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seginbeats · 2 years

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Pᴜʙʟɪᴄ Kɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ

Captain of Team Star's dark crew, the Segin Squad. 17 years old. Birthday is April 1st.

Goes by DJ Vice online when posting on Bandcamp & SoundCloud. He aspires to be a popular EDM EJ and has a passion for music.

Father owns the Bennasi & Son butcher shop in Mesagoza; Giacomo used to work there before and after school. The expectation was that he would take over for his father one day, just as the rest of the men on his father's side did.

He used to be a very gifted student, but suffers from burnout and no longer has the motivation or attention span for classical schooling.

Giacomo dropped out of school after a series of alteractions with other students. The first was a fist fight triggered by banter, the second involved a Pokémon battle on school grounds; Giacomo's Pawniard evolved into Bisharp and cut the opposite trainer's face from lip to ear, resulting in stitches. The rumor is that Giacomo did this on purpose, but he claims that Bisharp acted on his own to defend the two of them.

Giacomo no longer lives with his parents.

He works alongside the other Star Squads in order to get by financially, engaging in less than legal activity for money.

Kɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ᴏʙᴛᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

He has horrible impulse control.

Very distrusting of adults and authority figures.

Matches vibe; if you bark, he barks back. If you're reasonable, he'll behave.

He displays many traits that point to him having ADHD and Bipolar Disorder; it doesn't take long to realize he is unmedicated.

Believes that crime is justifiable when the target is deserving.

Is responsible for coordinating theft of car parts and hacking into bank accounts to fund Segin Squad; the car parts get sent to Ruchbah Base for Ortega to use.

Giacomo's team is very offense heavy; however, Kingambit and Honchkrow sometimes act on their own accord, disobeying Giacomo and choosing their own strategies during battle.

Giacomo himself knows some basic self-defense; he carries around a small knife that used to belong to his uncle, just in case someone bigger than him tries to cause harm.

Pʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ Kɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ﹙Rᴇϙᴜɪʀᴇs Gɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ Oᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ Uᴘ﹚

When Giacomo dropped out of school, his parents kicked him out.

Giacomo comes from a very, very conservative household. His father thinks poorly of Giacomo's choice in a music career, and would prefer he continue with an apprenticeship at the family butcher shop. His mother is a controlling helicopter parent who usually has a glass of wine in one hand.

Giacomo clashes with his mother a lot; the two share similar mental illness traits, and so there's a lot of shouting matches. His mother routinely uses physical punishment, usually a slap to the mouth, to discipline him.

Neither parents believe Giacomo has anything wrong mentally. They think he is just lazy, unmotivated, and disrespectful.

Giacomo'a Uncle Luca is in prison. His uncle has been locked up since Giacomo was quite young, so his memories of him are fuzzy, but positive. Unfortunately, his mother (the uncle's oldest sister) often compares Giacomo and his uncle in a derogatory way.

Giacomo does NOT know why his uncle is in prison. His parents have not told him, but, he has hopes of seeing him again one day.

Both Kingambit and Honchkrow were left behind as a Pawniard and Murkrow when Giacomo's uncle was arrested. Giacomo inherited them as his own Pokémon when he turned 10. Since they are not Giacomo's original Pokémon, they leveled faster, but it contributes to why they disobey his commands sometimes.

Hɪᴅᴅᴇɴ Kɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ﹙Tʜɪɴɢs Gɪᴀᴄᴏᴍᴏ Is UNAWARE Oғ﹚

Luca Rainaldi, the youngest brother of Giacomo's mother, was arrested in Paldea and sent to Johto to face several charges of criminal extortion, Pokémon trafficking, Pokémon theft and Pokémon abuse. Luca never made good choices in his life, and traveled the world, blowing his savings until he wound up in the Johto region; reckless and willing to do just about anything for money, he picked up grunt work with the Rocket gang, and was involved in the infamous Slowpoke Well Incident.

Uncle Luca fled Johto and hid out in Paldea for a while with his sister, until authorities tracked him down. While being sentenced, he agreed to rat out several others involved in the operation in hopes of his jail time being reduced.

After only sitting in prison for two months, Luca died of "mysterious circumstances" before sharing any information about those he worked alongside.

Only Giacomo's parents, specifically his mother's side of the family, knows this information.

Giacomo's Honchkrow was caught by Uncle Luca as a Murkrow while he lived in Johto. It still has his uncle's trainer ID.

Giacomo's Kingambit was stolen by Uncle Luca, when it was still a Pawniard. He grabbed the Pawniard off of a Unovan tourist with the intention of utilizing it during the Slowpoke Well Operation, and planned on dumping it somewhere to make the evidence disappear. The Pawniard's trainer reported the Pokémon as stolen to the police in Johto, and had that information sent to Unova as well in hopes of getting his Pokémon back.

If Giacomo were to ever visit Unova or Johto, and use a Pokémon Center to heal his Pokémon, Kingambit's Pokeball would be flagged as stolen, and likely confiscated.

#☆ ‹ sᴛᴜᴅɪᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ › headcanon #{ HERE IT IS. THE LORE DROP.#I've left breadcrumbs all over this blog and now it's time for the whole deal.#I hope this is easier for you all to navigate versus the drabbles and massive paragraphs. }#violence cw

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glitteringobliteration · 5 months

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Something bugged me about what Brennan said about Fabian’s new gold maximum legend tattoo: he’s now immune to Dragon Madness.

Why would that matter? Yeah, it’s probably great for Fabian’s future adventures but why would it be relevant now? The Bad Kids already got rid of all the gold they received from Kalvaxus’ hoard, right?

Please bear with the red-string bulletin board-making side of my brain while I talk through my theory:

It’s always struck me a bit odd how much attention is being paid to Fabian’s finances this season. I totally get that it’s partially due to his parents being gone all year/turning 18 and gaining access to the funds left by his papa, as well as the general arc Fabian is going through of navigating going it alone for the first time, but it feels like there’s more to it than that. Fabian has never wanted for money before, and it hasn’t really factored into this season either (for him. points about Adaine being broke are irrelevant rn.) beyond the handful of conversations (and one altercation lol) we’ve seen between Fabian and his banker, Alston Hughes. A couple of things that Brennan has mentioned feel very much like breadcrumbs, and I’m not sure if the Intrepid Heroes have clocked any of it yet (as of Ep 15: The Last Stand).

Fabian banks with KVX, which Alston Hughes tells him has gone through a shift in management since their board of directors were smote by the Council of Chosen. Their branding and logos have changed from Kalvaxus red, to blue.

I also find it worth noting that we did discover Alston Hughes to literally be a member of The Harvestmen. 👀

This brings to mind the subject of Oisin.

Oisin is a blue dragonborn in his junior year at Aguefort, the conjuration wizard of the Rat Grinders. We learned at the shrimp-jump party that he’s descended from a blue dragon, who’s said to live atop a great hoard of treasure.

Oisin offers to help Adaine get some of her much-needed spell components, and she turns him down.

Aelwyn tells us that Kipperlilly can’t use Oisin to get the material components she needs - hence why she’s using Aelwyn. Kipperlilly says she needs to protect Oisin.

Why?

I’m willing to bet that his family has something to do with the new management at KVX. I’m also willing to bet Kipperlilly knows exactly how to protect herself from Dragon Madness.

And Fabian’s new tattoo is gonna save everyone’s asses. True Maximum Legend.

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kaizokuniichan · 1 year

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Attention Part 2 - Do Not Disturb

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro/AFAB Reader (referred to as she/her)/Trafalgar Law

Summary: Law ponders how he got hung up on you in the first place

CW: Dry humping

Note: I appreciate all of the positive responses on Part 1!

Next Chapters: Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Also I’ve been trying to look at blueprints of the Sunny Go to paint a more accurate description of the ship but then I said fuck it, so it is what it is lmfao

(Divider by @cafekitsune Banner by @/eelnoise)

Word Count: 3.7k

MDNI; 18+ readers please

Law knew you were into Zoro, and he shouldn’t have cared, but he did. It was inappropriate, this infatuation he had for you. He was the Captain of a rival pirate crew, and you were a Strawhat. None of this should’ve even been a concern.

He also had to keep reminding himself that this close proximity to you was temporary. He’d soon be reunited with his crew in Zou, they’d head to Wano, and then there would be no time for any of this after that. All of this extra fluff was unnecessary and should be pushed aside. The happenings of you and your fellow crew member were none of his concern. So why was it bothering him when he’d see how easily you unfurled yourself around him? How easy it was for you to lean on him? How it took nothing for you to allow him to share in your warmth? Zoro had such easy access to you, such a head start in forming a space for himself in your life. Why did that bother Law so much?

Overhearing your flirtatious, easygoing banter from below the crow’s nest had dropped an iceberg in his gut, and lit a fire under his feet. Of course Zoro was what you wanted. He was ruggedly handsome, fiercely loyal, and exhibited an ever-growing strength that made people question how and why he was only second in command. It’s not that Law was insecure; he was very sure of himself, both intellectually and physically. And not that he particularly cared about what he looked like, although he did want to look good to you and for you. He just wished he’d been presented with an even playing field. Every odd was stacked against him.

You’d been a beacon of comfort for him during his stay on the Sunny. A true companion. You knew how to give him his space, always following his lead in how to navigate each other. You listened intently, never steamrolling his thoughts or ideas with your own. You knew the right things to say to make him think introspectively, rather than feel the need to offhandedly throw a snarky remark. Whenever he felt overstimulated by the sheer volume and lunacy of everyone around him, you’d seek him out and guide him away to settle down somewhere more quiet. You were…so refreshing.

Law could tell he was peeling back your layers as well. Your initial neutral expression was one of practiced indifference, eyes glazing over him as if your mind swam elsewhere. You weren’t as uptight as he was, but he could tell there was a part of you that was still holding yourself back, like you were afraid of becoming too comfortable.

Law enjoyed feeling like he was one of the few people with whom you shared the truest parts of yourself with. Sometimes you’d sit beside him, offering little nuggets of inner dialogue that drew him in, intent on listening and absorbing. Things like how difficult it was for you to trust because of your upbringing. How you held back so much of your rage because you didn’t want to hurt those around you. How thankful you were for finding family within your crew, and learning how to accept their love. Every breadcrumb you fed him helped to lower his guard. You’d give a little bit of yourself to him, and he’d give a little bit of himself to you in return.

The problem was he’d given too much of himself, and now he’d grown attached. Maybe it was the absence of stress fueled by his revenge. Maybe it was your calm and wistful eyes as you exchanged little anecdotes about your lives. Maybe, it was the heat from your thigh, pressed against his during mealtime, or the brush of your arm against his when you’d pass each other. Whatever it was, it was making him weak.

Exasperated with his mutinous thoughts, he decided to take a late night stroll to the library to pour over some medical texts. Smiling to himself, he was brought back to a conversation he’d had with you where you’d applauded him for his resilience in studying medicine and his desire to help people. He’d been so elated by your praise that he’d spent an embarrassingly long 20 minutes bragging about how he’d developed a multi-use vaccine for several different viral mutations. But you’d sat there attentive as ever, head resting in your palm, humoring him as he prattled on about a new vaccine study. Your eyes never wavered for a second, not even when you admitted that you had no idea what he was talking about. But that was ok, he was willing to teach you things. Lots of things. Many things.

As he passed the aquarium bar, his ears perked at the sounds of soft melodic music seeping through the cracks of the door. He knew it was you; you were the only one who would be playing music this time of night. Quickly making the decision to take advantage of the moment (he had to do something; that fire was still lit beneath his feet after all) he diverted his focus to the bar.

He actually quite enjoyed the aquarium bar. It gave him a sense of familiarity, being in a room partially submerged and visible sea creatures swimming past the glass. It would be the perfect setting for him to comfortably test the waters with you. If you responded well to his advances, well. What else could he do?

As he pushed open the door his eyes met with yours as you curled up under a thin blanket in a corner of the cushioned bench, book in hand.

“Sorry, room’s already occupied, but you can join me if you like. I promise I won’t disturb you.”

You sat up with a sleepy smile, letting the blanket fall to your lap. Law steeled his features, fighting against the distraction that was your rarely-worn glasses perched upon your nose, accentuating your freshly cleansed face. He’d forgotten how much he liked seeing you like this, soft and cozy, almost as if you were meant to be swaddled in his oversized clothes. You always looked pretty, but this time of night was when Law hoped to bump into you the most.

He should’ve known he’d find you awake somewhere at this time of night. Your insomnia was unrivaled, even compared to his. The first time you’d had a real conversation with him, it was around the fifth night he’d been on the ship, sometime around 3am when you’d walked in on him in the infirmary. Without missing a beat, he’d bluntly stated that you looked like you hadn’t slept in a week, to which you’d replied with a cool rebuttal that that seemed like an improvement since most of the time it could be longer than that. Interest mildly piqued, he’d invited you to come in and join him while he searched for an article that detailed the study of sleep aids. You’d sat quietly on the infirmary bed, knees up to your chest. He’d spent about 10 minutes rifling through various books until you interrupted his thoughts to ask how long he’d studied medicine.

“Since I was a child,” he’d replied in a clipped tone, halting any further discussion. He waited for you to pry, but you inquired no more about it.

“Well if it’s going to take a while to find what you’re looking for don’t worry about it. I don’t want to interrupt your studies from earlier.”

Law was nothing else if not a perfectionist, so leaving a patient untreated went against his very nature.

“Just give me a couple of days, I’ll find something for you.”

“Ok.” You’d replied, taking your leave without so much as a glance back.

Law had been utterly dumbfounded by the sterile encounter, surprised that someone as curt as you affiliated yourself with a crew like the Strawhats. You didn’t fear him, didn’t distrust him, didn’t hate him. You didn’t invade his space by being overly comfortable. You didn’t give off anything that suggested you formed any opinion of him or spared any thought of him at all. You’d just sought his help without feeling entitled to it.

A few days later he’d come to you with a medical sleep aid that he’d whipped up, and explained that it wouldn’t be a miracle cure but it would shorten the amount of days you’d go without sleep. You’d accepted it with a small thanks and turned to walk away before turning back around to address him.

“Heads up, the boys set off one of Usopp’s stink bombs outside the infirmary, so if you’re looking for a quiet place to stay tonight I suggest the library. I’ll be up there too but I won’t disturb you.”

I won’t disturb you. That was always your go to response to him. He should’ve known then that it would be different with you. With Robin, whom he’d found a quiet kinship with, it always felt like he was being observed. Law liked to observe, not be observed. Pick apart too much and he’d crack, too open and tender underneath.

With you it was more like the to and fro of the sea. You’d give a little and then pull back. Adapting to his energy and retreating when he’d had enough. He’d humor you and volley back little trinkets of himself, and in turn you’d open up a little more for him, sharing bits of yourself in exchange for what he offered you. As more time passed, those exchanges grew more hearty, rich with more substance beyond idle small talk.

Bringing himself back to the playful banter he’d overheard between you and Zoro, he felt himself deflate as he realized he’d been craving a place for himself with you that had already been filled by someone else. He didn’t hold any ill feelings towards Zoro, he just hated the feeling of something slipping away. Any good that came into his life he tended to hold on tightly to. But the bit of good he’d found in you he couldn’t even have, whether there was someone else for you or not.

Feeling restless with his thoughts he focused his attention back to you, still staring at him expectantly, awaiting his next move. You were always so patient with him, always waiting for him to respond in his own time.

Fuck the logistics of what he should and shouldn’t have. The competition of it all was more appealing anyway.

“It’s fine, you don’t bother me,” he muttered, closing the door softly behind him.

You settled back into your nest, still watching as he took a seat on the bench across from you, leaning Kikoku to the side.

“Did you want to use my blanket? Since your skin’s always so cold, probably because of that iron deficiency of yours.”

Law chuckled, shaking his head. You were always poking fun at the temperature of his skin during the brief moments you touched.

“I’ve told you before my iron levels are normal, I just run cool.”

You hummed in response, sitting back up.

“Actually, do you mind if I sit over there next to you? This vent is blowing directly on me.”

It was bullshit and he knew it. You were offering another crumb and he was fighting not to accept it. It was too tempting. Too risky. Too inappropriate. Too-

“Sure.”

Well, that fire had started nipping at his ankles after all.

You squeaked as you got up, shuffling over to him with your blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape. Taking notice of your tank top and sleep shorts he tutted.

“You know, there’s these things called pants if you ever want to try them. I heard they keep your legs warm.”

Huffing down next to him, you pulled your knees up to cross your legs.

“Ok prude. Do my legs offend you?”

Feeling the back of his neck heat, he turned to the side to place his hat down next to him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He already felt like he’d said too much, giving you an opening to taunt him. He didn’t want you to think he was shaming you, but he also didn’t mean to make any reference to your body. No matter how alluring it was.

“Well lend me some of yours then. I’m sure I’d look good in them.”

Law stiffened, choking on his saliva as he forced the visual aside. Realizing you’d given him pause, you scooted back from his space and turned to your reading.

“I thought you favored a certain swordsman’s hoodie anyway,” he quipped, mouth curling into a playful smile.

Popping your head back up, a light gasp fell from your lips and you grinned, catching his lighthearted jab.

“Sometimes I require a variety of swordsmen clothes. Makes for an eclectic wardrobe.”

“Uh huh,” he quirked a brow, returning to his book.

Setting yours aside, you moved closer to him again, leaning on his un-bandaged arm.

“What are you reading about today, Doctor?”

The intoxicating scent of your hair, sweet and fruity from all of your oils and moisturizers, curled up into his nose and found purchase in his head. You were so close. It would take nothing for him to turn to you and-

“Flesh-eating bacteria.”

“Ew,” you recoiled, wrinkling your nose. Missing your warmth, Law spread his legs further so his thigh could press against yours.

“Nothing to worry about. I have a technique that can wipe out almost every one of those bacteria in an instant.”

Wrapping your hand around his arm, you looked up at him with mischief in your eyes.

“You know, I’d love to see all of your techniques,” you purred, leaning more against him.

This was it. You were toying with him now, and that settled it. Too much had been brewing between you, and you were both alone without any prying eyes so…

You startled at the snap of him shutting his book, shifting back again.

“I’m sorry, I took that too far. I said I wouldn’t disturb you-”

Leaning over you, he cut off your apologies with his hand cupping your cheek, easing into your space. So close he could see your pulse beat against your neck.

“What are you trying to do,” he murmured, the timber of his voice filled with smoke.

“Law I…I can’t help it. You make me feel like I’ve regained a part of myself. And you’ve helped me feel…more free.”

Free. Interesting choice of words considering he’d only just regained his own freedom.

“What about him?”

You nibbled your lip, searching for a response.

“Don’t worry about that right now. I’m here with you aren’t I?”

Law took note of the giant red flag waving in his face, but he was too drunk on you to care.

“Alright.”

Pulling your face closer, he clasped his lips with yours. A sigh settled in your chest as he caressed your cheek with his thumb.

You let the blanket slip from your shoulders to wrap your hands around the back of his neck.

The angle was odd since he was facing front and you were at his side, still cross-legged, so he moved his hand down to your waist, guiding you to straddle his lap. Taking off your glasses and placing them to the side, you fell more into the kiss as you tangled your fingers into his hair, whimpering as he gripped your waist tightly, molding you against him.

After savoring the softness of your lips, Law’s mouth journeyed down to your jaw, nibbling on the soft flesh. You chased his mouth to bring it back to yours, slipping your tongue into his mouth as you shifted to situate yourself more comfortably. He groaned as he entwined his tongue with yours, your breaths colliding. He soon parted from your lips to continue his journey down to your throat, giving you a possessive bite.

You rewarded him with a shameless moan, pressing your breasts against his chest as you rocked your hips against him. He slid his hands down to grip your ass, guiding you against his growing bulge.

”Mm. Just like that baby.”

“Law, fuck.”

He smirked, licking at the raw skin of where he’d just bitten you and began littering kisses along the other side of your throat.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,” he groaned, spreading his legs wider as you ground against him. The friction in his jeans became unbearable and you pouted as he shifted you back to unzip his pants, just enough to give his cock more room. And to minimize the layers of clothes between the two of you.

You straightened your back and stared between his legs, mouth hanging open. He tried to wipe the smirk from his face but failed. Law wasn’t really a humble man, though in this instance he did try to be. He knew what he was working with, and a sick satisfaction bloomed inside him knowing you were impressed.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” he muttered, pulling you back to continue grinding on his clothed cock. Fuck, this was so much better. He could feel the heat from your core as you moved more firmly against him. Placing your arms on his shoulders, you dropped your head and whimpered, rolling your hips. Bringing one of his hands up from your waist, he tipped your head back to stare into your eyes.

“Keep your mouth on me too.”

Biting your lip, you crushed your mouth against his, winding your arms around his neck to press a palm onto the glass of the aquarium. The music you’d set still droned on, the melody of your moaning and whimpering accompanying it perfectly. Your pussy had grown wet enough that it now dampened his own underwear, and he knew he was going to lose his composure very soon. His arm wound around your middle tightened so fiercely he feared he might squeeze the life out of you. He couldn’t let you go even if he tried.

“Law, I think I-“

“Just use me, I’ll get you there.”

You placed both hands onto the glass, fully abandoning kissing him in lieu of rutting your hips against his, solely to get yourself off. He looked up to see your face, lips parted and a sheen of sweat dotting your forehead. You were beautiful. He slipped his hands beneath your shirt to cup your breasts, squeezing them and pinching your nipples to make you yelp.

“Shh, you’ve gotta be quiet. Just let go for me alright? Can you do that?”

You nosed your face into the crook of his neck, whining as you rocked your hips faster and clutched him tighter to your chest until you seized, stuttered gasps tumbling from your lips.

Law’s legs were spread impossibly wide as he used that last dregs of his energy to grip your thighs and buck against you, giving you everything he had until he grunted and spilled, pressing his face into your shoulder and groaning through his release.

As you both came down, the sounds of the music stopped. Drinking in thick gulps of air, you and him remained still, collapsed against each other. With every passing second it became more apparent that the hole he’d dug for himself crumbled deeper and deeper. He’d crossed the line. If anyone on either side found out what they’d just done it’d be tacked onto the ever growing list of bullshit he’d have to deal with. He wasn’t scared of a fight, he just hated unnecessary conflict. How was he going to face everyone tomorrow?

“You’re gonna overthink yourself into a coma aren’t you?”

You finally sat up to question him, eyebrows furrowed.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he sighed, still panting. Still wanting.

You fixed him with a hard stare, and he could see that you were fighting the urge to tell him off. He wilted as he fought the urge to pull you back as you removed yourself from his lap. Gathering up your blanket and book, you turned away and prepared to exit.

“Alright Law. Goodnight.”

There was that same curt tone you’d given him the first time you spoke. He hadn’t heard you speak to him like that in ages and it made him sink further. Your ability to give him his space, the thing he liked most about you, was the very thing that killed him in this very moment.

Buttoning his jeans back up and ignoring the mess he’d made in his boxers, he focused on your book and held out his hand.

“Room.”

As you turned back around, he’d already swapped places with your book, blocking your way to the door.

“Please.” he whispered, taking your face into his hands. When was the last time he’d said please for anything?

“Please, just be patient with me.”

Your eyes shined as you looked up at him, swirling with confusion and frustration.

“Law, I know this is fucked up,” you said, wrapping one of your hands around his, “and I know this puts you in a difficult position. I just. I just don’t care.”

He snorted as you shrugged nonchalantly, thumb rubbing against your lips as he turned you around and backed you against the door. You really were a pirate, carelessly moving to the beat of your own drum. You smiled against his thumb and gave it a peck.

“Just let me figure things out alright?”

“Ok.”

You gave him a wink and he stepped back to allow you to turn around and exit the room. He popped his head out into the hallway, watching you walk back to the women’s quarters. Just as you’d made it to the end of the hallway you collided into Zoro’s hard body, falling back from the force of the impact. He caught you around the waist, pulling you back up to hold you close to his chest. You stared at each other for a few beats before you burst into laughter, wrapping your arms around his middle and turning him around to continue walking with you. Your laughter could still be heard as the two of you rounded the corner, his arm still tightly around your waist.

Law’s mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. He was so fucked.

#myfic #Roronoa Zoro x reader #Trafalgar Law x reader #zoro x reader #law x reader #roronoa zoro #Trafalgar law #attention series

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mothhball · 4 months

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I – BIVIUM

bivium – a meeting-place of two roads

JONATHAN CRANE X FEM!READER

summary You need this internship. You're hungry for a challenge, desperate to prove yourself. Against your mentor's wishes, you applied to Arkham Asylum, aware of the risks and difficulties. But when you meet the enigmatic Dr. Crane for the internship interview, you get the feeling that this could work out nicely, after all.

warnings none aside from brief mentions and descriptions of anxiety and some bad language! enjoy a chill first chapter <3 for more general warnings for the rest of the story, please check out the masterlist

notes first multichapter thing! i'm just as scared as you guys lol this is set in the Nolanverse, but before Batman Begins, and it's gonna be a semi-slowburn (sorry haha)

! MINORS DNI !

story masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 3.9k

As expected, the rest of your week turns out to be torturous. Whenever a second of calm rears its head, you make sure to squash it immediately by thinking of the worst things that could possibly happen during the interview. Your life, your achievements, your very personality get mercilessly torn apart by your viciously overthinking brain, and you could almost scream with joy by the time Friday comes around. Finally, the wait would be over. But unfortunately, that thought is a double-edged sword. Because yes, you’ll get to prove yourself. But God, you’ll have to prove yourself. Luckily for you, your urge to get somewhere in life prevails against the wish to not be perceived at all.

It's almost comical how horrendous the weather is on your way to Arkham Asylum. It’s like someone ordered the deluxe experience, making sure to include intense rain, thunder and an additional helping of lightning that turns your car into a rolling Faraday cage, which keeps the electricity outside and your anxiety inside.

Navigating the Narrows is a challenge in itself, and a few times you have to curse under your breath and turn down the car radio in an attempt to “see better”. Then finally, the road signs start to pop up, leading you along your way like desperately needed little breadcrumbs. People usually don’t make their way into this part of Gotham without a good reason. Your good reason of the day is to market yourself as a great potential employee.

A sigh of relief escapes your dry throat when you finally turn off your motor in the Arkham parking lot. It’s not that busy, and you’re not surprised. The rumors about the institution's understaffing must’ve been an understatement. Your hand is already shaking as you reach for a water bottle. Christ, your nerves are bad today. The environment doesn’t help either. The few barren trees on the property reach up their blackened limbs like bony fingers trying to rip the clouds from the sky, and even the sparse patches of grass look almost completely desaturated. Above all, Arkham Asylum looms ahead, exuding the same energy as an ancient beast banned into the form of bricks and cement rather than a proper construction.

The building doesn't seem to be in the right place, you think to yourself. As if an architecture student misplaced their model on another's desk. A desk where the model of a haunted house was supposed to be placed instead. But once you swallow the sip of water and check yourself in the car’s rearview mirror, you decide to approach anyway. The only offering you previously sent in advance was your CV. Hopefully, it’s good enough to not let you get eaten alive by this monstrosity of an asylum. Is it just you, or does the sound of your shoes crunching on the gravel sound like chewing already?

Unfortunately, the rain doesn’t give you much of an opportunity to stall the pace of your steps, forcing you to hurry through the main entrance in favor of staying relatively dry.

The large windows of the entry hall of Arkham Asylum were meant for sunlight, you muse silently. Meant for days with better weather than Gotham could ever provide. But the construction is confined to the dirty, foggy streets of the Narrows; doomed to eternal gloom and ominous scenery.

You look and feel a little lost as you look around the room, secretly disappointed that Dr. Crane didn't make the effort to pick you up here. But you're not a victim of learned helplessness, so you decide to walk over to the reception to make yourself known.

"Excuse me?"

The receptionist looks up from the book she's reading, flipping a page as she looks at you from top to bottom and right back up to the top. You can't help but wonder how many people have withered beneath her critical eye before you came along. Maybe she has a pile of skeletons already stashed away in one of her drawers.

"You're here for the interview, right?" She concludes by herself, looking over at a list of names on her desk. The list of your competitors, no doubt. You nod, suddenly very aware of what's at stake here. You have to ace this if you don't want to be confined to a summer of endless boredom and excruciating staff meetings at Potomac.

"You're early. That's great," the receptionist drones on, sounding not too enthusiastic despite what she’s saying. "Head through this door right here. You'll get a visitor's badge after the security check. After that, head up to the third floor. The rest is pretty self-explanatory. Dr. Crane will be waiting in his office."

You manage to mutter a ‘thanks’, but she’s already immersed in her book again, obviously done with the conversation. To avoid lingering for an awkward moment too long, you immediately head through the doors and further into the building to get through the security check.

Unsurprisingly, the security protocol is pretty strict, and while your bag is being searched by one guard, you're waved through a metal detector by another. It's like a miniature TSA, and once you explain the reason for your visit, you're allowed to put your shoes and jacket back on. Getting handed the little visitor’s badge on a lanyard feels like a rite of passage, and once you hang it around your neck, you feel even more weighed down than before.

One hellish elevator ride full of janky movements and devious mechanical noises later, the antique means of transport spits you out on the third floor of Arkham Asylum. It’s eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you can hear every step of your freshly shined shoes on the linoleum floors echoing down the hallway. Up here, the absence of sunlight through the large windows is even more obvious, and the smell of petrichor and a faint hint of disinfectant add to the already dreary atmosphere. Would you really be able to last the summer in a place like this? Maybe you should’ve stuck to Potomac after all. At least that place had a well-kept garden full of rose bushes and swanky outdoor furniture sets.

The moment you regret that thought is also the moment that you realize you’re completely lost.

Every turn, every door and every hallway look the same, and the more you try to make sense of it, the more disoriented you feel. It’s like trying to run in a dream. Everything is complicated; feels slow. Fear creeps into your bones. What time is it? How long have you been wandering around? You’re going to be late for the interview. Fuck. The interview. Your internship. Your future. Dr. Crane will be disappointed. He’ll see right through you. See how scared you are. Of a fucking floor in a fucking building. You’re going to –

“Lost, are we?”

The rapidly spinning carousel of your mind immediately comes to a screeching halt due to a voice behind you, and it’s a miracle that you don’t flinch. You turn stiffly, feeling like a doll whose head has been turned by the hand of a child. Definitely the opposite of the first impression you had planned on making. Your eyes meet his, clashing with blue so icy that your fingers feel cold. The photos you saw in the newspapers failed to convey just how striking the director of Arkham Asylum truly is.

Swallowing your nerves, you force yourself to straighten up and smile, letting go of the strap of your bag that you were clutching onto like a lifeline. Confident posture, confident body language. In the eyes of any other employer, you’d look like a dream. But Dr. Jonathan Crane’s face doesn’t move a single muscle.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I am,” you admit, removing your visitor’s badge from around your neck and holding it out to him. Dr. Crane takes it, pointedly making sure that his fingers don’t touch yours. There’s a glint of recognition in his gaze when he reads your name that a security guard haphazardly wrote onto the back.

“I was on my way to your office for the internship interview, but this place is like a maze... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” Crane answers with a tiny, sardonic smile. “I was just on my way as well. And you were already heading in the right direction anyway.”

He hands you back your badge, and you return it to its rightful place around your neck. Crane gestures towards a door with its number next to it on a neat little sign. He taps it, drawing your attention to a little red stripe in the bottom left corner.

“Allow me to let you in on a little trick regarding the navigation at Arkham,” he starts, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “No matter where you are on this floor, if you follow the red stripes, you’ll end up at my office eventually. The markers alternate in direction, so it’s easy to follow once you get used to it.”

“Like a little red thread,” you muse, looking around. Now that he mentioned it, the red stripes are almost glaringly obvious. You can’t help but feel a little special, because he shared such important information with you. Even though your competitors most likely got the same treatment. “So, everything else looks identical on purpose?”

“Precisely,” Dr. Crane responds with a nod. “Sometimes, we have some… difficult patients. The need to be free is part of the human nature for most. But that doesn’t mean we should make it easy for them to escape.”

“That makes sense,” you nod back at him, resisting the urge to fidget now that his attention is back on you and no longer on the navigational system of this behemoth of a building. But the psychiatrist just motions for you to follow him, not allowing the silence to grow into something palpable that would waste his time.

“Walk with me. You know the way now.”

And so, the two of you are off, walking side by side at the pace that Crane sets for the both of you. You hurry to match his strides, making sure not to seem too eager now that you know how to find his office. To your dismay, the interview starts right this second.

“How much experience do you have?”

“I did 3 months at Potomac – “ you answer, promptly getting cut off when the director scoffs under his breath.

“So, basically none.”

Ouch. But he’s not wrong. You did learn how to navigate the rich and entitled, and you know how to keep a killer file structure now, but that’s almost it. In hindsight, Dr. Rabin underutilized you so much it should’ve been a criminal offense. You swallow your ego and agree with him, figuring it might be what he wants to hear.

“That's... pretty much what I told Professor Campbell as well.”

Dr. Crane’s brows furrow. He makes no effort to conceal his contempt for your mild-mannered mentor, sounding noticeably incredulous as he responds.

“Campbell? She's overseeing your thesis?”

You mirror his expression, but in your case, it’s due to genuine confusion.

“Yeah... I thought I wrote it in the application? Did you read it?”

“Skimmed it. I don't have much time for the menial details. Doesn’t matter. You’ve made it here regardless, haven't you? Maybe it was for the best that I skipped some parts,” he shrugs, not caring for the little frown that threatens to pull at your lips. Luckily, you manage to reign in your expression. Don’t let him get to you. This is just hazing.

“In any case, Dr. Rabin was more than happy with my work,” you counter, keeping your tone pleasant.

“Sure. What a wonderful letter of recommendation it was,” he says, sounding amused in a mocking kind of way. “But come on, we both know what kind of establishment Potomac is. That's why you're here, isn't it? To have a challenge. To actually make an impact.”

This makes you stop in your tracks in the middle of the hallway, forcing Crane to pause along with you. As much as you’re trying to hide that small feeling of triumph, it’s easy to tell from the glint in your eyes that you see this as a little personal victory.

“So, you did read my motivational letter,” you conclude, raising an eyebrow.

You swear the corners of his lips twitch upwards for a split second. Whether that’s in amusement or disgust at your audacity, you’re not quite sure. From what you know about Crane (which is, admittedly, not much), you decide on the latter. But to your surprise, he quips back in that rumbly baritone, making a point to clasp his hands behind his back.

“Might've been one of the sections I skimmed more closely,” he shrugs, briefly looking away from you to notice a stack of files that a passing nurse is carrying. Nosy. Or just used to being involved in everyone’s business. Letting out a sigh, he continues, dragging his eyes back to meet yours.

“Truthfully, I believe those motivational statements are the most important part. Not grades, not recommendations. They look nice on paper, yes. But at the end of the day, I've had interns here with a perfect GPA, glowing reviews from paper-pushing professors like your dear Ms. Campbell, and you know what? Those precious show horses barely lasted a month. Because Arkham chewed them up and spat them out like the gum under those dreadful desks in the Gotham U lecture halls.”

The comparison is fitting, and you cringe a little when you remember the last time you accidentally touched one of those forgotten, dried-up clumps of a stranger’s saliva and polymers.

“Well, I might not be a show horse, but I’m certain that I could jump any hurdle you put in front of me.”

“Delightfully ambitious. But I make sure to stack those hurdles high.” His expression tells you that he’s in no way joking around, and you swallow dryly as the two of you reach his office, and he lets you go in first.

The office is cold and impersonal. No plants, no decorations. No family photos on his desk or frames on the walls aside from his degrees. Rows of filing cabinets are filling out the room, as well as a large bookshelf that’s seemingly overflowing with literature. Some of the books have been handled and read so often that the spines are cracked and withered, almost making you empathize with them.

The faint smell of coffee, cologne and chemicals hangs in the air, and the curtains are drawn, making the office seem even darker and isolated than it already is. Crane seems to exude the spirit of the asylum as well, living and breathing the ominous gloom. The doctor steps past you, pushing several empty cups to the side, but not bothering with the stack of folders that’s also cluttering the space. Busy. Or counting on someone else to sort his mess and his thoughts.

"Sit,” he says, pointing at the empty chair in front of his desk.

You know it’s not an offer. It’s a command. And you immediately comply, eager to please the man who holds the cards regarding your future. Setting your bag down next to your feet, you mentally anticipate his next words.

"Go on, then. Tell me about yourself."

You straighten up in your seat, already prepared for this question, so you rattle off the main facts. Your name, age, and main areas of interest when it comes to psychology. Hell, you even mention the high school you went to, even though it's been ages. As soon as you mention Potomac, Dr. Crane holds up a hand to stop you.

"Thank you. That's enough, I suppose. No need to tell me how you wasted your time there."

He flips through a file, letting you stew in the awkward silence for a solid minute before he sees it fit to show mercy.

"Could I ask you some personal questions? We’re looking for a specific type of person, after all," he says, looking up from the document. "So, I'm afraid that the shallow chit-chat won't suffice."

“Of course,” you nod, making sure your smile stays relaxed and pleasant.

Crane picks a pen out of a pencil holder on his desk, clicking it twice before he puts it to the paper that you now recognize as your CV and application letter. The psychiatrist clears his throat and rattles off some more of the standard questions. How well do you work under pressure? Which meds do you currently take? How frequently do you consume alcohol and other recreational drugs?

You manage to elegantly fight your way through your answers, sprinkling in a few white lies here and there. There’s no way you’d tell a potential employer about your preference for tequila or how many times you’ve cried after a long day of work and uni. Your secrets are yours. So, you tell him that you work excellently under pressure and only drink very occasionally. What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over. Or whatever. His second to last question, however, makes you pause a little.

“What is your current living situation and relationship status?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment before Dr. Crane feels the need to clarify.

“Our interns usually have a rather tight schedule, and since the work with humans has the tendency to be a little unpredictable, it’s good to know how long the drive here usually is. In case it’s an emergency and we’ll have to wait for you. As for my inquiry about a potential partner, it’s useful to know how much time personal matters would take up in your life.”

You shift in your seat, chewing on the inside of your lip for a second before you mentally reprimand yourself for such a nervous gesture.

“I’m currently living with my boyfriend. We’re renting an apartment in Haysville.”

“Haysville…,” Crane thinks out loud, visualizing a map of Gotham in his head. “That’s quite a drive, though. Isn’t it?”

“The drive won’t be a problem,” you assure him, silently hoping and praying that this tiny detail didn’t just ruin your chances completely. “I have a car. And… if I leave home early enough, I can avoid traffic.”

You’re met with silence as Dr. Crane takes a moment to write something down on your printed-out CV. You absolutely despise that you can’t decipher his handwriting from where you’re sitting. You despise that you don’t know what he’s thinking. And you despise yourself for living in Haysville of all places, instead of in the damn parking lot of the asylum, so you’d always be available. In that world, there’d be no argument against you. In that world, you wouldn’t overthink the barely five seconds of silence that settled between Crane and yourself.

Finally, he lifts his gaze to meet yours once more.

“I must admit, everything so far sounds quite promising. I shouldn’t be saying this, but I’m quite optimistic that you’ll hear back from us.” He doesn’t smile, and there’s no warmth in his voice, but his words are like liquid gold dripping right into your ears. “In the event that you're accepted for one of the three internship spots, you’ll receive an envelope. That’ll be quite thick since it will contain your contract as well as an NDA and some additional paperwork.”

Your face lights up like a Christmas tree, and your mouth opens and closes a few times before you find the words to speak.

“That… would be absolutely incredible.”

“Now, now,” he lifts his hand, already stopping you before you’re too far gone over the moon. “This isn’t a ‘yes’ quite yet. I’ll hand my opinion over to the rest of the staff, and they’ll decide whether to give you a spot. They’re the ones with whom you’ll be primarily working, after all.”

He seems to think about his own words for a beat, considering what your role would be at Arkham Asylum. But you don’t really care. Even just a positive statement from him could be crucial.

“Regardless,” you say, unable to keep your smile from growing. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Dr. Crane. I can only assume how busy you must be on a daily basis.”

This seems to snap him out of his own thoughts, and he nods stiffly, clearing his throat as he fixes his tie.

“Incredibly busy, yes. So, I won’t keep either of us any longer.”

He gets up from his seat before you do, guiding you to the door but staying behind in his office. Whatever he thought about just a moment ago, it seems to have shifted his mood ever so slightly.

“You’ll find your way back to the elevator by yourself, right?” he asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow, which causes you to nod quickly.

“Yes. Just… the whole thing in reverse.”

He nods in response, not stepping out into the hallway with you.

“Good. Enjoy the rest of your day. And… expect mail from us. Maybe I’ll see you around in the future.”

You barely have time to say goodbye before he closes the door to his office, leaving you standing by yourself. Strange. But it matches his reputation, you suppose.

The way back to the elevator seems much more logical this time, and you can’t help but feel a little proud of yourself for remembering how to navigate the hallways now. Even the diabolical rattling as you descend back to the ground floor can’t wipe the smile off your face.

Dr. Crane’s words gave you hope and a surge of confidence, and as you hand your visitor’s badge back to security and leave the asylum, you feel accomplished. Satisfied with how the interview went. Back in your car, you check your rearview mirror once more, making sure you didn’t have anything on your face the entire time before the motor hums to life, and you back out of your parking spot.

The drive back to your apartment would almost be peaceful if it wasn’t for the last bits of excess adrenaline that are still rushing through your veins. Your hands shake a little every time you turn the steering wheel or reach for the dials of the radio, and once you’re finally safe and sound with in your own home, you sink down to your knees and let out a sigh that comes from the deepest depths of your soul. Relief. But not entirely. The next few days would be a test of patience and endurance. But you’re good at playing the waiting game.

Each day, you throw a longing glance at the mailbox in the shabby lobby of your apartment building, only to get disappointed once more. Days turn into a week, and you’ve almost given up hope when, one day, your boyfriend comes home with a stack of mail under his arm. The Arkham logo is peeking through behind a few bills and ads, and you recognize it instantly. This is it.

Like a vulture, you snatch the letter from your boyfriend’s hands, earning a disgruntled noise in response that you couldn’t care less about if you tried. The envelope rips under your impatient hands, and you immediately skim through the letter, searching for the magical words without realizing how thin it is.

Dear Miss…

… we hope this letter finds you well….

… thank you for applying…

… unfortunately…

… large number of applicants…

… must hereby reject…

… best wishes…

… better luck next time…

The silence in your living room is deafening, and you can hear your pulse in your ears. The floor feels like it's going to crumble beneath your feet.

Better luck next time.

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#jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane x y/n #cillian murphy #the scarecrow x reader #scarecrow x reader #.moth writes

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kohakurin8 · 3 months

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~ Elevator Hitch ~

What Does it All Mean!?

A brief theory on the symbolism and lore behind a really cool game

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

This post will contain SPOILERS for the game and all 14 endings. If you wish to play Elevator Hitch before reading, you can download it for free at this link.

So, Where do we begin?

Elevator Hitch is a really cool isolated-loop surreal horror game. For those of you who aren't familiar with this concept, an "isolated-loop" is a time-loop scenario which only affects a single person, small group of people, single room, etc. — but does NOT affect the entire world or universe. This is where it's common to see things like acquiring an item in your inventory, getting murdered, then waking up again at the beginning of the day with the item still in your inventory.

This concept has been used in various different media, and to varying different degrees of complexity. But, honestly, I think this game is my favorite instance of it so far.

So our story revolves around Protag, a somewhat meek and nervous lil guy who comes to this office building to take an interview for a new job. All he knows is that his interview isn't on the first floor, so he gets in the elevator in an attempt to find it. Before the door closes, Coworker forces his way in, and the elevator suddenly shorts out and jams before you two can begin your journey. The rest of the game is your various attempts to exit the elevator (alive) which get increasingly bizarre — especially after Protag realizes that whenever he dies, time restarts to when they first entered the elevator!

Shame Coworker doesn't seem to remember anything, though...

Now, since the lore within the game is pretty cryptic, none of our questions about the situation ever seem to get totally answered. It's up to the player to theorize and surmise just what exactly is happening to Protag and Coworker, and that's exactly what I've come here to do.

Death and Clues on Every Floor...

Literally! Every floor is a single room containing at least 1 clue, and at least 1 possible death — including the elevator itself. But what's even more important than that is the lore that all of these scenes show you.

Interestingly enough, the lore all seems to revolve around who Protag is as a person, to the point that one of the floors is actually his childhood bedroom.

Kind of intriguing that everything about this environment is centered around him, huh?

Hold onto that thought.

Every room and scenario is increasingly more bizarre, featuring anything from Eldritch-esque beings to settings that could almost pass for torture chambers. Every puzzle requires something from a different floor, making it ridiculously easy to screw up and croak, meanwhile Coworker is so maddeningly unaware that even when he tries to offer advice it's just as cryptic as the situation itself.

It all feels a lot... Like Hell...

Not just as an expression, but actual Hell. Mind rending stimuli navigated through tedious puzzle solving, where the penalty is gruesome death and the only reward is more torture. A neverending loop of suffering and confusion. It's all quite hellish!

At first this feels a bit superficial. "Of course it's hellish, this is a horror game!" But, honestly, good horror like this game is rarely ever bizarre and incomprehensible for the sheer shock value. If all of these allusions were superficial, why would we have such a detailed and cryptic conversation with Manuel, the maintenance worker?

Why would every single "correct answer" to the puzzles have sinister undertones?

Why would the religious subtext in Protag's room be so subtle and yet so distinct at the same time?

So if we humour ourselves and follow this train of thought then that leads one to wonder...

Why would Protag be in Hell?

Good question! After all, he doesn't even seem to be aware of having any initial death!

But, we are given breadcrumbs to what sort of person Protag is through the various different scenarios that ensue. Some things are minor details, like his lack of remorse for feeding an innocent rat to a hungry black hole. Others are more intense and significant, like the clues in his bedroom...

Let's start with pointing out the obvious direction that Protag's dialogue trees nudge you in.

After all, this game is a visual novel, so of course there are points when your dialogue options matter and can very well change the outcome of the situation. However, most VNs have options that are distinctly "good" or "bad" for the story directions, often leading the player on a journey of teaching the protagonist how to be a better person.

But Protag.... doesn't become better...

All of his dialogue options are either:

• Confusion, Frustration, Disbelief

• Self-Deprecating, Meek

• Deceptive

• Lashing Out

Obviously some of these options are better for certain scenarios. Deceiving Coworker into giving you his lighter is a way better idea than trying to steal it and burning you both to death.

And deceiving your Doppelgangers into trusting you before your brutal betrayal is arguably better than trusting them and getting betrayed in return.

But none of these options point to Protag being a good person. As much as he learns to adapt to his environment, nothing he does teaches him how to be a better person than he started out as. In fact, some of them even lead him to commit murder himself!

Of course, this isn't saying that Protag is necessarily a bad person either. After all, his initial reaction to the Doppelgangers is to trust them and even show them pity.

We also get a lot of information about Protag from the floor that mimics his childhood bedroom. He was monitored constantly by overbearing and religious parents, to the point that one of the Bad Ends is his parents entering the room.

He couldn't sleep, plagued by nightmarish beings which he even made drawings of, and had to take sleeping pills just to cope (which may or may not have been hidden from his parents as well)

Considering this, and just the sheer amount of existential dread Protag has upon visiting this floor, it's very possible that his parents were abusive. His personality issues are probably a result of that abuse, meaning even though he isn't necessarily a good person, he also isn't inherently a bad one.

The Allusions of Suicide...

This should honestly come as no surprise, but this game does have a lot of potential allusions to suicide. Especially when taking into account what suicide means in Christianity...

I first noticed this in the dialogue on Floor 9 with Normal Guy, as well as the dialogue contained in Ending 13 (screenshot above). During the interview on Floor 9, Protag seems to struggle with answering most of the questions. When asked why he wanted a new job, all of the answers imply that he doesn't actually know why, and when asked why he left his old job, Protag states that "it wasn't a Real Job" or at least not one viewed as respectable.

Then, when attempting to leave the Lobby on Floor 1, Protag is blocked by an alarming figure who berates him. The figure taunts Protag with phrases he's likely told himself, like "you worked so hard to get here" and especially "you NEED this job"

Now, this game absolutely LOVES its workplace puns, and something about these ones just struck me as significant. Upon further reflection on everything going on, I realized that these phrases are almost synonymous with suicidal thoughts.

As someone who's experienced this myself, I understand that a lot of suicidal thoughts are rooted more in the desire for change, and not the desire for death. So consider this...

Protag isn't looking for a new job, he's looking for a new life. His old life didn't feel "real" or "respectable", likely because of whatever abuse he endured from his parents. After all, his childhood bedroom is described by him as his "old place", meaning he likely was living with his parents until somewhat recently.

So then when he finally passes the interview — passes this hellish elevator trial of self-discovery — and tries to flee, he's stopped by the thoughts of regret for taking his own life.

"You worked so hard for this new life, why are you throwing it away?"

"You NEED this change."

"You can't go back to what you were before."

Then there's the Sleeping Pill found in Protag's bedroom. It's not found in a pill bottle or any other typical storage, but rather it's under the bedsheets. This gives the impression that the pill either fell out of Protag's hand in bed, or that he was hiding the pills from his overbearing parents.

Then there's the fact that sleeping pills are a very common medium for attempted suicide.

This leads me to suspect that Protag either overdosed in an attempted suicide as a child, causing his parents to become even more protective.

Or... This is how Protag ended up at the office building in the first place...

Welcome to Protag's Purgatory

Yeah, you may have guessed it already, but I am in fact suggesting that Protag has committed suicide and is currently trapped in Purgatory. After all, if you consider the distinct hint at his religious background, it's not unlikely to be following the Christian belief that suicide will condemn you to Purgatory. In fact, the opening of the game, where Protag feels like the only one who doesn't know where he's going, is a reference to the nature of Purgatory.

Consider, also, the nature of the game. Everything you do in it is a sort of trial, and it all tests the nature of Protag's true self. Not to mention that Purgatory is an unchanging limbo, just as the game paints a picture of an unending time-loop on repeat.

Protag took his own life, and his penance is to be trapped in an unending trial of self-discovery. Floor 9 resembles Heaven, like Cloud 9, where Protag is administered one final test. Normal Guy gives Protag the option to have become a better person, and possibly pass on to a better afterlife, however our dialogue tree tells us that Protag hasn't reached that level of self acceptance yet.

Therefore, the only options are what appears to be working in Purgatory (possibly like Manuel), enduring the trial over and over again, or as hinted by the eerie staircase downward in Ending 14, descent into Hell...

You're probably wondering if this theory accounts for Coworker, and it certainly does. After all, he seems rather unperturbed by the events he's undergone. I suspect he also committed suicide, but didn't have the same background of religious guilt that Protag had growing up. Coworker knows that he's supposed to go to the top, that he's supposed to pass on. He's at peace with who he is and where he's going, therefore he doesn't endure the same personal torture that Protag does.

No matter what ending you get in Elevator Hitch, nothing truly changes for Protag, because he himself hasn't changed. It's possible that there is some sort of future where Protag can change and move on — in fact, Normal Guy even hints that speaking to Coworker more could be the key to his salvation — but this possible future is one we will never see.

Because that's not the point of the game. The point is to become immersed in the torture which Protag goes through, and to try and unravel the mysteries of who he is and what he's enduring.

So there's my thoughts on the game. I hope you all enjoyed reading, and I'd love to hear any comments or input you have!

#elevator hitch #studio investigrave #racheldrawsthis #indie horror game #game theories #analysis #itch.io #elevator hitch protag #coworker elevator hitch #normal guy #this took two days to write help

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soapoet · 1 year

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PJO pick-a-card reading

Will Solace; What you need to know right now

01.

Your luck is increasing, and you may even find it suspicious because things rarely go your way. Yet something seems to have shifted. The sun is at last shining and helping your crops grow and bud and bloom, your manifestations popping up like spring flowers. The sun is shining upon you too, and you are glowing. You're attracting people and opportunities alike, and the air feels crisp and fresh like after a fall of rain, and you're finding the motivation to push your projects along. And the push is paying off now, and you have more certainty in the direction you're going in, and perhaps even found a different way to approach matters previously proven to be a hindrance to how you operate. Things feel more natural, not forced.

Dare to ask, because now ye shall receive with ease. You'll feel lighter and brighter, and find charm and beauty in your reflection and your work where previously you saw flaws. You're kinder to yourself and others, place yourself above all as intended without feeling selfish for it. You're finding horizons easier to expand upon and more readily attract what you want and need. You have solutions to problems of both yourself and others, seemingly carrying missing pieces to many puzzles in your pockets. Make use of them now, and do not hesitate to lend a helping hand or encouraging word to those less fortunate.

02.

Thing are taking quite the nose dive, but fret not, for help is on the way. The landing won't be smooth, but there will be survivors. Accept the help when it arrives and stand up for yourself boldly in the face of injustice. You need not carry your burdens all alone, and new or unexpected help is soon to walk in to assist in carrying them onwards. Task management especially will be made easier, and you will have a clearer understanding of what to do and where to go and who to speak to. You may experience a stroke of luck in the most unexpected situation, or when most needed. Try your best to keep your head above water and do not let yourself be dragged down by despair to the depths. There is no need for you to return to rock bottom anymore.

It is always darkest before dawn, so hang in there. You're more resilient than you give yourself credit for. Avoid getting fixated on minute details and ignore any issue that is small in the grand scheme of things. When you feel like you're drowning you must remain calm and focus solely on staying afloat. Preserve your energy for the hardest battles and know that you won't have to struggle on your own for long. Reach out for help in earnest when you cannot move forward, and do not minimise your struggles. Instead be honest in how dire your situation really is so that others can truly understand the urgency. This is not the time to make yourself small or tiptoe around the problem and drop hints like breadcrumbs.

03.

The time has come, which may concern you, though you knew in your heart all along it was inevitable. It's time for a leap of faith, and a new beginning. Sudden shifts and changes are being unleashed, but you're more than capable of navigating these new currents. It can seem as though you're receiving justice, a revisit to a previous chapter left without closure, with words unsaid and actions undone. You have more confidence now, the amount needed to face this. Life may take quite the unexpected turn as a result of your newfound power as you get to rewrite the past and set in motion the next chapter to embark on. Ghosts from the path now walk among the living and you fear them no longer.

Trust your intuition, it won't lead you astray. New beginnings are afoot, some with these very ghosts from your past, and some with people who to you feel otherwise blurry and without edges. Those who you have previously failed to get a hold of and read properly, who left you feeling uncertain or incapable of pursuit. Mixed signals are removed as the frequency of the radio finally aligns and you hear them clearly, enough to judge the situation and say your piece. You're better able to strike and communicate your side, your thoughts and feelings, and set things up to really begin working in your favour after such a long period of stagnation, uncertainty, and indecision.

#pac reading #will solace #energy reading #pick a card reading #intuitive reading #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a picture #tarotblr #soapy.post

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pedge-stuff · 1 year

Note

Hey... can I request a pedro × reader please?

They making dinner together and things get hot and heavy in the between

normal night (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.

thanks, as always, for everything.

obligatory warning: light smut, allusions to romance

summary: no such thing as a "normal night," apparently.

—————————————————————————

Normalcy is such a fucking privilege.

It's all you can think about, salting thin strips of eggplant over a colander in the sink. Something about bitterness, or moisture. There'd been a whole article about it in the Sunday Times a while back, and Pedro had sworn its effectiveness since.

Your excitement was almost comical. Here you were, practically vibrating in anticipation of something that most people experience nightly: a home cooked meal with your partner. Eggplant parm, a side salad, and a bottle of red wine. That's all.

It's a rarity, though. Pedro in New York while you're off work and neither of you have any meetings or appointments past 5pm. He'd had a late-afternoon coffee with an old NYU classmate, but based on FindMyFriends, he was already headed back. You'd been looking forward to it all day— the kind of normal evening that most people take for granted.

You've got the radio on, albeit playing from the speakers of your laptop. Email up, but minimized— 5pm was a strict deadline tonight. No work. Just salting eggplant and stirring the simmering pot of tomato sauce on the burner.

The jangle of keys in the lock has you grinning.

"Hey!" Pedro calls. It's a little silly, how your heart still flutters, all this time later.

Arms wrap around your middle from behind. Squeeze tight for a moment, just the way you like, ribs compressed by the strong swell of his biceps. A scruffy cheek tickles the base of your neck as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, placing a kiss over the fabric of your sweater.

"Hi baby," you hum, leaning back into the embrace. There is coffee on his breath, and traces of citrusy cologne on his collar. "Have a good afternoon?"

"Mhmm." The affirmative rumbles from his chest, against your back. "Smells good in here," he offers, kissing your cheek before pulling away. "What can I do?"

There is a light blush to his cheeks; a tad too much sun today. He refuses to wear sunscreen, claims Chilean blood and four decades in tropical climates, and often pays the price for his confidence.

"Open the wine," you instruct, replacing the lid on the sauce pot. Turning the tap on, over the colander, you make quick work of rinsing the eggplant.

You don't dance, but the way that you navigate the kitchen around each other feels choreographed. He hands you a bowl without looking, for the breadcrumbs, as you pass the bottle of wine. The music has him swinging his hips, just a little.

It didn't use to feel this comfortable. In the early weeks of your mark-match, Pedro's house felt more like a museum; you sat stiffly on the couch, afraid to so much as muss the pillows, or use the wrong water glass. Afraid any little thing would break the illusion of bliss that had enveloped you both. It is easy now, to look back and laugh.

Pedro winks at you, pulling the last of the cork from the bottle with his teeth. A new little trick. You can't help the rush of warmth that spreads through you.

"What next?" He passes you a glass, which you tap lightly against his.

A glance at the timer on the oven. At the stairs, through the back doorway to the kitchen. At the hollow of his throat, flushed with the warmth of the kitchen, unblemished. His two sweatshirts are two too many.

"I think everything's good in here," you manage, closing the distance between you. Worm a hand beneath the layers to splay across the hot skin of his stomach. "We've got some time."

— — —

Dinner does not burn, thank god, though the side salad had to be abandoned for time. The sleeves of Pedro's pajama shirt are soaked with pasta water, and your flannel bottoms have somehow caught a streak of tomato sauce, but the choice to change into comfy clothes was ultimately a win.

You settle at the table, pleasantly warm from the wine. If your jaw is a little sore from the pre-dinner palate cleanser, well, the eggplant won't be tough to chew.

Though the evening has been nothing but relaxing, something has Pedro agitated. He'd been fine, earlier, but now he can hardly sit still. There's a nervous downturn to the corner of his mouth; mustache twitching slightly while he fiddles with the silverware.

"You can say no," he starts, which is never a good sign. You can say no typically precludes +1 invitations to stuffy industry events, or equally unpleasant obligations at which he wants company. (Of course, you don't usually say no. But, still...)

The distinct lack of eye contact is making you sweat. He's staring at his plate like the eggplant owes him a grave debt.

"Pedge." You reach to still his hand, gently squeezing until he looks up. "Whatever it is, you know I'll say yes."

"I want you to mean it, though." A pause, as Pedro pulls your hand to his lips, placing a kiss to the center of your palm. "I don't want you to say yes for the sake of saying yes."

"I won't. You're scaring me a bit, though. Are we hiding a body? "

His laugh is strained. "No, no. Sorry. Sorry, this is— I didn't want it to— ugh," he shakes his head. "Can we start over?"

Before you can respond, he pushes back in his chair, rising from the table. Pats himself down, fumbles to find something in his back pocket. Takes a deep breath, and—

Oh.

Beside you, right at the kitchen table, between the dog bowls and the sink full of dirty pots and pans, Pedro drops to one knee.

"Pedro—"

"I said I was gonna prepare a whole thing," he mumbles, "but I don't think I can wait any longer. Also figured you'd kill me if it became a spectacle."

It is your turn to laugh, wetly, choked on the lump that has formed in the back of your throat.

"I know we're marked, and we live together, and have two dumb little dogs, and more or less already act like an old married couple. I just thought maybe filing joint taxes could be cool, too."

Pedro sniffs, swiping once at under his eye with the hand that also holds a small velvet pouch. "Waited a long, long time to meet you. Kinda gave up on the mark altogether. But it was worth it, all the waiting. I would very, very much like to spend the rest of my life with you. And then some."

You're on the floor before you feel yourself move, kneeling before him. Cup his face in your hands. Brush away another errant tear that's spilled from the corner of his eye. This sweet fucking man.

"I love you," Pedro says quietly. "More than I ever thought possible."

"I love you, too." His lips are dry and warm when you press a chaste kiss against them. "Thank you for waiting for me."

You move to stand up. "Come on, your knees must be killing you."

"I need to ask the question!" He pouts.

"Oops, sorry. Please continue, Mr. Pascal."

"Balmaceda Pascal, thank you."

"I don't think we can hyphenate, babe, it's gonna be too long. They'll run out of room on the certificate."

"We can't get the certificate if you don't let me ask you this damn question!"

Finally, carefully, a gold band is extracted from the velvet bag. Simple, but stunning. Two stones are pressed to the center, small, side-by-side. "They're, uh, our birthstones," he says quietly. "But we can change it if you don't like it, it's OK."

You shake your head, unable to form a coherent word around the swell of your heart, threatening to choke you.

"The parm's gonna get cold," Pedro exhales shakily, locking eyes. "So I was wondering if you would do me the honor of marrying me?"

It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with your stupid heart. But when it does, you're already moving from the kitchen, to the back doorway. Pedro, rising from the floor, looks fucking confused.

"One sec, one sec," you call, taking the stairs two at a time.

After a moment, you return, box in hand. "I've been carrying this around since May. Sit down."

Stunned, Pedro obliges.

"To answer your question," you start, lowering to replicate his kneeling position, "I have a proposition. I'll marry you if you marry me."

Inside the box, another gold ring. You remove it with a shockingly steady hand.

Pedro pauses, eyes catching on something: a familiar date, engraved on the inside of the ring. Without his cheaters, he is forced to hold the ring away from his face, squinting at the numbers.

"Is this..."

"The day I knocked."

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slowd1ving · 28 days

Text

[XENIA] SNIPPET ゜・DG

part of a request (I'm alive and kicking I just couldn't write because I had no access to my laptop)

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Creators.

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you.

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow.

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head.

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised.

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat.

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?”

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets.

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness.

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this.

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years.

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream.

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself.

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself.

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him.

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead.

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi.

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation.

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response.

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in.

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake.

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind.

Out of hatred, obviously.

#slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #x reader #male reader #x male reader #ask slowd1ving #anon request #requested #lookism #lookism x male reader #lookism manhwa #manhwa x reader #manhwa x male reader #dg x reader #james lee x reader #pre dg james lee

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