could see that you needed him, but you didn’t want him. That wasn’t a new feeling to Peter. He had long ago abandoned any hope that you would see him as more than a friend. Even if everyone you ever dated left much to be desired, you didn’t want him.

But this was different. This was something he hadn’t seen before.

He had gotten close. May had gotten pretty close herself. But it was never that. Whatever you were dealing with-- however you were dealing with it-- he didn’t know what to do with it.

You had never looked at him like that before, so full of hate. You had ripped him to shreds on your living room floor. Your words hurt, and it looked like you wanted them to. Like you enjoyed hurting him. It was scary. But then he saw it. That glint of fear in your eyes. The regret falling on your brows. And when you looked like you might cry, he knew.

That was something he did recognise, something he had seen in himself many years ago. The need to hurt. That primal urge to rip everything around you to ribbons. So it can look as ugly as you.

He followed you to your door, beginning to understand the hurt you were feeling. He didn’t want that for you. He wished he could remove it like a faulty wire, but you shut yourself off. He could hear your ragged breathing on the other side of the door, even through his pounding and shouting. But you wouldn’t open up, and he couldn’t do anything until you did.

He weighed his options and tried his best to leave. He wanted to trust that you would be okay, that you would someday unlock the door, but for now, he had to leave you be.

He picked up his stuff, made a mental note to come back and help you clean, and stepped outside. Before he released the handle, he heard you scream. A very real scream. He moved with urgency, panic rising in him. He fumbled with the key in his hands painted with red and blue nail polish. It was chipped from the many years of hanging on his keychain.

He called out to you but got no response. You continued to howl from the other room, and he rushed there. Trying the handle, he cursed, finding it still locked. He had never heard a noise like that before. Your guttural wailing filled his mind. He had one thought, banging and pulsing through his head: Save her. Save her. Save her. Save her.

He didn’t want to kick down the door and frighten you, so he spun hopelessly outside it, fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to make use of his big brain. There was pounding mixing in with your cries now, and Peter felt scared that you were reaching a peak he wouldn’t be able to get you down from.

He threw his backpack to the floor and began opening pockets. His eyes glanced over his wallet, and then he dove for it, pulling out the library card you made him get. You had drawn on it because he complained about how boring it looked. It was the spiderweb in the corner that caught his eye now. From it hung a little spider, but its abdomen was shaped like a heart. He had teased you relentlessly for it at the time, pointing out its anatomical incorrectness. You told him it was a reminder, but for what you never said.

He pushed the thought aside, sliding the card between the door jamb and the lock latch, wiggling it until he felt it release. Your cries could be heard from the other side, so he steeled himself. You needed him, and you needed him strong. He could do that for you. He could do anything for you.

He was taken aback, for a moment, by the display before him, his lips parting in a gasp. You thrashed about, showing rage in your despair. He felt a wave of disgust for himself. He supposed he had let this happen, let you stew too long.

All this time, he thought you were fine. In the same way he was always ‘fine’. But every time he wasn’t, you were there. You were by his side, ready to talk him down. But him? He just waited for you to do it on your own.

He would see the signs and put his head in the sand, remembering how embarrassing it is when someone notices and asks. Remembering the rage that would boil up in him, as if this person could even begin to understand where he was coming from. But he forgot how much he needed it too. How much that small kindness meant. He forgot the value of a shoulder to cry on and an ear to hear, even if they don’t understand.

But he couldn’t dwell on that now. He can’t focus on what he could have done, only what he can now. Because you’re here now, and he wants you around later.

He drops to his knees, his hands coming out to hold you before he stops himself. He calls out softly instead.

It’s apparent to him that you didn’t realise he was there, your wild eyes scanning over him, trying to decipher if he’s real. Your chest heaves as you lay on the ground, your face swollen and red. His heart breaks, for a moment, whispering an apology you don’t hear.

It hurts to have him look at you like that– to see you like this. But this is what you were afraid of, him seeing you and running. But so far, he hasn’t. And you’re selfish, bordering on desperate. It doesn’t matter why he’s here; it just matters that he is. And as much as you desperately want him to leave, to forget you and move on, you can’t help clinging to him.

The one ray of sunshine you have. The one who always gets it even if he doesn’t. The one that remembers to get things in your favourite colour and reminds you to change your water filter. Your rock. And you could use a rock right now, and you can't bring yourself to worry about it destroying him.

You begin heaving again, and Peter panics, still unsure how to help you. His eyes are too much, so you roll around onto your belly, your legs curled up underneath, your forehead against the carpet. Your hands are wrapped around your gut as everything in you comes out. All the rage, and despair, and confusion leaking through your broken cries.

Peter only intervenes when your fists start slamming down against your stomach. You can feel his hand trembling as it grabs yours, and you scream again. His hand retracts, uncertain how to move forward.

Snot is running down your face, and you can feel some dribble on your chin. You feel like a child. You feel like a disgusting mess. He shouldn’t have to see you like this.

It hurts, god, it hurts so much!

His name leaves your lips, broken and frayed around the consonants, and he scoots closer.

“What?” He asks, sounding nearly as broken as you. “What can I do?”.

“Peter- Peter, please fix it!”

You’re not sure why you asked. You weren’t sure what he could do. But you knew he would do it. That’s what he does, fix things. He fixed your laptop, and May’s stove, and your bad study habits, and your sour mood. He always did and asked for nothing in return.

But maybe this was too big of an ask. How could he fix this- A chemical imbalance that you’ve been fighting your entire life? How could he fix what doctors hadn’t? What if you couldn’t be fixed?

You slammed your fist back into you, each hit punctuated with an insult.

Disgusting Pathetic Selfish Broken Useless Dumb Weak

But then, you felt gentle, shaking hands once again. His touch was warm but different from the fire you felt inside. It didn’t burn, but sooth. He had come up behind you and guided your arms tighter around yourself, using his to keep them there, coaxing you into sitting up and resting against him.

He was all around you now; his heart beat steadily against your back, even as yours pounded fiercely. You screamed again, but this time Peter didn’t let go. He held you tighter, hoping desperately that if he held on harder, he could keep you from slipping away. That you would feel his love on your skin. That he could shove the broken pieces back together enough to help you set them right.

Your head hurts; pressure building behind your eyes. But you felt safe, even in this pain. Because Peter was here, holding you tightly. He was here, even if he shouldn’t be. He was here. And you found yourself relaxing into his hold, melting against him.

Your sobbing fell into a quiet whimpering, letting him soothe you with gentle shushes and his forehead resting on the side of yours. He readjusted his hold on you, rubbing up and down on your arm with one hand and pulling you closer with the other. You hung loosely like you had lost the strength to hold yourself up. Peter swore you wouldn’t have to.

“I got you,” he whispered, placing a kiss where his head once was.

Soon, your cries became sniffles, and you turned around to face Peter. His face seemed sad, maybe even tired, but he smiled at you nonetheless. It wasn’t out of sympathy, but true and genuine. That was still too much, feeling embarrassed by your current state, so you hid.

Peter let you wrap your arms and legs around him, trying not to shiver as your nose rubbed against his neck. He pulled you into his lap, relishing in your tight hold. You were coming back to him.

He rubbed soothing patterns on your back, resting his head against yours while whispering encouragements.

“Good job, sweetie, you’re breathing so well for me. That’s right, big breaths, you got it.”

The world slowly stopped spinning, and your body stopped spazzing. You got the feeling back in your fingertips, running them in circles across Peter’s back, trying to recalibrate. He breathed with you, praising for each one you took.

Then, you were still, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Peter could feel your eyelashes slowly brush against his neck as you blinked.

“Hey,” he called softly. You hummed, and he was grateful. “I know you're tired, but you should take a bath first.”

You shook your head no, curling into him deeper. His heart panged, wanting desperately to hold onto you longer, but not like this.

He scooped you up, and you whined, wrapping your legs around him tighter as his arm came around to hold your hips. You knew he wouldn’t drop you, but you weren’t used to being toted around.

He let you cling to him as he began filling the bath, making sure the water was warm but wouldn’t hurt. He then travelled to the laundry room to grab some fresh towels and threw in some bubble bath he had found under the sink.

“Come on, baby,” he tried, “In the bath, you go.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the nickname and tried not to think about how much you didn’t want Peter to let go.

It’s not him, You told yourself, he’s just here.

But it didn’t sound very convincing, not even to you. But regardless of your wishes, you knew he wouldn't always be, and what would you do when he left? You’d probably end up on the floor again, or worse.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done,” He said, as if he could read your thoughts, “I promise a bath will make you feel better.”

You took a deep breath, raising your head to look into his eyes. Galaxies lived there, swirling and teeming with life. Every emotion, every thought, bubbling in his irises. And one came through over all of them, ringing through the silence.

Love.

You saw it there as he looked at you. How could this be?

Love.

Had he not seen how monstrous you could be, how depraved and insane you truly were? How could he possibly find it in him to still love you? And how could you let something like that go? He had a love for you that you didn’t have for yourself, but you needed it.

You nodded your head, pushing the thought aside, as you rose on shaking legs. Peter smiled, then left, grinning at you through the crack in the door.

“Thank you,” he said before closing it behind him.

You peeled off your sweat-soaked clothes, feeling embarrassed once again when you realised you were only in a t-shirt and a pair of underwear this entire time. Peter was a very good friend, and you couldn’t imagine why he was thanking you for anything.

You got into the water, your muscles relaxing as soon as they broke the barrier. You stretched, letting yourself sink deeper into the water. You lay there for a moment, relishing in the peace, in the momentary break in misery.

You dunk your head under the water, holding your breath and counting. You come up gasping, feeling the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You feel alive again.

You do that a few more times before actually washing your body. You try not to wince as you scrub the film from your body and hair. You took the time to pamper yourself, letting the lavender scent surround you. You even shaved so you could curl up in your fuzzy blanket later and just feel the softness. Peter was right- a bath made you feel a lot better.

You wrapped yourself up in your towel, feeling fresh and a lot less heavy, and opened the door. Peter was there sitting on your floor, thumbing through your record collection. You gasped at the vision around you, and Peter jumped up, a smile on his face.

“Hey, you’re back!” He saw your surprise and hastily apologized, “I hope you don’t mind. Just thought I’d put on some music.”

You shook your head at the man, ignoring his apology completely. You didn't care about the music. Your eyes wandered around the made bed, with fresh sheets, and the clothes that once occupied them neatly folded. The dirty clothes on your floor were gone, the hamper was empty, and when you listened carefully, you could hear the washing machine running in the other room.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” you said, embarrassment rising to your cheeks.

“It’s all good,” he brushed off, like it was nothing. “I pulled these out for you to change into, but you can- you can wear whatever, of course. And...I don't have to tell you that.”

The way he fumbled over his words was adorable, but you remembered then that you were only in a towel, standing in front of your best friend. You clutched it tighter, and he seemed to notice then too. Redness grew from his neck to his cheeks, and he quickly turned around.

“Sorry!” He shouted. Then calmly, “Sorry, I’ll uh- I’ll let you change.”

You reached for the pyjamas he set out and slipped them on. It felt nice. I mean, the pj’s weren’t new, but wearing something Peter picked out for you, with you in mind, felt…sweet. And they were extremely comfortable. You smiled softly as you smoothed out the fabric, then opened the door.

Peter was standing just on the other side with his back turned to it, but upon hearing the handle, he turned. His eyes quickly skated over your form before he beamed at you. You invited him into your room and turned down the record he had put on so it was softly playing in the background.

He stood awkwardly in your room, hands in his pockets, like he didn't know what to do next. You felt a similar way, sitting back on your bed. The silence was loud; both of you stuck between wanting to ask a million questions and not sure how to make the words right.

You figured he had done enough of the work today; you could try for him.

“I’m sorry,” you began.

He turned to you, worry written across his brows and a retort on his lips, but you cut him off.

“I- I was cruel to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

His face falls as he sighs, then trudges over to sit at your side with heavy feet.

“It’s okay-” he begins.

“Don’t say that,” You spit, some of that anger you tried to bury coming back. Peter stilled, and you felt bad, but he had to hear you. It was important. “Don’t say that how I treated you was acceptable because it wasn’t. You don’t deserve that from anyone. If I had seen someone speak to you that way– or ignore you the way I did –I would have killed them. I don’t get to lash out at you like that, okay?”

Peter’s eyes were twinkling again, and you couldn’t understand it.

“You- you shouldn’t have to put with it,” you continue shakily, “and I don’t think you should stick around.”

Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“Tough luck.”

You look at him baffled, but he remains unfazed.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he explains, “I spend most of my days chasing people who actually want me dead. You having a little outburst because you’re hurting and you don’t know how to say it? I can handle that.”

He grabs your hand, and you try to stop the butterflies taking flight within you.

“You disappearing for a few days? That’s nothing. Me leaving?” He laughs full-on now; it rolls through him, blooming from his chest, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“Peter-” you try, but it’s he who cuts you off now.

“No, I’m not hearing any of it. I’m not going anywhere,” he insists. “I’m not leaving you again. I will be right here, for as long as you need me, and even when you don’t.”

His hold on your hand is tighter now, as if he’s trying to press the promise into you. Placing it in your hand and hoping you never let it go. Or maybe it was more than the promise. You look into his eyes, and you see it again– love. You can’t make sense of it. Over and over again, that look. One you’ve seen so many times. Why?

“Because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” He answers your silent question, “Because I don’t want you to do it alone, not when I’m right here.”

He lifts your hand and puts it over his heart. You can feel how fast it’s beating. Yours flutters in a similar way. It’s terrifying and thrilling, this promise he makes. You want Peter there, always. That’s why he has a key, free to pop into your life whenever he finds the time. Because you always want him there. It’s why he’s your emergency contact and the only person you trust (other than May, but you would never ask it of her) to water your plants when you’re away.

But if he stays, you’ll grow attached. More attached, at least. He’s seen one of many battles in a war you’ve been losing for as long as you can remember. He’s crazy enough to think he can handle more when you barely can yourself. But maybe that’s what you need, someone to fight with you. Someone to fight for.

You bring your arm around his neck, pulling him into a jarring hug. He accepts it, pulling you closer. You’re trembling ever so slightly, but you’re not fighting him anymore. He knows what this means. You’re letting him stay, and he’s so grateful.

You allow yourself to just breathe with him- to let him be here, and hold you. You never got that before, and accepting it now is hard, but you can do it.

“Do you wanna stay the night and watch some b-horror films?” you asked.

Peter smiled against you, and your heart leapt at the action.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You feel a bit selfish as he steps into the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, as he crawls into bed and lets you curl into him, as he drapes his arm around you and holds you close. You can’t give him what he wants right now, what he deserves, but you want to. It’s hard, it’s terrifying, but you know that you can. You can do it for him. You're strong enough.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @barbecuetiddy, @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @mirrorballin24, @miwagila, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @onlyangel-444, @preciousbabypeter, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @remuslupinsdocs, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @supernerdycookietrashblrr, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

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namelessclient · 4 months ago

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time for a bit of world building

Species : Mountain Beasts (aka Tennis Ball's species)

Before going straight to the point, what is an "Species" in the dusk au? In simple words, these are like the "races" in the universe, so like in this case, an Species implies there are various objects that share characteristics and culture. For example, Book is from a Species (Archivians), this means there are other book-like creatures that have a wing made of leather and other of paper.

Creatures that are not from a Species, like Pin or Firey, are more unique: no or almost no other creature share characteristics with them.

Tennis Ball, Golf Ball, Book, the writing siblings (Pencil, Pen, Marker) and others are Species creatures.

I hope this isn't too confusing.

The Mountain Beasts live on rocky ground, so they can be found on mountains and inactive volcanic slopes. Their territories extend to slightly higher grounds and periphery of close forests.

They're quite robust, with strong muscles, especially in their legs. They can easily move large rocks or tackle down trees without problems. The thick fur and fat on their bodies help them to survive long periods without food, the climate and attacks such as scratches or bites. Their paws and claws are designed to withstand the texture of the terrain. Their diet consists mostly of meat, but they can also eat some berries and plants.

They're also quite aggressive towards other creatures and even each other. Fighting is the usual way to demonstrate and establish a hierarchy.

Their hybrid nature gives them the best characteristics from both families, like the endurance and resistance of the canines and the strength and sharp claws and fangs of their mouths from felines. Basically, they're apex predators.

However, this mix of families messes with their genes, making them prone to diseases such as muscle wasting and even cancer, and the aggressive nature itself makes them short-lived creatures.

#object show community #object shows #osc #battle for dream island #bfdi #bfb #battle for dream island au #bfdi au #worldbuilding #Dusk BFDI

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amelee23 · 1 year ago

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I didn't accidentally love you | Hwang Hyunjin

Genre: Hopelessly romantic fluff, angst, poetry, a little comedy

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x gender neutral reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: reader is an insecure poet, heartbreak, bad self esteem, poetry clubs, Hyunjin is dripping charisma, shameless flirting, reader thinks hyun is a jerk for like a second, reader.exe stops working multiple times, reader gets shy, i just HAD to be funny at the end OKAY

Synopsys: Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.

A/N: I promised @astraystayyh to write this, here you go sugar <3

Artists have many moments of weakness.

Those moments when you start to question your craft, whether you're even worthy of being called an 'artist' or you're just a fleeting talent that is going to wash away with time, just like the hobby or interest of a preschooler. You inquire if you're worthy staining pages with ink, using the words of the dictionary just to feel the high of belonging - the high of doing show and tell with your emotions like it's a new toy your parents gifted you; or you should just remain a consumer, and observe the beauty that lies in others, the beauty others can create. Could your craft ever rise to all these expectations?

But what else is there to life, if not making art?

Perhaps you've always been clinically insane, but you've only truly felt alive when you felt the beauty of the world - dark and bright alike - conveyed through you in the form of poetry and words, sent by the angels above for a mere human to toy with. So you pick up the pencil again.

The paper before you is blank, and you're frankly uncomfortable in the position you are in, notebook on your thighs, back curved over the page as if you're shielding unwritten words from the sun itself to not read them. But you've always felt more at ease writing outside, under the natural light of the sky, with the clouds passing by carelessly, like they don't have doubts about their worth like a human would. But the stares of the students passing by are not exactly comfortable. You take a breath and urge yourself to focus; they don't care about what you're doing, they're just heading to their classes, living their lives (hopefully) with that same hunger you have for art, for their chosen subjects.

You face your paper again and remember the prompt you were given - writing a poem involving the feeling of sadness - that you're supposed to hand over to the club in a couple of days. Insecurities and procrastination led you to keep putting it off, but the dread of a deadline has always been a great motivation for humanity. Your friends urged you towards this, to join the poetry club of your university - it's a small, non-profit club put together by a bunch of random art and literature students. It's so non-profit in fact, that it barely has any funding at all. They had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to host the club meetings every week in the sculpting room - and that, late in the day, when the cleaning staff unlocks the doors for their cleaning sweep. You sit on awkward, stained chairs, and make sure to raise your feet up one by one to not stand in the way of the mop and brooms. But the club members would withstand anything, and would pretty much commit homicide to keep the club running. One more reason why, when faced with the passion and fighting spirit your club mates have, you wonder if you even have a space with them. You had to be shoved - one could say even blackmailed - by your friends to take the step forward and join, so you could be able to share your craft with others. You were perfectly happy letting your poems stack up in endless notebooks on top of your dusty bookcase. You didn't feel the need to share them, per se - but everyone else insisted it would have been a crime to keep them to yourself selfishly like that.

Sadness, sadness. You need to embody sadness for this prompt. You look around for inspiration, but there is no sad sight to see. The sky is clear, in colors of baby blue and soft whites, the branches of the green, young trees are barely even swaying in the wind, and there's college students laughing all around. Has anything sad happened in your life lately? Not really, nothing to inspire poems at least. Not that you are bursting at the seams with happiness, but you believed no one really is. There's a lot going on behind the cover of every human passing by, and even if all you can feel is the slight shoulder brush of a stranger, you do know those shoulders carry as much, if not even more weight than yours.

That's it. You start writing, and word by word they flow, one line, two lines until you have seven of them - you even managed to rhyme! It's not much, but it's honest work. Since there is no one close by, you begin to read the poem out loud softly. Hearing what you wrote always helps you perfect the rhymes, the punctuation and change around words if they sound too awkward. After erasing, rewriting and erasing again just to end up redoing the whole last two lines, you finally thought it was good enough.

---

Here and now, I must take a vow:

You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest

Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;

Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry

Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;

I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought

No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.

---

You smile, because for a split second you actually think your poem sounds really good. But then, the insecurities crash on top of you again. Your club mates are probably writing long, heart-wrenching poems that are going to make you cry when you read them. Your idea will surely seem shallow and rushed in comparison to theirs. With a sigh, you wish to be able to just give yourself this one. Tell yourself you did good enough by trying and move on - brush it off and think progressively, that your next poem is going to be even better than this one. But you don't truly feel that way, so you begin to beautify the first letter of every line with calligraphic letters to overcompensate for the lack of skill you feel you have. The capital H at the beginning of the first line, the capital Y at the beginning of the second line and so on; you turn them into beautiful, aesthetic calligraphy as much to your ability. In the end, you just think you've made a mess, and that there is simply too much ink on the page now.

---

Here and now, I must take a vow:

You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest

Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;

Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry

Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;

I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought

No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.

---

Oh no.

Your eyes open wide and you can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

The first letter of every single line, from top to bottom, spell HYUNJIN. The name of the boy you swore to yourself you've moved on from.

Hyunjin, who spoke about life as if it was art itself and spoke about art as if it was life itself.

Hyunjin, with the calm and warm voice - quiet and observant and yet, from the ocean in his eyes, bathed in a soft moonlight, it always seemed like his mind was in faraway lands, dreaming, humming, sighing before a field of lilies in the middle of the night.

Hyunjin, who seemed like through every song he listened to and sang, every poem he read and wrote, every painting he saw and painted, he dicovered all the secrets the universe had. As if human life was a melancholic, nostalgic memory to him, life experiencing itself all over again - he seemed so kind, so unfazed, so utterly in love with existence.

Hyunjin, who read every single one of your poems and told you he'd never allow you to leave the club. He was always so warm, you could hardly believe he wasn't doing it out of habit, spreading his magical touch over the wounds in your heart just like he would with anyone else. But it wasn't his fault you always questioned your worth.

Hyunjin, with whom you've fallen in love with gravely. For every smile he showed around you, for every squeal-like laugh he gifted you, for every time he held your hand gently to calm your nerves, you added one more day to the delusion of hanging on to him.

Hyunjin, who was merely a pipe dream.

He is the co-leader of the poetry club you're in. That's why you've always considered his compliments and encouragements to be just him doing his job - and yet they continued to fuel that foolish fire of yours for far too long. You never confessed to him, of course. But there would be nothing wrong with you two dating, from an ethical point of view. This is just a poetry club ran by students, it's not like having a crush on your boss. But still, the title of co-leader put him above you in a way you couldn't describe. Maybe it's the fact that he has more experience in art. Maybe it's the fact that he's more skillful. Maybe it's the fact that he's taught you many techniques and actually became a figure to rely on. Therefore he was still above you in a way, and so was the leader.

The leader of the club, she resembled Hyunjin in an almost eerie way. People do say, someone who is beautiful on the inside will always radiate beauty on the outside, too. That was a clear description of both of them. She too, was a romantic and an artist, she had a feather light laugh, star like freckles dusting her face, and eyes that could hold galaxies. She was the end of Hyunjin's sentences and the beginning of his thoughts. They made an incredible pair and their teamwork was impeccable as leaders. They weren't dating, but your heart kept telling you, that one day they will. It would be simply impossible for two souls so perfectly woven for each other to simply separate and go their different ways. And yet, you still foolishly had fallen for Hyunjin and every single week, the pain in your chest grew.

Oh, it hurt. It shouldn't have, really. You were just a newcomer being silly and they were fit for a lifetime. You had no chance nor the courage to hope and dream a miracle would land you in Hyunjin's loving arms. She wasn't to blame, he wasn't to blame, your pain was fully your fault. You fell in love and you had to fix it. So you made an oath with yourself to let it go, get those heavy rocks off of your lungs and allow yourself to breathe. There will be other boys in your life. They will not be Hyunjin, but other boys will exist.

You thought you were done with the tears, with the heartache and the love-sick poems. But it seemed you did have one more poem left in you, and it bubbled to the surface.

If the sun wasn't that bright, you wouldn't even have noticed the shadow of someone looming over you. You heard a melodic hum above your head and when you looked up, your heart dropped.

"What do we have here?" He teased, snatching your notebook right out of your hands. You couldn't even react in time, he was already standing up before you, reading the contents of your poem. His lips hung slightly open and he let out a gasp, and you really thought poetry was perhaps the only way to describe the look on his face. You watched his eyes travel the page, his chest deflating very rarely as if he was holding his breath. He looked surprised, but it wasn't an anxious type of bewilderment, nor an excited one either. He was looking at your notebook as if it was some sort of mythical creature, something that shouldn't possibly exist-

And then his eyes found yours. They wrecked you from the inside out, a brown so blown out, so dark, unalike what you've seen before. There was no more serene skies and calm seas in his eyes, there was a storm, a hurricane - a complete blackout. He looked frightened. Maybe he was in fact, still shaken by the secrets of the universe. Maybe humans are not supposed to know what mythological creatures actually look like. Maybe denying their existence would be easier on the collective-

"I can explain!" You jump up from the bench you were seated on. "That was an accident - it's not what it looks like!" He's not listening to you. His mind has gone to those faraway lands again, and he's dreaming while he glances at the page. You move to take the notebook away from him, but he raises it above his head. He's too tall to reach, so you don't even try.

"Well." He speaks, softly, anxiously, awkwardly. He softly lowers the notebook, but he holds it tight to his chest. He won't let you take it back. "I think now it's only fair I dedicate my poetry to you as well." Now it's your turn to remain with your mouth agape. You're blinking at him, and you don't realize you're looking at him exactly the same way he looked at you a minute ago. You're both scared and yet in marvel, and he takes a step closer. You inhale sharply, but it gets stuck in your throat. You can't breathe, your stomach is tense, and a shiver is shaking the fingers of your hands. His eyes are transfixed on yours, and he moves even closer, he's too close - and he asks for permission. "If you'll allow me?"

He's asking you to become his muse.

But you couldn't answer him even if you wanted to. It's embarrassing, but the only thing you can muster is a whimper.

He continues to stare at your face, until slowly and gradually a smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he lets out a giggle. He waves a hand in front of your face and cocks an eyebrow, in an attempt to bring you out of your daze. You're so confused you could die.

Was the last few minutes just a joke? Was he just mocking you-? He must have been. Nothing is as good as it seems, and Hwang Hyunjin couldn't be any different. Maybe he was just a self centered jerk under the dreamy romantic aura he carried. It would be easier to start hating him than to continue helplessly liking him, right?

You barely register Hyunjin putting your spiral notebook down on the bench to gently rip out the page with the poem. He folds the page in two and then hands you your notebook back.

"As the co-leader of the club, I reject your entry. You must write another poem, I'm confiscating this one." You cock your head. What is he saying? Is this still, all part of the joke?

"What- what are you- what are you gonna do with it?" You manage to spew out a sentence, not that it was the most important question to ask. Hyunjin raises his shoulders.

"Put it on my wall? Tape it in my journal? I'll find a place." He answers nonchalantly. You see his eyebrows dance on his face as he thinks for a second, then his expression tells you he got an idea. "Or... I could give it back to you... If you visit the seashore with me."

You side eye him and furrow your brows. "To do what?" He raises his shoulders again.

"I need inspiration for all of the poems I'm gonna start writing about you." He's calm, almost too calm as he says it, and he begins to smile once more as he watches your mouth hang open again.

"Are you making fun of me?" You finally ask, and Hyunjin looks downright offended. He raises his eyebrows, and comically cranes his neck back, pointing a finger at himself and then at you.

"ME? Make fun of YOU? Why? I'm... asking you out on a date..." And you're somehow supposed to process that information without finding a million excuses why this shouldn't be happening and wouldn't be happening. But it is happening.

"So you're not joking?"

"No?" He replies shaking his head.

"You're being serious."

"Yeah.." He replies, this time nodding his head.

"Seriously?" He laughs, finding you adorable.

"Seriously." Suddenly, the situations is a little too real and too much to take. Your hopelessly romantic and yet heavily insecure brain almost ruined a moment you could have only dreamt about, and you almost thought Hyunjin was a jerk. You hide your face in your hands and let out a muffled whine. Hyunjin is extremely amused, and feeling a little playful, he comes closer and cocks his head close to your face. You can't see him, but you peek through your fingers when you hear him speak again. "So is that a yes?" You watch glimpses of his face between your fingers and nod back at him. "Great then!" His face is so bright, and you can't hide your eyes from his anymore. Today, you saw how his eyes looked with a storm in them, but now they look different once more - like a sunrise above a beach, it's all so golden and full of life, sweet like honey and rich like gold. Warmth spreads through your chest, and he places a hand gently on your arm. His thumb caresses your bicep for a few seconds. "I'll text you the details."

You feel drunk, as his touch leaves your body but still lingers. He walks away to his next class, but he turns around briefly to remind you of your task.

"And don't forget you have to write a new poem until Thursday!" He waives the page he stole from you between his fingers and laughs his ass off at the exasperated sigh you give in return and the angry squint and pout.

You're pretty sure he didn't believe you when you said that poem was an accident. And he never will, even when you try to explain it to him on your first date. And on the second date you swear it wasn't on purpose, and on the third date you tell him for just how long you've liked him and how you tried to let him go. And on the fourth date he tells you he knows your poem wasn't an accident no matter what you think or say. And on the fifth, you agree with him.

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