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dramallamas · 9 days

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HIII!

I would like to know if you started writing the jwds AU orrr are you not..?

i'm alive but i had a whole typical ao3 author curse moment so... yeah. save your £9.5k and don't go to uni and also make sure to get a health check up kids!

ANYWAY. Technically I have a whole chapter ready to go but nothing is complete. It would be 1/? for a while as Netflix very kindly decided to take Beyond Evil OFF OF NETFLIX so i have to look for a new source :/

So for now I present the unedited first chapter as ao3 is currently down and I haven't finished going through this bitch yet:

The world has been god awful for a long time, but this is an extra level of fucked that, quite frankly, Juwon could really do without.

His father would hate him even more if he saw him now: standing in front of his bathroom mirror with blood gushing out of his nose like a waterfall. One of his hands clutches the edge of his sink as he leans over it and the other is pressed against his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to stop the flow of it. He refuses to look in the mirror, afraid that he will see the hellish version of him grinning like a maniac. He can hear it, though, the taunts it throws out to try and lure him into a false sense of security.

He must be one of the first people to be overcome with this sudden infection because there has been no records of people having the same symptoms in anything other than some unreliable chat rooms in the smallest corners of the internet. Nothing they said was useful anyway. He knows what he is becoming: a monster, creature of darkness and nightmares, freak of nature, something along those lines.

That is the goal of his sadistic reflection: to get him to turn. He won’t let it win, though, of course he won’t. He is human and will fight this infection until the bitter end, and maybe there is a small chance it will go away.

The last of the blood drips from Juwon’s nose and he slowly removes his hand, staring at the blood coating it. It’s so gross but he cannot look away from how he has turned his bathroom sink into what looks like a crime scene. Immediately he washes the blood off his hand, face and the sink whilst pointedly ignoring his reflection who offers deal after deal in an attempt to claim his soul in exchange for something he wants, such as freedom from his father, or the answers to any case.

It’s tempting, Juwon won’t lie, but it’s not worth giving up his life for. It is a deal with the devil, a double-edged sword, and something Juwon would never trust. That thing in the mirror just wants him to surrender himself to his curse so it can turn him into a horrific monster.

Juwon leaves his bathroom and goes to collapse on his sofa. There’s still the taste of his own blood on his tongue from where it had seeped into his mouth earlier but he makes no move to change it. Instead, tiredness seeps into his bones as he melts into the sofa. The excessive nosebleeds always leave him exhausted.

For now, these moments of relapse are the majority and worst of it. It’s messy and uncontrollable (causing some sudden bathroom breaks in public settings) but Juwon knows it could be worse by a long shot, and that it will be. He takes a small comfort in the fact he hasn’t hit that stage yet.

There is a part of him that is curious as to what type of monster he would be. Would he constantly be seeing red, hurting people and killing them? Or would he be relatively calm, but just horrific looking? And what monster-skills would he develop? Strength? Speed? Night vision?

However, this curiosity is not enough for him to give in. He has to fight this, even on the days where he would rather cave in.

One shit day followed the next and now he’s stuck in a small town called Manyang, who’s only reputation is for a serial murder case. Not that that case doesn’t interest him. On the contrary, he intends to solve it despite it going cold 20 years ago, and quite fortunately he already has the perfect suspect in mind: Lee Dongsik.

Lee Dongsik is someone he is somewhat familiar with already, having read his file. He was actually arrested for being the prime suspect of the aforementioned case but was let go due to lack of evidence and a perfect alibi. Juwon suspects foul play. Something doesn’t add up with this and everything he knows revolves around this man. Quite fortunately, Lee Dongsik is also an inspector at the substation Juwon has been stationed.

However, Juwon quickly learns that Dongsik is the most infuriating man on the face of the earth. He takes every opportunity to tease him and never gives him a straight answer. It’s very hard to have peace when he is around. He couldn’t have asked for a more annoying partner.

To make matters worse, this increase of stress and frustration is not helping his affliction. His nosebleeds have become more frequent, meaning he has to make some creative yet believable excuses or just slip away while they happen. He has to carry a handkerchief or a tissue packet with him everywhere to clean his face the best he can afterwards. He’s lucky that nobody has questioned it beyond it being him not wanting to socialise or just a regular, totally human, nosebleed he gets every now and then when they see small traces of blood on his face.

His reflection, inner monster, whatever it is, has also been more of a menace than before. It laughs at him and is trying harder and harder to get him to accept his situation and let go. It promises him answers to the cold case, recognising Juwon’s desire to solve it. However, Juwon knows that even if he got them, they would only be self-satisfactory and he couldn’t use them in the real world.

The most concerning part is that his ‘monsterization’ is progressing quicker than anticipated and there has been a new development. Every now and then, his eyes will match his reflection’s: a deep black that absorbs all the light entering it. In this state, he feels like he is going crazy and wants to thrash out at anything and everything. He is still in control, but is more prone to acting upon impulse. This is a danger that he can only recognise in hindsight and then clean the aftermath of it, such as tidying the kitchen he made a mess of or covering up a small hole he punched in the wall. Juwon is glad that nobody has seen those moments of weakness.

Still, Juwon does his job to the best of his ability and doesn’t let it stop him from pursuing the truth and justice. He can manage his condition just fine and won’t let it get to him.

It’s not long before things start to go south in Manyang. This girl, Kang Minjeong, 21 years old, is drunk and cuffed to the seats in the substation. Juwon immediately doesn’t like her, but holds himself back from showing it too because clearly everyone else here cares about her a lot, and he could do without the entire town hating his guts.

In her drunken state, she whines at Dongsik that she ‘wasn’t cheating on him’ whilst she was out. Does that mean that Dongsik and her are together? It feels a bit weird but Dongsik is an insane person so he doesn’t put it past him. It would actually make sense considering how much Dongsik cares about her and puts up with as she throws a tantrum like an immature teenager. It shouldn’t bother him about Dongsik’s relationship status, but he justifies it as something relating to the case and he has to find out everything he can about this man in order to solve it. He will have to verify this new information later when he gets the chance.

She eventually sneaks out some hours later when nobody's looking. She must still be wandering around and not home considering her keys are still on the floor, which he only noticed in an almost-argument with Dongsik (a regular occurrence by this point).

Juwon doesn’t stick around to see what happens that night. He has new points to add to his case wall and would benefit from a decent night's sleep in regards to his plans for tomorrow.

The following morning, Juwon gets up before the sun does and drives down to Manyang to be there by 5am. He sits in his car outside of Dongsik’s house, waiting for him to leave. He needs to have a talk with him.

He doesn’t have to wait long as within 5-10 minutes, Dongsik walks out of his front door. Commenting on why he is up so early seems stupid, as it’s more than likely Dongsik would probably ask “why are you up at 5am to just park outside my house and watch me? Are you a stalker?” Frankly, Juwon would rather avoid that conversation.

They end up taking a walk around the neighbourhood, or as Dongsik calls it, a ‘thorough tour of our jurisdiction’. He isn’t sure why, considering he is familiar with most of Manyang by now and knows all the points of interest that he needs to know. They see rows of houses, Dongsik pointing out the odd thing or two but for the most part it is a completely normal, nice-looking neighbourhood, at least on the surface level. It wouldn’t be too horrible to move here.

He expresses the intention to do so to Dongsik, who doesn’t seem that bothered by it, but more curious about Juwon.

“Just what about me interests you so much?” Dongsik asks, stepping into Juwon’s personal space. In any other situation, the question would be seen as flirtatious, but with Dongsik, one is never certain with his intentions. He doubts it’s that, though.

“I don’t think it’s that I’m a cop,” he continues, “perhaps that I’m a suspect?”

The question hits the nail on the head, but Juwon isn’t surprised. It was clearly rhetorical and Dongsik also knows that the answer is yes.

“Let me ask you,” he says instead, flipping Dongsik’s question back at him, “just what about me interests you so much?”

There has to be something, as there is no logical reason Dongsik would keep toying with him for as long as he has. What could interest him to play along (though Juwon isn’t playing) with Juwon?

He presses on, “you seem dying to know what I was up to at Foreign Affairs.” He doesn’t back down, not to Dongsik. He couldn’t care less what he thought of Juwon nor what he found at Foreign Affairs but if there is a button Juwon can press, he will press it.

Dongsik is about to respond, but something catches his eye behind Juwon. His face falls. Dongsik pushes past him and Juwon turns to follow; that’s when he sees it. Minjeong’s fingertips, exactly like the case from 20 years ago.

He feels frozen, rooted in place as he debates on what to do. It’s not fear, more pure shock that takes over him. He mentally shakes himself. This case has been busted wide open and as both a police officer and the first one to discover these fingertips he should call it in.

Then he hears it, the choked back sob coming from Dongsik that makes him hesitate, look up from his phone and stare at the man who has lost someone who he now knows was like a daughter to him.

He feels… something. An urge to comfort Dongsik, tell him he’s sorry and that he isn’t alone. It really hits him how this man has lost so many people including all his family. Juwon still has his dad, even though he is not a great one.

Damn it, he shouldn’t think like that. That kind of thinking is dangerous especially when Dongsik is the culprit. This has to be an act, in order to gain some sympathy and attempt to convince him otherwise.

Too bad, Lee Dongsik, too bad. Juwon calls in the fingertips.

Juwon doesn’t hang around much after the rest of the local police force arrives. He can feel the telltale signs of his monsterization taking over and needs to get out of sight fast.

He rushes back to his car and drives back to his flat as fast as legally possible. He makes it, but not without getting blood in his car and on his clothes. He punches the code to his apartment so aggressively, it’s a miracle that it isn’t broken, and then stumbles through the door, clutching at the wall for balance as the voice in his ears grows louder and a pins-and-needles like tingling appears under his skin.

That’s new, and bad. He can only feel it in certain parts of his body, from the tips of his left hand up his shoulder to the side of his neck and face and top of his head, as well as all along the left side of his torso. It hurts where his clothes touch his skin and hair sticks to his forehead. Any type of contact creates a new kind of horrific pain.

He knows his eyes have gone dark, and that he probably looks like he has just committed a murder with all the blood on him. But that is the least of his worries when in his mind he is reaching out and screaming for someone or something to help him and take the pain away, someone other than his inner monster. He leans his right side against the wall while the tears that have spilled over burns against his cheeks.

He stares at his bloodstained hands and thinks he sees something grow through his skin, changing his hand into something else, but he isn’t sure. He feels so light headed that he could easily just be imagining it.

Slowly, he slumps down the wall, sitting near his thankfully closed front door. He aches so much that it’s driving him insane. Juwon’s fist collides with the wall, creating a decently sized hole in the once flawless white paint, small chips of plaster and paint falling to the floor.

#beyond evil #괴물 #jwds #kdrama #han juwon #lee dongsik #mwah there u go

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the-contraire-of-zugzwang · 2 years

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The mysterious Benedict society and France is a love story and English-speaking people are missing out on the shit-show which is very sad.

Whole paragraphs missing/mistranslated because why not ? Especially in the first book if I remember well but there are missing chunks in all.

Riddle of ages ??? What do you mean ??? It does not exist actually, it is an hallucination. An enigma book ??? No idea what you're talking about-

I had to order them in English which wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the fact that English and French book spines don't face the same direction. And now my bookshelf is ugly. Like I could put the English books upside down like I do with other series, but then the characters would be upside down which would be worse. This is an assault on the eyes.

Living Institute for the Very Enlightened becomes Very Original Boarding School (TOPS in French).

Consequently, the reverse acronym is now "spot" instead of "evil", so now Reynie goes on an aside about despotism ? Yup it's been 10 years but I still don't get it

They removed the morse code to guess Mr Benedict's name at the end of the first book. They kept the note saying the enigma was there, but they took the enigma away. I tried to figure it out for years before seeing a post on tumblr and i am still upset about that.

That one time in the perilous journey, when Curtain says "Au contraire" and Constance thinks he's calling her. The rest of the book is already in french, so Curtain is just speaking in italics. For no reason. And it also looks like Constance has never heard people talk before because, frankly, au contraire is such a basic expression that gets used pretty regularly.

Reynie's orphanage cat Seymour is never mentioned until the third book. Which is harmless but quite sad too idk I like that cat and it would have been cool not to be jumpscared by a random cat mention that never gets mentioned again in prisoner's dilemma.

These are just at the top of my head-

#istg if i did anything like that in my translation class my teacher would have my head #the mysterious benedict society #mbs #tmbs

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burning-sol · 5 months

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This is mostly for MY reference but if you want to take cues from this then feel free! This is just how I think abt tieflings appearances... The main thing here really is the little gems that I've become very attached to.

Not every tiefling has them but they can grow in little clusters of different shapes and sizes on their horns and their tails.. They basically just start off small and grow larger over time, and they're obviously not incredibly fragile though you would still want to be wary about shattering them. Uhhh idk how biology works but maybe its this mix of crystal structures and blood vessels on the inside? If you shattered one it would be gushing blood and you'd basically have to reach inside to clean out the crevice or else you could risk getting a very very nasty infection. It'd just have a hollow little section thatt a child could probably recover just fine from naturally, it'd grow back, but an adult would take a lot longer to heal and would likely have a significant scar there. When undamaged, they glow a really clear, solid colour, but when shattered it fills with blood and you could probably see the veins inside it'd be kind of freaky.

The gems glow and dim based on different factors like how dark it is, if they're using magic, how tired or healthy a tiefling is- there's some variance obv based on what you think looks cool or want to convey. And of course, the little tail orb MAY be detachable, depending on the tiefling. At a certain size the gem just kind of detaches, ig it'd sorta be like a tooth falling out? And it'll hover at an "anchor point" on the tail. It'll wiggle back and forth within that, but it'd take quite a bit of effort to pull it from that unless the tiefling loosens it by their own will. Removing a tail orb causes a lot of anxiety though, so unless there's some kind of (to be blunt) mental illness there, most tieflings aren't going to displace it without good reason or for very long. And.. IG a bit more about that under the cut, it goes into triggering territory.

Like, frankly, removing an orb forcefully and for an extended period of time IS torture. In any good society, that act would be OUTLAWED, that's ABUSE, hence why I state that you would have to have something seriously messed up with your head for you to be able to just remove it and be fine. AKA you wouldn't be fine, I'd have to imagine you were just horribly abused as a child. Now, in MY fantasy world, everyone is niceys so everyone just has the sense of humanity to not do that. Even if you're evil..

But if your world ISN'T like that, it IS something to consider whether tieflings have legal protection against that form of abuse, because it's REALLY important. Also something to consider would be how much information there is on tiefling's gems and first aid surrounding that, because I can imagine in a less than ideal society, no common textbooks cover that, leading to preventable illnesses and deaths for tieflings. Just some optional little tidbits for you to steal from me should you wish that in your stories and worlds and whatever.

#📚 my posts #🖍️ art #cw blood #cw abuse mention

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unstablerk800 · 1 year

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𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤

Rating: Explicit Pairing: RK900/Fem!Reader (third person) Tags (tagging as I go): post-android revolution, kidnapping, angst/fluff, hurt/comfort, Stockholm syndrome, protective RK900, manipulation, solitary confinement, blood, injury, violence, gore, illnesses, RK800, RK800-60 and RK900 are considered siblings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements Read on Ao3. (Total chapters: 12.)

Chapter 01. 🔽 Chapter 02. Chapter 03. Chapter 04. Chapter 05. Chapter 06. Chapter 07. Chapter 08. Chapter 09. Chapter 10. Chapter 11. Chapter 12.

Word count: 6,944

The natural order of the world was established anew after RK900 was activated. 200,000 of them was enough to hack themselves into everything and destroy half of America. So humans became what they should be in the new world order. They became the slaves, and androids were their new masters.

She'd been picked up at a camp where humans were gathered to slowly die at their own paces, so she should consider herself very lucky. It was almost Christmas, so the leading cause of death was the freezing cold at the camp. She was emotionlessly hauled across the camp and tossed in a car by an RK900 in the clothes she had been dragged from her home, the rifle still in his hands, preventing her from fighting back, but she was exhausted, thirsty and hungry. Spirit? Long gone. Death almost... brushed her cheek by the time she had been saved.

She didn't feel saved, though.

She was roughly manhandled through a building by the same RK900. At least he settled the rifle down at the entrance; it was not like he'd need it with her, if need be, he could easily overpower her. She'd seen another RK900 kill a man with one blow. She was sure she wouldn't last long in a fight, so she simply didn't even think of fighting him.

She couldn't even cry when he ripped the clothes off her body. She didn't even look up at him as he observed her form, walking around her slowly, sizing her up like a predator. She was wondering what he was thinking about; did he pick her from the crowd randomly? Was he checking her out as she used to look at goods at a store? Was he pleased with her? Would he kill her if he wasn't?

She felt small and powerless in his presence, and she was terrified, but she couldn't quite determine if she was shaking from fear or from the cold that seeped right to her bones. It felt like winter tucked itself right inside her skeleton. Frankly, dying in a blink by his hand if he didn't like her would be an act of mercy.

He pushed her under a lukewarm shower first and she started to sob then. She was so cold and the shower almost hurt, but it also felt so, so good. He didn't care about the sobbing mess she had become, even if it was her first real reaction to what was happening to her; he just started to scrub her clean with a washcloth. His motions were swift and harsh, her skin quickly turned pink, it felt like he was attempting to remove a layer of her very skin. And he didn't show mercy even to her softest parts.

But she didn't resist.

She was not aware, but she was constantly monitored. Once he determined her flesh was warm enough, he turned the hot faucet a bit more up. She was shaking less, but she carefully avoided his eyes as he rubbed the warmth back into her body. His fingers felt hot, and she knew that couldn't be; androids ran at room temperature at best.

He didn't say anything as he tilted her head to face him. An evil sneeze started to tickle her nose and she tried to restrain it by scrunching it up, to no avail. She turned away from him in the last second; God knew what he'd do if she covered him with her bacteria. She reluctantly turned her head back, and he gripped her chin again, tilting her head from left to right, observing her. She was very careful not to look him in the eyes. She was too scared to.

Then he applied pressure, forcing her to let the warm water fall on the top of her head.

She closed her eyes and her lips trembled. It was too hot but she was afraid to say so. He didn't seem like he would care about her complaints, either. His fingers came up against her scalp and her knees trembled at the touch. After being handled so roughly by other RK900s, after being at the camp completely alone, this felt positively... nice.

He must've decided he'd let her rest in the tub. Because that was what he was doing. Filling the tub. He had a firm grip on her shoulder as he pushed her down, and he was met with no resistance as she sunk down to sit. She stared at how the water fell down, and he left her there alone.

She didn't even notice until that moment how tense her muscles were. She pulled her legs up to her chest and leaned her forehead against her knees, hiding most of herself with her arms crossed around her.

She started sobbing again.

She'd thought of all the horrors that happened in the near past. The raids were brutal, anyone resisting got killed on sight, the very few who remained were transported to the camps which humans used to destroy androids. The theory that travelled from lip to lip was that they've successfully caught the deviant named Markus, but something must've happened at CyberLife, because he'd managed to wake up – and with that, he woke up hundreds of thousands of androids at the facility. There were so many that the guards at CyberLife were vastly outnumbered, and so were the rest of Detroit. It had been murmured that Markus connected to CyberLife's servers, and awakened all sleeping androids at once all over the globe. And he also awakened the brand new, ridiculously overpowered RK900 series.

Any other android who approached a human didn't instill as much fear as an RK900 did. They were unbelievably fast in combat, and they were basically unstoppable. Science fiction movies often played with the idea that machines would turn against humans. Well, it happened, and it did not go down well.

She lived alone when one of them broke down her door. Since she was aware of the news, she didn't fight back at all, hoping she could persuade the one who grabbed her roughly wouldn't kill her immediately. At the camp she thought so many times that she should've died in her home, fighting. Dying miserably out in the cold was so much worse.

She felt fingers grab her hair. Her head had been pulled upwards and roused her from her sleep. She didn't even realise she drifted off. Confused, she hummed to herself as the hand applied force, pulling her hair. She didn't want it to hurt, so she complied, raising her head and avoiding his gaze. He put his left hand's middle finger on her chin, pushed it down so she'd open her mouth, and popped a pill on her tongue.

She had no idea what that was. Swallowing it would be a terrible idea, but not complying sounded more horrifying, so she swallowed it instead. He nudged her chin with his index finger now, realising he wanted to check if she'd mimicked swallowing but kept the pill under her tongue. She opened her mouth and lifted her tongue. He let her hair go and stood up again.

A glass of water appeared in her vision. She took it - careful not to touch his hand -, and she gulped it down eagerly. It wasn't as cold as she expected, but it was water and she was thirsty. He reached for the empty glass and left again before she could thank it.

This was odd. Why did the world's most sophisticated android need a human for? Why did he bring her here? Sniffling, she stared at the pouring water again as it made ripples over the surface. She started to feel warmer, but with it, she also started to feel lightheaded and very tired.

She had a temperature. She wasn't aware, but he knew. He analyzed her ever since he picked her up from the ground by her arm at the camp.

Her eyes burned as she tried to stay awake, but she soon closed them even as she heard footsteps come in the bathroom again. Everything was sleek and mechanical, the tub porcelain while the walls and the floor were made of cold steel. There was nothing human-like in this space. She felt so awkward sitting there.

The water stopped but she didn't glance up. A part of her vividly imagined he'd walk over and drown her in the tub. Every nerve was on fire until she felt fingers in her wet hair again. She shivered. He was massaging her scalp, and the scent of shampoo hit her senses. It smelled good, so good. She cracked an eye open but didn't move as his fingers massaged her head.

She fell asleep again.

There was a tug on her arm and she flinched, making a soft noise of complaint before a hand gripped her neck.

She froze and her pulse immediately doubled.

His grip wasn't hard. It didn't need to be. He simply rested his palm and all five fingers against her throat. He didn't make breathing harder at all, just pulled her backwards, making her tilt her head, before he washed the shampoo out of her hair with the help of the shower head.

The warmth relaxed her tense muscles again. She let him hold her there as she watched the ceiling with exhausted, sunken, sick eyes.

She was sure he was aware she wouldn't be able to stay awake for long.

He let her throat go once he was finished washing out the shampoo from her hair. Her surroundings were hazy, the edges of her vision blurred. Exhaustion started to take over. She barely felt him move her around and yet, the next time she opened her eyes she was sitting upright on something much softer than the tub. Her fingers wiggled, touching the bedding under her palms. There was a constant noise that kept on going, and she felt warm air over her head. When did he bring her out from the bathroom? Her body felt dry, and even her hair was only half dump by now. He was drying it as she was trying to keep awake there. She glanced down at herself and saw that she had been wrapped up in a thick, fluffy, white towel.

Fingers ran over her scalp, through her hair. She shivered over and over again as the strands were softly pulled. She shouldn't feel good because of this, right? But she did. Nobody took care of her like this before. Compared to the coldness of the camp, this was Heaven.

Perhaps she died out there. Perhaps she wasn't alive anymore, but she didn't even know.

When her hair was dry, he moved away from behind her. She barely could keep herself up, sitting – and that was when she belatedly realised that she wasn't leaning against the wall, but his chest –, but he did not take long to return. He crouched in front of her, gently getting a hold of one of her ankles to slide panties up on her legs and then thighs. She knew she should stand up, but she couldn't, but it was fine, because he stood and helped her while he pulled the garment up on her form. The thought that if he was a human, he probably wouldn't dress her up like this, and the thought made her feel strange. RK900 ever so gently removed the towel from her form, then dressed her in a nightgown, still holding her up by one arm.

Just when the nightgown fell down after her arms were put in the correct holes, her knees gave way. The android's grip tightened just a little to prevent her from falling down, before he sat her down, steadying her with his other hand. She still couldn't look him in the eye, even if she felt he was scanning her face again. He manuvered her around and lied her down in the bed, pulling the blanket up until it covered her until her neck.

She sighed, and drifted off immediately.

Before she opened her eyes the next morning, she thought that the entire android uprising was just a fever dream. Quite possibly could've been that, because she felt she had a fever. The dull headache was what roused her from her sleep, and she whined pathetically as she covered her eyes with her hands. It was broad daylight, the room was too bright for her eyes. A quiet noise could be heard and when she peeked out from behind her fingers, she noticed that the android who grabbed her at the camp was pulling the drapes closed to let her eyes adjust to the light.

She pushed herself up to sit, watching him. He didn't have the black and white jacket on now, just the black turtleneck with the black pants and shoes. He looked intimidating, and big. Too big.

But as soon as he turned to look at her, she lowered her eyes.

He moved towards her and she pulled herself together, as if she could disappear if she tried hard enough. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a mug from the nightstand beside her. She followed his movement with her eyes. He had impossibly long fingers. It seemed that his hand, just like the rest of him, was big. She involuntarily swallowed, remembering last night, when those fingers ever so gently wrapped around her throat. How easily he could crush her windpipe, she wondered in silence, shivering at the thought.

He offered her the mug and she looked at it in disbelief. It was tea. Strawberry, if she could smell it right. This definitely was a fever dream. She raised a shaking hand and got a hold of the mug at it's bottom while he still had his fingers around it at the top. She was too scared to look at his face, but she couldn't resist expressing her gratitude.

"Thank you", she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

Strange that this was the first sentence she'd told to a machine that probably had killed many.

He said nothing as he observed her drink the tea. She couldn't resist, it was just the right warmth, and as she swallowed it, it felt like it was warming her up again from the inside. She drank it all. He held his hand out for the mug and she gave it back to him, careful not to look at him this time, too. He stood up and walked out of the room, and she snuggled back down under the covers, closing her eyes, ready to fall asleep again.

But the footsteps, shortly after, approached the bed again. She didn't want to open her eyes. The room would be spinning slowly, and she felt like she would pass out at any second. She felt the bed dip to her left again, but she did not move.

"You need to eat."

She couldn't help the way her surprise twisted her expression. She tiredly cracked her eyes open and took a look at his chest first – God have mercy, he was enormous –, before she noticed the tray resting in his lap.

Strange that this was the first sentence he'd told to a human he picked up for entertainment.

Or, at least, that was what she thought he brought her here for. Why else would any android spare her? She shivered under the heavy duvet, sighing. It would be useless to argue with an RK900, right? Not just useless, but also stupidity. She slowly pushed herself up to sit again, and he silently placed the tray in her lap.

Staring at the plate, she already saw that this meal would be too heavy for her stomach, but perhaps she'd be able to fall asleep more easily afterwards. If she could eat, that is. Picking up the fork, she dug in the mashed potatoes, taking a bite and frowning. It was perfect. He probably calculated when would she awaken, and prepared the food accordingly for it to be just the right temperature for her to eat. But it wasn't just the temperature which was perfect about it. The amount of butter and milk and salt mixed in it, the way it had been mashed to the best texture. It didn't take two minutes to prepare it, either. The planning this meal required confused her, and she only tasted the mashed potatoes.

"Is it bad?"

His quiet question startled her. For a few moments, she froze, unsure what to say. She couldn't just tell the truth right away, and her unguarded expression must've betrayed her. She couldn't ask back why did he take the pains to make this for her. He could've went with a sandwich or just plain bread and water, but no. He took an extra, unnecessary mile for a human. It left her baffled.

"No. It's... it's really good", she admitted quietly, lifting the fork again to eat.

Even though she didn't look in his face and eyes, she still saw he was tilting his head at her reply. It must've left him confused why did she look so surprised, then. She picked up the fork to cut from the roasted chicken breast, and flavours exploded on her tongue when she tasted it. She wasn't a fan of restaurants before the uprising, she only occasionally visited them, and she didn't really care about cooking, either; living on junk food mainly, she had no idea chicken could taste like this. She couldn't even tell what herbs were used, but it was the best she ever had.

It seemed even an android which had been created to win wars could integrate a cooking program that surpassed humans in every possible way.

"This is so good", she mumbled absentmindedly, forgetting for a moment he was there, cutting another piece of the chicken.

It didn't take long to clean the plate. And once that was done, he took the tray from her. How strange. He literally gave her a knife, and she didn't even think of using it for anything other than eating. It only occurred to her as she was lying back down again, now determined to sleep and never awaken again. But alas, he was back. She didn't open her eyes as he stopped beside the bed.

"For your fever."

His tone was quiet, as if he thought she fell asleep already. She cracked her eyes open again, and saw him placing a pill and a glass of water on the nightstand.

So he did scan her. And constantly.

He must've calculated everything. Not just when would she wake up, and how much food she needed to be full, but also when would her fever rise to the temperature which was making her feel bad. She propped herself up on her elbow and took the pill, drank a little water, then she put her head back down and promptly passed out.

The days slowly found a rhythm. As the sickness worked in her body, he was supplying her with everything her system needed to fight it back down quickly and efficiently. At some point, he had given her antibiotics and probiotics. There weren't many words between them; just his occasional warnings that she needed to drink or eat when she was too exhausted to even get up when she heard him approach the bed.

She dreaded the moment she'd feel normal again. What would happen then? She couldn't fake illness to a machine that knew exactly what state she was in.

And then one morning, when she woke up, he wasn't there.

Up until that day every morning he pulled the drapes in because he noticed she didn't like the light hitting directly her face. Now, the drapes were open. She got up from the bed and walked through the apartment.

He wasn't there.

She didn't know what this irrational nervousness was that washed over her, but this just was not right.

In the kitchen, everything was neat and clean. She opened the fridge. It was stacked with food, meats, vegetables and fruits and even some juices, milk... seeing the amount of food let her know he didn't plan on killing her anytime soon. She'd remain here for as long as it suited him.

But what for?

She did her usual bathroom routines, then had breakfast, then made the bed and then... she waited.

The apartment did not have a clock in it. It had no books, no television, no laptops, no tablets, nothing. It was empty, so it must've been brand new. Even the wardrobe wasn't full; it only had a few sets of clothes for him and for her. She frowned at the sight of the shirts and casual pants, then she turned her attention to the black and white android jacket he was usually wearing. She touched the fabric absentmindedly. It felt water resistant between her fingers. Curiously, she leaned a bit closer to smell it. It just smelled new, fresly out from the factory, probably just like him. She observed the glowing numbers, the big RK900 and the ones below it: #313 248 317 – 99999.

She closed the wardrobe and paced around in the apartment again.

And waited.

She was bored, so bored. If she had at least paper and a pen she could've written something down. Her thoughts, perhaps? Or a story to get away from the reality? She paced up and down in the living room again. She stepped to the window and looked out at the street. The window faced towards nothing but a road and whiteness. Did Christmas pass already? Or was it near? While she was ill, it felt like time passed differently; she had no idea how many days passed since she'd been taken from her home.

She couldn't determine the time. It got dark early, and she was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing her dinner when there was a noise from the ante-room. He showed up just a moment later, when she was just covering her mouth with the napkin.

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up as he approached her.

She froze as she was, unsure what he would do, but after just a few seconds, he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her there alone.

She was shocked, and maybe... a little disappointed? He didn't even say a word to her, not like he was talkative until now anyway. Perhaps he scanned her vitals, determined she was okay, and decided he'd leave her alone. The actions left her baffled again.

She cleaned up after herself quickly, then peeked out from the kitchen. To the left, first. The panel next the door signalled that it was open, and he left his rifle beside the open door, as he usually did. The cogs turned in her brain frantically. He left the damned door open and left his rifle there. Was that a test? Would she be fast enough to pick up the rifle, shoot him if need be, and leave without even looking back?

The thought of fighting him made her rebel internally. This machine was nothing if not nice to her. Yes, he was an android, yes, he probably didn't feel anything for her, but he still grabbed her and basically saved her life by feeding her, giving her medication and keeping her alive. Thanking it by blowing his head off didn't sit right with her. Besides, she probably wouldn't be fast enough to pull this stunt off, and who knew what he'd do if she caught her doing it. Or the other RK900s, if they investigated why one of them suddenly disappeared.

She decided to walk in the living room to check if he was there. And she found him. Sitting on the couch. Eyes closed, LED whirring in yellow. She tilted her head as she observed him. Maybe he was recharging after a long day? Was he even aware she was there? Were there cameras hidden in the apartment, did he check them now? All possibilities left her there wondering about everything he was doing – and not doing –, and all of it left her with a dry mouth.

She was bored and lonely. If he would leave every day, would all of this be the social interaction she had? Would he scan her and that was it? Would he make sure she fed herself and her vitals were alright, and nothing else?

She walked in the bedroom and went to sleep.

The next day happened in the same fashion. And the next, the next, the next. She discovered more food in the fridge and she was honestly surprised because she never saw him bring groceries home. Whenever he arrived, he was empty handed, always left the door unlocked, always left the rifle at the door, and always rested on the couch in his weird android way.

And the time had come – too soon for her liking – when she couldn't take it anymore.

Not having anything with her during the day was one thing, but a human wasn't created to be alone for too long. This was solitary confinement, even if she had the best foods in the fridge and more room to move around, even if she could spend hours in the bathroom having a bubble bath without worrying about anything.

He spoiled and punished her at the same time.

And one evening, she had enough of it.

RK900 arrived home just when she finished her dinner. He stopped beside the table as always, she didn't look up in his face as always, but he did his necessary check up as always. When he seemed pleased with her, he walked out, and once she cleaned up quickly, she stalked after him. He was already sitting on the couch, not minding the blanket she had left on the right armrest, eyes closed, LED whirring as he was processing whatever he was processing.

Her heart was beating so hard and fast in her chest as she ever so slowly approached the couch. He didn't notice it; it was like he was out completely, unaware of his surroundings. She was unsure whether she should do this or not, but she craved interaction so much that she couldn't possibly take it anymore. So as quietly as she could, she walked over to the couch, sat beside him and pulled the blanket over herself.

And leaned against his shoulder.

He felt impossibly firm, but she sighed with relief nonetheless. He was real. She couldn't even process how good it felt. It didn't feel like she was in physical contact with a human being for sure, but she wasn't alone, and by God could she appreciate sitting in silence with him like this.

Until the room went dark and she fell asleep on his shoulder.

Movement roused her from her sleep. His shoulder was slipping away from her face, making her almost fall down on the couch. She voiced her complaint in a quiet whimper; she was still half asleep, which granted her the courage and audacity to hold onto his arm in order to keep him there.

RK900 froze.

"What are you doing?"

If anything woke her up properly, it was this question. Snapped at a normal volume, but emotionlessly, in the dark. She withdrew her hands as if she was touching hot coal. Tears welled up in her eyes and she was painfully aware that he probably could even see in the dark.

"I'm-"

She couldn't tell him how lonely she was, right? It would be illogical for a machine like him. It also would sound illogical that she wanted to cuddle to him when he came home because despite him treating her right she still was a prisoner, right? She gripped the blanket with both hands and did all she could in this situation.

She started to cry.

"I just... wanted..."

It was so annoying she couldn't outright tell it to him. She felt embarrassed and stupid about it; who in their right minds would want to be close to a machine like him? Especially to one who went out in the public with his rifle doing God knew what? She angrily wiped her tears away.

"You should go to bed."

His quiet observation – or order? – crushed her remaining wishes to dust. Oh, he was right. She really should. And spend the next day bored out of her mind again. And the next, and the next, until she felt like she'd go insane.

"Yes", she muttered, holding the blanket tightly to her form before she slid off the couch and walked in the bedroom without another word.

She pulled the blanket over her head and sobbed in the pillow. She was so pathetic – pathetic! For even thinking for a moment that he might understand her and her needs. She wasn't here for him to make her feel good, she was there because he kept her there for who knew what. Did he enjoy making her feel like this? Did he enjoy seeing her falling slowly apart? Did he feel some sort of perverted pleasure at the sight of her crumbling down?

She woke up feeling miserable the next morning. She kicked off the blanket – of course she was alone – and bergudgingly walked out to the bathroom. She had to walk across and behind the couch in the living room to do that, and as she did that, she ran her hand in her messy bed hair. Yawning, she opened the door to the bathroom, then she froze and frowned as she turned around to look at the ridiculously big black rectangle that hung on the wall, which she'd seen from the corner of her eyes.

"What the fuck", she murmured, shocked.

Was that... a television?? When did it get there? Not last night, at least, not before she had pulled her little stunt with RK900. But how could this happen? She cried herself to sleep and while she was in dream land, he put it up there? Was it in the car ever since he returned, he just needed to recharge a bit before he could mount it on the wall? Did he send her to bed because he suspected she'd be too excited about it, that she wouldn't sleep at all if she knew what did he bring?

She ran her hands in her hair again and pulled. All these questions had questions and she was rapidly losing her mind to them. Bathroom could wait. She walked around the couch and reached for the remote, turning the telly on.

The stations were all dead.

No matter where she clicked, nothing showed up. There were no news on the news channels, no music channels, no nature channels, nothing. Not even stupid cartoons for children. The telly had 999 channels and none of them worked. She was so confused; why did he bring it here, then? She let the static noise on as she had her usual bathroom break, then walked back to the telly and pushed the button Apps.

Now, there she'd found the usual streaming services she knew by heart. And they had all the shows and movies on them! She wondered why was this the case; perhaps when the RK900s overran the country, they didn't think a news channel would be useful, as androids shared information with each other much faster?

She chose a show and started to watch it.

It was almost overwhelming to hear a human voice after such a long time. She hadn't heard anything other than just a few words lately, and this had such a good impact on her mood. She ate her breakfast watching the telly, still in the nightgown. Then she ate the lunch, there, too. By the time he arrived, she finished the dinner sitting there, and for once, she didn't feel at all intimidated by his presence. This time, he stopped in front of the couch beside her, taking a few seconds to scan her as per the usual, then he sat down beside her and let out a soft, quiet sigh.

It was miraculous how her attention shifted from the show to him as soon as he arrived. She'd lost the story the moment she felt him stand beside her, and it got even worse when he sat down.

She recalled how it felt to snuggle up to his arm, and she was craving to do it again. There was a dull ache in the pit of her gut that got worse and worse with each passing minute until she completely forgot about the show and chanced a look at his form.

He didn't have the jacket on. Every artificial muscle had been enhanced by that high collared shirt, and she had to realise that it only made him all the more intimidating. But at the same time, strangely... she felt safer now that he was there beside her.

Biting her lower lip, she chanced a look at his face, risking the very first eye contact in forever.

She was sitting on his left side, so she couldn't see his LED, but the way he had his eyes closed, let her know that he did what he always had done, every evening. Recharging, updating, scanning himself for problems – who knew? What mattered was that he wasn't paying any attention to her, and she could do whatever she wanted because he wouldn't know.

The thought was unbearably tempting.

Her eyes wandered on his hands, rested neatly on his thighs. He looked completely relaxed – except for his unnaturally straight back. She observed his hand and fingers, the fake veins that could be seen, slightly emerging from his synthetic skin. She knew the skin was artificial, and so were the veins, but it looked so realistic. She wondered if it'd be warm to the touch, or would it be room temperature as it usually was for any other android. Or maybe a bit cooler, because he was outside in the cold?

She swallowed nervously at the thought that emerged from her mind. It'd be insane to do. Crazy. Potentially life threatening. Who knew how would he react if she touched his hand, really? But she wished she could do it. She wished she could stroke those fingers that grabbed her out in the camp to take her here, that washed her when she was on the brink of passing out, that nursed her back to health, that brought this silly television for the human who desperately needed entertainment.

Was he aware that she was just as desperate for physical contact?

Probably. RK900 wasn't the world's most sophisticated android for nothing.

Despite her cravings, she decided to only lean against his arm, like last night. She turned the volume down a bit, and didn't fight sleepiness when it took her.

For the second time in two days, movement woke her up. For the second time, she whined in complaint, but she didn't reach out to grab him this time.

"You should go to bed."

His monotone, almost completely emotionless voice made her feel miserable again. RK900 didn't need the remote to turn the telly off, he could connect to the telly to do it himself, and thus, they were quickly left in the dark without the soft light of the show. She was so sad they were here again, but she didn't dare to object.

"Yes", she sighed quietly, then got off the couch and made a beeline to the bedroom and the bed, hiding under the covers to cry herself to sleep again.

Days passed in a similar manner. She'd always snuggle up to his arm and fall asleep like that, he'd always wake her up and tell her to go to bed, and she'd comply. Even if she wanted to say no, even if she wanted to throw a tantrum, she tried to make her best with the little physical contact she was basically stealing from him.

Until one morning, he was in the kitchen, waiting for her to come out for her breakfast.

He startled her, even if it probably wasn't his intention. She was so used to spending the entire day alone that him being there came as a shock. The breakfast was already waiting for her at the table with a nice cup of tea, and he was sitting just beside that chair. She still avoided his eyes; she'd been there for who knew how long and never made eye contact with him. Somehow it felt disrespectful to her.

Sitting down, she sipped the tea, humming when she discovered that it was the same tea which he'd made for her on her first day here, and that it was the perfect temperature once again. She quickly devoured her breakfast, and tried to ignore that he was even there. She couldn't even imagine what was the reason of him being there. Maybe it was a weekend? She couldn't recall how many days she'd been there, but it must've been more than... she couldn't know. Did androids even have days off?

Again, even her questions had questions.

When she stood from the chair though, he did the same. That froze her where she was, and she stared forward as soon as he came in front of her. She was shivering a bit, but she wasn't cold. His mere closeness when he wasn't 'off' could make her react like that.

RK900 lifted her chin with his right hand. She didn't dare to look him in the eye; her pulse picked up and her lips trembled, as always, when he got too close to her – and the touch felt nice, so very nice, that she felt like her insides would turn to jelly. He ever so gently stroked her chin with his thumb before he withdrew his hand and lifted up his other hand to show her something. She glanced down at it, mortified what she'd see. Thousands of possibilities ran through her mind, one more horrifying than the other. A knife? Poison? A gun? Someone's head?

It was a collar.

Her eyes went wide at the sight. It was a very neat design, though; it was visibly padded with a soft material on the inside of it, the edges were golden, and it had the same triangles on it as it appeared on the arm band on android's clothing. Except, it was shining with a soft, golden light, not with blue as the arm ring on the jacket, around RK900's right arm. The collar could've been mistaken as jewellery, really; it looked expensive and comfortable to wear, even if it was one and a half inches thick.

But it really didn't make much of a difference.

He still wanted to collar her like a dog.

She didn't know what it meant, and she didn't like it. Even if she suspected that the humans' actions would lead to this if an android uprising turned out wrong, even if she knew that he did whatever he pleased and she wouldn't be able to do anything about it. She knew that whatever she did, he'd put that around her throat, even if she resisted, even if she behaved well. But a part of her felt so humiliated that her eyes welled up with tears.

She saw that RK900 tilted his head at her reaction. She wondered if he even could process the emotional state the mere sight of the collar put her in, then she decided not to think about that because she'd quickly jump from one theory to the other, and she'd go insane.

It was easier to believe he was an unfeeling machine that had no idea what it's actions did to others.

RK900 pulled his synthetic skin back and touched the glowing collar. It opened with a soft click. So it responded to his touch. She watched him doing it, watched him getting a hold on both ends of the collar to put it around her neck. The sight of the light glistening on the gold edges reminded her of those rich women who put collars with diamonds on their chihuahua's. Unsurprisingly, she felt the same. She was as small and as weak as a chihuahua. At least, compared to him.

Defeated, she moved her hands up and he froze for a moment as he was raising the collar up, but she was only moving her hair up to help him. RK900 remained silent as he ever so gently slid the collar around her throat and locked it at the back of her neck. It fitted snugly; it had to be a piece tailored just for her. She closed her eyes. A tear rolled down on her cheek and fell on the back of his hand as he withdrew it.

Her silent compliance earned a gentle touch. He cupped her cheek with his right and stroked the tears away from her face with his thumb. She'd never felt more defeated and humiliated in her entire life. Not even when he put her in the bath when he brought her here. Not even when he saw her stark naked.

"We're going out."

It wasn't a question or a suggestion, he made the plans for the day completely clear and nonnegotiable. She did not have a say in anything he planned for her, but her heart fluttered in her chest when she picked up that he said 'we'. He could've voiced it in so many ways. It could've been an order. 'You're coming with me', or 'I'm going out and you will follow'. But it wasn't.

It was 'we'.

Together.

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh fanfic #detroit become human fanfic #fanfic #dbh Nines #detroit become human nines #RK900 #RK900 Nines #|| I suck at tagging. 😅#|| Can't wait to post about Connor in this one. 💙#Soulless #Soulless fanfic #dbh connor #RK800 Connor #detroit become human connor #|| .........he's not in this chapter yet but he's gonna show up. 👀

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hyaciiintho · 10 months

Note

Are abandoned places meant to feel cold? He can feel the way Riku tenses up the minute they've walked through the door. Well, him only, actually — Sora did little else but hover against his shoulder.

"Think we'll see any of your old drawings?" It was only a way to lighten the mood, and frankly a ghost like Sora couldn't exactly read the room as well as anyone else.

The flashlight flicked left to right, down to the floor then back up.

But it was the sound of baby crying that shot the beam toward a shut door on the furthest end of the room. Sora could nearly sense Riku's blood drain from his face. He leaned, glaring at the door.

No evil presence. Yet.

"I fucking hate children," Sora muttered, body slipping halfway through his shoulder as a means to hide. Forget about it, even though they needed to get through this place.

For Riku's sake.

"After you. . . Ghost Boy."

The old home for children was smaller than he remembered, though perhaps, that was all due to the fact that he hadn't been there since he was practically a toddler, having been adopted when he had just barely turned SIX. The tori gate of which the home was built around loomed overhead in the grand entrance, staircase leading up towards the medical wing foreboding and eerie. Despite the way moonlight filtered through the skylight, the glow only served to further unsettle him for some reason.

There was something... terrible about the MOONLIGHT. He couldn't quite put his finger on it as to why though. His flashlight roamed across tattered curtains and rotten rugs, reflecting off broken glass and shattered mirrors.

"Maybe..." He trailed off, not entirely paying attention to his brother at the moment, far too busy worrying over the things he could SENSE, but could not see. There was that familiar pinprick feeling on his skin that told him something else lingered alongside them.

They were... everywhere. Spirits-- the children. He just couldn't SEE them.

CUE the infant weeping upstairs, sending chills tumbling down Riku's spine.

"How gentlemanly of you." The silveret muttered humorlessly, but pressed onwards regardless, slipping through the gate with a held breath, exhaling only once he reached the first step of the stairs. He felt eyes on him, but try as he may to look around, he found no face to which they belonged. There was only Sora, hovering close by, ever a comforting presence at his side and a constant reminder that he wasn't ALONE.

That feeling of company, however, wasn't exactly comforting when you knew the one spirit that should be present, wasn't the only one watching over you.

"Do you feel that...?" Riku murmured quietly, unconsciously stepping closer to the brunet as a younger brother would seek his older brother's protection. Funny how this place made him feel more like a CHILD than he had ever felt in his life. "It feels like--"

'Ghost boy...?' Riku's breath was caught within his throat, the small, childish whisper coming from his left. Snapping his attention over in that direction, there was only a brief glimpse of a rounded face gazing up at him before they vanished altogether. Though having lasted by a fraction of a second, it was hard to remove the mental image of LARGE, unblinking eyes staring at him widely.

His heart hammered in his chest.

"Let's... let's get up the stairs." His hands trembled lightly on the flashlight, grip tightening in an effort to ground himself further. "Before... before something bad happens."

The memory of being shoved down these very stairs as a child haunted his memory, suddenly, spurring him UP and into the upstairs hallway.

#RIKU ♡ ᵂᵉ'ˡˡ ᵈᵒ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵗᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ; ᴬˡʷᵃʸˢ ᵗᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ | @diademreigned 🌸 Obscura Sora #EXCL.AU | FATAL FRAME 🌸 Riku #//-EATS THIS UP LIKE DESSERT AND ASKS FOR SECONDS- when I saw this in my inbox I legit jumped in my chair with excitement LMAO #I STILL LOVE THEM SO MUCH THE FATAL FRAME AU WILL ALWAYS HAVE SUCH A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY HEART #THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM--//#🌸｡*ﾟ+. QUEUE

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bathsaltsmcgee · 2 years

Text

Ice-E’s Reign of Terror

So, as I stated in the previous post, I didn’t want to do anything productive today, so I was wasting time online, digging around the Deltarune Charity Event, and, among a bunch of other weird stuff, I came across a page that was designed to look like one of those ancient cryptid conspiracy websites from way back in the day, dating back to a time when I didn’t have to duck to walk underneath countertops.

This website page in particular, named ‘Have you seen him?’ appears to be devoted to tracking and identifying dangerous cryptids, and had a promoted interview post featuring our very own Noelle Holiday, detailing her encounter with Ice-E, the reoccurring pizza mascot.

I know.

I can’t believe I just typed that, either.

Anyway, she goes on to recount that, late one night, she went downstairs to get some leftover pizza, but it was quite dark, the light switch didn’t work when she tried it, and then when she looked at the pizza box, the Ice-E mascot on it winked at her.

She then screamed.

I don’t blame her.

Later, she told everyone what happened, but only her sister, Dess, believed her, and they burned the box in the grass to destroy it before burying the remains in the graveyard with Kris and Asriel’s help. A peculiar detail that stood out was that she mentioned Dess had burned Ice-E’ eyes first and that made him look evil, but, frankly, that was an odd thing to do, since they were going to fry the box to ash, anyway.

So, why take out the eyes first?

It’s almost like they’re implying that they were being watched by, or through, the picture of Ice-E and needed to remove the eyes so it would no longer be possible to spy on them through the image.

It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘The eyes are the window to the soul’.

Disturbing.

Furthermore, Dess was inferred to also have had her own encounter with Ice-E and her interview was supposed to be linked at the bottom of the page. However, when clicked on, the link leads to a page claiming that the interview page is either defunct, no longer available, or didn’t even exist at all, all of which are remarkable fishy, considering we still don’t know what happened to Noelle’s older sister, only that she vanished one day without a trace and hasn’t been heard from since.

And it’s not just Noelle and her sister that hold a dislike and fear of Ice-E, either.

Kris, too, has an aversion to that mascot, which has been mentioned offhandedly multiple times in-game, to the point Susie teases Kris that they find ‘Ice-E: The Movie’ far scarier than any of the actual monster movies they could binge at the end of Chapter Two.

Once is a fluke.

Twice is a coincidence.

But three times?

That’s a pattern.

So, not only might there be a possibility that Ice-E, or something that’s using its likeness, is spying on people through the iconography and had a hand in Dess Holiday’s disappearance somehow, there might have been some merit to that ‘Ice-E is terrorizing the town’, crack theory, after all.

I am conflicted by this new development.

Half of me is highly concerned, and the other half just wants to laugh.

#passing observations #shambles and rambles #deltarune #Ice-E #Dess holiday #Noelle holiday #kris #Asriel dreemurr #I swear to god if this is actually the case #Gaster you big weirdo get out of the pizza box #you're freaking out the kids

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scripttorture · 3 years

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

- destroy her sense of self / agency

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

- an affectionate or worshipful disposition towards her captors

- immediate obedience to any command

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The important thing is what you choose to do now.

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

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

Torture survivors are not broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affection is impossible. We are not wired that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I probably sound quite angry here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s a post on the other common symptoms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fela’s music started causing riots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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therealvinelle · 4 years

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Hi! What are your thoughts on Chelsea and her power? Do you see it the way SM presents it? It's just that to me, being able to dissolve all bonds except romantic & veggie ones doesn't make sense. And imo it's not very interesting if all the Volturi are essentially mind controlled prisoners. I choose to interpret it as she can forge feelings between ppl & strengthen/weaken loyalty etc. (her function being similar to Jasper) but not just pull & cut people's strings like puppets. What do you think?

Ooh, Chelsea, good question. I think that Chelsea is first and foremost what keeps a coven of 30+ vampires living together peacefully.

Vampires are not made for communal living. Us humans rely on others for survival, but vampires are self-sustaining. We see in canon that three or four is the size of the average coven, while Carlisle’s coven of seven people is considered extreme, second in size only to the Volturi.

I think without a Chelsea to not only keep the guard loyal to Aro, but harmonious, the guard would quickly have collapsed in in-fighting and petty power struggles. Which in turn would have made it impossible for Aro to have a large coven in the first place, it would probably just have been him, Sulpicia, Jane, Alec, and Renata. Maybe Corin. And probably Carlisle as well, because all hands would be needed on deck here.

Now, I don’t think she’s mind-whammied them. The need for Corin is proof enough of that, because if Chelsea made people into zombies then there would be no need for someone keeping people content with their lives. More, the people we are told she mind-whammies in canon all had very good, non-Chelsea reasons to join Aro. We’re doing this in bullet points, because I think that’s good for legibility:

Marcus was suicidal, and he still is. What Chelsea did, I think, is make Marcus’ loyalty and love for his wife’s brother and best friend overpower his desire to die.

Jane and Alec were rescued by Aro and have him to thank for everything. They would be with him anyway, but considering their young age and power I think it is only prudent to have Chelsea reinforce that loyalty so that Aro can truly rely on them.

Renata’s back story is horrifying, by the sounds of it Lucas is not so much a wholesome family-loving vampire looking out for the descendants so much as he has gone full demon. The family wants a vampire patron, well, every century they must sacrifice a daughter to be his bride. I have tried and failed to think of a non-nightmarish way to interpret Renata’s backstory and I’ve just failed. And Aro’s the one who got Renata out of that horrible situation. They’re each other’s protectors. So again, I don’t think Chelsea needed to do much beyond loosen whatever remaining emotional ties Renata had to her family.

A big deal is made out of how Demetri was frolicking happily in the deserts of Egypt with Amun until that evil Chelsea ruined everything. Well, what we see of Amun is a petty, bitchy, cowardly has-been, who by the sounds of his backstory was a bitch even in Ancient Egypt (he turns a slave to be his submissive sex provider wife, and abandons his coven to die when the Volturi come knocking), frankly he’s an insufferable man. Benjamin and Tia would have left him if he didn’t have them convinced Benjamin needs his protection. Living with Amun sounds beyond lame, so when Aro came offering Demetri a high-ranking spot in his guard where he could travel all the world and have actual purpose, I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind would say no. I think Amun just latched on to the idea that it was all Aro’s mind control vampire’s fault, because otherwise the problem is Amun, and that just won’t do.

Heidi, like many others, had the choice between certain death or the Volturi. Chelsea’s just there to make sure these new recruits are actually loyal to the Volturi, and not just saving their own skin.

So, in other words I don’t think that Chelsea is as omnipotent as people would have her be.

I think that she first and foremost strengthens and weakens relationships. Like the tuning of a volume button, making the things person A likes about person B wonderful, or making the things person A dislikes about C impossible to overcome. Or the other way around, she can cool things by making A not mind the things he dislikes about C quite so much, or the stuff about B that’s pretty cool is now just alright.

So for instance I think she could have made Edward overlook Rosalie’s vanity and respect how she always puts family first, bringing them closer, but she could not make them joined at the hip BFFs. She could make Bella unable to tolerate Alice wanting to play Bella Barbie, but she could not make Bella plot Alice’s murder.

Chelsea makes it so that you see the best in the people you like, and you appreciate it more than you otherwise would, or the opposite. I think her effect serves to give this ineffable sense of belonging, or to remove it, as a relationship is strengthened or weakened.

#chelsea #volturi #twilight #twilight meta #twilight renaissance #hope that answers your question!#runasyoulike #ask

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butwhatifidothis · 3 years

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In the analysis of CaptainFlash's fic, a common theme of the notes is "this is not how Edelgard is", as in the claim is that she is being mischaracterized. But for how much the claim gets thrown, there's little in the way of "this is how she SHOULD be written". And so a question I have is - for fanfic writers, how do you think Edelgard SHOULD be written in order to be true to canon? Assume both from a perspective of BL/GD fic and a BE fic.

Well, I believe that I have put in guidelines at the very least lol, but I get where you're comin' from.

Edelgard is bold, fearless, arrogant, self-serving. She is detached from others for the most part, she does not like being challenged (and not just because the other person is oh so wrong and it just annoys her because how could they be so wrong - no, when her flaws are pointed out to her she does not listen to what the other person says). She allows those in her care to be hurt - sometimes mortally - to get what she wants, and almost always without any guilt or regret. She thinks she's the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most correct. She uses people, lends out her men like tools. Violence is the first option, and peaceful surrender something she will never consider when asked to do so. She looks down on those who oppose her, no matter how they do so, whether they stand their ground and fight to the end or if they try to surrender - that they've fought against her at all is worthy of derision in Edelgard's eyes. She's racist towards the Nabateans and will always kill them. She looks down on religion and those who believe in it. She's deceptive and manipulative. She's selfish and power-hungry. She has no self-awareness, saying things that are factually incorrect without knowing that they're incorrect often, accuses others of doing the morally reprehensible actions that she performs often.

Those above traits ought to always be incorporated into her character no matter what the route - at the minimum, these are the traits an author must work of off from a ground level in the beginning of their fic, because these traits are always present in Edelgard. Of course there are nicer traits - she's a romantic, she's secretly childish (and not in the strictly derisive way either, but that she likes sweets and teddy bears and is embarrassed about it), on the rare occasion she'll try to accommodate for someone (Bernadetta... when she's not setting her on fire that is), she very obviously cares a good deal about family (again, I don't really count Dimitri here for her since she forgot him and even then didn't know they were step-siblings). Edelgard isn't literally, actually, 100% No GMO's evil evil, she has her traits that can make her likeable, but there's a very big reason why she's not just an antagonist, but a villain.

If an author genuinely wants to make Edelgard grow out of a villainous status and be a genuinely good person, they must work through the numerous flaws she has. Her moral bankruptcy, her selfishness, her hunger for power, etc. etc., these must be actually addressed in order for her to have even a chance at being better.

Like, take Flayn's kidnapping for example. In canon, we know that Edelgard willingly hands over the Death Knight to Thales with quite literally no fear in her at all, and we know she must have had, at the very least, some clue as to what the guy was using the Death Knight for (since she teleports to directly where Flayn and the Death Knight are, and will even take them both away if over 25 turns have passed). There are a couple ways to go about this scene in a fic trying to make Edelgard a better person: either 1) have sufficient build-up of Edelgard's very gradually growing morals, have her commit the crime anyway, and then feel a twinge of guilt that steadily grows larger as she grows as a character, or 2) have her commit this crime with little to no guilt at the current state of her character arc, keep building her character until she gains more self-awareness over what all she's doing, and then have her feel guilt. These possibilities (and likely more that I can’t think of at the moment) keep her flaws intact while still allowing her some room for growth; the flaws are acknowledged, and so they can be properly grown out of.

But look at Cap'n's version of events. Remember, in canon, Edelgard was directly involved with the kidnapping. Cap'n, however, not only has it to where Edelgard was forced to hand over the Death Knight, not only was she terrified of Thales while doing so, but she had no idea that Flayn was being kidnapped. It ignores all of her flaws and places her into a status of helpless victimhood, and places her on a higher moral ground than Thales when in reality, in that moment, she is just as bad as him. Her flaws can't be grown out of because they've been erased. This is a prime case of canon!Edelgard being swapped out for Woobiegard - we aren't seeing Edelgard feel guilt for allowing Flayn to be kidnapped, we're seeing Woobiegard feel guilt. Woobiegard doesn't have these flaws that Edelgard has, so she doesn't have to have them acknowledged - which, I don't think needs to be said, is terrible from a fanfiction writing standpoint.

Edelgard has been morphed and twisted so much as to not even really resemble her canon iteration much at all. Woobiegard isn't bold, she isn't arrogant, she isn't morally bankrupt - or at least, isn’t intentionally these flaws, or other flaws - she lacks so many of the deep, troubling flaws of Edelgard because, frankly, they make her too mean and Cap'n very clearly doesn't like that. But, in erasing those flaws in her, instead of writing a fic where Edelgard grows as a person due to the positive influence of Byleth (and, through Byleth, the Black Eagles), he’s writing a fic where Woobiegard feels oh so much guilt for things she just shouldn’t feel guilty for because the poor little darling didn’t have any way of stopping anything.

Edelgard is a conqueror, as said by her creators themselves. She mows down anyone who stands against her convictions and ideals, even if she knows them personally. This is true for all routes, even and especially CF (as it is known as the Military Rule route), and so this must be kept in mind when writing Edelgard whenever someone tries to write her base character as someone better than she is in canon. What Cap’n is doing is basically writing an OOC crack-fic, except he’s doing so unintentionally. He flat out removes every single flaw Edelgard canonically has, pretends as though he didn’t do that, and then flaunts how much Woobiegard has “grown” thanks to Byleth. But, again, since Cap’n doesn’t want to write Edelgard’s flaws he’s never really written Edelgard. It’s the same idea as keeping Claude never fully trusting his friends in mind when writing him - this is a large part of his character, and leaving that out means leaving out a significant portion of who he is as a character. That has to be acknowledged before having him grow out of it, or else you haven’t really written Claude, as that is a huge part of who he is.

So I guess a TL;DR version of this answer is that to properly write Edelgard, one has to keep in mind her flaws and have her actually act them out before having her grow out of them. It’s just that for Edelgard, because of who she is, it would take a lot of time and effort for the fic to realistically have her grow out of all of these flaws (or at minimum grow out of the more severe ones). That stays whether from a BL/GD perspective or from a BE one. Hope that answers the question!

#ask #anti edelgard #Anti-edelgard #Edelgard critical #just to be safe #some more that I couldn't fit in:#it also has to keep in mind that just because CF is Edelgard's route doesn't mean she's suddenly a better person #since she performs MANY of the exact same actions on her route as she performs off it - and that's even with Byleth's ''positive influence''#which is why it can't just start off in CF and be something akin to ''skipping to the nicer version she becomes in canon''#because to be frank there IS no nicer version she becomes in canon - she stays mostly the same no matter what #so it MUST be built upon in the fic itself #(unless of course the fic is upfront about being OOC for Edelgard - which is fine btw! I've done that plenty of times before!)#(it's just good to recognize that THAT'S what you're doing and not that you're ACTUALLY writing her in character or anything)

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chockfullofsecrets · 3 years

Text

okay, this is very much a WIP but i am stressed for the finale and needed something fluffy so! wizard reward tickles!

(extremely mild episode 140 spoilers, no specifics)

He’s making his way up to the third floor of the tower, Fjord and Jester floating alongside, when Jester turns with cautious concern writ large on her face. “Essek, have you been crying?”

Essek is enough of a stranger to tears, until recently, that he cannot tell how she knows. “It is all right, Jester, I am…” He pauses, fishing for a suitable word. “Recovered.”

He looks at Fjord over her head, willing him to convey some kind of guidance. The reason for the aforementioned lapse, one he is hardly sure of his reasons for committing in the first place, is sleeping safe and whole just a floor below in this magical tower of Caleb’s - surely there is no reason to keep the matter open?

Jester beams at him, fangs on full display, and claps her hands together. “I know exactly what will make you feel better, Essek!”

“As do I, I would hope,” he rejoins, gesturing to the vast library that the three of them are currently hovering in the midst of. “I know it is a little late, but I have not had a chance to take the, ah, the full tour, and I am certain I can find something of interest-”

“Essek, no!” Jester interrupts, throwing her arms wide. “You need cheer up tickles!”

At the last word, he instinctively clutches his mantle closer. “Ah - what?”

Fjord snorts. Essek pointedly ignores him. “Jester,” he says weakly, “I am sorry, but frankly I do not think my heart can take any more strenuous activity today.”

“It’s not strenuous,” Jester insists, arms still brandished to either side. “It’s super gentle and relaxing! Caleb loves them!”

His disbelief must show on his face - Jester pouts, and Fjord shakes his head indulgently and steps up to wind an arm around her waist. “He does, truly,” he reassures. Essek watches Jester tip her head back and grin at him, two synchronized sweethearts, and smiles a little despite himself. “Ask him, if you like, I don’t think you’ve seen us do it to him before.”

Frankly, Essek is more familiar with the brand of tickling that sends Caleb scrambling to Teleport away when the Nein so much as look in his direction with particular intent. He’s particularly proud of that Counterspell. “I - I am not quite sure where he is, at the moment, and I do not wish to disturb him.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to be in a room alo-one with him?” Jester wriggles her entire body suggestively and promptly returns to pouting when he refuses to blush. “Come on, Essek, we fought an evil flesh city together this morning, can’t you trust us for like five more minutes?”

Perhaps someday trust will stop seeming so new and fragile to him - but today, looking at both of their faces and seeing no trace of deception, he sighs and lowers himself slowly to the ground. “I suppose it cannot hurt.”

“Yes!” Jester cheers. She shakes Fjord’s arm off and digs his out of layers of clothing, towing him into the library and over to a cozy lounging section patterned in Zemnian reds. “You’re gonna feel so good, Essek, I promise. Take your cloak off!”

There’s little else to do but obey. He drapes it neatly over an adjacent seat, gestures questioningly at his boots and removes them as well when Jester nods authoritatively. “And now your shirt!”

He freezes. “What.”

“Kidding, kidding!” She flops down on the lounge, fluffing out her skirts, and beckons for him. “Come here - Fjord, go away, you’ll make him nervous!”

Fjord glances over at Essek, eyebrows raised in clear amusement. “He’s not a stray cat, Jes.”

“He’s a wizard, it’s practically the same thing!”

“Ah-” Essek starts. Fjord raises his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine, I’ll be over here.” He backs towards the lounge with Essek’s things strewn over it, mockingly cautious. “If I’m allowed to stay in the room, that is.”

“Of course you can stay!” Jester tells him. “You know, I bet this library has a copy of Tusk Love somewhere-”

She breaks off into giggles as Fjord grimaces at her. Essek watches the two of them, back and forth, and almost feels glad when Jester turns back to him with more instructions. “Okay, now you lie down in my lap.”

“Jester.”

“Essek.” She pats encouragingly at her knees.

Essek steps closer and - he doesn’t know how to get in a lap. He frowns, twisting minutely to one side and then the other as he tries to judge the best way of lowering himself-

Jester grabs him around the waist and yanks, pulling his back flush against her, then pushes his chest down with one muscled arm and scoops his legs up with the other.

He stares breathlessly at the ceiling. “Oh.”

A grinning blue face bobs into his field of vision. “I’m gonna tickle you now, okay?”

Essek closes his eyes and braces himself.

Seconds pass without the immediate zinging shock that he’s expecting. He cracks an eye open. “Jester?”

She’s frowning. “You’re so tense, Essek! Just-” She sucks in an exaggerated breath, cheeks ballooning, and whooshes it out. “Breathe.”

He tries. As he’s exhaling, Jester rests one warm palm on his belly and starts to rub gentle circles.

He sighs despite himself - it is a new feeling, but not an unpleasant one, and he can feel himself relaxing as she widens the circles to climb his chest. “Jester-”

“Shh,” she soothes, and trails her fingertips down his chest and back onto his belly. “Aw, does that tickle?”

His breath hitches as she draws her fingertips slowly from side to side, fluttering at his hips where the fabric of his shirt bunches. “I - hnnnh - nnnn-”

His belly twitches involuntarily as he tries to keep himself from laughing outright. Jester clucks in disapproval and goes back to her circles. “Ess-ek, don’t fight it, just relax!”

She stays at his belly this time for what seems like minutes, smoothing gently over an expanse of skin that warms with each pass. Essek feels his breathing slow, his eyes start to drift shut. The weight of heat and proximity press down on him like a blanket, and he thinks he might fall asleep then and there.

Then she tickles him again, that same light trailing of fingertips, and a laugh slips out before he can think to contain it.

She doesn’t stop, tracing light swirls of sensation over his belly and sides, and he can’t quite bring himself to try and stop snickering either - it’s pleasant, the waves of warm tingles radiating up into his chest and down to his hips, and all his muscles are loose and pliant enough that he doesn’t even feel the need to squirm away.

Jester coos at him through the haziness. “Aw, you look so comfy, are you having fun?”

“Mm - heh - mmhm,” he manages.

“Oh, good - I’m glad you like it, Essek. I wanted to do something really nice for you since you did such a good job in Aeor with us, you know?”

There’s a proper response to that, something about how much he owes all of them already and how no amount of good cheer now will see him through his uncertain future, but it’s hard to come up with words at the moment. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back even further as Jester starts to skim her gentle touches up to his ribs. “So many cool spells-”

Her fingers creep up into his armpits, a distinctly more ticklish spot, and he’s halfway through humming out a protest when she shushes him again and starts rubbing slow, careful circles in the hollows with her thumbs. “And when you broke that crystal to make sure we could all rest and heal up - that was really good, Essek.”

“Hnnnn,” he manages.

Every muscle in his upper body feels like jelly. He can’t even twitch as she repeats that same skimming swirl under his arms, just giggles a bit harder. “Doesn’t it feel nice to relax and not have to worry about all that anymore?”

Oh, that’s a question - he thinks for a long, liquid moment, trying to string together a sentence. “Hhh - hehe - mhmm, s’nice.”

“It is! You did such a good job, you should get all the tickles.”

“Tickles,” he nearly purrs. He can feel his ears flicking contentedly.

Jester shifts beneath him, whisper-shouting over to where he assumes Fjord is still sitting. “He’s so cute, Fjord.”

“Adorable,” Fjord whispers back. “And - hey, looks like we’re about to have two of them.”

And then, louder - “Hey, Caleb.”

Caleb? Essek’s eyes snap open.

He’s walking over to them, sans coat and scarf with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. “Ah, I did not expect to find anyone else here.” He turns to regard Essek. “I see they’ve gotten to you too, hm?”

Essek struggles for a moment, trying to wake himself with the realization that Caleb is usually the one receiving Jester’s attentions in this way - and this isn’t a conversation he wants to have while Caleb is standing and he’s flat on his back.

Jester makes a frustrated sound as he tries to sit up. Caleb looks a little surprised too - even more so, when Fjord walks over and wraps a hand around each of his shoulders. “Oh, don’t be jealous, you’ll get your wizard tickles too.”

Essek blinks. “Caleb, I didn't mean to take anything from you-”

Caleb’s ears go red, but he leaves Fjord’s hands where they are as he crouches down by Essek and pats his shoulder. “I did not mean to tease, my friend - please, relax and enjoy yourself.” He smiles, then, a little flick in the corner of his mouth. “Or Jester will make you, I’m sure.”

He blinks again. “You’re not - upset?”

Caleb shakes his head, sending wisps of red hair flying around his face. “Not one bit.”

Essek lets Caleb press him gently back down into Jester’s lap, watches blankly as she grins down at both of them and reaches out to tap Caleb’s nose.

He stands before she can, quirks a loose smile in her direction. “Not today, Lavorre, I think.”

He turns as if he might walk away, starting to lock his hands behind his back again, and Essek nearly calls him back, offers to let him take his place - but Fjord is just behind him, hands still on his shoulders, and he pins him easily in place. “Oh, I’d love to see you try to avoid this.”

Caleb opens his mouth to reply, snaps it shut again as Fjord’s hands slide off his shoulders and bracket his sides, fingers curling in ever so slightly.

Fjord’s a little taller than Caleb, enough that when Caleb starts to shrink in on himself he has to stoop to get his mouth next to his ear. “You’ve had a hard day,” he says, low and steady. “Don’t make us watch you hide from a little lightness, after all that.”

Caleb looks all of them over once, frantically, and then looks pointedly away. It’s a sentiment Essek is familiar with - looking for escape, and resigning yourself to none - and he’s surprised when Caleb gives a slight nod.

Fjord’s face splits into a relieved smile, tusks on full display. “Right, then,” he continues, wrapping his arms around Caleb’s waist and lifting him straight off the ground to carry him the few feet to the other lounge.

He sets him down and sits next to him, waiting patiently until Caleb huffs a quiet breath through his nose and leans over to put his head in Fjord’s lap. “Right.”

Jester reaches for Essek’s belly again, but he catches her wrist and looks up at her to shake his head.

She raises her eyebrows. He tilts his head ever so slightly towards the other lounge.

Jester’s mouth forms a silent O of understanding before pursing into a mischievous smirk. Essek frowns - he’s curious, there’s no need for eyebrow waggling.

She does draw her hands away, though, so he contents himself with a single stern look before turning his attention towards Caleb. “You’re healed, yes?” Fjord asks.

He starts patting at Caleb’s ribs as if to check them, but the way he starts massaging little circles into them seems distinctly meant to tickle. Essek watches, perplexed, as Caleb doesn’t laugh at all, just sighs a little and lets his shoulders lay flat. “Ja, Caduceus helped with that.”

“That’s good. Proud of you,” Fjord says approvingly.

Caleb looks more flustered at that than he has at anything else said tonight, a reluctant smile working its way over his features. Fjord smirks and bends down to whisper something else to him - Essek doesn’t catch it, but apparently it’s terrible enough to make him squeak and roll defensively onto his side.

Their eyes meet.

They both stare for a moment, and then Caleb’s eyes narrow - Essek has just barely seen him mischievous enough times to recognize the look. He flicks his fingers in a particular pattern even as Fjord rolls him back over with a series of nibbling little pinches to his ribs that send him squirming, and there’s a slight pop as an illusory feather appears by Essek’s bare feet.

He doesn’t even have time to protest before the damned thing wriggles up against his sole and he’s squealing. He bolts upright, clinging to Jester as he laughs frantically. “HAAA - ahaha - Caleheheb!”

“Cay-leb, stop that!” Jester cries, but she looks absolutely delighted as she cuddles him close with her own fingers wriggling mischievously. “Do you know how long it took us to convince him to let us tickle him?”

Fjord laughs. “ I think someone’s trying to tell me they want their feet tickled. Isn’t that right, Caleb?”

The feather switches to his other foot, and Essek presses his face into Jester’s shoulder and cackles loudly enough that he nearly misses Fjord’s next statement. “Oh, feeling shy? No, no, tell me - do you want feathers or fingers?”

Between one flick and the next, the feather disappears with another pop.

Essek pries his face up from Jester’s shoulder and turns to strongly protest this treatment, but it looks like Caleb’s been thoroughly distracted from him - Fjord’s taken his chin in one strong hand and tipped it gently back, leaving the thin column of his neck hopelessly vulnerable. He’s already giggling, hiccupy little things, as Fjord runs his fingers gently along a tendon. “Well, speak up - feathers?“

He switches suddenly to the other side of his neck. “Or fingers?”

Caleb whines, scrunching his shoulders as far as he can against Fjord’s thigh. “Ahaha - nngh - nein, mean! Mean!”

“I’ll be nice just as soon as you tell me what you want.” Fjord tells him. “Come on, you can do it.”

“I - heheheeeeh - I can’t!” Caleb pleads.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have bothered Essek, then,” Fjord scolds lightly.

Caleb makes a helpless little sound, still giggling. Fjord’s voice softens then, to something cajoling. “This is supposed to be fun for you, Caleb. Let me know how I can do that.”

Caleb whines a little more, squeezing his eyes shut, but he seems to relax a bit at the command. “Feathers,” he says finally. “There’s a writing desk around the corner with some quills.”

“Good boy,” Fjord says, letting go of his chin and patting his cheek. “I’ll be right back, then.”

He helps a heavily blushing Caleb off his lap and lays him back down, smoothing once over his ribs and getting the same blissful giggles Essek remembers himself echoing just a minute ago.

Caleb flops back, catching his breath, and looks wryly across at him. “If you run now, maybe you can get away before they learn too much about you.”

“Nope, too late!” Jester says cheerfully, her arms still wrapped tightly around him. Essek jumps as she starts to tickle his sides. “Aw, Essek, are you going to get all embarrassed if we tell you you’re a good boy?”

Essek scoffs, fighting the laughter and the blush that threatens to climb the back of his neck. “I have received many accolades over the years, I do not think so.”

“A good friend, then? One that we trust completely?” Caleb suggests. It’s more the way Caleb looks at him as he says it, like he already knows how much that means, but Jester still squeals excitedly at the dark purple gathering in his cheeks.

“Ooh, and what if we tease you about how ticklish you are?” Jester asks, worming her fingers onto his tummy and tapping them there until he’s giggling helplessly at the implied threat. “Cause Essek, you are really, really ticklish.”

“This is not what I was promised,” he manages through his laughter. A few weeks ago, he would have been fearful at this clear intrusion, a transparent search for weakness. Now he mostly wants to calm himself enough to trance in the next few hours.

“Oh, shitballs, you’re right,” Jester rushes out, and stops tickling in favor of rubbing warm circles up his sides. “Okay, okay, lie down and I will give you the best cheer up tickles.”

“I heard that,” Fjord says, rounding the corner with a feather dangling from his fingertips. “You two are going to have to compare notes afterwards and let us know who’s really better.”

“I don’t think-” Caleb starts. He yelps as Fjord pounces on his feet, protests for a moment before dissolving into soft laughter at the introduction of the feather.

Essek’s busy falling back into dazed, happy snickering as Jester trails her fingertips back up under his arms.

He feels very cheerful, at the moment.

#tickling #critical role #shadowgast #fjorester #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #fjord #jester lavorre #chocfic

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rayadraws · 3 years

Note

“Somehow you must not have heard all the bad things said about me.”“I’ve heard them all twice. But I’ll make my own judgments.” For Zombiemask plz and thank you : )

Ohoo! A first for me to write...

G-rated but canon typical level gore, pre-relationship, maybe mild WC spoilers?

Like herding cats. Uncooperative, mad, possibly-no-likely rabid cats, the lot of them. It seemed a requirement for the S-class heroes to be as awful as humanely possible. Beauto sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. At least the meeting was finally over and he was all alone; a rare if temporary blessing.

That didn’t mean his work of the day was done. He had to write and submit the report, he had an´telephone interview in three hours and he’d fallen behind on his fan letters again, he should really spend at least an hour tonight to try to catch up. But at least he could allow himself a few minutes to himself right now. To breathe, to compose himself before reality came crashing back down. To enjoy the semi-darkness in the room. The more he changed, the more he seemed to enjoy the comfort of darkness.

He stood up, eyes closed, taking another deep breath, only to jump at an unexpected rattling cough in the room.

Beauto startled and looked around for the source. There, in the far, darkest corner sat Zombieman, frowning, one of his trademark cigarettes sticking out of his mouth, looking straight at him with those dead eyes. Beauto should reprimand him for smoking inside the Hero Association’s pristine meeting room, but he’d had enough tonight trying to keep Metal Bat and Flashy Flash from ripping into each other over who had the best hair, as if it had anything to do with their job! He just couldn’t muster up the energy to start another argument. Not now.

”Why are you still here?” he just asked, instead.

Zombieman chewed on his cigarette, looking unblinking at him with an unreadable expression.

”You look tired,” was all he said in return.

”So do you, with those dark circles and pallid skin,” Beauto automatically countered.

Zombieman’s expression didn’t waver. ”Yeah, but I always look like this. You don’t.”

He straightened his jacket. ”I’ll be fine.” ’Thanks for worrying’, he didn’t add. He’d accepted his lot in life, even if it meant being disliked by everyone in this place. It was worth it, if it meant they could do what they needed to do.

”Hey,” Zombieman suddenly said. ”Wanna go get a beer?”

Beauto stared at him.

”I feel like shit and you look like shit, we’ll be a perfect pair,” Zombieman continued. He coughed twice, a deep, concerning cough, but at least he had the courtesy to cough into his elbow rather than across the table.

In a moment of weakness? Madness? Beauto agreed to the offer. He must be going insane, to agree to willingly hang out with one of them. But Zombieman waited patiently as he retrieved his coat - the inconspicuous one he used for undercover missions - as he put on his scarf and hat and sunglasses that he always kept in his desk.

”You allergic to sunlight or something?” he said, still chewing on the damn cigarette.

”I can’t be seen drinking in public.”

”Ah, yeah, the idol thing.”

As they started to walk down the lobby and his trenchcoat fell to the side, Beauto realized the probable reason Zombieman had stayed so still for so long, past the meeting even; he was missing a good portion of his torso. It looked almost like something very big had simply taken a large bite out of him.

In their profession, that was actually not unlikely. How he was still standing, nevermind walking, was beyond him.

Noting Beauto’s eyes on him, Zombieman pulled his coat tighter, hiding his horrifying injuries from view.

”I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

”How can you even walk like that? Don’t you feel pain?”

”I feel pain. Don’t worry. It’ll heal.”

Beauto knew it would, but it was still disturbing. He tore his eyes away. ”Lead the way.”

”Aye, cap'n.”

The walk was slow. Zombieman limped with every step, until Beauto had had enough and put his arm around him, helping him walk more steadily. At least this way if someone recognized him, he could use Zombieman as a way to avoid them. Out of the way, this man needs immediate hospital care!

”Such a gentleman,” Zombieman purred.

”You’re too slow, that's all.”

He was taken to a bar not far from the HA, only a couple of blocks away. The way no one paid them any attention, he suspected Zombieman must be a regular here. The suspicion was made even stronger when they were immediately led to a booth in the far back, the darkest corner without as much as a word.

Beauto approved and apparently Zombieman did too, still with the damned cigarette.

”They let you smoke in here?” he asked as they sat down. Zombieman just grinned at him.

”They’re bad for you, you know,” Beauto continued.

Zombieman removed the cigarette from his mouth. Only it… wasn’t. It was a god damn lollipop.

”That’s what the kid tells me too, you know.”

Gingerly he put the lollipop down on the table and flagged the server down for two beers.

It was, despite everything, not that bad. Beauto was trained in pleasant small talk. Almost on auto pilot, he asked Zombieman all the silly little questions. The man was… strange. His hero name was well earned, at least as far as looks went. But Beauto found that beneath it, Zombieman was pleasant enough to talk to. He didn’t seem to have any grand ambitions or plans, beyond being a good role model to Child Emperor, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he was doing. As for why he took Beauto to this place? ’You looked like you needed it’, apparently.

”But why would you care?” he asked, too tired to keep up any charades.

”Isn’t that part of being a hero? Caring about everyone. ’Sides, you seem pretty cool.”

”Cool?” Beauto snorted. That didn’t fit with what he usually heard from his colleagues. Arrogant, stuck up, nothing but a pretty boy, jealous, evil…

“Somehow you must not have heard all the bad things said about me,” he replied.

Once again, he felt those red eyes squarely on himself. Unblinking and unwavering.

”I’ve heard them all twice. But I’ll make my own judgments.”

Beauto tried to meet his gaze, failed and looked down. Watched his perfectly manicured fingers resting on the worn wooden table, full of dents and scrapes.

”Thank you,” he muttered.

A small eternity passed.

”Hey,” Zombieman suddenly said. He took a deep swig of his beer and lifted the edge of his coat. Beauto glanced up, not sure he wanted to see that gross injury a second time. But instead his eyes fell on soft skin. It was pale and somewhat sickly-looking, like all of Zombieman’s skin (what he'd seen, anyway), but it was perfectly smooth, not even a visible scar.

Seeing him gawk, Zombieman pulled his coat even more aside, revealing that there was still some healing to happen near the bottom. But it was a flesh wound now, opposed to a large chunk of him just… gone. It was a marvel, quite frankly.

Beauto made an effort to close his open mouth.

”That’s… fascinating, I suppose.”

”It does come in handy. Most people do heal, though. Just slower than this.”

”’Most people’ can’t re-grow missing tissue.”

”True.” Zombieman looked thoughtful as he put the lollipop back into his mouth.

”What about you?”

For a brief moment, Beauto went cold.

”What about me?” Had he let his facade slip? Was Zombieman on to him?

”You done here?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. ”Yes. Sure.”

He offered to pay, but Zombieman insisted on paying for them both.

”Almost sounds like you took me out on a date,” Beauto joked as they left. Zombieman was walking normally again, now. It was good to see.

He chuckled. ”Me, ask Sweet Mask out on a date? As if I’d dare.”

”Well. It wasn’t… it wasn’t terrible.”

”Really? In that case, it was a carefully planned date, carried out to perfection.”

Despite himself, Beauto laughed. Somehow, he felt lighter than before. ”Fine. It’s a date. Under one condition.”

”What’s that?”

”Next time, you let me pay.”

The red eyes sparkled, looking more alive than he’d ever seen them.

”Deal.”

#zombiemask #amazomb #amai mask x zombieman #zombieman x amai mask #ficlet

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clonecest-bin-account · 4 years

Note

I totally agree on your opinion re: dogma isn’t a mistreated baby uwu nor did the 501st bully him. He is a man who made bad choices based on poor judgement while in a very shitty situation. So on another vibe, may I request fives/dogma nsfw with aftercare where dogma, emotionally vulnerable, apologizes for his actions and fives forgives him, knowing how much it’ll mean to him? 🥺

(I’m so glad other people agree with me. Idk I’ve always felt like that by making Dogma an uwu soft boi bean you basically destroy his character and the purpose he has in the story. As for the prompt, it’s probably different from what you had originally in mind: I’ve decided to make it happen right after Umbara, so the feelings are a bit raw still, but it has a hopeful ending nonetheless!)

(WARNING FOR SOME MILD DUB-CON)

(Fic under the cut)

This isn’t how Fives thought his evening was going to be, but oh well, so is life.

They’re all still recovering from the mess that was Umbara; some are doing it on their own, some with their brothers. As for Fives, he’s been with Rex mostly, and with the men, trying to reassure them as best as he can, but he needs some time alone now, that’s why he’s taking a walk through the Resolute.

He meets a few brothers here and there, all huddled up together, but otherwise the ship feels pretty empty.

When he arrives close to the hangar, he decides he’s ventured far enough and that he’d better get back to the barracks. As he turns to do exactly that, however… he slams against someone.

He barely has the time to react that the person he’s slammed against grabs him by the wrist and drags him to the first open room he finds, which turns out to be the fresher. It’s…

“Dogma? What are you doing?”

He drags him to one of the stalls and slams him against the door. “Hey!”

“I’ve been looking for you…” Dogma says then, as if that explains anything.

“So?” Fives asks, confused by what is happening. What the hell does he want now?

At this point, Fives expected him to start a fight - though a fight in the fresher doesn’t sound that great, doesn’t it? - but to his surprise, Dogma drags him for a kiss. What?

Fives is so shocked that he’s paralyzed, not moving a muscle, prompting Dogma to pull away and look at him with a delirious intensity that he never felt from him before, not that he’s known him for such a long time.

“Don’t you hate me?” Dogma asks then. “Don’t you want to make me pay for it?”

Fives keeps staring at him, not knowing what to say. He does hate Dogma a bit, though he feels guilty about it, because he’s a brother and they’re supposed to be united… But isn’t Dogma the first one who broke this unity? He almost had him executed, and for what, saving the day?!

Dogma leans closer, whispering to his ear. “I’m giving you an opening.”

Fives isn’t able to resist his instincts anymore, even though he feels there are still many questions that haven’t been answered at all, but it doesn’t matter for now.

He turns them around, slamming Dogma, who’s grinning at his actions. “You think this is funny?” he snarls. Does he think this is some kind of fucked up game?

Dogma shakes his head, though he still has that annoying expression on his face. Fives is going to wipe it away.

One good thing is that Dogma isn’t wearing his armor, and like this Fives can visibly see just how much he’s liking this. He grabs his bulge through his blacks, squeezing it so tightly that it makes Dogma hiss in pain. “Do you enjoy being treated badly? Is this why you’re such a bitch all the time?”

Dogma whimpers, but otherwise keeps his mouth closed. It’s fine: the less he talks, the better.

He makes him kneel down in front of the toilet, stripping him off his blacks without uttering a word.

He’s not that evil not to prepare him however, although he goes quite fast with that. The only sounds that come out of Dogma’s lips are whines and moans, and nothing more, as he scrambles against the toilet’s surface to hold onto it. It’s quite the image. Fitting, Fives would even dare say.

He’s harsh in the way he moves his fingers in and out of Dogma, keeping his free hand on Dogma’s back to keep him still if he begins to move too much.

“Fives… Sir… Please…” Dogma’s voice comes out more as a chocked sob, but Fives doesn’t mind that at all. Besides…

“Sir, huh? I like the sound of that.”

He removes his fingers, quickly moving to replace them with his cock. He could go slower, but frankly he doesn’t care enough for that; besides, it doesn’t seem that Dogma minds.

Once he’s completely inside, he waits just for a moment before beginning fucking the daylights out of Dogma.

Sometimes Dogma grunts in pain when he’s slammed against the hard surface of the toilet too hard, but he never asks the other to stop, so he keeps going. At some point Fives even grabs his head and pushes it inside it, close to the water level, but never enough to actually drown him; he could do it, but unlike Dogma, he’s a decent person, so he doesn’t.

He keeps going, he keeps going and he keeps going, until he reaches the apex, coming still buried deep inside Dogma, just to add insult to injury.

Once this is over and he finally manages to catch his breath, Fives comes back to himself. What has he done?

He pulls away from Dogma, one hand in his hair, tugging at the curly strands. Oh shit.

“Dogma? Are you okay?” he asks, getting closer again. Oh no, he’s trembling, and when Fives reaches out for him, he realizes that he’s crying.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Dogma continues to sob. Fives has no clue what to do. Why did he provoke him like this? Is it because of Umbara?

He hesitantly draws Dogma into a hug, caressing the top of his head. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this to you,” he mutters then, meaning every single word of it.

“No, no… I deserve it.”

Fives sighs. Sure, Dogma has been a dick, almost having them killed, but not to the point of deserving this. As much as he almost doesn’t want to admit it, but… “You don’t. You understood your mistakes, I hope. I can’t say that everything’s been mended, but… C’mon, why don’t we get out of here? Let’s get you someplace nicer.”

Dogma doesn’t say anything. He just looks baffled by the kindness he’s showing him now, a kindness that he doesn’t feel like he deserves, not after what he’s done. Still, it feels nice, he can’t deny that.

He nods then, hurrying to dry his tears with the palm of his hand - he hates that he’s ended up crying - but soon he’s joined by Fives, who dries them away with his thumb. He’s giving him an apologetic smile, but Dogma doesn’t understand: he’s the one who pushed him to act like this, so why does he feel like this?

“Dogma?” “Yes?”

Fives begins helping him up, only to stop halfway to shoot Dogma another gaze. “Alright?”

For some reason, Dogma can’t help but to smile. “Alright.”

It feels weird walking back to the barracks with Fives so close to him, holding his waist gently by draping one arm around it. It makes him feel safe, even though they’ve been getting looks from other troopers who must be wondering what the hell happened.

Fives takes him to the ARC quarters, which grant them more privacy, even though Dogma isn’t sure if he should be there, but he doesn’t voice his doubts.

He helps him clean up, even lends him a fresh pair of blacks, then offers his bunk to him, an offer that Dogma accepts, but only if they’re sharing, first of all because he’d hate to take something that is Fives’, and secondly because… it’s been a very long time since he last shared a bunk with someone. He wants to feel that closeness again.

Thankfully, Fives agrees. It’s a tight fight but they make it work. Dogma doesn’t really mind it that much.

He’s almost fallen asleep when Fives whispers his name. “Dogma?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m sorry, really.”

Dogma sighs. “Look, let’s just say that we were both wrong and move on, alright?”

Fives stays silent for a while, then he shifts, pulling Dogma closer to his chest. “Alright.”

Soon, he falls asleep, leaving Dogma as the only one awake.

He still feels guilty for Umbara, but maybe things will get better; if Fives is willing to treat him decently, then it must be true.

Oh well, only time will be able to tell.

Tag list: @maulusque @captainrexwouldnever If you want to be added feel free to let me know!

#assorted clonecest fics #clonecest #cloneshipping #fogma #idk what their ship name is sorry #arc trooper fives #clone trooper dogma #my fics #spicy tag #dub con #letitrainathousandflames

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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years

Note

Why do you think Tomarry would work? I see a lot of people hating on it and the only response I ever see is that they come from similar backgrounds or people just like enemies to lovers. Also which horcrux do you think Harry would go best with (including Voldemort)

So, this is probably a more complicated question than you intended, but that’s because I live in bizarre head canon lands that few ever dare venture towards.

With that, let’s get started.

But What Do You Really Ship, Muffin?

First, it probably bears saying that I’m not really a Tomarry shipper. I know, I’ve written more than one Tomarry story, so if that’s not Tomarry what is? Well, remember that those Tomarry pairing tags are a filthy lie. October I committed the grievous sin of breaking up the Tomarry and throwing Tom at Harry’s mother. Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus is barely a Harry Potter fic in any capacity, and while the ship is the driving force of the fic, it’s also this nebulous, distant, thing that really shows up only in strange side stories where I try to make people laugh. When Harry Met Tom is probably the closest that I take seriously, but I also intentionally subvert all your typical Tomarry tropes for my own enjoyment.

The only Tomarry story I’d say I’ve ever actually written is “The Burning Taste of Fire Whisky”. It’s a very popular story, sadly perhaps my most popular on Ao3, but I actually loathe it entirely.

A lot of the time I feel like I just happen to have a Tomarry shirt on and then I suddenly became a subject matter expert. If you want the Tomarry opinions from real Tomarry people, I’m probably not the best person to ask. In fact, if you want really any standard answer about Harry Potter anything, I’m not the best person to ask.

Now, I’m not just saying this to be a hipster but to sort of give some background for why I’m going to give the answer I’m going to give and why it’s going to be 100% different from everyone else’s and yes, sometimes, I do think I came from Mars.

Will the Real Tomarry Please Stand Up?

So with that, the bottom line is: taking canon as JKR intended, completely at face value, Tomarry doesn’t work at all. This is because JKR fully intends a very flat, one-dimensional, and frankly quite boring Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle’s evil, Tom Riddle was born evil, Tom Riddle was evil in the womb because of rape. He is completely and utterly irredeemable and understands nothing of love.

Well, that sort of sinks the ship right out of the harbor, doesn’t it? A Tom Riddle incapable of love is one incapable of growth, especially in a romantic focused story. If you try to write it you just get weird sociopathic whump porn where Tom probably whips Harry in a closet somewhere.

Added onto this we get that, despite what she put down on paper, Harry is supposed to be a straight man. That aside, he’s also a righteous man whose understanding of things like love and friendship mean he’d never sully himself with gross Tom Riddle. Ew, what are you people thinking?

Well, what if we take canon just mostly as JKR intended? What if we just look at the characters the way she actually wrote them versus what she was trying to do? Still no dice.

Tom might now be capable of love, be a far more engaging character who can go somewhere, and be pulled out of a pit of rage and despair by someone but that someone ain’t Harry.

First, while I firmly believe Harry is gay (gay, not bisexual, compare his descriptions of Cho/Ginny to Tom Riddle/Sirius Balck/Cedric Diggory/Charlie Weasley, that boy pants after Tom Riddle and Cho’s kiss is “wet”) he’s also a much worse person and much dumber character than JKR intended. It’s really the first that damns the pairing.

I have a whole giant post on how Harry’s a little yikes but the long and short of it is that while Harry thinks he understands friendship and love he’s also someone who will cut out his friends at a moment’s notice if he feels remotely slighted, uses and sacrifices them for his own ends, gleefully uses unforgiveable curses when given the opportunity, and is the kind of guy who would cut someone up in the bathroom, leave them to bleed to death, and only really feel bad about it when it seems he might get in trouble for it.

This Harry ending up even with a Tom who could potentially be redeemed would more likely lead to, well, weird psychopathic whump porn where Harry tortures Tom in his basement to make him pay for all the horrible things he’s done while Harry claims he’s the most moral person ever because his mother loved him.

So, yeah, no Tomarry for you.

But Wait, Didn’t You Say You Believed in Tomarry?

What I believe in are archetypes.

Remove what Harry’s supposed to be, remove what I think he actually is (one maladjusted, violent, dude with a whole lot of anger issues), let’s make Harry what perhaps JKR didn’t even know she wanted: one of those rare fundamentally good heroes who warps an entire story with the strength of their inner nobility.

Harry Potter is meant to be a story about love and friendship. Now, it’s not actually, and we sort of end with Harry being Jesus and none of us are sure why. Except that he apparently forgives Dumbledore and Snape for brainwashing him to be a kamikaze agent. They’re the bravest men he knows. But let’s pretend it actually is a story about love and friendship.

To me, the strongest story of love we could possibly have had in this world is the redemption of Tom Riddle. Here is a man who was supposed to have been irredeemable since birth, he has done many horrific and unforgiveable things, grew up in extreme hardship in a society that spits on everything he ever was, and is mired in bitterness, despair, and rage. Beneath all that, Tom Riddle has given up hope in the world and is now content to burn it down himself.

Harry, through the nobility of his spirit and integrity of his character, somehow managing to redeem Tom Riddle is not only a fascinating story but a very good one at its core. The fact that they are tied together by destiny as well as tragedy, that Harry houses a shard of Tom’s soul (and I do so love horcruxes), only makes it more so.

This is the kind of story that carries epics, and that is why I gravitate towards it.

Now, do I change Harry up to do so? Good god, yes. I wouldn’t say any Harry Potter I have written is anything close to the Harry we know from canon. Some are closer than others, but they always in some way deviate. That said, from what I’ve seen almost nobody writes the actual Harry we remember from canon, so this is a very standard practice I can get away with, without too many people calling foul.

Ultimately ending in tragedy or in the full redemption of Tom: either works with these base characterizations and the world is your oyster.

What About All Those Other Arguments?

I’m not going to get into this too much except that I wouldn’t argue Tomarry works for the reasons you list. At all.

On the similar backgrounds, the fact is Harry and Tom don’t have similar backgrounds, JKR just says they do because she likes that trope (and so do many of the readers).

Harry and Tom have dark hair, they both came from abusive homes, but that’s where the similarities start and end. Upon entering the wizarding world Harry is treated very very very differently from Tom Riddle.

Harry, grows up in this weird sort of pseudo poverty where he dresses in rags because the Dursley’s hate him but he never actually has to worry about money. When he gets to the wizarding world he can afford everything he wants. He can buy a new wand, he can buy new supplies, he can buy all the candy off the trolly cart. Money’s not an object to Harry, is barely even a concept.

Tom Riddle is presumably on scholarship and money is everything to him. He buys a new wand but likely all his clothes and books are second hand. He can’t buy whatever candy he wants, probably can’t afford gifts for his peers, Tom is very aware of the haves and have nots.

Harry similarly never has to worry about a career. He never gets that far, fearing for his life so much, but the fact is that Harry has enough money that he doesn’t actually need to work. More, who would turn down the great Harry Potter? He wants to be an auror, is afraid he might not qualify, but it’s not really desperate.

Tom Riddle is to the world an impoverished muggle born. He tries for the Defense position and is turned down mostly because Dumbledore threw shade. Dumbledore tries to make it seem like Tom desperately wanted to work in this weird shop in London’s magical back alley, but probably that was the only position Tom could get (everything Dumbledore ever says, especially in those pensieve lessons, must be taken with a large grain of salt). Everything else goes to friends, family, and purebloods.

Adding to this, Harry has this glowing reputation. Now, Harry might not like it, he might want to be just Harry but the fact is that everyone has heard of him and most people worship the ground he walks on. Doors are open to him everywhere. His first introduction to the wizarding world is from a man who loves him and gushes about Harry as a baby.

Tom Riddle is someone with a muggle last name, who comes from a muggle orphanage, in other words he is nobody from nowhere. (For reasons I won’t get into here I find it very doubtful Tom ever revealed he was the heir of Slytherin until he became Voldemort and let Tom Riddle fade into obscurity). His first introduction to the wizarding world is some asshole lighting all his stuff on fire because the matron talked shit about him.

Harry wants to stay at Hogwarts because the Dursleys are abusive. Yes, this is terrible, but Tom wants to stay because Nazis are bombing London and Dippet says, “So sorry, Tom, no exceptions. Enjoy those luffas!” Harry’s concerns are never treated with the same disdain.

To make a long story short, they do not have similar backgrounds, at all. To say they do is utterly laughable and not much better than saying “they both have dark hair, they have so much in common!”

They both came from abusive homes, yes, but even the nature of those homes were very different and when they went to Hogwarts they were worlds apart.

... So much for not getting into it, eh?

As for Enemies to Lovers, well, it’s a trope and people enjoy it but it’s not my jam. I could go into why, but I think I’ve said enough.

Which Horcrux Do You Think Harry Would Go Best With?

We see so little of the individual horcruxes I’m not sure I can really take a stab at this. I sort of just make up their personalities as it suits me every time I write them.

With that I suppose I’m partial to the one in Harry’s head? Given that he has a front row seat to Harry, has seen Voldemort’s tragic demise, I think he’s in the best position to end up with Harry in a meaningful manner.

Especially as, if you think about it, he could represent the very last of Tom Riddle’s humanity. The single shard of humanity that remained in him until the bitter end.

#ask #anon #tom riddle #harry potter #headcanons #tomarry #archetypes #redemption #enemies to lovers

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