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slowd1ving · 2 months

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IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters.

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise.

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left.

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen.

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it.

He should leave.

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome.

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here.

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess.

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness.

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words.

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?”

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive.

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words.

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind.

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you.

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason.

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days.

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry.

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless.

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board.

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game.

“What gave that away?”

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had.

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured.

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped.

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on.

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first.

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips.

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence.

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection.

It’s too much. It really is.

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his.

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin.

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh.

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space.

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous.

Shameful.

He can’t sleep.

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber.

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say.

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts.

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone.

Pathetic.

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off.

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached] 02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest.

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life.

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting.

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like.

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air.

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater.

It’s yours.

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did.

It’s not enough.

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses.

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly.

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons.

He’s never felt so perverted.

He’s never felt so conflicted.

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I?

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely.

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society.

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso.

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower.

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in.

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion.

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day.

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face.

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area.

He gives up.

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over.

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst.

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband.

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough.

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off.

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying.

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits.

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat.

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase.

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating.

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut.

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin.

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning.

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense.

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater.

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating 00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out. 00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you 00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them 01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him.

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks.

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them.

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff.

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing.

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions.

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs.

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers.

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness.

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust.

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts.

Which is to say, not very honest at all.

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer.

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place.

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier.

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine.

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom.

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently.

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago.

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express.

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further.

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune.

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own.

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation.

He’s so close.

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps.

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers.

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them.

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening.

Finally.

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background.

No.

You’re real.

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this.

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt.

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm.

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you?

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick.

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded.

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess.

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend.

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe.

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this.

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation.

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence.

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided.

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed.

He holds his breath.

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know.

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline.

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it.

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t.

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence.

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels.

You were there, and you saw all of it.

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you.

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding.

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones.

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze.

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else.

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp.

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence.

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach.

He’s willing to help.

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight.

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers.

And he admitted I’m just a friend too.

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go.

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion.

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this.

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest.

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly.

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible.

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else.

“Just the lips,” he stammers.

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer.

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more.

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms.

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment.

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word.

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips.

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath.

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered.

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers.

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed.

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream.

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you.

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips.

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down.

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow.

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base.

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too.

He freezes.

I can’t think that way.

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat.

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you.

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace.

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours).

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold.

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him.

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher.

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach.

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind.

How shameful.

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them.

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult.

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation.

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe.

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides.

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body.

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks.

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass.

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread.

It finally sets in.

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him.

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat.

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin.

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this.

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body.

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes.

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off.

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets.

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation.

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches.

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you.

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss.

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft.

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it.

“You sure?”

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release.

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze.

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt.

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume.

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it.

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him.

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over.

This is a special form of madness.

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment.

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery.

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly.

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out.

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present.

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine.

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question.

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow.

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look.

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively.

“Your turn,” you prompt.

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds.

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame.

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such.

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head.

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions.

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach.

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more.

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release.

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes.

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you.

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated.

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight.

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself.

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts.

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star.

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you.

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend.

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh.

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection.

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer.

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #x male reader #x reader #male reader #reader #res ･ﾟ writing

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nom-nommmm1 · 8 months

Note

Hi there! I saw you wrote for Lords Of Chaos (my gulity pleasure) And was wondering if you could write a short with Pelle, where he meets a male reader after a show who sneak backstage to compliment him on his voice. They bond over finding out they have similar interests, like the concept of death and certain artists, and one thing leads to another when the reader teases him about being “softer then he thought.” So smut in dressing room after show scenario. Hope your having a decent 2024 so far :)

SOFT - DEAD/PELLE

Masterlist for more !!

Hihi thank you for the request! I appreciate it very much, my 2024 is going ok so far :) also this is my first male x male so pls be kind!!

Content warning !!: dom!Pelle x male!reader, pelle being sweet, but then rough with the reader, blowjob, cum eating, unprotected sex

As the show was ending the blond singer and his band thanked the audience and made their way backstage. Once they left the crowd started rushing to the parking lot, pushing me back as I try to walk closer to the stage. “Fuck!” I yell out as I try to push by the mob of people. I manage to make my way to the stage, sneaking to the backstage area. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

As I try to sneak around I hear a familiar voice call out. “Hey hon, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here” the voice says, coming closer to me with every word. I turn around to see the one and only Dead. My cheeks flush a little as he looks down at me, now being a few inches away from me. “What’re you doing back here?” He asks smirking a little.

“Listen I understand I’m not supposed to be back here, but I’m a huge fan and wanted to say that I think your voice is really nice” I quickly say as the blond looks at me up and down, analyzing me with his big brown eyes. He then smiles. “Why thank you, I’ve been perfecting it over the past couple of years” he says looking down into my eyes softly.

I smile, blushing a bit. “Y’know I don’t think I’ve ever had someone sneak backstage just to talk to me” he says chuckling. “Well…I am a big fan” I reply looking down at my shoes in embarrassment. Dead moves down to my eye level so I am forced to look at him. “Hey it’s fine, what’s your name sweetheart?” He asks giving me a sweet smile.

“Oh my names Y/n” I reply. His eyes flicker from my body to my eyes. “Such a lovely name” he says before taking my hand in his, gently rubbing the smooth skin on my knuckles. I blush a little looking down at my shoes once again. Dead puts his hand on my chin, tilting my head up so I look him in the eyes.

“What’s the matter you pretty little thing?” He teases, backing away from me whilst smiling. “It’s nothing..I just didn’t think you’d let me talk to you” I say chuckling nervously. “Well, why wouldn't I? I think you're pretty cool” he replies sitting on the couch behind him, patting the spot next to him for me to sit on.

“So, what's your favorite metal band?” he asks looking down at me, turning his whole body to face me. “Probably Lamb of God,” I say smiling, now turning my body to face him as well. “Oo good choice, I love Lamb of God” he replies. “Okay, now what about you, what's your favorite band?” I ask.

He looks down, thinking for a moment, twiddling with his fingers until he finally thinks of one. He faces me again before saying “Probably Darkthrone or Slayer, I don't know there are so many good options!” he says dramatically putting his hands on his head. I giggle. Pelle then stops moving around. His hands are still on his head, but he's looking at me through his hair, shielding his face.

We both stop laughing, the room goes silent. His piercing eyes are on me, looking through me. His blonde locks in his face. I look down at the ground again. “You know” I pause, glancing at him before continuing. “You’re softer than I thought”

“Oh yeah?” he says teasingly. He gets up close to my ear. “I'm gonna show you just how sweet I can be” he whispers whilst picking me up. I yelp blushing a bit. He walks us down a dimly lit hall, making it to a door. “Pelles dressing room” engraved on the door. This is really happening.

He chuckles seeing me get visibly needy. He opens the door, practically throwing me on the couch as the door shuts behind him. He rushes over to the sofa, harshly connecting his lips with mine. He puts his hands on the back of my head, shielding me from hitting the wall roughly. I gasp in shock. He chuckles, sliding his tongue into my mouth.

I kiss back, trying to mimic his fast pace. I put my hands on his shoulders to support myself. He puts me in his lap. “Is this alright?” He asks, still having his lips connected with mine. I nod. He smiles taking his shirt off, throwing on the ground behind him.

He moves in closer again, tugging at the hem of my shirt. As I am about to remove my shirt Pelle stops me, putting his hand on mine. “Wait” he says in his deep voice. I stop, looking into the singers brown eyes, waiting for him to answer. “I want you to show me just how big of a fan you are” he says. My eyes widen and Pelle scoffs. “I thought you said you were a big fan now’s the time to prove it sweetheart”

He whispers the last part in my ear. I blush feeling heat rush to my inner thighs. “So are you in or are you out? The decision is yours sweetheart” he says looking at me with lust-filled eyes. I nod looking at him, waiting for him to react. Pelle chuckles roughly taking me off of his lap, putting me on my knees. He looks at me through his blonde hair. “Don’t be shy now” he says forcefully moving me to be face to face with his erection.

I take a deep breath, recollecting myself quickly before I start to unbutton his tight skinny jeans. He groans feeling me palm him through his boxers. I slowly take off his boxers. His member being freed from the harsh fabric that was keeping him down.

I wrap my hands around his cock glancing at him as he groans once more. I slowly start to rub up and down his base. Pelle tries to move his hips. He becomes impatient with me and puts his hand behind my head and forces my face to be right next to his erection. “Open” he says firmly. I do as I’m told and I open my mouth.

He puts his member in my mouth, he moans his head hitting the bed as he throws his head back in pleasure. I grunt against his cock making him move his hands to my hair. He uses his hands to forces my mouth on his cock moving at a quick speed. I gag as he hits the back of my throat.

He chuckles at the sight of me crying on his cock. He quickens the pace, throat-fucking me at a frightening rate. I gag once more, taking him all in. I stroke his base before his red tip hits the back of my throat again. This begins to happen every time, him relentlessly throat-fucking me until his release. “Take it all in” he says tipping my head back to make sure I swallow it all.

Pelle then moves me so I am turned around facing away from him. “Now is the fun part” he says before undoing my pants. Once he gets my pants off he pulls down my boxers and there’s a moment of silence, neither of us moving or even breathing just silence. “Are ya ready?” He asks looking down at me.

I nod my head eagerly. He then pulls my cock from its confines, I whine a little as he starts to slowly stroke me. He quickens his pace before putting his own member in me. I moan loudly, Pelle puts his hand over my mouth to try and muffle the sounds by me. “Shhh, be quiet now” he warns before starting to pump in and out of me whilst stroking my cock.

I whimper in his hand. He quickens his pace on my cock, staying inside me while doing so. He starts to lose control as he feels himself getting more tired by the minute, but he still is trying is best to keep a rhythm. He pumps in and out of me again, while stroking my cock at the same exact pace. I moan more than I thought I ever could.

Pelle moves one hand to my hip, angling me in the perfect spot. Pelle hits just the right spot, he uses then to his advantage as he speeds up, relentlessly hitting my good spot, I whine and shout before Pelle releases once again, this time in me. As I feel his orgasm within me I feel mine come and I release all over the couch of the dressing room. After awhile he pulls out of me and just stares at me in awe.

“We should do that again sometime” he says handing me his phone to put my number in. I happily do so and look at him again. After a few minutes of silence he clears his throat “you should probably get out of here” he says handing me my clothes and leading me to the door. “See you next time y/n” he says before shutting the door behind you in a mischievous tone.

AHHH ITS IS DONEEEE Oml I’ve been working on this for literal weeks. 😭 I’m sorry for the delay!! Hope you enjoyed bye bye ♥

#jack kilmer #lords of chaos #rory culkin #lords of chaos x reader #euronymous #pelle ohlin #pelle ohlin x reader #fluff #smut #pelle ohlin smut #pelle ohlin fluff #nom-nommmm1

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lu-is-not-ok · 1 year

Note

do you think that what EGO someone manifests is based on what caused them to reach the crossroads of Distortion and Manifestation? because distortions are pretty clearly based at least a little around that given... Phillip, but I'm not familiar enough with Xiao's story to make a conclusion about that.

Soooo I know you've only asked about like, the form a manifested E.G.O takes and what might affect it, but uh, I really want to just ramble about everything we know thus far about Distortions and Manifested/Effloresced E.G.O, so I hope you don't mind me hijacking your over a month old ask for that.

Alright? Alright. Under cut because I want to pop off. Oh, also, I'm going to spoil the fuck out of Lobotomy Corporation, Wonderlab, Library of Ruina, and Leviathan. Be warned.

Let's start from the basics. What causes one to Distort and/or Manifest E.G.O?

If you've gone through LobCorp and/or Ruina, your answer is most likely going to be the Light, the final product of Carmen and Ayin's research that was released during the White Nights and Dark Days, and which currently houses the essence of both of them. However, I don't think that's the full picture.

First of all, and probably most importantly, there have been cases of both E.G.O Manifestations and Distortions before the White Nights and Dark Days, that being Kali's E.G.O, and the Bloodfiend lineages.

Now, I have not read Distortion Detective yet, so all of my sources on this are second-hand, but from my understanding Bloodfiends are a kind of Distortion that has existed far before LobCorp took place. The process in which one joins this lineage is by "recieving blood from a certain mansion", apparently implied to belonging to an Abnormality called Nosferatu.

But wait, those who have played LobCorp might be asking, aren't Abnormalities created by L Corp? How can Abnormalities exist before the events of LobCorp?

Here, allow me to talk about Cogito.

For those who don't know, Cogito was the Singularity of L Corp. A substance that, upon being injected into a person, would materialize concepts and ideas from that person's mind into the form of Abnormalities. This process is described as using Cogito as a sort of "bucket" to draw these concepts and ideas like water from the Well of Humanity, aka the (implied to be collective) human subconscious.

While I don't recall if we're ever told what the initial source of Cogito was for Ayin and Carmen's experiments, we do know that after Carmen's "death", her disembodied nervous system became a constant source of it for L Corp.

So, this tells us something important: Abnormalities are concepts and ideas that float around in this Well of Humanity given physical form, which makes sense considering how many of them are based on things such as fairytales, folktales, legends, fears, events in the City's recent history, and other general ideas that the people living in the City may have.

However, it is important to note that not all Abnormalities come from Cogito specifically. In fact, we see an example of one such Abnormality in Chapter 19 of Leviathan. We see an Abnormality we see in LobCorp, Schadenfreude, burst out of Distorted Jumsoon when the beliefs and desires he held and which were the fuel for his Distortion were completely broken down.

Notably, there is a thematic similarity between Jumsoon's Distortion and Schadenfreude, that is being the theme of observing every moment in the world.

What we see is an Abnormality being born out of a Distortion's ego death, where the moment a Distortion loses its desires and beliefs, its identity, the wish that pushed them into Distorting in the first place is the only thing left, that physical manifestation of a concept taking place of that missing self.

Did that make any sense?

Basically what I'm saying is: an Abnormality is a concept that became the self in its entirety.

As such, anything that would be able to give a concept or idea by itself physical form or sense of self, like Cogito or the ego death of Distortion, could potentially form an Abnormality. Which, laid out like that, means it's absolutely not impossible for some proto-Abnormality to form on its own, whether due to a concept acquiring a sense of self naturally, or due to the interference of some other factor we currently might not know about.

So, now that we know what Abnormalities are about, let's go back to what we were talking about: where the pre White Nights and Dark Days Distortions and Manifested E.G.Os could have come from.

We already established that Bloodfiends join the lineage due to ingesting a substance (blood) that came directly from an Abnormality.

Now, let's talk about Kali. Luckily, we get a much clearer picture on what led her to manifest an E.G.O thanks to the story on the Red Mist Key Page. Kali was the first person to wield a prototype of an E.G.O weapon, a weapon and a byproduct that was able to be extracted from the Abnormality called Nothing There. As Kali used this weapon, the ego of the Abnormality would seem to speak to her, its words becoming clearer the longer Kali used it. It would ask if Kali wanted a shell, a form of armor to protect her flesh. Though initially ignoring it, Kali started to interpret its words with her own bias, becoming torn between how much blood she spilled, and how much of it was for protecting others. This eventually leads to her momentarily breaking down, only to steel her resolve and vow to protect Carmen at all cost, this desire of which leads to her manifesting her own E.G.O in the form of an armor, a "shell" to protect her while she protects others.

So, to summarize, Kali had direct contact with an unstable version of E.G.O gear extracted from an Abnormality. Upon being broken down by this gear, seemingly on the verge of Corrosion, Kali instead steels herself in her resolve, and her desire to protect others mixed with the influence of the E.G.O weapon allow her to manifest a shell to protect herself.

Effectively, both pre White Night and Dark Days are caused because of some sort of contact with something extracted from an Abnormality. For Bloodfiends, it was physically consuming Nosferatu's blood. For Kali, it was being in prolonged contact with an unstable Nothing There E.G.O, almost becoming Corroded, but staving it off by focusing on her own desires.

Now, some of you may be asking, why is that important? That's that and this is this, the current Distortion Phenomenon is different because the Light, right?

And here, dear reader, is where you would be wrong.

Let's recap what the Light is, shall we?

From what we know, the Light is the product of the Seed of Light. Carmen's thought process was this: to save humanity, people need to be cured of a "disease of the mind" and have light returned to their souls. The Seed of Light is meant to be the medicine to this disease, something that would draw out from the human subconscious, a formless concept taking shape and becoming a literal seed that could be planted and bloom within people's minds (...is that where the term Effloresced comes from, I wonder).

We know two things that the Seed of Light requires to be fully created: the emotional catharsis of all the Sephirah and A himself overcoming their pasts, and energy in the form of Enkephalin, which is extracted from Abnormalities. Upon being released in the form of Light shining over the City, Carmen and Ayin would enter the Light itself, their essences becoming a part of it.

Interestingly enough, one of the bad, non-canon endings to LobCorp reveals that the incomplete Seed of Light would have the effect of turning people into Abnormalities! Which, makes sense, considering the main power of this Seed is to draw out formless concepts from the human subconscious and give them shape, literally the exact process that Abnormalities are created through.

However, this isn't what I want to focus on here. I want to focus on one of the components of the Seed of Light - Enkephalin. A substance that is extracted from Abnormalities, in the same process that results in E.G.O as a byproduct.

Can you see the pattern yet? Nosferatu's blood, an unstable E.G.O weapon, a Seed of Light created using Enkephalin. All of the sources of Distortions and Manifested E.G.Os are themselves either substances extracted from Abnormalities, or something created using substances extracted from Abnormalities.

Another funny thing to consider is the alternate source of Enkephalin we learn about from Limbus Company - human nervous systems. You know what other substance was extracted from a human nervous system? That's right, Cogito.

Perhaps that's why the Seed of Light had to also include emotional catharsis as an ingredient. Perhaps Enkephalin on its own being used makes it too close to Cogito, thus resulting in the same outcome. And perhaps, it's also why the Light is able to make people give form to thoughts in their own minds on such a wide scale. But, that's just speculation on my part.

So, now that this whole preamble is out of the way and we roughly know How the Light is able to cause people to Distort and Manifest E.G.Os, let's take a bit of a closer look. After all, the Light itself wasn't enough to make everyone Distort/Effloresce all at once, perhaps because it was cut short by Angela. No, the Light in its current actual form merely allows people to Distort/Effloresce, it's not the actual trigger.

Which, begs the question: what is the trigger?

From what we see in Wonderlab, Library of Ruina, Limbus Company, and Leviathan, there are two main variables that one needs to reach the threshold of either Distorting or Efflorescing.

The first is being in a state of high emotions.

Catt learning that all of the suffering their coworkers had gone through was for nothing due to the Manager having been dead all this time. Philip being at his lowest after the people who he cared about and who tried to protect him had died. Xiao losing the man she loved and her coworkers/friends one by one. Yan being forced to face where the Prescripts truly come from, and realizing that all of his attempts at working against them were in vain. Roland finally arriving at the moment he could make Angela suffer for what her actions caused. Vergilius losing Garnet and being reminded of the reason why he cared for the orphanage in the first place. Dongbeak being reminded of why she's doing what she's doing in the face of Dongrang's mocking and the possibility of her defeat. Dongrang being reminded of the better times and being forced to face just how far he has fallen.

The second is having strong, sincere desires, and the resolve to follow them.

Catt wishing that the heart could have done something in the face of this meaninglessness. Philip initially wishing to selfishly avenge those he lost, only to then break down and wish to shut the world out at all cost. Xiao wishing to not let her loved ones' deaths be in vain, to be someone that people can rely on despite her missteps. Yan's desires becoming one with the will of the City after falling into despair. Roland's desire to make Angela truly suffer as revenge for Angelica's death. Vergilius wishing to carry his sins and the suffering he's seen with him. Dongbaek wishing to be the soil that a new world could bloom upon. Dongrang initially wishing to run away from the shadow other people's accomplishments put him under, and then deciding to instead find his own path towards reaching success.

But then comes the question, what is the difference? What decides whether someone Distorts or Manifests E.G.O? Funnily enough, Chapter 18 of Leviathan spells it out.

To Distort is to fully become one with one's desire. It's to expel everything that isn't the "self", and to paint the world with that desire as well. It's making one's desires and thoughts take form through one's body, the self becomes unified and true.

On the other hand, to Manifest E.G.O is to "show restraint", as Carmen puts it. To understand and face reality as it is, yet still let one's desires take physical form, in this case as "clothes and tools". Using those thoughts and wishes rather than becoming one with them.

And this, well, succintly explains what form a Distortion or E.G.O takes on, doesn't it? It's entirely based on what desire triggered this process, as that's the concept that is given physical form thanks to the Light.

This isn't even speculation at this point. This is actually something directly spelled out in Leviathan as well.

To quote Vergilius describing his Effloresced E.G.O:

"I wear a crown of thorns upon my head, so that I may shoulder everything until my future victory. Faded laurel leaves sprout to cover all of the thorns on my head, and tears of blood flow from my eyes so I may see all the sins I'll have to bear from now on. And the thorny path I shall travel is a curtain of blood containing my karma, a crimson cloth that covers my whole being."

...

Yeah I think this is a good point to end this post off. This already took me several hours to write, dear lord.

#ask #anon #lu speaketh #limbus company #limbus company project moon #lcb analysis #lcb speculation #lcb theory #library of ruina #lobotomy corporation #leviathan project moon #wonderlab project moon

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terrence-silver · 1 year

Note

Do you have any headcanons on Gus Travis? I've just watched Black Point and I think I'm in love 💖

Him?

― Gus Travis has a major problem with jealousy. Why? Because outside of having a natural propensity for doubt (maybe due to the nature of his job, being a career criminal where you have to watch your back, against everyone, at all times) his wife betrayed him in the past and ran off with another man covertly acting as an informant and Gus' boss' money. Almost sounds like the typical entanglement in the life of someone on the wrong side of law enforcement hiding out in a small port town on the borders of Alaska and Washington state, but the event left Gus reeling, even less trusting and somehow, even more territorial and fidgety when it comes to love as a mere concept. In short notes, Gus Travis is as jaded as can be.

― Which means, despite seeming like the type who has had his share of easy sex, easy cash, easy profit, murky jobs, shady deals, Gus doesn't fall in love easily. Not before the event and certainly not after. He's a rough man, with a rough exterior, rough manners, a rough job and initially, he doesn't seem like the type to care for such things at all, but the opposite is very much true because internally, he's someone who tends to fall and fall hard which has left him messed up in the past. In his words, I treated her like a princess and gave her the world and this is how she repays me? He doesn't want that happening again and so, when he meets you, his first instinct is to be standoffish and stay away from you. Better yet, warn you to say away from him.

― Might have the typical gangbanger 'Do you know who I am?' or 'Do you know who you're dealing with?' vibe about him purely to push you away, even though he's quite as likely to contradict himself and be the one pursuing you. Gus overflows with clashing emotions where he isn't certain if he'd rather scare you away or lay his claim on you and make you his. Maybe just visit some nearby, shady portside pub and get himself someone who looks just like you; a whore, a hooker, a one night stand, anything, and get you out of his system through fucking someone else, not that that helps one bit at all and everyone either looks too much like you or not at all and he always comes back to craving the real deal, and he hasn't...well, he hasn't even laid a finger on you yet.

― Thing is, as I said above, Gus loves deeply. A surprising amount for someone who could only be labeled a bad boy and something of a thug in the most classical sense. The type of love that has him tattooing your name somewhere on his body --- maybe next to his heart, perhaps way before you even know it...or him --- wearing maching clothes, wearing matching rings and bracelets and necklaces. Where he dreams of buying a boat one day, sailing out with a bunch of cash, and naming it after you, as his muse, his lucky north, his compass. Where he sees you as his near overromanticized mythical being. His mermaid. His selkie. His siren. Interesting how someone otherwise so bitter and disappointed with love also has the amazing capacity of being borderline poetically idealistic.

― Of course, the nature of his career criminal leanings and rough and tough sailor and streetwise lifestyle might not exactly allow for him to express his idealistic side outright because there's a reputation to maintain and part of him doesn't want to. And yet, he still desperately does to the point his cravings are making him volatile. He fears being a fool in love again. He fears his men viewing him as a fool in love too. So, he might come off a bit hostile and passive aggressive; like someone who has a general distaste for you, which is far from true, his behaviour ranging anywhere from acosting you in public or god forbid, anyone you might be out on a date with, because he's fatally jealous. Gus can't handle himself or the gravitas of his feelings around you and he protects himself through what he feels is nessecary. Through being a bit of a bastard.

― It doesn't remain unnoticed though; just how much attention Gus Travis is giving you, even if this attention is masked through the guise of negative social interactions. It all becomes suspicious, though. The sheer quantity and volume of it. Him stalking you, catcalling you from his car, threatening to goddamn near shoot anyone else who dares, honking his horn at you, bullying you one minute and then flirting the next, harassing your friends and suitors out in bars or restaurants, having them scared away from you or outright beat up so they'd be afraid to stay in touch with you, being pushy, intrusive, threatening and petulant, having his men follow you around covertly and report back to him on your daily whereabouts, offering to lend you money so you'd be indebted to him, breaking into your place, kidnapping attempts. You name it!

― Ultimately, you will be his, and his grip on you will be tighter than any relationship he ever had before because he dreads losing you like he's lost meanigful people in the past and it has his possessive tendencies flaring up dramatically; he will correct the mistakes he made before you came along, he swears it. Realistically, he is difficult. Very difficult. He is difficult because he overcompensates. Overcalculates. Over-worries. He questions every interaction, every glance, ever action, imaginary or real, towards someone else from you or from you to someone else because the dread of you being whisked away from under him is acute, and so, most people never even discover Gus Travis even has anyone serious as you're his most fiercely guarded treasure. Hell, not even most of his men and crooks know. And if nobody knows you exist and you're merely abducted one day --- missing posters riddling your home town, only for you never to be found again, then nobody can coax you away from him in the future.

#gus travis #black point 2002 #tw; kidnapping #tw; criminals and gangsters #tw; tsundere #tw; yandere #gus travis x reader #gus travis x beloved #gus travis black point

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raisindave · 4 months

Text

[Chapter 4] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

A morning workout would help after an essentially sleepless night spent alone with your thoughts. No, probably not. Either way, it was a good use of your time. Despite what Ghost said the other day after the frantic scramble to get you to this compound, this has been very much like a vacation. The running shorts you wore as makeshift pyjamas were ideally suited to live up to their original purpose.

Seeing Ghost not in full body armour and armed with at least two firearms was like seeing a shark on a mountaintop. Impressively, he kept the balaclava on during his pullup reps, although you couldn’t help but laugh considering the concept. Whether he noticed you come in or not, he likely wouldn’t visibly regard you.

Somehow, he managed to get his hands on some headphones, something you hadn’t considered bringing before you left. Stretching your hamstrings, then your calves, the room's silence offered a unique opportunity: what kind of music does Ghost listen to? Nosiness took the better of you as you halted your breath to gauge the sound from your incredibly intimidating gym partner. At first, it almost sounded like white noise- almost like distant TV static. He looks the part; it’s like something straight out of Poltergeist. No, a closer listen left you certain that it was heavy metal, the kind of metal where you can hardly identify lyrics from the singer’s screaming. The guy who wears a skull on his face 24/7 listens to heavy metal music—a surprise to absolutely no one.

There’s something eerie about being this close to him, like his proximity being an inherent threat. He’s technically your ally, on paper at least; why is he so unnerving? For the time being, the treadmill was your main interest. The treadmill was gravity-powered and looked like it was from sometime in the 80s by the orange racing stripes on the iron handlebars. Your thighs and calves still burned from your excursion yesterday, but a strong will, or perhaps stubbornness, forced you to refuse to appear weak.

The walls of the makeshift gym were a nauseating rich yellow, which you got a delightful view of from the angle of the treadmill. At least there was a tall, slender mirror to break up the monotony of the wall, though its reflection offered a consistent startling reminder of the danger in your peripheral. Steady thumps of your footsteps let your mind wander elsewhere, landing on old friends, ex-boyfriends, and the welfare of your goldfish back home.

Heavy, rhythmic grunts behind you, followed by a low, deep sigh- the signature of a finished rep, which the clunk of a weight confirmed. This would be an excellent time to finish your run and try to break the ice with this sentinel, and maybe he’s just playing a character. Whenever you encounter a tough guy act, in your experience, it always takes a ten-minute conversation to realize that they’re all bark and puffed feathers. On second thought, that sounds far too terrifying. You survived his proximity only by his grace. Let’s not push your limits.

The sudden surge of adrenaline building in your system as you considered civil chatter needed release, and you broke into a sprint on a whim. Picking up your pace, you felt your ponytail slap the back of your neck. Somehow, the release of energy felt incredible, like it was exactly the kind of distraction your body was asking for.

This pattern continued for an indeterminate amount of reps; Ghost would finish his rep, you would sprint to redirect your nerves, his next rep would begin, and your hackles lower. An uneasy alliance, or maybe he couldn’t care less about your existence. Most likely, the latter. At least you managed to break through Gaz and Soap, including you in chatter and Soap’s sarcastic knock on your bedroom door wishing you ‘nighty night, don’t let the asbestos bite.’ The memory flashes a thought of how many years this indoor run might be stripping from your life in this unregulated facility.

One breathy groan from the being behind you clicked your nerves into another sprint, hot beads of sweat pooling on the back of your neck. Suddenly, an unbelievable opportunity presented itself. In the reflection of the mirror you faced, you saw Ghost walk out of view and return to his bench – a perfect side-on view—one of the lukewarm water bottles in hand. You watched the muscles in his wrist flex as he opened the bottle and lifted it to his mask. With glued eyes, you watched as he lifted the bottom fabric piece of his mask about two inches over his chin. Eyes flicker away. Something feels wrong about looking like this is some test and you’ll be executed for witnessing some forbidden knowledge. Eyes return to him again, catching a glimpse of his chin, the curve of his jaw, a pale neck. Something in you relaxed slightly; like subconsciously, your body recognized him as a human rather than a somewhat sentient killing machine. He had some interesting scars along his jawline, white puncture marks about an inch apart. His dark irises flashed to you, and your gaze averted immediately. Maybe he didn’t see your gaze, and perhaps you were quick enough.

“Is there a problem, Corporal?”

Icy cold shock hit you, compounded by the cool air on your slick skin. Racing a million-miles-a-minute, your mind is wracked for an answer to his question. He’s expecting a response. Stop running. No, keep running; everything is normal. You saw the forbidden knowledge. You tasted the apple. This is the consequence of your sin.

“No, sir,” you responded with surprising confidence, considering your mental anguish.

Sir? Is he sir now? What’s wrong with me?

Another instinct to sprint washed over you, but this time, something said that this rep wouldn’t be on the treadmill. You were planting your feet on either side of the track, letting the g-force of the lack of motion wash you, steadying for the next hurdle – leaving. That unnerving, primal feeling that motion will detect his wrath, like a T-rex, washes over you as you find your feet unsteady under your weight after the run. You didn’t have the heart nor the courage to meet his gaze as you headed for the door. It’d probably turn you to stone at this point.

The air outside the gym was much colder, or maybe the energy in your previous environment was stifling. Two figures down the hall headed toward you on an intersecting path, Soap and Gaz. Brighter windows say that the sun had time to rise, meaning you must have been in the gym for at least two hours, give or take. Gaz acknowledges your approaching presence with a head tilt as you catch the tail end of a conversation with Soap about cars.

“Laswell’s looking for you,” Gaz called as your paths crossed.

“Graves too, office.” Soap added.

Considering their comfort with spending days with a pack of men, surely they won’t mind your post-workout miasma. This meeting will determine if you’re heading home or not. You are probably getting shipped home for immediately picking fights with your teammates, where Laswell had to step in and play grade school principal. If only the compound were bigger, you might have more time to script your dialogue on your walk to this meeting. Arriving at the thin laminate-wood door, the patient rapping at the door was met with a quick and efficient ‘come in’ from within.

“Grant,” Graces spoke from a small iron table across from Laswell, “Take a seat.”

You cross the distance between the door and the metal table with a curt nod. It couldn’t look more like an interrogation room, a lightbulb on a wire above a sterile furniture set. Laswell tapped papers on the table, meeting your gaze. Sitting in the chair dutifully, you rested your sweaty palms in fists on your thighs.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” you breathed.

“Not to worry, it gave us time to catch up,” Laswell responded confidently, slender fingers dragging a laptop from her bag to plant on the table.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” Graves piped up.

That was an understatement. Your mouth twitched as you swallowed your nerves. Take deep breaths and straighten your back as you had done thousands of times before when you were under extreme stress.

“This is an extremely serious situation and much of the information on this mission is on a need-to-know basis.” Graves leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee as he flipped a pen through his fingers.

In an instant, nerves settled. They were keeping you on, and for the umpteenth time, worrying about what others think of you got the better of you, what you wouldn’t give to be back on that treadmill again.

“We received intel on some stolen Chinese weapons, and it’s making them particularly anxious.” Laswell met your gaze, and the intensity of her posture spoke volumes, “We have reason to believe that the Russians stole these high-value goods.”

You could feel Graves’ gaze on you. Flicking his pen between his fingers, he makes a particularly distracting commotion just out of your peripheral. It’s like he was testing you. You’re already being told highly confidential information. Isn’t it a little late for that?

“The convoy holding the weapons is moving, and they know this terrain better than we ever could. They’re dodging satellite reception and flying totally under the radar. When they send out internal messages, they're coded and multilingual. That’s where we need your expertise.” Said Laswell, opening the laptop to turn the illuminated screen displaying dotted GPS signals showing a path leading away from China.

“The Chinese government is sweatin’ bullets right now,” Graves unfurled his legs to lean forward. “We want to get our hands on that hot potato.”

“Their transmissions come in randomly, and we can’t even be sure if it’s chatter from the Russian convoy or civilians.”

“When was their last communication?” You finally spoke up.

“Yesterday, but it’s mostly just nonsense.” Laswell tapped the laptop keyboard as she spoke.

“Do you have any recordings?”

“A little over ten hours total.”

“I’d like to listen.”

At some point during your conversation, Price had entered the room, the shadow of his familiar Tilley hat looming on the wall beside you. Catching a glance from the corner of your eye, he stood with an arms-crossed, intense gaze on Laswell’s laptop screen. Graves reached down to Laswell’s bag, fishing out some clunky headphones and dropped them on the table in front of you with a noisy thud, the noise reverberating on the thin metal table.

“We have reason to believe they’re going to pass near this compound very soon, so we need to be able to be ready at a moment’s notice.” She spoke, lifting her gaze to meet Price’s.

“Once we confirm the location of the weapons, we get our boys in and get them out. Simple as that.” Graves’ lips formed a thin line, rising from his seat to take his leave. “You’ll be back home in time for supper.” With that, he patted your shoulder with jovial force, forcing you to stabilize your posture in your chair.

For the time being, your task was straightforward. Gather as much context as possible. Scrub through 10 hours of useless radio conversation, searching for the slim possibility that there might be something valuable. In the worst-case scenario, you waste over ten hours of your life. That lingering, exhausting thought is overrun by the realization that this situation is literally life or death, and any insight you gather can be game-changing.

It seems that some consensus has been reached between the others in the room as they exchange nods and glances. Laswell shifts in your peripheral, sliding the laptop to rest in front of you, hearing the distant click of the door as at least Graves has left the room. With a heavy clack of the trackpad, Laswell demonstrated how to scroll through the list of audio files.

“When we get a message from them, they’re all from the same channel, leaving from the same location in China. We’re nearly certain they’re our guys.” She spoke, pushing her chair back to stand. “Stay listening in on this signal. The clips you have are all communications from the location in question.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Laswell carried herself with a certain calmness of someone with grace and patience, partnered with an eerie feeling that she most likely has intel on you that could ruin you. Dangerous, lethal and confident, all wrapped up in an almost contradictory business casual wardrobe. Something about her is so inherently trustworthy and kind. Or maybe that’s just in contrast to the other associates who are all willing and able to squeeze the life from your throat in an instant.

Locking your gaze on the grainy screen, you slip the headphone jack into the laptop, planting the headphone pads over your ears. The click of the door behind you let you finally drop your shoulders, letting out a sigh. You scoot the chair forward, making an uncomfortable screech under your weight. At least Laswell did you the courtesy of leaving you a notepad should you need it, the proud eagle sigil of the CIA emblem standing silent and judging, vigil over your work.

Thunk . First track, hitting play. Headphones scream with static, making your skin crawl as you frantically tap the volume button. Steady static fills the headphones around your ears. It almost sounds like the ocean. Multitasking, you take preemptive action to pull up a blank page to transcribe any and all communications that will surely come through. With luck and a bit of patience, the muffled dialogue from a husky male voice speaks Russian, obscured by static. Unravelling each sentence at a time, you record the conversation as you hear it, documenting a weather report and news about a patch of ice on the road.

A click at the door behind you makes you jump. Whipping your head around, the four white walls of your box were empty. This time, it was truly empty. The issue with surrounding yourself with highly trained soldiers has the consequence of being unable to perceive them. Or at least whenever they don’t want to be perceived. Right now, the only priority is to gather information and listen for any intel you can collect from nondescript radio conversations. It’s safe to say that the vacation is over.

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xcziel · 7 months

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this has been sitting in my drafts as a response to some ideas that were circulating online a week or two ago due to that bang sihyuk interview, and it's clumsily worded but i still feel like it's a valid take so i'm just posting anyway. i'm not a music professional or connected to the industry, so if i'm far wrong just ignore this random post. i just get frustrated that for all the talk of strategy etc. everyone seems to act like bts (and by extension jk) are an established *western* act while either still promoting like a kpop act in sk schedule-wise or like a beyonce/tswift level act (which ... yeah duh) with vast u.s. name recognition (not so much) - and then wondering what's not clicking

idk about this "crisis" but i know one thing has struck me about the kpop and sk press and kpop stans in general

i touched on it back when i was talking in my tags about like crazy getting traction in the us

and what i meant was that those involved in kpop are too blinded by the industry cycle and too used to that cycle's accelerated evaluation by stans and press alike

like no one in the us who is not already a fan is waiting on the day of release to listen stream and buy. it is NOT like sk with weekly shows, several comebacks per year, etc etc

and most especially it's not this thing of: create song, choreo, mv, do a spate of music shows, see what hits if anything, maybe leverage concert dates if it does - but if not then done! next concept! move on and keep it moving - got to fill those music shows and if you don't constantly have new pieces to show you could lose attention and traction

but the general public in the u.s. is NOT socialized to all tune in to check out what's new at a certain time each week or whatever

only some check the charts and even that is mostly just to see where their personal fave is

what gp recognition goes by is repetition (that's one reason why radio is weighted so heavily in ratings- not fairly, but it's true): have we heard a song before? was it in the car on the way? was it in the club? was it in the music in the background at a store, at a party, on a friend's playlist?

when americans say they heard a song "everywhere" it means literally you could not escape it - and for that kind of feeling or environment to exist, it has to happen over *t i m e*

true, yes, sometimes a song takes off and gallops out of control like a wildfire catching but that is the exception not something that can be planned for or marketed into existence

and once you are a big enough name and have enough fans (us population @ 330 million so ... a lot more fans than it take to equal the same percentage of sales in sk ... so only a sliver of a percentage of that can mean a #1 bb hot 100) you CAN get that immediate-drop chart push

but most of the time, u.s. artists need to build up name recognition with the folks who wouldn't know a music chart if it popped up in their excel spreadsheets. that's why you get youtube reactors or even music business professionals months after release going oh i didn't know they even had an album/track/mv out

the larger a group, the longer it takes for things to disseminate past the early adopters and the media who watch them and the industry (nobody wants to be left behind, so journalists/talking heads are always like pets when you walk into the kitchen: heads on swivels in case it turns out relevant, and will write things just to be on top of a possible trend)

and this is where, i think, after watching hybe and its american arm try their push on jk, the kpop focalists are veering astray in their plans and projections: not seeing immediate huge success (or not *sustained* huge success) they think there is some kind of crisis rather than understanding that a u.s. or even just western gp fandom cannot be a top-down thing - it will take time

bts are huge (and yes a triumph for bts IS NOT and SHOULD not be lumped in as "a win" for kpop in general as has been pointed out is too often the case) but in the first days of jk's album release, *2 months* after seven had debuted, the huge nationwide retailer where i work couldn't even get his name spelled correctly in the point-of-sale database, so

the u.s. music industry is a big machine and busy on its own, many listeners only stay in their own bubbles and don't pay attention to anything outside that, because just keeping up with the output of one scene or genre can take as much effort as watching the kpop industry as a whole

to break wide you need to be either insanely ubiquitous and not just on social media (which runs the risk of people getting sick of you just as fast) or you need the slower groundswell of people going from "oh *that's* them? i heard of them but i didn't know that was their song" to "omg that's my song!! turn it up!"

there's just too much out there today to catch people's attention and the media cycle turns ever faster - used to, a song could be out and getting steady radio play and it still wouldn't hit the consciousness of the national public for like 3 or 4 months sometimes. sometimes it could take a year or more.

so this thing of short promotion periods for kpop acts - even bts! - is just not viable as a way to attract a wide gp following in the states. being on late night tv shows is a good step, but since the advent of streaming the influence of shows like that has waned considerably since the days of ed sullivan or johnny carson.

jk's run of promoting *was* the right kind of thing to do in fact - it simply should have been much more spread out over time. you can see all his album collab artists have things coming out *now* ... and there's no way to really take advantage of that with the curtailed promo.

and yes, obviously jk did get probably the second longest promo period of all of bts chapter 2 solos efforts (i think yg's tour ran longer?) and it was cut off for very valid reason! but!

i think bangpd et al. taking the fact that they couldn't make jk a household name in the u.s. nor nab him a grammy nom (nor any other kpop groups) within the 5-6 months of their fairly blatant push for us recognition as indicating a "crisis" is just not looking at the long game.

they didn't get all the accolades right away, so it seems they've decided 'that didn't work we need to make some big changes' instead of continuing what they'd been doing in support of the artists

it's this attitude of welp they didn't give us a grammy we were entitled to even though it's the first time we played ball in this particular way, so now we're worried bc we don't know how to shop kpop beyond people who aren't primed for it

like, they are looking at the business of it, and likely accurately, but not at the audience itself

it's not that the observations bang is making are wrong i just think he is basing them off premature information - songs in the u.s. DO benefit from purchase power, but they ALSO rely a lot on word of mouth. not for charts positions necessarily, but for longterm growth, support, and more importantly demand, you cannot beat a fandom that grows on its own.

the paid promotions at the end of the day serve the same purpose as bts's early days vlogs in the current western music climate - getting the artist and songs in front of as many eyes and ears as possible. but then you have to allow time for that wave to spread - and the bigger the pond, the more time it may take

#this is just me rambling #but the thought wouldn't leave me alone #it just seems too quick #kpop moves fast and on the surface it may seem like the american industry does too #but it is not the same at all and you can't expect the results to be in that fast #you'd think the man who rode the bts train would understand but i think he's looking at metrics not audiences #and expecting the kind of results he'd get in sk or the kind of results he's told american acts of similar stature to bts would get #either that or it's all a long game and he's going through steps in a script #which i would not put it past him to have some plan behind these moves #but really this post is me being a bit irtitated at the fact that they *coukd* have made jk or jm american household names #if they'd just *sustained* the promotions over time - i really believe this #and this seeming expectation that they can run a 'global popstar' campaign on an sk comeback timetable kinda bugs me

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topzsun · 3 months

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please sire may i have some more aventurine

SOMETHING HAPPENED (IM HEAD OVER HEELS)

── ♡ AVENTURINE

❝ desire is an ugly and beautiful thing. it makes you abandon every principle you've built your life around. it makes you care. ❞ author's note: of course you can have more aventurine, my disciple.

You liked to believe you were patient. You are careful with your words and temper. You work diligently with minimal complaints. Your track record for speeding through paperwork comes second to none. You could have been the poster child for the ideal IPC office assistant.

Unfortunately, Aventurine happened to be the one you directly take orders from. And he was much different than the other Ten Stonehearts, for better or worse.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m—God forbid—concerned about you, are you seriously going to take his deal?” Your frustrated face is reflected back to you, as you stand behind the man fixing up his fur-trim coat in front of the mirror. He finally looks over his shoulder, only to send you a mockingly serene smile. It’s become a routine ever since you began working under him. Every Friday night he will join a group of tycoons at a casino, and make a haphazard bet on his life. Predictably, he always walks out a free (and victorious) man but you don’t like to think about the day his luck runs dry. He’s abnormal, logic dictates that you shouldn’t worry. Yet, despite yourself, you care and you don’t think you can chalk it up to job stability anymore.

Aventurine isn’t a man you can underestimate. He’s intelligent and carries himself with a certain level of charm that you haven’t seen on anyone before. Yet, the most striking thing about him is his lack of regard for his own life. The IPC works under the principle of persistence and eagerness, and taking risks isn’t a foreign concept amongst the Stonehearts. However, Aventurine wasn’t just taking risks. He viewed his own life as if it were a chip to be traded in. To reduce his entire being into something tangible, that can just be passed around still bewilders you. He tells you he’s willing to give his all for everything. You suspect a severe case of an inferiority complex. You know his… background is difficult, though you are ignorant of any details. Aventurine likes you well enough, but you both don’t have the type of relationship where you can sit together and discuss the paths that made you both into the people you are today.

It’s not appropriate for him, as your boss. It’s not appropriate for you, as his assistant.

So you bite down any more complaints, signalling an end to your banter. You have pushed as far as the rules of your contract would allow you. He gingerly takes his fedora from your waiting hands and meets your gaze for the final time tonight.

“Lucky you, you get to have an early night today,” He teases, making the same joke he always does every Friday. Predictably, you roll your eyes.

“Yup, lucky me having to finish all the paperwork you don’t want to do,” You retort and he laughs breezily. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably get fired for never turning in your files,” You state flatly and he only gives a painted smile, amused. He checks his wristwatch and bids you a quick farewell when he realises he’s in danger of running late, and the large doors to his office shut close with a click. You are left alone inside the lofty walls of dark teal and gold decor and with Aventurine’s missing presence, it only then dawns on you how big the room is for one person and you imagine him sitting at his desk on his lonesome. You wonder if the echo in here ever drove him crazy.

The chilly air nips at your skin like bite marks, despite the bundles of fabric you huddled yourself in. Maybe it’s a sign to get a better coat and scarf, but right now your greatest concern was buying dinner and going home. The remaining paperwork finished without much fanfare, and Aventurine kept his promise that you’d be out of the office earlier than usual. You reminisce about the hot shower you will take, and the hot mug of cocoa you’d sip on as you languidly scroll through television channels. It’s the thought that keeps you moving on your two feet.

Until you stop at your favourite take-out place and are dismayed when you see an overwhelming queue formed outside the cramped, family-owned shop. Bodies pressed against one another, just the idea of tugging your way into the herd made your skin crawl uncomfortably. You are filled with reluctance, but your only option is to go hungry or walk back and take a train to the other side of town just for late-night dinner. You stand there listlessly, contemplating your options until an elbow is pressed against your side and someone gruffly chides “Move it!”. You are caught off-guard and shuffle out of the way, and suddenly your appetite doesn’t seem to take enough priority to have to deal with this type of crowd. You ready yourself to turn back and take the solemn walk home until there is a call of your name from a very familiar voice.

From the speed at which you turn around to face him, you think your head could spin. If Aventurine notices your sudden whiplash, he doesn’t comment on it, instead raising a gloved hand to give a brisk wave.

“Well, look who missed me so much they just had to see me again,” He drawls, stepping into the flickering light of the street lamp. There should be a word to describe how he makes you grind your teeth, and make your heart skip a beat.

There should also be a word for the specific type of shame that comes with falling for your boss.

“What are you doing here…?” You question and it wasn’t an odd thing to ask. This street, filled with humble stalls and corner stores, is not acquainted with people who have more money than they know what to do with. It is not a place for someone from the Ten Stonehearts. It is especially not a place for the likes of Aventurine. Despite your curiosity, he waves you off with an air of mystery that annoyingly reminds you of Jade.

“I just happen to be passing by on my way home,” He pauses as he gives a brief glance at the dimly glowing street. “When I see my poor assistant looking so frazzled. I’m not such a terrible boss to not help them out.”

You are sure he’s exaggerating your visible distress, but still, you instinctively look to the nearest glass window to see if it’s true. You miss how the corner of his lips quirks up to an affectionate smile, one he cannot fake nor conceal. By the time you turn back to face him, relieved that you didn’t look like a mess, he’s already donning his normally languid expression. “I suppose the queue is getting in your way of dinner, huh?”

Your silence is all the answer he needs as he slides off his sunglasses, revealing his muli-coloured eyes. Hues of cyan and purple melt together in a hypnotic way that reminds you of watching paint drip from a canvas. His eyes were his most prominent feature and symbolised so much about him that words fail to. It’s his origin, what people assume him to be, who he actually is, and the pain and anger that simmer in the depths of his chest. Of course, you are ignorant of this.

For you, they remind you what it means to look a man in the eye and feel entrapped by something greater than you could understand.

You are snapped back into the moment when he suddenly claps his hands together, as if coming to a sudden and genius revelation.

“Well, I can’t have you starving after helping me with all that work,” He steps closer to your space, and for some odd reason, you do not take a step back. “There is a bistro not too far from here. My treat?”

Professionalism will order you to politely reject his offer, to go home hungry and to distract yourself from the overwhelming feelings you have for this man. Unfortunately, these days your heart has gotten too loud for your ringing ears. So, you let yourself walk beside him, the brush of your fingertips sparking an electric sting within you. You remain none the wiser that after this, you will let him talk you into another dinner, and many more after that. The gap between the both of you creaks shut.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai sr #honkai starrail #hsr aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine

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pumpkinbirth · 2 years

Note

So you know how there are wirelessly controlled vibrators that camgirls can link to their tip feed so chat can control it? What about taking that concept and applying it to labor? So someone controls when the laboring mom contracts, how strong they are and how long they last. And when fully dilated it switches to controlling when she pushes.

"No, trust me. I know it sounds weird, but when I tell you I've never had a more profitable stream in my life, I mean it."

Those reassurances from a fellow camgirl who catered to the same, ah, niche, finally convinced me to get on board with this latest development. The Labense chip, once implanted, would enable total control of the labor and birth process for whoever had a connection set up to it. While it's initial development was innocent, gearing towards people who were anxious about the unpredictability of labor or only had a certain pain threshold they could handle, it took almost no time for a much kinkier purpose to be found.

This led to now, two weeks after I had the chip implanted, and it had fully acclimated enough to where I felt ready to introduce it to my audience. Once I gave my stream audience the rundown on how it functioned, the donations came flooding in, a fair amount of people eager to secure a spot in line for control purposes. It was simple, every $100 would earn one minute of control. A little on the steep side, sure, but since it was something as high stakes as controlling my labor, I didn't feel guilty about it.

"Alright, it looks like things have slowed down, so we can finally get started! First in line has two minutes of chip control, I'm ready when you are, love!" There was a beat of silence, and then I felt a band of pressure tightening around my belly. "O-oohh, there you go..." I moaned softly, my hips circling lazily as I let the new sensation wash over me. Just knowing that I was at the mercy of someone else was enough to make me wet, and it wasn't long before I started rubbing myself over my panties.

Two minutes passed and the pressure abated. "It's working perfectly so far, everybody! Next person has just one minute, be sure to make it count!" I added with a wink, a hand running sensually over my belly. Whoever was next definitely took it to heart, and I let out a surprised yelp at the new induced contraction. Where the first one had been a consistent yet manageable pressure, this one felt like a late stage contraction, my belly visibly tightening. Huffing steadily, I breathed through it, and the minute soon passed.

"O-ooh, you really meant business, huh baby?" I purred, a light sweat making my belly practically shine. Glancing at the queue, my eyes widened a bit. The next person had ponied up for an entire ten minutes. "Ohoho, buckle up guys..." I chuckled, approving their access.

Initially it felt like the same gentle pressure as the first round. Once a couple minutes passed, though, I winced as I felt it increase, soon reaching the same intensity as the second round. Countering the pain with pleasure, I made a show of stroking my swollen lips, spreading them so I could rub circles around my clit, my thighs slick with sweat and my wetness. "Fuck, this feels so good, you have no ide--aaahn!" I let out a yelp as the pressure increased again, and a quick look at the timer showed they still had another five minutes of control left. "C-careful now, love, or you're gonna make my water break," I murmured, steadying my breathing once again. Taking a moment to read the chat, I caught the donators username, with just one message:

I intend to.

Before I could think of something to say I let out a low moan, my hands now cradling my belly as it tightened again. True to their word, the pressure mounted steadily, not letting up, and after another few minutes I heard a soft pop as my waters gushed out of me, my webcam capturing every moment beautifully. The stream nearly froze from the sheer amount of donations flooding in, and I grinned as I carefully readjusted myself, making sure my cunt was perfectly framed for all to see.

"Mnh, a-alright, loves...now let's see which of you can make me give birth..."

#pumpkin answers #pumpkin writes #pregnancy kink #birth kink #labor kink #public birth

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merakiui · 3 years

Note

I was reading through your tags and you mentioned at some point the kazuscara roommates finding your onlyfans and I think I completely combusted—thus i present to you my brain rot of late: you attend the same school as them but you’re not actually friends, all you know about kazuha is that he’s the friendly regular at the cafe you work at, who makes polite conversation every now and then but otherwise is nothing of note. In reality he’s been stalking you for weeks ever since your first encounter, and is dead set on the idea that you’re this innocent, weak thing that needs to be protected (maybe he stepped in when you had a bad customer and your meek reply helped fester his delusions?). Scara, on the other hand, is only aware of your presence since you’re his favourite cam model that he recently found. (Since he’s a harbinger he’s probs loaded) Weeks of funnelling money towards you cause him to feel this unwarranted possessiveness, believing that since he’s been providing so much in your “relationship” that it’s time you reward him in turn. However, despite the unbridled interest they have toward you neither are aware of each other’s feelings for you— that is, until you happen to run into the both of them heading to your class. While both are known for maintaining their stoic masks, they’re friends for a reason— and instantly can tell the attraction their roommates have towards their own “lover”. After kazuha finds your onlyfans he’s certain that you’ve been coerced and wants to save you, while scara thinks it’s time that he’s stopped letting other plebeians look at his possession—so, despite their initial reservations, come together to form the ideal plan. When you find yourself waking up groggy in a room you don’t recognize, all they can do is look on with glee whilst planning their next course of action with their new belonging. They’re friends after all, and good friends share though, don’t they?

This is v long srry lol you can ignore this ofc!!

AAAH, ANON!! YES!!! <3 I couldn’t resist writing more on this concept. orz They make for such a terrifying pair when they work together!

(cw: yandere, stalking, nsfw, implied kidnapping/drugging, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, delusional thoughts, savior complex, implied violence)

What if Kazuha and Scara were just acquainted with one another and actually became closer through their mutual obsession with you? Yes, they’re roommates and ought to get along because they’re living together but they haven’t exactly clicked yet. They talk every now and then and know little things about each other. Nothing too special. They don’t really hang out outside of their dorm either, what with their class schedules being vastly different. And Kazuha’s always out of the dorm doing who-knows-what. Most of his time is spent at a café, where he’ll write and read and stare at you while you work. On the other hand, Scara prefers to stay inside if he doesn’t have a good reason to go out. He likes his alone time. Although he has enjoyed going to the library every now and then to study.

So maybe they need to find some common ground. Maybe they need a push in the right direction before they get closer.

Kazuha likes to stare. Talking to you is great, but he worries he’ll say too much and then he’ll be a nuisance, or you might not want to talk to him at all since you’re working. But you always regard him with a warm smile, happy to scribble his name on the plastic cup because you remember him. Because you recognize his familiar face and soft, gentle eyes. He’s the one who saved you from that rude customer, after all, and he’s a polite regular. Why wouldn’t you know him? You might look like you can handle those types of situations, but what Kazuha saw that day was something entirely different. You were nervous—so soft-spoken and scared. He absolutely has to protect you from those kinds of people now, doesn’t he?

And he does exactly that. He’s your second pair of eyes—your valiant knight in shining armor—who sees and hears all. Sometimes he goes to the café with the intention to simply watch over you and make sure no one’s bothering you. He can recall one time when a customer was speaking rudely about you because her drink hadn’t been prepared in a ‘timely manner.’ In reality it’s impossible to make a drink within a few seconds, especially when you’re already preoccupied with making another customer’s drink. She must’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed, or maybe she’s just a hateful person in general. You didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of such fiery insults, though.

Her eyes just can’t see your perfection and therefore she does not deserve to see out of them.

Kazuha’s willing to wrestle with all of this darkness if it means you’ll stay safe, oblivious, and pure. You’re like a defenseless kitten, unable to protect yourself from the scary world. He writes about you a lot in his journal; you’re his muse—someone who constantly shows up in poems and short paragraphs where he tries to describe what your dream date might be or what type of wedding you’d prefer. Things get darker the deeper you delve into his writings, where you’ll find entries in great detail. Kazuha writes a lot and he doesn’t even mean to. He just has to get all of his thoughts on paper before they abandon him and he’s left with emptiness.

Everything you do is pure; you’re almost an equivalent to a holy being. Your smell is pure. Your body is pure. Your actions are pure. Your smile is pure. Even when you’re on the verge of crying from harsh customers or when you’re turning down a confession, you’re still pure. And Kazuha likes that about you because it’s special. There aren’t many people in his life who are completely pure. He’s been through a lot of rough things and has seen firsthand how impure people can be. It’s only fair that he gets a chance to protect purity itself.

He might have some impurities, but that doesn’t deter him from watching over you. As gentle and unassuming as he is, there are times when even he loses his composure. Not many are privy to these dark emotions of his. His smiles are sharp and venomous and his eyes fill with a gloom so dark it can swallow you whole. You’ll never see this side of him; he won’t allow it. Instead you’re treated to his sweet, calm side, where he feigns perfection in hopes of catching your interest.

As for Scara… He doesn’t really care about Kazuha in the beginning. He’s just someone he has to live with. It’s not a big deal and as long as he doesn’t try to make lots of pointless conversation everything will be okay. He prefers the peace and quiet, considering he’s acquainted with people who are far from peaceful and quiet. Scara’s relieved that Kazuha leaves the dorm so often because it gives him an opportunity to watch his favorite cam star’s most recent video. He’s your most loyal follower—someone who’s paid lots of money just to have access to the highest tier of rewards and such. He even got a private video where you addressed him and moaned out his name with lustful thoughts of him. Having lots of money comes in handy.

When he finds out that you go to the same school as him, he’s a little shocked. He didn’t expect you to be so close. You’re practically within touching distance. If only he knew your schedule. If only you were in one of his classes. It’s really annoying that he only knows your online presence and not who you might be in your personal life. The last thing he’s going to do is consult Childe, that popular athlete who knows literally everyone in the school for whatever reason. Surely he knows you. But he’ll die before he ever asks Childe for a favor.

Scara loves you out of every other cam model because you’re different. You’re not just trying to get fast cash. You’re genuine. You listen to your subscribers and their feedback. You do your best to improve and do even better streams than the previous ones. All of your hard work is overlooked by the other fools who watch your streams, but it isn’t overlooked by him. Scara appreciates your attention to detail and the way you’re able to hook him with your breathless voice alone. You’re very skilled at what you do, so it’s only fair you get paid for it.

But buying your services isn’t enough. It’s not a real relationship, but it certainly feels like it when he buys preferential treatment. Private shows, special requests, odd favors—you do it all because he pays for it. But this relationship isn’t going to be one-sided forever. You’ll have to pay him back in full eventually. Scara likes to think he has patience and that waiting is fine. It gives him more time to plan his next move—to figure out what he should do to finally have you all to himself. So that those private shows he watches through a screen can finally be real.

Scara finds the journal sitting innocently on Kazuha’s bed, its maroon cover and maple leaves pulling at his curiosity. He might not know everything about Kazuha, but he’d recognize this journal anywhere. His roommate almost always has it on his person. Scara wouldn’t be surprised if he slept with it. To say he’s curious would be absolutely correct. He can only wonder what Kazuha writes in that thing. Perhaps it’s just notes for a class. That’s what anyone would think, right?

Scara opens it and flips through the first few pages. They’re normal for the most part. Just a bunch of haikus and other useless scribbles. When he skips over some pages, he starts to find things that are far more interesting than poetry and doodles of cats. He finds the majority of the journal is comprised of information. More specifically, there are facts and other knowledge about you—the cam model he’s been obsessed with ever since he stumbled upon your onlyfans. He reads through as much of the journal as he can and instantly learns so much: your address, your roommate, your workplace, your friends’ names, names of any potential exes. The list goes on and on.

Scara doesn’t have anything against Kazuha. His first impression of him wasn’t anything groundbreaking. He thought he was a pushover at first. But now that he knows what this journal holds… Well, it sheds an entirely new light on his roommate.

Just days before Scara took a peek inside his journal, Kazuha discovers your secret online life. He snoops through Scara’s laptop when he steps out, having left it open and unlocked. He’s just trying to find what could have caught Scara’s interest, as he’s almost always glued to his laptop on specific days at specific times, with his headphones on and his gaze unyielding. He doesn’t intend to find the file of one of your private videos—something that was meant only for Scara’s eyes.

He clicks on the video out of interest. He’s not sure what he was expecting to see, but it definitely wasn’t this. Kazuha sits there and stares at the sight before him. You’re dressed in skimpy lingerie and you’re muttering the dirtiest things while coating your fingers in lube. And your hands are stroking a thick toy and you’re addressing Scara and you’re lining it up to your hole and— He shuts the laptop before it can get even more explicit than it already is. He’s so conflicted, fraught with a betrayal so strong it weighs his heart down.

Why would he have this sort of video on his laptop? Did you give it to him? Did he make you do this? Are you in danger? Are you still pure?

Kazuha can’t kill on campus. It’s way too risky and he’d be one of the first suspects if Scara’s body is found. Besides, it’s not like he has the full story. He doesn’t know whether or not Scara’s done something that’s worthy of death. You could just be in a tight spot. He knows how easily you give in when you’re under pressure. Maybe you’re just doing this because you feel like it’s the only thing you can do. Not to worry; Kazuha will save you before Scara can ruin your purity with his twisted fantasies.

They confront each other when the time feels right. Kazuha struggles to keep a smile plastered to his face for the sake of politeness, while Scara holds in his raging temper so that he can bear some semblance of cooperation. Neither of them is happy to hear that the other went through their stuff, but they force themselves to make up because a more pressing issue is at hand: their connection to you.

Kazuha says he’s your secret admirer. Scara says he’s in a relationship with you. There’s no way you’d ever date someone like Scara—Kazuha knows this for a fact. Yet he falters at the confidence in Scara’s tone. That can’t be the truth, right? Despite this, Kazuha still strikes up an offer: If they work together to get what they both want, they’ll be unstoppable. With Scara’s riches and his influence and Kazuha’s charisma and clever thinking, they can easily get their hands on you. Of course this means they’ll have to share, but it’s not a big deal when they’re already in so deep. They both know the other’s secret; now they’re swearing to keep it in the pursuit of having you all to themselves. And luckily Scara agrees to the deal, but that doesn’t give Kazuha a reason to lower his guard.

However despite how well they work together when it comes to planning the kidnapping and actually executing it, they both have their own reasons for wanting you. Scara wishes to make his relationship with you a reality—to toss aside the screen that once held him back and finally do all of the things he could only do in his dreams. Kazuha seeks to protect your fragile heart, lest you crumble under Scara’s intense way of doing things and cling to him for salvation. You can’t do those sorts of things with Scara; he won’t allow it. Your purity is meant for him and no one else.

But sharing is caring and some have to learn that the hard way. It definitely brings Kazuha and Scara closer together, even if neither of them will admit it. If they look past their desires, they can be friends. And soon enough they’ll have to accept this new friendship if they want to avoid any unnecessary complications.

However there are times when they’ll cooperate in order to do things with you. They’re a packaged deal you can’t get rid of.

#chit chat #yandere #yandere kazuha #yandere scaramouche #kazuscara roommates #ty for feeding me anon orz #i like the idea of them being friends on the surface #but beneath that they're willing to abandon the other in order to meet their desires #but when they come together they're a force to be reckoned with #aaah i could go on and on with this concept #but i don't want to ramble #ANYWAYS TY AGAIN ANON <3 YOUR BRAIN IS SO LARGE #🧸 anon

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

HC: MC is more flexible than them!

Perfection is certain. Perfection is solid. Perfection is the body of a demon or an angel, where there is no room (or need) for bones to crack and muscles to stretch. You and Solomon, though? You’re human. Not so “perfect” when compared to the other inhabitants of at RAD—but that just makes it all the more interesting when they finally see the way the human body can crack and bend

Word Count: 5.5k

SFW + mild descriptions of cracking body parts

Characters: All brothers + All Undateables + Luke

MASTERLIST

Lucifer

Instant panic mode

Man just learned that it’s possible for humans to break bones, so when he hears you casually crack your knuckles, he instantly assumes that all your fingers are broken

Finds it even more terrifying when you lean your head back and crack your neck

Honestly, the look of sheer horror on his face would be terrifying if you didn’t find it so funny

Is actually super confused when he realizes that you’re 100% fine but will not lower himself to actually asking you about it. That is not the Lucifer way, and so this man instead decides to secretly binge Satan’s collection of human anatomy instead

But uh, he gets scarily into it

Seriously, you’re starting to get concerned when it’s been nearly two full weeks of Lucifer ignoring you to bury his nose in a book, eyebrows furrowing every goddamn time he finishes one, and still has no clue what that cracking sound is

It’s only when you casually do it at the dinner table and Asmo cringes, complaining about how weird it is that humans get pockets of gas inside certain joints and they actually have to crack it out, to which all his brothers nod their head and cringe when you do it again, that he understands what it is

Has never been more relieved

He isn’t as disturbed by the sound as he was before, so it’s not as fun to tease him with it - but you can count on the fact that if you ever crack anything in his presence, he will pause whatever he’s doing to study you for a moment and make sure your face isn’t contorted in pain or anything

After all, he needs to be completely certain that you haven’t broken a bone

But someone help this man when he realizes how much more flexible humans are compared to demons

The first time you do a backbend in front of him, he actually flinches

Man can’t help but imagine himself in those poses - and no matter how sexy you look when you’re winking at him and stretching your body like it’s glue, his bones would have to be shattered to bits for him to do the same

Quietly asks you not to stretch yourself into such positions in his presence

On the bright side, you can shut him up in the middle of any lecture by “casually” stretching your arms back until the demon is so disturbed that he stops in the middle of his sentence and asks you to leave as soon as possible

All in all, not a big fan - but he can tolerate your antics (if only to save face)

But if you ever show him videos (or even pictures) of a contortionist, he may actually be scarred for the rest of his almost-eternal life

Mammon

Man really needs to learn how to knock

He barges into your room without warning, as usual, only to see you all but straddling the ground, legs spread wide apart as you lean to one side and touch your right toe

It’s the most basic human stretch there is - but it’s terrifying to Mammon

You don’t even get the chance to say hi to him before he’s lifted you onto your feet, pulling you up from under your arms, desperately asking why you weren’t screaming for help

Cannot process the fact that you were actually in that position willingly, much less the notion that it felt remotely good

Of course, you respond to his obvious aversion by showing him all the other ways your body can bend, flopping onto your bed and bending your body into a perfect bridge position

Mammon’s screeches when he sees the arch your back makes

It lowkey gives him nightmares the next night

Also becomes very touchy after he sees you move your body around so comfortably

In his eyes, you’re now the equivalent of a giant teddy bear - and really, what are the differences, now? He uses you for cuddles and hugs, can seemingly bend your body in any way and you’ll bounce back, and your skin is so soft compared to the hardness of his own body

Man actually grows used to your body after a while, holding a strange fascination for the way you can move

Begins to think that it’s cool when you show him how you can crack your knuckles and such

Absolutely makes use of the fact that some of his other brothers hate the sound, casually walking up to them with you by his side and asking them (while you crack your knuckles) to forgive his debts

Works 90% of the time

The 10% when it doesn’t work, though, he gets into trouble

In his free time, though, he actually likes lying with you and trying to figure what other body parts you can crack

Courtesy of Mammon, you learn that you can crack your hip if you stretch at a certain angle

(Bonus:) He one day tries to stretch his body the way you stretch yours and does a basic hamstring stretch on the ground, trying to touch his toes, but the exertion is too much for his inflexible body and he sort of locks a joint, so he’s left on the floor for nearly half an hour until you find him in his room and help him out of it

(Bonus bonus:) After his trauma from the above incident, he immediately goes back to assuming that you’re in great pain every time he sees you do a particularly difficult stretch and instantly lifts your body out of the position, no matter how you protest and say that you’re fine

Leviathan

"What a normie”

That’s the only reaction you get when you crack your knuckles in front of him, eager to see what he’ll do after realizing how much it disturbs his other brothers

Needless to say, you’re disappointed by his utter nonchalance

But that’s only because you have no clue what happens to Levi when he runs to his room and closes his door, jumping into his bathtub with a shook expression on his face

“Oh my god!” He squeals. “iT wAs LiKE iN tHe aNImES”

Nah, fr tho

Man has seen more than enough human-world shows which feature characters cracking their knuckles before getting down to work, so he’s pretty familiar with the concept

Like many things in anime, he was only 60% sure that it was real

But you actually did it

And it was in real life

Man is practically fanboying over a perfectly normal phenomenon

While you’re sitting in the living room, thinking that he was utterly unfazed by it :(

But when the two of you have a whole year to spend together under the same roof, it’s honestly inevitable that the truth comes out

“You like it?” You ask, pure confusion settling over your faces. After all, he’s the first of the brothers to not be utterly horrified by your little habit

“N-no!” Levi shouts, hiding his face. “I mean, maybe...just a little...sort of...but not in the normie way!”

Boi is too cute for his own good

Of course, you humor him and proceed to crack every single joint you can think of, sending a wink Levi’s way

It would be so easy to tease him, wouldn’t it? To mess with him and call him strange, to compare to his brothers and remind him that you’re not an anime character - and that anime is, in fact, based on humans, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that humans could crack their knuckles the way he’s seen online

But, he’s too precious. And too cute. And he’s too adorable, staring at you with that utterly captivated expression, so you can’t help but humor him again, asking if he wants to see some of the other differences between humans and demons

And when you show him how you can bend your body, man is shook all over again

He 100% thought that the absurd stretches (like a split? how preposterous) were merely fabrications of animation - flourishes added in by animators to make the visuals more interesting

But seeing you move like that? And when you show him the other stuff?

Congratulations. Boi is officially convinced that humans are more interesting that anime can ever be.

Satan

One of the few demons who was already familiar with the fact that humans are ridiculously flexible and can crack nearly everything in their body

He was actually the one to approach you about it

“Stretch for me, human.”

Or well, the same thing but in less blunt words

Actually invites you to have tea with him where he first broaches the subject, confirming that you'll be fully comfortable with everything he wants to study

Lmao man really arranges to have a safe word in case he pushes you too far

Once you’ve agreed to letting him study how the human body can bend and crack, the two of you set a time and meet up in his room (and yes, he does clear his books out of the way to make room for you)

And so the stretching begins

It actually feels quite awkward at first with Satan showing you pictures from human world yoga books and asking you to mimic them, taking notes in a book on everything

Gets really excited when he realizes that your flexibility is a function of how often you stretch, and once he realizes that you’re able to go a little farther each day, he becomes lowkey obsessed with finding out whether there's a limit or not

Boi may or may not secretly try to stretch in his own room in case demons are just naturally less flexible and need to stretch regularly to become like humans

Also almost breaks his arm attempting that, so he never tries it again

The whole ordeal fits itself into your routine after long enough: after school, you go to Satan’s room and do yoga while he jots down notes on how your body moves, and after everything is done the two of you have tea

Satan never touches you while you’re stretching for fear that he’ll physically push you into something uncomfortable, but when you explain that certain positions are easier to hold if someone helps, he’ll definitely try to be a helping hand

He starts out really tentatively, hesitant that he’ll be too strong and will push you to the floor or something, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find that humans are more resilient than he’d initially thought

After his notebook is filled with notes and he’s suitably convinced that all his questions are sated, he’ll express his gratitude and tell you that you don’t need to continue

But if you tell him that you’ve been enjoying your time together, man will 100% clear that space in his room permanently, so that you can spend time there together while Satan asks you calming questions about your day and you stretch the tension of the day out of your muscles

Asmodeus

Jelly boi

Nah but fr

Man couldn’t care less about your ability to crack your knuckles and neck - if anything, he finds the habit to be irritating

But boi is jealous when he sees how easily you can bend your body and stretch into positions that even he can’t

Obviously, his mind is in the gutter when he’s thinking about the way your body can bend - but he’s equally furious of the fact that human skin is so much softer than demon skin

Like, yes. Most demons have near-perfect skin because of its taut texture - and yes, that gives them the illusion of perfection

But human skin, blemished as it is, is like a teddy bear next to a rock when compared to demon skin

And obviously Asmo’s skin is softer than everyone else’s (this man is NOT skimping out when it comes to his skincare routine), but it infuriates him that his skin isn’t as soft as yours

Of course, man bounces back quicker than anyone else (as expected)

He grows content with the texture of his own skin the moment he realizes how easily penetrable human skin is - namely when he’s doing homework with you and he sees your skin get sliced open by paper, of all things (man nearly chokes when he learns that this is a regular occurrence for humans)

But he never quite loses his fixation for the human body

It’s highkey the reason why he likes touching you so much - your skin is softer than some Devildom blankets! If he could fall asleep with your arms wrapped around him every night, he absolutely would

But he won’t genuinely request that of you unless you explicitly offer, so he’ll settle for simply hugging you at every opportunity

Ofc, the moment he grows content with the texture of his skin, he’s jealous of your flexibility all over again, so it’s kind of nuts

You eventually have to sit him down and tell him all the downfalls of being able to bend yourself into awkward positions (ex: getting stuck in said position or causing a cramp) for him to finally be content with his own body once more

The moment he’s back to normal, all the usual flirtatious jokes come back and he’s offering to let you show him the ways your body can bend

You deny instantly

But if he ever takes you to a club and has the opportunity to dance with you, do a body roll

Man will get on his knees if that’s what it takes to have you do it again

And then he’ll whisk you off to his room, stubbornly ignoring his brother’s protests, declaring that he needs to “reeducate” himself in the art of dance, and that you’re going to be his teacher

And hey - give him a private show while you’re at it ;)

Beelzebub

The first time you crack your knuckles in front of him, he’s eating

Man doesn’t really register it, just assumes that he bit something crunchy

The second time you do it, it’s in his and Belphie’s room - and Belphie is taking a nap

Man gets a little suspicious, because the sound definitely came from your end, but he dismisses it and decides that the sound must have been a hitch in Belphie’s breathing

But the third time, the two of you are alone

And Beel’s protective instincts come rushing to the surface when he realizes that you really are the one making that sound

“Are you dying?”

First question, no matter what. Man has heard of medical conditions that cause bones to become brittle and crumbly, so he needs to know

Then again, he won’t really believe you when you tell him the truth

“You can...crack stuff at will?”

beelisconfuzzled.exe

You have to show him methodically, portion by portion, which of your body parts you can crack

He isn’t disturbed by the sound (he’s eaten things which sound much worse, he can assure you) but man is intrigued

(”But how?” He’ll inevitably ask, struggling to yank his own knuckles off in an attempt to crack them and get that feeling of satisfaction you kept talking about)

All in all,he has a decent reaction - probably one of the only people who won’t overreact about the information

But then the fateful day comes

And he cracks your back

It happens while he’s giving you a big bear hug, proud of you after you came running to tell him about a good grade you got in Devildom Literature - and he places his palm on your back in just the right area, pressing down as he hugs you

And pop

Man is so mortified, he almost drops you

You, on the other hand, cannot be more pleased with this development

“Again! Again!” You shout, trying to get him to repeat the action - but while Beel loves hugging you, cracking your back is something he’s not willing to risk

“It’s okay when you do it, because you know how much your back can take” is his biggest argument. "But I don't."

And unfortunately, calling him a chicken won’t work when you try to convince him otherwise :(

What will work, however, is convincing Beel that this can be a sort of strength training - because he needs to have full control of his body to do it right

He’ll agree to do it once (mainly because you’ve been begging for so long)

But, obviously, “once” means as many times as you want, from there on out ;)

Belphegor

It’s one of the few times where Belphie isn’t in tune with his brother

And he hates it

He doesn’t understand how Beel isn't disturbed by the sound - every time you crack your knuckles, it sends a shudder straight down Belphie’s spine

And it’s not the ick factor taking place. It’s just that Belphie can’t help that his mind wanders to darker places whenever you do something like that, the sound abruptly reminding him of his time in the Celestial War and all the awful things he heard there

Like others, the sound reminds him of how weak you really are

And so, if you ever crack your knuckles around him, expect him to leave instantly

He’s the one brother who will never learn to tolerate it - not when he can remove himself from the situation so easily

And honestly, it’s kind of amazing how sharp his ears are

Is he taking a nap on your lap? If you think you can subtly crack anything without his eyes shooting open, you’re wrong

Is he preparing dinner with you in the kitchen? Nope, the sound of boiling water will not cover the sound of your body stretching too far, and Belphie will shoot you a glare before swiftly exiting the room

Is he simply doing homework with you in the RAD library? You’d think that the sound of chatter from the table next to you would hide the noise you make when you subtly lean back to crack your back, but Belphie is gathering his things mere seconds later, huffing and muttering under his breath

So yeah

Not a fan

On the other hand, he loves how accommodating your body is in terms of how flexibly you are

It brings him great joy, honestly, to just watch you flop your arms around aimlessly because humans’ movements are so fluid, so smooth, so unhindered by the rigid joints of demons

And, obviously, your flexibility makes for better naps

He likes to sleep next to you with his arms wrapped around your waist while you latch onto him in whatever position you deem comfortable

Without a doubt, the position you find is something that would be wholly impossible for a demon (how are you bending your legs that much?!) and it sometimes scares him to realize the full extents of your flexibility (can all humans twist their arms like that, or is it just you?) but he loves that you use your body’s oddities to pull him closer

And he’ll never deny you a comfortable nap if you’re willing to cuddle so readily

Never

Unless you crack your knuckles, that is

Solomon

Life is war and cracking body parts is your only weapon

Aka nonstop competitions between you and our resident wizard boy, both of you cracking body parts back and forth until one of you either fails or runs out of things to crack

Knuckles? Come on, are you even trying? Give him something less basic

Back? Oh yeah. Both sides, too - and the loud ones

Hips? You didn’t think it was possible, but Solomon will look you in the eye and hit one side of his hip, the movement a prelude to an instant CRACK which rings out oh-so-gloriously from the other end

Ribs? You realized you could crack them once and never stopped - you’re actually the one to teach Solomon how to do this

Neck? Always the finisher. So loud, and so satisfying

Neither the House of Lamentation nor Purgatory Hall ever wants to have the two of you over at the same time, because the residents know that you and Solomon will have these competitions. And they absolutely hate it.

So what do you do?

Go to the library and disturb the demons there, of course

It actually becomes a pretty sick form of payback to all the annoying demons that look down on the two of you for being humans, because they always cringe so hard when you guys do this

The two of you have deduced that the sound of knuckles cracking is the demon equivalent to the sound of nails on a chalkboard

And you fucking run wild with it

No one wants to piss either of you off, because you’ll both glare at the demon in question and proceed to crack every body part known to mankind (like seriously - it’s reached the point where you guys can crack your TOES, and if that isn’t absolutely amazing, then you don’t know what is)

It actually highkey annoys the demons in your classes, because you guys always crack everything right before an exam and while it helps you focus better, it effectively ruins their concentration

Ofc you guys don’t really care so they can suck it

But uh

Okay so the demons at RAD may or may not get fed up of you both one day and petition for Diavolo to instate a “No cracking body parts” rule in school

So yeah your primary source of entertainment sort of disappears after that point

But no worries, you and Solomon head to the downtown shopping districts instead and become the BEST hagglers in town

“Hey, can we get these shirts on a discount? Huh? You don’t do discounts?

*Aggressively cracks everything until the demon just wants them out of the store*

“How about now BICH?”

Simeon

You’re actually not the one to introduce Simeon to the idea of humans being able to crack their body parts at will

No, it’s Solomon who steals that pleasure from you

But will Simeon ever let the sorcerer know just how much it unnerves him? Absolutely not. So what does our beloved angel do?

Why, there’s only one option

Come running straight to you.

Man is disturbed. Honestly, disturbed is phrasing it lightly. If he were in his angel form, you’d be able to see how his feathers ruffle and flutter at the very thought of that sound

Needless to say, he hates it

(You 100% consider cracking your knuckles in front of him, just to tease him, but you decide against it)

See, Simeon is an angel. And that means 99% of the time, he’s surrounded by other holy spirits, all of which have bodies molded to perfection that simply cannot crack the way yours can. Whereas demons are forced into human interaction a little more (oft when they're summoned), Simeon really isn’t used your fragility, no matter how much he tries to remind himself of it

So yeah

He hates it

On the other hand - man loves how flexible humans are

The first time you flop down onto your bed, assuming a position that would be impossible for any demon or angel to take but is deemed “comfortable” by you, Simeon is enraptured

It’s not sexual, he just thinks it’s really amazing that you have so much control over your body when he can hardly do a standing glute stretch without breaking a limb

It’s almost funny, his fixation

Actually no - it’s not almost funny. It is wholly and completely hilarious, and you will not stop leading him further down this rabbit hole

When you send this man picture of an contortionist, he’s utterly mesmerized

Show him human ballet, and he will not stop watching it

So yeah

He appreciates parts of the human body, hates others - but as long as you never crack your muscles in front of him, he’s down

Also - after you’ve thoroughly interested him in the art of being a human, he may just write about it in his next book. If you read the next set of chronicles detailed by Christopher Peugeot, you already know who the “feisty but good-hearted human who can bend themselves into a pretzel” is based on

(Bonus: Do a body roll in front of him and he might faint - man knew the human body could but like that? You might just have corrupted an angel)

Luke

“So...cool...!”

Boi loves it

He cheers you on like a champ, laughing merrily as you crack your knuckles into oblivion, scaring away the other residents in Purgatory Hall

And no matter how many times Simeon warns him not to urge you on (”The human already has no sense of self-preservation, and you don’t need to help that along,” he said), Luke can’t help but watch with excited eyes as you show him how different the human body is

He’s almost like Levi with his ardent admiration, and he honestly finds nothing disturbing about the sound of you cracking knuckles

Just finds it cool

It actually serves as a catalyst for his relationship with Solomon, because Luke will 100% go up to him and ask him whether he can crack his body like you, and obviously, the man will laugh and prove that centuries of knowledge have made him better than the average human - even in this area

But yeah

You can really see his inner child come out

(Though don’t say that last part out loud - he’ll ignore you for three days in an attempt to be “mature” before you convince him to accept your apology)

But really - he may be the only person who can not only tolerate the quirks of your body, but openly endorses all of them

On the downside, though, he’ll also try to crack his knuckles...which won’t bode too well, given that his body was built to perfection by God

Boi almost rips his finger off

Simeon proceeds to instate a no-cracking-knuckles rule within Purgatory Hall to discourage any further attempts from Luke

But you know what he didn’t ban?

Backflips.

It doesn’t matter if you can or you can’t do them - Luke will happen to see a video of a human doing one (ahem, Solomon showed him it in an attempt to stir up trouble), and now he’s begging you to do the same thing in real life

Which doesn’t work out too well, given that backflips are hard

And you may not be successful 100% of the time

And obviously, Simeon eventually finds out that the two of you have moved onto a new fixation, and so he instate the no-backflips-in-Purgatory-Hall rule

But you know what he didn’t ban?

Cartwheels.

And so it continues on and on, indefinitely because the only way to cease your and Luke’s shenanigans would be to ban humans in Purgatory Hall, and Solomon is thankfully preventing him from doing that

Barbatos

Hates it, hates it, hates it

More than any of the brothers, more than any of the angels - this man loathes every oddity of the human body that makes it different from a demon’s

But not for the reasons you’d expect

See, it’s not the sound that bothers Barbatos

No, he’s heard the screams of the damned before. You cracking a few measly knuckles hardly makes him flinch as he pours your tea

But what Barbatos does hate is the fact that he doesn’t know what it means

Every single time you crack a knuckle in his presence, it doesn’t matter if the prince himself is speaking, because Barbatos’s eyes will fly straight to you

And yes - you guessed it:

Barbatos can’t tell the difference between the sound of you cracking your knuckles and the sound of you breaking a bone.

And for that reason, he hates it

It’s hardly his fault - he doesn’t even know if there is a difference between the two sounds. But this butler has no faith in you and no faith in humanity as a whole, so every time you crack your knuckles, it sends a rush of worry straight to his stomach, and the demon has to watch you for a solid ten seconds to make sure that you haven’t actually hurt yourself

Poor man

He’s the kind of guy to take everything in stride, so he'll probably never tell you how much he hates it when you crack your knuckles (and honestly, what would he say? “Hi, can you please stop cracking your knuckles because I care about you and it makes me concerned for your health???” No, that’s not going to work. And he doesn't know what will work, so he suffers in silence)

Seeing you stretch is even worse

It can be a casual stretch, simply pulling your arms above your head just slightly beyond what would be physically possible for a normal demon, but it sends a chill to Barbatos’s heart, and he’s worried all over again

See, when you crack your knuckles, at least it’s over. But when you stretch? Sometimes you hold your position for a minute, if not more - and Barbatos simply can’t turn away because he’s terrified that he will, and you’ll somehow hurt yourself

So yeah

No rest for this butler, not as long as you’re going around with that weak body of yours and are cracking and stretching your way into oblivion

On the bright side, it means that he’s almost always watching over you when you visit, an added layer of protection

The only difference is that while the others are focused on protecting you from other demons, Barbatos is preoccupied with making sure you don’t hurt yourself

Diavolo

Timing is everything

And indeed, you just happen to be in the midst of cracking your knuckles and neck the moment you’re transported to the Devildom, every single one of the most powerful demons in the land staring at you in horror as your body pops some more

"Oh no,” Diavolo whispers, frowning as he looks at Barbatos. “We got a defective human :(”

Nevermind the insult you feel at his words (who does this strange, unfairly-attractive redhead think he is, calling you “defective???” He might be correct in his judgement, but he had no right to voice his thoughts!), you are shook

Definitely not the best first impression for either of you to make

Of course, Lucifer is quick to pick things up with his explanation of what this place is and who he is, and the whole situation is mostly forgotten as you come to realize that you’re standing in front of a literal prince

But the past has a way of resurfacing

And obviously, several months later, you crack your knuckles once more in the presence of the demon lord

The immediate wince on his face is more than enough for you to read his mind

“You’re thinking I’m defective again, aren’t you?”

“YOU REMEMBER THAT?!”

Poor bby

He’s honestly such a brilliant ruler, but when it comes to maneuvering the minds of humans, it’s just not his strong suit

Anyway, the two of you have a long talk (aka you rant and Diavolo listens) where you explain to him that cracking knuckles is a normal phenomenon, and that - look, you can even crack other parts of your body

And the prince is fascinated

He knew humans were built differently than demons, but he’d simply assumed that your body was just as perfect as his, and that yours could simply handle less extreme conditions

Clearly, though, that wasn’t the case

Man decides that, as the ruler of hell and the man spearheading efforts to unite the three realms, it is his moral obligation to learn about the other ways humans differ from demons

And so the shenanigans begin

It’s honestly time-consuming, but Lucifer doesn’t mind because if you’re with Diavolo, you’re out of trouble, and Barbatos doesn’t mind because if Diavolo’s with you, then he’s out of trouble

All in all, it becomes the prelude to a LOT of time spent together, and a LOT of differences between demons and humans come to light.

Aka various iterations of “What do you mean, humans can’t bite through steel?”

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roselevesque · 4 years

Text

Enemies to lovers has such a wide range of meanings depending on who you talk to. And it's kind of fascinating.

I can go around, asking for recommendations on books/shows/movies which contain this trope ( either canonically or as a big fanon thing ) and the answers can range from something like She-ra with Catra ans Adora, where the people actually act as enemies for a duration of the story, to Aziraphale and Crowley from Good Omens who are probably as far away from this concept as you can get.

That is to say, compared to straight best friends to lovers, this trope seems to attract a bigger variety of relationships that would be labelled as enemies to lovers simply from the fact that people have very different definitions of what an enemy is.

Enemy is a heavy term, in my opinion. When you genuinely claim someone is your enemy, it doesn't just mean that you are annoyed by their presence at times or that you simply compete against each other. No.

An enemy is someone you hold much more hostile feelings towards. You don't only dislike them, you hate them or what they stand for. You don't only act against them, you may very well cause them extreme distress as a consequence of your actions, intentionally or not.

I don't know about others, but personally, I wouldn't call most people who get on my nerves or don't like me and express it an enemy.

As such, I personally find it hard to categorize anything as enemies to lovers when: A) whatever conflict they might have had barely lasted ( ex: Rayla and Callum from The Dragon Prince ) and B) the nature of said conflict doesn't put them in a position where they effectively oppose each other and aren't on the same side emotionally, ideologically and/or socially ( ex: Kageyama and Hinata from Haikyuu )

In the second case, I find myself often thinking that what many label enemies to lovers would actually better fit the rivals to lovers trope: two people who compete against and can antagonise each other, but aren't pushing past a certain threshold.

Let's look at Sasuke and Naruto from Naruto for a second to underline the disntiction. Before Sasuke left Konoha, they were clearly rivals, called even in canon as such through the entirety of Part 1. They didn't always get along and threw insults around, but ultimately it was a lot more innocent compared to their Shippuden selves. At that point they were legit enemies. Naruto sure wished they weren't, but their goals aligned in such a way that a serious clash would be inevitable.

Now, let's look at Luz and Amity from The Owl House. They don't start off on great terms, far from it. Their first serious interaction ends with Luz challenging Amity to a duel because of the latter's mean attitude towards her and her friend. Immediately after the duel the two share a quiet and short heart to heart and not much later they are forced to work together and their relationship goes upwards from that point with Amity even developing a crush on Luz.

They had negative moments in the beginning, but they are a small portion of the show and, even then, they don't cross that threshold I mentioned. Heck, Luz herself compares them to The Witch Azura and her rival ( characters from a book series she loves ) and flat out refers to Amity as a rival, although the actual rivalry activities they undertake were concentrated in those first few interactions.

In short, you can have characters who don't necessarily get along most of the time and not fall under the enemies to lover or even the rivals to lovers dynamic. There are plenty of people who have neutral or even bad opinions about another person before they eventually start to be on good terms, this doesn't make them rivals or enemies though.

And sometimes I do wonder if all of these varied views on the enemies to lovers label stem from the fact that an enemy in its purest definition is quite a foreign concept to us all.

Fiction is already an exaggeration tool, because we are hardly likely to ever encounter stuff on the sheer scale they are presented in fantasy, no matter how realistic they might be portrayed. This includes enemies to lovers.

It's hard for us to reconcile this idea and our minds at times. How likely are you to ever hear of a true story about people who started out on completely divergent grounds going from that to loving each other? Especially in an action/battle heavy environment? Or in a world divided by life or death turmoil? Close to none.

As such, so we can digest it easier, we lower the requirements for what can qualify as enemies to lovers and we point at those ships and say: "This is a good enemies to lovers story", when the shoe doesn't really fit.

#enemies to lovers #fandom discussion #catradora #shera #sasunaru #naruto #lumity #the owl house #kagehina #haikyuu #karmagisa #assassination classroom #ineffable husbands #rivals to lovers #fiction tropes #zukka #lawlight

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highlifeboat · 3 years

Note

A concept: Bela overhears her sisters talking to her mother about how clingy she is.

Cassandra and Daniela really don’t mean it personally, but their words sound so harsh in Bela’s sensitive ears. Her sisters are just discussing the things they’ve seen with Bela’s neediness, expressing that it’s concerning, and when Alcina reluctantly agrees that, yes, it can be a bit much at times, Bela shatters. Her sisters were one thing, but her mother...

Realizing she had to do something, Bela starts to pull herself away. She doesn’t eat or sleep; she only showers or bathes in frigid water, leaving her skin sore, ashy, and riddled with blisters; she barely leaves her room; and worst of all: she starts talking back to Alcina.

That last thing is what REALLY concerns everyone. And Bela hates doing it, but she feels the need to distance herself from her mother, and this is the only way. It’s better for everyone if she loosened her ties with them.

Eventually, Bela’s attitude gets so bad that Alcina finally snaps at her, and it hurts Bela more than she was expecting. She had been trying to prepare herself for the pain, but it still came to her like a knife in her stomach.

(Hurt no comfort)

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. It wasn’t something she would normally do. After all, she’d never want her sisters to listen in on one of her private conversations, especially with their mother, and in truth she hadn’t planned to stick around. But when she heard her name mentioned it seemed to make her pause. They were talking about her. Why? What had she done? Was she in trouble? Bela’s mind raced with possibilities, and pressed her ear against the door so she could hear a little better.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Cassandra’s voice asked. “How… clingy she is?” Bela swallowed. Clingy? She wasn’t clingy. Well, maybe she could be. A little. “How she always wants to be around you? How much she seems to care what you think about her?”

“Yeah, and the lengths she goes just for a pat on the head.” Daniela’s voice agreed. “I’ve seen her go days without sleep trying to impress you with something. It’s not normal.” Not normal? Bela shifted. “And she’s been like this forever! It’s really weird.”

“And a little creepy.” Cassandra added. “Like, I know we were all attention seekers at first but even you have to think this is out of control, right? We aren’t crazy for thinking that.”

Bela heard her mother sigh, her teeth starting to grind together. “Bela can be… overbearing at times, yes….” The blonde sunk her claws into the door as her heart seemed to stop. “And it is a little odd.” Odd? “If I knew how to help her I would.” Help? Mama thinks you need help? That you’re odd? Overbearing? Not normal?

Bela felt tears in her eyes and rushed as quietly as she could away from the door and the conversation on the other side. Her sisters were one thing. Their complaints still tugged at her heart, of course, but they had been teasing her for years. But her mother? Her own mother thought she was overbearing? She didn’t understand, she thought she was doing everything right. Did Mother not like when she went the extra mile for her? Did she not like that she followed everything she said? Bela pulled her hair. No, she had to do something. She would gain her mother’s love back, and show her sisters she wasn’t “clingy”. She could change. Or, at the very least, try to.

That was probably where the downward spiral started.

She started off small. Putting no more into her work than necessary, and slowly lessening the time she spent around her mother and sisters. At first they had seemed a little impressed with her new found ability to say “no” to them, even if it was eating away at her internally. But her sisters were happy with her, and even their mother seemed content with her new attitude. That was all she wanted. But it was keeping her up at night.

When she sat alone in her room, the wind howling outside her window, it felt like torture. Her mind raced, some parts telling her how useless she was becoming, and others reminding her this was for the best. It was nothing but a constant whirlwind of conflicting ideals that rang in her ears no matter how hard she tried to make them stop. She’d even started losing her appetite, the stress of it all twisting her stomach into a terrible knot that refused to keep food anymore. She did eat in front of her family when they were gathered at the dinner table, if just to act like everything was fine, but she always purged it afterwards as if her body was rejecting it. Every part of her body was blistered, and ashen, and terribly raw from freezing showers, even the usually soft fabric of her dress was beginning to feel like sandpaper. Headaches came often, and felt like they lasted for days, and in private she would writhe and cry on her bed from the bouts of pain that were plaguing her being. It was becoming unbearable. But her sisters were happy, and her mother was happy. And that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

Or, they had seemed happy up until Bela started back talking to her mother.

She didn’t know if it was the constant pain, the hunger, or the fact she always felt on edge, but her mother’s voice was starting to grate on her ears. It had gone from simply saying “No” to certain requests, to sarcastic comments she’d picked up from Cassandra, to down right snapping back at her mother for making comments to her. And it was killing her more than any of the pain she put on herself. The way her mother looked at her. The sadness that turned to concern. It twisted her heart with guilt. But this is what they wanted right? No more clinging to mommy? Bela wanted nothing more than to apologize and hug her mother, but she kept holding herself back. You don’t want to be overbearing. Mother wouldn’t like that. Walk away. Walk away. There didn’t seem to be any way for her to win this internal battle with herself.

And then they had a fight.

She couldn’t remember what had started it. If her mother had simply asked her something, or if she’d made another comment on her recent behaviour, or if she had just looked at her the wrong way. All she knew was that she’d stood from her seat and sparked the argument. She told her mother to stop trying to pry into her life. That she didn’t want her help. That she just wanted to be left alone. That they were all stressing her out. That she hated her sisters. That she hated her.

Bela said she hated her mother. To her face.

Her sisters froze, having come to see what the yelling was about, and the look on their mother’s face made Bela want to dissolve into the floor.

“I-I didn’t-” She jumped when her mother interrupted her.

“That is enough!” She snapped, and Bela’s entire body went rigid. “Young lady, I don’t know what has gotten into you these past weeks, but the way you have been acting is completely unacceptable! I have had enough of your attitude, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner by my own child!” She raised her hand to make a gesture, and Bela thought she was going to be struck. And you would deserve it, wouldn’t you? “I would expect this from Cassandra, maybe even Daniela, but not you!” She crossed her arms. “I’m very disappointed in you, Bela!”

The words cut into her so much worse than she thought they would. Bela had prepared herself for this, knowing her mother wouldn’t put up with her act forever, but to have it actually happen made it feel like her guts were getting ripped out. To be called a disappointment, it took the air from her lungs and strangled her with it. She couldn’t breathe properly, her heart was pounding in her ears. She hates you. Doesn’t want you here. She hates you! HATES YOU! HATE HATE HATE! Bela’s vision started to blur with tears, and, at a loss for what to do, she did the only thing she could think of.

She ran.

"BELA!"

Her mother called for her to come back, but she only ran faster. Through the castle halls, down the stairs, past a group of surprised and frightened maidens, and finally out of the castle’s main entrance and into the cool night air. It burned her skin, but she just kept going, out past the Duke’s cart and into the Vineyard, until her foot caught on loose rock and she fell face first into the hard ground. After that she couldn’t push herself up. Too sore, too tired, too hungry, too cold. So she did the only thing left she could do. She cried.

She cried, and screamed, and pulled at her hair. She curled in on herself, claws sunk into her scalp as if she were trying to rip out her brain. Her mother hated her. Her sisters probably hated her, too. She hated herself. Everything hurt. She just wanted it to stop.

She wanted her mother.

“MAMAA!” The wail tore from her throat before she had a chance to stop it. She certainly had the audacity, didn’t she? Mother wouldn’t rescue her. Not after that horrid display. “Mama….” It felt like her skull was splitting open. She didn’t deserve to see mother. To be held in her arms and cradled. Not after the way she’d acted. “I’m s-sorry….” It was far too late for apologies wasn’t it? Bela choked on her tears as her vision blurred and distorted. She felt terribly light headed. “M-M-Mommy, please… Please help me….”

#bela gets angst and only angst from me for this one #i struggled with a feel good ending so i just didn't give it one T~T #i'm sorry #asks #deepestfathomss #alcina dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #drabbles

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hobiiwan · 3 years

Text

mirror • cpt. rex

pairing: captain rex x gn!reader

warnings: post-order 66 angst, hurt-comfort but i thrive in the hurt

w/c: 1.6k

notes: i'm back with lots and lots of feelings bc i've been ghosted and it's 5 am so i should probably sleep but i hope you enjoy :D

lovely gif credit to @pieklalat!

Framed by distant moons and even further stars, the night sky never seemed more vast. If you closed your eyes, it didn’t take much to picture a Republic Star Destroyer slicing through the atmosphere of the moon whose gravity became inescapable, with you in it.

Glancing over your shoulder at where Rex had made camp for the evening, you could tell he was thinking it too. Though his eyes were closed, it was clear as watching a holofilm; reliving the searing heat of plasma bolts, shot from the blasters of his brothers, the ones he had served beside for years—the same ones he had buried just hours prior.

It felt as though there was a vice wrapped in a deadlock around your heart, constricting your chest until it threatened to collapse in on itself. You exhale sharply, willing yourself to push past the hollow ache of the now-dulled Force connection, the flashing faces of the clones and Jedi who had perished under the Order—the fear they had felt in their final moments. It was now your fear that you would never escape it.

The price of surviving the command settles atop your shoulders, making a home. A bitter, weighted reminder that you are here, alive, when you shouldn’t be—when you aren’t supposed to be.

You collapse onto the ground next to Rex, which pulls him back to the present. His eyelids flutter as he blinks slowly, once at you, then back up to the stretching expanse of the inky black overhead. He lets out a sigh, leaning up on his shoulders to cast a weary glance at his surroundings. “How long was I out?” He questions.

You reply with a thoughtful hum, “Not long. You need the rest, anyway.” It’s true. The day’s events have undoubtedly taken its toll on the both of you. But how does one go about resting after being hunted to the death?

“I’ll take first watch. Get some sleep, cyare.” He says, now sitting upright and then you know there’s no point in fighting it. You both need rest, but with the way Rex’s frame is pulled tense as a bow, his hand twitching ever-so-slightly towards his blaster, you know there’s no way he’d rest easy.

So, you offer him a victory, albeit a minute one. You pull his unarmed hand into yours and close your eyes, feeling the way he lets out a shaky breath, releasing some tension along with it. A victory—you’re still here with him.

Neither of you can be certain how long you stay that way. The low croon emitting from the transceiver is the only sign that time actually passes. Neither of you complain about the noise, either. It didn’t need to be said that the silence—this silence, was much too loud.

You do try to sleep, Rex gives you credit for that. Though, after turning for the fifth time (he counts) you give up and sit up beside him. He’s got his knees pressed to his chest, one hand curled tight around his blaster. In his other, his thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand. The answer to whether it soothes you or himself doesn’t matter.

Wordlessly, your head lowers to his shoulder, propped gently against the curve of muscle.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a singer?” You murmur, glancing at the transceiver. You don’t recognise the singer on broadcast, though you do take note of the melody, slow and mellow.

Rex watches as you even try to hum along, as offbeat as you are.

“No,” he huffs something short of a chuckle, “you didn’t.”

He knows what you’re trying to do, sees it clear as day. Yet, as he watches your feet tap to the tempo of the ballad, he can’t stop himself from humouring your attempt to comfort him.

You nod eagerly, eyes widening as if to express your candor. “I was about to be one, too! Then the Jedi came and…”

Rex waits as you trail off, then clocks the far-off look in your eyes. He picks up where you left off. “Would you sing for me now?”

You return in a split second, your lips pulling into a bashful smile as you avoid his eyes. “I’m definitely rusty by now, I don’t want you losing your hearing because of me.”

The Captain nudges you teasingly, grinning when you break into soft laughter. “It would be an honour, though,” he quips.

He wonders how much of you has been hidden behind the mantle of a Jedi’s title. Who would you have been had you not been brought into the Order, raised from young to be one thing, and one thing only? Who would he be?

Once again, Rex is dragged out of his thoughts. This time, you’re tugging him to his feet. It takes an effort and a half, which you currently lack in your fatigued state.

As he looks up at you questioningly, you motion to the transceiver, dropping his hand to raise the volume. It’s enough to provide a comfortable backdrop instead of a desperate attempt to quell silence.

“Dance with me,” you propose softly, “please?”

“I don’t know how to, mesh’la.”

As if pointedly ignoring his feeble protest, your hand remains outstretched, beckoning his participation.

Maker, he’s only ever seen couples dancing on holofilms and is even more certain he has two left feet. But gazing up at your expectant self is like looking at a promise of escaping the sorrow he now knows as reality.

Really, it’s all up to him.

Rex swears he feels three times lighter from the way you beam in delight when he fits his palm into your smaller ones and helps you lift him to full height.

He stands awkwardly, clueless as to where his hands should go, how he should move. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

Below him, you soften at the uncertainty tainting his features. Taking mercy on the poor man, you lift a hand to cup his cheek, garnering his attention.

“Put your hands on my waist,” you murmur, eyes twinkling when Rex’s hands fly up to root himself to you. Your own arms loop behind his neck and he takes it as a sign to pull you into his chest, no stranger to the position.

“and now we sway.”

Such a simple command, yet Rex feels like a fish out of water. His limbs are stiff, like the serenity of the movement is a stranger. To an extent, it is.

When you take over, moving him to the beat instead, he gratefully surrenders, allowing himself a moment of tranquility.

The only sounds that reach him become the silky notes of the singer and your soft, steady breaths. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend to be in a distant galaxy, where he is not a clone and you are not a Jedi, where the war is nothing more than a brash concept and his brothers are alive and well.

Rex doesn’t realise he’s crying until your thumb smooths away a tear rolling down his face. His eyes stay closed as he wills himself to keep pretending, but he can’t.

He is still a clone but you are no longer a Jedi. His brothers are gone.

You hold him when he finally breaks, cradling his head close when his shoulders tremble with the force of his sobs. His tears soak into the collar of your singed robes, but you truly can’t find the will to care—not when the man you love is falling apart, barely held together by the threads of your embrace.

“It wasn’t them,” he chokes, shaking his head, a wretched attempt to convince himself, “—it couldn’t be.”

At that, you’re positive your heart shatters. Stars, he doesn’t deserve this. You wish with all your might to take the pain away, to rewind every clock in the galaxy and then the next, but all you can do is watch.

“It wasn’t,” you nod, lowering your forehead to press against his, “not the real them. You know they loved you.” And by the Maker, you know.

Rex’s hands clutch tightly at your robes, as if letting go of that would mean letting go of you. The last tether to what is now his past, his only constant.

What if you hadn’t made it off the ship? What if Ahsoka hadn’t gotten the chip out of him in time? What if he had hurt you?

He briefly registers your voice calling his name, cutting through the despondent scenarios that could have, by any deciding factor, become his present.

“Rex, my love,” you plead, “please look at me.”

When he raises his eyes, he finds that yours are a mirror of his own. The anguish that parallels his agony. He feels you, your presence. He’s never understood much about the Force, but he thinks this is pretty damn close.

“I’m here,” you whisper. The promise of those two words anchor you both. “‘M not going anywhere.”

You mean it. If you believed it before, there was no chance in any star in the galaxy that anyone would be able to tear you away from him now.

For the current moment, you weren’t sure if there was a place to go, even if you wanted. Less than twenty four hours ago, you had been anticipating the end of the Clone Wars. Now, it feels like you’ve been thrown onto the losing side.

“What do we do now?” Rex asks, but you both know there isn’t an answer. There’s no precedent to go off of.

Two of the finest leaders in the GAR and the Jedi Order are lost, with no one left to follow them.

There’s nothing to do but move on.

“We keep living,” you say with a heavy sigh, burying your face into the crook of Rex’s neck, “we live for them. We’ll find a way.”

You always do.

#yoinks sorry i’ve been gone for so long lads #pls take this fic as an offering #rex x reader #captain rex x reader #star wars #the clone wars #the clone wars x reader #the clone wars imagine #captain rex imagine #captain rex oneshot #501st x reader

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cqlfeels · 3 years

Text

@lansplaining encouraged me to finish this random meta nobody asked for, so let's talk about Meng Yao, Meng Shi, and 孟母三遷 (mèng mǔ sān qiān), a proverb about good parenting.

A warning: this is super long (even for me!) and is less quality meta and more my ADHD brain jumping around a maze of loosely related ideas. Proceed with caution!

Let me start by briefly going through why I decided to write this, because it’s important. In haunting Meng Shi’s tag in my starvation for Meng Shi content, I’ve multiple times come across the idea that Meng Shi pushed Meng Yao too hard, that she should’ve been more careful with teaching him to seek his father’s approval at any cost, and that she was too naïve. I’ve never reblogged this kind of post because 1) I personally think it’s rude to go out of your way to ramble about how much you disagree with someone on their own post and 2) if this was an isolated incident I wouldn't care either way, so I didn’t want to direct this rant at anyone in particular. It’s more to do with a tendency, primarily (as far as I can tell) from fans who haven’t had much contact with Chinese culture, to oversimplify Meng Shi and make her relationship with Meng Yao slightly disturbing, and I think part of it is due to CQL basically cutting out her entire storyline (so fans simply don’t have info about her to assess her fairly) and part is due to misunderstanding what a good parent is supposed to act like in the context of Ancient China.

[Of course, Ancient China is not a very useful historical concept, not any more than “ye olde Europe” - things change a lot based on time and place - but you know. It’s fantasy. Extremely broad trends are okay in this case.]

Anyway, the idea behind the posts I mentioned is, basically, that Meng Shi (usually through no fault of her own) is to blame for Meng Yao’s obsession with power, since his desire for approval was inherited from lessons she taught him. Just to start with, I’d argue that Meng Yao isn’t power-hungry as much as he craves security and respect, but that’s a different meta. Let’s assume that she really did teach him to be Like That. Was she wrong to do so? I’m not looking for “does that make for a happy, well-adjusted childhood?” or “would you raise your own son as Meng Shi did?” - I’m trying to figure out, would she have been considered a bad mother in the context of the society she lived in? I don’t think she would’ve.

It is surprisingly hard to find texts about the obligations of parents in Ancient China. Their main obligation is to raise filial children, but I feel like that’s not very useful: whether or not parents are good parents, children are expected to be filial, so a child being filial really says more about the child than about the parent. Maybe the parent completely missed the mark and society at large was what taught the child to be filial!

We can assume, of course, that parents were to raise good people, and that by learning what a good person looked like, we could figure out whether the parent was successful, but once again, I feel like that’s pinning things on the outcome, not on the process - the best of parents can end up with an awful kid and vice versa.

While thinking about all this, it took me a frankly embarrassing amount of time to remember the story of Mother Meng and Meng Zi, but once I did, it wouldn’t leave my mind - in part because the Meng here is the exact same Meng of Meng Shi and Meng Yao (yay! fun if useless parallel!), and in part because this is a story about how a woman can successfully raise a son by herself.

Okay, so important note: one of the most influential ancient Chinese thinkers is Meng Zi (孟子 Mèng Zǐ), who is known in the West as Mencius. If you've never heard of him - he's perhaps second in importance only to Confucius. When Mencius was still a young child, his father died, so he was raised by his mother, who is usually known only as Mother Meng (in Chinese, 孟母 Mèng Mǔ.)

Mother Meng's story is told in Biographies of Exemplary Women (列女傳 Liènǚ Zhuàn), which for around 2000 years beginning around the 18th century BCE, was the most commonly used book used to educate women. The book is divided into sections, each one showing a different way women could be honorable and good. Mother Meng's story is told in the Maternal Models section (母儀傳 Mǔ Yí Zhuàn.) The story has a few parts, some of which I'll quote, always from Kinney's 2014 translation.

Before I go on to quote it, though, I'd like to establish that Mother Meng's story is so, so famous that even if Meng Shi had never read this particular book, I'm almost certain she would've been familiar with at least the outlines of Mother Meng's story. I'm not cherry picking a suitable chapter from the book, I'm literally going with the most famous story in it because Meng Shi would be most likely to know this one if she knew no other story.

Okay, the first part of the tale takes place when Mencius is a young boy and Mother Meng is a widow raising him.

The mother of Meng Ke of Zou [a different name for Mencius] was called Mother Meng. She lived near a graveyard. During Mencius’ youth, he enjoyed playing among the tombs, romping about pretending to prepare the ground for burials. Mother Meng said, “This is not the place to raise my son.” She therefore moved away and settled beside the marketplace. But there he liked to play at displaying and selling wares like a merchant. Again Mother Meng said, “This is not the place to raise my son,” and once more left and settled beside a school. There, however, he played at setting out sacrificial vessels, bowing, yielding, entering, and withdrawing. His mother said, “This, indeed, is where I can raise my son!” and settled there. When Mencius grew up, he studied the Six Arts, and finally became known as a great classicist. A man of discernment would say, “Mother Meng was good at gradual transformation.”

According to the translator's footnote, "gradual transformation" is "a childrearing technique, whereby a child is morally formed through daily exposure to correct models of behavior."

From this story comes the proverb 孟母三遷 (Mèng Mǔ sān qiān) - "Mother Meng moved three times." It's come to mean that a parent - especially the mother of a male child - should spare no efforts to provide an environment that will give their child a good education, paying particular attention to what models are surrounding them.

I'm sure I don't need to say if Meng Shi was at all familiar with this proverb (and she would probably be), she must have been very stressed out over literally raising her son in a brothel. (Here I must mention sex workers in ancient China were often essentially owned by the brothels, so literally "moving three times" wasn't really an option for Meng Shi even if she could miraculously pick up another trade.) Meng Shi did however at least try to surround Meng Yao with the accomplishments appropriate for the son of a cultivator:

Xiao-Meng, are you still learning those things lately? [...] The things your mom wants you to learn, things like calligraphy, etiquette, swordsmanship, meditation… How are those things going? [...] His mom’s raising him as a young master of a wealthy family. She taught him how to read and write, bought him all those swordsmanship pamphlets, and even wants to send him to school.

Meng Yao actually talks a little bit about “those swordsmanship pamphlets” in the only time in canon he directly shares memories about this mother:

Lan XiChen, “Your [guqin] skills are also considered quite fine outside of Gusu. Were they taught by your mother?”

Jin GuangYao, “No. I taught myself by watching others. She never taught me such things. She only taught me reading and writing, and bought a handful of expensive sword and cultivation guides for me to practice.”

Lan XiChen seemed surprised, “Sword and cultivation guides?”

Jin GuangYao, “Brother, you haven’t seen them before, have you? Those small booklets sold by the common folk. First jumbled sketches of human figures, then deliberately mystified captions.”

Lan XiChen shook his head, smiling. Jin GuangYao shook his head as well, “All of them are scams, especially to fool women like my mother and ignorant children. You won’t lose anything by practicing them, but you definitely won’t gain anything either.”

He sighed in a rueful way, “But how could my mother have known this? She bought them no matter how expensive they were, saying that if I returned to see my father in the future, I had to see him with as much competence as possible so that I don’t fall behind. All of the money was spent on this.”

See what’s happening? Meng Shi cannot physically take Meng Yao to cultivators, but she spares no efforts in giving him the closest thing she possibly can -- figuratively, we might say she moved three times.

Of course, these booklets don’t work, but as Meng Yao says, how could she have known this? The cultivation world is very closed off - think of how the entire Mo household gathers to see Lan juniors, and how Wei Wuxian mentions once that “Cultivation families, in the eyes of common folk, are like people favored by God, mysterious yet noble.” Not just noble, but mysterious. That tracks, too - I mean, they live in inaccessible households and mostly leave to night hunt or visit each other, neither of which is an activity that would allow commoners to get much more than an occasional glimpse of them.

Now, if Meng Shi doesn’t even know that a pearl for Jin Guangshan was just a trinket, if she doesn’t know even the wealth of a major sect, how can she read booklets and decide whether that’s genuine cultivation or not? All that she sees is a chance for Meng Yao to be surrounded by the ideas and skills of the people she wants him to emulate - cultivators - and therefore she does everything she can to get him that chance. Mother Meng moved three times.

Okay, but maybe the argument is not “Meng Shi shouldn’t have pushed Meng Yao to cultivation” but rather “she should’ve pushed him, just not too hard." To that, I present another tale from Mencius' childhood:

Once, when Mencius was young, he returned home after finishing his lessons and found his mother spinning. She asked him, “How far did you get in your studies today?” Mencius replied, “I’m in about the same place as I was before.” Mother Meng thereupon took up a knife and cut her weaving. Mencius was alarmed and asked her to explain. Mother Meng said, “Your abandoning your study is like my cutting this weaving. A man of discernment studies in order to establish a name and inquires to become broadly knowledgeable. By this means, when he is at rest, he can maintain tranquility and when he is active, he can keep trouble at a distance. If now you abandon your studies, you will not escape a life of menial servitude and will lack the means to keep yourself from misfortune. How is this different from weaving and spinning to eat? If one abandons these tasks midway, how can one clothe one’s husband and child and avoid being perpetually short of food? If a woman abandons that with which she nourishes others and a man is careless about cultivating his virtue, if they don’t become brigands or thieves, then they will end up as slaves or servants.” Mencius was afraid. Morning and evening he studied hard without ceasing. He served Zisi [a great scholar whose grandfather was Confucius] as his teacher and then became one of the most renowned classicists in the world.

Notice that Mother Meng moved three times to ensure Mencius would have the highest of aspirations - to become a scholar. But just aspiration isn’t enough. Not by any means. Now that Mencius is actually studying, Mother Meng is willing to take an extreme action to ensure he's taking it seriously. Mencius doesn't have a father to smooth his path to success. He has to learn that aspiring to greatness isn't enough. He'll have to put in the effort as if his life depended on it. And if he doesn't persist in his hard work, everything he's done thus far will be useless. Sounds like a lesson imparted on young Meng Yao, doesn’t it?

A lot of fandom rage towards Meng Shi would apply to China's Best Mom Contender, Mother Meng. She gives her son big dreams, and teaches him how to go about achieving them in a society where failing is easier than succeeding. Yes, it's fair to say that Meng Shi taught Meng Yao to refuse to settle for anything less than being “Jin Guangshan's son, a respected cultivator.” Yes, it's also fair to say that she probably didn't allow him much time to play like children his age did. But unfortunately, in the world of MDZS, poor children probably wouldn't get to play anyhow, the difference is that they'd usually be working, not studying. Studying is a privilege! It’s a privilege Meng Yao could not afford but was given to him anyway, through his mother’s many sacrifices. We can even say that while she was alive, Meng Shi was trying to ensure Meng Yao would one day have a better life, at the expense of a fun childhood - and that's very Mother Meng of her, whatever our modern Western sensibilities might have to say about that.

Finally, I’d skip other tales (which show Mother Meng and an adult Mencius) and go straight to the poem that ends the Mother Meng section:

The mother of Mencius

Was able to teach, transform, judge, and discriminate.

With skill she selected a place to raise her son,

Prompting him to accord with the great principles.

When her son’s studies did not advance,

She cut her weaving to illustrate her point.

Her son then perfected his virtue;

His achievements rank as the crowning glory of his generation.

I’d like to focus on the last verse - “His achievements rank as the crowning glory of his generation.” All that Mother Meng wanted was for Mencius to not completely ruin his life, but he became great. You can so very easily see a parallel with how Meng Shi hoped Meng Yao would be a cultivator but he became Jin Guangyao, Chief Cultivator, styled Lianfang-zun, one of the Three Venerable, hero of the Sunshot Campaign.

Of course you can say “Jin Guangyao did many Very Wrong Things to get there, though!” Which, sure, okay, fair point. How many and how wrong depends on which canon we're discussing, and your own interpretation, but there’s no version of the story in which Jin Guangyao is 100% an innocent child uwu. But blaming that on Meng Shi is just... straight up weird? I don’t see anyone going “If Jiang Fengmian hadn’t adopted Wei Wuxian, he’d never have dared become Yiling Laozu!” and that’s pretty much the same logic. Would street kid Wei Wuxian have invented a new type of cultivation if he had never been taken in by the Jiang? Probably not, but raising undead armies is very much not something Jiang Fengmian could’ve predicted. In the same way, how could Meng Shi have predicted that teaching her pre-adolescent son “You are the son of a cultivator, act like one and earn your place in society” would’ve ultimately resulted in innocent deaths? How could she predict “You’re not destined to having the same horrible life I did, you can get something better than this” was a bad thing to teach? I quite honestly don’t know.

Finally, I'd like to point towards a much flimsier evidence that Meng Shi did great as a parent. And that is Meng Yao’s love. Nie Huaisang at some point comments Meng Shi is someone who Meng Yao "cherishes more than his life," and I think his assessment is correct.

Even putting aside the fact he built a whole temple to get his mother to reincarnate into a better life, and even putting aside how he refuses to flee the country without her remains, there's still crystal clear evidence that Meng Shi must've done something right. Because a lifetime of people using his mother to bully him doesn't seem to have made Meng Yao resent her. Had their relationship not have been very strong, odds are he'd feel bitter and/or ashamed of her. That doesn't seem to be the case. He's attached to her even decades after her death.

I want to be very careful with equating mutual affection with good parenting, though. When I was a rather rebellious teenager, my mother (in typical Chinese fashion) used to say that parents and children don't have to love each other as long as they're dutiful to each other, by which she meant that a parent-child relationship isn't informed by warm and fuzzy feelings, but by whether you'd be willing to do anything for each other. Specific to my case, she meant "I don't care if it makes you hate me, you will do as you're told because that's what's best for you." (That may also be the reason why people more familiar with Chinese culture see the Jiang family less as outright abusive and more as #complicated, but that's another meta.)

Whether your kid wants to hug you every time they see you is of no consequence to traditional Chinese thought - raising them to be the best they can is all that matters, because at the end of the day, you won't be around forever, but you can definitely set up your kid's life so that it goes smoothly and virtuously. How that's accomplished varies depending on many factors, but to have the goal be "I want my child to love me" rather than "I want to raise my child right" would've been considered selfish as hell.

So even if all that Meng Shi had given Meng Yao had been stern lessons about the need to go get his birthright, she would've still have been considered a good mother!! In fact, she would've been doing everything she was supposed to do, under extremely difficult conditions! (Remember the importance of environment? That Meng Yao grew up to want to be a cultivator despite having probably never even met one speaks wonders about Meng Shi's childrearing powers!!)

But just based off how over the top Meng Yao's filal dutifulness is, I'd go a step further and say that even as she did the impossible, she was also loving enough to inspire genuine affection. This is complicated because children who have present fathers could expect their mothers to be tender with them. The first century BCE text 禮記 Lǐ Jì or The Classic of Rites says that:

Here now is the affection of a father for his sons - he loves the worthy among them, and places on a lower level those who do not show ability; but that of a mother for them is such, that while she loves the worthy, she pities those who do not show ability - the mother deals with them on the ground of affection and not of showing them honour; the father, on the ground of showing them honour and not of affection.

But when the father figure is lacking for any reason, the mother must abandon her tenderness because someone must guide the child, and without a father, the role falls to the mother. A single or widowed mother had to be very careful to not smother their children with affection and raise useless, spoiled kids, or so it was thought. (The presence of Qingheng-jun and Lan Qiren is why Madame Lan can be so affectionate with the Lan boys, by the way - if she was raising them by herself she would've been expected to be much more practical. AUs where she just gets her kids and runs away could do very cool things with this idea. But I digress!)

Where was I? Oh, okay. Because Meng Yao seems to not just respect, but actively miss her, it seems that Meng Shi somehow managed to deal with her son on the ground of both honor and affection, to paraphrase.

So basically, all things considered, it seems not only would Meng Shi have been considered a great mom (if people could look past her being a prostitute, anyway) but she also went above and beyond the bare minimum. She truly spared no efforts on any front to make sure her son had everything your average gongzi would have - someone to teach him and someone to love him, access to education and confidence in his birthright. That she couldn't actually make him a cultivator, that she couldn't actually raise him in a proper home with no one being cruel to herself or him - that's immaterial. Even Mother Meng couldn't control what her neighbors did, only what she taught her son! The key point is Meng Shi tried. She did everything she could to educate her son right. You couldn't ask more of her, and quite honestly, you should probably be asking less.

Of course we can't err on the other extreme and say she was Perfect. Given MXTX only ever writes flawed characters, we can safely assume that if we'd known more about Meng Shi, we would've seen many flaws. Indeed, just the fact she didn't teach Meng Yao the guqin when he apparently wanted to learn it might point to some conflict we don't know enough to speculate about (maybe she focused too much on cultivation when Meng Yao's interests lay elsewhere? Maybe she wasn't able to sufficiently shelter him and he felt it'd be a burden to ask her to teach him anything? Maybe maybe maybe, go wild with your fics.) Nevertheless, I would never hold a female character to a higher ideal than a male character - if the male cast of MDZS can be a hot mess and still be admirable for what they're trying to do, then so can Meng Shi.

At the end of the day, when I look at Meng Shi - and I've made myself a document with all the references to her in the novel canon so I could easily contemplate her life and character - all I see is a woman every bit as determined and resourceful as her son, willing to do everything it took to raise her little boy into the sophisticated and ambitious man he became.

Finally, here's a fun little parallel that I'm 100% sure was unintentional but I still love. I said Meng Shi couldn't have moved three times. She couldn't, but I think maybe she taught her son he was worth moving three times for. Qinghe Nie. Qishan Wen. Lanling Jin. Isn't that super fun to think about?

Alternatively, tl;dr: Oh My God I Can't Believe We're Blaming Women For The Actions Of Their Adult Children In The Year Of Our Lord 2k21, Meng Shi Was Doing Her Best, Chill!

#drinking game #take a shot every time i say 'finally'#this post refused to let me get to the end of it lol #i think because i'm extremely salty about fanon stage mom meng shi #(to not say tiger mom meng shi which crosses into outright racism. but i'm giving people the benefit of the doubt)

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