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whywouldiknow-that · 9 months ago

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Okay so normally I wouldn't be bothered with posts reminding people that Hamas is still a terrorist organization and to be careful. But some of the wording of this post made me really uneasy. From trying to claim that this is a war instead of a genocide (this numbers even halfed are a horrifying amount of casualties, that's almost 13 thousand people, that's almost 8 thousand children, these numbers are still proof we're seeing of Israel's cruelty), and especially that last quote, "For Israel, every civilian casualty is a tragedy" didn't seem right at all, after seeing photos of Israelies sitting and cheering as they see the bombings in the background and after seeing so many videos of the pain of innocent people... I just don't trust OP after reading that. Nothing against OP, I know nothing about them but it did encourage me to look into this article's sources.

And sorry maybe I'm just not familiar, but I kept finding strange things, all the 3 links inside it just go to another article within the same site, which isn't unusual, it's the norm from other news sites I've seen, but when I clicked on a link to what I thought was going to be the UN reports it lead to this article, which is an opinionated piece as shown in the title.

So already it seems that this site is very pro-Israel and this along with these type of titles really takes away a lot of my trust on the site. Not only that but the badly cropped graphs OP is using comes directly from the article they sourced, so the relaiability of someone who can't even crop an image properly to me is low at best. Moreover, OP's wording feels misleading, yes the casualty reports are coming from Hamas, but that's because the Gaza strip is under Hamas goverment, what I mean is that these numbers are being reported by Gaza's Ministry of Health. (this is even explained in the article they used as source, as shown below)

Of course this isn't to minimize the possibility that Hamas could be skewing the numbers, but it feels very scummy to claim unreliability of the information when it's Israel who bombed the city and the reason why the only sources available are currently Gaza's Ministry of Health.

So after all that I googled "Gaza UN death toll report" to try to research for myself and what do I find?

It has been debunked. Farhan Haq, deputy spokesman for UN secretary-general, stated on Monday that the number of fatalities from Gaza “remains unchanged.”

The UN doesn't have it's own report yet, as Haq said they can't yet because of both the still ongoing "combat" and the sheer number of casualties. What actually happened is that the Ministry of Health in Gaza updated the number of fatalities for identified bodies. Of 34,622 reported deaths, 24,686 have been fully identified, including 7,797 children, 4,959 women, 1,924 elderly, and 10,006 men. That still leaves 9936 bodies to identify and add to those numbers.

You can literally see it on OP's article's own graph:

Those numbers are clearly from the 24686 identified in it.

When asked in this same video if the UN had any reazon to doubt Gaza's Ministry of Health's numbers, Farhan Haq said "Unfortunately, we have the sad experience of coordinating with the Ministry of Health on casualty figures. Every few years, for large mass casualty incidents in Gaza and in past times, their figures have proven to be generally accurate." Now of course this means the UN has proof of the Ministry of Health's accuracy in the past, but personally I am far more disturbed at the fact that there seems to be mass casualty incidents every few years.

I'm not going to look into these tho because I'm already horrified enough by all these numbers.

TL;DR: Gaza's Ministry of Health released an updated count of the 24686 identified bodies out of the 34622 reported deaths, the smaller numbers of dead women and children comes from this identified people.

This is probably the most important stuff you won't see on social media, or even mainstream news.

First, the UN (without making any declarations, so it would fly under everyone's radar) has cut the estimated number of killed women and children in the war in Gaza by half. Israelis, Jews and our allies, we've been saying for months that Hamas' reports are unreliable, now the UN implicitly admits to the same, even though it's currently only applying it to the women and kids, while still repeating Hamas' reported number of total deaths (begs the question why is the UN doing that, if it has been admitting all along that Hamas' figures can't be verified independently, and now, after 7 months, something has made them admit they can't continue to blindly repeated Hamas' number of killed women and children).

Wanna see it for yourself?

On May 6, the UN published the following figures on the Hamas reported number of total fatalities in the war, as well as the number of killed women and kids:

Just two days later, on May 8, the UN published revised numbers... While they still quoted the Hamas figure on the total number of fatalities, which has increased over those 2 days, the numbers of kids and women were about half the previous ones:

On top of that, this is Ismail Haniyeh, the head of Hamas (who lives in a luxury hotel in Qatar and is not paying for the crimes of its organization) calling upon Palestinians in Gaza NOT to evacuate to safe zones, as Israel is asking them to do, because Hamas' terrorists "need this blood," the blood of the women, kids and elderly. Every time someone brings up the number of dead, with an emphasis on the women and children, and uncritically blames everything on Israel, remember this speech!

This is how I saw it being summarized:

(for more of my posts regarding Israel, click here)

#me when I spread misinformation on Tumblr #jesus fucking christ I just wanted to see if it was legit and became the angriest I've been this week #even by OP's claims that is still 11 THOUSAND WOMEN AND CHILDREN DEAD #those are still 7 THOUSAND KIDS DEAD 7 FUCKING THOUSAND AND THAT'S LOWBALLING THE NUMBER #nothing you can say can possibly justify killing 7 thousand kids nothing you can say can possibly justify bombing a children's hospital #I want to believe OP was just misinformed but this post is from 2 days ago and Farhan Haq clarified this on Monday so I'm blocking them #sorry this is just disgusting behaviour I don't want this on my dash #free palestine #hamas #palestine

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cveenso · 2 months ago

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Sixty-seven.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How differently people see us, depending on the angle they choose to look from. To some, we’re kind, good-hearted, maybe even selfless. To others, we’re something entirely different—the manipulator, the villain, the one pulling all the strings. And the irony? We’re often neither. Not the saint, not the monster. Just... human.

It’s almost amusing, the way people paint these pictures of us in their heads, crafting narratives without ever bothering to ask for the truth. They don’t know our side of the story—maybe they don’t want to know. It’s easier for them that way, I guess. Easier to believe in the version of events where we’re the bad guy, the antagonist in their tale. It’s more satisfying, somehow, to villainize than to question. To ask why certain things happened the way they did would mean opening a door they may not be ready to walk through.

And maybe I get it. People believe what they want to believe. They’ll build a story that fits their version of reality, even if it’s skewed, even if it’s unfair. And why? Because it’s easier. It’s simpler to cling to the image of us as the “bad person” than to be rational—to step forward and ask the hard questions, to try and understand.

But the truth is, communication could change all of that. It’s the bridge we’re all too afraid to cross. Without it, there’s just assumption, judgment, and distance. And I’ve come to believe that without communication, you can’t really get anywhere in life. Relationships falter, understanding fades, and things fall apart. It’s frustrating, but it’s the truth. Without that willingness to communicate, to listen, you’re left walking through life alone. And honestly, that might be the saddest part of all.

Yours Truly,

cveenso

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codinquill-personal · 1 year ago

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The Power of a Strong Self-Image

Let's chat about something that really hits home for me - having a strong self-image and truly understanding yourself. I can't stress this enough, and I'll explain why it's so important.

If you don't have a solid grasp of who you are, you might end up buying into what others say about you. People often project their own insecurities onto you, just to boost their own confidence. You know, like when someone says,

"She's prettier than me, so why would she believe so? I should make her feel bad about how she looks "

"I'm not as smart as her, so why would she know that?"

It's like they're trying to bring you down to feel better about themselves.

I've been there, seriously. I had no clue who I really was. I was so busy with work that I didn't take time to understand myself. I never did any self-reflection, and as a result, I let others define me. And let me tell you, when you start believing those definitions, they become your reality, even if they're total nonsense. I believed I wasn't worth much, that I lacked talent, and that I shouldn't bother trying to figure myself out.

Just the other day, I was looking at old high school photos. There's this one where I'm standing there, and everyone's like, "Wow, you're so skinny!" I was totally ashamed of my body back then, thinking I looked anorexic. But now, from where I am, I realize I had a great body all along. Seriously, I'm rocking a body that's like Kendall Jenner's – no kidding! The only difference is, back then, I had a skewed self-image.

Here's the deal: if you let this self-image thing mess with your head, you'll miss out on so many opportunities. And trust me, years down the line, you'll look back and wonder why you wasted time thinking less of yourself. It's like, "Why did I even think this certain thing about myself?"

So, here's my personal affirmation that I repeat to myself:

"I am who I believe I am, not what anyone else tells me."

I don't want to drag this on, but I want to make sure you don't confuse this with someone giving you valid criticism that you can actually work on and improve.

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masterthespianduchovny · 3 years ago

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I’m curious as to how Nate’s redemption arc will be handled, esp because I often see him compared to Rebecca and what she did.

For a while I tried to understand why this comparison fell flat for me. Why, despite disliking what Rebecca was doing and wanting her to fail, I wasn’t as bothered by her actions than I am Nate’s.

Don’t get me wrong, what Rebecca did was fucked up. She hired Ted under false pretenses and undermined him every step of the way. However, it wasn’t personal. Well, not to those employed by or connected to the club. Her actions was very much about hurting Rupert. Again, not to say that that isn’t fucked up and even some would argue that’s worse. However, despite her ill intent, Rebecca didn’t actively berate or threaten anyone under her outside of Higgins. This is why players and other people feel comfortable around her, she was nice to them, listened, and helped when she could, despite it being all to maintain her image initially.

Despite Higgins being employed by her and her wielding that power, that dynamic is vastly different. They were friends of sorts for years and he had standing lunches with her, which he knew and may have even been instructed to set those up so Rupert could cheat. Rebecca thought she was laughing and smiling with a friend who enjoyed her, he was and he did, who was helping her husband cheat even though it was under threat.

Part of the reason Higgins endures that is because he genuinely cared for Rebecca and he felt guilty about what he helped put her through.

During this entire time, Rebecca isn’t rude, abusive, or threatens any under her. Even when she’s negatively reacting to something they’re doing, she pauses and finds a productive way to address the issue or ignores it.

Hell, she even brushes off Nate insulting her to her face and, in the second season, when Will grabs the boots without saying excuse me, she just moves and looks at him funny.

So even when Rebecca was at her lowest, she wasn’t being a raging asshole to everyone despite her act. And we see that her not mistreating those under her is on brand for her because 2. No one notes the change in behavior from one season to the next 2. How she treats others doesn’t change because she largely treated them well on a person to person basis.

Where as even before Nate got power, he was quick to yell at, put down, or insult people who he deemed as beneath him. Or, when he was especially angry, insulted his boss directly to her face because he thought she fired him. Keep in mind, Rebecca didn’t disrespect Nate at all AND he didn’t know about her scheme. So why was his first reaction to be rude? And he switched up so quickly as well? He didn’t even wait to see what was going on, just jumped to conclusions and immediately attacked.

We remember how he treated Ted and Beard before he found out who they were. Again, rude and to complete strangers at that.

Before Nate became a coach, it wasn’t that he was nice, he wasn’t. Nate was meek because he was beaten down, however, in a situation where he felt he had power, he was and an asshole. It’s not that Nate finally wants power over those who harmed him, he wants to wield power and it may not simply be because he’s always been powerless. To treat strangers how Nate did, to lash out at someone who has never harmed him, despite her power over him?

So when you get to the second season and see Nate being an asshole because he can? Being a complete and utter dick? Like, it would be easier to swallow if he was only rude to those who bullied him. We can get that. But those aren’t his only casualties in his mission for power and dominance. Even then, before beard spoke to him, he targeted players he felt he could get away with making rude comments to. He wouldn’t have ever said that shit to Jamie or Roy if he was still a player. Nate only respects people just as powerful or more powerful than him and that’s not okay.

The way Nate is behaving is antithetical to not only their current clubhouse culture, but also how ted coaches. He’s completely undermining Ted and the growth the players and team has made at large.

And it’s what makes his treatment of Will esp gross. Will is the most powerless person there and Nate knows that. The power imbalance is even more skewed than when Jamie and the others were bullying him. Nate is constantly on will’s ass about the smallest things, perceived or real, and treating him lack complete shit. He’s even gone so far as flat out ignoring him because he’s just the kitman. Will delivers the pens Nate orders and Nate does not acknowledge his presence, and then Colin walks in and Nate acknowledges his presence.

Will does a nice thing for Nate and because someone called him a loser online, he verbally abuses Will and threatens him. That’s fucking wild.

Again, outside of Higgins which is a different story, who has Rebecca treated like that? I’d even argue that Rebecca treated Higgins better than Nate is treating Will and others in general.

Rebecca did learn Nate’s name (or already knew it), supported his promotion, and participated in the surprise announcement. She never treated him or others like they were less than because she owns the club.

Even when you consider his relationship with his dad and how he’s treated, the bullying, and other shit, although those things adds context, it doesn’t explain all of his behavior nor does it erase the active harm he’s doing.

Because what I struggle with is: did Nate mean his apology?

No.

Nate didn’t apologize due to remorse, he apologized because he got caught and is learned how to be a better bully and silence his victim from getting help. Admittedly, part of this falls on ted, beard, and now roy, however, this is largely on Nate.

Nate didn’t suddenly become power hunger and an asshole, he always was. He just didn’t have the power.

Although I do believe he’ll get a redemption arc, I honestly hope they nail this. Because what he’s doing won’t be solved with a “do better” and apology. He also needs therapy, maybe to be demoted for a while, and some other shit I can’t think of.

I also think the other difference between Rebecca and Nate is that she did feel guilt. And I’m not saying guilt is enough to excuse fucked up shit, but it makes a difference when one feels remorse and the other doesn’t.

So you have Rebecca who wasn’t mistreating her subordinates, forming relationships with them, felt remorse, and became accountable when called out (other things happened too). Nate is mistreating his subordinates, not forming relationships with anyone, doesn’t feel remorse, and isn’t accountable when called out. I’ll admit, his story is in progress, however, we’ve seen glimpses of the nasty side of Nate even before he became a coach.

Because of this, we’re reassessing everything we thought we knew about him because most of his behavior isn’t new. He just now how power to wield, which plays into why we’re so unsettled by his development and some actively dislike him.

#ted lasso #rebecca welton #nate shelley #if you read all of this thanks #lol

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nat-20s · 4 years ago

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fill of @jonmartinweek day 6 prompt- flirting AND jealousy, though much heavier on the jealousy than the flirting. Set in a classic “season 5 jmart time travel bac to season 1″ au

~*~

“Mr. Blackwood-Sims, if I didn’t know any better, I would assume you’re trying to proposition me.”

“Mr. Sims-Blackwood, I would never. For one, neither of us are inclined towards those sorts of activities, for second, we’re both married men. What would my husband say?”

“I believe your husband would say he never specified exactly what you were propositioning, and he would be more than amenable to kissing, preferably sometime in the next few seconds.”

“Mmm, suppose I’ll have to find him and take him up on that, then. If that’s really how he feels.”

“Trust me, it most certainly is.”

Christ, would those two shut up already? Granted, it’s late enough that they probably think they’re alone in the archives, but, still. This is, technically, a work place, and Jon would’ve preferred not to have accidentally gotten an eyeful as he made his way past the open door in the breakroom. Now, the image of (supposedly) a future version of himself sitting on the couch, with (supposedly) a future version of Martin straddling his legs, using one hand to cup his face, and the other to run his hands through that Jon’s longer hair, was seared into his mind, and he hated it. Look, contrary to what people who don’t know him very well seemed to believe, he’s hardly a prude. He’s more than fine with descriptions of physical intimacy, as well as public displays of affection. If he’s being honest with himself, deep down, he doesn’t even care all that much about professionalism, especially considering it is after hours.

But of course, he’s not being honest with himself, because then he’d have to admit that it bothers him that it’s them. He doesn’t know what to call the acrid burning in the pit of his stomach, the too tight ache in his chest, that’s present whenever the fun house mirror versions of himself and Martin are besotted with each other, but he knows it’s there. It doesn’t help that he’s the only one that seems to be bothered by it, the only one that frowns at the flash of wedding rings or the orbit those two always seem to occupy around each other.

Or, no, he’s not the only one. Occasionally, while witnessing the two of them being...the Two of Them, he can’t help glancing over to Martin. Lo and behold, Martin also doesn’t look thrilled about all of this, usually skewing more towards confusion or, oddly enough, resignation. At least, that’s what Jon thinks he sees there, it’s one of the few times where he can’t fully get a read on Martin.

Still, as much as Martin might share in being somewhat perturbed, as anyone who meets their “future selves” should be, Martin doesn’t seem nearly as upset as Jon is. That brings him back to his current predicament of feeling that level of upset, but not being able to determine the root cause of it.

It is not that he’s jealous. It’s not! He does not feel a pang of envy at seeing someone who looks extremely similar to himself loving openly, and being openly loved in return. He doesn’t find his thoughts drifting to the imagined feeling of lips pressed to his temple or arms around his waist or fingers running through his hair. He certainly hasn’t looked down at his left hand and been disappointed by the fact that its bare. He doesn’t even want those things, as he’s been telling himself for a number of many lonely years. One of these days he might even believe it.

Fine. Fine. Maybe, but only maybe, there’s a part of him that’s jealous. Maybe there’s even a part of him that despairs, because try as he might he can’t connect point A to point B, can’t see the steps he would have to take to be like that other version of himself, and he knows his Martin (well, not his Martin, but..) will never look at him like that, will never see him in that light. And, damn it all, it hurts, so if they could kindly stop ru-

Oh. Wait. He can’t hear them outside his office door anymore. Huh, perhaps they-

“Knock knock.”

Startled out of his...contemplation, Jon looks up to find himself looking back. Sims is leaning against the door-frame, with mussed hair, swollen lips, and pupils blown wide. Jon loathes him and wishes to be him in equal measure. In a move he usually would’ve thought more characteristic of Tim, Sims doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting himself across from Jon and saying, “Figured you’d still be here.”

Trying not to sound too much like he’s speaking through gritted teeth, Jon asks, “Did you now?”

Sims gives a lackadaisical shrug. “With any luck, you’re not going to become me. I not sure you can become me, at this point, diverging paths and all that. However, we do share the first 28 years of our lives, and I certainly didn’t believe in the concept of a work life balance, so why would you?”

“Is there something you wanted?”

“Yes, actually. I want you to ask out Martin, your moping is getting insufferable, and considering how much of our misery has been entirely outside of our control, you shouldn’t put up with what is in your power to fix.”

Jon blinks. Jon processes. Jon stammers. “I-what?! I am not, you can’t just-. Martin doesn’t even like me, and if you really were the same person as me, you know I’m not all that keen on him either.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why you can’t stop thinking about his hands?”

“I do no-”

Sims puts a hand up in surrender, though the smirk doesn’t entirely drop. “Sorry, sorry, I know that’s rather unhelpful. What I mean is, you’re already loved, right now, as you are. No, that love is not coming from Martin, but it could be,t because he doesn’t dislike you. He doesn’t know you, because you have done everything in your power to make sure he doesn’t. You also don’t know him, even though you’re interested in him, because you’ve been trying not to be. It’s stupid. Get to know each other. It’ll probably work out.”

“I...is that how you did it? Because this seems like an objectively terrible idea.”

Sims snorts. “God, no. It took a coma before I was able to untangle my own feelings. The whole point is that you won’t have to take the same looping, painful path that I did.”

Jon wants to reject it outright, almost does, and yet. “Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really. Why?’

“Nothing, just. We’re usually a more stubborn on these sorts of things. I was expecting more of a fight.”

“Mm. Normally, I would be, but I’ve been forced to watch two rather obvious proof of concepts waltzing around in front of me, and agreeing will hopefully get you the hell out of my office.”

Sims studies him for a moment, then a surprised smile spreads on his face. “All right then.”

Jon makes a dismissive hand wave, and Sims obliges, and he spends the rest of the night trying not to think about what he’s agreed to.

~*~

The next day, about half an hour before the end of the work day, Jon calls Martin into his office. From his tight shoulders and carefully blank expression, it’s clear Martin very much does not want to be there. Great. This is going to go so well.

Jon gestures for him to sit, Martin does, and he dives in. “As we both now know, I don’t have the ability to fire you. In all reality, even though I am, on paper, your boss, I truly don’t have any power or authority over you.”

Martin leans back in his seat, letting a heavy pause fall between them before saying a stilted, “Okay?”

“So, I want you to know that I am about to ask you a question, and you have complete freedom and choice over your response, without fear of any negative consequences. Alright?”

“Um. Sure.”

Jon takes a breath, slowly lets it out, and bites the bullet. “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

Martin stares. Then he squints. Then he studies. “Oh. Jon, you...we’re not them, you know that, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“So..why?”

Jon lets out a sigh, and tries to gather his thoughts in a way that makes sense to either of them. “Well, though I myself have some trouble with the concept, they’re not..entirely removed from who we are, and there’s enough foundation there that I have reason to believe we might...get on? Maybe we don’t, maybe we end up being friends, maybe we end up like them. That’s already enough to pique my own curiosity, but, alternate future versions of us aside, I mostly would just like to get to know more about you, and I’m hoping you might like to get to know me better as well.”

Martin’s shoulders relax, and he chews on his bottom lip for a moment before replying, “Okay. Yeah, why not?”

“Oh. Oh! Great! Does this Saturday work for you?”

“Works perfectly. Let’s give a shot.”

The first date is..fine. A Bit of a mess, but fine. The second date, however, is the best Jon’s ever been on. It’s so wonderful, in fact, that he doesn’t even mind when he catches Blackwood passing a fiver to Sims the day he can’t stop smiling at work.

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #tma #the ending is literally 'we wouldn't be compatible without trauma' 'oh bet?'#ALSO GOD THIS IS SO LONG FOR A FICLET HH

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poptod · 3 years ago

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May I please request a Lyutisfer Safin x Artist Female Reader, where Safin finds out the reader‘s artistic hobby, finds a piece of artwork that they drew of him but was too afraid to show it to him, and he encourages them to continue to draw 🥺💕?

notes: dude i finished this so fast i got this request like three hours ago idk what happened i think i got possessed. again i kinda went off the rails with the story (i literally had so much fun writing this, i wrote it in a single sitting) but i hope you still like it anyway. as usual its gender neutral cause its just never brought up WC: 2.2k

How long had you been here?

Enough for it to seem normal; long enough to remember little else. These glass walls––this prison––put you on display. As far as you could see, you were the only one locked up. From high, sealed off balconies, dozens of people stared down at you nearly all hours of the day. They scratched onto clipboards, their forms blurred into mere silhouettes by the bright lights behind them.

But no one ever talked to you. For the most part, you didn't mind––at some point you discovered, or decided, you were an introvert. The closest thing you got to interaction were the masked people who brought you food and cleaned, and a man who sometimes appeared to visit for some sort of study. He asked a lot of questions.

Otherwise, you occupied your time with books, art, and music. That was what you were offered, though at times the man––whom you assumed was a doctor of sorts––brought you puzzles, and watched carefully while you pieced them together.

Sometimes he asked to see your art, or your opinions on the books you read.

He asked you how your food tasted––how you physically felt. If you ever had trouble standing or keeping your meals down. If you learned anything new on the guitar you were supplied with.

"(Y/N)?" He asked, quiet and curt, and drawing you out of your downwards stare.

You were reluctant to meet his eye, as ever, and could only do so for a few solitary seconds before your gaze fell once more.

"Yes?" You whispered out in a voice that cracked. You hadn't meant to be so quiet.

"Have you learned anything new on the guitar?" He asked for the second time.

His pencil stilled above the clipboard in his lap. Lean, scarred fingers gripped the pen tightly, readied to write at any moment. This man's demeanor fit this world perfectly––cold, and calculated, and impossible to read.

"... no," you mumbled, pulling at your bare toes, as your knees were curled tight to your chest. The rough material of your white clothes always irritated your skin. "I've been reading more."

"What have you read in the last month?"

"Part of Othello. Only a few pages, and –"

"Why did you stop?"

You swallowed down the bile in your throat.

"I couldn't really... follow what was happening."

That seemed to pique his interest––he shifted in his seat, straightening his collar and steeling his gaze.

"Is that happening a lot lately?"

"... I think, a little bit."

He paused the conversation for a moment as his notes caught up with the topic.

"How's your vision?"

For the next hour he subjected you to the same, silly tests you took every month. Which image is clearer, how many animals are in this scene, solve this basic equation, what color is this––you marked them down as always. Whatever information they were actually hoping to gather was probably skewed, considering you didn't even think about the questions anymore; you just knew what the answers were, and you'd memorized which question was which, making the tests easy and quick work.

The ease with which you finished their tests was obviously irritating to the man, but you couldn't bother to care. You were bored. Death would be more interesting than this.

Just like after every monthly visit, his face glowed freshly in your mind, ready to slowly deteriorate as more time passed. For now, though, the image was clear, and it was the only other face you saw besides your own in a dim, fuzzy reflection in the clear glass cage. It was the only one you remembered.

His appearance reminded you of things that you lost; things you simply couldn't recall anymore. Your mother's role in your life was unsure, and you had a variety of ideas and half-baked memories, telling you a dozen different stories. Part of you believed she was never part of your childhood, while the other said she was integral. You couldn't quite remember what she looked like. But for some reason your mind, your life, found it fit to know every detail of a stranger's face––a man you still didn't know despite having met him hundreds of months ago.

"May I see your drawings, (Y/N)?"

Was that even your name? Or had he given that to you, too?

"Yeah," you said, knowing there was no choice. "Yeah, they're under here."

It took a moment for your body to catch up with your intentions, but eventually you were reaching down underneath your bed, pulling out a stack of paper.

Most of them were attempts at drawing a human face––others birthed from pure frustration and a black pen, splotched with red paint. He scanned them with little change in his expression, and handed them back to you afterwards. Only when you set them away did he comment on them.

"You have a talent," he said with a twinge of a smile. "Are those people you remember?"

"... no," you mumbled, curling a little tighter into yourself. "I don't remember anyone."

"Hmm." He scribbled something down, the top of his pen twitching back and forth frantically. "Then who are they?"

"People."

"Do they have a mind?" He asked.

"No more than I."

He chuckled, bowing his gaze to the floor, and the dark space beneath your bed.

"You're a person, aren't you?" He poised, lifting his chin. "You're alive. You must have a mind."

"There are... parasites, and sicknesses," you said in a mumble, your eyes glazing over as you recalled fuzzy details, "who can control you after death, during life. Tell them to drown themselves and they do."

You looked up. He was staring at you. Your parasite.

"Do you think you're ill, (Y/N)?"

"Does the sun still exist?" You asked, too tired to try and explain your logic behind the question. It puzzled him slightly but he answered.

"Yes."

"Then yes." You nodded gently, wary of your headache. "I think I am ill."

The next month, he brought you another puzzle. Most of them were scenes of nature, and this one was no different––the only problem was that it was of a starry sky, one that included no visible Milky Way, making each piece near identical to every other piece.

He lingered over your shoulder as you pieced to together on your bed, your cheek squished into your hand. A song stayed in your mind, but it wasn't a very good one, and it was the same three words over and over again, singing but including no instruments, as you couldn't remember the other parts. Starry, starry night. Starry, starry night.

It was taking so long. There were 500 pieces, and your hands and back were getting sore, both of which irritated your long-term headache. Surely the man wouldn't stay and watch you the entire time; this would take you several hours, if not several days if your chronic pain went on like it was. At some point he'd even stopped watching you, instead scanning through your room like he was looking for something. You tried your best to ignore his pacing.

"Mm," he hummed, rising to his feet after having knelt to search beneath your bed. "Here it is."

You paused.

Just like every other time he visited, he asked you an hour or so ago if you'd drawn anything new in the past month. You showed him everything except one thing; something you were ashamed of, something you wished you never created. Something to look at and remember you weren't the only human left.

"One of the cleaners found this. I was expecting to see it, but you found it right to hide it from me," he said, speaking in an even tone as he always did. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at a sheet of paper. "You really do have a talent, (Y/N)."

You swallowed down the acid in the back of your throat. It happened so often, that burning vomit, that your throat was almost constantly sore. Sometimes it came all the way out, too.

"I'm sorry," you rasped out.

"What for?" He turned to look at you with a curious expression.

"Hiding it. From you."

"It's alright," he said softly, staring at the image for a moment more before setting it aside. "It is of no interest to me but personal. There is no impact on our cataloguing of your... health."

When he left, the drawing was still on your bed, and his eyes still bored through you––dead, grey, and sick.

Unbeknownst to you at the time, you wouldn't have to wait another month before seeing him again. About two weeks later––though you wouldn't know, there weren't any calendars or clocks––the lock on your cage disengaged, letting out a hissing sound as the atmosphere levelled out with that of the outside air. Your eyes flickered up to the tubes fuelling your cage with oxygen, then to the door, where the man entered with a vitality you hadn't seen in anything but fictional words for God knows how long.

Without knowing quite why, you stood from your seat on the bed, backing away from him.

"I'm afraid I can't do this anymore," he said when he met you, pinning you to the wall with his gaze and then reaching out for you.

At first you flinched away, but when he finally touched you, you let out an audible yelp, causing him to retract his hand. With quick, short breaths and wide eyes, you realized his was the first touch you'd had in years. Panic had surged through your body, flooding your nerves with adrenaline.

He stared at you for a moment, scanning and downloading your reaction before reaching out again, this time slower and more hesitant. Though you didn't mean to, you let him.

"I can't let you die like this."

"Die like what?" You asked, furrowing your brow.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted the scientists on the balconies scattering about in a panicked manner.

"Your talent is special," he said, tucking the hair out of your eyes. He only touched your temple for a split second, but your knees still buckled. "I know what it is to be poisoned, to be marred and gored forever. I have healed as best I can and so can you."

"I – I don't understand," you said, your voice choked as you neared tears.

"You were part of something great," he murmured. "But greatness comes at such a cost."

"What did you do to me?!"

"Shhh," he said, firmly pressing his palm over your mouth, forcing you to stay silent and hold his gaze. "There's so precious little known about the chemicals we make. It's good for killing bugs. That's all they think about. They don't think about the power, the purpose, or the possibilities. Imagine taking down a whole corporation by filling their buildings with.. quiet pesticides. We just need to know what they do to us. All we need is to see what happens when a human is exposed like that, for so long. Is it death or just torture?"

You could barely breathe. Each brush of his body against yours––his hand on your mouth, his chest against yours, his eyes piercing you into place––held you like a knife to your neck.

"The death of one is the life of another," he said, leaning in close enough that his breath heated your cheek. "No one knows this better than a lab rat. But, my little lab rat..."

He slid one of his hands down to your waist, gripping you tight and digging his thumb deep into your stomach, causing you to squeeze your eyes tight, whimpering behind his other hand.

"... I'm afraid I've taken a liking to you."

At last his hand fell from your mouth. The moment you didn't have something holding you up anymore, your head fell, pouring out with sobs and chokes on your own breath. His fingers moved up to card through your hair.

Despite everything, you melted fully into him, desperate for comfort and touch after years of starvation.

"I won't let you die, in here, like this," he cooed, catching your head on his shoulder. When he spoke, his lips moved against your temple. "The damage is already done, but I will not shatter you again."

He told you his name was Lyutsifer. He told you they'd been pumping your glass jail cell with propylene oxide. He said the reason they bothered to clean your cage at all was so that he could safely enter before they pumped you full of poison again. He told you that you were already mutated by what you'd endured, that cancer would eventually grow in your body, that your lungs had grown corrosive and would likely never heal.

And he took you away from there, to his own bedroom. By then you knew it was him; he was the mastermind. It wasn't 'them'. It was him.

He held you in his bed, murmuring about how glad he was about his decision, how he was relieved that he caved to his desires. How he adored what you created. His fingers searched your body, chasing away that sensitivity and replacing it with a fiery heat. You gave into it, tucking yourself beneath his chin and kissing his jaw––anything to keep him here. Anything to hold him for just a moment more.

#safin x reader #lyutsifer safin #nttd #rami malek

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bookwrm99 · 3 years ago

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Sweet Dreams pt. 1

So, I've had to switch my medication recently for my anxiety, and it's been a bit rough. I normally have a bit of a problem with nightmares because of stress, but since starting Effexor it's been like... on steroids. One of my ways of coping with my mental health is writing, so I've started working on an Obey Me! series of short fics with each of the brothers comforting an MC who's been suffering from long-term night terrors as a medication side-effect. I debated about whether to post them or not, but ultimately I feel like if they can be comforting reads to someone else in a similar situation to mine, of course I'd want to share them! So, here's part one with Lucifer. Please know this is based on my own personal experiences with my anxiety and medications- mental health isn't one-size-fits-all, and everybody experiences it differently on all fronts. Not everybody will experience anxiety the way MC does in these fics, and that's okay! MC is not meant to be representative of everyone everywhere who has ever dealt with having an anxiety disorder- I personally think such a thing is impossible anyway. That being said, please practice good reader discretion if mental health is a hard topic for you- the last thing I want to do is harm someone else's mental health with my writing. I'll post specific trigger warnings just above the cut, so you'll know exactly what you're getting yourself into before you continue!

Now that the long disclaimer is out of the way... I hope that you enjoy this small fic series, reader! It was cathartic for me to write, and I hope they can bring comfort to others too.

Genre: Comfort with Lucifer x gn!reader (if you squint)

Word Count: 2.2k

TW: Mentions of anxiety and treatments, depictions of anxiety and nightmare aftermath, descriptions of nightmares

Lucifer was worried.

Not that he would admit to it. He was the Avatar of Pride, and as such he had an image to maintain. After all, just because someone fails to reply to text messages and calls- or does something out of their norm, like skipping breakfast- it doesn't necessarily mean there's something dire afoot.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Lucifer tried to school his facial features into something close to neutral as his brothers fretted and discussed (Y/N)'s radio silence, and now their absence at breakfast. Mammon was the first to make a commotion about it, of course, causing the other brothers to slowly voice their own concerns about the resident human exchange student.

"I'm tellin' ya, it's just not like them! We ough'ta check on them. What if they caught some kind of weird human disease and died in their sleep?!" Mammon boomed out, fists clenched and resting on the table as he leaned forward over his plate.

"I highly doubt that, Mammon. I don't know of any human disease with such a quick onset and short incubation period before death. Still, it is a bit worrying. Should we make sure they're alright?" Satan, ever the voice of reason, spoke calmly, looking to the eldest to gauge his reaction to his question.

"Maybe they had a late start? I did suggest a new morning skincare regimen for them; maybe they've taken my advice?" Asmo practically crooned, no doubt preening at the thought of a small success with the exchange student- and probably thinking other impure thoughts related to them getting ready for the day.

"They need to make sure they eat. It's no good trying to learn on an empty stomach," Beel interjected, shaking his head and settling a hand on his stomach, clearly appalled at the thought of enduring that kind of experience.

Lucifer kneaded the small ache that had started to form between his eyes from his brothers' bickering and rapid-fire speculations. A sharp pain lanced through his skull from said place when Mammon brought his closed fists down on the table forcefully, rattling the dishes and forcefully pushing himself and his chair back.

"That's it, I'm checkin' on 'em! If all you guys are gonna do is sit around-"

"Enough, Mammon," Lucifer spoke, commanding the attention of all his brothers. A pregnant silence fell over the room as the Morningstar sighed, casually tossing his linen napkin onto the table beside his empty plate as he calmly pushed his chair back to stand. "I will check on them myself. The rest of you are to go about your days as normal unless you hear otherwise."

A couple of the brothers muttered angrily under their breath, but most seemed satisfied with the decision. Without another word, Lucifer strode from the room, leaving his brothers to clean up and be on their way to RAD.

When Lucifer reached (Y/N)'s room, his superhuman hearing picked up soft sniffles from within, heightening his concern about the human. He rapped his knuckles against the solid wood of the door, calling out their name gently but at a volume where he knew he would be heard. When he didn't hear them stir, and nobody came to the door, he resolved himself to intruding upon a potentially sensitive situation. "(Y/N), I'm coming in."

When he opened the door and took a couple steps across the threshold, he panicked a bit at first, not seeing any sign of (Y/N) in the room. Another small sniff allayed those fears, though, and he closed the door softly behind him, making his way into the space as he looked for the human. He finally found them curled up into a small ball on the floor in a corner of the room, out of sight of the door, their face pressed into their knees as they trembled.

The sight in front of him broke Lucifer's heart. (Y/N) had brought such brightness to his and his brothers' lives, showing them the utmost care and showering them with love they hadn't realized they were starved for. To see them like this- shaking with pent-up sobs and white knuckles as they squeezed their hands into fists- was a blow directly to the eldest's normally ice-cold heart.

"(Y/N)," he breathed, slowly approaching as if he was walking towards a frightened, injured fawn. His entire presence softened as he got down on one knee beside the upset exchange student, fighting the overwhelming urge to gently turn their face to his or pull them into his arms. "What's happened?"

(Y/N) shook their head, their arms tightening around their knees. "It's stupid. I'll be fine. Please don't worry about me- I'll be down for breakfast soon."

Lucifer's face pulled down into an even deeper frown at their words, bothered that they were so quick to invalidate themself and push comfort away. "Well- that's why I'm here. Breakfast was over an hour ago, and my brothers are worried about you."

(Y/N)'s head shot up at that, and for the first time Lucifer got a good look at their flushed, tear-stained face. "God- I'm so, so sorry, I didn't mean to worry anybody- I'm such a burden-"

Lucifer made hushing noises, and unable to restrain himself anymore he sat fully on the ground, pulling the human into his arms as they hiccupped and began to sob. When they didn't push him away and began leaning into him, he tightened his hold, rubbing small circles into their lower back as their tears soaked his left shoulder, all the while murmuring soothing words in their ear. After what seemed like a small slice of eternity, but what in reality may have only been fifteen minutes or half of an hour, the exchange student's tears slowed, then stopped altogether, though silent sobs continued to wrack their smaller frame.

Lucifer lifted his head from where he had rested it on top of theirs, leaning back slightly to see their face as he gently tilted it towards him. Red eyes looked back at him, glazed with exhaustion and something else he couldn't quite pinpoint. Reaching up with a gloved hand, he gently cupped their face in the palm of his hand, wiping away the tears he could reach with his thumb.

"You aren't a burden, (Y/N). You go out of your way for myself and my brothers, doing things nobody asked of you to lift us up and make our lives easier. We've needed somebody like you for a long time now, and if anything we are a burden on you. We worry about you because we care." Lucifer broke the silence, his voice gentle but leaving no room for argument. "I won't push you into telling me what's wrong... but if you would like to talk about it, I promise I will do everything in my power to make things right."

Their eyes wavered, then shifted to the side, a frown continuing to mar their beautiful face. "Lu, I... it means a lot to me for you to say something like that. I just... I don't think there is anything you can do, or anybody for that matter, and not for lack of wanting to."

(Y/N) paused for breath, and Lucifer waited, sensing their internal debate about disclosing their struggle to him. Finally, they sighed, sagging against him as if all the strength had just left their body. "You saw my file," they said flatly, their head against his chest. Lucifer tightened his hold around them once again, pressing his face to the crown of their head and making a small sound of affirmation.

"Did it say anything about my anxiety disorder?"

Lucifer paused. Yes, he had noted that there was a mental health condition in their profile- generalized anxiety, with therapist notes stating it had a strong social skew- but it had never come up in conversation with (Y/N) before, and with how bright and happy they usually were, he thought they might be in remission- either that, or managing it extremely well.

(Y/N) continued on before he could answer them. "Barbatos has been making sure I have my medication- which is great, since of all the SSRIs I've tried it's the only one that seems to help level me out. But, the bad thing is... my doctor didn't tell me that a lot of people experience nightmares while on it, and ever since I've started it, it seems like I'm having them almost every single night." They paused for breath, their entire body tensing up, and Lucifer began to soothingly stroke their bicep with his thumb, where his hand had settled after they shifted. "Most of the time they're really vivid and... weird? Like, I had a nightmare a few nights ago that I was leading an expedition into the far North back in the human realm, and just as we were about to reach an Inuit settlement I got lured over the side of the boat by sea monsters and drowned... which has absolutely no relevance to my life experience. Obviously. But in the moment they're so scary-" They shuddered, then continued, almost as if they couldn't stop themself now that they had started speaking. "And then other times they're those really vague ones- like, running away from something through a deep forest at night, and suddenly you're falling off a cliff. But then there's, like, maybe 25% of them that actually are relevant to me- some of the worst periods and moments of my life- and those-" They almost choked on their words at the end, and Lucifer squeezed gently, worried they might start crying again.

When they stayed silent, Lucifer spoke. "How long has this been going on?"

There was a pause before the human answered, as if they knew he wouldn't be happy. "Since before I was brought here."

Lucifer was shocked. The exchange student had been here for several months already, and he was only just now hearing about this? Another pang lanced through his heart, wondering how many other mornings they had spent like this, and he deeply regretted the thought of them spending so many nights tortured by their own mind, all alone.

"You should have come to me sooner, (Y/N). You didn't have to suffer in silence." Lucifer's tone softened the words, and he again leaned back to get a look at the expression on the exchange student's face.

"I didn't want to be- troublesome. All your brothers have their own commitments and things they do, and you especially have so much on your plate. I didn't want to disrespect anybody's time."

Just when Lucifer thought things couldn't get worse, they did. He could hear their fear of being a burden, even with their carefully chosen words. The exchange student had put themself through months of agony, all because they hadn't wanted to trouble him. The revelation deeply disturbed him. A handful of months was nothing in a demon's life, just a blip, but for a human? That was a very long time.

"You are incredibly important, to all of us. Your struggles are never a waste of our time, even if you feel they're insignificant." Lucifer spoke firmly, trying to put every ounce of the conviction he felt into his voice. He reached up again to gently turn the human's face towards him, meeting their eyes with his own crimson ones. "Please, don't put yourself through something like this again. If I can bring even a small amount of the comfort you've brought me back to you, I would move the heavens to do it. Promise me."

Their eyes glimmered, and their bottom lip trembled. "I promise," they almost whispered, their voice choked up.

Lucifer impulsively brought his face closer to theirs, softly placing a chaste kiss on their forehead. The exchange student sniffled, bringing their hands up to wipe at their face.

"I will talk to Solomon and Satan about any potions they might know of to combat your nightmares. In the meantime, please come find me in the event that they wake you up in the middle of the night. I'm no stranger to night terrors."

When they acquiesced, he smiled, satisfied. "Now, get dressed. I'm informing Lord Diavolo that we're taking a personal day off- no buts." He spoke, already seeing the protest in their eyes and on their lips, which had parted on the start of a word. "We'll do whatever you want. My treat."

Their brows furrowed. "Won't you get in trouble?"

Lucifer stood, bringing (Y/N) up with him. "Not if I'm doing it for the exchange student's benefit. I'll give you ten minutes while I make the call." The softness the Morningstar had displayed was now gone, replaced with his usual composure as he began walking towards the door, fishing his D.D.D. out of his pocket as he moved.

"Lu?"

He paused at the door, turning back to look at the human. Their eyes were glimmering in the dim light of the room, arms wrapped around their waist. Lucifer thought they were about to cry again until he recognized the sheer gratitude in their expression.

"Thank you, for this- and for everything."

Lucifer showed a soft smile, just for them. "Anything for you, (Y/N)."

#obey me swd #swd obey me #obey me #obey me!#obey me! lucifer #soft lucifer #comfort #lucifer x gn!reader

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hageny · 3 years ago

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Succession Thoughts: Gerri x Roman

AN: The first point in this post was requested by @thinkingfixatingobsessing, so credit goes to her for the idea.

WARNING: Mentions of child sexual abuse in point one.

1. What In Here is Real?

A lot of fans tie Roman’s ‘dog cage’ experience to his adult need for degradation, and certainly there is a valid reason. The murky circumstances surrounding the incident(s) in his childhood--Roman remembering being forced; Connor and Kendall remembering him liking it; Connor remembering what their father said about “two fighting dogs” in relation to the incident--make it difficult to say how much of what Roman remembers is real and how much is his emotions skewing his memories. What is totally overlooked is the scene above, which takes place in Austerlitz. The family has just arrived at Connor’s ranch for the not-so-optional family therapy session when Roman says something very interesting to Connor, telling him that he plans to tell Alon Parfit, the group’s therapist, that Connor molested him as a child. Given Roman’s ‘dog cage’ revelation only one episode later, it struck me as very interesting that Roman makes a joke about what is for many a deep, childhood trauma. Now, I should clarify, I don’t believe Connor in any way abused Roman, and it seems fairly obvious Roman was just doing this for shock value, but there is a point to be made here. It seems pertinent to ponder whether Roman’s ‘dog cage’ experience could tie into a deeper, darker truth in his childhood. Maybe it’s possible that Roman actually did go into the cage willingly, and to some degree submitted--as much as someone who is emotionally/mentally abused as a child can--to his siblings’ game. All of them being children themselves, they wouldn’t have had the insight and maturity to understand his behavior was abnormal. What we do know of Roman’s experience is that it caused him to start wetting the bed, and he was eventually sent away to St. Andrews; again, he thinks this occurred against his will, Connor says he went willingly. What is interesting his Roman’s description of the effects of the ‘dog cage’ incident closely aligns with what may happen to a child who is molested. As Roman puts it, “Kendall locked me in a cage, I went weird, I started wetting the bed, and that’s why dad sent me away to St. Andrews.” Now, I should be clear, I am not a mental health professional of any sort, so all of what I say here is gleaned through years of reading about crime stories and second-hand research, but re-watching this scene caused me to remember that when Jon Benet Ramsey was murdered, many wondered--and still do--whether it was possible she was molested as a child due to her still wetting the bed at the age of six. From what we can gather, Roman would have been probably around the same age, if not older, when the alleged ‘dog cage’ incident occurred; his mentions of ‘going weird’ could be his best way to articulate what could have been a mental breakdown suffered during his childhood. His parents, having no clue what to do with him, would have naturally sent him to a rigorous, regimented school that, they believed, could have righted his ‘abnormal’ behavior. There are many signs children can possibly exhibit as a result of sexual abuse, but a few of them struck me because they describe even Roman’s adult behavior:

Regressive behaviors or resuming behaviors they had grown out of, such as thumb-sucking or bedwetting

Overly compliant behavior

Decrease in confidence or self-image

Change in mood or personality, such as increased aggression

We notice Roman’s lack of confidence constantly over the course of the series. In Sad Sack Wasp Trap, we see him studying his body carefully in the mirror, obviously displeased with what he sees, and then quickly buttoning up his shirt when Grace enters. As an adult there’s no question that he is--around his father, especially--overly compliant, going along with what Logan says and most of the time unwilling to buck him. While Roman is certainly not aggressive in the sense of being a danger to others, we do notice that his temperament borders on the aggressive quite a lot of the time, and he has a sadistic side, taking pleasure in tormenting others for his own amusement. We also know that the infamous Lester McClintock--Mo-Lester--was a friend of Logan’s; while it’s not stated that he abused any children, if he was a family friend, there is a possibility he was around Roman as a child. Connor, in Safe Room, does tell Willa that Logan wouldn’t let his kids get in the pool with Lester, so the possibility of his being a pedophile is there. Maybe the abuser was someone else. Maybe Roman wasn’t abused at all and I’m way off base. But I bring the point up for discussion only because as I pondered it, I myself began to wonder.

2. Patrick Bateman

SPOILER ALERT: The ending to the movie, American Psycho. is discussed below.

In I Went to Market, Shiv makes a quip when Roman tells her he has a hobby, saying to him, “Killing hobos isn’t a hobby.” Anyone old enough to remember--or old enough to have watched American Psycho or read the book--will remember that Patrick Bateman, the novel’s famous protagonist, descends slowly into violence as his disgust for society deepens, and begins literally killing homeless people on the streets of New York City, using homicide as an outlet for his uncontrollable rage. For the sake of convenience, I will discuss the movie a bit here, as I read the book years ago and do not remember much. The end of the movie is open to interpretation, leaving the audience to decide whether Bateman did actually kill anyone and it was cleaned up for him because he was wealthy, or whether he simply fever-dreamed the experiences. It’s interesting that the show draws a tie to Patrick Bateman and Roman, but having considered Bateman’s behavior there are some similarities. Roman, like Bateman, has a total disregard for the lower class, no more openly displayed than in the pilot episode where he tears up the check in front of the little boy at his family’s baseball game. He also, as noted in the previous point, has a temper, sometimes flying quickly off the handle when things don’t go his way. He is tightly wound, constantly agitated by the world around him, and driven by impulse. Where Bateman’s impulses lead him to murder, Roman’s take a different path, leading him to push the envelope of appropriate behavior for shock value, or drop and pick up girlfriends like objects. While Roman certainly would never kill anyone in a literal sense, he is not afraid to destroy those beneath him without a second thought, obliterating Vaulter simply because he wants to, manipulating the staff into admitting they want to unionize--which might’ve saved them--and then handing his information over to his father so as to leverage himself and his desire to shut Vaulter down over Kendall’s desire to keep it open. The point is is that the show, by drawing a link between these two characters, could perhaps be suggesting to the audience that Roman’s behavior, like Bateman’s, requires an understanding of nuance. Bret Easton Ellis, who wrote the novel, grew up in an environment similar to Roman’s, coming from a wealthy family, deriving much of his literary material from what he witnessed as a child and an adult. It could perhaps best be said that both characters are a study in how environments shape people: what they bring out in them, and what they create that, for better or worse, can be left to bubble just below the surface.

3. Only Good?

This point will be fairly brief, but I did find it pertinent to comment on how many people in the fandom--maybe younger people who don’t understand the show’s nuances--seem content to constantly cast Gerri as an artless bystander to the cruises situation when this is simply not the case. It could be that some don’t recall, but in the above scene from Pre-Nuptial, Shiv demands that ATN lay off Gil Eavis by blackmailing Gerri, telling her that if she doesn’t get her way that she will blow the lid on the scandal that centers around Lester McClintock. What’s most important is the fact that when Shiv mentions the “cruise division horror show”, Gerri never asks for clarification regarding Shiv’s point. This, obviously, is because Gerri doesn’t need it. While I am not suggesting Gerri knew all along about the scandal, her lack of need for Shiv to clarify what she means by “the cover-up” is an indicator that Gerri not only knew what was going on before the audience did, but perhaps also had a hand in hiding what was happening. There could be many reasons she did so, but I felt compelled to make this point because so often people believe Gerri was caught off-guard by what was occurring at Brightstar, when in fact our introduction to her in the show was intended to serve as an indicator of her character. The phrase, “stone-cold killer bitch”, used flirtatiously by Roman, was not only intended to amuse, but also to give insight into her character. In order to survive and thrive in Waystar, Gerri would have had to have been anything but an artless child, and her reputation as a ‘stone-cold killer’ is apt, as it describes the sort of character a person generally has to take on in order to climb the ranks of the corporate world. Gerri’s panic as the cruises situation unfolds is not due to the nature of the incidences (nor is Shiv’s for that matter)--it is due to the panic she feels at having to take the fall for what occurred. What actually happened, the facts of it, don’t really bother her. That’s what makes a killer.

#gerri/roman #gerri x roman #gerri kellman #roman roy #succession #succession hbo #hbo succession #succession thoughts

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boymeetsweevil · 4 years ago

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SS6 - MYG, FLUFF, 2900w

For @bangtancentricsblogsmain because i wanted her to suffer :)

At 3pm, on a Thursday, there’s a knock on Yoongi’s bedroom door. He had come through that very same door not an hour earlier to lock himself away from the world after a particularly draining day. After dropping his bag somewhere on the ground, he showered, removed his contacts, and pushed the laundry waiting to be folded over to the other half of his bed in record time.

Normally he would have joined his roommate and their mutual friend circle who were seated on the couch in the communal living room, eating snacks and watching a game. But this time he begged out with a quiet mumble about needing rest.

When Hoseok knocks, Yoongi makes a feeble sound to signal he’s still, unfortunately, awake.

“What,” Yoongi grumbles.

He attempts to sit up on one pale elbow and then decides against it. Hoseok’s lips twitch up at how cranky Yoongi is pre-nap before sinking back down as his expression darkens into a pitying and somber mix.

“She’s here. And, uh, she’s asking for you.” Hoseok’s eyes dart back to some unseen spot in the living room.

“Tell her I’m asleep.”

“I know you’re not asleep, Yoongi!” Your voice rings from outside the bedroom and Hoseok cringes sympathetically.

“I’ll just leave,” Hoseok says when you shove your torso through the crack in the doorway.

You wait to start speaking until the bedroom door is shut and the noises from the TV outside wash away.

“Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” is all you get.

The backpack you carry drops unceremoniously to the ground with a thud and any dregs of sleep cloying to Yoongi’s brain vanish with the sound. It’s with a valiant effort that he shoves his face deeper into his pillow. You cock your head to look at your best friend and snort at him.

Yoongi’s glasses are skewed across his face. There are thin pink lines marring the left side of his face from lying pressed to the wrinkled sheets with glasses on. The platinum blond waves of his hair, normally coiffed styled, are squashed flat against his forehead. Rarely ever does he look this rumpled and it’s hilarious.

“That’s okay, I’ll just tell you what I wrote in the texts,” you say as you make your way further into Yoongi’s small room.

A look down at your feet shows him that you’ve shoved your feet into the pair of bunny slippers he got for guests you when he and Hoseok first moved in almost a year ago.

“Basically,” you continue. “There’s good news and there’s bad news. Pick one.” You help yourself to his desk chair and swivel it so it faces him.

“Bad news first,” Yoongi says after some deliberation. He pulls the covers up to his chin more securely.

“Smart choice,” you nod sagely. “The bad news is I’m gonna have to paint your face.”

“What the hell,” Yoongi barks.

“But the good news is that I have a new job as a face painter at the kids’ section of the farmer’s market this season!”

“How is that good news for me?”

“It means I’ll be slightly less broke and I can stop asking you to buy me breakfast before our 9am.”

Yoongi doesn’t really know whether to laugh or to cry. Firstly, there’s no way in hell he’s letting you paint his face. You’ve always been shit at drawing and letting you showcase that on his skin doesn’t do him any favors. Secondly, he’s in his twenties and he doesn’t even go to the farmer’s market. There’s no reason for him to set foot on the town commons during sunny Saturdays for local produce, much less to get his face painted next to a pen full of smelly goats and screaming kids. He’s just not seeing the connection between you getting this job and him getting his face painted. He stares at you with the hope that you’ll back off but he finds that you’re just blinking back at him with a huge, proud pretty grin.

For a moment Yoongi wants to smile back like things are normal. He wants to put on a groan and act like he’s annoyed that he’s been “forced” to order you sugary coffee drinks and muffins using his own money for longer than he can remember. He wants to gently muss your hair to see you make that cute shocked face you always make. But he can’t.

Because if he does all that, he might slip up again like he did last weekend.

At 10:24pm, Friday of last week, Yoongi told you he loved you while one small bottle of liquid courage was sloshing away in his stomach. After seconds of silence ticked by like the bangs of a gong, you replied. A sing-songy ‘Aww. I love you too, Yoongi’ and a light pat on the arm. Your words were basically the mirror image of his, but somehow also starkly different. Disappointment walked him home early that night and embarrassment laid him low the following week.

But it was just a week, he’d reasoned with himself, you’d hardly notice anyway...

“Yoongi? You okay?”

“No,” he hisses and shakes his head gently to dislodge memories of that pathetic weekend.

“Are you sure?”

“Why do you need to paint my face?”

“For practice! The market doesn’t open for another month but I need to get good. Jungkook said that if I do it really well the parents will leave bigger tips.”

“So Jungkook is behind all this.”

“Yeah,” you chirp. “He’s been really helpful in the last week. Usually I’d vent to you about how broke I am but since you were so busy, I ended up hanging out with Kook. He’s honestly really resourceful and he got me the job really fast.”

The hairs on the back of Yoongi’s neck bristle at the mention of the younger “peer”. Jungkook was a constant presence at group hangouts for a long while but Yoongi could only ever think of him as a friend of a friend. There was something smarmy about the guy’s smile that he didn’t like. And the way he was always draping himself over you, teasing you, buying you food that was all his job. He can’t put his finger on what it is exactly, but something about Jungkook always put Yoongi in a shit mood.

Yoongi curses under his breath. “Why couldn’t he get you a job at the cotton candy station or managing the photo booth or something?”

“What’s up with you lately? Do you really hate the idea of helping me that much?”

“It’s just annoying,” Yoongi huffs childishly from under the blanket.

“Fine, I’ll just ask Jungkook, then.”

“No! Wait!” Your eyes flash with hope. “I’ll do it. Just—don’t bother him. Since he already gave you the job, I mean.”

“Oh, thank god. I felt really bad about asking him for even more help.”

You turn around and pull out a face painting kit from thin air and begin scooting the desk chair towards the bed. When you’re close enough, you frown.

“What?” Yoongi sniffs at his sheets for good measure. All clean.

“Nothing. It’s just...” You look down at the ground and then the chair and then at Yoongi before looking at the chair again. “I usually practice on shorter surfaces so I can get used to working with the kids.”

“Oh, just pull the little lever underneath the chair. Raising and lowering the chair is Hoseok’s favorite thing to do when he comes in here, I swear.”

You reach under the seat like Yoongi instructed, find the little lever, and tug. There’s a low hissing sound before the seat suddenly drops 5 inches. You let out a yelp while Yoongi tries to stifle a laugh at your terrified expression.

“I guess—I guess Hoseok pulled the lever too much,” Yoongi’s voice creaks with laughter. Even when you flick him in the forehead he keeps laughing.

“Yoongi, this isn’t funny. I need to practice.”

“Just so you know there’s no way I’m getting on the floor. I’ve changed my clothes and I’m actually in the bed.”

He knows he’s being a bit of a dick at the moment, but he’s only trying to rile you up. He’s not expecting you to start to get up on the bed after flipping him off. The laundry he placed on his bed that morning to force himself to fold now laughs at him from its position shoved against the wall.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I need to be higher than you to paint your face. And you’re not getting up, right?”

“Well, no. But—”

“So this is where I’m gonna work.”

You shrug like it’s not a big deal that you’re straddling him. Like it’s not a big fucking deal that your soft thighs now rest on either side of his torso, that you casually rest a hand on his ribcage while setting up the painting kit along his sternum. He hopes your hand stays further south only to prevent the rapid beating of his heart from being discovered under your palm.

“What design do you want,” your voice is quiet now that you’re closer.

Makes sense. No need to yell. But it still drives Yoongi crazy that you’re basically whispering in his ear as you lean over him to grab at the unused cup of water behind the bed frame. You revive your paints with the water while he tries to keep his breathing in check, lest he cause your paints to tumble off his torso and stain his sheets in a pastel rainbow.

“Uhh, how about an old style tiger?”

“Really,” you deadpan, “I tell you I’m just starting to learn to paint and you ask for a tiger?”

“Fine. Stars, then.” He gulps when you look right at him, face flushing to create the perfect pink canvas.

“Oh, I can do that. No reference needed.”

It seems deadly quiet in Yoongi’s room. The sounds of the living room long since died down when a crowd favorite started playing and captured everyone’s attention. Now there’s only yours and his intermingled breathing and the sound of your brush tinkling against glass.

You lean down from your perch to focus on carving out a swatch of night sky to blanket Yoongi’s stars. Your breath softly puffs low against his left cheek at the same moment the wet tip of the paintbrush hits his skin. His breath hitches a little and he’s not sure which is the culprit.

“Hold still, okay?” Your words come out in a whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

Minutes pass and two shaky stars are born on Yoongi’s cheekbone. You shift around on his chest to stabilize yourself and in your movement you lose your footing a little, your right leg slipping off the edge of the mattress.

“Ah—”

“I got you,” Yoongi grunts a little as his hands fly to your hips.

He easily stops your momentum and your paints, clutched desperately in your hands, remain safe from the ground. The pads of his fingers are still dug lightly into the meat of your hips and waist. In that moment you remember just how big Yoongi’s hands are.

“T-thanks.”

“No problem.”

A slow grin spreads on Yoongi’s face when he notices that suddenly you can’t make eye contact like you were just a few moments prior.

You do your best to continue, but your gaze keeps flitting to his, only to find that he’s already looking at you. It sets something hot aflutter in your chest. The points of the stars that you thought you had a handle on turn soft and wobbly once more.

“Look up,” you ask when you’re out of other options and keep having to paint over your work.

Yoongi has to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling at how jittery you seem. It feels good to know that the effects of this proximity are mutual, that you’re feeling just as lightheaded from sitting in his lap as he is from having you sit in it.

“You almost done?” He drawls. He’s been counting the small irregularities in the paint on his ceiling to keep entertained.

“Uh, yeah, almost.”

He feels the cold kiss of the brush tip once, twice more before it returns to its makeshift home of the water glass with a clink.

“Do you...wanna see what it looks like,” you sit up then.

There’s a small hand mirror across the room that you’re eyeing. But he stops you with a squeeze to your hips, reminding you that his hands have been resting there this whole time.

“Just use my phone,” he nods to the device lying abandoned in the sheets. “Take a picture.”

“Okay.”

For some reason, your hands are shaking even with the paintbrush gone and the need for focus lifted. Mechanically you wake Yoongi’s phone from sleep and access the camera app to take a photo, shifting your weight to your knees to get above him and snap a pic. Curiosity makes you open the photo album app to see the photo you just took instead of showing it to him first. The result takes your breath away.

Yoongi looks blissfully content, almost smugly so, as he gazes up at the camera. The stars under his eyes and on the bridge of his nose look like glowing yellow freckles amidst the banner of deep navy and rich purples you used to craft the sky across his cheekbones. The paint looks good and it’s probably even your best job yet, but you can’t help yourself from looking elsewhere.

Yoongi’s tousled bed head, soft sleep shirt, and dreamy eyes bring a cloud of butterflies to your stomach. The final killer touch of the photo is the fact that your knees just barely enter the bottom of the photo. Yoongi’s hands rest on each one like they belong there.

“Yoongi.” You breathe his name like a sigh and that’s when he surges up, as if to catch his name on your lips.

The kiss takes you by surprise and you tumble down to him in a soft pile of limbs. He hums a long, pleased sound when your weight settles on top of him. The hands he had on your knees suddenly grow restless and they amble up your thighs, up your waist, around your back. His hands are ever busy gliding over as much of you as they can in the moments that you let your lips press firmly against his.

Idly you pick out the details you notice with your eyes drifting closed. Yoongi’s breath leaves his nose in puffs against your face and his sighs echo quiet in your ears. His hair is soft between your fingers and so is the collar of the worn shirt that he’s wearing. The sheets that have raised around you like makeshift linen mountains smell just like Yoongi’s sweet soap, warmed with sleep.

“Shouldn’t we—”, he plants a kiss on your mouth, “shouldn’t we talk about this,” you mumble against his lips.

Yoongi’s hands stop in their tracks along the midpoint of your spine. The sigh he lets out is long suffering.

“Sorry. I just—I got carried away.”

“I mean, you don’t have to apologize for it. I just...thought you saw me as a friend.”

“Do friends confess their love for each other? That’s new.”

“L-love?” Your eyes turn wide and starry. “When have either of us ever confessed our love?”

“Well, I did. At the bar. Or did you have to block that memory out?”

Your brow furrows at the self-deprecating turn his smile takes and you clasp one of his still-wandering hands.

“You mean—Yoongi, I thought you were just being mushy. I thought you meant, like, ‘I love that we’re all here together as friends right now’. If I had known that was a real confession,” you trail off.

“You what?”

Yoongi’s mood elevates once more, enjoying the sudden turn your rambling is taking. Teasingly he bucks his hips under you, startling you out of your bashful silence and forcing you to press two hands to his chest for balance. A cute little sound leaves your lips and he’s tempted to do it again.

“You were saying,” he grins up at you and his hands start to wander once again.

“I would have—”

“Baby, speak up.” He’s all coos but there’s a little venom in his voice. He likes how embarrassed you are.

“I would have left with you that night. If I had known.”

His shirt wrinkles up where your fingers twist anxiously. Normally you trample through Yoongi’s space, no shame or hesitation in the way you leave him on his toes. It had always been a fun game for you to see how close you could get before he’d have to draw a line, before his besotted smile would become too hard to hide. But now you’re not so sure you can handle it directed at you in all its glory.

“That’s a nice idea,” he says.

In one moment he looks like he’s really weighing the idea, serious in his appraisal. The next moment he’s tugging you down when you least expect it, bringing a corner of the blanket to envelope you both. Under the cover of weak darkness, he threads a hand through the hair at the base of your neck.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

#btscreatorscorner #hyunglinenetwork #networkbangtan #bangtan scenarios #yoongi scenarios #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagines #yoongi fanfic #bangtan imagines #bangtan fanfic #bangtan fluff #bts scenarios #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts fanfic

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wonda-cat · 4 years ago

Note

You mentioned rewriting that one analysis post on Tommy’s revival stream and I’d really look forward to it! I never got to read the full og post and that’s the only place I saw these takes. Especially the one about the afterlife being too depressing. It’s not even just about Tommy, the implication that even if every character is safe and happy by the end, this is their inevitable fate is messed up. It’s not “a neat subversion” it’s just depressing and doesn’t add anything.

Hey, anon!

I sorta decided to not rewrite it? I feel a bit differently about the essay in the end, although I still believe in most of my points. I’m also just not nearly as passionate about it as I was when I wrote it (I finished it in a single sitting, which was... interesting.) However, yes, the afterlife stuff still bothers me just the same, as well as the odd changes to Wilbur’s characterization... post mortem.

But—just for you, anon—here’s the entire meta-analysis essay anyway, with some minor edits to the stuff I don’t agree with anymore!

My Many Narrative Issues with Tommyinnit’s Revival Stream

I want to preface this by saying that I dearly love the Dream SMP and understand it isn’t exactly comparable to other mediums like TV and film. With this being the case, most criticism against it is generally in bad faith or strange in foundation. Complaining about streamers for bad acting is the best example that comes to mind.

These aren’t professional actors. Most have never acted in this sort of setting, or even at all. Quite a few have admitted to never roleplaying before. Which is why it’s warranted to praise Tommy, Dream, Wilbur, Ranboo, and others when they deliver stellar performances. The same applies to criticism of music choice, dialogue delivery, focus, tone, etc.

However, one such category I cannot overlook is in regards to its writing. The writing of a story is its entire foundation. It encompasses many things—conflict choice, character development, themes, and morals. The author creates the blueprints for the architect, who then expresses the story with light, sound, color, pacing, and music. It is in its execution that we see if this connection is made or broken.

The reason I find poor writing mostly inexcusable is because it is one of the most available skills to practice and perfect. I don’t mean to say that it’s easy, I mean to say it is something anyone can attempt to cultivate. Whether they do it well or not depends on their methods and experience. If anyone can self-publish a novel and be criticized online for its quality—and even compared to the works of Mark Twain—then I find critiquing the writing of the Dream SMP to be perfectly reasonable.

However, since the Dream SMP script is a set of loose bullet points, tearing apart dialogue and scene continuity—which is nearly all improv—is rather useless. It doesn’t exactly have a clear focus as the plot plays out. The characters talk in circles until they hit the story beat required, and then they move onto the next. Thus, when criticizing it, one should generally critique grand events and narrative-specific shifts, more so than small-scale character interactions.

Which brings me to my main point: The broad narrative choices taken in Tommyinnit’s most recent livestream, ‘Am I dead?’ may lead to disastrous writing pitfalls in the future.

I’ll be outlining each of my issues below, in hopes of creating a better understanding as to why I feel this way.

This might become quite lengthy, so please bear with me for a bit.

Tommy’s relationship to Wilbur has flipped. This change is jarring and seems out of character.

Tommy and Wilbur’s friendship is rather complicated. While Wilbur does care for Tommy immensely, especially during the L’Manburg Revolution and the Election Arc, his mental spiral during exile put a massive strain on their relationship as a whole. Wilbur brushed off Tommy’s feelings and wants, while clinging to him and pushing everyone else away. He was simultaneously distant and suffocating.

Tommy, on the other hand, has an unclear view of his mentor. Since the beginning, and even long after Wilbur’s death, Tommy held him in especially high regard. He saw him as a brother-figure and a wise leader. He followed what he said and did everything he could to impress him. Yet, Wilbur still hurt him while the two were together in exile.

When speaking of him, Tommy tends to flip infrequently between remembering Wilbur the way he was before his mental decline and thinking of him as a monster. Both of these images conflict with each other, but they weren’t nearly as extreme as what Tommy described Wilbur as when he was revived from death. The fear Tommy displays to Wilbur is beyond intense—it feels as if the audience may have missed a month’s worth of character development.

This can make sense, especially since it was stated that he’d spent what felt like two months in the void. However, this shift is still deeply at odds with Tommy’s previous impressions of Wilbur, which is both disheartening and confusing. The fact that Tommy would agree to stay with Dream—his abuser and murderer—over his past mentor is simply head-reeling. It paints a very different picture of Wilbur’s character, somewhat conforming to the fandom’s ableist impression of him—the idea that Wilbur is insane and irredeemable, and always will be.

It also ignores Dream being the driving factor in Wilbur’s downfall, as well as the double-bind deal with Dream which required him to push the button, no matter the outcome. Others have pointed out that Tommy may be lying to get Dream to bring Wilbur back, and there’s compelling evidence for that. For one, Tommy and Wilbur’s conversation seemed uncomfortable, but it was certainly nothing like Tommy implied. (Unless this fear comes from something Wilbur said off-screen.)

Tommy also begged Dream to not bring him back multiple times over, which he should know would make Dream even more tempted to, simply because he likes seeing Tommy in pain. Tommy is also a known unreliable narrator. He may be making Wilbur out to be worse than he is by accident (even still, I’d argue this is a bit of a stretch.)

However, there are some issues with this theory. Tommy offered himself as payment to Dream if he chose to let Wilbur rest. This is a deal Tommy knows Dream is extremely unlikely to refuse. Tommy is what Dream has coveted all this time. If Tommy genuinely wanted Wilbur back, he would not offer this. This sort of compromise is Tommy’s greatest nightmare—something he would only do in response to his friends being threatened or his home being destroyed.

To add, Tommy is not great at lying. Unless he was taught by Wilbur for those two months* in the afterlife, there’s no chance Tommy would be this good at it. Thirdly, Tommy is terrible under pressure. He uses humor to cope. When he can’t, he cries and shouts and spills his heart out. While cornered, Tommy will tell the truth about anything, especially if Dream casually debates killing him again, just for fun.

For now, it’s too early to tell how the relationship shift will play out. In the grand scheme of things, this issue is rather minor.

Season three’s writing is needlessly bleak. The portrayal of the afterlife is a nightmare. There is no rest, not even in death.

I adore the Dream SMP storyline in its entirety. I believe the first season is fantastic, and while the second season has some narrative clarity issues, I enjoyed it just as much. Although, I would argue season one had a more concrete understanding of its Hope-Conflict balance.

To briefly explain, the Hope in stories are its ‘highs’ and good moments. These appear when a character the audience is rooting for is narratively rewarded. They happen during character building in the text—it’s the downtime and peace that allows for connection and relatability. It’s a moment for the viewer to breathe easy.

The other half is Conflict, an obstacle in the story that gets in the way of the main characters’ goals, beliefs, and motives. These are the ‘lows.’ They give the narrative focus and weight. They make the highs feel even higher. They establish consequences and force the characters in the story to change in order to adapt and overcome them.

I bring up the Hope-Conflict balance because a traditional hero’s journey would have an appropriate amount of both. Their highs and lows are generally equalized, as the name suggests. However, this balance has been awkwardly skewed in the latter half of season two and in the current plot of season three. To clarify, it is perfectly reasonable, and even common, for some stories to tip the scale more to one side.

But a common mistake for amateur writers is to create their stories as either hopelessly dark to cause the audience continuous distress for the sake of distress, or to keep everything entirely conflict-free for most of the plot. What do these both have in common? They each make the story boring and predictable.

Season three has taken this concept and thrown a monstrously heavy weight onto the Conflict side and flipped the scale so hard it has crashed through the ceiling. The viewers are hardly given time to find any joy in Tommy’s character, as he’s thrown into yet another abusive situation, just barely after his first narrative reward. The world is painted as relentlessly violent and traumatic.

Every person Tommy meets is morally grey, unhinged, or out to hurt him. Everything most of the characters love is taken from them by those in positions of power. Ranboo cannot even grieve properly because it scars his face. Puffy, Sam, Ranboo, and Tubbo all blame themselves for what happened to Tommy.

The audience watches lore stream after lore stream with the same depressing tone (with the exception of Tubbo’s, but I assume that’s unintentional.) Tommy is revived after being brutally beaten to death by his abuser, surrounded by all of his greatest fears. The afterlife is revealed to be akin to inescapable torture. It’s a colorless void that wraps the individual like fabric.

Time moves thirty times slower within. There’s nothing—nothing but the voices of others who’ve passed on before him. Dying in a world already devoid of happiness takes the characters to a place worse than hell. When a narrative delivers unfair suffering to the entire cast without a moment of joy to speak of, the story will feel simultaneously overwhelming and pointless.

Why watch characters suffer when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel? What happiness could they strive for when we know they’ll never get to keep it? How can I be satisfied with a good ending, if I know that an afterlife too terrible to name is what awaits them, truly, at the end of their story? Death isn’t even a white void that offers rest—it is eternal torment.

Obviously, it isn’t a good message to send by making the afterlife seem like a quiet, perfect place or an escape from pain. But making it an unspeakable anguish which awaits, assumedly, every character who will die in the future? I deeply hope Tommy was only being an extremely unreliable narrator.

More likely, I hope the place Tommy was taken to was a Limbo of sorts, not an end-all-be-all destination for everyone.

The degree of Tommy’s narrative punishment continues to escalate, to an almost absurd degree.

Tommy is one of the most tragic characters to exist in the storyline. He was sent into war at a young age and experienced two traumatic events during it. He was exiled by the newly elected leader and witnessed his mentor Wilbur spiral and break down with paranoia. Tubbo is executed publicly in front of him. When expressing rightful anger at the person who murdered him, he’s beaten nearly to death and never receives an apology.

Schlatt dies right in front of Tommy, after his initial refusal to hurt the ex-president. His brother-figure and mentor is killed in assisted suicide on the same day his nation is blown up. His best friend exiles him from his home for the second time. He routinely self-sacrifices to protect his country and those who live there. His most treasured possessions were taken from him and he was called selfish for trying to retrieve them (although his methods were self-destructive and volatile.)

He was pushed to the brink of suicide after being relentlessly abused and isolated in his exile. He was horrified when he thought he was responsible for drowning Fundy. After making an objectively good decision to stand by his old friends and change for the better, his country was obliterated by the man he once idolized, his father-figure, and his abuser.

He was left scattered and without purpose for many days. Then he fights against Dream and loses, while also reliving his trauma. He watches Tubbo almost die at the hands of someone he once thought was his friend. He doesn’t tell a single person about what happened to him in exile. The day he tries to sever his connection to Dream and heal, he’s trapped with him for a week, surrounded by everything that terrifies him.

He threatens to kill himself, speaking about his own life as if it were an object—something to hold over Dream’s head. He blames himself for everything bad that’s ever happened to L’Manburg and his friends—internalizing a mentality as a scapegoat for everyone around him. He is forced into the role of ‘hero’ despite the title being unfair and distressing to him.

As if that weren’t enough, he’s then beaten to death by his abuser and spends what feels like two months in an afterlife that is worse than hell. When he returns, his senses are excessively heightened. Dream can cause him excruciating pain, just by pinching him. He can send Tommy into an instant panic attack, just by raising his voice.

The punishment Tommy’s character receives is a thousand times worse than everyone he has ever met, or ever will meet. And it shows no signs of stopping, as Dream now has control over Tommy’s very mortality. Tommy now fears the slightest damage and feels as if he’s losing his best friend all over again. He is also forced into a position where he has to kill Dream out of necessity, to protect everyone he cares about.

Characters need fitting punishments in relation to their actions. Not always, but in order to be satisfying? Yes, they do. It is preferred that a main character deal with unfair situations and difficult conflicts, but this is borderline torture p*rn. Putting Tommy in these distressing and abusive situations on repeat and punishing him for doing objectively moral or healthy things is exhausting to watch.

To quickly add, I find the general insinuation of Tommy going to hell distasteful, especially considering the contents of his storyline. I know this may be hard to believe, but Tommy is one of the most moral characters in the plot, besides Puffy and Ghostbur. He’s also the only character, followed by Ranboo, to recognize that they can be wrong and make mistakes. He changed himself in order to heal and be a better person. He was in the process of paying people back for the things he’d stolen.

He’s learned to be hard-working and less violent through the guidance of Sam. He has apologized to everyone he’s ever hurt (with the exception of Jack Manifold, because that man is allergic to communication.) He puts himself in harm's way to protect others. He doesn’t set out to purposely hurt anyone. He goes out of his way to make connections with people and maintain them, even if others don’t reciprocate.

He’s hopelessly optimistic, despite his outwardly bitter façade. He loved so much and put meaning into the smallest things. The thought that a person like him—a suicide and abuse survivor—would go to hell after being beaten to death by the man who took everything from him; it makes me sick to my stomach.

The only thing more morbid than Tommy’s afterlife being different than everyone else’s, is the concept that everyone will end up in this same eternal torture, no matter what they do. Take your pick: Tommy is sentenced to anguish until the end of time for no reason, or everyone will receive the same disturbing ending, regardless of their actions.

The narrative weight of Ranboo’s character is potentially out the window.

For the past few months, I’ve watched all of Ranboo’s lore streams faithfully, curious to see what role he would play in the future. His ‘hallucinations’ of Dream seemed to be sowing the seeds for a plot that has Ranboo taking the fall for every single insidious thing Dream has done. It would also be a tragic parallel to Tommy’s trial.

Ranboo being convinced he was the one who blew up the community house, when Dream himself admitted to doing it, was one of the bigger indicators for me. This is just one of many other unexplained occurrences. Dream seemed to be making an effort to trigger and control Ranboo, especially after Sapnap’s prison visit. It appeared, from the way he went about this, that Dream had some grand use for Ranboo as part of his plan to be freed from Pandora’s Vault.

However, after Tommy’s stream, the way Dream explains himself makes it seem like there was no plan besides seeing if the book worked on people. And if he didn’t after all, then what was Ranboo for? Was Ranboo unimportant? Was Ranboo just some weirdo who happened to phase out when seeing smiley faces and imagined conversations that may or may not have happened?

I bring this up more as a worry, and much less so as an active problem in the narrative. They haven’t actually thrown Ranboo to the way-side or written themselves into a corner yet. In future streams, this could very easily be explained away or developed as more information is revealed.

Only time will tell.

The potential for Wilbur’s future development and importance to the plot is unfeasible.

I feel as if I am the only person on earth who doesn’t want Wilbur Soot or Schlatt revived. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is not a dislike for these characters. I especially adore Wilbur, as he’s one of my all-time favorites. I don’t want either of them resurrected because their stories have already been told. They each had a fitting conclusion that ended their involvement perfectly.

Bringing Wilbur back would especially cheapen the impact of the War of the 16th. It’s the end of a man who was brought to the absolute edge and out of desperation, shame, and self-hatred, he destroyed himself alongside his creation. Bringing him back would leave the climax of the previous story hollow. My biggest issue, however, is that a lack of story importance would likely follow his return.

The only real impact I’d like to see is through a healing arc with Tommy, an apology to Fundy, or a confrontation with Phil/Niki. But that’s really all the potential I can realistically see. While I don’t doubt Wilbur as an agent of chaos, able to create plot out of thin air; what is he going to do now? His country is gone, his friends and family are scattered about, and his mission from the 16th is already accomplished.

What is a well-educated, charismatic politician supposed to do in a world already broken and without nations? Read poetry to himself and cry evilly? However, this is working off the assumption that Wilbur would be returning as his old self.

If Wilbur is resurrected as a ‘villain’ of sorts, then what? He’s not good at fighting in the slightest. He would have no materials. There are no real allies he can make, other than the arctic group. On top of that, there are already more than enough villains to last a lifetime.

We don’t need any more, I promise. Quackity seems to already be shaping up as another antagonist, alongside Sam’s slip into darker and darker shades of moral ambiguity. We also have Philza and Techno, which are already overkill. But then we have Dream who, despite being in a prison, has the ability of selective revival. This is mercilessly overpowered, especially if he makes many allies. The dude could just bring his dead friends back so they can keep fighting forever.

Then there’s Jack Manifold and the Crimson followers; Antfrost, Bad, and Punz. That’s not even including characters who are refusing to get involved. How are Tommy, Tubbo, and Puffy expected to do literally anything to fight back?

Dream’s experiment on Tommy implies he had no backup plan to begin with. This makes his character seem both short-sighted and foolish.

When Tommy woke up after being brought back to life, Dream sounded surprised that the revival worked at all. This instantly shatters the perception that Dream was highly intelligent and thought ahead. With just a few lines of dialogue, it’s implied that Dream killed Tommy, unsure of if the resurrection would even be possible on humans.

Which, to risk something that important, seems unbelievably stupid. Dream needs Tommy, from his perspective. Tommy is his ‘toy,’ the one who makes everything fun. If he lost him and couldn’t get him back, what then? Oh well, everything Dream was doing was all for nothing, I guess.

Why not attempt this experiment on literally anyone else first? Like Sapnap or Bad or, hell, even Ranboo. I suppose it could be that, as soon as Dream got the book, he experimented with it after the 16th. This appears to be insinuated with Friend and Hendry’s revival, although this is uncertain. But even then, he was still unsure of the book’s effect on a human being.

Also, this means, hypothetically, Dream’s entire plan of escape hinged on the experiment working, to begin with, and also on bringing back Wilbur if it somehow did. I find this even more ridiculous. Why Wilbur? That man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, let alone get through the traps in Pandora’s Vault. Even if he is intelligent after years* in the afterlife, that’s also a strange assumption.

How do people learn things in the void? Where do they even get this knowledge? I’d honestly argue Techno is a far more competent choice than Wilbur. And even if Dream did bring him back and tell him he owed him his life, what’s to stop Wilbur from just killing him permanently? Or killing himself, continuously?

No way would Wilbur want to be controlled by anyone, ever. The dude would sooner fuck off into the mountains and become a nomad than help a neon green bodysuit cosplay as Light Yagami.

Dream’s discussion about Sam implies that he wasn't playing any part in Dream’s plan, making Sam appear entirely incompetent and neglectful of Tommy.

Dream talked about Sam in a way that seems detached and unaffiliated. He also mentioned him being broken up about Tommy’s fate and not being aware he’s still alive. Dream not being partnered with, or not using Sam in his plan leaves many plot holes. I’ll go through each one. The initial incident was an explosion, coming from the roof of Pandora’s Vault. This did not affect the Redstone mechanism for the doors or dispensers.

Meaning, Sam could’ve had Tommy leave the way that was expected for visitors after he investigated and found no issues. This likely couldn’t have been done in less than a day, but it would be better than an entire week. If Tommy was required to stay for longer, due to protocol, he could’ve gotten Tommy out and then placed him in one of the minor cells for the remainder of the time.

Also, no one else lost a canon life for leaving via the splash potion of harming and returning outside the maximum-security cell; why would Tommy? To add, Sam being uninvolved means that the explosion could have only been caused by Ranboo or Foolish. That, or it was placed long before and timed for the moment Tommy entered the main cell. (I’m going to ignore how ludicrous it is that someone would know the exact time Tommy would’ve entered the room with Dream.)

If Ranboo was the person behind the detonation, this implies he was necessary for Dream to kill Tommy to test the book. But that makes it even stranger. If this was Dream’s goal all along, why not kill Tommy the instant he was trapped with him? It makes no sense for him to wait so long.

Sam is also directly at fault for not letting Tommy out, even after the week was up. There was no reason not to. He already knew there were no issues with the prison at that point. Although, to be fair to Sam, his character may have been paranoid and checking everything more than necessary, just in case. But this still isn’t a good excuse for him ignoring protocol in this one instance, and yet, not in any of the others.

All of these plot holes or inconsistencies would be removed if it was revealed that Dream was blackmailing Sam in some way, or Sam had been working with him since the get-go. That Sam was the person who set off the explosion in the first place to trap Tommy inside. It would also explain Sam’s refusal to let Tommy out and by keeping him in there for longer than necessary.

This can also coexist with Sam’s attachment and care for Tommy. He probably wasn’t told about Dream’s plan to test the book and genuinely believed Dream wouldn’t hurt him. On top of that, Dream is known to be a pathological liar, so his statements about Ranboo and Sam could be entire fabrications.

Who knows?

The Book of Revival invalidates death entirely. The narrative now lacks both tension and consequence.

Another way the Dream SMP differs from other storytelling media is in the way it goes about its character deaths. In a TV show, for example, there will be characters who die just because, or when it’s important to the plot. However, it seems as if the Dream SMP is hesitant to commit to killing its characters. And there are many reasons for that.

The most important one being, killing someone’s character excludes them from the story and some of their livelihoods depend on them regularly streaming on the server. There is also the issue of the cast becoming extremely sparse if characters keep dying. Typically, in stories, when you kill a character, you should introduce another.

This keeps the cast from dwindling as the storyline goes on. This means the writers would have to find new streamers to join, who will develop their own characters and relationships with the plot’s continued momentum. This can be stressful and daunting to those who may be newly added in the future.

Keeping this in mind, the Book of Revival is annoying from a writer’s perspective. When death is no longer an issue for a story hinged on its characters’ mortality, then what do you have as a consequence anymore? We’ve explored every kind under the sun; from abuse, to betrayal, to loss, to destruction.

In stories, traditionally, death is a finality. It’s a conclusion. Whether it’s good or not depends on the character’s actions, its build-up, and the event’s execution. Without this lingering sense of danger, tension evaporates from the story.

Why should I care if Tommy loses in a fight to someone, if he’ll just come back a day later? Why should I care about what happened to Wilbur, if he just returns as if nothing happened? The answer is simple: I won’t. I will no longer care if Tubbo or Ranboo or Sam die in the story, because the idea of revival even being a possible outcome leaves me unenthused and uncaring.

The Dream SMP likes to flirt with death. It teases the demise of its main characters many, many times. More so Tommy’s than anyone else’s. Wilbur’s failed resurrection, which had unforeseen and unfortunate outcomes, is now strange in comparison to Tommy’s, which happened without a hitch.

To be fair, we actually don’t see how many attempts it took. But here’s the problem; Dream could do it without the book being physically present. He’s trapped in a prison with nothing on him, meaning he doesn’t need any materials either. It’s also implied he could do this as many times as he feels, for anyone he wants. This would be exceedingly overpowered, if not for one thing—Dream himself is mortal (at least, I fucking hope he’s mortal.)

If someone kills him one last time, that knowledge is gone forever. And I’m glad they’ve established at least some way for Tommy to win. Because at this point, I was losing faith.

There is also the bare minimum establishment that Dream can refuse to bring back those he doesn’t care for. He can also use it as a shield, holding this power over other people. If Dream is gone, death is permanent. But isn’t that how death is supposed to be, anyway?

What a bleak premise—the afterlife is pure eternal torture while life is cheapened by a lack of consequences.

Conclusion

All this to say, I am cautiously optimistic for the future. I hope dearly that every single one of these can be disproven or developed in the coming livestreams. Obviously, there’s not enough information to really determine what the end result will be, or how everything will fall into place.

Every time I have theorized about the story, it has done something completely different and pleasantly surprised me. I want this trend to continue.

Surprise me again—I’ll be here to see where it goes.

#answered asks #long post #tommyinnit #dream smp meta #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #this is slightly outdated still but whatever #hope this was helpful anon #tw abuse #tw suicide

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luxmaeastra · 3 years ago

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@an-endless-saga continued from here.

"I was gone for 5 hours I think? I lost track for awhile, Tisiphone is being dramatic again and Thanatos is at his wits end. That conversation felt it shaved 3 hours off my life."

He hummed looking down at her sketches he ran a hand down her back.

"Could it be the shadows and not the actual design?"

He'd learned the hard way that when she asked for his opinion - to give it, fully. He'd tried to be nice early in their marriage and that had only made her mad. He didn't like to see her mad at him, he was always scared she'd finally realized he was cursed and leave.

"The leaves look skewed too, the veins seem off, not as thin and delicate I think? You're right something is off."

He leaned down to kiss her.

"Come eat with me? We can figure out after? I'll even keep my hands to myself till we do."

He'd definitely taken her in her workroom on more than one occasion. But he could tell this was bothering her and above everything he liked making her happy. Gods, maybe Viren was right and he'd turned into a romantic."

He leaned back to sit down next to her.

"I think Viren was right to say you've made me a romantic Iris. I'm not sure how I feel about the image change my Dove."

Five hours, it hadn’t felt that long. Though maybe it did, as she had begun to move, she noted the dull ache that had began to radiate from her back. The feeling of his hand running down her back caused her to relax, her gaze lifted back to him. “The shadows.” She echoed.

His honesty when it came to her work meant more to her than anything, it was what she needed from her partner that she shared her life was. Someone who would not sugar coat things, especially to save her feelings. After all, how would sugar coating anything benefit her? What would happen if bad news came? If she had allowed it to continue, would it end up in him keeping things from her? That was why she had been angry, that was why she had made sure he knew early on that she wouldn’t tolerate it.

His kiss was the one thing that distracted her though, that reminded her that there were things outside of her work that needed her attention. Having something to eat would be a good idea, stepping away would be a good idea. “I will come, though I find it very hard that you’ll be able to keep your hands to yourself.” She countered as placed her sketch pad down, she moved to settle herself beside him.

An amused laugh came from her as she rose a hand to his cheek, her head tilting. “I see nothing wrong in being a romantic Keir, I think it makes you much more handsome than you realize.”

#Muse | Iris

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 5 years ago

Text

Reflect

Summary: Jared notices the reader shying away from him and suspects something serious with the way she views herself is going on...

Pairing: Jared x reader

Word Count: 2,600ish

Warnings: language, self-image issues (body dysmorphia), fluff

____

“Baby,” said Jared, scooting closer on the couch. You shrugged him off and felt him shift back. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

“No I haven’t,” you mumbled. “I’m tired. I want to head up to bed.”

“Alright,” he said, flipping off the tv. You got upstairs first and into the bathroom, quickly changing before he came in. “You are acting super shady, you know that right?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t change in front of me anymore, don’t let me touch you,” he said. “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

“No, Jared,” you said, brushing past him when his hands caught your shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing!” you said. Jared turned you around and bent down to get in your face. “I hate when you do that. I’m not a kid.”

“I hate when you lie to me,” he said.

“You’re the one that’s lying,” you shot back.

“What did I lie to you about?” he asked. You pursed your lips and glanced down, Jared poking you in the cheek. “What?”

“That you still like me,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. He scrunched up his face, scratching his head as he stood up.

“Y/N, I sincerely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

“A few months ago, remember when I finally started working out with you?” you said.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t get smaller. I got bigger. I gained like-“

“Because muscle weighs more. You put on muscle and maybe you got ‘bigger’ but didn't you even go down a size in some stuff? I still don’t understand-“

“Obviously you don’t,” you said. He stared at you before nodding his head a moment.

“You think I care about the way you look,” said Jared. “That’s it, isn’t it.”

“You’re the one that said I should workout,” you said.

“So we could spend more time together,” he said. “I don’t give a shit about what you look like.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said, following you out to the bedroom. “I think you have a skewed perception of how you actually look.”

“I can go step on the scale and show you,” you said.

“Exactly. You care what a stupid little number says when you shouldn’t,” he said.

“This is not attractive,” you said, pointing down at yourself.

“Yes, it is. I like all of it, like I like it more than any other person on the planet,” he said.

“Well I don’t like it,” you said.

“Okay. So we will work on that so you do like you again,” he said.

“I am working on it,” you said.

“Come with me to my session tomorrow,” he said.

“Jared, maybe I should cut back on the weight training and do more running is all. That’s-“

“Alright,” he said, walking back into the closet. About four minutes later he walked out with a bag full of your sneakers, humming as he went downstairs.

“What are you doing?”

“Cutting you off. You come with me tomorrow and I’ll give your sneakers back, deal?”

“Jared.”

“No. No more until you go and talk to someone, got it?” he said. “Now go to sleep and relax, baby. We’ll get you fixed up, alright?”

“I have never heard of this,” you said, flipping through the booklet in the passenger seat of the car on the way home from Jared’s session. Well, basically your session today at least.

“Body dys…”

“Dysmorphia,” you said, leaning your head against the back of the seat. “I hit every single thing on this, Jare.”

“Which is why I wanted you to talk to someone else, baby,” he said, giving your hand a squeeze. “It’s in your head and that’s okay. Like he said today, exercise and eating right is great but you can’t let it control you,” he said. “You can have a scoop of ice cream and it’s not the end of the world.”

“But you think I look better-“

“I think you should be healthy, that is it. I am throwing away that scale too and you aren’t buying a new one,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you said after a few minutes.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I still-“

“Do you let me say I’m sorry when I feel crappy?” he said.

“No,” you said, staring out the window. “But I got it twisted in my head that you cared about how I look more than me and that was wrong.”

“No, it wasn’t. Trust me. I’m not mad at all or anything like that. I want my happy best friend back. That’s it,” he said.

“...can I get a hamburger on the way home?” you asked.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

One Week Later

“Y/N,” said Jared, glancing at you from the other side of the table. “You barely touched your dinner.”

“What are you, my mother?” you said, crossing your arms over your stomach.

“No but I can get her on the phone if you want. I’m assuming you haven’t told your parents about this yet,” he said.

“Jared.”

“You haven’t eaten anything today,” he said.

“My stomach is bothering me. Honestly,” you said.

“Alright,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said as you stood up and started to pack away your food for leftovers.

“Do you want to go sit in the pool?” he asked.

“Maybe just my feet, baby,” you said. He didn’t say anything more as you started to pick up. He changed upstairs into a pair of swim trunks and you wandered outside, sitting on the edge in the shallow end, letting your toes dip in the warm water.

“How’s it feel?” he asked as he stepped in.

“You forgot your beanie, goofy,” you said. He stood up and walked over to you, pulling it down over your head.

“You sure you don't want to swim?” he asked.

“I still don’t like the way I look,” you said. “I don’t want to put on a bikini and stare at myself in the mirror for an hour dissecting how much I hate things that aren’t even really there.”

“But at least you know you’re doing that now which is the hardest part to admit,” he said, bumping his nose against yours. “And I think you’re doing an awesome job so far.”

“I didn’t used to be like this,” you said.

“Baby, you kind of did,” he said. “As long as I’ve known you actually.”

“Really?” you asked. He nodded and gave you a smile.

“I always thought it was something you were managing on your own. I don’t like how I look sometimes either. But I think when I said you should work out with me…”

“My head super overreacted and now I can’t even believe you when you say you still like me,” you said.

“I don’t like you for your body, Y/N. I like you, Y/N, the person,” he said. “In fact I love you, even if you don’t really like yourself right now.”

“You used to pretend a lot when I would say something to try and make you feel better, wouldn’t you,” you said.

“Yeah. But then I stopped,” he said. “You said something once about trying to treat myself the way you treat me. Turns out I’m a lot nicer to myself now.”

“Jared,” you said, Jared humming. “Give me five minutes.”

He nodded and you got to your feet, heading inside and upstairs. You pulled out a red bikini from the closet and changed, walking over in front of the mirror.

“Alright. You know what? This is a cute bathing suit and it looks nice and I used to actually be excited to go swimming with my husband so I am going to start doing that again...and start talking to myself apparently,” you said, shaking your head as you walked out.

Jared didn’t make any comments when you went outside and stepped into the pool with him. He swam over and kissed your cheek but other than that, he didn’t make a big deal out of it.

“Hey, Jare,” you said, floating around on your back in the shallow end after a few minutes.

“Mhm,” he hummed, drifting around somewhere close by.

“Thanks for stealing my sneakers,” you said. “And calling me out.”

“Kind of my job, baby,” he said. He bumped into your head and you smiled, spinning around and wrapping your arms around him. “Can we hug again?”

“Yeah,” you said, Jared instantly putting his feet down and scooping you up and out of the water.

“You’re perfect, you got that? No matter what,” he said.

“I got it,” you said, your legs wrapping around the small of his back. He held you tight and you smiled when he started to kiss the side of your neck. “Jared.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I missed touching you too. It’s just like...the pool isn’t the most sanitary…” you said.

“I could just make out with you?” he said, a smirk growing in his face.

“We can make out,” you said.

“Awesome cause you got no idea how bad I want to spend the rest of the night kissing you.”

“Y/N?” yawned Jared from bed a few hours later. You were staring at yourself in the mirror again, frowning when Jared walked in. “Baby. Come to bed.”

“No I was just...thinking how stupid I was. I mean, I’m supposed to have a stomach. Like, I’m supposed to and I’m supposed to have curves and a butt and sure I went down a size but I’m miserable obsessing over the fact I can’t change those things so a number on the scale goes down. I want to enjoy my life again.”

“You’re on the right track,” he said. “You shouldn’t be calling yourself stupid but we’ll take today as a step forward. That’s all you do is take steps forward and then eventually you look back and realize how far you came.”

“Really?” you deadpanned.

“Come to bed, dork. I am looking forward to a good long cuddle.”

Two Months Later

“Lil’ Pads,” said Jensen, wandering outside to your back patio.

“Doofus,” you said, Jensen chuckling as he leaned over the railing next to you, bumping his hip into yours. “Yes?”

“You doing okay?” he asked. “I feel like this is the first time I’ve seen you in forever. We were starting to think you didn’t like us or something.”

“I was going through something,” you said. He nodded his head and looked out at the yard. “I-“

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. I’m really good at just being there and not saying much at all,” he said.

“Jensen.”

“Yup.”

“Can you do me a favor? It’s kind of big so you can say no.”

“I’m already saying yes but go on,” he said.

“I have not been feeling...great lately and I’m trying this new thing out where if I’m negative about myself, the people around me call me out on it,” you said.

“Oh, I’d love to do that,” he said with a smirk. “When do I start?”

“Now, I guess,” you said.

“You really want to know when it started?” he asked. You cocked your head, Jensen smiling. “When I met your short ass.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Yes I am,” he said, giving you a side hug and picking you up when the back door opened. “Padalecki. I think this one belongs to you.”

“Thanks,” said Jared, taking you out of Jensen’s arms.

“Nice to have lil’ Pad back,” said Jensen, giving you a smile before he slipped inside the house.

“He’s gonna mother hen me hard now, isn’t he,” you said.

“Probably. Worse things in the world than having a friend who cares,” said Jared, setting you back on your feet. “Speaking of which, I’m really happy you wanted to have a dinner party tonight.”

“I feel better. I’m not one hundred percent but I do feel normal and not embarrassed about myself anymore,” you said.

“I can tell you’re getting like your old self again. Part of you will probably always be a bit like this but it’ll be a much smaller and more healthy part of you. Plus you chowing down on a rack of ribs is by and far the most attractive thing you’ve ever done,” he said.

“I do like me some barbecue,” you said.

“The Ackles clan has invited us to dinner out with them Friday to partake in some. If you’re up for it,” he said.

“Sure. I’m even gonna order dessert,” you said.

“Rebel,” he teased, giving you a squishing hug.

“Gross,” said Jensen, grabbing his phone off of the railing edge, pausing as he looked back at you. He leaned in close and you raised an eyebrow. “So you’re all buff now and all and you been MIA for months now and I was thinking...I don’t gotta go kick somebody’s ass or kill somebody, do I?”

“Dude,” said Jared. “If we had anybody to go murder, I would have called you by now.”

“Just making sure,” said Jensen. “Also, tell me what you’re doing cause I’d feel way more comfortable leaving De home alone if she looked like that.”

“Word of advice,” said Jared. “Let Y/N bring this one up to her.”

“What he said,” you laughed. “We’ll save you any headaches.”

“Okay…you sure you’re alright?” asked Jensen.

“Yeah,” you said, giving Jared a hug. “I’m good.”

“Stop being cute. It’s sickening,” said Jensen as he headed back inside.

“Want to go be obnoxiously cute?” asked Jared.

“Tease Jensen again? Obviously,” you said.

“That’s my girl.”

Friday Night

“How’s this one?” you asked.

“It looks great,” said Jared, going through his phone.

“Jared.”

He looked up, eyes a little soft as he looked you over. It was an easy going red dress with a small cutout out in the back. You think you’d gotten it at target for twenty bucks.

But Jared was staring at you goofily, like you weren’t even there.

“That one,” he said.

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, walking over and resting his hands on your hips. “You wore this dress on our first date.”

“Points for you,” you teased. “I got good memories of this dress. I want to make some more.”

“Me too, baby. You ready to go?” he asked. You nodded and grabbed your purse from the bed, Jared smiling at you. “Want to check the mirror again?”

“Nope,” you said.

“Proud of you,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Jared.”

______

#supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #rpf #jared x reader #au #jared padalecki x reader #jared padalecki #spn fanfiction #supernatural reader insert

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septic-dr-schneep · 4 years ago

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JSE - Given Time (Part 12)

Previous chapters: [x]

A/N: You know how I said I would wait to post this? I lied

Three and a half weeks.

Three and a half weeks since Marvin had wrenched awake with a ragged scream, feeling like someone had punched a hole in his chest.

Three and a half weeks since he’d half-stumbled, half-crawled from his room to the others, everything in his body singing, Wrong! Wrong! Danger!

Three and a half weeks since they had broken down Chase’s door to find nothing but his hat, phone and wristwatch strewn on the floor. Weeks of terror, rage, grief and determination warring within Marvin as he drilled through every tome on his shelf, searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign.

By only the sixth day his fingers were bloody with papercuts and burnt from entangling too many spells at once but the others knew better than to try stopping him. They were far too busy with their own search methods.

Jackieboy had scoured the city, cashed in as many favors as he could spare, dragged as many police officers as he could get his hands on into the search. It was a testament to how much of their faith he had earned, working with them over the years. “He’s my friend,” he said, and that was all they needed to know.

Schneep contacted every hospital, every urgent care, every house caller he could think of in the city, then as many as he knew in the Ipliers’ city. Dr. Iplier had sworn he would do what he could on his end, though who knew how much?

Whenever he wasn’t on the phone, Henrik was crying into scarred, shaking hands. “I wish it were me. If the monster has him, if Chase must endure what I did…” There were nightmares and horrors in his eyes that wouldn’t let him elaborate. “I wish it were me. I would take his place, I would endure it all again if it would spare him!”

Jameson, meanwhile, did the work that was left by the wayside: food, water, blankets when the others finally passed out with their desks as their pillows. After the initial panic he seemed to go into shock. China-pale and puffy-eyed, he drifted from task to task in a daze. His speech slides were scarce, his signs nonexistent. On the rare occasion that he rested, he prayed.

There were no traces of static lingering in Chase’s room—not a speck, not a flicker. Emergency calls and hospital reports of stab wounds came up empty. Chase’s gun was still in its locked drawer, as were the bullets. There was no note to detail a goodbye. When Marvin grit his teeth, swallowed his pride and bitterness and called Stacy, she said that neither she nor the children had heard from Chase in a couple of months.

That should have been a relief, a sign that this wasn’t another attempt. Chase wouldn’t dare try to leave this world again without telling Brianna and Connor that he loved them one last time. Nevertheless the fear churned, always, in the back of Marvin’s mind.

What if he did try to reach the kids but couldn’t get through, so he gave up? What if he doesn’t have his gun because he’s going to try some other way? What if he took the note with him so it would be on his body when he’s found?

No. No. I would know. I would have felt it.

That tether he held, that thin lifeline tangled up around Chase’s soul was all that Marvin could count on every day. Chase’s face card, the King of Clubs, could not locate him, aimlessly fluttering up and down the streets. With every dead end the card’s enchantment found, Marvin was taken back to the days of watching Schneep’s card tumble in the wind, unable to reach him in the pocket dimension where Anti had stashed him away.

That train of thought found a new track.

Three and a half weeks since this new twist of their living nightmare began and at long, long last, they had found something solid to stand on.

Marvin’s plan had been to utilize his soul bond with Chase from the start, combing through dimensions one by one, searching for any pang, any sensation. Yesterday afternoon, however, Dr. Iplier had called Henrik to pass on a message.

“The Host is well aware of the Septic Egos’ trouble. Marvin the Magnificent approaches it on too small a scale. Pocket dimensions will prove trivial, fruitless…but the Host Sees beyond. For the price of a future favor, he may be of assistance in locating Chase Brody’s thread of reality.”

It was the easiest debt they could ever agree to. Another nine months with a hole in their household was not an option.

Marvin emerged on the opposite side of the portal, the opposite side of the universe, with Jackieboy tensed for a fight beside him. Schneep was quick on their heels, machete raised for an upswing, and Jameson had his sword cane drawn before his feet even hit the rocks. It wavered in his hand, however, as he laid eyes on the city in the middle distance.

“Jeepers…That truly is Elvery Heights. It’s the spitting image of our own…yet darker,” he murmured in wary disbelief.

“I don’t understand. Should this portal not have taken us straight where we should be? We are on the outskirts,” Schneep demanded.

“The Host wasn’t about to do all our work for us—and it’s probably better that we haven’t been dropped into the middle of a fight,” Jackie pointed out. “We know nothing about this place. We should find our bearings first.”

“We should find Chase; he’s waiting for us somewhere in there and I’m not going to waste any time sightseeing! We need to get in, get out and get him home!” Marvin snapped, pushing past him into a jog toward the far street. “I’m going to West General, Schneep; if he’s hurt, the Anti of this universe would probably dump him there for you to find!”

He had hardly sprinted ten feet before Jackieboy caught up with him. “Marvin,” he began in a warning voice.

“I feel him now. He’s here and he’s frightened,” Marvin snarled, dodging the hand that grabbed for his shoulder. “Isn’t this how you felt when Schneep was gone? Can’t you understand, you of all people?! Wouldn’t you do anything to get him back, no matter the risks? You would’ve plowed right in too if you knew where he was and I will not hesitate to do the same! Chase is—”

“I know. I know, Marvin.” Jackie matched pace with him, gaze steady, low voice unfaltering. “But even if I had found out where Anti kept Henrik, I would’ve been an idiot to go alone, with no reconnaissance and no plan. I don’t doubt for even a second that I would’ve gotten us both killed.”

“I don’t plan to make that mistake.”

“It would be an even bigger mistake to leave us behind! He’s not just your brother. You think JJ wouldn’t do whatever it takes to save his dad right now? But he’s keeping it together and coming along with a level head. We’re all here to help you.”

Muscles twitching in his jaw, Marvin quickened his stride. I’m coming, Chase. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hold on.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

All of the buildings, the streets, the parks, shops and walkways—They all seemed to be “right” but Henrik couldn’t shiver away this uneasy chill from his back as he followed Marvin and Jackieboy toward the hospital. It was his hospital. Shouldn’t he feel at ease, knowing this street so well? But as intricate as the familiar surroundings may be, they didn’t hold up well when he truly looked. It was like an optical illusion or a spot-the-difference game, everything further skewed as he ventured further in.

The passing cars were few and far between, the pedestrians dotted across the street so rarely that it was startling to see one. None of them smiled. None of them even seemed to care about each other’s existence. Unlike the civilians at home, these people didn’t give a second glance to the “quadruplet” Egos passing them. They didn’t bat a lash at their attire, didn’t bother meeting their eyes.

“You feel it creeping up on you too, doc?” Jameson shivered beside him, leaning on his sheathed cane to keep up. “The cold? The strangeness of it all? I can’t rightly put my finger on why but this place feels…ill, like the heart has drained from it. I find myself hoping that the hospital will show happier signs of life!”

“I hope that too.” Thanks to those words his patients’ faces were already flashing in his mind as they stopped before the double doors. “Okay…it looks normal enough, the way I know it…”

“You’re obviously the one who can get in and check around for any sign of him the fastest without being suspected,” Marvin announced, wasting no time to steer him forward by the shoulder. “You know where they keep the patient logs, right?”

“If they keep them where they do at home, yes, but that is an ‘if’,” he reminded him tersely. “This is a different world, Marvin; we do not know if I even work here, if I have ever worked here. Hopefully my coat and expert doctoring will let me pass through at a glance but if it doesn’t—”

“Henrik? Is that you standing dillydally around I see? I thought you were scurrying out to fetch our coffee twenty minutes ago!”

All other fears fled his mind at the call and left him paralyzed at the sound of that voice. Marvin and Jameson retreated a few feet, taken aback, but Jackieboy wasted no time shouldering defensively between him and the approaching figure.

“What’s going on? Henrik?” Albrecht repeated, glancing curiously between the rigid pair. “If you don’t hurry to the shop, our break will be over before you’re back.”

Henrik could only stare at his old enemy, openmouthed, drawing a blank on any possible response. The mere fact that Albrecht was unmasked, ungloved and clean of any bloodstains was enough to render him speechless. Jackieboy didn’t suffer that malady.

“What are you doing here, Doll Maker?” he barked.

“That’s the Doll Maker?” Marvin breathed, glancing at Jameson as he tightened white knuckles around the head of his cane.

“Well?” Jackie spat, eyes burning. “Have you been waiting for us to arrive? Are you the one who’s taken him?”

A snort of bewildered concern escaped Albrecht as he shifted back, hands lifted placatingly. “Very sorry, sir, but I imagine you think of someone else. I have never heard of any ‘Doll Maker’; I do not know why you call me that. Do you need a doctor’s help? Who was taken from you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Are you trying to mock us?”

“Not at all! If you are looking for a patient, you can ask the front desk in there—or if you would like to wait just a tick, my friend Dr. Schneeplestein and I can gladly listen to your story and see if there is anything we can—”

A nearby crash, splash and clatter cut him off before he could finish, making them jump. As he spun sideways Albrecht lit up, calling out, “Oh, hello! There is the coffee! I—”

“Schneep,” Marvin whispered.

Jameson flinched. Jackie swore.

Albrecht wavered uncertainly, glancing to and fro with the same disbelief mirrored on the others’ faces. “W-Wait. Wait a moment…How can there be—?”

As the steaming brew collected in a puddle that stretched for his shoes, Henrik remained absolutely still, unable to breathe. On the other side of that gap, his other self, bony, pallid and haggard, stared him down with sunken eyes that still shone as cold and sharp as razorblades.

“What is this?” he hissed.

___________________________________________________

@viostormcaller @misslennie9 @obsidiancreates @plutoandpolaris @rainidaydreamer @alvie-ashgrove @subtleshenanigans @victory-cookies @happysingingturtles @c4link @ashphoenix06 @a-humble-narcissus @jackskeptically @burningbirb @theblackphoebe @hexatrash @realcanadianmoose @o-0notsteph0-o @help-trashbin @blitzindite @rats-this-username-is-taken @lildevyl @droidreamer @number1120 @bookwormscififan @wynterst0rms @awesomekattyk @the-weirdest-fangirl-blog @epicfangirl01 @rammypaige @the-spawn-of-loki @isa-ghost @rabbitsartcorner @totallynotanti @thesinginggal @akiacreates @veryanxiousdev @stardustdragon130 @10th-no-name-person @immabethehero @rataccoonn @darkiplurrr @smolswolpotato @gay-but-still-feral @definitely-asexual-volcano @0-chaotic-potato-0 @jade-orade @nagrom10714

@egopocalypse

#youtube #jacksepticeye #fanfiction #youtube fanfiction #writersofjack #given time #marvin the magnificent #chase brody #jackieboy man #dr schneeplestein #jameson jackson #dapper jack #antisepticeye #stacy brody #chase brody's family #dr iplier #the host #the doll maker

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lokidrabbles · 5 years ago

Text

Hold My Hand (Loki x Reader)

Reader goes through an episode and begins to question their feelings for Loki

A/N: This is another angst ridden oneshot, which originally was intended as this super agonizing break up story, but I was able to end off in a much lighter note. Though I am not terribly ‘proud’ of this one, perhaps some of you can find some comfort in it! As always, Gender Neutral Reader! Warnings: Angst, mentions of depression, potential break up

The realization hit you like a barrage of bricks, and it was absolutely horrifying. The truth had been displayed right in front of you, and while the past year was wonderful and unbelievable, it had to be said. You had an instinct to declare it to yourself, so the tantalizing dream could finally break away.

You couldn’t be with Loki, because you didn’t love him.

Or, at least, you weren’t sure if you did.

A relationship with him was simply idealized in your head like a made up fantasy. You grew extremely close to him, and soon he became the first thing that would pop in your mind each day. It was wonderful to feel that same thrill, that same ecstatic excitement you had missed for so long. For a while, Loki had become your totem, a way to motivate yourself each and every single day. A role model who had overcome such travesty, and would help you push yourself to your fullest potential. He made you feel things you’d never imagine you could feel, both emotionally and physically. The best way you could describe it was an exquisite high, one you wished you would never run out.

It would all diminish as time passed on, and the extreme guilt overwhelmed your once content self. The same familiar cloud began to hung overhead, plaguing you with the worst intention. You had been using him as a way to replenish your long missed happiness. And it was the most selfish thing anyone could possibly do to him. You’d begin to recall the many nights you had selfishly coerced him to stay with you, an effort to avoid your loneliness and satisfy all of your physical needs. He would always comply, and you figured it was because something frothy like this with a human wasn’t as morally compelling for someone who was over a thousand years old.

But it was still using him for such a egoistic reason. And so you began to question whether the feelings you shared for him were based on something genuine, you actually being in love with him as a sole person, or because he paid attention to you, and kept you away from those debilitating memories.

The discourse in your head would soon begin to affect you, and it wouldn’t take long for Loki to begin to realize it.

Your energy around him began to dwindle, and his random pops into your home would almost be unnoticeable. It was as if your feelings or him, or anything relating to him, had completely hardened. The facade became exhausting, and soon your expression would too become hardened.

Loki, as introspective as he was, took a bit to catch onto it. He would fully come to confront you however once he saw you physically tense up at his playful hand over your waist. You had never reacted like this before, and the message was loud and clear. You did not want to be touched by him, it was just to difficult to deal with.

Your usual chipper walks back to your home were now silent and swift. You still felt some obligation to talk to him about what has been plaguing your mind, but even looking at him would cause physical discomfort. You were terrible, and you felt unworthy of even standing next to him.

An evening, one shrouded by a crescent moon and scattered night clouds, would finally provide you with the courage necessary to confront him. You recognized he was able to sense your nervousness, and began the excruciating conversation.

“What have you been hiding from me?” He asked, but you interpreted it as something more of a command.

You felt a lump form at your throat, still avoiding to look at him in the eyes. “I don’t think...we should be together anymore.”

He halted in his steps, as you continued to walk a couple ahead of him. You stopped however, remaining still, waiting for an answer.

“You’ll have to run that by me in a better way.” He said, his voice still firm.

You turned towards him, only looking at the path over his feet. “Just what I said. I don’t want us to be together anymore. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.” Your voice was hoarse, holding back the lump still.

The air became heavy, and Loki was still immobile with your words. He then scoffed, and chills ran through all of your body. “Right, of course.”

As if on response, your eyes began to fill up, the burning sensation making it difficult for you to notice. All you could do was nod. Pathetic.

“Could you, at least explain to me why?”

You weren’t really sure why, but a part of you wanted to scream out and tell him to just forget about what you said and go back to how it was. “I don’t want to be with you, that’s why.”

“Look at me, human.” He demanded again.

“Loki, I can’t-”

You felt his touch at your chin, and you flinched again. Loki stepped closer to you, and used his hand to raise up your face to finally look at him. You expected his expression to detail his rage and disappointment towards you. Indeed, you had used him like some fanciful thing to take away your insecurities and solitude. And you knew Loki was not a man who appreciated being toyed with. You braced for the worst, but was met instead with the look of a man who appeared....fearful.

Loki’s gaze darted all over your face, and you could notice the twitching at the corner of his lips. His eyes would too become glassy, shining with the dim moonlight. You had never seen him like this, but still felt disconnected from it all. You were disgusting.

“I’ve felt you pull away from me, from my touch, and I’d imagine I must have upset you in some way. But, this?” He said, a small nervous laugh escaping from his mouth. “I don’t...have I hurt you?”

You were so disgusting. “No. I’m sorry, it’s not that.” Your voice continued to linger, low and unfeeling.

“Tell me.” He said, and you noticed his jaw trembling. “Say what’s on your mind.”

You disconnected from yourself completely, wanting to avoid feeling the pain of your own words. It was better this way after all, and if it mean severing your connection from him, then so be it.

“I don’t...feel love for you. I don’t think I ever did. I’m so sorry for misleading you all this time. It’s just, I don’t think its fair to you.”

His face fell hollow. The shine is his eyes vanished, and he removed his hand from under your chin. It had been done.

“You are indeed, the worst kind of human I have ever encountered.”

You couldn’t breathe, and your body went numb. This was it, and the journey would be long and grueling. He hated you now, despised you.

Through the tormenting reality, you then felt him grip your arm harshly. You yelped, but it was soon cut off by Loki’s palm landing firmly over your forehead. He pushed your head backwards slightly, and you began to feel a warm sensation at it’s nexus. You felt your eyes roll at the back of your head and began to lose touch with your present reality, all too quickly.

Your vision became hazy, and smoky figures began to take form and shape in this new space Loki had throw you in. You began to hear murmurs of people talking, and the images and voices would become more apparent. Your memory would take its full shape, and two distinct figures fell into place in front of you.

It was you and Loki, together. You both were together in your home, sharing a warm drink across your kitchen table, squabbling about something you still couldn’t make out. Your voice would pan out, and the conversation would prick at your ears.

“If you ask me, I think you’re abilities are much more handy to have in combat than whatever Ironman’s fancy suit does.” You heard yourself say.

“If only everyone else shared your magnificent introspection of my combat ability. Alas, I am only restricted to certain things. Of course, I know exactly why, but it’s not very fun.”

“Well, I have a feeling you have a very skewed notion of fun, Mr. Mischief.”

“I think you humans have a very boring perception of fun.”

“But! We are still very charming in other ways, yes?”

You saw him roll his eyes, while swirling the hot drink in his hand. From an onlookers perspective, you saw yourself beam and giggle at his reaction. The smile forming across your face was addicting, and you had seldom seen yourself in such a way. Your hair was a mess, you wore unfitting clothes, and your face was natural and bare. It was a heavy contrast from Loki, who was wearing a well fitted suit, but it was something you did not bother to worry or feel conscious about. You knew how to be happy, that was for sure, but lately it was all amiss. You were happy during this moment however.

“Charming, in the sense that you seem to get an enjoyment out of my distress and suffering? Then yes.” He said, jestingly of course.

“Oh, I’m not that mean to you, am I? I just poke a little humor at you so you don’t feel so awkward with me.”

“I believe we are past that, aren’t we?”

You remembered how you had felt your hear flutter at his words. “What would that mean for you then, Mr. Mischief?“

“Perhaps this courtship has worked its way to my satisfaction. Or perhaps you are just fun, that is all.” He had shrugged casually, knowing he was teasing at you.

You sputtered a laugh. “Courtship? Sheesh. Let’s just call it dating and maybe we can work through that instead.”

“Dating is for children. If you’d like for me to be more bold,” You saw his hand reach over the table to hold at yours. “ This is my way of saying, that I have grown very fond of you.”

“Go on.”

He smirked. “I will admit, I was very apprehensive at first, especially considering the circumstances of our coming about. Also, I have a bad history with humans as it is.”

You saw yourself place your other hand over his, and you recalled gripping it tightly, as a way to demonstrate your own fondness over him. “It’s weird for me, to have you say that. Because I’ve come to known you for the person that you are today, and that’s why I’m always so excited to see you every day.”

“Then we share the same energy. I cannot promise you, however, that things will be...what you would consider ‘normal’. I hope you comprehend there’s a lot of baggage I carry with me still.”

“I guess I’ll have to ask you the same in regards to me.”

“I can tolerate anything you’ll throw at me dear, in that you can have my word. I’ll support you through everything.”

“Can I tell you something, that is completely vulnerable and embarrassing?”

He nodded, and you saw how you had worked up your own courage to reveal something you had long forgotten about.

“I haven’t really felt like this about anyone in such a long time. It’s scary, especially considering you’re an alien to me, but I think I can say I lo-“

“Stop. Stop it. Don’t.”

You had completely forgotten about this too. You had come to discover about Loki’s inward embarrassment for when someone would flat out mention those three little words to him. You recall how his mouth twisted, and how he averted his gaze at you, as if to hide to pinkness in his cheeks.

“Oh my god, you really can’t hear it, can you?” You had asked teasingly.

“Don’t push it. We were having such as great conversation, and then you-”

“Oh, Loki I love you sooooo much!” You exclaimed, with your own mischievous smile.

He got up from his seat in a huff, walking away into your living room while murmuring something along the lines of how much he hated you and how it was all a mistake. You skipped behind him, still saying those words in a sing song manner. You heard him raise his voice at you, but it all became muddled once more. The fixed image began to smoke and haze out, now left with puddles of memories. It began to roll off, leaving a single pinpoint of light and you felt your body transported back to the present. Your eyes rolled back into place, and you gasped heavily.

You pushed Loki off of you, causing you to stumble backwards. You attempted to catch your breath, as you began to process what exactly had happened. “What did you do to me?” You asked in between huffs. “What did you do!”

“What’s the matter?” he asked, looming over you. “Surely you’d remember something like that, or perhaps it was too painful?”

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!” You exclaimed, stepping away from him. “How fucking dare you get in my head like that!”

“No, how dare you just toss something like that to the side?” He snarled at you, but you stood your ground. “You really expect me to believe something like that?”

A rush of adrenaline hit you, furious at how he had entered your subconsciousness, and furious at how he wanted to manipulate the situation. You clenched your teeth, allowing him to release everything onto you, despite it all.

“I’ve simply demonstrated to you exactly what your mind is experiencing. Not wanting to be with me? Very unlikely.” He continued, now completely towering over your.

You couldn’t comprehend the level of arrogance he was showing. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I can’t believe how pretentious you are being about this!” You said.

“You’re acting as if you never knew this about me. However, I did hear something else in your mind.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I do know you, stupid human. You’ve been calling yourself those poisonous words again. They continue to echo inside your mind, and you didn’t bother to discuss it with me. Why?”

The distance between the both of you was smaller now, but Loki hadn’t made a move to lay a finger on you. You expected him to reach out to you, encircling his arms around you, and shushing you, telling you everything would be okay. But you had been pushing away during this whole time know, and perhaps this had been his way to respect your space. You desperately sent out a solemn thought to him, to disregard all of the foolish things you have done and to simply embrace you tightly.

“I don’t know.” You felt the tears stream down your face, as you began to tug at your hair. “I’m so sorry, please it’s not you.“

You toppled downwards on your knees, and unleashed the wave of unrelenting depression and anger. Your wails were horrendous, and they echoed all over the block. You never wanted something like this to happen, and you never wanted to hurt him in such a way.

Shortly, you felt the same familiar warmness across your shoulders and back, feeling Loki’s breath at the top of your head. Your body continued to shake violently, still adjusting to the sudden release of sentiment, but experiencing a huge sense of relief, as if a boulder had been lifted from your back.

“I’m sorry I invaded your mind like that.” He whispered to you. “But I wanted to show you that memory I hold closer and dear to me. I still feel the same, and I hope you still do as well.”

Your mind traveled back to that moment in time, now possibly forever crystallized in your head. Both you and Loki, holding each other’s hands, allowing each other to be as vulnerable as possible, while still providing each other with the utmost security and confidence, as much as any two individuals could.

“Do you still wish to end this?” He asked sternly.

You shook your head, burying your face deep into his shoulder. “No, but, I don’t feel like I should just accept it like this. I fucked up so much, I hurt you-”

“You did not hurt me.” He cut in. “I’m not a child you know. You saw me clearly telling you before, did you not? I will be with you, even at your lowest of moments.”

“I’m so sorry, I do still love you.” You said with a muffled voice.

He let out a low chuckle. “I’ll still recoil upon hearing those words. I do apologize for that, but you have nothing to apologize for. You are the most important and precious thing in the universe to me. So please, promise me that you won’t go through your anguish on your own anymore. For me?”

It had been something you were longing for throughout that night, his own special way of unraveling the mess that you concocted inside yourself. It was that utmost attention to detail which continued to draw yourself to him. He had used this piece of time, this memory which you both shared, not to manipulate or coax you into something else, but you simply remind you. You saw yourself, happy in the presence of this man, and you saw him re-experiencing the same long lost feeling.

#loki #loki angst #loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki drabble #loki drabbles #loki (mcu)#loki laufeyson

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