#it mostly works but bridging the gap takes time and i need to like force down my impatience a lot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gogogodzilla · 7 months

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𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟶, 𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟷, 𝙰𝙼 𝟶𝟿:𝟺𝟽:𝟶𝟽

Summary: You receive a not-so-warm welcome from the rest of the Detroit Police Department and receive your first case masterlist ✩ ao3 ✩ wattpad ✩ previous chapter ✩ next chapter ✩

Gavin remains a few steps behind you the entire way to your office. You push open the glass door and take a seat at your desk. Gavin sits in the chair opposite of you, where your boss sat not too long ago, and tasked you with this project.

His eyes dart around the room, taking in your scarcely decorated office. You open the files Mr. Graff forwarded to you before your meeting with Gavin and scan over the contents. The project is relatively simple, and your shoulders slightly relax.

Your project is going to be time-consuming, to say the least. You have two months to learn everything you can about the Detroit Police Department and apply that to the androids that will be a part of the police department. Your knowledge of human behavior will help make the police androids more tolerable to the public, but it means nothing if you don’t know how to make people trust police officers. That’s where the disgruntled officer sitting across from you comes into play.

You spare a glance away from your monitor and your eyes meet his. He’s quick to avoid your gaze, and you could’ve sworn you saw his cheeks redden.

He clears his throat and continues to look around your office, “Nice place you got here.”

“Thanks,” you reply as you watch him. The printer on the side of your desk hums to life as a copy of the file you were looking at shoots out. You take the paper and shove it into a manilla folder.

You slide the folder across your desk, and Gavin’s eyebrows raise as he picks it up. “What’s this?”

“Our assignment. Well, it’s more mine than yours,” you shrug.

He thumbs through the file, smirking as he reads. “Looks like we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together, sweetheart.”

“Talking isn’t a requirement for this, by the way,” you return your gaze to your monitor before adding, “and don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’”

He’s quiet for a blissful moment before speaking up, “So, you’re just gonna be watching me for two months straight.”

You lean back in your chair, “Not necessarily. I’ll mostly be observing your behavior and reporting back to my team. I’ll be looking at how you interact with the general public, and how you work on the cases that you do. Would you consider yourself to be likable, Reed?”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course I’m likable.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

You cut off his retort by standing, and his eyes follow you as you rise.

“Where are you going?”

“Feel like doing a ride-along today?”

He grins and giddiness flows through you.

“Grab your coat, sweetheart,” he chuckles as he stands. Then, it’s your turn to follow him as he makes his way toward your office door.

Gavin wordlessly leads you to the parking garage and to his patrol car, a sleek vehicle marked with the Detroit Police Department emblem. He unlocks the vehicle and slides into the driver's seat. You yank open the passenger side door and climb into your seat. As soon as you’re settled, Gavin turns the key, and the car hums to life.

Gavin taps on the steering wheel matching the beat of the music as he drives, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you.

“So what exactly do you do at Cyberlife? You don’t seem like the usual tech geeks that hang around there,” Gavin questions as he drives, sparing a glance in your direction.

“I was hired with this project specifically in mind. They needed someone that understood human behavior, but was also knowledgeable about androids,” you shrug as you look out the window. “I’m trying to bridge the gap between artificial intelligence and the intricacy of human emotions. People are usually distrustful of cops, and that distrust is going to increase tenfold with the androids added to the police force.”

Gavin snorts, “That’s an understatement. We can barely get people to talk to human cops, forget about robocop.”

You adjust your seatbelt, “It all comes down to understanding your behavior and integrating that knowledge into their programming. We’ll start with the core things— empathy, ethical reasoning, and emotion recognition. Eventually, we’ll have an android accompany us into the field.”

Gavin raises a brow, “You wanna teach androids empathy? Good luck with that, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, “They’re not going to actually feel it. It’s more like they’re simulating it.”

“That sounds even worse, you know that right?”

You cross your arms and press your lips into a thin line. He has a point, but you definitely weren’t going to tell him that. As he drives, the cityscape passes in a blur, and you find yourself going over the last few hours in your mind.

You’ve been tasked with a monumental project that could be very good for Cyberlife should you succeed and disastrous should you fail. No pressure.

Before you know it, Gavin is pulling into the parking lot of the Detroit Police Department. “C’mon,” Gavin urges as he turns off the car and pulls the keys out of the ignition, “we’re gonna be late for brief.”

You furrow your brows but follow him anyway. The DPD buzzes with activity as the two of you enter. Gavin leads you through the turnstile and the noise increases as you near the center of the station. Detectives and police officers move around the station, their voices blending into a cacophony of chaos combined with police radio transmissions. Gavin navigates it easily and you stick close to him as you arrive at his desk.

Gavin’s desk is cluttered, making you miss your quiet office and clean desk. He rifles through the drawers of his desk before pulling out a notepad and a pen.

“I didn’t expect it to be this,” you pause as you fumble for the right word to describe your surroundings.

“Loud?” Gavin finishes for you as he straightens, grinning at your slightly bewildered expression.

“That's one way to describe it,” you reply, sighing.

“C’mon, we’re late,” he urges as he leads you to a back room filled with officers. The walls are filled with missing posters and various mugshots. You’re greeted by the scent of fresh coffee brewing as you enter the room and you inhale deeply.

Captain Fowler, a grizzled officer who you read about on the way over, stands at the front of the room, his hands placed on either side of a podium.

“Officer Reed, you’re late, and I assume your friend here is the reason.”

Gavin sighs. “This is,” he rattles off your title and it sounds strange coming out of his mouth. “They’re the, uh, expert sent from Cyberlife.”

Captain Fowler raises a brow, “Ah, the ride along. For those of you who don't know, androids were recently purchased by the U.S. Infantry for law enforcement assistance. Detroit is one of the cities that is spearheading this integration, which is why Officer Reed has brought a friend to today's brief. I hope you all will give the doctor a warm welcome”

Gavin leads you toward some empty seats in the back as a few unsettled murmurs break out amongst the group of officers. A nearby officer hands him a piece of paper with various bulleted lists.

“What’s that?” you whisper as you lean closer to get a better look.

“It’s the daily digest. Gives us information about what’s happened in the past 24 hours,” Gavin murmurs and lets you read for a moment.

“Here,” he says as he hands you the notepad and pen he grabbed earlier. “The notes you take in brief will help you throughout the rest of the shift… Better pay attention, sweetheart.”

You scowl at him before turning your attention to the front. Gavin relaxes in his chair and crosses his arms, getting comfortable. Captain Fowler pulls up a holographic map of Detroit and points out various points of interest.

Fowler looks out across the group of officers gathered, “We’ve got a series of robberies reported in the downtown area. All available units stationed in that area are to be on high alert.”

You quickly jot down all the details about the break-ins and the description of the suspect from the witnesses. Before you know it the brief is over and your notepad is covered in the neat lines of your notes. Officers line up in front of Fowler to receive their assignments, and Gavin leaves you briefly to accept his.

Gavin motions to the exit as he returns, “Let’s roll, doc. Your psychology nonsense might actually be helpful for our case.”

You lead the way out of the briefing room and hand Gavin your notepad as you walk. You want to ask what he means, but before you can your path is swiftly blocked by a very tall and very angry-looking officer. You stop abruptly and Gavin bumps into your back with a disgruntled ‘oof.’

The officer gives you a once over, “So, Cyberlife thinks that some shrink to convince us that these tin cans can do our jobs better than we can. News flash, doc, we don’t take kindly to being replaced.”

“Myers,” Gavin snaps from behind you. “Chill the fuck out, no one is getting replaced.”

“Officer Reed is right,” you cut in, cringing slightly at your agreement with Gavin. “The integration of androids isn’t about replacing anyone, it’s about enhancing the department.”

Officer Myers scoffs and his eyes narrow as he looks down at you. “We don’t need machines doing our jobs for us, we’ve done perfectly fine so far,” he sneers.

“Myers, if a machine is able to do your job better than you, then you shouldn’t have it in the first place,” Gavin counters, crossing his arms.

Myers takes a step forward and glares at Gavin over your shoulder, “Careful, Reed. Just because you’ve partnered up with the doctor here, don’t mean you’re safe. They’ll replace you all the same.”

“Yeah, sure. Now, d’ya mind? Some of us actually have a job to do.”

Myers rolls his eyes and stalks off. You let out a breath as you watch him disappear out the door and into the precinct.

You turn to Gavin, frowning, “I’m not going to get you replaced, you know that right?”

“I know, sweetheart,” he answers, but he doesn’t quite meet your eye. “Let’s go, we got a job to do.”

You start to reach out to grab him as he passes you, but you let your hand fall to your side instead. Your frown deepens as you follow him.

“You trust me, right?” you question as you step outside into the winter air. You tug your coat closer to you as the wind stings against your cheeks.

Gavin scoffs, “I don’t know you, none of us do.” He sighs at your downcast expression, “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. Cops aren’t the most trusting group of people. Now, get in the car.”

#dbh gavin reed #gavin reed #detroit become human #gavin reed x reader #dbh gavin #dbh x reader #dbh gavin x reader #reader insert #no y/n #bad habits

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whump-town · 5 months

Note

saw the hotchgon and was craving hotchniss after 🥹🥹🥹

I have seen more than one request for Hotchniss in my inbox and I swear to god I have been thinking about writing it for ages but I am sometimes very slow and very unmotivated... nonetheless, here we are --

Ask

Hotch gets shot, Emily has too much time to worry

Word Count: 5k

This is already on A03 if you'd prefer to read it there!!

Emily’s been conflicted. Uncertain about the one thing that she knows without a question of a doubt. That’s the problem with knowing the right answer but not having the bravery to do the right thing. Is this the right thing? There isn’t even such a thing. No way to know except when it’s somehow obvious, but only when it’s wrong. How would Emily even know if this was right? It only appears right, but mirages exist solely in confoundment, in the vulnerability of need.

Hotch leaves socks everywhere. His nightstand always has at least three glasses of water and various other things stacked atop its small surface – Hotch’s glasses precariously at the top. He shaves in the sink and “cleans” it but there’s always little hairs everywhere. He uses three-in-one soap in the shower. Snores. Hogs the covers. Sweats in his sleep.

But… Emily has never needed Hotch, he’s always been there. She couldn’t explain the feeling because it isn’t just one. It’s like a live wire connects them, courses from one of them to the other in a constant exchange of energy. Which makes it a physical matter, her body knows his well in this exchange of equal parts. She had felt a disturbance in her chest, like her heart couldn’t quite work as well as it wanted, before she had found Hotch in the hospital after Foyet’s attack. Her body stung with the burns from the near severance, the entry and exit of burning high voltage through delicate skin. The wire throws sparks, sizzles and arcs a bright white heat but it stays connected.

Toe to toe, lip to lip. A give and take of equal parts, understanding until her hand moves to the sore spot on his side or his rough thumb exactly where the throb is in her head. The shivers of desperation and adrenaline, cold lips. The smell of sterility and medicine. The taste of salty tears or copper blood. Love in only desperation, love without bravery and dedication. Love as it exists rawly.

She knows that he loves her. It soothes her aching heart just a little to consider the warmth. The way that he extends his fingers out to her, waiting for her to take hold of him. Never speaking, never needing to. He looks at her the way no one else ever has – understanding her. Knowing what she wants, how she needs it. There is never a hint of annoyance, of inconvenience. He wants to love, and god Emily hopes she’s shown him the same.

He could die and she will never know or he may live and she still doesn’t know how to change it. Mostly, she can’t.

She sits. Pacing becomes taxing, her legs now trying to shake embarrassingly with adrenaline now useless but ever present through her. Reid doesn’t seem to mind that she chooses the chair beside him. He’s chosen to sit right beside JJ, and now Emily is forced to hear the trance-like information in his dry, never fluctuating monotone as if all he is stating is merely facts. Devoid of the attachment they all know Reid has for Hotch. But Hotch has been on blood thinners for years, all kinds of medications that Spencer could recall with incredible accuracy and no hesitation to bridge the gap between prescription names and the duty they fulfilled. These things accounted for how Hotch had panicked, why he had fought them so ceaselessly as they tried to slow the rapid dumping of his blood onto the floor. He was in shock.

The team is already in shambles. Uneasily, none of them know where or how to stand by each other. Trust is such a delicate thing, such a tricky feeling to have alongside love. And that’s what the problem is – love. And if Emily dying and now suddenly being alive was not challenging enough, Hotch has made it worse. He’s made it impossible to feel petty. Forced open again were the roles they know instinctively with one another. Reid and Morgan had kneeled down beside one another, calling to JJ for help on the radio as Hotch lay crumpled on the floor. It didn’t matter that Hotch had lied to them, his warm blood spreading beneath their fingers had warned of distance with permanence. He wouldn’t be across the ocean this time, technically only one emergency phone call away. And so they placed their hands over the wounds, trying to ward off the black closing in Hotch’s vision.

It’s haunting imagery even as Reid recounts it so factually.

Somehow, it makes the doctor’s news go down more smoothly. Emily’s thinking about how the surgeon looks very much like a nonsense kind of military guy, seems very trustworthy, like the perfect guy to be working on Hotch. It takes a moment to hear the doctor and she frowns, “what?”

“We’re going to take Agent Hotchner up to surgery but the operation room won’t be ready for another twenty minutes.” The doctor says this slowly, watching Emily’s face still mixed with confusion. “He’s asked for you, I can take you back to his room.”

Dumbly, Emily onlys nods. Her numb lips mumble out, “Yeah, okay.”

They go just down the hall, turn and the doctor motions her forward into a room. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity – not a single trait she possesses at this moment. Professionalism stripped. Masks out of place. The fear of losing Hotch sits immensely on her chest, enough that she can’t stand the reality of seeing him. Had he faltered in her doorway like this? Too afraid to see her attached to machines, in moments so intimate and tense Emily’s mind has wiped them from her memory. It scares her that she might see through him here, feel his weak heart and his dying breath.

Still, she can’t resist seeing him. Emily has spent so long without them all but even now Hotch feels so far away. She can see that parts of him are not here, have not arrived yet from the plane overseas. Maybe he can see that about her too.

Emily’s stomach sours at the familiarity of the sight of Hotch laying still. His head turns ever slowly towards the noise at the door, his lips cracking upward feebly. Unable to stop herself, Emily smiles at Hotch.

“Em–” he mouths the rest of her name and Emily moves faster to him, around the other side of the bed to take his cold, clammy hand. He opens his mouth again and Emily presses her lips to his, preventing his voice from catching on her name. The oxygen canal under his nose is wedged between them, plastic digging into the skin of their faces but deterring neither. Emily moves just enough to touch her forehead to his, their breath hot against the other’s face and still Hotch tries to tip his head up. “Emily,” her name is so loose on his tongue that it’s no better gargled out but it’s her’s.

“Shh,” tears finally fall down her face and Emily stands back up, hearing the distressed noise that leaves Hotch. She wipes her eyes and when her hands move from her line of vision, his pale fingers are stretched up in search of her. Emily doesn’t think about taking his hand, wrapping both of hers around his, so gentle and mindful of the wires and lines poking under his skin and monitoring his body. His grip is delicate but desperate, her own possessive.

They say nothing. Tears wedge from the corners of their eyes. Uselessly, Hotch opens his mouth and weakly his voice tries to obey his mindless command to say her name. It seems the only thing he’s capable of, the only thing he needs or wants to say. She brings his hand to her lips, first to kiss and then gently pressing a little bit of warmth back his fingers. Emily holds his hand to her face, closes her eyes and relaxes into the feeling of his fingers gently spreading to touch her cheeks, the corners of her eyes, her nose.

Overcome by some sort of sorcery, Hotch lies perfectly still, his unseeing eyes are aimed at Emily, fingers loosely woven in her’s as the doctor’s prepare to take him to surgery. Emily knows any sort of separation between them would snap him from wherever he’s sunken to, because she knows he’s only kind of here with her. Tethered by the curl of her fingers around his. She watches his eyes sink as sedatives swirl into his IV, the moment that he becomes tired and fights it.

Irritatedly, Hotch tries to shift and he groans, not feeling pain, but his body is still aware of the injury. His fingers clench and Emily steps a little closer, watching his face as she holds his hand tighter, their palms together. His face relaxes against his will, eyes sinking and hardening in intensity for the briefest moment on her.

“Don’t go–” he chokes out, she feels a fleeting strength in his grip on her hand. Where his fingers press into the skin of her hand, trying to keep her here. There’s a sharp clarity in the request, in his eyes. He knows what comes next, knows this feeling, he wants to wake up and find her here. He wants her holding his hand. He wants… her.

“I–” her voice is no stronger than his, it breaks more tears from her eyes. I can’t – but she can. She could. Emily is here now, she could be here when he wakes again. She stands watching him watch her, the neverending stream of tears following the soft lines of age in the corners of his eyes. Stray tears that slide down the tip nose. But she’s not brave enough to love him like this when he’ll remember.

“Emily.”

“Relax,” Emily manages, her voice wet and suddenly Hotch’s hand is so very heavy. “You’re going to be fine,” she says gently, moving her grip to hold the weight of his arm. Mirroring tears fall from their eyes as weakly Hotch tries one last time to speak her name. Only his lips move, his eyes on her until they finally shut, tears falling down his face. His fingers give a twitch and Emily squeezes his hand back quickly.

She can’t let him go. His hand is limp in hers, tears that Emily caused are fat and damp on his dark eyelashes. She hears the doctors and nurses preparing to move him, she knows she needs to place his hand back on the bed, but she holds it. Maybe he is still awake, still fighting desperately to twitch his fingers again, to move his slackened lips to form her name. She squeezes his deadened fingers and this time it’s his name that goes unanswered. “Aaron?” Emily reaches to touch his face, not hearing a nurse trying to direct her out. “I love you,” mindlessly, Emily brushes a tear from his eye. “Aaron?”

It feels as though there is nothing to say. Dreadfully, aimlessly Emily walks back to the waiting room. The floor… the walls… tile… She moves on feet that just seem to know where to go because her head is empty. Stuffed, almost, with soft cotton like a doll. She can feel the soft, dry edges touching her skull. Maybe it’s just bellows of smoke, nothing solid at all but graciously containing quantities of heat in bursts.

Whatever it is – it hurts.

—----------------

The knife bites under the side of Emily’s chin and burns where her skin splits under the blade. Blood rushes in her ears, drowning out Ian’s grumbled monologue, the hairs on her arms painful pinpricks. Ian stays close, his hot breath burns her cold skin as he breathes her name, Lauren, against her neck. He comes up, lips brushing above the bleeding cut on her jaw, to her ear. Emily can hear Ian’s smile as he whispers into her ear, making her twitch, trying to flinch away from proximity. “That looks like it hurts.”

Emily takes a shuddering breath, stills herself, and looks over to Ian. Her lips tight, her voice hissing as she reminds him, “You’ve done worse.” She looks into his eyes, unnerved by the knife point touching her skin at one sharp point. Ian had hurt her worse, putting his hands on her too many times to count. Their relationship was always real, regardless of the details. Years ago, she loved him too much, stood in his kitchen with tears in her eyes, glass shards in her hair, and around her feet. Ian would come back a few days later with purple lilies the same shades as her healing bruises.

Ian smile sours, twists into a snarl. He grabs the back of Emily’s hair, jerking her head back, and Emily shouts at the sudden strain, her toes pushing at the floor as much as she can as he pulls for her to move further than she can. Ian puts the knife back against her throat, against where her throat bulges at the angle, but Emily doesn’t look away. There is no fear. She’s not afraid of him. When Ian sees it, he releases her with a chuckle. Emily rocks back down with a thud, she leans forward, dropping her hair over her face as she wills her tears to go away. She can’t cry. She can’t.

Ian crouches down in front of her, putting his hand on her knee and guiding it up until he’s touching her side. He’d bound her arms and legs to the chair, knowing how clever his Lauren could be when presented with a challenge. He just looks at her, taking his time, she can’t go anywhere. Ian reaches up from her side and touches her cheek with the back of his hand. He smiles when she leans her head away. Shaking his head, Ian sighs. “I wasn’t talking about you,” he says sweetly. She’s startled and doesn’t flinch when he reaches up to push his hand through her hair and hold the side of her head. Bringing her close to him. “I know what you can take, Lauren.” Emily flinches as Ian stands too suddenly, his hands coming down, and grabs the sides of the chairs and jerks her around. “I was talking about him.” The spin startles her, making her unable to gather her bearings for a moment. Staring through a spinning room full of black dots, it takes her a moment to realize what she’s looking at. Who she’s looking at.

Laying semi-conscious on the floor in front of two of Ian’s men is Hotch. Emily tries to keep a straight face, seeing his drained complexion and his mouth hanging open to suck at laborious breaths while his eyes rest aimlessly on the concrete below.

Ian gives a silent gesture and the men nod, hauling Hotch upright. One grabs Hotch by the hair, pulling his fallen head up, and places the blade under Hotch’s chin, drawing blood.

Hotch’s face is pale, white and his throat bared to her as one of Ian’s men holds Hotch upright by his hair. She can see the whites of his eyes. Hotch makes a small sound, a ragged breath, and Emily watches his eyes move. But his efforts get him nowhere, his chest moves faintly with his shallow breaths, his blood just keeps rushing down his front. His pants are soaked. The floor's puddle is only growing. He’ll bleed to death, Emily realizes. He's going to die. Stop. Stop. Stop. Emily sets her eyes forward. Ian starts talking again but she can hardly think, let alone hear. Foyet had Hotch for an hour, at least. Video footage, she’d watched it all, and Hotch had survived each slow-moving second. Survived. She glances over at Hotch again, watching his eyes slowly roll forward again, his consciousness fleeting but there. Still there.

Caught in Hotch’s deadened glaze, Emily sits perfectly still. She can’t look away from him. She watches blood trickle down his neck, slipping down below his collar to gather and soak into his shirt.

Ian says nothing. The man with the knife smirks and nods his head.

“No!” Emily yelps but it’s too late.

Hotch clutches at his throat, not pain twisted on his face but confusion, and he’s looking right at her. His mouth opens and Emily tries to scream his name but she can make no sound, suddenly doesn’t have the breath to. The men release their hold on him and Hotch falls limply forward, head hitting the ground, and he lays on his stomach.

Emily watches as he twitches and shakes, as the blood begins to puddle out and slowly stops.

It isn’t until Ian steps between them that Emily truly believes what’s in front of her.

“Tell me where Declan is, sweetheart. Don’t make his death senseless.”

Death. Hotch is dead. He’s really dead. Emily’s eyes rake over his prone form, waiting, until she realizes that he has fallen completely still. No longer shaking or twitching. She’s the one shaking, that she has snot and tears soaking her face. She can’t look away from the back of Hotch’s head, all the short hairs on the back sticking this way and that. All Emily can feel is pain, bright and heavy from her shoulders to her stomach. The nevers. All the things that will never happen again. The fact that she’s sitting here and he’s… and he’s gone and all she wants is for him to come back already. The weight of it sucks at Emily’s air, her hope to live right now bled to death in front of her, and no matter how she gasps for it, every breath isn’t enough.

“Emily!” Ian is in her face in an instant. “Emily!”

Emily suddenly finds her arms free and wildly, eyes pinched shut, blindly she swings at him. Her shoulders are grabbed and Emily jerks with the hard shake she’s giving. Opening her eyes, Emily finds herself inches from Dave, his too-tight fingers holding onto her arms. “Emily?”

She blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness in the room. Looking at Dave all she can think of is Hotch on that floor. Dave would be devastated, and Emily realizes she’s still crying, still sucking at the air – she’s devasted. Dave says nothing more, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against his chest. His hand rests atop her head and he sways them gently. Emily clings to him, her fingers aching with her hold on his shirt.

“Oh sweetheart,” Dave whispers, rubbing her back. “I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night and worrying myself gray over that man for the last twenty-years.” Pressed against him, Emily can feel him take in a deep breath and shake his head. “Showed his age a little today, huh?” He shivers a little at the thought. Aaron had shuttered, laid there for moments far too long, too still. Even when Aaron had opened his eyes, his mouth had opened to and the only noise to leave was ragged, gasping breaths he took greedily like the air in the room had been thinned out.

Emily hides herself against him for a moment, knowing immediately that her dreams must not have been very silent. That she must have screamed for Hotch like she had tried in her dream.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She’s there again in an instant, Hotch’s ashy face looking back at her. “No.” Emily sits up, turning her head away as she wipes at her face with the end of her t-shirt. The weight of the grief is still there, it’s pressed and wedged itself up under her ribs. And any thought of it brings another wave of tears and she can’t keep them at bay.

Dave looks at her softly, “alright.” He knows even if she won’t say – he doesn’t know but he is correct in the educated guess he’s made. She was dreaming about Hotch, not a happy dream. “He’s probably awake,” Dave offers, “old habits die hard.”

Hotch is an insomniac. The coffee he consumed never helped but Hotch is a nocturnal man, Emily knows he’d normally be awake. The hospital had released him with medication, cocktails of things that should certainly put Hotch to bed early tonight, but that is dependent on him taking them as prescribed and… Emily knows he hasn’t taken them.

“They checked him over good,” Dave reaches over and wipes a tear from the side of her face, “he’ll be moving slow for a while, but he’s okay.” Dave pats Emily’s leg, “might wanna splash some water on your face.”

Emily nods and stops, narrowing her eyes a moment at the ground. She looks at Dave for a moment, compulsively going to question how he’d made the assumption she was going to leave their room and go look for Hotch, and then deciding better. She wipes at her face with her hands again and moves with Dave to stand. Her legs shake beneath her but Emily rights herself, finding them not weak just unstable. All of her is shaking. As she walks to the bathroom, Emily can hear Dave opening the hotel door, peaking outside.

He comes to the closed bathroom door and gives a soft knock, “He’s getting something from the vending machine.”

“Okay,” Emily says back. She doesn’t look closely at herself, just under her tired eyes to make sure she really got her mascara off before. Checking the water with her fingers, Emily bows her head and splashes some water over her face, an immediately regrettable decision as she closes her eyes and there he is again. Pale bloodless face and all the white’s of his eyes. The back of his head and the cowlick he can never tame.

She can’t keep seeing him like this.

Emily says nothing to Dave as she leaves, attempting to look inconspicuous without any hope. Nothing she has done in the last forty-eight hours has been very low profile. Most of the first day is blank. Vividly, Emily remembers the hospital but after she left Hotch’s room she had just moved like a robot. For the team she scraped together a few words, Hotch was conscious but too weak to speak. And then she went to the precinct, picked up all the paperwork she could find, and has been cooped up in her hotel room since. Which has been fine because Rossi has stayed at the hospital except tonight Hotch is in the hotel too, waiting with the rest of them on arranging travel plans in the morning.

Emily steps out into the cold and she sees Hotch immediately. He’s at the end of the hall, leaning on the last bit of railing against the brick. She hasn’t seen him since she’d gone back before his surgery.

He looks better than he had before. He’s back in his own clothing, only a t-shirt and what looks like pajama bottoms. Naturally, she thinks, he wouldn’t think to grab a coat. Emily tries to make her eyes wander, she scans miscellaneous trash scattered along the ground, cigarette butts left nearby but seldomly within pots that likely once had flowers but not recently, but she looks back up.

Hotch backs up from the rail, holding onto his chest, and his head down.

Only a few steps away, Emily moves her foot out and nudges a flowerpot. She smiles when Hotch’s head snaps up. The pain is quickly hidden behind by accusing squinted eyes, “Sneaking up on me?”

Emily rolls her eyes, “if you weren’t going–”

“What?” Hotch interrupts, loudly.

“Nothing,” Emily puffs. She was going to say deaf, if you weren’t going deaf… He should have heard her coming. He needs to get his hearing checked again. “Nevermind. What’re you doing out here?”

Hotch painfully straightens himself up and nods his head toward the vending machines humming in the alcove. “Snack,” he answers simply. “I could ask you the same,” he cocks his head to the side in a way that very much means that he is asking.

Emily hums, stepping around him, and nodding her head toward the machines – she expects that he’ll understand her silence, as that’s how it’s supposed to go – but he stays right where he is, that gloomy glare all the more frightening without any lights to soften it. “What?” she asks, finally.

Hotch shifts himself carefully, his hand never leaves the railing, “Why are you awake?”

Emily huffs, “That was not the question we agreed on.”

Silence.

More gloomy glare.

Emily sighs, “I’ll tell you, alright?” She motions her hand toward the machines, “But I need a snack first.”

Hotch accepts the bargain with a nod and his face tenses, jaw clenched as he drags himself forward a step, releasing his grip on the railing, his safety. The next step is stuttered, stiff –

Emily mutters and steps up beside him, wrapping her arm around his back. “Thought you got shot in the shoulder, not the leg.” She can think of no better excuse to invade his personal space and Emily finds comfort in the feeling of the muscles in his back constricting and pulling. Emily can’t help but look up at him, wondering if this is a good excuse in his mind too.

“I’m bruised head-to-toe,” Hotch manages slowly, wrapping his arm around her, each word spoken one by one. “My head hurts…”

The sound that comes from Emily is wet, a little less dismissing huff than she would have preferred. She can just see his eyes losing their focus as he thinks, it’s half a laugh and half… not. His pain is unbearable, worse than her own somehow.

Hotch looks at her, steps not exactly moving in a straight direction and therefore reliant on Emily to keep them going forward. Drugs have made his tongue loose in his mouth, and without his normal filter, Hotch raises an eyebrow, “that can’t be why you’re awake.”

Emily repeats the noise and she can see it’s even more confusing for him, and still an unconscious confirmation. She rolls her eyes, “no.”

“Very convincing.”

“Not everything’s about you, Aaron.” Looking at him, Emily can’t help but smile and he can’t seem to help it either. Emily turns to the bright lights of the vending machine, slipping out from under Hotch. “I need chocolate. What’re you getting?”

Hotch leans against a machine, looking at his options. “Pretzels.”

Emily makes a face but makes the selection, watching his treat fall to the bottom of the machine. Her eyes rake over the options, consciously ignoring Hotch’s even gaze on her.

“I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon Tuesday.”

Emily gets a Snickers, puts in the code, and bends down for the snacks.

“It was a relatively clean shot. The bone should heal on its own without a second surgery.”

Emily’s lip twist, “not very clean.” It leaves only a whisper but when she stands, she can tell he’s heard her. He’s looking at her with a flat, interpreting gaze, like he’s right inside her head, floating around with her racing thoughts. “It wasn’t.” Her voice is tight, her whole body fighting his invasion. “You–” her voice cracks. She’s not fighting him, she’s fighting the tears that have been trying to fall all day.

Hotch steps forward and Emily throws her hand up. “No,” she says, firmly but softly. “Please…” her voice is still shaky and he stands still, waiting patiently as she takes a deep breath. Emily clears her throat and wipes her eyes, she looks up at him with a smile. Eyes still wet, she laughs, “I can’t handle a hug right now just–”

Hotch nods, understanding.

She smiles tensely, forcing another laugh, trying to shake the rest of the feelings away. “God, Hotchner,” she scrubs her hand down her face, “why do you always do this to me?”

Hotch’s lips tighten.

Emily takes another shaky breath and she rolls her eyes at the expression on Hotch’s face. “Your face is going to get stuck like that one these days,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him.

His dark eyes keep seeing right into her, his silence strong. With the release of a breath he relaxes just a little, “how do we know it hasn’t already?”

“Good point,” Emily agrees. “It does usually look like that.”

“Mmm,” Hotch hums. Seeing the face he’s making, Emily already feels annoyed before he speaks. “I can only assume you have more on your mind tonight besides my face being stuck like this. It’s never kept you up before, at least.”

Emily narrows her eyes, smiling, “you’re relentless.” He seems unbothered by the accusation. Emily’s smile falls into a tense grimace, “it has nothing to do with– … you.” She really wants to finish the sentiment strongly but she meets his eyes. Lying is fun, it’s easy. When lying can also hide her carefully behind the safety of its shade, there’s nothing she would rather do. But she doesn’t want to lie, not when she’s looking right at him.

“It’s just dreams,” Emily’s voice surprises herself, how softly, tentatively she speaks.

“They’re never just dreams.”

Does he know? Somehow, Emily thinks he can see right to the dream itself. A strange mirroring image of the man standing over her now and the one on his knees – both looking at her, waiting on her. “It was a different dream tonight,” her eyes dart between his, “but the same thing always happens…”

He has to know. He’s looking at her like he can see himself, like he can see her thrashing in her imaginary bonds. “What happens?”

His voice is too soft, he’s too gentle. Emily doesn’t want to cry but her lips are bunching up, betraying her with an ugly cry building itself up. She can’t look at him. “I lose you,” her voice breaks.

“Emily.” Does she say his name like this? There’s little time to wonder, eyes closed she goes where he tips her chin up, knowing he’ll taste the tears falling down her face when his lips press to hers. “Emily,” she can feel his breath on her face. She could hear him say her name over and over. He says it like no one’s ever spoken her name before. The thrill is like hearing your mother language in a foreign country. Like hearing it for the very first time. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“I know,” she complies miserably, “I know.” She cries anyway and he comes closer. Emily realizes that she’s leaning into his side. His side because his arm is strapped securely between them, bound to his chest. His hand on the back of her head until she’s done, left with only a little embarrassment.

“I have something for you,” Hotch says and Emily laughs wiping at her face.

“What is it?”

Emily feels with giddy excitement to take Hotch’s hand to go back down the hall to try and silently slip through the room he’s sharing with Reid without waking him. She’s surprised the genius is sleeping at all but the last few days have been exhausting, she doesn’t know how she’s awake. Hotch opens the door to the little porch connected to the room. “Wait,” Hotch whispers, easing the door shut.

She waits anxiously outside, shivering with excitement encouraged with the chill of the wind. It’s all of a minute and the door is opening as Hotch comes back out. Emily can see at once that Hotch’s nerves have taken him over, making him unsure of himself.

“It’s… kind of strange,” he says, not meeting her eyes, and she finds the gift curled in his fingers. She moves her hands close to his to accept it into her hand. “The bullet chipped my collar bone,” his cheeks are flushed, red with embarrassment. “You don't have to keep it. I thought… I thought you might want it.”

Bone, his bone. A chip of his bone. Emily closes her fingers around it, squeezing it in her palm. When her fingers open the bone feels so different. Her thumb strokes it curiously. “I love it,” she says, examining it between her thumb and forefinger.

“Y– You do?” Emily looks up – he seems so surprised. Surprised and then warm, something incredibly warm shines over his eyes, changing the way that he’s looking at her. “I love you.”

Emily opens her mouth, she’s only more confused by Hotch’s certainty. He makes no move to take it back. No nerves. He’s looking right at her and he knows it, he’s just telling her. It’s more than that. She can tell it’s more. He knows she loves him too.

“You were all I could think about.”

He had asked for her in the hospital. Had he been saying her name all that time before she’d come back? The same persistence or worse than what she’d seen when she had been right beside him holding his hand. Emily looks all the way up at him as he stands closer and closer. Her lips part for his and she lets him kiss her again, barely restraining from leaning fully into him.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of dying without seeing you one last time,” he whispers against her lips, looking deep into her surprised eyes. “You’d better be the last thing I see before I die.”

Emily’s breath stutters, her eyes dart down to his lips, before coming back up to his eyes. “Ask for me,” she whispers.

“I’ll always ask for you, Emily.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss

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emmy-noethers-rings · 1 year

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Right friends it’s musical analysis time:

Spirit box radio has yet again decided to have its (musical) theme echo the (literary) themes of the piece and I’m vibrating why is this music so good. It’s doing exaaactly what a theme should and connecting the dots so nicely and and It’s so fucking good. Ok so

We have, in yhe most recent episode (sbr 3.12, solitude) the idea of the arcane space collapsing (shocking I know but bear with me) and Samael says something to the tune of “I’m telling thousands of stories, so of course it’s hard to keep track of the edges (of them)”. And of course

This gets reflected in the music. Our outro theme (havent given the intro a proper listen yet) consists of two parts: a) reverbed to hell and back strings/synth and b) the punch to the gut muted xylophone? Bells? (We’ll get into this but I’m no musicologist) that ends the piece

So for the first part, we have a simple variation on the main sbr theme that has been well established since season 1. This is fine and not super interesting, bc most of it sits underneath the credits, but it helps to bridge the gap between the ideas of a radio staticky spirit box and the main theme. It’s quiet, a little haunting, and normal (for the most part). It’s not something you’re going to catch, and it’s not something you really need to catch. The important bit tho is the faux-normality of the theme, which causes us to think that (barring the plot of. The episode) things are more or less fine (which is bs but again not the point at this moment). It’s very much samaels perspective on how things should be going - reminiscent of the world that was, holding on to the echos of the past, but not interesting or particularly good in its own right. This sets up the interesting part tho bc:

Part b) the fuck you it’s time to flip that on it’s head now. So,, we get the main theme again, loud and clear, with no credits to distract us. Played on a xylophone (I think? Idk I was a strings player it sounds like it’s a padded mallet hitting something made of metal, which is then immediately dampened). The theme played here is a perfectly straight (again, surprising given the characters ;] tehe) 4/4 quarter note 2 bar phrase. That takes the rhythms we’re used to and says. Nah fuck that. It’s so jarring. Eight eighth notes that so beautifully capture and bastardize the theme we’re used to that make it feel so flat and uninteresting (which still being musically beautiful but it’s not time to talk about phrasing rn). This so perfectly encapsulates what’s happening in the plot. These eight notes are the story (the one we the listeners know all too well) being retold by samael in this arcane space: flat, hitting every beat exactly, what is supposed to happen, containing the things that should be joyous, and absolutely failing to do anything correctly. It’s like you told someone to rewrite Haydns C major to be played by a elementary school band. It’s “correct” but so far down the uncanny valley that it’s just. Wrong. And no phrasing or dynamics or instrumentation or anything could fix that.

Now it’s time to discuss the choice of instrument. I wrote above that the melody feels flat - and that’s (to me) mostly due to the choice to immediately dampen each note, separating it from the other notes around it. This kills most phrasing you could do with the measure (again, not all, bc it doesn’t sound like bong bong bong bong bong bong bong bong but that’s neither here nor there) and forces the listener to hear the notes as 8 distinct entities. It’s great it spectacular it makes the piece work so well and really adds to the analysis above but idk how to explain it

#ah shit I’m after not looking at the time and missing my bus #whelp #this was worth it tho all yinz need to go listen #the arcane box vibrates #spirit box radio #sbr 3.12 #I really hope I don’t need a music analysis tag

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feathers-in-the-night · 10 months

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reading through the story so far was a good idea. Im definitely realizing a lot of the dialogue is a bit stilted. This mightve been bc i was reading a Lord of the rings fic while writing some of the sections, so the formality of the language rubbed off on me. But yeah, they not always talking like young, 21st century people! Need to fix that.

Also I'm realizing HOW OFTEN i use shrugging when describing bodylanguage lmaooo. Need to go back and edit that.

I'm doing that same thing that i did in Feathers where the first three chapters are like.. Almost entirely comprised of small expository scenes, meant to catch the reader up to speed from when we last left them. Not so much the first chapter, but definitely the second and third. I'm also setting up stuff for the future plot at a break-neck speed. Like theyre not BAD scenes or chapters, but the excitement definitely doesnt pick up fully until chapter 4. I'm thinking about merging a few chapters together, because some of them aren't that long. Maybe if i combined chapter 2 and 3, it wouldn't feel as bad because it would get all of the exposition over with in a single chapter, instead of it being stretched out?

Anyway.. The development of their strained relationship seems to be at a good balance. Very early on in the story, due to some circumstances, theyre forced to work together in isolation for a few days and its a pretty angsty time bc theyre both still hurting a lot and theyre having a hard time getting along for a big part of it. But then they get better as time goes on, and that carries over pretty effectively into the rest of the story (that i read so far). I think the chapters where this goes down, I may merge. Not all of them, but some. We'll see. I dont mind the flow as it is, but some of the chapters seem a bit shorter than some of the later stuff. Like, this stuff all takes place over 5 chapters, which is a LOT. Thats 25% of the chapters so far. And some of the chapters seem a lot shorter than necessary

I've read through about half of the story so far and i'm hoping as i read further, i see that i've manage to bridge the gap between "I'm still in love and i think i made a mistake" Morgan and "I'm fine, he's just a good friend" Morgan (Who, to be clear, is in Denial). Bc at the beginning shes VERY conflicted, and by chapter 20, shes fully keeping him at an arms length because shes absolutely sure that shes over him and shes desperately clinging to her "we're friends" mantra.

Anyway those were jsut some thoughts i had. This is mostly something i wrote down for my own benefit so i can remember it for later when i finish the story and go through my rewrites and edits!

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sharinggreys · 2 years

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Warrior cat quest game

WARRIOR CAT QUEST GAME FULL

You can shoot through thin gaps or the tightest of angles for full damage. Taking cover isn't abstracted either things protect you only if they intersect a bullet's path. Aiming a gun displays a radius within which each bullet might land, and each projectile will hit something. Just like Silent Storm, Phoenix Point models every shot taken rather than rolling dice for an abstracted attack that either hits or does nothing. It combines well, though not seamlessly, with the direct aiming option, which swooshes the camera into a first person view so you can judge angles and obstacles. Anyone can enter overwatch, and instead of a blanket "attack anything in range", you determine the range and width of a cone of fire to cover. Its most visible innovation though is the overwatch system (which I somehow forgot to mention it before, although Stirring Abyss uses a comparable system). It marries the simplicity of XCOM with the gnarly simulation of a UFO or Jagged Alliance, offering far more room for possibilities than the former without the pedantry and hassle of the latter. Unlike XCOM's frankly terrible way of forcing you to commit all or nothing, you can move in discrete portions, adjusting your path as needed, or even fire and still resume one AP's worth of movement. Even using up one AP on movement doesn't have to be done in one stroke. Soldiers have four action points, and can perform actions in any order rather than shooting immediately ending a turn. Instead of the standard two-actions design, or a super-granular system with dozens of time units, Phoenix Point splits the difference somewhat. It takes notes from the Firaxes XCOMses too, but customises rather than copying them outright. Despite its retro influences, Phoenix Point isn't an appeal to nostalgia. There's less of the waiting around, although there is a lot of repetition.īut on the tactical side, things are more mixed. You're always flying off somewhere, scooping up resources, doing little side missions or trading or uncovering more areas. Overall, Phoenix Point feels more active on the strategy side. The plot ties in to the history and relations of the factions too, and it's a colourful enough ride. Uncovering the history of your own faction, the Phoenix Project, and its work are your only hope, since merely shooting monsters as they come is a losing battle. They're not the vital fortresses you'd expect from an XCOM game, and are mostly used to bridge the gap to the next plot-critical spots and triangulate Pandoran bases, which takes some getting used to conceptually. You can raid them for resources, stolen aircraft and unique technologies, but must balance all this with the main priority: protecting humanity from Pandoran attacks.īase management is surprisingly lacklustre. Some offer a side quest or recruit for hire. Many of the locations you discover are occupied by human factions who'll trade food, machine parts, or science juice. You actively explore the globe, reactivating abandoned bases, scavenging for resources, setting off flavour events with multiple choices, and chasing plot threads. With the world already wrecked, there's no sitting around waiting for invaders. Replacing aliens with post-apocalyptic, Lovecraftian sea mutants (Pandorans) changes the structure as well as the tone, for starters. Prior to 2012's XCOM, most of those efforts were okay at best, but some were doing interesting things, and it's those things that Snapshot Games cherry picked from and formed into something fresh. Its influences include almost every effort to advance what is arguably a genre of its own since the release of its great-grandfather UFO in 1994. I like it overall, but after two and a half years of updates, it remains a frustrating game. When I got sick of Phoenix Point, I started a new game. When I (very quickly) got sick of the XCOM games, I uninstalled them. It's one of the most evenly mixed bags I've ever rummaged around in. I don't quite want to say hate, but I'm also not quite sure why. There's a lot to like about its final form. I’ve definitely enjoyed it more than on its release in 2019, and its DLC adds more to think about and manage during what were once long lull periods. This is The Rally Point, a regular column where the inimitable Sin Vega delves deep into strategy gaming.ĭo you ever feel like you're sitting down with a game like a worried parent, saying "I just don't know what to do with you?" Because that's how I feel about Phoenix Point after the last few months of playing it on and off.

#Warrior cat quest game

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rocorambles · 3 years

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Surprise Interview

Pairing: Kenma x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Yandere, Pseudo-Cest, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Verbal Humiliation, Manipulation

Summary: Kenma sees if you have what it takes to be Bouncing Ball’s newest employee.

A/N: This is for @sugawara-sweetheart ‘s Decadence Collab. So excited to be a part of this collab and to be able to indulge in such a delicious prompt and theme. Be sure to check out everyone else’s works! As always, thanks for beta-ing @sawamooora ~

There’s a familiar peace and a new nervousness about coming back home for the holidays. Mostly because home isn’t quite the same home it used to be. You can feel warmth blooming in your chest at the thought of seeing your mom, telling her about everything and everyone (as if your daily phone calls aren’t enough), and just lounging around while she fills you up with her cooking. But you can also feel a certain shyness as you approach the house, a building that still feels brand new and strange to you.

Your mother had gotten remarried during your earlier college years after your father’s passing and you were elated for her. If anyone deserves all the happiness in the world, it’s her. You had met Mr. Kozume quite a few times and you have no qualms with the man. He treats your mother like a queen and even though you playfully gag as they sweet talk and kiss in front of you, you wholeheartedly approve of their relationship.

However, what you aren’t quite as prepared for is having a new step-sibling.

You don’t know much about Kenma Kozume. Well, not much more than the rest of the world does.

Professional gamer. Successful stock trader. Popular YouTuber. Founder of his own corporation.

You know exactly who your new brother is, but other than seeing him a few times in person at family gatherings and exchanging polite greetings, there’s no real connection. Which is why your heart races as you nervously ring his doorbell, anxiety already making your leg twitch as you wait for the door to open.

Your mother and step-father are on a couple’s vacation and won’t be returning for a few days.

(“We just want some romantic time together before we have a full house again for the holidays. Plus this is a great chance to get to know your older brother better!” You hadn’t even been able to get a word of protest in before she had laughed and hung up on you, leaving you speechless and on your own as you hesitantly texted Kenma, letting him know what day to expect you.)

Kenma is quiet as ever as he nods in greeting, silently leading you to your guest room before quietly telling you to make yourself at home and leaving to do his own thing. You let out a huge sigh of relief as the door closes behind him.

There’s nothing wrong with Kenma. He’s smart and successful. Maybe a bit on the quiet side, but that only adds to his down to earth charm. You know your mother and step-father adore him and you can’t blame them. Yet, you can’t help but feel scrutinized, seen so clearly in a way that terrifies you when his feline eyes gaze at you. It takes everything in you not to immediately scurry away whenever you’re in viewing distance of him, desperate to hide all the flaws you imagine he’s noticing and calculating. Your step-father had mentioned how Kenma used to be the strategist of his high school volleyball team, and has always been able to evaluate and accurately break down situations and people. And you believe it.

You’re just grateful the house is large enough to avoid each other and that Kenma tends to reside mostly in his home office and bedroom.

But even the founder of a company needs a break from time to time. Kenma shuffles towards the gaming room, only to blink in surprise when he sees you already inside of it, happily smiling as Animal Crossing visuals and sounds fill the space.

He had known you owned a Nintendo Switch, a piece of information your mom had shared to break the ice a bit. And it’s really no surprise that this is your go-to game. But knowing and seeing are two different things and he can’t help but let his own lips twitch upwards at how calm and relaxed you are tending to your garden, decorating your home, choosing your outfit.

Kenma’s never been good with people, has never been the one to initiate a friendship. He knows he should have made more of an effort to be friendly and welcoming to you as your new older brother. There’s a slight pang of regret in his chest when he sees how at ease you are while you’re unaware of his presence. His eyes are as sharp as ever and he locks in on the way your body slightly stiffens, fingers nervously fidgeting when you finally notice his figure in the doorway, words already stuttering an apology for using his game room without explicitly asking.

You look like a scared mouse about to flee from the claws of a cat. And it pisses him off.

He hasn’t made the best efforts to bridge the gap between you, but for you to fear him? That seems a tad unnecessary, and more than a tad insulting. It’s more than enough to make the sadistic streak in him want to give you something to be scared about.

But he’s never been impulsive and he just quietly sits beside you on the floor, reassuring you it’s fine to play, smirking when you sneak little side glances his way as you continue collecting fruits.

“Kozume, do you want to play-”

“Just call me Kenma.”

Entranced eyes watch as you grow flustered at his words, mouth silently testing the weight of his given name in your mouth. For once, Kenma could care less about playing video games when a shaky timid “Kenma” slips past your soft lips.

“Kenma, do you want to play something together?”

You have no idea how badly he really does want to play together, but it’s a game you’re not ready for. So he calls upon any restraint he has to pluck your device from your hands and change the game to Mario Kart.

It’s amusing how easily you soften besides him, brow furrowing in concentration, eyes intently and eagerly following the screen, any anxiousness quickly forgotten as you get into the game. He greedily watches as you pout when you make a mistake, as your eyes light up every time you pass someone.

If he had known how easy it would be to make you warm up to him, he’d have done this sooner and he genuinely laughs when you whine and fake glare at him as he wins yet another round.

He asks about school. You ask about work. He tells you about his childhood. You share your own stories.

It’s a comfortable rhythmic back and forth and he’s afraid of ruining it, but a certain question nags at his mind, a question he knows may ruin the entire flow of the conversation.

“You’ll be graduating soon. Have you decided what you want to do after college?”

“Kenma not you too!!!”

His shoulders relax at how well you react to the question, smiling at the way you flop onto your back and groan about how mom and dad are already on your case about future plans.

“I’ve been applying to places, but who knows. Maybe I’ll just work for you at Bouncing Ball.”

There’s a playful lilt in your voice when you say it, a giggle and teasing smile accompanying the words. But there’s nothing funny about it to Kenma and your smile falters a bit when you see how tightly Kenma’s gripping his controller, the way his eyes pin you down.

“Kenma? It’s just a joke. I would never take advantage of-”

You try to get up from your reclined position, only to whimper in confusion when Kenma’s hand on your shoulder forces you back down. And suddenly you’re pinned down by more than just his stare as he moves to straddle you, knees on either side of your body, hands next to your head, his whole body caging yours.

It’s a lighthearted joke in the family that if all else fails, you could always work at Bouncing Ball. A joke your step-father and mother always dish out when the arguments get too tense as the three of you talk about your future. But it’s become less in jest for Kenma, especially after Kuroo sent him a scandalous picture of his newest secretary kneeling between his long legs, lips wrapped around his cock.

It wasn’t the first picture, nor was it the last incriminating photo the older businessman had sent him. Kenma merely rolled his eyes before deleting the image from his phone, wondering when Kuroo would grow bored and find a new toy to play with. But he freezes when he sees the following text message from his long-time friend.

“You’re the CEO of a company, Kenma. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone convenient around? A pretty warm body? I bet that cute new step sister of yours would look really good under your desk. Doesn’t she graduate from college soon? If you don’t make a move, maybe I’ll snatch her up right from under your nose. I’m due for a change of secretary soon.”

There’s absolutely no reason for the hot anger that lances through him at Kuroo’s taunting words and he grimaces at playing right into his ex-captain’s hands, already hearing Kuroo’s braying laughter in his head if the older man saw just how much his words affected him.

But initial irritation aside, he lets himself really think, really imagine what a life with you at his beck and call would be like. And he likes what he sees. He doesn’t delete Kuroo’s photos as quickly as he used to, replacing the female faces with yours in his imagination as his hands slip under the hem of his boxers.

He knows it’s a longshot, knows there’s a high chance you’ll continue your lives as is, never destined to exchange more than a few polite greetings at family outings. But now...now hearing you voice the idea out loud yourself, hearing the way his first name sounds from your lips…

Maybe it’s not the silly pipe dream he had believed it to be.

“I’m in need of an assistant if you really do want to work at Bouncing Ball, but you’d need to prove why it would be worth hiring you.”

He almost laughs at how you perk up despite the precarious position you’re in, almost ready to launch into an elevator pitch of your qualifications flat on your back underneath him. You’re quite the multitasker already and he groans at the thought of having you cockwarm him while he tests out a new video game, making you answer all his calls stuffed full of him and desperately trying to hide the lustful tremble in your voice.

But he’s not here to listen to your carefully crafted speech. (Guess you really were practicing for job interviews like you said you were. What a good girl.) And he firmly presses his lips against yours to silence you, taking his time to immerse himself in the way your mouths mold against each other.

Your taste, your smell, your warmth. It’s all intoxicating and he slips his tongue inside your parted lips, subtly rutting his groin against your body. He can feel your body jostle as you lift your arms and he waits for the weight of your arms to lovingly wrap around his neck, only to be shocked when you weakly press against his shoulders until he finally relents and pulls back just enough to look down at you in irritated confusion.

“We- we shouldn’t be doing this.”

It’s not the words that have him clenching his fists, not even the way your palms still timidly press against him in a laughably weak show of defense.

It’s the fear in your eyes, the way you look at him like he’s some monster. It's the way he can almost palpably feel and hear your desire to be anywhere other than here, with anyone other than him, wishing to put as much space between the two of you as possible.

It’s your rejection.

It hurts to know that he isn’t enough just as he is, that he needs to resort to less...savory and straightforward ways to entrap you. But he’s not Hinata or Kuroo. He doesn’t have an electrifying personality or roguishly handsome features and charm to woo you. He only has his cunning and sharp tongue.

And he fully intends on maximizing his gifts.

“Of course, you don’t have to. You can just keep on applying and getting rejected by every company you speak to, if they even bother meeting with you after seeing your pathetic resume. Average college. Average grades. Average major. Tell me, how many interviews have you actually been reached out to for?”

He’s going out on a bit of a limb, but his suspicions are right and he cruelly smirks at the way tears bubble in your eyes at his words, no comeback or denial rolling off the tip of your tongue. He had a feeling you were struggling from the bits and pieces he’s picked up as your parents quietly talk and fret over you actually being able to find a job after graduation.

“Our parents are too nice to say anything about it, but you know they’re disappointed in you, right? Have you noticed how they always avoid talking about how school is going or asking you about how job hunting is going? How they only ask me how work is going? It’s because they know you’re just a loser whose life is going to amount to nothing.”

“That’s not true! They love me-”

“I’m not saying they don’t love you, but doesn’t that make it even worse? Making your loving and caring parents worry and stress over you when they should be preparing for retirement, an easy life? Instead of letting them finally enjoy a carefree life, you’ll be their freeloader daughter who uses up all their remaining funds. Is that what you want?”

You really are too easy and his lips curl in satisfaction at the way you frantically shake your head side to side, fat wet drops streaming down your face, adorable sniffles filling the air.

“If you become my assistant, I’ll compensate you well. You can live here with me, have your own room, a roof over your head, all the food and clothing you need and want. Think about how relieved and happy our parents will be seeing you provided for, seeing us getting along. Isn’t that what you want? For them to be happy?”

He knows how close you are to your mom, how important this idea of a perfect family is to you. He knows how insecurity and doubt about your own capabilities torment you. And he knows you’re hooked on his claws when your hands that are still pressed against his shoulders drop limply besides you, not even a hint of resistance left in you when he leans down once more to rest his forehead on yours, one hand cupping the side of your face.

“This is all you’re good for anyway. Working underneath me.”

If you notice his pun, you don’t acknowledge it, too busy wincing and squirming as he harshly nips and bites a trail from your lips to your neck as he pushes up the hem of your shirt until your chest is on full display for him. There’s something experimental, cold, meticulous about the way he gropes and fondles your breasts.Your face heats in humiliation at how he treats you like one of the many game consoles he’s reviewed for his audience.

But you don’t do anything about it, telling yourself that this is just his version of an interview as he pinches and prods at you, meanly twisting your nipples and chuckling at your yelp of pain. You obediently let him spread your legs apart, only letting out an agonized cry as he tests your flexibility, staring at him with a trembling lower lip as he sharply tells you to shut up while scrutinizing your panty-covered sex.

“You really are made for this, aren’t you?”

You whimper as he nudges the small wet spot on the thin fabric, clenching your eyes shut in denial at how hot and wound up your body feels from his touch, unable to hide your gasp as he pulls the layer aside and rubs your aroused clit.

There’s something so different about the way his fingers slowly sink into your wet pussy, almost lazily curling against your soft walls, his thumb never stopping its careful massage on the bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. So different from your own fingers desperately thrusting in and out of you. So different from the drunk partners you’ve hooked up with at college and their sloppy, rapid, frantic movements.

You can feel something large, something intimidating slowly rising from deep inside of you, a volcano about to erupt compared to the bright and fast to fade shooting stars you’re used to. You’re scared. Scared of the intoxicating feeling, of how easy it is to grow accustomed to Kenma’s presence, of how his cat-like eyes are all you can see and think of.

How can something feel so wrong and so right at the same time?

That’s the last coherent thought you have before your world goes blank, pleasure rocking through you as you soak the carpet and your step-brother’s hand with your juices. You’re moaning as Kenma continues to rock his fingers in and out of you, fingertips insistently massaging your clit and g-spot as you ride out your orgasm, body trembling and convulsing.

But even when the tremors slow, when pleasure becomes something sharper, more overwhelming, he doesn’t stop. You wail, begging him to stop, to let you rest, slumping in relief when he finally drags his hands away from you, carelessly wiping the mess you’ve made of his hand on your skin, covering you in your own essence.

Your heavy eyelids threaten to flutter shut as you let exhaustion wash over you, already dreading having to get up and wash yourself. But you’re shocked back to reality as something hard begins to nudge at your still fluttering entrance.

“Kenma! No! Too much-”

You break off into a sob as surprisingly strong hands dig into your hips, holding you still as he pushes and pushes until he’s fully settled inside of you, balls resting against your ass.

You’re still so tight, your quivering walls clamping around the intrusion, and he groans at the thought of being able to sink into this hole every day, multiple times, whenever he wants. His cock is already aching from holding off for so long, from watching your body and face contorted in pleasure. Kenma can feel his end quickly approaching as you scream and wail underneath him, eyes rolling back in your head, drool trickling from the corner of your mouth. You look absolutely obscene and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this side of you.

But despite the way his balls are tightening, despite the stutter in his hips, he’s determined to watch you fall apart once more, to see you shatter to pieces yet again. He grits his teeth, fingers reaching down to furiously rub at your already oversensitized clit, reveling in how your back arches, thighs shaking in overstimulation, and then you snap.

He wonders what his parents would think of their dear dumb daughter now, looking nothing like their silly angel, looking like a wanton used whore, incoherent garbled noises slipping past your lips as you twitch uncontrollably, your pussy milking him dry as he cums inside of you.

There’s only silence mixed with your pitiful whimpers as he slides out of you, grimacing at the sticky mess you’ve made of yourself and him. But that’s what your other hole is for and he orders you to suck him clean, admiring what a quick learner you are, eager to please as you noisily slurp and lick him clean, moaning at the taste of your combined fluids...

Maybe too eager and he shoves you off of him when you become too enthusiastic, his cock beginning to twitch in interest once more.

You look so lost, still sprawled out on the ground, staring up at him with wide imploring eyes as he pulls up his pants. So vulnerable and in need of guidance.

Good thing you have such a great boss to manage you.

“Not bad. Consider these next few days your internship and if all goes well, I’ll be more than happy to hire you as Bouncing Ball’s newest employee this summer. Now clean up this room and show me that my future assistant can do more than just be a slut.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kenma #yandere kenma x reader #haikyuu smut #kenma x reader #kenma smut #haikyuu x reader #sweetheart decadence #tw: yandere #tw: dubcon #tw: noncon

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felassan · 4 years

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Dragon Age development insights and highlights from Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

Some really tasty factoids here.

Cut for length.

Dragon Age: Origins

The continent of Thedas was at one point going to be named Pelledia, a name initially floated by James Ohlen

“Qunari” was a temporary name that ended up unintentionally sticking, much like “Thedas”

Mary Kirby wrote the Landsmeet. To this day, nobody understands how it works, except possibly her. If she’s “really really drunk” she can explain how it works. There’s as many words in it as Sten’s entire conversations put together

Concept art for Thedosian art - as in in-world art - draws heavily on Renaissance-era portraiture, the Art Nouveau movement, religious styles and media like stained glass, and favorite pieces from the golden age of illustrations in the early 20th century

Andrastianism in-world (art-wise) is depicted in wildly different methods depending on who in-world made the art in question. “One religion, 3 different lenses”. There’s the Chantry take, the Orlesian take and the Fereldan take; each with its own different interpretations, different mediums and different stories

The stained glass images were drawn by Nick Thornborrow for DAI, to decorate religious spaces in that game “and beyond”

irl Viking art influenced Ferelden

Greek and Italian art influenced Orlais

The book also had other insights into and anecdotes from the development of DAO, but I’ve transcribed them recently as they’re essentially the stories DG has recently been relating on the awesome Summerfall Studios DAO playthrough Twitch streams. (On those streams he provides dev commentary while Liam Esler plays through DA. The ones with DG are currently once every two weeks. Check them out! Here’s a calendar where you can check when the next one is) Instead of repeating myself I’ll just provide the link to the first transcript. From there you can navigate to the subsequent parts. Note these streams are ongoing. At this point I will also point you to a related post which is cliff notes of the Dragon Age chapter in Jason Schreier’s book Blood Sweat and Pixels.

Dragon Age II

DAO had the longest development period in BioWare history. In contrast DA2 had the shortest

Initially DA2 was going to be an expansion to DAO. A few months in EA said “Yeah, expansions like these don’t sell very well, so let’s make it a sequel.” So it suddenly became DA2 and they had to make it even bigger, although they still only had 1.5 years of time in which to do this

Production of DA2 officially lasted only 9 months, and at the time the team was still supporting live content for DAO! They finished development that January after the design team crunched all the way through the holiday period that year. Then it went to cert 9 times

The limited time they had is why the story takes place mostly in and around 1 city, and over 7 years (so it was temporal, rather than over physical distance, because a more expansive world would have taken more irl time to make)

They had no time to review even the main plot. Mike Laidlaw pitched the idea of 3 stories taking place at different points in the PC’s life, tied together by Varric’s recollections of events. DG rolled with this and made 1 presentation on the idea. This presentation was then approved and off they went

As they were writing DG realized that there was going to be no oversight and that everything was going to be a ‘first draft’. “Because nobody had time.” He sat down with the writers and said “Look, here’s the conditions we’re working under. A lot of what we’re putting out is gonna be raw. We’re not going to get the editing we need. We’re not going to get the kind of iteration we need. So I’m going to trust you all to do your best work.”

Looking back, DG has mixed feelings on DA2. “A lot of corners were cut. The public perception was that it was smaller than DAO. That’s a sin on its own.”

Despite this he thinks DA2 has some of the best writing in the series, especially character-wise. The DA2 chars are his favorite

The pace with which production progressed may in some ways have helped. “When we do a lot of revision, we often file away [as in buff off] some of the good writing as well. Somehow DA2′s whirlwind process resulted in some really good writing”

The pace meant chars landed on the writers in various stages of completion. For example Isabela was fairly defined due to appearing in DAO. In contrast Varric at the start was just that single piece of widely-shown concept art

Varric was conceived as a storyteller not a fighter. His skills are talking and bullshitting. Hence the question became, so what does this guy do in combat? The direction was to make him as different as possible to Oghren, so not a warrior. He couldn’t be a dual-wielding rogue in order to differentiate him from Bela. But you can’t really picture this guy with a bow. “For a dwarf, it would probably be a crossbow. We didn’t have crossbows, or we only had crossbows for the darkspawn. And they were part of the models. We didn’t have a separate crossbow that was equip-able by the chars. They had to like, crop one off a darkspawn and remodel it. And that became Bianca” (quote: Mary Kirby)

“Dwarven mages are exceedingly rare.” [???]

If DAO was a classic fantasy painting, DA2 was a screenshot from a Kurosawa film or a northern Renaissance painting. (Here Matt Rhodes was commenting on art style)

John Epler: “In any one of our games, there’s a 95% chance that if you turn the camera away from what it’s looking at, you’ll see all kinds of janky stuff. The moment we know the camera is no longer facing someone, we no longer care what happens to them. We will teleport people around. We will jump people around. We will literally have someone walk off screen and then we will shift them 1000 meters down, because we’re fixing some bug.” John also talked about this camera stuff in a recent charity Twitch stream for Gamers For Groceries. There’s a writeup of that stream here

Designing Kirkwall pushed concept artists to the limits of visual storytelling, because it has a long history that they wanted to be present. It was once the hub of Tevinter’s slave empire, so it needed to look brutal and harsh, but it also then needed to feel reclaimed, evolved, and with elements of contemporary Free Marches culture

The initial plan was for DA titles to be distinguished by subtitles not numbers, so that each experience could stand on its own rather than feel like a sequel or continuation. (My note: New PCs in each entry make sense then when you consider this and other factoids we know like how DA is the story of the world not of any one PC). Later, DA2′s name was made DA2 in a bid to more clearly connect the game to its predecessor. For DAI they returned to the original naming convention. (My note: so I’d reckon they’d be continuing the subtitle naming convention for DA4)

DA2 was initially code-named “Nug Storm”, strictly internally

The Cancelled DA2 Expansion - Exalted March

This was a precursor to DAI

It was meant to bridge the gap between DA2 and DAI

It focused on the fallout from Kirkwall’s explosion, with Cory serving as the villain

Meredith’s red lyrium statue was basically going to infest Kirkwall and it would end up [with what would end up] the red templars taking over Kirkwall and essentially being Cory’s army

To stop him Hawke would have recruited various factions, including Bela’s Felicisima Armada and the Qunari at Estwatch, forcing Hawke to split loyalties and risk relationships in the process

It was meant to bring DA2′s story to an end and end in Varric’s death. DG was very happy with this because all of DA2 is Varric’s tale. The expansion was supposed to start at the moment Cassandra’s interrogation of him ended in the present. “And we finished off the story with Varric having this heroic death.” It tied things up and would have broken many fan hearts, something BioWare writers notoriously enjoy. But between a transition to the new Frostbite engine and the scope of DAI, the decision was made to cancel EM, work any hard-to-lose concepts into DAI, and in the process save Varric’s life. DG has talked about the Varric dying thing before

Concept art for EM explored new areas previously not depicted in the DA universe, with costumes that reflected next steps for familiar chars. Varric was going to war, what would he have worn? With Anders, if he survived DA2, the plan was to present a redeemed Warden

A char that vaguely resembled Sera in DAI was first concepted for EM. This fact was mentioned near this concept art (see the female elf) and this concept art of Bethany with the blond bob

The writers sketched out plans to end it with Hawke having the option to marry their LI. This included alternate ceremonies for party members like Bethany and Sebastian if the player opted not to wed. There was even a wedding dress made for Hawke. This asset made it into DAI (Sera and Cullen’s weddings in Trespasser). The dress can also be seen in DAI during an ambient NPC wedding after completing a chain of war table missions

The destruction of a Chantry was explored in concept art as it might have happened in EM. This idea ended up carrying over to the beginning of DAI. (My note: Lol, the idea that DA2 could have had 2 Chantries being destroyed in it 😆)

World of Thedas

Sheryl Chee and Mary Kirby started with “a disgusting little dish called fluffy mackerel pudding”. In the middle of DAO’s busy dev period one of them (they can’t remember who) found a recipe online for this, scanned in from a 70s cookbook. “I don’t understand why it was fluffy. Why would you want fluffy mackerel pudding?” MK says. “We loved it so much we included it in a DAO codex.”

This led them to create more food for Thedas, full recipes included, like a Fereldan turnip and barley stew from MK and SC’s Starkhaven fish and egg pie. The fish pie became Sebastian’s favorite. “To me it made sense for it to be fish pie because a lot of the Free Marches are on the coast”, SC says, “It was something that was popular in medieval times, so I thought, let’s make a fish pie! I looked at medieval recipes and I concocted a fish pie which I fed to my partner, and he was like ‘This is not terrible’”

For WoT the whole studio was asked to contribute family recipes which might have a place in Thedas. SC adapted these to fit in one Thedosian culture or another, including a beloved banana bread that localization producer Melanie Fleming would regularly bake to keep the DA team motivated. “Melanie’s banana bread got us through Inquisition”

DAI

It says part of DAI takes place in or near the border with Nevarra [???]

This game was aimed to be bigger than DA2 and even DAO in every conceivable way

The first hour had to do a lot of heavy lifting, tying together the events of DAO and DA2 while introducing a new PC, new followers etc in the aftermath of the big attack. DG rewrote it 7 times then Lukas Kristjanson did 2 more passes

DG: “Our problem is always that our endings are so important, but we leave them to last, when we have no time. I kept pushing on DAI: ‘Can we work on the ending now? Can we work on the ending now? Can we do it early on?’ Because I knew exactly what it was going to be. But despite the fact that it kept getting scheduled, whenever the schedule started falling behind, it kept getting pushed back... so, of course, it got left til last again.”

“The reveal of the story’s real antagonist, Solas, a follower until the end, when he betrayed the player”. “Solas’ story remains a main thread in Inquisition’s long-awaited follow-up” [these aren’t DG quotes, just bits of general text]

Over the course of development they had 8 full-time writers and 4 editors working on it. Other writers joined later to help wrangle what ended up being close to 1 million words of dialogue and unspoken text. While many teams moved to a more open concept style of work for DAI, the writers remained tucked away in their own room, a choice DG says was necessary, given how much they talked. All the talking had a purpose ofc as if someone hit a bump or wall in their writing they would open the problem up to the room

As writing on a project like DAI progresses, the writers grow punchier and weirder things make it into the game. This is especially the case towards the end of a project (they get tired, burned out)

Banter and codexes require less ‘buy-in’ (DG has talked about this concept a few times on the Twitch streams) from other designers. DG liked to leave banter for last as a reward because it was fun. Banter begins as lists of topics for 2 followers to discuss. These may progress over time or be one off exchanges. One banter script can balloon to well over 10k words. “The banter was always huge because we were always like, laughing, and really at that point, our fields of fucks were rather barren, so we would just do whatever”

The bog unicorn happened pretty much by accident. It was designed by Matt Rhodes and was one of his fav things to design. They needed horse variations and he had already designed an undead variant which was a bog mummy [bog body]. irl these are preserved in a much different way to traditional mummies. When someone dies in a bog their skin turns black and raisin-like. The examples we know of tend to have bright red hair for whatever reason. It’s a very striking look and MR wanted to do a horse version of this as he thought it’d be neat. 5 mins before the review meeting for it he had a big ‘Aha!’ moment, quickly looked up a rusty old Viking sword, and photoshopped it through its skull like that was how it died. “And I was like, ‘I just made a unicorn. Alright, in it goes!’” It got approved. “So we built the thing. It fit. It told a little story”

With the irl Inquisition longsword, one of the objects they tested its cleaving ability on was a plush version of Leliana’s nug Schmooples

The concept art team explored a wide variety of visuals for the Inquisitor’s signature mark. It needed to look powerful and raw but couldn’t look like a horrific wound. In some cases, as cool as the idea looked on paper, they just weren’t technically feasible, especially as they had to be able to fit on any number of different bodies

Bug report: “Endlessly spawning mounts! At one point during development, Inquisitors could summon a new horse every time they whistled, allowing them to amass a near infinite number of eager steeds that faithfully followed them across Thedas. “You could go charging across levels and they’d all gallop behind you,” Jen Cheverie says, “It was beautiful.” Trotting into town became an epic horse siege as a tidal wave of mounts enveloped the streets. Jen called it her Army of Ponies”

The giants came from DA Week, an internal period when devs can pursue different individual creative projects that in some way benefit DA. They also had a board game from one of these that they were going to put in but they didn’t have time. It’s referenced though. It was dwarven chess

Josie’s outfit is made of gold silk and patterned velvet, with leather at her waist. She carries “an ornate ledger” and she has “an ornamented collar sitting around her neck, finished by a brilliant red ruby, like a drop of Antivan wine in a sunbeam”

Iron Bull’s armor is leather. His loose pantaloons and leather boots give him agility to charge

On DAI in particular, concept artists took special care to make sure costumes would be realistic, at least in a practical ‘this obeys the laws of physics and textiles’ sense. “While on Inquisition, we thought about cosplay from a concept art perspective. Given how incredible a lot of [cosplays] are, I now am not worried about them. In fact in some cases in the future I want to throw them curveballs like, ‘All right, you clever bastards. Let’s see if you can do this!’”

2 geese that nested on the office building and had chicks were named Ganders and Arishonk (it wasn’t known who was the mom or the dad). Other possible names were Carver Honke, Bethany Honke, Urdnot Pecks, Quackwall, Cassandra Pentagoose, the Iron Bill, Shepbird, Garroose, Admiral Quackett, Scout Honking, HChick-47 and Darth Malgoose

Bug report: “The surprising adventures of Ser Noodles!” DAI was the first time the series had a mount feature, meaning this had a lot of bugs. A lot of the teams’ favorite bugs were to do with the mounts. There was a period of time where the Inquisitor’s horse seemed to lose all bone and muscle in its legs. They had a week or so where all quadruped legs were broken. It was a bit noticeable in things like nugs and other small beasties but the horse was insanely obvious. “The first time we summoned the horse [for this] and started running around, the entire QA exploration room just exploded with laughter.” Its legs flapped around like cooked fettucine, leading testers to lovingly nickname it Ser Noodles. At galloping speeds the legs almost looked like helicopter blades, especially when footage was set to classic pieces such as Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries

For DAI the artists were asked questions like “What would Morrigan wear to a formal ball? Can Cassandra pull off a jaunty hat?”

On DAI storyboarding became the norm. John Epler: “Cinematic design for the longest time was the Wild West. It was ‘here’s a bunch of content, now do it however you want’, which resulted in some successes and some failures.” Storyboarding gave designers a consistent visual blueprint based on ideas from designers, writers and concept artists

Quote from a storyboard by Nick Thornborrow (the Inquisitor going into the party at the end of basegame sequence): “Until Corypheus revealed himself they could not see the single hand behind the chaos. A magister and a darkspawn combined. The ultimate evil. So evil. Eviler than puppy-killers and egg farts combined.”

A general note on concept art:

In the early stages of any project, before the concept artists are aware of any writing, they like to just draw what they think cool story moments could be. It’s not unusual for the team to then be inspired by these and fold them into the game as the project progresses

– From Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

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simpz-art-stash · 3 years

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Late Beginnings [Ch. 2]

Summary: Macaque’s gotten over the biggest gap on his side of the burnt bridge between him and his broke af relationship with Wukong. Now he’s gotta take an even bigger leap in hopes of getting MK to give him a chance as well.

(Author’s note: DUNNO IF THERE’LL BE MORE BUT WE’LL SEE, FEEL FREE TO SUGGEST STUFF TO PUT IN HERE)

Previous | Next

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It should’ve been easy, a kid like MK had a good head on his shoulders, enough to see the good in all besides himself.

It should’ve been easy.

So then why the hell was he still standing on the sidelines mulling over what to say to the kid who was just a few yards away training under the careful eye of his mentor?

What could he say? The same to Wukong? He felt that might be a bit too cliche, even if it had worked.

‘Just barely.’

Mac sighed, brushing his hair back and watching the two practice stillness together, Wukong resting on his tail in a lotus position while MK stood on one foot, straining to keep his posture in check. Even with the staff being used as a counter-balance his muscles flexed against the lack of support in his other leg.

Maybe he could offer him something? Nothing major of course, something innocent but worthwhile and thoughtful. Demon head’s wouldn’t do, the kid had no real use for those, nor would he probably appreciate a trophy that wasn’t his. What did kids even like these days anyways? He thought of toys but, MK was practically a bigger kid than most other cub’s. Most kids like him usually just kept to popular places or their phones…

Decisions decisions…

A small yelp forced him out of his thoughts, his gaze shifting back over to MK who had since fallen back on his butt. Groaning and complaining like usual before Wukong gave him the ol’ ‘keep it up!’ attitude, prompting MK to simply nod and give it another try.

‘Geeze, and I thought my training was harsh. At least I gave him actual critique on his form…’

Then an idea flashed in his mind, popping off like a rocket and he suddenly found himself with something worthwhile.

------~------

“Alright bud, I think that’s enough of that. Why don’t you hit the bench, I need to go check on the kids back inside n’ make sure they haven’t left a mess after that marathon I set up for em.” Wukong claimed, patting MK on the back before turning away. Offering a curt wave as he left, “Call me if you need me!”

“Alright, I will!” MK sighed and made his way over to a makeshift seat, which happened to be nothing more than a split log. And proceeded to take his headband off if not to just drench his hair in some of the water from one of the bottle’s he’d brought along with him. Before guzzling the rest of it down like he hadn’t drank in forever.

“I see he’s been keepin’ you on your toes. Full pun intended.” Mac commented, earning him a startled squeak from MK who had just about spat his drink out when Mac rounded him from behind to sit himself down on the opposing side of the log.

MK had heard a little snippet from MKing about Macaque trying to make amends, he didn’t get the full details but he’d heard enough to know to keep an eye out for the guy. Not that he wasn’t already always on high alert for any suspicious activity.

“Guh- yeah.” MK coughed a little, rubbing his throat a little as he cleared it. “It hasn’t been uh, easy, but I think I’m gettin’ better. Just need to try harder or whatever…”

“Mmm…” Mac let his gaze concentrate on the immortal peach tree Wukong had planted out in the front of his yard, it having long since bloomed and been picked clean.

MK shifted a little under the uncomfortable silence that spread between the two, there wasn’t tension in it per sey, but it was still a lil awkward for him to just outright be chatting it up with the same guy who had once tried to kill him at one point.

“So uh..I was hoping to..make it up to you, what with everything that happened the last time…” Mac’s face squinted a little, his tail irritably swaying behind him, it seemed this was just as awkward for him as it was MK.

“Uhm..okay?..” MK veered a little away from the guy, not too sure how to handle that. “Hey if this is about the whole ‘you trying to kill me thing’ then uh, hey man we’re cool.”

“What? I mean yeah but, it’s more than just that..” Mac fiddled idly with the hem of his cloak, the things color long since having been worn down from the elements. “A lot more…”

“Complicated?” MK quirked a brow at him.

“Yeeaaahh…”

“Heh, been there. Done that.” MK nodded, not that it was anything to be proud of.

“He didn’t tell you?” Mac looked at MK finally with a concerned expression.

“About you and him?? I mean..yeah he told me a lil..mostly just warned me to keep an eye out for you but…” MK rubbed the back of his neck out of nervous habit, shifting under the demon’s gaze.

“Of course he didn’t…” Mac sighed with a frown, “Well, maybe that’s where I can help you out. I know Wukong, he doesn’t exactly give you the full picture so easily, then again he’s never really had a student before either so.”

“So?”

‘So, he won’t just outright give you the benefit of the doubt just like that, especially if you just say you’ll give him whatever advice he wants. He’ll think you’re just trying to pull him from Wukong again or worse.’

“What I mean to say is, if you want to correct your form with that whole balancing thing, you should try putting less focus into just your foot, and put it towards your whole body.” Macaque stated plainly, his gaze shifting away back to the peach tree.

“Oh..uhm..alright?...Thanks???” MK blinked, none too sure what to make of that, but he wasn’t trying to kill him, or hurt his feelings so, maybe that was a good thing??

“Feel free to mention it to him…” Macaque claimed, his gaze softening before he got up finally and began to walk elsewhere.

“h-Wait!” MK called out, standing up right then. To which Macaque of course obliged, though he kept his back facing kid.

“..are you..like...being serious about that whole, ‘making amends’ thing?..” MK squinted at him suspiciously, even if Macaque could lie about his true intentions, MK at least thought it right to ask. Considering everything else…

“Yes.” Mac stated, his tail curling a little behind him.

“Ohkaaay... “ It was still hard to tell but, “Then why’re you trying to?-”

“Because he told me to.” Mac claimed, his head turning just enough to share a glance with the kid. “Don’t get the wrong idea..it was wrong of me, but.”

“Buuut?”

-------~-------

“But whatever you do, you gotta stop lyin’ about the real stuff.”

Mac grunted, that was probably gonna be the hardest trial of his to overcome. For him, lying was basically his day by day means of survival. “I think I’d rather cut my own tongue out at that point an be mute then cut that out.”

The chick shrugged, “Hey, I’m just sayin’. Honesty is the best policy. Even if it hurts to hear it, better said than left for dead. You want em to trust you again? You gotta earn it. A few pretty words ain’t never gonna be enough. You gotta put some effort behind em.”

“Uuuugh.” He rolled his eyes, already regretting having decided to go through with the whole thing. “Fine...but if I get my ass beat because someone couldn’t take the heat, I’ll hunt you down.”

“I’ll take that chance.” The chick smirked.

-------~-------

Macaque sighed, he could already imagine just how easy it’d be to screw up something so casually done by others. Century old lies he’d held onto for most his life being the worst one’s, with how gnarled they were from the many times they’d been knotted by his reasons to keep them from being undone by any means necessary. He’d run from them for such a long time though, enough to the point where he’d finally hit the end of his lead, and now he was forced to look back at the mess he’d caused.

It wasn’t a pretty sight at all.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t go back and try to fix some of it. Now matter how long it took, little by little. He just had to be careful in doing so or else he’d just get himself wrapped up in knots all over again.

“...I..” Just say it, even if it’s half the truth.

“I didn’t want to see you waste that potential under a guy who wouldn’t appreciate it...” Macaque claimed, his gaze shifting away.

That...was probably the first time MK had ever seen Mac show a genuine side of himself before. Even during training he’d been distant and strict, similar to Wukong but a lot less merciful in a spar. Where with Mac, bruises were lessons learned.

“...Thanks. For the uh..advice I mean.”

Macaque stiffened a little at the response, but he didn’t spoil it for fear of ruining what little ground he had on that bridge.

“Anytime.”

And then he was gone.

#shadowpeaches #LMK #lego monkie kid #Sun Wukong #Macaque #MK #my fics #ayeeeee chaptah 2 baebeeeee #just as messy as the last one #with some sloppy seconds #;'D

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artificialdaydreamer · 3 years

Text

How to Say "I Love You"

Emotions are hard to understand, conveying how one feels to the person they love is even harder.

Jon had never been good at expressing his emotions. Growing up he mostly absorbed their descriptions from books, how a character was excited for something to happen, how another was jealous of someone else. The feeling he found hardest to comprehend was love. How was it possible to be so completely devoted to another person that it shifted the way you felt about everything? He loved his parents, even now that they were gone. He loved his grandmother, but he got the feeling that the type of love written about in books was different from the emotions he was actually experiencing.

When he started dating Georgie, something he’d entirely misinterpreted when it had first happened, Jon wasn’t sure what the emotions he felt were. Was the yearning to be close to her love? The happiness to have someone he could talk with about inconsequential things? Then again, if what he felt wasn’t love, then what was? Eventually Georgie came to him, told him that while she liked Jon as a friend she didn’t think their relationship was working out. They’d broken up without much fanfare and going from dating to friends didn’t really change how they interacted with each other.

As he watched Martin sleep, his coppery curls catching the light of the rising sun, his face close enough to Jon’s that it was possible to count every freckle, Jon thought he might finally have an answer. He loved Martin, that was the only explanation for why his heart clenched whenever Martin smiled, why his cheeks flushed and his palms started to sweat from the smallest things. This was what people talked about in those books, what they yearned for with such intensity, wasn’t it?

When had he started feeling like this? When had Jon’s feelings for Martin turned to love? Was it when he’d gone into the Lonely? When Martin had started working for Peter Lukas and Jon was no longer able to see him? Earlier? How long had he loved Martin and just not realized it?

Jon lay there, thinking back to their interactions over the years. Next to him Martin started to stir, blue eyes blinking open slowly. “Morning.” Martin said with a smile.

“Good morning.” Jon tried to keep his voice from shaking as his heart pounded in time with his thoughts. I love you, I love you, I love you.

From then on it was hard to not feel overwhelmed by the love, like a wave crashing over him. Jon would be in the middle of a sentence before getting distracted by Martin, how beautiful he was, his laugh. I love you, I love you, I love you. How did people deal with these emotions?

He started to use actions instead of the words he could not say. Making sure they had enough of Martin’s favorite tea in the safehouse. I love you, I love you, I love you. Offering to cook breakfast so Martin could stay in bed a bit longer. I love you, I love you, I love you. Letting his fingers linger a bit longer than was necessary whenever they touched. I love you, I love you, I love you.

They’d decided to take a walk into town, grab some groceries, and stretch their legs, passing the field full of cows Martin stopped and cooed over them. He’d gotten out his phone to take pictures and the moment was so... normal compared to everything they’d been through that Jon started chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” Martin had asked, tearing his eyes from the cows to look at Jon in confusion.

“Nothing,” Jon took a breath, trying to burn this moment into his memory. “I just love you so much.”

There was a moment of silence where Martin just stared at him, his freckled face looking even redder thanks to the glow of the setting sun. “Wait... What?”

For a heartbeat Jon wondered if he’d said the wrong thing, although he hadn’t even meant to say it at all. He couldn’t help but question if Martin’s confession of “I really loved you” meant that those feelings were gone. Had he been the only one who worried about just what the emotions flooding through his veins meant? Was he just imagining that Martin felt the same way?

“I- I’m sorry... I didn’t mean-” Jon was floundering now, scrambling for something to say to make the situation right again. “If you don’t- I’m sorry.”

“You... Do you mean that?” Martin’s cheeks were practically scarlet, his phone now dangling precariously in one hand.

“I... Yes?” Despite the fact Jon had already come to terms with his feelings, had already said the words aloud, it felt like an entirely different thing to answer when his thoughts were in such turmoil. He didn’t know how to respond in a way that wouldn’t sound selfish, asking for affection he knew in his heart he didn’t deserve. Even if Martin did still like him there wasn’t anything that Jon could do to atone for the thing’s he had said, the things he had done, the person he’d been to have treated Martin so terribly. It was ironic, that at the time he’d swatted away such affection yet now he craved it as though he were an addict suffering from withdrawal. As though he’d been living underground and now that he’d seen sunlight he couldn’t get enough.

The expression on Martin’s face was hard to understand. Was it sadness? Pity? The books Jon had read as a child had talked about brows furrowing, lips being bitten, eyes not being met, but those individual descriptions could apply to so many emotions and Jon didn’t know what it was Martin might be feeling. It was all Jon could do to not scrunch his eyes up as Martin took a tentative step closer, then another, bridging the gap between them and effectively forcing all the air from Jon’s lungs. Then he’d swept Jon up in his arms, Jon’s face nestling into the crook of his neck. It was so warm and comfortable... It felt like Jon belonged there.

“S-sorry...” Martin gasped as they broke apart, his face still red as he seemed to examine Jon for some sort of reaction. “I should have asked first, but I- Are you okay?”

In all honesty Jon was not okay. His brain was attempting to sort out just what he was feeling, synapses firing and crossing out things like anger and disgust with only his limited knowledge of emotions to go off of. Again, the words and feeling threatened to overwhelm him with the constant pounding of I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Jon?” Martin waved a hand in front of his face and it was a real effort for Jon to pull himself out of his thoughts enough to meet Martin’s gaze. “Did I do something wrong?”

“N-no... I just... I wasn’t expecting- I didn’t know if-”

“Wait... Jon, did you not think I felt the same?” Martin’s eyes were wide, reflecting the setting sun.

“I, I’m not sure.” He’d spent so much time absorbed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t actually thought of what might happen if he confessed. He hadn’t even thought about confessing. Jon realized that he’d somehow become content with just loving Martin and not telling him. He’d convinced himself that Martin was better off without him, and that there wasn’t a point in confessing.

“Jon, I’ve loved you for the past two years.” Martin’s voice was soft, his cheeks still flushed as he stared at Jon.

“What?” Jon squawked, taking a step back in surprise. Martin reached out and grabbed Jon’s hand in his own, it was so warm, so comforting.

“Well, not exactly two years...” Martin ran his free hand through his coppery curls. “Since the thing with Prentiss, when you let me stay in the Archives...”

Jon remembered those long nights they’d spent together after Martin had started living in the document storage room. At first Jon had found Martin’s presence kind of annoying, it was impossible to get some time by himself. Then he’d realized what was going on, although he couldn’t explain just how he’d known.

Martin didn’t want to be alone.

While he’d admitted during his statement that boredom had been the thing that had been the hardest to deal with, Jon suspected loneliness had also plagued him. Cut off from everyone, no internet, no phone, and it wasn’t like he could talk to Jane Prentiss. It certainly explained why Martin felt the need to check on Jon every half hour.

Once he’d realized why Martin was acting like a concerned parent he made an effort to take more breaks so they could talk. At first it had been hard to find topics for discussion, as Jon was as good with small talk as he was with emotions, but bringing up the Admiral had certainly broken the ice. After that Jon found it easier to connect with Martin, it was still somewhat awkward, but he certainly made an effort. Jon had also ended up staying in the Archives overnight a handful of times as well, partially because he had work to do and partially to keep Martin company.

It had been those nights where they’d started to connect, going out to eat so they could both eat a decent meal, talking about random things to pass the time while they struggled to fall asleep. Jon had started to get a sense of who Martin was, underneath the jumpers and tea. He was earnest and always tried his best to do whatever task Jon set for him, no matter how absurd it was. He also had a mischievous side to him and had no problem joining Tim in his pranks, although Martin was much better at keeping the pranks a secret.

It felt strange, getting to know a person through whispered conversations, over tea breaks, or at a cafe. Jon was never good with friendships, never good at telling what people wanted from him, so he’d ended up pushing everyone away. After his encounter with Mr. Spider he only became more withdrawn, survivor’s guilt eating him up inside. Martin wasn’t like the others though. Despite the fact that Jon was horrible at communicating, horrible at deciphering what emotions anyone might be feeling at any given time, Martin didn’t seem to care. He seemed to be genuinely happy to spend time with Jon, which was just as foreign a concept.

Now, despite everything that had happened in the past few years, Martin had stayed with him. An anchor in the churning waves that threatened to wash him away from everything he knew and cared about. Jon loved him for that. “I think that’s when I started to fall for you too. I didn’t- I didn’t realize at the time...”

“Oh, I definitely didn’t realize either.” Martin’s cheeks were slightly less flushed than they had been. “I think I realized it when- this is going to sound crazy...”

“You realized it when, Martin?” Jon couldn’t help but ask, smiling at the flustered look on Martin’s face.

“It... It was when I told you about lying on my CV.” Martin sighed, not daring to meet Jon’s gaze. “You, you were so mad at first but after I told you... You just started laughing and I remember looking at you and thinking ‘really? This is the man I fell in love with?’ Thankfully Tim... Tim was too distracted by everything else going on to pay attention to my hopeless crush.”

“Not so hopeless.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand. “I knew how much I cared about you when I woke up in the hospital after my coma. Georgie was there, and I remember being sad because it was you I wanted to see.” It felt strange to say the words aloud, as though he was only understanding what had happened. He’d been thinking about it so much over the past few weeks, since he’d realized that he loved Martin, but it took saying the words aloud for him to notice. “It was funny, the months that followed, I thought it was a fitting punishment for how I’d treated you. Wanting to be close to someone and yet unable to do so. I knew I loved you a few days after we arrived here.”

“Is that why you were acting so weird?”

“Look, I... I’m not the best with emotions. I don’t get them, I don’t understand how I feel half the time. With other people it’s even harder, trying to piece together how they’re feeling based on their expression or the tone of their voice...” Since he was still holding Martin’s hand Jon couldn’t cross his arms defensively over his chest, so he settled for putting his free hand in his pocket. “This is the first time I’ve ever... I’ve ever felt something so intensely. I didn’t know what to do, how to act, now that I knew I loved you.”

“I get it, emotions are hard. Can I help?” Martin asked, his lips quirked in a small smile.

“Sure? I guess so?”

“How did you feel when I told you that I loved you?”

Jon had to think about it, he’d been so overwhelmed by the tidal wave of emotions that he wasn’t sure what any of them had been. “I was... I think I was happy.”

“You think?”

“I was happy, alright?” Jon huffed. “I was also shocked, and confused... Mostly I was happy, because I loved you so much.”

“Alright, that’s good to know.” Martin took a step closer, still smiling. “How would you feel if I kissed you?”

The answer came easier this time. “Happy. I’d feel happy.”

“May I kiss you?”

“Absolutely.” Jon didn’t know what to expect from Martin kissing him. He’d kissed Georgie and while it hadn’t been unpleasant he hadn’t gotten anything from the experience. This time however, Jon could taste the remnants of whatever chapstick Martin had used, strawberry maybe? He felt how warm Martin’s lips were, despite the cold day, their heat bleeding into him. He wrapped his arms around Martin and pulled them closer, trying to memorize everything as it happened. Martin’s scent, the wool of his jumper, how fast both their hearts were beating. In his head Jon was panicking. He didn’t know what to do, or if what he was doing was the right thing to do. He attempted to understand what the emotions he felt were: happiness... amazement... and love. So much love. Was love even an emotion? He didn’t know, but it certainly overwhelmed his senses.

When they broke apart Martin was smiling and, more surprisingly, Jon was smiling back. “Let’s take it one day at a time, alright? We can work out what you might be feeling together.”

“I- I’d like that.”

I love you, I love you, I love you.

The words still rattled around in his mind, but for once they didn’t worry him. Jon might not understand love, or emotions, or why the characters in his books had behaved a certain way, but it didn’t matter. Martin loved him back, and that was more than enough for him.

I've been sitting on this fic for a year due to some personal issues, on a related note this is not betaed, I apologize for any mistakes there might be

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #tma fic #my fic

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blinder-secrets · 4 years

Text

In The Leaves

tommy x reader, 1,850 words

a bit nsfw, mostly power play and lusting

The house is quiet when you get home, shut off, and dark, and empty empty empty. You dawdle in the entry way. Drip your coat off, leave your bag by the hat stand. If Tommy’s in he’s sleeping, or hiding, or locked up in the office with his head in the whiskey. You unlace your boots and push them under the dresser, though he hates when you do that. There’s places for shoes, he says, put them away.

‘Tom?’

You call his name quietly, around the open door to his office. There’s no light, no man. He’s in bed, then. For once he’s beaten you to it.

You go upstairs, zigzagging on the wide staircase because you can, because it’s late and your time is still your own to play with. It isn’t often that you take nights for yourself. No Tommy, no business. Free to do as you please. You’d gone to Vera’s first, then to the dancehall, then to Polly’s house in that little village, with the pretty parks and the bridges. You’d made your driver wait in the car until you were bored, and you’d paid him handsomely for it. That was part of the novelty too; money from your purse, orders in your voice, followed, not questioned. You see why Tommy craves it.

‘I should go home,’ you’d told Pol, ‘he hates when I’m away.’

‘No, love, he just hates not knowing where.’

‘Oh,’ you’d said. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think that’s it at all.’

When you reach the top, your stocking snags on a splintered floorboard. You pull it twice, and then it’s free again, but there’s a rip from your heel to your ankle. They were new; you’d put them on straight from the packet.

‘[Y/n]?’ His voice comes from the bedroom, low and curling around the hallway. ‘That you?’

‘Yes, Tom,’ you answer. ‘I’ve ripped my tights on the stairs.’

You follow your voice back to him, chase it through until you’re in the doorway, and he’s in the bed, ignoring you like you’d said nothing at all. You were right. Not sleeping, but hiding. He’s sitting against the headboard, chest bare, with the covers to his waist. He looks young, boyish. There’s note-paper in his hands and two more sheets of it on his lap.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks, without looking from his reading.

You slouch into the doorframe. ‘Am I in trouble?’

His eyes flick to you. It’s so quick, it may have just been the light on his glasses. ‘If you want to be,’ he says.

‘I was at Poll’s house.’

‘Drinking?’

‘Of sorts.’ The tear in your stocking is growing, you lift your foot to feel your heel through the hole. ‘She read my leaves,’ you say.

He sighs, sets the paper down, and picks up the next. ‘Did she?’

Your foot hits the floor with a thump. ‘Don’t you want to know what she saw?’

No, he thinks. No, I don’t care, he thinks. No, I’m sitting and reading and not looking at you, not even once, because I’m Tommy, and I’m bored of everything that isn’t myself.

You watch for a reaction. A clue that you’re right, that he is thinking all that, but he’s just still. His eyes follow the lines slowly. He clears his throat once, and then flips the page over to read the back.

‘It involved the two of us,’ you add, ‘the pictures in the leaves.’

‘Hm?’

Sighing, you cross the room and climb onto the bed on your knees.

‘You’re no fun, Tommy Shelby.’ Not when you want him to be. Not when it costs his time.

You crawl over to him, then turn onto your back and put your head on his thigh. You set your cheek against the covers so you can watch him, so he can find you at the bottom of the page, so he looks at you without meaning to. ‘What’re you reading that’s so important?’ you ask.

‘Letters,’ he answers, dropping the word into your gaze.

‘From who?’

‘Important people, love.’

‘Can’t I know?’ You touch his elbow, running your fingers in circles around the ridges of his skin. ‘I write your letters for you, sometimes.’

The paper lowers enough that your hand becomes trapped between his arm and the pillow behind him. ‘You asked for the night off, didn’t you?’

From work. Not from conversation, not from him. ‘I suppose,’ you grumble. Your bottom lip juts out and you let it sit there. Watch me pout, Tommy, watch me sulk like a child.

He sighs. Then he stacks the letter with the others and puts them all, abandoned, on the bedside table. ‘Alright,’ he says, once he’s looking down at you again. ‘What did Polly say,’ he groans, settling into the bed, ‘about your tea?’

You pull your hand free and turn your head to the ceiling. Your arms cross over your chest. It doesn’t matter now, it isn’t as interesting. ‘I’ve forgotten. Something about changing responsibility.’

‘Responsibilities?’ His hand goes to your face, his index finger trailing the line of your nose, across your lips and over your chin, down, down until it’s resting in the hollow of your throat. ‘Yours or mine?’ he asks.

‘Ours.’

He hums, the noise is deep in his chest, tumbling lower and under your skull. ‘What else?’

Suddenly, you’re shy. Nervous to tell him. What Polly had seen had excited you, filled you up with possibility and wonder, left you curious. Wanting. Tommy’s scrutiny would kill that, you’re sure. He’d flay the ideas and leave you to gather the scraps. ‘Nothing important,’ you tell him. ‘She thinks I should let go more. Let myself be.’

‘You should.’ His hand flattens over your collarbone. It’s either mercy, or his interest peaking and withering between you, because he changes subject like the conversation’s over. ‘You ripped your stockings?’ he asks, question already answered in his tone.

You look back to him, smiling. ‘So, you were listening.’

His eyebrows raise, head tilting as if to say, maybe. Maybe he was. Maybe he’s seen the ladder running up your calf.

‘Will you buy me a new pair?’ you ask.

‘If you want.’

‘Fancy ones? French?’

He nods.

‘You’ll give me anything, won’t you?’ Anything with a price tag, anything material. If it was within reason, he’d say yes, he’d have it on your dresser in a ribbon by the morning. You loop your fingers around his wrist. ‘Anything but attention,’ you muse. ‘That, I have to work for.’

You watch him blink, watch him incline his head and wet his lips. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

No, not most.

‘You like working for it,’ he adds.

You snort. ‘Not always.’

Sometimes it’s nice to start things, sometimes you like to pull the want from behind his bored eyes. To make him need you, to make him melt beneath, and give way, craving, falling to the tide. Other times, it feels like a chore. Another responsibility you hadn’t asked for.

‘I shouldn’t have to do it all the time,’ you say, quieter than planned.

‘You have my attention now.’

‘Because I took it,’ you say.

‘No,’ he corrects. 'Because I gave it.’

He hold’s your gaze for a moment. Something slips between you, a new tension that twitches under your ribs, scattering your heartbeat. It bubbles and gathers in your chest, forces your breaths to become quick and short. You’re sure he notices it. Sure he’s planned for it. He looks down at you, lay against his lap, like he’s waiting for the nerves to form; for anticipation to fizz your senses.

His hand slides up until its curving around your neck, thumb and fingers bracketing your throat. It stills there, baited, cold against your skin. ‘Is it enough?’ he asks. ‘Have you had enough, hm?’

You swallow; it runs under his palm, sinking into your gut. ‘No, not yet.’

He squeezes once, pulling lightly enough to get you to comply, and then you’re sitting up for him. Up and towards his chest, with his hand on your throat and your fingers scooped over his shoulders.

‘You don’t want to start things,’ he says, ‘not always?’

Your head shakes by itself.

‘Words, love.’

‘No,’ you answer.

‘Done making decisions, eh?’ His hand twists to hold the back of your neck, fingers splayed and straying into the base of your hair. ‘Tired of taking charge?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

He nods, the gesture is so slight it could have been nothing. ‘Take my glasses off,’ he says.

You do. You pull them from his face and set them on top of the papers, his gaze unmoving as you do so. The room’s quiet, but your head’s swelling with noise, your blood pumping loud enough to convince your eardrums that it’s in there. Filling your skull. Strong enough to dizzy you. When you straighten in front of him, his hands are on your waist, firmly, like he knows you need it.

Then he leans forward, pushing you backwards until you’re beneath him. Your arms are pulled upwards, flat on the bed, crossed at the wrists. He holds them there with one hand.

‘Have to let yourself be,’ he says by your ear. ‘You don’t want control, do you?’

You want to answer him. You want to tell him that this is what you’d meant, this is how it should be. Not always, but sometimes. A change of responsibility like the leaves said. When you open your mouth, all that pours out is a sweetened moan. It rides your breath over his shoulder and into the air.

‘No,’ you sigh. Not tonight. You don’t want control, you want this, you want this and him and attention until it’s flooding you. Until it’s too much.

Head lowered, he sinks kisses into your neck. Drags teeth and tongue down the line of your throat ’til you’re mewling. You lift up against him, back curved and eager, but he pushes back with his hips. Forces you down, subdued. Into the mattress and wanting.

‘Tommy,’ you whine.

He shushes you. ‘Leave them there,’ he says, as he pulls his hand from your wrists.

He goes upright, backwards and away from you, sitting on his heels like he’s praying. The sheet lies twisted around his knees. You wish he’d move it, you want bare skin against bare skin.

‘What shall I do with you?’ he asks himself. ‘Ay? How shall I have you?’

You’re putty waiting beneath his fingers. You’re honey, dripping, cloying, holding shape but slowly losing. His thumb finds the band of your stocking, pulls it taut against the clip that holds it there. Anything. Do anything. You’re his, you’re melting. You’re light pouring through the gaps and waiting, waiting to burst. Elastic snaps against your thigh. He smiles.

‘I like having you like this,’ he says.

Like you’re leaves, swirled and left in the cup. Wanting to be read, to be understood, to be laid out and fulfilled.

‘Like you’re mine,’ he finishes.

‘I am,’ you tell him. ‘I am, Tommy, I am.’

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy x reader #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagines #peaky blinders fanfic #:)#enjoy please #i neraly tagged this as fem reader but hoenstly theres nothing that makes it such... its more like anyone who wears stockings reader #tommy x stockings!reader #lmao

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phantom-curve · 3 years

Text

For @panickosdisordr2, set in a high school AU where everyone is alive, I give you absolutely flustered Luke and poor, sweet, long-suffering Julie.

#38: stroking their leg & #41: sitting close and knees touching

Luke was still getting used to the fact that being Julie’s boyfriend meant he didn’t have to be so nervous about touching her anymore. For so long he had been forced to overthink every single interaction with her, needing to constantly toe the line of friendship even when he wanted so much more. Every touch, every lingering glance, had to be just this side of friendly. And no, he wasn’t always successful. Quite often his glances lingered a beat too long and his touches came close to being more proprietary than he had any right acting as a friend. Luke had made a list of rules to keep himself in check and he repeated them over and over before, during, and after he spent time with Julie.

Rule #1: No looking at Julie for longer than 30 60 seconds.

(30 seconds had been the goal, but who was he kidding? Julie was a freaking wrecking ball of musical talent and wickedly beautiful. 45 seconds was the absolute minimum he could handle, and even that was kind of pushing it.)

Rule #2: No writing blatantly obvious songs about Julie.

(Because really, every song was about Julie. But Julie didn’t need to know every song was about her. And Alex and Reggie really, really didn’t need to know, and no, just because they guessed didn’t mean they knew.)

Rule #3: No looking at Julie’s lips unless there was a microphone between them.

(He barely managed this one, which was why he kept sharing the mic with her more and more the longer they practiced and the more comfortable they became preforming together. It was the best kind of torture, and it wasn’t creepy, Alex, pay attention to drumming and not front people stuff!)

Rule #4: No touching Julie except for her shoulders and her arms and her waist (but only if they were hugging!)

(So what if Luke made sure to hug Julie a lot. He was a touchy-feely kind of guy, everyone knew that, and he only hugged someone after making sure they were okay with it. Julie never pushed him away, in fact she seemed to like the fact that he was so open with affection and comfort. It was fine.)

But dating Julie meant that all of those rules went right out the window. And Luke was still figuring out how to navigate that.

Julie didn’t seem to have any problems on her end. She slipped seamlessly from best friend to girlfriend without missing a beat. She would lean into him when they sat next to each other during lunch and move his hair out of his face without hesitation as she gazed into his eyes with a million stars dancing in her own. Her touch was casual but affectionate, her fingertips almost always finding some patch of skin to skim across whenever he was within arm’s reach. She kissed her way along his skin with an enviable ease, never holding back because she wasn’t sure he would like it, but instead blazing a path along his cheek or his collarbone or molding her lips against his as if she had always known that was what he so desperately desired most in the world.

Luke would never tell her, but part of his hesitation was because he felt wholly undeserving of her unwavering devotion. What had he ever done to earn someone as bright and beautiful as Julie Molina? He knew if he told her, she would have a million and one reasons why he was wrong, so he mostly kept it to himself and reveled in her easy affection every chance that he got. He should have known that eventually she would call him out on it.

“Luke...do you...not want me to touch you?”

He just hadn’t expected her to ask like that.

They were working on a new song out in the studio, a place Julie had chosen that he had assumed was because she didn’t want Carlos bothering them and because they had easier access to their instruments out there. They were sharing the couch, sitting across from each other with a shared notebook open between them, offering different lyric ideas back and forth as they tried to nail down the right lines. Luke hadn’t even realized that Julie had slowly been moving closer. He had only registered the feeling of their knees brushing occasionally, skin touching skin because his jeans were ripped, and she was wearing a pair of shorts to combat the stifling LA heat. Every time she had leaned in, he had leaned back, his years long set of rules so engrained he had forgotten that he didn’t have to follow them anymore. It was only when Julie quietly posed her question, teeth peeking out to bite down on her lower lip, cute little top gap flashing at him and reminding him that she was his girlfriend now, that he realized what he had been doing.

“Julie, no, of course I want you to touch me!”

Luke felt himself flush from head to toe as he realized how his words had sounded. He scrambled forwards, knocking their knees together painfully, although Julie, to her credit, didn’t even flinch. He took a deep, stuttering breath and tried again.

“I didn’t...I wasn’t trying to move away from you. I just...sometimes I forget I get to do that now.”

Julie quirked a brow and tilted her head slightly. Luke wanted to scratch his eyeballs out so he never had to see her looking so hurt and confused again. He groaned, reaching behind his head to give his hair a soft tug, recentering himself in the moment. He forced himself to meet Julie’s gaze and explain in a way that would actually make sense. He also made sure to scoot forward a bit so that their kneecaps were firmly pressed together, skin to skin.

“I just...for so long I wanted to be able to touch you in any way and have it be totally normal and okay.”

The words weren’t flowing perfectly, and Luke cursed the fact that Julie was able to scramble his brains and mess with the one thing he had always felt confident in. He pushed on though, because this was Julie, and if anyone was going to understand him, it was her.

“But I didn’t...I couldn’t...we weren’t like that, you know? We were friends and yeah, I love my friends, and I hug my friends, and I’m affectionate with them or whatever, but with you it was...different. I didn’t want to just be friends. But I also didn’t know what you wanted, and more than not wanting to just be friends, I didn’t want to not be a friend, so I made these rules. Rules about how I couldn’t say too much or do too much or touch you too much because it would mean more to me than it would to you and that wasn’t fair. And then everything changed, and you liked me too, and now we’re like a freaking dream, like I don’t always believe it kinda dream, and so I fall back on the rules. Because what if I say too much or do too much or touch you too much and I ruin everything?”

That...was a lot more than he had meant to say. But Julie wasn’t looking at him with judgement in her gaze. Her eyes were gentle and warm, her lips parting almost as if she was in awe, her features softening completely. She reached forward, slowly and deliberately, to place her hands along his thighs, just above where their knees were still touching. She leaned in, the pressure of her hands strong and steady, her scent invading his senses until everything in his world shrunk down to nothing more than JulieJulieJulie.

“You could never say or do too much. And you 100% could never touch me too much. Do you know how long I waited for you? Do you know how many rules I tried to come up with, how many nights I told myself over and over again that I needed to just get over you because it was never gonna happen? How many times I was so sure I was going to ruin the band and our friendship because I was so stupidly in love with you and nothing I did could stop it?”

Luke was having a hard time remembering how to breathe. He hadn’t ever thought about any of that. Because Julie had always seemed so confident and self-assured. She had been the one to make the first move that turned them from friends to more. She had been the one to confess how she felt first. She had always been his safety net, taking the plunge before he could, reassuring him so that when he stepped off the ledge, he knew she would be there to catch him.

“God, I love you so much,” his words were fierce and intense as he touched his forehead to hers and whispered them into the small space between their lips. “What the hell would I do without you?”

“Well, you’d probably still be trying to figure out the bridge and ending to Edge of Great without me.”

Luke growled and lunged forward, tackling Julie to the couch, and smothering her shriek beneath his lips. He felt her mouth curve into a smile, the kiss turning sloppy as she giggled uncontrollably. Her hands wound around his shoulders, twisting into the hair along the nape of his neck and threatening to turn him boneless against her. He broke away, propping himself up on his forearms so that his body remained stretched out along hers as he stared down at her.

“I can’t believe I get to be with you. You promise it’s not a dream?”

“If you’re dreaming, I’m dreaming. And I don’t think we can actually share dreams no matter how much we love each other. So, you’d better believe it, babe. I’m yours, forever.”

That did turn Luke boneless, every inch of his being melting down on top of hers, so they were connected from head to toe. Julie didn’t protest. She just pulled him closer, whispered you’ll always be mine against the skin of his neck, her breath hot and spellbinding against his skin. Luke didn’t argue. Who could argue with a goddess like Julie and expect to win? The best prize of all was knowing she loved him just as deeply as he loved her; he wasn’t about to try and convince her otherwise.

If Luke was able to love Julie for the rest of her life, it wouldn’t be nearly long enough for him to show her how much he cared. But that’s what ever afters were made for, right? A lifetime and then some. Luke knew with every fiber of his being that he would love Julie far past the time their respective stars burned out. That’s what destinies were all about. Loving forever and ever and ever. Even after you thought you were gone, the legacy lived on, timeless and unbreakable. That was them. Forever and a day, no end in sight for the rest of eternity.

#I'm on a soft Juke train tonight and I cannot be stopped #choo choo motherfuckers #THEY JUST LOVE EACH OTHER OKAY #will I ever write Luke without making him insecure in the face of Julie's incredibility? probably not #mads writes #jatp #julie and the phantoms #juke #jukebox #jatp ficlet #juke ficlet #julie molina #luke patterson #send me prompts for my birthday!

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imagineddworld · 4 years

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Favorite victim

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: You are Fred’s favorite prank victim, which creates a lot of hatred towards one another. Until a mistletoe proofs you both wrong.

Word count: 2 k (2000)

Author’s note: I am so sorry for being this unactive. Also sorry for the lack of quality. University is taking up all my time and has given me a headache that lasts for a week already. Thanks for understanding. I hope you enjoy this shorter fic.x

You and Fred had a complex friendship, if it even could be considered that. He always seemed to take the piss with you. For some unknown reason you were his favorite pranking victim. It all had started innocent. Hiding your ties, placing your books at the highest shelves that were impossible to reach, and switching your ropes with one of the other houses. Putting potions in your food that made it taste odd, made you sneeze, and made your voice a high pitched squeak. But over time they became more evil. The potions no longer got their innocence. They coloured your hair in plenty vibrant colours, made your nose bleed, and made you cough up feathers. The twins put traps everywhere, so you would trip and get covered in a thick, stinky liquid. In class they made your books explode, messed up your potions so you would end up with a loud explosion to the face and getting covered with whatever concoction was in the cauldron.

It was getting out of hand. Last week they had replaced your soap with one of their own brewed ones. It was supposed to make your head purple, but instead you had started to swell up. Your face felt as if it was about to pop. You angrily approached them during breakfast. “Thanks a lot mate. Good luck explaining to McGonagall why I can’t attend her class”, you threw the soap at them, shaking your head in disappointment. “This hurts a lot”, you said through gritted teeth, before leaving them. You quickly headed over to the hospital wing for the umpteenth time. Later on you found out that you had a bad allergic reaction to one of the oils the twins had put in their soap. Your swelling first got worse, before it vanished. You barely could open your eyes and breathing had became difficult too, but luckily it faded soon enough. Their stupid little prank had resulted in you spending a good few days in the hospital wing. As soon as you were released form your bedrest, you gave the twins a lecture about the dangers of their pranks. Luckily for you they never used that oil ever again. But they managed to cross the line many more times in various other ways. You started to grow more hatred towards the beloved twins. One day they would actually kill you.

Today they had stolen your alarm clock. You were woken up by annoyingly loud ticking noises coming from your closet. Over time it grew louder and more unbearable. As if being late wasn’t bad enough, they also had to steal all your clothes and replace them by those idiotic toys. They didn’t even had any specific shape, just odd metal forms. As if a robot and car got merged together but had melted during the process. After you finally found some clothes, hidden somewhere safe, you stormed out in search for the redheads. They were sat in the common room, happily chatting with some other students. “Weasley!”, you slammed the door shut behind you, angrily stumping your feet on the ground as you made your way over to him. “I swear to Merlin, If i find another of your stupid little - toys- I will personally stick all of them up your throat till you choke to death”. As you were yelling at Fred, you had earned the attention of the whole common room. Even if the constant bickering had become a daily routine, they still waited impatiently for the scene in front of them to unravel into your usual fights. “Wow (Y/n), relax”, Fred showed his famous smirk. He stood up, meeting you halfway of the common room. He towered over your small frame, looking challenging into your eyes. But two could play his game, you didn’t budged as you gave him your darkest, murderous glare. You raised your eyebrow as a signal for him to explain himself, already knowing that only nonsense would be spewing from his mouth. “It was just a joke. Not even a dangerous one-”, the last part of his sentence got cut off by a loud exploding sound coming from the girls sleeping room. Or more specific, your closet. At the same time, the toy in your hand had exploded as well. You let out a scream of shock, while throwing the lightly smoking object to where Fred’s feet were. He jumped as a reflex. His face turned angry for a slight moment, but you could care less. You were beyond furious. The day were he would succeed in killing you, would came sooner than you had thought. “Not dangerous?! Not da-dan- Are you joking me?!”, you stuttered due to your overwhelming emotions, mostly furiousness and hatred. “Well, that’s kind of the point”, he cocked as if nothing had happened. As if he didn’t just could have injured someone really badly with his stupid prank. “I still could have been in there”, you said, hitting him on the chest to have more impact on him. “Someone could have gotten hurt, or worse -” Which each word that left your mouth, you hit him a bit harder. But he didn’t moved at all, he just grinned down at you. As a foolish idiot, loving the sight of your angered state. His smug face only made your anger worse. Nothing would ever sink in his brain, he just brushed it off. You wanted to comment on it, but found yourself unable to. You were just going to waste your time, so you decided to storm off to somewhere you wouldn’t need to see his face again. Somewhere you could calm down.

Once you vanished out of the room and the watching crowd returned back to their daily routines, George stepped up to his brother. “Well well, Freddy. You know we are meant to play nice”, he smiled with a hint of a smirk hiding in the corner of his lip. “Shut it. I’ll play nice when she does”, He glowered, looking like a grumpy little child. “Oooh, so you want her to play nice with you”, George teased, as he wiggled his eyebrows at his twin. “Shut up”, Fred responded again, leaving his twin alone. George just smiled and shook his head at the foolishness of his brother.

Luckily for you, you didn’t saw Fred’s face until your study session. You were nearly done with your potions essay, when a huge amount of ink fell out of the sky. Your clothes were soaked by the black liquid. As you looked down to your desk, you saw your essay covered in huge spots. “Noo”, you said a bit too loud, voice lightly cracking from your exhaustion. Your head shot towards the chuckling sound. “You”, you spat out, as if he were a poison in your mouth. You murderously glared at Fred while approaching him. “What have I done”, he smiled innocent. You bit down on your teeth, clenching your jaw. It was hard not to slap him across the face right now. You dug your fingernails into your palm, while deeply breathing in. “Do I really need to explain it?!”, you grumbled through gritted teeth. “Be my guest”, he smiled, beaming with excitement and mischief. His hands rested on his hips with much attitude. “You- Ruined - My- Essay”, with each word you stepped forwards, closing the gap between the two of you. You slapped your essay onto his chest, staining his clothes with the black ink. “I’ve spent days on it. And you know for a fact that Snape won’t care”, you pushed him away from you, making him stumble the slightest bit. “Ruin your own essay for once”, you said in a small voice, as the previous event slowly started to sink in. You were devastated, all your hard work was for nothing. Your eyes started to water a little. You were exhausted, not only from the long nights you had spend on the now ruined essay; but also because of how draining these pranks had gotten. Ever one of them gave you more reasons to hate these beloved twins.

As you looked up from your ink-covered hands, you saw Fred with a dumbfounded look on his face. Only seconds ago, he was beaming with joy. “What?”, you asked harsh, but nowhere near the intensity it usual would have. He gave no response, so you sighed and tried to walk off. But you found yourself unable to do so. A force kept you in place. “What do you want?”, you muttered in a mix of anger and despair. You were too exhausted and too distressed to have a fight. “Just let me go”, you said with a much softer voice. You were still turned away from him, as you were trying to hold in your tears. “I don’t have a hold of you... I thought you had a hold on me”, he said slow, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. “What? Why would I-”, you started, turning your head back in his direction. As you eyes trailed to his face, you caught sight of something green above Fred’s head. You let out a frustrated sight as you realized what it was. Stupid mistletoe and its bright green leaves.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, totally over this whole situation. You desperately tried to free yourself with some spells. But the mistletoe wouldn’t move, neither could any of you. “(Y/n), you know that won’t work. You should know that. You are lots better at charms than me”, Fred said, sounding sincere. A unexpected heat raised to your face. Fred Weasley just had given you a compliment, what a rarity. “But we need a way to get out of here before any teacher catches us out past curfew”. You used the lame excuse. You truly didn’t care if you were out past curfew or even got caught. You just wanted to get away from Fred before he could pick up on your emotions. Not that he would care. Everything just seemed to be a joke to him, surely when it included you. “I know a way”, he responded casually. But you were unimpressed, showing it clearly with your facial expressions. “Trust me, okay?”, he muttered softly, his voice almost coming out as a whisper. His big hand cupped your cheek, leaving a warmth at the place where your skins touched. “Just this once”, you replied, before his sweet lips pressed against yours. His other hand went to the small of your back, pulling your body tighter to his chest. Your hands lightly tugged on the fabric his shirt, staining it even more with the black liquid. Neither of you caring how big of a mess it would be.

The kiss lasted longer than you had expected. You melted in his touch, losing yourself in the heavenly kiss. Your hands found their way to his jaw and the back of his neck, leaving a trail of blackness everywhere you had touched his soft skin. Only when you broke apart to breath, you realized what had happened. Your eyes slowly fluttered open. You were met with a grinning Fred, who now also was covered in the black liquid. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction he wanted. He was not going to get you that easily. “This changes nothing, Weasley”, you suppressed the smile that desperately wanted to curl your lips upwards. You turned away from him, relieved that you finally could move again. You were about to head over to your belongings, when he pulled you back by your arm. “Well, I think it does, (Y/l/n)”, he grinned the biggest smile he had ever had, “Mistletoe only sticks to people who have feelings for each other”. The smug bastard. Of course he would know such a thing. As he pulled you in for a second kiss, you couldn’t help but smile against his lips.

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #fred hp #fred x reader #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #weasley twins #fluff #Fluffy Imagine

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lucientelrunya · 3 years

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Like a lonely house pt 3

Phew, I feel a little like that bird meme "the risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math" (which I really am *points to the 70 years that are actually 80 years* !!), with how I went "Huh, there is no 50.000+words slow burn of them, but I want!!!" and my brain was like "well, do it yourself. Here, have Chapter 1, 3, 6 and 9, I already prepared them. Oh and here is some Ba Ye+Wu Xie-friendship" And then I struggle with how to bridge the gap between those chapters.....

This part is me struggling really hard. Trying to bridge those gaps and trying to puzzle Mystic Nine-Canon and Book-Canon together. Like, Wu Laogou??? He wasn't even born? My perfectionism can't handle this!! But I guess I am like Hamilton, I'll never be satisfied *sigh*, so ... yeah. Feel free to point out any mistakes you spot!

I should definitely add that this is canon-divergent... ish (which canon???), I'm not sure if there is anything I should warn about in this part, maybe just more sadness? But @psychic-waffles and @gaiahenshin wanted someone to hug Zhang Rishan so ... here you go I guess ^^°°° (I see those tags and reblogs and favorites and I am beyond thrilled every single time, I don't even know how to react!)

It takes a conscious effort to make his lungs work properly again and take a deep breath. Fo Ye had entrusted him with his legacy and he will do everything he can to not disappoint him any further. He has to face the consequences of what he has done, he has to. But before he can get a grip on himself someone tips his chin up to shine a flashlight right into his eyes. He automatically flinches back from the blinding light, dislodging the hand from his face in the process and finds Huo Daofu staring at him, flashlight in his hand and one brow raised. “Back with us?” he asks, eyes scanning Zhang Rishan’s face methodically and only taking a step back once he nods slowly. How long had he stood frozen, trapped in his thoughts for Huo Daofu to come over and start to worry?

“Good. Any more insights on god-radio?” What is he talking about? "God-radio?" Zhang Rishan repeats slowly, confused, which only makes Huo Daofu raise both brows this time. He pointedly looks over at the mural where Zhang Rishan's fingers are still touching the picture of said god. Ah, they must have thought it was still somehow communicating with him.

“Time travel”, Zhang Rishan mutters, trying to ignore the way Luo Que hovers anxiously at his side and the way Ba Ye has his hands wrapped around his upper arm like he had always done when he wanted to hide behind him or was whining about something (and the possible connection between those two things). His words cause several confused “huh”’s from different directions. Taking a slow deep breath he braces himself to say the words, to confess and take the blame for this mess. “No, I didn't get any further godly insights, but I think Ba Ye is right, he never died, he was, as you phrased it so nicely, plucked from the past and put here, now”, he says, inclining his head at Wu Xie.

“But why?” Ba Ye asks and Zhang Rishan makes himself turn his head to look at him when he says his next words. “Because of me.” And there it is. “Because this god was inside my mind and it was so incredibly thankful I gave it its freedom that it wanted to give something to me in return, to grant me a wish.” Not that he had wished for Ba Ye to be ripped out of his time, exactly, his thoughts had been a jumbled mess at that moment. He had never consciously wished for anything in particular. But Ba Ye’s sudden disappearance in the middle of a war had torn a hole into Fo Ye’s heart and, by extension, into Zhang Rishan’s (not only by extension, of course, because Ba Ye had been important to Zhang Rishan, too - is important - but to Fo Ye he had practically been family). He could have said how Fo Ye had looked for Ba Ye for months, for years, with a war raging right on their doorstep, when thousands of people were dying or disappearing, when the city they had so desperately tried to protect had been burned to the ground. How Fo Ye had never truly gotten over not being able to find him - save him - or at least find out what happened. He had felt Ba Ye’s absence all his life, a regret he couldn’t let go of, not even on his deathbed. A regret Zhang Rishan had taken into his own heart, after Fo Ye’s death, added to his own regrets and moulded into a lump of regret-failure-pain-bitterness-sorrow that his trained mind still hasn’t filed away properly. He has failed Ba Ye, too, and has missed Ba Ye, too. And this is his mess, this is what his jumbled thoughts had made a god do, so he leaves it at that.

Zhang Rishan is prepared for anger, for reproaches, for being smacked again, but Ba Ye’s face is unreadable and he doesn’t say anything, his fingers around Zhang Rishan’s arm only slightly tightening their grip. He waits for something - anything - to happen, (maybe for the sky to fall down or the earth to open up and swallow him), for him to wake up and realize everything’s only just been a dream - nightmare? - or for one of them to tell him he’s crazy and there’s no way this could be possible. And someone does: “But that’s impossible, that would be a paradox”, Wu Xie says and Zhang Rishan looks at him pointedly.

“A bootstrap paradox, to be exact”, Huo Daofu remarks and really, that’s the part of all of this he wants to comment on? “A what now?” Pangzi asks, squinting at Huo Daofu and Zhang Rishan is glad he is not the only one who has no idea what Huo Daofu is talking about. “A bootstrap paradox. It basically describes phenomena with a cause-effect-loop just like this. I mean, you don’t know my gran, but she was absolutely obsessed with the famous Qi Tiezui so I don’t know how many times I heard the story of his tragic, mysterious disappearance and all the questions and the search and Zhang Da Fo Ye’s heartbreak.” He looks like he wants to roll his eyes in annoyance at the mention of his grandmother. “But that’s exactly that. He vanished and you wanted to find out why and that wish brought him here in the first place. So what came first? There is no discernable point of origin for- what, I like Sci-Fi, don’t look at me like that!”

It is somehow reassuring and disconcerting at the same time that Huo Daofu of all people manages to sum up his thoughts like this, aside from his guilt. And that he is able to put a name to this, even if that doesn’t mean it’s a real thing. Fiction is fiction after all. How can there even be such a thing? But then, how could there be a god chained to a cave or a mysterious force controlling people like that or golden coffin water that saved people from certain death? After everything else he has already seen and lived through or just heard about in his life he shouldn’t be so doubtful. It’s also quite unsettling how much Huo Daofu knows about Ba Ye’s disappearance and how casually he mentions those details. But Ba Ye doesn’t seem too upset about the mention of Fo Ye’s heartbreak, at least for the moment. Instead he perks up at Huo Daofu’s words.

“Good, good! After all you heard and all you read about that then it must be a real thing, so I think we can all agree that all of this is real and I am real!” And, curiously, Wu Xie looks at Liu Sang, who jerks his head in a small gesture of confirmation that’s not really a nod. But it is obviously enough for Wu Xie to smile at Ba Ye and nod. “Yes, I think we can. And I wanted to ask you something. You were the one who stole one of my grandpa’s dogs, right?” The question makes Ba Ye laugh awkwardly and let go of Zhang Rishan’s arm, so he can gesture at Wu Xie.

“Of course that’s what he would tell his grandchildren about me. Let me tell you, I took out that dog’s gallstones and I brought it back safe and sound! And he acted like I murdered it!” Wu Xie laughs at the face Ba Ye makes, or maybe his helpless gesturing. “He always said you kidnapped that dog just to get back at him.” Zhang Rishan isn’t sure if he imagines how the conversation tiptoes on the line of ‘friendly conversation’ and ‘fishing for information’. But he hadn’t been present for the whole Dog-stealing-thing, so he keeps listening, ignoring Pangzi who starts to tease Huo Daofu about his obvious love for science fiction and then continues to question him about his favorites.

“Aiyah! That’s just what I told Fo Ye, that Wu Laogou would never give me his dog if I asked him because he would think I wanted to get back at him. But I really wasn’t! We needed his gallstones to cure Mo Ce so Fo Ye said I had to steal it if I wouldn’t ask for it. So I stole it, but as I said, I brought it back better than new, freshly cured. And he even made me apologize to the dog!” That is actually something he hadn’t known, but Wu Xie laughing and saying “Of course he would!” is enough to finally fully convince him that all of this is real. It puts his mind at ease and shifts his focus to other things he still has questions about.

They should definitely find out more about this god and the people that imprisoned it. He takes out his phone to take some photos of the mural and finds it mostly covered in white, but just like before it just crumbles away in little flakes. Surprisingly his phone still works and there is no trace of dampness to it. For a moment he stares at the screen and then at his arm, where Ba Ye's hands had grabbed him. The dried white stuff has crumbled away where the cloth had been moved or touched, leaving no trace, no lingering wetness. Deliberately taking note of every part of his skin he realizes that actually nothing feels wet or damp, even though he practically swam in that liquid. He can only recall the feeling of the liquid clinging to him and dragging him down like water-soaked and heavy clothing would do, but it seems highly unlikely that he was unconscious long enough for his clothes to completely dry. It's like whatever was in the pool only wrapped itself around him, like a cocoon, but didn't soak through anything.

Luo Que is still beside him, silently watching him. His arms are covered in white flakes, too, so he must have helped Pangzi get him out of the pool. “Do you remember what the liquid felt like?” Luo Que looks confused for a moment, furrowing his brows until his eyes drift down to his own arms and he seems to get what Zhang Rishan is asking. “Not really like liquid, it felt cool but not wet at all”, he answers, rubbing at one of the larger stains that crumbles away under his fingertips. This only confirms his suspicions, he wants this stuff analyzed. Luo Que finds a zip-lock-bag somewhere in his backpack and together they manage to get at least some of the white flakes and dust into the bag, although it seems to disintegrate once it gets shaken off whatever surface it had clung to.

Wondering if this is even really a tomb he takes pictures of the whole mural. It seems more like a temple - no, they didn’t worship the god here, so more of a prison for a god if there is a word for such a thing. He turns only to find Ba Ye watching him, staring at his phone. Of course, the kinds of cameras Ba Ye knows were big and bulky so he hands it to Ba Ye. “It’s a camera and a phone”, he explains, which only makes Ba Ye stare harder, turning the device in his hands. “It’s so small!” His wonder makes Zhang Rishan smile and he promises to show Ba Ye what it can do later.

Which seems almost like a cue for them to decide to carefully explore the rest of the tomb for more information and to find out if it really is a tomb. They take the dagger, the only remarkable thing on the altar and maybe something that can help them find out more about the people that used it. Maybe at least how old this cave is. Zhang Rishan is still unsure if it’s a tomb or a prison, even after they find two more caves with clay jugs filled with human ashes. Cremation is not exactly a common burial tradition for this region and there are no grave goods at all. Not one single treasure, to Pangzi’s great disappointment, no more murals, no scripture, nothing. It’s mostly a disappointment in terms of exploration, but maybe they can find out some more.

Since it already got dark when they reached the tomb they decide to spend the night in the cave with the pool, which is the only one with enough room for all of them (and they don’t really want to sleep next to rows of human ashes). It’s still quite dark, even with Pangzi’s heater instead of a fire but more comfortable than outside where Liu Sang had heard rain and thunder. None of them goes to check, there is no need to hurry back, they can spend one night in the cave and hopefully the rain will have stopped the next day.

Reception in the cave is strong enough to mail the pictures to some contacts and ask them to look into it. Ba Ye watches him curiously while he types in the message and Zhang Rishan shows him all the other functions - or at least everything he frequently uses his phone for, which makes Pangzi laugh. “Ahh, President Zhang,” he scolds, using the title he had never used before. “You are all about work! Show the poor man some good things! Here, look at this game,” and he tucks on Ba Ye’s shoulder to get him to lean over his own phone.

“Pangzi, the ‘poor man’ doesn’t have a phone to send you money for your stupid game”, Wu Xie leans on Pangzi’s other shoulder, grinning and obviously finished with his phone call. “Ah, Tianzhen, pay attention. I’m already done with that one, this is a new one. Here, look!” Judging by the way all three of them look at the phone it must be something cute and Zhang Rishan finds himself smiling again, glad and thankful that they include Ba Ye so effortlessly. He will need people who can care for him and help him if he decides he won’t forgive Zhang Rishan after they get a chance to talk about everything that has happened since Ba Ye vanished.

This thought wipes the small smile off his face and he distracts himself by texting Liang Wan, asking her when she will be back from her trip because he wants her to check Ba Ye, blood tests and all. He will do everything he can to make sure Ba Ye is okay (or as okay as he can be) and has everything he needs for a life in the 21. century. Which is another reason why he offers Ba Ye his sleeping bag, who simply refuses, adamant that they can share. They end up with Zhang Rishan sitting on one half, leaning his back against the wall and Ba Ye using his leg as a pillow, curled up next to him on the other half. It’s familiar, but he represses the memories, busying himself with shrugging out of his coat without waking Ba Ye to drape it over him because he can feel him shiver against his leg. It seems to be getting colder but he doesn’t mind. Ba Ye doesn’t wake, but when he looks back up Wu Xie smiles at him from where Pangzi is halfway wrapped around him, head on Zhang Qilings lap.

When they pack up the next morning it’s still raining and it’s really noticeably colder than before. Zhang Rishan lets Ba Ye keep his coat, he will need some protection against the rain in his thin changshan, even if the thick forest they had hiked through should offer some protection against the rain. But when they leave the cave there is no more forest, only muddy ground where lush undergrowth had been and some tree stumps that look long dead.

“Well, the forest was unusual”, Liu Sang says but still seems just as perturbed as everyone else. For a moment they just stand there and look around them. “I guess they really needed that god to grow something around here”, Pangzi jokes, but he sounds uneasy about it. And how could they not be, with miles of dead land around them where hours before there had been fruit trees and berry bushes in abundance. Zhang Rishan represses a shiver of uneasiness and just wants to leave this place as soon as possible. He is not the only one. Instinctively they walk faster on their way back, or as fast as they can. The rain had made the ground slippery with mud and dead plants. None of them feels comfortable about stopping for the night but it’s safer than trying to navigate through the dark. Thankfully the rain stopped some time before that and they manage get a fire going, but still all of them are quiet and thoughtful, no trace of the easy banter of the day before.

They are packed and ready to go with the first light of the next day. Without the rain the ground dries up fast and the sun is too bright and too warm, which is actually typical for this region. At one point they cross a very visible line where the dead zone ends and there are plants and trees again, but they don’t stop to inspect it further, too glad to be out.

It’s mid afternoon when they reach the end of the road where they had left their cars and from there it’s only roughly another two hours to drive to the small village where they had spent the night before setting out on this endeavour. The villagers don’t seem to know that a whole forest has vanished and happily accommodate them again in the small inn. They had seemed to avoid the general area of said forest and hadn’t wanted to talk about it before, just whispering about local legends of a ‘man-eating wood’. Luckily the owner of the small inn doesn’t seem to remember their exact number or he simply doesn’t care that they left the allegedly cursed forest with an additional person. He gives them the same rooms (which are actually the only rooms available) and goes off to prepare dinner.

They disperse to their rooms to clean up and rest for a moment until dinner is ready. Wu Xie had made sure that Zhang Rishan shares his room with Ba Ye so they can talk, but both of them seem a bit reluctant to start. They wash in a somewhat uncomfortable silence until Zhang Rishan takes off the bandages, inspecting the two cuts on his arms and is surprised at the 2 neat rows of staples. He hadn’t realized they were that long and deep that they required stapling and is actually impressed at Huo Daofu’s level of preparation for such a small trip. He obviously knows what he is doing, the cuts are clean and already healing nicely. “Let me help you”, Ba Ye takes the fresh bandages out of his hand, and starts slowly wrapping them around Zhang Rishan’s arms.

“I understand there are a lot of things that have happened since I disappeared, so just tell me”, Ba Ye’s voice is quiet and he keeps his eyes on his hands. And, taking a deep breath to brace himself, Zhang Rishan tells him. About the second attack on Changsha, the third, and finally the fourth one when they lost and everything they had tried to protect had been destroyed. He doesn’t go into detail about all the lives that were lost in the war, while Ba Ye’s fingers work slower and slower until they stop, hovering over Fo Ye’s bracelet. Zhang Rishan pulls his arms away to tuck down his sleeves, hiding the bandages and the bracelet alike, while he only briefly mentions the destruction and despair. Ba Ye had seen enough of that after the first attack on Changsha. He tells him about the years after the war, how they slowly rebuild and how Fo Ye kept looking for Ba Ye. There are not only sad things to say - Fo Ye had been happy in his marriage with Xinyue, Er Ye had been pleased with his new apprentice, the Huo-Clan had thrived, just like the Xie-Clan - although those outweigh the good things, because one by one he recounts the deaths of everyone Ba Ye knows.

“I’m sorry”, he finishes and hates that the words don’t do justice to the depth of his feelings. “You lost them too”, Ba Ye says, his voice surprisingly steady and almost gentle, and Zhang Rishan stares at him, at a loss. Yes, he did. But little by little, parts of his world crumbling away, piece by piece, until only duty remained. He’d had time to adjust to the holes, find ways around them, new paths that had grown old and used and then been torn away, too. What he had lost in the course of 80 years Ba Ye had lost in one day, one moment, one blink of an eye.

“Yes”, he says and doesn’t know how to put into words that their pain shouldn’t be compared, because there are not enough words to even begin to describe this. Pain is something he has been trained to file away into different threat levels, into different boxes. He is not allowed to have one named ‘unbearable’, but he doesn’t know how else to label the pain of that one moment when the worst thing has happened and it feels like the world just stops, just shatters and falls to pieces, never to be whole again. But everything stays the same. It’s just his world that shattered, his heart that has been torn apart never to be whole again. He is the one who changed, not the world. And he doesn’t even fathom himself how he had to change to survive that, who he had to become. Because he had become a person that would cause that kind of pain to someone else like this. He had killed countless people in his lifetime, on purpose as a Zhang, as a soldier, in the war or by mistake, by failure, by not being able to save them but he had never thought himself capable of such cruelty.

Whatever Ba Ye reads in his face (or maybe in his heart, because Ba Ye had always been good at reading hearts), it makes him knit his brows. Not in anguish or sorrow but something more akin to chagrin and he grabs the sides of Zhang Rishan’s sweater to roughly tug him forward into a bone crushing hug. And Zhang Rishan allows himself to be moved, just like he had always allowed himself to be moved whenever Ba Ye was tugging on him.

Ba Ye presses his face into the crook of his neck, arms wrapping tightly around his sides, fingers digging into his shoulder blades and Zhang Rishan can feel the shaky inhale against the bare skin of his neck. Carefully he wraps his arms around Ba Ye’s shoulders and holds him up when he feels the other man lean most of his weight on him. He doesn’t say anything, when he feels the wetness of quiet tears against his shoulder, just closes his eyes, offering whatever comfort he can offer like this.

#fuba #zhang rishan #ba ye #qi tiezui #dmbj fic #mystic nine

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vickysaurus · 3 years

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What if season 5 was two seasons?

So watching through season 5, I kept noticing how fast the pacing had to be with the amount plot threads there were and how often I went ‘I wish we saw more of X’. So as I’ve mentioned a couple of times, I’ve started wondering if it might’ve been better if its story had been spread over two seasons rather than one. Now, obviously I understand that kind of change would not have been in the crew’s hands and no matter what they wanted would likely have been impossible. This is not intended as a ‘they should’ve just done this’ but as a thought experiment. Would a sixth season even have worked? So I’m gonna try and figure out how season 5′s content might’ve been done over two seasons in an alternate universe. In order to keep straight how far in the seasons we are, I’m gonna number the episodes 5-1 to 5-13 and 6-1 to 6-13 for clarity.

-5-1: We’re gonna start off immediately inserting an extra episode: The Fall of Bright Moon. Rather than a time skip, we get to see the first days of the invasion and the evacuation of Bright Moon in the face of overwhelming force. Micah has to switch back into being king, Adora has to deal with losing She-Ra, Bow has to deal with losing Glimmer. There’s a major subplot about Scorpia working up the courage to apologise to Entrapta and the two of them reconnecting. Perfuma probably helps her with that. That sounds like a pretty busy episode, but I think the first two Velvet Glove scenes from Horde Prime should probably be moved to it to not just leave Catra and Glimmer hanging completely.

-5-2 to 5-4: Horde Prime, Launch, and Corridors stay mostly the same. Since I moved the first Velvet Glove scenes to 5-1 and we can probably cut a bit of exposition from Horde Prime with the addition of that episode, these episodes get a couple minutes extra, which is split between an extra Glimmer and Catra in jail scene and some more of Scorpia and Entrapta’s friendship in Launch.

-5-5 and 5-6: An extra season gives us time for worldbuilding and more of the new characters, and since I like the Star siblings I’m gonna selfishly give them a bunch more screen time. The plan to save Catra takes more preparation in this version, leading Best Friend Squad and the Star siblings to go on an adventure on another planet after Stranded, one that is under Horde occupation but hasn’t been destroyed by them. They’re there for either information or some kind of device they’ll need to get on the Velvet Glove, but end up sowing the seeds for a local rebellion on the planet. We’ll see more of that plot later on.

-5-7: Save the Cat. It’s perfect as is.

-5-8: Taking Control’s A plot, enhanced with some scenes from Don’t Go into a full episode.

-5-9: This is where Taking Control’s B plot with the chipped Etherians goes. To go with it, Best Friend Squad is going on another space adventure after a rendez-vous with the Star siblings while they try and escape the Horde. I’m thinking maybe Hordak could be one of the clones searching for them, and while he doesn’t come face-to-face with Entrapta we could see some more of his conflicting feelings building in the course of this. Just a moment’s hesitation on his part allows Best Friend Squad to escape. Catra befriending Glimmer and Bow is a major part of this episode, and it basically bridges the gap between the little overtures between them in Taking Control and Catra as a part of Best Friend Squad in Shot in the Dark.

-5-10: Kyle, Lonnie, and Rogelio only get a cameo in season 5, and that’s something I really want to change. I want to give them a ‘Lower Decks’ episode where they’re basically just trying to go about their lives post-Horde but rapidly discovering the war is impossible to ignore. I feel like we don’t see enough of the normal Etherians in general, and I think these three are a great way to show how they’re doing.

-5-11: Perils of Peekablue. However, the scene at the end where it turns out Micah is already chipped and so are enormous amounts of Etherians doesn’t happen yet.

-5-12 and 5-13: So now I need to have a big season finale happen, and unfortunately Shot In The Dark, while a great episode, is also a little too low-energy to fit the bill. So what I’m gonna do is make it the B-plot of a finale two-parter. The A-plot is set on Etheria, and is basically some big climactic business where the Princesses, General Juliet, (remember her?) and many common Etherians take the fight back to the chipped princesses, and things go well until disaster strikes and Micah gets chipped. Pretty vague, I know. The ‘Lower Decks’ episode we did sets up a lot of the plot here; Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle are probably involved in it. The two-parter ends with the big ‘Oh fuck everyone’s chipped’ moment at the end of Perils of Peekablueas the big season-ending cliffhanger. After that scene, we switch to Best Friend Squad landing on Etheria, and that’s how season 5 ends.

-6-1: I think An Ill Wind would be a solid season opener as is.

-6-2 to 6-10: Yeah, I’m gonna take this whole block of episodes in one go, because this is where it gets complicated. Return to the Fright Zone and Failsafe take place in this block, but it’s beyond my ability to figure out the full plot developments of this entire season. While for season 5 I can keep to the structure of Best Friend Squad’s space adventure, season 6 is gonna be a lot more freeform, and would presumably have major plot elements added. Here’s my thoughts on these nine episodes:

-The chipped princesses get unchipped earlier. They provide good heartwrenching moments, cool bossfights, and allow for major villains ranking below Prime without having to introduce new characters, but I think ultimately it does the chipped princesses a disservice since they just don’t get to show character in the second half of the season. Just compare how well we know Netossa as a character with how well we know Spinnerella. So they get unchipped over the course of these episodes and get to be with the Rebellion again afterwards. Mermista and Spinnerella get unchipped the same way as in canon. Scorpia actually gets to talk while chipped and has a heartwrenching confrontation with Catra in which she basically responds in the worst possible ways to Catra’s regrets (the same way we saw chipped Catra basically being am expression of her worst traits) and they have a fight that’s super rough for Catra, but Catra manages to damage her chip and save her. They have a better chat afterwards, and that’s when they make up and hug it out. I think Micah is the last one to be unchipped, and I might actually keep him chipped until Heart, Part 1 so Glimmer still gets that climactic confrontation with him. Now, a possible concern is that this means there’s just not gonna be enough ‘bosses’ around to fight in Heart. Solutions to this could include for example advanced robots, chipped minor characters like Huntara, Dumbface Octavia, and alien monsters. Maybe Hordak? Though I definitely want him back on the Velvet Glove’s bridge in time to give Prime his date with gravity.

-So that’s sort of the major arc, but there are several characters and plot threads that I feel could easily be an episode’s A- or B-plot in this bunch:

*Catra is mortified when she realises she caused Angella’s death and has a big freak-out over it and tries to run away, Glimmer confronts her and they deal with their feelings on the matter

*Another Kyle, Lonnie, and Rogelio episode

*A Wrong Hordak episode where he discovers his own identity and picks a name, also feat. Entrapta’s attempts to reach out to Hordak

*Madame Razz episode where Adora tries to get her help, possibly involving the Crystal Castle and George and Lance

*Sea Hawk and Double Trouble drama kids adventure where they try to save Mermista (I think Mermista vs. Sea Hawk and Mermista being unchipped gets moved to the end of this episode). These two were delightful for the little time we saw them together in Perils of Peekablue and I want Sea Hawk to somehow rope Double Trouble into an adventure.

*All the space adventures and world building I put in season 5 coming to a head when some form of space reinforcements led by the Star siblings come to help.

*And of course Return to the Fright Zone and Failsafe.

-6-11 to 6-13: Heart is now a three-parter, deal with it. Horde Prime is beaten at the end of part 2, or more likely the start of part 3, and the rest of part 3 is that sweet dénouement I crave.

So with all that laid out, let’s return to the question: would this work? I think if it had originally been written to be two seasons, the story could have easily worked for two. As is, I’m retrofitting a single season to be two, so some of the stuff I’ve added sounds rather redundant or vague. There are certainly enough plotlines and characters to make a split work, but of course those would’ve had to have been written into the plot from the start to not feel tacked on. Of course, brevity is the soul of wit, so even if two seasons had been an option, it’s quite possible a single that has too little time is still better than two that have too much.

#spop #she-ra and the princesses of power #meta #season 5

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