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shig-a-shig-ah · 4 years

Note

Please I'm on my hands and knees begging for some kind of angst/comfort or whatever sequel to Solace what do I have to pay to see it at last

You know what, anon? Fuck it—ask and you shall receive.

DISCOMFIT ━ PART 2 OF SOLACE

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader, previous shigaraki tomura x reader

» cw: noncon, free use (mostly implied/referenced), implied anal, mentions of cheating, little bit of comfort, whole lot of angst. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: This picks up exactly where Solace left off, and isn’t exactly canon-compliant because the war arc hadn’t ended when I first posted Solace. It’s also more angsty than smutty, but def still NSFW. As always, reblogs, replies, etc. are welcome <3

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

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There's lead in Dabi's stomach as Shigaraki drags you towards the door, and he's already scrambling to tug on his sweats, staggering to his feet as though he could effectively intervene. He'd heard the threats hissed in your ear, the ones scattered among the taunts Dabi had tried so hard to counter with his own exaltations, but he hadn't been prepared for them to be genuine, had thought that in the end Shigaraki would view your shame as his own. That he wouldn't want to make this betrayal public, not really.

Apparently, Dabi was wrong.

When you're hauled across the threshold, he falters. The thought of your imminent defilement is enough to make him feel sick, bile rising at the back of his throat as his gut twists; he doesn't think he could bear to witness such a desecration. But in the end he also doesn't have a choice—Shigaraki pauses in the doorway, his vicious gaze fixing on Dabi as he gives the order. "You're coming too."

Dabi's throat tightens, because he knows there's no use trying to oppose Shigaraki's will, not with his newfound power. And there's no clemency in the man's burning red eyes, no hints that Tomura has doubts about his chosen retribution, nothing at all to give Dabi hope that perhaps the pale-haired man can be dissuaded from this corrective action.

So Dabi swallows back that bitter taste in his mouth, and he follows.

***

Your heart is in your throat as you're dragged into the hall for the second time, only vaguely aware of Dabi trailing behind, failing to interfere though you don't blame him for that, could never condemn him when this is so much more your fault than his. Had you ever really thought you could gladden yourself with Dabi's comfort and then return unscathed to Shigaraki's arms?

You're loud at first, and desperate. You rake at Tomura's forearm as you try to free yourself from his bruising grip, clawing until red droplets are blooming from the scratches on his skin and his flesh collects beneath your nails, but those marks knit themselves back together almost as quickly as you carve them in. Your feet scrabble ineffectually against the carpet too, trying to slow Tomura's movements, but all that accomplishes is friction burns when you stumble, collapsing to your knees even as Shigaraki continues his unyielding march, dragging you along without so much as a backwards glance.

You beg shamelessly again too, pleading with him to stop, to not, to simply let you go. You swear that you'll leave, that he'll never have to see you again, but he ignores those cries just as he does your pathetic attempts to grapple yourself free. It isn't until your implorations grow quieter, more disheartened, that he pauses—you're weeping, not even thinking about what you're saying, rash words falling from your lips. "Tomu, please, I'm sorry, it was a mistake. Please, if you ever cared about me, just let me go."

It's then that he freezes in place, every muscle in his body going rigid, the cords in his neck standing out as he whirls around to face you. His eyes are impossibly wide, his mouth twisted in disgust, and something dark flashes behind his expression, something that, but for a moment, makes him look wounded rather than filled with rage. It's gone almost as soon as it comes, replaced by an expression stonier than any he's fixed you with thus far. He spits his retort through gritted teeth, his tone so tight and glacial that it sends a shiver down your exposed spine.

"Who could ever care about a whore like you?"

***

Dabi can see you struggling, tears streaming down your reddened cheeks as you beg, but he hears none of those supplications, hears nothing but blood rushing in his ears and the wet glug of his throat every time he tries to swallow down the lump that has lodged itself there. Just moving forward consumes all his focus; this sprawling mansion may as well extend for miles for all the effort it takes him to continue putting one foot in front of the other as Shigaraki tows you down the hall.

Your grotesque procession ends in the cavernous ballroom on the ground floor. It's ornate even in its empty glory, sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows and glinting off the crystal of the chandelier that hangs unlit from the ceiling. Dozens of observers trail behind, every inquiring mind that had peered out to investigate the commotion now obeying Shigaraki's commands for them to follow. They're watching warily, whispering behind their hands as their eyes flick curiously from Dabi, shirtless and shaking, to Shigaraki and you.

Dabi comes back into himself when Shigaraki hurls you unceremoniously to the floor, the sharp crack of your head against the hardwood echoing loudly enough to breach the disassociated haze in which he's been trapped. The sight of your face, dazed by the blow, has him instinctually moving forward, but he's stopped at once when a chiseled arm casts itself across his chest, halting his movements. A low growl issues from the back of Shigaraki's throat. "Don't."

It was easier not to protest Shigaraki's rough treatment of you when the three of you were alone in Dabi's bedroom. He'd been able to convince himself then that Shigaraki had some claim on you, some right to do what he was doing, a sense that had been given all the more weight by your own equivocal response to those harsh touches. But the sight of you now, curled on the floor clutching your head, your legs tucked to your chest as though that could somehow preserve your modesty, is harder to abide. It has heat roiling under Dabi's skin, his insides near-roasting as he does his best to restrain himself, to keep emotions too tumultuous to define from bubbling up and setting him alight.

So Dabi looks away. He does his best to tamp down on that growing heat and to endure, to think about the importance of being there for you. After.

Even after Tomura extends his sadistic invitation to the assembled remnants of the Paranormal Liberation Front, Dabi is naive enough at first to hope that no one will take the bait, that even a crowd of villains won't be depraved enough to indulge in what Shigaraki is offering. Except, Dabi had, hadn't he? Had found his own satisfaction in the first part of Shigaraki's punishment, even as you'd wept. He tries to tell himself that was different—he'd already had you, more than once and voluntarily, and you'd asked for him, implored him so desperately that he couldn't have refused, especially not when it was something Shigaraki had been so intent on enacting.

A darker thought flits across the back of Dabi's mind when he remembers the way you'd writhed under Tomura's domineering touch: if Shigaraki insists on it, will you beg here too?

It's a question that goes unanswered. You spend less than a minute sniffling on the floor surrounded by that mob of villains, and then Dabi's glancing up against his better judgement to see Re-Destro stepping forward, dark eyes glinting with curiosity as he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie, the balding sycophant unabashedly eager to avail himself of Shigaraki's sloppy seconds.

All your struggling has ceased; you're not trying to leave or asking for help, or mercy. Dabi's not sure if you're still trying to please Shigaraki or are only clinging to some last shred of dignity, if he should be disgusted or proud. Still, you flinch when the redhead crouches to trace one large hand up the outside of your thigh, and that small sign of discomfort is enough to have Dabi moving without thinking, every fiber of his body screaming out to defend you from that unwanted touch. But he only manages one feeble step forward before Shigaraki's hand is curling in his hair, yanking him back so hard that Dabi's scalp throbs. Shigaraki maintains that tight hold, leaving Dabi immobilized and with no choice left but to keep staring forward.

"You're going to watch every second," Shigaraki hisses.

Dabi nods. Grinds his teeth. Watches.

***

He thinks nothing could be worse than the powerlessness he feels as Re-Destro takes you. It's a sense of impotence that settles in his bones, that unearths and amplifies every inadequacy he endured in his youth until his knees are weak and there's blood leaking from the corners of his eyes. Just like back then, he's too weak to do what is needed. He can only watch in dismay as someone slots themselves into a role that should be his.

He's wrong, of course, that nothing could be more horrible than witnessing that first act. It's worse when he starts to notice the familiar tensing in your body, and hears your high-keyed whines reverberating off of walls designed to carry just such a pitch. It's worse when he spies Skeptic with that camera trained on you, documenting your disgrace as he palms himself through his pants, and even worse when Spinner comes forward, casting a long, uncertain glance towards Shigaraki before burying himself in both your holes. It's worse when they stop taking orderly turns coupling with your pliant form and start to share instead, and it's worse still when Dabi realizes that somewhere along the way he's grown shamefully, achingly hard.

But the worst? The absolute worst?

That comes at the end.

You're nothing but a crumpled heap on the floor, one cheek squashed against the stained hardwood, your expression glassy and far away. People have stopped coming forward, all those who wanted a turn having taken one, or more. Their faces are uneasy now that they're spent, murmuring again and shooting furtive looks towards the door, obviously unsure if their continued presence is required but too wary of Shigaraki to ask. So it's Dabi who finally works up the nerve to speak, his voice tight through his clenched jaw.

"You did what you wanted. Now can we go?"

A sense of relief washes over him when Shigaraki releases him, but it's short-lived as the other man fixes that red-eyed stare on Dabi.

"Huh," he muses thickly, his expression unreadable as he cocks his head. "You still want her."

Dabi hesitates. Because he knows Shigaraki doesn't want that to be true, is intent on ripping apart whatever tenuous connection you and Dabi have forged over the past weeks, but Dabi's not sure that such a thing is possible. Right now he can't imagine the future any further than getting you both far, far away from here, but even after watching you submit to Shigaraki so readily, after seeing you clench and moan while being offered up like so much meat, Dabi doesn't think he could ever turn you away, not so long as you want him. So he nods.

Shigaraki's unreadable expression morphs, his lips splitting into a wide, depraved grin. "Fine." There's something in his tone that has Dabi's chest tightening with dread already, a sense that only intensifies when Shigaraki continues. "Finish her off, and you can have her. After all, what the fuck do I care if you want to keep the toy you damaged?"

Dabi swallows hard, looking around again. The crowd is watching intently, exchanging hushed whispers, and he knows they can hear every word, have no doubt anymore about just what has happened here, if they had any doubts before.

"Better get on with it," Tomura jeers, followed by a quiet, callous chuckle. "Take the last turn, and the two of you can go. Or don't, and I'll keep her here for days."

Fuck, Dabi can feel the weight of all those eyes on him, of dozens of gazes flicking between his torn expression and your used up form. He wants to say he can't, that he could never, but it's not the truth. The thought alone might have him fighting back a wave of nausea but that doesn't mean he isn't still erect, tenting his pants in a way that's painfully obvious to himself and to everyone else. Physically, at least, Dabi absolutely could.

He takes a step closer to you. Grimaces. He wants to reach out to you, to give you the reassurance of a soothing touch, but there's nowhere your skin isn't reddened or contused, the evidence of that damage exaggerated by the sheen of sweat and worse coating your skin. Your eyes roll up just enough to meet his hesitant stare, and Dabi gives you what he hopes is an apologetic look.

Dabi does what he has to do.

***

The moment it's over Dabi is scooping you up, hooking his arms around your shoulders and behind your bruised knees and lifting you gingerly from the floor, taking you in his arms as gently as he can manage. Your eyes drift to him again, the corners of your lips twitching and a tiny whimper issuing from the back of your throat, a sound so small and feeble that Dabi has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek to maintain some semblance of composure.

He avoids making eye contact with anyone as he leaves, not even sparing a glance towards Shigaraki to confirm this is really over; if the other man decides to change his mind, Dabi's sure it will be painfully obvious. But no one tries to stop him from taking you—he flees the scene of your discrediting successfully, with his heart pounding and his eyes fixed firmly on the floor ahead of him. Just as when he'd followed Shigaraki's march before, he puts one foot in front of the other and wills himself to think of nothing else.

It's difficult. Your skin is slick against his unclothed chest, and feels feverish. Every time he shifts you, he can feel wetness dribbling down your thighs as he tries to lie to himself it's nothing. Tries not to give it any attention at all.

Dabi's never been very good at deceiving himself, and it's all the harder now with the images of your defilement burned into his retinas—Shigaraki knew just what would make him suffer, Dabi has to admit that much.

When he reaches his room, he sets you gently to the floor, whispers that he'll be right back and then disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. He cranks on the bathtub—it will be necessary to clean you up since he's certain you couldn't stand if you tried. It also serves to drown out the sounds to come, because the moment the water starts pouring he's lunging for the toilet and heaving his guts into the bowl, coughing and sputtering as he retches.

By the time he's finished being sick, the tub is nearly full.

He checks the temperature of the water. Once, twice. Three times. It's hard for him to gauge it adequately when he runs so hot, and the last thing he wants is to scald your abused skin or any of those tender, overworked parts. When he's finally wrangling you into the tub, he dips your hand in first, one final test to ease his anxious mind.

"That feel all right, baby girl?" He's not sure if you really nod, or if you're simply shifting a little, but either way he takes it as a yes.

In the end, it doesn't matter so much. The water turns disgusting almost the moment you're submerged, an oily sheen rising to the surface that Dabi doesn't want to think too hard about it. He drains it and doesn't repeat that mistake, only fills it a few inches full the second time and then scoops water over your irritated skin to rinse away the worst of the mess, a painstakingly slow but necessary measure. He repeats it twice and only after that muck stops rising to the top does he let the water creep higher so that he can wash you properly.

He starts with your hair. It's another slow process, trying to keep from snagging your damp tresses on the staples that line his palms as he massages shampoo into your scalp, and moving carefully to avoid the lump that's formed at the back of your head, where it cracked against the hardwood floor. He does his best not to grimace visibly at that swelling, does the same as he's working sweat and sticky clumps out of your matted locks—your eyes are still bleary but he knows you're watching him, and he couldn't bear for you to see how much it affects him to witness you like this.

Conditioner is probably an unnecessary touch, but he works it in anyway once the last of the suds have been rinsed away, thinks it might help you to feel some sense of normalcy, if that's even still a possibility for you. He lets it soak in while he tends to the rest of your inflamed skin, trying best as he can to be gentle, though that doesn't stop you from wincing every time he brushes over some raw, tender spot. When he finally works the washcloth between your thighs, the last horribly necessary task left, you let out a choked sob, your face contorting in distress in a way that has his throat tightening again.

"Shh, baby girl," Dabi soothes, his voice raw even to his own ears as he lifts a hand to stroke at your hair. "It's okay. I've got you."

You can't help but wonder if that's entirely true as you bite back more complaints and let him tend to your ravaged sex. You can see the tightness in his face, the way he can't seem to look at you for long, and Shigaraki's words keep running through your mind, a grim mantra that sticks in your head even more than the memories of the past few hours.

You'll be ruined for him, just like you're ruined for me.

The thought is enough to have panic brewing in your chest, a near-hysteria clawing its way through you. Because what would you do without Dabi? Who else would ever want you now? It would be too much to lose them both.

You don't realize tears are streaming down your cheeks until hot thumbs are brushing them away, cerulean eyes fixed worriedly on your own. "It's okay," Dabi murmurs again. "You're okay."

But it's not, you're not, probably won't ever be again, and you need more than those thin reassurances. Your arm aches when you lift one hand to catch his wrist, your feeble grip a reminder of just how worn you really are. "Am I—" your voice is hoarse, your words interrupted by a painful cough as you struggle to speak through your wrecked throat "—am I ruined for you?"

The way his face falls at your question is reassurance enough, that tight expression going slack and defeated, the corners of his brows lifting in grief. Then Dabi's pulling you to his chest, water sloshing over the side of the tub and cool porcelain digging into your side as he wraps both arms around you, his face burying itself in your damp strands as he cradles you close.

"No. No, of course not, baby girl. Never."

***

When Dabi finally releases you, he leaves you soaking in the tub long enough to take a shower. He's loath to abandon you for even one second, but he needs that cleansing and, more than that, needs a moment to breath. Because you'd never clung to him so eagerly before, never needed him the same way he needed you, not when you had someone else to hold tightly to.

So just now, when you'd burrowed against his chest and made clear that he was the one you were counting on? Well, he'd be lying if he said it hadn't felt good.

Shigaraki might have succeeded in cracking the pedestal Dabi had placed you on, but all that's truly accomplished is to bring you down to Dabi's level, to a place where he can actually hope to make you his. And Dabi doesn't want to find that thought reassuring, doesn't want to dwell on the realization that this whole fucked up situation might be the only way he'll get the one thing he still wants in life. But he does.

He cranks the heat in the shower as high as it will go as he tries to wash away that guilt, but the scalding water isn't enough. It can't rinse out the shame of finding personal satisfaction in your suffering, just like it can't scour away the memories of obeying Shigaraki's final order, of burying his length in the slick sensation of a dozen other men's seed, of squeezing your thighs together in a desperate bid to create some sort of friction, or of sinking himself into your tighter hole when it seemed like the only way to end that agony.

The list of things that require Dabi's contrition is endless, it seems.

Perhaps it's some kind of fucked up penance, then, that once you're both clean Dabi finds himself offering to go collect your things from the room you'd shared with Shigaraki.

It's an offer born of necessity; you have nothing to wear and while Dabi would love to dress you in his clothes, would relish the sight of you parading around in some oversized shirt that belongs to him, the way you had with Shigaraki's clothes back in the old hideout, he has nothing to offer on that front. An extensive wardrobe isn't among his precious few possessions—the options are his filthy tee shirt and jeans, the ones that reek of booze and ash, or his sweats, amply stained from your walk of shame. None of that seems anywhere near adequate.

So Dabi grits his teeth yet again, tugs on those dirty clothes himself and leaves you tucked safely in his bed, bundled in his only towel. There's an anxious look in your eyes as he departs, one that has a strange thrill coursing through him as he murmurs a promise to return quickly.

He tells himself as he journeys down the hall—pointedly ignoring every person he passes—that Shigaraki won't be there. Dabi's seen the boss angry before, knows he's one to wander and destroy rather than to sulk, and if Dabi were a betting man he would wager that Shigaraki won't be setting foot in the room he'd shared with you any time soon.

Unfortunately, Dabi is wrong once again. There's no answer when he knocks, but when he slips inside it becomes painfully obvious that lack of response wasn't because the quarters were unoccupied. He pauses inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and is almost immediately assaulted by the sounds issuing from around the corner, just out of sight: sheets rustling and heavy breathing, the faint slap of skin on skin, a quiet moan.

Fuck. Fuck no. This is the last thing that Dabi wants or needs to witness, even if the stab of incredulity and anger he feels about it is undeserved. It's how he himself would have coped, he knows, had Shigaraki's return to the Liberation Front and your return to him gone according plan, but the thought that he could avail himself of this ever after today's display has Dabi's stomach twisting.

He holds his breath as he immediately retreats, the carpet muffling his slow, quiet steps. Dabi will try something else, ask Toga to loan you some things, or rifle through the remnants of Jin's possessions if he has to. All he has do is get out of here without—

"What do you think you're doing?"

The sound of Shigaraki's low voice has Dabi freezing in place. He sounds different than when they last spoke, some faint trace of amusement there in place of that calculated callousness. Dabi keeps still, tries to convince himself that it's not him Shigaraki is addressing, but that hope proves unfounded.

"I can smell you, you know. You reek of smoke. So why don't you stop hiding and tell me why the fuck you're here?"

Dabi's first instinct is to simply turn and leave, to avoid this unpleasant encounter all together and pray Tomura will simply return his attentions to whoever had the poor judgement to leap into his bed. But in the end he steps forward, not willing to test the other man further than he has with his mere presence, not when there's still a sinister edge to his tone and the damage Dabi's wrought is already likely to haunt him to his dying day.

A light clicks on when Dabi steps into sight, the sudden assault on his pupils making him blink rapidly, and when the room finally swims back into focus, Dabi freezes. Tomura has some woman tucked neatly in his lap, her back nestled to his chest as he peers at Dabi from over her shoulder, the sheets barely covering where Dabi is positive they're joined together.

"I just came to get some of her shit—I didn't think you'd be here," Dabi says flatly, trying to not to let his eyes drift from Tomura's face as deadly hands grope at exposed breasts, dark bite marks and hickeys starkly visible even from the bottom of Dabi's field of vision. "I'll come back later. Or just find her new shit."

"Why bother when you're already here? Just get on with it." Dabi can sense something forced in that casual dismissal of his presence even as Shigaraki lets out a low laugh, and that impression is only strengthened when the woman—some MLA holdover Dabi recognizes but couldn't name—tugs at the edge of the blankets, obviously intent on providing herself with some sort of cover. Shigaraki growls immediately, pale fingers clamping around her wrist so tightly that she whimpers in protest. The first syllable of Tomura's name falls quietly from her lips, a paltry whine that's quashed as soon as it begins, Shigaraki's wide palm slapping harshly over her mouth. His eyes narrow in displeasure as scowling lips ghost over her ear.

"You're the one who wanted to fuck," Dabi hears Shigaraki hiss, "so don't you dare stop."

Dabi might have felt some sympathy for her in another life, some pang of unease at the way her eyes widen and she fidgets nervously before hesitantly rocking her hips, but in this moment he can muster no sympathy, not when her apparently voluntary presence far exceeds even Dabi's expectations for the shamelessness of these meta liberation freaks.

He does, however, feel a twinge of disquiet when he realizes, after a moment of staring, that she looks like you. Not exactly, of course—the nose is wrong, the hairstyle different—but enough. Her hair color, her eyes, her build: they're all reminiscent of your own.

Dabi tries not to think about what that means.

"Well, aren't you going to do what you came for?" Shigaraki taunts. That malicious glint is back in his eyes, the corner of his thin mouth curving up into a smirk that makes it clear he's enjoying Dabi's discomfort at the scene playing out before him. His hands start to wander again as though to emphasize it, pinching and tugging at puffy, exposed nipples while the woman continues to issue muffled mewls from behind his hand. "I'm busy, if you couldn't tell."

Dabi grits his teeth and looks away. "Where is it?"

Shigaraki only shrugs, that sneer widening, and Dabi turns stiffly towards the dresser, doing his best to tune out the soft cries as he rummages through the drawers. After a moment it's clear that nothing within belongs to you, and reluctantly Dabi steps further into the room to search the closet. He finds what he's looking for there, thank god; neatly folded stacks of pants and shirts line the shelves, blouses and those fancy nightgowns you're so fond of arranged neatly on hangars beside them. There's a duffel bag on the floor too, and Dabi quickly busies himself shoving as many of your belongings into it as he can, working with unceremonious haste and chewing at his cheek, still trying to ignore the way the sounds behind him are escalating, the moans and lewd wet smacks growing louder, more rapid.

He only stops when the duffel is overflowing, too stuffed full to even zip shut. It's certainly more than enough for now, but he wonders briefly about the rest of your possessions, if there's some other source of comfort he could and should bring you before Shigaraki decides to dispose of anything you've left behind. But Dabi has no way of knowing, has never been permitted to so much as step foot in this space before.

When the unmistakable sound of a slap emanates from behind him, followed by a throaty groan, Dabi decides it doesn't matter.

It takes him a moment to steel himself, to work up the nerve to turn back towards the room and the vulgar performance occurring mere feet away, but he once he does he strides purposefully towards the door without so much as a glance towards Shigaraki and his new—and very temporary, Dabi suspects—lover. He's almost out the door, seconds from feeling as though he can breath again, when that mocking voice is once again demanding his attention.

"Dabi," Shigaraki calls out liltingly, and Dabi pauses.

"What now?"

His obvious impatience draws a cold chuckle from Tomura. "Don't try to leave. Either of you," Shigaraki says. "The Violet Regiment still needs its lieutenant, and I need you motivated."

For a long moment, Dabi simply stands there, his hand still resting on the knob as he considers those instructions. Shigaraki isn't wrong to think he would consider it; Dabi's mostly accomplished what he hoped to with the League, and his more protective instincts have been screaming at him to get you out of here since the second it was clear Tomura intended to honor his threats. But he'd already had doubts that the jilted man would let that happen, not when the punishment he'd devised is most effective if you're both forced to stay, forced to face everyone who witnessed your downfalls and shared shame.

And also, well...Dabi's more protective instincts might tempt him to flee—he's disappeared before, after all, thinks he could do it again even if it would be harder to evade Shigaraki's reach—but his possessive instincts? Those have more self-serving thoughts brewing in the back of his mind. Because if the castigation you endured is most effective if you stay, it also means that Dabi has no advantage anywhere else. Would you cling to him so sweetly, so fiercely if you weren't surrounded by those who had seen you so thoroughly humbled? Or would such an escape only taint Dabi's presence in your mind, single him out as the last reminder of your humiliation and debasement?

It would, he thinks. So Dabi nods even though Shigaraki can't see him, noting the opportunity present in what was surely intended as a threat. The sadistic leader might be intent on dangling this over both your and Dabi's heads until at least one of you is dead, but Dabi's made the best of bad situations before, ones worse than this.

"Sure thing, boss," he says, working to keep his tone level and mild. He steps out into the hall, lets the door click closed behind him.

For the first time all day, Dabi smiles.

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi x y/n #dabi smut #dabi fanfic #dabi angst #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon #bnha x reader #bnha smut

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whumpersdump · 3 years

Text

Project Rebirth - CH4: Final Touches

Content! From Whumper’s POV. (They’ll get a title soon btw, I just haven’t decided on a name yet).

[ Previous ] -- [ Masterlist ]

TW: (None of these are graphic) Restraints / blink-and-you-miss it use of “it” as a pronoun / dehuminization / non-con surgery (non-graphic, whumpee isn’t awake) / lab whump / pet whump / sedation / sensory deprivation (not from Whumpee’s POV) / brain-fiddling? (he talks of an implant that restricts basically everything from speaking to moving. It’s mentioned, not shown)

Everything is set for the first practical stage of Project Rebirth to begin. All that is need is some final surgical attention, and a last talk to Whumper’s new investors. Also no editing we die like Toby’s previous owner...

Whumper sat next to Subject One, like he had every moment of spare time in the past five days. The last two, they barely twitched a muscle. Of course this was in part because of the starvation, but it was nice to have achieved nonetheless. Even if would wear of. Their body may be still, but the occasional twitch, hitch of a breath, told him their mind was racing.

He already picked out a name for them. Their masterpiece, even if it would take nine months before he would see their frantic eyes again. Everything was prepared. Their nursery—which was a rather misleading name, but it fit the process, and the marketing—was almost done, the housing facility would be complete in three months.

Subject One was the only one who really needed to be in the container for the sake of the time that it would give Whumper, but the aspect fit the aesthetic his investors expected. It would be what kept the program running for decades to come.

Subject One shuddered. They’d gotten the message. He’d chosen one of his newly acquired sponsors to deliver it through the earpieces. Not because it needed to be. He could just as easily move, then sedate the subject. Make the chaos in their mind spike just before they’d awake in ominous calm. Comforting calm, though it would take a while for the subject to feel about in that way. They had nine months, it would be enough.

The sponsors needed to feel special anyway. Some of them could make perfect pets, the way they seemed to crave special attention. He could try it someday. With this Project, even they could be reborn.

He nodded at Toby. “Bring them to the surgeon. It’s time for stage 3.”

Toby exited the corner he’d been standing in for the past day. It was a test, to see how obedient he really was. So far, Whumper had been pleased. Sure, seeing pets shiver at the thought of accidentally moving a muscle without permission could be rewarding, but it didn’t bring the type of productivity he needed. Toby’s compliant personality, in combination with Whumper’s training, did.

Toby reached for the subject’s shoulder like he always did.

“Not anymore, Toby,” Whumper commanded. “No more touching of any kind. You can move them, tube and all.”

Toby obeyed. With precision, he took the hand truck out of place and rolled it over to the doors that opened to the medical wing. Subject One would feel this, but it wasn’t enough to skew the results. If anything, it could amplify the result he was looking for.

He followed behind Toby, but entered the door to the watching room instead of the OR like Toby did. That’s where his funding was waiting. He hated having to care about it, but money was simply necessary for him to scale up the Project. “Thank you for coming back,” he told the seven investors waiting for him. “As I’ve said before, most of the program is completely tailored to your pet and the pet you wish they become. That means, no program looks or feels the same. This part though, they all have in common.”

He guided their gazes down to the OR—where the surgeon had sedated the subject—and begun the procedure. Toby watched from his corner, as Whumper had told him to. This would be the only time he was allowed this close to a subject before Rebirth, so Whumper made sure he knew as much as possible. The pet didn’t lie. He used to, but his previous owner trained it out of him.

If he were to fulfill any purpose at all in the future, he would have to learn to. Knowing about the stages before meeting the Reborn subjects was a good way to teach them. After all, he’d be the one to truly push the subject’s minds over the edge.

The investors patiently waited for Whumper to explain what was happening. “The implant all subjects receive is what makes this project so realistic. Like a newborn child, they have to learn everything. Eating, speaking, resisting, if you want them to. All in an effort to recreate them into the pet they were always meant to be. Now of course, some of them have skills we do want them to keep. Take Toby down there, he’s a master on the piano. For each pet, the implant’s functions can be customized.”

One of the investors raised her hand. “What are your plans for this one then?” she asked. “Does it have anything worth keeping?”

Whumper smiled. “In a less dire situation, we might have chosen to keep certain parts of them, but as you’ve noticed this is not the average pet we’re talking about. They will be reborn a blank slate. The only thing any pets are allowed to keep is their understanding of language—so they can obey commands, and their ability form minimal amounts of coherent thought and memory. We’ve found that this process works best if to some extent, the pets are aware of the changes. A risk, I know, especially with this one, but it will prove efficient.”

He straightened his tie. “This one in particular has quite the mouth, and they tend to use a bit too much of what they hear against their trainers. For that reason, we’ve limited their access to their vocabulary a bit more than usual. They’ll be able to understand simple sentences, but we won’t have to worry about their natural perceptiveness.”

“What’s he doing to their eyes?” a second investor asked.

Whumper’s heart fluttered. He’d hoped they’d ask. “Those, are highly sophisticated remote-controlled lenses.” They weren’t necessary, they function was mostly aesthetical from the subject’s perspective. They helped make it all a bit more realistic on both sides, though.

“They don’t have to be removed, ever. Which is why we’re putting them in so early. They control the subject’s ability to see color, and light. Like them implant, we can control them from behind the scenes. They aren’t vital, but they smooth out the transition from the Rebirth into the following stages of the program.”

He glanced down into the OR, where the surgeon was finishing up, and the other staff had begun to prepare the subject for stage 4’s container. “I’m afraid that I can’t show you anymore at this point, so my staff can take on this challenge with as little distraction as possible. However I’m happy to answer as many of your questions as I can.”

Several hands shot up. Whumper smiled.

“What are they doing?” Was the first question.

Whumper gazed down. Four people were removing the restraints and the jacket, and outfitted the subject in the thin white suit that would help keep them healthy and alive throughout the following stage.

They connected the dozens of tubes and wires that would take care of everything they couldn’t handle from outside the container, as he called it. “I’m afraid this is another one of those trade secrets, but what I can tell you is that in spite of how it looks, this will make the pre-Birth stage as realistic as it can be.”

“What about these nurseries that your people kept going on about. I’m sure they’re important, but it all sounds a bit too… human for my taste. I prefer my pets are used to the necessary restraints and housing conditions, so to speak.”

Whumper nodded. He wasn’t surprised to hear this investor thought his standard approach too kind. She’d demanded her pets were kept muzzled and bound at the facility’s daycare, even though they were among the most compliant creatures he’d ever seen.

“As I said,” he answered. “Everything can be customized. This subject I believe, will gain more from approach that teaches them that as a placeable pet, they will be cared for as long they don’t resist. Should you trust us with your pets though, if we decide after the evaluation that another approach may achieve the desired results more efficiently, we’re prepared. We have nurseries of all kinds, and our staff is prepared to fulfill any role they need to play.”

That seemed to please them. Whumper turned to the last question.

“How long does this program take?”

“We have multiple options. The standard program Subject One will go through can take up to sixteen years starting at the Rebirth, with a minimum time of three years. Now of course, that is a long time for a pet to be away. We have two accelerated programs that last either a few months, or even just a few weeks. You’re free to choose, but after the evaluation we will provide you with a suggestion. Not all pets need the full experience. Especially if they’re not old enough to be placed, a longer program can harm the natural development.”

A frown formed on a few faces.

“I can see you’re worried about the results I’ve promised you. You won’t have to wait long. The program may be an intense procedure, but the results will start to show after just a few weeks. The rest of the Project is about making them last, so these—” He dangled the subject’s bright red collar in front of them— “will soon be no more than a reminder of what I’ve solved.”

Whumper clasped his hands. The subject was moved out of the OR, into the container hall. “I must go now. My assistant will be up shortly to escort you out. I should mention Toby’s not allowed to be too talkative around strangers, but he’s still learning. If he breaks any rules, please contact me. He doesn’t respond well to strangers punishing him, he’s a bit too loyal for that.”

Taglist (asks are open if you wanna be added or removed): @suspicious-whumping-egg

#whump #pet whump #non-con surgery tw #lab whump #Project Rebirth #Toby is next up #After that the 'creepy whumper' aspect is really going to start rolling #Also I should mention that 'pets' aren't just used as pets in this universe #Toby for example is a genuine lab assistant. Whumper doesn't care about pet beds and the like #There is a power dynamic and he longs to keep it in place. Period.#Doesn't mean he won't play the part though

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theodora3022 · 4 years

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Lost And Found

An extension of this, to understand the backstory you should read it.

Anon: I would love a scenario for Mori with his little doll who behaves perfect only to try to run away or ask for help when he takes her out shopping, please?

Notes: You win, anon. I was going to write some fluff but then I opened my inbox… and this request triggered the inspiration goblins in my head. Sit back and enjoy this! I wrote it in hcs form so the structure is a bit messy~ On a side note, I have another Mori fic in the WIP list, but I’m just not feeling for it lately?

Warnings: Mentions of lobotomy, past abduction/abuse metion, yandere themes

You have been behaving so well lately, it is endearing, truly. There is not a single word of complaint when Mori asked you to pose for two hours for an oil painting. Nor did you throw a tantrum when he said how you cannot have that extra slice of cake yesterday at dinner.

Compared to Elise-chan, you are a role model! While Mori prefers you to have some defiant spirits, this is wonderful as well, especially when he is frustrated with some of his subordinates’ bratty behaviours.

So when you clung to his arm after dinner, begging him to go shopping, the Mafia boss did not see any reason to turn down your request. He loves buying you different dresses anyways! Maybe this time you can even choose a bonnet for yourself, since you have been such a good girl…

Unknownst to him, you are plotting something.

You felt sick, being treated like an ornament, a doll without a mind. You need to leave this place before your sanity leaves you. If you stay here for another month, you think you might just start to enjoy all those jewelry and fancy gowns. Absolutely unthinkable, therefore you must find an exit strategy.

Your only hope is to go to your relatives abroad, surely even the Port Mafia boss of Yokohama cannot reach you outside of Japan, right?? Of course, you cannot pack much, but you had gathered enough money for a train ticket to Tokyo. You plan to obtain another passport before leaving this country for good. Once you are on the plane you should be fine, safely away from this crazy man.

Good behaviors would allow you to go outside, even just for a few hours to a mall. Those shopping trips can get irritating, but they are at least a breath of fresh air and away from the Mafia Headquarters.

You are compliant, walking through five clothing stores with a fake smile on your face, to lower his guard.

“Mori-sama, may I go to the washroom?” You said when he is waiting for the crepes order in front of the dessert shop.

He nods without hesitation, not thinking how you would just run off.

You know there is a bus station nearby, and you could take a bus to the train station.

(This one is odd as hell but bear with me-)

When you did not return to him after forty minutes, Mori thought maybe you have period cramps and is too in pain to walk again. Since he cannot just burst into the woman’s washrooms, Mori had begged Elise to go in there.

(Just me randomly complaining about period cramps HDAUSOHASD)

Oh, where did you run off to? Maybe the ADA abducted you and want to use you against him? Unfortunate for you, while you have your tactics, the Mafia boss has his.

That beautiful ruby necklace he made you wear earlier? It contains a little tracking device! Not that he doesn’t trust you, but as the head of a Mafia, Mori has many enemies. He has to make sure he can find you if something happens!

You were waiting for the train to Tokyo on a train station bench, thinking about what you are going to do now without Mori controlling every aspect of your life.

Freedom! Autonomy! Finally, you are your own person again! Not some accessory to the Mafia boss, or a little plaything. That weight of dread in your chest lifted a little, but you know you must not get happy yet. You are still in Yokohama, which means Mori could still-

“Dearest, you had strayed too far from me.”

That voice. That damned, familiar voice.

You had failed miserably.

“Do you think you can really get away? How pitiful. Is this why you have been so good recently? I’m disappointed in you, love. Now come, Elise is waiting for you, she is worried too.”

This is a busy train station right? Even the Mafia boss cannot just snatch you here in broad daylight right?

Too bad, you shouldn't have underestimated the Port Mafia. It’s nearly effortless to evacuate the civilians with a few warning shots from pistols.

“You had misbehaved enough today, surely you do not like extra punishments?”

Oh no, what is it going to be this time? You desperately hope you get some amnesia this time, trembling at the thought of that cold surgery room.

You’ll have to pray, right now all you can do is cling to his arm like Elise and follow him home.

“Did you know how worried I was? Someone could have gotten their hands on you because of me!” Maybe Lobotomy is a good choice after all. Although the result may vary, at least you won’t run away again. That procedure would morph your mind into a child’s, cleansing any rebellious ideas.

It’s not like you have any chance of escaping again, you betrayed his trust, no outside time anytime soon for you.

You are naive to think you can ever get away in the first place.

#yandere bsd #bsd fanfic #bsd imagines #yandere mori #yandere ougai mori #yandere x you #yandere #anime yandere

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chicago-geniza · 3 years

Text

well i intended to go for a nice evening walk, ended up having a panic attack, ordering a couple of cocktails at the bougie bar, joining a jam session with a bunch of old hippies on the logan green (one of them gave me a handpainted wooden medallion which seems to be carved out of tree bark, strung on a length of yarn???), met a crustpunk train-hopping dude in town for the month (& his dog, in a leather-studded harness) who's lived in 45/50 states & a 44 yr old guy everyone called "the wizard" wearing a tattered, patch-covered robe who shares most of my parents' conspiracy theories & considers himself a latter-day prophet, he bought us sorbet & ice cream, wound up hanging out with them & staying up all night at their indescribably eclectic, cluttered, blood-spattered (!!!) apartment, belonging to 44 yr old guy's art curator father & decorated accordingly, smoking m*th & listening to music & talking (or rather listening to them rant/rave/recount stories from their incredibly wild lives), i gave them advice on applying for unemployment & medicaid & how to appear compliant enough w/ carceral psychiatric intervention so they won't section you without actually submitting to forced medication or institutionalization, especially if they assign you a case worker & do regular "wellness checks." also how to pass off certain aspects of behavioral dysregulation as executive dysfunction, get them to pay for an adhd evaluation, get an adderall IR scrip, sell the 30 mg pills (cite body weight, high doses of other psych meds as reason for higher dose; look sincere; play to systemic biases toward cis white men, unfortunately), & use the cash to buy m*th, if they'd prefer to keep doing that. you can also pass positive psychotic symptoms--agitation etc.--off as severe anxiety, especially if you have a history of trauma, & they will give you benzodiazepines. it is in their best interest to keep you docile, i.e. tranquilized, particularly if your past convictions & involuntary institutionalizations revolve around a pattern of aggressive behavior, & that's On The Record/there's a paper trail. (e.g. one dude got arrested trying to keep cars away from an injured bird on the road, some genre of raptor i think (???) by threatening them with a shopping cart, not hitting them, but like, running at them as if to collide then feinting at the last minute so they'd swerve out of the way. not the safest or most effective maneuver, lotta reckless endangerment, but the motivation was admirable. probably put the fear of god into some drivers, though. he doesn't seem to have, like, impulse control.) it's a lot easier & you have fewer run-ins with the cops if you game the system & appear cooperative. they gave me this coat, which "just showed up in their apartment one day," like i did. 44 yr old guy walked me back to apartment, stole a street sign & tore down a real estate sign en route, lori lightfoot did indeed take down the pride flag in front of her house on july 1st & replace it with an appropriately patriotic american flag, i walked past the idling plainclothes cop car & another marked police vehicle with their Mayoral Guarding Detail inside at like 4.30 am smoking a menthol cigarette (not inhaling), high on m*th, draped in a neon anime jacket, in the company of a visibly insane, unshaven & unshorn middle-aged man in a technicolor patchwork trenchcoat, holding a lit cigarette in one hand & an upside-down traffic cone in the other, which he was using as an ad hoc amplifier for a noise track playing on my phone. he was also carrying the stolen real estate banner &, inexplicably, a stack of mail. i gave him my old backup phone (no SIM card & doesn't hold a charge long, ancient, but still works), since neither he nor the other dude have phones (cops took them), also one hybrid edible for each of them, as a thanks for the m*th & the kindness. their hearts are in the right place but they have some fucked-up beliefs about "reverse racism" being real, while also saying in the same breath that you can tell our country is irredeemable by the way it continues to

treat black people. we were discussing medical weed for seizures on medicaid & 44 yr old guy mentioned one of his close friends, a black epileptic woman, whose seizures were frequent & severe enough they prevented her from working. then he added, in apparent bemusement, they she hadn't spoken to him in some time, & he wondered why. a little while later he relayed their last conversation & i was like "my dude, i can say with 100% certainty she is not talking to you because you said some *appallingly*, jaw-droppingly racist shit & did not even realize it was racist." then i, comma, a white person, explained to this man that he literally thought of their exchange as, like, an abstract argument over insignificant ideas, a theoretical exercise, & therefore considered it simply a smug gotcha to "counter" hotep theories about egyptian origin by claiming that "if that's true, american slavery & the oppression of black people in america are divine retribution for the enslavement of the jews in ancient egypt, an eye for an eye & a deserved punishment." like, first of all, what the actual fuck, if i were that woman i would also never speak to you again, second of all there's the collapse of historical time & mythical time, history & exegesis, an assumption that rests on spurious claims of biblical literalism (zionist colonization logic, btw! him: what's exegesis? what's zionism? me: never mind, not the point. exegesis is the interpretation of religious texts in a religious CONtext, in this case what you would likely call the hebrew bible.)--but most importantly it is 100% irrelevant to this discussion whether or not black americans are Actually Factually descendended from ancient egypt! you just told this woman to her face that the ancestry she claims, of which she's proud, is the reason & justification for SLAVERY & BLACK SUFFERING--not only that, but that if it WERE true, than black people would DESRVE to suffer, by DIVINE DECREE. you are trying to force her to abdicate her claim on this heritage by putting her in a position where she'd be forced to concede complicity in her people's historical & present-day persecution, oppression, & essentially the existence of structural racism. & using The Figural Jew as a rhetorical cudgel to bludgeon her into this corner. what a despicable thing to say. like, he hadn't considered it from her perspective at all, & once he groked why the comment itself was, like, unforgivable (idk, maybe she's more forgiving; she has a virtue-name), i started socratic-method-ing him through why it was particularly unforgivable for *him* to say to *her*--the individual is not responsible for the systems from they benefit, but they are imbricated in them, they are implicated when they actively perpetuate & uphold them, even with speech acts. & finally gave the same "there is no such thing as reverse racism because racism is not an individual act, it is an institutional, systemic phenomenon, & it is an ideology, one which individual acts can bear out or be in accordance with, & to which individuals can subscribe (this bearing it out in their behavior, in their institutional roles, in their interpersonal interactions--here i gave & solicited examples of each) or be subject (also gave & solicited examples). m*th makes me very good at Explaining clearly & he was surprisingly receptive--like, it was astonishing that it had not occurred to him??? but it hadn't, the same way it hadn't occurred to my mother, & she interpreted it as "reverse racist" when their next-door neighbor called her the "white devil" for disputing their property line, & i had to be like "ok but if you called in a random third party to mediate in lily-white [city], oregon, where white supremacists openly drive down the street in pickup trucks with swastika armbands, whose side do you think they would take, statistically speaking, in your property dispute. that's why racism is systemic & institutional, & your rude neighbor calling you a name over a disagreement does not constitute 'reverse racism,' because 'reverse racism' by definition cannot

exist." now this dude wants to like, read books, so i gotta get him some entry-level Intro To Racism primers??? how did i end up here, but better me than his black epileptic (ex-)friend, i guess??? jesus christ. both of these guys have the most chaotic, reactionary politics in a potpourri with these deep commitments to abolition & mutual aid & a kind of proto-anarchist consciousness, none of which would be called by those names, but all of which is borne out in practice & in the politics of everyday life. they remind me a LOT of my parents. i'm loath to imagine how they'd internalize my stepdad's rambling, street-preacher-style libertarian lectures. probably go out & buy guns & invest in gold on the stock market & double down on the conviction that free speech is being curtailed & individual rights are in jeopardy because you can no longer unleash a barrage of harassment against some guy on the street because you think he looked at you funny. these claustrophobic convictions, like the space to express oneself is getting smaller & smaller every day, *other people* are taking it away from you, suffocating you on all sides with their offense demanding your silence, they are *making* the walls close in--when in fact it's more like a holodeck. you're a member of the Hegemonic Group, afforded the privilege of the default, so you don't question the vast verdant expanse that is your domain--ah, Free Speech, the sun never sets on the empire of ~uncensored expression, you can say whatever you want whenever you want without facing consequences because you control all the organs that mete out consequences & you have also determined that those groups who might be adversely affected by your words--emotionally OR materially--are not, well...of consequence. but of course the vast verdant domain is an illusion, photons & forcefields, held together by the all-encompassing TOTALITY of the dominant group's hegemony, power, etc. once that power begins to redistribute throughout the system--however unevenly, however incrementally, however slowly--as even the smallest pieces are appropriated by those deemed inconsequential, who have endured years of systemic, material, institutional violence that allowed the dominant group to become dominant & retain its dominant position--once those 'inconsequential' groups speak up & say "actually, these words bear an indelible imprint of the violence enacted upon us, these words are the legacy of that violence, these words are a tacit endorsement of the ideology behind that violence, which classifies us as subhuman, & even if *you* can't hear those echoes, the words broadcast on two historical frequencies, so now that we're able to broadcast on a frequency *you* can hear, we request you find other language, & consider the implications of the words you've been using for years." well--once The Subaltern Speaks, the dominant group loses its 'innocence,' & becomes aware the vast verdant expanse of language is an illusion of infinite space, aware of the four holodeck walls pressing in behind the simulacrum of the horizon, & suddenly "what one can say without negative consequences"--largely social, sometimes, rarely, if social media goes viral, professional--feels much more claustrophobic. so they get angry. & some of them are just bigots, obviously, but some of them--like my parents, &, even, this weirdly well-intentioned m*thhead who said one of the most shockingly racist things i've heard in my life & *honestly didn't understand why it was racist*, is really riled up about free speech & individual rights, hates the government, hates "FANG" (facebook amazon netflix google) & has a bunch of dystopian conspiracy theories about data harvesting & personal information that only miss the mark in that they get too nefariously biopolitical (billionaires want to put microchips in everybody for surveillance to monitor our movements & sell us more stuff; they don't need to, they already use our phone location & browsing habits to generate the algorithm & sell the information to ad companies lol, it's digital& cast a

single illuminati figure in the role of comic book villain, controlling the operation behind the scenes like an evil puppetmaster (classic conspiracy fare; again, we gotta take that energy, that suspicion, the understanding that they are being taken advantage of & tricked, the idea that power & capital & resources are concentrated among a very small number of people, however it's not an individual wealthy villain with a desire for world domination who wants to turn Free Americans into microchipped drones, it's a *class* of people--or rather several classes, but *who those people are as individuals does not matter*. if you guillotined bill gates, another billionaire would take his place. bill gates qua bill gates is not the problem. it is classes of people who control the means of production & own property & profit enormously from exploiting the labor of a desperate, rapidly increasing underclass, i.e. from the system as it is. therefore it is in their interest to maintain the status quo, because it serves them. 'the rich get richer, the poor get poorer.' the middle class gradually ceases to exist. if you want to compound it by race, consider the GI bill as an example - you learn about it as the leg up that enabled thousands of WWII vets to buy houses, enabling them to enter the middle class. hundreds of thousands of third-gen middle class white americans still reap the structural, socioeconomic benefits of their grandparents' initial upward mobility, including,, very tangibly, those selfsame houses, which can be inherited & then rented out as a second property if the children or grandchildren accrue enough money to buy their own properties. but only about 100 black vets got approved for homeownership loans, despite the staggering numbers of black soldiers who enlisted & applied through the GI bill. anyway! the impulses are there, & they're only being funneled into conspiracy thinking because that makes intuitive sense on a narrative level. these guys have a high school education; so does my stepdad. their reading habits are...eclectic, sporadic, pretty much dictated by occasional recommendations & like, little free libraries around the neighborhood. it's both interesting & frustrating to see like - hey, here are these people, we agree on a lot of things, they're earnest & open & want to learn & would give their neighbor the shirt off their backs as a matter of principle. they'd give a *stranger* the shirt off their backs; they'd share whatever they had. even what chores there are in their collective--they live with two other guys--(dumpster diving, walking the dog, tidying up the apartment) are allocated by ability & inclination. they made advance plans to look after the dog & their roommate with War PTSD on the 4th of july if the fireworks upset them, jokingly called the dog an emotional support animal. you give them the tools, the reading, talk to them like normal people with a stake in society--like, imagine a society that would have a stake in people like you instead of criminalizing you & consigning you to the margins! that's already *political imagination* because anyone who occupies a marginalized position will have their existence politicized, whether they want this or not, so better to become a self-aware, self-reflexive political subject, no?--talk *with* them because tbh i am them, i'm just better at situational masking & also i am very very afraid of cops so i only damage property in groups during planned political actions (not spontaneously, because i feel a flash of rage at my neighborhood gentrifying, & simply do not have a superego, so i tear down the real estate sign for the fancy new apartment complex in a fit of pique, because in this house we believe that spontaneity can & should be developed into class consciousness, again, the seeds of which are there in the initial trigger for the spontaneous reaction, i.e. anger at gentrification. not opposed to a little direct action, but they're just gonna put up a new sign tomorrow, it doesn't advance your agenda or hinder the gentrifiers' progress. now, if

you sabotaged the construction site for the new apartment buildings & painted a few potent symbols + graffiti'd a pithy, written statement expressing your opposition to gentrification generally & these apartments specifically? in a prominent place, large font, eye level, visible & legible from oh, a block away? maybe as a member of a collective, your neighbors, perhaps? & you could sign it "[neighborhood] or [block] residents" to pack more of a punch, the power of a crowd speaking in unison to say "not OUR home, you predatory developers"? that's no longer spontaneous, impulsive, affective violence, & it's also no longer an individual--acting alone leaves you vulnerable. again--i didn't just *intuit* that he tore the sign down because he was mad about gentrification, i asked, in a genuinely curious tone, not at all accusatory, no hint of reprimand or censure, just...interested, "why did you do that?" & he was like "it made me fucking mad." & i was like "what about it made you mad? the apartments? how come?" & he thought about it for a minute & explained. i'm not sure *he* necessarily made the conscious connection until prompted. idk, i know people talk a lot about the fact that breitbart & drudge report are free while NYT & "all the news fit to print" is paywalled, & q-pilled covid hoax sites are free while "reputable" pandemic coverage & public health guidelines & explanations of mRNA vaccines for a lay audience are paywalled & that's true but also We Live In A Society & if you talk to the wingnuts who AREN'T that way because of any far-right ideology, a lot of them are just...autodidacts without much formal education but a lot of raw intelligence that leads to analyzing The Big Picture & trying to deduce a pattern, find a framework that explains why the world is the way it is, profoundly frustrated, deeply aware of American society's, universalized & figured as the world's, exceptional unfairness & cruelty, & *that can be redirected* with reading, discussion, prompting critical thought, introducing community connections, & perhaps most importantly for this genre of person, getting them to see patterns at work in terms of systems & structures rather than individuals, letting go of American individualism's explanatory power & belief in its liberatory potential (see: the sort of ad hoc libertarianism that goes hand-in-glove with much conspiracy thinking, both stemming from 1) mistrusting the government, & 2) ultimate freedom of the individual as the most sacred value, therefore it is what all enemies want to take away), outlining positive, actionable goals rather than just ambient suspicion & anger at authority, & figuring out how those goals can be accomplished more effectively by an organized collective (but this will ultimately benefit the individual). If the world isn't run by a shadowy cabal, if you begin to understand the structures responsible & how they manifest even on the scale of your block (e.g.!!! predatory developers buying up properties during a pandemic, tearing down affordable housing to build expensive condos on the lot, or giving old buildings a "spit and polish" so they can double the rent, pricing all the current residents out, not to mention all the little local businesses, almost all mexican & run by the mexican families who live here, that give our block its culture & will get pushed out by boutique coffee shops & the like, catering to a more affluent & almost certainly whiter clientele)--you can, in fact, change the world, something both of them repeatedly referred to as their purpose on earth. it may not be as a maverick figure, one against an army, but strength in numbers is an aphorism for a reason.

anyway! thse guys were also really weird about jews, in the philosemitic way conspiracy theorists of a certain stripe often are. the itinerant vagabond guy gave me one of his drawings; it's really lovely. i'm going to give them "are prisons obsolete?" & "the wretched of the earth" & some david graeber. 44 yr old guy has this idea that society is atomized & people aren't connected to each other & have lost the willingness or the ability to communicate with each other, also that the overreach of authority has driven some people to violence, & that makes the world feel unsafe to everyone else. he feels guilty because he is acutely aware that language, when wielded adroitly & intentionally, always has the capacity to manipulate; he is afraid of succumbing to the temptation, because he senses the coercive power of language within himself. the other guy was mostly quiet but said 44 yr old guy is one of the best friends he's ever had. he thinks animals are able to sense emotions and to heal, & he thinks they can mediate between people who have become too isolated, who have forgotten humans' innate ability to forge connections, approach others as social creatures seeking to bond instead of mistrustful, apprehensive, rejecting overtures of friendship because they expect subterfuge, or propriety has evolved to deem such overtures inappropriate outside of strictly delineated, artificially orchestrated contexts. deviation from the norm is not permitted. & back again to policing. they have an idea called "the omega family," omega for the end, a group of like-minded people who come together, who encounter each other serendipitously (predicted through auspicious auguries & recognized on sight through a constellation of signs & wonders, because of course we are all psychotic here, it was nice to just be psychotic & discuss these things like they were normal lol), & serve as catalysts to each other's "personal truth." anyway this is why i don't go out when i'm crazy, i always end up in situations like this, see also: the last time i did m*th, in a pizza hut bathroom in tallinn with an art student from glascow named muhammad ali (he went by ali), the son of white muslim converts--we thought it was c*ke but it got lost in translation & that's how i figured out i had adhd. later i got [redacted] by a filmmaker from kazan & he gave me his business card afterward for some reason, which was extremely funny. thankfully these dudes were better behaved. one of them even gave a speech about how men shouldn't rape people??? & also how our society shouldn't construct women as universal victims because in doing so it makes victimhood almost compulsory & shoehorns women into a victim role as part & parcel of womanhood? i was like yes my dude you are almost there, read the essay "abject feminism." (i did not tell them i was trans bc i wasn't sure how that would shake down, to be honest; couldn't get a read on it. did tell them i was gay & they respected it, though one did say he dated a lesbian once, & i explained that many men feel compelled to interject with an anecdote relating an exception to the rule or insist that they will he the exception to the rule, & it's really just bad manners, not even getting into the bad politics. he took it on the chin & talked about how the girl in question came home to find her partner dead of an overdose & his wife had just died of MS, so their relationship was more about grief & comfort than sexual attraction. i was like that's really, really sad, & it's wonderful that you were able to be there for each other at a time of such staggering loss, & i am a person who totally understands what you mean to communicate, but if a lesbian tells you they're a lesbian & you reply that you once dated a lesbian & they get offended & instead of responding with contrition or correction you elaborate on the tragic backstory of the relationship as though that explains the circumstances in which a self-proclaimed lesbian would date a cis man, other lesbians *will* deck you, or at the very least not take you, an unwashed white guy in

his 40s who isn't neurotypical & sits way too close for social convention in a way that could easily be construed as a come-on, in good faith.) tl;dr made some new friends, did some good drügs (i much prefer smoking m*th to snorting it, basically like purer, more potent adderall, & as such will not be doing it again for a LONG time, because i enjoy it FAR too much; slices through the brain fog & the chronic fatigue & the joint/bone pain, makes me able to pay attention, follow the thread of a conversation, actually be *interested* & want to ask *questions* & expand, build, encourage my interlocutor to elaborate, place more kal-toh pieces until the conversation shimmers into a three-dimensional shape, instead of being listless & exhausted & disengaged & *bored* all the time, so obviously i would get addicted immediately if given the opportunity, & i've known this forever lol)--now going to hydrate, refill pill case, write some emails, & meet C at the beach! not how i expected to reboot my brain, but it works! also putting them on limited facebook view because i try to keep some groups of people in my life quarantined from each other & that includes 1) my relatives & my academic ~colleagues (ne'er the twain shall meet), 2) my exes & my family, 3) my relatives, colleagues, & uh. a couple of lovely, but extremely psychotic dudes with very long criminal records i met while doing hard drugs

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bunnyywritings · 4 years

Note

can o request one with tsukishima and a second or first yr manager.... they like each other but since tsukki is a salty ass he said some insulting things to her which resulted to her becoming distant and scared(???) of him HIHI. FLUFF ENDING PLS

caught in the moment

Tsukishima Kei x fem!reader

𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 - 𝕟𝕖𝕩𝕥

[a/n: yes yes yes!! Thank you for requesting anon, I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to make this a multiple part fic...this was a very inspiring prompt 🥺 ugh just look at him :(( I luv this boy so much ❣️I feel like this is cannon Tsukki behavior, he would definitely go too far with teasing the person he likes since he’s so emotionally unavailable sometimes. This actually has an angsty ending but it will get fluffy, I promise. I hope this isn’t too bad...I’m not super cofident with how it came out. Anyways, here you go! enjoy! -yours truly, bunnyy -`ღ´-]

Being the team manager of a bunch of highly energetic boys was definitely a challenge. Thankfully, you weren’t alone. Having Kiyoko and eventually Yachi by your side. You joined once school had started up seeing that you had used to play volleyball in middle school. A very promising wing spiker that was rumored to do very well, possibly even play in pro teams. That all changed in your last game of the season. You had landed a bad spike that was easily received. Once you had landed back on the court, distracted by your loss, you landed very wrong and injured your knee. You had slowly recovered with painfully long hours of physiotherapy but you had to always wear a brace on your right knee just to keep it stable. You hadn’t played volleyball since. You desperately wanted to but you were afraid to mess up again. So you decided to ease back into the sport by being a team manager. Then, you met him.

Tsukishima Kei.

He was a big, big, big pain in your ass. Especially after Coach Ukai came on board. He had learned of your success as a wing spiker and occasionally as a middle block, and had you help out Tsukishima and Hinata. Hinata was ecstatic, he didn't mind since he used to practice with the ladies from the community center but the same couldn’t be said about Tsukishima.

He scoffed and asked how a shrimp could teach him how to block. You quickly shut him up when you had successfully blocked out one of Asahi’s spikes. That didn’t mean he was compliant. He was far from it. Always putting in the bare minimum and it irked you to no end...but, yes there’s a but, there was times where you could see how happy he was to have gotten a good block. His expression didn’t really show it but it was all in the eyes.

Oh how you could get lost in those pools of gold.

He definitely took notice. He wouldn’t admit it but, he admired you greatly. He knew about what happened in middle school. He saw the limp in your step.He also saw you practicing with Hinata and the third years during lunch or after practice. He hated how inferior he felt around you. Despite being permanently injured, you had a smile on your face. No matter how many times you had to repeat basic instructions for setting up to block, you still believed in him. You smiled when he accomplished something, even if it was something done with minimal effort and you tell him, ‘See, I knew you could do it!’ He hated it, not really, but he did. You were also very attractive. Adorable eyes and smile, a dangerously enticing body, and sharp tongued. He thought it was hot that you could keep up with his wit.

Then it started happening. His heart would beat faster whenever you smiled at him. It would beat wildly when your shoulder brushed against his arm. He would feel fuzzy and warm at your praises. Sugarawa had taken notice to the longing glances you both shared when the other wasn’t looking, the blush that would tint your cheeks when the tall blonde would lean down to tease you. So, of course, he told Asahi and Daichi. The captain just shook his head. Of course he was intrigued but it was none of his business. Asahi felt the same but he was definitely more open to fan-boying over the two first years.

Tsukishima had also realized that he didn’t like when someone flirted with you. Whether it was Tanaka and Noya messing around or what he was scowling at in the current moment.

You were blushing and stuttering because of Nekoma’s captain. Rooster head was wooing you with a copious amount of flirty remarks and compliments. Along with that owl headed loud mouth from Fukurodani. You had caught the eye of many during the summer training camp. Especially when you walked into gym #3 in those spandex shorts and a Karasuno pull over.

“O-Oh!” You had squeaked, “I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

“And why are you here so late, chibi-chan?~” And that’s when it started. He had just come in for his towel and was asked to stay and practice and you walked in before he could answer.

“So? What do you say Tsukishima?” Bokuto turned to the blonde who sighed.

“We just had a whole day of training, why would I want to practice more?” He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his towel.

“That’s a great idea! You could learn a lot from these three, Tsukishima-kun! More than you could from me.” You had clasped your hands together, grinning. Akaashi seemed a bit taken aback that you had even noticed him.

“What do you mean? Are you a coach?” Bokuto had leaned down a bit, his face a bit too close to yours.

“W-well no b-but I help him and Hinata practice their blocking.”

“You help them with blocking?” Kuroo was intrigued, if you were helping them then maybe you were pretty good.

“Not well enough.” Tsukishima scoffed.

“Yeah well maybe you’d learn something if you put in the effort.” You retorted, arms crossed and eye brow quirked.

“Well since you think you’re such hot stuff, why don’t you take my place and practice. I’m heading to bed.” You rolled your eyes at his words and that’s what you did. You explained your situation and you practiced in a 2v2. You and Bokuto vs Kuroo and Akaashi.

After a couple of rounds, you all sat around to cool down.

“So why haven’t you joined the girls team? You’d do really well there.” Akaashi asked as he gulped down some water.

“Well, I-I actually don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” You shrugged. You weren’t exactly lying, you hadn’t really thought about it much.

“Liar.” Kuroo chuckled, a knowing smirk on his lips. “It’s because of that Tsukishima jerk, right?”

“What-what’re you talking about?”

“Oh come on! I saw the little looks you give him. How he gets a little flustered when you praise him during a game. I’d say that you have a crush on him.” Your reaction was priceless. Wide eyes, furious pink across your cheeks and mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Oh ho ho! You have a crush!” Bokuto chuckled loudly. “(Y/n) and Tsukishima sitting in a tree! K.I.S.S.S.I.N.G!”

“Leave the poor girl alone, Bokuto.”Akaashi spoke in a bored tone, smacking the boy upside the head.

“Akaashi!”

And thus started the endless teasing. During day training and the extra training in gym #3. Tsukishima didn’t like it one bit. You were paying less attention to him and more to the two over-zealous captains. He had a grimace all through breakfast when Kuroo called you over to join Nekoma for a change. He watched as you happily chatted with the team, laughing at jokes, blushing at Kuroo’s shameless flirting, even getting Kenma to look away from his phone and have a conversation about Animal Crossing, exchanging info so he could invite you to his island.

He was pissed, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s wrong Tsukki?” Yamaguchi asked as he sat right in front of his scowling friend, playing with the food on his tray.

“(Y/n)! Is that all you’re eating? Here have some more grilled fish!” His scowl grew deeper as he watched Lev place pieces of fish in your bowl of rice, not missing the blush on your face when you stuttered out a thank you.

“Nothing Yamaguchi, I’m fine.” He basically growled as he pushed his seat out, forcefully picking up his tray and throwing out the untouched food, making a point to slam the door open and marching out.

“I wonder what’s gotten into Tsukishima.” Daichi frowned as he took a seat with Suga and Asahi.

“I think I know what.” Suga had a sly look on his face as he gestured over to you and Lev. The both of you conversing excitedly about something. “I think he’s jealous because a certain first-year manager is getting attention from the other teams.” The silver headed setter giggled. A look of realization washing over their features.

That jealous anger had definitely affected his playing. His usually calculated movements were off and he was awfully distracted. They had lost match after match and those punishment dives took a toll on everyone. You had taken it upon yourself to convince the managers that it was a good time to cut up the watermelon that was donated by a parent. They quickly agreed, the thought of a sweet and cool slice of the fruit enticing them as well.

“Alright boys! Break time!” They all had sped over to grab a slice of watermelon from their respective manager.

“Thank you, (y/n)-san.” Daichi smiled. The others following in suit, thanking you and grabbing a slice of the fruit.

“Thanks shrimp.” Tsukishima plucked the last piece from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against yours and smirking at the blush he caused. “What’s wrong? Do I make you nervous?” He leaned in closer, so close that if you had moved an hair closer, your noses would have brushed.

“Pfft...as if.” You turned away, leaving him amused as he stalked away

Training had ended on another sour note, chests heaving after another round of of punishment dives. You changed into shorts and a t-shirt again and made your way back to the gym.

“Hey Hey! You ready for more training?” Bokuto jumped excitedly. You guys had been in the middle of another set when Lev came bounding in, followed by Hinata and Kageyama.

You decided to take a break and help Lev with his receiving.

“Lev, you’ve gotta bend your knees lower. Loosen up, you’re too stiff.” You instructed from beside him, lowering yourself as an example.

“That invitation to train with us is still open, you know?” Bokuto’s words made you perk up and turn to the doors, and sure enough, there stood the tall blonde.

“I just came in for my shoes.” A fake smile painted his lips as he scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, meeting your eyes before you quickly turned away.

“WHAT?! You’re turning down training with the captains of powerhouses? No fair!” Hinata whined.

Tsukishima ignored him completely. “What’s wrong (y/n)? Did they finally get annoyed with you?” He scoffed.

“N-no...I’m just taking a break.” You spun the ball in your hands.

“I’m sure. I mean, I bet those short legs of yours must get tired easily.” He snickered. No one really laughed, they were unsure if he was actually insulting you or if he was playing around.

“My legs are perfectly fine. Even if they are short, I definitely jump way higher than you.” You smirked. You had grown accustomed to his teasing and to take his words with a grain of salt. But this time, your words seemed to have hit right in his inferiority complex.

“Then why’d you ever stop playing? You’d be doing us a favor by joining a team so I don’t have to hear your irritating complaints about how much I suck but I guess that’d be hard with a bum knee. I mean, you can barely even walk without limping.” He hadn’t really thought about the word vomit that was leaving his mouth. He was just letting out his anger and jealousy. He didn’t notice that you started crying. He had gone too far. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

“(Y/n)...” Lev asked carefully, placing a hand on your quivering shoulders.

“You know why I complain, Tsukishima?” The fact that your voice was so steady and venomous sent shivers down his spine. “I complain because I care about you! I know you can do better than how you’re doing now. I also know that if you don’t put in more effort, Ukai is taking you out of the starting line up! And I know it’s going to hurt me seeing your potential go to waste because I-I...” The stale silence that followed made everyone uncomfortable. No one knew what to do. Comfort you or reprimand Tsukishima.

They watched as you let the ball drop from your hands and you slumped to the exit. “I’m sorry for causing a scene. I’m going to bed. Goodnight everyone.” Kuroo flinched at how broken you sounded. He couldn’t blame you. The guy you liked had basically just called you annoying and teased you about a major insecurity. They watched as you left the gym, shoulder shaking as more tears made their way down your cheeks.

“Not cool man.” Was all Kuroo had to say as he followed you out. Concern clearly etched on his face.

“Tch...whatever.” He gritted his teeth and walked out before hearing Yamaguchi call for him and charge in his direction.

“(Y/n)...”Kuroo called out to you. You were leaning against the outside of the gym, hand clamped over your mouth. He approached you with open arms, an embrace being exactly what you needed. You slumped against him and buried your face into his chest. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re amazing.” You chuckled weakly.

“Thanks Kuroo...”

Back with Tsukishima, Hinata decided to scold him about how he should be more careful with his words and how he should go apologize. As much as he disliked the orange haired idiot, he agreed that he owed you an apology. So he made his way behind the gym, peering around the corner when he heard Kuroo talking.

“There’s no need to cry. Those ugly tears aren’t fitting for a beautiful girl like you.” He cupped your cheeks and wiped your tears away. Unlike compliments before, there was no playful tone in his voice.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. There was no doubt that you had feelings for Tsukishima but having someone as handsome as Kuroo inches from your face was definitely making you feel some type of way. You bit your lip as you looked into his eyes, they were sincere. Then looking down at his lips. His eyes searched yours before he noticed where your gaze was. His own eyes looking at your plush lips before meeting your gaze once more. His thumb ran over your bottom lip and nudged it from its place, stressed between your teeth. You both leaned forward, caught in the moment, lips meeting in the middle. Melding together and moving in sync. Your hands moving around his shoulders and into his hair, his arms pulling you closer into him.

Tsukishima’s heart stopped once your lips met, looking away when neither of you pulled away from each other. His heart hurt. Next to being deceived by his brother, this really hurt him. He thought you had liked him. Was he wrong? Had he gotten his hopes up? He frowned at the confusion and betrayal that filled his body. Walking back to the dorms with a heavy heart and slumped shoulders.

When you and Kuroo had breathlessly pulled away, realization set in.

“This isn’t-I’m sorry, I don’t...I uhmm...”

“Relax. It’s fine. I know you don’t feel anything for me. And after that, I know I don’t either.” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Excuse me! Are you saying I’m a bad kisser?” You gasped in an over exaggerated manner. Hand over your heart.

“Yeah, pretty much. In fact, that’s probably one of the worst kisses I’ve had.”

“Oh ha ha.” You laughed flatly. A slightly awkward silence followed. “We’re good right?” You asked unsure.

“Of course we are, chibi-chan, I know you have goo-goo eyes for that big mouth idiot.”

“Just how confused are you? I like Tsukishima, not Bokuto.”

“Oh my god. Goodbye. I thought you were going to bed. It’s definitely past your bed time.” He ran a hand down his face in playful annoyance. Sighing when you were out of hearing range. “You really are something, chibi-chan.”

Back inside the gym, Hinata was ranting about his teammate.”I don’t understand how he could be so dense.”

“You’re one to talk.” Kageyama snickered, although it went completely over his head. “But I guess he realized that he was rude and went to apologize.” Kuroo froze.

“He what?”

“He went to apologize.” Hinata repeated.

“When?”

“What’s wrong?” Bokuto cocked an eyebrow at his friends abrupt worry.

“Uhh a few minutes ago, I think. He went right around the corner. Why?”

Kuroo groaned and slapped his forehead. “He probably saw it.”

“Saw what?” Lev asked as he absentmindedly tossed the ball from hand to hand.

“I kissed (y/n).”

“YOU WHAT?!”

#tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima x reader #hollow words and misunderstandings #anon ask #anon #request #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader

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cavalierious-whim · 4 years

Text

Two’s a Crowd (FE3H)

Felannie | Canon-Compliant | War Phase | Teen | Complete There’s only one horse. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

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A/N: This was a Secret Santa give and I was asked to write ‘There was only one Horse’. Read here on AO3 for better quality! Also, I’m on Twitter!

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While Felix has never been one to follow the rules, he now understands why Byleth is so reluctant to let them roam outside the gates of Garreg Mach freely.

Sure, they’re adults and they can make their own dumb decisions. Still, it’s wartime; there are crest beasts and ample opportunity to be stupid enough to get yourself into a pickle.

Felix frowns. Annette’s colorful words, not his.

Byleth often turns a blind eye to the odd training session outside the Monastery, especially when it comes to Felix. Byleth knows that Felix can handle himself when it comes down to it, and while the Professor’s expression is prone to permanent frowning, he’s never said no. Not outright.

It’s more like carefully placed and unasked advice that he knows Felix won’t ever listen to but can claim to have given all the same.

“Just in case you find yourself gored,” said Byleth one dreary afternoon. “I’ll have the chance to say ‘I told you so’.”

So far, Byleth has been denied the pleasure because Felix is a slippery bastard; far too stubborn to die. And, as it turns out, he’s not the only stubborn person in the world, which brings him to his current problem:

Annette crashes through the underbrush alongside him, sagging with weariness and covered head to toe in mud and Goddess knows what else. It’s exactly Felix’s luck that she’s the one to sneak out after him because her curious little nose got the best of her.

At least it’s a cute nose.

“It just had to be a crest beast,” says Annette, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. That’s cute on her too.

“It had to be two,” amends Felix. He’s never had any luck with anything, least of all women, so he doesn’t know why he insists on longing for Annette. Then, he suddenly remembers something else, smacking his hand against his forehead. “Ingrid is going to kill us.”

A long moment stretches between the two of them as they stand there in the woods looking at each other.

“We’ve lost horses before,” says Annette. Sure, they’ve lost horses, but never a Fraldairan Marsh Tucky. And its accompanying mare because, naturally, that was the horse Annette picked. Ingrid’s captious about her thoroughbreds and she’d brought those from Galatea personally. Felix pauses in his step, leveling Annette with a tired stare, to which she sighs in response. “Okay, yeah, she’s going to kill us.”

Annette is lucky that Felix likes her. More than likes her. Kind-of maybe loves her, not that he’s the confessing kind. But, all her goofy songs and eternal optimism in the world won’t save him from Ingrid’s wrath, Mercedes’s clipped threats for endangering Annie, or Byleth’s contempt for attracting her attention by merely existing.

Byleth’s a bit of a stick in the mud when it comes to intra-army romance.

Annette’s mouth then tips into a tiny little smile and Felix wonders if it’s a bad thing that he likes the idea she’d followed him. She’d said that it was dumb of him to go it alone and that she’d been worried. The only person that worries about him nowadays is Sylvain, and it’s entirely unwarranted, unwanted, and suffocating in every way possible. The change is, admittedly, nice.

“There’s a village this direction,” says Felix, pointing to the west. “They’ve got a decent inn with tolerable food, and a stable with likely a few horses for sale.”

“Do we have the coin?” asks Annette.

“We’ll manage,” says Felix, thankful that he’d brought his purse with him that day. He doesn’t always, so maybe he’s luckier than he’d thought. His gaze slides back to Annette who watches him with interest, her eyebrows drawn up. “What?” he snaps, testily.

“Nothing,” says Annette, but judging by the sly little smirk on her face, it’s anything but. Felix doesn’t have the time to think about it anything further.

“We’re losing daylight,” says Felix. “We should get walking, otherwise Byleth will close the gates for the night.”

“He’d let us in,” says Annette.

“He won’t,” says Felix. He’d know, he’s camped outside the entrance before, punishment for making it back late. There’s a pause and then Annette laughs, causing Felix to scowl. Even if he likes the sound of it.

“He’d let me in, then,” says Annette.

Felix grumbles at that. “He probably would.” Annette smirks at him again and Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s only mildly irritated. Truly, Annette is lucky that she doesn’t incite his ire much. Felix wonders how this entire thing would go if it was literally anyone else stuck out here with him.

They’d probably have a sword through their neck already, or at least, be slightly maimed. Felix is in a maiming sort of mood. He and Annette head westward, slogging through the slick mud leftover from earlier rain.

“Hopefully, there won’t be any more beasts out here,” says Annette, and Felix whirls on her, pressing a finger against her lips. She blinks, surprised. But she doesn’t move away, if anything, she leans into the touch.

“Don’t!” hisses Felix.

“Don’t what?” she says against his finger, her breath warm against his skin.

“Say something like that. Don’t you know that’s exactly how it works?”

“What works?” asks Annette.

Felix groans, almost certain that she’s being obtuse on purpose because Annette’s the teasing sort. “It’s bad luck,” he says. “The moment you say something like that, it--”

There’s a deafening roar behind them that echoes through the trees. And then the woods fall deathly quiet. Annette swallows thickly, but to her credit, doesn’t pale or look scared. She’s a plucky little thing and that’s in part what Felix loves about her most. Annette isn’t one to back down, she seeks danger out. Case in point, trailing after him on her own.

Felix pulls his hand away from her.

“We’ve no choice,” says Annette. It’s not a question.

Felix draws his sword and readies a bolt of Thoron. “Might as well make it quick,” is all he says in return.

Annette answers with a resigned sigh.

Turns out, their luck is worse than anticipated, not that Felix is surprised. This entire trip has been working against him since before he left the Monastery.

“I have a bad feeling,” Byleth told him as he saddled up.

“Nonsense,” Felix said, annoyed at the Professor’s incessant mothering.

Felix is eating that word now, laying on his belly in the underbrush, slick with muck and worms. Annette shifts beside him, leaning closer.

“How long do we wait?” she asks.

“Until the damn beast is gone, obviously,” says Felix.

Annette’s eyes narrow at his tone. “This isn’t my fault.”

“You said the words,” says Felix. “You should never say the words.”

She huffs at that. “You’re the one that forgot a spare blade. Since when do you strap only one sword to your hip?” Then she pauses. “Also, what are the chances that it would just crack right down the middle--”

“The entire point of laying in this filth is to be quiet, Annette, and let the beast leave.”

Annette’s mouth snaps shut, but it’s not without an annoyed scowl shot in his direction. “You’re evil,” murmurs Annette, just loud enough for him to hear. Felix knows it’s absolutely on purpose. She’s got a mean streak in her at times, he’s just never been on the end of it.

The mud and foliage hide their smell, and eventually, the crest beast determines them to be a lost cause and saunters away. Felix reaches out to grab Annette’s wrist before she can get up. “Wait, just a little bit longer. It might come back.”

They lay there for longer than she wants, Felix can tell by her squirming, but Byleth’s words have been prophetic: it’s just one of those days. Finally, they rise. Annette looks down at her dress and cringes at the sight.

“I’ll have to burn this and get Mercie to make me a new one.”

“Mercedes has more important things to do than sew garments,” says Felix with an annoyed huff.

Annette narrows her eyes at him. “I’ll remind you that this is your fault.”

“I didn’t ask for you to sneak out after me.”

“You brought that upon yourself when you decided to go out on your own.”

Felix glowers. “Which I do, often.”

Annette shoots him a rival glare. “Because you have no sense of self-preservation. Honestly, Felix, I should have come with you sooner. How often are you so ill-prepared? How unlike you.”

Felix can’t deny that one; how unlike him indeed. “I’ve been distracted lately,” he finally says, and Annette’s face softens slightly. She thinks that he’s talking about the war, but that isn’t it actually, it’s more so the tight feeling in his chest that he gets when he looks at her. He’s taken to marking up trees in frustration, away from prying eyes in the training ground.

The dramatic irony of her blaming Felix isn’t lost on him.

“It’s going to get dark,” says Annette. Felix frowns. How astute and glaringly obvious. “And, according to you, Byleth will abandon you outside the gates.”

“Wouldn’t be a first,” gripes Felix.

“So,” starts Annette, rolling back on her heels slightly. Her hands are tucked neatly behind her, all manners despite looking like she crawled out of a sewer. “To the village then. We’ll get a room.”

Felix, who’d already turned around to head west, stops dead in his tracks. Then he closes his eyes. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Two rooms, he thinks. He can afford two rooms, he’s got enough gold for at least that.

When he looks back to Annette, she’s already beaming at him like she always does. Felix wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t. Instead, he wants to do something a little more drastic, like pull her in for a hug.

Which is ridiculous, because Felix doesn’t hug people.

“Felix?” asks Annette. “You’re staring.”

It takes everything in him not to wince. “Mud,” he says, dumbly. “And sticks. In your hair.”

Eloquent, Felix is not. Despite this, Annette takes the explanation in stride and their walk to the village isn’t so terrible considering.

“Say that again, but the answer better be different.”

The innkeeper swallows, his thick neck turning a little bit red. Felix threatens people often enough that he’s got it down to a science. Arms crossed over the chest, his foot tapping in annoyance. The worst scowl he can manage followed by a flash of steel.

He’s having to make do without that last one.

“We’ve only one room left,” says the Innkeeper.

It takes everything for Felix not to jump the desk and choke the man out.

“Felix,” says Annette, resting her hand against his arm. He doesn’t pull away and neither does she, her fingers curling into his quilted sleeve. “It isn’t his fault. The men out in the bar must be the reinforcements we’re waiting on.”

Felix massages his temple. Right, reinforcements; Byleth had told them all they were expecting another Magic Corps to show up. Just their luck. Or lack thereof. He looks to Annette, who looks back at him, large eyes framed attractively by delicate eyelashes.

Goddess above, he can’t do this.

“You’ll take the room,” says Felix, finally tugging his arm away from her grasp. “I’ll stay in the stable.”

“Absolutely not,” says Annette.

“There’s no room there, either,” says the innkeeper unwisely. Upon Felix’s dangerous glare, the man immediately adds: “I’ve got two stable boys who bunk there.” They would find the one inn that employs by way of food and shelter, and not coin.

The innkeeper takes a deep breath and then bravely says, “There are two beds. If that makes a difference.”

It does, but only barely. Felix eyes the man warily, but slaps down a handful of gold.

That’s when Annette does the unthinkable and says, “And a bath, please. And fresh clothes.”

Felix is going to sleep in a stall with a horse if that’s what it takes, because he cannot, cannot share a room with Annette if she’s intent on bathing. Annette doesn’t think about these kinds of things. She’s not a healer like Mercedes, but she does her share in the medical tents. She sees a body like she sees everything else; just as it is and nothing more.

When he finally meets her gaze, she’s looking at him expectantly. Her eyes flash to his coin purse and then back to the pile he’s left on the counter. Felix lets out a long-suffering sigh and slaps down a few more coins.

“For the bath. And the clothes,” he says tersely. All Annette does is smile widely, happiness practically beaming off of her and she looks utterly ridiculous, covered in the mess that she is.

The room isn’t large, but there are two beds as promised. The stableboys haul a bath inside and Annette has the forethought to direct them to place it behind the changing screen. Felix lets loose a breath. Small blessings and some actual luck, finally.

Annette sings as she bathes. Felix washes his face in the basin by the door and changes into the clothes they’ve been provided, before settling into one of the beds. The moment he hits the mattress, he realizes how weary he is. It’s been a long day of dodging crest beasts and avoiding pesky feelings.

“Felix,” calls Annette from behind the screen, “has Byleth actually left you outside the gate after coming back late.”

Felix snorts a laugh. “Once. The lesson was learned.”

Annette chuckles and then goes back to her made-up tune. “Oh, how I love to bathe. Wash away the icky bits, ‘cause being dirty is just the pits.”

It isn’t so much that her voice is good, it’s just nice. Calming. Sweet. Felix closes his eyes and listens, drifting off to the soft tune on her lips. Comforting when you think about it because Annette sings about the things that she loves.

He falls asleep before her song shifts, singing about a dark, handsome swordsman instead.

There’s only one horse.

It’s a curse, straight from one of those ridiculous romance novels that Sylvain pretends he doesn’t like to read. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

Annette has the gall to look amused. “It’ll be fine, Felix,” is what she says.

It will be the exact opposite of fine because while Felix has been very good at keeping her an arm’s length away, that isn’t an option here.

Felix glares at the stablemaster who regards him with an apologetic look. The only reason Felix doesn’t gut him right then and there is because it isn’t his fault. The man isn’t responsible for the delay in new livestock, the rain had done that. Regrettably, because Felix very much wants to stab something. Anything.

His head falls back, cheeks to the sky, eyes slipping closed as he lets out a long, drawn-out groan. This is divine punishment, Felix thinks, because he’s too much of a coward to just tell the damn girl that he likes her.

Or loves her. But really, at this point, what difference does it matter?

Annette pulls herself up first, settling into the saddle with ease. Felix turns to drop gold into the stablemaster’s hand, who offers a small smile in return.

“If it’s any consolation--”

“It’s not,” Felix cuts in.

“-- I think that she likes you back.”

At that moment, Felix wishes that murder for entirely inane reasons is legal. But alas, it isn’t, and Byleth would be quite irate if Felix were to remove the head of this man. The Professor loathes cleaning up messes and Felix makes a lot of them. So, the stablemaster keeps his life.

Only because Felix is too lazy to think of a valid excuse, or cook up a proper plan.

He pulls himself up behind Annette and settles in easier than he thought possible. Annette’s tiny enough that it’s not as awkward as it could be. Felix slips his arms around her waist and she hands him the reins, and then they’re off at a small trot.

The horse is calm and moves along the road well. Annette leans back against Felix’s chest, humming a tune. Felix is relatively relaxed. The Goddess hasn’t set the world on fire just yet. Small blessings.

“This is nice,” says Annette.

Not how Felix would phrase it. He’s caught somewhere between ‘this is divine’ and ‘this is absolute hell’. He allows himself the former though, arms settling around her closer than he’d normally allow. His nose close enough to the crown of her head that he can smell the fresh soap she’d bathed with. He enjoys the way she fits against him.

Felix would say that Sylvain’s a saint for putting up with this on the regular, but it’d be a lie. Worse, Felix gets why it’s a lie because Annette in his arms feels nice, even if it’s on the back of a horse, and only because there isn’t another choice.

“Nice,” agrees Felix halfheartedly, when he remembers to reply.

“You know, one could even say romantic.”

“There’s nothing romantic about being forced to share a horse because the Magic Corps didn’t think to bring their own.”

Annette turns her head slightly to look back at him, lips quirked into an amused smile. “Not one bit?” she asks.

Felix looks down at her, frowning slightly. What on earth does that mean? And why is she so amused? “I said that it was nice.”

“Felix, you look like you ate some of Flayn’s cooking.”

“This is definitely preferable to that,” says Felix, meaning it.

Annette sits there, twisted awkwardly in front of him for a moment longer, watching him. Felix squirms slightly, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Finally, she says, “I must admit, I’m at a loss.”

“For what?” asks Felix.

“Nothing,” says Annette. Felix frowns again because now she just isn't making sense. But then again, Annette often doesn’t make sense, it’s part of her charm.

The Monastery isn’t far from the village, barely an hour by horse. The rest of their ride passes without any issue. No crest beasts, no bandits, and miraculously, Felix doesn’t entirely combust after enduring close contact with Annette.

He’s decided to treasure the moment because it’s never happening again.

It’s no surprise that Byleth is waiting for them at the gate, their arrival having been spotted by a lookout and announced. The Professor looks calmly collected and not at all worried. Felix’s eyes narrow, instantly suspicious.

Felix drops from the horse first before reaching up and helping Annette down. She lands gracefully, her hands grasping Felix’s forearms. She doesn’t let go. Felix tries to pull away, but she holds tight, and damn, she has an impressively strong grip. She just looks at him, a soft little smile on her face.

“Annette,” says Felix, unsure how to continue.

“Felix,” replies Annette. “Thank you for taking care of me. You’re such a gentleman.”

Felix is anything but, and he’s about to tell her that when she finally let's go. Only to reach up and grab him by the face, fingers curling around his jaw. She yanks him down, none too gently.

And then, Annette’s kissing him, pressing her lips against his with careful precision. Felix is surprised but he doesn’t go entirely rigid. His hands slide up to grasp her cheeks and he kisses her back. It’s not sweet in its touch, but it’s not scorching either, somewhere middling of the two. Her hand snakes around the back of his neck to grip him possessively, pulling him closer.

Felix responds eagerly, his fingers slipping into her hair, tugging her face into a different angle to slot their mouths against each other better. Then, he parts his lips, intent on licking into her mouth--

There’s a cough from next to them and they break apart. Felix doesn’t look away from Annette whose cheeks are tinged pink. Annette looks to the side. “Byleth,” she greets coolly.

“Um,” starts Felix, but can’t think of words past that.

“I’m pleased to see that the two of you are okay,” Byleth deadpans.

Annette is looking at Felix again, and his gaze is still glued to hers, unsure what’s just happened, still trying to process the kiss. That she’d started. That she’d enthusiastically responded too. That she seemed annoyed to have been interrupted in the midst of. The stuff of dreams, really, specifically his dreams, and more often than he’d like to admit.

Felix’s brain is having a hard time comprehending.

“As I said, Felix took fantastic care of me,” says Annette kindly. Then, she reaches up and brushes Felix’s bangs away from his forehead.

“I’d prefer it if the two of you would continue taking care of yourselves within the gate.” Byleth pauses. “And after the meeting. We have things to discuss.”

The mention of a war council breaks the spell that’d fallen over Felix. He can feel his skin burning bright red in embarrassment, and worst of all, Annette looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

And she’s holding his hand. He hadn’t noticed her grabbing it.

“When I was singing about the dark, handsome swordsman, who’d you think I was imagining?” asks Annette, words quiet enough for only Felix to hear.

“When you were singing about what?”

Annette pouts. “Oh darn, so you were asleep then. I’d hoped you weren’t.”

“Annette, what on earth--”

“Later,” says Annette. “Mostly because Byleth is giving you the stink eye, and I think it’s because we’ve delayed his carefully planned schedule.”

One look at the Professor proves her right. Felix clears his throat and takes several steps away, before grabbing the reins of the horse. “Right, then. I’ll just handle this. The horse, I mean.”

“I’ll see you in the war room,” says Annette, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

Felix decides that he doesn’t hate the light-hearted, flabbergasted feeling that’s floating through him. He also knows that the moment he regains his wits abashment will hit him full force because he’d practically eaten Annette’s face off in front of half the Monastery guard.

And Byleth.

So, Felix properly excuses himself in favor of stabling their new horse and perhaps locking himself away forever out of embarrassment.

If he’d stayed just a moment longer, he’d have seen Annette flash Byleth a conspiratorial wink as she passes him by. And how Byleth smiles slyly in return, tapping at his nose like he’s keeping a secret.

#felannie #felix x annette #felix hugo fraldarius #annette fantine dominic #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem fanfiction

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yanderehive · 4 years

Text

General Headcanons ~ Yandere!Tokoyami

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ➳ tokoyami fumikage x reader

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs ➳ none

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ ➳ headcannons

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɢᴏᴛ ɪɴꜰᴀᴛᴜᴀᴛᴇᴅ

He honestly doesn't remember how or exactly when his small obsession with you began

Maybe it was when you defended him in a training, or maybe when you had lent him one of your pencils during class

Either way, you've gotten his attention

It doesn't help that you're attentive to him, always commenting back when he speaks regardless of how much others ignore his 'emo' remarks

And he can't deny the way your behavior affects him on the inside

He wants nothing more than to be with you and have you return his affections

But on the outside he remains cool, keeping himself calm and collected

But this façade can only last so long

He's desperately drawn to you, much like a moth to a flame

And he can't deny loves every second of it

ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴛʏᴘᴇ?

Tokoyami would be more on the obsessive side, though he is a bit protective

He sees you as the light to his darkness regardless of your actual personality

It quickly becomes apparent to him he's not the only one feeling this way

Dark Shadow seems to also have taken a liking to you, maybe even more than Tokoyami himself at first

They're both sensitive to anything concerning Tokoyami's darling

And it shows during mock battles when Tokoyami seemingly appears out of thin air to aid you when you need it most, even if it costs him greatly

While you may see it as a classmate simply helping another, to him it means so much more

Especially when you offer him a bashful thank you with warm cheeks and a smile

sᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ & ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ?

He quite literally is your second and third shadow

Dark shadow becomes extremely useful in situations like these where he needs to 'check up on you'

He's quite stealthy himself, but if he's unable Dark Shadow has no problem going to see you himself

Tokoyami never lets him get too out of hand though, shutting down any offers when there's less light than normal in fear of hurting you

Tokoyami also isn't one for kidnapping for this very reason

He also finds kidnap to be selfish and out of bounds for him

He has somewhat a moral compass, even if it is a bit twisted in reality

The only way this would ever happen would be if he somehow lost control of Dark Shadow around you

Which again, is very unlikely since he's very careful about it with you

ʜᴏᴡ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʟᴇᴀsʜ?

If you think about it, UA had some really nice perks that come with it

One of which meant your dorms being relatively close to one another

He's pretty patient and will take a lot of backlash from you, he knows he does deserve some of it

He definitely prefers emotional punishments

He prefers it for the simple fact he can reverse it if need be, with a physical punishment it isn't as easy to hide

They go pretty much unnoticed by the rest of class 1-A as he usually chalks it up to stress about exams

He's very sly with how he goes about his 'punishments'

He manipulates the situation to where you'd feel bad if you didn't spend time time with him

But you don't have to, he understands

However, if his darling happens to be more on the cunning side and tries to leave him, he enlists the help of others

More specifically those who share his Obsessive Love Disorder and use those connections to corner you with nowhere to hide

Tokoyami tries to steer clear of any kind of punishment when he can but as much as he hates it, some things you just can't get around

ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠs ᴀ ʀɪᴠᴀʟ

While he hates the forced aspect of your relationship, there are some good moments that he lives for

He lives for the moments you tire of fighting him

When you're sweet and compliant, defeat laced into your voice

Not that he minds, the sick part of him loving the way you yield to him

He'd never force you into anything, he still yearns for your approval

He's definitely not one for PDA, he has an edgey reputation to keep

Tokoyami is however, easy to fluster as he's quite touch starved

Holding his hand randomly or using petnames on him work wonders if you're trying to get him into a good mood

He's again a little protective and doesn't take kindly to a rival

He won't kill them unless he feels there are no other options, or he's impatient

But he'd much rather blackmail them

If that doesn't work, he's not above getting a little physical with them

He's got a few allies to help him cover it up as an accident, if he needs to as well

After all, it'd truly be a shame if Dark Shadow managed to get just a bit more control than usual, wouldn't it?

#yandere bnha #yandere au #yandere general headcanons #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere anime #yandere mha #yandere x reader #yandere fumikage #yandere tokoyami #yandere fumikage tokoyami #yandere tokoyami fumikage #yandere dark shadow #gender neutral #gender netural reader #yandere reader insert #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere my hero academia

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rabbitindisguise · 3 years

Note

The nearest I can tell from google ngram, "fake it till you make it" has been in common use since at least the 1980's, in all kinds of contexts from: forcing yourself to stick to a diet until it naturally sticks; pretending you really like your job so you can get ahead; manifesting good things by imagining them really hard; reciting affirmations; and, like that one person said, reflecting on how people you want to be like act and modeling their behavior until that becomes your consistent way of being.

It really doesn't seem like there's a specific origin so much as it became a popular phrase that people just used to mean whatever they wanted, long before the internet was part of our everyday lives. Most of those uses don't seem like masking at all, but rather regular par-for-the-course behavioral training, which mentally ill people can both benefit from OR have massive problems with depending on their brand of neurodivergence.

Neither assessment seems any more historical or any less misleading than the other. If the problem with the post really just that the OP didn't include the words "means to me" in it, then just leave it at that without coming up with an equally arbitrary purpose behind the way the phrase was originally "intended" to be used.

I'm not talking about the history of the phrase, I'm talking about the popsci culture in mental health context it has been used in for the past five years or so. It's been a phrase in spaces specifically around mental illness and imposter syndrome in the context I'm describing, while OP is claiming that actually the phrase (in that specific context) really means something different and everyone else is wrong to misread it. When talking to people who are mentally ill using a phrase as it means in the mental illness community, I don't have to consider larger contexts because they're the one that opened that can of worms, not me. If they wanted to talk about something like positive thinking to secure a promotion they could have framed the post differently.

And "behavioral training is good actually" is not a take I expected to see, but basically behavioral training (ABA) IS absolutely founded in enforcing masking behaviors. It's literally in the name "applied behavioral analysis" and it's about shaping behaviors using rewards and punishment. DBT and CBT aren't behavior based at all, though they can have goals of changed behavior. Behavioral psychology is inhumane, the same way conversion therapy is inhumane, and it isn't even practiced on dogs anymore by ethical trainers.

My biggest problem with both of these (the post and this ask) is the ignorance. It's one thing to do something half cocked on your own, it's another to claim that "fake it till you make it" is about [better spin on prioritizing neurotypical passability] rather than just vanilla [prioritizing neurotypical passability].

The other thing that stands out to me in this ask is the "no wrongthink" ("positive thinking") thing. That is a common perspective. But that doesn't make it right or a correct reading of what actually makes these thought patterns- to use therapy words- positive or negative. This is especially common with people armchair therapizing with CBT and DBT and deciding that certain behaviors (jokes about suicidal ideation, negative self talk, writing about their trauma) are bad just because their therapist advised them that it could be negatively impacting their mental health- assuming all mentally ill people are the same and just like them.

It's actually a structural problem with that genre of post where "advice" is actually presented as instructions to people and used to apply to everyone without nuance. This is not a problem when people are talking about their own mental health but when it gets passed around it becomes less of a tip and more of a cudgel to slam non-compliant mentally ill people with for not preforming. Considering the number of these "tips" are contradictory, actively harmful, and based in toxic positivity to "combat anti-recovery" on tumblr- I'm not super endeared to them to begin with.

Anyway, to be clear: I wrote that response with the intent of correcting misinformation. I'm not arguing opinions. People have the right to know what they're getting into and what these phrases allude to, and a simple "oh you should have said what it meant to you not what it is" wouldn't provide that kind of info. My typical engagement with these kinds of posts isn't to convince anyone, it's to help people who already know what I'm talking about identify and deconstruct ideas- like identifying terf dogwhistles, misleading and misinformation from liberal news media that aims to shit stir our communities into a frenzy with clickbait titles, and anything else that's not readily obvious from a post. This isn't a discourse blog in the traditional sense.

Since this is an ask, and there's no way it'll get eaten lik reblogs with links, here's the type of fake it advice I was talking about:

Link, link, link, link, link, link, link, link, link, link, link, link

#personal #mental illness #ableism #aba #abuse #long ass post #suicide #purity culture

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og-danny-dorito · 5 years

Text

Tommy Shelby NSFW Headcanons

as requested by anon, thanks for the request!

N S F W :

- sweet Jesus where do I start

- SO

- we already covered that he's bi because bi rights an’ all that jazz, but we never covered what his kinks were in the past headcanons cause I like to keep the sfw and nsfw separated for anyone who's sensitive/uncomfortable with that shit

- so let me start off with something kind of vanilla: he's always liked the way that someone’s body is shaped, tending to go toward formless figures with relatively soft features. but the fact that there may be danger underneath that sweet persona stirs something dark in the pit of his soul, keeping him from falling completely in but backing away at the same time

- there are a number of reasons as to why I think he’s like this, and it's mostly because he wants control to be taken from him

- the weight on using shoulders is almost impossible to bear, and so not having to control something and just being able to trust someone helps him ease down into his own sort of bliss that he doesn't need to share with anyone else. in the earlier stages of the relationship he'd be hesitant to give up control out of fear, but give him a month and he'll eventually start showing signs of secret submission

- for instance, when told to do something simple like put his clothes back where they should be or telling him to clean his damned ash tray, he's a little more begrudgingly compliant than anything. what's odd, however, is that he almost always says he'd “better be getting something out of this” like a transaction

- and so since you're in no way stupid, you'd end up asking him about it. of course he'd play it off, saying something like “What, you really think I'm that much of an ass?” (to which you will raise a brow and say “Yes, yes I do.”) but his ambitions are made clear when you put on a more commanding voice that sounds like stern chastising than a question

- he'd stiffen, his eyes going to the ground as he purses his lips defiantly. your hand would go to grab his chin and tilt his head up, a very smug grin on your features. oh, you get it now. “So you like to be bossed around, Tom?”

- he's going to be VERY embarrassed about it for like a week and may even actively avoid sexual contact which is rare since like??? that's his love language??? he's truly, genuinely just a little nervous. he's not had someone dominate him before and honestly he's a little scared and might rush into it headfirst without even thinking of setting up a safeword

- like you'll be sitting down somewhere when everyone else is gone and it's late, and he'll sort of just bring up that he wants to try something new that's night. and you're gonna be like, uh? yeah, sure, what's up?

- it's gonna take him a hot minute to formulate the words, with his hands clenched in his lap and his eyes trained on your reaction the whole time. sweet jesus, this is embarrassing- “I'm sick of controlling everything.” and that's pretty much all he has to say to get the message across

- your reaction is based on preference entirely. don't be afraid to say no; he understands and won't ever ask again. there'll be other places for him to decompress and let you do your thing. you could be sitting together in bed reading and he'll place his head in your lap. you could be taking a bath and he'll just casually ask to join in, letting you wash his hair or something. he likes you either way, and it's ok to feel safe to say something makes you uncomfortable

- saying yes will lead to a very exited but nervous tommy. exited because he lowkey wants to do that shit as soon as possible, but nervous because it's something new. but he'll suck it up and not back down since his pride usually gets in the way of most things. when asked about a safeword, he'll probably be a little stuck before deciding on “Whiskey.” easy to say and not to hard to remember

- the first time you try it out he's going to get all nervous and tense. “Scared?” he'd harrow his eyes. what made you think that? is it how his knuckles are turning white as he clenches the edge of the bed? “No.” he's lying. a chuckle, light, but with a slightly more sinister tone to it. shit, now he's already half hard. he wasn't aware he'd be so sensitive to that- “You don't have to lie, Tommy. It's fine, I won't hurt you...unless?” Tommy’d roll his eyes

- and that's when he discovers he is in fact the biggest switch on the planet, although predominantly bottom. like, he's very bratty and lowkey refuses to give up to any challenge or demand made of him. he'll eventually ease into the punishment part which may soon take up most of what you do in the bedroom

- my mans moans. a lot. when he's a top he doesn't make much noise; mostly groaning and huffing quietly. but when he's a bottom he's biting back moans, it's almost like a completely different person, but the defiance is almost unmistakeable. any command will be either begrudgingly abided to or outright refused. he needs to be put in his place, and honestly he loves the process

- spanking? it kind of humiliates him a little, but he likes it. he wants to have trouble sitting down tomorrow in his desk

- likes marks being left too, although he'd prefer it just below his shirt collar so only he knows about it. he'd rather no to get weird stares as he walks by people in public

- tommy feels more comfortable being in control, but not being in control is just 100x better. he'll eventually feel more comfortable around you with being able to give you that sort of trust, and tends to be more submissive in other areas of your life as well, although never completely cause this is tommy's we're talking about. he likes to be coddled, and likes to be taken care of. even if he doesn't admit it

- catch my mans being more obedient in your domestic life, since he feels more agreeable. he likes a bit of edge and challenge to his authority or position in those situations. he likes to have something to say “no” to when it's not entirely necessary

- but in general he's not very sadomasochistic, although he does like having “reminders” of the night before. once again, he's usually the one introducing things to your bedroom, and so bdsm might be brought up on more than one occasion on as a joke the first few time since and then seriously

- probably would be more into tying you up than having himself tied up. when those sorts of things come into play he's more prone to being dominant, which leads us to top tommy headcanons

- my mans, as i said, doesn't make too much noise, although in this state he's very very sensitive to touch. not only that, but usually a certain type of glance will get him going for no apparent reason in like a millisecond. he loves the way you look at him, and he loves the way you feel around him, beneath him, your chest rising and falling unevenly ad your eyelids flutter and clench as he grips harder at the base of your hips-

- most things get him thinking dirty in a few seconds, like some sort of horny teen. but as soon as you're out of the public eye, away from the rest of the crowd where they can only sense your impending tension in the air, you bet your ass he will not hesitate to rip off your clothes and get straight to work on that pretty neck of yours

- he's probably down for semi-public sex where he knows you might get caught, but regardless of where you're doing it. once again, the kind of bitch to get turned on by danger

- like the rush of it sends him through the roof, although he's cautious about it too. but don't expect him to be gentle on you when he hears someone come by, no. not at all. he'll cover your mouth, suddenly placing a finger to his lips and turning his head to the direction of the footsteps. all is dead quiet, and yet...he's still grindingly his hips against yours, the hand that once told you to be quiet coming to squeeze your hip to try and make you disobey that command. you'll have to bite back moans, or whines, or whatever you can muster, because as soon as he hears them out of earshot you're going to be fucked into the he wall/table/wherever you've gotten yourself into this time

- his most preferred spot, though, is his bed. mostly because it's the most comfortable and he does like the privacy of feeling at home. he likes to think that this thing that you share is only between the two of you, that no one can take it away and no one else will see these parts of you, physical or not

- he likes to worship you just as much as he likes it done to him, although he might get to eager and rush things up like halfway through. it'll be you who's has to take it slow if you please, whispering sweet nothings against his skin as he watches you with a keen eye, curious to see what's next

- and now for my favorite part: miscellaneous headcanons ;

+ his favorite part of a person’s body is their eyes, and he likes dark eyes the most. they're a nice contrast to his own baby blues

+ sometimes, if he's feeling especially desperate, he may be more clingy than usual

+ if you're working and he wants your attention, he pulls up a chair next to you and caresses/gropes your thighs to tease you into being frustrated enough to spend time with him

+ he'd probably never do anything in his military uniform, although he likes to be called “soldier” when both in sub and dom position

+ if you call him daddy or sir like mid fuck he might just cum right there no cap

+ regular dick size, about 6 inches with a pretty good girth. moderately hairy but keeps good manscaping

+ he's even paler beneath those clothes of his lemme tell ya

+ v prominent dick vain when erect. like, when the blood rushes down where the sun don't shine you can SEE it

+ opposed to popular belief he's v sensitive and i see the most sensitive on his inner thighs and ear area. like, if you give him hickeys there he's going to feel it for at least a few days. also bite on his ear a little bit when y’all’er getting frisky cause he starts to moan a LOT

+ people that can handle a gun are HOT. especially if they don't take shit from anyone

+ if he's had a particularly stressful day he's probably going tom be very eager to just be near you in general

+ chest or ass man? the answer is chest. he likes chests that look strong, boobs or not. it kindof depend so on the shape of your body but someone who carries themselves with their chin held high is a turn on

+ confidence is hot as fuck okay

+ also really likes quickies

- in conclusion, he's a passionate lover when he's not all caught up in the world outside of the bedroom. it's quite literally his sanctuary, his oasis in the middle of a sandstorm. but it wouldn't be complete without you, and even through his pride he can see that as clear as day.

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peachybeatles · 5 years

Text

ultimate bottom!John master post ;)

Every fic listed is mclennon, includes sexual content and is on ao3. Do feel free to add onto the list if I’ve missed anything!

Be My Baby - crybabycry

“Tell me, Johnny,” Paul murmured, teasing his almost-auburn hair between his fingers, “were you a good boy today?”

John’s breath quickened, blush spreading as he readjusted himself on Paul’s lap. “No, Paul, I was not a good boy today.”

These Nights - Unchained_Daisychain

Music journalist John Lennon is tasked with writing an article on newfound pop artist Paul McCartney. A night of fame, music, and passion soon surround John before he knows it. By the end of it all, he’s not so sure he can manage to give up this star and these nights.

Father’s Day - ImagineBeatles

John and Paul have a different way of celebrating Father’s day.

Understanding - ImagineBeatles

John wants to know what it’s like to be fucked roughly after he had seen how much Paul had enjoyed it, when he had done it to him. Paul is more than happy to do it.

The First Scene - DemonDean10

John is an omega and has kept this secret from all his friends for years. Until one day while on their first visit to the U.S. he discovers he forgot his heat suppressants. There is an Alpha that could come to his rescue, but what will happen after the two wake up and realize what they've done.

Higher Education - smothermeinrelish

Starting anew in Edinburgh Scotland, John is hired as a conservationist at the University where he will be working along side English Literature Professor Dr. Paul McCartney. John is instantly attracted to his new supervisor and mentor, but the feelings aren't mutual? Are they? Set in modern AU, the teacher/ student relationship could be more than just a temporary fling.

You Teaser, You Pleaser - Unchained_Daisychain

John and Paul finally find time to put their new handcuffs to use.

John shrugged, but the smirk on his lips belied his nonchalance. He glanced at the handcuffs Paul held between their bodies. “Seize the moment, Macca,” he said, low, tracing a single finger along the ridges of one open cuff. “Or any accessible poles throughout the day. They always leave that part out.”

Tease Me - nipsynips

His bandmates had always called him the ‘kinky’ one, but they had always assumed it was him doing the tying and the holding down and the commanding. True enough, that was often the case, especially with birds, but it wasn’t his preference. In fact, contrary to what most people thought, John relished the chance to relinquish control every once in a while.

Patience is a Virtue - Peachy_Beatles

John is trying his best to song write despite his overactive imagination. Luckily, Paul is willing to reward him for his efforts.

Summer Rose - chanderson

John and Paul rekindle their relationship late summer 1980. John's feeling lost, and Paul's missing him in more ways than one.

Cutting Strings - Peachy_Beatles

Early 1969: With John’s increasing emotional unavailability, Paul is left clinging on to whatever he can get from him- no matter how unfulfilling.

I Blame Tumblr - DemonDean10

I would just like to apologize to the world and myself for doing this. Based off this Tumblr post by @johnsdoublechin: @ the ppl who say John isnt a bottom at my last post well I got MY SOURCES. George, Ringo, Paul, Brian, Cynthia, and Yoko have all topped him thanks for listening And so...this was born. Basically John bottoms for everyone. Everyone tops him. I did this instead of my actual fics.

Ten Minutes - ImagineBeatles, ChutJeDors

Paul had thought that his friends only wanted the best for him, with giving him a gift card to a brothel and all. Now, having ended up in a room with a stunningly handsome male whore, he needs to reconsider those ideas about his friends, and his beliefs in life altogether. It’s just for ten minutes, though… Definitely a once in a lifetime thing, and all that. Totally! Right? Right??

What Feels Right/ This Loving Game - ImagineBeatles

Paul and Julia have been going out for a while and now they’ve decided to move in together. What Paul hadn’t expected when he’d agreed was that he’d fall in love with her troublesome teenage son, John

like a river flows, surely to the sea - toppermostofthepoppermost

John is smiling around his cigarette, head thrown back, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky, and it takes Paul all of his poor will to mutter, “You shouldn’t flirt with your teachers, you know?” “In my defense, Mr. McCartney,” John quips, shifting his gaze to Paul, “you make it very hard not to.” Or: Modern-day AU where Paul spends his days teaching everything Shakespeare, getting angry at modern electronic devices, raising a five-year-old girl who's 50% puppy eyes and 50% sassy comebacks and trying not to fall in love with John Lennon, his university student.

The Consequences of Getting What You Want - deux_lunes

Why John Lennon really beat Bob Wooler up at Paul’s birthday party.

Queer - deux_lunes

Paul gives John what he desires

Discipline - deux_lunes

John has been an utter brat and Paul decides that he is in desperate need of discipline.

Skype sex. - mickeymouse (Sgtmacca0)

day 8. john skypes paul in the middle of the night.

In the Back Seat of My Car - ImagineBeatles

Modern AU. After having met at Stuart's birthday party, John and Paul get down and dirty in the back of John's car.

It won’t be long - orphan_account

After some interesting scents were being left around everywhere the Beatles went, even without any women around, it became obvious that someone in the band is an omega and never told anyone. But no one seems to care, or even notice, but Paul. The only other alpha in the band, with John of course. And he sniffs out (literally and figuratively) who it is alone in the hotel.

James - JP (jpgr1963)

Paul helps John cope with stress while on tour in 1964.

Magical Mystery Tour Love - DemonDean10

Paul gets drunk one night during MMT filming and confesses his love for John. John had been in love for yrs and is elated. but when Paul wakes up he remembers very little of the night before, will he tell John or try to make the relationship work, even with all the moral conflicts it brings up?

Day 30: Who’s Your Daddy, Johnny Boy? - ImagineBeatles

John's been a naughty boy who needs his Daddy to punish him and make him learn his lesson. Or at least, that's what Paul thinks. Not that John isn't more than happy to indulge his lover.

Day 22: Over The Desk - ImagineBeatles

1968. John keeps bothering Paul while he's busy doing management stuff, which is highly irritating for the younger Beatle, especially seeing as John makes it abundantly clear he isn't going to leave until he gets what he came for. In the end, John gets a little more than he bargained for.

Day 18: Lazy Morning Sex - ImagineBeatles

John and Paul spend the morning in bed together.

Day 6: Clothed Getting-Off - ImagineBeatles

John had seen Paul watching him, eyes hot and determined, so he was not at all surprised when he was dragged into an alleyway and pushed up against a brick wall to have his lips positively snogged off.

I Want You - sockittoem

“In which John gets really horny after doing coke, and needs Paul to fuck it out of him.”

The Night Before - andthemoondogs

[ Anon McLennon prompt: "The Night Before" ] John and Paul have a night of drunken sex, after which, John panics and gives Paul the cold shoulder until Paul finally confronts him about it.

Day 7: Naked/Dressed - ImagineBeatles

1964. On the set of A Hard Day's Night, John and Paul cannot get one particular scene right in which Paul has to drag John away from a couple of girl as they try to find Paul's grandfather on the train, so they sneak off to practise the scene together. Soon, however, the boys have other things on their minds than rehearsing a scene.

Kiss Me - orphan_account

Mimi is gone for a trip, and when John and Paul meet at John's house for practice, things don't go quite as planned.

masturbation. - mickeymouse(Sgt macca0)

day 4. paul masturbates at the thought of john.

bottoms up. - ffomixam

“Can we get some mclennon with a possessive, dominant paul and compliant john? (technically doesn’t have to be smut)”

breathe desperation. - ffomixam

McLennon smut, something along the lines of a first time, unexpected, adrenaline fueled, thoughtless, desperate handsy-ness and making out backstage after a show with John as the more submissive and needy one?

love me harder. - ffomixam

Could you write a fic about Paul fucking John in public while in Hamburg, being really rough and dominant and teasing John that someone’s going to hear them and see John taking it up the arse, and John just devolves into a cummy fucked-out mess.

Of Hot Chocolate and Rainy Nights - paulmcfartney

yall already know what's goin on ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

I feel like I’m the worst, so I act like im the best - KiwiPillow

John, a young ravishing man, who is absolutely uninterested in anything but himself really, gets pursued by his roommate to try a dating website! What could go wrong? Well, maybe your "match" could turn out to be a bastard stalker mobster boss with a serious daddy kink, who wants to work on your attitude. Shocked and upset. In the mob bosses defence, John is annoying as hell in this.

#mclennon #paul mccartney #John Lennon #the beatles #George Harrison #ringo starr #botttom john #fic rec

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bytheangell · 5 years

Text

A Heavy Leaf to Turn

(Read on AO3) (tw: self confidence issues, weight gain, canon-compliant self destructive behaviors)

It starts with a comment meant in good fun, just a passing quip during a sparring session about Alec’s new lifestyle making him soft with a tap to his stomach with the staff for emphasis, but it’s enough. Alec isn’t one to fixate on his appearance, barely sparing it a passing thought on a day to day basis. But now that he sees it when he looks in the mirror after training - not just in his stomach but in his face, and a few other places, too - there’s no denying that between his home life and shift to more desk work at the Institute he’s definitely started to put on weight.

Is that what everyone thinks about him? That the desk job is making him weak? That he’s not up to par the way he was just a few months ago?

He shakes it off and tells himself he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter - he’s still in great shape, can still hold his own in the field, he still got where he is because he’s one of the best. Everything’s fine.

...until he starts subconsciously slipping back into his old habits.

---

Jace can practically feel the weight start to lift off of his parabatai’s soul more and more every day. Alec was never meant to be a warrior. Sure, he’s good at it. Hell, he’s one of the best, especially when you put that bow in his hands. But Alec never took any real joy out of the hunt, out of a violent life full of chaos and bloodshed. He did it because it was expected of him - and now that something entirely different is expected of him, something he’s far more suited to, he’s happier than Jace has ever seen him.

This is Alec’s strength: being a leader, making changes in a broken system, paving the way for others like him, he’s not only still playing a huge role as a Shadowhunter but he’s making even more of an impact now than he ever would have in the field. This isn’t just what’s best for Alec, it’s what’s best for the Shadow World as a whole, of that Jace has no doubt.

Even without their bond it’s easy enough to see that Alec feels truly happy, safe, and loved. It’s all of these things that allow him to grow more comfortable in his own skin. Quite literally: Alec goes from concerningly lean, a clear sign of the overexercising Alec used to resort to daily, to a much healthier weight in the months following his wedding. Jace never makes a joke about the weight Alec starts to put on because he sees it for what it is: recovery. This is Alec getting better, and he’ll be damned if one of his usual smart-ass remarks is what sets him off again.

Instead Jace makes sure Alec still trains with him when he can, makes sure he goes on a patrol or two to stay involved even if he’s spending most of his time behind a desk now, just so he doesn't feel too cooped up or start to go a little stir crazy. He provides the balance Alec needs between his old habits and the new ones he probably doesn’t even realize he’s forming. And Jace doesn’t even have to let Alec win - Alec can still kick his ass half the time without even trying.

Jace is also in the training room the day one of the other Shadowhunters jokes about Alec’s weight, and it takes all of his self control not to toss the seraph blade in his hands straight at the guy’s mouth to shut him up. It’s difficult not to react when he looks at Alec and immediately sees the way Alec looks down with that flash of awareness, the way Jace can see him pull his stomach muscles tighter in response, the glance towards his discarded shirt as Alec debates putting it back on.

Yeah, Jace is pretty sure he deserves a freaking medal for not murdering the guy on the spot, but instead he goes up to the two of them with a casual smile.

“Hey, mind if I tap in? It’s been awhile since I got to kick my parabatai’s ass,” Jace jokes, and the other guy leaves without question.

Alec gives Jace a look like he knows exactly what he’s doing but says nothing, and instead wastes no time lunging forward on the attack. He’s glad to see Alec relax a little more around him, but not completely, which is never a good sign.

“You alright? You seem a little off today,” Jace asks, not wanting to bring up the comment but hoping Alec will.

“I’m good,” is all Alec says before leaving.

Jace hopes he’s telling the truth.

---

Magnus starts to notice immediately. Of course he’s aware of his husband’s weight gain given just how often his hands (among other parts of him) come into contact with Alec’s body on a daily basis, but given the life Alec previously lead it’s certainly a good change to see. Alec is a far cry from the person he was when they first met - a person who punished himself physically to distract from a number of other problems in his life - and Magnus likes to think he had a pretty large role to play in the transition.

It’s no secret that Magnus disapproves of many aspects of Shadowhunter culture - their desire to sacrifice oneself for the perceived ‘greater good’ is one among many of those. Magnus watched Alec hide a number of self-destructive habits under the cover of those twisted values, and then watched Alec slowly, almost painstakingly, break away from that mindset. The fact that Alec hasn’t resorted to any of his old coping mechanisms lately is something that Magnus is grateful for, especially since he knows the sort of uphill battle overcoming self-destructive habits can be.

So what if Alec puts on a few extra pounds in the process? It’s the healthiest he’s seen Alec since they met, and honestly, Magnus finds him more attractive now than ever before. Though it never comes up Magnus is convinced that Alec has to have noticed by now as well and simply recognizes it as the nonissue it is.

Which obviously isn’t the case, he now realizes. Magnus can tell the exact day Alec becomes aware of it without any knowledge of what happened at the Institute. That night Alec is self-conscious the moment their clothes are off, something he hasn’t been in quite some time, and Magnus can feel the muscles tense and Alec’s entire body shift away at the trail of lingering kisses Magnus leaves down his stomach. However vocally willing and agreeable Alec is, there’s some lingering reservation he isn’t admitting, Magnus can tell, and isn’t surprised at how eagerly Alec agrees to his suggestion they call it a night instead of going any further.

When Alec leaves early the next morning, skipping the breakfast they had planned to go on a run instead, Magnus wonders if he should be worried; when Alec starts coming home from the Institute later and leaving early every morning, Magnus knows the answer is yes.

---

Isabelle catches onto the shift as well. Ever since the wedding Alec’s been happier, like, all of the time. It’s a good look for him - he’s spending a little more time behind the desk, sure but that’s where he needs to be right now. With rumors of him being up for Inquisitor there’s no need to be putting his life needlessly in danger on routine missions that any of them can handle, not while he’s Head of the Institute. Isabelle and Jace both agree to take on a few more roles around the Institute to make sure Alec isn’t the one pulling all nighters covering new trainees or short-staffed patrols.

The bags around her brother’s eyes start to fade, replaced by a light and a sparkle that she can’t remember ever seeing so consistently. She doesn’t mind the extra work if it means giving her big brother a bit of a break - he certainly deserves one after everything he’s been through lately, and she’s just so thrilled to see him so relaxed that she’d give up anything if it meant he’d get to be this content forever. It’s all she’s ever wanted for him - it’s all she’s ever wanted for anyone she cares about - and after all the time she spent worried he’d never find this sort of peace she’s determined to do whatever it takes to make sure he gets to keep it.

And then, practically overnight, something changes. Alec starts putting himself on extra assignments, unnecessary ones, and staying out later each night. There are plenty of other people to go instead but he volunteers anyway and by the time his paperwork is done at the end of the night he’s half asleep on his desk.

She can read the signs - he starts wearing baggier clothing, training in the stifling heat with a hoodie on, and even starts to shy away from some of her hugs depending on his mood. She understands - going from a constantly active life to one that’s more paper work than field work has to be rough, especially for someone who was literally conditioned for it from birth - but she also refuses to stand for it. She hugs harder, compliments him constantly, and even tries to convince him to go shopping with her so she can pick out some new outfits that will suit his current physique better. Anything to keep him from going back to the way things used to be. And after a while he seems to accept that this can work, too, he just has to get used to it.

After a few days of this Isabelle stops him in the middle of gearing up for yet another patrol. “I’m on this one. You go home and get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Alec insists, not even pausing.

“Alec, please-”

“I said I’m fine, Iz. Really. You can wrap up that autopsy report from earlier and head out, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Isabelle watches him leave with a frown, not sure what she can do to make this better and certain Alec wouldn’t let her intervene even if she did.

---

Maryse doesn’t see Alec as often as she’d like to, but the pair of them have been keeping up a once-a-week dinner so long as no emergencies pop up. This week is no different, except she can tell the entire way through that something is on his mind - he looks exhausted, like he’s been losing sleep, and it’s a look she knows well on him even if she hasn’t seen it in a while. Almost immediately about a dozen red flags go up.

The last time she saw him this bothered by something was the day he gave the Lightwood family ring back to her after his plan to propose to Magnus didn’t work out. Maryse can’t honestly say that she’s always held the most traditional of motherly values for her children - raising trained warriors puts a different spin on things than a mundane upbringing - but recent developments in all of their lives has shifted the way she looks at things now.

Things like the prioritizing of her children’s happiness over normal Shadowhunter measurements of success. And right now she can see that Alec isn’t happy, not the way he has been lately.

She doesn’t pry it out of him, and instead waits patiently, making small talk about their weeks until Alec finally puts his fork down over his barely touched meal and asks:

“Do you think I’m getting lazy?”

Maryse could laugh at how absurd the question is, but knows he means it. The gaze he locks on her is serious and troubled.

“Absolutely not. Why on earth would you think that?” She says instead.

“You haven’t heard anyone saying anything about… I dunno. How much time I spend in the office? I barely go on missions, my patrols have cut in half... and it’s great to have more time to spend with Magnus, don’t get me wrong, but even that… I’ve become so stagnant I’m actually gaining weight. I haven’t gained weight since I stopped getting taller!” He shakes his head in clear exasperation. “I just feel like I’m slipping up, like I should be doing more.”

“Is that why you spent all week pulling extra shifts?” She asks, remembering earlier when his recount of the week seemed much more intense than it had the past few months.

“Maybe,” Alec admits reluctantly. “I thought I could try to go back to full active duty, and just keep up with the paperwork at night. If I could pick up patrols and training the way I used to then maybe I could-”

“Go back to being as miserable as you used to be, too?” Maryse cuts him off, and Alec’s words fall short as his eyes widen in surprise.

“What?” She continues in that ‘I’m your mother and I know’ voice she knows all of her children dislike. “Before you met Magnus and decided to fight for him, before you were appointed Head of the Institute, you weren’t happy. You did all of those things out of obligation, because you felt like you had to in order to prove yourself. You weren’t doing them for you or because you wanted to. You hated that life. And I bet you’ve been miserable all week trying to go back to it.”

She watches the expression on Alec’s face shift through a series of emotions the longer he thinks over her words. “So you don’t think I’m slacking off?”

“I think you have to realize there’s a difference between being complacent and being comfortable, Alec. You’re finally comfortable, with a man you love, doing a job you love. I’ve never been more proud of you. You don’t have to push yourself to exhaustion 24/7 to be successful - the past few months are testament enough to that. And I’m sorry if I was ever a part of making you think that had to be the case.”

She stops there, watching his expression and waiting for him to really hear what she’s saying to him because this is important. She doesn’t want him to ever feel like he has to go back to the way things were before, not after all the progress he’s made in spite of everything stacked against him. She didn’t know it then but she realizes now how unhappy he was, and she never wants to play a role in that ever again now that she does.

“Thanks, Mom,” Alec says before going back to his dinner, and she can already see some of that burden lift off of him, some of the spark return to his eyes, and knows he’s going to be okay.

---

It’s 2 am when Alec gets back to the loft. Magnus knows because despite Alec’s attempt to sneak in Magnus is waiting up for him, awake and sitting on the sofa in the living room.

“I told you not to wait up for me,” Alec says, but even as the words leave his lips he makes his way straight to Magnus, sitting down next to him and settling in against the soft silk of the robe Magnus has on. It’s almost enough for Magnus to decide to push off the conversation he planned on having in favor of snuggling with Alec on the sofa, but he can’t. It’s too important.

“I was worried. This past week-” Magnus starts, but doesn’t get much further before Alec cuts him off.

“I know,” Alec admits, surprising him. There’s no stalling, no deflecting, no making excuses and saying he’s fine… nothing Magnus mentally prepared to hear. “I’m sorry. Someone at the Institute made a comment the other day and I guess I psyched myself out a little over it.”

Magnus nods. “And how are you feeling about it now?”

It’s a specially crafted patience Magnus tries to show Alec whenever possible, no matter the situation. Even now Magnus doesn’t ask what the comment was, or demand to know why Alec didn’t bring it up sooner - he just wants to know how Alec’s doing here and now, to make sure he’s alright.

“Better,” Alec admits, shifting to face Magnus as he answers. “It just hit me all at once how much I changed these past few months and I was afraid - I don’t know what I was afraid of, really. That people thought I wasn’t as good of a Shadowhunter any more? That I wasn’t trying hard enough now that I’m the Institute Head?”

“Your life has changed a great deal lately, and that sort of shift takes time to adjust to. But I remember when I first met you at the Institute; it wasn’t healthy, mentally or physically, the way you were living. Any changes you’ve made lately have been for the better,” Magnus insists.

“I can see that now,” Alec says. “I had a little chat with my mother earlier and she put a few things into perspective for me.”

“Good,” Magnus says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then I suppose I can spare you the lecture, so long as you’re sure you’re alright.”

“I think I am,” Alec agrees. “At least about all of the job-related things. But…” Alec starts, then trails off again. Magnus can tell he’s feeling self-conscious about whatever it is he wants to say.

“But…?” Magnus encourages.

“Nothing. Never mind, it’s stupid,” Alec immediately attempts to take back.

“Nothing that bothers you, especially this much, is stupid. Talk to me, dear,” Magnus insists, reaching out to take Alec’s hands in his own, the warmth of them an immediate comfort.

“It’s just… You don’t mind... I mean, I’m sure you’ve noticed-” Alec gestures vaguely, stalling.

“That you gained a little weight?” Magnus finishes for him, not in an ‘obviously’ sort of way, but more of a ‘mercy-fill-in-the-blank’ that Alec was probably never going to manage to say himself.

“Yeah,” Alec confirms, frowning again.

Magnus laughs. “Alexander, while your abs are, I’ll admit, a very pleasing aspect of your physique - they’re hardly the reason I’m with you. You could gain a hundred pounds and I’d still love you just the same. Though for the record you are still objectively and entirely unbiasedly the most attractive person in my world. In fact, I’d love nothing more than to show you just how much I appreciate your body when we’ve finished this conversation.”

“Yeah?” Alec practically sighs in relief.

“Of course. Your worth isn’t tied to how many hours you spend on patrol, or a number on a scale. You’re working harder than ever to make a difference in this world and that is what I love you for - more than I could possibly put into words. And if you ever doubt that again I’ll be right here to remind you, each and every time.” Magnus makes sure to look Alec in the eyes as he speaks, not allowing any room for doubt that every word is sincere. He needs to know that Alec doesn’t just hear the words, but believes them, too.

Alec holds his gaze and nods. A moment later he’s leaning back against Magnus’ shoulder again, the world settling back into place around them. They take a few minutes to simply exist, comfortable in the silence between them. Magnus lifts a hand to idly play with a few strands of Alec’s hair, pressing a soft kiss onto the crown of Alec’s head, until Alec finally breaks the silence.

“I know what you said about… appreciation earlier,” Alec starts slowly. “But could we take a rain-check until tomorrow? It’s been a long week, and honestly, I’m exhausted. All I want right now is a shower and about a week’s worth of sleep.”

“I can’t help with the missed sleep,” Magnus admits. “But the shower and bedtime cuddles I can do.”

With a wave of his hand the previously quiet apartment is filled with the distant noise of the shower turning on, water beginning to run so it’ll be warm by the time Alec gets there. It’s a small, simple gesture, but one that Magnus knows doesn’t go unappreciated, especially during moments like these.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Alec sighs happily. “But I’m glad I don’t have to find out.”

“Me too, darling,” Magnus agrees softly. “Me too.”

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #jace herondale #isabelle lightwood #maryse lightwood #long post #an idea i had for a while that didn't turn out quite the way i planned #but i hope you like the end result!#it wasn't meant to have angst but this is who i am as a person #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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ayfarag102 · 4 years

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Practical Steps to Liberate Falasṭeen | Sh. Usama RAA

Rabi’ al-Awwal 1430 March 2009 All praise is due to Allah. We praise Him and seek His aid and forgiveness, and we seek refuge in Allah from the evil in ourselves and from our bad deeds. He whom Allah guides cannot be led astray, and he who is led astray cannot be guided. I bear witness that there is no God other than Allah alone, without partners, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His slave and Messenger. As for what comes after: My Muslim Ummah: this talk of mine is for you, and concerns what must be done to help our family in the Blessed Land, because we have been late in helping them and that has hurt our causes and made them even more difficult and complicated. For how long must our family in Palestine live in fear, while we enjoy security – albeit a false, temporary security? For how long must the people of Gaza live under siege, while we live in comfort and luxury – at least for the time being? And for how long will we sit while their hearts burn for their children, who were burned by the white phosphorous bombs with the collusion of Arab rulers, which caused even brave and mighty men to cry, due to the enormity of the event. Their crying here is more eloquent and expressive than thousands of sermons about the magnitude of the calamity. And the stabbing of close relations is severer For a man than the blow of the sword It is no surprise that some of our mothers and sisters in Gaza died or almost died, not because of shrapnel or bullets, nor because of the blockade, for the blockade is nothing as long as the child is still there; but the blockade is the day he is lost. For a mother, the kings and all that they own are smaller in her eyes than her little one, but the American aircraft in the hands of the Jews bomb and bomb again, and snatch the little ones of the neighborhood, among them her little ones; and this is what makes our mothers and sisters tremble in fear, and almost die with every breath. Hearing isn’t like seeing, and only the one who has had his child snatched from him knows what it’s like to be bereaved, and only the one who has endured the bombing knows what bombing is like; and there is no Mu’tasim to take revenge from the tyrants. It must be pointed out that it is part of psychological defeat and betrayal of the religion, the Ummah and the blood of the martyrs to praise the one who colluded in killing them and describe him as “Gaza’s hope,” while its residents are noble and defiant people who reject that. Gaza’s youth died so it could live And praise of Kufr makes free ones burn with anger Peoples were liberated with their spears So how can they be enslaved with their spears? And the tragedies that have befallen you Have left deep wounds in my heart Nothing protects creeds like victims Nor brings rights near nor achieves them Those in power have sold out the causes And are slaves of the unbelievers Ask he who besieged your children Is there any difference between his heart and a stone? The hearts of our rulers are like those of the enemies Whether in Najd or in Egypt, they never soften Pharoahs who have returned after a time To humiliate the sons of Arabness and enslave them You have cooperated with the enemies against us So cutting your necks is a duty in the religion My Muslim Ummah: more than 90 years have passed since the occupation of Palestine, and during that time it has tasted the two bitterest things at the hands of the Christians and Jews. And despite the past efforts which have been made, including the repeated demonstrations and festivals, the occupation continues. So I ask of you – my Ummah – a few minutes for me to put in front of you practical steps for its liberation, to discharge the obligation and motivate the Ummah. This requires speaking the truth even if it be bitter, and it is also a must that it be applied to the weak as well as the nobleman, even if that be heavy; to do otherwise is the path to ruin, so beware! The Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said, “Those before you were ruined because when the nobleman among them stole, they would let him go, but when the weak one among them stole, they would execute on him the Hadd (punishment).” Agreed upon. My Muslim Ummah: from the bitter truth which must be declared is that despite our eagerness to rescue our family in Gaza and lift the blockade from them, there are those who are even more concerned for them than we are – and I mean by that our brothers in the rest of Palestine, including the West Bank – yet were unable to come to the aid of their family and relatives, for an obvious reason: their country is occupied, and the soldiers of the Zionists and soldiers of the Authority led by Abbas prevent them from helping their brothers there. This reason is the same reason which prevents us from helping our family in Gaza. The bitter truth is that our countries are occupied from within, and the Arab Zionists – the region’s rulers and our enemy’s proxies – and their soldiers are the ones who prevent us from helping the weak and oppressed there. So unless we realize that our countries are occupied in the interest of the rulers and those who appointed them, and that they are helped in that by both military as well as civilian armies, the latter being the most important and dangerous and led by the evil scholars and those of the educated class and media men whom they have hired; [armies which] lead the Ummah astray and spread the spirit of defeat in it and train it in every way possible to march behind the rulers, so they can continue to usurp government and strip the Ummah of its will through temptation and intimidation, in order that our Ummah become incapable of taking the initiative and moving outside the influence of the rulers and their men… Unless we realize this, and work to expose the truth about them and warn against them and remove them and liberate ourselves from their authority, we will never be able to liberate Palestine, as someone who doesn’t have something can’t give it, and we will continue to revolve in the closed circle in which we have been marching ever since the occupation of the Blessed Land. My Muslim Ummah: the one who examines conditions in Palestine sees that the necessary requirements for the Jihad to achieve its goals still need to be completed, despite the difficulty of that in occupied Palestine, especially with the embargo imposed on our family there, not to mention the “calming” agreements which are signed every now and then; and the situation throughout the past decades confirms that. This is why a sufficient force of Mujahideen must be formed to lift the blockade from Palestine so they can help our family there, because all the Arab cordon states have closed their borders with Palestine and are guarding them from the movement of the Mujahideen; and moreover, in regard to the part which had been excepted from the northern front of Palestine on the border with Lebanon, Hassan Nasrallah and his party agreed to the resolution closing it: Resolution 1701, which calls for the entrance of thousands of Crusader forces to protect the Jews. And thus there is no difference in this issue between Hassan and Hosni and the rest of the Arab idol-kings who have besieged our family there. On the basis of the above, we must search for states outside the cordon states from which the Mujahideen can move out to open the borders by force, so that we can reach our family in the environs of blessed al-Aqsa; and the rare and valuable opportunity for those honest in their desire to deliver al-Aqsa is in backing the Mujahideen in Iraq with everything they need in order to liberate Mesopotamia. And with that they will have performed two duties: the defeat of the Zionists’ biggest ally, before they move on to Jordan, as it is the best and widest of the fronts, and half its residents are from the people of Palestine who were expelled from it in the past; and from Jordan, the second move will be to the West Bank and neighboring areas, and the borders will be opened by force to make up for the deficiency in necessary requirements, so that all of Palestine from the river to the sea can be liberated, Allah permitting. This, then, is the Shari’ah-compliant way and the practical and realistic way as well, far away from expending efforts in statements and actions the majority of which neither repel the might of arms nor inflict injuries on the enemy. So enough sitting and wasting of time and enough shirking of responsibility: the holocaust of Gaza in the midst of this long siege is an important and historic event and an articulate tragedy which affirms the need for detachment of the Muslims from the hypocrites. It is not right that our condition after Gaza be like our condition prior to it: rather, the order of the day is serious action and preparation for Jihad, to bring about truth and cancel falsehood. And we must declare ourselves innocent before Allah the Most High of anyone who colludes with the enemies against the people of Gaza. Disowning these colluders isn’t an optional act: no, it is one of the two pillars of Tawheed [Islamic monotheism]. Helping the unbelievers against the Muslims is major Kufr (unbelief) which expels one from Islam. Read the statement of Allah, the Most High: “O you who believe! Take not the Jews and the Christians for your friends and protectors: they are but friends and protectors to each other. And he amongst you that turns to them (for friendship) is of them. Verily Allah guides not a people unjust” (5:51), and the statement of Allah, “Whoever disbelieves in the Taghut [the idol] and believes in Allah has grasped the strongest handhold which knows no breaking. And Allah is All-Hearing, All-Knowing.” (2:256) So this event is a test for all of us: the one who follows the guidance succeeds in it, and the one who goes astray fails in it. We are in need of honest leaderships which do what is necessary to collect a sufficient amount of the Muslims’ energies in this field. The Ummah is suffering from a huge failure of leadership. Although many of its sons think that they have leaderships leading them to the shore of safety – if not at the level of the first tier of kings and presidents, then at least at the level of the second and third tier – yet the fact is, this is a major delusion and a primary hiding place of the defect, and Palestine remaining for nine decades under occupation, in addition to other [occupations], not to mention the spread of poverty, ignorance and disease despite the amount of resources, is a clear indicator of that. A ship, however large and pretty it might be, cannot reach the shore of safety if it doesn’t have a trustworthy leadership. We know the truth about the leaderships of the first tier and their subjugation to our enemies, but the worse and bitterer thing is that they have been able to train many of the leaderships which come after them. Unless the leaders of the second tier and those close to them change what is in them in terms of inclining toward falsehood and sweet-talking it, or are replaced, the Ummah will never make progress on the road to liberation of al-Aqsa, because they have become obstacles and barriers on the road taking the Ummah out of this wilderness. They are like a railroad, with the rulers’ train at the front and the train of the leaderships of the second tier and those close to them just behind them, and both of the trains have been stopped for years [blocking] the road to the liberation of Palestine. So the only way to get to al-Aqsa is to remove both trains from the road and leave them behind; but it will be difficult to do that unless many of the Muslims wake up and abandon blameworthy fanaticism towards homelands and individuals, whether they be rulers, scholars or leaderships of Islamic groups, and abandon their opposition to giving them advice and executing the truth on them. If they don’t do that, then their actions say that they are taking the path that ruined nations before us, and this is why the Ummah has been in a labyrinth of darkness for decades, and it appears that they haven’t understood the statement of the Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, “By Allah, were Fatima, daughter of Muhammad, to steal, I would cut off her hand” (Agreed upon). The spirit of advice must run in us in order for the march to be rectified, and [we must realize] that the truth is greater than everyone, and the health and safety of the truth is more important than the health and safety of homelands, individuals, parties and groups. Everyone’s words are accepted and rejected except for the words of the Messenger (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him), who said, “The religion is advice” (al-Tirmizi, al-Nasa’i, Ahmad). Yes, if we neglect it, we lose the religion, and our loss is due to that. So this is our reality, and Umar (with whom Allah was pleased) said, “We are a people whom Allah has honored with Islam, and whenever we seek honor in something else, Allah will humiliate us.” So take heed, O you who can see. Returning to the topic of leadership, the path to the liberation of al-Aqsa needs real, honest, independent, strong, trustworthy leaderships at the level of these massive events and well-versed in the Fiqh of current affairs and the Fiqh of the Shari’ah, who will set up an advice committee with branches all over the Islamic world which will strive to spread information and spread legal and political awareness among the sons of the Ummah, and it is then that minds will be liberated from ignorance and gullibility and spirits will be liberated from subjugation and submission to the rulers subjugated to our enemies. Knowing the dangerousness of this reality in which we live and the role the rulers and their aides play in it is the first step towards forming a self-motivating force which will move to change this dark reality; and here the Fiqh of the Shari’ah must be applied to this reality, and it is then that our movements will be regulated according to the straight path, to rectify the abominable conditions and lift the aggression from our Ummah. The members of this committee must also be protected from the interference of the rulers in their council, and must disown them all and beware of their infiltration of their committee by way of the evil scholars, as is the case with so many of the committees set up in our countries; and one of their duties is to disseminate the legal rules relating to these topics, like emphasizing that Jihad is obligatory until the sufficiency is reached, and emphasizing the fatwa published by some of the people of knowledge during the events of Gaza, which stated that he who helps the enemies against the Muslims is committing a nullifier of Islam and listed the rules that stem from that. I also place in front of the scholars and preachers some proposals in this field, asking them to make every effort to develop and perfect them. Among the most important of these proposals: First, the drawing up of lists which name the honest scholars, preachers, thinkers and writers who advise their Ummah, along with their most prominent works, and working to spread them among the Ummah’s masses. And the presence of some unintentional errors mustn’t be an obstacle: rather, these errors should be noted and advice given; otherwise, there will be no scholar left for us, not to mention those less than scholars. An effort also must be made to give prominence to honest leaderships which adhere to the methodology of Islam. Second, the correcting of legal concepts in the thought and life of the Ummah. Some beneficial books towards that include: - “Achievement of the Glorious” by Shaykh Abd al-Rahman bin Hasan Al Shaykh, which is a very important book which talks about Tawheed and warns against Shirk [polytheism], including the Shirk of graves and the Shirk of palaces. - Two books by Shaykh Muhammad Qutb, “Concepts Which Must Be Corrected” and “Are We Muslims?” - And the book “The Clarification of the Unbelief of He Who Aids the Americans” by the Mujahid Shaykh Nasir bin Hamd al-Fahd (may Allah free him from the prisons of al-Riyadh). There is a fifth book of benefit, which evaluates all the regimes in the Islamic world, even though its title is “The Saudi Regime on the Scales of Islam”; and many beneficial books can easily be read on the Internet, like on the al-Tawheed wal-Jihad website. Third, the notifying of the Ummah that there is a war under way to alter and put to death the legal names and terminology in order to commit what Allah has forbidden. That must be refuted and the legal names and words spread. Some examples of that: - The violation of the prohibition of usury, by calling it “interest” and calling usurious banks “merchant banks.” - When they wanted to violate the prohibition of wine, they called it “spirits” and other such names. - When they wanted to combat the summit of the hump of Islam, Jihad in Allah’s path, they labeled it “violence” and “terrorism.” - When they wanted to commit the nullifiers of Islam and ally themselves with the enemies of Allah, they put to death the punishment for apostasy and described anyone calling for the application of this punishment a “Takfeeri.” And there is talk of calling the unbeliever, apostate, Zindeeq, and hypocrite by the name “the other,” and they shun the use of legal terms. Similar are sophistries like “dialogue of religions,” “freedom of opinion,” “freedom of speech,” “peaceful coexistence,” “friendly states,” and the contracts for the provision of facilities to support the Crusader warships at the same time as the Jews and Christians carry out the murder of our brothers in Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Waziristan, Somalia, Kashmir, the Philippines and Chechnya. So sophistry in names and terms is a wide-ranging field which must be watched and the truth about it and those who promote it revealed. Fourth, the drawing up of lists which include our enemies from the hypocrites and their media, especially information media like newspapers, books, magazines, radio stations and satellite channels, of which the most dangerous are the latter two, like the British Broadcasting Corporation and its sisters and the al-Hurrah and al-Arabiyyah channels. Also, the drawing up of lists of those whose efforts serve the interests of our enemies without them realizing it, like the rumormongers, deserters and morale-destroyers among the Muslims, in accordance with legal regulations, and disseminating the lists to the Ummah with all available means so that it can warn them, and accompanying those lists with documents and evidence from their statements and actions as proof of that, along with a refutation; and I mention here the statement of Allah, the Most High, “O ye who believe! Be steadfast in the cause of Allah, bearing witness in equity; and let not the hatred and animosity of a people to you make you transgress and abandon justice. Be just, for that is closer to piety. And fear Allah. Surely, Allah is Aware of what you do.” (5:8) Revealing the truth about the hypocrites is a Quranic methodology, and the scholars have agreed on the obligatory nature of revealing the hypocrites and innovators. Imam Ahmad (may Allah have mercy on him) was asked, “Do you prefer that a man fast, pray and perform ‘Itikaf, or that he speak about the people of innovation?” He replied, “If he prays and performs ‘Itikaf, it’s for himself, but if he speaks about the people of innovation, it’s for the Muslims, so this is better.” The Ummah is in dire need today – especially after this war against Gaza – of acquainting itself with the hypocrites on all fronts, to beware of them, then perform Jihad against them, as in the statement of the Most High, “When you look at them, their bodies please you; and when they speak, you listen to their words. It is as if they are pieces of timber propped up. They think that every cry is against them. They are the enemies, so beware of them. Allah curse them, how they lie!” (63:4), and the statement of Allah, the Most High, “O Prophet! Strive hard against the disbelievers and the Hypocrites, and be harsh against them. Their abode is Hell, and an evil destination it is.” (9:73) To summarize, then: there must be honest leaders, legal and political awareness-building, Jihad in Allah’s path, and exposure of the truth about the hypocrites and differentiation and separation from them, keeping in mind that separation is something already being implemented on the side of the rulers. They have security organs whose personnel number in the hundreds of thousands and which keep watch and spy on those who advise their Ummah, and draw up lists of them which are called “blacklists” to combat them in numerous ways: through temptation and cajolement, and layoffs and prison, and travel bans, and pursuit, and smearing of their reputations, and even murder, all in order to come between them and the pulpits of guidance from which they would advise their Ummah and warn it against their conspiracies; meanwhile, they and their ‘Ulama and media are able to freely engage in deceit and misdirection of the Ummah. And in regard to the lists of our enemies, and in view of time constraints, I will suffice by describing their senior leaders in our countries. In these events, people have been distinguished, especially the noblemen and chieftains, whether rulers or ‘Ulama; and it has become clear that some of the Arab rulers have colluded with the Crusader/Zionist coalition against our people: they are the ones whom America calls “rulers of moderate states.” The fact is, all states of the Islamic world from Indonesia to Mauritania without exception fall into one of two categories: crooked states and even more crooked states; and Islam is innocent of all of their rulers. It is no secret that what helped the first group at the outset of Islam to harden and strengthen so that it could bear the burdens of setting up the Islamic state were a number of things, most important of which – after proper faith and asceticism – was the distinction between the believers and hypocrites. The tremendous events and immense tragedies – particularly the wars and blows – shook the bad from the good and distinguished the honest from the hypocrite, as in the Most High’s statement, “What you suffered on the day the two armies met was with the permission of Allah, in order that He might know the believers and know the hypocrites, who were told, ‘Come, fight in the way of Allah, or [at least] defend’. They said, ‘If we knew of a fight, we would follow you’. They were that day nearer to unbelief than to faith. They say with their mouths what is not in their hearts. And Allah knows quite well what they hide.” (3:166-167) Among the disasters which befell the Muslims on the day of Uhud is that a third of the army submitted to the head of the hypocrites, Abdullah bin Ubay bin Salool, and obeyed him, and he betrayed them and ordered them not to fight the enemies. As for today, all official armies of the Ummah are under the command of the hypocrites from the rulers of the region, while most of the unofficial armies are under the command of the leaders of the Islamic groups, many of whom believe that these rulers are legitimate rulers whom it is forbidden to rebel against; so how can’t tragedies befall us one after the other?! This became clearly apparent in these groups’ desertion of Gaza and its people, as they awaited permission from the hypocrites before performing Jihad; so what sort of taking advantage of the youth is this?! Our duty is to distance the hypocrites and deserters from the fields of leadership and guidance, like the Companions did after the Uhud expedition; when Ibn Salool got up to give a speech to the Muslims like he used to do before – he was a chief among his people and he wanted to preserve his status by instructing the first group of Muslims – but the Companions tugged at his clothes from all sides and said, “Sit down, O enemy of Allah: you aren’t fit for that after you did what you did.” How many are the men who assume control of the pulpits of guidance in their various forms and deceive the Ummah to rally around the hypocrites who rule the region, and make them abandon combat to liberate Palestine. So how fitting it is for us to say to every one of them – face-to-face or over the phone – what was said to their first president Ibn Salool: “Sit down, O enemy of Allah: you aren’t fit for that after you did what you did.” What the Companions (with whom Allah was pleased) did with Ibn Salool was to expose him and remove him from the pulpits of guidance in the Muslim group, lest he do it again in another expedition and leave with a third of the army, for the tragedies to repeat themselves; and this is what we should do, because the hypocrites and deserters have been rerunning the disasters on us for decades. So these are some proposals which I hope are in the interest of the general project to rescue the Ummah and break and remove the shackles which many of its sons have been restrained with, so that they be liberated from them and there emerge from their midst a number sufficient to carry out the most obligatory obligation after faith: repelling the attacking enemy which ruins religion and worldly life. Opening one of the links of the thick chain placed around our necks will help us to take down and throw away the rest of the links, Allah willing. The opportunity is there today to carry out this duty in a number of the open fields of Jihad, especially in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia and the Islamic Maghreb. So I ask Allah to guide us to help the religion and perform Jihad in His Path, so that we liberate the Muslim countries, especially Iraq, and set off from them to Palestine. In closing, I remind my Ummah of the importance of keeping our hearts close to the strengtheners of faith, and keeping them away from the places of temptation and hypocrisy, and what helps us in that is that our tongues be moist with the remembrance of Allah the Most High, and that we read daily a thirtieth part of the Noble Quran with reflection and contemplation, which clears the hearts and brightens the minds, and shows us the shared attributes of our enemies, the polytheists and hypocrites, throughout the ages; and read the statement of Allah, the Most High: “O mankind! There indeed has come to you an Exhortation from your Lord and a healing for whatever disease there is in the hearts, and guidance and mercy for the believers.” (10:57) I also remind you of the importance of reading the suggested books and accomplishing the booklets of lists and perusing and disseminating them, because they are beacons in the midst of the darkness of the domestic and foreign attacks on us. Finally, I exhort myself and my brothers with these verses: And our determinations ask me Why the cowardice and weakness When our worlds have been filled By Taghuts who have pictures To weaken our faith And in them lie the danger My brother, O superpower The path of Allah is your goal Do you fear death When death is your Paradise? The column of religion isn’t strengthened By voting and desertion Nothing but the sword benefits I swear, O youth of this age O Allah, show us truth as truth and guide us to follow it, and show us falsehood as falsehood and guide us to avoid it. O Allah, approve for our Ummah a righteous rule in which those who obey You are honored and those who disobey You are disgraced, and in which good is enjoined and evil forbidden. O Allah, our Lord, give us in this world good and in the next good and save us from the punishment of the Fire. O Allah, give victory to the Mujahideen everywhere and accept their martyrs and heal their wounded and free their captives. You are able to do all things. O Allah, punish the Crusader/Zionist coalition and those who help it. O Allah, we have no power nor strength except with You, so aid us with aid from You and give us victory over the unbelieving people. O Allah, send prayers and blessings upon our Prophet Muhammad and upon his family and all his companions; and our final prayer is that all praise is for Allah, Lord of the worlds.

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plumoh · 5 years

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all pain, all smiles, became a magnificent tale (1)

Word count: 5580

Summary: Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are both too aware of their feelings, but it is never the right time. / CQL 'verse

Note: AO3 link. Canon compliant, retelling of CQL with huge pining from the start. Elements like controlling corpses will be taken from the novel/donghua but the timeline and characterization are all CQL.

01.

The rumors and stories about the Twin Jades being as beautiful as the moon and as graceful as the wind didn't lie. The concept of beauty is one that Wei Wuxian understands on all levels—if something is pretty, then why not appreciate it and say it out loud? Compliments also have the benefit of making people happy.

Most people, anyway.

“Second Master Lan, you're really incredible!” he laughs. “Handsome and skilled? So many girls would swoon if they had a glimpse of such an amazing sight.”

Lan Wangji's grip on his sword tightens and his gaze seems to convey all the contempt towards Wei Wuxian that is currently boiling in his blood, and it doesn't stray away from the jar of Emperor's Smile that Wei Wuxian is protectively keeping against his side. It's almost comical, to see two people standing on a rooftop well after curfew, in such a strict and rule-abiding place like the Cloud Recesses; Wei Wuxian just set foot inside today and he already feels it will be a long year.

He props up his leg and carelessly uncaps the jar, sporting an amused smile.

“But once they realize how cold and inflexible you are, they'd run away!”

He takes a long sip of the alcohol, suddenly feeling extremely entertained by Lan Wangji's quiet outrage. It's kind of impressive Lan Wangji can say so much with his eyes alone—never mind silencing people with a spell, his gaze does the job perfectly. Wei Wuxian has seen different shapes of eyes in the past, but even if Lan Wangji's are small, there is an intensity in those clear and gorgeous eyes that makes him unable to look away. He could give orders or convey an entire message with one look.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, playing with his jar of alcohol and jostling its content. “That's right, you're unreasonable and rigid, but it doesn't matter. Once I return to Yunmeng—mhh?!”

As Wei Wuxian chases after him to cancel the spell, he believes that Lan Wangji really needs to do something about his awful personality.

02.

Jiang Cheng tells him that he's ridiculous and stupid for wanting to catch Lan Wangji's attention whenever he sees him, but in all honesty, if Lan Wangji truly hated him, would he still respond to his calls?

“Ji-xiong!”

Wei Wuxian enthusiastically waves his hands, never missing the way Lan Wangji's face closes at his sight, like an invisible spirit forcefully makes him narrow his eyes and exude an untouchable aura. It's kind of cool, actually.

“Do you want to get punished or what?” Jiang Cheng hisses, pinching his side, while Nie Huaisang attempts to conceal his entire body behind his fan.

Wei Wuxian keeps smiling and waving, until Lan Wangji turns on his heels and ignores him, once again. The white robes are fluttering in the wind and his silhouette is as graceful as always, although his steps seem to be a bit stiffer. Must have been slightly more irritated than usual.

It's really, really fun.

03.

He wouldn't say there is a spark, or an explosion of stars, but he does feel something pleasant settling in his stomach when Suibian clashes with Bichen as he carefully moves on the cliff. He didn't realize who he was fighting at the beginning, but once he took in the immaculate robes and the impassive face his lips curl upwards in a mischievous grin.

“Ji-xiong, that's you! Wow, you really are skilled.”

He quickly unsheathes Suibian, gaze still trained on Lan Wangji's that stares down at him like he said the most absurd thing in existence. He's used to it, now, so it doesn't dampen his mood, it even lifts his spirits a little bit (it's always a delight to see the Second Jade, despite his ignoring). Wei Wuxian takes his time to admire the fine and delicate traits on Lan Wangji's face, which he probably will never tire of; he thinks about the stories and the female disciples gossiping, and he chuckles at the thought he's possibly the only one who gets to see him so up close. The waterfall and the green of the trees frame this face gently, making him look like a painting.

“I'm telling you a secret,” Wei Wuxian whispers, taking careful steps towards the other man. “I'm not the only one who wanders in the back of the Cloud Recesses, do you think it has anything to do with the spiritual consciousness stealing—hey!”

For someone so proper Lan Wangji doesn't hold back as he grabs Wei Wuxian's wrist and drags him all the way to the Library Pavilion, deaf to his burden's whines and complains that can be heard all over the Cloud Recesses.

Spending so much time in his company would have killed anyone of boredom, but Wei Wuxian managed to distract himself from his punishment by staring at Lan Wangji. In-between two lines of copying he looks up and stares at his companion, who sits still like a statue, diligently learning from books he's probably already read. Wei Wuxian ends up doodling rabbits, jars of alcohol and clouds in the corners of his papers, then decides it would be a waste not to exploit the infinite source of inspiration standing right in front of him.

Lan Wangji doesn't react at the portrait of himself.

“Come on, you must have something to say except for ‘boring’ and ‘pathetic’. Lan Wangji? Ji-xiong? Wangji-xiong?” And then, overtaken by sudden bravery, “Lan Zhan!”

Hearing his birth name shouted so casually draws a whole new expression on his face that Wei Wuxian can't decipher. He frowns.

“You didn't answer when I called you Wangji, so I called you Lan Zhan. You can call me Wei Ying if you want.”

He offers him his biggest grin for good measure, gleefully basking in the Second Jade's disbelief at such boldness.

Thinking back, he was already spending too much energy and time to commit to memory someone that was only supposed to be entertainment.

04.

“Lan Zhan, give me back my alcohol!”

So maybe he shouldn't prance around and being noisy with a jar of alcohol in hands, which break three of Gusu Lan's rules, but they're not in the Cloud Recesses and he is only trying to help a case during a nighthunt. What's wrong with speculating and attempting to dig up clues in the wildest theories? Discoveries are made because people are curious; Wei Wuxian would be very much surprised if none of his ideas turns out to be right. And in any case, Lan Zhan had no right to dump his alcohol!

He chases after him, ignoring Jiang Cheng's yells, and grabs Lan Zhan's shoulder. There are many cultivators trailing behind them, but Lan Zhan doesn't seem to care since he stops dead in his tracks and turns his head without uttering a word, like a warning. Wei Wuxian presses his lips together and slowly releases his shoulder, the loss of contact freezing his body with disappointment.

“Lan Zhan, why are you looking at me like this? You look more mad than me, and you dumped my alcohol. I should be the one feeling wronged.”

“I dislike physical contact,” Lan Zhan states firmly. “Stop fooling around. We are on a nighthunt.”

“Yes, yes, Second Master Lan, so professional...”

Lan Zhan sends him one last glare before walking away, and Wei Wuxian is left staring at his back, wondering why talking to Lan Zhan feels as frustrating as exciting. A voice sounding suspiciously like Jiang Cheng tells him that he's stupid.

“You're stupid or what? Stop bothering him.” Jiang Cheng snorts next to him, and Wei Wuxian groans.

“I wasn't even doing anything!”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes and urges him to follow the Twin Jades.

05.

When Lan Zhan lands on his boat, he expects a reprimand, but he simply gets an inquisitive look, albeit mildly annoyed.

“I didn't splash you on purpose, those ghouls are smart so I had to find something not to alert them. Are you recognizing I'm not completely useless?” Wei Wuxian asks with a smirk, delighted by Lan Zhan's lack of criticism.

Confident and reinvigorated after showing he's at least half serious about this case, Wei Wuxian takes a few steps forward and peers at Lan Zhan's face, smiling at his reddened ears and his inability to look him in the eyes.

“Stay away,” Lan Zhan snaps, gaze fixed on the water.

Wei Wuxian pouts but complies, seeing that he won't get much entertainment if Lan Zhan is focused on fulfilling this mission, especially with the other cultivators and their brothers around.

They take care of the waterborne abyss easily enough, if Wei Wuxian doesn't take into account their almost death. He would have much preferred being grabbed by the arm instead of his collar, but that's asking too much from someone who stated only minutes ago that touching people is absolutely out of the question.

“We're already so close, touching even my arm wouldn't be too bad, right?”

“We are not close.”

These words, more than anything, drive a knife into Wei Wuxian's guts. Lan Zhan's tone hasn't shifted from his usual monotone one, but his clipped words and adamant refusal to so much as look at Wei Wuxian, even as they're speaking, unload a new uncertainty in his mind.

On the way back to the Cloud Recesses, after offering loquats and failing at making Lan Zhan look at him again, he comes to the realization that when he does get Lan Zhan's attention, it brings him immense joy.

06.

“Lan Zhan, your forehead ribbon is crooked.”

Wei Wuxian's thoughts flicker for the briefest moment, imagining Lan Zhan's wife tying the ribbon around his head every morning, as ridiculous as it is. That rule of Gusu Lan sect is among the most bemusing ones, dictating a way of living that seems pretty extreme. Can a simple piece of cloth be that important to someone? Wei Wuxian discards the knowledge altogether (like most of the other rules he's copied) when the conversation turns to the topic of family. In that instant, he feels there is a special understanding that passes between them; there is a longing and sadness that Wei Wuxian has long tucked in a corner of his mind, far away from the thoughts that make him go through the day as seamlessly as possible.

Wei Wuxian has the fleeting suspicion that maybe, Lan Zhan doesn't like showing his emotions because there are too many of them inside his heart. It took a few weeks and a cup of alcohol to start unearthing the mystery that is the Second Jade, who looks as vulnerable as anyone else in his current drunkenness. His carved beauty remains, but he looks less unattainable. Wei Wuxian smiles, a sudden warmth spreading in his body as he lifts his jar of Emperor's Smile.

“A toast to us, who found companionship in unexpected misfortune. Let's drink while we still can, alright?”

He downs the jar in one go, knowing full well they won't share another drink together.

07.

Wei Wuxian's respect for Lan Zhan shoots up when he realizes he's taking the punishment without the slightest twitch, but it also confirms that he is a madman.

“Who willingly gets punished like that?”

Lan Zhan barely acknowledges his presence, focused on the rulers that beat and cut into his back. It's surprising Wei Wuxian doesn't forget his own pain while staring at Lan Zhan's impassive face that is almost a model to follow.

“The Cold Spring will relieve your pain,” Zewu-jun says when he meets him, a soft but knowing smile on his face.

Wei Wuxian has no idea why Zewu-jun is showing so much kindness towards him, but he won't refuse help. Even if Shijie tells him to take it easy, he runs as fast as he can despite of the stinging to the Cold Spring. He absolutely doesn't expect the person already inside the water, back turned to him with his hair spread at the surface. Wei Wuxian pushes down the astonishment and the onslaught of eagerness that pools in his stomach, blinking once then twice before leaning against a bamboo tree and grinning.

“Lan Zhan, were you going to keep this place all to yourself?”

Lan Zhan doesn't startle, but it's a near thing as he hastily pulls on his robes, unconcerned about making them wet, then glares at Wei Wuxian.

“Do not come closer,” he hisses.

The events in Caiyi city with their hurting words are all but forgotten, even if the similar situation plants a seed of doubt for a second before going away. However, Lan Zhan should know by now that Wei Wuxian doesn't follow orders, and finds pleasure in doing the opposite of what he's told—and even more so when it involves Lan Zhan.

“Come on, I told you we're already so close, why are you so distant?”

Wei Wuxian proceeds to take off his boots and gets into the spring, shivering at its low temperature, and makes his way towards Lan Zhan. He never stops grinning, feeling he shouldn’t think too much about the situation, and his amusement increases tenfold as he notices the tips of Lan Zhan's ears reddening (it's quite an occurrence, certainly because he's unused to physical proximity, and that's kind of adorable).

“Admittedly you're harsh and sometimes boring, but we've sparred and we're evenly matched, so I honestly think we can become friends!” Wei Wuxian extends Suibian, remembering that Lan Zhan dislikes touching people. “I mean, that's the first step of any relationship, right?”

There is something incredibly wild in Lan Zhan's gaze when he looks at him, like he's trying to discover what sort of nonsense is hiding behind his words. It's not the disdain and wariness that usually underlie his unspoken words, it's more disbelieving and, if Wei Wuxian reads it right, with a tinge of fear. He blinks, then tilts his head.

“I know you don't really like me, but becoming my friend can't be that bad? Lan Zhan, you're hurting my feelings!”

He lowers Suibian and crosses his arms over his chest, wondering. Lan Zhan is clearly lost in thoughts if he isn't reacting to his teasing, which shouldn't be as concerning as Wei Wuxian feels it is.

“Look, if you become my friend...I will pick lotus seeds for you when you come to Yunmeng!” He gets closer to Lan Zhan, who surprisingly doesn't step away and simply eyes him with his unchanging attentive gaze. “Yunmeng is fun, we have a lot of food, and rivers to cross. Come visit!”

“I will not go,” Lan Zhan finally replies.

Wei Wuxian sucks in a breath. “Fine, killjoy. I'll eat lotus seeds on a boat all by my lonesome.”

He tries not to think too much about this rejection since he should have anticipated the cold answer, but it still stings. He's just trying to be nice. He huffs, and deciding that he should as well enjoy the spring, he starts fiddling with his robes to shrug them off. This mere action calls for Lan Zhan's fastest reaction so far, eyes wide.

“What are you doing?!”

“Taking off my clothes to heal, obviously.” Wei Wuxian smiles, laughing at Lan Zhan's scandalized face. “What, is undressing in front of other people forbidden too?”

Perhaps he's said the wrong thing again, because Lan Zhan seems determined to leave the spring, and Wei Wuxian backtracks immediately.

“Wait, wait, don't leave! I'm keeping my clothes on, okay?”

Lan Zhan stands a few feet away from him, and if he wasn't so stiff and upright, Wei Wuxian wouldn't have noticed the way his fists are trembling, clasped behind his back. Is he really that upset about the situation?

Wei Wuxian doesn't have the time to ponder on the question as a burst of a strange energy hits him. He surveys his surroundings, eyes narrowed; something is clearly off but he can't pinpoint its origin.

“Lan Zhan, there's something strange here.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he gets dragged underwater.

08.

Whoever invented such a complex and ingenious spell that recognizes specific people based on an item is admirable but also extremely bothersome in their current predicament.

Swallowing water and spending the next minutes sputtering isn’t fun, dodging the attacks of an ancient guqin is even less so. Wei Wuxian is ready to do anything to get out of this cave alive and unscattered, but when he yells for Lan Zhan’s forehead ribbon, he truly didn’t expect Lan Zhan to comply to his order without a word.

It’s absolutely astounding. He stares at the ribbon that’s binding them together like it’s a foreign object, then lifts his gaze to meet Lan Zhan’s. Wei Wuxian has an inkling of what makes his heart so light yet so heavy, having Lan Zhan willingly stand so close to him when he vehemently objected to it earlier. It’s maddening to keep these feelings at bay, letting them take a form of their own without the means to control or even understand them.

He did not mean to stare, but Lan Zhan quickly averts his eyes and tugs him forward. Wei Wuxian follows silently, the lull of the water the only sound his ears are registering. It feels inexplicably intimate to simply have a strip of cloth tying their wrists together, considering how attached the Lan family is to the ribbon. He doesn’t dare saying anything for fear of breaking whatever spell they’re currently under.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and lets his actions speak for himself, as usual. He gets scolded for wanting to approach the sacred guqin, is glared at for misbehaving, and suddenly he’s breathing easier, gradually forgetting what he was so agitated about in the first place.

The oath they pledge to stop evil from spreading makes his core vibrate with anticipation and his heart sing.

08.5.

His entire body is set aflame when there is contact of skin against skin, his face mere centimeters away from Lan Zhan’s, and he tries to contain his shock and bubbling panic by laughing, even if it sounds awkward to his ears.

“You can’t say we’re not close, after that.”

“Get off me.”

The arrival of Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing, staring at them in disbelief, also prompts Wei Wuxian to scramble up with energy before he further digs his own grave. He quickly unties the ribbon, not paying attention to the stillness of Lan Zhan’s hand or the way everyone is looking at him. It’s a miracle he can string two sentences together to explain what happened with his heartbeat thundering and the distinct sensation of Lan Zhan boring holes in his neck, but when he looks at his face, somehow he finds less anger than expected. In the crease of Lan Zhan’s eyebrows and his lips pressed downward, he finds instead an uneasiness that is almost painful to look at; and in these clear eyes, Wei Wuxian doesn’t let himself see hope.

09.

“It seems that the events in Caiyi and the spiritual consciousness stealing are related after all, Wangji.”

It’s becoming harder to hide his excitement whenever Lan Zhan says or does something surprising, and in this case, Wei Wuxian thinks it deserves a proper reaction.

“You told Zewu-jun about my theories? You really are my confidant, huh?”

From the corner of his eye he notices Lan Xichen smiling at his comment, and he could have chosen to pretend he didn’t, but it’s such a rare opportunity to shamelessly tease Lan Zhan for something that’s not out of Wei Wuxian’s imagination. It fills him with so much joy and satisfaction to know he has at least his trust.

“I’m sure we can solve great mysteries together,” he offers pleasantly. “You don’t even need to talk, we understand each other already pretty well! And we seem to both value righteousness a lot, considering what we said to Ancestor Lan Yi. Aren’t we a perfect match?”

He nudges Lan Zhan in the side with his elbow, grinning from ear to ear. Nothing he said is false, which is all the more exhilarating. He might be cheesy, but he sincerely thinks there is a connection he can form with that boy that doesn’t speak more than four words to him but still puts up with his antics and listens to what he says, however relevant or stupid the topic is. Calling him a confidant is well-deserved and shows just how much effort Wei Wuxian is willing to put in this bond—it’s well-deserved but it feels more than that.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Lan Zhan mutters, turning his head his way but not meeting his eyes. “This Yin iron issue is not to be trivialized.”

“I’m not trivializing it! I mean it, we’d work well together, and our cultivation level is similar. You should be honored to be offered this chance to work with the great Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian hits his chest once with the hand holding Suibian, an easy smile accompanying his words that are immediately met with the usual unimpressed stare. Given the lack of rebuttal, in the Second Jade’s language, it’s a positive response.

“Focus,” he simply says.

Wei Wuxian’s heart soars.

09.5.

“A-Xian, you are good friends with the Second Master Lan.”

Wei Wuxian coughs. “Do you think so? It’s not like he often talks to me.”

Jiang Yanli’s smile could make flowers bloom with how gentle it is. “That’s true, but the two of you seem to understand each other better than most. It has only been a few months and you know him very well, it’s rare for people to be so close in a short time.” She squeezes his arm, still as soothing as always. “Treasure this kind of encounters and relationships.”

Wei Wuxian has no idea how to react to his shijie’s words, but they lift his spirits considerably.

10.

“Is this some kind of tradition?”

“I guess so, the other Lan disciples were saying it helps us keeping our mind stable. You’re making a promise to yourself or something.”

“So it’s just a simple wish, then?”

Jiang Cheng shrugs, not that much interested in the specifics of the release of the lantern, and Wei Wuxian isn’t surprised; being the Jiang sect heir has drilled him into thinking ahead long ago, and to always pursue the goals he’s set for himself. Securing the future and protecting the sect—that’s what he ought to do, and what he wishes for, with no need to verbalize it.

Wei Wuxian wishes for something else. There is no doubt he wishes for the prosperity of the sect that took him in, but there is another wish that lies under it, stronger but quieter. He hums to himself as they climb the hill where they are to gather, his lips curled upwards as giddiness fuels every one of his step.

As soon as he has all the materials needed in hand, he leaves Jiang Cheng’s side and drops everything next to Lan Zhan’s. He gets comfortable and starts working on his lantern, ignoring the way his companion is looking at him with most certainly confusion, even if it doesn’t show on his face.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, do you often make lanterns like this? With Jiang Cheng and Shijie we like to make them during festivals, and we let the disciples decide which one between mine and Jiang Cheng’s is the best. Guess who always wins!”

He doesn’t actually expect a reply to his question, he’s only filling the silence like he always does whenever he’s with Lan Zhan. His presence makes him warm and more eager to share whatever thought is crossing his mind, as if filters don’t exist and he’s free to rveal every aspect of his personality. He can literally hear Jiang Cheng’s disapproval.

Wei Wuxian is happy, when he is with Lan Zhan.

The Second Jade ever so slightly glances his way, hands poised on his own lantern tracing delicate characters. His shoulders aren’t tense and he seems content, like he’s really enjoying his time despite the noise surrounding them.

“I would not know,” he says plainly.

“That was a rhetorical question, of course I’m the best!” Wei Wuxian laughs, and finally lifts his head to look at Lan Zhan’s face.

His heart skips a beat when he finds clear eyes directly looking at his. But the moment vanishes as if it didn’t occur and Lan Zhan resumes his writing, a flush spreading over his cheeks and ears, which is completely unexpected and Wei Wuxian feels his own face heat up at this sight. The implication behind what just transpired would have gone unnoticed to his admittedly blind eyes were it not for the fact he’s already entertained some ideas of his own feelings for a while, now.

It’s scary, to think about the what-ifs and the would-bes, though he feels there is a right time for everything. There always is.

With renewed vigor and satisfaction, he keeps painting his lantern, every one of his strokes assured and precise, aiming at pleasing.

“Look Lan Zhan, I drew rabbits for you.”

Lan Zhan has been steadily more willing to look at whatever Wei Wuxian is pointing at without being coerced into it (he has been observing). And it’s only because Wei Wuxian is on the lookout for any changes that he catches the shift of his expressions so easily.

“You smiled!” he exclaims gleefully, leaning forward to get a good look at this smile.

Lan Zhan’s expression immediately schools back into one of indifference, although his eyes are still telling another story.

“Ridiculous.”

Wei Wuxian grins. “Don’t be like that, I know you like it!” And with a burst of adrenaline and impulsiveness, he says: “Since we risked our lives together, let’s release the lantern together.”

Oh, he knows what people are saying; they’re impatiently waiting for Shijie and Jin Zixuan to release their lantern as a sign of love, the gesture seen as one of the most romantic to exist. Wei Wuxian doesn’t care about the peacock and the so-called romanticism, but he does admit that touching the lantern and letting it fly up, with someone, renders their wish more concrete, more valued; a silent witness to this private moment.

To say that Lan Zhan is shocked would be an understatement, and it would have been amusing if the situation was a bit less intimate.

“Never mind, I was joking,” Wei Wuxian backtracks, averting his eyes.

“No. I will do it.”

Lan Zhan reaches for the lantern, careful not to wrinkle it, and when their eyes meet Wei Wuxian thinks he’s found a whole new purpose in life. There is unparalleled determination and fervor, naked and genuine, unable to deceive whoever getting a glimpse of them. It’s beautiful.

The curve of his lips is gentle. “Okay.”

The world is reduced to the two of them, working on the lantern without a word. Wei Wuxian sometimes glances in Lan Zhan’s direction and is delighted to see how at ease he seems in his company; there is tranquillity that calms his mind and brings him comfort. Wei Wuxian can’t afford to voice his thoughts about the warmth and the elation that pool in his stomach, but he can still accept them and decide what to do later, when the right time comes.

He misses every look Lan Zhan casts him.

Wei Wuxian lights the fire, fingers firmly grasping the edge of the lantern. Their hands aren’t touching but Wei Wuxian feels his fingertips ever so slightly get warmer as they wait for everyone to get ready. He shows none of his turmoil as he brightly smiles at Lan Zhan, who oddly contemplates their work, something akin to satisfaction written on his face.

“Looks like we can really accomplish something when we do it together, doesn’t it?”

Lan Zhan looks up, gaze fixed on Wei Wuxian, but doesn’t answer. There is no small nod or word of acknowledgment, but the way he gets a better grip on the lantern is enough for Wei Wuxian.

They release it in the sky. A white dot joining many others, soon to be lost in the vast and infinite blue. Wei Wuxian’s gaze follows the lantern drifting away; he has been part of many events and has produced many lanterns, but this one irrevocably stirs something deep inside him. He’s choking on a wish that’s as much as a promise. He clasps his hands together and closes his eyes.

“I, Wei Wuxian, wish to stand by justice and righteousness. I wish to live a life free of regrets with a clear conscience.”

A full life—that’s what he wishes for most ardently, and he will endeavor to live by it. When he opens his eyes and turns his head, Lan Zhan is looking at him with a complicated face, like he is unsure he’s allowed to show vulnerability in front of others. Wei Wuxian’s heart swells at the sight, and he softly smiles.

“The words were hard to find, but I think I did good,” he jokes.

Wei Wuxian knocks his shoulder against Lan Zhan’s without thinking, remembering too late about his dislike of physical contact, but he doesn’t get rebuked or shoved away. He blinks at Lan Zhan, and when he opens his mouth to apologize, Lan Zhan looks up.

“I, Lan Wangji, wish to stand by justice and righteousness. I wish to live a life free of regrets with a clear conscience.”

He turns his attention back on Wei Wuxian, who stares at him in wonder. It’s startling and unexpected, but absolutely not unpleasing; words have such a way to don devotion once they are pronounced by someone cherished. Wei Wuxian can’t help but laugh, shaking his head.

“You never cease to amaze me, Lan Zhan. I’m happy to hear you approve of my wish.”

Lan Zhan offers a nod. “You know what you want, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian pauses, chewing on his lips. He gazes at the sky while he gathers his thoughts, surprised by how unprepared he was to that statement. He lets out a chuckle, nervous on its edges but cheerful enough to be convincing.

“Yeah, it’s important to know what we want.”

He wants a lot of things—becoming strong, eating delicious food and drinking exquisite alcohol—and some of them require effort and perseverance to be obtained. He won’t disappoint as the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang sect; he won’t let injustice dictate his actions.

Wanting Lan Zhan’s attention and wanting something else completely from him aren’t under his control. So he keeps smiling, under Lan Zhan’s observant eyes.

“Some things are just harder to get, you know?”

“Mn. I suppose so.”

Wei Wuxian swallows the thickness in his throat as he hears familiar longing in this deep voice, but his eyes never betray and he doesn’t know what Lan Zhan sees when he looks at them. Something unrestrained flashes on Lan Zhan’s face and hope flares again in Wei Wuxian’s heart.

11.

It’s cute and almost a relief when Lan Zhan stops by and attempts to comfort him when he’s not feeling bad at all. Jin Zixuan only reaped what he sowed and Wei Wuxian would have liked to land another punch or two to make sure the message got across.

“You are ridiculous,” Lan Zhan scolds him when he sees the ants Wei Wuxian is observing on a stick.

“Yes, yes, I’m ridiculous,” Wei Wuxian chuckles, waving the stick around. “Wait Lan Zhan, don’t leave, don’t leave!”

Lan Zhan aborts his step when he’s called, looking quite flustered after his display of hidden concern, but Wei Wuxian is for once sparing him of his teasing as he stands up. The reprimand immediately comes.

“You should be kneeling.”

“I know, but I don’t fancy kneeling in front of a rock when I want to talk to you,” Wei Wuxian explains with a smile.

Lan Zhan’s eyes are beautiful. He’s described as cold and unwavering, indifferent to everything happening around him, but this is clearly wrong. He might not be as expressive as most, but his eyes are the window of his soul, and right now Wei Wuxian is certain they are softening, just like when he saw the rabbits on the lantern. It’s subtle, it’s quick, but Wei Wuxian still noticed it.

“Thank you for releasing the lantern with me,” he says warmly. “That means a lot to me. Really.”

He doesn’t feel much embarrassment for saying it out loud, but it does tickle his stomach and make his face burn, just a little, and seeing as Lan Zhan is pressing his lips together he probably caught the sincerity of the words.

“There is no need to thank me.” He pauses, slightly shaking his head. “It is what I wanted.”

Wei Wuxian beams. “I’m glad.”

“Try not to be too reckless next time.”

“Ha, no promises this time!”

There is a sliver of exasperation on Lan Zhan’s face, though he doesn’t pick up on Wei Wuxian’s comment and simply walks away, most likely not wishing to be seen conversing with someone who is supposed to think over his actions. It’s already quite a feat they exchanged so many words in such a short time.

Wei Wuxian kneels again, a grin on his face playing with the ants until Uncle Jiang arrives and discusses with Lan Qiren and Jin Guangshan.

#cql #the untamed #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #my fanfic #fic: pain and smiles

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rydain · 6 years

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Author's Notes from a Modern Brutale - Liberties of Adaptation

Tip of the iceberg canons are fun as hell for me to write for because they allow for such freedom of personal influence in sorting out their unstated specifics. I prefer to go more interpretative than compliant, building on the broad strokes of personality and chemistry and setting that strike me the most - bringing in the particulars that fit my greater vision, shrugging off those that don't, and giving a good yank to the author's strings as needed. As the Chips Fall toward their finale, I figured it would be fun to look back on some particulars of development for the cast and the manor that brought them all together.

Here there be spoilers, both for my series and The Sexy Brutale, if you wish to settle in for a long look behind the curtain.

Tequila

The glass shattering siren from modest means is drawn along the lines of a Deep Southern belle or a Texan pageant queen. Her roots wound up a ways north for me, though far enough in Appalachian coal country to be within that cultural ballpark, thanks to My Old Kentucky Home - just too perfect a song for the hope and homesickness of leaving town and country behind for such a foreign world of glamour. Kentucky's patchwork of dry counties also has special relevance to a particular paint can banging uncle I saw fit to imagine as an ace moonshiner.

I wrote Tequila as a rising star rather than an established one to explore the challenges of fitting into that new world - the polish of fashion and posture and speech and presence, the countless social norms learned on the fly but perhaps never fully internalized. The sense of impostor syndrome thus resulting, the conflict between pride in what she had earned for herself and the fear that she was only this far ahead because of Lucas - and that without him, she would only go right back to where she was. I made the two of them official beyond the canonical winking and nudging because she seemed too well stuck on him for an unrequited crush. This also got her across the pond early in her career for the challenges of culture shock and self-doubt outlined above.

Willow

Canonically a purveyor of curiosities and wrangler of eldritch horror, Willow was a tough one to develop within my idea of modern heightened reality. With her creation of charms and a mention of voodoo, I reimagined her as a consultant and adviser with deep family roots in the faith, and her second sight as an instinctive bent toward conversation that amounts to effective cold reading. This involves communication with spirits who Willow would have a literal sense of speaking to - especially Baron Samedi, lwa of death brought to mind by her skull motif, who can assist with the transitions of loss experienced by Tequila and others at the Brutale, and is very much the type to get handsy with lovely ladies.

Willow established her career in New Orleans' French Quarter near the voodoo shops of Rue Royal, inheriting a small townhouse from a beloved aunt who mentored her in such traditions. Word of mouth and within walking distance, her ecosystem supports a frugal lifestyle based on folkways and homesteading skills learned growing up in the bayou - which, along with an understated modest aesthetic, gives Willow a sense of having stepped out of time. This is a point of compatibility with Tequila and her focus on the classic jazz age and the Great American Songbook, modern music along similar lines, and subtly updated vintage style to complete her timeless presence. More fundamentally, both of them work with the emotional texture of everyday lives - stories that Tequila embodies onstage and Willow seeks in her clients with a guiding hand toward a rewrite.

Greyson

I gave Mr. Yolo Swaggins a hand up toward reformation catalyzed by the shock of a prison sentence he subconsciously courted to kick his own arse toward a clean break. This made for a focus on conflicts of the legitimacy Greyson wants so badly to earn. As a professional, he needs to work with difficult types like Thanos, who values traditional university education and thinks his secrets to be well beyond what he sees as inferior intellect, and Clay, who Greyson could bond with over a rude sense of humor and understanding of each other's cynicism - in turn, sharing respect and eventual friendship rather than begrudging acceptance for Redd's sake. Greyson continues to wrestle with temptations of larceny and proving himself to be beyond them, ultimately rejecting the torment and manipulation of a treasure hunt - Lucas' cruel generosity of playing to others' vices for his own amusement. Which Redd plays his own part in, saving Greyson in the psychological sense rather than physically hauling him out of trouble - helping to reinforce the stability Greyson is already working to develop, and that he gravitates toward Redd to share in.

Greyson's considerable ego - once a force behind the more elaborate and higher risk schemes he took part in - is now fed by his infiltration and analysis of locks and safes and security systems, his determination to be better than the epithets granted by his criminal record and prove his naysayers wrong with a glorious display of upright professional competence. Of course he's not above ripping off some scam or another, but Clay does appreciate the unofficial backup.

Redd

By way of this adorable cartoon and followup ask from @frayed-symphony , Redd likes to read. I extrapolated this into university study of literature and a keen sense of wordplay including all the best worst sorts of puns - an embrace of his awkward streak implied by those untucked shirttails and the Old Habits dance lyrics fail. He works through dense classics with the analytical focus of his piano playing, and he gravitates toward biographies and memoirs of infamous figures who lived much larger lives than his Good Boy nature and risk aversion would ever allow. This fascination also influences his attraction to Greyson and his intrigue of Lucas' employ and the Brutale itself, which Redd feels some desire to properly belong to beyond his initial goal of performing piano. Lucas takes a certain interest in Redd as well, wondering what hidden fatal flaw must reside in someone so upright and considered. Redd doesn't have anything nearly as spectacular as the likes of Greyson. Rather, there are natural disadvantages to his polite reserve - hesitation to go after various personal and professional goals, struggle to provide emotional support to Tequila out of discomfort with that messy and potentially prying sort of talk. Redd needs to learn from someone like Willow, with her well developed emotional intelligence, that he's overthinking the matter like so many others.

Redd plays a strong supporting role throughout my work. Favorite characters tend to do that, and he strikes me as a backbone of the Brutale anyhow - a highly capable, dependable, and well liked linchpin of the casino and music hall. His performance career had a good nudge from Greyson, who convinced Redd that he deserved to take the spotlight instead of feeling that it would be unseemly to ask - seizing a chance as he saw it rather than enduring in silence with that stoicism so clear in his game counterpart's somber expression.

The Rockridge bros lift because of shameless personal bias, because Redd needs to get his cage bending strength somewhere, and because I love the imagined contrast of their training - Redd lifting with meditative focus, Clay forcing himself through the most brutal of circuits because it's not a real workout until he's cursing in a lake of sweat. GO HAM OR GO HOME

Clay

With his responsibilities as head of security and care for Trinity beyond their good-natured trolling, Clay came off as a lovable roughneck rather than someone far more abrasive. He and Redd were implied to run the casino together on various occasions, so I imagined that he shared a close bond, mutual protectiveness, and a measured share of bickering with his much gentler brother. Clay is perceptive about scams and the people apt to run them and just as myopic about Redd's romantic proclivities because whatever happens in the flat - and not very often for either of them - tends to occur when they're on opposite shifts. Redd has good reason to know that Clay is accepting - and he is, beyond his initial frustration that of all the blokes in the world, why did it have to be a flashy, arrogant ex-con strutting around on every last one of his nerves? - but he also thinks it would be something he'd feel a need to explain, which of course he can't. This all let me play that eventual talk for laughs and brotherly bonding with just a fun fleeting touch of embarrassment.

Clay has an intense nature and a self-punishing, self-destructive streak that fueled both his prize fighting career and alcoholism. Despite being the older of the two, he long since felt that he lived in Redd's quiet academic shadow, which caused him to give up on himself in various ways that he regrets. Trinity helps Clay to see his life, lumps and bumps and all, as experiences that tested him and left him better for the wear.

Trinity

Trinity first tried sculpting out of stubbornness to prove herself so capable, especially as her overprotective parents thought it would be nigh impossible. She took off well enough that her well off family willingly supported the study of working with expensive materials, the extra tutelage required to do so by touch, and her life in general until her work became steady enough to rely on. Annoyed at the fussy mores of her stuffier relations and the wealthy sorts who commission her, Trinity finds Clay's blunt and unfiltered nature refreshing. Her part time assistant, who helps with tasks beyond the capabilities of touch or muscle memory or adaptive technology, has a sense of down to earth polish and similar head for eloquent vulgarity.

After her in-game rescue, Trinity encourages an already trolleyed Clay to do shots. Rather than think she was bringing him down, unwittingly or otherwise, I see her as a hedonist who overestimates others' ability to compartmentalize. It's just a party - what's the harm in a bit of excess? Rather than feed Clay's alcoholism, Trinity helps him out of it - genuinely appreciating him just as he is, which inspires him to appreciate himself just the same.

Canonically, Trinity and Tequila are stepsisters in some official sense of the term. In my AU, this particular connection would have been difficult to make naturally because they grew up so differently, separated by an ocean and levels of financial means. In the game, the stepsister relationship implies a closeness between the two, gives Lucas a means of introduction to Tequila after admiring her from afar, and piles on the horror when Trinity finds Tequila's body in the laundry chute. The same sort of closeness arises, with found sisterly implications and all, as Tequila is adopted into Trinity's circles by way of her friendship with Redd. Tequila meets Lucas through the posh New Orleans parties she is hired to sing at and thus needs no other connection to him.

Lucas

So here we are in this hopeful world of competence and agency and self-actualization. And then there's Lucas - who I couldn't stand to leave as enough of a knobhead to not only pull an insurance fraud scam in the first place, but contrive it into a flagrant courting of disaster that I don't see myself ever forgiving his canon incarnation for. Then perhaps a magnificent trash fire as opposed to a dumpster inferno, so let's have at him, shall we?

My Brutale can be saved and is heavily implied to be. For that, I planted some seeds of Lucas' sense and a slow trend toward dialing back the worst of himself. He shows a capacity for analytic thought in his artistic patronage, biting poetic wit, and often successful divining of others' deepest desires. He keeps a modest office and cultivates a friendship with Willow, first seen as a quaint curiosity and soon respected for her straightforward insight and steadfast way of pitting such against his own. Lucas wants to do better on some level, but is welded to his identity as a master of ceremonies and peddler of overindulgence, as a grandiose gambler who very much meant to make a bad bet or three because he wound up with a better one eventually and a good story in the bargain. He gravitates toward people with stories of their own, and who have vices he finds amusing to play with, or who fascinate him - and perhaps somewhat frustrate him - because he can't figure out their downfall.

Lucas' issues are more of psychology than cash flow, and able to be turned around before his ledgers go fatally red. Before the worst can happen, other personal losses show Lucas the need to put real work into himself and his dealings - to fight his compulsions toward high risk propositions and assorted impractical excess, to face his failures of neglect and mitigate their fallout.

Eleanor

In the game, Eleanor is an archetype of purity whose forgiveness is meant to redeem Lucas in the player's eyes. I meant to parlay her cheeky macabre quirks into an endearingly oddball artist with an anthropomorphic sense of humor and a larger than life sense of whimsy, fundamentally compatible with Lucas and apt to help him toward his senses. Eleanor is as intrigued by the Brutale's legends as Tequila is tired of their absurdity, breezy and casually polished as Tequila struggles to play the lady of the manor in structured couture. They meet on neutral terms to be naturally contrasted but not cruelly so, and very much without tired tropes of romantic rivalry.

Lafcadio

A symbol of repentance for sins, canonically a separate character as per the origin comic, which made me very happy because he's interesting to envision as an actual person beyond some idealized facet of Lucas’ personality. In my take, Lucas admired Lafcadio's ability to walk away from the Brutale as it was dragging him down. They both preferred to tell the story as the spectacular bet from the comic - a fateful game of roulette - that Lafcadio arguably came out on top of by ditching this liability. This echoes the theme of rock bottom arse kick that my Greyson gets well ahead of time, and canon Lucas doesn't until it's far too late.

Lafcadio and Willow both intrigue Lucas with the depth of their respective faiths. They bond over their insights into their host and desire to inspire him toward better, though Willow is limited by never having seen the Brutale in its prior incarnation, or Lucas at his worst. In my narrative, Willow works behind the scenes by helping people unearth their own deeper truths and provide emotional support to others, mirroring Lafcadio's role in the game - though he will go on, offscreen as this might be, to likewise mirror the Willownage of Lucas that needs to continue.

The Sexy Brutale

Loath to commit the British equivalent of dropping a small city of a warehouse store on top of Tequila's old trailer in Closplint, Kentucky, I researched stately homes for inspiration toward location and overall aesthetic. I later learned I could have handwaved one within brief vague driving distance of any city, and perhaps in the city itself. Still I'm most confident in my sense of veracity when I can point to a spot on a map to rebrand. In this case, Somerleyton Hall, within train commuting and day trip distances of various points of interest, and with an appealing style and a clock tower that sealed the deal. As did its 19th century transformation by a private entrepreneur - which, in my alternate reality, would have been supervised by a master builder named Gorecki, whose descendants continued on with his upgrades and maintenance of the manor. Its adjusted name is Somerthwaite after the meadow surrounding it, thanks to a jaunt down the rabbit hole of Anglo-Saxon geographic nomenclature to ensure I wasn't trying to bollocks the manor on the edge of an active volcano.

British manor houses are so varied and eclectic that a place like the Brutale seems more matter of course than bombastic fantasy. Casinos in the UK were all private clubs until recently and can certainly carry on as such, and any property can house the owner's particular interests. To balance homage with my sense of historic floor plans, I kept the common areas of interest with some remodeling - great hall, casino, theater, music hall and practice rooms, library, conservatory, gardens - and closed off the south end of the west wing as Lucas' private quarters. The basement is for utilities and storage, the uppermost floor for guest rooms both rented and bespoke for close friends of Lucas.

#the sexy brutale #as the chips fall #tequila belle #willow blue #greyson grayson #redd rockridge #clay rockridge #trinity carrington #lucas bondes #eleanor sixpence #lafcadio boone #writing #meta

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