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wife-of-all-dilfs · 11 months ago

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burning pt. 2 | b. blake

part one | masterlist

summary: season three — a daunting decision is to be made. multiple cups of grounder celebration juice, an arrogant bellamy blake, and a desire to prove oneself cause an inevitable outcome.

pairing: bellamy blake x reader

warnings (including all parts): alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because i’m short, deal with it <3

notes: THIS IS PART TWO OF FROM THE FLAMES!!

word count: 2.6k

No.

Way.

There was absolutely no way I was going to join a horde of drunken warriors dancing around a ten-foot-tall bonfire.

At least, that was what I had told Raven ten minutes ago.

Given the current position in which I was standing (which was just outside the crowd of dancers by a barrel containing a brew that I told myself was just really strong moonshine) and the alcohol oozing through my veins like sweet, molten honey, I think it’s safe to say that I had contradicted myself.

How many drinks had I had now? Two, three? Somewhere around there.

I wasn’t drunk, I swear. Although, I was certainly working my way towards being so. Raven had gently coerced—threatened—me into joining the raunchy dance circle. I had at first refused, but when she began to suggest telling Bellamy my ‘little secret’ if I didn’t do it myself, I reluctantly, very reluctantly, agreed.

So, that was that. I was going to dance. With Grounders. Around a bonfire. In front of Bellamy.

Hence, the drinks.

The only times I had ever danced were during parties back on the Ark, but those were so tame and regulated. This was vastly different. There were no rules, no sophistication, and certainly no guards keeping tabs on how close a girl danced with a boy. The latter was clear as day, taking the form of a couple dancing together a few feet in front of me.

A woman with dark, slicked-back braids and deep bronze skin pushed herself against her partner, a tall man with lengthy facial hair and spike-cuffed fists that must’ve been the size of my head. One of his hands was on her back, the other on her hip, ruching up her long skirt so that it exposed her thighs as she glided her chest up his torso. They grinded and swayed and flowed together in time with the pulsating beat.

Dread grappled me. I had to do that? How the hell do you dance like that in jeans and a tank top?

Through the ever-migrating crowd, I spotted Raven standing with Monty and Harper on the opposite side of the square. Of course, she had already been watching me the whole time. The fear on my face was unmistakable, yet she only sent an impatient nod of her head that said, “Get on with it already.”

If anything, you could always rely on Raven for her persistence.

“Christ, help me.” I plunged my cup into the barrel, fervently bringing its contents back to my lips and down my throat.

“Didn’t take you for a religious one,” came a deep voice from behind me.

I swivelled around, my cup still craned to my lips, and found the incentive for my drinking habits standing before me.

Bellamy.

Gracelessly, I choked as a much too-large mouthful of liquid streamed down my throat. My innards recoiled in on themselves. “Bellamy,” I said, attempting to compose myself. “Hi.” Unfortunately, the abhorrent aftertaste still lurked on my tongue, causing my expression to sour into one of disgust. “God—makes moonshine seem like apple juice.”

Apparently, he found this amusing. A hum of a chuckle bobbed in his throat. “Looks like you’re enjoying the party then.”

A few variations of how I wanted to reply: “I wasn’t until you started talking to me,” “Not really, but if you take me into a back alley right now, I might,” and, just a plain and simple, “I need you.”

What I really said: “Oh, yeah, I’m having a great time. You meet this guy?” I patted the barrel behind me. “Really supportive. We’re becoming good friends.”

He nodded, eyeing me with a quizzical smirk. “I can see that. Maybe you should branch out a bit. Have you met the one called Water yet?”

“You’re funny.”

“Alcohol tends to have that effect on me,” he said, and I laughed. His freckled cheeks rounded into apples and his teeth made a rare appearance; he looked away as if to hide his smile, as if Bellamy Blake couldn’t possibly be anything but serious and brooding. He’s kept my secret; I’ll keep his.

We both observed the crowd and the fire as a new song began to play, standing comfortably, wordlessly, side by side. Maybe ‘wordlessly’ was a bit of a stretch—there was a magnitude of words filling my mind, especially when he began unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off to expose his contoured arms to the fire’s fervour.

His arms…

“How many drinks have you had?”

I blinked. “What?”

He stared at me with a mischievous glint in his eye, draping his jacket on an unlit makeshift barbeque. “I said, what do you think of all this?”

The veil of lust-ridden (let’s call it what it was) fog lifted from my mind, and my brows creased deeply as I attempted to piece together what he was talking about. It took me a few belated seconds before I realized he had been referring to the Grounders and Sky People uniting as one people. I could hardly contain an idiotic smile from breaching my lips—my opinion was important to him.

“It’s—well,” I stammered, “it’s different.” It’s different? If only he knew how badly I wanted to club myself with a brick at that moment. Despite my obvious mental stagnation, he expressed nothing but patience, waiting with a visible longing for my input. So, I tried again, slowly working around the alcohol and shrewd blockages in my brain. “Honestly? It scares me. Their first impression of us was that we were cold-blooded killers and ours of them was the exact same. Ever since we hit the ground, we’ve been at each other’s throats; we’ve all committed so many acts of war.

“I’m scared of how fragile this peace is, how one tiny mistake could lead to the annihilation of our kind or theirs, or even both.” Bellamy watched me with silent contemplation. I continued, “And I’m scared if this peace does break, you’ll be on the front-lines because I know you’ll refuse to be anywhere else. And I know you and I tend to… disagree more often than not, but if you were to die—” I looked down, bashfully scrutinising the toes of my boots “—I think I’d be lost.”

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. I immediately wished to snatch the words my loosened tongue had released and shove them back down my throat. His silence was writhing excruciatingly through the air, surrounding us like a constricting serpent.

Say something, Bellamy. Say anything.

“I think I’d feel the same,” he finally spoke, and the relief I felt was instant. I looked up at him. His pupils were bowls of sweet melted chocolate as he cocked his head to the side. “What would I do without my favourite sparring partner?”

My heart soared.

My favourite sparring partner.

Favourite.

So much for not smiling like an absolute idiot. I could only pray the fire’s orange light masked the jeopardising tinge of my cheeks, though there was nothing I could do about my blatant staring. Maybe it would have been embarrassing if I were the only one, but Bellamy had the same problem.

Someone seemed to hit ‘pause’on time.

The blood in my veins moved like a tranquil river; my heart expanded and subdued with each slow beat. The voices and bodies around us blurred into one big mass of nothing. All that seemed to be moving was the music drifting down towards us from the tower and Bellamy’s face, which was leaning closer in microscopic intervals, almost unnoticeably. But I noticed.

And then the bonfire roared with a loud crack.

Voices mingled. Bodies shuffled. Time restarted.

Bellamy cleared his throat and looked away, just as I began inspecting the cup in my hand. What was in that stuff? It was supposed to give me the confidence to dance in front of him; he ruined—a term I’ll use loosely—my plans by greeting me directly, so now I was just tipsy for no good reason.

At least now I didn’t have to join a wanton circle of dancing grounders.

Wait.

Was Bellamy going to kiss me?

“Didn’t think I’d see a grounder mating ritual tonight,” muttered Bellamy as he watched the scene with crossed, disapproving arms. The light spirit he had been in before had obviously been overthrown by his usual brooding nature. Funny that—that his mood only soured after hemade it seem like he was going to…

You know.

I turned towards the crowd, away from him (and his damning muscular arms that bulged impossibly over his chest). “You don’t approve?” I asked flatly. His sudden detachment had pissed me right off. “Everyone,” I addressed the partygoers in a hushed tone only Bellamy could hear, “stop dancing right now. Bellamy Blake doesn’t approve of fun.”

“I didn’t say that,” he countered.

“Then go dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

For the second time that night, I contradicted myself. “Well, I do.”

Now that regained his attention. I could see him staring at me in my peripheral vision.

“Right,” he scoffed. “You’re gonna dance.”

Ouch.

His words struck a chord deep inside me, causing my expression to wilt into something defensive. My arms folded promptly over my chest and I turned to stare him down. “Is it so unimaginable?”

“I just can’t picture you dancing,” he spoke with an arrogant grin, as if his viewpoint originated from the truth and mattered above all else.

It was moments like this one that pushed me to judge whether I should indulge in my attraction to Bellamy. Maybe it was the booze talking, but I really just wanted to slap him across the face. If not literally, then maybe figuratively, by proving him wrong.

I’d had this problem ever since I met him: he would tell me to do one thing, and I’d do the complete opposite; it felt like an unspoken rule at this point. Which led me to my next decision.

My arms dropped to my sides. “Good thing you won’t have to in a minute,” I snapped.

I began making for the bonfire and dancers, each of my curt steps fuelled by spite and a chemically altered brain. I just can’t picture you dancing. Yeah, right. I’d give him something to picture, the smug asshole.

“Hey.” A large hand caught my wrist, pulling me back half a step so I that had to stop.

I shot a fiery warning over my shoulder. Bellamy’s eyes reflected regret and a touch of submission; he knew it had been the wrong move and immediately let go of my arm, withdrawing half a step himself in placation.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he spoke cautiously like I was a spooked animal about to attack. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, you did upset me.”

“Princess, I—"

I whirled around on my toes and we came face-to-face (well, face-to-collarbone). The swiftness of my actions must’ve caught him off-guard because he cut himself short mid-sentence and the bulge of his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat.

The scorching intensity of my gaze was pointed directly up at him now, just daring him to speak another word. He didn’t. His mouth had set into a hard, impenetrable line that represented his oath of silence. It was a smart choice, but, god, he had gotten me so riled up that whether he was smart no longer mattered.

I just couldn’t help myself.

The gap between us shortened as I took a smooth step forward, keeping us connected by the eyes. A challenge in the form of a scornful smile broke across my lips. “No leaning in this time, huh?” I spoke.

Bellamy’s eyes twitched into squints, his jaw clenching in unison. It was strange how he took offence to being called out on something he had done—a common trait in those affected by frequently un-called-out arrogance, no doubt. I’d have to start helping him out with that.

A bomb was ticking beneath his skin and I knew firsthand how short the fuse was. Subconsciously, I think I wanted to blow it. Subconsciously, I think I enjoyed it: the arguing, the tension, the heat. I enjoyed how we knew exactly what set each other off and how intimate knowing such information about one another was. I enjoyed getting in his face and him getting in mine.

I enjoyed the moments when it would become blatantly obvious that the tension between us never originated from a place of hate or malice, but from somewhere deeper, fleshier.

Or was I so impaired that it was really just me?

Thoughts calculated behind his hooded gaze—of hate, of malice, of flesh, I wasn’t sure. And just when I thought he wasn’t going to reply at all, his neck hollowed with a deep inhale, and he leaned down to my height. My heart dropped to an unspeakable place. His breath was hot on the tip of my ear, “Did you want me to lean in?”

I stared at his shoulder, trying to conceal the shiver trickling down my neck and over my breasts and much, much further below. He lingered in place for a half-second longer before returning to full height. Can you guess the shape his lips made as he scanned my perplexed expression? It’s not difficult.

I was going to slap him. Not out of dislike: but because how dare he make me want him so badly? And in front of so many people? And without even knowing that I actually did want him and it wasn’t just the alcohol that was making us both sexually frustrated?

I swear to god I was going to slap him. My hand flexed, but before I could act, the universe made evident that it was on Bellamy’s side.

The sudden bellow of horns signalled a change of song. Our attention was dragged away from one another, turning to the celebratory howls and shouts echoing between those surrounding the bonfire. The flames had exploded to new heights as someone fed more wood to the base. It burned so brightly, so dangerously that if I didn’t know any better, I’d have mistaken it for a god.

The horns vibrated in the air, repeating over and over as more instruments were introduced to create something dark and haunting. Slowly, I began to smile. I knew what I was going to do now, and it certainly wasn’t slapping the smirk off of Bellamy Blake’s face.

“Sorry, Blake,” I voiced over the music. We were looking at each other now; somehow in those ten seconds we were distracted I must’ve sucked him dry of pride and consumed it myself, because I now wore the smirk, and he wore the confusion. One last time, I downed a gulp of my drink and said, “Places to be.”

And then I was gone, heading straight for the crowd of orange-skinned dancers, slick, sweating bodies, and pulsating horns. I’d hoped that last drink would kick in fast, especially if Bellamy’s eyes were to be as vigilant as ever.

part three {to be written}

#bellamy blake #bellamy blake fanfiction #bellamy blake smut #bellamy blake x reader #bellamy blake x you #bob morley #wife of all dilfs ✍️#bellamy x reader #bellamy blake fluff #bellamy blake x clarke griffin #bellarke #the 100 #raven reyes #bellamy blake imagine

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gallusrostromegalus · 5 months ago

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11 and/or 42 for Zaraki?

Answered 42 already, so 11: If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?

Many, many people have attempted to impersonate Zaraki Kenpachi.

Mostly ronin, criminals and other live-by-the-sword types trying to cash in on his reputation- Zaraki had a LOT of jobs while he was roaming the Rukongai, and his reputation as an inhumanly strong and bloodthirsty fighter was well known in the outer districts. So some idiot was always trying to get hired as a retainer or invited into a gang by trying to claim his identity- It's not hard. There aren't reliable photographs for most of his time out there, so he's only known as "Extremely tall, with long black hair and a large scar on his face, carrying an odachi and a small child". It works more often than not- the Rukongai is a very big place and Zaraki is but one man so it's not like a comparison can be made.

It's a scam that ONLY works at a distance though, for two reasons:

None of them hold a candle to the genuine article.

The first thing is the sheer weight of his reiatsu. The only people with anything even near that level of casual power output are a handful of Shinigami an a few actual Kami. Even those not blessed with Reiryoku can sense it- the air around him takes on a sharp, staticy quality that makes your hair stand on end as well as a heaviness that can make it hard to breathe, like an impending typhoon. Even among the Captains and Kami, nothing feels quite like he does- like the first gasp of air after breaking the surface when you were about to down and a battering ram to the chest at once.

People also consistently misjudge his intelligence and charm. One cannot feed oneself AND a small child on forage alone, and a too-fearsome reputation will get him banned from working anywhere. Hence, face-to-face Zaraki is unexpectedly disarming to talk to and agreeable company to stay with. Civilians are no good in a fight, but he took a name specifically because of how lonely he was, so he has learned the manners to rapidly ingratiate himself with any company. He's quick with a joke and tells a good tale or ten, and so at ease knowing there is no threat to him (or if there is, that it will be fun) that it puts those around him at ease as well. It's also hard to be frightened of the man after watching him lose an argument about not having candy for dinner to the most adorable little girl you've ever seen. Eventually, it gets around in the circles that hire such people that Zaraki is the best body guard you could possibly hire- Dedicated, Incorruptible and Ferociously protective- Especially of children, the most vulnerable charges.

Zaraki loves bodyguard work actually- All he has to do is keep at least one semi-functioning eye on Some Fucking Guy and the fights come to him! Fun fights too, like "An Entire Shinobi Sect At Once" or "Ancient And Revered Immortal Master Come Down From The Mountain" or "LMAO IDK But It's Got Tentacles And That's Always Fun".

His borderline disinterest in the client beyond their capacity as a fight magnet makes him remarkably immune to corruption- he doesn't want a bribe, he wants a battle! Neither does he want to attempt to leverage his position over a client- it straight-up never occurs to him that he could threaten the client. Why would he? They're not going to be any fun to fight??

After he starts raising Yachiru, his reputation becomes even more revered. Zaraki is a maniac, sure, but he is a maniac who *is good with children, and there is no safer place for a child than "within arm's reach of Zaraki", so Yachiru grows up with Princesses for playmates. It's very hard for most men of the sword to impersonate someone who is as at home on the field of battle as he is playing teatime with a toddler. Few try, none succeed for long.

...But even after he becomes captain, people still try to impersonate him. The most common ruse is someone in a remote district pretending to be a Captain On Official Gotei-13 Business to the residents as part of some con to attain money or power. Sometimes, a particularly bod criminal will pretend to be A Captain to the people in the C46 or Noble house to scam benefits out of the ruling powers. This happens to every captain, and it ends in catastrophe every time but it is an ESPECIALLY bad idea to impersonate Zaraki because:

2. Zaraki is very aware that people try to impersonate him, and is very eager to meet himself.

The first time Zaraki heard of someone using his name he was bewildered and offended and tracked the sonofabitch down, and then had a Jolly Good Time kicking his ass. The second time he heard of someone claiming his identity, he sought them out a little more calmly this time and had ANOTHER jolly good time kicking their asses. So the THIRD time, and every time since, the news that someone is attempting to pretend to be him makes Zaraki cackle with glee and vanish for a week or so (with his daughter and lieutenants in tow, if not the whole damn division), before turning back up with someone that's been wanted by the law for a decade or an entire Criminal Organization or suchlike under arrest.

In addition to being startlingly honest and cunning, Zaraki is extremely romantic, and since he is courting The Lady Unohana, he brings not a dozen roses, but instead presents the arrested Miscreants to the the Fourth Division Medical Corps as "Volunteer Organ Donors". One can hardly blame her for absconding with him for another week after.

...50/50 chance he, or anyone else in the 11th actually remembered to send someone to go tell Yamamoto where they were and what all that screaming and pleading for mercy in the general direction of the hospital is.

#AEIWAM #kenpachi zaraki #Nobody expects him to be gregarious and affectionate #let alone unashamedly goofy if it will make a kid laugh.

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looulouv · 4 months ago

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first meeting — epic!telemachus x reader

pairing: telemachus x gn!reader synopsis: telemachus hopes that this new guard has everything they need to keep the suitors at bay, someone who exudes fear and respect, who can intimidate them with just one look. but when the ship arrives, he quickly realizes he should have kept his imagination in check. yet, he can't wait to see where this goes. genre: fluff warnings: none ig, maybe one joke about offing oneself word count: 1.5k author's note: lil guard and lil tele !!!!! i was just thinking of making little parts of them interacting, kind of just building their relationship to the ithaca saga and maybe after that. have a nice reading, and please keep in mind that english is not my first language, i apologize for any mistakes ! part 1: here!

At fifteen, Telemachus was still an imaginative boy.

His mother had been vague when she told him about the new addition to the palace, only saying that they would be arriving today from Pylos, sent from Nestor himself, and that it would be his duty to escort them from the docks. He hadn't thought much of it at first, assuming that it would be a strong individual—a hardened soldier, someone experienced, someone who could keep the palace safe from the growing number of suitors infesting their halls.

The more he thought about it, the more his expectations grew. He could picture it, a real soldier—a warrior, the kind who loomed over men like an unshaken pillar of war, the kind whose armor groaned with the weight of its own history, the kind that had fascinating stories from gruesome fights and countless kills on their book. Perhaps an older man, one of Nestor’s veterans, weathered by years of battle, with a face carved by scars and a voice like grinding stone. That was what Ithaca needed. That was what his mother needed.

Instead, the figure stepping off the ship looked like they had just come from weaving garlands in a meadow. The first thing that registered was that they were… small. Not in the sense of frailty—there was something too controlled about the way they moved, too precise. But they were young, maybe his age. And their features— Gods help me, they're beautiful—were delicate, almost angelic, like a marble sculpture of a very beautiful, elegant noble.

For a brief, horrifying second, Telemachus thought they might be a companion for his mother, a royal from Pylos. Then—gods forbid—his future betrothed. His heart seized in panic. But when they finally reached the dock, standing at full height, they squared their shoulders and spoke with calm, unfaltering precision.

"My greetings, Prince Telemachus."

Voice smooth, measured, utterly professional—and completely at odds with their face. He was staring. He knew he was staring. He could not stop staring.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He barely managed to keep his reaction contained. He must have looked ridiculous—stiff-backed, mouth slightly open, blinking like an idiot. His hands twitched at his sides as he forced himself to snap back to reality.

"Uh—Yes. Welcome." He cleared his throat, struggling to gather whatever dignity he had left. "Of course, hello."

They didn’t react to his awkwardness. If anything, they barely regarded him at all before shifting their focus to the steward beside him, awaiting further instruction. And that's when it clicked.

They weren't a noble. They weren't some delicate thing come to weave at his mother’s loom. They were the guard.

This was the new guard? The one meant to keep his mother safe? The guard sent by Nestor of Pylos, sent to protect them, to make them feel safer over the looming shadows of the suitors.

His eyes flicked to the sword at their hip, the careful way they carried themselves. Now that he was looking properly, he could see the truth of them—disciplined, well-trained. The confidence in their stance wasn’t that of a teen used to courtly mannerisms, but of a soldier used to command.

Telemachus finally managed to force his mouth shut, though his brain was still playing a losing game of catch-up. His expectations had been torn to shreds, and now, as he walked alongside the newly arrived guard, he was scrambling for something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot.

“So… uh, you have a name?” he asked, attempting casual conversation. He regretted it immediately, his face scrunching up with embarrassment. Of course they had a name. Everyone had a name. What kind of question was that?

The guard turned their head slightly toward him, eyes unreadable. "(Y/N)."

Oh. A nice name. Not that it mattered. Not that he was thinking about that. Not that he was kind of reciting it in his head, his mouth itching to repeat it...

"Right. Good." He nodded, as if that somehow helped. "So, uh… you came from Pylos? How was the trip?"

(Y/N) didn’t hesitate. "Pleasant, my prince."

Pleasant. That was all. No complaints, no small talk, no elaboration. He had never met someone around his age who spoke with so much restraint. It was almost unsettling. Almost impressive. Intimidating, he dared to say.

They reached the stone steps leading up to the palace, and just as Telemachus was about to say something else—anything to fill the unbearable silence, probably something stupid again—a servant carrying a heavy amphora stepped out too suddenly from the side, directly in (Y/N)’s path.

Before Telemachus could react, they shifted. A small, precise movement, nothing flashy, but enough to pivot neatly around the servant without so much as brushing their tunic. The servant, oblivious, continued on their way.

Telemachus, however, was left blinking. He had seen plenty of people stumble in similar situations, caught off guard by sudden obstacles. But (Y/N)? Not even a second of hesitation. Their footing had been steady, controlled—like avoiding a collision was second nature to them.

The guard barely acknowledged the servant’s near collision, continuing up the steps with the same measured stride. Meanwhile, Telemachus forced his mouth shut before he embarrassed himself even further. He had been staring again, and judging by the brief flicker of attention (Y/N) gave him, they had noticed.

He cleared his throat and picked up his pace, gesturing vaguely as they walked. “Right, so, uh—this way.”

They followed without question, as silent as a shadow. It was unsettling. Telemachus found himself talking just to fill the empty space between them, pointing out the stone archways, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the walls, the occasional glimpse of the sea from a high window. He fumbled with his words, surely talking more than necessary for the both of them, letting out a few nervous chuckles and internally dying every single time (Y/N) answered with less than ten words.

“This will be your home now, I suppose,” he said, chuckling awkwardly. “Not that you’ll have much time to enjoy it. Lots of standing around, glaring at people, that sort of thing. Sounds fun, right?”

(Y/N) said nothing.

Gods help him, he should stop talking.

“Uh—what I mean is, uh, I’m sure you’ll, um… do well. Not that you need me to say that, obviously…” Another nervous laugh. “You probably know exactly what you’re doing.”

A beat of silence. Then, they finally spoke.

“Yes.”

That was it. That was all they gave him.

Telemachus had never wanted to fling himself into the sea more in his life.

Finally, after a few moments of silence —silence that made him want to scream or just jump out of a window— Telemachus took the new guard to Penelope's chambers, informing that it was less likely for his mother to be out in the day, as she preferred to keep her sanity, and that meant to stay away from the suitors that roamed the halls, infesting the place with their stupid faces.

"Welcome," Penelope greeted warmly once they made it through the wooden doors, her voice as soft as it was strong. There was no distance in her tone, no royal stiffness. Only kindness.

(Y/N), to their credit, straightened even further and bowed their head. "My lady."

"Oh, my dear. Nestor spoke very highly of you," Penelope continued, stepping forward. "We are grateful for your presence. I trust your journey went well?"

They hesitated, but only for half a second. "Yes, my lady. It was… comfortable, thank you."

A small pause. Then, Penelope smiled—a true, open expression, one meant to ease tension rather than demand respect.

"I imagine Ithaca must seem a bit different from Pylos," she mused, her tone light. "I do hope you’ll find it welcoming."

For the first time, the new guard's carefully composed expression wavered. It was subtle, but Telemachus caught it—the slight shift in their features, the way their shoulders, previously held so stiffly, lowered just the tiniest bit.

And then, to his complete shock, they… smiled.

Not much, just a small, barely-there curve of the lips, but it was real. Genuine. "Thank you, my lady."

Telemachus stared. He had barely gotten more than a handful of words out of them, but his mother? With just a few kind phrases, she had already coaxed out something warm, something human. He could understand it, though. His mother just had that energy that screamed kindness and warmth, and made every soul that met her feel at ease.

He quickly looked away, focusing instead on the blue, clear sky outside the window while his mother kept easily coaxing words out of (Y/N), getting to know them like he hadn't tried to do that for two hours straight. (Y/N), despite their small moment of softness, had already returned to their professional demeanor, yet their words to Penelope were soft, gentler than when they had arrived. Telemachus had seen it now—the glimpse of someone who wasn’t just a guard, but a person. And he prayed to the gods above that he could be the one to make them smile again.

He had a feeling that he would make that his favorite hobby.

#telemachus x reader #epic telemachus x reader #epic x reader #epic the musical x reader #telemachus #epic the musical #telemachus epic the musical #telemachus epic #odysseus #the bodyguard

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pprodsuga · 1 year ago

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never to keep | heeseung

summary: heeseung was always a natural scene stealer, capturing the hearts and attention of those around him. it seemed predestined that he'd pursue a life that would take him beyond the cosmos and leave behind the constellations he once treasured. it's too bad that you were one of them.

warnings: angst and typos, probably.

word count: 8.6K (shorter than previous works, forgive me)

notes: ahahah. this is a therapy piece ... currently dealing with similar themes of a friend prioritizing work and people who don't care for her over people who do, and i feel veryyy conflicted as of late. i, like yn, am not a plaything. why not turn it into a fic. anyway, enjoy and happy reading! x

masterlist + taglist

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

If you love someone, they will always come back to you.

There’s no logic in love, only strong emotions that make people disregard all they know to chase the feeling of reckless abandon. Love is a wildcard that can catch even the most self-protective person off guard. You’ve read it in stories from childhood fairytales to watching strangers fall in love in your favorite books and television shows growing up. You believe the people who kiss on the screen must surely find an ounce of love, even if only for a brief moment.

It’s no surprise that you’ve come to love Heeseung the way you do. To love him is to know him, even if he’s too tired to see you on the weekends or too occupied to sit next to you at the lunch period because of his days training to become an idol. What you know at this point in your life is that love is unconditional; supporting your best friend to pursue a dream he’s talked about since he could speak feels right.

To love somebody doesn’t necessarily mean to devote oneself to the fullest extent, but somehow you feel as though this way of thinking never quite aligned with how you’ve come to love. Heeseung’s parents are a surrogate for your own, especially when it’s just you and your mother in the small, two bedroom apartment that sits on the edge of town and away from the city. They tuck you in at night during holidays and other special occasions when you’ve become too tired to drive back to your home.

Minjun, Heeseung’s younger sister by four years, warmed up to you quicker than anyone had expected. The fierce girl had a protective streak over her brother once he grew into his height and learned that winking at pretty girls could get them to do whatever he asked of them within reason. Minjun doesn’t recall when she met you for the first time because she was likely too young to remember, but her sweet nature towards you speaks louder than you could’ve ever anticipated.

Growing up with a single parent as an only child provides enough time to befriend loneliness. There are days spent idly in the apartment waiting for someone to keep you company, often wishing that the house was filled with people to keep the void full and lively. But now, because of the Lee family and how close you’ve become to their two children, it seems as if the idea of a central family is closer than you think.

Heeseung didn’t expect for you to become a prominent fixture in his life when the two of you were partnered for a science project at the ripe age of thirteen. He’d experienced a growth spurt and acne for the first time simultaneously, growing insecure in himself with every day that passed by. Heeseung hadn’t anticipated you sitting with his family at the dinner table five years later, listening to a mundane story about his mother’s workday at a boring corporate-level position Heeseung doesn’t bother to remember.

He never thought you’d be cooking with his father in the kitchen upon returning home from his training practices, talking about the art of seasoning as the meal preparations come to a finish. He doesn’t remember when you started coming over without the pretense of coming to see him either. Heeseung surely does not anticipate Minjun waiting for your arrival by the front windows just to insist on being the first person who welcomes you into their home.

Naturally, Minjun becomes a recognizable face in your life because of how often she spends time with you and Heeseung. The young girl sets up her homework as the two of you begin yours, her schoolbooks significantly lighter than yours but you make conversation anyhow.

“I think she likes you because you don’t treat her like she’s thirteen,” Heeseung says as he dries the dishes from dinner as you scrub them clean. “She hates it when people baby her.”

“Sometimes I think I need to watch how I talk to Minjun.”

“No, you don’t. Minjun likes that you talk to her like a friend.”

“That’s what she is, no? A friend?”

“More than me?”

You flick water towards Heeseung. “Yes, if you keep teasing me.”

“Seriously, though. Thanks for being nice to her. She complains that she’s the youngest out of everybody all the time.”

“I used to be like that.” You close the tap water and hand the last dish to Heeseung. “I hated being at the kids table when everybody else got to be an adult. Minjun’s at the age where she’s aware of it.”

“God, we sound like her parents, or something.”

You bite back a smile.

Caring for Heeseung is arguably the easiest thing you’ve ever done. He makes it simple when you receive a text from him hours before you wake up and just before you go to bed despite his busy schedule. You wonder at all how he manages to fit you into his life with all of his dreams and responsibilities, but Heeseung always tells you it’s because there’s room for you.

Being so close to his family helps internalize the fact that you are a permanent fixture in his life. Mrs. Lee drops off baked goods on Saturday mornings most times because she knows your mother likes to eat a sweet treat with her bitter coffee. Mr. Lee goes out of his way to fix faulty ceiling fans or kitchen drains when he has the time to spare your income. Minjun gives you drawings from her art classes that sit on your refrigerator. Integrating their life within yours feels natural.

Heeseung has always been somebody you’ve looked up to, poised for success after deciding he loved singing enough to make a career out of it. The eight-year-old boy who loved to choreograph dance numbers to famous songs carries this humble beginning when he talks about what life might look like for him when he’s crossed the threshold that separates his life from now.

It seemed as though Heeseung’s dream of becoming an idol never seemed too far out of reach, even if he had his moments where he felt like giving up. Things always worked out for him in ways nobody could explain, like moving to a new city because of his mother’s job and making friends within an hour of transferring to a new middle school. Or the time when he’d auditioned to train under a management company and hadn’t heard back from them for weeks–Heeseung prepared to stop giving himself false hope for his future as an idol until the fateful email sat at the top of his inbox, welcoming him to the company.

Life was always easier on Heeseung than it was for everybody else.

You don’t see him much between classes because he’s on a special path created for people who are like him. People who are destined to debut as an idol are given certain exemptions to ensure quality education while having enough time to train in all areas of performance art. It took a while for Heeseung to get used to his new life and the new routine set in place for him but you were always there to remind him that this is what he wants more than anything in the world. All of the stress and frustration that comes with change, no matter how brutal or unnerving, will be worth it when he sees his dream to the end.

You’re a young adult at this point in your life but it feels like you’ve aged beyond your peers because of circumstance. Spending time at the Lee residence when your mom’s at work or visiting her friends prevents you from feeling as lonely as you do in between four white walls that barely feel like home without someone else in it. Growing up quicker than your peers feels like something expected of you. Oftentimes, you wish you could maintain childlike innocence as Heeseung does, dreaming so big and far that everything seems like a possibility if you dreamed hard enough.

Watching him dance and hearing him sing feels like a reminder that there’s more to life than what you know. Your best friend is your confidant and the person you see yourself in the most. The boys and girls who befriend him because of his good looks and potential stardom don’t matter much to either of you when the promise of lifelong friendship looms in the future. You can’t imagine Heeseung not being in it.

Mr. and Mrs. Lee sit at the dining table over a cup of post-dinner coffee while Minjun scrolls through her phone by the couch with a Netflix show you’ve never heard of on the television. Their soft murmurs have become a familiar background noise. You sit next to Minjun and peer over her shoulder.

“I like these shoes a lot,” she tells you as she turns the phone for you to see. “All the girls in my grade are wearing these.”

“Do you like them because you like them or because everyone else does?”

She frowns. “What’s wrong with liking what other people like?”

“Nothing, but if you’re going to buy flats just for them to sit in the back of your closet, that doesn’t seem like a good reason to have them.”

Minjun has approached the age you’re all too familiar with. When you turned thirteen, the impending doom of fitting in hit you like a truck when you realized all of the girls in your grade had expensive clothes while you wore hand-me-downs from your cousins. Your backpack, which you had been using for three years because the straps weren’t broken, felt like a burden to carry when everybody else had pretty satchels. You felt juvenile in your too-worn sneakers and the two pairs of jeans you had sitting in your closet. But you were thirteen and your mother made enough money to make ends meet and put dinner on the table. Clothing and new school materials didn’t matter compared to eating before bed.

Part of this insecurity has always followed you throughout childhood, especially when you were old enough to be aware of the fact that you were one of the few people in your grade who didn’t have a nuclear family. The kinds of families you’d see on the television didn’t exist in real life because while these programs taught its audiences the value of a good, stable home life, you’d been watching them alone while you waited for your mother to come home from work. There would be no dinner at the table with both of your parents because you knew there would be just her.

Watching Minjun grow up with two parents who dote on her feels bittersweet. It feels like watching a version of what could have been if only your father had chosen to stay in the picture instead of abandoning his family for a promising career in entertainment. Minjun’s petulance often reminds you that you were not privileged enough to have this kind of grace because of how rapidly your circumstances forced you to grow up faster than your peers did.

There’s a small part of you that envies her life when you think about what yours could have been if he had stayed. Maybe you wouldn’t have had to watch your mother slave away at odd jobs to keep the lights on before finding a good, stable job after years of searching. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt so lonely in your adolescence because he’d take you to ice cream after school. Maybe the hollowness that remains inside of you would have been filled with joy and laughter on the holidays.

“You’re right,” Minjun sighs, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Seri told me my outfit would’ve looked prettier if I wore these.”

“People should keep their opinions to themselves.”

Minjun nods. “Agreed.”

Heeseung emerges from the kitchen a moment later and sits next to you on the couch. The dip in the cushion and his thigh being pressed against yours isn’t a new phenomenon, but the heat that creeps up your neck can’t be helped when he looks like a model from the corner of your eye. You swallow until your mouth feels dry to keep both Lee siblings from asking why you look like you’re about to explode.

It’s easy to fall in love with Heeseung. All of the girls fawn over him already, a promising sign that Heeseung will likely be just fine when he debuts as an idol. He’s always been good with people and speaks in a way that makes people root for his success even if it was unintentional to begin with. He’s charming in a way that seems humble. Heeseung has a skill for making you feel like you are the only person in the room when he talks to you. You’re sure it’s why people feel drawn to him and why everybody loves being around Heeseung so much. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way.

Sometimes, you grow envious of how easy it is for Heeseung to get people to like him. Career prospects aside, it’s almost as if he can convince anyone he’s somebody worth being friends with. Cashiers love him because he doesn’t make small talk awkward. He’s not afraid to talk to strangers and strike up a conversation with somebody while waiting for his coffee order. Heeseung is bashful enough to come across as sincere and it seems to reel people in.

He inspires you in ways that you can’t fathom but simultaneously reminds you that you’ve got no future or prospect. It’s unfair to compare yourself to your best friend, but being in such close proximity where people praise him next to you are constant reminders that your life hasn’t begun and you don’t know if it ever will. Your life feels stagnant compared to his exciting one. While Heeseung spends his days and nights perfecting his dance techniques and vocal skills, you sit in your room and wonder what life would be like if you could touch the moon.

There are days where you wish you could be as suave and charming as he can be. You feel awkward around people you don’t know and limit yourself to new experiences when it feels too intimidating. You’re not somebody who’s confident enough to start a conversation, let alone with somebody you aren’t familiar with. Where Heeseung excels in the socializing department, you find yourself playing catch-up every time you see him befriend yet another person you aren’t familiar with. It’s a wonder how you two became as close as you are.

Meeting him had been by chance. You knew him from friends of friends and saw him in the hallways between class periods but never had a reason to talk to him until the two of you were partnered for a class project. The newfound partnership felt oddly comfortable from the minute Heeseung introduced himself to you with that same charming smile everyone knows him to have. His wit and humor brewed the perfect potion for you to feel like caring for him as deeply as you do would become inevitable. It wasn’t a bet on if you would fall for him as hard as you did, but when.

You’re inclined to believe you keep it hidden well. Heeseung is far too oblivious most times to see you as anything other than his best friend. You’ve treated him like a friend far longer than you’ve liked him romantically, so acting as if you don’t have feelings for him is easy when you remind yourself that having him in your life would be better than the alternative. Still, you have moments where you yearn to hold his hand and kiss him before he leaves for practice.

“Do you want to come to the next showcase this weekend?” Heeseung asks, nudging your side with his elbow. You pry your attention away from Minjun’s phone to look at him. “It’s gonna be a small one in the company theater. There’s going to be a bunch of important people in the industry. Allegedly.”

“Of course I’ll come, Heeseung. This is you we’re talking about. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The smile he gives you is blinding.

“I really appreciate you supporting me, you know that? I don’t say it often, but I should. Thank you for always supporting me.”

Your heart bursts.

“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t do at least that,” you tell him.

“My parents and Minjun are gonna be there too so you won’t be alone.” He smiles at you like he knew you were worried about who to sit with, let alone if there’s going to be important people that could determine Heeseung’s career.

“Thanks,” you mumble, an overwhelming feeling of shyness overtaking you. “It’s silly that you have to look out for me all the time.”

“No, not silly,” he says immediately, pushing his head to your shoulder. You don’t imagine this position is very comfortable for him, but Heeseung seems keen on staying in this position. “We’re kids, Y/N. You don’t need to have your life together. I’ll always look out for you and walk you through it if that’s what you need.”

You sigh. “You know, one day, you’re going to become so famous that you’ll inevitably be too busy for me.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No I won’t. Who checks up on me every day after practice? Who do I come to when I need to cry? Who do I invite to my home when I’m not even here?”

“Technically, your parents invite me over when you’re not here.”

Heeseung pinches your thigh. “I’m serious, Y/N. You’re not getting rid of me. It’s like, scientifically impossible to separate the two of us.”

“Thanks, Hee.” You feel him nod against you before he lifts his head from your shoulder. “I just feel like I get in my own head sometimes. You know what you want to do for the rest of your life and I barely know what I want for breakfast tomorrow.”

“We don’t always have to figure it out. I know saying that feels like bullshit because I’m training to become an idol but I’m serious. There are so many people we know who don’t know what they’re doing with their lives.”

“It feels like my life could very well be over.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You make a face at him. “I know.”

“You’ll find something for you, okay? You’re barely an adult anyway. You still have college and all of that shit to figure it out.”

“You’re right.”

“As always.”

“Don’t push it, Heeseung.”

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

Mr. and Mrs. Lee drive you to the showcase. They pick you up and the four of you have a quick dinner before heading over to the company’s theater and you feel somewhat like an important industry person when you’re given a badge with ‘VIP’ on it to signify that you’re part of the family and friends entourage. You see a group of people with clipboards and pens at the ready, dressed like they’ve just come from important meetings that determine the futures of each trainee. Perhaps that’s who they are. Some of these well-dressed individuals have younger people standing beside them, presumably assistants or something as such.

It feels very formal and you’re wondering if the long skirt and long sleeve top you’re wearing is too childish. Everybody who looks important seems to be donning suits or dresses that make them look like they stepped out of a drama show. It doesn’t matter how many times you remind yourself that you’re young and not here to mingle with corporate executives. You still feel like the floor should swallow you whole and spit you out with a new wardrobe that matches everyone else’s.

Heeseung’s parents chat with a few people they recognize and leave you and Minjun to fend for yourselves (or, rather, it feels that way). The young girl beside you hooks her arm with yours when you’ve been quiet for a moment too long and starts to lead you down the aisles.

“Everyone in here looks so stuffy,” she whispers. “People working in entertainment should look like they’re having fun.”

“I feel a little silly in this skirt,” you admit.

“You look great,” Minjun tells you as she bumps your hip with hers. “My mom made me wear this stupid dress that I can barely breathe in.”

“I happen to think you look very cute, Minnie.”

“But I don’t want to look cute,” she whines quietly. “I want to look like an adult.”

“Yeah, well you can look like an adult when you are one. For now, just be happy that somebody finds you cute enough to do things for you.”

Minjun wants to argue but doesn’t. In the time that she’s known you, there hasn’t been a reason for her to distrust anything you say to her because you’ve never had a reason to lie. It’s why she’s likely to listen to you over her own brother, a fact that Heeseung holds a mild grudge over.

“I guess you’re right. I can’t even drive. I need people to drive me places.”

You stifle a laugh. “Yeah, driving can be a pain sometimes. Enjoy your youth while you have it, okay?” Minjun rolls her eyes in a way that lets you know she’s joking. Being outwardly affectionate doesn’t seem to run in the Lee sibling genes, but you’d like to think you know them well enough to tell when they’re being genuine.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”

You try to tell yourself that, too. When everybody finds their seats and when the showcase begins, you’re in awe of how many talented people there are in the room when you hear their incredible vocal abilities and make performing in front of a crowd look easy. It’s easy to spot Heeseung when he’s dancing with a group of people you’ve never seen before. He always looks as if he’s floating on air, moving his body in ways you can’t fathom and he makes learning difficult choreography seem like a walk in the park. You’ve heard him sing before but not to this extent. The steady tone he delivers when he dances amazes you beyond comprehension and Minjun would later swear that she saw stars in your eyes when you watched her brother perform like this for the first time.

What Heeseung neglected to tell you was that he secured a solo spot after months of impressing his coaches. He performs one of his favorite songs and moves across the stage like he was always meant to be dancing on it. From here, Heeseung looks like a celestial being with the lights cascading down his body. You hold your breath the entire time he sings on that stage and clap the loudest when everybody gives him a standing ovation. You peek to the side to see the same, stuffy executives nodding after his performance and write down things on their clipboards that you can only hope are praises and nothing but.

Heeseung’s parents make their way to the front of the stage when the house lights turn on. They talk to people you don’t recognize and you find yourself following them instead of looking like an awkward mess, as everybody else has chosen to stand from their seats and greet the performers that have come out from backstage.

Your best friend looks magnificent with his makeup and the outfit he last performed in. He looks like a real idol in this light and pride swells within your chest when people applaud him for his incredible performance before he reaches you. His smile turns bigger when he sees you and Minjun approaching him behind his parents and makes his way to engulf you in a hug.

“You’re here,” he breathes.

“I’d always said I’d be here for you, didn’t I?”

“I think this was the most important showcase of my life.”

It would be hard to ignore Heeseung’s arm wrapped around your waist like he’s done it a thousand times before. It’s true that the two of you aren’t strangers to physical touch, but he never lingers on you like he is now. Still, you chalk it up to overflowing happiness and you can sense that Heeseung is genuinely pleased with himself. He isn’t pretending that he performed well like he does when he avoids going home after practice in lieu of spending time with you in your mother’s apartment.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Minjun praises.

“Language,” Heeseung chides, removing his arm from your waist to pinch her cheek. “Thank you for coming too. Where are eomma and appa?”

Minjun points to where they are. “I think they were waiting for you to come out and started talking to the coaches.”

“We should make our way there.”

“You should,” you tell him, pushing Heeesung towards his parents. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Nonsense.” Heeseung shakes his head and grabs your wrist as best as he can with multiple bodies trying to squeeze past the three of you.

When Heeseung pulls you away, you’re sure to grab onto Minjun’s hand so she doesn’t get lost in a sea of people either. Mr. and Mrs. Lee beam when they see their son approaching and Heeseung drops your wrist in favor of being smothered with affection by his parents. You can tell he feels embarrassed to be doted on in front of his peers because of how his ears are turning red, but you sit back and laugh with Minjun when she points it out loud.

You let them talk and watch as people clad in business attire approach Heeseung and his parents. You're not sure if Heeseung knows them or not but he smiles and shakes their hands, going so far as to bow to their assistants as well. He talks to them like he’s been in this business for decades, making people laugh and remaining as humble as ever when people praise his performance skill. You’re not sure how Heeseung handles all of this attention and praise at the same time, or even what it must feel like to be talented enough to have people approach you.

As you observe everybody else, it’s clear that Heeseung is the star of tonight’s showcase. The other performers did a fantastic job as well, but something about your best friend draws executives to him, and you’re sure everyone who hasn’t spoken to Heeseung is waiting for their turn. It feels exhausting to watch people socialize. You can only guess how exhausted Heeseung might be.

Minjun joins her parents a little while later at their request, leaving you alone for the time being. You pull your phone out and text your mom that you’re still at the showcase and will let her know when Mr. and Mrs. Lee drive you back to the apartment. You use this as an excuse to look busy, replying to a few friends that you didn’t have time to respond to before coming to the showcase. But those conversations are dry and leave you without a distraction.

“Y/N, come here!”

Heeseung calls your name and your head snaps to where he’s standing. He beckons you over with a wave and you awkwardly waddle to where he’s standing. His family aren’t with him and you wonder just how long you’ve been looking at your phone for.

“This is my best friend, Y/N,” Heeseung says as he pulls you closer to him. “Y/N, meet Kim Namjoon. He’s the president and founder of Big Hit.”

“It’s lovely to meet you.” The bow is almost automatic and you’re sure to put on a good first impression to help any reputation Heeseung has with Namjoon. You bow at an angle that’s deeper than a common greeting but just shy of ninety-degrees.

Namjoon returns in kind. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Heeseung’s a talented one, isn’t he?”

“He’s the best at what he does,” you say earnestly. “I’ve never seen anybody work as hard as him in my entire life. Pardon if I’m overstepping, but I think Big Hit is incredibly lucky to have him.”

He laughs at your politeness. “I feel the same. It’s not every day you come across someone who’s skilled at, well, everything.”

“You know, when Heeseung and I were younger, we had this ongoing joke that he could master anything on the first try. I think it’s what makes him special, you know?”

“Guys, please don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Heeseung whines. His cheeks are red but both you and Namjoon laugh in good fun.

“There’s a reason why I chose Heeseung to be tonight’s soloist,” Namjoon informs. “This showcase is meant for people in the industry and if I’m being honest with you, I think you’ll be getting good remakes on your review.”

Heeseung beams. “Wow…I don’t know what to say.”

“He says ‘thank you,’” you answer for him. “I can’t imagine what training must be like but I do know that all of it has paid off. Thank you for giving Heeseung a chance to prove himself.”

There’s a glint in Namjoon’s eye.

“Have you ever considered working in publicity?” Namjoon asks you.

“No, why do you ask?”

“I think you’d have a real talent for it.” Namjoon says it in a way that feels too casual for a showcase, especially if he’s the one in charge of the company Heeseung is training under. “You speak well for Heeseung.”

“Oh…thank you.”

He turns to Heeseung and claps him on the back. “There’s more to being an idol than training and performing. You need people who know you and know the business. It’s important to make your career thrive because you can be the most talented person in the world, but if you don’t have the right people around you, none of that will matter.”

Heeseung nods. “Y/N’s always been my champion.”

“I can see.” Namjoon smiles at you. “Entertainment is not for the faint of heart and there’s more to it than being photographed. You need to be in the right places at the right time and know the right people who can get you there. That’s what publicity does for you. Y/N’s already doing it and she’s not working in entertainment yet.”

Somehow, his words feel comforting. “I haven’t thought about what I want to do with my life but that seems like something I could do.”

“It’s important work. Heeseung can perform the shit out of his solo but it doesn’t mean anything if he has nowhere to perform it.”

Namjoon smiles at the both of you before his name is being called from behind him.

“Great job on your solo, Heeseung.” He turns to you. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” He bows once more to the both of you before departing.

“I feel like I’m buzzing,” Heeseung says as he puts an arm loosely around you. “It was like I was the only person in the room when I was performing, you know? The dance with the other guys was amazing and all of that but I feel like I was on another level when it was just me up there.”

“You were incredible, Hee. I mean that. I don’t know a single person more talented than you.”

Heeseung smiles down at you.

“You know, it means a lot that you come to see me. Sometimes I wonder if people talk to me because they know I’m training to become an idol but you never make me feel like that. It feels natural and genuine. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, thanks.”

You push him away from you, a giddy smile tugging on the edge of your lips. Heeseung is affectionate but less so in his vocabulary, choosing to tease you because it’s his way of letting you know he cares for you. Hearing him be so open and vulnerable tugs at your heartstrings and it makes you feel like you could achieve anything.

“I’ll always be here for you, remember? You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

Heeseung’s life changes for the better after the night of the showcase when Namjoon tells him he’s secured a debut spot underneath their brand new label, Belift. Happiness flows within the Lee household and you’re nearly in tears when you realize all your best friend has worked for has finally paid off.

But with it comes uncertainty and your fears are slowly becoming a reality when Heeseung stops talking to you as frequently as he used to.

It comes with the job and you’re more than aware of how much Heeseung has on his plate between preparing for his debut and trying to fit in with the industry. You can’t imagine what life must be like for him now that his dream is just a few weeks away of becoming a reality but part of you wonders if it’s too difficult for him to keep you hanging on a leash.

He calls his parents and Minjun as often as he gets. You know because Minjun swings by your mother’s apartment with Mrs. Lee on Saturday mornings to drop off baked goods, updating you on the latest she’s heard from her older brother. You try your best to quell your jealousy because they’re his family after all, but part of you feels like you have a right to call yourself his family too after all he said to you during the night of the showcase and all you’ve done for him.

You’re sure Mr. and Mrs. Lee can sense it too. Heeseung no longer lives at home, having moved into his own dorm in the heart of Seoul, thirty minutes from you. You aren’t a stranger to their household without his presence but you’ve gradually stopped coming by unless Minjun calls you from Mrs. Lee’s phone to ask you to hang out.

Texts and calls slowly diminish with his new line of work. You went from hearing from him every day to every other day, to nothing at all.

Seeing the blue delivered messages without any indication that he’s acknowledged you, makes you feel like a second priority. But you don’t know if you get the right to feel like this when you know how busy he is and the weight of his debut. Heeseung’s got one shot to make a good first impression and the last thing you want is to distract him from achieving his childhood dream of being a successful idol.

Still, the silence stings.

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

Heeseung knows you’re waiting on him and ignores the pit in the bottom of his stomach that tells him to text you back.

His new life has changed in ways he couldn’t fathom. When Namjoon told him the news about his debut and all of the details surrounding it, Heeseung felt as if the weight of the world was no longer a burden for him to carry, and that all he has ever wanted would eventually come to fruition. His new friends, namely the three guys around his age who have trained to become musicians, are people he gets along with more than he thought he would. Heeseung’s newfound excitement about the next chapter of his life takes him to new heights and he finds himself spending more time with Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon as they prepare for the debut showcase.

Heeseung knows you’re waiting for him back at home but it’s so hard to focus on you when he’s wrapped up in his new life. Making time to see you is hard enough as it is and he knows you’re as patient as can be. In the years he’s been friends with you, Heeseung knows that your resilience knows no bounds and all that you’ve experienced in your lifetime has built the strong-willed, confident person he knows you to be.

But his new life gets him caught up in the feeling of the present success. The three guys have known each other far longer than Heeseung has known them, only greeting each other in passing since all four of them were training in different areas of performance art. It wasn’t until they were living together that Heeseung started befriending them beyond practice and rehearsals. Jake’s the one who includes Heeseung the most on group outings or spending time playing video games in the living room. His entire life he’s been alone or with just you, seldom having a group of guys who just gets him.

Heeseung tucks away the nagging feeling in the back of his head when he and Jay are preparing a meal for the four of them when he sees a text from you.

hey hee, are you busy right now? it’s been a while since we hung out and i thought it would be nice to go get boba, or something. my treat !! <3

He shoves his phone in his back pocket before Jay can notice him staring at the screen. The message goes unanswered for the rest of the night as he basks in the company of his friends-slash-coworkers, the thought of getting boba with you far removed from his mind. Playing video games and getting to know the people he’ll likely be working with for the foreseeable future takes precedent. It’s what Heeseung keeps telling himself.

After a while, the guilt no longer eats him alive. You’re busy focusing on graduating and preparing to attend university in the fall while he’s made his debut with his newfound best friends. It’s no surprise to anyone that Heeseung’s fanbase grows at a nearly alarming rate after he makes his debut. He grows popular with each day that passes and it feels like Heeseung has become the face of the newest generation overnight.

He’ll wonder what you’re up to from time to time and let you know how he’s doing. Heeseung first sends a text to apologize, lying about not seeing your text sooner and that he’d love to get boba with you when he has the time. You tell him not to worry because you know he’s busy. He texts you pictures of his first performance and scenic pictures of the cities he visits because of his travel and promotion schedule. You update him on the end of the school year and how your mother is dealing with you moving away for college.

The texts become sparse as the two of you resume your separate lives and Heeseung doesn’t realize that you don’t text him until the day of your graduation–the day that he was supposed to graduate if he hadn’t deferred to the trainee program–wishing him well and that you’re thinking of him. You send a video of yourself pulling your tassel over the graduation cap and he feels nothing for the lost time when he’s on his way to promote his first album overseas.

It’s for my career, he tells himself when he realizes how much time has passed since he thought of you. I’m doing what’s best for me and everybody else needs to get used to it.

It isn’t until Heeseung is permitted a few days off that he comes home per his parents’ request. He doesn’t tell them that he’s a bit homesick even though his dorm is a thirty minute drive, but it feels oceans away when his days are packed from morning until night. He tells his parents about his travels and what kinds of food he’s been eating when he’s overseas. Heeseung gifts Minjun all of the trinkets and souvenirs he bought from his time promoting his album, and what his future holds for him when he returns to his life as an idol. Mr. and Mrs. Lee applaud their son’s hard work, yet they can’t help but feel like there’s a piece of a puzzle missing because you aren’t here to celebrate with them.

You make a visit at Minjun’s request. When you arrive, you’re stunned to learn that Heeseung is back at home and only has the evening until he needs to return to work. Heeseung can see the disappointment that festers in your eyes and the way your shoulder droops as you smile at him for his family’s sake, although he knows it’s false bravado because your grin doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He leads you upstairs to his bedroom when Mr. Lee insists that the two of you spend some time together after not having seen each other in ages. It feels awkward to be in his childhood bedroom with the door just slightly ajar at this moment, but it isn’t anything completely new.

What is new, however, is seeing that you’ve dyed your hair a different color and that you’ve gotten your ears pierced.

“You look good,” he says, lifting his hand to toy with the end of your hair. “It matches your skin tone nicely.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you do it recently? It looks fresh.”

You don’t note that Heeseung also has a different hair color than his natural jet black.

“Two weeks ago. My cousin did it for me.”

He nods. “Nice. It looks good. I see that you’re wearing necklaces too.”

“Yeah. I decided it was time to stop being a child and get it over with.”

“You know, you don’t have to do things if you don’t want to.” You throw a pointed look at Heeseung and it’s an expression he’s unfamiliar with.

“I know. But I like earrings and that’s why I wanted to get them pierced.”

Heeseung wipes his hand on his pants at the awkward tension in the room. He knows he’s to blame. His schedule and priorities have pulled him away from you and the life he’s built prior to debuting, but can anyone blame him? Can anyone blame him for not being able to balance his life when he’s been given the keys to a new empire?

“Well, it was nice seeing you.” You throw a cheap smile in his direction and motion to open the door until Heeseung grabs your wrist, causing you to turn around.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “You have an early day tomorrow.”

Heeseung sharks his head. “It’s fine. I don’t have to be back in Seoul until ten anyway. I’ve missed you and I want to spend time with you before I absolutely have to fall asleep.”

You scoff. “That’s real funny, Heeseung. You missed me but all of my texts and calls go unanswered.”

He frowns. “You know that I’m busy most days.”

“And nights?”

“I’m with the guys back at the dorm.”

You poke your cheek with your tongue.

“See, I would know all of this if you bothered to talk to me at all but it sees that your new life is treating you just fine.”

You make another move to leave his room but he closes the door, startling you with the loud noise. He apologizes quietly and uses his body to block you from leaving for the time being.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just been so busy between promotion and rehearsal that it’s hard to keep track of who I keep up with and who I don’t.”

“You’re talking to me like I’ve never seen you cry before,” you say with a disappointed sigh. “You act like I’m somebody you once knew in a past life.”

“Not true. You’re my best friend.”

“Best friends would bother to talk to each other. You know that, right? I don’t exist just so you can pick and choose when you need somebody to talk to. It makes me feel like you don’t actually care about me, Heeseung. It makes me feel like you’ve ever cared about our friendship unless you needed a shoulder to cry on and I was the first person who would listen to you.”

“That’s not true. I’m just busy.”

“I get that, I really do. But it’s been months, Heeseung. I know that I can’t have your attention all the time and I know I can’t see you as often as I did. But would it kill you to let me know you’re alive? The only time I hear about you is when other people talk about you or when I see you on billboards. That doesn’t feel like a friendship to me.”

His fists ball at his side and his frustration surfaces. Heeseung is frustrated at everyone–himself for being unable to say ‘no’ to his new friends, you for expecting so much of him, and his company for keeping him as busy as he is. But he doesn’t know how to communicate that, not when you’re standing in front of him, looking like he’s the villain in your life when he feels like he’s not.

“Well that’s life, Y/N,” Heeseung settles. “Sometimes we need to learn when to prioritize things over others.”

You laugh humorlessly. “Is that the hill you’re going to die on? You’re too busy to send a simple text back or let me know that you’re, I don’t know, okay?”

“You can’t be a priority all the time.”

“I know that. I’m not asking you to drop everything for me just because I called you. I’m asking you to treat me like somebody you care about, Heeseung. Is that too much to ask?”

The anger Heeseung feels within him feels misplaced, but your inability to hear him about makes him even angrier. It’s unfair for you to demand such things of him when he’s pursuing everything he’s ever dreamed of.

“Yes, it is too much to ask,” Heeseung bites back. “You don’t understand the gravity of what I do for a living and it’s hard to appreciate it when you’re breathing down my neck. God, when did you become such a clingy person, Y/N? The world doesn’t revolve around you and I don’t owe you shit just because you can’t handle that I’m busier than you are.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m being dead serious.” Heeseung steps away from the door. “You of all people know how badly I want this and now it’s like you’re not letting me enjoy what I’ve worked for. What kind of friend does that make you?”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can catch them. His need to be the victim in an uncertain period of his life causes him to misdirect his frustration with adapting to his new life and the proof is written all over your face.

“Y/N, I didn’t mean–”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “Just don’t.”

Frozen, Heeseung watches you open his door with such force that it nearly slams into him. He’s quick on his feet to follow you downstairs where he sees his family looking perplexed when you’ve opened the front door without saying goodbye.

“Y/N, I didn’t mean it!” Heesueng yells when you’ve crossed the threshold of his household. “Please come back inside.”

“You made it very clear that I have no place in your new life. Congratulations, I hope you’re happy.”

You walk away while the deep feelings of disappointment and uncertainty settles in Heeseung’s chest. He walks back inside and closes the door behind him to see Minjun and his parents in a deep stupor, trying to make sense of the scene that has just unfolded before them.

“What happened?” Mrs. Lee asks.

“Y/N and I…” his voice cracks. “I don’t think we’re friends anymore.”

The room is silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Minjun says without a smile.

Heeseung wants to tell her that she’s wrong and whatever conversation they must’ve heard was a product of two friends having their first serious argument. Heeseung’s own frustrations towards his new life is something he doesn’t talk about often because he’s worked so hard to become the person he is, and it would be ungrateful to complain about what he has yearned for his entire life. It bottled up so much that hearing you accuse him of being a poor friend caused him to unravel and say things he doesn’t mean.

Mrs. Lee beats him to speaking.

“Don’t say that, Minjun.”

The young girl remains quiet and refuses to meet Heeseung’s eye.

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

In the few years that follow, you resist rolling your eyes when you see Heeseung’s face in magazine ads and billboards across the city. Life takes you to university where you spend the next four years deciding on the rest of your life before you settle on something everybody said you’d be good at.

Graduation approaches far sooner than you’d like and it becomes bittersweet when you see the Lee family, sans Heeseung, in the stadium next to your mom, who are all equally shedding tears as your name is called. Heeseung being absent feels hollow, like another reminder that people choose to leave your life without a moment’s notice but for the sake of keeping up appearances, you smile at the camera when you accept your diploma.

It’s not a surprise to you when you find yourself working in entertainment like Kim Namjoon said you could all those years ago.

A job is a job, but he was right when he told you this would be something you’d excel at. Day in and day out, your responsibilities differ as you begin working at Hybe, formerly Big Hit, to manage the profiles and public appearances of idols and other public figures alike.

Heeseung doesn’t hear from you much. His parents update him on your coursework and send him photos of you at graduation. He cries every so often when he feels the urge to call you and tell you about his day, but doesn’t know whether he has the right to do that anymore. The years in his position has taught him what true life balance is, especially with the media and paparazzi taking an interest in his personal life.

It feels so exhausting to have nobody you can depend on. These days, it’s just him and the three boys he met at the beginning of his career. Heeseung’s popularity has grown so much that he can’t tell up from down. It drowns him in a way he never anticipated and the politics of fame and the industry wasn’t something he accounted for when he began dreaming about a career in the performance space.

Perhaps it’s why he spends his days feeling listless, like he’s got no real potential after achieving his dream. He knows his managers worry for his health and that the other trainees in the building can sense something has been off for a while. Maybe it’s why he roams the halls with headphones on to drown out the noise that’s become his everyday life, with talks of meetings and promotions and everything Heeseung wishes to get away from, if for only one day.

When Heeseung bumps into somebody on his way out of the company elevator, his first instinct is to lean down to collect the papers that have fallen haphazardly on the floor. He pushes his headphones until they rest around his neck and stands to hand them back to the person he bumped into. Only, he feels his body freeze when he sees who it is.

Like Heeseung has always believed, if you really love someone, they will always come back to you.

“Y/N?”

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

potential part two ft. the rest of enha … this was a therapy piece lol

*✧･ﾟ─────────── *✧･ﾟ

taglist: @enha-stars @karinasbaby @baevsxii @lillotus17 @syzavxy @mrmld @nikilvrfvr @luvyev @notevenheretbh1 @wvnkoi @seungiesgf @kgneptun @judeduartewannabe @iheartjayke @wonsbubble @ilyjxdz @foggysfrog @oddracha @haechansbbg @tobiosbbyghorl @ryunjin0 @sharksandminhos @jungwoneez @alex-is-sleeping @minjaexvz @woninluv @engeneeee-168 @friendlyuser57 @moony-mari @trdhgg @sleepyhoon @sunghoonsgfreal @i02hoonz @riksaes @021894s @zeeloveshee @jwnghyuns @vhuteryh @cloudiesblog @awsome209 @fleurixzs @xiaoderrrr @marshwatz @aeripark0703 @bambangan @papichulomacy .

apologies to all tumblr wouldn't tag. :)

#lee heeseung x reader #enhypen x reader #heeseung x reader #heeseung imagines #enhypen imagines #enhypen au #enhypen angst #heeseung #my writing #never to keep

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silent-sanctum · 6 months ago

Text

"Jotaro Kujo is Weak at His Core"

As a writer and avid character psycho-analyzer, I find this concept fascinating because I wholeheartedly agree with what OP has quoted from a "What opinion would get the community to do this? *Insert Johnny getting torn apart*" post.

Before I begin, I know some people will see this, misread it, and immediately say "lmao did we watch the same show? He's strong, badass, and can kick anyone's ass. Like do you know Star Platinum bro?". Trust me, I've seen the replies to this post and they said this same exact thing.

And I'm here to say that to said people, if you truly are not the illiterates I'd like to term you as, you'd take the time to realize that when we say "he's weak", we're not referring to his physical prowess because we know he's one of the strongest characters in the show.

If you don't like to, then you're just proving the accuracy of the last sentence: "You can't stand seeing your edgy badass image of Jotaro as vulnerable."

Pushing that aside, I'd like to expand on OP's opinion/headcanon with some depth to it and explain how exactly he's "weak" outside of being a skilled and strategic fighter.

I've learned that to be holistically healthy, one needs to develop and maintain all optimal functions of oneself: Physical, Emotional, Social, and Mental.

Obviously, Jotaro excels in the physical category. He's conventionally attractive, taller than the average male population, well-defined with a muscled build, fit as hell, street and book smart, and highly in tune with his environment making him adaptable in any circumstance.

He's "strong" in that aspect we all know at a superficial level.

However, we start to see the core problem once we strip this good-hearted man of his physical appeal:

Emotional? He believes he doesn't need to express them to others because why should he. He refuses to process them and instead keeps them behind a locked wall of stoicism and aloofness.

Social? Can't communicate to save his life. He's reclusive and doesn't know how to socialize outside of work. Guarded and skeptical around others. Too much of a workaholic to bother making new acquaintances (if he even knows how) outside of familial connections.

Mental? At 17, he went on a death crusade over Asia and the Middle East, almost died numerous times, and most likely lived with unresolved PTSD that carried over into adulthood, and further deteriorated his already poor social and emotional skills.

What do we have then? If we look past that powerful exterior of a man, we have inappropriate emotional expression, poor socialization, and constant fatigue of dealing with bullshit that relates to his trauma.

And this is what we mean by his "core": His mindset. His inner machinations. The soft spot his enemies would need to target in order to defeat or kill him, strategy-wise.

I. Emotional

We pretty much already know how this man handles emotions. And this may come off as "irrelevant" to the dudebros and the meme riders who believe "haha feelings are for pussies, I advocate for edgy autistic Florida man who don't give a fuck, elopes with dolphins, and berates women".

But believe it or not, he has them, just like any other human being on the planet. I said it once and I'll say it again: Not everyone will wear their heart on their sleeves. Some will convey emotions publicly with no issue, while others would prefer to keep to themselves.

But how does this contribute to him being "weak" at his core?

Essentially, it's similar to how someone with depression may behave (not everyone, some of them). One may appear friendly, sunny, and bubbly to everyone around them, not knowing they're actually suffering from a void that eats them up from the inside when alone.

For his case, it may look like he doesn't care about what happens to him and everyone around him, considering his nonchalant and aloof behavior, but beneath that cold exterior, he cares way too much for his family, friends, and allies. He feels too much to the point where once his allies are endangered, he would sacrifice his well-being without a second thought.

And that's an issue to him.

To him, emotions make him vulnerable and in his circumstance where enemies are actively hunting him down trying to find his weak spots, his emotions should be kept behind doors because he doesn't know how to regulate it on the outside so it's either total stoicism or lashing out.

I found someone saying this line about him that fits him so well: "He's a good person who doesn't know how to be a good person."

This is a man who means well and truly wants to help out of the goodness of his heart, but because of his inability to convey his emotions properly and is unable to pick up emotional cues, it can lead to shit tons of misunderstandings due to inappropriate tone & expression, and that can change how someone views him in the long run, thus leading to unintended deterioration of personal relationships (which contribute to the social aspect of his weakness).

I found a visual representation of what I just said above. Just to give context: The show is about a married couple who struggles to keep their relationship afloat, having to navigate through family politics, work & life balance, and miscommunications so they could find why they loved each other in the first place.

The emotionally-reserved character here with the poor communication skills is the girl. She's a CEO who just received a call, came out from work, and meets with her husband, asking him to accompany her to a doctor's appointment.

Observe how she thinks she views herself VS how others actually view her as.

Other's POV: Demanding, brash, and insensitive Her POV: Anxious, hesitant, and confused

Now remember what Araki had written about Jotaro? "He doesn't believe he must reveal his emotions to others because he thinks everyone can figure him out, leading him to be a victim of misunderstandings. Others think him to be cold-hearted, rebellious, and insensitive."

II. Social

With emotions as our base foundation to poor communication skills, this leads us to his weak socialization aspect.

In a recent quote reblog about how he was raised as a child may have contributed to his tough persona, I mentioned something about his need of "Security".

Growing up, it was mostly just him and his sweet pacifist mother Holly. Joseph couldn't have visited often (he hates Japan) and his dad is a busy musician with a packed schedule on tour. As a kid up to early adolescence, he was coddled by his mother and raised as a good student. Everything was going great for him.

[In popular headcanon] Once he passed puberty, the change to his Part 3 MC era began. People began picking fights with him and bullying him, and he began to see the world as a threat to his safety. Knowing his mother, he wouldn't rely on her to defend him against these dangers. She was too kind, too friendly, too loving for her to deal with the harsh life he now has to deal with.

So he had to be the stronger one for both of them. He already had the physical attributes for it, so why not use it to his advantage?

He got on the popular delinquent trend back in 80's Japan, integrated a couple of cool masculine-esque personalities as his own from his favorite Western and Crime media, and is then able to project this menacing aura everyone should be afraid of, to ward potential threats away from him and his mother.

But Mijin, how does this make him weak? What does this have to do with his need for security?

Think about it: The poor guy's already introverted, doesn't feel comfortable with his emotions that he can't express properly, and now he has to be skeptical with people around him because he realized how shitty society can be, which leads to intimidation that wards off not only potential foes but potential friends as well, making it look like he's anti-social.

On the outside, people are likely to think that he likes being this way when in reality, he seeks a reliable support system on which he can lean onto. Everyone with a sound mind wants that subconsciously because we are social creatures. It's part of our nature.

He's constantly fearful of his surroundings, growing even more vigilant as he ages, but he doesn't look afraid because he chooses to put on a brave face to challenge said fears instead of acknowledging he's scared. I read somewhere in an ask that's not mine that in the manga, some panels actually depict Jotaro shaking/trembling in a mix of fear and adrenaline during some of his fights.

He wants to be around people who he can trust. People who he can lower his defenses with. People who are capable of protecting him just as he is capable of protecting them. People who can face his intimidating aura and challenge it to stand on equal grounds with him or to remind him of his place when he goes too far with certain things. Hence, why he seems comfortable being with the Crusaders.

For once, he wants to feel safe.

To not feel like he has to be this strong pillar of hope that everyone depends on.

To be someone being protected, instead of the other way around where he was always the strong protector. He wants a life of normalcy where he can just be a marine biologist and a professor with a loving family he can come home to.

But that can't happen. The inner circle of friends he counted on is either dead or far away, leaving him even more fearful of the world around him. This results in even more guarded skepticism, always watchful of who's an enemy Stand user and what their Stand could do. Because of his cautious nature, this leads to minimized socialization with others.

With little to no solid support system he can count on, he has no one he feels completely secure with because he believes danger will always come to hurt and/or kill those near him. He doesn't want to burden others with the issues & responsibilities of dealing with Stand users. He wants them to live the normal life he could no longer have.

He doesn't trust in the capabilities of his loved ones when it comes to defending themselves against the amount of potential threats and dangers he has faced, and yet he cares about them dearly. So, he commits to what seems to be the most practical solution in his mind: Self-Isolation.

To be a distant beacon where danger is attracted to and away from those dear to him.

(As we see in the beginning of Part 3 where he willingly locks himself in jail as soon as he sees himself as the threat, and in Part 6 where he stays away from his family once he realizes his enemies were targeting him).

"Your family is your weakness."

All this leads him to become what Araki always envisioned him to be: A lone hero.

III. Mental

Now onto the last part, this part of the essay will focus more on the popular headcanon the community has made about him: "Jotaro has PTSD."

Considering what he's been through at only 17, it would be no surprise that he'd acquired major trauma after those 50 days. Think about it- he gets injured more times than he can count, almost dies numerous times, sees his grandfather get "killed" in front of him, and all this combined with the constant reminder that his mother's life is also on a time limit. A failure to kill DIO meant a failure to save Holly.

The amount of pressure and risk he had to endure for her (and there will still be people who adamantly believe that he hated Holly because he said "bitch" to her twice in the first two episodes).

Now, remember when I said about him having this mentality of over-independence when dealing with stressors? It was still manageable during Stardust Crusaders, but because of what had transpired in Cairo, that mindset carries on to the rest of his adulthood, more so if we consider that he most likely didn't get any therapy or treatment for his trauma.

It might be normal for a teenager to hold onto this stubborn notion of "I can do this by myself" and be casual about it, but with trauma now involved, that notion warps into a persisting belief of "by doing this myself, no one else will get hurt" (i.e. refusing help, doing solo fieldwork, self-isolation).

But Mijin, you keep saying "mentality" this, "mindset" that. What are you talking about?

There's an old Tumblr post I found that talks specifically about this in great detail, but to put it shortly: Jotaro has always wanted to do things by himself because he believes that not only will the task be done with, there would be no one else involved with it, making it better for him to cope mentally if ever shit hits the fan (tying back to poor emotional expression and insecurity in bonds).

If any injuries were to be inflicted, he would be the one to receive them, and he alone, because who knows how he'll react and/or cope when his allies are harmed instead of him over and over again? (refer to the trauma of Jotaro surviving Cairo while the majority of the team that went with him died a.k.a "survivor's guilt")

(Also, refer to how he had exhibited great distress when Jolyne was about to be struck by a rain of knives that Pucci sent)

This might also be the reason why he's more self-sacrificial as an adult: Will be the bait during the rat episode instead of Josuke, takes the brunt of Sheer Heart Attack's explosion to spare Koichi, dives straight onto a path of bullets to save Jolyne, etc.

The only possible solution so he could snap out of that belief he holds on to is that strong, reliable support system he internally needs. People who can help him without sustaining fatal injuries in the process [social]. People who he can approach to release any pent-up frustrations and inner conflicts [emotional].

If he had found those people, then he might have been able to deal and/or cope with his trauma better instead of letting it linger and change his outlook in life [mental].

But we all know how his life went in canon. One moment he's a kid playing ball with his mother, then in his last, he dies by having his head bisected by a time-altering Stand.

Jotaro is a person with a gold heart and a rough exterior. Someone who wants to help and protect his loved ones from the unpredictability of the world the best that he can. But even then, his best wasn't enough. His fear was masked with an air of strength and capability, perhaps as compensation for everything else he lacked:

Adequate processing of emotions.

Stable connection with familial, platonic, and romantic bonds.

A sound mindset that stems from effective coping for his PTSD.

We could only hope in headcanon land that he had a better chance at life in the Ireneverse where he finally could develop his inner core better and get that long-deserved break he had always wanted.

#can't you already tell I love this man?#not in a romantic yumeship sense but in a “let me study you under the microscope” sense #mischaracterize my pookie and you'll hear me thundering through the streets #jojos bizarre adventure #jjba #jotaro kujo #mijin thoughts

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merlinmylove · 5 months ago

Text

Arthur being in disguise or hiding (because villain of the week is trying to kill him) and he overhears what his own people think of his father

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

Two guards speaking quietly about the new locked gates policy

“But The King says — “

“The child-slayer? I won’t listen to a word that man says — let the family pass”

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

Two peasant women gathering herbs

“The mad tyrant has ordered yet another attack on the druid community. A shame I say, most of my recipes come from them, and if he kills them all, how will the potion makers survive?!”

“He burned my aunt you know — she had no magic! She never studied, she knew no spells or anything, but she was a midwife. A woman with knowledge of herbs and how to best practice medicine — that was treason enough”

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

A group of servants walking past him

“I was sweeping in Lord Alders chambers when he complained to Gaius about paying his secret tax again”

“A secret tax?”

“Yes! Apparently his wife, the Countess, knows magic and The King allows it! Lord Alders pays him a handsome sum a year so his wife gets to keep her head on her shoulders. His estate you know, is next to the river and we need fish to eat”

“So The King allows a noble woman to live because her estate is of convenience to the kingdom?! All-while my father, a shoemaker, lost his head for knowing how to read druidic? The Hypocrisy!”

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

A drunk father grieving in the tavern

“My boy was only five summers old! He didn’t know how to read his own name, let alone study magic! But still, he was to hang”

“But why? What was his crime?”

“He was playing in the field with the other boys, and the wheat made him sneeze and suddenly his hair changed and became blue. He didn’t even realise what happened until the others pointed it out. Apparently, there was no need for a trial. He was guilty…

A little boy had to hang because of one moment, one spark of something he must’ve been born with because he never learned, and The Rotten King tied a noose around his neck.”

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

Arthur returning home safely after Gaius was able to identify the poison the attackers used

“May I ask where you found this information?”

“In one of my books, my lord. Here, I belive you read from this when Merlin drank from the poisoned chalice.”

He flips through the pages haphazardly before releasing

“But this is a book of magical poisons and plants!”

“Well yes sire…how else would I be able to recognise the symptoms?”

Arthur thinks back to the woman who was arrested last week for having a book on magical plants. She was deemed a witch and a traitor with clear intentions of killing the royal family, and was subsequently burned alive

“So the information is useful in your hands, but traitorous in anyone else’s?”

“It’s just a book Arthur. What one chooses to do after reading it, is entirely up to oneself”

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

Arthur needs some time to think

Maybe Merlin could help…

#I’m not sure if this could be canon bc we’re told many like uther #but i feel like there are untold stories of those left behind the magic trials #bbc merlin #merlin #uther pendragon #Would be fun to see Arthur realise his fathers hypocrisy #Like why is gaius allowed to read books on magical beasts and poisons #like we see the books gaius reads and the monsters and poisons within them #arthur pendragon #merlinmylove #bbc merlin meta

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leggerefiore · 4 months ago

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Eating chocolates with S/O and there's only one left (gasp)

cw: kissing, fluff,

characters: Ingo, Emmet, Nanu, N, Lear, Larry, Grimsley

Somehow, you and your lover found yourselves together on the couch relaxing. A show that neither of you were paying attention to played on the television. Your head rested on their shoulder as your mind drifted into possible things to do. They rested their own atop yours. Between you both say a box of chocolate that had been bought at some point by one of you. A hand went to grab another one, opting to indulge oneself in the holiday's festivity, but it bumped into another. Your eyes drew down to the box. Only one candy remained. Your partner's gaze met your own. Silence followed.

▲Ingo▼

● The older twin stared for a moment before shaking his head. “Ah, go ahead, dearest,” his voice was gentle, “I'm not the biggest fan of sugary things as it is…” He offered the chocolate to you with a soft smile. “Besides, I only was eating them since you were so kind as to get them for me.” All you could do was take the small confection and eat it. Ingo then caught you off-guard when he brought his thumb in the swipe, the corner of your mouth. “… There was a bit of chocolate there,” his cheeks darkened with colour, “Ah, dearest… I truly love you.” A gentle kiss was pressed to your lips. The chocolate tasted a little sweeter.

▽Emmet△

○ The younger twin gazed at you strangely. His lips were still tugged up into the smile that remained ever present on his face. A tilt of his head had him look even more odd. “…” it was eerily silent. His hand did not move from the chocolate. You gazed down at it. Right. “… Darling,” his voice finally came out. His gaze was piercing right through you. Certainly, Emmet was known for his love of sweets. There was not a chance that he was backing down from this. It felt like a losing battle. He liked winning more than anything else. Pulling back your hand, you watched him happily eat the chocolate. Though, his gaze fell back on you. Arms wrapped around you quickly and pulled you into him. “Thank you verrrry much,” he cooed and nuzzled his face into your nape. Well, at least he was being polite.

🐈‍⬛️Nanu❤️‍🩹

🌑 The Kahuna stared for a moment before pulling back his hand. He was not the type to engage himself in something so intensely. Really, he probably should not be eating so much sugar in one sitting. Besides, he only really cared about letting you be happy. “Go ahead,” he motioned his hand, “I got them for you.” You took the chocolate and ate it while his attention drifted back to the screen. However, he was caught unawares when you suddenly leaned in to peck his cheek. His body tensed for a moment before he relaxed. Shaking his head, he sighed. Great, now he seemed like some gentleman.

🌿N👑

🟢 The green-haired man pulled back his hand. He blinked. What did people do in this situation? Was it whoever reached first? Whoever had the least? Neither of you had been paying attention to that. Was there a formula that he could use— His thoughts were interrupted by the last piece of chocolate being pressed into his mouth. You gave him a playful grin. He ate the chocolate with little thought. “… Thank you,” he nodded, “Why did you do that?” N was genuinely curious. A shrug from you left him more lost. He had thought you wanted the chocolate. Before he could ask another question, your lips pressed to his own. It seemed there would be no answers to your actions.

👑Lear💎

🪙 The prince pulled back his hand without any hesitation. His gaze was masked behind those sunglasses that he always insisted on wearing. For a moment, the silence permeated. Your hand was pulled back, too. Then, he reached forward and picked up the chocolate. “… Here, darling,” he pressed the candy to your lips. Letting him feed it to you, that lopsided grin of his spread across his face. “I knew you would love that chocolate,” Lear was plainly smug about you enjoying his gift. Not wanting to let his ego get too big, you leaned in to kiss him. He tensed for a moment before completely returning the affection. You accidentally made his ego even bigger.

💼Larry🏢

🍙 The businessman retracted his hand without any hesitation. You watched as he attempted to act as if that had not happened. Larry did not exactly have the biggest sweet tooth, but he was not opposed to snacking either. It was clear that he wished for you to have the last piece without speaking, likely determining it to be the most placating thing to do. “… Sorry,” he mumbled. You hatched a plan. Placing the chocolate between your lips, you leaned in for a kiss. The other half went into his mouth. Pulling away, you both got to eat your respective pieces. The older man's face was his usual facade. “Thank you, dear,” he tried to pretend that did not just happen.

♠️Grimsley❤️

♤ The gambler did not move his hand back. Did he care that much about chocolate? Possibly. His typical smirk never budged as he snatched the candy away and quickly ate it. You stared at him in slight annoyance, but honestly, you had expected it from him. What proceeded to catch you unawares was him leaning in and pressing his lips to your own. It turned into something more passionate, and the remaining hint of chocolate came through from the kiss. He broke it off with that horrible grin of his. “Did you enjoy it, darling?” his voice was teasing. Your glare made him only chuckle.

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broomsick · 4 months ago

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Short guide to varðlokkr

Briefly exploring ritual singing and spirit work in the nordic tradition, and their possible uses in neo-pagan practice.

Before performing divination, it's said that völur would sing, or more often than not, have someone sing a ritual song in order to "rouse the spirits". This ritual was a way to call upon nearby spirits—generally guardian spirits, to come and answer their questions. The practice of varðlokkur, or "ward songs/protection songs", is tightly interwoven with the art of seiðr. According to the few sources that mention the topic, it was performed by seeresses seeking to prophecize, or by women willing to sing it in their stead.

Before diving deeper into this topic however, it's important to note that the interpretation of the term varðlokkr, and in a sense, the very basis of its current scholarly understanding, depends on its possible etymology. Two hypotheses stand out in this regard: varðlokkr is either spelled with one or two k's, either varðlok or varðlokk. The former would refer to "locking", or "fastening", and is often associated with a passage in the Grógaldr (The Spell of Gróa) where the shamaness refers to Urðar lokur, or Urð's locks/bolts. In this case, the song is a matter of "locking" the spirits in. Whereas varðlokkr would stem from the same root (vǫrðr, meaning to guard or ward), but in this case, lokkr would come from lokka, meaning to lure, or entice. It's generally agreed upon that both these instances showcase how the idea of protection was a key element in the perception of this practice.

These so-called "Weird-songs" sometimes required the use of a rhythmical sound created using drum beating, rattles, or by hitting the ground with a staff. They served as an invocation to higher powers or local spirits, who would be keen to protect ("ward") the seeress as she glimpsed into the future. According to pre-Christian belief, the sound of these songs had the power to appease surrounding spirits, but also to entice and lock them into the space for the duration of the divination. Letting her spirit wander out of her body in order to scry, the völva/seiðrkona became vulnerable, hence the need for higher protection. Now "bound" to her until the completion of the ritual, the guardian spirits would be inclined to lend their help. Depending on the intepretations, this type of ritual singing could also have been a means to reach a trancelike state before fortune telling.

'Many spirits,' said she, 'have been present under its charm, and were pleased to listen to the song, who before would turn away from us, and grant us no such homage. And now are many things clear to me which before were hidden both from me and others.' Eiríks saga rauða, chapter 3

The trance aspect of this practice is often debated, however. Granted, it's possible to point out similarities between seiðr and the "out of body" travel of Sámi and Siberian shamans. After all, a few sources tell us that varðlokkr would also serve to bring the völva back into her own body once she'd prophecized. Still, scholars more often than not consider varðlokkr and other seiðr practices as putting oneself in a "receptive state" in order to comprehend messages sent from the spirit world.

At the beginning of the séance all those present seem to have taken part in the singing, but a special choir was appointed for continuing operations: this is in several accounts said to consist of women or one woman. Singing continues throughout the séance, the purpose being to remind the shaman of his mission. Some sources indicate that the singing was concentrated or confined to the final stages of the trance, and the aim here was to wake the shaman. Louise Bäckman & Åke Hultkrantz

Think of varðlokkr as a way to blend music, divination and spirit work. A modern practitioner who already works with Dísir, vættir, ancestors, and the like can involve these familiar spirits in the ritual, for example, by calling upon a passed loved one to protect them during divination, or even to aid in finding answers. It's generally agreed upon that during the Scandinavian pre-Christian times, the wisdom of the dead occupied a vital place in many such shamanic practices. One could seek advice from passed mentors or loved ones in this manner. Even disregarding the idea of "rousing" spirits and "locking" them, I believe that one could still use to music as ritualized invocation—especially when it comes to ancestor work, in order to ask for advice or insight.

Next to nothing is known about what varðlokkr actually sounded like. However, I think it's still interesting to explore the idea of ritual singing as a shamanic practice. For someone interested in experimenting with galdr, seiðr, or any such shamanic practices in the Nordic tradition, varðlokkr seems like a great place to start.

So how does one incorporate ritual singing into neo-pagan practice? I'm sorry to say that it's exceedingly difficult to somehow reconstruct varðlokkr, as history has left us with nothing but bits and pieces to work with. However, three main particularities stand out and aid us in tracing a general outline: 1. the Weird-song is sung before divination as an opening practice; 2. its purpose is to call upon spirits; and 3. it most likely served as a sort of short-term ward for the person performing the ritual. These three concepts may be preserved, and the freedom to build around them is yours.

For this reason, we even have the option to simply pick a song which feels sacred and play it before rune casting, or tarot reading for example (needless to say such a practice also applies to any and all methods of divination, including scrying). After all, there's really no indication that the practitionner must sing the song themselves. Even in the few accounts mentioning varðlokkr, the seeress isn't always the one singing.

But if you decide to sing the varðlokkr yourself, it's also possible to learn the lyrics to a song that's already part of your practice. If working with the spirits of the dead, and especially with passed loved ones, why not play a song that a given ancestor loved in life? Artist Einar Selvik has composed a short skaldic-type song called Vardlokk, which has understandably become my own ritual song. I play it to get into a spiritual state of mind, helping me tremendously before spirit work—which coincides in many ways with the original purpose of varðlokkr. But it's safe to say any type of music may be used. And if you're interested in trance or trance adjacent practices, chanting may be used in such a manner as well.

There are many ways for us neo-pagans to adopt the practice of varðlokkr, since in one way or another, music is always tightly intertwined with religious practice. One can choose to wholly disregard the spirit work aspect and simply explore the idea of ritual song and its ties to divination. No matter the case, shamanic practices were an inherent part of Nordic religious tradition, and I think it can be useful for modern practitioners to learn about them and explore the possibilities that they offer.

If you're interested in further reading, I've linked at the beginning of this post an ask I answered a while back pertaining to seiðr, galdr, and other shamanic practices of the Norse. Within the post are also a few suggested pieces of reading that have helped my personal understanding and research.

#heathenry #norse paganism #paganism #informational post #deity work #deities #spirit work #ancestor work #spirituality #norse gods #polytheism #norse polytheism #pagan #witchcraft #divination #scrying

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lib-to-conned · 1 month ago

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Red Wave Solutions: Spread The Word II

To read part one, click here.

The door clicked shut behind Jackson and his escort, leaving Mason alone with the two guards restraining him and the older man who now regarded him with a devilish smirk. The mysterious man clasped his hands behind his back, his demeanor calm and assured, as if he were savoring the moment.

“You know, Mr. Samsen,” the man began, his voice smooth like honey laced with poison, “you’re quite the lucky fellow. Few people ever get the privilege of witnessing the birth of such a marvelous creation.” He gestured toward the door, as though Jackson’s presence still lingered there. “By the time the sun rises tomorrow, that pitiful, flamboyant Cooper you knew will be nothing more than a distant memory. Forgotten and completely erased from existence.”

Mason seethed, but he stayed silent, his jaw clenched as the man’s words slithered into his ears.

The older man continued, his tone shifting to one of admiration, as if recounting a triumph. “In his place, Jackson will reign supreme – an ideal fraternity president, someone charismatic and commanding. He’ll inspire his brothers to follow him, molding them into men of virtue, strength, and conviction. By the end of the week, they’ll be chanting the creed of discipline and order under his lead while eagerly embracing the fraternity’s increasingly Conservative values. And his evenings?” He chuckled darkly. “Spent passionately embracing his girlfriend, who he’s already dreaming of marrying and impregnating. Such a fine trajectory, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mason strained against the guards’ iron grips, his frail muscles taut with anger, but the older man merely raised a hand to signal calm. “Remove your hands from his mouth,” he ordered the guards, his voice a command, not a suggestion.

The guards obeyed, and Mason wasted no time. “You sick bastard!” he screamed, his voice reverberating through the sterile room. “Someone help me! These psychos are–”

Before he could finish, one of the guards yanked his hair sharply, forcing his head back and silencing him with a firm pull. Mason winced in pain, gritting his teeth as he shot daggers at the older man.

The man tilted his head, his smirk never faltering. “Now, now. Let’s not make this unpleasant, Mr. Samsen. You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Surely you understand the value of conducting oneself with professionalism. Scream again, and I won’t hesitate to silence you in a far more... permanent manner.”

With the apparent threat of death now suddenly on the table, Mason took a moment to gather himself, forcing his breathing to steady even as adrenaline coursed through him. The guard released his grip, and Mason bit back his urge to retaliate, knowing that it would do him no good.

With barely concealed contempt, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Who the hell are you? And how is any of this possible?!” His eyes burned with fury. “Let me make one thing crystal clear – you can bet your ass that I’ll make sure everyone knows what you’re doing here. You won’t get away with this!”

The older man chuckled, a low, patronizing sound that made Mason’s blood boil. He clasped his hands behind his back again, his posture unshaken. “Ah, such spirit. It’s almost endearing, really.” He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto Mason’s. “But I think you’ll find, Mr. Samsen, that the more you learn about us, the more you’ll realize… we’ve already gotten away with it.”

He straightened and began pacing slowly, his tone turning colder, sharper. “As for who I am, you may call me Mr. Corbin. I’m the architect of conformity – the shepherd guiding lost, pathetic little sheep like Jackson into their rightful places in society.”

He stopped and faced Mason, his smirk widening. “And how is this possible, you ask? That’s the wrong question. The question you should be asking is why we do it. And the answer is simple: Order. Stability. Strength. Qualities your kind – weak-willed, rebellious, aimless – lacks entirely. We’re here to fix that.”

Mason’s jaw tightened, his mind racing as he searched for some way to counter the man’s rhetoric. “You think people will stand for this? You’re brainwashing them, turning them into…”

“Into better versions of themselves,” Corbin interrupted sharply. “Versions who can thrive in the world as it already is, not as your naive ideals imagine it should be.”

He motioned toward the guards. “Take him. It’s time for Mr. Samsen to begin his own journey toward understanding.”

The sharp, sterile room seemed to grow colder as Mr. Corbin’s voice filled the air, his words dripping with a chilling confidence.

“You see, Mr. Samsen,” Corbin began, pacing leisurely, “the intricacies of our process, the chemistry, the programming – all of it is irrelevant when compared to the bigger picture.” He stopped to face Mason directly, his smirk widening. “Our goal isn’t just to win elections. It’s to ensure that Conservative values never die, to create more virile men eager to impregnate women and indoctrinate the next generation of humanity. Permanence, Mr. Samsen. That’s the name of the game.”

Mason’s breath quickened, the weight of Corbin’s words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. He strained against the guards holding him, but their grip was immovable.

Corbin continued, his voice calm yet menacing. “The spiel we give our clients – temporary transformation, lasting only until the administration concludes – is a necessary fiction. A comforting lie. The truth, however…” He chuckled darkly. “The truth is that Conservatism will never end no matter who is in charge. As a result, neither will these transformations. Once someone joins us, they’re ours. Forever.”

Mason’s body surged with adrenaline. He twisted and jerked, attempting to break free from his captors, but the guards tightened their hold, rendering him powerless.

Corbin tilted his head, watching Mason’s futile struggle with mild amusement. “Ah, there it is. That spark of defiance. Admirable, if misguided.” He stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor. “You see, Mr. Samsen, you’ve played right into my hands. Your so-called journalistic curiosity, your relentless need to fight for what you think is ‘justice’ – all of it made you the perfect target. We knew you’d come snooping.”

Mason froze, his eyes narrowing. “You planned this?”

Corbin’s grin widened. “Of course. The flier placements across campus? Completely intentional. That background check? A pure fabrication meant only to encourage you to snoop. We knew exactly who you were and how to lure you in. You pride yourself on exposing the truth, don’t you? Well, congratulations, you’ve uncovered something extraordinary!”

Mason spat through gritted teeth, “I’ll never help you. No matter what you do, I’ll never spread your message. Never.”

Corbin laughed, a sound so rich with mockery it made Mason’s skin crawl. “Help us? Oh, Mr. Samsen, you misunderstand. You won’t have a choice. You’re going to become a face of our movement. A voice that guides the disillusioned masses to embracing the truth – our truth.”

Reaching into his suit pocket, Corbin pulled out a small vial of vivid red liquid. The substance seemed to shimmer ominously in the harsh fluorescent light. “This,” he said, holding it up between his fingers, “was made just for you. A special concoction tailored to transform you into one of the most trusted news anchors in the country. A paragon of rationality, dependability, and Conservative values. Believe me when I tell you, your viewers will gladly hang onto your every word and follow anything you tell them.”

Mason’s stomach churned, and his attempts to thrash free became more desperate. “You’re insane!” he barked.

Corbin ignored the insult, instead turning and gesturing to the guards. “Open his mouth.”

The guards obeyed without hesitation, prying Mason’s jaw open with brutal efficiency despite his muffled protests and frantic attempts to resist.

Corbin took a step closer, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Don’t worry, Mr. Samsen. I’m granting your greatest wish – you’re becoming the loudest voice of truth.” He tilted the vial over Mason’s mouth, the red liquid pooling on his tongue.

Mason fought with everything he had, trying to spit the liquid out, but Corbin was ready. He clamped Mason’s mouth shut and pinched his nose, cutting off his air supply. Mason’s lungs screamed for oxygen as his vision blurred. For a moment, he weighed his options – wondering if death would be a better option than the alternative. Before he could make a decision though, desperation overtook him, and despite his resolve, his throat contracted. The liquid burned as it slid down, where the instant it hit his stomach, a strange heat began to spread through his body.

Corbin released Mason, stepping back to admire his work. “And now,” he said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “the transformation begins...”

Mason collapsed to his knees, coughing and gasping for air as his body began to tingle and shift. Panic surged through him, but deep down, he knew: there was no escaping what was coming next.

Mason gasped for air as the tingling sensation coursing through his body began to intensify, a strange warmth blooming from his core and spreading outward. Mr. Corbin stood a few feet away, watching with an infuriating air of calm amusement. “Ah, the calm before the storm,” Corbin said with a smirk. “This process is not only fascinating to behold but incredibly amusing as we watch our customers reckon with the path that led them here. But don’t worry, Mason. We’ll give you a little privacy to fully experience it and embrace what’s to come…”

Turning to the guards, Corbin gestured toward the door. “Come along, gentlemen. Let’s leave him to it.” He paused at the threshold, his piercing gaze locking onto Mason’s trembling frame. “I’m looking forward to seeing just how incredible and manly you turn out. I have no doubt you’ll do us proud.”

With that, the guards followed Corbin out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Their absence left an oppressive silence in the room, broken only by the sound of Mason’s ragged breathing.

Mason staggered to his feet, his limbs feeling oddly stiff and heavy. He began pacing frantically, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor. Despite what he had already seen and experienced thus far, he refused to believe it now that he was on the precipice of the same type of transformation. “This has to be a joke,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaking. “A prank. Some kind of sick, twisted dream. That’s all this is.”

In a desperate bid to wake himself up, Mason pinched his arm until the skin turned red, then slapped his own face hard enough to leave a stinging mark. But nothing changed. The room remained solidly real, the warmth inside him growing more insistent by the second.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, backing into a corner and sliding down against the wall. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t real!”

But the evidence against him mounted as the heat inside his body shifted, pooling in his stomach. The ache began as a dull throb, but it quickly escalated to a violent twisting pain that made Mason double over. His hands instinctively clutched at his abdomen as if he could somehow stop the process.

The memory of Cooper’s transformation flashed through his mind, sending a wave of cold fear crashing over him. “Oh God,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “It’s really happening…”

Despite his mounting dread, Mason’s gaze was drawn toward the mirrored paneling on one side of the room. He hadn’t wanted to look, but some morbid curiosity overpowered him, compelling him to face the horrifying reality of his situation.

At first, there was nothing visibly different. He still looked like himself, albeit pale and drenched in sweat. But then, his legs buckled slightly, and he felt a strange pressure in his bones – a stretching sensation.

Mason’s eyes widened as his reflection began to shift. He watched in horror as his frame elongated inch by inch. His shoes grew tighter before the laces snapped, and the cuffs of his pants rose higher and higher, exposing his ankles and eventually leaving them as comically short as capris. His torso followed suit, broadening slightly as his spine straightened.

The dizzying growth finally stopped, and Mason stumbled backward, bracing himself against the wall. He stared at the mirror, his chest heaving. The man looking back at him was taller, much taller in fact. Where he had once been a respectable 5’10”, he now loomed at an imposing 6’4”.

The change wasn’t as drastic as Cooper’s transformation, but it was enough to leave Mason feeling completely unmoored. His center of gravity had shifted, making him feel awkward and clumsy in his own body even when just standing still. His reflection felt like he was looking into a funhouse mirror, like he was staring at a distorted, elongated image of himself.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands against the mirrored surface.

But even as he tried to ground himself, the warmth inside him surged again, a sign that this was only the beginning of his changes.

Mason staggered around the room, trying to adjust to his new height. Every step felt alien, his longer legs making his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. His side bumped against the mirrored wall countless times, his face wincing at the sudden impact. Eventually, the throb of his ongoing transformation and the soreness of his side caused him to momentarily steady himself against the wall. “This is so fucking insane,” he muttered under his breath, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of his situation.

His head grazed the overhead light fixture, making him flinch. “How do tall people deal with this?” he grumbled. But as he focused on his awkward gait and trying not to trip over himself, he remained oblivious to the quiet changes already taking place.

The intense heat radiating through his body, which had initially been a dull simmer, began to shift and ripple under his skin. Mason didn’t notice how the slight flab that had clung to him from years of late-night snacking was dissolving. The warmth was burning it away, leaving him leaner and more defined with each passing moment.

It wasn’t until his shirt began to feel noticeably looser that Mason frowned. He tugged at the hem of his baggy shirt, his confusion mounting. “What the…?” he muttered, pulling the fabric away from his body. When he lifted it up to inspect his torso, his breath caught in his throat.

Gone was the slight paunch that had accompanied him for as long as he could remember. His stomach was completely taut and flat, the skin smooth and firm. “No way,” he whispered, running a trembling hand over the newly chiseled surface.

The reprieve was short-lived. Without warning, a sharp, stinging sensation shot through his body, like being slapped repeatedly in different spots. Mason gasped, doubling over as the pain ricocheted across his limbs and chest.

He forced himself to look at his reflection, eyes darting to the areas where the pain struck. His jaw dropped as he watched his body suddenly begin to inflate with muscle.

His arms, once thin and unremarkable, began to thicken. Veins surfaced as his biceps grew, swelling outward into solid, rounded shapes. His shoulders broadened, creating an imposing, V-shaped silhouette. A modest pair of pecs jutted from his chest, pressing against the fabric of his shirt.

Mason instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling a flurry of movement beneath his skin. He looked down just in time to see the faint outlines of a six-pack emerging, each muscle sharply defined. His jeans grew tighter around his thighs and calves, the denim straining to contain his newly bulging legs.

“Am I… becoming muscular like Cooper?” Mason whispered, his voice tinged with disbelief and dread.

But the changes didn’t stop there. Another wave of stinging slaps spread across his body, stronger this time. Mason winced as his muscles continued to swell, growing well beyond the lean athleticism of a frat bro.

His biceps expanded into massive, soccer-ball-sized domes of power. His pecs grew heavier and squarer, jutting out so far that they created a noticeable shelf. His back widened, his lats flaring out like wings, while his traps rose to form thick ridges near his neck.

His thighs strained against the seams of his jeans, each leg packed with dense, corded muscle. Even his calves weren’t ignored by the potion, quickly growing into defined, diamond-shaped bulges. The sleeves of his shirt ripped as his arms outgrew them, leaving shreds of fabric hanging from his impossibly thick shoulders.

When the changes inflating his body finally subsided, Mason stood frozen in front of the mirror, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable. His once-average frame had been replaced by the colossal, hulking physique of a professional bodybuilder.

He gingerly poked at one of his biceps, the sheer size and firmness of it sending a chill down his spine. His other hand examined his pecs, which felt like slabs of stone under his fingertips as he awkwardly squeezed them.

“Holy… holy fucking shit… H-how is this possible?” Mason stammered, his voice cracking as he struggled to process what he was seeing.

He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the immense power coursing through his body. The strength was intoxicating but also deeply unsettling. This was not him. This was a stranger – a body far removed from who he had ever been or wanted to be. And yet, the mirror offered no denial. This was Mason now. And he had no idea what to do.

Mason barely had time to process the muscular bulk he now inhabited before a strange tingling sensation spread across his skin. His initial thought was that it might be sweat from the intense heat of his transformation, but the feeling was different – even deeper within him than before, almost as if it were coming from within his very cells. He watched in growing horror as his reflection in the mirror began to change once more.

His hands were the first to catch his attention. The skin on them, once smooth and youthful, began to grow slightly weathered. Fine lines crept across his knuckles and the backs of his hands, and faint wrinkles etched themselves into the creases of his fingers. His nails, which he rarely paid attention to, became neatly trimmed and pristine, as though they had been professionally manicured.

He looked back up at the mirror just in time to see his face start to morph. His youthful, unassuming visage shifted and contorted, as if clay being sculpted by invisible hands. His once-average features began to sharpen. Prominent brow bones jutted forward, giving him a commanding and intense gaze. His cheekbones rose and became more sculpted, lending an aristocratic air to his face, while his jawline squared into a picture-perfect angle that looked chiseled from marble.

His nose subtly reshaped itself into a straight, perfectly proportioned feature that seemed almost too flawless to be natural. The transformation left Mason staring at a face that, despite its changes, was undeniably his – yet now carried an unnerving, almost predatory attractiveness.

But the alterations didn’t stop there. As he stared, his shaggy hair began to retract into his scalp, the strands shortening visibly before his eyes. His heart sank as his hairline crept upward, a clear sign of his apparent aging. Within seconds, his once-casual and messy hairstyle had been replaced with a short, cropped look that exuded professionalism and control.

What disturbed him even more was the sudden darkening of his hair. The strands deepened into an unnaturally dark shade, hovering near black but tinged with a glossy sheen that further indicated its artificial origins. Along his temples, hints of grey emerged, lending him a distinguished, older appearance.

“Is, is this fucking hair dye?” Mason muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He reached up and touched his hair, feeling its styled, slightly stiff texture. The realization that his hairstyle was a perfect description for his new appearance hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been reimagined, reshaped into a figure that exuded dominance, age, and authority – but with a still-stylish edge.

The worst part was that he couldn’t deny the appeal of his new visage. He looked like someone who commanded attention, a man who could walk into a room and have every head turn. And yet, while thinking about the things this new self would say and the type of values he was becoming an unintentional mascot for, the thought now revolted him.

His thin, yet masculine lips, now perfectly balanced and tinged with a faint rosy hue, curled in disdain as he thought about what they would soon be used for. They weren’t his anymore – not truly. Those lips would soon spew lies, distort facts, and manipulate the masses with confidence and charm – just as Red Wave Solutions had designed them to.

Mason clenched his fists, his knuckles white against his weathered hands. He glared at the man in the mirror, wishing he could shatter the glass and erase the image forever. But no matter how much he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t. This was who he had become, and deep deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before he forgot about who he once was.

Mason’s breath hitched as he continued staring into the mirror, his emotions a chaotic mess of revulsion, fear, and, despite everything, a twinge of morbid fascination. The man reflected back at him was undeniably magnetic. Mason hated the thought of what this form represented, but even he couldn’t ignore the undeniable allure it carried. A small, intrusive part of him whispered that he could use this body to his advantage.

He let his imagination wander, picturing himself walking into a gay club, towering over the dance floor with his imposing height and rippling physique. He imagined catching the eye of a younger, nervous but intrigued man who would be drawn to his aged confidence and charm. He pictured the heat of the music, the press of sweaty bodies, the flirtatious exchanges, and the way his strong, calloused hands might guide the man closer as they danced.

But before the fantasy could grow, a wave of something foreign rippled through his mind. A sharp pang of disgust shot through him – revolted by the imagined scenario. His stomach churned as his mind involuntarily recoiled at the thought of being intimate with a man. It was like someone had flipped a switch, flooding his thoughts with an inexplicable sense of wrongness.

“No,” he whispered, his voice shaky as his fists clenched against the edge of the sink. “That isn’t me. It’s just the potion. I like men, it’s just the…”

He tried to ground himself, closing his eyes tightly as he forced himself to think about the men he had dated throughout college. He thought of Ethan’s confident smile and his broad shoulders. He thought of the softness of Mark’s lips, the way they brushed against his own during their first kiss. He remembered the thrill of running his hands over a man’s hairy chest, the firmness of their bodies pressed together, and the comforting scratch of stubble against his cheek.

But the images began to shift. Ethan’s confident smile warped into a shy, feminine giggle. Mark’s lips thickened and became painted with glossy lipstick. Instead of the sharp, masculine planes of a man’s chest, Mason’s mind began to envision soft curves. His memories of perky butts in fitted jeans were overwritten by the image of plump, rounded hips in a skintight dress. The scratch of stubble on his cheek was replaced with the sensation of smooth, freshly shaved skin against his own.

“No!” Mason shouted, slamming his beefy hands against the mirrored glass in anguish. He stared at his reflection, wide-eyed and trembling. His mind was no longer his own – it was forcibly being overwritten, piece by piece, by something unknown and turning it into something incredibly wrong and utterly opposite of his innermost values.

He tried again, desperately clinging to memories of past kisses and the thrill of attraction to a man. But every attempt was corrupted, replaced with images of soft, feminine hands trailing down his chest, the warmth of a woman’s body pressed against his. A rogue thought emerged, unbidden and unwanted: the fantasy of cradling a woman’s delicate face in his strong hands and leaning down to kiss her full, pouty lips.

“No, no, no!” Mason muttered, pacing the room as he gripped his temples, trying to shove the thoughts away. But the more he fought, the more vivid the images became.

He stopped pacing and looked at himself in the mirror again, breathing heavily. His reflection looked so calm and naturally composed, even as his inner world crumbled. The man staring back at him didn’t seem like someone who had ever kissed another man, much less desired to.

Faint tears pricked Mason’s eyes as he whispered to himself, “I have to fight this. I have to hold on to who I am.”

But deep down, he feared it was already too late. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth in a desperate attempt to resist a series of rogue thoughts that began to emerge throughout his mind.

One voice, low and smooth, slid through his mind like a serpent. “You’ve never had power like this before,” it purred. “Look at yourself. Who could resist you? Women crave a man like you. They’d do anything… anything to please you.”

“No,” Mason hissed, shaking his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the voice. “That’s not me. That’s not what I want.”

But the voice continued, unrelenting, dripping with smug certainty. “Oh, but it is now. Think about it. Think about how good it feels to have someone submit to you, to have them worship every inch of this handsome, powerful body. Imagine their eyes lighting up with desire, their voices trembling as they beg to make you happy in any way you want.”

Mason pressed his hands to his ears, his heart pounding as he tried to drown it out. “Shut up! Shut up!” he shouted, but his words fell flat against the weight of the seductive voice.

“You deserve this,” it crooned, each word pressing deeper into his psyche. “This body, this face, this strength – it’s what you’ve always been meant to have. And women? You’re only meant to have them as well.They’re your playthings – there to entertain you, to serve you. Hook up with them. Take what you want from them. That’s what a real man like you is meant to do. Why would you waste time respecting them when they’re so eager to submit to a man like you?”

“No, no, no!” Mason’s voice cracked, his breathing ragged as he stumbled back from the mirrors. His reflection blurred in his vision, tears welling in his eyes as he fought against the intrusive words. But even as he resisted, the voice began to root itself deeper.

He looked around in anguish, but found that his reflection offered no comfort. Instead, it seemed to mock him, standing there tall and perfect, the embodiment of everything the voice was describing. His mind began to falter, the line between his real thoughts and the implanted ones blurring.

Against his will, images began flashing through his mind. Women, beautiful and eager, surrounded him. They touched him with reverence, their eyes wide with adoration, their smiles promising pleasure. He envisioned their soft hands trailing down his muscular chest, their soft, dainty bodies pressing against his, their voices pleading for his attention.

And what terrified him most of all was the pull he felt toward those thoughts. It wasn’t just the voice anymore. Deep inside, a part of him – a seemingly small yet traitorous part – was beginning to quickly find the idea appealing. The concept of being desired so deeply and desperately by women who would do anything to make him happy sent an involuntary thrill coursing through him. Before he knew it, Mason could feel his cock beginning to thicken in his skintight pants.

“No!” he cried out again, though this time the word sounded weaker, less certain. He stumbled back to the sink, gripping it as he stared at his reflection. His lips trembled as he whispered, “This isn’t me. This can’t be me.”

“You know it’s true, this is who you’re meant to be” the voice interrupted, softer now, but no less insidious. “You’ve been given the ultimate gift. Why fight it? Just accept who you’re becoming. You’re not weak anymore. You’re not invisible. You’re a man now – a real man.”

Overwhelmed with everything going on, Mason began to pace around the room, each step heavy with frustration and fear while his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. The mocking voice inside his head didn’t falter, growing bolder with every moment. Its tone oozed confidence, a sinister undercurrent of triumph humming through each word.

"Take a real good look at yourself," the voice purred, a smirk practically audible. "You’re the perfect male specimen now. Tall, muscular, confident. A total alpha. Men will envy you, Mason. They’ll look up to you, want to be you. Women? They can’t help but fantasize about being with you. And even if they can’t, they’ll still eagerly listen to everything you say and accept it if it means possibly getting the attention of other men like you. You’re everything that anyone would desire, in one way or another.”

“Shut up,” Mason growled, his voice trembling as he pressed his hands to his temples, trying to block out the insidious whispers. But the voice ignored his protests, unfazed.

"You know I’m right," it continued smugly. "Especially with your career – imagine it. Every evening, people turn on their TVs just to see you. Their lives might be falling apart, but all they care about is catching a glimpse of you. The country’s favorite news anchor, the face they trust. You’re not just handsome – you’re a god to them, Mason. An alpha god sent from above to help mold the world in your image."

The words twisted in his mind, and Mason clung to the memories of his real career as an investigative journalist. He tried to picture himself standing at a podium, holding up an award for his hard-hitting exposés, the occasional flashes of cameras not hindering him from displaying his proudest smile. But the memories began to blur, fragments slipping through his grasp despite his best attempts to hold on.

Instead, new images forced their way in: the glaring brightness of stage lights washing over him, assistants swarming around him with powder brushes and combs, their soft touches ensuring he was flawless for the camera. He saw himself sitting at a news desk, posture perfect, a designer suit clinging to his impossibly broad shoulders. He could hear the countdown from the producer in his earpiece, the hum of the camera as it zoomed in on his chiseled face.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the Mason in his mind said, his voice deep and commanding, effortlessly capturing attention.

“No,” Mason whispered aloud, shaking his head. “That’s not real. That’s not me.”

But the voice pressed on. "Oh, it’s you, all right. Picture it, Mason. The power you hold when you speak. Every word you say – people hang on it. They believe you, they admire you, they trust you. You’re not some invisible journalist typing out words behind a keyboard. You’re seen. Respected. Adored."

Mason tried to resist, but his mind betrayed him, lingering on the imagined scene. He pictured himself leaning back in his chair during commercial breaks, assistants fussing over him, the camera crew nodding with approval as they reviewed footage of his perfect delivery. He saw the way his reflection looked in the teleprompter: sharp, polished, magnetic.

The warmth in his body flared again, and Mason stopped pacing, placing his hands on his hips to steady himself. Upon looking up and getting another look at his transformed reflection, his breathing grew shallow as a strange sensation overtook him. He felt an unwelcome smile tugging at his lips, while his hips began to buck softly, the motion subtle but rhythmic.

“No,” he murmured again, but his voice was weaker now, his resolve fraying as the images in his mind grew more vivid.

He saw himself adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit, flashing a confident smirk that could disarm anyone. He imagined the eyes of the crew following his every move, the palpable awe they felt as they worked in his presence. The thought of commanding such attention, such reverence, sent a shiver through him.

His lips curled further into a smirk as he caught his reflection again, the older yet impeccably handsome face staring back at him. It wasn’t his reflection – it couldn’t be. But as his gaze lingered, as his hips continued their subtle thrusting motion, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.

He tried to think of the awards he’d earned, the articles he’d written, the causes he’d fought for. But those memories were hazy now, dimmed by the brightness of studio lights and the weight of the microphone clipped to his pristine tie.

“You belong here,” the voice whispered, dripping with satisfaction. “Accept it, Mason. This is who you are now.”

Mason’s thoughts continued to spiral as he stood frozen in front of the mirror, his reflection now fully the picture of an imposing, middle-aged news anchor. He flexed his square shoulders and ran a hand over his tightly cropped, dyed hair, his smirk widening as he imagined the commanding presence he would have on screen. The idea of his face beaming into countless homes every evening, his deep voice trusted by all who heard it, was growing quite intoxicating.

A spark of excitement ignited in his chest, fanned by the growing fire of his inflating ego. He imagined the headlines about his rise: “The Face of the Nation: Mason Samsen Leads the Evening News.” A sudden warmth spread across his body – not the unnatural heat from before, but a heady rush of pride and anticipation.

He thought about the newsroom, the bustling energy, the cameras trained on him, and, suddenly, a stray thought surfaced. He pictured his co-anchor, a sharp, intelligent woman who was respected for her wit and incisive reporting. But instead of admiration, another feeling crept into his mind.

Before he could fully process it, the voice in his head slithered into his thoughts, laced with venom. “She’s such a disappointment, isn’t she? A nasty little liberal. What a waste. Women making the same money as men despite all of our hard work, what could be more revolting?”

Mason recoiled inwardly. He didn’t believe that – he knew he didn’t. He’d spent years championing equality and defending people’s rights to love whoever they chose. But as he opened his mouth to protest, nothing came out. The words stuck in his throat, trapped by an invisible force.

The voice grew louder, more insistent. “Look at her. She could be on her knees under the newsdesk, begging for your attention, and yet she’d rather waste her time with another woman or a pathetic excuse of a man? What kind of sick joke is that?”

A sick feeling churned in Mason’s gut, but instead of pushing back, he found his thoughts being swept along with the voice’s hateful tirade. Against his will, his mind’s eye shifted, and he pictured her again – no longer as a colleague but as an object, someone he could have “had” if only she weren’t so bull-headed.

“She’s such a babe,” Mason muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with derision as though the words weren’t entirely his own. “And yet she wastes herself like that. What a man-hating prude.”

He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction as the words left his lips, despite the small, rational part of him screaming that this wasn’t who he was. The voice purred in approval, feeding off his growing disgust.

“That’s right,” it urged. “If she just stopped pretending to be some untouchable, real man-hating feminist, you’d show her what it’s like to be with a real man. She’d never look at another woman or man again after you’re done with her.”

Mason’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to think this way – he knew he didn’t – but the voice’s influence was like a tide, washing away his convictions and leaving behind something monstrous.

He tried to recall admirable aspects of the co-anchor’s actual personality: her sharp humor during commercial breaks, the way she stood her ground in editorial meetings, her passion for stories that made a difference. But just as quickly as he mentally found these things that he once would praise or respect, those sensations changed to feelings of annoyance and rage at her way of trying to turn the station “woke”.

Instead, all he could focus on now was an imagined scenario: her storming into his office to argue about a segment, her cheeks growing flushed as his imposing presence overwhelmed her, and her eventual “realization” that she couldn’t resist him. The thought sent a twisted thrill through him, one he hated himself for feeling even as the voice praised him.

“You’re a real man now, Mason,” it cooed. “And the world needs to see that. No more hiding, no more playing nice. You’re the alpha here, and everyone else – women like her included – needs to fall in line.”

As Mason stared at his reflection, he saw the smirk tugging at his lips again. It was crueler this time, more predatory. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from believing the voice entirely.

Mason's mind swirled with the vivid clarity of a memory he hadn't lived yet now felt undeniably his own. He saw himself standing in the brightly lit newsroom, the buzz of post-election chaos filling the air. His freshly polished dress shoes echoed against the tiled floor as he crossed the room, exuding an aura of confidence that seemed to demand attention. Every gesture, every word, felt rehearsed to perfection – an embodiment of his calculated and commanding charisma.

His female co-anchor had just walked in, her expression an open book of grief and disdain. Her eyes, red and puffy, locked onto Mason’s. He could recall the way her shoulders sagged, her steps hesitant as if she were carrying the weight of a world that had just turned against her beliefs. In stark contrast, Mason stood tall, his broad chest puffed out with a sense of triumph that radiated from him like heat off asphalt on a summer day.

“You look like you could use a drink, Sarah,” he heard himself say in the memory, his voice dripping with smugness. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile that was as patronizing as it was confident. “But then again, I think it’s good for you to really reckon with the reality of the world and accept that your time of winning is finally over.”

Her response was a withering glare, her lips pressed into a thin line of contempt. But it wasn’t her silence that Mason remembered most vividly – it was his own voice, booming and unapologetic as he turned to the room of male colleagues.

“Gentlemen, let’s take a moment to celebrate,” he declared, raising an imaginary glass. “Finally, a real man is back in charge of the country! No more of this woke nonsense dragging the country down. We’re getting back to the basics – the way things should be.”

The memory felt intoxicating and foreign all at once. He could almost feel the collective laughter and cheers of agreement from the other men, the slap of hands on his back in camaraderie. Yet, in the pit of his stomach, a flicker of unease twisted.

In the present, Mason found himself nodding instinctively, the words spilling from his lips before he could stop them. “This country was going to hell, to be honest. Maybe things will finally get back on track…”

The stray voice in his mind cheered him on, reinforcing every sentiment. That’s right. It’s time for real leadership. Time for strength and order. You’re a part of that now.

For a moment, Mason tried to resist, to cling to the fading remnants of who he was. He thought of the co-anchor’s tear-streaked face, the silent despair in her eyes. But even that memory began to shift in his mind – her sadness no longer struck him as unjust, but as proof of her weakness. This is the natural order of things, the voice reminded him. She doesn’t belong at the table anymore.

Mason felt the words settle deep in his chest, his resistance ebbing further. The memory blurred as his present thoughts intertwined with it, leaving him with a growing sense of pride and belonging. His lips curled into a smirk as he whispered to himself, “We’re finally doing things the right way.”

Mason’s pulse thundered in his ears, his chest rising and falling as the inner voice grew louder, more assured. "That’s it, Mason," it purred. "You’re finally seeing the light. No more confusion. No more weakness. Just truth, strength, and common sense values. This is the life you were meant for."

The words reverberated in his head, filling every corner of his mind as though they were his own thoughts. He gripped the edge of the desk, his fingers trembling slightly, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. The voice surged forward, emboldened.

"Picture it: a wife who loves and obeys you, children who look up to you and carry your name with pride. That’s the purpose of marriage, Mason – to create a legacy that matters. You’ll guide them, protect them, and in return, you can sneak around and fuck as much as you wanted. After all, spreading your seed to as many women as possible is what men like you were made for – to help create the next generation of like-minded men."

Mason’s lips parted, almost involuntarily, as a low murmur escaped. "Yes… that sounds… right."

Images began to flood his mind – visions of a suburban home with a pristine lawn, of a woman in a modest dress standing at his side, her eyes glowing with admiration for her strong, successful husband. He could see a handful of children laughing as they played in the yard, their voices ringing out in the glow of an idealized life. In addition, rogue flashes of hooking up with women in his office or underneath the news desk while live emerged.

The voice continued, its tone sharpening with conviction. "And with your career, Mason, think of what you’ll achieve. Not just the respect, but the wealth. The power. You’re not like those lower-class men, struggling and scraping by. You’ll be the man they look up to, the man they envy. Capitalism rewards the best, and you’re going to be the best. A beacon of the upper class."

Mason nodded, his jaw tightening as he stood straighter. "I’m not meant to be small," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I’m meant to succeed. To live my best life. To be on top."

The voice practically growled with approval. "Exactly. It’s time to step fully into your destiny, Mason. Embrace it. Wade into the red waves and claim the life you were always meant to lead."

Mason’s breath quickened, a guttural grunt escaping his lips as he clenched his fists. "I can’t wait," he said, his voice deep and resolute. "I can’t wait to be a part of the red wave. To leave behind the prissy liberal nonsense and finally live like the man I was meant to be."

The moment hung in the air, a crescendo of inner turmoil and transformation. Then, without warning, Mason froze. His eyes widened, pupils dilating as his body stiffened. His head tilted back slightly, a sharp gasp catching in his throat.

His eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible as his body shuddered violently. His mind swam in a haze of euphoria and terror, the voice laughing triumphantly as it echoed within him. The world around him seemed to blur and spin, his consciousness teetering on the edge as the last remnants of resistance faded into the overwhelming tide of transformation.

And then… stillness.

The room was quiet save for the faint hum of air conditioning as the massive figure eventually stirred a few minutes later. A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his throat as his eyes fluttered open, their sharp blue intensity scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. His brow furrowed, and he brought a hand to his throbbing temple, the remnants of a disorienting fog clinging to his thoughts.

David Carlson looked up, rolling his shoulders and trying to get reacquainted with his massive frame. Confusion flashed across his face as he looked down at himself, noticing the ill-fitting, torn clothes stretched over his immense, muscular body. The fabric strained at his bulging chest and biceps, seams barely clinging together, while his thick thighs threatened to split what remained of his pants. He chuckled, low and rich, the sound resonating like a confident hum.

“What in the world?” he muttered, his voice deep and commanding. He shifted his legs apart, resting a meaty hand on his thigh, and stared at his reflection in the nearby mirror. A smirk spread across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth framed by his square jaw.

“Well, damn,” he said, standing slowly to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling. He turned, flexing one arm, admiring the round, granite-like bicep that bulged against the tatters of the shirt. He ran a hand down the vast plane of his chest, his thick fingers grazing the solid grooves of his pecs. “Now, if I’m not the sexiest man in the world, I don’t know who else could be. After all, a sexy motherfucker like me can make a woman cum from just giving a traffic update,” he remarked with a cocky sneer.

His smirk widened as he leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head to inspect himself further. His piercing eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his killer smile flashing as he flexed his shoulders, watching his reflection move like a sculpted titan come to life.

As his gaze dropped lower, he ran his hands over his thighs, feeling the dense muscle through the shredded fabric. His fingers lingered momentarily, and then his eyes caught something out of place: a suit bag hanging neatly off the door handle.

His brow lifted in curiosity, but the smirk never left his lips. “Ah, now we’re talking,” he said, striding over to the bag and unzipping it with precision. Inside was a sleek, custom-tailored suit – a dark navy jacket and trousers, paired with a crisp satin dress shirt and a tie that shimmered faintly under the room’s fluorescent light.

“The sooner I can get out of these pitiful cheap shreds, the better,” he muttered, stripping off the ruined clothes with haste. The shirt slid on effortlessly, the cool satin gliding over his thick, warm skin. He tugged the sleeves, adjusting the cuffs, and buttoned it up, marveling at how perfectly it hugged his torso. His chest stretched the fabric taut, but the shirt held, emphasizing every ridge of his muscular form.

Next came the trousers, which he slid on with care. The waistband fit snugly, outlining his powerful thighs, while the tailored cut tapered sharply to his ankles, exuding professionalism with a touch of dominance. The jacket followed, and as he shrugged it on, he couldn’t help but flex his shoulders, feeling the material strain slightly over his bulk.

“Perfect,” he muttered, stepping back to admire the result in the mirror. The suit was impeccable, a testament to luxury and power, and it fit him like a second skin. He adjusted his tie, smoothing it down with one hand, and grinned.

“David Carlson,” he said aloud, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re a goddamn masterpiece. An alpha that women wish they could have and men wish they could be.” He ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, standing tall as he gave his reflection a final approving nod.

With that, he strode to the door, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he pulled it open. His broad shoulders barely fit through the frame as he stepped into the hallway, his head held high.

Now dressed to impress and radiating confidence, he set off with purpose. “Time to find Mr. Corbin,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty corridor. “Now that this tour is over, I just need to ask a few more questions about the operation they’re running here.”

As soon as David touched the door, the flash of a green light emerged and allowed the massive newscaster to turn the handle and exit the room. He strutted confidently down the polished hallways of Red Wave Solutions, easily navigating through the labyrinth-like hallways as if he’d known it like the back of his hands. While walking, the sharp lines of his suit accentuated his immense frame, his shoulders brushing perilously close to the walls as he passed. Employees bustled around, their heads turning one after another to catch a glimpse of the imposing man. David’s smile gleamed, radiating charisma and cockiness.

“Morning, folks,” he said, nodding toward a group of young interns who stood frozen in awe. “Don’t work too hard now.” He chuckled as they scurried off, red-faced and whispering among themselves.

To a middle-aged man in a lab coat carrying a stack of binders, he flashed a wink. “Looking sharp there, Doc. Keep it up – love to see the brains behind the brawn in this operation.”

The man chuckled nervously, nearly dropping the binders in his haste to nod in agreement.

David continued his journey, stopping briefly at a glass window showcasing a bustling control room filled with monitors and data feeds. His keen eyes scanned the workers hunched over their stations, fingers flying over keyboards. He gave them a small wave, followed by a cocky grin. “Looking good in there! Keep making magic happen, people.”

Every interaction added a spring to his step, his ego swelling with each fawning glance and whispered admiration. By the time he reached the sleek, modern front desk at the heart of the facility, he felt utterly invincible.

Upon noticing the slim, well-dressed man with his styled grey hair and trimmed stubble, David made his way over to Mr. Corbin. With each step, the reporter watched how the man’s smile widened into a huge beam as he extended a hand out to David.

“David Carlson!” Corbin exclaimed warmly, gripping the reporter’s hand with surprising strength as they united for a firm handshake. “You look absolutely incredible. Like you were truly made for this.”

David arched a brow, the compliment throwing him slightly off balance as he took in the other man’s amused grin. “Uh, thanks,” he said slowly, his grin faltering just a fraction. In the back of his mind, a stray thought surfaced: Is this guy a homo or something?

But Corbin’s expression didn’t linger long on admiration; instead, he pivoted seamlessly, his demeanor shifting to one of professional excitement. “So,” he said, gesturing grandly to the lobby around them, “what do you think of the place so far? Impressive, isn’t it?”

David straightened up, smoothing his tie as he nodded. “It’s incredible,” he replied, his deep voice carrying genuine approval. “State-of-the-art. Honestly, I think what you’re doing here is brilliant. I’ve read all about your mission, and after what I’ve witnessed here today, I can’t say enough about how much I agree with what you’re trying to accomplish.”

Corbin’s face lit up, his smile widening as he stepped closer. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he gave David a friendly nudge in the side with his elbow. “Does that mean I can count on you to give us a glowing report tomorrow night?”

David tilted his head, letting a smirk play across his lips. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “You better believe it. I’m going to make sure your message reaches the people who really need to hear it. We’ve got to work together to trick these pathetic progressive losers into finally opening their eyes and seeing how the world is supposed to look.”

Corbin’s laughter boomed through the lobby, rich and full-bodied. He clapped a hand on David’s broad shoulder, his grip lingering as he leaned closer. “Ah, I knew you were the real deal, David,” he said, his tone brimming with satisfaction. “It’s such a relief to meet someone who gets it… someone who truly sees the vision. You and I? We’re going to do amazing things together.”

David’s chest swelled with pride, the man’s approval feeding his growing sense of self-importance. “Damn right we will,” he replied, his voice steady and firm. “This is just the beginning.”

***

The studio lights bathed the room in an artificial glow, casting long shadows across the set. David Carlson sat tall at the anchor desk, exuding the poise and confidence that had cemented his place as the number one star in the conservative news world. The countdown to airtime ticked away on a monitor beside the camera, but David’s focus wasn’t on the clock.

Instead, it was on Tiffany, the studio’s blonde bombshell of a makeup artist, who approached him with her signature playful grin. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she sauntered toward him, her skintight dress emphasizing every curve. Tiffany’s long, golden hair framed her flawless face, and the warm scent of her perfume wafted toward him as she leaned in to touch up his makeup.

“Just a quick touch-up, David,” she said, her voice teasing as she gently dabbed at his forehead with a powder puff. “Can’t have our star looking anything less than perfect.”

David chuckled, his piercing eyes scanning her physique without subtlety. From the generous curve of her chest to the hourglass dip of her waist and the way her dress clung to her toned legs, she was a sight to behold. His lips curled into a wolfish grin.

“Not sure anyone’s looking at my forehead, Tiffany,” he remarked, his voice low and smooth.

She giggled, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Oh, don’t be modest. The viewers love you. You’re the reason they tune in every night. It’s our job to make you look as good as possible.”

“Damn right,” he replied with a chuckle and smirk, his hand casually brushing the edge of the desk as he shifted closer. As Tiffany leaned over to adjust a stray strand of his perfectly coiffed hair, David let his gaze linger on her mouthwatering tits before making his move. His hand slid down and gave her plump ass a confident squeeze.

Tiffany gasped softly, her cheeks flushing an even deeper red. But instead of pulling away, she giggled nervously, her eyes darting around to ensure no one was watching.

David leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Why don’t you swing by my office later? Evening broadcasts can be intense, so I always need to let off a little steam.”

Her blush deepened, and she bit her lower lip as she nodded. “I’d like that,” she murmured, barely able to meet his intense gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his grin widening as he patted her ass and sat back.

Tiffany quickly finished her work, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You’re all set,” she said, smoothing her dress. “Go kill it out there tonight, David.”

David chuckled, adjusting his tie as he leaned back in his chair. “I always do,” he said, his tone oozing self-assurance. “Let’s be honest, every viewer out there goes crazy for me. I can’t say the same for everyone at this desk though...”

His gaze shifted to his female co-anchor sitting across from him. She was busy reviewing her notes, her expression composed but tired. David’s eyes narrowed into a glare, the weight of his ego palpable as he mentally compared their on-screen presence.

The studio’s director called out, “Thirty seconds to air!”

David straightened his posture, his polished smile snapping into place as the countdown continued. Tiffany disappeared off to the side, but the lingering scent of her perfume and the promise of their meeting later fueled his already inflated confidence.

As the final three seconds were uttered and the red light on the camera blinked on, David Carlson’s face suddenly filled the screen with a look of composed sincerity. For any viewer at home, they couldn’t resist savoring how his sharp jawline was framed perfectly by the flattering angles of the studio lighting. His deep, resonant voice greeted the viewers with the practiced warmth of a trusted confidant.

“Good evening, patriots,” he began, his tone rich with professional gravitas. “I hope you’re all having a wonderful evening. Tonight, I want to take a moment to speak directly to you – to the Americans out there who may feel unsure or even afraid about what the future holds.”

He leaned forward slightly, his piercing blue eyes staring directly into the camera, as if he could reach through the screen and hold a private conversation with each viewer.

“Are you worried about what comes next? Are you feeling ostracized by those who don’t share your values, your beliefs, your way of life?” His voice softened to a somber cadence, each word laced with a careful, purposeful empathy.

David paused, letting the questions hang in the air for a moment, before flashing one of his signature charismatic smiles – a smile that seemed to radiate reassurance to the viewers. His tone lightened, carrying a hint of optimism.

“Well, my friends, I’m happy to report that I’ve found a solution to these concerns – a solution that has left me thoroughly impressed. It’s a company called Red Wave Solutions.”

David sat back slightly, his hands folding neatly on the desk as he continued.

“Red Wave Solutions has developed an innovative way to ease the anxieties many of you might be feeling. They’ve pioneered a state-of-the-art ‘recalibration’ process that allows individuals to step into a new perspective – specifically, the perspective of strong, confident conservative values – for the duration of this current administration.”

His diction was flawless, each word delivered with precision, yet his tone carried an undercurrent of excitement that kept the message personal and engaging.

“Yesterday, I had the privilege of visiting one of their clinics to observe the recalibration process firsthand,” David explained, his voice lowering slightly as if sharing an intimate secret. “The facility was absolutely cutting-edge – everything you’d expect from a company that cares solely about delivering results safely and effectively.”

He leaned in again, his tone becoming animated as he described what he saw.

“I watched a young man, clearly nervous and weighed down by his worries, begin the process. And when it was over, he emerged completely transformed. I’ll tell you, folks – it was remarkable. He was lighter, happier, even eager to talk about the exciting future ahead under our president’s leadership. It was a night-and-day difference.”

David chuckled, shaking his head as though he could still hardly believe it. “That young man, who had walked in anxious and unsure, left ready to embrace life with open arms.”

He sat back again, his hands gesturing subtly to underscore his words.

“Now, I understand that some of you at home might be skeptical. You might be thinking, ‘What if I don’t like the change?’ or ‘What happens when the presidency ends?’”

David’s expression grew earnest as he addressed the concerns head-on.

“Well, let me reassure you,” he said, his voice steady and confident. “The recalibration process is designed to be completely reversible. When this presidency comes to an end, so too will the recalibration, leaving you exactly as you were before – no muss, no fuss.”

He leaned forward, his hands clasped together as his eyes locked onto the camera.

“I feel for anyone out there who’s afraid of what lies ahead,” he said earnestly. “This can be a challenging time for many of us, and let me the first to say that I see you and I hear you. But if you want to make things easier on yourself and your family, I strongly urge you to consider reaching out to Red Wave Solutions. Their process is seamless, safe, and highly effective. But don’t wait too long—appointments are filling up fast!”

David’s smile widened, a glimmer of encouragement in his eyes as he delivered his closing line.

“Take control of your future, patriots. Call Red Wave Solutions today and see what they can do for you. You’ll be glad you did, I guarantee it!”

As the camera shifted to focus on his co-anchor’s segment, David leaned back in his chair, flashing a satisfied grin at the crew. He knew he had delivered the message perfectly, feeling incredibly cocky about the fact that he would be the reason why Red Wave Solutions began converting hundreds to thousands of “libtards” into real men.

#gay to straight #lib to con

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