#and even if he is repressing the way he feels there must be consequences to that

[fiveeeee]

i think ppl forget sometimes that ppl who genuinely do not feel emotions do not do much of anything, bc u need emotions to feel motivated to do things and make many decisions. not feeling anything are characteristics of depression and schizoid personality disorder and both are characterized by lack of drive to do much of anything. often ppl use emotionless as short for smart and cold but truthfully those ppl are not emotionless, they must be motivated by something whether curiosity or fear or a sense of utilitarian morality.

and i think also ppl forget there is a price for repressing ur emotions. that shit is incredibly taxing on ur body, incredibly stressful. it will straight up make u sick. so all of this must be considered when u have a character that doesnt express themself much.

[r--kt]

Where actually was this betrayal line for Obito that Kakashi had crossed?

about the whole "anyone got Kakashi, but not Obito" thing that @komihoyinsblog said. I remembered where the culmination of this theme was. no, like, this whole topic is real!

let's talk about the scene after when Jubito was defeated. here I will analyse kkobkk relationships and Obito's arc specifically.

contents | context · meaning of the scene · where's a mistake and where's a betrayal

CH. 655

Context

during the battle with the shinobi alliance, Obito came face to face with a deeply repressed desire for another life, which he did not realize due to his position as the only one who can fulfill the tsukuyomi plan. the battle itself as well as the conversation with Naruto reminds Obito of the aspirations and values dear to him that he had to sacrifice. all this has noticeably hit Obito and now he is disarmed and stripped of his armor, which is metaphorically reflected in his half-naked body (and cuz fans love men's boobs).

CH. 652. god, look how happy he is, I'm sobbing. love the way he never regrets about his scars, they're with him even in his imagination, that's a reminder of his core values.

structurally, in Obito's arc, this scene is the Collapse point and the end of the second act. here, the previous methods (the tsukuyomi plan) have shown their inconsistency, and the goal (peace for everyone and for him, too) has not been achieved, and he must find a new way to achieve this goal. at the beginning of the scene, he is confused, defeated and not ready to face the consequences.

why isn't he ready? he's lying there, seemingly resigned. yeah, not exactly. here, he accepted the impending death, and it's even not bad to die by Kakashi's hand to some extent. another question is, is he ready to talk to him, is he ready to accept the defeat and find the strength to continue the journey?

Meaning of the scene

once again, it is important that the battle with the alliance and the conversation with Naruto influenced Obito, but did not convince him. it was Kakashi who did it.

in fact, this conversation with Kakashi is a crucial reason for Obito to return to his ideals. before that, he was in doubt (the second act is a reflection of the character, as if hesitating from one side to the other), and after that he takes the side of the alliance. what did Kakashi say that made Obito come back?

three questions Obito is asking.

how can you be sure that Naruto won't fail on his way, unlike me? [pic 2, above]

why are you so attached to Naruto, what's the difference between him and me? [pic below]

why are you willing to help him (and not me)? [pic below]

they don't talk about different paths here. Kakashi emphasizes that Obito's path is not exactly wrong, so that's not the deal. it's about Obito and Naruto as people, and, more, about Kakashi's opinion on Obito.

finding out why he is not the one whose path Kakashi is ready to defend is essential for Obito. he wants to understand why Naruto (aka Obito's previous self, too) is closer to him, why Kakashi does not support the actual one for whom he grieved so much. why, even recognizing the possible correctness of tsukuyomi, Kakashi refuses to support Obito in this, prefers to go the same way. and also look at how damn emotional he is at this moment, his feelings go from anger to anxiety in a couple of frames. that's what happened when the central conflict "I'm never good enough to be loved" is raised.

Obito's questions are a subconscious appeal to Kakashi — "why don't you choose me? I could make you happy. what's wrong with me again?!" he thinks that the reason Kakashi doesn't take his side is not because of the correctness of his path, but because of Obito himself. subconsciously, he thinks that it's because of Kakashi's personal dislike of this "new" Obito, and he is very afraid of this might be true. just look at his face at the bottom of the page, he's really worried about hearing Kakashi's answer. oh, and it's actually the same meaning as "I thought, maybe you could love me like you used to, even though I'm different" [ Jinx's quote from Arcane, yes, I like to compare these two sometimes ].

what Kakashi says in this situation means "let me help you." Kakashi said he would be ready to help Obito if he let him in, if he allowed him. this is literally the only condition (which is important to mention here) under which Obito did not pass, because of his desire to reject Kakashi's help, believing that he must put his life on tsukuyomi plan and cut off all ties. but this does not mean that he wanted Kakashi to cut off this tie in return.

Obito was an individualist, and he only scoffed or got angry at Kakashi's offer to help/sympathize. now they're in a situation when Obito finally hear that Kakashi said "you've made mistakes, but that's okay. I can be with you, if you need me to, and I'm okay with you continuing your life and reaching peace. I accept you and I believe in you." and I want you to appreciate that this is the tipping point of Obito's arc.

so, that's why Obito changes his way of acting. Kakashi shows that he accepts Obito the way he is, and thus significantly reduces Obito's need to prove his worth through his own hardships and overcoming difficulties. yes, Kakashi had already said similar things before, and it didn't work, but here this line is resolved precisely because of this deep conversation they had.

Where's a mistake and where's a betrayal

oh, maybe Rin's death was a thing Obito considered a betrayal from Kakashi's part? everything's much less trivial. would he offer to help Kakashi if he thought he was a traitor? and well, he offered.

CH. 630

no, look at his face on the bottom right, why would you say that with such a gentle face to someone you consider a traitor? what is it, a genuine smile? so something happened besides that.

the betrayal was that Kakashi preferred his other ties to the connection with Obito. here, betrayal is not about killing Rin, and not about breaking a promise — all these are mistakes that Obito is able to forgive.

all the moments when Obito says something like "you had the opportunity to kill me, but you didn't do it", "you can't deal with me because of guilt?", "still blaming yourself for the broken promises?" - all this is an attempt to increase his own value, to show the importance of Obito for Kakashi. and it's also a projection. Obito says, "you had so many opportunities to kill me, but you..." although he does the same. like, why would he leave Kakashi alive after the kamui battle? intentionally inflict a non-fatal wound on him and leave him in a dimension that only he and Obito have access to? "I don't care if he's alive or dead," but at every opportunity he chose the option "alive", even if it's less profitable for him. my baby loves to deceive himself so much.

all this time, Obito believed that he was striving for their common dream, and therefore the condemnation from Kakashi (there should be a couple more frames from the manga) feels like the most painful blow for him, especially when Kakashi says that Rin would not want it either. before that, Obito had compared himself and Kakashi a couple of times, put them on an equal footing, and after being rejected by him, that's where Obito feels really lonely.

the point of no return was precisely the fact that Kakashi shows with his own words that he does not accept the current Obito and everything he's been striving for years. all this, taken together, he considered a betrayal, as if he's not enough, as if he fucked everything up again.

therefore, their conflict is resolved by the acceptance of one person by another, this is in fact exactly what Obito's heart wanted — to hear that he could be accepted after all that had happened. the same thing happened after his death, when he finally met Rin, by the way.

hope the text is not that messy. oh, and! that kkob video I've made with mitski's song. this fits the topic so well. love these guys

[actual-changeling]

Do you think Crowley would be more emotionally open without Aziraphale? I’ve never thought about it, but I’ve just read the tags of your last ask and now I’m really interested

Short answer? Yes, absolutely.

Long answer? Also yes, but it's complicated. <- past me was correct, this got very long, my apologies.

What-if scenarios are always part canonical evidence/part subjective interpretation, because the only Crowley we know is the one who spent six thousand years orbiting Aziraphale.

Still, there was a pre-Aziraphale him, up until Job I presume, which is when they started being lonely together, and we do see what they were like!

The Starmaker is his 'before', the being he was before the doubt, the war, the fall. Before hell and the garden and Aziraphale. She is the blueprint the Crowley we know is built on. In the short time we have with her, she's incredibly emotive—with both positive and negative emotions—and her body language is soft, almost fluid.

Showing emotions is simply a natural part of being a person, and what exactly that looks like obviously varies; but this angel has never been punished for doing so. There are no consequences, it's safe to exist however she wants (though not much longer).

After this, we get Crawley what I assume is more or less a short amount of time after the fall. Everyone got settled in hell, and once the institution was functional, they now needed to actually have humans running around on earth. Otherwise there are no souls to torture.

Even here, Crawley is still open, still smiling, still soft, although a bit more covert in their body language. She laughs and—this is the important part—questions God right on there on the walls of Eden.

Even after falling for asking question, she does not stop, not for one moment. Despite the trauma they undoubtedly must have gone through, Crawley sees an angel, slithers up to him, and strikes up a conversation, trusting that he will not hurt them.

Now, this is where subjective interpretation comes in, because we have no information of what the fall was actually like. They got punished for asking question, for rebelling, for trying to change the system—but in my opinion, they never got punished for having emotions.

In the modern day, angels are terrified of making mistakes or asking question, but they are still emotive, they physically express their feelings. Some are more intense in their expressions, others subdued, but from Muriel all the way to Gabriel, they talk about emotions, they show emotions, and that in of itself is not a crime.

Hell is just as—if not more—emotional than heaven. Just remember Hastur when Ligur was melting and then later during the trial, or Beelzebub when ze summons Crowley in the first episode.

Yes, they communicate in code a lot, but only when it comes to very specific kinds of information and interactions, not when someone is going insane over the blaring alarm.

Why does all of this matter?

Because it proves that the level of emotional suppression Crowley and particularly Aziraphale have reached is not taught by either heaven or hell.

Instead, just like Aziraphale's claims that 'heaven is watching', it is a rule system instated by himself for himself, and by extension for Crowley; he set the requirements for interaction and forced Crowley to meet them if he wanted to be around him.

We don't see Crowley laugh the way he did as Bildad or the Starmaker anymore, we never see him carefree or joyous or sad. I mean for fuck's sake, he HIDES behind his glasses, a physical manifestation of the repression he's caught in.

Humans wouldn't notice his eyes in the same way the police doesn't notice them at the convent in Tadfield. The glasses show up during Job, and we know Crowley already had a plan to go against orders, so glasses it is. However, he doesn't wear them during the crucifixion, which comes after Job. Crowley tells us she spent a lot of time with Jesus, so you'd expect her to be wearing them, but she isn't—whatever her relationship with Jesus was, she seemed to trust him a lot, and Aziraphale wasn't around.

Aziraphale is the one who demands silence, who never wants to talk about anything he himself hasn't approved as a 'safe' topic, he and his fucking forgiveness whenever Crowley questions God, calling him a demon and pushing him away whenever he openly shows affection towards Aziraphale.

So yeah, of course Crowley cannot regulate his emotions and has no idea how to express himself now, Aziraphale has shoved a gag down his throat for six thousand bloody years and still wants it to stay in place. Our closed-off Crowley would not exist without Aziraphale's continuous presence in his life, and that is a hill I am more than willing to die on.

Crowley is getting his heart broken in the worst, most violent way imaginable both times. But now? His face is stone and steel, one third of it hidden away behind black-out glasses. No tears, no words, no desperation, no flying hands or fluidly moving body.

This is the kind of person you become when someone else forces you to make yourself small, when emotions are punished and affection withheld until you act the way they want. It's horrible, it's unhealthy, and it destroys parts of yourself that you will never get back, no matter how hard you try.

So, in conclusion, yes, without Aziraphale's influence, Crowley would be softer, more open, and we would still see remnants of the Starmaker in him—but we don't.

[dndeceit]

I don't usually do a lot of analysis or theorizing, but I did have half of this written out after some thought moved me to do so a while back. And I saw a post today touching on some of the same things, so I thought I'd slap at least a half-assed completion of my thoughts and send it out into the world just to get it out of my drafts.

I always feel baffled by the interpretation of Virgil and Janus being "former villains" or having had a redemption arc, because I feel like there's a crucial point that has been missed.

The overall theme of the series is about accepting that people are made up of a bunch of messy and often contradictory impulses that nonetheless all serve a purpose. Overall, it's about finding a balance in our lives to settle these conflicts. Virgil and Janus were never villains, they were vilified and that's different. The "Dark Sides" arc is about understanding that treating these impulses as wholly "good" or "bad" is typically harmful.

Virgil's arc through the early series was, in part, about him learning to work with the other sides, but it's as much (or more) about the other sides learning to work with him. Anxiety doesn't just go away when you ignore it, you have to find methods of addressing it instead that are right for you. The reason Virgil and Roman butt heads so frequently is because Thomas's anxiety is a barrier to his self expression and his pursuit of endeavors (creative and interpersonal) that require him to take risks. In Accepting Anxiety, Roman came to understand how the awareness of those risks are essential for making it possible to pursue them effectively, and a part of what gives the achievement of them meaning.

In the same video he is introduced, it is explicitly stated that Remus isn't the real problem. The thoughts he represents are distracting and gross and unpleasant, but Patton and Virgil's defensiveness against the thoughts is what make them distressing. It's the moralization of them, the fear that they must reflect on Thomas in some way, that is hurting him. It's why one of the first things that Remus says (one of the few constructive things Remus has to say) in the episode is that repression is bad. And I imagine that, eventually, his arc as a side is going to touch on the exploration and expression of dark themes and thoughts as a source of catharsis, because one of his primary complaints is Thomas's insistence on keeping his influence out of his art.

If there's a redemption arc going on in SvSR, it's Patton's. Janus's acceptance into the group wasn't won by him changing. It was made by proving that he, by representing Thomas's most self-serving impulses, was necessary, and by extension proving that Patton's black and white thinking on the subject of selfishness and self sacrifice was hurting Thomas. (A life lived solely for the good of others isn't much of a life, you have to live some of it for yourself.)

My theory is that the remaining arc, for Orange, is going to be framed as a conflict between himself and Logan for very similar reasons. Logan's rejection of emotions (which he clearly has) are setting up against a character who likely represents either certain emotions which are viewed as disruptive (anger, or similar) or the consequences of repressing them (resentment).

Like Anxiety, feelings of anger or frustration don't go away by pretending they aren't there. If they aren't addressed, they fester. And just as with Anxiety, to process them in a healthy way you need to find a way to work with them.

Anger pops up in a lot of situations where it can feel irrational, even as we're feeling it. Ultimately, Logan can't "logic" Thomas's way out of feeling anything. However, leaning into Remus's area of his imagination in his creative life could provide an outlet for those feelings and provide catharsis that can help him work through them. (And, inevitably, Logan's "redemption" would likely relate to the understanding that some feelings have to be felt in order to be processed, however illogical or counterproductive feeling them may seem.)

[lavandula-ipsum]

Chrysalis | Unclean (ch. 1/2)

Luke Skywalker x Reader | angst, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy, descriptions of injuries | 1.5k words

Summary: After (Y/N) was captured, she was abandoned for unending days in hell. Only one sign indicated that she was still alive, the name she kept calling through the Force, even after she lost all hope. Luke.

For him, this has been all his fault. He should have been there.

Now his dearest friend is back to safety, sitting in the water, her spirit beaten and distorted. “Can’t get out yet. I’m not clean enough,” she insists. Luke does his best to swallow his anger. All he can do now is stay by her side.

Link to AO3 | pt. 2

With the currents of the Force feeling elusive to his grasp, Luke can’t concentrate. Too many accusations reverberate in the air. With a sigh, he pushes all distractions aside in order to see them better and represses a displeased sigh when he finds that they come from within himself. It’s the same old voices that he’s trained to push away when they come wailing bitter memories of failure. But they’re louder this time as he contemplates how they make his fists tremble on his lap no matter how hard he struggles with his wrath. But he must drown it. What they’re asking is not wise, it will not fix what’s broken. 

It won’t heal her pain. It won’t bring her peace.

There’s no changing the past, but all the chances he’s missed in the last few hours, the consequences of arriving too late when he was needed most… 

Also there’s no way he could focus on meditation with Han shuffling through their bags, his usual avoidance mixing with the dread already floating in the room with an accentuated need for a distraction.

“What are you doing?”

“Finally, thanks for stepping out of your trance, kid.” Solo signals to the bathroom door with a reluctant grimace on his face. “Does she have a change of clothes?”

Luke takes a few seconds to answer. It's true that the girls’ bag got left behind in the chaos. Barely a few days ago, (Y/N) had shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal. We’re supposed to be back soon, aren’t we? Little did she know about the gruesome end this mission would have. That she’d be captured

“Where’s Leia?”

“She helped (Y/N) earlier, I think, then left her soaking. She’s gone down with Lando and Chewie to try get us a passage out of this ball of mud now.” He scoffs at his friend’s sudden furrowed brow. “Don’t blame her, she said (Y/N) insisted on being left alone.”

The young Jedi’s attention is now directed towards the adjacent room, where the girl’s aura vibrates almost imperceptibly. He’s only ever sensed her this quiet when she’s sedated. However, she hasn’t slept yet. All offerings of tranquilizers were turned away, insisting that all she needed was to wash off the grime.

“Threepio?”

“They needed him, so he also went.” Han grunts, passing a hand over his face. “Look, kid, I know this isn't the best moment. But I don't wanna go and spook her. Do you have anything?” 

Take charge , he’s begging. The young Jedi swallows and starts rummaging through the few things he's brought. “Not much, a clean shirt.” 

Behind him, Artoo chirps some sassy remark he can’t answer but with an annoyed grimace. While Han keeps looking through his own things, Luke gazes down to a clean change of underwear and hopes (Y/N) won't get offended when he offers it to her. He’s then again forced out of his thoughts when the ex smuggler hands him a pair of pants.

“These are Lando’s.” 

“Yep. They're nicer. And he has to spare.”

“And you don’t? Gross.”

“Who are you to talk, you monk?”

“I wash my clothes,” Luke complains, raising an eyebrow. Han throws the pile of clothes they’ve gathered to his face, causing the astrodroid to beep in amusement. 

After rolling his eyes, Luke signals the droid to wait for him in the room while he steps into the dark corridor. 

“Hey kid, I’m heading down to the lobby to keep watch of things, ok?”

“Alright. Thank you, Han.”

The ex-smuggler barely looks at him, but he squeezes his shoulder warmly when passing by him on his way to the door. Once he’s alone again, Luke finds himself standing in front of the closed door to the bathroom, his hand hovering over the handle. The cold ghost of everything that went down mere hours before stops him from touching it. (Y/N)’s face, covered in dirt and dried blood while she looked up at him with pure terror, blinded by the light, unable to tell friends from enemies after days in the freezing dark.

His dear friend, his trusted training partner, was abandoned for unending days in the middle of hell while he couldn’t do anything other than keep looking tirelessly, her faintly calling his name through the Force the only sign that she was still even breathing. 

He wasn’t fast enough.

Luke knocks softly on the door, still feeling guilty for breaching her intimacy. The last thing he wants right now is making her feel unsafe.

“I don’t mean to interrupt. I… I brought you some clothes.”

No response is given.

“(Y/N)?” he calls, getting no answer once again. “Is everything alright?” 

Now that he thinks of it, how much time has she spent in there alone since Leia left? Way too long for someone in her state, weakened both physically and mentally. His fingers itch on the handle. What if she’s fallen ill? What if she passed out? What if she slipped? 

No, he must get his shit together. If something happened he would’ve sensed it. Right?

Only there are so many terrible things he’s missed recently, things that have hurt her. The silence makes his voice tremble. “I’m coming in, ok?”

The warm humidity inside immediately envelops him. Luke quickly steps to the bathtub hidden behind the plastifoil curtain and, just as his fingers graze it, the water stirs on the other side.

“I'm fine,” (Y/N)’s voice sounds faint and coarse but, with the possible image he could’ve found of her inert under the water still thundering in his brain, it’s the most precious sound he’s ever heard. “I just fell asleep.”

“That's dangerous.”

“It's just a bit of water.”

That's more water than he ever saw together before leaving Tatooine, worth a fortune. He remains standing there holding to the bundle of clothes, regretting his scolding tone. Through the Force, a weak shiver reaches him originating from the woman, making him realize he should probably close the door to keep the heat in.

“I’ll leave these here-” However, a tiny voice, or more like an emotion, echoes in his mind without a sound, ringing faintly in the Force. 

Please, don’t leave me , it seems to plead. 

Luke swallows thickly. “Can I do anything else for you?”

The water moves once again, and he can picture her fidgeting with her fingers. The ring she usually fiddles with rests next to the sink, however.  “Can’t get out yet. I’m not clean enough.”

The effort to articulate those few raspy words weigh heavy on her mind and body, so he probably shouldn’t push her for more explanations. Instead, Luke gently reaches out to her Force signature. His stomach turns at the fragile nature of her aura at the moment, at witnessing the brittle, paper thin ruins that remain where her strong mental shields once stood, revealing the vulnerable heart beneath. It shakes, too beaten up to cry. This is wrong, so fundamentally distorted.

And it is his fault. He should have been there. The men that got to her know nothing, nothing of what they had in their hands. They are nothing. Just the last pitiful death rattles of the Empire. It would be so easy to wipe them out alongside the rotting legacy of their filthy lives. If he goes after them on his own, hiding in the shadows, they would never see him coming. That dark tingling gathers once again around his fingers, urging him to pick up his weapon and making those imps regret ever laying a finger on her. He desires to hurt like she’s been hurt, like the whole galaxy has been hurt. To pierce the darkness responsible for this with his blade, to crack and tear those men from the inside out until there’s nothing left of them.

However, her quiet, wheezy breathing snaps him out of it. It reminds him to cast away the scarlet flare of wrath and slowly bring himself back into focus. Those thoughts are little more than delusions. It wouldn’t be wise, it wouldn’t be fair, after all that’s been discussed about how to rebuild the galaxy from the ashes left by the Empire, all the hard work Leia and so many others have put into this; after he himself, alongside (Y/N), insisted on how important it was for the leaders of the imperial remnants to be brought to justice, if he went and gutted them in the dark because of anger. There’s too much anger out there already, and he’s tired of its bitter taste in his mouth.

It takes the Jedi a bit of struggle to reconcile that what’s needed of him right now is to listen to the helpless plea coming from the water and stay . So Luke sucks up a sob himself and sits on the tiled floor, with his back against the bathtub and his head resting between his knees as he gently retreats from her mind, so bare and open at the moment, and remains close to her tiny aura in the Force.

[itsmaferart]

Wild thoughts on SxF 85 manga

Be careful, there are spoilers here!!

Okay, let's talk a little bit about the chapter, and I can only say that the whole thing was crazy.

I find it very interesting how during the first arc about Nightfall she makes such a small but important connection at this current point. Twilight during the Tennis match e warns his apprentice about getting carried away and how it severely damages her body just by looking at the scratches on her hands.

And in this chapter we see her literally destroy her arm and leg in order to protect her master and her love (which, in a way is appreciated). Still, we see very explicitly how Fiona's love (obsession) can be the trigger for all her power, the strength of her heart is relentless, but still, it can overtake and with it destroy herself Something Twilight clearly doesn't want, no matter if her mentor says spies are disposable, he cares about his disciple's safety and if there is still some conscience left in Twilight at this point, I'm sure it's something that will really affect him.

In contrast, Nightfall speaks to something very important. Spies like Wheleer and Twilight live by logical reasoning and cold, detached from any bond. But, ironically, this also makes them weak. Nightfall talks about how love becomes the greatest power, the strongest reason to protect others, and how mine to cherish someone only makes them cowards by not being able to deal with the possible consequences of a betrayal..

Ironic if we remember that this is perhaps Twilight's greatest weakness. And it is even more ironic coming from Nightfall, since it is Twilight who instills these thoughts, it is he who assures her that spies must stick to the path of solitude in order to keep the peace, while she assures Wheleer that this idea is just a sign of cowardice and weakness.

What it does is to emphasize that the way Nightfall idealizes Twilight prevents her from seeing the true image of this man while bringing her closer. In the last chapter we see her fantasizing about Twilight crying with a baby over her death and taking refuge in the arms (boobs) of his wife, because deep down she and we know that he is someone sensitive (crybaby).

Nightfall claims to love Twilight the spy, while searching for the sweet, sensitive man who is buried beneath the rubble that the war has left…. and yet, at the current point in the manga, she hasn't gotten him.

On the other hand, Westalis' best spy is not becoming weak by being attached to his fake family, what weakens him is his indecisiveness and having to constantly repress his desires and feelings. Twilight wants peace in the world, but deep down, he also wants his own peace, his own family. And that is why he was unable to kill an SSS agent, an enemy, but also a part of Yor's family that makes him also his family.

And lastly we have Twilight, who we've been missing most of his feelings for two chapters now, and hell, that has me looking forward to it. We still don't know what this arc is about, the only thing I know is that all these events seriously affect our spy: Yor and her apparent annoyance with him, a mole, being unable to kill Yuri despite having everything to do it, his apprentice with fractured limbs and having to return home in one piece for dinner

I have no idea what's going on in Endo's head, but it's definitely destroying and thrilling me chapter by chapter.

Most Irrrelevant Thought: New Shipp Unlocked!!! And I don't know about you… I like him.

It is refreshing to see Yuri have more interactions and be beaten by a woman (who is not his sister).

[juminies]

reliance

day 7, jumin’s perspective

jumin x reader, 1170 words

♥︎

If you asked almost anyone, those who know him personally or otherwise, they’d most likely tell you that Jumin doesn’t feel.

It’s not that straightforward, of course. There’s layers to it.

It would be more realistic to say he’s mastered the techniques of repression. He always only had himself to lean on. How could a lonely child cope with the consequences of gritty rejection at the hands of his own mother other than compartmentalise? How else could he handle the relentless harassment from the shameless women that his father willingly, repeatedly let into his life? It was easy as far as he was concerned—he let the threads tangle until they could barely be deciphered from one another and pushed them aside.

In the recent past, Jumin might have even considered telling you it’s a skill. Developed at a young age, perfected into adulthood. A skill that allows him to avoid inconveniences to his duties; fend off any sort of long term resentment or frustration. Dwelling on something like What extent of lacking consideration might make a good father a bad one? should not matter. Time will pass with or without him. So he simplifies it: objectively bad things happen, are tangled away soon thereafter, and life goes on. This way memories he needs are easily accessed and ones he doesn’t are easier avoided.

Before, on the occasion things did start to get overwhelming, distracting himself had been relatively easy. He had conjured up this idea of his cat being the catch-all to combat his discomfort. If ever emotions started to creep into uncomfortable territory it was simple to sidestep them. Elizabeth the 3rd had been… sympathetic enough to make him feel sufficiently comfortable again. Then if necessary he could pick up extended office hours here, a cat project there, an extra glass of wine to ease the transition from overthinking to composure.

The last week, though, has flipped everything he thought he knew on its head.

You’re at the forefront of it, really. You’re special to him in a way no one else is; he’s told you that much already. Even so, he will preface his thoughts with a point that he’d surely be jumping the gun to say he’s in love. He met you barely a week ago. In the moments where he tries his hardest to stop the unemotional part of him from slipping through his fingers, he almost believes (or maybe tries to convince himself) that it must just be that there’s so much happening right now. Sarah, her name bitter on his tongue, seems to have forcefully slithered her way into his life, though he’d rather have never paid her a second glance. There is no reasoning with his father surrounding the absurdity of the arranged marriage and the trust at the foundation of their relationship feels suddenly fragile; unpredictable. Not to mention the impact yet another divorce and planned subsequent remarriage quickly took on business (with Jumin, of course, being left to pick up the slack).

Then, as if things weren’t dire enough, his dear Elizabeth the 3rd is seemingly under threat. He is riddled with both the need to protect and a simultaneous abundance of confusion from the dawning realisation that she could never understand him like he needed. It plays heavy on his heart.

Amongst it all though, here you are—a pillar of light in the chaos. Someone who cares about him with a deep sincerity and understanding he thought he could have never pulled from the depths of another human. Someone who might just care about him in a way that not even Rika had. He’s considered informing you that it makes him feel terribly vulnerable. As though you’re cradling his heart in uncertain hands.

Still, Jumin keeps assuring himself that things will fall back into place. They always do. Things will fall into their rightful place, and life will return to what he is accustomed to.

…Then again.

What if he doesn't want it to go back to how it was before? What if this is a rare occasion where he welcomes a sudden change with open arms? An open heart? (It’s okay if hands shake as you hold it, he thinks. Be it his hands or yours.)

Because it just doesn’t feel right to tuck you away with everything else in his brain the way he’s used to. You’re too different. It comes too easy to ignore everything else for you. Thoughts of you are spread all around in an uneven jumble; disorganised, distracting. From his stares alone it’s impossible for you to begin to visualise the scramble. He feels like he’s been ripped from safety and comfort and thrown as far from familiarity as possible. He has never been so out of his depth. He has never, even as a child, felt so out of control.

Part of him, strangely, welcomes it.

It makes him think unusually, however. Perhaps even unfairly. And so along with the scattered joy of you, you, you, develops an internal battle to gain control again. He wants your eyes on only him as much as he wants no one else to look at you. Something pleads with him to keep you here, keep you here, while something else begs him on its knees to never hold you back.

He’s watching you, sitting with your legs tucked up beneath you on his sofa. You’ve been quietly focused on some drama he’s never heard of and sipping a vintage wine he’d been saving for a special occasion. It makes him dizzy. Perhaps against his better judgement, he has wanted to kiss you since you walked through the door. A special occasion indeed.

The pleading continues, desperate screams of No matter what it takes! No matter what it takes!

But you have been so kind. He wouldn’t dare take advantage of it. On the contrary, he’d probably do anything you asked of him in a heartbeat as long as he could guarantee you’d be safe in the end.

Then he says your name. He’s not sure he intended to say it aloud. When you turn to him he scans your face for something, anything, that suggests maybe you’re losing your mind as much as he is. Instead he’s distracted by lips gently parted and vaguely stained red from the wine, and comes to no conclusion.

“Yeah?” you say.

You’re sitting in the spot where he’d usually sit, he realises. He’d been so shaken by your arrival that he somehow hadn’t even noticed. Not that he’d have made you sit elsewhere anyway.

He takes a sip of his own wine and wonders if his lips are the same colour as yours.

“Jumin? Everything okay?”

You seem too far away somehow.

“Yes.”

You tilt your head to the side slightly as you ask, “You sure?”

“Yes. Apologies, what I was going to say somehow slipped my mind,” he says.

“Alright.” Your eyes sparkle as you smile (always sweet, never pushy) and he has to turn away to stop himself from acting on foolish impulse.

He downs the rest of his wine in lieu of it.

[loonyoz]

Part of what I love about Wyll is how he feels like a character you have to keep pulling back the layers on. Like one of those 3d puzzles you think you’ve got figured out and then you realize you’re right back where you started. Which I guess is just the long way of saying he's a well made character. I’m gonna do a play by play of my first interactions with him to illustrate my point:

When you first meet him you’re like omfg who is this boy with the dramatic theater kid entrance lmao. Wyll, you are so dorky (affectionate).

You next see him helping tiefling kids learn to fight. Not in a harsh militaristic way, more in a gentle and even playful way (eg. When you play as Wyll you can tell them dramatic stories about how Wyll slayed a dragon.) You're like oh yeah this guy has the whole hero thing going on. Very disney prince over here.

Then you talk to him and he talks about an evil devil that must be killed with such adamance and determination. You're like oh wow he can get pretty intense. He's so determined about this, he's willing to put aside the pressing threat of ceremorphosis. This kind of unmoving moral stance, this very good and serious abt it thing, it gives off paladin vibes imo

Ok so thats two sides of him, dramatic storybook hero and strong willed paladin.

Then you get to the confrontation with Karlach, and pretty quickly realize this flaming hot cheeto (idk why I called her that ok, but im leaving it in) of a tiefling shouldn't be killed. Wyll takes some convincing and you're like Wyll you dumbass you're seeing what Im seeing right? The tadpole is showing us she's innocent, why dont you believe that?

Then its only till later you realize he had so many good reasons to hesitate:

He has been doing this job for 7 years now, to break off from the script he's used to, is a risky thing. If he cant trust his 7 years of experience he's left floundering. If he cant trust that he's been only killing evil, then he's broken his moral code too. (If I were in his shoes id for sure be having an existential crisis)

He's learned the hard way to distrust devils, what if Karlach is tricking everyone into thinking she's innocent?

Or maybe he's scared of what it will mean if he doesn't kill her, he'll be breaking his pact, and the consequences for that will most definitely be harsh. I don't think that's selfish or cruel of him to consider killing her out of fear of what will happen if he doesn't. I think Wyll would be unfair to himself for those thoughts tho. Like the whole airplane oxygen mask analogy is a good way to talk about it. Wyll would go to every passenger on the plane and make sure their masks are on, then collapse from oxygen deprivation because he never put his own on. Perhaps an extreme and unrealistic scenario, but illustrative of his admirable but harmful self sacrifice.

In summary, his hesitation and need to be convinced shows a lovely amalgamation of his character, his life experience, and his values, and how it results in a moment of conflict and indecision.

But it takes very little to convince him not to kill karlach. You tell him twice that Karlach is no threat/innocent, and he stops panicking, and pulls himself together with the kind of emotional control/repression that makes you go "uh oh babes has unresolved trauma and needs therapy"

His ability to listen to others when people tell him he's wrong shows that he has a flexibility and emotional maturity that is unlike the stereotypical paladin. Once he realizes Karlach is innocent, the rules he follows no longer matter to him.

He resigns himself to his fate because for him there is no other way for it to be. This shows that no matter how theatrical his heroics appear, it is not merely a guise. You can trust that he truly cares for people because he is willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of a stranger.

Then Mizora shows up and his response is to argue against her, to say, "you told me no innocents". Which shows once again where his priorities lie, now that injustice has been pointed out to him he will use every ounce of his will to fight it. It also shows that human weakness again too. His fallibility (I mean who can blame him devils are great manipulators) and his worried questioning of the rules that he has followed for so long.

And then when you put all the drama aside, and listen to his lighthearted dialogue you remember/realize he’s also very goofy and the kind of chill guy you’d want to invite to every friend hangout.

asfgjkl; anyway I have way too many thoughts and feelings abt this guy. If you read all this damn. But lmk what you guys think about my reflections!

Also shoutout to all of the fic writers and random fan posts ive read that have inspired some of these thoughts

[scarredwithcruelintentions]

chapter 5: a lament for all things lost

Find the master list here!

CW: Shadowheart being a bitch, overwhelming bad feelings and emotional manipulation

W/C: 3,173

A/N: I am on a ROLL people!

After an unsuccessful hunt, Astarion had given in to the pleas of his distracted mind for rest, though he was hard pressed to find any. He laid awake the rest of the night and into the wee hours of the morning, tossing and turning with the blaze of his desire and weight of his guilt. After so many long years of numb, performative intimacy, he was unaware he still possessed the ability to feel arousal. It caught him completely off guard, feeding the roiling cacophony of his emotions.

The feeling had been pleasant, wanted even, when he disassociated it from his body’s natural reaction to the many forced liaisons of his past, but - therein lay the issue. Lust, pleasure, physical intimacy: it was all steeped in profound disgust and loathing learned over two centuries of abuse. He felt ashamed for watching you unknowingly, guilty for taking pleasure in it and, worst yet, revolted by his own body’s response. It had not truly been his body since Cazador turned him, and he found himself woefully unprepared to take accountability for his actions and their consequences.

Lost in the morass of his increasingly loud distress, he hardly noticed when the darkness gave way to dawn. It was not until he heard groggy voices and the telltale clanging of cookware being handled without care that he realized just how much time had passed. He groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face, hunger pains making themselves known at the mixed scents of his companions wafting along the gentle breeze.

Before long, he caught your sweet fragrance in the mix and focused in on it, ears pricked for the soft sound of your voice. You declared today to be a day of rest, claiming that everyone needed to gather their strength for the coming fight with the goblins.

He heard Shadowheart’s derisive snort.

“You just need a day to recover from volunteering yourself as the leech’s dinner.”

You did not deign to respond to her, but she must have seen something wounded in your expression, and it only fueled her line of teasing.

“Lover’s quarrel? Already?” He could hear the mocking smile in her voice and was grateful for his absence from the conversation, lest he slit her throat then and there for her cruel jest.

“We’re not lovers,” you snapped gratingly, “and I was not his dinner. No doubt he found another, more filling meal.”

He recognized his own words from his first feeding as Shadowheart continued to bait you with her snide comments.

“Sounds as though you’re green with envy, friend.”

He heard a dish clatter to the ground and her indignant shout alongside the placating words of the rest of the group, gently coaxing you to ease your grip on her throat.

“Lay off the wine, friend,” he heard you snarl. He smirked with undignified pride.

You presumably stood, addressing the rest of the group.

“We are all exhausted and spread thin by the never ending bloodshed and horror we have been burdened with. By all means, if you wish to join the slain tomorrow, be my guest and ignore my wisdom. But, if you wish to live, to fight another day, you will heed my words and rest. Does anyone else dare question my orders?”

He could almost see the seething expression contorting your delicate features in his mind’s eye.

“Good,” he heard you growl into the answering silence. “Now that’s settled, I’m off to find some peace away from you lot of squabbling children.”

He listened to the grumbled complaints and scandalized murmurs of the rest of the group as the sound of your bare feet across the packed earth receded until it was out of earshot. 

“How unlike our vampire trollop to leave his favorite lady companion wanting,” Shadowheart sniffed before she, too, left his hearing radius.

He repressed a pained whimper, the vacuous cavity of his chest constricting with grief and renewed self-loathing at her words. 

I will never be anything more than Cazador’s painted whore.

He could no longer smell your comforting aroma on the breeze. ______________________________________________________________

Astarion wandered along the riverbank in the dappled light of late afternoon, thoughts consumed by the ever growing storm of his hatred, fury and terror. He chose to embrace his vampiric nature for the time being and neglected his habit of breathing, the lack of your sweet, floral scent causing a cavernous emptiness to yawn within him.

He passed the oak tree from which he spied on your bathing the previous night and winced. He really should find you and apologize for his deplorable behavior, let alone confess his sin, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet. The swirling vortex of his mind disallowed his focus to reach anything beyond self-deprecation.

As he meandered aimlessly, he registered the melodious sound of a string instrument somewhere in the distance and chose to follow it. Some ways away, he found you sitting in the shade of a massive elm, plucking the haunting melody he’d heard you humming last night. Your voice accompanied the music, rich and sad, singing in a language he did not recognize. It evoked a wistfulness in him for a life he never had, and he stood back to listen to your song.

The final verse came to a close, and he was struck with a vague sense of unease at repeating his actions from the night prior, so he cleared his throat and made his presence known. You startled, looking warily in his direction until you realized who it was, then rolled your eyes in exasperation.

“Sorry to bother you, my dear. I heard the music whilst I was out for a stroll, and found myself captivated. That was stunning,” he murmured, “and terribly sad.”

You shot a cold glare at him before heaving a heavy sigh and relenting.

“It was a lament for all things lost to the passage of time.”

“Such as…” he prompted.

“Life, love… innocence,” you finished in a small whisper.

He felt a pang of deep sorrow reverberate in his chest.

“And the language?” he asked, unwilling to broach the clearly sore subject. You had not pressed him until it had become absolutely necessary, so he thought it only fair to afford you the same respect.

“Olde Elvish,” you answered plaintively.

“I wasn’t aware bardic schools taught Olde Elvish,” he responded, surprised. “I thought it extinct.”

“My mother used to sing it when I was a babe. It always moved me to tears, and one night, after my father’s untimely passing, I picked up her lyre and began to pluck the tune from memory. She taught me all she knew from that night onward,” you sniffled. “I never studied formally as a bard. Everything I know was handed down from generations of musically inclined Weave wielders.”

“I…” he floundered, at a loss for words. A feat not easily accomplished when it came to him, you continued to prove an exception to the masses.

“Why are you here, Astarion?” you groused, looking at him shrewdly as you swiped a thumb beneath your eyes.

“May I?” he gestured at the space next to you, asking for invitation to sit.

“Answer me first,” you bit out.

“I… I wish to apologize for my ghastly behavior yesterday evening.” He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the wave of cowardly discomfort at his honesty. “You must understand, I have been conditioned to fear closeness, vulnerability. All it’s ever gotten me is a knife in the back.”

He opened his eyes at your watery sigh to see you patting the space beside yourself. He joined you graciously, extending his legs and leaning back against the trunk of the sprawling elm.

“And you must understand that I do not mean to repeat the mistakes of all those before me. None of us do. We are in this fight together, whether we like it or not, so we must learn to trust one another.”

Ever the pragmatist, he could see the toll being a leader had taken in your eyes, along with the weary burden of words left unspoken. He had a feeling you knew just what it felt like to be fundamentally deceived, and his chest constricted with empathy. Another foreign feeling only you had thus far been able to rouse in him. He felt compelled to continue his track of truthfulness, and decided to tell you about his hunt gone awry.

“There is something more I must tell you…” he began uncertainly.

You gave him an expectant stare.

“I… happened upon you washing. Last night. When I went to hunt.” The words came out stilted, feeling weighty and wrong in his mouth.

A charming flush bloomed across your delicate face, scarlet tipping your ears and working its way down your bosom. Your eyes and mouth were round with embarrassment, and for a moment he feared that he had made a terrible error in judgment.

And then you cackled, wild and full, and he found himself helpless to do anything other than chuckle along with you. You flashed a blinding smile at him and raised an inquisitive brow.

“Oh? And did you enjoy the show?”

At the reminder of his arousal, the scalding sensation of shame erupted over him in a vicious surge.

“What does it matter?” he snapped, a remorseful sigh escaping him at your affronted expression.

“This is what I mean, Astarion!” you shouted, gesticulating furiously, “You flirt, you tease, you share your burdens with me, and then you brutally shut me out! Every time! What is it that you want from me, because I’m quite tired of the neverending headache of your mood swings!”

“It’s not as if you’re any better!” he yelled in answer, temporarily losing his grip on the brewing storm of vitriol in his mind. 

You reeled back as though struck.

“Bloody unbelievable,” you muttered, tucking your lyre under an arm and abruptly standing to leave. “I’ll never get any fucking peace.”

His hand shot out to grab yours, fear of losing the sanctuary you provided making his movements instinctive. You whipped around, expression murderous and preparing to scream.

“Wait,” he exhaled shakily, “Just…wait. Give me a moment to compose myself.”

You shook his hand loose, but remained in place, glaring at him.

“Forgive me,” he whimpered, staring at his knees. The proverbial floodgates burst in spectacular fashion, and he was quickly overwhelmed by the torrent of negative emotions that bled from them. He shook with the might of the onslaught, startled by the salty tang of his own tears. It only made him tremble more hysterically, a surely pitiful sight.

To his utmost surprise, you set your lyre down and knelt next to him, taking his face in your hands. He squeezed his eyes shut in discomfort, another whimper escaping him. 

“Please don’t touch me,” he whispered, voice scratchy and quivering.

You withdrew your hands instantly, instead quietly asking, “What would you like me to do?”

“Will you play that song for me?” he asked in a pathetic warble.

“The Lament for That Which Is Lost?”

He nodded imperceptibly, and was immediately rewarded by the soft, sad strum of the lyre. As your voice joined in, he allowed the deluge of feeling to swallow him. He was lost in a sea of emotion, finding his many old acquaintances: shame, dread, rage, envy, hatred, terror, bitterness, apathy. Worst of all was the grief that wracked his body with violent sobs, guilt and regret for the countless wrongs he’d committed, anguish for all the wrongs committed against him.

However, he also encountered many of the new feelings you inspired within him: delight, sorrow, compassion, jealousy, warmth, guilt, desire. While not altogether positive, the feelings you’d introduced him to were a welcome reprieve from the centuries’ worth of misery he’d become accustomed to, and he grabbed onto them like a life raft as he waited out the crux of the storm. ______________________________________________________________

Slowly, ever so slowly, he came back to the present moment and focused on the hypnotic sound of your voice. He knew not what the words meant, but he didn’t need to in order to feel the devastating sense of loss that they carried. Your soft lilt reverberated in his chest, and he took a deep breath in, filling himself with the sweet, musky aroma of your skin. It helped to ease the tide of his agony back into submission, and he opened his eyes to watch the last of your performance.

He found himself enraptured by the beauty of you, eyes closed and immersed in the music much as he had been, the tracks of your own tears carrying smudges of kohl in spidery lines down your face. You were the kind of beautiful that he would have brought back to Cazador were the circumstances different, and it caused his chest to twinge with resentment. You sung the last line and plucked the closing chord, voice wavering slightly as a final tear began its slow descent over the planes of your face.

When you opened your puffy eyes, you gazed directly into his. It felt as if you were looking into the darkest parts of his soul, and he fought the urge to shy away from you. In an act of uncharacteristic bravado, he swung his legs around to sit on his knees facing you. He gently removed the lyre from your grasp and leaned it against the trunk of the great tree. 

He reached out tentatively with both hands, holding your face the way you’d held his the night before. Your cheeks blazed in his palms, and an involuntary shiver ran up your spine at his cool touch. You blinked slowly as his thumbs swept the remainder of your tears away, smudging the wispy tracks of kohl in the process. A throaty chuckle escaped him as he took in the smeared stains of oily blackness on your skin, and you leaned forward to be closer to the sound.

“Your laugh is music to my ears,” you whispered, eyes full of tender promise.

He inhaled sharply and gravitated toward you, running a delicate thumb over the swell of your bottom lip, delighted when they parted in a breathy gasp. He could feel the damp warmth of your soft, panting breaths against his face as he leaned closer still, the saccharine scent of jasmine blossoms and orange peel and you so heavy in the air around him that he could taste it.

Just as the space between his body and yours shrunk to an infinitesimal degree, the sharp pain of his hunger returned with a vengeance, and he could not hide his grimace, nor the wince of discomfort that escaped his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, concern laced in the tilt of your brows, small hands coming to encircle his wrists.

The moment broken, you leaned back, removing his hands from your face. It was all he could do not to follow your scent and bury his fangs in your throat.

“The hunger,” he groaned, “it’s inescapable.”

“When did you last eat?” you whispered, eyes round with worry.

“The night I drank from you,” he gasped, the pain wracking him with a shudder that forced his eyes shut.

“Feed from me,” you murmured, his eyes snapping open in exalted bewilderment, sure he’d misheard you.

“What was that?” 

“Feed from me,” you said again, louder this time.

He salivated at the memory of your blood across his tongue, wanting nothing more than to be filled with your life’s essence, to be emboldened by it. Then, he remembered the coming battle.

“I can’t,” he bemoaned, “You need your strength for tomorrow.”

“As do you,” you responded, gaze resolute.

“Are you sure? Here… now?” he asked once more, voice wavering equivocally with the fog of hunger hanging over his mind.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded in assent.

No sooner had the words left your lips than Astarion’s mouth was at your throat. He hadn’t even given you time to brush your hair aside and bare your neck to him, so starved as he was. With a harsh cry, his fangs pierced the tender skin over your jugular, tongue immediately darting out to lap at the blood spilling from the wound.

He paced himself this time around, both for want to savor his meal as well as that of your safety. He could tell when the initial daze from the bite wore off, your blood taking on a richer, more full-bodied flavor. It almost had a fattiness to it, and it quenched his thirst in a way nothing else had ever been capable of.

Before long, he could feel your body trembling like a leaf in the wind. He hadn’t drunk enough for bloodlessness to be the cause, though he worried nonetheless. It would be so like him to push past the discomfort and hurt you, taking from you the way he had been taken from…but there was work yet to be done in the way of gaining your trust. He was about to pull away when he tasted it - the syrupy flavor of your desire. A low sigh pushed its way past your lips, a sound inaudible to all but his keen ears.

Now, this I can work with. This I can exploit.

He continued to drink, the honeyed taste of you heavy on his tongue. He paid close attention to the way your body responded, quiet whimpers and little shivers steadily giving you away. Your hands clawed at the earth beneath you, pulling up clumps of grass and clods of dirt with their ferocity.

Inevitably, your shivers of delight became shivers of cold, shock setting in and ruining the atmosphere. Hunger mitigated, Astarion begrudgingly pulled back, replacing his mouth with the pressure of his hand to staunch the bleeding. You retrieved the amulet from your pocket with a shaky grasp, whispering the incantation into your cupped palms. Its magic washed over you in an instant, heat and color returning to your cheeks.

“Thank you, my sweet,” he murmured, making a show of licking the last of you from his lips.

You averted your eyes bashfully, lively flush deepening.

“Don’t mention it, dear Star,” you mumbled, eyes widening at your slip.

After a moment of shocked disbelief, a devious grin split his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, darling. Could you repeat yourself for me?”

“I said ‘don’t mention it’,” you spoke up.

“Not that, the last bit,” he replied, expression smug when he caught the sheepish look on your face.

“Dear Star,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes.

“That is indeed what I thought I’d heard. Rather sentimental of you for a ‘headache’, is it not?” he purred, referencing your earlier words.

“I’m plenty sentimental, Rogue, and you know it well.”

“Of course, my dear. I only kid,” he intoned, softening his smile as you lifted your face.

He watched as your embarrassment faded and you returned his smile, something hopeful hidden in the depths of your eyes.

I’ve got you right where I want you, darling.

[bauxitt]

HoA AU where everything is the same except the CW produced the show with a rating of 16+ (think riverdale style) here are a few plot points for fun

This is mostly Jerome points because I barely remember other plots. It's been years. Feel free to add

Jerome's abusive parent(s) would probably be a bigger plot point and actually explain why he's so withdrawn emotionally and trusting of no one, yet desperate for attention and wanting to make others miserable like him. Selfish because he's very aware that if he doesn't put himself first, no one will. Except for Poppy, who he knows needs someone putting her first like he doesn't have. I kind of like the idea that Poppy sort of takes that for granted (not mean-spirited but more naively) and uses that to her advantage, hurting Jerome by accident.

Patricia and Jerome get to be the gays they were always meant to be, but could not because it's a children's show how scandalous. Don't try and deny it.

Joy and Eddie get to be the bisexuals they clearly are, and so Patricia/Joy and Eddie/Jerome happen instead

Jerome always doing scams to get money is because his mother never sends him any, leaving him constantly poor. (A personal hc of mine).

Said scams go from silly ones that end in his humiliation like the show to downright sketchy ones with scary people that puts him trouble way over his head (build up to when he gets in contact with Rufus).

Jerome's dealings with Rufus in s1 are deeper rooted in Jerome needing money and feeling shunned by Alfie and the others, and Rufus sees a desperate teenager wanting approval and affection.

Patricia's trauma from Rufus being addressed and having consequences that was barely touched upon in the show.

Rufus gets to have a knife and a gun, much more fun :)

Also, "mummify you alive" is actually just "kill you" and Jerome is truly threatened with said knife and gun

The gang are constantly let down by how useless the police are, always ending in them having to deal with whatever it is, from Patricia and Jerome's kidnapping, to Victor and his cult, and joy's disappearance and Rufus going around threatening children with guns and sharp objects. Really, they're just paid to turn the other cheek when it comes to anubis.

The teenage drama is extra extra

Victor and his cult are still rather harmless, they don't wish harm on the children, but it's much more ominous and mystical.

When Rufus grabs Jerome, it's for leverage against Sibuna and Victor, aware that Victor don't want harm to come to the children of his house.

Both Patricia and Jerome will have to be tied while captive because that makes sense. They are unfortunately also probably slapped around/beaten by Rufus for their sharp sarcasm. As well as Rufus having an actually secure place to keep the captive.

Expanding on how terrified Jerome is of Rufus, like even in the children's show, he was clearly scared. And why he's so scared.

The Edison Sweet plot being deepened and explored further with sweet making more effort, and Eddie being more reluctant. Getting an actual payoff for the plot with Eddie finally accepting his dad and them bonding

Nina the chosen one plots are actually rather dramatic already, but what they're doing and the consequences are further impacting on the group. I can't remember much of this, so feel free to give thoughts.

I must have blacked out/repressed season 3 because i can't remember a single plot point related to that 🤷‍♀️

[absoluteaudacitywrites]

Lake Time Loop

A little while ago I had a plan with some other writers to write a fic where Henry gets stuck in a time loop at The Lake and has to hear Alex confess he's in love over and over again, night after night, while he tries to figure out how to get out of the situation. We each wrote a section.

Unfortunately the project fell apart due to one reason or another. The thing is, I'd written my whole section and I really like it! It's very angsty, which is out of the norm for me. So, I thought I'd share it here as a throw-away piece of writing that otherwise wouldn't see the light of day.

Enjoy! (Oh and tw: heavy alcohol consumption, vomiting described in detail, dark/self-harming thoughts from Henry)

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

Henry is losing his mind.

He has to be. He can’t actually be stuck in a time loop. He must be in a little padded room somewhere, imagining all this. Repressing his gay urges has finally sent him spare.

If he is imagining, or even worse, if he’s not, there seems to be no consequences here. In that case, why does he have to keep behaving in a manner befitting the crown? 

Maybe, Henry thinks, just maybe, if he gets drunk enough today he won’t have to comprehend the look in Alex’s eyes at the lake. He’ll simply get too sloshed to understand or care. It’s as good a plan as any, stuck as he is.

“Woah,” Alex says, as Henry pours a generous measure of brandy into his tea directly after breakfast. He’d sent a PPO off to a local town to buy him some supplies while everyone was still in bed. Buying brandy at seven in the morning; only in the USA. God bless America. “You okay there?”

“I feel like I’m getting a cold,” Henry lies, taking a large gulp of his beverage. It burns going down in exactly the way he was hoping it would. “This is a common home remedy in England.”

Alex raises an eyebrow at him, but Henry holds his gaze until he shrugs. “If you say so.”

Henry surreptitiously keeps up the cups of tea until lunch, switching to the sangria which has been made when the others start drinking with the meal. He has more than a buzz going already and he knows he is on his way to his goal of getting sloppy. He distantly wonders if the loop will re-set without him getting a hangover. 

After lunch everyone heads to the lake, a cooler of beers being carried down by Alex and Oscar, and Henry sits on the edge of the short dock with his feet in the water, drinking cold lager with the determination of a man possessed. He doesn’t swim. He can’t really feel his arms and legs very well anymore and he doesn’t want to drown. 

A morbid thought tells him that might be an effective end to his means. He drinks some more beer about it.

“Hey baby,” Alex says, swimming up and tugging on Henry’s leg. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Henry manages to slur. “I’m having a great time.”

Alex stares up at him, looking thoughtful and slightly concerned. “Okay,” he says eventually, and swims back to June and Nora. Henry can see them talking quietly, and catches the moment that June flicks a glance at him over her shoulder. He’s obviously worrying them, but he finds it hard to care - both because he’s very drunk and because he’s sure that all of this won’t matter tomorrow.

When the others get tired of swimming they all head back to the house, and Henry, having lost count of the number of drinks he’s had, finds that it is somewhat difficult to walk in a straight line. Almost immediately Alex is under his arm, gripping him around the waist and helping him walk the short distance to the house, where he dumps him in a chair on the porch. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, crouching down with his hands on his knees so he’s at Henry’s eye level. 

“Nothing,” Henry manages to mumble. 

“Henry, you’re completely hammered,” Alex says, and he sounds upset. “I know that’s not you.”

“No you don’t,” Henry slurs. “You don’t know me …. know me as well as you think.”

Alex’s eyes widen and he looks quite hurt, but it’s momentary and his face softens into sympathy. “I’m getting you some water,” he says, heading inside, and Henry wants to scream. Getting drunk wasn’t supposed to make Alex even more affectionate towards him. Why isn’t this working?

Slowly, on legs that won’t quite work, Henry stands. He still has half a bottle of brandy stashed in the room he’s sharing with Alex. If he can get that and down it, he hopes he’ll simply black out, removing any likelihood that Alex will confess.

When Henry walks into the house it’s clear he’s being talked about again. This time Nora, June and Alex are clustered around Oscar. They all look up as he enters, and concern is written across all their faces. Henry draws himself up to his full height and ignores them, staggering across the room and using furniture to keep himself upright, his sights set firmly on his goal.

Halfway across the room a strong hand clamps around his arm. “Son, where are you going?” Oscar asks, his expression deeply concerned. Alex is hovering just behind him. 

“‘m gonna lie down,” Henry manages to lie. Oscar gives him a searching look, but then loosens his hold.

“That might be a good idea,” he says. “But we should get some water in you first.”

“Don’t need it,” Henry says, turning towards the bedrooms again. This time Oscar lets him go, and through his haze Henry hears him telling Alex they’ll keep an eye on him during the afternoon. He makes it to the bedroom and quickly finds the brandy, lying down on the bottom bunk and hiding the bottle next to him under the sheets.

Alex comes in the room with a glass of water. “Will you please drink this?” he asks softly, holding out the glass, and Henry’s heart gives a lurch in his chest. Why is he doing this again? He’s obviously hurting Alex, who he has never wanted to hurt even for a moment. He forces himself to sit up and takes the glass, draining the water without looking at Alex and passing it back. 

Then, unable to look at the sad expression on Alex’s face, he turns and curls in on himself, hoping Alex will leave.

It hurts a lot when he does. Henry pulls the brandy out and drinks as much as he can in one breath, sick of the day and Alex’s hurt and this whole fucking loop he is stuck in. He pulls the bottle away from his mouth and pants for a moment, his hand slipping on the bottle and sloshing quite a bit of the brown liquid onto his chest, then finishes off the rest in a second pull.

The warmth of the brandy burns in his chest and Henry feels his stomach begin to roil against all the alcohol in his system, but as the spirit takes effect on him his vision begins to narrow to a point and his thoughts swim and then he feels nothing at all.

“Henry? Son, can you hear me? June, get a bowl. He’s breathing, I cleared his mouth out, he’s going to be okay, Alex. Mierda, why would he do this? Has he been under any sort of stress?”

Henry lets out a soft, involuntary groan. His face is sticky, especially around his mouth, and all he can taste is bile.

“Henry?! Henry, can you hear me?” It’s Alex’s voice, sounding strained and panicked. He feels hands on him, and then there’s some shuffling and they’re removed.

“Mijo, I know you’re worried, but you’re not helping. Just leave him for a moment, will you? Nora, can you -”

Henry hears Alex swearing and Nora cajoling and then there’s the sound of a door closing and their voices become more distant. He wants to stop them, to tell Alex to come back, and that he’s sorry and he knows he fucked up, but he can’t move. He tries to open his eyes but all his eyelids do is flutter. He groans again and feels the sensation of vomit surging up his throat.

Someone, Oscar he supposes, holds his head over the edge of the bed as he expunges the contents of his stomach. He vomits so hard it comes out his nose too, and by the time he finishes he’s letting out cracked sobs and his face is wet with sweat and tears. Oscar’s strong hands push him back onto the mattress and he feels a towel being wiped over his face. Slowly, he manages to squint his eyes open, and he finds Alex’s father on his knees next to the bottom bunk, looking at him with concern written across his features.

“Do you know where you are, Henry?” he asks.

“Lake,” Henry manages hoarsely.

“That’s right. What day is it?”

“S-Saturday?”

“Okay,” Oscar says. He watches Henry for a moment, a frown settling on his face. “I’m not going to ask why you purposely tried to drink yourself into a blackout,” he says in a low voice. “But I can tell you I am not impressed.” He sighs, looking Henry over. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my son is in love with you, and as his father I am now invested in making sure he’s not with someone who is going to make these kinds of selfish, self-destructive decisions.”

Henry shuts his eyes. Oscar keeps talking, but he doesn’t hear him. His plan has failed. He got drunk enough. He made himself sick. 

But he still had to hear that Alex loves him.

[twistedtummies2]

Year of the Bat - Number 4

Welcome to Year of the Bat! In honor of Kevin Conroy, Arleen Sorkin, and Richard Moll, I’ve been counting down my Top 31 Favorite Episodes of “Batman: The Animated Series” throughout this January. We’re getting close to the end now… TODAY’S EPISODE QUOTE: “Gotham can be a Wonderland, Alice! Tonight, let me be your guide.” Number 4 is…Mad as a Hatter.

If you know me very well, this episode being in my Top 5 is no surprise at all. If you don’t, then you might be a little surprised. While “Mad as a Hatter” is certainly a well-liked episode, by all accounts, I doubt too many people would name it as being anywhere on-par with stories like “Mad Love” and “Heart of Ice,” two other villain origin stories that I covered in my past two entries. I, however, am not most people: while I love Harley Quinn, and I cannot deny the power of “Heart of Ice,” this story is something close to my heart in a way those two simply are not. This episode is the origin/first appearance of one of the Dark Knight’s slightly more unsung villains, the Mad Hatter. In the story, the Hatter is a highly repressed and socially awkward neuroscientist, by the name of Jervis Tetch. Jervis is an eccentric fellow, who has a bizarre obsession with the “Alice” stories by Lewis Carroll. The strange scientist has created a special headband and cards, which – via highly sophisticated nanotechnology – allow him to control other people’s minds. It’s then revealed that Tetch has unrequited feelings for his secretary (probably not-coincidentally named Alice Pleasance), and – when her boyfriend, Billy, seemingly dumps her – Jervis seizes the opportunity to use this newfound power to try and sweep Alice off her feet. At first, things seem to go well…but unbeknownst to Jervis, after he drops Alice off at home that night, she and Billy make up and even get officially engaged. This sudden development causes Jervis to snap, and he becomes the Mad Hatter: determined to claim Alice as his own, hang all the consequences, and willing to put half of Gotham under his thrall, if necessary, in order to do so. Naturally, Batman can’t allow this; he’s already on Tetch’s trail, after a (presumed) misunderstanding with some street thugs. Now, he must rescue Alice (and Billy) and stop the Mad Hatter before things get any madder.

The Mad Hatter has long been one of my favorite Batman Villains, and I am 99% convinced that the specific version found in the DCAU is the main reason why. In the comics, the Hatter has always been an…iffy character, to say the least, as he’s typically depicted as a rotten-to-the-core little creep with many perverse desires. He’s a villain who’s meant to just be punched in the face, so to speak. Other adaptations have gone in other directions, but I think the version found in the Animated Series handled it the best out of anybody. This is, without a doubt, my definitive take on the Mad Hatter. Part of the reason why is the character’s voice: he’s played by Roddy McDowall, and in fact, the Hatter would be McDowall’s last proper character, as his final appearance in the DCAU – a Superman crossover episode called “Knight Time” – was released posthumously to McDowall’s passing, and a somewhat earlier episode, “Animal Act,” was released not long before his death. This was quite the role to cap a career with, and almost seems an inevitable one: McDowall had previously played a somewhat similar character, the Bookworm, in the 1960s Adam West show. He also was the narrator for an abridged audiobook version of Tim Burton’s Batman (where I swear he plays the most polite Batman in the history of anything). Not only that, but McDowall also played the role of the March Hare in a 1985 TV Miniseries of “Alice in Wonderland.” With credits like these, and his mellifluous voice, he was absolutely perfect casting for the part.

The other reason, however, sits with his origins. This by far the most sympathetic and fascinating take on Jervis Tetch I think we’ve ever been given. It’s easy to relate with the idea of unrequited love as the cause for someone’s descent into darkness, and at the start of the story, Jervis is really very nice. He’s a bit odd, and there are some subtle hints that he’s already on a slightly uneven keel, but he doesn’t come across as truly evil. There’s also an interesting dichotomy with the way his alter ego acts in relation to the rest of his life; it sort of reminds me of Catwoman’s setup in “Batman Returns,” of all things. At the start, Jervis is awkward, shy, panicky, and keeps a lot bottled up. Once he dons the top hat and trenchcoat of the Mad Hatter, however, he becomes a whole different person: he’s more charismatic, more confident, more flamboyant, and – thanks the power of his control chips – he has absolute control, something we get the sense he hasn’t had a lot of in his life. It’s only when his advances are so brutally shot down – when he finds out Alice, after all that, is ENGAGED to Billy – that he REALLY goes off the deep end. There’s some ambiguity and unanswered questions with his background – we don’t know why he’s obsessed with Wonderland, why he’s created these control chips, or even whether or not he intended what happened with the two aforementioned street hooligans – but that actually only makes him more interesting, as it gives the audience a little leeway to come up with their own thoughts, while still presenting a comprehensive understanding of why this Hatter is Mad.

Being a Wonderland-obsessed oddball myself, I’ve always felt a sort of dark kinship, for lack of a better way of putting it, with the concept of Jervis Tetch. That character concept has never been so splendidly handled as in B:TAS, and “Mad as a Hatter” is a phenomenal first impression for the character. I need no other reason to place it so high in my personal ranks.

Tomorrow we move into the Top 3 of the countdown! Hint: “Look at us. We’re all freaks and monsters. And who made us this way? BATMAN!”

[darkkalendas]

SCENE III: perdition

warnings: blowjob, semi-public, use of words as slut, doll, femreader, fingering, leash and collars, pet names. originally published by me on ao3.

summary: now that you're whitney's girl, you must be ready for any type of game he has ready for you.

“Aren’t you gonna obey me, pretty?” his tone is low, and he throws the cigarette away, still with the smoke on his mouth. He gets closer, releasing it slowly against your face, the scent you’re starting to associate to love. He looks so handsome like this, with the leash on his hands and one of his brows raised in expectation. His shirt is still unbuttoned from the math class’ make out and his blonde hair falls without order on his face. He’s demanding an answer. The first times, you would have fight back, but now.

Now it’s another game.

"Or what?" you ask. Your breath collides with Whitney's lips, as he licks them, with a grin appearing behind his tongue. His grip on your hair isn't strong, but yet it has your head inmovilized. Your lips are curved on a superiority smile that Whitney doubts between taking away with a kiss or a spank on your ass.

"Asking for the consequences of disobeying your owner?" he moves your bangs, revealing the "Property of Whitney" tattoo on your forehead. God, it never failed to make him hard. His calligraphy on your body, marking his territory forever. Damn, a collar and a leash isn't enough. He needs to fuck you in every public space he finds. Show every single asshole of this city to whom the pretty girl belongs to. Still, he keeps the grip on your hair, loosening it, letting your kneeled body get closer to his sat one. Your lips are so close, tempting him so well, so plump and pink, so glossy, so kissable. You're the strongest drug Whitney has ever tried, and the first one he's begging to get addicted to.

"First, disobeying me would mean..." his eyes scan the park, the fountain, the bathrooms, the thread of benches in front of him. "That I would throw your little body to that exact bench and fuck you senseless."

"Is that supposed to be a punishment, sir?" he doesn't know if it is the tone, the burling smile or your hands sneaking near his bulge, but those damn words make his hand take you softly by the neck, pulling your face so close to his that your lips collide when he talks.

"Listen, slut." his tone is husky and low. The way his thumb caress your scalp sends shivers down your spine, making you purr in pleasure under his lovely gaze. “I’ll make your legs tremeble and edge you once and once again until you’re anything but whimpers and pleads for me to make you cum, alright?” You can distinguish the playfulness, the joy, the love, the things he’s never repressing around you now that his feelings turned out to be reciprocal. Your shirt is wet from the soft rain, and his hair lets little drops fall on your skin. Goddess, he’s so full of lust for you, so needy, so fucking horny every single hour of the day.

You made something on him. He never goes to class, never, why the fuck does he now enjoy math class? To put his cheek on his palm and see how cute you get when your answer is correct? To make out secretly while the teacher is not looking? To grip your legs under the table and end making you ride him on the bathroom? There’s something changing him and, for the first time, he likes it.

He likes the kind of person you’re turning him into. Slowly, with your nails gripped to his heart, crawling towards a place that has been waiting for you. He cares for you, so deeply that he doesn’t mind to hurt or pass above anyone to keep you safe. He demonstrated it, already, kicking that asshole’s ass at the orphanage and helping Robin and the other orphans without even asking for it. You discovered that, under all that façade, there was just a broken child that wanted, for once, someone’s attention. That’s why he had that shitty attitude. He just wanted someone to look at him.

And, out of everyone, you did.

“Bold of you to assume you’ll be able to stop when you’re inside me.” you whisper, as your fingers press his bulge stronger.

“You think I have the same autocontrol than a doll like you?” he asks, jokingly offended, and a moan scapes his mouth when you open his fly, fingers quickly inside to touch him above the underwear.

“No.” you say, hands now accomodating his pants while your face gets closer to his crotch. “You have even less.”

With that being said, you slide your tongue on his underwear, following his cock’s shape from outside. It's so lewd, so fucking naughty to see you kneeled, leaving threads of spit on his black boxers, looking at him from the ground directly in the eyes, that he feels like he has a godess between his legs. His moans sound heavenly for you and his fingers caress your hair as you keep spreading saliva on his underwear. He doesn’t want to fail his own believing about autocontrol, but damn, you’re making it hard for him. Right now, he just wants to take his underwear off and thrust in your mouth until he releases down your throat. Just the thought makes his cock twich cutely under your mouth. “Suck it, please.” he asks, playing with some locks, with that lusty, half-closed eyes look you love to see on him. “Be a good girl for me, hm?” Your cheeks blush at the pet name he uses. “Come on, don’t be timid.” He takes his pants down and his boxer, letting his cock free under your hungry gaze. “Get closer and do what you’re best at, slut.” With a movement of his hips and a tug on your leash, he rubs his tip on your lips, spit serving as lub. You timidly lick his tip, slowly taking more of his head on your mouth until he takes both your cheeks, thrusting inside your mouth with a long moan escaping his mouth. Looking down again, he looks at your eyes, teary because of the intrusion, and he soflty slides his thumbs to dry them, lovingly making circles on your cheeks when he’s done. You bob your head slow, adapting your mouth and your throat to him, and he tries to keep his hips quiet. Of course he does, trying not to fuck your mouth and destroy you. He tries just for you, but it doesn’t seem enough when his hips start a slow up-motion against you. The piercing on his belly button shines with every thrust he gives up, hands still on your cheeks to keep your head in position for him to fuck.

“Fuck, my girl has to be the best giving head in all fucking town.” he whispers as you try to follow his pace with your mouth, tongue sliding around his tip and hands massaging his balls to stimulate him. He moans again, one of his hands fastly travelling to his hair, messing it before going back to your face, your pretty and cute face he feels so nice ruining. Your breasts move along your body, free because of your open shirt, and he’s able to see a timid hand running down your skirt to get in between your legs. He would pay to be the fingers fucking you now, but, godess, your mouth feels too good for him to move. He’ll take care of your dripping cunt later, but he’s the one giving you pleasure, not yourself. “Put your hands on my thighs and don’t move them from there.” he demands, serious, while your throat gags trying to keep him in. Obeying, you grip his pants and start again with the bobbing, spit falling from your mouth and ensalivating all his shaft, making it even more and more enjoyable for him.

He never gets tired of you. He could just take you home with him and make sure you won’t leave the bed for a week straight. He has so many fantasies he would like to make true with you. In the shower, the kitchen and the mall. The rooftop of the alleways and Bailey’s office. Oh, god, he has such a fantasy to fuck you on that asshole’s room, to make you his on every single corner to make you forget what he did and replace all the bad things with pleasurable memories.

His mind goes back to you when you slide your fingertips on his base, caressing up and down, follwing your mouth to give some love to all the parts you can’t reach. “Damn, baby.” he whispers again. His gaze, totally soft and focused only on you, follows his fingers, caressing your hair. As he keeps looking at you, his moans get faster, hoarser, more intense. His hips move on their own and you try your best to keep the gag reflex out of the way, feeling him near to his release down your throat. With a last hard thrust and the hottest moan you’ve ever heard, his cum slides down your throat, the image of you swallowing it being a reson to get him hard again. He leaves your mouth, still twiching with pleasure as he makes you stand up, a violent kiss against your lips, tongue invading your mouth and hands rubbing and touching and exploring every single inch of you. He parts, heavy breath getting mixed with yours as his forehead rests on yours, a side smile appearing on both your mouths. He sighs, hand slipping into your skirt, touching your uncovered and already wet folds.

“You’re gonna be my perdition.”

[confusedspaceotter]

Daily avatrice analysis (day 3)

day1 day2 day3 day4 day5 day6 day7 day8 day9

Seriously didn’t think i’ll have to split season 1 ep3 into 2 parts lol

anyway i’ll try to keep it brief today since the hug™ and the hallway scenes are huge milestones of their relationship thus is been talked a lot

So

Ep 3 part 2,

First, I would like to thank father Vincent for being an ally to the avatrice ship we didn’t know we had 

homeboy sees avatrice interact for once in the canteen then decided to bring Beatrice to comfort Ava lol

Now you could argue and say that father Vincent asked Bea to befriend Ava but I think I would rather believe that Bea did this on her own because of her boarding school times(if you don’t know what I’m talking about check the day 2 post)

as much as I hate this man for lying to Ava I had to give this to him

he saw the vision when no one had 

(Sorry Camila baby but you are still the captain of the avatrice ship tho

Now back to the scene itself

Avatrice really is endgame from the start huh

Just look at her 

the moment she set foot in the room, her attention was dragged away by Ava

All hail protective Beatrice 

You can tell she wanted to comfort Ava so much yet she doesn’t really know what to do

People might think that Bea is not good at dealing with feelings and that’s why she hide it 

I propose that she is in fact too good at emotions 

well more about the dark, bad side of having it ,and more importantly how to hide it

Given her past experiences I think is safe to assume she knows too well about the consequences of having feelings and I quote: 

“When what you love, what should make you happy, only brings you pain.” -Beatrice(S1 Ep 8)

Yeah she knows what pain is

And yet 

She can’t help but look at Ava, trying to find a way to provide comfort to her

Girl was whipped from the beginning man they were just meant to be 

Now onto the hug it self

Sikeee there's something else here I wanna talk about

The moment mother superion left 

She went straight to Ava

Girl couldn’t bother to wait for mother superion to left the room really shows how much she cared about Ava even tho she might not know her well

Now you can see the obvious hesitation she had

I’m assuming that reaction is combination of repressing your emotions for a long time and the result of keeping people out due to self-loathing

which makes this scene a thousand times more meaningful

Bea, the one who actively reject/avoid physical contact Initiate physical contact Im unwell

The fact that Ava is important enough to Bea that she threw her internal cage out of the window 

I feel like in her brain is probably like:

brain sees pretty girl upset must comfort

And you know what the best thing is?

the fact that physical touch is both of their love language 

as we can see in S2

They literally can’t keep their hands off each other 

Now, many people have talked about how Bea feel or might be thinking during the hug

So I will talk about Ava instead

She is seeking comfort in the one person who is nice to her since she got here (minus Vincent he got ulterior motive

Ava your Kid is showing 

I think we can see just how innocent and precious Ava is

reminds me of a meme I saw:

as a person who also had a childlike personality i would too dive head first to the one who is nice to me (especially when they are pretty girls like beatrice 

Now onto the hallway scene

two things i wanted to point out 

one, Bea using humor to try to comfort ava:

babygirl is learning how to comfort Ava we love to see it 

and two

how observant ava is 

“there's more to it then you are telling”

Ava took one look at Beatrice and said I know what you are lmao

“there is always more”

foreshadowing to ep 8 and could possibly be about Bea’s feelings towards Ava

i swear i didn't expect to write this many words 

please lemme know if is too long i’ll try to keep it brief by not analyzing too deep with the more popular scenes(e.g. the kiss in s2 and so on)

Here’s a gif of Avatrice for making it this far <3

stay tuned :)

day4

[dubconartist]

A Man Becomes His Father

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Young Nihil/ Sister Imperator

Summary:

He could feel himself grinning like a madman. Nihil. It fit better than the name he had started the day with.

We see the events of Dance Macabre from Nihil's perspective. Newly (un)christened Nihil is excited to start his new life as his true self with his new love by his side. Only there are family issues to be dealt with.

—

The story Ghost tells us is about rejecting harmful ideas ingrained in us by organized religion, wishing for validation from your parents, and being so down bad for a woman you have no dignity left. I have attempted to include these themes as well

Content Warnings: human sacrifice, graphic depiction of violence, cunniligus, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina sex, transgender themes, depersonalization, religious guilt, emotional neglect, repression, Daddy issues, Mommy issues, abandonment, and spoilers for Rosemary's Baby

Read under the cut or on AO3

He really knew better than this by now because he had already had his rebellious party animal phase back in college. At that time he had lived for sex, drugs, and rock and roll and all he got out of it was three unplanned sons he hardly saw with three different women. Those green eyed little consequences of his actions now drained his bank account just as thoroughly as the sex, drugs, and rock and roll that had led to their conception. Financial support seemed to be the only part of fatherhood he could get himself to do since he seemed to impulsively avoid seeing his son's or talking to them at every opportunity there was to do so.

It was uncertain what the problem was but the paternal instinct was totally absent from him. He wondered if his father would have been the same with him and he hated himself for the thought that he probably was like him in some ways. His mother was already permanently furious with him over three boys out of wedlock. He feared becoming any worse in her eyes but he had wanted to feel something and it seemed like only the things his upbringing labeled sins gave him any shadow of feeling. It was not on purpose that he sinned so well. He tried to be good so many times but he just felt like something vital was missing from him and he needed to find it.

The result of this inner turmoil sent him into a hollow melancholy that was set so deep within his soul that one of his friends, who had somehow never matured into having a sense of responsibility, had actually convinced him to tag along to a party. “Like the glory days, man!” his friend had said. He hoped that it would be nothing of the kind but might prove distracting enough for one night to momentarily pull his attention away from the overwhelming feeling that life may pass him by unlived. He might, however briefly, feel the warm shadow of something pleasant before it would be drawn away at the rising sun and leave him cold once more in the light of day.

Before he got halfway up the long curved drive he knew there was something unsettling about the huge mansion he was being led to, as if there was something inside that knew he was out here and was beckoning him closer. “I'm not sure about this, man.” The feeling was both inexplicable and undeniable, something was waiting for him within those walls and he felt drawn forward in spite of the fear it kindled within him. This kind of lure was the exact warning sign of evil his mother had brought him up to recognize.

He was unaware of exactly what his mother had been through in the years preceding his birth and the entirety of what he had been told was as follows; “Your father was an evil, evil man.” It was in the way she would often grip the cross that hung on a short chain around her neck, in the way she said her prayers so fervently each day, in the way she would not permit him to miss even a single Sunday mass, that he felt his mother's words must be true.

The friend, who had brought him there, ignored his hesitations and knocked on the front door.The willowy and pale man that answered the front door looked like he had just risen from the dead with black makeup in large circles around his strange wide eyes, the man carried himself with slow gliding movements that seemed inhuman. At first it seemed like there was a glimmer of hope because this man would not permit them to enter, denying there was a party at all, despite the drinking and laughing crowd being clearly visible over his shoulder. It looked like it would end there and they could just fuck off to a bar instead, someplace normal and far away from whatever weird shit was in all likelihood occuring within.

He turned to tell his friend to give it up, that they should just go, but his friend grabbed his face to keep him quiet. It was then the man at the door finally turned to him and looked long enough that he wondered where exactly the line was between what could still be considered a look and what would have to be defined as a stare. Abruptly the man at the door changed his tune, now they were expected guests, and the pale man stepped aside floatily to let the two of them in. Against every piece of logic that had been ingrained into him, and with a silent I'm an idiot, he followed his friend past the threshold.

The other party goers had a similar unsettling manner and appearance to the man who had let them inside. It wasn't drugs that influenced them to carry themselves as they did, or at least it was not just drugs. What it looked and felt like for various substances to seep into a person's mind was regrettably familiar to him. This, whatever den of sin churned around him now, was something far more sinister. Each one of these people could have guest starred on The Addams Family as yet another previously unmentioned relative, and none of them would have had to set foot in a makeup chair or costuming department. He imagined an inhuman beast could stalk into the room and the partiers would meet it with a “Hey man, you finally made it!”

The sound of rock and roll filled the air and the crowd moved idly along with the tempo as they drank and talked, not paying any mind to the presence of any newcomers. The friend that had dragged him along had spotted an unoccupied woman as the door was still closing behind them so he found himself abandoned almost instantly. He had very nearly decided to adopt that most critical of party guest roles, man-drinking-alone-against-an-unobstructed-space-of-wall, when he saw something that made him push deeper into the flow of people instead of stagnating at the edge. Eyes that looked right at him with a kind of intensity you see in a wolf spotting a wayward sheep.

She didn't look away when she had been caught staring at him with open interest, in fact her brow arched and a small smile curled on her lips. She lounged rather than sat, legs crossed in a careless manner as her fingers ran along the edge of her drink. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail with a long hair cuff. The image it made caused him to think of a flogger and the tight leather dress that clung to her told him that was the intention.

Even in a room of people dressed just as provocatively, the elegant confidence she carried herself with drew the eye. There was a keen wickedness in the look she was giving him, as if she had already made up her mind about what manner of things she would do to him and a viciousness in her smile that said not all of those things were kind. She was sin on legs and she was the most breathtaking woman he had ever seen.

His attention was regrettably stolen away by one of the most foreboding things he had ever seen, a group of people dressed as plague doctors were descending the stairs. Oh what the fuck, he definitely should get out now before the sacrificial daggers start coming out. His worries dissipated, however, when the plague doctors shed the costumes to reveal that they were only dancers. Most of the people gathered round to watch the surprise entertainment, the distinct sound of his friend whooping and whistling could be heard from some unseen corner of the room. As soon as he realized that it wasn't his imminent death entering the room he turned away to search for the beautiful blonde that had been watching him only to find her on the dance floor, just a few feet behind him, still looking at him and only him.

He took her in his arms as they moved to the music and he enjoyed the way his hands slid easily over the smooth fake leather of her dress, only meeting resistance when met with bare flesh. The worry in his mind about the obvious signs of danger melted away as she too let her hands roam. There was no question in his mind that she was the most dangerous thing here and she seemed pleased with him. He needed her hands to stay on him. He would probably let her ruin his life and he would still beg for her touch.

She leaned close to his ear, “Be a good boy for me.” He felt his face heat at her words as she led him off the dance floor, his feet seeming to move of their own accord. A group of party goers closed in around them at once. “On your knees.” she ordered and he obeyed without objection or hesitation. She leaned in reciting what sounded to his ear like a prayer in Latin but there were a few unmistakable words that made it clear that it was not god she prayed to, Ok definitely a cult, her hands stroked along his chest, But let's see where this goes. He had no clue what these people were planning. They were too well organized in action now for it not to have an imminent purpose, yet he found he did not care if they were about to kill him, or fuck him, or cast a damn spell. He was feeling something and it thrilled him.

She ordered him to stand and as he did so the crowd encircling them kneeled in turn. One of the cultists at this irresistible woman's side handed her two palm size tins of greasepaint. He stood still and obedient as she held his face steady and began to paint on makeup. She started with black around the eyes so at first he thought he was being made to match the others but then she had white makeup as well and he could tell from the lines she followed that she was painting a skull to cover his entire face. It was more complex of a look than those around him. They were not just laying claim to him, they were honoring him. He was waiting for her to tell him what came next when she did the most unexpected thing. She hit him hard in the left eye.

The impact ached through his entire head but with it something seemed to have been knocked loose that had been buried deep within him. He blinked. He was truly present in the world for the first time. It was like he had just taken his first breath of life right here, right now, as a grown man. His senses had awoken and he could feel a nearly tangible darkness permeating the air that he knew instinctually could only have been born out of Hell itself. That darkness enveloped him and he did not find it stifling but freeing. He could see the truth of what he was for the first time. He felt the wrath of the devil himself stir within his heart and was comfortable and warm. For the first time in all his life he was home.

He turned his new eye to the woman before him and beheld the exhilarating ferociousness of her that he had seen even without the sight given to him now. She had removed the blindfold of faith in god, which had once led him to rely solely on a voice at his ear, promising it would shepherd him along his path, while warning him not to stray from its instruction for he could not see. Now his eyes were uncovered and he could walk any way he saw fit. If he followed her along this path she offered him, it would not be done blindly but with intent. He would choose it with eyes open every morning for the rest of his life.

He pulled the woman who saved him into a kiss. It was rather chaste in comparison to what he planned to do with her later but this kiss came with the first moments of a rebirth and so he held her close, kissed her softly, contentedly.

Something warm and wet sprayed on them both as he kissed her, as she kissed him back. There was the distinct copper scent that could only mean blood. When he pulled back slightly, still being drenched in that vital fluid, he saw a man wearing a goat head sheathing a blade and the limp body of his once friend being held aloft by the nearby crowd so that what flowed from his slashed throat would fall onto them, a baptism of blood to welcome him into the fold.

The body was lowered and passed to the women that had entered dressed as plague doctors. As soon as they had hold of him entirely they wasted no time in tearing at him like wild animals, biting and rending and breaking, trying to get a piece for their very own. They were delighting in their act, excited to have meat in their teeth. Two of them began swinging detached limbs at each other, trying to make the other slip in the gore at their feet. He felt a joyous laugh burst from him.

The woman in his arms pulled away for a moment to address the room, “Sisters, Brothers, and loyal Ghouls!” she gestured to each kind in turn. Everyone paused in their revelry for the announcement. A ghoul tried to abort the swing of the severed arm in her hand so she could listen but lost her balance and slipped into the blood pooled beneath her feet. She got up and tried to brush it off like nothing had happened while the beautiful blood-soaked blonde continued. “I have the honor of naming- Nihil! Heir to the unholy bloodline!” There was cheering and clapping for him. The ghoul holding his former friend’s arm used it to clap as well since she did not have both of her own free.

He could feel himself grinning like a madman. Nihil. It fit better than the name he had started the day with. He could be Nihil from now on. His old name and who he once was were just as dead as the man in pieces on the floor and if his old name and life could be rent apart like flesh and bone he would gladly throw them both to the ghouls. All sacrifices he could make with pride. None of it had truly mattered to him and none of it would be missed.

The celebrating and horror picked up again now that he had been renamed. Nihil did not understand what his role would be yet, but he would force himself to learn quickly. For these people, for Lucifer, for her, for himself. He turned again to the woman before him and pulled her back into his arms. He kissed fiercely this time, and in pressing against her he realized his cock was half hard in exhilaration. “So, what do I call you?”

——

It had only been two days but Nihil had embraced his new identity completely. Each morning he examined the face that stared back at him from the mirror, one white iris in a painted skull, and he would feel at peace with himself. He belonged in this place, with these people. Despite having rarely picked up a book in the preceding few years he found himself devouring the unholy scriptures he had been presented so he might educate himself on his newfound cause. It was an education he would supplement with hours spent alone in the presence of Sister Imperator so she might further instruct him.

“Cool, cool,” Nihil kissed down Sister Imperator’s naked body as she finished her story, “like Rosemary’s Baby.” he concluded. She furrowed her brow as she looked down at him. He wondered if she knew how much of his face paint had smudged around her mouth. “It's a book where this chick figures out she's pregnant with the son of Satan.” He smiled at her, he had not read it but it was popular enough at the moment for him to have picked up the story by osmosis. “They're supposed to be making a movie. We could see it together.” he slid further down and was halfway to getting his mouth where he wanted it when her hand in his hair pulled his head back.

Nihil enjoyed the pain at his scalp and grinned in such a way that it looked less like a smile and more like an animal baring its teeth. He wished his hair was longer so she'd have something to really pull. “Such a hasty boy.” She admonished, “You have to make me want it first. Then you can have a taste.” He groaned at the thought of her in his mouth but she'd already taught him he could not take more than he was bid and she was yet to order that pleasure.

She released him from her hold so he parted her legs and sat up between them. Two of his fingers ran along her cunt, enjoying the soft slick feel of her under his touch. Nihil looked at her to see the little movements on her face that would tell him he was pleasing her. He ran a finger almost idly up and down where her clit ran buried under the skin, feeling the line of it hardening for him slowly, so near the perfect spot but not quite there, not yet. His fingers moved to either side of her clit catching the edges of it with each stroke and she moaned for him. His other hand now joined in and teased the entrance of her cunt. Two fingers barely pushing in before coming back out and running along its edge. Her hips pressed forward wanting more.

Nihil looked at her and knew he looked entirely besotted but it couldn't be helped. She was beautiful and writhing beneath his touch and he would wish to please her above all else. She nodded, hand returning to his hair, pulling lightly. He was finally allowed to bow low before her and replaced the hand teasing her clit with his mouth as he pressed two curled fingers firmly into her cunt. She cried out and her legs spread wider as her hips pressed up. He wrapped his free hand around her thighs to pull her tight against him. The taste of her was nectarous. The soft aroma that filled his lungs, intoxicating. The feeling of pain returned to his scalp where she was tightening her hold. He moaned against her cunt and she gasped at the vibration. He licked up her clit to get more of her taste then sucked as he moved his tongue back and forth along that point of pleasure between her legs.

Nihil rocked his hand into her, pads of his fingers pressing up against the same bundle of nerves he had his mouth on just from inside. She was whimpering continuously and it was the sweetest sound. He turned his eyes up while he worked to see her crying out for him. Maybe it was the eye contact that did it for her because he felt her clench around his finger as her body tensed in pleasure. He did not change his pace or the pressure on her clit until her orgasm began to wind down.

When he pulled his fingers from her he used the slick on them to wet his cock where it stood hard between his legs. Now it was his turn. He manhandled her onto her elbows and knees and rubbed his cock along her soaking cunt so she knew just what was about to happen. She tried to press back into the pressure of it but he gripped the back of her neck and held her still. His turn. She made a pleased hum at the firm grip that held her in place. He pressed slowly into the heat of her and ground his hips against her a moment to be as deep in her as possible. They both moaned at the feeling.

He ran his hand from her neck down her back until he had her hips in a bruising hold. He pulled out until it was just the head of his cock in her then thrust in again moving her hips just as much as he moved his own, making her meet his thrusts. He fucked into her again and again and again, with each impact came the clap of hip meeting hip and a choked off cry from the woman below him. After it seemed like she relaxed into the pace he had set, her noises settling down, he sped up until he got the noises from her to be almost constant. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” Her voice was tight with pleasure and he could not help but huff a fond laugh as his face tilted a moment towards the heavens he would wage a war against..

When Nihil had fucked her into a state of truly constant whimpers he released her right hip so he could move his hand to her clit. He rubbed firmly but he would not be cruel to this sensitive and delicious part of her. She cried out under the touch. “Look at me, Sister Imperator.” He commanded, trying to keep the strain from his voice. She looked back at him and he knew what she would see, the single bright eye in a somewhat smudged painted skull, the next in line to be a Papa. A Papa who was taking her like that was his true mission here on earth. She tightened around him with a shout, muscles tightening as she came on his cock, and he kept up the pace of his hips and his hand, unrelenting until she went limp in his hold. He wrapped an arm around her, chest to shoulder, and pulled her against him where he knelt until she was sitting, loose limbed, on him like a throne. He ground up into her face buried against her shoulder until he came as deep in her as he could.

He cradled her in his arms as he laid them down to rest. She had a pleased lazy smile as he rubbed any soreness from her muscles and he held her close. He pressed his forehead to hers, the bridges of their noses brushing. “I hate to tell you,” Nihil looked at her fondly, “but so much of the skull paint came off on your face that you've looked like Weary Willie The Hobo Clown this entire time.” They burst into a fit of giggles as they held onto each other, joyous.

——

He woke early the next morning in that quiet muted blue world that existed just before sunrise. The sister had stayed in his rooms that night and they had cleaned up together, despite their nakedness and their hands roaming over each other it had not been sexual. It had been comfortably intimate, domestic in a way he had never had before. Now in the soft light of morning the heat returned to his gaze, remembering the soft heat of her around him as he came in her in that very bed the night before. He wondered if it would take and he'd have yet another kid. He did not want a fourth, he had not even wanted the first three. Then in thinking of his children for the first time in days he thought of the bloodline, of birthrights.

As she stirred awake a while later he couldn't help but pull her close and kiss her face until she was awake enough to catch his lips with her own. “Morning, Sister Imperator.” He practically purred at her. He tightened his hold briefly as he entwined their legs.

“Morning, Nihil.” She pressed herself against him, content to lay there a little while longer in the gentle quiet of the morning.

“I have some work for The Ministry.” he sighed and she looked at him curiously. “I have three kids.” Her face fell and she pulled away a fraction. “With three different women.” she untangled their limbs entirely.

“Slut.” She deadpanned like it wasn't a big deal but she had still pulled away at the news.

“I don't…" he winced, “The first one happened when I was only nineteen with a girl I went to church with and everybody in my life was pressuring me to marry her but I… and so she hates me and I'm an awful person. And I thought I'd known better after and that it wouldn't happen again but then years later I find out twice in the same week I had another kid on the way. Those two didn't try to get me to get hitched at least.” He had never talked about it to anyone other than in two panicked confessions to his mother, years apart. He'd tried to ignore that they existed most of the time.

“I never really see them, I never wanted kids but they should be raised in The Ministry.” He took a breath before he continued, “ They're mothers might be difficult. You can decide how you want to deal with them.” At the last idea the Sister's eyes brightened and she pressed back into the comfortable, now slightly more possessive, cuddle they had been in the middle of. He held her tightly, afraid if she left him behind in this bed she would never come back. He would hold her close for the minute and hope she could forgive him for his past.

“Thy will be done.” she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his adams apple. He could have cried with relief. “Come on,” as she began to get up she did not back out of his hold but instead pulled him up with her. “Let me do your makeup.” He would enjoy that. She managed to make him look slightly more unsettling than he could achieve on his own. Once he was more practiced in applying his makeup perhaps he would improve.

The rest of the early morning was relaxed, quiet, as he dressed in his new sacrilegious uniform and Sister Imperator took his chin in her hand and applied the greasepaints to his skin. When she had finished, Nihil looked in the mirror and found that he looked rather powerful, eerie, and dangerous. Exactly who he wanted to be. “Y'know,” he turned in his chair to the woman over his shoulder, “I'd never worn makeup before I met you.” He took her hand, unable to say more.

“You poor man.” She smiled but she was sympathetic, she knew what he meant to say. He didn't understand it himself, why it comforted him so much. Why he felt more like himself with the makeup on. Or why he hated having to wash it off at night and see his own clean face reflected back at him. It felt as if he was made to build himself every morning and tear himself down again at night. He would much rather be as he was now without all the purposeful effort it took to achieve it.

——

He had something he felt like he needed to do before he could start his new role properly, a goodbye of sorts to his old life. A confrontation. He had driven out to a neighborhood he could navigate with his eyes closed, until he reached a tiny house that managed to be even shittier than his apartment. He did not bother knocking, he had a key. Nihil stepped inside quietly. He knew she would be up soon so he waited for her at the small round kitchen table she'd found on a curb back in 1956.

Nihil heard her stir in her room then the sound of her worn out slippers shuffling towards the kitchen. When the old woman entered the room she screamed at the sight before her. She grabbed her cross and started a rapid prayer. The Sisters of Sin he passed on the way out that morning had told him looked much like his father this way, he wondered if the old woman thought he was his father.

“You would fear the sight of your own son?” His smile was wicked as he watched for her reaction. His mother froze a moment in shock at the voice that came forth from this vision of evil then her face crumpled.

“Oh, my boy, tell me you didn't!” she pleaded, tears flowing freely down her wrinkled face. Her knuckles were white around her cross as she approached him on tottery legs. “Tell me you didn't.”

He gave a little hum before he answered, “You taught me lying is a sin.” He felt light, joyful as he looked at the woman across from him. Even sitting down as he was, his mother looked so small to him now. No longer the righteous force that dictated who he was allowed to be.

“Why? How could you do this to yourself?” his mother cried with fury and she was trying to be firm with him, like he was still her son. “After everything I taught you?”

“Everything you taught me? You,” he pointed an accusatory finger at her, “lied to me my entire life. You filled me with guilt and fear and self hatred and judgment. Your god was always watching, unquestionable, and conveniently condemning everyone who didn't share the beliefs pushed by your particular church. But that god means nothing to me now, and with what I hope to bring into this world, soon he might not mean anything to anyone.” The woman who raised him said something unforgivable then, his old name fell from her mouth, pleading.

He slammed his hands against the table as he stood. Nihil towered over the small woman,“That man never fucking existed.” he seethed. “That was the name you used for a thing that moved through the world half alive.” His eyes were wide, as if challenging her to disagree. “And when that empty creature finally got away from you it committed sin after sin trying to feel something in it dead fucking heart because it knew something was missing but it didn't know what that something was.” he wanted to shock her, to hurt her, to make her understand. “Then when I did find what was missing,” His voice cracked. “I could feel. I could see. I was alive for the first time and I will not be buried again.”

She was shaking and grasp quickly at the back of a dining room chair to steady herself. Nihil felt a pang of fear as she faltered and he reached out. He held her hand that still gripped the cross in both of his and his touch was gentle. He could not hurt her. As he faced the woman who raised him Nihil found he could not help but be her child, no matter how different he had become she would always be his mother. The act of suppressing something fundamental to someone's identity will never turn them into the person you would prefer them to be; it just leaves a hole in the core of them. It was the very reason he was furious with her and the very reason he loved her.

“I know you believe what you taught me was right but I cannot be anything other than myself.” He bent his head to meet her eye. “This is me, mama. It's me.” Nihil wrapped his arms around her and he kissed the top of her head before he rested his chin there. He pulled back, chin tucked in, to look at her. “I'll make you a deal, mama. You can pray for me. I can recite invocations for you. And we'll both be covered no matter what side wins.” But his mother was silent. She did not look up at him and it was as if he was not even there. He loosened his hold and let her go. “Goodbye Mom.” As he left the hurt in his heart felt like a knife between the ribs. He would rather have the knife than nothing at all.

——

When he got back home, his new home, he crossed paths with the old man for the first time in the entrance hall. It was unmistakable that they were father and son. It was like looking in a mirror, if mirrors made your reflection really fucking old. “Papa.” He bowed his head. All he got was a hum of disinterest before his father walked away to matters more important to him. His shoulders slumped with disappointment.

But the door was opening again behind him, and in flooded his people. Bothers and Sisters and Ghouls, they met him with joyful greetings, some bowed, some waved, one man kissed him on both cheeks. The adoration, so sudden and total, was a balm to his soul. He was an important man to The Ministry. He mattered to the Clergy even if he did not matter to others. Sister Imperator entered and stood beside him draping an arm across him to play idly with his hair. She directed his eyes back to the open door.

Two ghouls in simple gold masks walked in; each carried a toddler on their hip, and beside them walked a ten year old boy. His sons were home. He should go over, go see them, they're his children. But what do you even say to a ten year old boy? Would the child even care if he didn't see him? The three of them would be raised by The Ministry now. They didn't need him. Nihil leaned into the Sister beside him as he watched the ghouls walk past and to him it was as if they carried three tiny strangers and he knew he was just like his father.

——

Nihil left a movie theater with the most beautiful woman in the world. “That was such a sweet ending!” Sister imperator was holding his hand, fingers locked in his. It was a feeling that had become a familiar comfort to him over the last year of study and work.

“I don't know, It could have used more action.” Nihil grinned to himself. “The little Antichrist baby could have shot out of the crib and started mauling someone.” he shook a clawed hand out in front of him, an exaggerated snarl on his face. And the Sister buried her face in his shoulder as she laughed.

“It was perfect, the Antichrist was born and his mother accepted him as he is.” her brows pinch like it was the cutest thing to have ever happened. He had not talked to her about what happened his first week at the Ministry. She did not know the nerve she had plucked at.

Nihil's shoulders tensed slightly.” There was one bit that didn't make sense.” He pointed out, “at the end that one old fuck said ‘the year is one.’ but it wouldn't be. It would be year zero wouldn't it?” He wondered if you counted years differently than ages. But it seemed to make sense in his mind.

“You know, I think you might be right.” she linked their arms and leaned into him as they walked. “They shouldn't call it year one until his first birthday.” Nihil had the mental image of the movie's cult gathering together an entire year later just to declare the year is one.

“And with every birthday they could announce the year the way he shouted it.” He continued on that line of thought. “In fact, we can streamline the whole thing and name the kid ‘The Year.’” She gave him a long-suffering look. “Then we can say ‘The year is one! The year is nine! The year is forty five and balding!”’ The Sister stared at him as if she was seriously questioning her taste in men, and Nihil knew as he looked down to see the way her eyes squinted he would love her for the rest of his life.

[good-beans]

Milgram murder swap aus! I tried to keep the personalities the same and just swap the murder itself – not everyone paired perfectly but some worked really well

Edit: I've made some updates/additions here!

Fuuta/Mu: Muu has an extensive social media presence because of her wealthy lifestyle. She runs several blogs and channels (instead of fantasy rpg she has a fairy tale-esque theme to all her profiles). She gains a dedicated following who hang on her every post. When she calls out someone online, it doesn’t take long for her followers to join in and fatal consequences to follow. Fuuta’s reputation as the tough and cool gamer places him between being a menace on his university campus to being the subject of bullying himself. When his gaming buddies all turn on him, and he quickly falls from the center of attention. He’s a violent victim, but a victim nonetheless. One betrayal hurts more than the others. Armed with something sharp from one of the campus labs, he takes matters into his own hands.

Shidou/Mahiru: Mahiru is a bubbly doctor who all patients and families trust wholeheartedly because of her cheery attitude. When her partner falls ill, though, she’s impatient. It takes less than two weeks for her to realize she needs to grab hold of her lover before she loses them, and she uses her reputation to avoid suspicion of her increasing body count. (I know we don’t know a ton about Mahiru’s crime yet, but) Shidou moves to the city taking up a new job at the florist’s. When he meets someone he really falls for, he’s calm and calculated about approaching them and planning meetings. He’s good at keeping a poker face through lies, and he easily convinces them that every meeting is “such a strange coincidence” and “must be fate.” 

Amane/Haruka: Amane’s parents were abusive, and she looked to religion to find solace. She only had access to minimal forms of religious information, though, so her view of the whole thing is heavily distorted. She wanted nothing more than her parents’ attention, and sought out the attention of a higher power to satisfy that. She killed animals as sacrifices, and thought she was being guided by righteousness when she killed her sibling/family member.. Haruka was raised in a cult who focused more on teachings and punishments than on his needs. He was so hungry for their approval, he began following their every word and genuinely accepting their teachings to get a feeling of belonging. Even when pushed to murder/allow for someone’s death, he did it happily thinking they’d be proud of him for doing the right thing. 

Yuno/Kotoko: Yuno knows how to manipulate the social situation – she’s bubbly and fun, she knows how to please people, but at her core she’s calculating and disinterested in drama. She uses these abilities to talk to others and track down the criminal she’s looking for who hurt young girls that she knew/related to. Kotoko goes out and does whatever she pleases. She’s not looking to find true love or please a man, she’s just doing what’s good for her while maintaining her bold and self-assured attitude. She sees nothing wrong with her actions and has a “screw you if you do” outlook. 

Mikoto was tough to swap with someone else, but I gave him Aname’s crime because I think it’d have the most interesting tension: Mikoto was raised in a strict religious cult, but only one of his alters took to the teachings. One is very devout, and is willing to commit murder the way the other members would have encouraged. The other desperately wants to escape the cult, and fights back against it whenever he can. They both think their actions are protecting the other. Fun angel/demon aesthetics (where the “angelic” religious one is the murderer and the “demonic” antireligious one is innocent).

And so that Kazui isn’t left alone, a modified Kazui/Haruka swap: Kazui was very emotionally repressed since childhood. Even into adulthood his family makes it clear they’re disappointed in him. He carries his abuse with him far later in life, letting it simmer and grow under the surface. Maybe his wife started talking about having kids, reminding Kazui of his own childhood, or maybe something unrelated caused all the memories to flood back. When all that pent up pain finally breaks through, it floods and his wife suffers. Haruka grew up in a stable family, but still envied others. He was so busy with other friends/siblings that he preferred to be with, he ignored his younger sister’s needs. Disliking her and wishing to escape his responsibility to her, his lies/avoidance of her put her in fatal danger.

Uuuhhhh Es is the mysterious prison leader and Jackalope is running batshit interrogations and making all the decisions 😂