#goes without saying extension of last sentiment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soleilnomoon · 3 years ago

Note

hiiii! first of all I really like your writing style, it takes talent so thank you for sharing it with us! I have a request but feel free to use it only if you think it’s interesting, so the idea is for a NSFW with Zoro, I’d imagine him to be a person that of course notices other people’s attractiveness but doesn’t really care, only that he always felt drawn toward the ‘protagonist’ since she joined the straw hats cause her personality is very unique and really complements his, however he never understood what those feelings were until one day she gets captured by an enemy and somehow he’s the one to find her to free her but she’s like completely tied up on her knees with a cloth in her mouth to shut her up and he knows it’s wrong but in that moment something ignites inside of him and once he frees her and take her back to the ship, during the celebrations that night he just can’t stop himself and they, you know, end up doing the deed (of course the protagonist is absolutely consenting through tall of his cause she’s had a crush for him for a long time I don’t want the lines of consent to be blurred!) sorry if it’s long and very specific feel free to change anything you want! have a wonderful day! ☺️

ahh thanks so much! i’m still trying to cultivate a more consistent style when it comes to my prose, but i’m glad you like it ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა i do love a good mutual pining trope, and with zoro? *chef’s kiss* love to see it.

2.1k words, fem reader, angst lite, a lil fluff, alcohol, nsfw - nothing major, zoro is surprisingly tame, must be his feelings or smth.

it’s common knowledge that only fools join the straw hat pirates willingly; you don’t understand the sentiment until you spend more time with your crew mates. what you initially dismiss as isolated incidents, become regular occurrences that somehow also include you now. your captain is loud, abrasive, but also intuitive and kind. the rest of your crew mates have similar, outlandish traits that you appreciate and cherish. there is one crew mate, in particular, that you cherish above the rest.

to say you have a crush is an understatement. crushes don’t leave you in a cold sweat in the middle of the night; they don’t make you tense up, act clumsy, or stumble over your words; they also don’t allow room for complexity, and what you feel for him is far beyond complex.

exorbitant, transcendent, unfettered — nothing can sway you, and, equally important, nothing can save you.

your heart is a pitiful thing, constantly taunting you, skipping beats, making you clutch your chest over the littlest interactions. you take it all in stride, however, keeping it to yourself, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a friendship with him. crew mates don’t date other crew mates. it’s a creed, unspoken, heavily followed; you didn’t think you’d have this issue, and now that you’re here, you don’t know what to do.

not typically pegged as observant, zoro sees more now than he ever has before. he takes to you without issue, thinking nothing of it when he finds himself drifting towards you during group conversations. at first, he thinks it’s because you have a wicked sense of humor; not quite at robin’s level of dementedness, you can get dark if need be. it gets him every time. sanji openly points out that zoro laughs more with you than he does with anyone else — luffy included.

from then on, he does his best to keep his expressions trained.

still, he catches himself looking for you, catches himself wanting to listen to you tell stories, and catches himself staring a little too long. all things that continuously confuse him—frustration building steadily as the days go on. he figures it’s because you’re the newest member, so he’s protective and fond of you out of habit. but—

it goes beyond that, doesn’t it?

somewhere tucked in the back of the library is an extensive book on flowers; robin suggests it to him when he vaguely describes a specific flower—a flower that you picked on the last tropical island your crew visited; you pressed it into a book, hoping to keep it for a little while longer. the book is worn, dog-eared pages throughout, notes writing along the margins—he suspects this is robin’s work, her script is easily recognizable. the text makes him sleepy, but he keeps at it, searching until he finds it again.

so on the next voyage, he pesters nami for a map of the land, harasses usopp for more intel on the flora, and gathers additional information about the upcoming island throughout the day. he doesn’t know why he’s doing it, doesn’t know why he remembers that your pressed flower isn’t actually preserved well, doesn’t know why he cares—but he does.

it annoys him greatly; distractions are unwelcomed in his life, not when his ambition is so close at hand.

you opt to stay behind on the sunny with brook while the others explore the islands. zoro is the first to depart, luffy and the rest follow after before splitting into groups. brook plays a melancholic song for you, the melody putting you to sleep with ease. the last thing you remember is slowly waking up, hearing a struggle on the ship’s deck, and being bound and gagged by some pirate you’ve never seen before. how you could let yourself get captured so easily is beyond you—the shame doesn’t give you room to fight back, and even though you scream and scream and scream, no one comes for you.

the sunny is a disaster when zoro returns and he notices, immediately, that you’re not there. brook, who is being bandaged by chopper, simply explains that you both were ambushed—and he doesn’t blame brook, he doesn’t blame you, he blames himself. if there’s one thing in his life that he’s sworn to do, it’s to look out for those he cares for the most. he knows his crew mates can fight, but as vice-captain it’s his job to ensure you all are safe.

failure is absolutely out of the question, so he tells luffy and sanji that he’ll be back and he doesn’t know if it’s out of sheer determination or dumb luck, but he manages to track you to their hideout. it turns out that you were taken, simply because you’re a pretty face. you almost laugh at that, but one swift kick to the head keeps you out for a few hours. when you wake, you’re in the same dingy cell, alone; because you’re not considered a threat, they didn’t station guards to watch over you. it pisses you off, but in the end, it’ll work in your favor.

somehow.

quick on his feet, zoro makes short work of the unorganized pirate group, and while he does manage to get lost climbing the various staircases, he finds you at last. he slices through the iron bars of the cell, sheathing his swords right after and is by your side in an instant. you’re on your knees, the rope cutting into your skin, the cloth in your mouth making it hard to focus.

and then, a sense of clarity hits him. he’s caught up in his thoughts, the sight of you bound like that just makes him want to—

no, no; he has more pressing matters to deal with first. it doesn’t take long, but you’re free of your restraints, and you don’t mean to cry, but you’re so overwhelmed. the anxiety over possibly being left behind, the fear of what the enemy pirates would do to you, the anger over your ineptitude—it all comes forward at the same time, choking you, making your head hurt. and it’s not because of some shallow sympathy that has him crouch down and scoop you up into his arms, it’s not because you’re a member of the straw hats, and it’s not because he feels any guilt over you getting captured.

it’s because it clicks for him; his unexplainable behavior, your reticent attitude towards him sometimes—it’s all connected, finally coming full circle. you look up at him, tears clinging to your eyelashes, his face blurry but recognizable. it’s pathetic, you tell yourself; you like this side of him a little too much and it scares you.

when you return with him to the sunny, everyone crowds you, worried over your disappearance. it helps push away your doubts and after a nice long shower, you're back to your old self. well, with a slight exception.

zoro nurses his own bottle of whiskey as usual—it’s customary for him, the party just isn’t a party without him doing that—and you get a sugar high off of the various confections that sanji prepared. as the others party loudly, music blasting, laughter and merriment erasing the events from earlier, zoro seeks you out.

he can’t help himself, especially not now. he finds you on the second floor balcony, leaning against the wooden railing, eyes closed as you let the cool breeze caress your face. he takes another swig from the whiskey bottle and offers it to you; your smile radiant, making him nervous, almost as if it’s the first time he’s actually seeing you.

you graciously accept the drink, taking a long swig, whiskey spilling off of your lips, giggles pouring out of you without restraint. he watches in amusement, takes the bottle from you and sets it down once he fishes the cap out of his pocket. you look away shyly for a moment, but he brings a hand to gently tilt your chin up, and you’re not sure if it’s because everyone else is down below, or if it’s because the moonlight highlights the sharp angles of his face, or if it’s because you’re quite certain that what you feel for him is the same as what he feels for you.

see? beyond complex.

before he kisses you, his tongue darts out and he licks the whiskey off of your lips; you’re not inexperienced, but he makes you feel that way without really meaning to. his lips slant against yours skillfully, placing a kiss or two before you press closer and wrap your arms around his neck. when you part your lips, he takes the opportunity to really taste you, his tongue licking inside your mouth in a sinful, yet divine sort of way. you sigh in delight, fingers running through his hair, his hands grabbing your ass.

you think that whiskey has never tasted better, and he’s never been one to have a sweet tooth, but he enjoys the cherry flavor on your tongue—maybe he might have the idiot cook make more of that stuff and have you eat it again. when the kiss morphs into something more feverish, you pull away, mischief in your eyes as you nudge him towards your room. because he’s in a somewhat silly mood, he picks you up and tosses you onto his shoulder; your subsequent squeal mixed with joyous laughter only makes him grin even more, carrying you to your room and locking the door afterward.

it’s a miracle you make it to the bed with the way he’s kissing you fervently, tongue swirling around yours, your body warming from the sensation. you’re tugging off each other’s clothes, and he has you on your back on the mattress, the soft covers tickling your bare skin. he takes his time kissing his way down, starting with your face, then to your neck, licking along your clavicle, your sighs an enchanting tune as he makes his way to your breasts. his name is on your lips by the time his tongue circles around your pert nipple, the hardened bud tantalizing him as he sucks on it.

that elicits a loud moan from you, and you arch your back as he continues to tease you. you can feel his stiff cock on your leg, your face flushing not out of shyness, but because you can’t believe this is actually happening. and he can’t either. he didn’t realize he’s been the one holding himself back all this time, and now that he’s sampled you, he doesn’t want to let you go. you squirm as he touches you, hips moving forward as you rub against him impatiently.

he chuckles at that, also feeling the impatience himself, his fingers brushing along your glistening folds, surprised to see just how badly you want him too. you look at him with adoration, even as he lines the tip of his cock with your entrance, sliding inside of you in one go, groaning at the tight fit. “zoro,” you breathe, hands running up his stomach, fingers memorizing his firm muscles, “so good… you feel s-so good.”

that’s all the invitation he needs.

he pulls back a bit and knocks his hips against yours, large hands holding onto your thighs as he powers into you. he gives you the sort of strokes that signify some form of commitment, his eye watching the expressions on your face as you moan his name louder and louder. he leans closer, mouth dropping kisses along your jaw, his hips moving in time with yours, his groans reverberating against your skin, making everything impossibly intense.

sweat glides down your bodies, the party long forgotten, all you care about is this moment. he fucks you slower than you expect him too, but you enjoy it all the same. it’s terribly romantic and erotic at the same time. another thing you don’t expect. zoro isn’t a selfish lover, he does things to make you feel like you’re walking on air, your body conforming to whatever demands he makes.

and when you finally reach that point, where you’re on the precipice of an orgasm, he rubs your clit, an explosion of colors dotting your vision, your pussy squeezing around his cock tightly as you make a mess on your sheets. he thrusts into you faster, extending your orgasm, your legs wrapping around him; he kisses you again and again before cumming too, a haze hovering over him as he pulls out of you. zoro lays down next to you, breathing shallowly, and soon you tangle your limbs with his, kissing him gently as you hope for the night to continue on like this forever.

#one piece #one piece imagine #one piece smut #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #zoro x y/n #fic request #zoro smut #roronoa zoro x y/n

196 notes · View notes

dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years ago

Photo

Ben Sargent's newest Loon Star State cartoon, from the September / October issue of our magazine: [Texas Observer]

* * * *

This past Monday, Associate Justice Elena Kagan said of the Supreme Court’s current reputation in the wake of the most recent term:

“The very worst moments [in the court’s history] have been times when judges have even essentially reflected one party’s or one ideology’s set of views in their legal decisions. The thing that builds up reservoirs of public confidence is the court acting like a court and not acting like an extension of the political process. Judges create legitimacy problems for themselves when they don’t act like courts, when they instead stray into places that looks like they are an extension of the political process or where they are imposing their own personal preferences. If, over time, the court loses all connection with the public and with public sentiment, that is a dangerous thing for democracy.”

On Tuesday, Samuel Alito, author of the Dobbs decision overturning Roe v Wade, retorted, telling the Wall Street Journal that, “It goes without saying that everyone is free to express disagreement with our decisions and to criticize our reasoning as they see fit. But saying or implying that the court is becoming an illegitimate institution or questioning our integrity crosses an important line.”

It is rare for a justice to issue such a statement when asked for comment about an ongoing controversy, but the justices on the court now are unlike those who have been there before, with three that would never have been there had it not been for The Federalist Society, Mitch McConnell and the willingness of Donald Trump to go along with anything that “sticks it” to the people who refuse to recognize him for the “stable genius” he truly is.

A new Monmouth University poll finds that nearly 60% of Americans think the Supreme Court is out of touch, and two-thirds (66%) of the public would support creating term limits for Supreme Court justices. This includes clear majorities of Democrats (86%) and independents (63%) and just over half of Republicans (51%).

I’ve never felt toward the court the way I do now, not even with the conservative makeup of the court as it was prior to 2016.

But now...

Hey, Sammy boy, why don’t you go FUCK OFF? And when you’re done, go over there and FUCK OFF. And when you’re done, go over there and FUCK OFF. And then come over here and FUCK OFF. And keep FUCKING OFF, you fucking fuckwitted fucker.

And if you thought last term was bad, this one that started today has the potential to make that one look like the proverbial Sunday morning walk in the park.

[TC in LA :: That’s Another Fine Mess]

#TC in LA #That's Another Fine Mess #Corrupt SCOTUS #Ben Sargent #Opus Dei SCOTUS #Political

17 notes · View notes

not-the-tie-youre-looking-for · 4 years ago

Note

Something that's been bugging me for years since the Legends finale. If Zhan had been the writer for Rebels, do you think he would have had Thrawn bomb Lothal to bring Ezra out? On the one hand, from Legends Thrawn's portrayal I imagine he would without a second of hesitation. On the other, Canon Thrawn has been much more... restrained? And on a third point, there's the fact that Legends and Canon Thrawn seem like they really could be the same person just at different points of time. cnt in next

...I'm just curious if anyone else was curious if Zhan agreed with that direction taken. Which, on that note, did Zhan ever say anything about his thoughts on how Rebels handled Thrawn? Both from a writing standpoint as well as an acting and musical one (Thrawn's various leitmotifs)?

Oh man. Ohhhhhhhh maaaaan. My friend, you have asked exactly the right person this question, because not only have I wanted to talk about this multiple times before, but I also have ~receipts~. 👀

⚠️Spoiler warnings for Star Wars: Rebels, The Mandalorian, the canon Star Wars novels Thrawn, Thrawn: Alliances, Thrawn: Treason, Thrawn Ascendency: Chaos Rising, and Thrawn Ascendency: Greater Good, and the legends Star Wars novels Heir to the Empire, Dark Force Rising, The Last Command, and Outbound Flight.⚠️

Oh man. Where to begin.

Lets start with who Thrawn is, because depending on who you ask, you're gonna get different answers—whether you're strictly a Legends fan, Dave Filoni, a guy who's only seen Thrawn in Star Wars: Rebels, Timothy Zahn, or just a writer/artist fan like me.

To Timothy Zahn, the man behind our favorite chiss, Thrawn is a character that is constant in both attitude and personality throughout all of his content. In multiple interviews, ranging from Thrawn's debut in Rebels to the latest about the writing of the Ascendancy Trilogy, Zahn states that Thrawn in canon and Thrawn in Legends are indistinguishable.

And so I present the receipts:

In a 2017 interview with The Verge on writing the first canon Thrawn book Thrawn, Zahn is asked the following question and responds as such:

How do you navigate bringing back a character who already has an extensive backstory and audience expectations, with telling a new story that fits in the new continuity?

Actually, I didn’t find that to be a problem. I’d never written Thrawn in this part of the Star Wars timeline, so it was simply a matter of bringing him into the Empire and chronicling his rise through the ranks. It’s still the same character as in the 1990s books, just a decade or two younger and in a very different military and political environment.

In another interview with The Verge in 2018 (a few months after the finale of Rebels aired) about writing Thrawn: Alliances, he repeats this sentiment twice:

Thrawn feels like if it had been written before the canonization purge a couple of years ago, or if you squinted a bit, it would serve as a perfect setup for Heir to the Empire.

Oh, I don’t think you need to squint at all. I wrote him in these two books to fit in with everything else I’d done. So if someone at Lucasfilm snapped their fingers, and suddenly all of my other books were canon, and there would be no real retrofitting that would have to go in. It would all fit together.

Thrawn: Alliances feels more at home in the new canon, especially because Thrawn has been fleshed out a bit more in Rebels. Was there any adjustments for that?

Not really. I’m getting to play with more canon characters like Vader and Padmé and Anakin, but the character himself, I still see him as the same person. He’s got goals, and he won’t necessarily share them with you, but he as long as you’re going the same direction, he’s happy to cooperate and assist along the way.

...and this is referenced again in a 2020 interview with Polygon about writing Thrawn Ascendancy: Chaos Rising:

Along with Thrawn’s appearance in Rebels, Zahn would pen a new novel, Thrawn, that chronicled the character’s early days as an Imperial officer. Zahn didn’t have to change anything with the character, telling me in 2017 that “he’s like an old friend who I understand completely.” While Heir to the Empire was no longer canon, a reader could easily read Thrawn as a precursor to that classic novel. Thrawn went on to become a major presence in Rebels, and Zahn continued to explore his origins in Thrawn: Alliances and Thrawn: Treason.

The next day, an interview with IGN was published on the same subject:

Thrawn is an especially unique case because Zahn has been able to effectively continue the work he started way back in 1991 with Heir to the Empire. That novel may not be a part of official Star Wars lore any longer, but as Zahn explained, Thrawn himself is basically the same character regardless of continuity.

[....] The closest comparison between Chaos Rising and Zahn's earlier EU work is probably 2006's Outbound Flight, which is set during the Clone Wars and details the first encounter between Thrawn and the Galactic Republic (while also retroactively laying the groundwork for elements of Heir to the Empire). That novel is no longer canon, but Zahn told us he prefers to operate as if it were. He's making a concerted effort not to retread the same ground as Outbound Flight and to avoid contradicting the events of that novel as much as possible.

So yeah. In Zahn's opinion, Legends Thrawn is Canon Thrawn is Book Thrawn, and there is no difference whatsoever between Thrawns in, say, Outbound Flight, Heir to The Empire, Alliances, and Chaos Rising. I wholeheartedly disagree, but lets move on.

Now that the books are out of the way, its time for Rebels.

In July of 2016, after the trailer announcing Thrawn's canon debut aired, Dave Filoni had the following to say about Thrawn's character in regards to Timothy Zahn:

“I was pretty adamant with a couple of people saying, ‘Listen, we need to have Tim sign off on this. This is kind of a waste of time [otherwise],'” says Filoni. “We, of course, can do what we want with a character that Lucasfilm owns, but without Tim’s okay, what does it mean? That’s not going to be good. Once we had some stuff, we wanted to do what we thought was right and make the character. Then we brought him in. We had the production fully prepared. I said, ‘Look, if there’s something that Tim says that I think is really valuable, even if it changes something dynamically, we need to be ready for that and see what we can do.’ I wanted to make sure we did this right by everybody. We brought him in and we didn’t really tell him why. We just flew him up to Lucasfilm and sat him down in a theater and said, ‘Hey, we’re bringing Thrawn into the show.’ He was like, ‘Wow.’ and I said, ‘Yeah, wow. And I’m going to show him to you right now and you let me know what you think.'”

(Before we continue, keep that first highlighted sentence in mind for future reference. I'm going to come back to that later.)

Fortunately, Timothy Zahn was delighted at the show’s approach to the Empire’s imposing blue-skinned Chiss.

“We showed him some of the scenes with him,” Dave Filoni recalls. “He looked like a kid in a candy store. I think it meant a lot to him not just because it was his character, but because you have to imagine what he went through when it was announced that everything is Legends now, not Expanded Universe. I get that and I’ve always appreciated the work that goes into the Expanded Universe… For Tim, I think it was us saying, ‘No, no, no. We really like your character. We want him to be part of the real thing. The canon universe.'”

So in 2016, before we even saw Thrawn in action beyond a trailer, we were told that Zahn gave the OK, and he was chill with the way Thrawn was created in the show. In 2017, he gave a little more of the background of this process in an interview with FANgirl Blog:

The events of Thrawn dovetail closely with Rebels and shed light on some of Thrawn’s more seemingly surprising actions on the show, like when he appears to lose his temper and yell at Lieutenant Lyste. What was it like to see Thrawn come alive onscreen? Is he how you’ve pictured him in your head?

I don’t see my characters in terms of voice or appearance, but rather as personality or attitude. That said, I very much enjoyed the way the Rebels team brought him to life, in his appearance, voice, and actions.

I also appreciated the freedom I had to tweak certain incidents, such as the one you mentioned, and give additional or alternate explanations for the viewers who may have thought those were somewhat out of character for him.

He doesn't really elaborate on this, but we can assume he had SOME creative input on Thrawn's character, and he was overall pretty happy with the choices made in the show.

But then, we have this from that earlier 2017 the Verge article:

When did you learn that Dave Filoni was intending to bring Thrawn to Rebels, and did you have any input into how the character would be handled?

[...] I didn’t have any real input into how Thrawn was going to be handled, mainly because the lead time of an animated series is so long that much of season 3 had already been finished. But I trusted Dave and the team to do the character right. After all, why bring him into Rebels if you were going to drastically change him? Having seen the entire season now, I think we can agree that my trust was completely justified.

So... he didn't have "any real input," but was satisfied with it in the end? I guess? I don't know. We're getting into some contradictions now.

The last thing I've got in regards to Rebels is an interview Zahn did with the YouTube channel Star Wars Explained after the finale aired, where he responds to the following:

“So, maybe let's jump over to Rebels for a little bit. Now that it has wrapped up, how do you feel Thrawn was represented in Star Wars: Rebels?”

“They did a really good job—they not only understood the character and how to write for him, but they also understood the meta around how you defeat him. The only way to defeat Thrawn is to throw something at him he can't control, or can't anticipate. Given perfect knowledge and control, Thrawn will always find a way to win. But they understood, this is how you defeat him, these are the things we can use against him... so his portrayal in general, is very good; he's smart, he's anticipating, he's a step ahead of everybody, he's looking at clues and picking up on them, so I was very pleased with how the Rebels team handled the character."

I think these quotes answer many of your questions, so to answer your initial question: If Zhan had been the writer for Rebels, do I think he would have had Thrawn bomb Lothal to bring Ezra out?

Yes—but ONLY because at that point, the only established™️ Thrawn content was found in Legends, where Thrawn was a ruthless and calculating warlord.

However!

I do believe that if given the chance to re-write the Star Wars: Rebels finale using his now-canon novels as a solid background TODAY, Zahn would choose to not let Thrawn bombard Lothal's Capital City.

I believe this because he made one single very interesting creative choice when writing Thrawn that completely overwrote Thrawn's pre-established Rebels character: Thrawn was not responsible for the civilian deaths on Batonn—Pryce was.

And that's that on that.

A few months ago I would have ended it there, but today, Thrawn's story is no longer just contained in the novels and Rebels, but also in that of The Mandalorian.

This is where I will proudly say I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Before The Jedi aired, I was 100% sure that the next time we saw Thrawn, it would be nowhere NEAR the Empire, because Zahn was pretty adamant in the novels that Thrawn was only in the Empire to help. His. People.

So now he's apparently doing fuck-knows-what in fuck-knows-where and is STILL associated with the Seventh Fleet and Imperial Warlords???

Huh??? Despite the fact that he held no true loyalty to the Empire or to the Emperor??? It's been months and I'm still confused as fuck. Add to the fact that Zahn also doesn't know what the fuck is going on to the equation and we get a big fat question mark with one pretty clear answer that Filoni said himself that we have to keep in mind:

"We, of course, can do what we want with a character that Lucasfilm owns."

So I don't think Zahn has much control over Thrawn as we would all like to think. We can hope he gives us the crazy Thrawn and Ezra Space Adventure™️ novel all we want, but ultimately, Thrawn's fate does not rest in his hands.

If you guys have more to add please let me know!!! This is, obviously, a topic I am very passionate about, so I'd love to hear your thoughts!

#tye answers asks #not the post youre looking for #thrawn #timothy zahn #thrawn trilogy #legends thrawn #star wars #rebels #lothal #star wars rebels #dave filoni #thrawn ascendancy #chaos rising #greater good #thrawn alliances #thrawn treason #thrawn books #wow this took a while #but I like the way this is looking

150 notes · View notes

kaile-hultner · 4 years ago

Text

Nihilism is so easy, which is why we need to kill it

(I initially published this here a couple weeks ago.)

So last night it dawned on me that, after over two years of being relatively symptom-free, my depression snuck back up on me and has taken over. It’s still pretty mild in comparison to other times I’ve been stuck in the hole, but after 24 months (and more) of mostly being good to go, I can tell that it’s here for a hot minute again.

How do I know? Well, it might be the fact that I spent more time sleeping during my recent vacation from work than I did just about anything else, and how it’s suddenly really hard for me to stay awake during work hours. I don’t really have an appetite, and in fact nausea hits me frequently. I don’t really have any emotional reactions to things outside of tears, even when tears aren’t super appropriate to the situation (like watching someone play Outer Wilds for the first time). And I’ve been consuming a lot of apocalyptic media, to which the only response, emotional or otherwise, I can really muster is “dude same.”

For a long time I was huge into absurdist philosophy, because it felt to my depressed brain like just the right balance between straight up denying that things are bad (and thus we should fix them, or at least try to do so) and full-blown nihilism. This gives absurdism a lot of credit; mostly it’s just a loose set of spicy existentialist ideas and shit that sounds good on a sticker, like “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

In the last couple years, while outside of my depressive state, I went back to Camus’ work and found a lot of almost full-on abusive shit in it. Not toward anyone specifically, but shit like “nobody and nothing will care if you’re gone, so live out of spite of them all” rubs me the wrong way in retrospect. The philosophy Camus puts out opens the door for living in a very self-destructive fashion; that in fact the good life is living without care for yourself or anyone/anything else. The way Camus describes and derides suicide especially is grim as fuck, and certainly I would never recommend The Myth of Sisyphus to anyone currently struggling with ideation. That “perfect balance” between denial and nihilism is really not that perfect at all, and in fact skews much more heavily towards the latter.

Neon Genesis Evangelion has been a big albatross around my neck in terms of the media products I’ve consumed in my life that I believe have influenced my depression hardcore. It sits in a similar conversational space to Camus’ work, in that it confronts nihilism and at once rejects and facilitates it. A lot of folks remark that Evangelion is pretty unique – or at least uncommon – in its accurate portrayal of depression, especially for mid-90s anime properties. The thing I notice always seems to be missing in these discussions is that along with that accurate portrayal comes a spot-on – to me, at least – depiction of what depression does to resist being treated. This is a disease that uses a person’s rational faculties to suggest that nobody else could possibly understand their pain, and therefore there’s no use in getting better or moving forward. Shinji Ikari is as self-centered as Hideaki Anno is as I am when it comes to confronting the truth: there are paths out of this hole, but nobody else can take that step out but us, and part of our illness is that refusal to do just that. Depression lies, it provides a cold comfort to the sufferer, that there is no existence other than the one where we are in pain and there is no way out, so pull the blanket up over our head and go back to sleep.

Watching Evangelion for the first time corresponded with the onset of one of the worst depressive spirals I’ve ever been in, and so, much like the time I got a stomach virus at the same time that I ate Arby’s curly fries, I kind of can’t associate Evangelion with anything else. No matter what else it might signify, no matter what other meaning there is to derive from it, for me Eva is the Bad Feeling Anime™. Which is why, naturally, I had to binge all four of the Evangelion theatrical releases upon the release of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon A Time last month.

If Neon Genesis Evangelion and End of Evangelion are works produced by someone with untreated depression just fucking rawdogging existence, then the Eva movies are works produced by someone who has gone to therapy even just one fucking time. Whether that therapy is working or not is to be determined, but they have taken that step out of the hole and are able to believe that there is a possibility of living a depression-free life. The first 40 minutes or so of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 are perfect cinema to me. The world is destroyed but there is a way to bring it back. Restoration and existence is possible even when the surface of the planet might as well be the surface of the Moon. The only thing about this is, everyone has to be on board to help. Even though WILLE fired one of its special de-corefication devices into the ground to give the residents of Village 3 a chance at survival, the maintenance of this pocket ecosystem is actively their responsibility. There is no room or time for people who won’t actively contribute, won’t actively participate in making a better world from the ashes of the old.

There are a lot of essentialist claims and assumptions made by the film in this first act about how the body interacts with the social – the concept of disability itself just doesn’t seem to have made it into the ring of safety provided by Misato and the Wunder, which seems frankly wild to me, and women are almost singularly portrayed in traditionalist support roles while men are the doers and the fixers and the makers. I think it’s worth raising a skeptical eyebrow at this trad conservative “back to old ways” expression of the post-apocalypse wherever it comes up, just as it’s important to acknowledge where the movie pushes back on these themes, like when Toji (or possibly Kensuke) is telling Shinji that, despite all the hard work everyone is doing like farming and building, the village is far from self-sufficient and will likely always rely on provisions from the Wunder.

As idyllic as the setting is, it’s not the ideal. As Shinji emerges from his catatonia, Kensuke takes him around the village perimeter. It’s quiet, rural Japan as far as the eye can see, but everywhere there are contingencies; rationing means Kensuke can only catch one fish a week, all the entry points where flowing water comes into the radius of the de-corefication devices have to be checked for blockages because the water supply will run out. There is a looming possibility that the de-corefication machines could break or shut down at some point, and nobody knows what will happen when that happens. On the perimeter, lumbering, pilot-less and headless Eva units shuffle around; it is unknown whether they’re horrors endlessly biding their time or simply ghosts looking to reconnect to the ember of humanity on the other side of the wall. Survival is always an open question, and mutual aid is the expectation. Still: the apocalypse happened, and we’re still here. The question Village 3 answers is “what now?” We move on, we adapt.

Evangelion is still a work that does its level best to defy easy interpretation, but the modern version of the franchise has largely abandoned the nihilism that was at its core in the 90s version. It’s not just that Shinji no longer denies the world until the last possible second – it’s that he frequently actively reaches out and is frustrated by other people’s denials. He wants to connect, he wants to be social, but he’s also burdened with the idea that he’s only good to others if he’s useful, and he’s only useful if he pilots the Eva unit. This last movie separates him and what he is worth to others (and himself) from his agency in being an Eva pilot, finally. In doing so, he’s able to reconcile with nearly everyone in his life who he has harmed or who has hurt him, and create a world in which there is no Evangelion. While this ending is much more wishful thinking than one more grounded in the reality of the franchise – one that, say, focuses on the existence and possible flourishing of Village 3 and other settlements like it while keeping one eye on the precarious balancing act they’re all playing – it feels better than the ending of End of Eva, and even than the last two episodes of the original series.

I’m glad the nihilism in Evangelion is gone, for the most part. I’m glad that I didn’t spend roughly eight hours watching the Evamovies only to be met yet again with a message of “everything is pointless, fuck off and die.” Because I’ve been absorbing that sentiment a lot lately, from a lot of different sources, and it really just fuckin sucks to hear over and over again.

It is a truth we can’t easily ignore that the confluence of pandemic, climate change, authoritarian surge and capitalist decay has made shit miserable recently. But the spike in lamentations over the intractability of this mix of shit – the inevitability of our destruction, to put it in simpler terms – really is pissing me off. No one person is going to fix the world, that much is absolutely true, but if everyone just goes limp and decides to “123 not it” the apocalypse then everyone crying about how the world is fucked on Twitter will simply be adding to the opening bars of a self-fulfilling prophesy.

We can’t get in a mech to save the world but then, neither realistically could Shinji Ikari. What we can do looks a lot more like what’s being done in Village 3: people helping each other with limited resources wherever they can.

Last week, Hurricane Ida slammed into the Gulf Coast and churned there for hours – decimating Bayou communities in Louisiana and disrupting the supply chain extensively – before powering down and moving inland. Last night the powerful remnants of that storm tore through the Northeast, causing intense flooding. Areas not typically affected by hurricanes suddenly found themselves in a similar boat – pun not intended – to folks for whom hurricanes are simply a fact of life. There’s a once-in-a-millennium drought and heatwave ripping through the West Coast and hey – who can forget back in February when Oklahoma and Texas experienced -20 degree temperatures for several days in a row? All of this against the backdrop of a deadly and terrifying pandemic and worsening political climate. It’s genuinely scary! But there are things we can do.

First, if you’re in a weather disaster-prone area, get to know your local mutual aid organizations. Some of these groups might be official non-profits; one such group in the Louisiana area, for example, is Common Ground Relief. Check their social media accounts for updates on what to do and who needs help. If you’re not sure if there’s one in your area, check out groups like Mutual Aid Disaster Relief for that same information. Even if you’re not in a place that expects to see the immediate effects of climate change, you should still consider linking up with organizing groups in your area. Tenant unions, homeless organizations, safe injection sites and needle exchanges, immigrant rights groups, environmental activist orgs, reproductive health groups – all could use some help right now, in whatever capacity you might be able to provide it.

In none of these scenarios are we going to be the heroes of the story, and we shouldn’t view this kind of work in that way. But neither should we give into the nihilistic impulse to insist upon doing nothing, insist that inaction is the best course of action, and get back under the blankets for our final sleep. Kill that impulse in your head, and fuck, if you have to, simply just fucking wish for that better world. Then get out of bed and help make it happen.

#Neon Genesis Evangelion #existentialism #philosophy #media criticism #cultural criticism #spoilers

25 notes · View notes

bookcalanthedaily · 4 years ago

Text

okay so what’s up with geralt and calanthe? why do i ship them, why do i love them so much, and a little bit about how i believe them to be the book example of courtly love.

okay so let me start with the fact i read the books for the first time back in 2012, no spoilers, no previous knowledge whatsoever and up until the point where calanthe’s death was announced in sword of destiny, i believed, or maybe hoped, that they would end up together.

it started during the feat in a question of price, with their obvious flirting and how geralt seemed to be mesmerized by calanthe. the way I see it, the narrator sees the world with geralt’s eyes, and the way calanthe is described is truly like nothing else. There aren’t any words that directly describe her as beautiful or sexually appealing, no description of her breasts or otherwise her body (which I feel is weird for sapkowski??) . She is described in ways that in a very unobvious way show her grace, her dignity, the aura that she has around her. but despite that there are, still, a few moments that obviously point to geralt’s attraction to calanthe;

‘But hasn't fascination with my beauty and charming personality clouded your judgement?‘ ‘So I'm honoured and proud to be sitting by Queen Calanthe of Cintra, whose beauty is surpassed only by her wisdom.’ ‘Very well,' said the witcher. 'I ask for your green sash, Calanthe. May it always remind me of the colour of the eyes of the most beautiful queen I have ever known.'

so it is obvious that the lack of more obvious descriptions of her beauty isn’t caused by her, well, not beaing beautiful, but rather because the physical aspect of her appeal is the less important one.

she not only invited geralt to her table. she sat him on her righthand side and treated him like a human being, not a mutant. she is the first character in the books to have this sentiment;

'It's true,' said Calanthe. 'Geralt, present here, is a witcher. His trade is worthy of respect and esteem. He has sacrificed himself to protect us from monsters and nightmares born in the night, those sent by powers ominous and harmful to man. He kills the horrors and monsters that await us in the forests and ravines. And those which have the audacity to enter our dwellings.'

and ever since that feast, geralt is known as the witcher whom even kings invited to their tables, just because calanthe was kind enough to do it.

after that, geralt dreams about her not once, but twice.

dream 1:

"A bower, warmth, the scent of flowers, the intense, monotonous hum of bees. He, alone, on his knees, giving a rose to a woman with mousy locks spilling from beneath a narrow, gold band. Rings set with emeralds–large, green cabochons–on the fingers taking the rose from his hand. ‘Return here,’ the woman said. ‘Return here, should you change your mind. Your destiny will be waiting.’ I shall never return here, he thought. I never… went back there. I never returned to… Whither? Mousy hair. Green eyes."

this is basically geralt reliving calanthe’s invitation for him to return to cintra, or even stay in cintra, if that was his wish. he never returned, and when he did want to return, it was too late.

dream 2:

‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’ ‘That is the truth,’ says the woman with the mousy hair and the mysterious smile. ‘That is the truth, Geralt.’ The woman is wearing a silvery suit of armour, bloody, dented and punctured by the points of pikes or halberds. Blood drips in a thin stream from the corner of her mysteriously and hideously smiling mouth. ‘You sneer at destiny,’ she says, still smiling. ‘You sneer at it, trifle with it. The sword of destiny has two blades. You are one of them. Is the second… death? But it is we who die, die because of you. Death cannot catch up with you, so it must settle for us. Death dogs your footsteps, White Wolf. But others die. Because of you. Do you remember me?’ ‘Ca… Calanthe!’ ‘You can save him,’ the voice of Eithné, from behind the curtain of smoke. ‘You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.’ Eyes, as green as spring grass. A touch. Voices, crying in chorus, incomprehensibly. Faces.

to me, in this dream, calanthe is the physical embodiment of geralt’s guilt. of his belief that calanthe, pavetta and perhaps the entire cintra were hurt because he refused to face destiny. there is also the mysterious sentence from eithne;

“You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.”

and while some might say that she was saying it to ciri... ciri is not present even for a moment during that sequence.

and finally, there is their farewell moment;

He looked into her glaring green eyes. She smiled. He could not decipher the smile.

There was a rosebush growing beside the summerhouse. He broke a stem and picked a flower, kneeled down, and proffered it to her, holding it in both hands, head bowed. ‘Pity I didn’t meet you earlier, White Hair,’ she murmured, taking the rose from his hands. ‘Rise.’ He stood up. ‘Should you change your mind,’ she said, lifting the rose up to her face. ‘Should you decide… Come back to Cintra. I shall be waiting. And your destiny will also be waiting. Perhaps not forever, but certainly for some time longer.’ ‘Farewell, Calanthe.’ ‘Farewell, Witcher. Look after yourself. I have… A moment ago I had a foreboding… A curious foreboding… that this is the last time I shall see you.’ ‘Farewell, O Queen.’

and to me, this is one of the most romantic scenes in the entire series. the way she brings the offered flower to her face, the words ‘pity i didn’t meet you earlier’ and how he cuts her off with a simple ‘farewell’, because thinking of what they could have been hurts too much.

and finally, his reacion to her death, where dandelion had to cut his story in half, stop mid-sentences to make sure he was fine.

in conclusion, i believe that geralt loved calanthe. perhaps she was even his first love, before he met yennefer. but he was a witcher, a mutant, and she was a queen. and he did not believe he deserved her, he did not believe he deserved being ‘saved from the darkness he has come to love’.

now, how does it tie in with the idea of courtly love?

courtly love is a highly conventionalized medieval tradition of love between a knight and a married noblewoman, first developed by the troubadours of southern France and extensively employed in European literature of the time. The love of the knight for his lady was regarded as an ennobling passion and the relationship was typically unconsummated.

and i personally believe calanthe and geralt check all of these boxes. geralt is a knight/warrior who falls in loce with a married noblewoman but that love never gets to be consummated. but, in the end, that love does ennoble him.

he goes from

'Duny,' said Geralt seriously, 'Calanthe, Pavetta. And you, righteous knight Tuirseach, future king of Cintra. In order to become a witcher, you have to be born in the shadow of destiny, and very few are born like that. That's why there are so few of us. We're growing old, dying, without anyone to pass our knowledge, our gifts, on to. We lack successors. And this world is full of Evil which waits for the day none of us are left.' 'Geralt,' whispered Calanthe.

‘I wouldn’t take the child. I couldn’t assume the responsibility. I wouldn’t agree to burden you with it. I wouldn’t want the child to tell you one day… As I’m telling you—’

and it is my belief, that her remarks, such as this;

‘I’ve pondered long over this,’ Calanthe continued, now without a smile. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that the selection of the children at the stage of the Choice has scant significance. What difference does it make, in the end, Geralt, which child dies or goes insane, stuffed full of narcotics? What difference does it make whose brain bursts from hallucinations, whose eyes rupture and gush forth, instead of becoming cats’ eyes? What difference does it make whether the child destiny chose or an utterly chance one dies in its own blood and puke? Answer me.’

were a part of what made him change his mind. geralt ends up, even after calanthe’s death, becoming very close to ciri, learning through her that neutrality that had been beaten into him as a young witcher in training was not the way to go. calanthe, and through calanthe also ciri, had a huge impact on geralt’s entire character

so, all in all, this is how i see it. a love, that was never meant to be. and whether you choose to see it as a platonic-friendship type of love or, like me, as romantic love - calanthe’s impact on geralt’s growth is undeniable.

#the witcher meta #rant #calanthe of cintra #geralt of rivia #geralt x calanthe #calanthe x geralt #calalt #courtly love

21 notes · View notes

myelocin · 4 years ago

Text

maybe we could have been it | akaashi keiji

synopsis: akaashi thinks of you, the faded photograph next to the ring with the bigger stone he didn’t need to spend a couple paychecks on, and the chocolate cake that reminded him of home. of you. (sidepiece to on the faded side of the photograph)

characters: akaashi keiji, you, mentions of miya osamu

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, post breakup

wc: 1500+

a/n: fam why did i write this i am in pain ;;;;;; all the same (plz i beg listen to it it’s the whole soundtrack to this whole story KJSDFSK)

sometimes, akaashi thinks, he kind of wants to do something stupid.

he knows that if he really looks at things, it’s only just a matter of closing a notebook, ripping off a few pages, booking a ticket, and betting on adrenaline to give him the five second boost he needs to call up bokuto and ask for your address to fix things.

but that isn’t the case, and the adrenaline is only waist level at best. akaashi knows he isn’t overwhelmed enough to pick up the phone and dial a familiar set of numbers. even when he does get to that point, adrenaline rises only towards chest level. he can still breathe, and with that breath akaashi knows his actions at this point will still be guided by reason.

so even if bokuto’s asking him if he’s heard from you lately, and the question of “how is she?” is at the tip of his tongue, when akaashi shifts he feels the water sway around his chest while the horizon before him is as clear as day.

in the moment, he’s aware that if he stays and lets the waves rise, he’ll drown if he goes under. neither the rush nor adrenaline holds him under, and akaashi, in a way both dreads and praises the fact that his head is still above the water.

his fingers pause in place, and he thinks of the polaroid of you, the ring, and nara in his wallet.

then he breathes, and it kind of aches, but he can still breathe.

he can still reason.

his heart clenches and he tries to tell himself it’s because of the nerves and the almost slip up of his crafted composure, and not because his heart is screaming for you.

bokuto stays silent on the line, so akaashi knows his clock is ticking.

so “no,” akaashi would be the words he always hears himself reply, and he’d swallow the question he’s tried asking time and time again for months now back down just like that. “i haven’t heard from her.”

“that’s okay,” is the reply he gets, and from the tone of bokuto’s voice, akaashi knows there wouldn’t be an extension offered for the conversation. sometimes he thinks that if the world were to throw a lifeline at him, he would ignore rationality and ask for you.

because for a while, he looked and listened for one. he looked at your profile, and counted the days where you were last active. listened for bokuto’s voice just with a bit more attention whenever he’d mention your name, and what you’ve been doing.

just that lifeline, akaashi thinks to himself every time. if the world, or in this case, you, were to give him just that, he’d be on the next flight back to tokyo.

then the world gave you happiness, he realizes.

happiness that was manifested in the form of miya osamu, a few kind words that sent a tidal wave of everything good your way, and a bakery with your recipes right across the onigiri shop you found home in.

the silence that follows, akaashi notes, is the kind that stretches like from the night that started your end.

because perhaps it was just borrowed time.

the love between the both of you was as real as life, but a forever wasn’t guaranteed with just love and hope as armor. the reality of the fall out, had been there all along, akaashi realizes. initially it was a little hard to face, but he supposes that it’s difficult because it truly was love at its purest form.

love, in accordance to your story, had always been just an emotion that’s raw and so, so unapologetically beautiful to the point that it tore you open when reality came and announced how love alone wasn’t enough to satiate the way of the world.

so akaashi cries that night he finds miya osamu’s name, because like the heartbreak he felt when he parted with you, the emotion that announced its arrival in the moment, he realizes, is killing him all the same.

his finger hovers over the send button on the right side of his phone screen, right next to the congratulations that took a couple shots of the strong kind of liquor to type out. the faded photograph with the two people smiling in nara sits on the table next to the ring he finally bought without having to blow a couple of paychecks.

he knows that there’s no one to blame, so he downs another shot—squeezing his eyes at the burn that he tells himself he welcomes on the back of his throat.

the chocolate cake in spain doesn’t taste anything like yours, he smiles to himself. when akaashi closes his eyes, more tears prick at his eyes when he hears your voice muffled by the walls that separated the kitchen in the apartment from his office.

and perhaps that was already a way the universe foreshadowed the inevitable end of love, for the both of you. another shot downed, but despite the burn still present in his throat, he grabs the bottle and pours himself another. a couple smiles still stare at him, faded, from the photograph akaashi keeps his eyes trained at.

you probably smiled in the kitchen that day, akaashi thinks to himself. eyes sparkling, tongue poking out in concentration, and a radiance that hung around you because he knows that during the last few months of the relationship, that was really the only time he saw you blooming.

he hears your voice again, but he doesn’t make out what you say; he finds himself wincing at the realization that recalls the words written in his contract vividly instead.

that night akaashi keiji downs almost seven shots because it finally dawns on him that all this time he’s only been hearing you, and never took the time to listen.

so, congratulations, the screen on his phone reads, but even with the liquid confidence setting fire to his veins in the moment, he takes his phone in his hands and deletes the message instead. smiling at the chocolate cake in front of him, he foregoes the eighth shot in his glass, and takes a bite from the slice instead.

if he were a little more sober, akaashi knows he’d have wiped his face from the tears by now, but all he registers is the thought that he thinks he’s crying, because somewhere between the second and the third bite, he suddenly sees you; apron around your waist, oven mitts that looked a little too silly on your hands, and a bit of frosting that he remembers always found its way on your cheek no matter how careful you were in the process.

it doesn’t taste the same, he cries, but then cries harder because he doesn’t remember how your recipe even tasted in the first place.

but the smell of chocolate lingers in the fucking air, and if he closes his eyes he knows he’s going to think of home, and of you.

you, an apartment that was home for so many years, and a love that was kept alive because of borrowed time.

this it it, akaashi thinks, the smell of chocolate right under his nose.

this was home, he heaves, dropping the fork and hiding his face in his hands when the weight of the ending finally settles on his shoulders.

you were home, and you were love.

he cries harder, sounding a little more broken. the photograph remains still in its time; the people with the smiles changed, and the memory of nara remembered with a different kind of sentiment now.

so that night, akaashi turns off his phone, caps the bottle, pockets the photo and the ring, and gives the rest of the cake to his neighbor’s son who he remembered has a bit of a sweet tooth. he lays in bed with the image of you, a ring that didn’t look like the one hidden in his drawer, and the radiance he feels is now connected to the name miya osamu.

then he books a ticket.

a one way ticket headed to tokyo, because akaashi keiji supposes he doesn’t regret the time he spent with you.

so, when he finally settles on asking you how you’re doing—he smiles because you reply that you’re doing just fine. and the ring on your finger doesn’t fly past his line of vision, because he suddenly feels the lump in his throat again.

“four years in spain, huh?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“yeah. extended a year, i might be permanently transferring there in the future,” he replies, a statement he knows is only a lie, and this time he looks straight towards you and not at the wall behind you.

you smile.

and you look happy, akaashi thinks.

“you went out of schedule,” he hears you laugh softly.

“i guess i did,” akaashi replies, laughing along to the irony of your words, before he finally says, “i’m sorry.”

297 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 5 years ago

Text

hiraeth (i).

hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

yandere! don! giorno giovanna x f! reader. collab with @dear-yandere. read part two here! do not re-upload or use our writing without permission. › warnings: isolation, detailed panic attack, emotional manipulation, and implied sexual relation. › word count: 10k. › art credit: spearthymint.

“You can come out, you know.”

Giorno’s words are meant as a small but necessary push, but at the moment, his encouragements just come off as chiding and impatient. You know that’s far from the case, as he’s always been tolerant of your missteps and reluctancy when it came to anything involving him, but your nerves on edge right now. This goes against all you’ve been forced to learn, all you’ve been forced to adapt to during your time on this island. Time has always been at a standstill behind these walls, with countless doors you cannot cross and an expanse of ocean that reveals to you nothing for countless miles. In such a situation, most people wouldn’t be standing before their closets in dismay, scolding themselves over what outfit to wear for a date with their captor; but, you supposed you aren’t most people, considering the Don of Passione has taken such a liking to you as to keep you to himself. It’d become commonplace, and looking through the expansive closet almost felt normal, designer outfits tailored perfectly to your measurements, awaiting to be picked. Growing up in a country renowned for its exquisite tastes in fashions and its constant supply of talented designers, you’ve seen clothing like this in fashion magazines or in the windows of boutiques you could never hope to afford; but now, these pieces are entirely yours, free for your choosing whenever you so desire. Under different circumstances, you would’ve felt like a successful model, one that would make your younger self proud with your fine jewelry and expensive makeup.

What would she think of you now?

Giorno has reassured you that you’re welcome to help yourself to everything here, that it’s all meant for you anyways, that your happiness is his. You know he meant it as something romantic, more akin to saying that your happiness would make him happy by extension, but considering your unwillingness to be here in the first place, his sentiment made it seem as if your happiness is something to be taken, something you cannot control. His actions are no different, despite his solemn assertions that keeping you here is in your best interest.

You don’t bring that up to him. It’d… it’d break his heart, considering how far your ‘relationship’ has come. You used to hate him with every fibre of your being. Now, you feel almost giddy to have a rare moment alone with him. A morning date by the beach, something romantic, something personal. This is a first for you both. There was a time you’d dread being alone with him; that time is long past, it seems.

You’re not sure if it’s for the better.

Running your hands over extravagant fabric, you wonder if the day will come when you feel comfortable enough to try these outfits on. It’s a world that goes beyond your limited understanding, too luxurious to feel real. Out of everything in this walk-in closet, you’re drawn to the plain outfits, clothing entirely unbefitting a woman who lives on an island villa with her influential husband. Turtlenecks and long skirts or pants used to be your first choices whenever he’d visit, wanting nothing more than to keep his eyes off of you. You thought it’d make him want you less, view you as undesirable of his money and affections, but Giorno isn’t so easily swayed. He does love you, you can tell that much from everything he does, from the way he touches you like fine art to the way he puts your happiness and safety first, even at the expense of your freedom. Even still, the inclusion of such plain outfits in your wardrobe shows Giorno’s thoughtfulness towards you, considering the little things. While he wants nothing more than to shower you in expensive gifts, your comfort comes first. He loves that about you, how you can find happiness and comfort in the simpler things life has to offer.

But… will he be disappointed at your lackluster selection? You almost chuckle at your own worries, at how natural it all feels and at how foreign it feels at the same time. Choosing a proper outfit is what someone on their first date would be concerned about, not someone stolen from their life and thrown into lavish isolation. He hasn’t gotten under your skin that far, has he? And, do you even mind anymore?

Shaking your head at the thought, you chastise yourself. Now��s not the time to be thinking about such hurtful things, you’ve had plenty of time to wallow in self pity. Too much time, when he isn’t here. It’s gotten to the point where his presence is enough to quell your lonely thoughts — you no longer dread being at his side. Not nearly as much as before, anyways. Because now, you want to move forward. One step at a time. It’s the only way to live right now, the only option he’s presented to you.

“Is everything alright, amore mio? Do you need help?” He calls out past the foyer, breaking you from your self-deprecating and conflicting thoughts.

“Y-yeah, just a moment.” You clear your throat, heart racing at his concern. Even the way he speaks… the worry in his voice that shows even in the smallest of actions, you can tell he’s trying. He’s been trying to make your stay a comfortable one, even if it’s always been against your will. What frustrated you at the start now elicits fluttering within your heart, his care borderline touching. Every detail of your daily life has been considered, intended to make you feel at home, going so far as to be mindful of the way he conducts himself around you. He must think you haven’t noticed, but isolation has taught you to be observant. Observant of where he keeps the keys, observant of the pattern in which he visits, observant of what information he’ll let slip when you lower his guard just enough. These thoughts used to plague you day in and day out; they’d become your only hobby, at some point. And yet, beneath it all, he’d found a crack to seep through, someplace just wide enough to make himself at home.

His voice no longer brings dread.

“Sorry, I’m fine. I... I just don’t know.” You continue, aware of how much time has already passed. You’re still hidden in the closet of your chambers, so your voice is muffled, and he hums in response, perplexed by how long you’ve been taking to doll yourself up. You’ve never taken this long before, not with him; you’ve always been content to throw on whatever catches your fancy, even if it hardly matches, and leave your hair undone and your face natural. He never once minded, but the difference in your behavior is stark. It’d be concerning if you weren’t so easy to read, so he settles against the banister with a small, knowing smile.

You choke back the spit that had been pooling under your tongue in your daze. You’re keeping him waiting. You’re keeping the Don of Passione waiting. You used to relish in the thought, but today, it feels wrong. He’s waiting for you as patiently as he always does, but today is something special, something special to you for once. Today is the first time you’ll go outside, past the doors of this villa. Today is the first time you’ll go outside with him, willingly. Today is the first time you’ll enjoy it.

You clear your throat, pushing those shameful thoughts asid. The fabric of your tailored sundress feels foreign against your skin, featherlight and airy. The silken skirts feel too short all of a sudden, now that you were one step closer to being under his gaze. He’ll…. he’ll like it, right? It’s a silly question, considering he likes whatever you wear, but you can’t help but dwell on it. You almost want to cancel this date and throw up instead, the butterflies in your stomach feeling more like a swarm than a gentle fluttering. You lean against the closet door and ashamedly sigh. “Giorno, this… this feels embarrassing.”

He always knows exactly what to say to make your heart flutter, so his answer is quick.“Amore, I’m sure you look lovely. You always do.”

His tone is lighthearted, amused even. To anyone overhearing, they might think this is a conversation between infatuated lovers. A husband assuring his wife she’s just as beautiful as the day he met her, as lovers would. No one would be none the wiser. No one would know that this is the first time you’ve been past your chambers in weeks. No one would know that he’s kept you here for months. No one would know.

The ring on your finger feels heavier than usual.

Moving on is such a tricky thing. A minefield you’re forced to navigate, stumbling and failing at times. You wish it was as simple as offering forgiveness, but both of you know it isn’t that easy. He upended your life entirely, turned it on its head, and no amount of remorse or forgiveness can bring back what was lost. All those months spent away from your family, your friends, your job. And yet, today, he’s extending a loving hand to you, giving a second chance. A chance at true happiness, or the closest thing to it in this situation. After all the suffering you’ve endured, it’s only natural to seek some form of solace. You’ve denied yourself long enough, having shed enough tears to last a lifetime within the span of a few months. Forgiveness won’t return what you’ve lost, it won’t excuse what’s been taken. Forgiveness won’t change anything, but neither will hatred.

Now, more than ever, you want to feel normal again. You don’t think of it as giving up, at least… you try not to. Instead, you like to think you’re making good out of a dire situation. Anyone would do the same, right?

You step past the threshold, back into what’s rightfully yours.

“Ah, amore. There you are.” He looks up from his little reverie, a soft smile gracing his features upon spotting you. He chuckles and pushes himself from the railing, setting himself straight to properly greet you. “I was right. You’re even lovelier than the last time I saw you.” He says, laying a gentle kiss atop your hand.

You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to draw attention away from your blush. “You’re too much, Giorno. You saw me just moments ago.” You’re grateful there’s no stutter this time. You’ve grown used to his suave mannerisms, kissing your hand being one of the most common, but it still sends your heart into a slamming against your chest. He has a way with charming you, despite everything he’s done. “And surely, you say that to every woman you meet.” Your eyes flicker away from his, a brief moment of jealousy upon realizing how many beautiful and intelligent women he must meet during trips abroad. It’s a silly presumption, really, considering he’s only kept you on an isolated island, to your knowledge, but the brief bout of jealousy refuses to subside.

“My words hold no such lie. You are lovelier than the last time I saw you, as you always are. Your beauty knows no bounds, amore mio.” He cants his head to the side, his smile knowing, and tilts your chin upward. You’re forced to look into his eyes as he says such sweet words as easily as breathing. “And, I assure you, I only have eyes for you. There is no one I love more in this world, not even myself.” His lips travel downward to place a gentle kiss against the ring on your finger. “And there is no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with, tesoro mio.”

The ring doesn’t feel nearly as heavy.

Gently, he places your hand back at your side and straightens himself. You give him a once over, secretly admiring his ethereal beauty. He’s well-dressed as usual, one of his many opulent and tailored suits hugging his figure in all the right places. The designs are immaculate and fine, grey pinstripes on darker grey fabric creating an elegant and put together look. It strikes you as odd to wear a suit for a beach date, but you don’t dwell on it. He’s a busy man, no doubt having had to clear his schedule just for a quick morning date with you. He’ll leave soon after, you’re sure, and for better or worse, the thought of being without him for another day hurts. You’re left without him for days at a time, and while you don’t always prefer his company, it’s been… comforting as of late. Nights spent by his side have become the norm, your head nestled against his chest as you sleep off the fine wine in your system. Pillow talk is something you never thought you’d indulge in with someone like him, but you’ve looked forward to it these past few weeks. At first, it was another tactic to gain information on him, but somewhere along the line, you began taking solace in his company. It’s all you have. He is all you have.

“That dress looks wonderful on you.” He compliments, enjoying the way the sunflower patterns on your sundress brighten your already-resplendent features. He extends his arm to you, which you accept without hesitation. The skin of your bare arms rubs against the coarse fabric of his suit, sending shivers down your spine. You must look like an odd couple, one dressed for an outing in the sun and the other dressed from a rendezvous at night; a reminder of how different your worlds truly are.

Once he feels you’re settled, Giorno begins leading you down long, empty halls decorated to the brim with tasteful vases, flowers, and paintings. You pay them no mind, their placements and features already burned into your mind from countless days wandering these very corridors, wishing for freedom. And now, what you’ve earned is starting to turn into a tangible reality. You’ve walked this path numerous times, having to stop when you reached a set of locked doors. Doors that lead to the outside world, doors you’ll finally walk past, hand in hand with someone you’re not quite sure you love just yet.

The pep in your step comes to a halt when you’re met with the familiar sight, the roadblock imposing. You almost forget that you’ll be walking past those double doors in a few moments, your body so accustomed to standing in this very spot and looking on in yearning. The shifting of fabric pulls you to reality as Giorno reaches into his suit, procuring a keycard and wordlessly unlocks the door. It’s a silent series of actions, the air growing heavy with tension. From how you tense, you assume he knows what you’re thinking, but doesn’t want to comment on it. If it’s for your sake or his own, you’re unsure.

Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for you. The sunlight is blinding, your eyes squinting and arm rising to lessen the impact. It feels prickly against your skin now that there are no windows to block the bright rays. While your eyes adjust to the unfiltered light, Giorno patiently holds the door open. This has been the desire of your heart, coveting the freedom to experience nature as you used to.

You look over at him, for once grateful for how well he can read you. Even if you had the words to ask what’s on your mind, your tongue would be unable to form them. He offers a slight nod, encouraging you to take your time as you anchor yourself, a bitter tug at his heart that he’s put you in a situation where you need to ask in the first place. Inhaling silently, you gingerly step out, the ground growing softer. When nothing happens, you take another step, as careful as the first. Testing. Praying that this is indeed real life and not a cruel dream that serves to taunt you. How often you’ve dreamt of leaving this place, and it’s become a reality within a few days… even if the path does not lead to your freedom.

Sensing your inner dilemma, he takes a hold of your hand. The touch is light, not meant to constrict you for his own purposes. Should you feel the need to pull away, as if you had been touched with fire, you’d be allowed to. Months ago, you would’ve done just that. To spite him, and for your own satisfaction.

You intertwine your fingers with his.

When your eyes flicker back to him, you notice how his soft lips part as if in shock. Did you manage to surprise him for once? He must have never once thought the day would come where you’d willingly touch him rather than flinch away from his touch. But any cracks in his composure are immediately melded, Giorno giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. Without thinking, you return his smile, your sincerity as clear as day.

“If this is too much for you, then—”

He cuts himself off when you shake your head firmly, lips set in a straight line. You’d never forgive yourself if you backed down now, not after all the effort it took to get here. Now it’s your turn to gently squeeze his hand back, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “Let’s continue, okay?”

Giorno doesn’t press the matter further. You allow him to lead you to a spot he mentioned earlier, though you can already guess where he’s going. The hypnotizing sound of the ocean draws you in, growing louder with each passing step. The loud calls of seagulls fill your ears along with the crashing of the waves against the shore, a sight you’ve missed from your time in Naples. You’ve seen it from locked windows, but it’s not the same. The gentle sea breeze, the tantalizing draw of an ocean without horizon; it’s a beautiful sight, even more so in person.

Childlike glee fills you, nostalgia of trips to Italy’s many beaches flooding back. It’s different compared to then, no families enjoying their time together under umbrellas or vendors selling their goods. It’s far more private, as if the two of you are the only people left in this world. In your sheltered world, that sentiment holds some truth. Instead of filling you with the loneliness it normally does, you feel connected to him. Closer than you ever allowed yourself to be before, as if this small part of the world was carved out specifically to let you two meet. To let you two fall in love, a handcrafted Eden sealed off from the rest of society.

Giorno watches, admires the way the sunlight hits your skin for the first time in weeks. You’re beautiful, the wind tousling your perfectly-styled hair, but you don’t seem to care. Your eyes are bright. You’re glowing, the same way you glow when you’re truly happy, the same light he’s grown addicted to over these past few weeks. You’re happier these days, more often at least. He’d begun doubting himself at some point, wondering if your sudden change of heart was a ploy to gain his trust or lower his guard. Countless nights spent watching you sleep after a few hours of intimate touches, wondering if what you feel for him is true. He knows he deserves none of it, not in any sense of the word, but the thought of betrayal hurts far worse than never receiving your love in kind.

But watching you now, he can’t seem to let those thoughts fester. Your happiness is genuine.

While you soak in the carefree atmosphere, Giorno bends down and picks a seashell from the sand, an idea forming. Imbuing the fossil with life, the texture changes to a softer one, bright yellow petals forming into a hibiscus flower. Gently, he nudges you toward him and places it behind your ear, admiring how it compliments your beauty. You blush, but don’t shy away as you normally would. Your eyes are still bright, curious and gleeful, and your lips upturn into a smile that rivals the ones you’d wear before he’d stolen you away.

“You should make one for yourself.” You speak, free of worries and with a hint of amusement at the thought of a great mafia don wearing flowers at your behest. “So we match.” You add teasingly, knowing full well how much of a sappy romantic he is. Matching with you should be sending his heart fluttering right now. Or at least, you hope you can ever have that effect on him.

Giorno chuckles at your suggestion. “I wouldn’t hold a candle to how you look.”

Your face flushes further at how easily compliments flow from him, always from a true place in his heart. Any and all attempts to catch him off guard end like this, redirecting to praising you in some way. Not one to accept defeat so easily, you absentmindedly place your hand against the newly formed flower, thumbing the petals. The fibers feel so real against your skin, as if this flower was pulled naturally from the earth itself.

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you do this… what else can you make, exactly?” You inquire, tucking your hairs around the petals to keep the flower in place. Giorno has always been keen on giving you vague explanations of his ability, likely so it’d be easier for you to understand. From what you can tell, his ability — a stand, as he’s briefly explained — is one of beauty, able to create life at the slightest touch. Gold Experience brought out curiosity from within you, one of the few reasons you started talking to him again. He’d turn random items into different creatures, earning your attention when you’d ignore him. Your favorites have always been things you can’t naturally find on this island, not without importing it from the mainland. Things like hibiscus, such as the one in your hair, or animals such as fireflies. Things you miss.

Before he can answer, you propose an idea. “Why not make like, a bunch of dolphins? Or great white sharks? Ooh, maybe even a blue whale?” Your voice rises near the end, like a child asking their parent for a new toy, and you collect your chin in your hand for further contemplation.“What else, what else...”

His hand covers his mouth, hiding how his smile widens at your pondering. Giorno doesn’t stop you from thinking out loud, letting you ramble to your heart’s content. He’s never seen you this talkative before, the sight alone is too cute. Any thoughts about his work scheduled later that day are replaced solely and wholly with you. He’s never seen this side of you, yet, and he’s careful to take note of and admire your little mannerisms. How you talk with your hands excitedly, how your eyes light up and your smile reaches your eyes. It’s the first time he’s noticed you have a dimple, even, as he’s yet to see you truly smile. It dawns on him that there is a side of you he has yet to truly see. A side of you where you’re happy. But, does he deserve that sort of joy? Does he deserve you?

“What? Too much?” You smile and tilt your head innocently. “How about something smaller, more manageable? A... frog, maybe?”

He has his answer; he doesn’t deserve you at all. You’re too precious, too innocent. “A frog? Really?” He sputters out an indignant laugh. “I could make something much more interesting, you know. What about a butterfly? Some birds? Or...” He trails off, noticing the pleading gleam in your eyes.

“Please?” You whine. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen one. They’re so cute…”

“Frogs aren’t even native to this island, amore. Where would he go?”

“He can be my pet.” Your answer is so quick it nearly makes him burst out in laughter. You… you do have a point, actually. It’s not like you have any other company besides him, the rare occasions he does get to visit.

“Fine, but I’ll make it later. Something tells me you’ll be too preoccupied with him if I do so now…”, he laughs at the thought of you gushing at a small animal rather than him. It’s to be expected at this point, but he wants to be a bit selfish today. Just for a few hours.

You puff your cheeks out but eventually relent. The topic of a pet has been on your mind before, now seeming like the best time to approach it. You’ll hold him to his promise later, choosing to occupy yourself with possible names for your promised companion. It’ll remedy the loneliness you feel when he’s not around.

As he’s grown skilled in doing, Giorno redirects you. “Do you enjoy the ocean, amore?”

Humming lowly at the question, you walk closer to the inviting waves, Giorno following close behind. “I mostly like the atmosphere. It’s fun in the moment when you’re swimming, but then I have to spend hours getting all the sand out of my hair.” You say, and he takes note that you’re quite rambunctious when it comes to beaches. Most people wouldn’t get that much sand in their hair, not unless they were practically rolling in the shallow. It’s a cute thought, but he doubts he’ll get to see you do so anytime soon. Maybe… on the next date, but he can only hope. It’s a miracle you agreed to this one.

As you approach the ocean, the sand slows you down, your feet sinking into it. When the water draws too near, you kick your flip flops off, embracing the grainy sensation under your feet. The sand is calming, a natural exfoliant against the soles of your feet and between your toes, sticking to your skin like sweat. It’s been so long since you’ve gone the length to take care of your hygiene past the basics, and coupled with the relaxing sound of waves hitting rocks, it’s calming. You feel at peace, finally. Your eyes close — content, the moment serene, as if you’re in a little paradise. You realize now is an opportunity to learn more about him, with his guard being lowered.

Turning your head around, you mirror his earlier question. “What about you, GioGio?”

He blinks at the unexpected usage of his nickname. You must’ve overheard Fugo calling him it sometime, but even that couldn’t compare. The way it sounded in your voice was intoxicating, compelling him to tell you more if only to hear you say his name again. He hopes you’ll say it again, his pulse quickening at the domestic implications. He gives some thought to your question before answering, pushing away the adoring thoughts.

“To be honest, I never visited the beach often.”

Even with all his mysteries, you were expecting an answer like that. In the time you’ve known Giorno, he doesn’t take time to relax. His mind is full of burdens and expectations, jobs that need to be done and the best way to complete them. From what you gather, it’s paid off. You overheard him talking to one of his men before, someone you noticed to be close to him. The nickname “GioGio” rolling off the man’s tongue felt almost laughable in the moment had it not been coupled with reserved praise for how far Giorno had extended Passione’s reach in only six months. Still, you don’t know if pity is what you feel, but it’s an emotion close to that. The only time he’s taken for himself is when he’s with you, and even then, you’ve always given him a hard time. It must be a difficult path, but it’s one he chose nonetheless.

“We’ll have to change that then,” you assert with a smile, appreciating how the breeze kisses your skin. “I’d… I’d like to come out here with you more often.”

The confidence you were hoping would accompany the words wavers, unsure if you’re pushing your luck. It’s a miracle that Giorno saw it fitting to bestow this freedom upon you even a single time — asking for more might be too greedy. But your fears melt away when his turquoise eyes soften, not interpreting your plea in a negative light. It could have been your imagination, but you sense a hint of guilt in them. Perhaps, regretting how often he has to leave you alone to tend to his own matters.

“I’d love nothing more than to do that, if you’ll have me.” He slightly bows his head, as if in meek shame.

You eagerly nod your head, accepting the extended invitation. Anything is better than being cooped up for ages, like you’ve grown used to, and if you’re being honest, his company isn’t nearly as bad as you once thought it to be. In fact, it’s almost calming. You used to fear how much power and influence he holds, as if the world itself is in grasp; but now, you seek it out. His presence no longer incites paralyzing, but rather feels like a warm embrace, beneath the composed mask he dons. And even then, you’d hate to give up this newfound freedom, however minute it may be. The ocean feels divine against your warming skin, Italian summers renowned for their heat. Venturing further into the water, now up to your ankles, you look around for any pretty seashells. Giorno lets you do as you please, watching over you with a content air from the shore.

Crouching down, your hand runs across the sand to continue your search. You hum to yourself as the cold waters splash against your ankles and up your thighs, the sensation welcoming in this heat. The waters are bright and crystal clear, a benefit to your search as you gingerly pick up the shells that stand out to you the most. Maybe you’ll ask him to make one of these into your future pet, the thought an exciting one. The best seashell will be the one you hand to him. Or maybe, you can convince him to turn all of these into frogs…

You look over your shoulder to find him standing just nigh of the incoming waves. It’s a sweet sight, how he draws as close as his outfit allows him, just shy of the waves touching his expensive loafers. He really is an uptight fashionista at heart. At that, a mischievous idea pops into your mind, a plan rapidly forming to enact your vision. Acting as you normally do, your hands continue to brush against the ground, and you let a dramatic gasp leave your lips. Feigning hurt, you draw your hand close to your chest, a muffled whine pushing past your lips almost unnaturally. Your acting has never been the best, but you hope it’ll do...

Giorno’s eyebrows furrow at the pained noise, and he steps forward without care for his outfit. He’s by your side in record time, bending down and reaching to inspect your supposedly injured hand. “[First], are you—”

You can’t help but snicker, your free hand brushing against the top of the water and splashing it towards him. It takes a moment for him to process the unfolding events, suit dripping from your playful assault. More giggles leave your lips at his miffed expression, having never seen him look like this before. Not towards you, at least. It feels far more human than how he normally acts around you, that stoic and knowing mask gone for once. You’ve caught him off guard — a feat in and of itself. Not even his enemies can accomplish that much. Then again, you have the advantage of never being on his bad side even when you do things like this.

Giorno lets out a long sigh, muttering quietly to himself as the uncomfortable sensation of salty seawater settles into his otherwise expensive suit. “Sei fortunato sei così carina.” (You’re lucky you’re so cute).

“Hm? What was that, GioGio?” You inquire, too preoccupied with snickering at his expense to notice his words. He can’t allow himself to be upset with you, not when he gets to hear the angelic sound of your laughter. When was the last time he heard it…? It must’ve been a time before, a time long past. Maybe when you were interacting with your friends, or looking at something entertaining on your phone. Not even his little flirtations and tricks using Gold Experience have elicited such a carefree response. If this suit going to the dry cleaners is the cost to pay for hearing it again, it will always be worth it.

He shakes his head, freeing himself from the heavy burden these thoughts bring. “Nothing. You’re not hurt, are you?” He already knows the answer, at this point, but it’s become a habit to ensure your utmost safety and happiness.

You don’t respond immediately, instead looking over his shoulder in a dreamlike stupor. Giorno is about to repeat his question before it clicks what it is you’re looking at with raw wonder. In the heat of the moment, believing you were in danger, Gold Experience Requiem had been summoned subconsciously. The Stand represents himself, his care for you that seeps into every aspect of who he is. It makes sense why he’d summon his Stand, even if he didn’t realize it in the moment.

That’s not the problem here though. You’re staring at the exact spot Gold Experience is, it’s no coincidence.

You look at the Stand with wide eyes, lips parting as you stand up to inspect him closer. He’d be a horrifying sight if Giorno hadn’t told you about his power beforehand. So this is... the personification of his soul? He’s never summoned his Stand in its entirety around you, only using its ability to imbue things with life. The realization that you can actually see it makes him purse his lips, uncertain of what to make of the new information. That means that you’re...

“W-woah,” you stutter out, reaching out towards the floating creature in pure awe. Your hand goes through it, like fog in the air. The Stand looks at you, perplexed despite its lack of proper facial features or musculature, its eyes glued to you as if in similar awe. “What is this, Giorno?”

Giorno clears his throat, suppressing his worries as to what this could potentially mean for later. A question he’ll have to pose to Jotaro or Polnareff, he’s sure….

“It’s what allows me to create life.” He explains carefully, still unsure about how much information to reveal. Gold Experience looks down at you with similar curiosity, inspecting your person thoroughly. You’d be lying if you said it isn’t intimidating, eyes wide blown and seemingly staring through your soul. For some reason, you feel like it wouldn’t dare harm you.

It draws close to you, gathering some stray pebbles from the sea. Wordlessly, the lifeless rocks turn into an array of colorful flowers, a circular vine holding them together. The Stand places it atop your head almost gleefully, careful to not hurt a single hair on your head. You hear Giorno draw a sharp breath at the display, perhaps not realizing his stand was capable of acting on its own like this. Gold Experience’s gesture is meant to be an act of kindness, a display of love. There’s no denying the pure intentions, even despite how terrifying he looks. Now knowing you’re capable of seeing it, the Stand looks at you almost expectantly, like a child waiting to be praised. Still beside yourself at the unfolding events, you gather yourself enough to offer it a beaming smile and soft ‘thank you’. He seems content enough with your reaction, returning to its user. Its eyes never once leave you, looking at you as if you’re the center of the universe, before it disappears completely from sight.

“I think he likes you,” Giorno clears his throat and hums, calling his Stand back to him. It’s a pleasant display, if not a tad embarrassing. What takes priority now is answering the numerous questions this brings to the table. “Do you feel anything… out of the ordinary, [First]?”

His inquiry feels out of place, like you’re missing a vital piece of the puzzle. He knows something you don’t. It’s not often he uses your first name either, preferring to praise you with affectionate nicknames. Assuming he must mean your hands, you hold them up for him to inspect, showing all sides are without injury. When his expression stays the same, you wonder if he meant something else. Any other possibilities escape you, so you make do with what little you know.

“Not really, no. I’m just hungry.” you answer in honesty, squirming under his unflinching gaze. Your answer feels out of place, hanging from the air like loose threads, unwoven from its source. Giorno takes a few more moments to consider you, looking for dishonesty and finding nothing but confusion. You swallow thickly at the tense atmosphere, hoping you didn’t mess up in some way. Anxiety captures your hammering heart, and you shrink under his piercing stare. Giorno, quickly sensing your concern, returns to his typical expression, a soft gaze with an equally soft smile, only ever reserved entirely for you.

“Ah, of course. You haven’t had anything to eat today. Come, I have food prepared.”

Grateful at the change in conversation, you rush over to his side, warm sea water sticking to your skin in droplets. You don’t know what he’s hiding from you, and at the moment, you don’t care to find out. Nothing could be a worse fate than being locked up again for a transgression you didn’t even mean to commit. As long as that’s not the case, it’ll be okay. Lower lip trembling, you subconsciously take a tight grip of his hand. He looks down at the desperate touch, seeing how your smaller hands fit perfectly into his. Sensing the nervous air in your actions, he gives your hand a light squeeze, calming your nerves ever so slightly. Smitten by your actions, how willingly you still choose to touch him, he lifts your hand up and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles. You’re relying on him. He’s not sure what spurred the sudden change, but he’s going to enjoy it. It’s a modest showing that soothes your distressed mind.

He’s not upset with you. You won’t be left all alone again. You won’t have to go days without human contact, sobbing and pleading for anyone to save you, to talk to you, to notice you’re gone—

“[First]?”

You don’t notice the tears that sting your eyes until it’s too late. The force makes you choke on thin air, searching for breaths that won’t come. The walls of your lungs are constricting into itself, your heart hammering so hard against its rib cage that you fear it’ll break through the skin and bone. Giorno watches with wide eyes as you unravel in front of him, your hand shooting up to muffle your mouth, the other latching onto his chest like a desperate prayer, begging him to make it stop, to make the thoughts stop, to make your heart still for once. You try to call out for him, to call for help, but the words lodge in your throat like bile and vomit. You choke on each syllable.

The weight of the world is crushing atop your shoulders, its jaws closed around your heart. Something is wrong — this is wrong. Your fingers tighten against his chest, wanting to beat against it, to hurt him, to make him feel the pain you’ve felt. You’re so close. He’s let you get close to him, close to his walls — let you tear them down. Weeks ago, you would have rejoiced in this. Would’ve used his weakness against him, would’ve fought back. If you were stronger, if you just weren’t so weak, you would have been happier. You wouldn’t be in this situation, clinging to a man who took you from life, clinging to a man who makes you question your own sanity. Everything — he took everything from you, and he still can. No matter how slowly you forgive him, no matter how slowly you give into him, he will always have control over your life. There will always be a disparity, a power dynamic — you will always be weak.

You will always be trapped here, always wondering if you’ve taken a wrong step. If you’ve angered or bothered him. If you’ll see your family again.

Will it always end like this? Whenever something goes wrong, something trivial, something most people wouldn’t dwell on for more than a few seconds… will this keep happening? Will you break down each time? Will you always be this fragile, like glass?

Will it always be like this?

“[F-First],” he nearly chokes, gripping your waist to keep you upright. His heart breaks at the pitiful sight of you, like the air is knocked from his lungs just watching you suffer. He doesn’t understand what caused this, and his stomach sinks at the realization that this must be the norm for you. An underlying fear that things will fall apart with the slightest misstep, an underlying paranoia that incites the bitter bite of anxiety — because of him. Is this how easy it was to break you? Have you always been this fragile? How… how many nights were spent buried against tear-ridden pillows, crying until you doze off and wake up to another day with him? The guilt is overwhelming, the thought of you curled in your bed, surrounded by material things and yet nothing at the same time.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore. Let me help you.”

For all the times he couldn’t before, he comforts you, holds you like a lost child, soothes you in a way only a monster can soothe its prey. And you let him, desperately clinging onto the validation that you haven’t messed up in some way.

His arms close around the small of your waist, holding your trembling form tightly, scared you’ll fall if he takes one wrong step, scared you’ll shatter if he doesn't hold you together. Your sobs are choked, muffled against his chest, but the time of silence lets you regain yourself, the ringing in your ears dying down only to be replaced by the gentle lull of the ocean you adore. Your head is resting against him, those atrocious and lonely thoughts dying down for the time being, lulled into a sense of dubious security. They will plague you again, as they always do, but for now… for now, you’re grateful. He’s the source of your pain, and yet, he’s become the only remedy. It’s only when you pull back, hesitantly, that he releases you, his hand cupping your face. The pads of his thumb wipe away your glistening tears, worry etched into his face.

“Are you okay?”

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur with a pathetic sniffle, eyes avoiding his own. “I didn’t mean to ruin our outing. I’m not sure what came over me… I just, the thought of—”

He shushes your self deprecating tandem, lips ghosting over your forehead in a gentle, brief kiss, stalling there with momentary doubt that he of all people shouldn’t be comforting you. He’s always had the patience of a saint with you, now is no different. Even when you cursed and belittled him, throwing crashing objects at him, he remained unshaken. This unshakable composure is a part of who he is, and, as much as he hates watching you fall apart for his sake, he is meant to comfort you. To console you, to make this new life he’s given you something you’ll come to enjoy. Your mind has been full of thoughts, self-deprecating and hateful, no matter how close he gets to you. It’s to be expected….

“You’ll feel better once you eat.” He suggests, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

You’re grateful that he doesn’t press the sensitive subject, whether it be out of shame for his actions or pity for your current state. Slowly, he leads you to a shaded area surrounded by hand-crafted flora, set up the earlier in the morning by his own hands. On the ground is a blanket, a picnic basket set in the middle. He helps you sit down, and takes his place next to you. This serves as a welcome distraction from the embarrassing display earlier.

Giorno opens the basket, pulling out sandwiches that look different than what you’ve had before. They’re put together with care, ingredients dribbling out over the edge. A rather simple selection compared to most of the gourmet food you have here. When asked about it once, Giorno told you that your food is prepared by fine chefs. The quality of the food you had on a daily basis confirmed the fact. This looks different, more intimate somehow.

He picks up on how you eye it. “I’m not the best cook, but I wanted to try it. If it’s not to your tastes, I’ll have something else brought out.”

Your fingers brush over his as you gratefully accept it, a quiet thank you leaving your lips. His tone can almost be described as sheepish, and you swear his face looks a tad flushed. Waiting to see your impression of his food, he gazes at you with expectant eyes, trying to play it cool.

Biting into the sandwich, you’re met with the taste of tarte jelly and savory peanut butter intertwining on your tongue. In a few seconds, you finish it in its entirety, much to Giorno’s internal satisfaction. His shoulders relax at your acceptance, not realizing how much your opinion truly means to him. He had to take care of himself growing up, learning the basics of food preparation for that reason. Much of it had been forgotten now that it was no longer required from him.

You can’t help but giggle at his serious expression, instantly earning his attention. To hear such a divine sound so many times on the same day, was God smiling down upon him? It’s the only plausible explanation at how well this outing has been going. It’s more than he ever allowed himself to hope for, more than he deserved.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he tries to get to the heart of your sudden carefree attitude. “Is something wrong?”

“N-no, it’s not that,” you hold the back of your hand to your mouth, attempting to stifle the incoming bout of laughter. “It’s just… I was picturing you making this, looking all professional, with a chef’s hat and apron. Heh.”

Another bout of faint giggles, your earlier panic slowly dying away with each laugh. Giorno’s never given much thought to such things, it falls more into the territory or something Mista would point out. He doesn’t mind being the object of your amusement, not when he gets to see you radiating joy like this. Is it too much to ask for this moment to never end? Duty will call him away eventually, the thought enough to threaten his moral. He knows he’s in deep when he starts debating whether or not the meetings today really require his presence. Unfortunately, they do, as much as he’d prefer your company over greedy and corrupt men.

There’s a lull in the conversation. Unlike him, your thoughts are much less hurried, your thoughts full of thoughts of him who sits beside you, content to stare at the sky and admire the shape of fluffy clouds. Pointing out the ones that remind you of animals or other silly things, explaining to Giorno how they might somehow be connected. A story of your own in the making. Every last drop of your arbitrary rambling, he soaks in as if it held the secrets to humanity’s existence. His intensity in stark contrast to your lackadaisical approach, hands intertwined by your side. A connection between light and darkness. Your head rests on his shoulder, the scent of his cologne mixed in with the ocean air intoxicating.

Perhaps… perhaps this is what Heaven is like. No. This is better. Sitting here with you, the early morning sun shining down on you both, lifeless and still in the sky — he never wants this moment to end.

“I’m actually a pretty decent cook,” you pipe up, your thoughts still touched by the tasty picnic he’d put together himself. Your sentiment interrupts his thoughts, a proud gleam in your eyes as you toy with the plastic covering that used to hold your sandwich. “Or at least, I never gave myself food poisoning. That must mean something, right?” You giggle, brushing it off.

The thought of you cooking sends his mind spiralling. Flour smeared against your cheek, hands messy with the remnants of eggs and spices, a cute apron tied around your torso… since when did he become so sappy? It’s unfitting of someone in his position, not that he cares all that much. His enemies don’t know that you’re his greatest weakness as much as you’re his greatest strength, and hopefully, they’ll never know. He’s always thought highly of you, your recent lack of resistance serving to amplify the feelings; he wants to know more, to learn more, naturally, without the need to check in on you through the countless cameras scattered around the estate.

“I’d offer to cook for you, but I think whoever already makes the food is better than me.” You blush and play it off, noticing how intently he’s looking at you. Biting your lip, you begin to wonder if divulging this information to him was for the best. He seems awfully curious now. “Surely you’d prefer meals made by a professional.”

Giorno doesn’t think before responding with unfiltered thoughts. “You’ve made me curious now, amore. I’d love to try your cooking.”

You look down at the ground, playing with the frays on the edge of the blanket. The difficulties that would accompany cooking didn’t come to mind until he gave credence to your words.This feels too domestic, like a loving wife cooking for her husband after he returns from a long day at work. Would he enjoy your meals? What kind of dinners and breakfasts would he prefer? What kind of treats? Does he want you to make meals each time he visits? Does he have a favorite, something he’d prefer above all else? You said you were decent at cooking, but you don’t have many recipes under your arsenal, at least not from memory. Surely he’d get you some cookbooks at your soonest behest, but with the way he’s looking at you now, you’re certain he’s expecting something much more homemade, something made entirely on your own. He’s never tasted your cooking, after all…. and with how long it’s been since you’ve cooked for yourself, you’ve forgotten if it tastes as good as you remember.

Not to mention, how many tools would you be allowed to use? Giorno’s taking care in proofing the estate of anything you could use to harm him, like knives and forks, which are only provided to you during meals. All the complications alone give you a headache. It serves to showcase how impossible it can be to fully relax in Giorno’s presence, your mind always in fight or flight. A survival instinct to preserve yourself under extreme circumstances. You’d like to think those restrictions would be lessened considering how close you’ve gotten with him recently, but you know him better than that. Always calculating, always prepared, always composed...

Absorbed in your flurry of thoughts, you fail to notice Giorno is closer to you. He’s always given you appropriate distance, stuffing down his own desires in favor of keeping you comfortable. You must have made for a pitiful sight if he’s approaching you like this, brows knitting together in worry over your darkening expression. By the time you notice the stark lack of distance, you welp and nearly back away in fright, startled to find that he’s only an arm’s length away.

“I’m not… really that good, y’know.” you let out a humorless laugh, gnawing on your lower lip soon after. The words can be interpreted in a myriad of ways, far extending past the context of this situation. Your hands ball into tight fists by your side, self-deprecating emotions overflowing. Yet again, you’re on the brink of tears, in what should be a lighthearted outing.

He doesn’t look down on you, offering nothing but an overflowing well of understanding. Giorno’s touch is light, so light you wonder if you’re imagining it in the first place. His pointer finger goes underneath your chin, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles as he lifts your face up. His face is so close to your own, you feel his warm breath fan against you. Loose golden hair tickles your face, which flushes at his close proximity. His other hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the touch. Accepting any form of solace is your internal justification, but even that feels like a weak excuse now.

What this is… is starting to go beyond that. And it frightens you.

“You speak so lowly of yourself,” he frowns, not chastising you but pointing it out nonetheless. “To me… I see all your potential, your strengths. You have weaknesses, yes, as do we all. Where others fall short in this regard, you excel. Bettering yourself.” His smile grows weaker by the moment as he recalls more bitter memories. “Even in a situation like this, you have the courage to smile and laugh, to see the beauty in things.” — to see the beauty in him.

He doesn’t mention that.

He takes a deep breath, not having intended to ramble this much. You’re in awe, having never heard words pour from his lips this fast. Giorno’s always given diligent thought and calculating into every aspect of his persona around you, actions and words alike. Everything was meant to higher your opinion on him or to lull you into a false sense of ease. This confession feels authentic, without ulterior motive. Like the confession a boy would stumble through toward his crush, not the love declaration of a man with power beyond your wildest imagination.

He speaks of what he believes, unfiltered or obscured by a hidden agenda. And, despite yourself, you accept it. You embrace it, having never been spoken to in such a way, not by someone who loves you so wholeheartedly. While you might not believe his sentiments on a fundamental level, it’s enough to still your weeping heart. The ache dulls under his words, pacifying you enough to steady your erratic breathing.

His lips hesitantly brush against yours, emerald eyes asking for your permission through golden lashes. When you don’t retaliate or relent, he closes the small gap between your bodies, lips fully pressed against yours. Despite allowing it, your eyes widen at the sudden contact as his flutter closed. Quickly, you melt into the gesture, tempted to bury your hands in his loose golden locks like you have time and time before. The feeling of your lips against his is still foreign despite having spent countless nights in each other’s arms. Those kisses have always been born from passion crafted by the heat of the moment, but this was genuine. This kiss is filled with love, with adoration, and with a sense of longing and belonging he’s never felt before. His composure unravels like loose threads, his hands tangled in your hair, urging your lips impossibly closer to his.

You lose sight of yourself. Giorno is all that exists to you at this moment. His soft lips, delicate touch, and reassuring words. When your head starts to spin, lack of oxygen becoming apparent in the thralls of passion, you attempt to pull back. He seems hesitant at first, as if not wanting this sweet moment to ever end, but gives into your qualms. You always come first to him.

Everything feels so warm and tingly. Subconsciously, the tips of your fingers touch your parted lips, in slight disbelief at the whirlwind of events. He kissed you so gently, so passionately, but your lips are reddened and throbbing with excitement and… trepidation. What… what is this feeling? What does this mean? The look in his eyes just now, the gentleness in his touch, the passion in that kiss… it was unlike the rest. Long, sweet nights spent in each other's arms had never been this serendipitous, this loving. Not… not on your end at least. Is that what changed? He looks at you the same way he always does, but has the way you look at him changed? And… to what?

Your head is spinning with the implication of it all. You know the answer; you know you know the answer, but you shoot up from the blanket, unraveling yourself from the embrace of his arms, and dig your feet into the sand. You need time to think.

“[First]? Is everything alright?” He pipes up from the ground. “I didn’t do anything, did I?”

“N-no!” The words lodge in your throat again. Did he do something? To make you feel this way… did he trick you somehow? Is this all a lie? It has to be. There’s no way you could be… “I just… i-it was sudden. I’m sorry, I just need time to think….”, you trail off, breathless. You see his eyebrows knit with worry, and a brief lapse of regret passes over his features, but you don’t stay long enough to dwell on it.

He watches as you start to pace the beach, never once throwing a glance in his direction. He knows better than to assume the worst, always having been patient with your frequent withdrawals whenever things get too… much. Today is a day of fresh starts, and it’s wishful thinking to believe months of trauma could be fixed in the span of a few hours. He’s willing to wait, as he always has, but the sensation of your lips against his is mind-numbing. He wants more, truthfully. He wants to feel that way again, to feel your lips melded against his, like they belong there. Like you belong here, with him. Seeing you react like this is jarring, a cacophonous jolt to the doubt he’d banished to the far shores of his mind. The betrayal and worry on your face is hard to miss despite your attempts to hide it behind a curtain of hair. You’re biting your lip, and even though he can’t hear it, you’re muttering to yourself, unquestionably reprimanding your actions and everything that led up to that moment. You shouldn’t have kissed him, you shouldn’t have let your guard down, you shouldn’t have given into him like that — sentiments you’re no doubt thinking.

And yet, he is happy. It’s a start… but he hasn’t the right to rush you into something you may never truly want. You have no options — to push or guilt you into a relationship, no matter how desperately he may want to, is unfair. So, he exhales inaudibly, stuffing those selfish thoughts to the back of his mind as he always does. Avarice has no place here, not when he’s already taken so much. Keeping his desires to himself, while never a simple task, has grown more difficult. Now that he’s indulged in you once, he wants to come back for more. To experience love as he’s heard described to him countless times. The kind where two souls grow old together, their love never once wavering; a concept he was never keen on believing, considering his childhood which left bitter feelings that tainted his views on love time and time again. All of that changed when he met you.

You are worth the wait.

631 notes · View notes

lazyliars · 4 years ago

Text

//rp

Before I get into it, I want to state that is EXPLICITLY an analysis of the Characters, and is not intended to touch on how the cc's played them in a meta sense unless specifically stated otherwise.

Also, I just wanna put out there that I started writing this as soon as the streams ended and I LOVED THEM SO MUCH. I had such a good time watching them, and serious kudos to all the cc's for putting on such a good show.

I'm not writing this analysis to critique the way the story is being written, I really, really enjoy it, I just want to put my two cents out there on some of the differing character interpretations going on right now. I think this will come off as critical of the Syndicate, but I'm not trying to tear them down from a writing standpoint, but examine the characters' morality, the narrative direction that the story is going, and express my overall thoughts on both.

NOTE: The original post ended up breaking Tumblr's post editor because it was so goddamn long (i think??? or tumblr just hates this meta specifically.) So there is a part two to this, which I cannot link because it screws with Tumblr's tagging system. Thank you, you garbage website.

Tommy.

There is a relatively large section of people who believe that Techno and Phil's characters reactions to Tommy dying (Techno saying “pog” upon hearing that Tommy was beaten to death, and Phil's chuckling and insistence that he wasn't really dead) do not reflect on their characters' moralities.

I HUGELY beg to differ.

Tommy and Techno had a massive falling out. I'm not going to talk about who was 'right or wrong' in this situation because at the end of the day, they both ended up feeling hurt and betrayed by each other.

I think there is a degree of misplaced anger over this reaction and feeling hurt on Tommy's behalf, as he implied that he wanted to reconcile with Technoblade and clearly still cared about him on some level. However, this is audience only knowledge. Techno has no way to know this, and shouldn't be criticized for feeling more or less on same page as he was post-doomsday, seeing as Tommy never got the chance to try and make things better or even just talk to Techno, either by choice or by chance.

That being said.

Techno is the one who, himself said “I would have fought the world for you-” during their screaming match on Doomsday. Techno knows that Tommy went through something deeply traumatic due to Dream during exile, although not the whole of it. Techno is the one who took in the half-dead raccoon boy who had nothing to offer him, and tried to make him an ally.

It's not unreasonable to be shocked, surprised, or concerned that his reaction to a former friend's brutal death at the hands of his abuser was, and I quote, “Tommy's dead? Pog, I hated that guy.”

Yes, Techno feels betrayed by Tommy. But that doesn't mean that the attachment that was clearly there (again, took in the half-dead raccoon boy who had nothing to offer him) turning to spite and mild joy at his death should go without comment because “it makes sense.” It is still shocking. It is still worth examining as a character moment.

This is not meant as a critique on how cc!Techno is playing his character. I am pointing this out to say that I think this reaction was intentionally done to portray c!Techno as a person who has been so blinded by the attacks against him and the hurt he feels that he would revel in a former-friend's brutal murder, which is in my opinion, and I know this is a controversial take, kinda fucked up. (the c!techno part. Playing a messy character is pog.)

Now, none of this inherently makes Techno a villain*. He's allowed to feel however he wants about whoever he wants, and none of that makes him a villain. It does however deal a hit to his morality. It's not... good, to laugh at someone dying to their abuser in a prison. It's something that might make sense for someone in Techno's situation to do, but the fact that it makes sense doesn't mean it's not still a huge dick move.

He (and Phil for that matter) are both fairly emotionally stunted people – they struggle to express themselves well, and often hide their true feelings. It's fair to view this reaction as a form of denial, shoving down any last traces of attachment to Tommy and laughing it off instead, similar to Jack.

However, it reads less like that to me, and more like Techno has already cut Tommy, and by extension all of those residual feelings, out of his life. Which is still a coping mechanism to deal with the pain of being hurt by someone you care about.

But he and Tommy didn't fall out over nothing – Again, I don't want to get into the morality of who was right or wrong on Doomsday, but It's fair say that they both felt hurt, and had such a bad miscommunication by the end of things that it came as a surprise to them both. Even if Techno was 100% morally justified on Doomsday, the fact that he was surprised by Tommy's switching sides should be an indication that he missed something - that he needs to look beyond the surface level.

This coping mechanism is dangerous – it paints Tommy as something a lot worse than he was to Techno, and helps him further ignore the idea that he had any fault for what happened, or to perform any introspection going further.

Once again, this is not a bad writing choice. It's actually really compelling.

((*note: the definition of 'Villain' I am using here is:

1 : a character in a story or play who opposes the hero. 2 : a deliberate scoundrel or criminal.

c!Techno is not currently opposed to a 'hero' character, and he is not AFAIK deliberately being 'villainous' or 'criminal.'

I think it's important to differentiate a character that is acting amorally or immorally, from a character who is being cast narratively as a villain. More on that later.))

Phil is a little more clear cut, but also a little more ambiguous, and... that's right... you know what time it is!

IT'S SBI FAMILY DYNAMICS DISCOURSE TIME! YAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!

...no thank you actually.

The SBI family dynamic is so, so fraught, and so argued inside and out and backwards and forwards... I'm tired of it and I don't really have anything to add. I'm just gonna clarify how I personally interpret Phil's relationship to Tommy, and then move on with that assumption in mind.

Tommy seems to view Phil as a father figure, someone who he wants to impress and earn the affection of, as seen when he tries to claim that he was the sole builder of the hotel to him, and also someone who he sees a protective figure, as seen when he calls out to him in the prison, multiple times.

I've seen some people argue that the above lines aren't canon, and are meant as meta jokes about cc!Phil, and.... I disagree? Both are stated during and about lore, extremely heavy lore in the latter case when Phil is one of the first people Tommy calls out for after being resurrected. It reads to me as an intentional character moment on Tommy's part.

Whether or not Phil knows that Tommy views him this way is up for debate. I'd argue that he probably doesn't – Phil doesn't seem to think much of Tommy one way or the other, and only seems to view him as an annoying kid that followed Wilbur around.

As an aside, I have seen some people claim that c!Phil doesn't know c!Tommy at all beyond their canon interactions, but I haven't seen anything from Phil's streams to confirm this as canon? I don't catch all of his streams so it's possible that i've missed this, but it would a huge deal if so and a bit of an outlier within the overall SMP. Almost all of the characters on the SMP come in with their out-of-character dynamics to other streamers somewhat intact. If there is genuinely a clip of Phil saying that his character has not met Tommy before this, please send it to me.

I'm gonna direct anyone else curious about this topic over to @lucemferto's excellent video, link in the source. It goes over the muddled history of the SBI family dynamic in an accessible and informative way.

To summarize: I consider Tommy to view Phil as a father-figure, while Phil does not return the sentiment. That's what we're going with today, watch them canonize Tommy as his biological son tomorrow just to spite me specifically.

So, after all that, does it matter when looking at Phil's reaction to Tommy dying?

Well, not really. Phil's reaction was a lot more... reasonable. That is to say, he completely denied it and therefore did not go through any processing of it. We don't know exactly what he'd think, if he discovered it was true, and there's a good chance that we wont seeing as Tommy has been revived.

He also seemed a surprised by Techno's cold reaction, assuring Ranboo that “he has a heart in there somewhere.” It's just theory at this point, but I do think this suggests that if Tommy was proven dead, Phil probably would have a more emotional reaction.

I do want to take the chance to comment on Phil's overall relationship with Tommy though, and why it matters to his character as a whole, mainly because he canonized a little something today.

Wilbur wrote him letters.

And if you're telling me that Wilbur “Don't call me your brother I'll cry” Soot wouldn't be telling his dad about Tommy – Tommy annoying him, Tommy's stupid cobblestone towers, Tommy sacrificing his discs, Tommy, his vice president and best friend,

Then I have to ask if we're talking about the same guy.

And this is why, even if Phil's first time ever talking to Tommy was after Nov 16th(something that I highly doubt) It still wouldn't make sense for the audience to disregard Phil's more callous interactions with Tommy, such as during Doomsday, and the fact that he hasn't really taken any interest in Tommy or had any urge be active in his life.

Just like L'manberg was Tommy's last connection to Wilbur, Tommy is one of Phil's last connection to Wilbur – he is one of the last remaining things that Wilbur truly cared about, however strained it was at the end.

I think that reading Phil as a character going through a negative arc rather than a positive one is a valid interpretation. I don't think it's the only valid interpretation, but it's one that can and should be discussed by those that want to engage in analyzing the dsmp. Phil, as a character who is failing, who is genuinely doing a disservice to himself, Tommy, or both, is a facet of this character that should be examined, and his non-relationship with Tommy is a good avenue to do so.

TLDR: Techno's reaction to Tommy dying paints him as being blinded by hatred. Phil's reaction less so, but it points to a general disinterest in Tommy's life that ought to be better explored.

In part two, we'll look at the syndicate as an entity, what it's role in the story might be, and, of course...

#Dream smp #Tommyinnit #c!phil critical #c!techno critical #dream smp analysis #lazytext #i tried so SO SO HARD to prevent this from ending up in the main tags #if it slips through the cracks i WILL cry

72 notes · View notes

jingabitch · 5 years ago

Text

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell ch.3

Summary: When you were ten, Taehyung adopted you and gave you a home. Now that you’re eighteen, the sudden change in your scent perplexes and confounds him.

Pairing: wolf hybrid!tae x human!reader (all bts members are hybrids)

Word count: 10.4k

Rating: Explicit

A/N: I know I said ch3 was going to be the last one, but it got too long and there’s still a whole section left of the story so I thought it was best to post this and then write Chapter 4 as a separate part. Enjoy!

Series index

Whatever you want, it’s okay.

Both you and Taehyung thought extensively about that statement over the next few days as things started to go back to normal. You tried to tiptoe around the obvious elephant in the room, relishing the relative normalcy and freedom of the atmosphere in the apartment, now that Taehyung’s shameful secret was out, and it worked, for the most part. Nothing changed outwardly in the way you interacted with each other – you were still physically affectionate, cuddly with each other especially during bedtime – but the thought of what was to come weighed heavily on your mind, and you knew it was the same for him.

Still, you were committed to this, to him. You tried to show, without words, how seriously you were taking your promise. When he hugged you or scented you, you pressed as close as you possibly could. And, even though your human senses were dull and useless compared to his, you thought you could feel him start to relax as you demonstrated your commitment towards this. Towards him.

The talk came around, of course. Sooner than you would have liked, but probably later than it should have. In the early morning one weekend, you’d woken up to find Taehyung wrapped around you. He’d gone out the night before, but ever since his heat, you’d taken to sleeping in his bed even when he wasn’t there, knowing that he would appreciate your presence when he did come back. This in itself wasn’t unusual, since he’d always been a cuddly sleeper. He usually woke up before you and would be in the middle of his extensive morning routine by the time you got up and went to get breakfast started.

This morning, though, he was still asleep when you woke up, courtesy of his late night. You knew they’d been working really hard on their comeback, and your heart filled with tenderness at the thought of Taehyung staying late in the studio again. His front was pressed against your back, but you tried your best to reach behind you to ruffle his hair affectionately anyway.

You miscalculated, however, and your jostling caused him to stir. You froze in a panic, hoping that he would go back to sleep since he desperately needed the rest after the long week he’d had. But, instead of doing as you were silently willing him to in your head, he let out a low groan and cuddled closer to you, pressing himself to you so hard he was basically crushing you into the mattress. Feeling his morning wood pressing against your ass, you bit your lip, closing your eyes at the now-familiar combination of arousal and reluctance that threatened to overwhelm you.

“Y/n, baby…” he groans in that sleep-raspy voice, and the balance tipped towards mindless arousal. You buried your face in the pillow and tried to stifle a whimper, unsure of what you were allowed to feel or say in this situation. Would he be disgusted if you reciprocated? After all, he wasn’t in heat right now, and may not actually want you in that way, regardless of what his body said.

You, of all people, were more than familiar with the mindless nature of physiological arousal and how it could occur even if your mind was unwilling, especially after his previous heat.

The way he suddenly stiffened against you clued you into the fact that he’d noticed that you were turned on. Not for the first time you cursed his superior senses.

“Y’ smell sogood -” he slurred against your neck and you shivered. His hand gripped your hip almost too hard for a second, then snatched it back as if he was surprised that the appendage had betrayed him like that. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean -”

You could hear him panicking, and it was too early in the morning for any of that shit, so instead of saying anything you just took his hand and put it back where it was.

“Y/n… I don’t know what you want – we’ve never talked about it and…”

You turned over and pressed your face into his chest. “Whatever you want, Tae-oppa.”

You could practically hear the cogs turning in his head as he considered the implications of what you’d told him. Pushing away any negative feelings you may have secretly harboured, you tilted your face upwards to look at him, hoping that he would see the sincerity in your eyes.

“Y/n…” he said again, staring down at you before his lips crashed into yours in a heated kiss. This was the first time you’d kissed since you had come back from Yoongi’s after his heat ended. Despite the morning breath, heat flooded you as he pulled you closer to him. With a moan, you wrapped your arms around his neck and used the leverage to move yourself up on the mattress, deepening the kiss.

When Taehyung broke away to rest his forehead on yours, he was panting, his mouth shiny and slightly swollen. “Wait, wait,” he protested, although its effect was muted by the way he ran his hands over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“What is it?” you almost whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly would break the spell that had been woven around you. Everything seemed to move more slowly, feeling as though your senses had been heightened, you were so in tune with his every movement.

“Baby, I don’t know… what you want -” he started to explain in a halting voice. You were tired of explaining to him that you were giving him carte blanche, so you decided to show him.

Going for broke, you slid one hand down his bare chest, hooking your fingers in his sweats. You paused, waiting for his response, wondering if this was too much and if it was actually what he wanted. Maybe his protests about not knowing what you wanted and holding back for you were really just excuses. Maybe he didn’t actually want this?

Taehyung froze, looking down at you with wide eyes, in interminable silence. Just as you were about to pull your hand away with an awkward apology and run away forever in embarrassment, he groaned and crashed his lips back onto yours. The urgency that had been so apparent during his heat was back abruptly. A dark, shameful pride swelled in you for garnering this reaction from anyone, much less your super-hot celebrity owner.

His enthusiastic reaction gave you the confidence you needed to continue, so you snuck your hand into his sweatpants slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind and tell you to stop if he wanted to. You noticed he wasn’t wearing underwear as your hand met the warm, soft skin of his hipbone.

The sharp inhalation you heard in response had your eyes darting back up to his face, examining his expression for any indication that he wasn’t comfortable with this. Your hand paused, thumb pressing into the crease between his leg and his pelvis. He groaned, a sound of such heartfelt suffering that you began to remove your hand, intending to comfort him if he wasn’t feeling good about it anymore.

Taehyung snarled in response, grabbing your wrist and preventing you from moving. The way he kneaded the fine bones in his grasp spoke of his strength and restraint – you knew he could break you if he wanted to. Instead of forcing you to do anything, though, he gritted out, “I need to know, love, what you want me to do to you.”

Your heart swelled with adoration for him. Even in the face of clear need, he was so kind, so considerate, so good. It made your decision easy, pressing yourself closer to him to whisper, “Anything you’d like.”

That seemed to seal the deal for Taehyung. He released your wrist in favour of groping you, sliding one hand up your shirt. His big hand splayed across your belly made you shiver, a reaction that only spurred him on as he inched further up. With a breathy moan that he caught between his lips, you slid your hand in his pants and finally grasped him.

Your hand ghosted past him before wrapping around his dick firmly. Taehyung shuddered, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Being wrapped up with him like this made it all too easy to forget that he was a hybrid. Maybe you could do this, after all, you thought optimistically. Hybrids were mostly human too, right?

You started with a slow, steady pace, gliding your hand up and down his erection as he whined and panted. He tried to continue kissing you but got distracted, eventually just hiding his face in your neck as he held on to you, palming your breast under your camisole. The way his palm rasped against your nipple sent a bolt of heat rushing through you to pool in your core.

“Shit,” he huffed, a sentiment you wholeheartedly agreed with, as his fingers stole into your panties. You were almost embarrassed about the sticky mess you’d made of yourself, but when he found your clit you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “Fuck, Y/n.” The syllables of your name sounded so filthy when he moaned them like a prayer or a curse – it didn’t matter which. “You’re so wet.” You squirmed as he said it, desperate for more friction.

As his thumb circled your clit, the pad of his finger eliciting delicious sensations from you, his fingers slipped down, pushing into your pussy, which was so wet that he slid right in. The slight stretch was so amazing that you immediately clenched down on him. You were so distracted that you almost forgot what you were doing, your grip loosening on his erection as your motions slowed down, becoming almost mechanical. His whine of protest against your lips snapped you back to reality, though, and you started jerking him off with renewed vigor. You shouldn’t have forgotten what this was all for, you chastised yourself.

Taehyung’s reactions told you that he was close enough as it was, but you wanted to be good for him, to make him happy. You wanted to go the extra mile, so you employed a little trick that you’d figured out towards the end of your previous relationship. On the upstroke, you twisted your hand slightly and then ran your thumb across the head of his cock, smirking as you felt his breath wash over your face in a shaky exhale. When you noticed him trying to subtly thrust up into your hand, you took it as a good sign.

Just to really seal the deal, you reached down with your other hand to cup his balls. You were pretty hesitant with this because you knew not everyone liked it, but you figured it was a risk worth taking. Just having your hand there seemed to send him stratospheric, though. You tried not to show your triumph on your face as he groaned, coming all over your hand. His own ministrations on you ceased as he came, and you pushed away the disappointment, continuing to milk him through his orgasm.

When he was done, he slumped against you, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as you gingerly removed your soiled hand from his pants. Scent was a big thing for him, and he could smell his cum on you, something that made his spent cock twitch again. Humming, you brought your hand to your face, deliberately licking it clean in front of his transfixed gaze. This was something your ex-boyfriend had liked, and you were sure that Taehyung would enjoy it even more.

You knew you were right when you heard his shaky whimper. He drove his fingers into you with renewed determination, as if intending to reward you for being so good. “Fuck, you’re so hot, so good for me…” He kept up the stream of filth as he continued working you over, refusing to let up even as you came on his hand, clenching down on his fingers as your cream dripped out of you. It wasn’t until your cries of ecstasy faded into little moans of pain when overstimulation began to set in that he removed his hand.

He brought the soaked fingers to his face in a reversal of what had just transpired as he looked at them, sighed, then sucked them clean. “You taste so fucking good, Y/n,” he moaned around his fingers. “I can’t wait to taste it straight from the source.”

Coming from anyone else, the line might have been cringey, but the way Taehyung said it so matter-of-factly as he stared you down caused a little shiver to run down your spine. You knew that you should clean up, but just in case he hadn’t gotten the message, you squirmed ever closer to him. “You only need to ask,” you promised.From the way his gaze darkened again, you knew he’d finally gotten the message.

After that, things seemed to ease up around the apartment. Taehyung no longer held himself stiffly around you as if he was holding himself back. He now allowed himself to scent you or demand physical affection when he needed it. Though you hadn’t slept together yet, he was pretty much content with the way things were now since you never denied him anything he needed. There had been a whole lot of handjobs and blowjobs. He never pushed, and you never asked, secretly grateful that he seemed satisfied with what you were currently doing - you didn’t think you were ready for sex either. Not that you would deny him anything if he wanted it.

Taehyung, as you were beginning to find out, was a bit of a monster between the sheets. It wasn’t just his high sex drive, which you supposed must be normal for hybrids, but his penchant for domination that was something you had to adjust to. If you were sucking him off, he would more often than not take control and fuck your face, holding your hair looped around his fist tightly, the pressure on your scalp just the wrong side of painful. He enjoyed edging you till you cried, something which you were far less enthused about than he was.And his hands found themselves wrapped around your neck more often than not,.

It was all so uncharacteristic of the normally gentle and kind man you’d always known, but you were, quite frankly, living for it, pleased that he was comfortable enough with you to show that side of him.

Other than that, though, he walked with an ease that hadn’t been there for months now, smiled more, and generally seemed looser and more relaxed.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, either. All the other boys did too, and it was Namjoon who finally cornered Taehyung one morning when they were alone together in the studio to ask about it.

“You sorted things out with Y/n-ie then?” he asked while they were sitting together in front of the control panel, playing back Taehyung’s vocals and fiddling with how it would sound on the track.

Taehyung tried (and mostly failed) to subdue his grin. You’d woken him up with a blowjob that sucked his soul right out of him this morning, and he still couldn’t feel his toes. So yeah, he’d say things were pretty damn good with you at home. “I did, yes,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

Namjoon looked at him suspiciously. He’d kept his discovery to himself, hoping that he wouldn’t have to say anything, but now it looked like he might have no choice. He couldn’t bear the thought of his brother walking into a sexual relationship with a human without having all the necessary information. After all the humans had done to their kind…

“Yeah? What did she say?” he probed further, hoping against hope that all you’d done was talk about it and then returned to the parameters of your previous relationship. The way colour bloomed across Taehyung’s cheeks dashed his fruitless hopes.

“She, uh, said…” he floundered for an instant. He’d never been secretive about his sex life, especially not with his brothers, but this time was different. He was still worried about any judgment he could receive even though Namjoon had been so understanding and kind when he’d had his heat. Still, wanting to be in a sexual relationship with his pet human was different from actually embarking on one, he knew that.

The way Namjoon raised his brow at him let him know that he’d basically figured it out already, and reluctantly, Taehyung mumbled, “She let me do whatever I wanted.”

That, more than anything, had Namjoon seeing red. His brother, ultimately innocent in all of this, saying that you, a human, was letting him do what he wanted. He knew logically that none of this was your fault, and you were trying to cope with a situation that was highly irregular, to say the least. Yet you were still a human. You still descended from the race that had made Taehyung the way he was, and the fact that Taehyung didn’t even know how fucked up the whole situation was made him burn up inside.

“Taehyung, before you get further into this… thing… with Y/n,” Namjoon said in a low voice, “I need to tell you something.”

Taehyung’s brow crinkled when he heard Namjoon’s tone, the way he’d described his budding relationship with you so disdainfully, but he nodded and leaned in to listen to Namjoon rather than yelling at him about it. It was, after all, highly inappropriate to pick a fight with your elders, a lesson that he’d learned well.

Namjoon sighed. He really didn’t want to tell Taehyung, knowing that it likely wouldn’t benefit anyone. Taehyung would be shocked and furious over something he couldn’t help or change, and who knew the damage that it could have on his relationship with you. Now, though, knowing that you’d gotten involved with each other, he couldn’t help but wish he’d said something earlier.

“Do you remember when I said I would do a bit of digging about your whole… situation?” Namjoon tried to put it as delicately as possible.

Taehyung nodded slightly hesitantly. Truth be told, he’d pretty much forgotten all about that, so warmly ensconced in the bubble that the two of you had built together in the apartment. He supposed that whatever Namjoon had to say, it wouldn’t really matter, he thought, since the problem had already been resolved, and quite favourably, at that.

“So, uh…” Namjoon fumbled awkwardly, not sure how to begin. Despite his determination to tell Taehyung the truth, he found himself almost unable to speak the words. Seeing Taehyung’s wide-eyed, trusting gaze, however, gave him the strength he needed to push through, to tell his brother what he needed to know.

He told him everything he’d found out, starting from the beginning, leaving no uncomfortable, disturbing detail out.

“You know when hybrids were still being manufactured…?” he started. Taehyung nodded, and Namjoon swallowed before continuing. “You know many hybrids were created to be companions for humans, right?”

Another nod.

“Well, when they started creating wild animal hybrids, there was, um… a problem.”

Taehyung raised a brow inquiringly but didn’t interrupt.

“Wild animals aren’t naturally docile or friendly towards humans, you know? They don’t bond with humans in the same way, are less loyal, and so on. And with so many humans buying hybrids to be companions for their children, there was a real demand for hybrids that fulfilled the desire for ‘exotic’ pets. But they had to still be safe to have around kids, and would still create the lifelong bond hybrid breeders advertised.”

Namjoon looked massively uncomfortable talking about this and Taehyung understood. His lips thinned in displeasure hearing about all of this secondhand, especially at the dehumanizing terms used to describe the hybrid industry of the past. None of this was public knowledge though. No one wanted to teach their children about all of the messed up things that humans had done to hybrids in such excruciating, graphic detail. Now that things were better, there was no point in having them rehashed. He opened his mouth to tell his brother that, but Namjoon, pre-empting Taehyung’s interruption, held his hand up to indicate that Taehyung should continue listening.

“It turns out that… hybrid breeders tried to force that bond between humans and their hybrid pets.” Namjoon paused, assessing Taehyung’s reaction. The younger man’s jaw worked, but he nodded, indicating for him to continue.

“Some genetic scientists managed to isolate the genome sequence in certain animals that mate for life, like penguins, seahorses… wolves…” He gestured at the wolf hybrid, and Taehyung nodded again, more grimly this time.

“Through breeding, genetic splicing, and manipulation, they were able to engineer a process in select hybrids causing hybrids to form a very… intimate and secure bond with their owners.” Namjoon cringed as he said it, hoping that Taehyung would understand without him having to spell it out. The confused look on the younger man’s face dashed those hopes quickly.

“Uh… what does that mean?” Taehyung asked.

“Damn it, Tae, they made it so that hybrids would mate with their humans.” Namjoon cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, not having wanted to explain it in such blunt terms. Taehyung looked stricken, his mouth gaping open slightly as his brow furrowed.

“I – what – how?”

Namjoon sighed and patted the couch next to him, letting Taehyung snuggle close in the hopes that his physical proximity would provide some comfort. As soon as Taehyung scooched closer, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders, trying to convey without words that they would get through this together.

“They somehow managed to manipulate the gene sequence so that hybrids would latch on to a human, forming a mate bond with them, so they could ensure hybrids would stay loyal to their owners. This way hybrids wouldn’t pose a threat to their human companions. From what I understood, the imprinting process is triggered when a human and hybrid are in close proximity with each other throughout their adolescences – so hybrids would only form the bond with their companion, and not any other humans in the household.”

“But – I don’t understand. When I bought Y/n, I was already in my twenties… I was an adult. Even if what you’re saying is true, the imprinting process shouldn’t have been triggered between Y/n and I.” Taehyung’s voice was becoming faint as he tried to process the magnitude of what Namjoon was telling him. Did that mean everything that he was feeling for you… was a lie?

“Biologically, hybrids’ adolescence lasts a lot longer than humans’ because of the way we were engineered – apparently, human owners liked for their hybrids to remain playful and curious for as long as possible. When you adopted Y/n you were nearing the end of your adolescence and she was just starting, so the timing just matched up.”

“I – why didn’t I know about this, then? I should have been told, before…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Tears were pricking at his eyes as he choked back a horrified sob. Violated didn’t even begin to describe how he felt right now. His own body had betrayed him, fulfilling a purpose he hadn’t even known about or agreed to. It felt like he was a prisoner in his own body, deprived of basic autonomy, so completely helpless against the meddling of human scientists in centuries past that had created him to fulfill someone else’s agenda. All this talk of profit and the wants and needs of human owners who hadn’t even viewed hybrids as people made him sick.

Namjoon hugged him close. He could understand the inner turmoil that his brother was facing – he’d been horrified and sickened to find out all of this, and all of this was secondhand to him. To find out that you weren’t the master of your own body… it was chilling. “Hybrids who could form such bonds were very rare, because the technology was so expensive,” he answered Taehyung’s question. “And because hybrids who formed such bonds with their humans rarely procreated, the government thought it was safe to assume that this gene had died out.”

Taehyung could barely form words, he was so worked up, and he was trembling in Namjoon’s arms. “I can’t – I can’t be here,” he muttered, shoving his brother away as he tried to make a break for the door. He wanted to claw his skin off, escape his body, the body that had been created to bond him to another without his consent.

Worried, Namjoon got up to follow him. “Tae, where are you going?” he asked in concern.

Taehyung grabbed his keys from the table next to the door and exited the room. “I need to be alone right now, hyung,” he called over his shoulder, stalking down the hall to the elevators.

“Tae, come on, you shouldn’t be driving right now,” Namjoon ran after him, trying to make him see reason.

Abruptly, Taehyung stopped and rounded on him. “Let me make my own fucking decisions just once, hyung,” he snapped.

Namjoon stopped in his tracks. He was right, he knew that. It might be dangerous for him to be alone right now, but at least it was a decision that he could make for himself. In Taehyung’s current state of mind, safety was secondary to feeling like he was actually in control of his own body and emotions after having everything he’d ever known be disrupted so cruelly.

“All right, just… be careful, okay?”

Taehyung nodded as he continued walking and Namjoon sighed. He didn’t know if he’d handled that well, but to be fair, there really was no good way to handle a situation like this. How do you tell your brother something so disgusting?

When he got into the car, Taehyung didn’t really know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from the studio, to process what he’d been told properly. He wished he could get away from the body he was an unwilling prisoner in, but that wasn’t possible for him. Out of habit, he drove back to his own apartment, barely realizing where he was going until he was sitting in the parking garage, still panting, gripping his steering wheel like a lifeline. His knuckles had turned white, and it felt like the steering wheel was going to crumble in his hands.

It wouldn’t be the only thing that had, he thought sardonically.

Every time his mind flickered back to the bombshell that Namjoon had dropped on him, he got pissed all over again. That sense of revulsion, of hating your body, permeated every inch of his soul. He wanted to scream, to cry and throw things, but none of that would help. There wasn’t anything that could free him from his prison.

Almost woodenly, he got out of his car and made his way back to the apartment. When he opened the front door and stepped inside he was immediately assailed with the scent of food. He rounded the corner and saw you standing in front of the stove, stir-frying some pork with onions in spicy sauce. Next to that, a pot of stew was coming to boil. It was all so domestic and he hated it. He despised how his body relaxed against his will at your presence, he knew now that it was only a product of manipulation, so he would remain docile around you. A built-in muzzle. The thought made his fists clench.

Of course, you didn’t know anything about all of that, so when he came to a halt behind you, you just turned your head to greet him, still stirring the meat in the pan. “Tae-oppa, you’re home early,” you chirped, a sound that just this morning would have made him melt. You’d turned back to the stove after a cursory glance at him, so you hadn’t noticed his expression.

He was scowling at you, his eyes spitting fire. How could you be so blasé about everything, when he was so tormented by his imprint? You’d even fooled him into believing that this sick desire he had for you was something acceptable, that you were the one doing him a favour. How dare you, after your people had messed with his entire genetic makeup, made him into a freak, greet him so casually like nothing was wrong. The resentment and rage filled him as he stood there staring at you.

This was your fault, after all. If he hadn’t adopted you that day none of this would have happened. He would still be normal, maybe able to have a normal relationship with a hybrid woman. You were the one who’d triggered this latent timebomb inside him, the reason why his body wouldn’t listen to his mind. Even now, when all he wanted was to yell, to throw things and be angry, it felt like he was chained, unable to do anything that might distress you.

This was unacceptable. How dare you stand there cooking dinner, so completely unaffected. You tasted the meat, made a satisfied noise, then turned off the burner, picking up the pan and turning to the island to plate it. “You should go get changed, oppa. Dinner should be ready soon,” you said, shaking the food onto the plate you’d set out beforehand.

When he didn’t respond to you, you looked up curiously. The sheer vitriol and hatred in his gaze made you pause. “Oppa, you okay?” you queried hesitantly. “Did you have a bad day or something?” Putting the pan down, you started making your way around the island to go to him.

“Stay away from me.” The words were snarled with more venom than you’d ever heard in your usually affable owner’s voice. Unease started to trickle down your spine. You couldn’t figure out why he was so angry at you, when everything had been fine just this morning before he’d left for work.

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, you nevertheless tried to defuse the situation, your instincts screaming at you to de-escalate before something bad happened. “Hey, whatever happened, it’s all right, we can talk about it, right?” You raised your hands up in his direction placatingly.

He growled at you. “Talking is what got me into this mess!” he yelled, making you flinch back in fear. He’d never raised his voice with you before, and you didn’t know how to react.

“T-Tae-oppa…” you whimpered, shrinking in on yourself.

Taehyung welcomed the twinge in his heart and the discomfort he felt, his body pumping out hormones and chemicals in a bid to control his mind and take over his decisions. Defying the instincts of the body that had betrayed him, even if it hurt physically, especially because it hurt, gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction. That he was taking his freedom and autonomy back from the nameless, faceless human scientists who’d intentionally taken it away from him. Even the pain felt good, like he was punishing his body for betraying him.

The scent of your tears starting to leak from your eyes as you sniffled made him feel guilty for a second, before the rage came roaring back, more potent than ever. How dare you make him feel like the asshole when everything that was happening now was a result of you and your fellow humans? Hadn’t he suffered enough after being forced into a sexual relationship with a human and made to struggle with what he’d thought were unnatural desires?

“Get out.” He surprised you both with the demand. As your eyes flew back to his face, widening in shock and horror, you could see his mouth drop open slightly, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it. Your vision quickly became blurry from the tears filling your eyes and you wiped them away with the sleeve of your cardigan.

“Tae-oppa, please,” you pleaded, dread filling you at the prospect of being cast out on the streets. It felt like your ribcage was closing in on your lungs and you couldn’t breathe. The worst part was that you didn’t even know why this was happening all of a sudden. You had no idea why everything had gone so wrong so abruptly or what mistake you could have possibly made that warranted this.

Overwhelmed with panic, you stumbled towards him, your hands outstretched, begging him to reconsider. “Tae-oppa, please, just tell me what I did wrong; I promise I’ll change, give me another chance, please!” It looked like he was starting to soften, but then you reached him and grabbed his hand, holding his much larger one between both of yours, and his expression closed off again.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he said in a calmer voice that was nonetheless brimming with anger. When you were slow to react, your mind unable to process the 180-degree change in his entire attitude from this morning, he continued. “Get your filthy fucking hands off me, you disgusting human,” he spat, pulling his hand away from yours.

Stunned and horrified by his words, you let your hands drop uselessly to your sides. Your eyes filled again with tears and this time you didn’t bother wiping them away. This was your worst nightmare. You didn’t know what had happened today to cause it, but somehow he’d come to his senses and realized that this relationship the two of you had was sick, disgusting, wrong, and he rightfully blamed you. After all, you were the one who’d initiated, who’d chosen to give in to his instincts when you should have known better.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice broken.

“Sorry? What fucking good does sorry do now?!” Furiously, Taehyung swept all the dishes off the island, and you leapt in fright as it all crashed onto the floor. The plate shattered and the pork was flung all over, making a mess. You stared in shock at the shards of porcelain and the meat strewn across the floor, then back to Taehyung.

“Tae-oppa, please, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again-” Reduced to begging, that was all you could say as panic began filling your lungs and weakening your muscles. When he didn’t react, you sank onto your knees, not sure whether it was by choice or whether your legs had just given out on you. Tears ran down your face freely now as you looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of the kindness and love that you usually saw in his expression.

His stony countenance revealed none of it. “I don’t want to look at you anymore,” he responded coldly.

“No, Tae, please, please-” He couldn’t be serious, you thought wildly. You had nowhere to go; your whole life revolved around him…

When you were slow to respond physically, he grabbed your wrist. It was an action he’d done many times before, but never like this. Never with this dispassionate look in his eyes, like he was taking out the trash. You sobbed helplessly as he dragged you to the front door, casting you out and slamming it in your face.

And then you were alone.

The silence that followed the door slam was deafening. Taehyung looked around the apartment, feeling like a red fog had been lifted from his eyes. Now that you were gone, it was almost as if whatever hold you’d had on him had broken. He was still angry, panting slightly from his physical and emotional exertion, but it seemed that reason had returned to him.

It was almost eerily calm in the apartment now that he was alone, after everything that had transpired in the same space just minutes ago. He turned away from the door and walked back through the apartment again to the kitchen, his mouth twisting into a frown as he looked at the mess he’d made. As he bent to clear up the mess, the rhythmic motions of the mindless, banal task was somewhat soothing to him, slowly numbing the anger he’d felt.

He still didn’t want to think too closely about the whole situation or you, because he wasn’t ready to unpack all of it yet. While he figured it out, he figured you’d be safe enough, probably already on the way to Yoongi’s place, or one of the other members’. It was probably for the best that you spent some time apart anyway, regardless of how harshly it had been initiated. God knows he wouldn’t have been able to spend time just hanging around you like everything was all right, now that he knew what he did. Even though rationally he knew that you had nothing to do with the whole imprinting thing, and it wasn’t your fault, he couldn’t look at you anymore without remembering the way his free will had been stolen away from him, so neatly and wholly that he hadn’t even realized it was happening.

The thought was horrifying to him, sending a shiver snaking down his spine. No, it was better that you stayed away for the time being, he thought, throwing everything in the trash and exiting the kitchen.

After all, as much as your presence had manipulated him, he knew he was a danger to you as well.

You were cold. It was mid-March, and while it wasn’t as miserable now than it had been in February, the weather was still too harsh to be wandering around the streets at night, especially in the clothes you were wearing. You looked down at your feet, clad in the fluffy house slippers you’d been wearing in the apartment when Taehyung – when he –

No. You shook your head and wrapped your hoodie more tightly around your body, refusing to think about it. Even now, tears were starting to prick at your eyes as you sniffled, and you knew that if you let yourself replay the events of the evening in your head, you’d start bawling. It was bad enough being a lone human in pajamas wandering around the streets of Seoul; if you started crying, you’d attract even more attention.

You’d wandered around the expensive neighbourhood for a while, unsure where to go. You didn’t have your phone or anything else, since Taehyung had kicked you out with no warning, so you couldn’t call anyone for help. Not that you’d know who to go to. Your whole life in Seoul revolved around Taehyung, and you didn’t know anyone outside of that. If he was so mad at you, you were sure his members would be too, so as much as you wanted to just hide out in Yoongi’s apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to go there. You didn’t think you could take it if he started yelling at you too.

Eventually you started walking to the only place you could think of – the shelter you’d been adopted from. You didn’t know if they would even take you in, but the lady in charge back then had been kind and warm, and you didn’t know where else to go. It was a long walk to the shelter, and it wasn’t the safest place to be alone at night, but it wasn’t like you had anywhere else to be, you thought slightly bitterly. You couldn’t say you blamed Taehyung for doing what he’d done, but obviously being homeless in Seoul in early spring wasn’t ideal.

It was late by the time you reached the neighbourhood where the shelter was, and even colder. Your nose was dripping, and you dragged your sleeve against it impatiently as you walked down the street. Here, the buildings weren’t as sleek and pretty as they were in Taehyung’s fancy neighbourhood, and the grey concrete and dirty walls were far less inviting. There was more than one abandoned lot, which would probably have been overgrown with weeds in the summer but were now just barren dirt.

You hadn’t been back here in almost ten years, and hadn’t missed it, either. Honestly, you wouldn’t have been upset never having come back here in your life, but sadly that just wasn’t how things had worked out. Your hands were shoved in your pockets as your shoulders hunched over, trying to make yourself seem as small and unnoticeable as possible. It really wasn’t the best neighbourhood, and you didn’t think you knew how to defend yourself if someone tried to start something with you.

Finally turning onto the street where you knew the shelter was, you breathed a sigh – you didn’t think you’d ever seen any adult humans there, but maybe the lady who’d taken care of you back then would let you stay a night, give you a hot meal…

The shelter was gone.

You stared up at the now-decrepit building with teary eyes, despair building in you. It had never been the best-looking building, since the shelter was permanently underfunded, but now it just looked sad. Some of the windows were boarded up, and bits of plaster had fallen off. It was abandoned now, dark and cold inside.

Just like you. You sniffled, trying to hold back the sobs and quell the panic rising in you. This had been your last idea, and now it was gone and you had literally nowhere else to go.

With one last look, you walked away. It was late now, past midnight, and you had to find somewhere to spend the night. It was too cold to just be on the streets, and you were sure you’d catch your death sooner rather than later in this weather. You sniffled again, wiping your eyes and nose on the now sodden sleeve of your hoodie, and shivered.

You ended up where it seemed lots of homeless people did, at an underground sheltered walkway leading to a subway station. You definitely weren’t the first one there, and you grimaced at the sight of hybrids and humans alike lying on the floor along the sides of the walkway. Sitting down gingerly in an empty spot and leaning against the wall, you sighed and closed your eyes. The walkway was warmer than it was outside, but it wasn’t comfortable, definitely nowhere near as nice as where you’d been sleeping just last night.

It was only now that you realized how fortunate you’d been all these years, living the pampered life of a pet. Going from your first owner to the shelter had been an adjustment, but now you craved the sense of security of having a roof over your head, even one that hadn’t been ideal, which the shelter definitely hadn’t been. In fact, until tonight you’d thought living in the shelter was the lowest point of your existence. Now you’d do anything to be back there.

You wanted to scream, cry and throw a tantrum, but you bit the inside of your cheek to hold your tears back. There was no point, and you’d just be disturbing the other people who were already asleep. Now that you were sitting down, somewhere warm(ish) and safe(ish), all the despair over your situation that had been held at bay by the need to find a place to spend the night was flooding in. Without anyone to contact and no other recourse that you knew of, you found yourself in a hopeless and terrifying situation. How could you go from the pampered existence you’d led all your life to this? You didn’t know how to take care of yourself, how to get food or find shelter. The thought that you’d be an easy target on the streets chilled you to the bone, and you almost didn’t want to sleep so you would remain aware of your surroundings.

Still, the physical exhaustion from walking all over Seoul proved too much for you, and before you knew it, you’d succumbed to a fitful, restless sleep, slumped against the wall with your head resting on your bent knees.

Any hope you might have harboured that all of this was just a bad dream vanished the moment you became aware of the uncomfortable position you were in, before you even opened your eyes. You kept them stubbornly shut for as long as you could, not wanting to acknowledge the situation you were in, but eventually you had no choice. The sounds of your fellow homeless brethren getting up and picking their cardboard mattresses off the ground (and wasn’t that a depressing thought) filtered through your senses, and finally you got up.

Your back and neck were killing you after spending the whole night slumped in that uncomfortable crouched position, and you grimaced as you stretched yourself out. Nature called, and you found a subway restroom to use, then tried to clean up the best you could in the sink, using toilet paper as a towel. Needless to say, you still felt gross but it was the best you could do at such short notice.

Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you sighed at the sight that greeted you. You were still in your pajamas, only they were dirty and slightly smelly from your adventures last night. As if on cue, your stomach growled to add to your misery, and you frowned. You had no idea where to get food, and now you really looked and smelled like you were homeless. Thankfully, you still had the hair tie that was always around your wrist, and you used it to tie your hair in a bun so at least it wouldn’t look that greasy and disgusting.

Walking out of the restroom, you aimlessly followed the crowd as you thought about your next move. Life as Taehyung’s pet had been easy and fun, never having to worry about where your next meal would come from, or about anything in life, really. He’d always spoiled you so much, but now that you were on your own, you were quickly realizing how woefully unprepared you were.

The hunger was a constant gnawing ache at your insides, distracting you. Now that people were on their way to work, you could see them holding all sorts of delicious treats in their hands. Hotteok, sandwiches… it all made your stomach growl. You were standing pitifully next to an office building, watching the nearby cart vendor frying up some delicious hotteok, when a hybrid wearing a suit approached you.

“Excuse me…” he said, and you just about leapt out of your skin in surprise, before turning to stare at him with wide eyes. He looked like a common dog hybrid, and you relaxed a little. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a threat, since all hybrids were stronger and faster than humans, but going by the ears perched on his head, he was a Samoyed breed, and they were always super friendly.

“Hello…” you said hesitantly, still unsure of what he wanted.

“I saw you looking at the hotteok, do you want one?” he asked.

“Oh…” You looked at the hotteok stand again before turning your gaze back to the Samoyed hybrid and nodding eagerly. “Yes, please!” you chirped, and he smiled as he went to the vendor, fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

Later, as you munched on the sweet, warm treat, you thought that maybe being homeless wouldn’t be that bad after all.

It turns out, of course, that you were a fucking idiot to have believed that for a moment. Towards the end of your first full day on the streets, having eaten nothing but the hotteok all day, you finally had an epiphany moment.

Hangang Park.

It was perfect. It was full of picnicking families with children who were all too keen to give tidbits to humans, plus there were always leftovers. You remembered happier times in your life, when you’d gone to have picnics at Hangang Park with the boys. They’d always over-ordered from delivery joints, wanting enormous varieties of food, and you’d ended up with way too much food for even seven hybrid men and one human to finish.

It took you another day on foot to get to Hangang Park, and you’d been ecstatic when you arrived. Finally, you thought, things should get easier. Food, public toilets that you could use, and maybe even some shelter if you could commandeer a tent.

When you finally arrived, it was getting dark and you sighed. Most people would have left by now; hopefully there were still a few stragglers who were looking to get rid of leftover food. As you walked through the entrance of the park, weaving around the barricades meant to get people to dismount from their bikes, you shoved your hands in the pockets of your hoodie uncertainly. You’d never had to do anything like this before, and it was scary and nerve-wracking.

As you selected a bench near a group still picnicking, you could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Somehow your adrenaline was rushing, even though all you really had to do was look sad and hungry when they were packing up, and hopefully they would decide to give you their leftover food rather than tossing it in the bin. Still, now that you hadn’t eaten in over a day, and had only tap water from public restrooms to drink, the stakes almost felt higher than anything you’d ever done in your life. Which was true, you supposed, since you’d led such a mundane and blessed life. Everything had always been provided for you.

Thankfully, you looked sufficiently pitiful for the group of friends to spot you when they were starting to pack up, and one of them beckoned you over with a hand. You happily got up and rushed over, making sure to put that extra bounce in your step to look even cuter than usual.

“Do you want some food?” the girl asked, pitching her voice a little higher than usual. You nodded eagerly, playing up the doe-eyed effect that usually had hybrids melting. She smiled at you in response, and her friend handed you a container with some fried chicken, and another with a few pieces of tteokbokki floating around in a bright red sauce.

“Thank you,” you chirped, holding the food in your hands, and they chuckled as they took turns petting you. You didn’t love it when strangers touched you, since you’d spent most of your life around familiar people, but you let them do it nonetheless and saw them off with a cutesy “bye-bye!” before going back to the bench to eat your spoils.

Before you could put the first rice cake in your mouth, though, you were surrounded by four people, all glaring down at you.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you fucking bitch?” the one standing right in front of you said. Not loudly, but with so much anger and venom in his tone that you dropped the rice cake back into the sauce in surprise.

“Huh?” was all you could manage.

He snatched the container you were holding from you. “This is ours,” he snapped.

You frowned up at him, rising to your feet. He was big, though, and as you tilted your head up to look at him properly, you felt a frisson of fear run down your spine. The hunger gnawing a hole in your insides made you braver than you normally were, though, and you snatched the tteokbokki back. “No, it’s not; the hybrids gave it to me.”

“They were on our turf,” the guy standing to your right snapped. He wasn’t as tall as the first one, but still taller than you, and broad and muscular enough that you shrank away.

“I just wanted some food,” you protested, casting your gaze downwards. “I haven’t had anything to eat in almost two days.”

“That’s not our fucking problem,” a third one snapped. He was the smallest of the four of them, almost petite in frame, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. In fact, he radiated a menacing aura, glaring at you so fiercely with his fists clenched at his sides that you fought the urge to whimper in fright.

At this point, you knew that it was hopeless to try and intimidate them into giving you your food back, not least because you had no idea how to actually defend yourself on the streets. The despair and hopelessness caught up with you, and you sagged back onto the bench. Now that it became clear that they would actually take your first meal in almost two days from you, you didn’t have enough energy to stand or hold back the tears that had been pricking at your eyes since you were first cast onto the streets.

You sobbed helplessly into your hands, which were pressed against your hot cheeks. “Please, just let me have some food,” you begged, forcing the words out between sobs and gasps for air. “I didn’t know this was your turf, I’ll leave after this, I swear.”

With your head in your hands, you didn’t notice the four of them sharing glances over your head. “Hey,” the last one knelt on the ground to try and look at you, although you stubbornly kept your face hidden, not wanting them to see you like this. It was shameful enough that you were reduced to this, begging for scraps of leftovers. He was persistent, though, and you finally removed your hands from your face, swiping across it aggressively with the sleeve of your hoodie.

“You’re new here, right? The whole park is divided into territories by different groups of humans; you’ll have to leave unless you can join a gang.”

“Oh…” That was all you could say in the moment. Leave? This was the only place you’d thought of after days on the streets where you could have a reliable supply of food. If you had to leave the park, you were convinced that you’d starve. Tears threatened to spill out of your eyes again.

“Hey, don’t cry…” The large one started shifting uncomfortably, and made to put his hand on your shoulder, but then pulled it back right before it actually made contact.

“I don’t know what to do; I’m so hungry…” you whimpered, all the frustration and despair from the last few days spilling out of you.

“We can take you in, but you have to contribute something; we can’t just adopt dead weight,” the smallest man informed you, his arms crossed over his chest. You looked up hopefully, wiping your face and sniffling.

“R-really?” you said in a small, hopeful voice. “I can contribute, I promise I’ll do anything! I think hybrids like me; I could get more food, I’m sure…” you offered, your voice trailing off uncertainly as you took in their unimpressed expressions.

“All of us can do that,” the big one explained with a shrug. “It doesn’t look like you can fight, either…” He eyed you up and down as he said it, and you fought the urge to hunch in on yourself, his blatant scrutiny making you slightly uncomfortable.

You bit your lip hesitantly, and when all of them focused on your mouth, you understood what it was they wanted.

“Okay,” you acquiesced, resigned. The tall one held his hand out, and you put yours in it, forcing yourself to smile up at him as he tugged on you to pull you closer to him. His other arm wrapped around your waist, and you feigned happiness as you found your cheek pressed against his chest.

Over the next two weeks, you began to settle into your new life. Thankfully, now that you’d been taken in by the group (which called themselves, strangely enough, Big Bang) things got a little better survival-wise. There was enough food that you didn’t starve, even if you were never full and satiated. They let you sleep in the giant tent they had, and once, when they’d collected enough spare change you’d all gone to a laundromat and washed your clothes.

If only the price to pay wasn’t so high.

In all honesty, all of them were insanely good looking, and in a different life you probably would have been more than happy to hook up with any or all of them over and over again. But this situation… it was, in a word, horrifying. Knowing that ‘no’ wasn’t an option because they could kick you out at any moment and leave you alone again tainted every interaction you had with them, even non-sexual ones. You couldn’t even blame them, because you knew that in order to feed you all of them were eating less, and in this short amount of time on the streets you knew that if you were in their position, you wouldn’t be rushing to adopt another stray either, especially one that didn’t contribute much. It was just unfortunate that this was basically the only way you could earn your keep in the group.

Waking up to a boner shoved rudely against your ass or hands up your shirt wasn’t something that was new in itself either; that had happened to you many times while you were living with Taehyung, particularly in the last month or so. Thinking about that made you kind of depressed, though, so you tried not to, although you wondered if this was karma for that. It probably was.

It wasn't that any of them were particularly nasty, so you didn't have the comfort of hating them. In fact, sometimes they could be downright sweet to you, saving you an extra bite of a sweet treat or something. In fact, the small one, whose name you found out was Jiyong, even saved you half a chocopie once that some kid hadn't been able to finish.

Maybe the arrangement you had wasn't such a bad thing, after all? You figured, as pessimistic as it was, that this was probably a permanent arrangement for you, and it didn't make sense to spend so much time and energy thinking about how much you hated your life. If you can't change something, change the way you think about it, and all that - although you had your doubts about whether it was really intended to help people come to terms with being forced into what essentially amounted to prostitution.

Really, though, it wasn't like there were any reasons for you to safeguard your chastity or whatever. Archaic ideas of morality had become obsolete long ago, and it wasn't like anyone was going to judge homeless stray humans for having sex. No one even spared stray humans a thought, which was really cold comfort given the situation you’d found yourself in.

Meanwhile, Taehyung was going about his life pretty much normally. The apartment was a little colder, quieter and duller without your presence, but he was still too angry to let himself dwell on that for too long during the first two weeks that you'd been gone. It was only when he'd calmed down some and realised that he might have overreacted that he was able to think rationally about the whole situation. He missed you, he realised, and it was a real asshole move of him to kick you out, although he wasn’t too worried about you, sure that you were safe in one of his members' apartments while he got his head on straight. No one had come to talk to him about you, but he figured it was just as well since he didn't think he was up to having you back at home yet.

Still, he wanted to give you some sort of peace offering, to let you know that he wasn't going to abandon you forever. Maybe you'd like some books or something, he thought. You always had your nose in one book or another, just like Namjoon, so he figured he'd pick up the one you were reading and pass it on to the member you were staying with.

With that in mind, he came home from work one night and went straight to your room instead of his. His nose wrinkled at the musty scent in the room, although that was to be expected since the door had been shut for the last two weeks. Your scent was barely in the room now, and he didn't know whether he should be sad or relieved to note that. He found the book you were reading fairly easily, of course, since it was on the little table next to your cozy reading chair with the pretty bookmark that he'd gotten for you overseas still in it. What surprised him, though, was that your phone was sitting beside the book. The battery was long dead, of course, and he picked it up together with the book, taking it to his room to charge it.

The next morning, he brought the phone and the book to the studio with him. Unfortunately, without you around to wake him up every morning, he'd reverted back to his old habits and was the last one in the studio, later even than Yoongi, who just looked at him with an unimpressed expression when he burst into the studio.

"You should comb your hair before leaving your house, Tae," Jin reprimanded gently as he started trying to pat Taehyung's wild bedhead down. Taehyung frowned at his hyung, but didn't otherwise respond, pulling your phone and book out of his bag.

"I brought Y/n's stuff," he explained, unnecessarily, he thought, since it was obvious that the phone in the pretty floral and rose gold case was yours. He was slightly confused by the blank stares from his members that met him when he raised his head to look at them again, so he elaborated.

"You know, she's been staying at one of your apartments, right? She didn't have her phone and I wanted her to have her book back."

"Taehyung-ah... I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Yoongi, ever the frank one, said bluntly.

Taehyung blinked. "She's not staying at yours?" he asked, his voice now a lot less certain.

Yoongi shook his head, and denials from the rest of the boys abounded as well.

"I didn't even know you guys had fallen out... what happened?" Jimin asked curiously. Helplessly, Taehyung's eyes fell on his leader, begging him for some assistance. Namjoon's face said it all, though. Taehyung had fucked up.

2K notes · View notes

djmarinizelablog · 4 years ago

Note

hi! read your last ask and you said that you took up creative writing classes so you might have a wider knowledge about this but i was wondering when u mentioned different writing styles (like minimalistic, hightened imagery, linear vilennete and all of that) could you maybe explain the difference and what they really mean and maybe examples in our own levihan nation and writers? this might be asking for too much but i was pretty lost and i'd like to know more about all that. however you are def free to ignore this too!

Did you just ask me to write a comprehensive poetics essay, Anon? (I love writing about writing lmao)

Super long post ahead, and I’ll be citing certain fanfics that I’ve read so far and those that I think somehow exemplifies all the different writing styles I mentioned in the previous post.

First off, the ones I listed beforehand (minimalistic prose, heightened imagery, poetic language, linear narrative, non-linear vignettes) aren’t the only types of writing styles. There are more if you consider the variations of tone (humor/comedy, sentimental, macabre, noir etc), narration/perspective (first person, second person, third person omniscient/limited), and language (dialogue-heavy or action/scene-driven). And the nice thing is that you can actually use of one or two of them in your work---or all of them, if you’re feeling bold.

As Hange always loves to do: “Let’s experiment!”

--------

I’ll start with minimalistic prose. It is what it is: short, clear, and concise. Think less is more. You have an economy with words where you disregard most adverbs and focus more on the context to make way for meaning, thus allowing the readers to create their own interpretations of your writing. I think the method here is to write your intended draft first, and then cut the unnecessary words to flesh out the scene even more.

Notice how @stereobone wrote this paragraph of Black Dog (an Eruri fic):

Isabel's voice wakes him, brother, brother, has him sitting upright in bed and grabbing for the knife under his mattress. He braces himself for the attack before he realizes there isn't one. There is nothing in the darkness but him and his heavy, panicked breathing. Levi's heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of his chest. He drops the knife on the mattress and shuts his eyes and tries not to think about Farlan's bloody resigned face before he was eaten. He tries not to think about how he left them. How it's his fault.

It’s very simplistic in language; the paragraph lets you focus on Levi’s innermost thoughts while he deals with an external action (ie, having nightmares). The author hasn’t unraveled the rest of the plot yet, but you already know where the tension is coming from.

Next is heightened imagery. If you’re familiar with the different figures of speech (metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, etc), then this is where they all come into play. I think the challenge here is being able to balance it well with the text itself and make sure that the imagery actually clarifies the context of the paragraph instead of convoluting the intended meaning.

Here’s an excerpt from A Dangerous Game by just_quintessentially_me:

Hanji watched Levi, standing there, head bent and bloodied handkerchief pressed against his arm, and was reminded, irrationally, of a night years ago. When her parents had taken her to the circus. [. . . .] Holding her parent’s hands, she’d gaped, head craned back as she watched the spectacle, a cacophonous mixture of sound and color. At the center of it all, she’d spied a boy. Among the twisting colors and tricks, he alone, was still. [. . . .] The boy was high above, balancing on a platform atop a long pole. In front of him, stretched an audaciously thin rope. Below, no net waited to catch him.

[. . . .]

When Levi looked up, his expression was set - like the boy before the tightrope. And she knew, with sinking certainty, he was going to take the step. Into thin air.

Gray eyes met her gaze and held it.

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

At the door, Kenny smiled.

See how the powerful imagery of the boy on the tightrope was able to fuel the tension in that moment among Levi, Hange, and Kenny?

I think poetic language is akin to heightened imagery, except that the former is more focused on the actual language. It’s very lyrical, wherein you can actually hear the lulling song of the sentences in a rhythm. One of my favorite works that does this is Deep sea baby by @smallblip. Here she makes use of various setting and scenery to create this entire atmosphere of Levi and Hange’s relationship:

Hanji knows whatever life they've led, this is her favourite.

The one in which her and Levi see the sea for the first time together.

The one in which she’s the Commander, and him, her Captain. And between them, a river of words left unsaid threatening to break the banks.

One day they must cross the ocean, but today they visit the shores again, without the kids this time. And Levi learns why when he watches her peel at her clothes. Her harness comes off first, then her blouse, then everything else, like a little dance for an audience of one. Levi tries not to stare, but he’s already seen her by candlelight in the dead of the night. And yet she never fails to take his breath away.

She makes her way to where the white foams dredge the past up the shores of the present.

"Come on Levi! The water is warm!" she says, and he hears it like a call to come home- where the heavens collide with the sea.

He takes off his clothes and folds them in a neat pile beside Hanji's mess. He swims out to join her.

It’s hauntingly poetic, the way the author is able to connect the metaphor in “a river of words” to the actual body of water right in front of Levi and Hange. Good poetic language is able to tighten up the texts together while keeping the sentence structure flowing with apt figures of speech.

When it comes to narratives, it only comes down to linear or non-linear. See how @lostcauses-noregrets does her opening statement in Trains (also an Eruri fic):

Levi hates trains. To be fair, Levi hates all forms of public transport, but he reserves a particular loathing for trains. They’re dirty, noisy, smelly and worse, filled with people. People who, heaven forbid, might attempt to speak to Levi, engage him in conversation. Levi’s worst nightmare is being stuck on a train with some friendly fuck who wants to pass the time making small talk. Admittedly it’s not a problem he has to deal with too often, his general fuck off demeanour deters all but the most aggressively friendly and hopelessly inebriated. But that doesn’t stop Levi from hating trains.

It’s a short fic and it’s very dependent on the linearity of events happening. But with that banger of a first sentence, the beginning already gives you enough of an idea of Levi’s pet peeve in the story, which in this case, is trains.

Here’s another hot and steamy fic called keep him waiting by keobuns that shows a linear narrative:

He’s sitting with them in the back of the lab, nursing a cup of tea — it’s still pretty full, and even cold now, for he was far too distracted listening to Hanji talk to properly drink — when he sees it. Hanji’s too preoccupied with overexplaining the same Titan experiment they’ve gone over a hundred times to notice his stare. They just continue on and on and on, gesturing with their hands, pointing with their fingers, flexing their wrists…

Ah. Levi has to bring his teacup to his lips to hide the way his lips tremble. Hanji has incredibly nice hands.

The entire story just revolves around Levi simping for Hange’s hands and how it all goes down from there. But you as a reader are kept wanting more with every paragraph and every sentence that the author constructs (and trust me, it’s not just the sexual tension between Levi and Hange that keeps us going).

Now, as much as I love the straightforwardness of linear prose, non-linear writing brings a different round of ideas onto the table. It can create recollections from flashbacks, heighten the perspective or interior turmoil of a character due to trauma or grief, or even just re-invent what-if scenes that the characters have imagined themselves.

Gnossiene by @thatalmondgirl is one of my all-time favorite Rivetra fics. In this excerpt, you will see how she switches between the past and the present, and how it affects Petra’s POV as a conflicted character:

Contrary to popular belief (fuck Auruo) Petra actually didn’t cry easily.

Alright, she could admit that at some times, she was...emotional. It was far from a weakness, but even she could admit that they sometimes got in the way and walled off all rational thought. Anger, frustration, sadness, hell, even happiness. The only one she could easily compartmentalise away was fear, which probably stemmed from her military career. Even so. It was never easy to separate all the others from her actions, think from a clean slate like the Commander could do, like the captain. [. . . ] Petra groaned, splayed out across her bed. She drew her arm across her eyes, willing the tears to go away. She’d already blown through her tissue box.

“Petra, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Mama sat on the end of her bed, with Petra on the floor between her legs. Even though Petra argued firmly that she was old enough to brush her own hair, Mama had insisted. Unfortunately, Petra wasn’t old enough - and probably never would be - to disagree with her mother.

“I know, Mama.” Petra grumbled.

“I don’t think you do. Else you wouldn’t be crying, would you?”

[. . . .]

“But a man shouldn’t complete you when you complete yourself. Maybe he’s an extension to your house. So you’ll be sad if the extension is compromised or burns down. But you still have the main house. And if it’s strong, the main house can still be standing even after the worst storm.”

Aside from Mama’s crazy metaphors that sometimes didn’t make sense, her message hit home. Even if it hit home years later.

See how it switched in between the before and after?

An off-shoot of non-linear writing are vignettes (a layering of scenes separated by section breaks) wherein this writing style allows writers to curate scenes in terms of fragments, creating some kind of mosaic for the readers once they finally see the big picture. Nakimochiku’s I’m leaving, are you coming with me? stacks up scenes of interactions between Levi and Hange, enough to depict the kind of relationship that they have as young lovers in a school setting. You can string these fragments together, rearrange them in a different order, but in the end, you will still get the author's clear goal of highlighting how Levi and Hange’s relationship develops over time.

Those are the styles that I mentioned in my previous posts, but as I’ve told you, there’s more to writing than those, so I’ll give a short run-through of other methods in writing.

Whether it’s dialogue-heavy works such as from my window to yours, or action-driven scenes like Carnivores (a Levi x Reader fic by CaptainDegenerate) that propel the story forward, we as readers should be able to follow through the actual storyline that the authors intend to take us.

A third-person limited (we listen to Hange’s thoughts in Clockwork by @tundrainafrica) vis-à-vis an all-knowing/omniscient narration (the moon is dark by @sayonarasanity alternates the perspective of Levi and Hange) should be able to make us understand why the author chose this particular kind of point-of-view in order to tell the story.

And lastly, having a solid and consistent tone throughout the work (the macabre of Even Humanity’s Strongest could make mistakes by Rimeko versus the sweet sentimentality of Flowers for You by @fanmoose12) should be able to set the atmosphere that the authors want us to imbibe as we read through their works.

So there’s your crash course on writing and reading. Enjoy? :)

#levihan #writing #fanfic #fanfictions #fanfiction #ao3 #djmarinizela #mine

49 notes · View notes