#its pretty irrefutable

[burrythebusy]

Hello hrkg nation...

So, I was on the htk tag (as one is) and someone posted this screenshot from the novel when Kagiura is saying the room feels a lot emptier without Hirano and... shout out to OP because that literally changed my brain chemistry. Idk why but it literally clicked a switch in my head despite me reading the novel before and that specific part numerous times.

Not to overanalyze but this brings up a greater point in my years of being obsessed with HtK that reminds me that these two already destroyed one of the obligatory boundaries of being in a senpai/kouhai arrangement, moreso hirano though, by foregoing the expectation of "im supposed to help my kouhai become acclimated and fostering a friendly environment between us so that you can rely on me when needed (while also maintaining a respectable distance between he and I so that he can grow independently and do the same thing to a kouhai next year)" by becoming addicted to the feeling of spoiling him and being spoiled in return with honesty, genuine gratitude and happiness.

And what makes me bring this up is, its not unusual to become close to someone in a semester or to even begin to really like someone in that time. What always gets me though is that the level of sincerity never wavered. The feelings were never surface level. They have a deep and crucial understanding of each other that I wouldn't hesitate to call love. This doesn't apply to just Kagiura though, but Hirano. Now I might be reaching HEAVY and im not sure exactly what I might be saying with this, and this is gonna be a hashtag Flaming Hot Take bc some people dont see it this way and that is A-Okay 0 hard feelings. But im so convinced (and almost always have been) that Hirano has been in love with Kagiura for just as long as Kagiura has veen in love with him. Let me preface that it is no more meaningful if this is the case but this is just something I've been sitting on for literal years and I fear it only took me this sentence to decide to believe it wholeheartedly.

(Screenshot from my e-novel)

Kagiura saying the dorm feels empty without Hirano (affectionate), and this being Hirano's (equally affectionate) reaction.

So, I've actually noticed this pattern with Hirano: when affection is expressed between him and Kagiura, his verbal reaction is something along the lines of "tiredness". As in, Hirano will give or receive affection to/from Kagiura and tiredness is deemed the reason. Now, i dont recall this ever being done with his friends so thats why im extrapolating this phenomenon to hirakagi only (if im wrong lmk). Anyway, here are the examples, other than the one listed. And there are actually more than i thought

Exhibit A: Volume 6 Extra

I think this is the first one we see at all, and its comedic and hes being kind of aggressive about it PLUS we wouldn't think much of it at all because Kagiura literally did NOT sleep since Hirano accidentally slept in his bed. But just note that Kagiura is basically getting a kick out of seeing Hirano embarrassed (which to me. Is affection because. This is Hirano and Kagiura) and Hirano is just like "get your ass to bed." This example is probably less of one than the next ones but 100% worth talking about since this is post Kagiura confession (not sure where in the timeline though) and it still follows the theme of affection/tiredness, as Hirano is recognizing it and deeming tiredness to be the factor making him say what hes saying. Just like in the screenshot.

Exhibit B: Volume 9 Extra (1)

(Definitely in a relationship here LOLLL) And for some reason Kagiura decides that Hirano is acting spacey, and Hirano AGREES. Like, to be fair, Hirano was acting pretty gay this whole extra but its interesting to me that Kagiura is all abashed by Hirano being all suave and congratulating him and his first reaction is, "So... you really ARE tired" (re: Hirano using him as a pick-me-up in the first place). Why. Is it because Hirano is being affectionate? I MEAN, YEAH kagiura clearly took it as such hence the blushing and acting all embarrassed and then proceeding to be like "you must be tired. Anyway youre not being confessed to are you."

What stumps me more is how Hirano agrees with him. We know Hirano will get defensive at stuff Kagiura says (throwback to "them's fightin' words, asshole") and idk the exact wording in japanese but the idea that Hirano just casually agrees to kagiura ascribing his behavior to being spacey and he has nothing to say to it... interesting.

Exhibit C: Volume 9 Extra (2)

Mere moments later on the train when Hirano says "you can be stinky with me bae 😍", Kagiura is embarrassed by this clear sign of affection and what does Hirano say? "Man, am I tired" Okay we GET it. Again hes making a point to emphasize his tiredness and for what? To excuse that hes saying crazy shit? Mkay

Exhibit D: Whatever the hell this is

This... this whole page. Man i don't even know where to begin. Hirano is straight up unabashedly giving Kagiura googoo eyes. I had a violent reaction to seeing this extra. The point here is that Kagiura looked at him, got caught off guard by this absolutely unmistakable "im gonna take a bite out of you in the next ten seconds" look and his question is "are you sleepy". And its like. Okay sure hirano looks a little drunk (in love) yes but. He also looks wide awake. But he does say "a little".

Okay hold on I have to add that I'm genuinely tweaking out over this extra like YES I've seen it before but after volume five and just. Everything i am genuinely aghast at how obvious this is. Like oh my god. Hes practically drooling. Im loosing the plot so bad. What i would do to have this voice acted. Yoshitsugu Matsuoka you absolute legend i KNOW you'd cook for this

Anyway so yeah. I also noticed with two of these examples that its Kagiura mentioning the tiredness and its Hirano agreeing, and with one its Hirano saying it himself, and with two its Hirano saying it to Kagiura. Idk if what im saying makes sense but here's kinda what im getting at (again this extra genuinely made me lose my train of thought happy pride i guess damn): for Hirano, maybe its some sort of code, or something hes experienced from someone else, or maybe its just embarrassment covered up that has become an inside joke, im genuinely not sure, but Hirano will disguse affection as him being tired, or Kagiura's affection as him being tired, and Kagiura recognizes this too.

Why this stuck out to me with the novel is that, so early on, so soon in their relationship with each other, Hirano is already recognizing this affection hes receiving from his roommate, one that is in the general sense no different than his usual honesty and sincerity when it comes to Hirano, and Kagiura himself at this point hasnt quite come to terms with being in love with Hirano at all, just that he HAS deep affection for him. And yet Hirano picks up this DISTINCT affection in a way we've so far only ever seen referenced post-confession AND when theyre in a relationship, that makes him say, "You must be tired".

In other words, we see Hirano, far before Kagiura admits his own feelings or even realizes the extent of them and far before Hirano can even consider his own feelings LOVE, use a phrase that we've only so far seen used in contexts in which the two are being obviously romantic in their affection (the only POSSIBLE exception being Exhibit A but the whole reason that whole thing happened the way it did was because of the romantic context to this otherwise embarrassing but negligible occurrence) and he doesnt even REALIZE it. Even if Kagiura was actually sleepy (and he was), and even if hes just being a little shy, the idea that Hirano's first thought was "dodge" and that dodging is something we see come up in such a specific, familiar way in such specific circumstances following what we would brush off as insignificant in the scheme of things just has me tapping my chin and then going EUREKA! Because Hirano loves him and has and its that simple. Hirano has always associated whatever feeling he had at that moment from receiving a particular flavor of affection with tiredness, with sleepiness, with someone saying those things because theyre not all there right now, they wouldnt USUALLY do that because if they did, it wouldnt make me feel this way, so here is a reasonable explanation. That same principle is then applied to himself; if im saying things that make me feel this way, that are a reflection of how i feel, in such a way that i would never actually do but here it is, just slipping out of me, I must be tired, I must not be all there, otherwise this wouldn't happen, I wouldnt say it.

Hirano loves him, and even if it’s not as AGGRESSIVELY as current Hirano, I think this was at LEAST the beginning of it. Hirano already killed the boundaries of their relationship in order to achieve a comfortable dorm life for both of them, and by doing so he created this situation between the two of them in which there is a very unique sense of closeness and understanding, and bond brought about because they are who they are individually and then with each other. Kagiura is honest about how he feels and before now he wasnt necessarily hiding his affection for Hirano, not in a way that matters. And then he tells Hirano that "Without you, it felt lonely" (with you, things feel whole, and right. if i had to choose, i would rather be with you (i wanna be with you (more than anyone in the world))) and Hirano feels this affection in such a way that creates a pattern in his behavior that he repeats in the future when he knows too that Kagiura is the person he wants to be with more than anyone in the world, where he gets to have that spot beside him, right where he wants to be, right where Kagiura wants him to be, and he says it now. "You must be sleepy." (Because it must be you, Kagiura—so earnest and honest, so much more so when you're tired that you would say such embarrassing things that no one would ever say to me—and not me, who feels each syllable in my chest and remembers the feeling each moment I spend with you in a future I do not yet know I had been wanting).

Also ignore every typo i am so sleepy and im gonna reread this tomorrow and go "burry was onto nothing 🔥🔥" but for right now we will Pretend

[blasphemousclaw]

Are the omens and hornsent the same?

short answer: no

so to explain why the omen and the hornsent are different, we first have to understand what it means to be hornsent… the hornsent aren’t a species, they’re a civilization of humans defined by the horns that grow on their bodies:

“Hornsent view the Crucible as sacred for the refinement wrought through its evolutionary gifts. Most prominently, their tangled horns.”

“Horns are sublime artifacts to hornsent, and their presence confirms the belief that they are a chosen people. Only the repeated sprouting of fresh horns can create a tangled horn, which is viewed as an irrefutable symbol of primacy.”

“The Crucible has a particularly strong influence on the beasts of the realm of shadow, causing many to grow horns despite the characteristics of their species.”

the hornsent sprout horns because the Crucible has a strong presence in the land of shadow and causes horns to sprout on creatures who don’t normally have horns… the hornsent, who revere the Crucible and its “spiral current,” saw this as a blessing and as proof that they were “a chosen people,” so they cultivated this trait. in hornsent society, the larger and more tangled your horns are, the more awesome and cool and holy you are. this is why Jori, the leader of the theocratic hornsent inquisition, has the largest, most tangled horns of all:

however, hornsent can also be born with no horns at all. this means that they'd be seen as sad and cringe. you can find hornless hornsent bound in chains, which means they might have even been a sort of slave caste... which, given what their society is like, wouldn't surprise me if that were the case:

(source: Zullie the Witch)

the omen, on paper, are the same as the hornsent — humans who were influenced by the Crucible, which caused horns to grow on their bodies. but the reason why they aren’t actually the same is because simply having horns doesn't make you hornsent. again, the hornsent are not a species, and “hornsent” isn’t a generic term for people with horns… the hornsent are a culture, a culture which the omen were very much not born into! unlike the hornsent, the omen were born into a society that sees their horns as impurities:

"A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced."

traits associated with the Crucible, including horns, became less and less accepted under the Golden Order as time went on... basically, the omen were seen as impure and unclean, unfit for the Erdtree's grace and excluded from society.

but there's actually something else that makes the omen fundamentally different from the hornsent... they're referred to as having "accursed blood"?

"Warped blade of shifting hue used by Morgott, the Omen King. The accursed blood that Morgott recanted and sealed away reformed into this blade."

"The mother of truth craves wounds. When Mohg stood before her, deep underground, his accursed blood erupted with fire, and he was besotted with the defilement that he was born into."

"Trident of Mohg, Lord of Blood. A sacred spear that will come to symbolize his dynasty. As well as serving as a weapon, it is an instrument of communion with an outer god who bestows power upon accursed blood." 

it seems that there is something inherently different about omen blood that doesn't seem to be the case with the hornsent? omen can also innately produce a black-brown flame, which we never see any hornsent enemies do (pretty sure the inquisitors' fire is just normal fire from their candles). INTERESTINGLY, there's two items from the base game, the Omen Bairn and the Regal Omen Bairn, that produce these brown-flame wraiths... but a similar item from the DLC, the Horned Bairn, produces "vengeful spirits" that are pale and colorless!!

it's almost like the wraiths produced by the omen are "unclean" compared to the hornsent ones!

so I think this pretty definitively proves there's something more going on with the omen? but why is this the case?? Dung Eater's ending makes me think that the omen might be "cursed" simply because their existence is incompatible with the Order under the Erdtree...

"Curse grown on a corpse killed and defiled by the Dung Eater. A tender pox afflicted with omen horns. The Dung Eater cultivates the seedbed curse on corpses. By doing so he prevents dead souls returning to the Erdtree, leaving them forever cursed."

"Loathsome rune gestated by the Dung Eater. Used to restore the fractured Elden Ring when brandished by the Elden Lord. The reviled curse will last eternally, and the world's children, grandchildren, and every generation hence, will be its pustules. If Order is defiled entirely, defilement is defilement no more, and for every curse, a cursed blessing."

but there's also the theory that the omen curse was actually created by the dying hornsent as revenge upon their attackers... Hornsent Grandam says this when attacked:

"A curse upon thee, rotten miscreant. A curse upon the strumpet's progeny, upon Marika's children each and all. The curse of the omen shall strike thee down... In the form of the sacred beast's ire. May the curse strike thee… To the very last..."

she specifically calls it the "curse of the omen!" the one thing that makes me question this theory though is that she also says "in the form of the sacred beast's ire," and we know the divine beast's ire takes the form of storms... nothing like anything the omen do. an interesting theory nonetheless!

anyway TL;DR, the hornsent and the omen are different because 1. the hornsent are a culture (not a generic name for horned people), and the omen were specifically born under the Erdtree's Order, and 2. the omen are tangibly "cursed," but the hornsent are not

[contamination-zone]

Acquisition

beta read by @/calamarispider

[UTMV fic] Contains: Straydog AU, platonic Fresh & Nightmare, captivity, abuse, starvation, platonic master & pet dynamic, coercion [5,000~ words]

“You’d look so cute in it,” Nightmare said, wistfully, looking at the collar, “my adorable little pet, clearly and irrefutably Mine.” The growling didn’t stop, and it lashed its tail in clear anger. Little tremors shook it, and in times like these, its emotions were so jumbled up it was hard to differentiate them from its host. He liked to think the sweet taste of fear belonged all to it though.

Fic undercut or on ao3!

His newest acquisition growled, a low reverberating noise. The noise was wordless, courtesy of the muzzle attached to its face. Both leather and wire, it was hard to imagine its face underneath- still, it was clear it sealed their mouth firmly shut.

It would be a lot more intimidating if it didn’t look half starved and seconds away from collapsing. As it was, it was almost cute. The effect was only aided by the flashy pinks and teals its lettering had.

“Come now,” Nightmare hummed, “is that anyway to treat your saviour?”

No response, with the exception of more growling. Every second he could see a kaleidoscope of colors spread across the fabric of its clothings. Bright warning reds and pinks, nearly eye-searing cyans and blues. It matched nicely with the blood still drying on the creature's claws; Murder’s, who’d been tasked with trying to get the muzzle off.

Everything about it was colorful, vibrant- the exact opposite of its attitude.

“I went through all the trouble of having my boys get you out of that… place. The least you could do is behave.”

Nightmare gestured vaguely, with one of his tentacles. It lunged at the movement, the chain around its neck that they’d repurposed nearly choking it as it hissed and spat. It would definitely bruise.

None of them could get the restraints off it, and the effort would probably take more than they’d gain with it. And, as a bonus, they could reap the benefits of it being unable to bite them. The way it growled and lunged made it pretty clear it wanted to.

It didn’t seem like he’d be getting anything out of the skeleton, at least, anything intelligible. A pity, but this was why he’d tasked Murder with going through the files they’d taken with it. 

It looked humanoid, monster like, so he hoped it was more than just a beast. Though… either way, he was determined to keep it.

It was just so… interesting. He needed to know what had led it to being held captive, what those scientists had been doing with it, and, most importantly, why its suffering felt so intense yet distant.

—

The meal he’d brought, wrapped like a gift, slammed into the ground with a whine. Squirming like they were, they instantly gained the parasite's attention. He kicked them further into its range.

It didn’t pounce right away, eyes locking onto Nightmare. He smiled. It seemed it did have some wits to it. [The flaring of its spines showed it didn’t like the expression. He almost laughed; was it afraid of his teeth?]

“That’s for you,” he said. The meal squirmed more at that, shaking and breathing hard; almost as enjoyable as the clear hunger on his captives face, “Murder found some… interesting information about you.” Namely, that it was a people eater, and one of the only things that had kept it contained were its magic sealing restraints. It made him glad they’d made a cell that already did that. 

Its eyes flicked from the offered meal to him again. Its mouth parted, tasting the air, but it still didn’t attack. 

“Shy, are you?” It didn’t seem like it would eat with him watching. Disappointing, he’d been looking forward to the show. When it was more lucid he’d convince it to let him see. He was sure it would be amenable. At least it knew he was the biggest threat in the room.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to though. The instant he turned around he heard it lunge, bones scraping and the sound of a struggle. Whipping around he only got a single moment to see it pinning its prey down before a cloud of neon gas enveloped the cell.

He raised an arm to shield his mouth and took a few steps back. The notes mentioned feeding it dust, and other more processed magical substances. No mention of this fog was ever noted, but that made sense. They didn’t ever feed it live monsters, though noted that’s what it had eaten before they’d captured it. 

He waved his tentacles, trying to clear the magic from the air. When he had visibility, he saw the creature standing in the middle of the cell. Next to it, a pile of dust, still held in its restraints. Its previous host, dead as soon as it left them. 

Claws dulled, and shorter by a foot at least, it looked like a whole different monster. Much healthier than it did beforehand though: fuller, rounded, even a bit fat. The ‘monster’ [though he didn’t know if he’d call it one.] shook itself out, little clouds of dust getting re-agitated into the air. 

He thought, yet again, it was cute. In a morbid way, like a kitten playing in snow.

It didn’t speak yet, watching him once more with a much more keen eye. A closer look showed it wasn’t at full capacity though, its true eye half-lidded and dazed.

“Not even a thanks?”

The words seemed to shock it into action, seeming to fully come back into itself. It gave another intense shake, more little pops as it settled. A lot of magic was being expended to fit it into whatever mold it was more familiar with- that meant it probably discarded most unnecessary functions, otherwise, that would be very unsustainable.

Standing a bit straighter, he could almost see the mask it was slipping on, “Sorry bro! This radical dude is just a tad… twisted around.” Its voice was filled with a false cheer, almost grating. It shifted its weight, eyes darting around, a nervous little laugh in its voice, “you know how it is.” 

“Of course.” He hummed, eyeing its still tensed form. The way it held itself didn’t change much from before; he didn’t doubt it would still bite if he got in range of its teeth.

“Help a guy out and open that door?” It asked, “I can tell you’re not one of them unradical scientists. Much better fashion sense you’re rocking.”

“You know I won’t be doing that.”

It let out a reedy laugh, and he knew it didn’t really expect him to let it go. It was just grasping at straws. He wondered how bad the last people were that it distrusted him so fully.

Maybe it could just tell he wouldn’t be kind. It wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed that, and he wouldn’t say it was wrong to.

He spoke, uncaring of it clearly lost in thought, “In other news… do you have a name?” He already knew what it called itself from the notes, but letting it choose to reveal more of itself would only endear itself further to him, no matter how faint.

“And who are you to be asking?” It asked back - only able to speak for mere moments and already searching for leverage, how quaint.

“Nightmare,” he stated simply, “your new owner.”

————

It hadn’t warmed up to him yet. Which made sense, of course; he still kept it in that cell.

“Aren’t you hungry, dear?” He asked. A question he didn’t need an answer to, he could feel the stabbing pain it felt permeating the air, like a sour-sweet miasma. Still, a reminder could never hurt.

Its tired eyes glared at him, not making a single move to take the platter of dust he’d slid into the cell. Probably didn’t want to get close enough to him to do so. Another day of silence. 

It was okay, it would break soon enough. 

He took the untouched plate as he left; there would be another day.

——

“My pet.” He greeted it, the same as he always did. Routine. “How was your sleep?”

Predictably, the creature ignored him.

——

“You know you can’t keep this up.” They both knew this could be made significantly easier for it. At its feet, a collar with his emblem attached; he wouldn’t be letting Fresh out of the cell or giving it live prey until it put it on. 

Of course, the emblem wasn’t the only thing about it that made it refuse. It was modeled after the restraints it came in with - magic canceling, and, of course “altered so they won’t come off except by my hand,” he’d told it, smile wide enough to crinkle his single eye.

It pressed further into the corner, though that gave away it was still listening. He wondered how long it would still have the energy to disobey him. A creature all the papers he’d gotten described as cunning, willing to put its survival above all else.

It was clear it not only did this out of pride, but with the assumption that it could benefit from this disobedience. An effort to make him grow bored, he was sure. Unfortunately for it, he’d had 500 years to solidify his patience. Two weeks of silent treatment, especially with the way it was so very chatty when he first got it, wouldn’t work now. He just had to wait it out - something he was very, very good at.

He pulled out some paperwork and got to work.

——

“My dear pet-” he started, like he always did.

“Fresh,” it snarled at him. A break in its armor, a bubble of lava bled from stone. It had only taken him three weeks. “Fresh,” he smiled around the word. It shuddered, but he could feel the way a layer of frustration melted from it. Petnames were fun, but it seemed his dear Fresh enjoyed its name too much to employ them so soon. That was fine, he could wait until it was ready.

——

Sometimes he talked about his day, general information. People he’d killed, universes he’d visited. [He did not mention his brother.]

“I still haven't seen anything as interesting as you, Fresh.” He dropped in, conversationally.

It was true, but he mostly said it because it had such an amusing reaction anytime he said something like that. A small bitter hint of positivity before a harsh flood of shame and anger. It made him want to coo and pinch its cheeks. 

Further than just starving for compliments, the creature clearly liked positive words before its current… situation. The perfect personality for his pet; he was sure he could shave off that instinctual shame [no matter how sweet it tasted], make it crave his words without caveat. 

It looked at him as he talked, moving back to his previous topic. He made sure to smile.

——

He didn’t slow his words as it crept closer, fingers hooking over the edge of the plate. It dragged it closer, but he narrowed his eyes at it before it could get all the way back to the corner.  

It glared at him, but didn’t move further back. Cupping a handful of dust, it was clear the provided meal was not to its taste. Still, it seemed the first bite of food reminded it of how long since its last meal, because it scarfed the rest of it down quickly.

Once finished, he grabbed the plate with his tentacle and pulled it out of its cell. Fresh scrambled back when he got close, right back into its corner.

“Enjoy your meal, Fresh?”

It just grunted, refusing to look at him. He laughed, “I’ll get something sweeter for you soon, my dear.”

“You better…” it said.

——

He set the platter on his side of the bars, meaning Fresh would need to get close to him in order to get its treat. It had been rather well behaved in the last week, finally eating the provided dust and ground up magic.

“Come now, Fresh,” he cajoled it, “don’t you want something nice and sweet?”

It growled at him, deep and low in its throat, the vibrations making its spines rattle. Petulant at not getting exactly what it wanted, still, even after all it had been through. It was acting more like a spoiled king than even he.

“When have I hurt you so far, Fresh? Do you fear the horrors of…” he laughed, “some scones?”

“You are such a- a unradical dude, dude. Acting like you don’t already know.” It muttered, words irreverent. He would train that out, later. 

For now, he just smiled. It needed to be rewarded for engaging with him, no matter how… distastefully it did. All the else could be dealt with afterwards. 

Choosing not to address its words, he continued, “The scones have more condensed magic in them than monster dust. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” 

It looked at him like he’d spat on its mother; clearly, the temptation was frustrating it.

Impatient and arrogant, he wondered how it survived before captivity. Nightmare was doing it a favor by taking it in- he was willing to forgive such transgression.

He let out an exaggeratedly put out sigh, closing his eyes and setting his hand on his cheek. “I suppose,” he started, “if you really do not want it, I’ll keep your diet as it was.” 

Rustling cloth, and when he opened his eyes, it had scooted closer. Its face darkened with a menagerie of colors as he looked at it, but he only beckoned it closer.

It kept low to the ground as it nearly crawled to him, ready to bolt back to the little corner it had claimed for itself. The creature acted like the animal it clearly thought itself better than.

Finally, it was face to face with him. He was sure if it reached through the bars of its cell it could touch him. It wouldn’t, he knew.

Instead, it reached for the scones.

“You get two, without a price.” 

It froze, the starving animal in it clearly protesting the lack of actions, but it’s clever little head making it want to puzzle out his words. “What price?”

“Did I not say? No price for two. I’ll tell you what more would cost after.”

It narrowed its eyes and bared its teeth, but grabbed two scones nonetheless. After a small nibble, it shoved nearly a whole scone into its mouth. Mere moments after that, it swallowed and shoved the next scone in.

“So messy,” he chided.

It laughed, then coughed, then laughed again. It stuck its tongue out, before licking at all the crumbs left over on its claws.

“At least you enjoyed them. Distasteful as your conduct is.” He huffed, though he was still pleased. This would be easier if it liked the treat.

He let one hand drift over and pick up a scone. Taking a bite, he hid any disgust; his pet would definitely enjoy this more than he. It was made specifically for it, after all. The magic was overly processed, perfect for a parasite unable to digest most magic, but disgusting for any normal monster.

He waved a hand, to get its attention, “Want another, Fresh?”

“Price?” Straight to business.

“Just come here,” he smiled.

It seemed it was too far in to back out now, already having been lured so close to him, eating the first good food it was getting in no doubt months [besides the monster he fed it days after he acquired it, but he doubted it really was lucid enough to enjoy itself], scooting a few inches closer seemed like nothing.

With a painfully telegraphed movement, he moved the scone closer to it. It was locked still, he made sure. [“No hands,” he said when it moved to grab it.] 

Slowly, because he wanted it to know it could have backed out, had the opportunity to run to its corner [no matter the fact it really couldn’t at this point], he pressed the scone to its mouth.

Fresh opened, because there really was little else it could do, and he brought his hand back as it moved to bite him. The second he moved back it did the same, in a swift motion it was tucked up against its corner again, scone choked down and eyes wide and wary. 

One extra scone was all it wanted, or perhaps it was unable to resist the temptation to finally bite him. He laughed.

It did as he asked though. “Good boy,” he praised, eye crinkling with how wide his smile was. It shook in the corner, unsure.

Progress. Soon, his pet would be perfect.

——-

“Evening, Fresh.” He greeted.

It grunted back, nervously shoved into the corner, like it was wont to do. The novelty of it speaking at all was still fresh. However… it hadn’t managed a full visit without saying Something since it broke its silence a few weeks back, so he knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for something more.

He hadn’t even opened his book when it spoke, quiet, “It’s cold in here.” 

A non sequitur, but it was easy to tell what it was getting at. He wouldn’t let it get what it wanted so easily, though; he was spoiling it enough already.

“It is, isn’t it?” He said, clearly annoying it, with the way it narrowed its eyes. “This AU has seasonal cycles, so it’ll only get colder.” He added, conversationally.

It shifted in place, scraping one of its shoes against the stone wall, a tiny temper tantrum. It didn’t look at him. 

“I can’t do anything unless you ask, my dear Fresh.”

It bared its teeth, “fine, fine. Would you, my so high and mighty owner, ” the word was spat, “do something about it?” 

“You are too generous to assume I can change the weather,” he said with a laugh, if only to feel the hot white wave of shame and anger that passed through his pet. It was so sweet he almost gagged on the taste. It shook, and he knew it wanted to lunge at him, the twitching claws it pressed to the wall itching to wrap around his throat. 

“Though I suppose…” he tapped his chin, as if unaware, uncaring, of Fresh’s reaction, “I could get you a blanket. Would you like that, Fresh?”

It took a page from his book and let a long drawn out sigh, “yes.” It said, before turning away from him completely, spiny tail wrapped around its ankles.

From experience, he knew it was done for the day. Maybe he teased it a little too much.

——-

“It smells like you…” it muttered, after a moment holding the blanket close. Its nose bridge wrinkled, and its eyes narrowed, seemingly moments away from sticking out its tongue in disgust. Adorable.

He knew it would notice. He smiled, “I only use the best for myself, Fresh. Aren’t you happy I went with the highest quality?”

Fresh grumbled, “whatever man.” Before going right back to its corner. It looked like a little burrito, wrapped up in the blanket. “You're so cute,” he told it. All its spines went up in offense, and it wrapped the blanket around itself tighter, turning its nose up at him and giving him the silent treatment once more.

None of that could hide the emotions that he could always feel welling up when he complimented it. His descriptor held true.

——-

It had been staring at his book for a good while now, the majority of his visit so far he’d wager.

“Are you bored, Fresh?”

“Real sharp of you to notice that one, dude. You're really all that and a bag of chips.” it huffed at him, like it was obvious. It was, but he wouldn’t let that tone stand.

“Manners, dear.” 

It stuck its tongue out, but when he didn’t offer anything else, it relented. “Fine. Yes, I am bored. Not much to do in here, y’know.”

“A pity, that.” He said, “You know, you could come out for a walk if you…” He trailed off, but they both looked to the collar, still inside the cell. It was in its corner, with everything else it had [not much, just shredded bits of its clothing, the restraints it came in with, and its blanket]. Pristine, even after weeks on the dirty floor - enchanted by magic not to be affected by such trifling things; he would, afterall, only give the best to his pet.

“No.” Simple, succinct; enjoyable in his subordinates, not so much in his cute little pet.

“You really are making this harder on yourself than you need to.” 

It lashed its tail, getting more annoyed with his continued prodding. It pressed further into its corner, blanket tight around its shoulder, “urgh, whatever. You know that’s not what I meant, man.” He hummed an acknowledgement, but went back to reading. Another day, then.

———

“Fresh, pet.” He called, just as he made his way into the dungeons. It looked up, though there still seemed to be a chip on its shoulder - it didn’t say hello back.

“Tsk tsk-” he chided, “I’ve got a gift for you, but I don’t know if I’ll be giving you it with that attitude.”

It rolled its eyes but finally greeted him back, “morning, ‘owner.’” 

He narrowed his eyes at the way it said ‘owner,’ but it was good enough. With a sigh, he said, “good pet.”

“What do you got?” It asked, sitting up and stretching out a little; the creature was probably sleeping before he came in.

“You said you were bored, did you not?” He started, tossing something through the bars of the cage.

It caught it, reflexes fast even after months of captivity [both by him and its previous captors]. Bringing it closer to its face, he could see the instant it figured out what it was and delight overtook its wariness.

All its spines went up in a smooth motion, and its sockets widened. He must’ve laughed, because it glanced up at him. One look at his expression and it shut down, tucking its new tamagotchi into its corner, under its blankets.

“I guess I can dig this.” It gave, as if its excitement wasn’t palpable. 

Throughout the visit, it didn’t pull out its toy, but he could tell it wanted to. It reminded him of when he first got it, too shy to eat in front of him. Cute. 

-——-

Fresh was, as always, quick to scarf down any meals presented to it, even meals made of only dust. Its expression made it clear it hated the taste, still. Finished scarfing down the presented food, it slid the plate back to him. 

“So polite,” he cooed, reaching in and taking the platter out of its cell. They both knew it was only trying to get one of the hand pies he’d come in with. But well… good behavior was to be rewarded. The sweets he’d brought were for it anyway - a bit better than the scones he’d made weeks back, but definitely not good enough for his standards.

It was already scooting closer when he started beckoning.

Hands raised up, it made a grabby motion, “can’t you just gimme them dude?” 

The words came out in almost a whine, more petulant than distressed, a mask slipped on when it felt less threatened but still wanted something. It made him glad he didn’t know it out of captivity. It was horribly annoying, he’d want it dead for that fact alone.

He didn’t deign it with an answer, just reaching through the bars with its treat and waving it in an inviting motion, “it’s going to get cold, darling.”

“It’s probably already cold…” it muttered, scooting just close enough to snatch the desert with its teeth. The movements were precise, an effort to stay as far away from him as it could, and it retreated to its corner to actually eat its prize.

-——-

“Evening, Pet.”

It didn’t blink an eye at the address, giving a mumbled “mornin’ man…” as it stayed tucked around its little blanket nest in the corner. It was fidgeting with its tamagotchi, content to ignore his presence in the room; today wasn’t one of the days it got fed, and it knew that.

It was… content. Comfortable, or as comfortable as any creature in his care could get in the circumstance.

He smiled.

-——-

“I’m going to be gone for a while.” He said, offhandedly, before he left.

It glanced up at him, narrowing its eye sockets. “Yeah?” It hummed, prying.

“Yes.” He confirmed. “You’ll be bereft of my lovely company.”

“Good riddance,” it laughed, but the sound seemed forced. Probably more stressed about the change in schedule than his departure.

“No tearful farewell? What an awful pet you make.” He sighed, mock-mournful.

It blew a raspberry at him, before a thought seemed to occur to it, “are you leaving any grub for me?”

He smiled at that, which certainly got its attention. “Why of course, I can’t have you starving, now can I?”

It relaxes a little at that, but he continued before it could get too comfortable, “I’ll leave some dust for you, dear.” He gestured to the table, next to the wall, near the entrance of the dungeon. On it, a platter of dust; something he knew his pet had been curious about the whole visit, “The door will be locked, of course, but I’ll leave enough food that you won’t be hungry at all by the time I return.”

Fresh looked at him with narrowed eye sockets, “and how am I supposed to get outta here for that?”

“You’ve always known how to get out of that cell, Fresh.” 

It snarled at him, a more aggressive sound than he’d seen from it in a while. It was fine, you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet. His pet's trust might be broken, but he was sure they’d be closer once it realized the only way forward was by doing what he wants.

“I’m not putting it on.” It spat, spines flared and stance wide- the picture of an animal cornered. It hadn’t even glanced at the collar, not a moment's consideration.

“Then I guess I’ll come back to a pile of dust for a pet,” he sighed, “a pity, for how many months I put into you.”

A reminder of investment, what would normally be leverage against him, he felt he could use to get under its skin. He’d spent so much time keeping it, feeding it, visiting it everyday… it couldn’t really believe putting on that collar would mean he’d throw away all that and start hurting it. It would be inefficient, illogical, and he’d always prided himself on making everything he did make sense- for a given definition of the word.

All that it would lose putting that little collar on was a meager amount of freedom it didn’t even have. Was that worth so much? Did that really hurt its ego, pride, so very badly?

Growling answered him. 

“You’d look so cute in it,” he said, almost wistfully, “my adorable little pet, clearly and irrefutably Mine.”

The growling didn’t stop, and it lashed its tail in clear anger. Little tremors shook it, and in times like these its emotions were so jumbled up it was hard to differentiate them from its host. He liked to think the sweet taste of fear belonged all to it though.

The visit ended like many did when he first got it. With Fresh shoved into the corner, angry and giving him the silent treatment. The collar inconspicuously between them. An air of tension filling the room…

It was poetic, he smiled, for this would surely be one of his last.

-——-

He nearly skipped down the steps towards the little single celled dungeon he kept Fresh in, the door in sight. It had been weeks since he’d seen his cute little pet, and he missed it dearly.

It could be dead, of course, stuck in its little corner and starved to death, but he highly doubted it. The darling thing was indeed arrogant as even he, but it was cunning as well. Something like that might end broken through shattered pride, but it wouldn’t end up actually letting itself die.

The door unlocked with a satisfying click, and he pushed the door open slowly. It creaked, loudly, and he knew Fresh would hear.

“Fresh,” he crooned as he looked inside, and he was instantly greeted by a delightful sight. The cell door was open, the food left out nearly gone, and his pet in its little corner, staring at him as he entered.

Best of all, however, was the collar around its neck. [Though, its widened eye-sockets and small tremors took an easy second place.]

He nearly laughed at that fact, that it was still wearing it now that the cell had opened. He’d said it couldn’t be taken off, couldn't be removed by anyone but him- and it believed him!

He’d never lied before, made sure every word out of his mouth was provable. And it all paid off. Even angry and tired and scared, it didn’t think to pull the collar off once it was on - all because of his word. Knowingly or not, it had trusted him enough to not even try. 

Months of work, all culminating in a single moment. He hadn’t seen it, but that didn’t matter, it was good enough it happened at all.

He slinked into its cell, something he hadn’t done since he’d stuck the thing in there when he’d first gotten it, and it shrunk back. He cooed some gentle honeyed words at it as he approached. His tentacles dragged along the cell floor, totally relaxed; he felt… sated, full. He wouldn’t even care if it tried to bite him for getting so close, he felt so good.

It didn’t bite him though, and he let his smile get impossibly wider still.

The creature didn’t have anywhere to go, the collar meaning its magic was locked down even further than it was by just being in the cell, so it couldn’t do anything but look up at him. It looked so, so small. 

He reached out with his hands and slid his fingers around its lower jaw, curled around its mandible bones. He could feel the faintest tremors from the touch. With an easy motion, he rubbed under its eye sockets with his thumb.

Fresh felt both warm and cold under his touch. He ran chillier than most with his unique… status, so of course it felt hotter than him. But, while Fresh certainly wasn’t his temperature, it still felt notably more chilly than the average skeleton, almost like touching a corpse, an inanimate skeleton.

“I am so glad you came to your senses, Fresh.” He could feel it tremble even more, hearing its name, “I knew you had it in you.”

It tried to look away, his grip on its jaw forcing it to still. He could almost hear a whine, but that might’ve been his wishful thinking. Without being able to hide with its gaze, it pulled its blanket further over its shoulders.

“Do you want to come upstairs and have a treat, pet?” He asked, easy as breathing, like he’d been waiting to do so this entire time, like it was the only one stopping them from having that.

It nodded, but at his tightening grip, let out a quiet answer, “yes, Nightmare.”

Hearing his name never felt so good.

[jellycreamjammedart]

Since Doey interacting with Cassie got me wondering: how would it been like if he got a chance to interact with Gregory?

Given that Gregory is a kid too, he prooooooobably wouldn't be at a immediate life risk... but Doey would NOT like him at all. Much less like him anywhere near Cassie.

Cassie truly believes he betrayed her and attempted on her life with the elevator, so Doey would be under the impression of that too, and he would've witnessed closely how badly it affected her, it was real- heck, he dragged the crushed elevator she was in to Safe Haven to dismantle it for parts after rescuing her from its wreckage, where he would've found the camera and speaker from its interior, and if he was able to salvage the footage from the camera and transfer it to a VHS tape... yeah, Gregory would look pretty guilty from this angle.

For the most part, I think Kevin would take the wheel and leave under no uncertain terms that Gregory (and any of his 'accomplices' such as Glamrock Freddy and Vanessa) is to be eons away not only from Cassie, but anyone else he considers his family. Pretty much your scary older brother protecting his little sister from someone he perceives as a threat. Bro being quite gracious actually, just warning first.

And unless Gregory has tangible, irrefutable, undeniable evidence of his innocence regarding the elevator thing, if he's smart he will heed Doey's warning until (if) he can clear his name... because if he refuses to listen, there won't be a second warning, and he being a kid won't save his ass the second time, because then it will be on sight.

And even if Gregory got Freddy by his side, as much as I think Freddy's cool, it's no doubt that Doey would solo that bear within seconds-- he sure would make it even quicker than the S.T.A.F.F Bots disassembling Freddy did.

So yeah: unless Gregory can prove his innocence, Doey ain't kidding around with him.

[11queensupreme11]

The only issue I take with the cheater cu chulainn au is that it means.. Percy could've functionally left him whenever she wanted?? 😭 assuming it's still a yandere au because that's the standard, but even if it wasn't...

I mean it's great for her, but also I feel like if she could've left like that whenever she wanted/iced him out.. personally I would've done that a lot sooner?? Like. Cheating is disgusting , but being a rapist is. Irrefutably, unspeakably worse??? By every margin possible. And that's been part of his lore since before they were together. Now this is the case with most if not all of her other yans too, because at least Hades and Poseidon are absolutely confirmed and Anubis has the potential with all the women he kidnapped, though i don't remember anything definitive about that.

I mean maybe she just needed an excuse to be able to leave in the eyes of godly society?? But i would assume at the very least the other yans would've been Team Percy-Getting-Away-From-Cu-Chulainn since Day 1 so if thats the case I imagine there were other outs for her regarding the whole circumstance

All that to say, as much as I have fun with the AU, it has unfortunate implications for our girl Percy that my unfortunately not very immersion abiding sense of justice will not allow me to reconcile without some very uncountable feelings about it ☠️ If she was allowed to have 'a line', and cheating was it.. Why was the pine not drawn a lot sooner over all of his arguably more grievously evil lore? Pardon the Percy slander for but a moment 😭😭🥺 but if she has the agency to stop whatever they had going on at functionally any moment, doesn't that kind of imply that she would've just been.. ignoring everything else about him until he did something that personally effected her?? 😭😭

Like... There's no real way around it I don't think, because there's no way she'd go that long without hearing his lore from somewhere or someone, so there's no way she'd be oblivious that he's. A literal rapist. And MAYBE it's been a very long time or whatever but regardless I feel like that would be the line for anyone with agency or any sense of decency? Even if she was desensitised from her experiences, she's a pretty righteous person so I feel like if anything heroic remains of her, i.e the essence of her character, that's not something that would be glazed over/that she'd be able to look past in the first place, let alone for long enough to be married to him??

It brings attention to uncomfortable realisations about Arsenic Blues canon too because. If I was in her place and I knew all of that about him, or learned about it over the course of time, I would switch up from banter to genuinely wanting him dead REAL quick ☠️ It makes me curious about how/if it'll be handled in the main fic honestly. Does she know about that specific aspect of his past? Does it change her perspective of him? Would it turn her away from being able to see him in an amicable light? She could probably assume he was a massive bastard that committed genocide or whatever but. Maybe its just me but there are a lot of reasons for murder, wheras rape is just a purely evil act for no end other than cruelty and violence. I don't think it's too controversial for me to say that I would even agree with the perspective that it could be seen as an even worse crime to that end, because those victims would have to live with it too.

She's been a victim herself in many chapters now 😭 Idk how she could ever see past it with the characterisation she has.

I'd also like to say that this is NOT hate and I'm so sorry if it comes off that way or if it comes off with a tone. This may very well come off as some insane unhinged rant, but I promise I'm not judging whoever originated the AU or the content of the Arsenic Blues fic/any related works!! It just got me thinking.. or maybe overthinking 😭 but now I can't stop thinking about it because it feels like kind of a big thing the more I ponder it. Cu Chulainn seems like he'd be the easiest to avoid getting to this point with because yandere or no, everyone kinda hates him, so in comparison he has a lot less influence excluding pure force, which wouldn't turn out so well for him regarding ALL the other yans with a vested interest in keeping him the FUCK away from Percy 😭☠️☠️

I know I might be taking this way too seriously but I think it's a point worth bringing up because it does have implications for the fic that I can't unsee now 😭 I definitely won't be cheering for Cu Cuhlainn anytime soon.

(Without ignoring what any of the other yans have done to her, but in those circumstances there's a lot of context for why she wouldn't be able to get away from them/why she might suppress any feelings she might have about them also being rapists in order to protect her own psyche 🥺 I.e, Poseidon and Hades are literally her relatives so she's kinda bound to them and Loki/Beel are insanely powerful with the influence to interfere with her life that Cu arguably lacks, etc... and none of this is to diminish that. But in contrast, a lot of the scenes with Cu Chulainn are where she either seeks him out or entertains interactions with him during chance encounters/when he pursues her to be annoying. It kinda sets him apart from the rest of them so he'd have a lot less ground to stand on if she justifiably did a switch up on him when/if she learned he IS actually THAT BAD, even if God society is judging him based on different things, that negative reputation wouldn't work to his advantage. She'd have a better chance at an early retreat from him if learning all this would change her opinion quick enough for her to stop giving him the time of day. She's stuck with the others though, RIP)

omg i feel so bad cuz you wrote such a long and detailed ask but my answer's gonna be so fucking short 😭😭😭😭😭😭

it's also a BIT of a spoiler (tho i'm sure some of my readers have probably already figured it out by now) so i'm putting it under the cut!

before act 4 (so before she gets yoinked to the pjo verse), all the seven love interests will be married to percy

BUT they will marry her in a way that she CANNOT LEAVE THEM. like what we have now:

hades: had yue lao bind them together with his red cords, making them married forever. she cannot divorce from that.

anubis: they're mated for life now 💀

poseidon: didn't do anything special, it's a normal marriage. however, only the father is allowed to demand a divorce and since poseidon's the hubby AND daddy... they're not divorcing 💀💀

so yeah, that's why percy can't just leave cú chulainn forever. i won't say HOW he does it (cuz i haven't planned it either LOL) but he will find a way to forcefully bind her to him just like the other yans

she can't leave them. EVER. she is forever theirs, and they are forever hers.

[otomestatus]

know it's for the better; manjiro s. / reader

an: wanted to write an original work on this blog and this has been consuming my little thoughts!

Your eyes flutter open, welcoming the light from the afternoon sun. Your cheek was rested upon the flat surface of your desk as your arms encircled the circumference of your head. Blinking once, twice, your vision was met with a mop of soft blonde hair also laying on your desk. The owner of said hair had his face hidden in his arms, his body rising and falling gently with each shallow breath. The classroom around you was painted in a reddish glow as the sun began its descent in the horizon. Birds chirped, leaves rustled out the window, and you felt at peace. Slowly you rose in your seat, your finger gently reaching out to poke the top of his head.

“Hey, Mikey…” You speak barely above a whisper, your tone light and feathery. He shifted and hesitated to poke his head up to meet your gaze. He stares at you with this groggily look in his eyes.

“Whaaat…?” Mikey groans, his hands coming up to rub the sleep from his eyes. There is a dull ache in the hollow of your chest as a full view of his face enters your sight. He’s tired and no doubt going to complain about being hungry, but you’re losing yourself in your own thoughts. It’s the way his blonde hair frames his face and how his dark lashes flutter each time he blinks. You had always known the truth. Ever since you were kids you had always known and will always continue to know. It was an irrefutable fact that you were unequivocally, undeniably in love with Manjiro Sano. So as you sit here and admire the way the afternoon sunset blankets his face in its warm glow, you can feel your heart stutter. You hesitate with your next words, but you know the day must come to its end.

“We should head home…” It’s a murmur, but it’s loud enough for Mikey to hear. You don’t know when you’d become so shy.

Mikey hums, propping his elbows up on your desk and cradling his head in the palm of his hands. He looks unconvinced and a small part of you had been hoping it meant he wanted to spend a little longer with you. To sit in the comfort of each other’s presence and talk idly about anything and everything in between. You are holding your breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I don’t have anything to do until later so I’m fine.” He grins, wide and warm, and your cheeks dust a gentle pink color. There’s something in his smile, something so bright. Yet, something so distant like a far off memory from a moment lost to time. You want to cup your hands around his cheeks and hold him there. No rhyme or reason, you just want to bask in that smile for as long as possible. You adore it more than could be described with mere words. The ache prodding in your sternum is a testament to all the ways you have loved him so. All the way you will continue to love him. And, perhaps, that is the problem.

“You okay? You’re just staring.” There’s a slight tilt to his head as he stares at you, curiosity brimming in his dark eyes. You flinch.

“Oh… Yeah, just…” You hesitate before continuing, “You’re pretty.”

You don’t know what compelled you to say it. And maybe you’ll never know either. However, Mikey’s surprise quickly dissipates and invites a wide, toothy grin in its wake. You expected him to laugh or make fun of you for such a compliment, but his expression is anything but displeased. He chuckles, “Haven’t heard that one before.”

There’s something familiar in the way he says that. Your mouth opens slightly then shuts again. Your head turns slightly to look out the window. The sky is void of clouds and there’s a distant sound of children playing. It’s all so familiar, all so tender. His voice brings you back to him.

“You get it, don’t you?” He asks, his smile never wavering. You don’t understand or you do, but you don’t want to. It’s easier to pretend. However, he’s staring at you, eyes knowing yet their emotion is completely unreadable. A child screams and laughs in the neighborhood across the street. A breeze dances through the open classroom window. You understand.

“I saw it on Takemichi’s face.” You shift, sitting straight up, your own expression blank. Across from you he leans back in his own chair. His eyes appear gentle as if they’ve fully reached acceptance. You hadn’t, though.

Mikey laughs, “Yeah, that’s Takemitchy! Always showing exactly how he feels.”

He isn’t fazed when you don’t laugh, or frown, or even chastise him for finding humor in it. No, he knows you like the flowers know spring and the animals know winter. He knows you like how the stars know the moon. There is not an inch of your personhood Mikey does not know. You want to feel vindicated, but you don’t. That surprises you. The sun hasn’t moved an inch. The sky is still vibrant hues of orange and red and the cicadas play their tune.

“Manjiro…” You begin.

Mikey grins, “I always liked when you called me that.”

“Huh?”

“Manjiro. I always liked when you called me Manjiro.” He’s looking at you longingly and you’re looking at him with such a sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

You exhale softly, “I’ve always liked you.”

“Liked?” He hums. You don’t tense. There’s no reason to.

“Loved.” You admit, “I do. Still.”

He seems to ponder this. Silence fills the air and this classroom feels almost suffocating. His head lulls back, his dark eyes staring up at the ceiling tiles. You rest your left hand on your desk and pinch your index and thumb together-- the nail of your index scratching lightly at the side of your thumb to nervously pick the skin. That ache in your chest is amplified by the wave of nostalgia crashing into you.

“I really wanted to hear that before I go.” Mikey’s tone is laced with despondency. There’s a lump in your throat and you can’t swallow it, you can’t get rid of it. Just like how you couldn’t get rid of the love you held for him all these years. Maybe even for the rest of your life. Your bottom lip quivers, but you force a sharp inhale to maintain your composure. The cicadas are quiet, the children are gone, and the leaves of the trees aren’t rustling in the wind. There is just an eerie quiet and your own grief blossoming along your ribcage.

“So you’re leaving?” It’s a question that you don’t want to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. Mikey lifts his head up to meet your eyes. They are your favorite sight.

“Yeah, I’m leaving.” And it sounds so final, so permanent because it is. You gasp and your eyes prickle with tears you were desperate to hold at bay. That was a fool’s goal after all.

“Do you love me?” Again, a question, but this time it’s important you know. You need to know.

Mikey’s eyes fell to the desk in front of him, “How could I not?”

You’re stifling a sob and he’s staring at you with a tenderness you want to slap off his face. Deep down you knew it. The moment Takemichi came by your apartment after arriving back from the Philippines, the moment he locked eyes with you and sputtered out a desperate apology. Twelve years and you were bleeding out from all the love and grief you tried to keep inside. Twelve years of wondering where he was, what he was doing, and why he was destroying every piece of a past you longed to go back to.

“I don’t want this to be a dream…” You choked out between sobs, hiding your face in your hands so he cannot see the tears you shed for him, “Manjiro, I don’t understand…!”

There’s the sound of fabric shifting and the chair scraping against the floor before his hand connects with your head, fingers combing slightly in your hair. It makes you cry harder. It would be easier for him to rip your heart out, but he’s kind and he’s gentle. He’s your Manjiro.

“Know it’s for the better.” He leans down and whispers these words into your ear. Before you can even respond, your body jolts awake and alone in a twin sized bed you had grown to hate. The rain outside your window beats down against the glass. Your alarm clock reads 2:31 AM. In this tiny apartment you begrudgingly call you, you are inconsolable. You are a weak heart. So you turn and shove your face into your pillow, screaming into the soft plushness of it with all the pain you’ve bottled up in these twelve years. For the first time in all those years, however, you finally feel as if you can breathe.

[dcdreamblog]

[QSandA]

Let's see...

Mr. Hawkins, TY for answering my questions.

-What were the hardest parts of adjusting to being "public", rather than operating with a secret identity? Relatedly, unlike some public Heroes, you weren't given a choice in the matter; how do you feel about that?

-Back in the day, did you interact with other sidekicks much?

-Are there any things about the way "superhero culture", for lack of a better word, has changed from the Golden Age that you find particularly gratifying, or alternatively, that bother you?

-Have you ever felt awkward when interacting with German or Japanese or Italian people in the 21st Century?

-Speaking of social awkwardness, is it difficult interacting with people from your native era who, uh, got here the old fashioned way, so to speak?

-What was the biggest adjustment in your, uh, let's say fighting style, upon finding yourself a superpowered adult, rather than a unpowered teen?

-So, what were you doing when you heard about Pearl Harbor?

-Are there any there any Legacy villains who's existence particularly irks you?

-Some Golden Age Heroes have mentioned that both at the time and even today, feeling guilt about not being on the front lines. Did you have similar feelings?

-Pretty much everyone in your age group read superhero comics, of both the real ones and fictional. How awkward was it when discussions came up? Especially the inevitable arguments about who would win in a fight?

-Speaking of, did you ever interact with any of the people who wrote the comics about you and Mr. Dodds?

-Speaking of stuff written about your mentor; have you read Sandman Mystery Theatre, and have any thoughts about it?

-It's been reported that, while many were intellectually aware of the Nazis and Imperial Japanese attitudes towards they considered inferior, they did not actually grasp the depth of their depravity, even those who were reading perorts reports about the Camps, Unit 731, etc. Until confronted with the irrefutable evidence, many just could not believe that modern people were capable of such monstrosity. Do you have any thoughts on this?

-I can understand if you want to skip this last one, but do you sometimes feel resentful of some of the JSAers who made it to today, when Mr. Didds didn't?

Thank you!

Sandy: *Looking down at the paper print out of the questions in front of us* ...This is the guy you warned me about, isn't it?

Me: My best customer. Let's get to it! (This is a long one. Re-edit for readability)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: Let me answer that question with a question. Could you describe what I look like in specific terms without the mask and the coat?

M: (Several seconds past) You are...a blonde man, somewhere between your mid 20s and your late 30s and um...no, no I guess I can't.

S: Exactly. I'm not what you would call a movie star. If I go out without my costume on, nobody who doesn't know me personally knows me from Adam anyway.

M: What about things that are tied more directly to you. This giant mansion right off Battery Park is in your name.

S: Well yes but what would be the point of a big, intimidating mansion if I couldn't ignore people at the front door?

M: So what do you think about having your identity being public then?

S: Honestly its for the best. Having my name out there while I'm still among the living means that I get to tell my story, Wes' story, my Aunt Dian's story straight from the horse's mouth. I have no idea how you'd do an interview like this with a person whose ID isn't out there.

M: I've given some thought to it but I agree with you in large part

S: Besides, like most JSA members or All Stars I probably would have dropped the pretense when we came back in the modern day anyhow. We're not young men anymore with occupations and families to protect, not in the same way at least.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: Oh of course, we were always getting up to mischief. It was me, Wing, Stuff, Danny and Pinky. We were *hellions* I tell ya.

M: By Danny you mean Daniel Dunbar, AKA Dan the Dyna-Mite

S: That's the one, he was always the most mature of us though we all looked up to Sylvester. The Star Spangled Kid. From our perspective it looked like he was the kid who got to sit at the grown ups table, call the shots.

M: Looked like?

S: Obviously our mentors were doing their best to do right by us back then. I was a teenager, I loved Wes like a father but that didn't mean I didn't rankle under him and mouth off sometimes, we all did.

M: So you bonded with each other.

S: 100%. A lot of it was just as complaining about the grown ups in the back of Squadron meetings. When the Young All Stars got formed it only made us that much more insufferable.

M: How so?

S: Most of the Young All Stars were older than us, 16-18 rather than us who were between 13-16 or closer to it. But we had been there first, we were personal proteges of the best heroes in the world. We got to look down are noses at the scrappy kids down the hall.

M: A little bit of a rivalry?

S: Yea, but schoolyard stuff. Sidekicks vs Young All Stars, it was mostly just mouthing off in the halls. When it was mission time we had each others' backs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: I read your piece about the Ingersoll Amendment

M: I'm flattered

S: It's good stuff, I think you're right on the money about the way the culture itself has changed.

M: In what way?

S: Superheroes are right in the public eye now. We don't show up, beat down the thugs and then melt back into the shadows. We can talk to the press, we can work with the cops to a certain extent. We've become publically accountable in a way we never were before. I think its why this heroic age is here to stay.

M: And you don't miss the way things used to be done?

S: God no. I mean I'm nostalgic about Wes and I slinking about in the dark, all noir and whatnot but its so much easier when the evidence room will actually take my phone calls.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: You mean have I ever accidentally called someone a N*p?

M: That's not what I said

S: No but you could probably patent the shade of red you just turned. In all seriousness, no. It never sat right with us how the propaganda department spun things, especially with the Japanese.

M: You must have hated them

S: Of course I hated them. Tojo and Hirohito and his whole murderous crew but I hated them the same way I hated Hitler and Goering and Himmler. It was never a race a thing with us, maybe a little in our absolute darkest moods but not really.

M: You come out ahead of most of the planet in that sense.

S: If you say so, honestly if anything I'm just glad those nations have moved forward the way they have. Would have felt like a pipe dream what Tokyo looks like now and I celebrate them for it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: No more than it was at the time.

M: It's the bigotry thing again, isn't it?

S: Yessir it is. Also the...crustiness that a lot of folks "my age" have. That backward looking attitude.

M: Speaking about the general public rather than your JSA teammates.

S: Eh, Alan and Ted have their grumpy moods. Jay was always a ray of sunshine.

M: How do they interact with you about the...*gestures*

S: Some of them are jealous of my permanent 25 years old disease, honestly if they wanted it they could have it. All they'd have to do is get turned into a big sand monster for 70 years.

M: Not worth it then?

S: I wouldn't recommend its anti aging properties no. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: Having superpowers just changes your options.

M: How so?

S: Wes and I usually had to treat guys with superhuman toughness as a mulligan. Do what we can, try not to get flattened, pass it off to one of the big hitters. Now when I give Captain Nazi a right hook to his Aryan nose I can put the force of an industrial sandblaster behind it.

M: Your fighting style in the modern day is a lot like your mentor's

S: Always will be, really the biggest coup of my powers is investigative. Being able to enter and exit places without being seen or sensed, being able to sense vibrations into the next room. When it comes to the scrapping it just means I can take more hits and give harder ones. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: You gotta think, nobody knew what was happening in Pearl Harbor until it was over. And that's without the 6 hour time difference. The attack started at around... M: 8 AM Hawaiian time, would have been about 2 PM here in New York

S: Exactly. Wes was at home, I was at school. The official declarations didn't come down until the next day.

M: A moment which will live on in infamy.

S: The entire Society was standing around the radio with death on their faces. Death, and sadness, and fear. But no surprise.

M: Why not?

S: The Society had been assembled by FDR with the foresight that America was GOING to end up in the war one way or the other. We just didn't know when or how.

M: It must have been shocking anyway.

S: What I remember was...that Wes wouldn't take his hand off my shoulder. Every so often he'd look down at me and when I looked up at him he'd face forward. Back then it was comforting. Now I don't know if he was trying to console me or trying to hold himself on his feet. I don't think he knew either.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: The Nazi ones. All the Nazi ones bother the hell out of me.

M: For the obvious reasons one assumes.

S: Fascism should have gone the way of the dodo a long time ago. I don't think it needs any explaining beyond that.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: Wasn't my call, but it was something I was constantly kind of stewing about.

M: Not being able to fight?

S: I wasn't old enough to fight when the war started anyway. Didn't mean I didn't want to. I wanted to fly over to Berlin and break Hitler's nose with my bare hands. I was a punk kid and I thought if they'd just let me attem I could take em down with my own two hands.

M: And then the Spear

S: And then the cowardly god forsaken spear that rat bastard pulled out of his back pocket. Meant a lot of good men had to go over the top and pay the price to pry it from his goosestepping little claw. Yea, I got guilt. I got guilt for a few million guys who didn't get to come home again because we had our hands tied behind our backs.

M: Wasn't your fault.

S: The whole damn thing was the little bastard's fault, what else is new.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: We didn't read the comics at the time, none of us could get through 'em

M: The inaccuracy was too much?

S: For the two of us especially. They drew Wes as some cleft chin He-Man with pecs you could crush marbles between. Wesley Dodds was a mousy clerk of a man who wore coke bottle glasses until the day he died.

M: And about who would win?

S: No superhero on the planet worries about that. Generally we prefer to aim our punches at the bad guys.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: Not back in the day no, none of us did. But some of the modern ones yea, books, movies, stuff like that.

M: You opened up the archives of all of Dodds' journals to Matt Wagner for Sandman Mystery Theatre.

S: And I'm damn glad that I did, got the closest to the truth out there about the man and woman I remember. Hell I'm opening up to you now, aren't I?

M: Fair enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: ...People...knew about the camps. In an absolute sense.

M: Sure, the Red Cross knew about the camps in the absolute sense.

S: It wasn't...possible. It wasn't feasible. It wasn't SANE. I mean the entire idea of concentration camps is insane. We all knew people would be starving, diseased, dropping dead by the dozens. Camps like that kill people, always have.

M: But not like...

S: Not like that. Hitler's screed wasn't new, every Jew or Roma on the planet knew it by heart from birth...no one outside of Germany knew until the Reds started knocking over the camps.

M: You and your allies had no better idea?

S: No, the War Department didn't share jack shit with us. We didn't get more than the reports that were needed for us to do what we needed to do. We saw...we saw the photos at the same time as everyone else.

...

...Some nights I never stop seeing those photos.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

S: No.

M: No?

S: I don't begrudge those who have made it this far one inch and Wes wouldn't have either.

M: How so?

S: We were family. Comrades. We stuck to each other shoulder to shoulder whether it was gangsters, or supervillains, or nazis, or the HUAC. None of us expected, thought we especially "deserve" to live through the next 100 days let alone 100 years.

M: You don't wish he was still here with you?

S: I miss my Uncle Wes every hour of every day. But that's who I miss, my Uncle Wes. MY Uncle Wes. Not the Sandman, not any version of the man I could possibly express to the rest of the world. But MY Uncle. I wish he was here to guide me, to explain things to me, some days I feel like he'd have this all figured out...

M: But?

S: But he was in my exact same position back in the day. He did what he could. He found for what he knew to be right and when they called his number he sold every drop of blood dearly. Every single one of us is gonna have a time. Guys like me, guys like Wes, we hope to live with what we've got, to always stand up when we're called, and to die with our boots on watching the look on the other guy's face when he knows he lost.

[brayneworms]

in your basement, i grow cold.

featuring. il dottore x reader

content. gore (specifically eye gore), relationship isn't romantic isn't platonic but a secret third thing, toxic dynamics, reader is called dottore's pet, scaramouche appearance, reader is mean to scaramouche, reader is generally fucked in the head, alluded kidnapping + medical experimentation, body horror, injections, electrocution

word count. 1.6k

notes. this was an xmas gift for a friend but ummm might as well post it i guess :p this is silly. i'm a certified dottore hater but he's fun to explore psychologically. also used this as gore practise. i don't think it's majorly disgusting but i'm not very squeamish generally so i might be biased.

♪ strangers — ethel cain

There is some peace to be found in ugliness. 

The Balladeer has yet to learn the same lesson. With every session he seethes and hits, he bawls and curses. The Doctor takes it all standing up, though, a flex of his wax-sheen gloves brushing the Balladeer off as though he were no more than an irksome fly. The doll scowls as you strap him in, hook wires and tubes into his artificial body. Sometimes the voltage is too high and he jerks and turns purple in the face, roasting from the inside out. Sometimes you think Dottore does that on purpose, his own small dose of revenge. 

The Balladeer despises you. He calls you Dottore’s little mouse at first, scampering around quietly doing the Doctor’s bidding. He sneers at you, a curled lip of cold command. “I see he’s let you out of the cage for another evening,” he remarks, violet eyes watching unblinkingly as you hurry between operating tables. “Try not to roll over and die with the shock of your newfound freedom. It would be a shame for Dottore to lose his favourite…” He rolls the words around in his mouth for a moment, considering, before flashing a smirk your way. “Pet.”

You get your own small revenges on Balladeer. Dottore languishes in pain, but you like to watch his sadness. When he’s under, he often dreams, and when he wakes he often cries. Sometimes he even cries in his sleep. You wish to bottle his tears whilst he’s unconscious, scrape them up into little crystal vials until you have enough to fill a chest. Then when he begins with his glaring and his remarking, you will open it in front of him and show him cruel, irrefutable proof of his weakness. Tears enough to drown a man. Not him, though, because he is not a man. He’s not even human. And despite how much he looks down on humanity, he bristles each time at the reminder. 

Dottore finds your ugly streak endearing, in the same way someone might find a cat with three legs endearing. Mostly his mask stays on, sinking most of his features into shadow, but sometimes you find his jaw twitching or a smile curling at his mouth. 

What you find exhilarating about helping to operate on the Balladeer is that you had been in his place once. Strapped down to the table whilst Dottore poked and prodded at you with his various instruments. And Dottore had been hardly gentle with his bedside manner. He’s been open about the fact that he expected you to die on that slab. Archon residue was no blood transfusion; it pumped hatred into your body and festered there, under your blood, pickling your veins. The results had not been pretty; an injection into your left eye had resulted in it bursting inside its socket like a red flower blooming too fast. Dottore had knelt, scooped up the residue in his gloved hands, rubbed between his fingers. The scarlet slip-slide of your innards. It felt like being touched for the first time; his lips hung open, parted in a gentle sort of awe. That time, when you spat at him, he only smiled and ruffled your hair. 

Sometimes he lets you wear a patch. Mostly he likes to look, observe how it heals, what irritates it, documents how long until it stops bleeding. He wonders about nerve damage in the area. You have a constant headache in your lower-left frontal lobe now, pressing against your skull like a bruise. 

You’d expected the Balladeer to laugh himself hoarse at the ugly emptiness of your right socket, but instead he went quite quiet. As you were hauling his body into the machine, he reached out, traced the gaping maw with delicate fingers. Your good eye flicked behind him where Dottore stood, finding the twitch of displeasure in his jaw. He didn’t like the Balladeer touching his handiwork. What’s more, you didn’t—the doll’s touch was gentler than you’d had in years, but you’d grown accustomed to Dottore’s clinical coldness. It was precise, even when it did hurt. The Balladeer’s caress feels clumsy in comparison, and you jerk away. He doesn’t try to touch you again. 

Whatever rapport you have with the Balladeer dies quickly. Once you might have sympathised, but as the years wear on, you start seeing him as Dottore does. A doll. A means to an end. And the Balladeer pretty quickly stops seeing you as a mouse. Sometimes, the way his gaze lingers on you out of the corner of your eye, the way he looks away when you catch him at it, you think he’s more afraid of you than he is of Dottore. 

You enjoy fitting the Balladeer’s body into the wires. You stab them through his artificial skin with prejudice, observe the way he tries not to wince. Your fingers brush over the ball-joints in his limbs, skirting under with a nail just to see him shudder and glare. And you love his tears. He rarely cries when he’s awake, especially in front of Dottore if he can help it. But he’s such a willing crier when he’s lost to his unconsciousness. He murmurs words, too. Mother is a frequent one. He calls out for her more than you did for your own in the beginning. But there’s also Niwa and Katsuragi, Tatarasuna and Escher. 

“Poor puppet,” you hum, swinging your legs. Dottore glances over, mouth a thin line.

“Do not bother pitying him,” he muses. “He won’t soon thank you for it.”

You don’t answer, gaze locked onto the Balladeer’s sleeping form until Dottore steps in front of you, obscuring your vision. “Have you tended to your eye today?”

You shrug, trying to peer past him. “I’ll get to it later.”

“You’ll do it now.” His fingers grasp your chin. “What is study and science without consistency? A mad scramble to find pattern, that is all. I’ll do it, if you insist on being stubborn.”

You bat his hand away, snarling. “I can do it myself.”

“Will you?” Dottore says sharply. “It’s been a while since you were tied down to this operating table, but I can certainly make an amendment.”

Your glare is poisonous. “Get your fuckin’ hand off me,” you grunt. 

Dottore smirks. “You’ve grown so bold from the shrinking violet I brought you in as. Some days I miss the subservience of that form.” He pauses. “Then again, most days not.”

Of course. Dottore isn’t afraid to say the quiet part aloud, but he doesn’t have to: he likes violence. He relishes in getting his hands bloody. Poking around your eye socket, fingering the innards, like digging for shrapnel in a wound. He likes the fight back. He likes when you hiss and spit and hit like a feral cat, like a dog who has just learned it has teeth. He likes it even better when you leave a mark. 

Your last appointment before the Balladeer leaves for Sumeru. He sits on the table, spine a gentle slope. His skin is marred with holes and titanium anchors. You run your fingers down the knobs of his back and he shivers. He is unusually subdued, despite how his exuberance over being made into a god had been cumulatively climbing for the past few months. 

“I leave soon,” he tells you as though you don’t know. “I will see a new land, and new people. They will have no idea that they will soon kneel before a new god.” His fingers flex as though physically reaching out to grasp this power. “Will you stay?”

You stare at him and realise you can no longer picture the world outside this laboratory. Your silence seems enough for him; you almost think he pities you. You are particularly vicious with your ministrations that time, reducing him near tears before he’s even slipped unconscious. Dottore watches, the ever-present spectre, smiling and smiling and smiling.

The Balladeer tries one more time before he leaves, in his own way. “Sometimes I miss that little mouse,” he says ruefully. “Now? You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing. You’re just as bad as him.”

You know you’re beyond saving, because that idea makes your stomach flip. 

You’re under no illusion that Dottore cares for you. Dottore cares for nothing beyond his own experiments and deductions and projects. He doesn’t care about the Fatui. He doesn’t seem to even really care about the Tsaritsa. Only what she can offer him. Dottore is more likely to cut you up and decorate the lab with your insides than confess any sort of love. But it’s alright, truly, because you don’t love him either. You suppose he’s become something of idolatry for you, in the worst possible way. You despise him for what he did to you, but now you cannot picture being any other way. The Balladeer may miss the little mouse, but you certainly do not. Gone are the days of your weakness. Now, in the darkness that Dottore had pumped into you, one injection and cut and fever at a time, there is power. 

Maybe one day you’ll grow to consume him whole. Maybe it starts with spitting in his face and hitting back, but maybe it blossoms to something more. Maybe one day you’d get him down on that operating table, prise that mask of his away to see the way his eyes widen in surprise. Maybe you’d get the scalpel or the wires or the syringe and turn him into the false gods he was so obsessed with puppeteering. And maybe he’d be your little mouse, afraid to catch your eye. 

Idle daydreams. Sometimes you think he can see them in the corner of your eye, because there are days he regards you almost with wariness. But he never exiles you. You suppose, in the way you’ve grown attached to him (as disease grows attached to a person) the same can be said for him. 

You’ll take advantage of it, sometime. You can’t wait to feel his insides on your hands. 

[lockpickingliar]

DUHH THE YELLOW ROSE GUY™️ HAS INFECTED ME WITH A VIRUS!

@duhhtheyellowrose Listen I was thinkin'. You had the absolute Gall to put Byakuya in my head and I was thinkin' and thinkin' and thinkin' and like...

What IS Affluent Progeny as a Talent™️ even!?

Like, listen, like—

I keep mulling it over and every Talent I can possibly think of is like, a measurable skill, y'know? Baseball Star, Pop Idol (i.e. idol-specific skills), Programmer, Biker Gang Leader, Moral Compass, Doujin Author, Gambler, Martial Artist, Soldier, Detective, Swimmer, Fortune Teller, like...! They are all irrefutably some kind of skill to be done, with the exception of Luckster.

The Luckster I can forgive strictly because the entire point of the title is that the holder is otherwise unremarkable in every way. Makoto's Just Some Guy Who Got Lucky. Like that's the Point. He's not SUPPOSED to be Talented by Hope's Peak's definition.

Even in the other games:

In SDR2 we've got Imposter, Cook, Photographer, Swordswoman, Traditional Dancer, Musician, Nurse, Team Manager, Breeder, Gamer, Mechanic, Gymnast, Yakuza, and Princess with the exception of once again the Luckster and Hajime (a nobody).

In V3 we've got Adventurer(/Survivor), Pianist, Tennis Pro, Maid, Artist, Aikido Master, Anthropologist, Inventor, Entomologist, Supreme Leader (Different From Princess imo), Astronaut, Assassin, Magician, Cosplayer, and Detective with the exception of Robot because Audience Insert Gimmick Or Whatever.

So what's up with the Affluent Progeny???

Literally like it's not a Talent really, because it it's core the dictionary interpretation of an "affluent progeny" is literally just like. A "child of wealth." Even if he did "win" the name of Togami head of household through a battle royale or whatever (if you accept DR:T as a Thing), that's not how inheritance works and that doesn't turn inheritance into a measurable skill, y'know?

So it's like.

Out of all the Talents, this one is fake as hell??? Like. It's a Talent in name only, almost like it was bought out by the Togami family for the Prestige Points to have a Talent that only they can have, and making it seem that much more like an actual skill by having their weird contest thing to validate its existence or whatever?

Genuinely like I blame @duhhtheyellowrose for this 100% for getting me thinking about the actual legitimate semantics of it but like. My turn to Pepe Sylvia:

Ultimate Affluent Progeny isn't a real Talent™️

It's a title the Togami family made up and paid Hope's Peak exorbitant amounts of money to make real for the Prestige because They Are The Togami Family, of course they'd be Ultimate just by virtue of Being A (fucking) Togami.

ALL THIS TO SAY...

Is Byakuya even necessarily Talented™️!?

Which is not meant to be a dunk! I know, I know, he's very intelligent and good with stocks or whatever and racked up his own little fortune all on his own, but that... has nothing to do with being an """affluent progeny""".

No, I'm asking specifically in the realm of the Hope's Peak definition of Talent™️ and what that entails for the person who earns the title of Ultimate in their Talent. Does that make him talentless like Hajime??? Is that why Yellow Rose Guy's take that he hates his fucking Talent and hates his fucking life works so well? I'm like-

What would HAPPEN? if a genuinely talentless person just had the pressure of Talent slapped on them for literally no reason. Not even like the Luckster, because at least they KNOW they're Normal outside of like. Luck.

Just like imagine it! You're Just Some Guy, and your entire life you've been shoved in this role of being Better Than Everybody Else because you're Rich or whatever, and now you've got this spiffy Ultimate title dropped on you like a pressure cooker of expectations and responsibility even though the title itself means fuckall beyond the fact You Are A Togami.

Sure, sure, you're good with stocks and you're pretty intelligent when it comes to investing, but that doesn't ACTUALLY matter you're not the Ultimate Stockbroker, you're the Ultimate (FUCKING) Togami. Whatever THAT means!

This guy is just told he's expected to be amazing but literally isn't (and that's not a bad thing but like, the implies).

I'd be fucking miserable too! God why the fuck is Byakuya so goddamn sad Yellow Rose Guy is right whY IS THIS ALL IN THE GAME!?

[mephistopheleswasrobbed]

BL or no BL, is that the question?

I've been wanting to talk about this for a while now but I came across a post in the tags that made me finally do so because I mostly agree.

I make a post every week accumulating all the "proof" I found that Home and Peach are actually gay for each other despite the "not a BL" label of the show. And I used to say in the tags that I don't intend for this to be taken entirely seriously but I kind of stopped doing that because I felt like I was repeating myself but now I think maybe I shouldn't have (I might go back to add those disclaimers back in).

But I would actually be completely fine if the show never has them kiss or plainly state "we are dating" or any other irrefutable "proof" that they are in a romantic relationship. I don't think not doing so would make it queerbaiting and I don't think it would diminish Home and Peach's relationship in any way. (Just to clarify, I would also be fine with it if they do say explicitly that they're in a romantic relationship.)

Personally I don't like the idea of strictly separating romanitic/sexual relationships from platonic ones. In my opinion/experience there can often be overlap between the two or rather many relationships just don't fit neetly into one of those categories.

I'm not an anthopologist and I haven't really done any reading into this so take what I say here with a grain of salt but my impression is that our current understanding of love and relationships is not universal across human history and cultures. Maybe, when we changed the intent of marriage from an economical union between to families, to a proof of love, we went too far in the oposite direction, maybe capitalism has an influence here through its concept of the nuclear family, I honesty don't know. (If you come across this post and do know, feel free to recommend me some resources because I'm genuinely curious about this). Anyway what we have currently is this idea of a strict differentiation and hirarchy with romantic(+sexual) monogamous partnership at the top, familial relationships beneath that and platonic relationships of varying degrees beneath that. And I fundamentally disagree with that idea. I think you can love your friends romanically but still see them as friends and not someone you want to date. I think you can be in a commited partnership with someone you love platonically but not romantically. I think you can love the same person both romantically and platonically to different or varying degrees. And sexual attraction is another factor that varies (imo, and to varying degees for different people) relatively independently from the other two. (I am personally also not a huge supporter of the idea that monogamy is somehow superior to other relationship constellations and I'm convinced that if monogamy wasn't so ingrained into our culture, fewer people would choose that relationship model. Does this have something to do with men wanting to ensure that their offsping is "actually theirs" before the invention of dna testing? Who knows, not me, but I could see that being a factor)

All of that to say, I think the show has so far made it very clear that Home and Peach have grown to love each other and want to form a family together. A family that also includes Pangpang who is Peach's sister by blood and Home's sister by choice going by her contact name in Home's phone. If we compare Home's relationships with Peach and Pangpang it is also clear that Home doesn't view Peach as a brother. I think if one were to ask Home who's more important to him, Peach or any of his numbered ex-girlfriends, the answer would be pretty clear. Even if Home doesn't want to have sex with Peach (but if he does, all the power to him), he clearly views him as more than just a friend (again not that I agree with the idea that frienships are somehow lesser that romanic relationships, in the first place). He views him as someone he wants to be a family with. And imo that's pretty queer.

A lot of discussion of queerbaiting comes from a time and place where studios put little hints of queerness into their shows to hook the queer and shipping viewers but always kept it subtle in a way where the stock standard straight viewer didn't pick up on it because they wanted to have their cake and eat it, too. A lot of frustraition around this comes from the fact that we, as viewers who picked up on those hints, were constantly ridiculed by other fans who didn't want any 'icky homo shit' in their media. And because those "fans" would have never accepted anything but the caracters saying "we are homosexuals in a homosexual relationship" before making out on screen for 10 minutes as "proof" that anything queer might be happening between them, they could always feel like they were "right" and we were "wrong". (It hurt especially when the creators of those shows, who themselves put out the bait, participated in making fun of us.) And a lot of frustraition came from the fact that there wasn't a lot of explicitly queer media easily available to us at that time. So the subtle bait we got made fun of for noticing, was kind of all we had. Obviously we wanted them to make it more explicit, to make it "real".

But neither of these factors are really at play here. (I can't speak to the TV viwership numbers in Thailand, maybe they will contradict me) I don't think Peaceful Property is more popular than it would have been if they had marketed it as a BL (judging by the apparent spike in engagement for ep 7, it might even be the opposite) so I don't think they left it more vague (if that is the route they're going) in order to not alienate a staright conservative audience. There is also definitely not a dearth of explicitly gay media from gmmtv (and we've even gotten to a point where BL characters are increasingly allowed to call themselves gay/bi and aren't portrayed as straight boys who incidentally fell in love with another boy but are definitely not queer or anything).

With this context I think we can (again, if that is what they're going for) portray queer relationships that don't map neatly onto the predominant idea of a romantic relationship and that maybe don't have a sexual component to them.

Thanks for making it through my unorganised rambling. Have a pic of my beloved Chai-Un as a reward.

TL;DR If Home and Peach kiss, that's cool. If Home and Peach don't kiss, that's also cool. Either way what they've got going on is pretty queer.

[elsandifer]

Have you read leikeliscomet's post(s) on Dot and Bubble and how it handles its politics about race really terribly? I really loved the episode when I first watched it, but they sort of convinced me otherwise, and I think a lot of my initial love was just me not having enough of a black leftist perspective to see it.

I'm loathe to make any sort of extended refutation of a Black critic's arguments around race. Certainly leikeliscomet's points about the importance of centering Black voices are pretty irrefutable, and if the S2 writers list comes out and once again lacks a Black writer that will be extremely dismaying.

That said, when I read arguments that treat tonal whiplash as an inherently bad thing, suggest that camp is fundamentally incompatible with explorations of racism, and willfully misrepresent things like the fact that Davies had pitched a version of Dot and Bubble for the Moffat era as there having been an entire worked out version of this story that got a racism ending tacked on when it was rewritten for Gatwa it's very hard for me to be persuaded by them.

[cannedbeefaroni]

March Of The Pigs: The Bad Touch Pt. 2 (Edward Nashton X Reader)

Part 1

Summary: You can't save Edward Nashton when the whole system is rigged against its patients. Desperate times call for desperate measures

Content: SMUT 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, MEDICAL MALPRACTISE, MANIPULATION, POWER IMBALANCE (for those reasons, i consider this fic to be DUBCON), VIOLENCE, Reader and Edward have a bit of a role reversed Harley Quinn and Joker dynamic, Edward is described to struggle with hypersexuality and paraphilias (based on how the reader is described, they also have those issues), handjob, penetrative sex (not specified whether its anal or vaginal), exhibitionism (public sex), physical restraints, degradation

Y/N is referred to in second person as you/yours and is written to be entirely gender neutral.

(I'm sorry this is pretty short)

You were so fucking sick. Sick of yourself trying to assimilate into this corrupt, archaic environment, thinking you had any sort of power to be the change you wanted to see. You thought working at Arkham Asylum would give you the opportunity to help the outcasts and undesirables of society. It was stupid of you to assume that would ever be the case. All you achieved was becoming a pon in a system that only benefits the top 1%. There was no such thing as helping anybody, only imprisonment and torturous treatment, pretending to the rest of the world that something good was being done. You weren’t better, you realize how selfish you had become at the hands of this job. At this point, you weren’t even sure who was to blame: you, the given circumstances, or Edward Nashton. You knew what he was capable of, so it infuriated you seeing how small and weak he chose to become. Watching him be manhandled by guards on nearly a daily basis made you want to vomit. The worst of it had to be that one time you had the misfortune of seeing the nurses physically restrain him to the floor as they forced medication down his throat. You had a horrific epiphany that you never felt real empathy in your life until now. Knowing that for years you had seen all this occur and simply looked away, you hated yourself for it.

The day you had lost your job was the biggest relief of your life, but simultaneously the worst thing to ever happen. You’ll admit that it was probably unethical to perform sexual acts on your patient, but at a certain point you just stopped caring. You didn’t value working there anymore. You were able to engage with Edward inappropriately in three different sessions before you were found out, the last time being caught on camera in irrefutable evidence. 

The first time you met with him after the incident began, you were extremely cautious, aware that you had gotten overzealous the last time. Making sure to be as quiet as possible, you touched him again. He was even more eager this time about it, body shaking as he fucked your fist. Keeping your head down, you pretended that the interaction was purely professional. Your face stayed dead straight as your body internally screamed for relief. His tip turned red as precum pooled from his aching dick. You must have unintentionally leaned in closer, because you could feel his heavy breaths on your face as you kept your head down. Then he kissed you, catching you off guard. He leaned down, catching your lips with his, tilting his head to the side as his mouth dropped open, forcing his tongue into your mouth. He couldn’t hold you, since his hands were cuffed behind his back as per usual, but you didn’t pull away. You knew you should’ve pushed him away, but you just sat there, letting him make out with you as you unenthusiastically tugged on his dick. You felt miserable, knowing you were nothing but his therapist as he shot ropes of cum on your shirt, then it pooled over your hand. Near tears, he apologized profusely, but you insisted it was alright. You rushed to the bathroom after that session, desperately trying to wash your shirt in the sink, but you could only do so much, and ended up going the rest of the day in a soiled, damp shirt. 

During your last encounter with Edward, you were acutely aware that this arrangement couldn’t last much longer. You couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone knew what you were doing with him. Even though you felt your days were numbered, you decided against your better judgment to risk it all, going as far as possible. You put him inside you, and he didn’t stop you. Leaning back in his seat as far as his arms cuffed around the back would let him, you sat on his lap with his legs spread open, and you fucked him. He hissed viscerally behind you, tensing every muscle in his body as he resisted the urge to scream from the feeling of how mercilessly you viced him. Leaning forward, holding yourself up against the table, you rode his dick, and no matter how slow you went, the chair clanked against the floor. You hung your head, staring at your feet as you two desperately thrusted into each other. His tip prodded deep inside you, feeling as if every organ in your stomach was reacting to his penetration. Despite trying to keep the pace slow, he kept going faster, and you didn’t have the willpower to deny it. 

“You’re doing so well,” you praised him, for the first time in a genuine tone. You sounded disheveled and breathless. 

“You’re a shitty fucking therapist,” he chuckles cruelly. Head spinning back, you glare at him, eyes glossed over. That was probably your biggest mistake. Looking him desperately in the eyes as he degraded you so viciously. There was never a point in your life where you came that hard. It was almost numbing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from screaming out in pure ecstasy. Soon after he came inside, filling you up so much it was dripping down your legs when you stood up. 

“I’m sorry, Edward. I’ll make things right, I promise,” you said as the session finished, and you dressed the two of you back up before leaving, allowing the guards to take him back to his cell. 

Soon after you were called into your boss’ office. You didn’t need to go to know you were fired, but you did anyway. It was probably the most humiliating moment of your life, but on the plus side, they’d keep this incident a secret.Apparently what you had done was the most embarrassing thing to ever happen in the history of the asylum. It seemed they cared more about a public image than morality. You were told to never speak of it and move on. Somehow, that outcome was even worse than you expected. The truth was finally revealed to you: that there was no saving this abomination. There was no guilt or questioning what you were about to do. 

It was disgustingly simple, sneaking into places you didn’t belong, stealing a ring of keys from an unsuspecting guard, and just playing a guessing game of which one would unlock the button in the control room that would unlock all of the cells. The guards were all underpaid and undertrained, making the simple act of carrying out the plan right under their noses a breeze. One of them asked what you were doing, but all you had to do was flash your ID, which you hadn’t turned in like you were just told to. 

The moment the cover was lifted and the button was hit, you had mere minutes to carry out the rest of your plan as the emergency sirens blared. You were free to find Edward’s cell. Just like all the others, his cell door was wide open, and he was standing in the doorway, confused and scared. You run straight towards him, almost knocking him over as you collide. He tries to protest, stuttering as you grab his hands and bolt down the corridor, taking him with you. Finding a fire extinguisher on a wall, you smashed the glass with your fist and hauled it into your arms, slowing down, allowing security to catch up, but you swung it around, hitting one of them in the stomach with intense force. You and Edward continued your escape as you located any room with windows that weren’t barred in. Finding the office you were just fired in, the door was left wide open, so you ran in and threw the fire extinguisher through the window. 

This was the worst possible escape route, as the window led to a steep drop into the ocean. It probably wouldn’t kill you, but you didn’t have an option as you only had mere seconds to act before the two of you would be apprehended. Edward was petrified, but didn’t hesitate when you grabbed him, throwing him out the window, as well as yourself. 

It felt like you had died. The only feeling in your body was how cold it was, but the moment you realized you weren’t getting air, your survival instincts reacted, and you started moving again, peaking your head from the murky water before you could drown. Red flashing lights were reflecting in the pitch black water of the harbor. You could feel something brush along your leg, and your heart sunk when you realized it was Edward, still underwater. You dived in, reaching for him until you finally got a grasp on the scruff of his shirt. Pulling him up, his face peaked into the air, and for a moment he was completely still. You shook him as hard as you could, even slapping his face to wake him up, then he started hacking and coughing violently. His face was bleeding, and his glasses were missing entirely, leading you to assume they broke and cut him up. Holding onto him, you began swimming toward the nearest infrastructure in the water, needing something to hold onto so you wouldn’t drown from fatigue. Hiding in the water under the docks seemed like the safest option for now. 

Arkham was ignited with chaos as the freed inmates rampaged the island. Your head was so full of water you could barely hear the gunshots and violence occurring. You clung for dear life to a filthy algae covered wooden support. Edward was clinging to you, his head hinged on your shoulder. He was crying, and you didn’t know why it shocked you. You forced this upon him, now it was your responsibility to save him.

[dopscratch]

mugshot meme with the trio :) i love fishlegs which reminds me....

INCOMING BOOKS-MOVIES RAMBLE- even if you only know the movies please stick around, i cant make you but maybe you'll find the rest of this interesting

SO, so so so. i love the movies (well the first two...) but i will never forget their transgressions on the original plot

they took away hiccups Heroic Hair why would you do that he's nothing without his Heroic Hair

they swapped hiccup and fishlegs's personalities why would you do that why would you take away my nerd protagonist my nerd self is weeping

hiccup and fishlegs are no longer best friends why why would you do that to me i live for their loser friendship its just like me

they took away camacazi and made a mid love interest i dont care what you say astrid is mid tier never liked her much apologies i also dont like love interests so take my opinons with a grain of salt

in the movies toothless is actually Super Cool and hiccup also becomes Super Cool and earns massive respect and is not a laughingstock ever since the very first movie which hurt his appeal to me in the movies since, believe it or not, i am a Loser and hiccup also being a Loser and Becoming A Hero The Hard Way was very compelling to me

hiccup is the Absolute Main Character in the movies and the supporting characters don't get much spotlight while in the books it's a pretty well balanced group which i like

snotlout is no longer hiccups cousin and is just comic relief which is a HUGE missed opportunity for drama and depth that i loved in the books

villains in general are sort of mid tier throughout (except viggo viggo was cool. also i love dagur he's the best)

WHERE'S ALVIN

dragons are no longer complex. i loved their society of sorts and their unique morals (generally selfish, cruel creatures who have full knowledge of their actions and just don't care- though have the capacity for kindness) and their whole language and the fact hiccup knew that language because he is a Nerd

HICCUP'S LANGUAGES!! GUYS WHO ONLY WATCHED THE MOVIES, DID YOU KNOW HICCUP IS FLUENT IN AT LEAST 4 LANGUAGES?? HE KNOWS NORSE, DRAGONESE, FRENCH, AND LATIN!! WELL YOU DO NOW

HOOOOLY CRAP the story is SO much darker i'll avoid huge spoilers but let's just say. war. slavery. torture. death. surprisingly generous amounts of blood.

more main-line content- technically yes the shows and other companion materials count for the movie-verse but some things are questionably canon and all that. meanwhile you have 12 whole books that are irrefutably canon and are incredibly well-connected especially through the end.

thats everything that my brain feels like spitting out now. there's obviously more (ESPECIALLY in regards to my uh... opinions about the third movie) but im too lazy to do anything about it at the moment

overall all two movies and the shows are still good and i cherish them so my smack talking is pretty lighthearted. still love the books more though

[a-student-out-of-time]

Did you heard it? Creator of tetro Danganronpa got accused using ai Generated art

//Yeah, I heard, and I think it's a very stupid attempt at drumming up controversy.

//I don't believe it because:

People say all kinds of things online without evidence. You can accuse anyone of anything and it really doesn't matter if you can't back it up with anything substantive.

AI Bros all have a similar vibe to them, and they will defend the concept come hell or high water. I've yet to see anyone who uses AI art without also propping it up like the best thing ever, and that no artist with a pencil could match it.

I've never seen anything about the art in TDP that suggests AI was involved. For one, it's always primarily been an auditory medium, so the visuals are mostly going to be secondary and thus fairly understated. Even then, the way the characters are drawn is very consistent with a single person's art style. Unless there's hard evidence, no amount of nitpicking and rumination is going to prove anything. Imperfect art, simple art, and AI art are not the same things.

Vonbabbitt has posted line art that matches with what they've drawn. Not every artist keeps their line art- I know I don't a lot of the time- but even just one example seems pretty solid to me.

The fact that this comes out when TDP is at the height of its popularity, and Tetro Danganronpa Blue is on the horizon? That feels too coincidental to me.

//There's also the fact that this came on the heels of a much more serious controversy with a streamer I used to follow. One which had hard evidence from multiple sources of betrayal, sabotage, manipulation and just general nastiness behind the scenes. And when it all came to light, they tried to push all responsibility onto others and could not take a shred of accountability. I'm not gonna go into it, but if you know, you know.

//So seeing all that, and then hearing about this? Yeah, it just feels like a weak attempt at damaging someone's credibility at the height of their popularity. If there's no hard and irrefutable evidence, that's all I can see it as.

//Don't believe everyone who posts a google doc.

[westlightning]

Anton x gn!Reader WIP

This is just a scrap piece of writing I made a while ago where the reader delivers milk door to door. In the moments in between hits when Anton is home, he and the reader have some interesting run ins. It’s pretty rough, so be kind to me. Also nothing explicitly sexual happens here but Anton treats the reader like a dog, so primal play is pretty central to what’s happening here.

—

You open the fridge and kneel, wary of the man out of the corner of your eye as his warning from the previous day rings in your head.

You shouldn’t turn your back on me.

Still don’t know what it means. You’ve given up trying to find out. Beyond being purely intimidating, it’s hard to understand his intentions. Not like there’s much you can do otherwise in the moment. You’re here to perform a duty, and you shouldn’t forget that.

Shakily you pull the empty bottle from its spot and replace it. When you’re done you stand, turning as casually as you can to face him.

He’s sitting in a chair at the table, legs spread. His eyes are dull and beady as they watch you, glittering like blue ice. The dismissal of yourself dies on pallid lips when you meet them.

He lifts a foot, “Would you take off my boots?” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

You look at the cast on his arm and swallow a denial. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why he’s asking for your help. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why you obey without thinking twice. You just want to be good at your job, that’s all.

You sink to your knees in front of him, setting down the empty bottle out of the way to your left. The wood is harsher than the linoleum beneath bone, but it doesn’t hurry your movements. When he puts the polished end of a red boot on your thigh you carefully take it by the heel and pull it off.

He sighs in content, the sound taking you off guard. You look up at him, still looking unerringly at you. A flush crawls up your neck. You turn back to his other foot and ease the boot off, setting them both neatly to the side. When you’re done you stare at his socked feet, the toes wriggling in plain gray cotton.

“What are you doing with your life?”

You flinch. Can’t help it. His voice is so deep it catches you off guard. You look back up to him with a million words on your tongue. None come out.

He repeats himself, patient to the point of concern. “What are you doing with your life?”

“Not much, sir. I mean, I work.” You struggle around your words, “I—I provide a service.”

He nods slightly. He seems entirely uninterested in what you have to say, and you’d think that was the case if it weren’t for the questions. Somehow you knew he wouldn’t be asking them if it was true. He’s never struck you as the type to dally on what didn’t intrigue him, even if only just in passing.

“What service do you provide?”

“I deliver things.”

He blinks, “That’s not what you’re doing now,” he says, quiet as death. “You’re kneeling. How did you get here?”

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t be so hard to answer.

“Because…” you lick your lips, finding steel in your voice. “Because you asked me to.”

“No,” he smiles faintly, but it’s not a real smile. Not the kind that fills you with any semblance of comfort. “I asked if you would take off my boots. And you did. I asked you, what are you doing with your life—does that question make sense to you?”

You shake your head. Your hands are clammy, wet as they grip the front of your pants. The blush is irrefutable now. It tracks up your neck, around to your face and all the way up to your ears. Red with some form of shame.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

He seems frustrated. Almost. But also, not. It’s an odd intersection, and you’re there kneeling watching the gears turn in his head. Slow and steady. And you want to leave. You want to get out. But you can’t move.

“I can leave,” you offer quietly.

He hums, nearly laughing. “You won’t. I didn’t say you could go.”

You breathe out shakily then, audibly so. He tracks the movement of it lazily in your throat, bobbing with baited breath. His eyes are sharper when they meet yours. More hooded.

“I told you not to turn your back on me, is this not as vulnerable?” He pokes you with the toe of a foot. “It’s not in your nature, yet you do it anyways.”

You sit there for a while, staring at him and feeling seen in a way you never have before, like his eyes are stripping back layers of your skin to look at the bone. Like he’s watching you under a microscope, seeing what you’re made of.

Then he stands. You stare at him, forgetting to move back until he is so close your nose nearly knocks a thigh.

You fall back. He watches, smiling again. It makes the blood inside you curdle.

He walks away, stopping only when he is in the doorway to turn to you. Still on the ground.

“Back to work.” He says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

You do see him tomorrow. It’s nothing odd that he’d say that. You see him every day. But your feet drag through your route as you approach the last house on the street, because you’ve seen him out front. Waiting on his porch.

Waiting for you.

You’ve felt him watching the whole time you deliver to neighbors. You feel his eyes as you start the truck and round it to his mailbox, turning off the ignition and climbing out.

You won’t go inside today. You’ve told yourself this since you left the afternoon prior. You won’t. It’s not professional. You could get in a lot of trouble. Could get fired if you’re late returning your vehicle again. Someone oughta notice eventually.

He is standing next to the vacant rocking chair when you approach with no boots on and in another pair of the same gray socks. His milk bottle isn’t in sight. You don’t meet his eyes until he says, “Come.”

He means inside. You stop just shy of the steps.

It takes you a full minute to get the words out even though you practiced them endlessly the night before in your bed, doing that instead of sleeping. Surely he could see in your face how much you needed to do this.

“I’m not allowed to come inside, sir. I shouldn’t have before. And I’m sorry for misleading you like that.”

He walks inside, opens the door. “Come.”

You shake your head minutely.

He blinks, then with a bit more force, “Come.”

The tone scares you in some deep, innately primal way.

Your legs move before you can tell them not to. It’s like you’re in a trance. You take off your shoes when you enter like you’ve done before. He waits. Then you follow him deeper into the lifeless home.

Pulls out the same chair and sits. You hover in a haze. Watching him.

He gestures to the fridge, “You’re here to do a job. Do it.”

You do your job, quicker than before. You can leave after. He can’t keep you. It’d be illegal for him to. You could report him.

Somehow it doesn’t appear like he’s worried about that possibility. Maybe because you’ve given him too much slack. When you’re done you stand in front of him.

I’m going to leave now.

Words you don’t say. You think he can see them in your eyes. You think maybe he’s stealing them from your head.

“Sit.”

That’s… not what you expected. You stand entirely too still for a moment and try to process the words, but you don’t want to make him repeat himself like you did before.

There’s only one other chair and it’s too close to him. You reach for it anyways when you feel something on your ankle. The toe of his foot hooks around it, stopping you in your tracks.

You look to him for guidance. He smiles, gentle and foreign. It doesn’t calm you in any sort of way.

“On the floor.”

You really, really shouldn’t. But you do.

This time you sit criss cross, feeling like a child. It’s easier on your joints, but it’s just as heavy on your pride. His, though, seems to be glowing, if only in amusement. Like he’s testing something out for fun.

You pick at the fabric of your sleeve, still not looking at him. The silence stretches on and it makes you feel sick.

“Have you thought about the question I asked you?”

“Which one?” You bite your lip, “I just mean—no offense, sir, but you ask a lot of questions.”

“I have only asked one important question. What are you doing with your life?”

Apparently your prior answers didn’t appease him, but it leaves you entirely blank. What else are you supposed to say to something like that? He doesn’t care about your feelings or your failures. What’s the point of asking when he wants a specific answer you’re not privy to? Anxious tears well in your eyes unbidden at being caught again. Caught in this trap you’ve let yourself be led into.

“You’re a bit simple, aren’t you? Like a dog… “He says it so casually it almost doesn’t register, as though he’s commenting on the weather.

You balk. It’s real but it’s also performative. You should be offended by what he’s saying. “I’m not—“ your voice is wet, you gulp through it. “I’m not a dog.”

He pulls in a long, deep breath. You get the feeling he anticipated this answer but isn’t impressed by it.

“You’re sitting on my floor because I told you to. When I tell you to come, you do. Is that not what a dog does?”

He seems genuinely curious. He seems genuinely gentle, but you know it’s not in his nature to be. There’s nothing gentle or curious about what he’s saying, it’s only mean.

You look at him and can’t hide the tears this time. He sees them, you watch the observation register in some way on his face, and then he’s reaching out. A broad, calloused palm ghosts across your cheek, skirting through your hair displaced by taking on and off the hat in the humidity. He pushes it back, petting ever so softly.

“It’s alright,” he says, “you’re a good dog.”

[dsgirl2024]

The World You See | Prologue | Seokjin | BTS OT7 x Reader Fanfiction

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CONTENT WARNING

This story has explicit descriptions of death, drug use, alcohol use, addiction, sex, language, mental illness, suicide, and other possibly triggering content.

If this will effect your well being in ANY WAY, PLEASE DO NOT READ!

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ABOUT

Genre ☆ Fantasy / Romance (Fanfiction)

Rating ☆ Mature (18+ Minors DNI)

Pairing ☆ BTS OT7 x Reader

Story Type ☆ Angel BTS (AU)

SUMMARY

You've always seen the world a bit differently than others. It was like your magic power. And maybe that was why only you could see the lights that night. The big, astronomical explosion of lights that rained down to earth in colors you had never known to have existed until now. Little did you know about a divine destiny beyond your wildest dreams, and seven angelic beings brought down from heaven to guide you.

Apparently, the world is ending, and they're convinced that you're the one to save it. All you have to do, is figure out how.

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11:55 p.m.

It was a surreal feeling, watching a house fall to ash around him.

If it weren't for the excruciating heat and the carbonyl fumes, Kim Seokjin might have found the whole experience... pretty. Poetic even, like a dance. A dance between creation and carnage, an inseparable pair, who waltzed among the earth in a chaotic symbiosis.

One nursed life whereas the other bred death--polar opposites yet, they could never exist outside of each other. Without life, there'd be no death. Without death, life would have no purpose. An extraordinary affair that lay tale to an unbreakable bond.

Marvelous.

Bewitching.

Uncanny.

A terrific performance, and Seokjin had an unparalleled point of view.

Caged in by fire from every side, his body was splayed on the hardwood floor, brown eyes captivated by the sultry, orange glow above. Plush pink lips parted in awe as a single tear rolled down his cheek, stunned by the sheer magnificence of it all. The flames ruthlessly sought to consume, snapping and crackling as their heat devoured whatever they could find. Eventually, the man knew he'd be found too.

He wasn't afraid, though.

As he laid there to bare witness, Seokjin realized it wasn't as bad as he imagined it to be. Dying this way. The pain was irrefutable and his existence begged for release, lungs aching for clean air as they filled with more debris. Slow, painfully slow, he could feel the flesh start to drip off his bones, first degree burns tattooing his skin.

An unrelenting agony, yet his opinion spoke of worse ways to go.

Or perhaps he thought as such being that the feeling offered a... familiarity of sorts. Meat cooking around bone was a sensation he'd grown unnaturally used to. Fire's were his job, after all. Vanquishing them to be precise, nearly a decades worth. And if he learned anything in those ten years, a gluttonous blaze served only one purpose, to destroy.

Carnage.

Which is why Seokjin felt the fire to be completely immaculate. It was merely fulfilling its role in the universe, dancing the part. Nothing personal. As a matter of fact, the man only had himself to blame. He shouldn't have returned to disturb its process. How stupid of him, letting his ego cloud better judgement. Not as if he hadn't been warned, the man was just--

Too

Damn

Stubborn.

"YA! KIM SEOKJIN, YOU IDIOT, COME BACK!" He could still hear the voice of his senior, screaming after him, begging him stop. But Seokjin hadn't stopped. Hadn't gone back.

He never listened.

11:58 p.m.

Coughing weakly, Seokjin turned his head to relieve some pressure weighing on his chest. Every inhale spent his declining energy, as the smoke and monoxide exhausted his lungs. Fatigue ghosted the crests of his lids and he felt an obscure fogginess sink inside his brain, vision blurring like a camera out of focus.

There wasn't much time now.

"That is just like you Jinny. Always acting first, never thinking things through. You be careful my boy, that'll getcha dead one'a these days." His mom had cautioned. She had been joking of course, though he now felt a cruel sense of irony in her warning.

Nevertheless, Seokjin held no regrets. There was nothing to regret.

Life had been generous to him, Seokjin had no complaints where that was concerned. A loving family, good friends, and a job that rewarded both his pockets and his soul. Even if it meant dying right here, the man would do it over again in a heart beat.

Obviously, he wished for more time to enjoy it. Meet a nice girl, get married and have a few kids. Continue to help more people along the way. Eventually retire and settle down, live out the rest of his days in peace. Hell, maybe grow some vegetables in his backyard and take those cooking classes he'd kept putting off.

Maybe in the next life.

11:59 p.m.

Moments later, a loud, blasting noise ascended from the foyer below. Distant voices grew closer, approaching the front of the house. Seokjin's ears perked, catching the sounds with a gracious smile. He recognized one of them, his senior.

Feeling thankful for his colleague's loyalty, Seokjin tried to get as comfortable as possible. They'd find him in about fifteen minutes. Soon enough that he'd still be a handsome corpse, but the man was realistic. His life was beyond salvation, though at least his mother will be spared a charred carcass to identify.

Seokjin sighed contently, the rise and fall of his chest pulling him further into the floor. The heat sweltering his flesh dried him up from the inside out, fair skin turned red and raw. Gradually, it had become miserable simply to remain alive.

Even so.

Despite enduring all that pain, at the same time it felt as if he were in no pain at all.

The next thing he knew, Seokjin began to drift away. As his eyes fluttered shut, the last thing he saw was a brilliant, hot flash of light. Whether a trick of his mind or an figment of reality, the color was something he'd never seen before. An impossible color, and that elated him, swelling his heart with joy. Because for some reason, that was the last bit of assurance he needed to completely let go.

So he let go.

0:00 a.m.

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Story Updates ☆ Tuesday, Friday or Saturday (2:00-7:00pm EST)

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