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velvetdolor · 2 months ago

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♰𖣐♰ 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩’𝔰 ℭ𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥. | i.

Chapter i. “We who are forged from Iron and Blood.”

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong.) ot8 x reader

genres: 18+!! paranormal, religious horror, fantasy, suggestive, SMUT, stupid-yet-gifted friend group trope lol

chapter word count: 7.8k

summary: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered one of the greatest exorcists of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.

series warnings: strong language, religious allegories, lots of talk about religious trauma (some of it may be sacrilegious in nature, so if you aren’t comfortable with that please keep that in mind before reading!) exorcisms, possession, sacrificial rituals, alluded mentions of ableism (specifically regarding blindness, as one of the main characters discusses his experiences as a blind man/his background and talks about the process of losing his sight in detail), light mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, horror, angst, child possession, intense imagery, hallucinations, light amount of self inflicted wounds, violence, blood, and gore. additional warnings will be provided for each chapter. (story is marked as 18+ due to the descriptive elements of horror and suggestive scenes.) Smut warnings will be chapter specific.

series masterlist author masterlist next >

authors note: hey guys, siren here—i’m back AGAIN with another series because i can’t resist writing a new story the moment it hits me (even though i already have five different works in progress…but they’ll get done when it feels right to release them yannnoo.) again, this will most likely be a series! so here’s chapter i!

important notice: wanted to note that reader descriptions/ strega are remaining racially ambiguous and there will be little to no anatomical descriptions regarding her body type, skin color, and hair texture/type! since this is a reader insert, i want it to be as inclusive as possible. :) i encourage you to use your imagination!

here’s a spotify playlist i made for this series if you want something to listen to get the vibe/ambiance!

giving you a heads up that this chapter is going to be super hefty, information wise. it’s also unedited…so pls forgive any mistakes! :)

[i. We who are forged from iron and blood.]

** The reader is sometimes referred to as La Strega, literally meaning the witch/witch.

You nonchalantly light a cigarette in the midst of the ominous quiet, already knowing what the priest standing before you is going to say. The spirits’ whispers flood the room—words indecipherable to most and unheard by all the men standing in your strangely baroque yet decrepit apartment, with the exception of you.

It bears a rustic antiquity with its minimal and semi-broken pieces of furniture, wood and paint chipping off the dark sage green surfaces of most objects and walls in the room—simultaneously ugly and beautiful depending on which direction you’re looking at it from. The only sound available to them is the squeaking of your leather-gloved hands as they move to plant the lighter back onto the table.

Whatever question leaves his mouth will likely send you to your grave if you were to accept, the spirits warn. You scoff lightly, humored that the strangely handsome priest—who you were, at most, four inches shorter than—gazed at you with uncertainty, gauging and attempting to unveil why he was ordered to convince some no-name psychic to accompany his beloved sector in exorcising a foreboding evil. You couldn’t blame the guy. Here were some of the greatest exorcists of our century, trying to recruit a shabby inner-city psychic who shoddily advertised her $10 palm-reading specials on a bright, buzzing neon sign hung on the sidelines of the apartment entrance.

However, that’s exactly why you did it: to fly under radars and only have to expend your energy on reading the likelihood of infidelity on a beautiful woman’s palms—one who tragically fears the disloyalty of her ugly and terribly mediocre husband. (For her own good, you prayed she’d get divorced.)

You already know why Hongjoong’s here, but you opt to wait patiently for him to say something—anything, really.

Seven other priests are scattered throughout your living room. You roll your eyes after gathering that they were sent by The Order, having caught the name among the light whispers falling from several spirits’ teeth. Some lean against your living room walls or the large pillars scattered across the spacious apartment, stifling their yawns. Others, like Yunho—you vaguely recall his name—stand elegantly poised and would appear nearly cherubic were it not for the unsettling crackling of energy radiating from his body.

Hongjoong tugs at the fitted collar of his black cassock, a strange rattle emitting from his neck that draws your attention to an ornate and slim black choker resting against his skin. Your eyebrows raise in interest at the sigils carved with precision into the durable leather, but the fabric of his cassock quickly returns to its resting place above the line of his pulse.

Hongjoong finally pushes out the words, unsure, fiddling with his fingers and squeezing his palms before releasing:

“Are you the one the clergy refers to as La Strega?”

Your cigarette hisses as you pull smoke into your mouth, inhaling deeply before readjusting your crossed legs, eyes squinting. “Depends on the clergy, but yes—that was one of my many… pseudonyms.”

Hongjoong’s eyes settle onto yours. The depths of his irises hold an allure that seems to draw you in. You hold his gaze before tilting your head down toward your ashtray, tapping the cigarette filter to flake off the ash from its ember.

“Whatever it is they sent you to ask me to do—the answer is no, Exorcist,” you say, sighing briefly.

He doesn’t waste a beat before uttering a singular phrase that pauses you mid-inhale.

“A child.” He rolls his tongue against the silky walls of his inner cheek, eyeing you with a mild distaste that quickly leaves him.

“A child?” You squint at Hongjoong, your head pounding as the whispers reach the precipice of overwhelming you with their intense shift in volume. The phrases thrown at you get harder and harder to decipher, all simultaneously said and nauseatingly layered over one another. They only get louder after his uttering of that small phrase, and you fight the urge to clutch your head.

“I’ll be honest with you, Strega. I’m unsure why I’ve been dispatched to find you—and only you—but I know The Order would not have us search for you without reason. I assume you know enough about The Order to understand that the existence of an unrecorded S-class demon is alarming. The fact that it’s latched onto an exceptionally spiritually gifted child who isn’t even old enough to attend school yet is all the more strange.” Hongjoong takes a deep breath and sighs out neutrally—not harboring any particularly negative feelings toward you, approaching the task objectively.

The spirits around you whisper of the child’s gifts and whose eye he’s caught. Your own eyes widen for a moment at the information, and your cigarette snuffs out entirely in your stillness. One in particular delivers a message from a divine:

“Fate has its eye on you, Strega. It will not blink nor turn away. Whatever direction you take—you must remember this. Heed our warning, prophetess. You will be fated to die a horrible death should you cross paths with the young boy, for the weight of his gifts is too disruptive to the balance of this realm. He is unnatural.”

You applaud your ability to school your expression completely, remaining vacant despite the onslaught of ominous messages, as the spirits continue to speak:

“The child’s existence will be marked as prey to any straggling energies, big or small. Should he choose to fight to exist, he will be fighting for the rest of his predictably short life.”

Blinking slowly and turning to Hongjoong, you offer him a genuine yet morbid reply.

“Listen, as genuinely tragic as this is to say—if the kid’s already emitting energy to this caliber, this will not be the last time he will be a victim to the hand of fate. I find no joy in accepting an innocent child’s death, but the kind of life one has to live after capturing divinity’s interest is cruel. He will be possessed again and again until he can find a way to control and collect his gifts. But he is far too young—and all the more likely to lose himself completely in the haze of constant possession and returning to the self. It may be better for him to die and hope for better luck the next time his soul comes around.”

The words don’t feel… right. As you mutter them, you can feel the strange clicking and clacking from within your soul—intuition fighting against your declining his plea. Your compass is pointing you due north, straight toward a predisposed death.

But you do not fear death, not by a long shot.

You fear what comes after—knowing there are thousands, possibly millions, waiting for your soul’s arrival at either of the gates. And it won’t be pretty. However, there’s no ignoring the fact that the only reason an entity of that caliber would have slipped through the gates at all was because you chose to abandon your duty to The Order many moons ago.

Hongjoong tilts his head, as if trying to get a read on you.

“You must have faith that God is on our side—” he starts, before you interrupt him.

“Hongjoong, do you honestly believe that they—” you point upward, not referencing the ceiling “—care about all of this? They don’t. They have little to no desire to interfere with human lives and have no hand in your religions. I know this to be fact. The Order blindfolds you all into believing that.”

There’s a sudden small light that appears behind your eyes, Hongjoong notes. A magnificent, covert presence slips through the sudden cracks in your previously immaculate wall of defense and concealment—by a centimeter, but he feels it. Recognizes it. Gazes at you in shock. Every man in the room straightens their back and instantly awakens from their exhaustion, recognizing the strangeness of the presence seemingly hosted from within you.

Before anyone can react, a sudden knock on your door swivels every head in the room toward the entrance of your apartment. The spirits quiet completely, and you dread the fact that it wasn’t the mailman delivering the vintage Cesare Paciotti Lady Black high heels you’ve waited months for and expected to arrive today.

Slow and small knocks knuckle at the thick wood of your door, steadily building momentum into an unnervingly fast banging that makes the door tremble under its force.

The ornate sigil you etched onto your door years ago begins to burn a bright orange—and you widen your eyes at Hongjoong.

“Stay back, all of you. Stay behind the pillars—whatever is at the door isn’t something to be taken lightly.” Sigils began to appear on the pillars, the sounds of small sizzles indicating their sudden burning onto their surfaces as they glowed a deep maroon.

Hongjoong shakes his head, keeping his voice methodical and low, calm yet firm. “Strega, I don’t doubt the strength of your abilities, but I do not know your abilities. Seonghwa—” he calls to a strikingly cold beauty. Seonghwa immediately moves forward and reaches a hand toward the back of his neck, clenching his fist—and to your amazement, a sword is pulled from the base of his spine. The air grows cold as Seonghwa mumbles an ornate prayer in Latin.

Everyone else falls into the muscle memory of their formation as elements fill the air—electricity sparking from the tips of Yunho’s hair as he stands upright, flanking Hongjoong’s left, while a fair-skinned, fairy-like boy with a heart-shaped birthmark near his left eye places his palms onto the floor.

Your expression stiffens at the onslaught of energy surrounding you, an ominous feeling drifting through the air, almost foreboding. They were strong, yes—unquestionably so—but you could hear how the spirits expected their untimely deaths should they intervene. They were rarely wrong.

“Stay back, exorcists. I do not doubt the magnitude of your strength and abilities—but this is something you have never encountered.”

The spirits are screaming—some of the ancestral guides that accompanied the priests, unbeknownst to them, are pleading to you:

‘Do not allow them to interact with the being behind that door. They are not meant to die here—it isn’t their time. Please protect our boy.’ One motions to the man with bangs falling into his asymmetrical eyes, hair kissing the nape of his neck, with a distinct mole on his face. He donned feline features with an irrational fire already burning behind his eyes, tightening his fists as if readying his rage for the fight—he seemed the least priest-like of the group, and you fleetingly wonder what led him down the thorny path.

“Forgive me for this, but when I tell you to close your eyes and kneel, you must do so,” you instruct. Immediately, a pearlescent light raises and widens itself from the ground toward the ceiling, creating a makeshift wall behind the pillars.

The mahogany wood of your door begins to splinter as the slams against it intensify, and you can feel a rabid desperation radiating from just beyond the other side of the wall. Inhaling deeply, you roll the sleeves of your thin turtleneck up to reveal an innumerable amount of scarring on the entirety of the skin stretching across your forearms—above what looks to be a complicated series of tattooed and scarred sigils. You quickly throw off your gloves to reveal sigils scarred grotesquely onto your palms and two large ones tattooed at the base of your forearms.

Just as the door breaks away from its hinges—the protective sigil on the remaining base of the wood fizzles out after its fight to give you enough time. You run to grab a kitchen knife and proceed to stab it into your skin abruptly enough to draw blood, turning it slightly to create a small but elongated gash.

The priests watch in horror as the act seems to bring forth the presence originally merely sleeping within you—an overwhelming power permeates the room, its force mentally disorienting enough to make them want to claw at their skin. They are left confused as to why they’re scrambling to cover their ears despite not hearing anything but the sound of the door falling onto the floor.

Once you’ve awakened him, you quickly pull a protective mental wall over his presence from within you—the boys are keeled and hunched on the floor, trying to catch their unstable breaths at the sudden calm.

When they look up, they are greeted with nothing. That is the first dangerous sign. This is an entity that doesn’t need a physical body to cause this amount of damage. But the presence of a shadow slinking its way over the rubble of the door, leaking with an unpleasant aroma and miasma, appears. You stare at the beast’s true form—the form the boys don’t have the ability to see with their naked eyes, only a sliver of the shadow it casts visible to them.

It is grotesque, to say the least—an array of human limbs ripped from their bodies waves from where they are oddly placed on its centipede-like form. You can hear the faint screaming of its victims fall through its mouth as it wheezes, mimicking its most recent victim to disorient any of those who can hear it. Limbs limp while its body drags itself toward you and the others you stand in front of. You hear a faint gasp—the blind priest, San, stares straight at the anomaly in front of you. The pale blue of his eyes moves in their sockets quickly, seeing in ways that do not require sight. You could end this quickly, of course, but that would only leave you with questions. The spirits in the room exclaim in confusion and horror, while others remain quiet—recognizing the abomination making its way toward you.

A palpable contempt fills your body and you recognize the source of the rising emotion stems from your guardian’s disgust for ‘lower’ life forms—your guardian’s predisposition means there’s no avoiding his superiority complex. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh. You’ll just have to talk to the horrified spirits later. While they may be dead, they flutter about the earth due to their loyalties to their attachments, and can, in turn, still feel many things. You didn’t understand how people believed in Gods but didn’t acknowledge how divine human connections truly are—it is, in fact, the only thing that truly protects us while we’re in the world of the living.

The abomination speaks—no, groans in that unsettling mimicry of agony as it addresses you.

“I bear this burden for the coming of our King—I crawled to this atrocious land with orders to kill the small fry behind you, witch. Your sigils will do nothing and I will grant you a quick death rather than what my nature has the inclination to do,” referring to the torn limbs attached to its body.

You smile lightly as a small light begins to dazzle behind your eyelids, nostalgic to the familiarity of hosting your guardian within your body—awakening him to an unsavory sight. You laugh a bit at the annoyed tone he greets you with.

‘Stupid girl, I thought you wanted peace?’

“Well, yes—and I still do. A couple of exorcists from The Order came and… well, you’ll know the moment you’re fully awake. It’s in your nature to know things after all, Raziel.” You utter softly, a strange breeze pushing some strands of your hair forward. “—but we’ll talk later. I simply wanted to wake you up so that we’d have the chance to figure—” you wave an arm toward the odd-looking demonic centipede “—this out.”

‘No, you simply had the audacity to wake me up to something so ugly, but I digress. For now.’

The priests are curling their bodies to the floor once more—groaning at the overwhelming pressure invading the living room. You hear the youngest priest scream, “For fuck’s sake, what’s going on?!” in anguished confusion. You pitifully eye them and suck in a guilty breath as blood begins to drip from their ear canals, probably caused by the fact that they’re in the presence of Raziel’s unfiltered voice—though they cannot hear him.

Immediately choosing to focus on the task at hand so that you don’t accidentally contribute to the unnecessary murders of what you’ve just seen to be the most gifted exorcists of the modern world to date, you place your efforts into drawing blood from a specific sigil.

The creature sends a horrendous screech your way, taking the form of a cacophony of layered voices accompanied by a strange wailing that has the same effect as banging metal pots against each other.

“You—” it squirms. “Why is a divine host here?!—”

“Close your eyes now! For the love of God, don’t open them until I tell you to.” You quickly bellow at the men, and despite how heavy their limbs feel, they find it in themselves to tightly shut their eyes and press their palms against their faces for extra coverage. Immediately, their stomachs begin to churn, and Hongjoong thinks he faintly hears Mingi vomiting somewhere behind him—even through the harsh ringing threatening to burst their eardrums. Hongjoong grits his teeth and pushes to yell out to his team, “Turn away and keep your eyes closed no matter what!”

A blinding white light fills the entirety of the apartment, almost as clear in its brightness to him as staring straight at a light fixture would be despite his greatest efforts. He hears the unsavory sounds of the creature gurgling and cursing in different languages, uttering one final phrase that makes his blood run cold before the air goes still once more.

‘Cursed angels.’

“…You can open your eyes now,” you mumble cautiously. San moves his palms away from his eyes but cradles his head shakily. “That was the strongest energy I’ve ever sensed before.”

Hongjoong crawls over to him in concern, looking at you before explaining slowly, “San is only ‘blind’ in the physical realm—though he cannot see with his eyes, he is able to ‘see’ everything as… energy of sorts. His and our concepts of witnessing life are vastly different—even though he tried his best to ‘close his eyes.’ He probably felt whatever that was astronomically more than the rest of us. I suppose it makes more sense to say that his sight is derived directly from his third eye at all times. That’s his gift.”

He holds San by his shoulder, meaning to comfort him without overwhelming. Wooyoung lays flat on his back, arms cradling his stomach. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

Mingi begrudgingly mumbles, “Guess I beat you to it.”

The rest of the men aren’t in any better condition—most trying to regulate their nervous systems, some leaning against each other, and others cradling the walls or pillars.

Seonghwa still maintains his cold and calculating expression before turning to gaze deeply into your irises, as if searching for a semblance of an answer himself but frustratingly not coming to any conclusion. “Strega, I believe we deserve some sort of explanation about what just happened.”

You hold his stare before turning to pull a chair to sit before them all with a sigh. “You may have heard him refer to me as a ‘divine host,’ correct? Though your senses may have been too occupied.”

Raziel’s voice flows into your consciousness as if he were an extension of your very own thoughts.

‘Fate doesn’t seem to like you at all, child. Even I feel a sort of pity for you. Will you bear the burden of telling them the blood-stained truth?’

You squint your eyes and glare at the air in front of you, wanting to reply but opting not to. God, this isn’t fair.

Why did it always have to be you? Responsibilities that you’ve never asked for always come crashing in—the constant whiplash, emotional weariness, the scars you have to inflict on yourself and endure in order to hold dangers at bay. At the end of the day, one thing remains true: it always had to be taken care of by you.

Everyone remains silent, signaling you to continue.

“If I were to explain everything to you in intense detail, it would reshape the entirety of what you currently know of the world and of your gifts—understand that what you hear is likely to throw you into a corrosive pit of despair and hatred, however pure your intentions are. It may not be your time to understand, but I cannot move forward in this conversation without unveiling a horrid truth. All else will have to wait, since the rest will take an immense amount of time to relay—and the education I was given had taken years to learn.”

You see Jongho straighten up, immediately wanting to hurl questions your way, and you don’t blame him. But he halts immediately when Yunho holds a hand up and shakes his head at him.

“Not now, Jong. Let her speak, and we’ll ask questions later.”

You take a deep breath before continuing, clamping your trembling fingers in an attempt to keep still. You needed to steel yourself completely if you were going to be the one to reveal their reality, and your heart squeezed as you gazed at them. You didn’t know them at all, but you knew this—the men they came as today will not be the ones who leave your apartment. You… you’re the one who will steal the last of their remaining innocence. You mask your nausea with an unreadable expression.

“Now tell me, boys, heed my warnings—as our entwined tales reek of blood and iron. Do you still wish to know? How far will you go to save this child, who you may see as a reflection of yourself, after knowing what I wish to tell you? He is unnatural, yes—but so are we. The extent of The Order’s ambition is bloody and heavy in their pursuit of fighting against an inevitable apocalypse. Contrary to popular belief, while we were born of a god's creation, he has grown an animosity toward our existence.

The only reason the human race still exists is because we are a means of entertainment for those up high—we are God’s favorite gamble, and so he neither aids us nor eradicates us, to see what ending we eventually fall to. His interest lies in seeing how long we can fight for our very existence. The Earth is his colosseum, and we are his gladiators.

The Order knows that we cannot fight as ordinary humans or with mere divinations and lukewarm abilities. The only way we can fight monsters is by creating them—becoming them. I can’t say that I don’t see the point in what they do, however, they too have fallen to god complexes—choosing who lives and dies.

Tell me now, do you still wish to know?”

A part of you wishes they’d say no or ask for more time, but you know this would not be the case. And so yet again, you simply wait.

An uneasy silence pervades the room. Even the spirits listen with bated breath and sympathy for what’s to come—the ancestors accompanying the men in secret shake their heads fervently, knowing the despair that will follow the unforgiving truth. You glance at them briefly in subtle apology, but it wasn’t their choice to make.

The men feel their stomachs churn, intuitively knowing that whatever you’d tell them will twist their fates entirely. Glances are thrown across the room toward each other, trying to reach a consensus in the choked-up silence.

Hongjoong is the first to speak. There’s a strain to his voice you don’t fail to hear.

“I’m afraid, Strega.” His eyes were unbearably clear and strong. He did nothing to hide his emotions, and somehow that made him the strongest in the room.

“But I know in my heart that the truth exists whether or not we acknowledge it. As exorcists, we must bear the burden of facing the secret and omnipresent horrors of this world. It is both our blessing and our curse.”

As if his words brought strength to his team, they looked at their leader and found the resolve to agree. You feel yourself choke on the words that leave you. Revisiting this old ache yourself didn’t make this any easier.

“I will not lie to you. The cruel reality of what The Order is built upon will likely rip at your loyalties. I know what it’s like—I, too, saw family in the High Priests. The utter care with which they attempt to nurture us, almost as payment for what they themselves have taken away from us as children without our knowing.

To foster us in ignorance for the sake of a better world, but we didn’t choose this. In many ways, they are no better than the god that holds us as if we were pairs of dice. Understand that the child is in the same position as we were—in terms of falling victim to the greater forces wanting to play with our lives—and that if any one of you were to leave your positions, another child would have to replace you.”

The facade of calm on your face begins to crumble, and Seonghwa’s own expression grows uneasy at the sight, suddenly unsure if he wants to hear this any longer, but says nothing for the sake of the others powering through their fear.

“I’m unsure why The Order sent you all to me—what you just witnessed is under strict confidentiality, and my existence isn’t supposed to be known by most, with the exception of the council of High Priests. I was trained, educated, and raised alone—unlike you and the other exorcists of your clergy.

They molded me into the perfect militant dog that would unquestionably work itself into exhaustion because of the devotion I held for them, as they were the only humans I had the chance to interact with after my brief childhood.

It’s easy to say that my attachment to my… role was unhealthy, but it all changed when I came across a strange book. I’m unsure how I came across it, really, but depending on who sent you—I can finally unveil who tried their best to expose the truth of my existence to me. I suspect that they sent you here in secret to expose the truth to you all, as they did for me.

Maybe it’s so that whatever decision you all make moving forward is an informed one—so that you have a choice, no matter what consequences and sacrifices you face.”

You’re shaking now, moving your arms to embrace yourself, and feel yourself drift far into the dark abyss of your memories.

Raziel speaks quickly.

‘Breathe, child. You are strong—remember this.’

Nodding, you continue to push through.

“Since childhood, I have acted as both a portal and defender of the gates to the ‘other world’ up until I left the Order. Whatever you exorcised, I ensured it remained locked away. Demons, spirits—anything you exorcised would have had to pass through my body in order to return to whatever realm it came from.

It’s not to say that exorcisms wouldn’t be possible without a person to act as a vessel or have my ability, but this process made it immensely easier. It was the best way to ensure the spirit was fully returned. Though lower-class demons tend to perish during exorcisms, this isn’t often the case with higher classes.

My role was similar to the Ferryman who steered the skiff and carried souls to the underworld in Greek myths. The skiff—meaning small boat—is my body. Yes, the souls could swim and take the journey back home themselves if the exorcism was well-performed and fully severed any trace of their existence from our realm. But the time it’d take for them to reach their destination could muddle the process if I weren’t there.

It also comes with the risk of the entity psychically attaching to something else if the veil is thin enough, especially for stronger ones. This leads us to the next part. Are you still with me?”

The fairy-like boy, Yeosang, looks at you with pale wonder. “How is that even possible?”

Smiling sadly, you utter, “…For a multitude of reasons, but I still don’t fully understand it either.”

San stares at you with pale eyes—the closest mimicry of the colors that washed across the expanse of the Aegean Sea you’ve ever seen. His abilities, though the weakest in terms of offense, were still in some ways the most dangerous depending on how he utilized them—all the more so if paired with a strategic mind.

“Strega, what is it that you host inside of you?”

Softly, his words carry the weight of a premonition, and you feel the shifting tides of the conversation to come. For now—this is the last and the hardest stretch of the race. The choice is here, and you were the one to deliver the fatal blow.

“I would need to explain how exorcists are truly made before I can tell you that—and this will not be easy for me to relay to you, so please understand that this fate was also mine.”

Yunho catches the detailing of your words, his eyebrows curling together in confusion. “What do you mean by made?”

At this point, you’ve bitten the skin of your lip raw. You notice how Wooyoung’s eyes widen in fear, a strange emotion of denial dawning on his face, but you don’t have it in you to acknowledge it just yet without pulling through the task.

Swallowing hard, you exhale before continuing.

“Exorcists aren’t born with their abilities. The process of choosing which child is a candidate for being initiated into The Order starts with a psychic gift—those who show potential and natural skill.

In order for an exorcist to be made, a ritual of mass sacrifice must be conducted by the council of High Priests—but it comes at a hefty price, Yunho. It wasn’t coincidence that you all became orphans, nor was it fate—”

As their expressions slowly distort into ones of anxious confusion, your breathing grows heavy with grief.

“—S-special children who exhibit psychic prowess are… selected by The Order—and they are able to be located by an individual who bears a gift they call ‘The Eye.’ It’s a divinatory ability, able to foresee and locate the gifted by the brightness of their energies, and it manifests once in each generation as its role is meant to be passed down.

The Eye is capable of seeing things from a bird's-eye view. The expanse of its ability can be frightening once sharpened into its full potential. It can track anything that has a heat signature, energy, sound—it’s also accompanied by a certain clairvoyance due to the exorcist’s sharpened senses with the lack of sight in the physical realm.

They have the makings to be deadly trackers. The Order most likely would’ve recruited San for this role once his predecessor passed away.”

San’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“W-wait, are you saying that I have that same ability? Strega, just because I’m a blind man doesn’t mean that I—”

“San, I can’t fully confirm nor deny the nature of your gifts because I am not you. But based on what Hongjoong explained—it sounds to me that The Order has yet to inform you of your impending future. The true extent of your abilities will only be revealed once your predecessor passes away and you inherit the entirety of the gift. The Order also keeps the existence of The Eye concealed.”

There’s apparent shock in his features, and you pity the boy when you think about how confused he must have been, navigating his gifts alone. The training for an exorcist is usually catered to more offense-based abilities and maneuvering physical defenses, but that wasn’t the most suited for long-distance and strategy-based gifts.

Fuck. This is going to be so hard to say.

You harden yourself as an old anger begins to rise from its depths within you, telling yourself, This is the last stretch, Y/N, just fucking do it.

“—However, The Order does not tell anyone what truly happens once a child is located.

Do you know what separates us from the other gifted? Have you ever questioned why only a select few are recruited by The Order, despite the fact that we need as much manpower as we can possibly get, as the amount of demons running rampant on Earth continues to grow?

It’s because many are spiritually gifted, but none of us are inherently born with abilities that manifest the way ours do. Even we weren’t originally born with the predisposition to manifest what we do now—only with the potential to have a greater gift form if the perfect conditions were to take place. In order for an exorcist to be created, we pay the price in blood.

The ritual calls for the sacrifice of one’s closest living relatives—the direct lineage must be eradicated so that the subject can fulfill the requirement of being the final bearer of its ancestors' blood. Our families were killed for the sake of inheriting these abilities. Those who are sacrificed don’t extend to distant relatives—but first cousins, grandmothers, grandfathers, siblings, aunts, uncles, mothers, and fathers? This is the disgusting and bloody reality of what we are. But The Order is cunning and methodical. There are exorcists hidden in the ranks with the ability to cause natural deaths for most of the family, but they never told you this, did they? But our mothers, fathers, siblings?—their blood is needed at the altar. I’m sure I don’t need to go into more detail.”

You grit your teeth. You hear Wooyoung's shaky sobbing and see Mingi crawling toward him to seek comfort as he shakes his head in horror. Seonghwa covers his mouth and runs toward the kitchen sink—bile rising as the entirety of his body shakes and empties itself. Hongjoong, however, is frighteningly still.

Knowing they could still hear you, you continue on. You can’t afford to stop now, else you’d break permanently.

“—But just why do you think such a horrific ritual has to be done in order for an exorcist to exist? This ritual, in particular, is meant to summon and imprison a demon within a gifted child's body and soul so they could foster its abilities. Think of it as if the demon were a power circuit, an outlet—you exorcists are the plugs pushed into the circuit to derive power from it. But the qualities of your body and spirit make it so that the exchange can happen. The Order tries to find us as young as possible so we’re trained and sharpened enough to fight as soon as we can, and because development is crucial to the process of fully integrating into its powers.

The demons you inherit, however, must choose you. Well—maybe saying the demon has a choice isn’t the right term—it’s dependent on what demon is specifically drawn in by your psychic energy before it’s trapped in the ritualistic circle. Since it’s a high-cost ritual, it often attracts higher-class demons. And since we were born with an immense amount of spiritual energy, it’s hard for them to resist the bait. Inside of you all, right now, at this very moment, is an unconscious demon—only to be released from you and awakened with your death.”

All sorts of emotions fill the room: existential crisis, anger, hatred, grief, denial, confusion, and profound betrayal. The adrenaline pulsing through your veins shows in your dilated pupils and the fast movement of your right leg—a repetitive thump, thump, thump reverberating through the room. Words continue to spill from your mouth.

“It’s rare for exorcists of different generations to have the same abilities as another. The one anomaly is The Eye, as it’s an ability that can be passed on and inherited without any blood ties—though I’m unsure why. It could either mean that there’s a possibility The Eye is a demon that means to assist mankind’s fight for survival, or that The Eye’s source is not a demon at all. Which would make it the only case in which this happened—other than my own.”

Seonghwa clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into the thick of his palms, and his blood drips onto your hardwood floor. The room is deathly quiet following your explanation. His eyes and tone are grim, his entire body tense. He asks a question he fears he knows the answer to.

“Strega, what happens if we try to leave?”

Pure anguish falls onto your features and you don’t hesitate to reply.

“Then they will try to find another child to replace your vacancy, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa turns to bang his head and fist onto a nearby wall, squeezing a sob out of his throat in an attempt to stifle an incoming wail. Some of the others shut their eyes in despair, turning away from the sight of the typically reserved Seonghwa. They find themselves crushed into a tight space with a clear way out—but not without a hefty cost in exchange for freedom from the corruption at hand.

Hongjoong calmly rises from his seat on the floor to stretch his legs. “Why does it have to be another child?”

“The other exorcists of your clergy—they’re bound to The Order by sheer faith. They’re regular priests with a decent amount of spiritual energy who are dispatched to take care of lower-class entities. Through prayers and invocations, they’re able to exorcise with faith. However, those born with the amount of spiritual energy you’ve all had since birth is exceptionally rare. Typically, there are significantly fewer of you—but this generation has been ‘blessed’ with eight successful vessels. Your true denominations are referred to as ‘Infernal Hosts.’

Hongjoong, the eight of you are the only ones in this world who fall under this category—”

Every face in the room grows pale and cold, recognizing the unfathomable truth and gravity of the situation at hand. They were trapped unless they decided to trade places with a child—and therefore would contribute to another lineage’s annihilation.

“—This is why the child poses a threat to The Order and the worlds beyond the veil. And depending on what path this child takes—should he remain alive, the tides of this ongoing battle of survival could completely turn. The spirits told me... t-they told me that the child was born with the greatest amount of spiritual energy seen in the last few centuries. Even more than you and I, Hongjoong. The Order says they want us to save the child from possession, but they intend to do to him what they’d done to us.

This is also not done without running the risk of him attracting something concerningly powerful, and therefore, becoming too powerful—but should the demon overtake or manipulate him… it’s likely that humanity will greet the dawn of its ending.

The one beneficial factor at hand is that The Eye hasn’t been able to locate any living relatives—most of them have passed away and he was orphaned shortly after his birth due to his own circumstances. The Order needs ancestral blood for the ritual, so they’re scrambling to research an alternative. And this buys him time. Time to either die or find another way out—somehow, some way.” His eyes are unreadable and not nearly as clear as they were earlier.

“You said that there are only eight Infernal Hosts in this world currently. Where is your place in this equation? Why have you suffered the same fate as us? How did you get away from The Order?” he asks. Eyes widen around the room in realization, forgetting that you’d left the association five years ago—when you were freshly twenty-two years old. They quickly turn their heads to gaze at you warily. Even Seonghwa turns from his position on the wall to gaze at you with unabashed judgment.

Raziel chuckles a bit.

‘This one’s discreetly a bitch. Careful— I have a feeling the demon he hosts has something to do with his speech. You’ve probably noticed by now that his spiritual energy is also off the fucking charts. Just an inkling, but keep that in mind.’

“That’s because I’m not an Infernal Host.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay, and?” Eyes around the room bounce back and forth between you two frustratedly.

You roll your eyes at him but are partially relieved that you don’t have to deliver any more painful news.

“I’m referred to as the Divine Host. I don’t know how it happened, so don’t ask—all I know is that during the ritual, I ended up attracting something completely different than they originally planned.”

“Which is?” they ask in unison.

You sigh shakily before confessing the information for the first time in your life outside of The Order.

“An Archangel. I attracted an Archangel.” The room goes still as they try to process the fact that there's an Archangel resting inside of you—which also means it is right there in the room with them… and they all apparently housed demons within themselves.

“This is why The Order couldn’t find a replacement for me and why they didn’t want to risk defying my choice. Raziel’s mere presence, as you’ve noticed, is absolutely frightening—and both psychologically and physically horrendous for anyone with enough spiritual energy to sense him within several kilometers. Paired with the fact that I’m regularly in communication with him? They didn’t know what would happen if they opposed my leaving. There are other factors, but let’s leave that for another day.”

“—And no, he has no desire to attack you. Not yet, at least,” you say, and pique their interest.

“How do you know that?” Yeosang presses, his eyes brightening a bit despite the melancholy draping his body language, elbows resting on the knees of his wide-spread legs, hands locked together as he gazes upward at your figure.

“Because I can hear him whenever he’s awake. He’s usually in a resting state but can be awoken by the drawing of my blood above the skin that bears his mark. Before I became a vessel, I had an affinity for clairaudience and spirit communication—so I suppose that might be the reason why I can speak with him candidly, but Raziel won’t tell me any specifics. I speak to many spirits to pass the time, and in return, spirits also tell me many things. Which is where I got the information about the child.”

San pipes up slowly. “Raziel… he sounds familiar. Is he one of the Archangels listed in the Torah?” His voice is soft and asks more questions to distract himself from the gravity that weighs heavily on him.

You lightly smile at him before agreeing. “Yeah, he’s also mentioned in some Kabbalistic texts—but we can talk more about Raziel later.” Expression dimming slowly as you accept the calling of your fate.

“I will help retrieve the child from the clutches of whatever is attaching itself to him, but I will not return him to The Order.”

Hongjoong knowingly smiles, almost as if he were waiting for you at the finish line, and you arrived exactly where he expected you to. The multiple thick silver hoop earrings hit against each other as he shakes his head a bit.

Seonghwa eyes you with confusion, brushing his long dark hair back with bony fingers. “What do you mean you won’t return him to The Order?”

Resolutely, you gaze at them all. Smiling as you sign your life away, name on the dotted line—

“I won’t return him to The Order, because I will take on the role of his Guardian. If anyone could hide his presence, it’d be Raziel.”

The man himself is quick to interject.

‘I don’t care for your affairs, nor do I care for your stupid little apocalypse, child. I’ve been waiting for mankind to die out. It took way too long.’

You scrunch your brows together, replying to him out loud now that everyone knows about his existence.

“I’d beg to differ. I think you do care about my affairs because it’s fun and you’re unbearably nosy. Not to mention the fact that you clearly made the brilliant decision of willingly inhabiting me because of your distaste for your own kind to begin with, you old buffoon. This is practically a visa marriage. Anyways—think about what mysteries this may hold, will you?”

Jongho’s jaw drops at your rudeness after realizing that you were having some sort of telepathic conversation with the Archangel.

Raziel ponders and momentarily considers calling down a lightning bolt to eradicate you, but it is in his nature to cave to his curiosities.

‘The one thing you will surely die with is the audacity.’ He scoffs and goes silent. You smile because that means yes.

“I don’t want to watch everyone else play God anymore. If the world burns, so be it—if the child lives and disrupts the balance, so be it. He deserves the choice to exist or disappear when the time comes—but until then, I won’t let The Order make it for him. Nothing will succeed in touching a single hair on his body.

We have to stop this because we’re the only ones who truly can. Our true goal is to protect the innocent.”

Hongjoong extends a hand to grasp your own, layering his palm over the back of your hand as a sign of camaraderie.

You’re unsure if the reason you’re so compelled to die for the cause is to find retribution or release yourself from the guilt of ignoring the responsibility that accompanies one blessed with power. Maybe a part of you also wants to take part in the great cosmic gamble. The rest of the men slowly rise and stand tall, leaning over to meet your palms in the middle of the forming circle. All in favor of the task, deciding in silent unison that your shared horrors could only be ameliorated and forgiven by preventing it from happening again.

It’s all or nothing.

Wooyoung speaks for the first time, a palpable darkness twisting in his eyes—an old rage swimming at the surface of his reflection. His gaze flickers and burns hot as he stares at the stack of palms lining his point of vision. His voice is tense as he utters the joining phrase—

“We who are forged from Iron and Blood. May our blades strike upon those who have dared to touch our earthly makers. We pay the price—blood in exchange for innocence. Ancestors, please watch as we avenge your faultless souls and make right the unintentional sins of our youth.”

Meeting your eyes with exhilaration, Hongjoong’s lips fold into a toothy half-smile. The sharpness of his teeth makes something inside of you shiver.

“Welcome to the team, Strega. Let’s have a fun time dying.”

Let’s have a fun time, indeed.

ahh i hope you all enjoyed the first chapter and that it hopefully made sense. please like, reblog, or leave comments to let me know what you thought about it! <3

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calliesmemes · 8 months ago

Text

YET ANOTHER ROUNDUP OF ASOLUTELY UNHINGED COMEDIC RELIEF

ASSORTED SENTENCE STARTERS FROM AROUND THE INTERNET, including quotes from Tumblr, Pinterest, TikTok, and X (formerly known as Twitter), for when a muse wants to be a bit silly <333

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

❛ I am not merely a clown; I’m the entire damn circus! ❜

❛ I will bite you if you continue this behavior. ❜

❛ Being a dramatic ass bitch isn’t a personality trait; it’s a lifestyle! ❜

❛ Trauma? Oh … you mean, my lore? ❜

❛ why must I cite sources? is it not enough to just say ‘trust me, bro’? ❜

❛ sorry for being a perfect sweetie and a genius it will likely happen again. ❜

❛ forget about touching grass; I need to touch WATER I NEED TO GO INTO THE OCEAN I NEED TO DIVE INTO THE SEA!!! ❜

❛ I’m attracted to men with muppet energy and no i will not be explaining. ❜

❛ you want me to make friends with people? the thing that killed julius caesar? ❜

❛ what’s your birthstone? mine is rock bottom. ❜

❛ I absolutely hate that I’m not bioluminescent. Pathetic. ❜

❛ ohhhhh my god i have got to stop mourning the past or whatever. ❜

❛ you expect me to act like a normal human being? I’m wearing a turtleneck! ❜

❛ i don’t struggle with same sex attraction I’m actually very good at it. ❜

❛ unfortunately i often find out without even getting the chance to fuck around. ❜

❛ I’m bisexual which means that I’m attracted to anybody who can defeat me in physical combat. ❜

❛ all anyone needs to know about me is that i’m a dumbass and i love women. ❜

❛ sorry but philosophers aren’t impressive i came up with stuff like that when i was 12. ❜

❛ I pay my own bills; I can cuss all I want! ❜

❛ I don’t have rizz; I have sad eyes and a weird presence. ❜

❛ my demons are chasing me and they’re doing the Naruto run. ❜

❛ honey we are ALL doomed by the narrative. it's not that serious. have some fun with it. ❜

❛ dating me is like interviewing a psych ward patient. ❜

❛ being a girl with very large brown eyes comes with great responsibility. ❜

❛ i’m autistic in ways that you can’t even begin to imagine. ❜

❛ being a loser may be a phase to you but its a lifestyle for me. ❜

❛ entering a magical portal in the woods would fix me. ❜

❛ I’m lonely but not in a hot mysterious way; more like in a pathetic way. ❜

❛ life is so unserious just say womp womp and move on! ❜

❛ you’re vibing? In this economy? ❜

❛ just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass. ❜

❛ my primary motivators are fear, spite, and aesthetic longing. ❜

❛ sorry about the chaos; I needed attention. ❜

❛ WHAT IS UP GIRL you look foreboding and malicious! ❜

❛ baby i can be your problematic bi wife. ❜

❛ i don’t think any of you understand how important i am to the plot. ❜

❛ what if we are both red flags? what then? ❜

❛ any dream can be a prophetic dream if you’re willing to do some really weird shit. ❜

❛ my hobbies include being right, being gay, and being a hater. ❜

❛ i have a phd in Loving The Color Pink And Also Glitter. ❜

❛ being a menace to society is a full time job and I am dedicated. ❜

❛ my life has been a bouquet of oopsie daisies. ❜

❛ i survive on spite, anxiety, and blasphemy. ❜

❛ if you’re not obsessed with me, why would I wanna be with you? ❜

❛ the hottest thing a man can be is a little afraid of me. ❜

❛ my love language is being a hater. ❜

❛ i don’t get enough credit for acting far less insane than i actually am. ❜

❛ the A in my name stands for always right. ❜

❛ Jesus is my homeboy but God has a lot to answer for and I will continue to be rebellious until he does so. ❜

❛ I’ll see a man with long hair and then remember that I’m not above temptations of the flesh. ❜

❛ i’m going to be honest with you I’m not going to be honest with you. ❜

❛ stop asking me if I’m ok I’ll literally make out with you. ❜

❛ part of my masculine charm is that I’m literally insane. ❜

❛ are you sure those are demons bro? or are they consequences from the choices you made? ❜

❛ i do not identify as a boy or a girl. i identify as a nuisance, an irritant, a fool, and a problem. ❜

❛ praying on someone’s downfall isn’t enough i need to participate in it. ❜

❛ we all need to chill. i won’t do it first but it’s something i noticed. ❜

❛ not to sound like a Victorian woman suffering from hysteria but going to the sea would fix me. ❜

❛ the silly goose convention called; they asked if you could be their keynote speaker. ❜

❛ i deserve unrestricted access to old castles and old churches i want to know all the secrets. ❜

❛ doesn’t matter if you’re cringe or based we’re all just here to suffer. ❜

❛ I’m no longer comedic relief I’m now serious panic. ❜

❛ this is getting difficult to romanticize. ❜

❛ done healing my inner child. next up is my inner teen. her highness needs a sword. ❜

❛ i am God’s silliest experiment. ❜

❛ i’m very vulnerable right now if anyone wants to take advantage of me. ❜

❛ sorry i overshared do you still think im hot? ❜

❛ I can yap for days and still maintain my air of mystery. ❜

❛ good luck sending me mixed signals; I don’t even understand normal ones. ❜

❛ not all of your life decisions have to be smart. some can be purely for cinematic value. ❜

#askbox meme #askbox prompt #rp ask meme #ask box #roleplay sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay prompts #roleplay sentence starters #* sentence meme #rpc help

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deliciousangelfestival · 1 year ago

Text

The Lady - 1

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Eddie Horniman x Female Reader

Summary: After fifteen years away, a step-daughter returns for her Duke step-father's funeral, only to inherit a staggering 8 million pound debt and strike a risky deal with a criminal underworld figure.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3 , Chap 4 , Chap 5 , Chap 6 , Chap 7.

Your ongoing support means the world to me! Reblogs are a fantastic way to help spread the word about my work. I'll do my best to reply to all your comments. Thank you for your continued encouragement!

In the heart of the military training ground, you, a seasoned Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) technician, stand poised amidst a group of nervous soldiers. Among them is Private Jameson, a newcomer with trembling hands and apprehensive eyes. With unwavering composure, you take charge, your voice steady as you address the group.

"Today, we're covering the basics of bomb disposal," you begin, your tone reassuring yet firm. Turning to Private Jameson, you offer a patient smile.

"You, Private. What's your name?" Despite his nervousness, Private Jameson responds, and you guide him with a calming presence, instilling confidence as you impart your expertise.

"Jameson, take a deep breath," you instruct softly but firmly. "Remember, focus is key. You've got this." Private Jameson nods, his eyes locked on your reassuring gaze.

As he examines the device, you watch attentively, offering guidance with each movement. When he finishes, you nod approvingly. "Well done, Private. Now, let's move on."

As Private Jameson continues under your guidance, the other soldiers watch with admiration. They've seen you in action before, witnessed your dedication to the mission and your willingness to put yourself in harm's way for the greater good.

"Ma'am, what if the situation calls for immediate action?" Private Reynolds interjects, reflecting the group's curiosity.

You acknowledge the gravity of the question. "In a real-world scenario, there may not be time for thorough examination," you explain calmly. "Trust your instincts and make split-second decisions."

Private Jameson glances at you, newfound respect shining in his eyes. "But you always seem so calm under pressure, ma'am," he remarks admiringly.

You smile humbly, reflecting on the countless moments of uncertainty you've faced. "It's not about being fearless, Private," you reply earnestly. "It's about pushing through fear for those counting on you."

Your words hang in the air, a silent reminder of the sacrifices made by soldiers like you every day. With renewed determination, Private Jameson nods, his resolve strengthened by your example.

As the door of the training facility echoed with a sharp knock, you exchanged a puzzled glance with your comrades. The abrupt interruption stirred a sense of unease within you, a foreboding whisper of uncertainty.

"A lawyer wants to see you," the soldier at the door announced, his voice tinged with urgency.

You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Me?" you repeated, your mind racing to grasp the sudden turn of events. "Hmm, he sounds British," you mused aloud, your instincts sharpened by years of training.

With measured steps, you followed your comrade through the maze of corridors until you reached the visitor's area. There, standing before you, was a figure from your past, a familiar face veiled in the somber cloak of time.

"Miss," the lawyer greeted you with a solemn nod, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths.

Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized him, the memories flooding back like an unstoppable tide. It had been fifteen years since you last saw him, a lifetime of distance and estrangement separating you.

"I assumed something bad happened?" you ventured cautiously, your tone laced with concern and apprehension.

The lawyer, Cedric, nodded gravely, his expression betraying the gravity of the news he bore.

You and Cedric found a quiet place to talk. "Something's wrong?" you inquired, noting the somber expression on Cedric's face as he adjusted his glasses.

Cedric remained silent momentarily, his gaze fixed on the ground before meeting your eyes. "Duke Rupert died two days ago," he finally uttered, his voice laden with gravity.

Your heart clenched at the news. Duke Rupert was your stepfather, and the thought of his passing filled you with a mix of sorrow and apprehension.

Cedric continued, his words weighed down by the weight of the news. "On his will, he wrote that he wants all the family to gather. I came here as soon as I could. And you could attend the funeral too. He probably wants it too."

You nodded, absorbing the information with a heavy heart. The sudden loss of Duke Rupert had thrown your world into disarray, and the prospect of gathering with the family only added to the uncertainty swirling within you.

Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself, determined to face whatever lay ahead with strength

You nodded in response to Cedric's words, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. "I'll gather my things," you said quietly, steeling yourself for the task ahead.

As you packed your belongings into your bag, Private Jameson approached you, his curiosity evident in his voice. "So, it turns out you're a noble," he remarked, his tone tinged with surprise.

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head in response. "I'm not. It was my step-dad. There's no noble blood in me," you explained, a hint of self-deprecation in your voice.

Jameson furrowed his brow, his curiosity piqued. "We've been working together for years, but you never mentioned anything about this," he observed, his tone filled with genuine interest.

You zipped up your bag, pausing momentarily before meeting Jameson's gaze. "It's just family stuff. Nothing interesting," you replied cryptically, a hint of sadness flickering in your eyes before you turned away, ready to face the uncertain future that lay ahead.

After a grueling 12-hour flight, you finally arrived back in the UK. As the car pulled up to Evergreen Abbey, your childhood home, a rush of nostalgia washed over you. The manor stood proudly, its historical façade unchanged by the passing years.

Stepping out of the car, you took a moment to absorb the familiar sight before you. The memories of your upbringing flooded back, filling you with a sense of belonging despite the years of absence.

As you entered the manor, you were greeted by the sight of a middle-aged woman wearing a classic black dress adorned with a string of pearls. Her youthful aura belied the years that had passed since you last saw her. It was your mother, Susan.

"You're back," she exclaimed, opening her arms wide to envelop you in a warm embrace. The familiar scent of her perfume brought tears to your eyes as you returned her hug, feeling a sense of comfort and homecoming wash over you.

You nodded as Susan spoke, absorbing the news of Duke Rupert's accident with a heavy heart. The realization that your stepfather had passed away hit you like a wave, stirring emotions you had long buried.

"I'm so sorry. What happened?" you asked, your voice filled with genuine concern as you reached out to grasp Susan's hand for support.

Susan sighed her expression a mixture of sadness and frustration. "That silly old man's, I told him not to ride a horse, but he insisted and he fell," she explained, her tone tinged with regret. "Rupert always well-prepared, but I don't know why he really insisted on riding a horse that day."

Before you could respond, the sound of another voice broke through the somber atmosphere. "Thank God you're here," the voice exclaimed, drawing your attention. You turned to see your stepbrother, Charles, standing before you.

But your breath caught in your throat when you saw him wearing priestly attire. "Charles?" you uttered in disbelief, your eyes widening in surprise.

Charles opened his arms and enveloped you in a warm hug, his presence comforting despite the unexpected change in his appearance. "I'm glad you're here," he said, his handshake firm and sincere as he greeted you.

You were speechless, your mind struggling to process the transformation before you. There was a warmth in Charles's eyes, a genuine kindness that seemed to radiate from within him. He was different from the last time you saw him, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight of him in his new role.

"Are you wearing a cassock?" you finally managed to ask, your voice filled with curiosity as you glanced at Charles's attire.

Susan gently pinched your arm, her expression amused yet reproachful. "Silly girl, this is why you should reply to my letters, phone calls, and emails," she chided gently. "Charles has become a priest."

"I know you will find it hard to believe. But I went through a miracle that made me fully believed in God." As Charles spoke of his newfound faith, you struggled to reconcile this revelation with the memory of Charlie, who once hurled harsh words at you.

Then you heard a familiar voice, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're here."

It was Charlotte, Charles's twin sister. Her gaze bore into you with the same disdain it always had, unchanged after all these years.

Charlotte was never one to hide her feelings about you. From the moment your mother brought you into their lives, she had seen you as nothing more than an unwanted burden.

Your mother's marriage to the Duke had brought you into a world of privilege and resentment. While your stepfather had become a father figure you'd never had, it came at the cost of your relationship with your own mother. Susan was desperate to fit into her new role as Duchess, and you were often left feeling like an outsider in your own home.

The Duke's children, Charles and Charlotte, had quickly formed a bond with your mother, leaving you feeling like an intruder in your own family. They resented you for stealing their father's attention, and the tension between you had only grown over the years.

Living at Evergreen Abbey had always felt like walking on eggshells. That's why, as soon as you came of age, you left for the United States and joined the army, seeking refuge from the suffocating atmosphere of the manor.

Charlotte's cold gaze was a painful reminder of the resentment that had always simmered beneath the surface. "Let's get this over with, please," she said, her words dripping with disdain.

"What does it mean?" you asked, scanning the room for answers but finding only silence and the weight of years of unresolved conflict hanging heavy in the air.

You couldn't believe your eyes as Charles stood before you, now a priest leading your stepfather's funeral. Rupert's passing seemed surreal, and as they closed the casket, you had a chance to see his face one last time.

His face looked different, smiling unnaturally due to the glue used to preserve it. It starkly contrasted the smile you remembered, and you regretted not seeing Rupert one last time before this moment. Placing a red rose near his casket, you whispered, "I'm going to miss you."

During the burial, your gaze wandered, and you noticed a little boy standing near your mother.

But someone standing alone amidst the gathering of family and guests caught your attention. Who is he?

After the burial concluded, the house filled with guests offering condolences. The strange man also disappeared. Susan and Charles gracefully accepted their sympathies, while Charlotte's whereabouts only God knows.

Amidst the crowd, you heard a gentle voice call your name. "Y/N?"

Turning around, you saw Eddie standing there. "Eddie? How are you?" You greeted him with a side hug, grateful for the familiarity in the midst of the somber occasion.

Eddie hugged you back, offering his condolences as you shared a moment of solace amid the chaos of the gathering.

Eddie's inquiry about your military service brought back memories, including a long-kept secret: you used to have a crush on him. It was partly why you joined the army, sharing a dream of serving alongside him. "Yeah," you answered, still groggy from the day's emotions.

"What about you? Did you join the army too?"

Eddie chuckled. "I did, but I left to pursue a business."

You nodded, finding it fitting for him. "You're looking more like a duke these days."

Taking a sip of water, Eddie revealed a surprising truth. "I am. I became a duke after my father passed."

Your shock was evident. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Eddie's chuckle held a hint of understanding. "Yeah, after you left, you sort of cut contacts with everyone."

You hesitated, recalling the mention of a will by Cedric. "What about your family tradition? Isn't your older brother supposed to be the duke?"

Eddie's expression shifted slightly. "It changed after my father's will."

Your unease grew as thoughts of Rupert's will resurfaced. Eddie noticed your worry and reached out, touching your hand. "Hey, if you need me, just call me."

Grateful for his support, you managed a small smile. "Thanks, Eddie."

########

As everyone sat waiting for the lawyer, a new presence entered the room. A little boy, perhaps around 10 years old, joined the gathering, taking a seat beside Charlotte. He stole occasional glances in your direction, his curiosity evident in his wide-eyed gaze.

Unable to contain your surprise, you turned to Charlotte and asked, "You have a child?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes in response, her annoyance palpable, while Charles chuckled softly at the exchange.

Feeling a familiar pinch on your arm, you turned to see Susan giving you a reproachful look. "This is why you should've answered my calls. He's your brother," she scolded gently.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. "Huh?!" you exclaimed, your mind struggling to comprehend the revelation as you glanced back at the little boy sitting beside Charlotte, a newfound sense of connection dawning within you. Now his face and future look similar to yours.

You found yourself at a loss for words, grappling with the sudden revelation of a long-lost sibling. The realization that you had cut off all contact when you joined the army weighed heavily on your conscience, leaving you with a profound sense of regret for the years of missed connections and lost opportunities.

Running a hand through your face, you let out a weary sigh, the weight of the past 15 years bearing down on you like a heavy burden. "Will there be another surprise?" you wondered aloud, the question hanging in the air as you braced yourself for whatever other unexpected twists fate had in store for you.

A few minutes later, Cedric, the lawyer, strode into the room with purpose, placing his briefcase on the table before retrieving the file. With a solemn expression, he began to read aloud the contents of Duke Rupert's will.

"Everyone will get a share of his insurance and investments," Cedric announced, his voice measured and professional. "Except Y/N."

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of resignation at the news, having expected as much given the strained dynamics within the family. Glancing around the room, you noted the acceptance in your mother's and the twins' expressions, as if they had anticipated this outcome.

But then, Cedric's next words shattered the calm facade that had settled over the room. "For the Evergreen Abbey Manor and the title, I hereby give it to Y/N L/N," he continued, his voice resolute.

Your shock was palpable, the expletive escaping your lips before you could stop it.

'HUH?!'

"What the fuck?" you exclaimed, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events as the weight of Duke Rupert's decision settled heavily upon you.

As Charles let out a disbelieving "Hoo," and Charlotte expressed her relief with a curt "Great, not my problem anymore," the tension in the room seemed to escalate.

'Wait. The twins aren't angry?'

Your mother reached out, gently squeezing your hand and offering a reassuring look, her silent support a comforting anchor amidst the chaos unfolding around you.

"Why do I feel like I'm carrying a bomb in my hand?" you muttered, the weight of Duke Rupert's legacy pressing down on you like a heavy burden.

Cedric adjusted his glasses, his expression grave as he spoke. "When you became the Lady of this house... Your grace, pardon me that I have to tell you this," he began carefully. "The former Duke had debts, and he was involved in what we might call 'creative' work."

"You mean drugs, gambling, and the like?" you interjected, your voice laced with disbelief.

Susan shot you a warning glance, her lips forming a silent reprimand. "You shouldn't say that word in front of your brother," she whispered, her tone urgent.

Turning to her younger son, she leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not drugs, but weed," she clarified softly.

"Oh, wow. Now I feel relieved," you replied sarcastically, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you as you struggled to come to terms with the unexpected revelations about Duke Rupert's illicit activities.

You ran a hand through your hair in frustration, the enormity of the situation sinking in. "How much is the debt?" you asked, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"8 million pounds," Cedricbreplied solemnly, his tone grave.

Charles made the sign of the cross a gesture of disbelief. "Oh Lord," he murmured under his breath.

"And he wants me to repay the debt when I never took a single cent?" you exclaimed, incredulity coloring your words as you struggled to comprehend the injustice of it all.

"Was he high when he wrote the will? Why me?!!"

Sighing heavily, you turned your gaze towards the imposing manor, its grandeur now overshadowed by the weight of Duke Rupert's debts. "Can I just sell this manor?" you wondered aloud, desperation creeping into your voice.

"It will take months or years, Your Grace. And the debt has to be paid by the end of this month," Cedric explained, punctuated by a sense of urgency.

But before you could act on your impulse, Susan's voice cut through the air, her tone laced with urgency and apprehension. "You can't sell the manor," she interjected, her gaze pleading with you to reconsider.

Confusion flickered in your eyes as you turned to face her, a mix of frustration and resignation bubbling up inside you. "Why not?" you demanded, your voice tinged with exasperation.

Susan's response was swift, her words carrying the weight of years of pent-up frustration and resentment. "If you sell the manor, I would lose my title as a duchess," she explained, her voice quavering with emotion.

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, stirring up memories of the strained relationship that had defined your interactions with Susan over the years. Her obsession with upholding the image of a perfect duchess had driven a wedge between you, leaving your relationship fraught with tension and resentment.

As you stood there, grappling with the weight of Duke Rupert's debts and the expectations thrust upon you by your title, you couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness creeping in.

You let out another sigh, resigned to the reality of the situation. "I need a drink," you muttered, the thought of seeking solace in the most potent alcohol near the lake seeming like the only reprieve from the turmoil raging inside you.

As you sat by the lake's tranquil waters, the weight of the situation bearing down on you, regret began to seep into your thoughts like a creeping mist.

Coming back here had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, faced with the reality of Duke Rupert's debts and the burden they placed upon you, you couldn't help but wonder if it had been a mistake.

Taking a sip of your whiskey, you allowed the warmth of the liquid to wash over you, momentarily easing the turmoil in your mind. But even the soothing embrace of alcohol couldn't dispel the unease gnawing at your insides.

Lost in your thoughts, you were startled when a small figure approached, breaking the silence that had settled over the lakeside. You glanced up to see your little stepbrother, Hugo, standing before you with a tentative expression on his face.

"Uh, hi. Hello. I'm your older sister," you greeted awkwardly, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.

Hugo returned your greeting with a shy smile. "Hi, step-bro. Hugo. Ten years old," he introduced himself, his voice soft and uncertain.

An awkward silence hung between you, the gap between your worlds feeling vast and insurmountable. Sensing the tension, you made an effort to bridge the divide.

"You want to walk?" you offered, gesturing towards the path that wound its way around the edge of the lake.

Hugo hesitated for a moment before nodding hesitantly. "Hmm...," he murmured, his eyes brightening with a hint of curiosity as he took a tentative step forward, ready to embark on this uncertain journey with you.

As you and Hugo began to playfully throw stones into the lake, the tension between you gradually dissipated, replaced by a sense of camaraderie born from the simple joy of shared activity.

"So, Hugo, do you know what's happening at the household?" you asked, choosing your words carefully. You had learned in the military that children often possessed an innate honesty that could shed light on complex situations.

Hugo paused in his stone-throwing, considering your question for a moment before responding. "Walls have ears, and the workers always gossip," he replied cryptically, his voice tinged with wisdom beyond his years.

Impressed by his insight, you couldn't help but smile. "Wow," you remarked, genuinely impressed by Hugo's observation. "Do you want to share?" you prompted, curious to hear his perspective on the goings-on within the household.

As Hugo shared his insights, you listened intently, surprised by the depth of understanding hidden behind his youthful facade.

"Charlie doesn't want to take the house because of the debt, and he wants to become a pope," Hugo explained matter-of-factly, his words carrying a weight of resignation.

You responded with a puzzled "Huh?"

"And Charlotte doesn't care since she's going to marry a prince. She doesn't want anything related to Dad's 'creative work.' It will ruin her image."

"Her image? She's marrying a prince?" you interjected, your incredulity evident in your tone.

Hugo regarded you with a knowing look. "You're really ignorant, huh?" he remarked bluntly, his words stinging with a hint of playful teasing.

Feeling a pang of embarrassment at being corrected by a child, you cleared your throat awkwardly. "Hey..." you started, but Hugo continued without missing a beat.

"Sis Charlotte has quite millions of followers on social media," he elaborated, his voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "If her name is connected to weed and family debt—"

"It will ruin her image, and she'll have to pay the penalty," you finished, the implications sinking in as you processed Hugo's words. "Wait, how old are you again?" you asked, feeling a mix of surprise and amusement at the maturity of his observations.

Hugo raised both hands, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Ten," he replied, the innocence of his youth juxtaposed against the weight of the knowledge he carried.

You chuckled softly, taking another sip of your whiskey as you observed Hugo with newfound respect. Children were indeed frighteningly perceptive these days, and you made a mental note to tread carefully around him in the future.

You looked at the lake and sighed again. No wonder Charlie felt relieved upon seeing you. He wouldn't have to worry about these things. If his past caught up with him while pursuing his path to becoming a pope, it would ruin everything for him.

As for Charlotte, nothing ever seems to be enough for her. If her future in-laws from the royal family were to find out about this business, they would likely cancel her marriage.

So it's obvious they were relieved when Rupert chose you as the heir.

As both of you made your way back home, your senses went on high alert as you spotted a black Range Rover parked near the entrance. The sight of the familiar car sent a chill down your spine, and you felt a sense of unease settle in the pit of your stomach.

He's the man who watched Rupert's funeral from afar.

"Hugo, go inside," you instructed quietly, your voice tinged with urgency as you gestured for him to retreat to the safety of the house.

The man who emerged from the car was none other than the same individual you had seen at the funeral. James Barnes, or "Bucky" as he preferred to be called, approached you with a confident stride, his demeanor exuding an air of authority.

"Sorry to disturb your afternoon walk," Bucky began, his voice smooth and polite. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm James Barnes, but you could call me Bucky."

You nodded in acknowledgment, your guard instinctively rising as you braced yourself for whatever news he had come to deliver. "How can I help you, Mr. Barnes?" you inquired, your tone guarded yet polite.

"It's difficult for me to say while you're still grieving," Bucky admitted, his expression sympathetic. "But the former duke owed money to us."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "You see, Mr. Barnes, I just got here two days ago after 15 years," you explained wearily, the weight of Duke Rupert's legacy pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at your revelation, his interest piqued. "Yeah, Rupert mentioned it a couple of times," he remarked casually.

"Did he?" you muttered under your breath, feeling a surge of annoyance at Duke Rupert's apparent penchant for gossip.

"Let's continue this at the office," you suggested tersely, eager to put some distance between yourself and the unsettling presence of James Barnes.

As you stepped into Rupert's office for the first time, a wave of nostalgia washed over you, mingling with the lingering scent of his cigar and the familiar musk that seemed to permeate the room. It was a scent you had grown accustomed to over the years, a reminder of the man who had once occupied this space.

Pouring another whiskey for yourself and a glass for Bucky, you couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy as you reflected on the memories associated with this room. Duke Rupert's presence seemed to linger in every corner, his larger-than-life persona casting a shadow over the space.

Bucky took a moment to savor the whiskey, his expression one of appreciation. "Your step-dad always did have a good collection of alcohol," he remarked, a hint of nostalgia coloring his words as he raised his glass in a silent toast.

You nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth in his words. Despite the complexities of his character, Duke Rupert had always taken pride in his impressive selection of drinks, a testament to his refined taste and penchant for the finer things in life.

Taking a sip of your drink, you cleared your throat, breaking the heavy silence in the air. "Do you have business with my step-dad?" you asked, your tone cautious as you eyed Bucky across the desk.

Bucky's admission hung heavy in the air as he spoke, his words carrying a weight of responsibility and obligation.

"I lent him my money and I protected him," he explained, his tone tinged with a sense of duty.

"Why? His weed business didn't work out?" you asked, curiosity piqued by the revelation.

Bucky shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "It was successful. But he had a change of heart and wanted out. And his boss didn't like it. That's where I came in," he elaborated, his expression grave.

"Eight million pounds. Is all because of you?" you queried, the enormity of the debt now beginning to make sense.

Bucky tilted his head, his gaze meeting yours with a solemn intensity. "The price of the damage I got for protecting your step-dad. I gained more enemies," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret.

Setting down your whiskey glass, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. Despite the tangled web of intrigue and deceit surrounding Duke Rupert, at least his involvement in the weed business was not the cause of his debts.

You let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. Options seemed limited, and each path forward appeared fraught with challenges and uncertainties.

Glancing at the bank statements and stock reports spread out on the desk before you, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. Duke Rupert's financial situation was far from ideal, and the prospect of producing eight million pounds seemed increasingly daunting.

Your mother's reluctance to sell the manor only added to the complexity of the situation. Despite the financial burden it represented, the estate held sentimental value for her, serving as a tangible connection to Duke Rupert and the life they had built together.

The twins' indifference to the predicament only further highlighted the sense of isolation you felt in confronting this dilemma alone. But then your thoughts turned to Hugo, the youngest member of the family, and the realization dawned on you that the manor held a special significance for him as well.

Selling off the artwork and alcohol collection was a possibility, but the process would take time, and the prospect of navigating the complexities of the open market and taxation only added to the uncertainty.

With few options left to consider, you knew that your best course of action was to confront the man himself. Despite your reservations, you couldn't ignore the fact that Bucky held the key to unraveling the mystery of Duke Rupert's debts.

As the desire to return to the U.S. gnawed at you, a sense of urgency washed over you, driving you to seek resolution as quickly as possible. But with time ticking away and the weight of responsibility bearing on your shoulders, you knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and sacrifices.

You sighed heavily, the weight of the situation settling upon your shoulders. "What options do I have?

Bucky's smile was almost too slick, his finger pointing at you like a loaded gun. "I really like your attitude, Your Grace. Straight to the point," he remarked, his voice smooth as silk.

As he unbuttoned his suit and slid his hands into his pocket pants, a sense of foreboding settled over you like a dark cloud. "I'm also intrigued by your career as an expert in bombs," he continued, his words sending a chill down your spine.

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach as you braced yourself for what was to come. "Go on," you replied tersely, the tension crackling in the air between you.

With a calculated gesture, Bucky brought his hands together, the glint of gold rings catching the light and adding an air of menace to his demeanor. "I will make the debt of 8 million pounds disappear. If you help me," he declared, his tone dripping with promise.

Your heart skipped a beat at the audacity of his offer, the implications of his words sinking in like a lead weight. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering with uncertainty before he finally spoke. "I've got more competition after I helped Rupert. Thinking about it gives me headaches. That's where you come in," he explained cryptically, his words laden with hidden meaning.

Raising an eyebrow, you regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The silence stretched between you, thick with tension, until Bucky finally broke it with a chilling revelation. "I want you to create an explosion. To get rid of them," he stated bluntly, his eyes boring into yours with unwavering intensity.

"Fuck!"

Cursing under your breath, you cast a wary glance at the painting of Rupert hanging on the wall. His eyes seemed to bore into you, judging your every move. As an army EOD technician, the thought of making a bomb for a criminal to pay off a debt filled you with a sense of dread.

Regret gnawed at you like a festering wound as you grappled with the weight of the decision before you. Coming back home had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, faced with the reality of the situation, you couldn't help but wish you had never returned.

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solarissttee · 3 months ago

Text

OUT OF MY LEAGUE .ᐟ

SYNOPSIS : when lancelot returns from his month long mission, he’s made aware of the change in his girlfriend’s behaviour; isolation, eating a lot less, amongst other things. he grows concerned. but, when he learns the reason for the way she’s been acting, he’s immediately out to spill blood.

CONTAINS . . . 3.8k ; lancelot x fem!reader (black & chubby coded) ; fluff, angst, established relationship, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl, etc), protective boyfriend!lancelot, verbal and physical harassment / bullying, violence, implications of torture, and use of terms of degradation.

WRITER'S NOTE! ✘ : here’s something dedicated to my fellow chubby girls / people. i hope you enjoy !

something’s wrong. something is very, very wrong and lancelot couldn’t shake it off. he didn’t know what it was but it looked over him like a foreboding rain cloud.

from what he’s heard, his girlfriend has been acting off. the townspeople tell him that they aren’t sure when it started but they just know that something must be wrong with her since she hasn’t been seen for a long while.

hendrickson was the first person to tell him about this, explaining how she hadn’t shown up to her apprenticeship in weeks now and that he’s growing worried about her.

it’s bizarre, really. neither he nor anyone else has a clear grasp of what the situation is looking like on her end, and he’s not quite sure about how to approach this, but he figures he should go see her now that he has the chance to before his knightly duties get in the way.

the young prince strolls down the familiar streets of liones’ capital, taking in the scenery. it’s dreary out today, he notes; the sky is overcast and the clouds are heavy with the threat of a particularly bad thunderstorm. there’s a bit of wind, too. the strong breeze messes with the tresses of his blond hair, making it more unruly that it usually is, but he couldn’t be bothered to tame it.

‘she likes the rain. i wonder if she’s cuddled up reading right now,’ lancelot thinks fondly to himself, a slight smile on his lips as he stares up at the clouds.

he’s on his way to your home; a grocery bag of your favourite sweets cradled securely in one arm and a bouquet of flowers, a mixture of baby’s breath and red chrysanthemums (meaning everlasting love and i love you respectively) in the other.

he must look ridiculous — who would expect to see someone as imposing as the prince of benwick bringing gifts like those to his girlfriend? who would even expect him to have a girlfriend in the first place? he’s been so uninterested in women and relationships for as long as anyone can remember to the point that his parents thought he might like boys. not that they would mind, of course! they love their little boy no matter what!

but he does know that it makes him look a little too sappy despite his whole tough guy persona, but he can’t deny the fact that he likes giving you gifts and surprising you with the things that you like. his parents constantly shower each other with thoughtful gifts, whether they’re purchased or handmade, and it quickly became his way of showing affection as well.

you want that book series that’s all the rave right now? he’s going to be the first one to the library and get his hands on it. you want a bit of a sweet treat from that one bakery you really like? be prepared for a tummy ache, because he’s buying out their entire store. you’re eying up a nice dress or a much too pricey jewelry set? don’t worry, he’ll make sure to get it for you in every colour it comes in and and every coin spent is worth it. that’s how infatuated he is with you.

lancelot finally stops in front of your house, moving the flowers into his other arm and fishing into his pockets to pull out the spare key he’d been given by your parents. he was over so often that they’d just decided to let him have access whenever he wanted. it was better than him climbing in through the window — which he’s done on various occasions much to your parent’s (father’s) chagrin. (your mother actually finds it quite cute. it often reminds about her and your father’s young days in love).

he unlocks the door and steps inside, slipping out of his shoes and leaving them by the door. he knows how much you and your folks hate shoes in their living space. speaking of which, he doesn’t really expect to meet a quiet house. even though your parents are probably still at work, and your older brother is nowhere to be found — he’s probably at his apprenticeship with that giant tailor down the road — what is unusual, however, is the absence of his girlfriend.

usually, at this time you’d be home and humming a soft tune while you fixed yourself something to eat or tended to your pet dove. sighing uneasily, he ventures into the house and passes by the bird cage on his way to the kitchen, stopping to pet the ivory feathered bird, smiling when she coos in delight.

he sets the bag of sweets down and busies himself with putting the flowers in a vase and discarding the old, withering ones he'd gifted you before he became swamped with endless missions left and right.

while he does that, he picks up soft sniffling coming from your bedroom upstairs. his body stills momentarily as he focuses his hearing. a sob and an unintelligible mutter follows soon after and lancelot feels his heart drop.

“what the hell?” he mutters, abandoning the flowers and quickly ascending the stairs, keeping his footsteps light against the wooden floorboards so as to not startle you as he makes his way down the corridor until he stops at your bedroom.

the soft sobs are a lot more clear now and lancelot feels an ache in his heart. he’s been gone for at least a little over a month now. what on earth could have happened in that time period to cause you to be in such a state?

he raises his arm, fist curled and poised to knock. he raps his knuckles against the door once. then twice.

the sobbing and sniffling on the other side of the door immediately stop. he hears the faint ruffling of fabric and the quiet muttering of curses.

when there isn’t any answer after waiting a few moments, lancelot knocks for a third time. “hey, it’s me. open up, princess.”

there’s a loud silence, and it’s far too loud. he can’t hear what you’re thinking and it bothers him. did you get a magical artifact that blocks his heart reading? he’ll ask about that later, for now he needs to make sure that you’re okay.

“open up the door f’me, pretty girl. i know you’re in there.”

you’re frozen on your bed, feeling like a deer caught in a trap. you didn’t expect him to be here. he’s supposed to be on a month long mission, and that’s at the very least! had he already completed his tasks?

swallowing thickly, you work up some courage and roll out of bed. you catch a glimpse of yourself in your full body mirror and grimace at what you see staring back at you. your hair’s a mess, there’s bags underneath your eyes and it’s quite obvious that you’ve been crying and also not eating well. in short, you look terrible, and you couldn’t possibly bring yourself to face him in a state like this, so you take a step back from the door and find yourself back in your bed, hiding underneath the covers whilst curled up in the fetal position.

lancelot sighs gently when you don’t answer and takes it upon himself to make the first move. “i’m coming in, princess.”

pushing open your bedroom door, he steps inside and immediately heads straight for your bed and sits next to you. he makes an attempt to pull the covers off of you, but you resist adamantly, and so he settles for just stroking your skin through the fabric.

“hey, pretty girl,” he greets softly. “you alright?”

you don’t say anything but you do let out a soft grunt. he couldn’t tell if it was in affirmation or not, but he doesn’t press the matter.

“i’ve been gone for a little, hm? must’ve been lonely, huh? i’ll take you out to that new restaurant that opened up or we can go on a picnic and sit under our tree. whatever you want to make you feel better. how about it?”

“…no…”

lancelot cocks a brow at your answer. “no?”

what do you mean no?! you have never in your life said no to a date! now he’s certain that whatever must be bothering you isn’t just bad, it’s dreadful.

“(y/n), baby, look at me. please, let me see you.”

you’re begrudging to show yourself to him, considering that you feel and look like absolute shit. nevertheless, you couldn’t deny your boyfriend if you wanted to; especially not when he speaks to you so gently.

you peek at him through a tiny gap from underneath your covers before revealing yourself to his gaze.

lancelot’s breath hitched in his throat. you looked wrecked. your eyes are puffy and red rimmed, your face is a little flushed and there are tear streaks on your cheeks. he reaches out to wipe them off your face, his touch soothing and gentle.

“what’s wrong, hm? why��re you so upset, pretty?” he asks softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek and over your eyes. he leaves soft pecks over the expanse of your face and ends it off with a gentle kiss to the lips.

“talk to me, baby..” he murmurs as he pulls away, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

you melt at the feel of his lips on your skin. you’ve missed him so much, but you’re still reluctant to tell him what was going on with you.

“i can’t help you if i don’t know what the issue is.”

you bite your bottom lip in contemplation before deciding to come clean. with a shaky breath, you begin to narrate the story.

it had all started about a month ago, back when he was away in the southern region of the country tending to some trouble that had been rising between the inhabitants there; the threat of a civil war was prominent but the king had believed lancelot was up to the task.

roughly two hours after his departure to the south, you’d been on your way back to hendrickson’s lab with an armful of herbs and magical ingredients that he needed for something he was working on. he’d been enthusiastic about it all week and as his student, you often ran errands for him.

the issue arose shortly after taking the shortcut through an alley that you normally did, humming lightly to yourself. it’s not like there was anyone lingering around the path, but you still somehow ended up getting shoved roughly to the ground.

the suddenness of the action caught you off guard as you tumbled to the floor, your knees and elbows scraping against the rough cobblestone. a groan is ripped from your throat as you push yourself onto your knees. your curse, noticing the bag of things that you’d retrieved for hendrickson scattered onto the dirty ground.

that’s when two shadows cast over you. looking up, you’re met with two guys, both of which are unfamiliar to you. they’re smirking a little, and you catch feminine snickers a little ways behind them and see three other girls standing at the entrance to the alley, whispering and pointing at you while they laugh.

you were floored. you don’t know these people. hell, you’ve never even seen them around, so what the hell is their problem with you?

“um, can i help you..?” you ask nervously, your eyes darting back and forth between the guys and the girls, pushing yourself back onto your feet.

the guys smirk at each other before one of them shoves you again, much harder this time. you’re back on the floor again, rubbing your right arm in pain; it had taken the damage when you fell and would most definitely be bruised after this.

“ouch! what was that for?!” you glare up at him, cradling your throbbing hand to your chest.

“heh. look at that, the cow’s getting mad. careful, man, she might run ya over!”

the five of them laugh as if that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and your heart dropped. you know what this is now. you know who they are now.

without giving you time to get your bearings straight, the two guys grab both of your arms and hold you down to the floor, not letting you get up. the struggle against them as the three girls step forward.

one of them, undoubtedly the ringleader, looks down at you with a sneer, a condescending glint reflecting in her eyes. she walks around you, taking in your appearance before stopping in your line of sight once more.

“wow, you sure are ugly. it should be a crime for someone as hideous as you to go strutting about like you own the place.”

you’re taken aback by her rudeness, and stunned by her audacity. “excuse me?”

“oh, are you hard of hearing, too?” she scoffs, leaning down to stare at your face properly before clicking her tongue.

“it’s a wonder, really. how on earth did someone like you manage to charm sir lancelot? did you place him under some kind of spell? i wouldn’t put it past you since you’re studying all that magic crap with sir hendrickson. i mean, really, he could do so much better than you! i’m right here so what exactly makes you so special that he’d turn me down for you?” she rants, getting nods of agreements from her gaggle of friends.

your eyebrows furrow at her words. so that’s what this whole thing is about? she got her feelings hurt by lancelot’s rejection and now she’s taking the embarrassment out on you to make herself feel better? her head is so far up her ass that it’s actually laughable.

“let me get this straight. the five of you are seriously ganging up on me because my boyfriend turned down your advances? just how pathetic are you?” you cock a brow at her and feel satisfaction bloom in your chest at the way her face flushed and contorts into a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

one of the guys takes it upon himself to smack you hard across the face to defend her honour. “shut it, tramp. you don’t get to speak to her like that!”

your cheek stings from the impact, and you have to blink to comprehend what had just happened. these random people that you do not know are actively harassing you because their ringleader was turned down by lancelot.

“now, now. it’s quite unchivalrous to hit a woman, bart.”

“a woman? don’t disrespect women by associating this cow with them. she’s an animal that needs to be reared!”

your eye twitched in irritation at his insult. you go to defend yourself, but are rudely cut off by the ringleader.

“you’re quite audacious, i’ll give you that. however, i don’t take kindly to people taking what’s supposed to be rightfully mine. you see, my father is a well known knight of liones, naturally it makes sense for his daughter to form a relationship with someone in the knightage or of a higher standing,” the ringleader, whose name you still do not know, states matter-of-factly.

“sir lancelot isn’t just any ordinary knight, he’s one of the four prophesied knights of the apocalypse and also the prince of benwick! i don’t know why he chose you as his partner when he could have someone far better! it’s simply mind boggling!”

‘oh, my god… does she ever shut up..?’ you think to yourself, rolling your eyes with a scoff.

“since i’m a kind and gracious person, here are the options i’ll be giving you so that we can all get along and come to a consensus; either you break up with sir lancelot and let me become his girlfriend, or bart and nathaniel here will take their leisure in beating you to a pulp,” she says with a smile, her voice sickeningly sweet as she towers over you.

you feel yourself stiffen, but your resolve doesn’t waver. “are you joking? is this a joke? you know it doesn’t work like that, right?”

she scoffs. “what do you mean by that?”

you deadpan at her. was she genuinely stupid or just so entitled that she had no clue of how things worked in the world.

“if lancelot rejected you the first time, that meant he wasn’t interested in you. i doubt that he’ll suddenly fall head over heels for you if i were to break up with him — which i won’t be doing by the way.”

“so? i’ll just make him love me. it’s not that hard.”

you release a tired sigh, feeling a migraine in the back of your head. “lord give me the strength..”

the girl chuckles. “that’s right, you should be praying right now. since you refused to cooperate when i’ve given you an option, i’ll let these two do as they wish to you.”

with that, she and the other three girls turned and walked off, leaving you alone with the two guys who smirked down at you, cracking their knuckles. it’s safe to say that that night was one of the most gruelling experiences you’ve ever had to face. by the end of it, you were left slumped against the ground, bruised and bleeding in pain.

they’d roughed you up with no remorse, leaving you with a split lip, a lot of bruises, possible head injury and other minor things. you honestly don’t know how you made it home that night or how you managed to evade your family members for so long without them getting too suspicious of you.

and things only got worse from there. those five would often ambush you on your way to run errands or head to hendrickson’s lab, and sometimes, you’d catch them lingering a little too close to your family’s bakery.

it’s been relentless bullying for weeks now, and it’s so bad to the point that you don’t leave your house anymore. you get paranoid every night when getting into bed, wondering if they would go as far as breaking and entering in order to torment you further, which thankfully hasn’t come to pass. yet.

during that period of constant misery, the seed of insecurity was sowed deep into you. you started eating less and less to the point where you didn’t do it at all. you couldn’t bring yourself to face anyone and nearly smashed the mirror in your bedroom but refrained from doing so because you knew that if any of this were to come to light, things would spiral out of control quickly.

and it’s not like you didn’t try to tell an adult what was happening, it’s just that every time you attempted to, the beatings became even worse; you eventually just accepted it and kept your mouth shut.

lancelot sits in silence for a moment, her hands clenched into tight fists as his entire body vibrated with a rage so powerful that his mana was making the atmosphere grow heavy.

midway through the story, you’d broken down into a fit of heavy sobs, incoherent words and more than two times you’d hyperventilated. lancelot feels a vein bulging from his forehead and he desperately tries to rein in his anger in order to provide you with a space that’s a little easier to express your emotions.

wordlessly, he brings you into his embrace, his calloused palms, dedicated to bringing justice, rub your back soothingly whilst he comforts you with sweet words and gentle kisses.

“it’s okay, pretty girl.. i’m right here and i swear to you that i’ll make sure they pay for this. they’ll never hurt you for as long as i’m alive.” he cups your face, tilting your head up to look you in the eye.

his reddish-magenta eyes peer into your darker coloured ones, affection and reassurance swimming in their depths. slowly and gently, he eases you into a deep kiss, one of his hands rubbing at the small of you back while the other carefully angles your face. he takes care to not turn it heated. usually, he’d kiss you with the intention of leaving you breathless, but right now he’s kissing you with the intention of calming you down.

when he pulls away after a few moments, he gets into the bed with you, letting you snuggle into his chest and relax. his natural lemony scent is like a warm, spring day, and instantly lulls you into a deep, restful slumber. lancelot kisses your hair, his arms tightening around you as he watches you sleep.

he’s angry. livid, even.

how dare those five imbeciles raise their hands against you, his darling, sweet girlfriend? how dare they mare your soft, supple skin with bruises and cuts? how dare they cause you so much stress that the thickness of your body, the cute chub that you have has waned significantly due to you not eating? how dare they cause you so much pain and torment that your radiant complexion looks dull? how dare they strip the life from your eyes? how dare they make you miserable? how dare they?

lancelot grinds his teeth, and finds himself planning out his next course of action, because if there’s one thing about lancelot, it’s that he does not play about his loved ones, his girlfriend most especially. and now, he’s ready to show them just why his catastrophe is war.

when the sun sets finally upon liones, lancelot carefully pulls away from your embrace, shushing you gently when you begin to stir, murmuring a soft “i’ll be back, my love,” before slipping into the dark of night.

the air is cold and the streets are wet. rain pits heavily from the darkened sky, a testament to your anguish and his rage.

and like the saying goes, revenge is a dish best served cold. therefore, lancelot unapologetically gets blood on his hands. unapologetically, he hits a woman— three women— despite his chivalrous upbringing. unapologetically, he tortures for your sake. he swore to you that they’d never be able to harm you if he had any say in it.

i mean, what damage would they possibly be able to do if they no longer had their fingers intact?

and who would even believe them if they were to accuse him of doing something so horrid? after all, he’s an honourable knight of the apocalypse, the first born son of the king and queen of benwick, so why on earth would he do such a thing? they’d have to out themselves first before laying their accusations, and he knows they won’t do that. therefore, his crime won’t be revealed.

once satisfied with how the events of the night turned out, lancelot returns to your home and holds you through the night. comforting you whenever you got restless from nightmares and when the sun comes up the next day, he spoils you in every way imaginable. because you’re his girl and he’ll do anything to keep a smile on your beautiful face.

#🖊️ 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬!#mokushiroku no yonkishi #the four knights of the apocalypse #4 knights of the apocalypse #mnyk #mny #4kota #4koa #four knights of the apocalypse x reader #4kota x reader #4kota lancelot #lancelot x reader #reader insert #x reader #black reader

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arjudy224 · 1 year ago

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Three Times the Batfamily has been disgusted by your love life...

Dating is hard... but dating in Gotham... Oh Brother... Here are all the times the Batfamily has been involved in your love life.

1st time: Valentines Day

I've really gotta stop going for nerdy guys. This never ends the way I want it to.

"You know Eddie. You could have bought me dinner..." I call out to the rambling rogue behind me, "Scratch that... I can list off a hundred different date ideas.... That DO NOT INVOLVE THE BATMAN."

From behind, there is a swift crack followed by a muffled cry.

"I like flowers... I'm sure there was a way you could incorporate a riddle with those."

Footsteps draw nearer.

"I honestly don't even think you are trying. What does a child make, but never see? Come on dude... Work on on yourself. Restraints are fun, but this is ridiculous."

Suddenly, my restraints loosen. Stumbling to my feet, I swiftly turn around to see Batman's foreboding gaze staring down at me while my boyfriend lies face down 3 feet away.

"Are you alright?" Batman questions carefully noting my lacy heart pj's on top my push up bra. My diamond question mark necklace glitters in the darkness.

"Uh... yeah... Guess I should probably find an apartment where the Riddler doesn't live next door."

Batman sighs before patting me on the back. I am weirdly comforted by the paternal look in his eyes.

"That would be for the best."

2nd time:

Nightwing raises a pointed eyebrow before covering Robin’s eyes. Robin smacks his gloved hand away.

“Come on…. Y/N…” Nightwing trails off.

I interrupt him before this can get anymore humiliating. Being left to be eaten by a man sized Venus Flytrap after a date is not how I imagined my night to go.

“I do not need a life lesson; I have work tomorrow.”

Robin dutifully unties my restraints. He carefully looks anywhere else except my green lingerie.

Nightwing clears his throat. Rummaging through fallen leaves, he asks

“Do you know where she might have left your clothes?”

I shake my head before I start searching the drawers to the left of the nightstand. My sweaty palms create some difficulty turning the knobs.

“You know…” Nightwing continues leaning against the wall, “If you ever wanted to go on a date with someone who wasn’t going to be sent to Arkham… I’ve got this brother.”

My heart starts pounding. This is not happening. Robin’s jaw drops in disbelief.

“Are you seriously trying to set up Red Hood right now?” He gasps incredulously.

Both vigilantes listen to something being said into their ear pieces.

“Well, Jaybird. She’s prettier than anyone you’ve been talking to lately.”

My mouth gasps silently like a fish. Robin finally looks me up and down. He nods before agreeing. This child did not just....

Trying to ignore the hot waves of embarrassment, I finally force words to come out.

“GET OUT! I’ll find them myself!”

3rd time:

“Okay… but this time was not my fault.” I explain raising my hands in surrender. “How was I supposed to know that Two Face’s favorite song would be ‘22’? I have to make a living somehow!”

Batgirl tries to keep a straight face, but when she glances back at Red Robin… they both burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry….” She says trying to be professional, “This isn’t funny.”

“Uh huh…” I respond narrowing my eyes at them.

Realizing my mortification, their laughter slowly dies down. The teenage vigilantes grow as serious as possible.

“So, Two Face took you captive after you dedicated 22 by Taylor Swift to him?” Robin questions analyzing the crime boss’s office.

“Yes, I work at the iceberg lounge as a singer.”

“Where you ever an associate of Harvey Dent before his accident?”

My face goes red. This is not how I wanted today to go. I hate adding fuel to their fire.

“Something like that. I made some mistakes early in college.”

Batgirl bites her quivering lip to avoid laughing before composing herself. She checks her clip board left by Gordon.

“We’ll make sure GCPD gets back your… 2 themed underwear that went missing?”

I fantasize about those birds that slam their head underground to avoid conflict.

“I just want my computer. He can… keep the rest. I’m sure he’d like wearing it more than me.” I awkwardly trail off wrapping the robe tighter around my body.

Red Robin nods before muttering something into his ear piece.

“Okay, we’ll be on the search for that. I’m sure Red Hood can drop it off when he raids the lair tonight."

I start laughing before taking a step back. Putting my hands up, I interrupt.

“I can pick it up at Gordon’s office tomorrow. There’s… no need for… any of that.”

The two teens share a glance.

“Are you sure?” Batgirl inquires with a knowing smile in my direction.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Leave me out of this. I do not need to end up dead in crime alley because you guys thought it would be a good idea to set me up with your brother.”

Laughter can be heard in their comms. I vaguely make out “She’s got a point” in Nightwing’s voice.

With a reluctant grin, Batgirl shrugs. Before the vigilante duo leave, Red Robin flashes me an ornery grin.

“See you later.”

I respectfully flip them both off. Laughter echoes down the hallway as they leave.

#batfamily #batbros #batfamily x reader #batman #red hood x reader #batfam #red hood #tim drake #jason todd x reader #jason todd #robin x reader #bisexual

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queenburd · 11 months ago

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The use of color in The Stanley Parable: HD and Ultra Deluxe (with honorable mentions to the Demo)

dedicated to @squuote who needs more TSP analysis to rotate

A little over a year ago, I (only somewhat jokingly) lay out the argument that while The Stanley Parable is notorious in its use of yellow, the color yellow is not actually associated to the Narrator. The color most associated with him, I argued, was red. [1, 2]

I've had plenty of thoughts regarding color and TSP in the interim and I want to go over those thoughts today in as much depth as I can manage. You know, for fun. None of this is to argue about creator intent, but it's a fun way to stretch the critical thinking and literary analysis portions of my brain. It's also super cool if you don't agree with my readings, since the point is to get you thinking about these things and studying them to interpret for yourself.

Anyway let's gooooooo

(note: all images are embedded with a link to the source page I pulled them from. For those on mobile, be careful with your scrolling and tapping!)

Yellow

Okay let's start with the “obvious” one. Yellow is seen as one of the main colors in the game, it's the color of the main office and the primary assets associated with the Parable. We see yellow PRIMARILY in the beginning of the office, before the two doors room. It lines the cubicles and the walls are often interpreted as yellow (eh, they're more of an off-white. They're actually absorbing color from the brown-yellow carpet, and they do the same in the lounge).

It's the color of the Line(TM), it's the color of the cargo lift in the warehouse, and, most strikingly, it's the color of the SKIP Button.

We'll get to you.

Okay, so yellow is a color with conflicting interpretations, which is par for the course for all of them, we're not going TOO insane on color theory and color psychology we will be here ALL DAY and I was an ART student. So let's just look at the most basic reading. Bright, oversaturated yellow is a color that can exhaust the eyes easily. It grabs our attention like a highlighter and burns our retinas.

It can be a color of excitement, but it can also be a color of sickness. I've been thinking about the short story The Yellow Wallpaper the past couple days. Or maybe I've been thinking about it for longer. It's just that I haven't reread it in actual years, but every time I saw someone talk about the wallpaper in TSP, I thought about the story. Here's some passing thoughts on the short story in comparison to TSP. [3]

Sickness, and madness, and beginnings, and infinity. In the end, yellow, to me, is the color of the Parable grabbing the player (and by extension the Narrator) by the nose and saying “let's get moving. We have a story to play. Play the game, and keep playing.” Notable to me is how the SKIP button is almost scathingly yellow in contrast to the room it's in, and as the room gets darker the glow gets more foreboding. The Parable did this. The Narrator might think he made it, but he doesn't control it. Yellow isn't his color, and it never was.

Red

“Stanley walked through the RED. DOOR.”

The use of red in TSP is probably the most interesting and fun to analyze for me. It's used extremely intentionally and it's commonly associated with power, anger, and passion. We see red in the Boss's Office, in the Countdown ending, as the door to the Starry Dome, and a TON in the TSP2 Expo. There's red doors and signs in the Escape Pod Bay.

So I've joked that the color red is the Narrator's color, and while it's still a fun interpretation, it's not one I'm married to. I think it's more accurate to say red symbolizes control. The Zending Door is you letting him control the story. The Countdown screens are him taking control from you. And TSP2 is the Narrator trying to exert control over what the developers have made. It's a response to New Content and to the SKIP button. I have a million trillion thoughts about the TSP2 Expo but I won't get into them here.

Anyway, red feels very obviously to me associated with the Narrator trying to take control, or things only being possible when he has control. I'm thinking about the signs in the Escape Pod Bay telling you that it won't work without him. (I'm thinking about how the same door asset for the Zending is used in the Escape Pod Bay. No. shhh. Staying on topic.) So I don't have much more to say on the matter because I feel like I've tread this ground before. Red is about control, and it is held in direct contrast with blue.

Blue

Oh, blue. Soothing blue, sweet relaxing lounge and ocean paintings and boss's bathroom and blue door that leads to broken textures and an irritable Voice.

If red is the color of control, then blue is the color of rebellion. Small rebellion, sure. Rebellion that means nothing in the scheme of things. Blue is the stepping stone to bigger deviations from the path. I mean, the lounge is only the first step to the right, and you can still get on the “correct” path. The blue door you have to go through repeatedly, you have to make the choice multiple times, for it to lead to the Games ending. The boss's bathroom doesn't GO anywhere until after the epilogue. These are “rebellious choices” in a game where you don't really have a choice, and it's the closest you get to defiance.

I like to make it Stanley's favorite color for obvious reasons.

(Hey, fandom, why you keep associating it with the Curator? The only blue in the Museum is in a couple assets on display.)

Green

I gotta admit, while there's definitely something to green and its use in TSP, a clear meaning for it is eluding me, and I've been thinking about it on and off for a couple days now. It's a fairly infrequent color in TSP as a whole, but it does make an appearance. Besides being the color of plants (such as the ever important fern, the potted plants scattered through the office and the ones in the TSP2 expo, and of course the growth in the SKIP button room), it's also the wallpaper in the Demo, and the same wallpaper is used in the Boss's Office in the Real Person Ending. Thinking further, it also appears in the small room before the stage in the Press Conference Ending, and it's the color of the carpet in the HL2 Office that is found under the Games ending. (It was also brought up by my pal glitch that green is the color of the cursor on Stanley's screen, the first thing you see before gameplay begins. Good catch!)

Thinking about it, it's hard to find a throughline. There's something familiar about the green. Not necessarily safe, but it usually comes before something much bigger. Maybe this is a bit of a stretch, though. Let's say for now green is associated with the familiar in the face of the unfamiliar.

(There's possibly a thesis here about green being associated with gifts and surprises. The Narrator makes the Press Conference ending something that teases but also praises Stanley, the Green Room in the Demo is the space where the Demo is meant to be revealed to you, and that alternate Boss's Office is supposed to, in the Narrator's mind, be the first step to a wonderful story made just for you.)

White

Most people, when they think of white in The Stanley Parable, immediately think of the Museum. And they're right to! It's one of the most prominent environments that uses white. With that in mind, we can't forget the other places it appears, since it's best to keep everything in mind when trying to formulate a meaning for it.

So, other places where white is prominent: We have the out-of-bounds ending, and the Art ending (aka play that Baby game for four hours). We also have a massive part of the TSP2 expo.

Honestly, there is a lot of white in the rest of the office, but it tends to be absorbing the colors of the environment in ways that make it less noticeable. White's really good at that, which means the times where it's by itself as the outstanding color are outliers and feel intentional. So what do these things have in common?

Well, they kind of show the seams of the game? Take this with a grain of salt, but the Museum is designed to show you some of the design process for the game, effectively taking you out of the setting to give you a top-down perspective (hehe, literally in the case of the diorama of the office up to the two doors), and the out-of-bounds ending is a joke about breaking the map, falling out of the world , which can break immersion in other games. The TSP2 Expo is the Narrator showing off all the features for his sequel idea, giving a “sneak peek” of what will be included.

The Art ending doesn't fit with this thesis, but it does involve the... revelation, I suppose, of the “character” of the Essence of Divine Art. What I'm trying to get to is that white is a color of revelation and display.

Gray

Gray is not a color that tends to stand on its own merit in The Stanley Parable, and that in itself is intentional. Gray is used as a texture of “unfinished” things, things the Narrator doesn't want you to look closely at, and would prefer you move past Right Now Right This Second Please.

It's the walls of the Broom Closet, as well as the walls of the maintenance room. It's also the walls of the room right outside the Starry Dome—the hall that leads right to the stairs. (Honorable mention, @chirpbudgie brought up that the desks in the office are gray, which is also an implication of the way Stanley's coworkers seemed to disappear with work unfinished. There is a sense of “wrongness” in how they've all vanished. Nice eye, bud.)

You're not supposed to dwell in these places. Go back to the story, please!

Black

“Blackness, and a rising chill of uncertainty. Was it over?”

Last and least is black, less used as a color in its own right and more a use of shadow. It really stars primarily in the Mind Control Facility, dark rooms with a sense of foreboding. Honestly, what is there to say about black?

Only, I tell a lie. You see quite a lot of black in this game, don't you? After all:

It's the Loading screen.

Blackness is uncertainty, and mystery, like the game tells us, because anything could be hiding in the darkness, and anything could happen when that screen is finished loading. It's white's opposite not just in value but in meaning. You don't know what's going on, you just have to wait and see. Any time you might have an answer, or an ending, here comes that loading screen to wipe the slate clean and say “hey, what haven't you found yet? What haven't you tried? What tricks does this game still have up its sleeve?”

(And now I'm thinking about the Figurines ending, and how the Narrator shouts to stop the loading screen, to go back and stay in the familiar please!! Because the fellow hates uncertainty, really he does. But that's a thesis for another day.)

(We also can't forget that Ultra Deluxe's Setting the Time is also set on a black background, and there's always, to me, a sense of foreboding and uncertainty there too. What happens after this is the game, right? Is this for something? Is this doing anything? Is it changing anything?)

Silver

It's a bucket :)

Okay that's the end of this post. There's probably plenty more to say about this subject, this isn't exhaustive by any means. Color is an incredible tool, and visual storytelling and color interpretation is not in any way a science. As I posted bits of this in my server for extra feedback and examples of color, other folks brought up an entirely different interpretation of the color green. And I didn't even bring up Mariella being dressed in full green!

Anyway I didn't bring up orange because there's only a couple instances of it in the game but its always about unfinished things/assets (Baby game, just a lot of Games ending things) but it also shows up in the TSP2 Expo (Button That Says The Name of the Player Playing The Game (Jim)) for features that uuuuuh. Aren't done. So that's funny.

Like I said, there's almost certainly more to say about color theory and the game, but this thing is hitting 4 pages long and that's not including images oops.

I hope this was a fun read! Some of this stuff has been percolating in my brain for a while and it's good to finally get it on the page. Talk to me about TSP I love this game.

#the stanley parable #the stanley parable ultra deluxe #tsp #tspud #tsp analysis #the sparrow parable #fuck man idk what other tags to use its 1 am ive been working on this on and off since noon #good NIGHT.

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sweetercalypso · 2 years ago

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Pearl Rosary || Din Djarin

Word count: 1.7k

Summary: Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession

Notes: part three in my week of horror series! minors dni; public(ish) sex, finger sucking, deepthroating, cock worship, facial, reader is a Mandalorian who takes her helmet off, so much religious imagery

In the Cathedral of Mandalore, there’s only just enough light to make out the back of the wooden pew in front of you. The doors and windows are adorned with an ornate red glass that wash the chapel in a somber crimson gloom, a reminder that only those dedicated to their creedal faith are permitted inside.

The nave is silent beyond the occasional clink of beskar and the solemn bells ringing overhead in hourly intervals. You’d counted three resounding chimes, then four, then five, as the day stretches on outside the walls of the chapel.

In your tightly coiled spiral of pensive rumination, time seems to stand still.

Your eyes snap up as another Mandalorian passes by your aisle in their departure from the confessional. The small curtained booth at the front of the church has a strangely foreboding presence, and you’d been working up the courage to step inside all day.

The front doors close, and you’re left with your guilt once again.

If you admit to the thoughts weighing on your conscience, maybe you’ll have the chance to repent. Or, if the pit of dread in your stomach is any prediction, you’ll be cast out for your inclination towards a life of sin.

Before you can work up the nerve to decide whether to gamble your fate, the head of the church, Din Djarin, steps out of the other side of the confessional, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiff ache of being confined in his narrow compartment.

His armor has grown dull with age and wear, buffed with a flat luster that speaks of its obstinate strength.

Others have said that his appearance makes him seem ordinary, but you’ve always thought that his mannerisms were what set him apart. His imposing stance, his commanding way of speaking, the way his head tilts when he’s deep in thought – he’s beautiful if you know where to look.

When he turns in your direction, your breath catches in your throat.

“You’ve been here for quite a while.” His voice has an unexpected warmth that licks up your spine. “Are you here to speak with me?”

Your eyes flicker warily to the confession booth. “I’m not sure.”

He seems to pause for a moment before making his mind up to join you, floorboards groaning under his heavy boots as he draws near. You shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, squirming under the spotlight of his attention. He stops at the end of your row and rests a hand behind you on the back of the pew.

“We can speak out here if you’d prefer.”

You’re surprised that he’d recognized the source of your unease, though you’re not sure if he realizes why the embrace of the confessional is so distinctly unnerving.

The people of Mandalore are not known for their empathy, especially not those held in high regard by the church. Din Djarin is a fiercely orthodox man, and you doubt he understands the position you’re in.

“I’ve seen you during services,” he comments. “Always so attentive.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the thought of being recognized in the mass of devoted warriors that frequent his sermons. Is your shame so pronounced that you stand out in a crowd? “I didn’t know you paid attention to the assembly.”

He hums in response. “I care deeply for everyone in my congregation, especially those who are in danger of losing their faith. Tell me, what’s been troubling you?”

You hesitate before answering, skirting around the truth as much as you can, as much as he’ll let you.

“I’ve had… impure thoughts, father.”

“Oh?” His voice is rich with interest. “Indulge me, cyar'ika. What tempts you?”

His smooth, full baritone makes it impossible to deny his entreaty, like he’s wrenching your secrets from the far reaches of your mind.

“I’ve thought about… taking my helmet off in the witness of non-believers. I’ve thought about what you look like underneath your armor.” You pause for breath. “I’ve thought about your image at improper times.”

His chest falls with a heady sigh, though the sound is lost beyond the rasp of his modulator. “I see. And how do you think you should pay for your transgressions?”

The presence of other Mandalorians can be heard from outside the chapel – an admonition of what you have to lose if you are turned away. The air in the room shifts. Your hands flex at your sides.

“I’ll do anything.” You push forward onto the edge of your seat, ardently pleading for your chance at repentance. “Tell me how to make things right.”

He shifts in place, mulling over his options for what feels like an eternity. You swallow the urge to scream as silence rings in your ears.

Finally, he speaks.

“Maybe you’re too curious,” he decides. “Too concerned with things you cannot have.”

Your fingers dig into your palms, awaiting the final blow of his judgement.

“I think you need to experience firsthand the gravity of your desire.”

He leans down like he’s sharing something that no one else can hear, a sentiment too clandestine to be born in a house of worship.

“This is a sacred place,” he explains. “If you’re going to commit an act of sin, let it be here.”

You’re taken aback by the implication of his words. You’d been expecting a show of indignation, maybe even outrage for your betrayal of the Way, but it seems like he’s encouraging your lapse in faith. Surely, you’ve misunderstood.

The hand caressing your shoulder tells you that you haven’t.

“Revealing yourself to anyone a sin, and the public would have you exiled for removing your helmet. But here, in the presence of a higher being, I will make an exception.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his hands are on the underside of your helmet, tipping your head back with the force of his grip. The fabric of his gloves glides against your jaw as he lifts your beskar veil and exposes you under the chapel’s dim, ruddy glow.

You squint at the sudden shift in the light, surprised to discover what your dark-tinted visor had been hiding from you. The red halo cast around him is much more intense without the obstruction of your helmet. His outlined form burns with a fiery sanctitude that makes you shudder.

Your attention is drawn to his hands ghosting over your face, cradling your cheeks with a curious touch. The pad of his thumb presses against your mouth, tugging at the plush of your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?”

You swallow thickly and chance a look up at him, finding your face in the reflection of his visage. Your lips part in fascination at the sight of your own eyes staring back at you.

“That’s it, open up for me.”

His thumb presses further into your mouth and hooks behind your teeth. The taste of the holy chrism melts across your senses, balsam and olive oil and something you can’t name. When your tongue swipes out to meet his digit, he hums low in his chest and pulls his other hand back to curl around his belt.

“Does this make you feel good? Corrupting a man of faith?”

You whimper around his thumb, eyes blown wide with lust. The metal buckle at his waist glints in the low light, seemingly pleading for your touch. You don’t know how far he’ll take this lesson, but you’re hoping it ends in a mutual exchange of sin.

As if persuaded by your thoughts alone, he works open his belt and the fastenings of his pants, revealing a patch of tawny skin that contrasts the muted tones of his beskar.

“You need more than this, though. Don’t you?”

With a low hiss, he pulls his hardening cock from its confines, and your mouth waters at the sight. He’s eager, alive, twitching in his tight grip. The tip of his cock weeps as he bucks into his hand.

The heat simmering in your belly has grown into a blazing flame. When he swaps his thumb for the head of his cock, your thighs clench with the urgent need to consume him in every way.

His warm, salty taste is so human, so unlike the righteous figure he’s made out to be. You can almost picture what the rest of him looks like by the glimpse of what he’s offered you.

Your lips wrap coyly around his length, an earnest appeal for his approval.

The tint of his visor hides his eyes, but you gaze up at him anyway in hopes that he meets you halfway, that he commits the image of your debauched affair to memory.

“C’mon, this is your chance to atone.”

You trace the vein on the underside of his cock, tongue laving over him in search of a reaction, in search of redemption through your greedy act of worship. His hips stutter in response and the head of his cock twitches against the roof of your mouth.

He mumbles something akin to prayer and focuses his efforts, sliding further into your mouth until your nose presses against his pelvis and his cock settles in the back of your throat. You gag at the foreign pressure and try to pull away, but he settles a hand on the nape of your neck to hold you in place.

“That’s it, take it all.”

His thrusts are slow, lazy, careful not to overwhelm you. When he moves, it’s a gentle drag over your tongue, not the heedless intrusion you’d expected from him. He bucks his hips like he wants to know you’re enjoying it too.

“Fuck,” he grunts, chin dropped to his chest. “Your filthy mouth was made for this.”

You wish you could see him without the beskar disguising his reaction. The heave of his chest, the flex of his hands, the jump of his cock when you tongue the right spot – his body is so expressive, you have no doubt that his face would be too.

A few more juts of his hips and he’s pulling out of your mouth and forming a fist around his length, flushed skin glistening with your spit.

He chokes out a broken noise and angles his hips towards you, painting the evidence of your transgressions over your cheeks and your lips.

You touch your fingers to your face when he pulls away, eyeing his handiwork with a sound of approval. This part of yourself, it’s his now. Desecrated for the use of someone more sacred than yourself.

The corners of your mouth stretch into a grin. This is exactly the forgiveness you were looking for.

#sweetercalypso’s week of horror #Din Djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin one shot #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian fic #din x reader #Star Wars #star wars x reader #star wars smut #priest!din #priest!din Djarin

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polaritiesoop · 1 month ago

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While looking around my docs I saw this Scarian piece. It was meant for an event for Scarian but I couldn't finish it. Though I thought maybe it could still be enjoyed, and so I'll share it anyway. Pardon the scuffed writing, it wasn't properly revised.

(Un)Conventions of One Whimsy Eldritch God

Scarian swap!AU

____

Surprisingly, Scar’s first command did not involve Grian killing a human on a sacrificial altar, nor pushing unsuspecting souls into the void in Poultry Cave’s maintenance tunnel. Not even steal someone’s newborn, nor a demand to do any bodily harm on himself to prove his ‘dedication’ on ‘serving’ the Herald of Death. None of those that hunted his every waking thought, criticizing himself for a fool for agreeing to a soul-binding contract, where in exchange of rewards and security that the void will not devour the land into itself , the otherworldly being will subject him to ‘tasks’ Grian must obey or otherwise — untimely doom awaits, not only his life but this land he fought hard for the fruition of a passion project.

No, Scar’s first ever command is one that Grian double takes on. Makes him question the authenticity of this… eldritch god. Now that Grian got his hands on the stray feral cat that roamed the woods surrounding his park for void knows how long, the avian feels less and less threatened by the domineering presence of the eldritch god before them.

Don’t get him wrong, the presence of a void god on the surface of his land still gets his insides twisted anxiously. Just making eye contact feels wrong. The god carries a sharp and cold air, hovering back and forth, ghostly sharp wings fluttering and on his white misty head revolves a golden ring of pale eyes blinking at different intervals. Grian feels cold at his feet where the god’s void-like cape drapes and drags on the grass.

He was initially afraid when this form of the Herald of Death appeared at the foot of his bed this morning (though preferable than a planet-sized eye). The foreboding feeling that seized his body, however, turned to confusion at the god’s cheerful delivery of his first command.

And…flabbergasted as Grian was, he did it and now Scar has to do his thing — which, the eldritch god was stupidly confuzzled of what to do, oblivious even, Grian reckons if he was human, he would scratch his head.

“Grian, why is it so hostile?”

The eldritch god whines, static voices grating in that transcendental tone that Grian felt should kill him, and yet it was a fucking whine nonetheless.

The eldritch god tries to approach, but retreats every time the feral cat hissed. Grian is starting to feel bad for the poor cat in distress, her fur raised and canines displayed threatened of Scar’s presence like she knew he wasn’t human.

The avian thinks its better to keep a comfortable distance. Grian does that, and the cat seems contented enough to nuzzle at his shoulder and purr. Grian’s heart melts, he scratches behind her ear and coos, “Aw, you poor thing. You really don’t like the big bad guy.” Scar tilts his head non-blinking, Grian cranes up his neck goosebumps still run on his skin at the many eyes staring back at him. He could get used to the uncanny voice but never the eyes.

Grian should probably respond.

He steels himself and clears his throat off the anxiety, “First of all, the cat is a female. So not an ‘it’” void why am I being sassy to a literal god, “Second, she can tell you are not human, so uh, no offense? you are scary looking, not the best appearance if you plan to… hover here on land, or pet the cat, or any small animals.” Grian shrugs, sweat rolling down his nape, “You’re a god right? Surely you can take a… more human form like me.”

The eldritch god blinks at him. Grian wonders if he understood any of his words. If not, that’s rather funny. Wait, he shouldn’t be so impudent to a god, or he'll get blasted off to the End.

“You saying I turn into you so she can like me?”

Grian squawks. Okay, not the expected response, but he was quick to deny it, “No! Dear god, no! Thats… that would be creepy, please don’t.” he sighs, “Just… human. Plain ol’ human will do, any hybrid if you want, but I wouldn’t suggest a cat hybrid or a blaze hybrid, they hate those in particular.”

The eldritch god does not blink but he is suddenly standing rather than hovering. To Grian, he seemed frozen in time, but his circle of eyes continued to revolve.

The eldritch god hums, “I see… I will note of that.”

Grian felt relieved, his body relaxes now that he explained the issue and he wasn’t being blasted off to the End.

“Yeah. Yeah… Think of that, okay? I’m going out today to town, I’m bringing the cat with me.”

“What? Why must you bring the cat?”

Grian could swear among the static of voices he hears another whine. The avian is starting to have mixed feelings of this god and frankly? he wants time alone to process it. But also bring the cat to the veterinarian and go out shopping for some supplies for her.

“She’s feral. She might have some sickness on her, I just want to make sure she’s safe and healthy. I’m bringing her back here, of course, but when we return you better look…” the avian looks him up and down, “...presentable, enough so you can stop stressing the poor thing.” if he did not feel like a madman already after this whole debacle of a task he would’ve read Scar’s wings pulling on themselves as a self-conscious behavior.

Imagine if an eldritch being was self-conscious? Ridiculous.

“That sounds good. Yes. Her health and safety is priority.”

Grian is a little taken aback of the genuine concern the eldritch god seems to show for the cat. The avian expected that he … like, eat the cat? or drag it down the void where Scar resided?

“Gosh, that would be awful. He seems like… he does want to keep the cat as a pet.”

Before the god leaves, he gathers the courage to ask, “Right… uh, I am clear of your first command, yes?”

“Why yes! You have tamed the cat rather quick, and I am pleased with your speedy service. As promised, you will be awarded for your efforts.” Scar announces, clapping his hands like he had just watched a performance. Which is not far off, considering Grian had to crawl on all fours on the forest floor as a last resort to get the cat to approach after chasing her around morning to noon. The avian is hungry and sore because of this stupid task.

Whatever, if it meant that the eldritch god could somehow fix the flooding on the maintenance tunnels that had Grian pulling his feathers for weeks. He doesn’t know how the eldritch god plans to do it, but he was promised that Scar could do anything.

“Great! We’ll be off, then.”

“Have a safe journey!” And suddenly the eldritch god is gone without a trace, sinking onto grass like a specter.

Grian shakes his head in surprise, “I’m gonna need to get used to that.” he mumbles to himself, and walks back to the shack where he temporarily lives, with the cat still in his arms. She seems to ease in his hold, pawing at his chest and meowing sweetly. Grian smiles down at her. This was going to be a busy day and night, but atleast he’s got a cute feline companion.

The next day Grian screamed bloody murder when he woke up to a strange man sitting on the ratty armchair by the corner. Except the stranger wasn’t really a stranger.

Grian stares wide eyes at him, backed up on the corner on his wall, gripping his blanket close to his body.

The man in a purple cloak has dark messy hair framing his face marred with scars in a way that oddly compliments his appearance and brings out the greenest eyes Grian ever saw in his life. The man grins, and he notices the unnamed cat was curled in his arms.

When the man spoke, his voice had a charming lilt in his timbre, one that would attract a crowd and one thats awfully familiar, “A wonderful morning, Grian! As per your advice, I am now in a much presentable form. Jellie seems to think so, she has stopped hissing at me,” the man coos, “isn’t that right, Jellie? Aw, you’re so cute!”

Grian jaw drops, “Scar?”

The Herald of Death, the eldritch god dwelling on the void under his amusement park, unironically named Scar, appears in his human glory before Grian with an enthused smile, only his cloak to clue on what he really is, hidden in sight the multitude of wings and eyes and the void wrapped on his once incorporeal form.

Shit, he’s hot.

“Oh!” Scar lifts the cat towards him proudly, “I’ve named her Jellie by the way.”

Inappropriate first impression (of Scar’s human form) aside, the eldritch god became obsessed with Jellie ever since, never once harming the cat but was quick to learn how to take care of her. Convenient for Grian as he was too busy coddling Jellie to give him more commands. He had to get used to seeing Scar hanging inside his shack and roaming the amusement park Jellie in tow.

“A ride dedicated for Jellie would be great.”

That was Scar’s second command, unsurprisingly but surprisingly (Grian is conflicted). This is months later after adopting Jellie in the middle of Grian’s construction of a space-themed section of his park. The avian genuinely forgot his agreement with the eldritch god, being heads deep in the part of the project.

“Pardon?”

“Imagine if Jellie was a cat from another planet. Or a whole ‘nother planet of big Jellies, to add on to the discovery of Captain Scarlet and Poultry Man.”

“Uh, okay…?”

Grian is fairly impressed that Scar understood the lore behind the space alternate universe of his park’s beloved parrot mascot, Scarlet.

Scar continues on his curious observation on the beginnings of the neon tunnels for Poultry Man in Space rollercoaster ride leaving Grian to think on how the hell is he going to integrate Jellie as character in one of the rides. Not that it was a… bad idea, Grian had once thought Jellie would look remarkable as a mascot, not that he’s going to scratch Scarlet, who’s always been included in the initial plans of his amusement park project.

But a command is a command. And Grian might just have the ride for her.

“Didn't know you included a new character?” Mumbo had asked over his shoulder while he was hunched over a sketch plan for the Jellie Planet ride.

“Not really a character. Just a species of big fat gray and white cats on an undiscovered planet…. though maybe there’s a small cat of royalty that rules the planet.” Grian explained.

“Oh, is it supposed to be inspired by Jellie?”

“Pretty much.”

“Is it for Scar?”

“...It is his idea.”

Mumbo was raising eyebrows at him every time they worked together on getting the mechanical functions of the Jellie Planet ride. Grian ignores whatever his staring meant.

The Jellie Planet ride managed to be built as one of the highlight attractions. A swing carousel of several chairs for two tethered to the disc around the centerpiece planet sculpted and painted with big cats and glowing stars. Days before the official ribbon cutting for the Mystic Trails Grand Opening, Grian remembers that he had to show it to Scar. He doesn’t know why he bothered telling the eldritch god to stay away from the Space Fable zone, it’s ridiculous really, if he intended to surprise a god of all things.

“Woah! Is that a Jellie-themed ride?!” Scar turns to look at him, eyes practically sparkling underneath the bright lights of the Jellie Planet Ride, and a smile so wide and sincere that it caught Grian off guard when he was praised, “I didn’t know you would build one for her! you are amazing, G! ”

Grian flushes, not expecting such an enthusiastic reaction when… wait a minute.

“What do you mean you didn’t know?”

Scar blinks, “That you built this beautiful ride?”

“This is literally your second command!”

The two stare at each other in awkward silent. Broken only by the sudden kitten meows heard from the adventurous music of the Jellie Planet Ride, before it loops back on the triumphant opening of Captain Scarlet’s proud introduction of his discovery of a cat planet.

Scar looks confused, “...did I?”

“How can you not remember?!” Grian cries out incredulous.

“No! I would remember if I told you to… wait.”

There was another silence as both of them reflect on it. Grian does several step backs in his memory, and could almost punch himself as he gets a flashback on the exact words of Scar then.

“Don’t tell me, you meant it as a suggestion.” Grian deadpans.

“What do you mean?” how does an eldritch god has a awful memory?

“You said a ride dedicated for Jellie would be great!” Grian shouts.

“Oh yeah, I did say that. But I did not said it was a task. why did you take it as a command?”

Grian kept his mouth shut, not knowing really what to say when the other had a point. Scar did made it clear that his first task of catching the once stray Jellie was a command, and did ask Grian what he wanted as reward. Scar did neither of those that time when he was just mumbling his awe at the developing Poultry Man in Space rollercoaster ride.

So, the avian feels a little stupid for giving so much attention on the Jellie Planet ride.

Scar notices his downtrodden silence, and jumps one to say, “Not that I’m not impressed or flattered, like I said, it's ama-zing that you made this for me. I appreciate the effort and creativity poured into this, I bet it's a fun ride. Actually, I want in it, G. Can I ride it with Jellie?”

“I did not-” Grian cuts off. He did make this for Scar technically. Now he understands why Mumbo kept giving him weird looks. He wills himself not to blush, “You can’t bring Jellie, it’ll freak her out. But you can test run it.” he said instead, watching with amusement at the childish grin Scar gave in response and the way he keeps glancing at the giant swing. It's hard to imagine that this is the same guy as the eldritch entity that Grian sold his soul to, then again his first task was to get him a pet.

“I know you mistook my suggestion for a command. But, nevertheless, I am extremely pleased with this masterpiece, so you’re gonna get a reward as you deserve it.” Scar said, his eyes glowing purple the same as it did when Grian brought him to the flooded tunnels, before he just snapped the water out of existence and Grian was finally able to call over some professionals to inspect.

But Grian wasn’t going to waste the opportunity.

“Great! I’ll take the reward then. Come with me to Grumbot’s area, there's a problem with some slimes, they keep spawning and leaving trails on the floor, if you can somehow get it to stop that would be great. Oh, and the lights keep flickering too, I’m concerned it might break permanently and it would cause some massive mob spawning issue. But, we can do that later after you test-run a ride.” Grian explains.

The purple fades out of Scar’s eyes, and he grimaces, “Aw, Grumbot? you know that thing hates me right?”

“Grumbot hates everyone but Mumbo. You’ll be fine! As long as he stays off, I guess. Mumbo did install a shutdown button, so we won’t get lasers on our eyes.”

“I digress on all of that. Grumbot loves you, and he wants me dead.”

“You’re literally a god. May I remind you of that.”

“I know! But I don’t think you would want me to collapse the ground underneath Grumbot and pull it down the void.”

“Don’t do that! Mumbo would kill me if Grumbot just disappeared!”

The Jellie Planet Ride ends up being Scar’s favorite. It was quite the sight for Grian. Moreso, at the day of the grand opening, when Grian was rather irritated and tired feeling a little stuffy in his suit after making so many rounds on the amusement park to ensure things were running smoothly, the Space Fable Zone was his last stop and it was a funny surprise to see Scar already in the ride on a chair beside another kid rather entertained by whatever Scar was saying. It wouldn’t be the last time Grian sees Scar on it.

#hermitshipping #trafficshipping #desertduo #scarian #peskytimes #fanfic

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in-collection · 5 months ago

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House of Leaves, by Daniel Z. Danielewski, first published in 2000.

Below the cut, some thoughts on the typeset. Warning for: very long, minor spoilers, pedantic writing, and me talking out of my ass.

House of Leaves, why the typeset is weird and what it creates

House of Leaves, book of genre indeterminate (1), is a cult book that has been talked to death, and I probably won't be saying anything new about it. Still, as a paragon of ergodic literature and of weird typesets, it certainly deserves a place here - and some commentary, for those who will discover it.

First, as it stands to reason we cannot talk about the form without talking about the content, I must confess to you that I did not read this book. I have tried - and am still trying - but so far I have failed. I can still say some words though I am sure they would be different had I actually read the whole thing.

With that said, here is a summary of the story:

The Navidson family moves into a house which they find is bigger on the inside, among other weird quirks. The patriarch takes his camera and films his exploration of it. This documentary became found footage found and described by a man named Zampanò. Zampanò's description was then organized and annotated by a man named Johnny Truant. Johnny's manuscrit was then found and edited by a mysterious editor. And thus the book House of Leaves, by Zampanò and Johnny Truant, was published.

Suffice to say this book is complex and obscure, a layered metafiction written by a fictional character who knows he is writing a book that someone will eventually, hopefully, read one day. On top of this, there are also nearly 200 pages of appendices and over 450 footnotes (2). Some footnotes go nowhere, make no sense, have footnotes of their own, are several pages long, or will talk about something else entirely, creating several narratives happening at the same time. Some passages are in braille, in morse, hidden in codes and puzzles, to the point that the french translator claimed he couldn't have translated the book without help from dedicated fans to decipher those puzzles (3). All over the book, you can find evidence for several possible theories, and all those theories contradict each other, yet they all seem to exist at the same time.

Once again... this book is complex and obscure. I don't think it'd be going too far to say that no one truly understands it, except for the author. It is purposefully obscure, and it is not meant to be understood intellectually (4). Its goal is elsewhere (5); it is a book that exists beyond comprehension.

With all that said, we can talk about the typeset (6). The first thing to say is that the typeset is visually just as obscure as the story. The second thing to say is that it is obviously not random.

The ergodic nature of the book is one very noticeable, physical layer (7). The reader will have to turn the book 90° clockwise, or 180°, or 270°; sometimes they’ll have to use a mirror to read reversed text; sometimes the text is circular - the book requires physical handling and you become acutely aware of the weight and presence of a 700-pages long book. Sometimes the text is dense and requires several minutes to go through the page; sometimes there will be one sentence stretched over two pages for an entire chapter, which requires rapid page flipping (8) - this is rhythm, created by the amount of text on the page, which is of course not random either; when Navidson is exploring the ever-expanding house, the text becomes scattered, with a sense of loneliness, foreboding, unpredictability since each page will be scattered differently. Those passages provide an entirely different reading experience than that of the denser parts.

Moving on, we have another layer created by the typeset: Johnny Truant, when he finds Zampanò's notes, described how they were in bits and pieces, some in tiny unreadable scrawl, some crossed out. He had to make sense of all of this the same way we have to try to make sense of the text on pages where it is literally going in all directions - where to begin? where to go? - or when it is crossed out. Johnny discovers some (most?) of Zampanò’s footnotes are fictitious, as he thinks is the entire Navidson record, and similarly we have to try to decipher what reference is real or fake (9), which one is important or one. There is a mise-en-abyme (10) of our reading experience.

Do not think easily Johnny is here to help us though, because much like Navidson gets lost in the house, much like Johnny loses himself in Zampanò’s notes, his own footnotes will regularly go on pages long tangent about his recent hook-ups, losing us in the plot. This of course is felt in the typeset: after a passage with Navidson that has approximately 6 words per page for about 20 pages, we reach a 5 pages long, as dense as can be footnote where Johnny describes how he got his prostate fingered. Much like the subjects of the two POV could not be more different, we the readers are also getting whiplash from the difference between the two typesetting and the two different behaviors and rhythm they demand. As you can see on the pictures, it's like this for the entire book: there never is any solid ground, neither in the plot or the typeset. The reader is lost in it: since each POV has its typeface, it can create a visual mess where it's hard to find the tiny little superscript indicating a footnote (especially since some are hidden).

Now for another layer (last one, I promise), here is a small spoiler for the ending of the Navidson record. At the end, when Navidson is lost in the dark of the house’s maze, he has a book with him: House of Leaves (11). Obviously, there is no way Navidson could have a book about his unfinished documentary, yet there it is, at the deepest layer of the story within the story; the main character of the one layer who cannot possibly know anything about any other layer has the book, which has everything, the ultimate mise-en-abyme, and this thread which goes through the entire narrative loops back to us. How? Well, what is the house, if not the book?

What is the house, if not the House of Leaves, if not the book, which is House of Leaves? And, well, of course the book is the house of leaves. The book is House of Leaves. But there is a difference between House of Leaves and being the house of leaves, isn’t there?

There is no doubt the book looks like the house; it is bigger on the inside (12), it is a labyrinth made for people to lose their footing, it is three-dimensional (13), its typesetting is ever changing, unpredictable.

In turn, the book's effects are like that of the house: you are lost in it, you cannot grasp it, you cannot hope to catch all of its codes and puzzles, doing so would drive you mad, much like it drove Navidson, Zampanò, and Johnny mad.

And even more, surely the house is the main character of the book - every iteration of the word house is in blue - and, much like the hotel in The Shining, it is alive (and driving people mad). Yet it is not a house, not even diegetically: Johnny strongly suspects the documentary to be fake, as do most fans of the book, and so there is no evidence of its existence. The only time the words “House of Leaves” appear are when we realize Navidson inexplicably has a copy, and in a poem in an appendix that reads: “this great blue world of ours / seems a house a leaves / moments before the wind.” Not a house. More like a world. What appears at the end of the book - Yggdrasil, the world tree, also known as the ash tree, while the house apparently sits on Ash Tree lane. And what happens to Navidson’s copy of House of Leaves? He burns it (14) and turns it to ashes (15).

And of course, it is the house of Leaves; leaves like the leaves of a tree, a book full of leaves of paper which, much like the house, is a labyrinth which would drive crazy anyone trying to get to the bottom of it for it is the House (17). And the typeset in all of this; well, could the book be the house without it? If it wasn’t bigger on the inside, if it wasn’t a maze, if it didn’t compel people to try to understand it through its uniqueness? If the first page only credited Danielewski and not Zampanò & Johnny, if it didn’t even try to look like Johnny’s manuscript?

Without this, the final layer of the story would be broken: the layer which encompasses all other, where the reader that puts their hands on Johnny’s manuscript, finally edited and published by the mysterious Editor, is us - the house of leaves finding its way to us after going through all the layers one by one, before going back to Navidson in a complete, eternal loop, because the house of leaves does not care for logic or for what is possible. It’s a case of the form, beyond being made for the content, also creates the content; without it, the content is incomplete. Without it the book is not (the) House and the loop is broken (18).

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

(1) Described at times as a horror story, a romance, a satire, a gothic fiction, a postmodern book, etc.

(2) Exactly 450 numbered footnotes, and then more using special characters.

(3) x

(4) When the french translator asked the author to tell him about the book's puzzles and hidden codes for the translation, Danielewski answered "have fun". x

(5) It is explicitly said to not be for us (see the third image of this post): this is not a book we are meant to grasp.

(6) A fun fact: it was typeset by Danielewski himself, who did not trust anyone else with it.

(7) In ergodic literature, nontrivial effort is required to allow the reader to traverse the text. From wikipedia.

(8) And that is without mentioning the several appendices which require you to go to the end of the book and back.

(9) While also figuring the third category, the reference that is real within the story and fake in real life. All of this can prove itself tiresome when some footnotes are two pages' worth of name listed without any breaks.

(10) A story within a story; our story is Johnny’s story. From French, meaning literally “placed into an abyss”.

(11) It is also described as a 736-long pages book, the exact same amount of pages the IRL book has.

(12) And indeed the cover doesn’t reach the edge of the inside pages.

(13) Of course the object that a book is is three-dimensional, but the words inside are too: some passages go through the page (and multiple pages at that). More specifically, in that blue square you can see above in the pictures.

(14) He burns it for light in order to read the book - plenty to say about that though I won’t, this is long enough.

(15) Yggdrasil also defies logic, is a tree of “terror” (etymologically speaking), a tree that holds up the world, that is the center of the world itself. In most beliefs, reaching the center, while illuminating, is a hard journey (16). What does Navidson do, except search for meaning by going to the center of the mysterious house’s labyrinth, which eventually drives him mad?

(16) That sentence is said by Zampanò himself in one of his footnotes.

(17) The Shining could never; it stops at the hotel being alive.

(18) And indeed, all translated versions of the book look the exact same, despite how arduous this makes the translation process. There is also no ebook version, since it needs to be paper (leaves). And though I’m sure somewhere a normie version exists, I doubt you could call it House of Leaves. In a roundabout way, it is also its typesetting which has made the book famous - making sure the two could never be parted at least in people's mind.

#house of leaves #book design #graphic design #graphic design references #typography #blog #ressources

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skyloftian-nutcase · 9 months ago

Text

Outbreak Pt 3 (LU in Healthcare)

(Content warning, this is a plague fic, it will likely hit close to home, and there’s dark humor and character death in this part)

It started off as a whisper, but the whisper became a chatter, a groan, constant and disturbing and growing ever closer.

Cases were on the rise in the city, though the surrounding area seemed unaffected still, for now. City officials were growing concerned, and restrictions were starting to be enacted. People were asked to stay home, if possible. As for the hospital and squads…

Hyrule squinted at his email. "Wait. Didn't... didn't they say we could use alcohol wipes to clean the equipment?"

"Yeah," Mo called from the kitchenette in the station.

"Now it says we can only use bleach wipes."

Mo groaned. "Isn't that like the third policy change this week?"

"I'm still trying to figure out if we're doing a specific isolation truck or not anymore," Aurora mumbled. "Like we just had one truck dedicated to the high risk iso cases, and now we're getting so many calls for it that it's a moot point anyway."

"I think the last email said put plastic over everything for Arfy patients and then wipe everything down that you use," Mo replied.

"Wait, which email?"

Hyrule sighed. This was getting ridiculous. And he was getting just a little nervous. “When in doubt, just bleach everything, I guess.”

Aurora huffed. “Did you see the email about the respirators?”

“Which email?” Mo threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “I’ve got twenty new emails!”

“I suppose that means you’ll actually have to read them now,” Aurora noted with a snort.

“Do you all think it’ll get worse before it gets better?” Dawn asked, wringing her hands worriedly. “The OMD made it sound like that would be the case.”

“Our medical director knows more than I do,” Hyrule shrugged. “If he says it’s going to get worse—”

“No, he didn’t just say that, he said ‘it’s not a matter of if the wave hits us, but when,’” Aurora quoted, standing. “He scared the hell out of Dawn.”

“They’re pretty foreboding words,” Hyrule commented darkly, looking away. It was the main reason he was getting nervous. But he was also steeling himself. If they were in for a fight, he would face it head on.

“Okay, but what does any of this have to do with the email about the respirators?” Mo asked as he scrolled frantically through his email.

“Oh, we’re supposed to wear N95s now,” Aurora answered with a wave of her hand.

Hyrule blinked. “Wait. Aren’t—aren’t we supposed to get fit tested for those?”

“Oh, yeah,” Aurora nodded, rolling her eyes. “Here’s your official fit test: pick a mask that fits.”

“We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” Dawn questioned worriedly, hugging herself.

“Nobody’s died from Arfy yet, I don’t think,” Mo noted. “At least not here.”

“People have died,” Aurora corrected.

“Well, maybe we’ll die, then,” Mo amended.

Hyrule laughed while Aurora swatted his partner. Well… at least they’d die fighting. But he really hoped it wouldn’t get to that point.

While the rescue squads struggled to keep up with policies and slapped shoddy safety regulations into place, the hospital clamped down even further. Visitor policies had officially been revoked as of today, and it made all the providers somewhat uneasy.

In some aspects, it was helpful. In others, it made things that much harder.

Arfy patients were medical patients. Which meant the medical floor and ICU was quickly filling up while other parts of the hospital either maintained their quota or decreased as people stayed home. More and more, Four found himself floating to his friend’s ICU, and he felt fairly out of his depths about it. The one good thing was that he got to spend time with Dot. But as cases rose, so did the stress, the worry, and the heartache.

The ICU felt less like a unit where critically ill people got better and more like a place to go to die.

Four and Dot had the same patient assignment for four days in a row. It was the same assignment because nothing had changed with the patients. Intubated, sedated, paralyzed, some proned. The amount of sedation required to keep their patients under was far more than Four was used to, and it was insane how little it would take for their oxygen saturation to drop. Any semblance of activity in the body increased oxygen demand, and the instant oxygen demand increased, no amount of intervention from the ventilator seemed to help. ECMO was a word Four had hardly heard in his trauma ICU, but he heard it on a near daily basis now, being considered at rounds, being initiated with someone else’s patient.

Four was exhausted. His face was breaking out from wearing a respirator for twelve hours at a time. His feet and knees and hips hurt from standing in isolation rooms for three to four hours at a time trying to cluster all his care. And now, with the visitor restriction enacted…

Visitors were hit or miss, particularly in Four’s world. Trauma precipitated drama, and while family could be infinitely helpful and supportive, he’d also seen things go awry, had to deescalate fights or call security. In some aspects, he was thankful there were no visitors while all of this was happening; he was tired of having to explain that yes, you have to wear this gown and gloves and mask, no you can’t kiss your loved one while they’re intubated and sedated with a contagious disease… but still. He couldn’t imagine how hard it was on the family - the patients were sedated to the point that they shouldn’t be aware of anything, but the family had to agonize over the matter at home.

He didn’t like it. He understand the logic. But he didn’t like it.

And so here he sat, holding a patient’s hand while they withdrew care. Here he sat, being the only witness to someone’s last breaths while their family mourned from afar.

Four watched the heart rate steadily drop. He watched the oxygen saturation plummet. He muted the red alarms as the monitor screamed that his patient was dying, that something should be done, like an accusation and call to arms when Four knew this particular fight was over.

He wasn’t a particularly religious person, but he said a prayer for the patient and the family either way. He found himself praying a lot these days, honestly.

While the visitor policy took its toll inside the frame of work, the restrictions both inside and outside the hospital were causing further stress on everyone. Warriors had basically banned Wind from seeing him, opting to stay with Time and Malon instead, leaving the kid in the apartment. He brought food deliveries to the door, asked if Wind needed anything, but he always did so when Wind wasn’t awake - the teenager had swore up and down that if anybody got Arfy he’d take care of them, and Warriors was terrified of that promise as it was basically a threat. Time agreed that Wind didn’t need to get involved, much to the teenager’s chagrin, and Wind found himself already struggling from the loneliness and the frustration of trying to study for classes online when nobody knew what they were doing or how long this would last.

Meanwhile, Wild sat in his room, fingers aimlessly tracing over each other, the smell of bleach so fresh in his nose from scrubbing everything relentlessly for hours on end that he might as well have inhaled a bottle of it. His chest hurt. Not to mention that new disinfectant they were told to use made him cough a lot.

And he worried. Because… it had been a few days since he’d seen his father. Legend had given him updates through his sister (and made Wild swear not to tell anyone about her), and it had sounded like he was improving as expected. But now, he… the rest of the family…

It felt like a blessing and a curse. It was a guarantee that Wild couldn’t run into his mother or sister by accident, but it was also a situation that his mind screamed that he address.

He couldn’t just… he couldn’t just leave his father isolated and alone recovering in the hospital in the midst of an outbreak. He couldn’t.

But what if visiting him made things so much worse? What if it stressed his father’s recovering heart? What if it triggered more traumatic memories for Wild? He was terrified of getting anywhere near the man while he was awake, but his heart screamed that he go to him.

Wild refused to be a coward. And he refused to be heartless, despite how anxious this entire situation made him, despite how his mind screamed he keep away. So that night, when he got on to work, he took a delivery to the cardiovascular ICU and paused in front of a doorway, looking hopefully for a familiar nurse.

“Link? Wild?”

Jumping, Wild turned around to see the nurse in question, watching him scrutinously. She smiled (or at least, he assumed she did, based on how her eye crinkled above her mask) in recognition. “I thought it was you. You here to see your dad?”

Wild swallowed and nodded.

“Good, because the drama I’ve been trying to avoid has been driving me insane,” Legend’s sister said lightheartedly, but despite the casualness of her tone, the words sank into Wild’s stomach like a stone.

“Drama?” He questioned quietly.

“Nothing like… bad, I suppose, but still,” the nurse explained. “I’d be in there taking care of him and overhear him talking to his wife and he’d mention that he swore he saw you. I’m not entirely sure she’s convinced. She seems hopeful, though. But I figured it was best not to bring it up myself since I, ah, don’t know what’s going on.”

Wild felt his blood freeze. His father remembered? And he’d told his mother?

Great. This was… this was just great.

“Go see him,” Legend’s sister prompted gently. “I can tell he loves you very much and just wants to know you’re ok.”

Wild’s eyes unexpectedly burned with tears in an instant, and he was grateful he was wearing a mask to hide his expression. He nodded, hesitantly making his way towards the room.

It all seemed so normal, seeing his father sitting in a recliner looking at his phone. Wild wasn’t even entirely sure he’d recovered memories of his father like that, but somehow it seemed familiar. Abel hadn’t noticed him yet, engrossed in whatever he was looking at, brow slightly furrowed. That expression drew memories, a familiar scrutiny that he would often give Wild himself or his sister, a quiet concern and sternness that made Wild want to stiffen up and simultaneously run to him.

Damn it all, he’d missed him.

Wild swallowed his fears and stepped forward, hoping that this wouldn’t be a disaster. He knocked on the door, initially so quietly that his father didn’t hear him over the chatter of the news on the television. He knocked again.

His father looked up. Stared a moment. Went a shade paler.

Wild hastily stepped forward. “W-wait, don’t get worked up—”

His father stood, seeming mostly steady on his feet, and tried to walk to him, heedless of the cords and oxygen tubing attached, and Wild hastily met him part of the way before he ripped everything out of the wall. Abel immediately pulled him to his chest in the tightest hug Wild had ever felt, and…

And Link sank into the embrace, crying.

#writing #If you see any typos no you don’t lol #My iPad keeps editing medical terms without me noticing ugh 😩#lu in healthcare #lu hyrule #lu mo #lu dawn #lu aurora #lu four #lu dot #lu wild #Abel #sorry if this isn’t quite up to snuff as usual I don’t even know how much sleep I’ve gotten in the last 48 hours #And I want to bury myself in a hole and never come out lol #It’s been a stupidly long week and the next few months are only going to be longer and I’m already very freaking over it #Anyway there’s my mild rant for the day I guess LOL enjoy the writing

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80pairsofcrocs · 2 months ago

Text

spacial sparks || 9

Chapter warnings - mention of drinking and pills, gun, threats of violence, time travel stuff, shooting, mentions of killing, let me know if i missed anything.

~~~

Second pov

~~~

The only sound in the room was the distinct tapping of the chalk against the walls of Five's room, reverberating in the silence.

After receiving help from him with your injury, he mentioned that he planned to create a probability map in order to pinpoint the culprit behind the apocalypse.

Assuring you of his effort and asking for your patience, he delved into his work, immersed in concentration.

Approximately 20 minutes elapsed, and as you observed, he was nearing the completion of his task.

"Oh, okay, I think I've got something, Sparky" he remarked, just as the echo of heavy footsteps resonated from the corridor.

Placing the chalk down with a definitive gesture, he expressed his optimism about the outcome.

You reciprocated with a subtle grin, acknowledging his dedication, as a new presence entered the room, bridging the gap between anticipation and discovery.

"Who you talkin- oh hey y/n. What is all this?" Luther directs the last part of his sentence at Five, his brow furrowed in curiosity, eager to unravel the mystery before them.

"It's a probability map," Five reveals with a sense of urgency, his voice tinged with a mix of anxiety and determination as he steps down from the chair he was precariously perched on, the weight of his discovery heavy on his shoulders.

"Probability of what?" Luther's confusion deepens, prompting Five to steel himself for the forthcoming revelation.

"Of whose death could save the world," Five explains, the gravity of the situation dawning on him as he starts to piece together the intricate puzzle that could determine the fate of humanity.

"I've narrowed it down to four," he continues, his words hanging in the air like a foreboding cloud, each name on the list representing a potential sacrifice for the greater good, a burden that they must now bear collectively.

"Are you saying one of these four people causes the apocalypse?" Luther asks again, rolling your eyes at all the questions.

You see Five roll his eyes as well, going back to writing on the wall.

"No, I'm saying that their death might prevent it." Luther's expression shifts, eyebrows creased in confusion as he processes the gravity of the situation.

After a beat of silence filled only by the scratch of the chalk on the rough walls, he admits, "I'm not following."

Frustration bubbles up within you, prompting an exasperated groan and a weary rub of your eyes.

"For fucks sake," you mutter under your breath, a mix of weariness and impatience lacing your words.

Luther's confusion seems to intensify, and you realize you need to find a way to simplify the explanation, to make him understand the stakes at hand.

"Time is fickle, Luther," Five began, his expression contemplative. "The slightest alteration in events can lead to massively different outcomes in the time continuum."

"The butterfly effect." you cut in, Five nodding at you.

"Exactly."

"So all we have to do is find the people with the greatest probability of impacting the timeline, wherever they may be, and kill them." Five elucidated succinctly, prompting your understanding.

Luther's brows furrowed in realization as his gaze settled on the list of names before him. "Milton Greene. So who's he, a terrorist or something?" Luther pondered, directing his inquiry towards you and Five, seeking further clarity.

"Isn't he a gardener?" you question Five, hoping for some clarity on the situation.

"Pretty sure, yeah," he responds nonchalantly, his tone betraying hints of mischief.

"You can't be serious. Wait, this is madness, Five, you are corrupting y/n. You-" Luther starts his protest, his voice wavering with concern as Five discreetly signals to you to move away from the bed.

With a stern look aimed at Luther, you rise to your feet, your gaze challenging him.

"Wh-Where'd you get that?" Luther stammers, his eyes wide and fearful as he gestures towards the gun that Five has produced from under the bed.

"In Dad's room," Five explains casually, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall as he aims the weapon.

"I think he used it to shoot a rhinoceros. It's similar to the model I used at work," he adds, glancing at you briefly as he mentions his past employment and the familiarity of the firearm.

"Nice shoulder fit and highly reliable," Five said with a confident nod, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he glanced at you, silently acknowledging your agreement based on having previously used a similar weapon.

"But you can't just overlook this," Luther intervened, the furrow in his brow deepening as he pointed out, "This guy, 'Milton' is not the target here; he's innocent."

Your head involuntarily shook in disagreement with Luther's perspective, understanding the gravity of the situation but struggling to justify the sacrifice of an innocent life.

"It all boils down to simple calculations," Five asserted, his demeanor calm yet resolute. "It's basic math." He shrugs.

"His death could potentially save the lives of billions. If I did nothing, he'd be dead in four days anyway." he reasoned, motioning dismissively towards Luther, clearly convinced of the necessity for action.

"The apocalypse won't spare anyone." you added quietly, your tone reflecting the weight of the impending doom that hung over the group, making it difficult to see a way out that didn't involve sacrifice.

"We don't do this kind of thing." Luther stated firmly, addressing both you and Five with a mixture of conviction and uncertainty, grappling with the moral implications.

"We are not doing anything," Five said with a firm tone, gesturing towards himself and Luther standing beside him.

"Me and y/n are." Taking a step forward, he looped a finger through your rehab bracelet, silently signaling for you to follow him out of the room.

"I can't let you go and kill innocent people, no matter how many lives you'll save," Luther stated firmly, his attempt at appearing intimidating falling short of its mark.

Despite his words, a sense of desperation lingered in his gaze.

"Well, good luck stopping us," Five responded, a defiant edge in his voice as both of you turned to exit the room.

However, the tension escalated as Luther grabbed Dolores, holding her precariously out of the open window, adding a dramatic twist to the already tense confrontation.

"You're not going anywhere," he says darkly to Five, both of you turning around to face the big man.

You roll your eyes and scoff at the tension in the room, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

"Put... her... down," Five demands of Luther, his anger palpable in the air as he tries to protect what matters most to him.

"Put the gun down. You're not killing anyone," Luther orders sternly, his voice commanding yet conflicted.

Despite Luther's plea, Five refuses to drop the weapon, the standoff intensifying with each passing moment.

"I know she's important to you, so don't make me do this," Luther continues, the gravity of the choice he faces reflected in his eyes as your heart rate quickens.

Frustrated by the deadlock, you scoff once more, your impatience surfacing as time slips away. "It's either her or the gun." Feeling a surge of adrenaline, you make a split-second decision to lunge at Luther, attempting to snatch the doll from his grasp.

However, your brave move is swiftly thwarted as you're abruptly hoisted into the air by the back of your shirt, the doll slipping from your reach and cascading out the window.

The sound of Five's gasp fills the room, echoing the turmoil of emotions swirling around you.

Another breathless 'whoosh' signals Five's return, cradling Dolores protectively, the tension in the room finally easing as you all try to catch your breath in the aftermath of the intense stand-off.

"I can do this all day," Luther tells Five confidently, as he gestures towards you, still suspended about a foot above the ground.

"I know you're still a good person, Five," he starts, his voice filled with unwavering faith. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have risked everything coming back here to save us all."

Taking a deep breath, Luther continues, sensing Five's inner turmoil. "But you're not on your own anymore," he concludes, his tone soft yet resolute, offering Five reassurance in their shared fight.

Five, feeling the weight of the moment, shifts his gaze from you to Luther, conveying a mix of vulnerability and determination.

"There is one way," he begins, his brow furrowed in contemplation, his hand absently running through his disheveled hair, a sign of the gravity of the situation.

"But it's just about impossible," he admits, acknowledging the daunting challenge ahead with a hint of hope lingering in his voice.

"More impossible than what brought you back here?" asks Luther with a raised eyebrow, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

"We're about to find out," Five replies confidently, a hint of mystery in his tone, as he nods to himself, preparing for what lies ahead.

"Can you put me down now?" you ask Luther, your impatience evident in your voice as you glance down at the ground below.

Luther's face softens with guilt as he slowly lowers you back onto the solid surface. "Sorry about that. I didn't even realize I was still holding you up there."

Feeling a playful urge, you lightly poke him in the arm, your powers sparking a brief reaction from Luther.

"Of course you didn't," you tease with a small smile, relishing the familiar banter between you two before turning to exit the room, the two boys dutifully following in your wake, their presence a reassurance amid the uncertainties that lie ahead.

~~~

You were left waiting in the car for what felt like an eternity, glancing at the passing minutes on the dashboard before Luther and Five finally caught up.

Inevitably, you always ended up in the backseat whenever Luther was around, knowing all too well that he trusted a toddler behind the wheel more than he trusted you.

As for Five, you had a sneaking suspicion that he would have preferred you in the back no matter what.

While Five hadn't explicitly divulged the plan to you, he had imparted the cryptic instruction to trust him—an act that you did, albeit with a hint of reservation.

Speculating on the nature of Five's scheme, you surmised that it likely involved the secluded ambiance of the car in an open and deserted setting.

Breaking the weighty silence like a disrupt in a still pond, Five uttered words that cut through the quiet air like a sharp knife.

His admission made you furrow your brows in anticipation, sensing where the conversation was headed.

"You know, I never enjoyed it," Five confessed, prompting Luther to interject with a puzzled, "What?" as he tried to grasp the cryptic exchange unfolding before him.

Five takes a deep breath, his voice heavy with the weight of his confession. "The killing," he begins, his words trailing off as he struggles to articulate his thoughts.

"I mean, I was... I was good at my work," his voice quivers slightly, revealing the conflict within him, "and I... I took pride in it. But it never gave me pleasure," he continues, his tone filled with a mixture of remorse and resignation, as if grappling with the consequences of his actions.

As he pauses, his gaze momentarily flickers towards you, but you remain absorbed in your own thoughts, your eyes fixed on the floor of the car, oblivious to his silent plea for understanding.

The solitude, he muses, can be a cruel companion, shaping your thoughts in ways you never thought possible.

It was a feeling you knew all too well, having spent long hours alone during your tenure at the Commission, with only your thoughts for company.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Five opens up about his time on the moon, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness.

"Yeah, well, you were gone for such a long time. I only spent four years on the moon, but that was more than enough," he mutters, his eyes revealing a glimpse of the loneliness that still haunts him.

"It's the being alone that breaks you," he adds, his words carrying the weight of accumulated sorrow and regret.

Amidst the somber atmosphere, Luther's voice cuts through the silence, brimming with uncertainty.

"You think they'll buy it?" he asks, his tone tinged with a note of desperation, seeking reassurance in the face of looming doubt.

"Well, what I do know is that they're desperate," you mull over the situation, grappling with the implications of their urgency.

Five's enigmatic words hang in the air, prompting a surge of questions in your mind, each vying for clarity.

"It's like a cop losing his gun. If the Commission finds out, they'll be in deep trouble," the severity of the consequences hits you like a ton of bricks, sending a shiver down your spine.

'Does his plan have something to do with the Commission?!' you cry out internally, your thoughts racing to connect the dots.

"Oh, not to mention the fact that they'll be stuck here until they retrieve it," Five adds, further emphasizing the weight of the situation and the looming sense of entrapment.

"Well, I should hold onto it," Luther interjects, offering a strategic perspective on the matter, his voice calm yet firm.

"Hm?" Five feigns innocence, his expression a mask of puzzlement that belies the depth of his understanding.

"In case they make a move on you," Luther's words carry a sense of protective resolve.

"Okay, Luther, but be careful," Five cautioned, his voice tinged with a mixture of wisdom and concern. "I mean, I've lived a long life, seen things that would make your head spin," he continued, his gaze momentarily clouded with memories.

Fidgeting with your plastic bracelet, you couldn't help but feel the weight of his words sink in.

"You're still a young man," Five acknowledged, his tone softening with a hint of wistfulness. "You got your whole life ahead of you," he added, his eyes focusing on some distant point only he could see.

Pausing for a moment, Five's expression turned serious as he delivered his final plea: "Don't waste it."

The sound of a car nearing drew your attention to the window, where you caught sight of the two familiar faces from a few nights ago.

A wave of relief washed over you, realizing it wasn't the ominous figure of The Handler.

Five, ever the strategist, hummed softly, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "Here we go," he mused aloud, the gravity of the situation settling in.

Turning to Luther, he made a request tinged with regret, "If this all goes sideways, do me a favor and tell Dolores I'm sorry," his words heavy with unspoken implications. Luther, understanding the weight of the task entrusted to him, simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Five, upon noticing your reluctance to leave the car, turns his gaze towards you. "y/n? Come on we gotta go," he urges, interrupting your quiet fiddling with your bracelet.

Gradually, you raise your eyes to meet his and respond with a slow nod.

"Yep, right. Sorry," you whisper apologetically, acknowledging his prompting as he gestures towards his door to indicate it's time to move.

With a deep breath, you follow suit, swinging open your door and stepping out before pushing it closed with a resounding thud.

As you both exit the vehicle, Five voices his query about the necessity of masks to the two individuals in suits standing nearby.

Intrigued, you move closer, positioning yourself a few steps behind Five, your hands tucked casually in your pockets.

"Where is it, kid?" one of the suited figures inquires, prompting Five to hint at the mysterious location being sought.

"Wow, that's how you're gonna start," Five muttered to himself, his voice carrying a mix of disbelief and a hint of amusement.

"You know, we can get right back in our car and call it a day," he suggested casually to the tense-looking man and woman in front of him, a subtle challenge underlying his words.

"You won't even make it halfway there."

"Maybe," Five shrugged nonchalantly, a touch of cockiness in his demeanor.

"But as I'm sure you found out in your previous foray, my brother is not your average giant," he informed them, his tone carrying a touch of warning as he glanced briefly at Luther, who was already shooting him a bewildered 'what the heck' look before refocusing on the task at hand.

"He's right," the masked man chimed in, breaking the tension with a calm assertion.

"You dropped a chandelier on him, and he simply got right back up," he recounted, causing your eyes to widen with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

As you processed the masked man's words, relief washed over you, silently acknowledging, 'Well, at least he's okay now,' a subtle sense of gratitude settling in amidst the chaos of the moment.

"By the time you took him out, he'd smash your precious briefcase to a pulp," Five tells them with a tone filled with warning.

"And even in the slight chance he doesn't, y/n here will fry it," he continues, gesturing towards you, emphasizing the impending threat.

"Probably us too, right?" the man interjects, seeking clarification on the potential danger that looms around the group. "So, how do we help each other?"

"I need you to get in contact with your superior so I can have a chat with her," Five states firmly, causing a wave of apprehension to wash over you suddenly, prompting a physical reaction as you place a hand on your stomach, feeling queasy at the prospect.

"Face-to-face," he adds, emphasizing the necessity for a direct and immediate conversation with your superior.

"About what?"

"Well, I don't believe that's any of your concern," Five responds cryptically, heightening the mystery shrouding his intentions.

"Just don't tell her about the briefcase," he warns firmly, establishing a boundary that must not be crossed for the safety of all involved.

"Fair enough," the suited figures agree.

As you all huddle near the car, the woman steps aside to make a call, leaving you with a sense of anticipation hanging in the air.

With each step back towards the vehicle, you feel a heaviness in your movements, your breaths coming shallow and your jaw tightly clenched.

Curiosity tinged with concern fills Luther's voice as he breaks the silence, asking, "What happens now?"

Five's response is brief but definitive, "Now we wait." His gaze shifts towards you, observing as you lean wearily against the car.

Sensing your unease, he edges closer until your shoulders nearly touch.

"Are you alright?" he inquires, meeting your gaze as a flicker of uncertainty flashes across your features.

"The Handlers coming here?" you question, pointing towards the ground in a shaky gesture. His nod carries a weight of resignation.

With a heavy sigh, you absentmindedly twirl the bracelet between your thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit betraying your inner turmoil.

"I didn't tell you before because I had a feeling you would leave." his confession hangs in the air, prompting you to turn your gaze back to meet his, searching for understanding in his eyes.

"Well maybe it would be for the best if I left," you tell him, still feeling sick. Five looks confused.

"Why's that?" he asks.

"Because you don't li-"

"We've already talked about this," he interrupts.

"I don't not like you," he tells you firmly, and you turn away from him to hide a lopsided grin, your heart fluttering with a mix of relief and uncertainty.

As you try to gather your thoughts, a faint sound drifts through the air, the distant melody of music.

"You hear that too, right?" you ask Five, seeking confirmation.

He nods in agreement, his expression mirroring a sense of curiosity.

Both of you instinctively turn towards the source of the sound, noticing an approaching ice cream truck slowly making its way down the street, the joyful jingle becoming louder as it nears you.

The vivid colors and playful design of the truck spark a sense of nostalgia and joy in you both, momentarily distracting you from the intensity of the moment you and Five were just sharing.

"Is that her?" Luther asks, a perplexed expression clouding his features, as he gazes intently at the figure in the distance.

"What the hell is he doing here?" The question hangs in the air, laced with a mixture of disbelief and frustration, as you both try to make sense of the unexpected sighting.

"Is that Klaus?!" Your voice rings out with a blend of astonishment and delight, catching you off guard as you spot the familiar face waving from the passing truck, his presence like a surreal twist in the unfolding scene.

"It's a setup!" Cha-Cha's urgent declaration reverberates through the tense atmosphere, her tone laced with a sense of impending danger as she swiftly draws her firearm, the metallic click echoing loudly and sending a chill down your spine, eliciting a sharp gasp of surprise from you at the sudden turn of events.

The two ruthless assassins, identified as Hazel and Cha-Cha, suddenly start unleashing a barrage of bullets in your direction.

Reacting swiftly, you instinctively lower your body and shield your face as Luther valiantly steps forward to shield both you and Five.

Feeling a mix of disbelief and admiration, you give Luther a quizzical look before pushing him away, narrowly deflecting a bullet that was aimed at him.

Expressing gratitude with a nod, Luther's reassurance is short-lived as you quickly notice incoming bullets heading your way.

Closing your eyes tightly and bracing for impact, your heart races in anticipation of the inevitable danger.

In a moment of shock, you find yourself gasping in surprise as you look around, only to realize that everything around you has come to a sudden standstill.

A surreal silence envelops you as you and Five remain suspended in time, the chaos frozen in a still frame as your mind tries to comprehend the strange occurrence.

You redirect your gaze towards Five, who has now positioned himself to your right, gently taking hold of your arm to guide you a few steps forward.

The sudden shift in direction catches you off guard, and you find yourself fixated on the woman standing before you, disbelief etched across your features.

"Neat trick, isn't it?" her voice permeates the air, resonating in your ears.

Upon locking eyes with Five, she addresses them with a brief acknowledgment, "Well, you're looking rather well, considering everything."

Her attention then shifts to you, a spark of recognition lighting up her expression as she exclaims with genuine delight,

"Oh, y/n, my dear, is that you in that little body? How wonderful to be reunited with you after all this time," her words carrying a cheerful cadence.

Your response is muted as you remain transfixed, absorbing the unexpected encounter before you.

She turns back to look at Five, offering a warm smile. "It's truly delightful to have this reunion," she begins, her voice filled with nostalgia.

"It almost feels as though we met only yesterday." A chuckle escapes her lips, evoking a slight cringe from you at the memory. "Of course, time has a funny way of playing tricks on us. Back then, you were a bit more seasoned, and she was just beginning her journey."

Your hand trembles as you reach out to touch Five's hand, which still clings to your forearm. "Congratulations on the age regression, by the way." she remarks gently.

The Handler then resumes speaking, prompting you to delicately pry Five's hand from your arm to grasp it securely, the tremor subsiding slowly.

"Very clever. Threw us all off the scent." The Handler notes, clearly impressed.

Five, with a confident tone, diverts the attention away from the scene before you. "Ah, well, I wish I could take credit." he admits, his voice concise yet revealing a hint of regret.

"I just miscalculated the time dilation projections, and... Well, you know. Here I am." The explanation is brief, but it sheds light on the intricate complexities that brought about the current situation.

"You realize your efforts are futile," The Handler tells him with a hint of resignation evident in her voice.

"So why don't you tell me what you really want?" she requests, her tone a mix of curiosity and understanding, as if hoping for a glimpse of true clarity amidst the chaos.

"I want you to put a stop to it," Five tells her bluntly, the weight of his plea echoing in the firm grip of his hand on yours, a silent reassurance in the face of uncertainty, a silent acknowledgment of the shared burden you both carry.

"You realize what you're asking for is next to impossible, even for me," The Handler shrugs, a glimmer of vulnerability underlying her composed facade, a flicker of doubt dancing in her eyes.

"What's meant to be is meant to be," she continues, her voice tinged with a sense of fatalism that seems to weigh heavy on her shoulders. "That's our raison d'être."

Five scoffs at her words, a defiant spark igniting in his gaze. "Yeah? Well how about survival as a raison?" His question hangs in the air, a challenge thrown at the very core of her beliefs, a question that cuts through the layers of the Handler's stoic demeanor, hitting a nerve that lingers on the edge of her consciousness.

"I'll just be replaced," The Handler shrugs again, a resigned acceptance coloring her words. "I'm but a... small cog in a machine," she admits, her voice a somber reflection of the truth she carries.

"This fantasy you've been nurturing, about summoning up your family to stop the apocalypse... is just that," she concludes, a note of finality in her tone, a stark reminder of the harsh reality.

"A fantasy," she murmurs softly, taking a calculated breath to compose herself. "I must say, though, we're all quite impressed with your initiative, your exceptional stick-to-itiveness; it's truly commendable. Quite an admirable quality you possess."

Her words are measured, conveying both praise and subtle scrutiny in their undertone.

With a wistful exhale, she continues, her gaze shifting pensively towards you, a glimmer of expectation dancing in her eyes.

"Which is why we want to offer you a new position back at the Commission, in management." she hesitates before adding the next part, her voice tinged with a mix of sincerity and manipulation.

"And y/n, dear, your father misses you terribly, we all deeply long for your return. It would mean the world to us," she states, the faux sympathy in her tone almost palpable.

The conversation is momentarily interrupted as Five interjects, his curiosity apparent in his glance towards you, prompting a pause in the dialogue.

"Come back to work for us, both of you. It's evident that your place is here; a valuable asset you both are. Though the past may have had its challenges," The Handler muses, her voice regaining momentum, "We believe a different path lies ahead for you. You wouldn't be confined to the correction division anymore, a fresh start awaits."

"I'm talking about-" she tries to find the words, a slight furrow forming on her brow in contemplation. "-the home office. You'd have the best health and pension, and an end to this ceaseless travel." there's a momentary lull in the conversation as she searches for the right words.

"You're a distinguished professional in... schoolboy shorts." she playfully quips, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she gestures towards Five's unconventional choice of attire, eliciting a silent but unmistakable eye roll from him in response to her teasing.

"Oh, and darling!" she starts anew, her gaze shifting towards you. "I could never forget how cute you looked in your little stealth suit."

Her voice softens with a touch of nostalgia as she places a hand over her heart in a gesture of fond remembrance.

"Such a precious little killer," she turns back to Five, who has now focused his attention on you as you glance down at your shoes, a mix of emotions swirling within you.

"We have the technology to reverse the process. I mean, you- you can't be happy like this." She attempts to reason with sincere concern lacing her words.

"I'm not looking for happiness." Five tells her, moving his eyes to her once again.

"We're all looking for happiness," she remarks with a thoughtful expression, your eyes meeting Five's before gently squeezing his hand.

A quick glance from him acknowledges the silent support as his focus shifts back to The Handler.

"We can make that happen. We can make you... yourself again." she reassures, her voice laced with determination.

"We can also resume your aging process, y/n" The Handler's statement about resuming your aging process causes a crease to form between your brows, prompting a questioning look towards her.

"And what about my family?" Five's query echoes your concerns, both of you united in this moment.

With a sigh, The Handler probes, "What about them?"

"We want them to survive," you interject firmly, the unexpected plea causing a stir between Five and The Handler.

A raised eyebrow and a subtle smirk indicate The Handler's intrigue. "All of them?"

"Yes, all of them," Five responds impatiently, his resolve unwavering as he advocates for the safety of his family.

"Well... I'll see what I can do," The Handler's voice held a hint of intrigue as she addressed both of you.

"Do we have a deal?" Her hand extended, inviting a final confirmation.

Before fully agreeing, Five interjected, his touch lingering reassuringly on your hand before he turned to assist Luther with the imminent danger before him.

A wave of relief washed over you, knowing that the Hargreeves were now safe from harm.

Returning to your side, Five's grip on your hand tightened as he guided both of you towards The Handler.

You still felt sick at the thought of going back, but it's not like you had a choice. It was either this or the world literally ending.

The inevitability of returning to the Commission weighed heavily on you, a sense of dread clinging to your every thought.

Despite the overwhelming nausea that fluttered in the depths of your stomach, the notion of any alternative sent shivers down your spine.

The three of you disappear from the frozen scene in a blip of light, and you open your eyes to find yourself within the familiar walls of the Commission.

The sterile environment echoed the gravity of the moment, contrasting sharply with the chaos that reigned outside those walls.

The Handler's cool demeanor greeted you, her voice piercing the air with a blend of authority and familiarity that made you flinch involuntarily.

"Welcome back to the Commission, Mr. Hargreeves and Ms. Carmichael," The Handler's words rang in the air, a stark reminder of the role you were bound to play in this intricate web of fate.

Your breath caught in your throat as shame and regret washed over you, a tsunami of emotions threatening to drown you.

Avoiding Five's searching gaze, you battled the turmoil within, wishing you had found the courage to confide in him earlier.

Five's incredulous expression mirrored your own inner turmoil as he leaned closer, his eyes searching for answers in your troubled gaze.

"Carmichael?"

~~~

A/N : ooh surprise! anyways, thanks for reading and by the way i'll begin to explain more of y/n's backstory in later chapters.

other title names - 'weeeeeee' 'so you're related to a fish..'

lemme know if you have any questions though <3

word count : 5218

#x reader #reader insert #five hargreeves #five x y/n #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves x reader #five x reader #five x you #the umbrella academy #spacial sparks

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