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clearlynotjanus · 3 years

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Moceit Appreciation Week :: Aftermath

Read on Ao3

Art by @nonchimerical

tag list: @sanderssidesangsttrash @catalinaacosta @whatishappeningrightnow @the-snekwhisperer-world @varthandi @the-dead-and-the-decaying @serpentinesomebody

CW: Alcohol/Wine mention, food mention, insinuated swearing Word Count: 5646 Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: Teen Ships: Moceit, implied Loceit, implied Intruloceit, implied Dukeceit, implied if you squint Prinxiety

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“Well,” Janus started, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Seems like things worked out after all,” Here it comes, he thought, another round of the Blame Game. “Guess I was wrong about everything,” It didn’t matter that they had just come to some sort of understanding; after years of passing the buck between them, Janus was awfully accustomed to Patton saying his input was wrong -- Especially in a situation like this, where evolving circumstances made his advice seem moot.

“You and I both know …” Patton’s soft voice interrupted Janus’ bitterness. The tone caught him off guard, though as far as he knew, the sentence would end in a crushing you’re wrong. It was best not to get his hopes up, but the silence dragged on too long, and Janus’ defenses fell with his racing thoughts. “That’s not true,” Patton finished finally and Janus couldn’t help but to look over at the wistfully pensive expression that accompanied Patton’s admission. Perhaps it was just a sense of victory he felt, but humorlessly, his lips reciprocated.

“Is that--” Janus began only to be comedically interrupted by the vagrant and imaginative impression of Leslie Odom Jr. With a heavy sigh, the specter was dismissed and the sounds of Thomas with his friends began to fill the apartment.

Awkwardly, Janus and Patton stood next to each other. Sidelong, Janus caught Patton’s expression softening as Thomas laughed loudly at something Lee just said.

“Well, even if things did work out,” Janus started again, chin raised like he expected a fight. Patton blinked and turned his head, wearing a curious expression as though he had actually been content standing in silence together. “You should still consider what Logan and I said today.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” Patton said like that was a given. The sentence trailed off in an unusual and nervous way that made it feel like he had more to say, but more never came. Janus resigned himself to being content with that. Patton had seen the repercussions of his actions; there was little more he could do now besides press the issue when need be.

“Good,” He paused, nodding slightly. Speaking of Logan, the thought crossed his mind that he should check on him, given how their bargain had gone. “At any rate, I suppose I’ll … see you another time.”

Patton forced a smile, pulling at the fabric of his shirt anxiously. “Yeah! See you around, Jan,” The old nickname slipped out and Patton cleared his throat.

A week later, Patton squeaked an, “Oh,” as he walked into the Light Side kitchen. “Hiya, Janus,” He greeted in a pitchy, nervous voice. A weird feeling blossomed in his stomach and he thought he might be getting sick.

“Hello, Patton,” Janus gave a half-lipped smile as he finally reached into the fridge, having stood here for the better part of an hour.

“Didn’t expect to see you over here,” Patton’s anxiety was evident; just holding the cup he had come to place into the sink was a gamble given how shaky his hands were suddenly. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, just peachy,” He responded sweetly, tipping the freshly retrieved carton of milk into his now cold cup of tea. “We were just out of milk you see,” He explained, holding the carton up as evidence before sliding it back into the fridge.

“Oh, okay,” Well, that made sense, as long as Patton didn’t think about it too hard. Brushing his hip against the counter on the far side of the kitchen, Patton placed his cup into the sink and promptly turned back around. “Well if that’s all, I’ll--”

“There was one more thing actually,” Janus interrupted, absentmindedly opening a drawer to borrow a spoon. He turned to face Patton, expression unreadable. “Just while I have you here, of course.”

“S-sure!” Patton stuttered. “What’s on your mind?” He gripped the lip of the counter he leaned against, knuckles soon going white.

“Well I was just wondering,” Janus continued slowly as he stirred his tea unnecessarily. “If you had any, oh I don’t know;” his tongue clicked with a shallow, one shouldered shrug. “Dilemmas, problems, maybe some quandaries of poor Thomas’ that you needed to … bounce ideas around for?”

Patton gulped and quickly shook his head. The lively feeling in his stomach suddenly felt unpleasantly warm. “Nope!” He laughed humorlessly as he pushed himself forward and started to stumble backwards out of the kitchen. “None at all! Thomas has, hah, Thomas has been doing just great lately! No problems here!” The air sweetened and Janus lost his appetite for his overly sugared cup of tea. “If that’s all--”

“Yes, yes, whatever then,” Janus raised the spoon out of his cup and waved it dismissively with a sigh, flicking drops of tea on the floor.

Patton hopped the last two steps out of the kitchen and was hardly down the hall when he heard a new voice. High pitched and nasally, it was unmistakably the Duke’s. Patton’s body froze in fear.

“Janny! What’s taking you so long?” Janny? Patton questioned internally. That’s … actually kind of a cute nickname…

“Remus,” Janus sounded annoyed and surprised. “I told you to wait.”

“I was waiting! For like, a whole hour! How long does it take to get milk?” The frustration in Remus’ voice grew and Patton’s brows furrowed. An hour? Janus was … in their kitchen for an hour?

“However long it takes,” Janus mumbled and Patton got the sense he wasn’t talking about getting milk anymore. Suddenly the clattering sound of Janus carelessly tossing his teacup into the sink rang in his ears; until then, Patton didn’t realize how hard he was listening, or how quickly his heart was beating. He squeaked, too loudly, and then the voices in the kitchen stopped as he threw a hand over his mouth.

“Who the fu--” Remus abruptly stopped. Patton’s ears twitched, going red. He could almost make out the sound of a whisper. Fear set adrenaline lose in his blood and he silently sank out.

Later that month, Patton and Roman sat on the couch, watching some show together. Between Roman becoming distracted with the notebook in his lap and Patton dreamily staring out the window, neither of them really knew what was happening on screen; but that much didn’t really matter. Patton enjoyed sitting there, listening to Roman’s scribbles, and Roman enjoyed not being holed up in his room, burning his candle at both ends. It was a pleasant afternoon, for all intents and purposes.

“I’m going to grab a Coke,” Roman said with a stretch, setting his notebook aside. “You want one?”

“Huh?” Patton blinked, “Oh yeah, sure. Thanks!” He said with a typical smile.

The cushions had hardly risen from Roman’s absence before the couch was jostled again. “That was fas--” Patton started before registering who had actually taken Roman’s place. “Oh, J-Janus, hello,” His voice hitched and the television suddenly felt muted.

“Hello, darling,” Janus greeted warmly, an arm over the back of the couch.

“What’s up?” Patton questioned, taking a deep breath. Nerves wracked his stomach familiarly and a warmth made the back of his neck itch. “Everything alright?”

“Splendid, of course, thank you,” Janus charmed and paused. With curiosity, he reached for Roman’s notebook between them.

“Oh, you shouldn--” Patton started but it was too late; Janus had flipped open the cover and started admiring the haphazard yet beautiful doodles on the first page.

“So I was thinking,” Janus began, thumbing to another page. His eyes glazed over the curly cursive writing. Patton glanced anxiously behind Janus; if Roman walked in right now… “Have you noticed anything … off about our dear Thomas lately?”

“Off?” Patton echoed. He tried to think; ever since the reconciliation he had with Lee and Mary-Lee, things had been … better. Patton had been trying to lay off of reacting to things so quickly and he thought he was doing well with it. “N-no, I don’t think anything specific’s been wrong,” He surmised slowly. “Why do you ask?” Had Janus noticed something he didn’t? His stomach tightened uncomfortably now.

“Just wondering is all,” He dismissed with a curt smile. A pause ensued and Patton could hear Roman hum-singing to himself in the kitchen. Janus placed his palm on the couch and stared at Patton from under his lashes after a moment. “Though that brings up an interesting question, don’t you think?” His voice was low and provocative. Patton had to listen closely to hear anything at all, which made him lean towards Janus unconsciously. He felt like a useless fly; did that make Janus something dangerous? Something that’d burn him or swallow him up if he got too close?

“D-does it?” Patton stuttered, trying to keep his voice as quiet as Janus’. Admittedly, he wasn’t exactly following; too paranoid about Roman coming back, too nervous about what Janus was about to say, too flustered from suddenly being this close. Butterflies cut up the inside of his stomach.

“Mhmmmm,” Janus exaggerated, “Tell me,” He batted his eyes and Patton’s cheeks warmed. “Would you even let me know if something was wrong? ... Would you let me help in that case?”

Patton’s mouth opened like he had a response immediately, but no words followed; only a rush of warm air that blew sweetly in Janus’ face. He didn’t have an answer to that question, and thankfully, he wouldn’t need one.

“One Coke for the Marvelous Morality~” Roman sang as he rounded the kitchen corner, two filled glasses in his hands.

Patton blinked and Janus was gone, making him wonder if he had imagined the entire thing. Roman slid the drinks onto the coffee table and plopped heavily back on the couch with a gruff sound. Patton straightened his back as Roman reached for his notebook.

“Hm?” Roman’s brow furrowed, “Did you open this, Pat?” Patton struggled with his words for a second before Roman laughed. “If you wanted to read what I was working on, you could’ve just asked! Here,” Roman flipped through the pages, ignorant to the dumbfounded expression on Patton’s face, “I’ll read this much to you, but prepare yourself; it’s a little rough,” Roman said with grandeur before clearing his throat several times.

If asked, Patton couldn’t recall what Roman had read to him then. Janus’ words kept repeating in his ears until Patton was so dizzy, he felt faint.

The warm month of May shifted impatiently towards the sweltering Flordian heat of June. Even as the sun set, the summer continued to loom with heavy, humid air. Realizing that the apartment showed no signs of cooling off any time soon, Patton went to his room with the intent of changing into something lighter than his usual khakis. His heart stopped and all traces of a coherent thought process came to an abrupt halt, however, as he spotted someone on his bed.

“Oh hello, dear,” Janus purred as though this was a chance meeting. He was lounging back, head resting against Patton’s pillow, one leg crossed over the other. His hat was placed on his stomach, revealing a crooked hairline that seemed to be pushed back by the encroaching scales on the left side of his face; a sight Patton had caught glimpses of by now, but not one he was altogether familiar with.

“J-Janus!” Patton managed through the shock, a hand clutched the fabric of his shirt at his chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” He panted, forcing himself to take a gasping, deep breath.

“Apologies,” Janus offered a half smile, but hadn’t yet looked at Patton for more than a glance. Instead, he was focused on flipping through the rectangle shaped memories in his hands. Patton recognized them, once he gathered his senses enough to register the scene fully.

“You ... came to look at those?” Patton assumed, leaning to the side with a raised chin to peer at the one Janus was now staring at. It was an old memory that had begun to go grayscale at the edges. From Patton’s point of view like all of them, it showed Janus; smug at all of ten years old in an oversized hat that fell lopsided on his head. He looked as smart as any actual lawyer might as they won their case. Janus could tell Patton had been smiling when this memory became dear enough to actualize here, in his room.

“In a way,” Janus admitted. Unlike prior conversations, his voice was soft and now he, too, wore a rather endeared smile -- at least for a silent moment, as they both appreciated the memory. Soon he sighed and flipped to the next. The color of this one was vibrant and tinged in an idealistic, soft pink; the color of a schoolboy’s blush. Janus, now perhaps thirteen, reached over with a puzzle piece in hand. It was one of the last few Patton needed to finish the border he had been working on all afternoon. He remembers having begun tearing up, frustrated at not being able to complete something like that. But then Janus walked in. He had simply blinked between Patton’s watery eyes and the pile of pieces, sat down, and began to rifle through them for a moment before locating the one Patton needed. He pressed it into place easily and smiled. It hadn’t been his usual egotistical or knowing smile. It was one that made Patton’s little teenage heart race.

Janus sighed with finality and placed the pile of memories on Patton’s bedside table. As he sat on the edge, he put his hat back on. “Mostly I wanted to see if my own memories lined up,” Janus said as he stood, busying himself with adjusting his clothing. “You’ve been so obstinate lately, I had begun to think we never worked well together.”

Patton’s heart sank and so did his head. “We used to,” He whispered at the floor.

“We did,” Janus said, bittersweetness on his tongue. He shrugged and took slow steps around Patton. “It’s a shame you won’t just let us be like that again,” Janus shrugged a flimsy wrist, sounding mockingly disheartened. “But,” He amended as he reached the door behind Patton. “You’ve had everything handled without me for years now, so,”

“Yeah,” Patton agreed, instantly regretting how loud his voice was. “I have had everything handled! This whole time!” He spun around and Janus’ hand froze on the doorknob. “Without you! and now you’re trying to be around, acting like we can just go back to how it was, assuming that the others will just -- just -- get over it or something,” Patton’s voice gained an exasperated and humored edge despite finding absolutely none of this funny. “Roman nearly had a breakdown at just the idea of trusting you! Virgil can’t be in the same room with you! I just -- I don’t,” Patton’s anger began to fizzle out into despair.

His breathing caught up with him, now heavy and quick. The hand that had been pointing with accusation at Janus’ back fell with the intent of gripping his shoulder, but as though Janus saw that coming, he pulled away.

“I see,” He said, after a silent moment with an unreadable tone. “You have a lot to worry about,” Janus released the door knob. “Don’t let me keep you then,” and as fast as Patton could blink, Janus was gone.

One night, a little over a week later, Patton couldn’t sleep no matter what he did. Supposing he deserved a cookie for his trouble, he wandered into the kitchen, only to find the light already on. He froze and blinked sleepy eyes at the scene; was that … Janus? and Logan? Sitting at the small table by the bookshelf together? Patton gulped and the pair noticed him before he could digest much more.

“Patton,” Logan greeted curtly, sitting up as he seemed to notice how far over he had been leaning. “It’s late. What are you doing up?”

“Well I could say the same thing to you!” Patton joked, but his tone was off. The three sat in awkward silence and Janus busied himself with retrieving the nearly empty bottle of wine from the floor between them. “Wh--What are you guys up to?” Patton asked conversationally, pressing his knuckles together nervously.

Janus and Logan exchanged a look and Patton’s face became feverish. He had never felt so terribly out of place before. He shifted on his feet, realizing how uncomfortable his skin was.

“Well if you must know,” Janus answered, refilling Logan’s glass before meeting Patton’s eyes. His gaze was lidded, knowing, and it set Patton on fire. “We’re trying to find a solution to a problem you insist doesn’t exist.”

“Oh now, that can’t be true!” Patton objected eagerly, taking a half step forward only to receive a dubious expression from Logan.

“And why’s that?” Janus asked as he refilled his own glass. “Because you know everything?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm and wine. Janus could feel Logan’s gaze on him now; curious, wondering how he had gone from laughing demurely at something one moment to passive aggressively reproaching Patton the next. Janus wondered in turn what Logan would think of him for his words, but figured the judgement wouldn’t be too harsh. Patton annoyed them both most of the time. “Or because you think we’re too inept to solve anything for Thomas?”

Patton’s hands shook as they anxiously balled fists in the fabric of his shirt. Why would Janus say something so mean? His stomach twisted into intricate knots. Is that how Janus thought he felt? Did he really think Patton thought he was inept? His eyes stung as he stared at the ground. He couldn’t cry here, that’d just add more shame to this horrific, nightmarish moment.

“N-neither, really,” Patton whispered, not trusting his voice to be any louder.

“Why then?” Janus pressed insistently, staring Patton down with hands folded atop the haphazard papers. Logan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This felt like a grotesque mockery of their court scenario the other day...

Patton sniffled quietly, trying to keep from snotting all over himself. “I didn’t realize anything was wrong…” His voice pitched and broke with the effort he extended to keep from sobbing on the spot. How awful it was, to be misinterpreted this gravely, to not have the words to explain himself, to think Janus hated him for not knowing how to ask for forgiveness.

Janus swallowed a lump in his throat and forced himself to roll his eyes. “Well that’s your mistake then,” He mumbled, sitting back in his chair. As he reached for his freshly poured glass of wine, Logan hesitantly pressed feather-light fingers against his sleeve.

“I think that’s enough,” Logan whispered without much tact before looking back at Patton. “We were almost finished here. The kitchen is all yours in a few moments,” Janus scornfully met his serious gaze and soon clicked his tongue. This time, his eye roll was genuine.

“Yeah sure,” Janus snarked to no one in particular as he stood. “Let’s leave it all to Patton. As usual.”

“Thank you all for joining us today,” Logan began professionally, briskly meeting everyone’s eyes.

“Yes, thank you all so much for taking the time out of your very busy schedules,” Janus snarked in good humor from his position next to Logan; an easel with a balanced poster board stood between them. The information on the board was utilitarian in design; flat colors with thick black lines. Altogether, it was very easy to read and especially clear that Janus, with all his dramatic flair, didn’t have a single hand involved in the writing of it.

“Sure thing,” Patton interjected from his usual spot near the sliding glass door. He raised a finger like one would raise their hand in class. “But uh, I’m a little confused. What’s this all about?”

“I’m glad you asked, Patton,” Logan began, immediately getting cut off by Virgil, who had shoved himself in the very corner of the stairway.

“This is a waste of time, why am I here? I have nothing to do with stuff like this,” he gestured at the poster board, clearly not actually reading anything written there.

“You’re here so we can get your input,” Logan gestured between Patton, Roman, and Remus, who seemed to be fidgeting with some wires behind the television, “Along with everyone else’s.”

“I say let him go if he wants to,” Janus mumbled cynically, adjusting his capelet. “He’s not at all capable of providing helpful feedback.”

“You mean I don’t feed your ego,” Virgil replied bitterly with a scowl. His mouth opened to continue but no sound was produced as Logan met his eyes expectantly. Virgil sighed and shifted stubbornly against the wall. “But fine. If Logan has something to say, I guess I’ll listen. For a bit.”

“Thank you, Virgil,” Logan said, offering a small smile.

At some point during Virgil and Janus’ bickering, the twins began to argue. The quarrel increased in volume and Janus cleared his throat.

“Darling?” Janus called, brows and chin raised. Remus’ head poked up from behind the television; black, blue, and red wires were between his lips like thick spaghetti noodles. Roman crossed his arms with a loud huff and a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Care to clue me in on what’s going on over there?”

Using his tongue, Remus maneuvered the wires to the right side of his mouth. “Roboat thinks he can stop me from eating these wires,” He explained with his mouth full. Janus scrunched his nose delicately and shook his head.

“Leave their wires alone, dear,” Remus deflated and opened his lips, letting the spit-soaked things fall out and back onto the floor. Patton went visibly queasy at the display, pulling at the hem of his shirt nervously.

“Okay,” Remus pouted exaggeratedly.

Janus turned and smiled pleasantly at Logan, who adjusted his glasses with a hint of exasperation, though both Janus and Remus knew the irritation was only ever meant with fondness for the Duke.

“If we’re ready to begin,” Logan started and everyone fell begrudgingly silent. “For several weeks now, Janus and I hav--”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Virgil interrupted, sitting up again and waving his hands hastily. “You and Deceit have been talking for weeks now?” Patton chewed his lip and tried to look at anything but the inevitable fight currently breaking out.

“Hey, yeah!” Roman agreed, pointing in Logan and Janus’ direction. Anger creased his expression. “I haven’t even seen that Sneaking Snob around here at all! Wouldn’t we have noticed if he was stalking around here like some B movie villain?”

“Maybe you would have if you were more perceptive,” Janus mumbled to himself, looking busily down at his gloved hand as though to inspect his nails. Remus snickered and whispered an oooo, like Roman had just gotten called to the principal's office.

“I’m plenty perceptive, thank you, Boa Bitch-stricter,” Roman dropped his arm heatedly.

The bickering continued for several more minutes, insults flying towards Janus from both Virgil and Roman. He took them in stride, giving his own snide and sarcastic comments back that only served to fuel both of their tempers. Patton’s nerves grew with each passing second; he shifted on his feet, pushed his knuckles together, debated sinking out silently but figured he’d better not cause more tension than there already was. Eventually, Logan spoke up above the roar.

“If you would all just listen,” He said, managing to gain everyone’s attention. “I promise we’ll be through in just a few minutes,” Everyone mumbled a respective, incoherent comment each as they shuffled and settled back to their original positions. Remus gave a cheer in support of Logan, which was followed by a whispered curse and apology as the latter gave a pointedly serious look.

To a silent and mostly attentive room, Logan explained what he and Janus had been discussing and planning for the last two months. Thomas’ financial situation, they all agreed, wasn’t spectacular. To that end, Logan had asked the newly accepted Janus if he had any ideas or solutions. Despite Janus’ surprise at being asked for input (and being considered ‘accepted’ at this point), he offered to go over the issue in detail with Logan; something none of the others had done to date. Over late nights of tasteful wine and the occasional dinner beforehand, they had crunched numbers, mapped solutions, and thought up lists of pros and cons to a multitude of different fixes.

Hearing this, gears clicked into place for Patton; the time he had stumbled on them late at night made a lot more sense now. Though even with the explanation, Patton’s stomach continued to knot painfully. He would really rather not recall that moment. It was filled with such shame and guilt and suspicion, he almost refused to believe it had even happened.

“And so after all that,” Logan approached the end of his explanation, “We settled on a very reliable and doable solution; Thomas and his team should, by all means, open up a Patreon.”

The audience’s eyes went wide as they stared at each other. The fact that the numbers had gone over their heads was clear on their faces, but the conclusion was easy enough to understand.

“So wait,” Virgil said, sitting up slowly, “Basically, what you’re saying is, we should ask the viewers for money, for something Thomas already gives them for free?” He asked incredulously.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t provide them with a little something extra every now and again,” Janus chimed in with a flourish of his fingers and an enigmatic grin. “The amount of things Thomas keeps hidden...phew, let me tell you,” His brows raised dramatically.

“You’re considering airing out his dirty laundry? For money?” Roman interjected, tone fantastically offended. “Preposterous! Who do you think you are, treating Thomas’ classified secrets like they’re some measly prince being sold for ransom!”

“Like that isn’t what our series is already based on?” Janus asked skeptically. Roman fell silent after a few sputtered and disjointed, rather useless words. “The point is,” Janus continued after a moment, meeting everyone’s eyes seriously now. “Thomas can’t afford to keep making videos if we don’t do something. I know you’re all against me, but you could at least extend the courtesy of considering it for Logan.”

Again the room became hushed, but only for a moment before Remus decided to speak up.

“It’s a great idea. Lolo! But I think he could make even more money if he did an OnlyFans!” Remus said too loudly for the room’s atmosphere. Patton flinched and grimaced distastefully, beginning to regret not making a bigger fuss about letting the Duke attend this meeting.

“No one asked you,” Roman snarked, turning slightly to glare at his brother.

“Actually,” Logan interrupted, “We did ask him, all of you,” He gestured with an open palm. “We’re asking you to consider it, as Janus said. No big decision needs to be made right now, even if I don’t quite understand what the hold up could possibly be,” Logan glanced at Janus with a hint of aggravation, “But something bad will happen if we don’t do something.”

“Alright,” Patton said quietly, nodding. “I think we get it, so,” He looked sheepishly around the room; Roman and Virgil had perked up significantly at Patton’s words. They both clearly waited with expectant expressions for Morlaity’s opinion. The twisting in his stomach grew uncomfortably hot. “So,” He repeated before drawing in a breath through his teeth, “Why don’t we all take the night and think about it. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow after … after we’ve all had a little while to think.”

“Very well,” Logan responded immediately, almost cheerfully -- at least cheerfully for Logan’s standards. “That’s quite alright with me, though please try to be quick about it.”

Janus’ brow pinched subtly as he stared at Patton for a moment too long. Logan had called his name twice before the third reached him through his thoughts.

“Janus?”

“Oh, yes,” He cleared his throat and nodded shallowly a few times, “By all means, do drag this out.”

Logan nodded, agreeing with the true intent of Janus’ sarcastic comment as he removed the poster board from the easel. As he collapsed the set up, Patton sunk out silently; the twins began fighting again and Virgil had somehow gotten pulled into their bickering. “That went well,” Logan summarized quietly to Janus, who was still staring distractedly at the space Patton usually occupied. “You were right unfortunately,” Logan paused, waiting for Janus to respond, only continuing when he realized no immediate retort was coming. “About them needing time to think about it?”

“Huh? Oh, yes,” Janus mumbled. Logan frowned; did it not go over as well as he thought? “You have all this handled, correct?” Janus gestured vaguely at the room, taking steps away.

“I suppose…?” Logan answered slowly. He started to say something else, but Janus had already disappeared.

Janus knocked on Patton’s door three times, the sound muffled by his gloves. From his bed, Patton flinched and instinctually squeezed the pillow in his lap tighter.

“B-be right there!” Patton called out, forcing his voice to sound cheerful. He inhaled a ragged breath and scrubbed at his face with dry hands. Please let it be Roman, please let it be Roman, please let i--

“H-hey Janus,” Patton greeted, swallowing his disappointment as he opened the door.

“Hello, dear,” Janus’ voice matched the serious tone he had used in his closing statement at the meeting just a few minutes ago, though the edges of it were softened. Patton thought his brow was creased and wondered what he was worrying about. “How are you?” He asked, and Patton had a hard time believing the question was genuine.

“Oh, I’m fine!” Patton said and Janus’ mouth watered. “Was just getting ready for bed,” he gestured behind him with a thumb and hoped that was enough to deter Janus from any kind of conversation. “S-so if you really don’t mind,” He continued, taking a half step back and starting to close the door slowly. “I sure am wiped from that meeting,” Patton forced a yawn.

“I know you’re lying,” Janus said pointedly, tone deliberate and unamused as he reached a hand to stop the door in its tracks.

Patton frowned, almost pouting as he stared at the floor. Janus’ eyes were too severe just then, and meeting them made his chest hurt. The silence dragged on as Patton found himself in an impossible situation; Janus knew he wasn’t okay, but that didn’t imply he was concerned enough to hear what was on his mind. Even if Janus did want to know, Patton wasn’t sure he could manage to sound coherent. To make matters worse, if all that weren’t true and he did get his feelings across to Janus, they felt silly and inconsequential in the face of Logan and Janus’ idea. They spoke so surely, so convincingly, and all Patton had was … feelings.

“Patton,” Janus said softly, letting his hand fall from the door, “How are you?” He asked again, sounding more insistent.

“I’m,” Patton started to repeat himself again but looked up to see Janus’ face. He wore such a distressed expression, Patton almost wanted to ask if he was okay. “I’m,” He began again, voice shaking as he clutched his shirt. “I’m scared,” Patton admitted in a whisper after a long pause.

Janus’ posture relaxed with a quiet sigh. He remained silent, knowing Patton well enough to predict that he would continue of his own accord now that the dam was open.

“I’m scared that I’m doing the wrong thing, but I’m … I’m not even sure what I’m doing. I’m scared that the others will hate me if I … If I,” Patton swallowed, “If I start letting you help again. B-but I’m also scared that,” His voice quickened, gaining speed like a rushing torrent of unstoppable water. “If I don’t let you help, I’ll just keep hurting Thomas. I’m scared that Virgil will lose himself again and leave us, I’m scared that Roman won’t be able to help Thomas if--if Remus is around, I’m terrified that Remus will hurt Thomas, and,” Patton inhaled a ragged breath. When he continued, his voice was a slow whisper again. “I’m scared of you, of--of not knowing how much selfishness is just right. I know you don’t want to hurt Thomas, I do, but …” He looked up with teary eyes finally, meeting Janus’ patient gaze. “But what if we get it wrong?”

“Then we’ll fix it and get it right together,” Janus replied instantly, like he knew exactly where Patton’s words were going to end up. “Like we always have,” He affirmed calmly, his tone and expression implying that, while this conclusion was obvious, Janus didn’t mind saying it as often Patton needed to hear it.

Patton gasped and the tears in his eyes fell. Hastily he reached up to brush them away with mumbled apologies. Janus rolled his eyes and muttered a sarcastically impatient, “Come here,” as he reached to hug Patton with both arms.

“Just because you’ve done it alone all this time doesn’t mean you should continue to, darling,” he said as Patton gripped the front of Janus’ shirt, letting himself be selfishly consoled, for just a second he told himself. “You can rely on me, that’s all I’ve been trying to say,” He chastised gently. “The others will get used to it again. Thomas isn’t giving them much of a choice on that one,” His tone gained a humored edge and Patton whined softly. Janus chuckled and gave him a final squeeze before gently pushing him away with hands on his upper arms. “As for everything else,” He continued as Patton sniffled, “We’ll figure it out,” Janus said nonchalantly, with a fond smile.

“Together?” Patton whispered, his voice cracking.

“Together.”

Chapter One || Chapter Two

#moceitappreciationweek #moceit appreciation week #moceit week 2021 #moceit #sanders sides

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mindibindi · 3 years

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Beyond disappointed in Ted Lasso. What were they thinking?!

The writing is a complete betrayal and insult to Rebecca’s character and Hannah’s skills as they’re being seriously underused. It’s also insulting Sam’s character.

Hoping someone pulls Rebecca’s head out of her ass tbh. Sam shouldn’t be getting caught in the crossfire of her looking for romance. I know he showed up at her doorstep but she still should’ve turned him away, and not even messaged him in the first place.

Hey, I'm with you, Anon, though we do seem to be in the minority. Sam is definitely not blameless here, he is also in the wrong. But if one of them is more in the wrong, it is Rebecca. I can't speak to whether her head has left her arse as yet because I have quit watching (at least for now). I hear she called it off with Sam in the most recent ep, though not because of any major crisis of conscience or because anyone in her inner circle expressed any reasonable reservations in response to her bad behaviour. And to be honest, I'm not sure we should need to hope and pray that Rebecca's precocious god-daughter, her slimy ex-husband, or the brutal British press will act as a moral compass on this ill-advised relationship. Both Rupert and the press have been set up to some extent as the villains of the piece. And a 14 year old should never have to school her elders on what is and isn't acceptable. Nora's needs have already been neglected by Rebecca for far too long.

If a moral position is to be taken on this, it needs to be taken by the show (because stance matters) and/or by its characters. But the show has for the most part depicted this relationship as ill-advised but ultimately hot, sweet, funny and romantic. As for the characters themselves, Sam has shown at least once that he has some moral backbone but seems to be adorably clueless when it comes to fucking his boss who keeps trying to set boundaries with him. Meanwhile, Rebecca's whole arc in s1 was about learning not to misuse her power for her own selfish ends. In season one, she misused her power within the club in order to exact revenge. In season 2, we have seen her misuse her sexual power, though I still cannot see to what end. I'm a bit at a loss as to what exactly she gets out of this 'relationship' but then I'm a grown woman so I have absolutely no interest in sleeping with a Harry Potter enthusiast barely out of his teens. I couldn't think of anything less sexy and more ick. I was certainly hoping for better character development for her this season.

As to what the writers were thinking, obviously I was not in the writer's room, but I would guess that they were thinking that any drama is good drama, people are stupid and fan devotion will trump any meaningful critique. In other words, they were thinking exactly how every other television writer thinks, despite the fact that this show posited itself as 'not like other TV shows'. This, to me, is where the blame really lies. Not with the characters or with the actors who are doing their best to sell this ludicrous turn of events. It must be noted, however, that both actors were completely blindsided by this relationship that had supposedly been so cleverly foreshadowed. Newsflash: if the people actually living these stories did not see this coming then you haven't foreshadowed shit. Sure, there were a handful of people that paired Rebecca with Sam but this does not constitute proof either. Fans have free-range to imagine and re-imagine characters. In some cases this may extend to imagining relationships between characters who have barely, if ever, interacted. There may be little to no evidence that these characters have even clocked each other's existence and some fans will still ship it. The existence of a handful of shippers does not legitimise such a problematic and divisive plotline making it onscreen.

But wait!, you might argue, this may not be a case of a popular show seeing just how far they can stretch fan devotion. This may not be a case of fan service to a handful of shippers. After all, the creators mapped out the entire three-season arc of Ted Lasso before they even pitched it to Apple. This was their brilliant plan all along! To which I would say: then maybe they should've rethought their second act based on people's strong reactions to their first. Ted Lasso was touted as the show we all needed in 2020. The writers and creators have all marveled at the chord it struck considering it was conceived prior to the pandemic and all the chaos it wrought. And while there is something to be said for having/sticking to a creative vision, there is also something to be said for being flexible and responsive to your audience and the cultural zeitgeist with which you're engaged. Season 1 of Ted Lasso told its story so gently, without creating distrust, division or unnecessary anxiety. It did not treat its audience like a gaggle of stupid lemmings to be led over a succession of narrative cliffs. THIS is what I mean when I say the show has broken with its brand. And look, this whole dark forest thing would be okay if the narrative arc was as well-crafted as s1. Season 1 gave us meaning, cohesion, comfort, sense in a senseless time. It was an almost perfectly crafted season of television. And I kept the faith for 6 episodes, despite the first half of s2 being pretty damn wobbly. But the follow-up to this stellar debut has been less than extraordinary so yeah, perhaps they should've thought a little harder about what made s1 so special before throwing it all out the window.

But wait!, I hear the faithful say, you don't know how things will pan out yet! Wait until the season is over and everything will make sense! But -- wearily and once again, I say -- we should not need to wait until the end of the season to understand what the hell is happening. By this point (over halfway through the season and show) we should have a v clear idea of the show's themes and the characters' arcs. And tbf, from what I can tell there are some fab things happening in other aspects of the show that I wish I could watch and enjoy. But my biggest fear at this point is that they are going to use Sam to solve Rebecca's childlessness. That, like Rupert (because the parallel cannot be avoided), she will become pregnant with a young fling and the show's attitude to this relationship will ultimately be: oh well, it was a bad idea and didn't work out for them but it was all for the best in the end cos who can be mad about a cute lil baaaayyybbbeeee??!! If they do go down this path then I will definitely be abstaining from the rest of the show. I will simply recall my repeated viewings of s1 with fondness tinged with regret at just how badly they fucked up a good thing.

Ultimately, Anon, I think this may be a case of there simply not being a diverse enough perspective in the writer's room. I am not saying that every single woman or every single person of colour will necessarily object to this relationship. I am simply saying that women and people of colour will be more sensitive to the issues of gender and race that are relevant here but that have not been fully or sensitively acknowledged in the writing of this plotline. Neither am I saying that Rebecca is the first woman to sleep with a man much (much, much, MUCH) younger than herself or indulge in an ill-advised relationship. But the comparison with Rupert both works here and doesn't because Rebecca is not being written like a white woman, she is being written like a white man. Realistically, only a white man can engage in this kind of hugely imbalanced relationship seemingly without any major moral qualms or societal ramifications. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this kind of relationship is reserved for all the Bills and Joes and Brendans and Jasons out there -- not for the Rebeccas and definitely not for the Sams. We are way beyond the point in feminism where we believe that liberation is simply the right for a white woman to behave as badly as a white man. The truth is that whatever wealth, power and privilege Rebecca has, the rules are different for men and women. She will not be treated the same as Rupert if and when this affair is uncovered. She will be treated far more savagely than Rupert ever was and Sam will be treated far more savagely than Bex was. This is not an argument for the equal treatment of these two relationships. It is an argument against how the relationship between Rebecca and Sam has been envisaged, i.e. through the wrong perspective. In writing from a 'neutral' white male pov, the show has invisiblised all the many issues activated by this storyline and revealed a blindspot that was always there.

As much as I loved and still love season 1 of this show, it has definite blindspots when it comes to representations of race and gender. There are at least two moments in s1 that stand out for me as being so obviously written by a man. Not necessarily because of what they do but because of what they don't do: what is missed, absent, unacknowledged. I was willing to overlook such minor failings in a debut season for many reasons. But s2 seems to have exacerbated these minor flaws rather than correcting them. And here I can't help thinking of Tina Fey speaking of the diversification of the writer's room at SNL during her tenure as co-headwriter. This notoriously male-dominated environment only began to shift and produce better work when a greater diversity of minds, voices and persepectives was allowed in the room. In this richer environment, she notes, different jokes played differently. Different sketches made it to air. Different perspectives were represented and different performers were celebrated. I can't help wondering if this plotline would have made it to air if there had been a female writer, a writer of colour or both further up the chain of command to challenge the ideas of the straight white dudes in charge.

One of the reasons I didn't think Ted Lasso was for me was that it centred a straight, white, cis-het, able-bodied man who rose to a position he didn't earn. That is just not a pov I would normally choose for myself, especially now that there is such a rich array of alternative perspectives through which to view the world. But I think the show won a lot of females fans with its first season largely due to its portrayal of Rebecca. She is the first person we meet. She is arguably the protagonist of s1. And while she would have been figured as a villain in previous pieces, the show never took that stance with her (because again, stance matters). Other elements like the depiction of female friendships, all centred around Rebecca, made this show female-friendly viewing. But imo, the major reason this show won over female fans (this one, at least) is because, in this post-MeToo, post-TimesUp era, it stood up and said: domestic violence is not okay, we stand with women and all victims of abuse, we will defend you, we know words can hurt, we know it can happen to anyone, we know all about toxic masculinity, we do not take this lightly and we will support you in your healing. Needless to say, this is how women hope men will act when they speak of their most difficult experiences but it is not how they always do.

The shift away from Rebecca this season has however meant that the white male experience is more centred than it was in s1. Rebecca's journey to recovery, health and happiness has been trivialised and sidelined, reduced to a highly questionable sexcapade. Meanwhile, we get overwrought manpain at every turn. We get Beard wandering around London (no, I haven't seen it and no, I don't need to. We've all been raised on white dudes thinking they're genuises when they have a figurative wank all over our screens). We get NO queer represention at all. And the only other female characters on screen are in care/service roles to men. The father/son, mentoring and toxic masculinity themes are all still there but they're no longer balanced out by ANY other competing perspective. One of the reasons I was okay with Ted failing upwards in s1 was that he used his power and privilege to lift up others. He was the one in service. He used his enormous privilege for good, as anyone with such privilege must. (Admittedly, it could be argued that this is just another version of a white savior narrative).

My point here is that I'm not sure that peeking behind the mask at the sad clown is as revolutionary as some might believe. We love it because it's familiar. But this is a narrative with a long and problematic history. Do I believe in tearing down toxic masculinity in all its forms? You bet. Do I believe that patriarchy traumatises men as well as women and every other minority in existence? I mean...nowhere near as much, but absolutely. Do I believe in men expressing their feelings and going to therapy? Wholeheartedly. But I am also aware that 100 or so years ago, we were in a very similar place with our narratives. Everyone is looking for a recapitulation of modernism and frankly, this might be an indicator of just that. Whenever women and people of colour have demanded rights and recognition, there has always been a resurgence of tales about just how frickin' hard it is to be a white man. Minority genders and non-white people have never in western history been as visible or vocal as they are now. So forgive me (or don't, I don't care) if I critique a show not only for centering fathers, sons, boys and men but for blindly and boldly writing one of its only female characters and one of its only black characters as if their gender and race just do not exist. There are many other power differentials at play in this relationship, including age, experience, wealth and position, but race and gender are the two that patriarchy is most invested in invisiblising. So I don't care how brilliant they think they are, I will not trust the writing of a bunch of white dudes trying to tell me that race and gender are irrelevant.

#ted lasso #rebecca welton #sam obisanya #ask #yeah this one got out of hand

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jemej3m · 5 years

Text

ghosts

this was unprompted but i dont care. all yall want is the wedding and i need an angst pallet cleanser before i can keep going with that. it’s so soft and sweet. blurgh, gross ;D

anyway!

remember in the first part, when neil said that drake spear’s case would forever remain unsolved?

yeah. this is that.

trigger warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault, i/r torture, i/r csa, i/r self harm/suicide attempts, i/r murder

(normal pre-marital problems, i assume)

Neil traversed their kitchen as he threw together a curry Renee had recommended, whistling very poorly with the TV on in the background. An Exy game was always playing, much to Andrew’s dismay.

They’d been living together for about a year and a half, and engaged for nearly a week now. Neil thought he couldn’t possibly get any happier, which was odd and unfamiliar in his tragic life. As he rinsed the starch off the rice and threw it into the rice cooker (gifted to him by Allison because once he’d served her undercooked, burnt rice and she’d never forgiven him since) he heard the front door unlock and twist open, the familiar shuffle of his fiancé arriving home making Neil smile.

That sentiment was lost when he turned around to greet him.

“Andrew,” Neil managed, watching Andrew fall onto the couch. He looked at the television, eyes so distant that they couldn’t register Neil even as he crouched down in front of him. “Andrew?”

His hands were shaking, curled into fists by his sides. Neil had never seen his skin so pale and lifeless.

“Andrew,” he continued. “Can i sit next to you?” When he didn’t answer, Neil slowly moved to sit on the couch, giving him enough time to shove him back. Neil kept at least a centimetre between them at every point.

“I’m making dinner,” he said, trying to think of something mundane to draw him out of his head. “Curry, one of Renee’s. You said you tried it and liked it. It has lamb, and I've snuck in some peas, but the sauce tastes good enough that we should be able to ignore them.” His fists relaxed slightly, the longer Neil talked. “You remember that cat shelter that I said was a front? Well, it’s still a cat shelter. Maybe we could check it out, see if there are any hairless ones. I know you like the hairless ones.”

Andrew reached out for Neil’s hand and closed his eyes. His thumb traced the scars on Neil’s skin. The pattern was familiar and comforting for Andrew: Neil sighed with relief.

“I’ve got those off-brand icecream sticks you love,” Neil continued, leaning in closer. “There was only one box left that weren’t those coconut-raspberry ones. Pure chocolate, just for you. Maybe we could dip them in sprinkles.”

Andrew hummed softly.

“Hey,” Neil said under his breath, leaning closer. He never asked if Andrew was okay, if he was alright, how his day went: not when he was like this. Asking a question meant requiring an answer, and providing a template meant forcing a restricted response. Andrew didn’t need to give Neil falsities. They were past that.

“Drake is being let out on parole.”

Drake fucking Spear.

Andrew told Neil the story a year into dating. He was in college, with his cousin and his brother. They’d moved to South Carolina, lived under Betsy’s roof as a reprieve from their biological family, and then congregated at their local college. All was fine until Andrew’s foster-home past caught up with him, the last time they’d gone to visit Nicky’s mother and father.

Drake had been waiting for Andrew in Nicky’s old bedroom. It was safe to say that when Nicky and Aaron found them, it wasn’t pretty. Andrew had intentionally fucked with his biological mother’s car when he figured out she was treating Aaron like shit: in return, Aaron had wrenched Drake (a marine seal) off his brother and kicked the life out of him.

Only he didn’t die. He went to jail. Aaron went to trail and claimed self-defence on his brother’s behalf. Everything was meant to be fine.

Eight years later, Andrew was here, sitting on the couch as he reminisced upon horrid memory after horrid memory, knowing that his old demon was loose once more.

“I’ll kill him.” Neil murmured.

Andrew finally looked at him. “Neil.”

He looked up. “I would kill him a thousand times over, Andrew.”

Andrew said nothing, his head falling to rest on Neil’s shoulder. By the amount of tension coiled in Andrew’s shoulders, he must have been holding this in all day.

Neil set his jaw, unwillingly to lie to himself. He was going to commit a self-serving, premeditated murder.

His father would be so proud.

When it finally happened, Andrew was coming home from dinner at Nicky and Erik’s. Neil was still working, somewhere in the depths of the city, but it was fine. Andrew had been able to distract himself from the weight pressing on his shoulders for a few hours with his cousin.

A whole month since Drake - no, Spear - had been out on parole, and Andrew hadn’t heard a peep. For a while Andrew had thought that perhaps Spear would go to Aaron instead, the man who’d bashed him but not good enough to avoid jail, but Aaron had heard nothing. Chicago was way too far from South Carolina, where he’d been held for his crimes.

But Baltimore wasn’t.

He unlocked his front door and felt the way it was loose, too loose, observing the scratches on the bolt’s screws. Andrew grit his teeth, pulling out the knife from his armband and wishing he’d brought home his gun, to swing the door open.

As expected, the apartment was dark. But not empty.

“Evening, AJ.”

“Isn’t this dramatic,” Andrew insisted, though his insides were twisted with fear. Don’t lock up. Don’t lock up. Don’t -

“I was waiting for you. I’ve missed you.”

Andrew punched the lightswitch hard enough for the wall to buckle: it held, and instead revealed something worse than Drake and his sneer.

Neil was bound to a dining chair with cuffs Andrew kept, just in case, a tie around his mouth. He looked incredibly woozy. Andrew wanted so desperately to go to him, but Spear himself was sat on the arm of their new couch, elbows braced on his knees. Andrew hated his slick grin and his knowing smile and his soulless fucking eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d almost killed himself over this man, thinking at least he would die knowing what a mother’s love felt like.

A mother’s love shouldn’t have cost Andrew a thing, let alone nearly everything. Those scars on his arms were warped with time and a long journey to healing, and Drake wasn’t going to take that away from him again.

“You learned a few tricks in prison,” Andrew acknowledged.

“You snatched yourself a husband-to-be,” Drake sneered. “How cute. I knew you’d liked it all along.”

Andrew’s hand twitched. “You’re in violation of your parole, Drake. I’m going to arrest you.”

“You’re a cop?” Drake spat out a laugh. It was guttural and wrong. Neil winced. “Well, ain’t that just funny.”

“Funny how I, the boy who’d had nothing and was still taken from, ended up with a fulfilling life, finding family and friends and a purposeful occupation, whilst you, a boy who’d had everything and more, took your life for granted and ended up in the slammer for eight years, with more to come? Hilarious. I agree.”

“I should’ve crushed your skull eight years ago,” Drake laughed. “No matter: I’ll make up for it now.”

Neil met Andrew’s eyes as his hands fiddled with the cuffs. Keep talking.

“Why, Drake?” Andrew’s voice cracked. “You had Cass. School. Friends. Everyone liked you. What drove you to ruin your own life?”

“I did have everything I could’ve ever needed,” he said, teeth oily as he grinned. “But what I wanted was something I couldn’t have. Till it occurred to me that I didn’t need to have it. I just needed to take it.” He sneered, putting his hands to the arm of the couch as he readied to stand. “Did it hurt you, little AJ? Because I hope it did. I always liked it best when you bled -”

“Then I’ll make sure that you get what you’re owed, Drake Spear,” Neil said softly, balancing his knife between his fingertips. Its blade rested against Drake’s throat, Neil free of his cuffs and gag.

The man froze.

“Best practise is putting things away after you use them,” Neil advised, lifting a cloth to Drake’s mouth and nose. The man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he slumped over, falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Andrew sucked in a gasp of air, watching as Neil cuffed the man’s wrists behind his back and stood with a boot pressed to his neck, should he wake up.

From under the couch, Neil drew out a large tarp and his knives. Andrew closed his eyes momentarily. By the time he’d opened them, the coffee table had been flipped as a make-shift torture device, the tarp covering the carpet beneath. Neil was testing the sharpness of his cleaver against the tip of his finger: satisfied, he turned around to look at Andrew. “Help me roll him?”

Andrew looked at the man, hollowed out. “I was going to take him in.“

“What good is that?” Neil demanded, throwing the cleaver back into his pile. “He’ll go back to jail for another four to six months for violation of his parole, unless he tries to -” Neil screwed his eyes shut. “No. No, I won’t let him touch you again. And if you suggest some sort of self-sacrificing bullshit to have him locked up for good, I won’t buy it.”

“He won’t get out on parole again -”

“That is not worth a fifteen year sentence that he’ll worm his way out of again, letting the cycle will just repeat itself. No, Andrew. He is never going to touch you again. He will never look at you again.” His fists shook with a quiet fury. “I won’t let it happen.”

“Neil,” Andrew stepped forward. “You need to let me do my job.”

His fiancé brandished a knife from god-knows-where. “You need to let me do mine! Leave if you must. If your morals put you above killing a horrid man to keep my family safe, then go. But this man is not leaving here alive and whole. I am not letting the man I love subject himself to ruination via an old demon.” He finally looked Andrew in the eye. “Not if I can help it.”

Neil bent over to drag Drake’s unconscious body over to where he needed it, locking his ankles and wrists to the four metal legs of their coffee table. The chloroform wasn’t strong enough to keep him asleep for long, but it didn’t matter. He was secure and doomed by the time he blinked his eyes open.

Andrew watched Neil spin a knife between his fingers.

“Wh - “ Drake coughed. “What? What happened?”

“Not much,” Neil said, lightly. “You merely threatened to maim and kill the man I love, right in front of me.” His smile was the most frightening thing about him. “I don’t like that.”

“No,” Drake struggled against his restraints. “No!”

“For now, I’ll shove this in there,” Neil said, grabbing the tie. “But later I’ll be sure to sever your vocal chords, so you can try and fail to scream, just like you tried to keep him quiet for years. No gag required. Neat, right?”

“AJ,” Drake panted. “Andrew, get this psycho away from me. AJ -!”

Neil shoved the tie into Drake’s mouth. “No. Stop looking at him. Look at me. I’m your biggest problem right now, aren’t I?”

“I’m going to the study,” Andrew muttered, lightheaded. Neil glanced up at him, so he nodded, so minutely that anyone but Neil would’ve missed it.

Neil’s expression softened slightly around the eyes as clear understanding passed between them, bright as day.

Thank you for doing what I couldn’t, Andrew said.

Thank you for letting me, Neil returned.

With a deep breath, Andrew turned away to put the kettle on as Neil got to work.

WOW okay. twiiiiiisted. i did promise that this would all be fluffy and nice, didn’t I? well, oops.

i hate drake enough to feel that its warranted tho. srry not srry.

back to your regularly scheduled program a-next time!

#andreil #mobster/cop au #dark #murder #torture #you know #fun stuff #all for the game #butcher!neil #cop!andrew #aftg #andrew minyard #neil josten #drake spear #tw: discussions of rape #tw: csa #BIG warnings yall #jem writes

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luminescentlyricist · 4 years

Text

🧡 Autophobia 🧡

AUTOPHOBIA - NOUN - An irrational fear of oneself ; an intense self-fear that is groundless.

Dirk had never been all that emotional, but this was the last straw. He was breaking day by day, teetering on the edge of snapping the carefully constructed mask of apathy he'd worked so hard to maintain. Even before Derse had exploded, there were days where he couldn't slip away into the dream planet. Then, whenever he could - without Roxy there, without having her snoring company - the whispers of the horrorterrors seemed loud enough to deafen him. He'd never told anyone about it. Not even Dave. There were truly no words appropriate for the situation, and it muddled up his thoughts with stupid emotional biases to consider.

He sat in his living room, a hunched-over gargoyle, unmoving and unwilling to move. The larger-than-necessary television screen in front of him blared music, but his own brother's sick beats weren't enough to shake him from his literal and metaphorical slump. For all he knew, it was midnight, but he felt detached enough that he'd disregard the ebbs and flows of tiredness until he blanked out and crashed. Sometimes, his mind and body alike couldn't handle the strain. This was one of those times. Dirk's muscles ached in protest of the awkward position he'd decided to rest into, and as his neck craned downwards - being physically unable to keep his head up any longer - the iconic triangular shades he always wore slipped from his nose.

He made no move to retrieve them. Despite feeling disproportionately vulnerable without them, the Strider barely cared. All of his windows were covered by thick black curtains anyway, the otherwise invigorating sunlight nonexistent.Nobody wanted to visit, anyway, as Dirk was sure they were all sick of each other's company after so long. He was all too used to being alone and looking after himself, so the group's self-imposed isolation period shook him a lot less than it did his peers. He noted that he had been invited to a group board on Trollian - his chat client of choice, as it turned out not to be exclusive to the trolls - but, once again, made no effort to raise himself from his slump.

John had also messaged him, but they had barely spoken. All he knew was that the 'windy boy' was one of his brother's friends.

Dirk's uniquely-coloured eyes slipped closed after a while of vacant staring. He no longer heard the music loud enough to shake the walls. The only thing that met his ears was the low, steady thrumming of his own heartbeat. It was disorienting, yes, having everything fade away, but he was adjusted to solitary ventures and feeling so alone that darkness felt more comforting than seeing.

He'd been wondering whether or not to give Hal a more physical form because he'd been able to salvage the AI from the 'corpse' of ARquiusprite. It felt somehow immoral - even by Dirk's largely skewed moralities - to keep the shades locked away, even though it was to prevent them from tormenting him or driving him to increasingly long periods of sleeplessness. The truth was that Dirk held an emotionless facade as his brother did, though his lack of understanding was left exposed and unmasked in contrast. But he was fragile, as prone to breaking as anyone else was. Hal was an enigmatic being, more than enough to shake him up.

It was haunting, realising just how strangely he had acted when he was younger. How stupidly, how naively. Taken away by his emotions, loud and brash. Was that just how thirteen-year-olds were supposed to be? As detestable as the robot was, he was a reflection of who Dirk had been and who he never wanted to be again. A reminder.

Finally standing, a small groan escaping his lips at the pain of his now-stiff body, the Strider thought. He didn't really know what to do, but never bothered to engage with his friends despite the annoyance of the notification light blinking. Travelling to the fridge with habitually light, wary footsteps, Dirk opened the door and took out a can of Orange Crush. He consumed so much of the stuff it was a wonder his teeth weren't stained. The cold drink seemed like snow - not that he personally knew what it felt like - in the way its coolness slowly spread through his hands. He needed the sugar to snap out of his daze, as strange as it seemed.

The tab of the lid scratched abrasively against his fingers when he attempted to open it, and he cursed aloud, hearing his own voice for the first time in what seemed like an aeon. The surfaces of his fingertips had been caught, and pinpricks of red bubbled up to obscure their swirling prints. Licking the blood away without a second thought, he tried again, ears pricking to the satisfying hiss the carbonated drink made when the metallic seal was broken. Taking a swig, Dirk disregarded the bubbles that seemed to burn his tongue. As much as he hated it, he felt too lonely now, The taste of the drink was familiar and comforting.

Slamming the fridge door with a little more force than was necessary, the young man flinched. His shoulders were raised in a defensive, tight position, so he forced himself to relax. He'd engineered a situation for himself that hindered his emotional and physical growth, the battle bots being the very reason why he was so prone to startling when no one else was watching to protect him. But the one flaw that Dirk seemed to so vehemently disagree with was perhaps his most prominent: He'd largely formulated and fuelled his own misfortune.

Moving back to the couch, he sat, staring at the rotating disc emblem on the screen. It was up at full brightness, as he refused to take off his shades even though he was completely alone. He knew that he should have at least contacted his brother. If he was craving contact so badly, Dave would be the best person to tell about his troubles. They had been raised similarly, after all, regardless of any family ties they might have had. But. for the most part. he felt disruptive.

Watching the rapid spinning of the disc animation, his stomach felt compelled to follow suit. Swallowing another mouthful of Orange Crush, relief washed through his whole body and quelled his nausea to a degree. His thoughts were only becoming louder and harder to ignore, though, so he muted and switched off the television. His ears continued to ring obnoxiously, so he tilted his head back, placed down the can and plugged them with his fingers.

Dirk was procrastinating, denying the need to fidget and tinker in his workshop purely to quieten his Hal-based thoughts, which were beginning to come overwhelming despite his efforts. He just wanted to prevent them from growing.

He still wondered about his Brobots. The boy wasn't one to get sentimental, and he wasn't about to. He'd simply put so much effort into them that it seemed a shame to dismantle them for a cause he didn't truly support. It was one hell of a choice to make, and the self-imposed delays were only hindering his prospects. Surely he was stronger than his thoughts? For someone who'd sat alone with them for so long, something like Hal shouldn't have moved him.

With another few slow swallows of his drink, he forced himself to stand and look towards a corridor. That was exactly where he didn't want to go. The darkness surrounding the area - though purely owing to his laziness, having not installed a lightbulb - was disorienting and even frightening. He'd never liked having his vision taken away because of how heavily he relied on it.

Descending the small staircase, he glanced downwards to check if his boots - normally steel-toed in case he dropped anything onto them by accident, despite outward claims of his own composure - were properly laced. Finding that one was undone, he bent down and carefully double-knotted it, wincing as the normally non-irritating fabric connected with the raw skin on his fingertips. He'd expected such a small thing to heal rapidly, but all it was doing quickly was becoming both a metaphorical and physical pain. Straightening, he pushed open the door to his workshop and stepped inside.

The space no longer seemed as welcoming and relaxing as his memory told him it would be. There was a certain fogginess about it, the windows dark and air colder than Dirk had ever anticipated. The layout was similar to that of Equius', though the benches and worktables were distinctly neater, and various swords and weapons lined the wall. Their metal glinted dully in the waning moonlight. As opposed to bloodied parts of completed and smashed battle bots, Dirk's hosted husks and unfinished or dismantled robots in varying degrees of completeness.

An entire table was strewn with circuits and other electrical components. Dave had once suggested he contact a troll named Sollux to help with those. He hadn't bothered to enquire who that was, but it seemed a little more believable since he'd confirmed that trolls were not just internet idiots but also a bona fide alien race. Some had cool powers, according to his brother, and this 'Sollux' was one of them. He reportedly possessed psionics and eye lasers, though the tech savviness was far more relevant to Dirk's quests.

Checking around for his welding mask, the young man decided to distract himself by turning to the 'wrong' bot entirely. Squarewave and Sawtooth still existed, after all, and his mind was wandering to that uncertain place. He needed a distraction. He didn't want to face that. He was, for all intents and purposes, a complete and utter coward, even more so because he didn't want to admit it. His calloused fingers tightened against the personalised welding mask, so much so that it rubbed against the drink-tab wound, the same one that was so insistent on not healing.

This bot was a loose model, a sort of forgotten 'Davebot', one which he had since decided to abandon the building of. He thought it selfish to construct a model bot of someone who was still very much alive and deserving attention. By this token, he knew that he had broken this unspoken principle by virtue of the bot he had made Jake, though he considered that a separate situation. Dirk wasn't taking any attention away from his original self, and he could also argue that he didn't deserve it at all.

The boy let out a short sigh, rubbing his hands across his face and grabbing a pair of thick black gloves from a hook on the wall. This allowed a streak of red to smear across his nose from the newly reopened finger-prick wound. Although it was a bad idea due to the blatant infection potential, he didn't bother leaving the workshop to get a bandaid for it.

The Dave-esque robot's bright red eye lenses bored into his own with an unnerving glint, appearing far too alive for his liking. Dirk exhaled shakily, reaching out to touch the bot's soothingly cold exterior. Silvery alloy, fused with tight welding and ungodly amounts of heat so that there were no unseemly bolts and such to mess up the appearance of the face. Although he found it unnervingly difficult to display his affections, the care with which he had assembled his brother's likeness was telling enough.

Drumming on the shining lenses with unclipped fingernails, Dirk realised that he had subconsciously removed his gloves while fidgeting. He scanned the room, huffing and looking down at his fingers so that he had a concrete image of himself putting them back on in his head. Without that reminder, the boy was so stuck in his own swirling thoughts he would have forgotten again. He stepped back from the Davebot, wrinkling his nose in disgust - or perhaps a sudden burst of jealousy - despite his prior, awkwardly-expressed affections towards it. He took a nearby cloth, throwing it over the bot if only to obscure its confronting gaze.

The last thing he wanted to do was face Hal, even though it was just like going back in time. He never asked to face himself, no matter the iteration. Dirk knew he was better than that. The flaws that he once had were all locked away tightly, or so he thought. And yet, he had given their metallic prison a name. There was something so disarming about Hal; the stagnancy in growth was awful alone, but seeing himself - or a projection, a perception - so raw and unfiltered was going to break him apart. It just wasn't natural.

As Dirk felt himself spiral into such a distressing pattern of thought, a rare frown took his lips downwards. He picked up a stray piece of scrap metal, turning it over and over in his fingers until he found some peace in the constant action. Placing it into a pocket, he decided to keep it out of the way but nonetheless close by for further 'use'. He also needed something physical to do rather than resulting to his self-jeopardy and facing Hal when he was in such a fragile state of mind.

The tremors that were rippling through his body begun to intensify, and Dirk realised just how useless it was waiting for himself to calm down. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to procrastinate unless he dragged his friends out of the comfort of isolation. Besides, he had a feeling seeing Jake in person wouldn't put him in the best mood. Running a hand distractedly through his hair, the Strider braced himself against a worktable and groaned aloud. Nothing was helping his emotional turmoil, much less the headache pounding behind his eyes.

He'd spent too many sleepless nights wondering about this particular moral dilemma to keep it inside, but that was simply what he had adjusted himself to. Dirk Strider was a bomb, but he was convinced that he could explode if and when he wanted to. But each and every issue he refused to face was only shortening his resolve. What kind of Strider allowed himself to cry? Not him, that was for sure.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, slipping beneath his welding mask and making him his in irritation. Everything, no matter how small, seemed like it was against him. And to someone feeling as sensitive as Dirk was at that moment, it might as well have been the truth. The buzz in his fingers from touching the abrasive metal - despite the gloves - was gradually spreading, vicious pins and needles that were such a rapid sensation every movement was causing him pain or discomfort.

With a shaking hand, he removed his phone from one of his many pockets and opened Trollian. There, in bright red letters, sat the exact help he was so sure he didn't need. Dave would've been able to soothe him, at the very least, but what he really wanted was for someone to just... listen. Dirk hadn't let himself rely on others in the past, and he wasn't about to. Letting the screen fade to black, the young man let out a breath he had no idea he had held in so tightly. The phone fell from his lax fingers and back into his pocket, the dull weight sparking more pain in his midsection that he couldn't ignore.

Teeth harshly grinding against each other, he took one last glance towards the covered Davebot and rounded a corner, pushing back a thin and vaguely dusty curtain that separated one bot from the rest. Exhaling slowly and steeling himself, he stepped inside. Attempting to disregard his various aches and pains. his gaze flickered to a small drawer. It looked as if it were gouged at to try and remove the handle. He had done that, but it had been so long since that he'd forgotten.

Walking slowly towards it, Dirk produced a key from a chain around his neck. His friends had often enquired as to what the chain was for, but he'd never felt the need to answer them truthfully. He unlocked the drawer, closing his eyes for a moment to silently process what he was doing. It was terrifying, as much as he wouldn't admit it. The only thing that scared Dirk enough to break his facade was himself. Facing his own flaws. Hal made everything ten times worse. Nonetheless, he had completed the body, even if it was crafted in a far less personal manner when compared to the Davebot.

Sweat continued to bead at his forehead and drip downwards, irritating Dirk enough that he removed the welding mask entirely to wipe it away as much as possible. Taking a spare pair of shades - which he always had somewhere on his person - out of his protective apron and slipping them back on, a little bit of the tension melted out of his shoulders. It felt more natural to have the shades on, and he had no need for the welding mask. He didn't intend to see to the bot's adjustments just yet.

Although he regretted building Hal a body, all things said and done, it was the only chance he had to try and quash the nightmares and nausea that followed him everywhere he went. There was no logic to the fear, this he knew, but he just wished it'd stop, despite his giving up hope on it a while ago.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, so he retrieved his phone and headphones. They were a special pair that Dave had once painted for him, sleek, black and noise-cancelling with the added bonus of his hat logo emblazoned on each ear. Again, his thoughts drifted towards getting the help of his brother, but there was no time for any of that. He was too entrenched in his personal problem to think about pushing it onto anyone else. Once again, he put Dave's beats on, but this time they were too close to ignore. The headphones were wireless, luckily, because there was no chance he could have untangled them with his uncooperative hands. They weren't going to stop trembling any time soon.

Dirk's hand rested on the drawer, fingers drumming against the fading, once-burnished wood. He looked down to the contents of the drawer and grimaced, taking a small step away from it. He rethought the last hour's efforts, captured all in the single hesitation. He knew it was necessary, but there was something freezing him in place while his head and stomach spun. The boy curled his fingers so tightly around the handle that his knuckles turned white and it started splintering beneath his grip.

He reached into the drawer, placing his fingers one-by-one on the black lenses within and unsteadily picking them up. As the light caught on them - the workshop lacking curtains as the only room safe and secluded enough - he winced, but it was unclear why until he set them back down and rubbed his eyes vigorously. Dirk had seen the red lenses behind the shades, and thought that he was hallucinating for a moment. He hadn't seen them distinctly prior because he just hadn't processed it. He'd developed a habit of blocking things out physically and mentally when he didn't want to see them.

Sighing to the empty room, Dirk fumbled around in his many pockets for his phone, sending a short message devoid of context to his brother.

~ TimaeusTestified [TT] Began Trolling TurntechGodhead [TG] ~

TT: This is it.

~ TimaeusTestified [TT] Ceased Trolling TurntechGodhead [TG] ~

Returning it to his pocket, he made sure it was on Do Not Disturb mode. There was no way in or out of Hell he'd be shaken from his concentration, and no event more important than it to justify that. It also had to be kept a secret for exactly that reason. Picking the shades back up, he glowered down at them. He hated them - and even more, the AI that they contained - beyond expression. But there was no time, and thusly no back-pedalling that he could afford to be doing. He'd procrastinated enough.

Hesitating despite the reassurance that there was no time to waste, Dirk took off his shades one more time. Removing another welding mask from a hook at the wall - this one plain black unlike the one in the main area that he had taken the time and effort to customise - and replacing it with his own pair of shades, a shudder worked its way up his spine again. This time, the associated tension in his shoulders stayed, giving him none of the prior relief. He never expected it to, really. The Striders were a family who were all capable of working with, around or against their obstacles if needed. Highly adaptable. In reality, nothing much was a hindrance to Dirk because of his learned - and perhaps forced - stoicism.

With a stiff and uncertain movement, the young man drew the shades up to his facE, staring into the crimson lenses as if in a trance. They were lifeless and cold, just as he'd trained himself to be. But he knew, deep in his mind where the bad thoughts - or those he personally considered bad, anyway - rested, that it wouldn't be for long. He barely caught himself fidgeting with the scrap metal restlessly for a moment within his pocket. He begun to prepare the final wirings, those that would spiral out from his folly's chest and centre console.

The one advantage of his fear-based procrastination was having ample enough time to hone his craft. He was able put more careful handiwork into Hal's final form than he ever would have been able to give to the Davebot, which was cause for shame on his part. The wires, all of which he constructed himself, were built to be see-through but contained small lights that would change from blue to red according to the artificial rise and fall of Hal's chest, and the 'beating' of the console. It was a small detail, easily missed, but it made him feel all the more unsettling and real.

He hummed along to the beats still thrumming in his ears, a habit he only displayed when entirely alone.

Dirk inserted the chest-piece along with the console, which was neatly connected and hidden behind) into its proper place, the shaking that had once plagued him long overshadowed and disguised under false confidence. Something was telling him to stop. To leave Hal to rust and his careful wirings to rot. But Dirk's stubbornness and characteristically destructive nature caused him to dismiss all judgements, no matter how logical. No matter how much the dismissals would hurt him.

Clearing his throat, the boy's eyes flickered upwards to the lens that was missing in the facial pieces. Realistically, he could have simply foregone the eye-lenses in their entirety because of the shades he'd put on, but it would have felt unnatural. Regardless of the bot-husks scattered across the workshop and the image they conveyed, their creator was highly committed and dedicated to his craft. Under the right circumstances, yes, but dedicated nonetheless.

Straying from the bot, Dirk re-entered the main sector of his workshop and located a box full of perfectly maintained, crystalline lenses. Picking it up, he made his way back into the smaller room and set it down onto a makeshift workbench, sifting through them in quiet. He had somehow listened to the majority of his brother's discography, even though the intensity of his concentration caused him to block out all else but his work. As such, he hadn't properly realised the magnitude of either achievements, disregarding the bot-related work as well.

Soon, Dirk found the lenses he was searching for, holding them up to the windows and discovering there was no light left to shine through them. Another thing that he'd let slip unwillingly under the radar was just how long he'd been working for at that point. Nonetheless, he knew well enough that their colouration was a near-exact match to his own eyes. They were chosen in stark contrast to the red and black dominating Hal's outfit.

Stepping backwards from the bot in question, the Strider dug the toes of his boots into the floor and started to count silently. He was grounding himself in both a mental and physical manner. He needed to prepare himself for what he was about to finish. For any normal person, the task wouldn't have been so daunting. For him, on the other hand, it was facing his fears. Regardless of his own wants or desires, Dirk both pressed and stepped forwards. He placed the lens in the appropriate eyepiece, and realised that he no longer had to fake his confidence. He was sure of himself.

Slowly soldering the wires with his welding mask pulled down against the embers and sparks, he steadied his once-erratic breathing as much as he could. Upon completing this, he took off the mask and let himself observe Hal, a slight frown turning the otherwise neutral expression he'd maintained. Checking that the kill switch was working - and, despite his loathing, hoping that he'd never have cause to use it - for a moment's distraction, he retrieved the iconic shades.

Connecting them to the bot, he reached down to the centre console and pressed in a final panel. Looking back towards Hal, Dirk realised what he was truly seeing.

These were the eyes of someone more human than he was.

#luminescent lyricist writes #dirk #dirk strider #hal #hal strider #dirk homestuck #hal homestuck #if you tag this as stridercest I'll kick you in the nads #🏠 stuck at home 🏠

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akechicrimes · 5 years

Note

Hey crimes, feel free to disregard this tangent but, do u ever feel like P5 inadvertently or otherwise implied Goro was right with his fake “vigilante justice operates outside and the law and thus must be brought to heel” opinion? What with the fact that the Yaldabaoth confrontation implies the thieves work perpetuated humanity’s sloth AND THEN after an entire game showing us the hundreds of people who were at the v least COMPLICIT in shido’s machinations, a system which is (1)

ohhhhh this one is fun!! this is a super neat question, ty for asking!!!

hmmmmmmmmm

im going to try and break this down into parts, partly because persona 5 is such a convoluted mess with its own lines of thinking, so tell me if i dont do it right. the issues are: (1) goro definitely did say that operating outside the law was bad just on principle that you shouldn’t operate outside the law, and (2) persona 5 did definitely go on to say that all of the phantom thieves’ operations outside the law didn’t come to anything in the first place anyway, because they were only targeting individuals instead of mass systemic corruption/their presence was enabling people to become more apathetic.

i think what persona 5 is trying to get at is that it’s not necessarily that acting outside the law is bad, but that, like you said, targeting only individuals doesn’t work as a tactic. so vigilante justice (e.g. batman style of taking down supervillains) cannot compare to societal reform through collective action.

when i say collective action, i mean that i think persona 5 is trying to point out that “systematic” corruption is really just a corruption of many, many, many individuals working in concert--and that “reform” could just be said to be the opposite, which is activism from many, many, many individuals working in concert.

obviously the ending cutscene where akira;s social link network gets together to protest his arrest is the best example of collective reform, but i think one of the things that i rly like about shido’s wide-spread conspiracy is that it does a rly good job of paralleling akira’s social link network, and pointing out that in the same way that shido’s conspiracy is a collective effort of many many many people that make up a “system,” akira’s widespread social link network creates the opposite effect of a collective effort of many many people that make up a force for change.

which is why having the phantom thieves as a group itself just promotes more apathy--you get one group of people doing all the work for the rest of society, when if anything’s going to change, we need everyone on their feet.

which surprisingly correct, insofar as i’m aware. if society’s going to change in a substantial way, beyond just changing the hearts of a handful of abusers and letting the rest of the system remain untouched, everyone’s got to be involved. collective effort. do your part. wash your hands. stay indoors. don’t forget to vote. seriously, wash your fucking hands.

but when it comes to whether or not persona 5 says that you shouldn’t be acting outside the law...

i think persona 5 really really really really really doesnt want to be caught promoting lawbreaking while also being You Should Break The Law: The JRPG.

part of this trouble, i think, is just because they need players to actually like the characters in the game, and therefore all the character have sympathetic reasons for breaking the law. because persona 5 has to sell marketable characters, too, persona 5 itself makes it pretty clear that people who operate “outside the law” are usually not evil dipshit criminals who love sin. the people in persona 5 who act outside the law are usually people who dont have enough power to operate inside the law in the first place. akira, the pt, and goro all seem to have resorted to what they did because they had no societal power at the start, wound up with a persona (aka fast and easy power source), and wouldnt have been able to do anything about their situation otherwise. characters who operate outside the law (like takemi with her vaguely illegal practice, or kawakami and her also vaguely illegal sex work, or iwai and his vaguely illegal gun business) are still supposed to be waifus you are sympathetic towards.

(...i think i accidentally called iwai a waifu? hmm. on second thought, i’ll just leave that sentence as it is.)

and i really do have to point out that persona 5′s attitude of FUCK COPS is insanely strong. like. persona 5 HATES cops. and that doesn’t let up basically ever, at all, at any moment. for anything. persona 5 wants me to believe that makoto will become a good cop in the future, but if i wanted to find an existing good cop, i’d have to go all the way back to persona 4. like!! shit!! goro akechi is the closest thing we have to a good cop, and he has a pet guillotine for CEOs and his middle name is komaeda.

and that part of the big attitude with FUCK COPS is that it’s another way of morally exonerating the phantom thieves. i think... although the game ultimately concludes with “you should probably not break the law any more because the metaverse is gone,” it’s difficult to argue with the fact that persona 5 is a game in which it presents you with 10000000000000 reasons to break the law and feel Great about it.

(another tangent: i feel like one of the big undercurrents of persona 5, and especially the TV station, is that the phantom thieves are justified in their lawbreaking because the police aren’t doing their fucking job. like, someone’s got to keep people safe, and if the cops don’t like the phantom thieves, maybe they should get off their asses and actually get the criminals before the thieves do. akira literally was on live television and he was like ALL COPS ARE BAD and goro was like wow. anyone else think that was really sexy? @ the guy in the glasses in the back, call me later when you’ve leveled up your charm and knowledge.)

so atlus is in this place where they’ve pointed out that people break the law because they dont really have any other choice, and also persona 5 the game HATES cops, and also persona 5 the game cannot tell you that breaking the law is bad because it is literally A Game About Breaking The Law, but at the same time, they cant really go around promoting crime. from a doylist perspective i was 100% unsurprised that they came up with a fancy narrative reason to get rid of the metaverse and their change-of-heart abilities and just the phantom thieves in general, because all of those are a threat to the status quo. although the game might be right that relying on the phantom thieves to change society for the rest of the population makes the rest of the population lazy and apathetic, it’s pretty convenient that this means that the kids are now no longer able to break the law. so persona 5 really wants people to do things the kosher way, e.g. protesting and such.

hhfmgmhfmghfmgfmghmfhgg. taking this all with a grain of salt, because again, i do think atlus is trying very hard to avoid saying that people should break the law:

i think atlus wants to say that it’s not necessarily acting outside the law that’s not right, but the fact that just loading the phantom thieves with a ton of power makes people apathetic, and changing the hearts of a few individuals is Not enough to get rid of something like shido’s conspiracy. so instead they say, you shouldn’t break the law because it’s not effective without collective reform.

i think another thing that persona 5 wants us to believe is that for the most effective reform to be achieved, people both inside and outside the law/system have to be involved in the collective effort to improve society.

e.g., toranosuke wants to be a man of the people--someone who speaks for the people who are outside of the diet, but toranosuke himself is someone inside the diet. sae’s the other good example; the phantom thieves protest akira’s arrest at the end of the game, but sae, as the insider in the justice system, has to be there to hear and work with them. and this might just be because i watched haru’s s link last night, but i feel like takakura is a really good example: haru pushes back against the company’s shitty policies with her “outsider’s” perspective (quoted because she’s technically the largest shareholder, she just hasnt ever been really involved in how the company is run), but takakura, as the company president and most powerful person at okumura foods, has to be there to hear her request and agree with her, and make company changes based on her requests.

and it’s for this reason that persona 5 wants us to consider maybe lawbreaking isnt morally bad, just not effective.

i wish i could say that that’s more bad atlus writing, but it’s not. i’ve only really examined changing schools on an institutional level, but the best examples of institutional change in school administration have always been cases where the administration, parents, and community members all work together. in some cases, parents bring up requests for the school to accommodate their needs, and the administration listens and works with them. something something--everyone needs an advocate. the point of a lawyer is to advocate for you. the point of a politician/representative is to represent you and your interests. so on and so forth.

(and i also wish that it could be as simple as saying, “wow atlus said something right for once!” because that’s not true, either--acting outside the law can be outrageously effective. persona 5 trying to tell us that acting outside the law to get shit done isn’t effect smells like corporate trying to tell its workers that unionizing doesnt actually do anything.)

(and i also wish that persona 5 would have acknowledged that sometimes, it takes more than just an extremely moral person to change the world. take toranosuke, for example--i’m sure that if he gets elected, he’ll go out there and be a wonderful representative of the people, but at the same time, can’t we also simultaneously acknowledge that any politician who can make “politics” a career for profit will always be incentivized towards self-interest? in the same way that a military for profit will always be incentivized towards war?)

but insofar as whether or not persona 5 thinks that vigilante justice/acting outside the law is in and of itself morally bad--i’d say probably not. i think they want us to think that it’s not effective.

this is a slight tangent that kind of goes off the issue of whether or not persona 5 is concerned with whether or not breaking the law is moral or effective. i was going back through goro’s dialogue in the engine room--who knows if that’s going to be changed in royal--but i was trying to figure out exactly what the phantom thieves condemn him for. (fucking difficult as fuck considering how bizarre that dialogue was at places.)

the first one is murder, which goro is unimpressed with (LMAO. KING). the second is that he operated outside the law, to which he replies that they did the same thing (valid). the third is that his form of justice was “selfish,” in that it only served his personal need for revenge. at that point, goro changes the subject--which is not really surprising, since goro admitted long before the engine room that his quest against shido was for his own personal satisfaction.

that is to say, the phantom thieves can’t say that they don’t operate outside the law, because they do--however, if the phantom thieves can’t be legally exonerated, the phantom thieves are morally exonerated despite operating outside the law because they do it for the benefit of others. that’s actually not an incorrect statement from the phantom thieves, although i dont think they’re doing it for Society Writ Large. the phantom thieves in every single palace have taken on targets to help someone else: firstly ann and ryuji and shiho, then yusuke, then various shujin students being blackmailed by kaneshiro, etc, etc. i remember pretty distinctly that ann insists that she doesnt want to get involved with madarame just for drama or fame (whereas ryuji wants to pick a big target just for the sake of getting famous), but she agrees to get involved with madarame’s palace because she doesn’t want to leave yusuke to possibly kill himself like a previous student.

because the phantom thieves are not able to say that they haven’t operated outside the law in the same way that goro has, the dividing line between them is instead that the phantom thieves are doing so selflessly. but this is just an elaboration on the question of whether or not “is lawbreaking moral?” rather than necessarily “is lawbreaking effective?”

there’s an argument that nothing goro or the phantom thieves did was effective in the long run, and there’s an argument that sae is proof positive that working inside the system won’t be effective, either.

anyway, unions are effective. so maybe we should agree to wash our hands and join a union.

#mine #meta #clouis-loumentine

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harostar · 4 years

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The mental gymnastics from certain people in the fandom is ASTOUNDING. But there’s something honestly kind of disturbing about the levels of needing to twist every criticism. Instead of "Hey this scene ruins the tone" its "How dare some fans say they Ruby, Blake, and Weiss are horrible and don’t care about Nora because they SMILED"Also notice you completely ignore the comments on the show and racism to make up a bunch of arguments not in the ask.1/2

Like really the ask only focuses on the tone and racism that's it and you're bringing in Marrow and Ironwood. There was nothing about them. Naturally, these twists are almost ALWAYS aimed at any discussion pointing out the racism in the show. --This is what you are doing. I still say the tone of the scene feels off and Yang's group was better. Joy and Hope are great and Tone is important. Both can be true. 2/2

First and foremost, you need to understand that my rant wasn’t aimed at any single person or complaint. It wasn’t specifically about what I assume was your Ask, but rather a general expression of frustration over issues and Bad Takes(tm) I have seen in the fandom over the last several months.

My observation as an Official Ancient of Fandoms is that there is a widespread tendency in fandoms IN GENERAL to be hypercritical of heroines. To demonize them and twist things to frame them in the worst possible light, often while at the same time holding up male characters and very often tearing down one to prop up the other.

I’m not accusing you or anyone else in particular. Just kind of shaking my head over something I’ve observed as an overall issue within fandoms. RWBY is simply the latest in a looooooong line of this kind of thing, which is for me a general frustration. I’ve been watching these kinds of things happen in fandom since pretty much the beginning of Fandom on the Internet. The same general arguments and attitudes seem to crop up whether we’re discussing a television show, a video game, an anime, a manga, a comic book, or the love-child of pop culture that is RWBY. And the general arguments remain the same whether the discussion was occurring in 1999, 2005, or 2020. It’s the same general “She’s a horrible bitch” kind of things, which often frame innocent or dynamic character traits as a horrible offense usually while pitting it against a male character.

Now, again. I’m not aiming this at you or anyone in particular in the RWBY fandom. I was kind of cranky the other day, I may have gone off a bit strong with my frustrations. You seem to have gotten caught in that and for that, I apologize. I wasn’t accusing you in particular of those various things. I kind of went off in listing some of the wild things I’ve seen aimed at the heroines, which are usually side-by-side with arguments in favor of Ironwood and the Ace-Ops.

I brought up Marrow for that particular complaint, because.....he’s sharing the same kind of tone with the characters being criticized. He’s in an incredibly ugly and painful situation, caught between his sense of loyalty and his morals. Being asked by his superiors to ignore the suffering of his own people, likely his own loved ones, for the sake of Atlas. And in that moment when the broadcast happens, he like just Ruby and Weiss and Blake is smiling as part of that overall hopeful tone.

Whether something lands or not as intended is always a mixed bag, since people are individuals and we all bring our own unique perceptions to things. So for some people, it landed exactly as they intended. For others it clearly did not strike the same chord.

But overall, I feel some people in the fandom are overreacting because of their general negative attitude towards the heroines. I’ve seen people framing it outright as them being terrible people that don’t care about anyone else, when that’s......so obviously not the case. Even in the worst moments, the darkest times, it is normal and human to take comfort and joy in whatever we can.

There’s a difference between feeling like the creators didn’t stick the landing, and framing the characters themselves as uncaring and cruel. One is a matter of an audience not experiencing what the creators hoped, and the other is making an unfounded moral judgement on the characters.

In terms of the Racism Issue (tm) of the series, I have admittedly not touched a lot on that overall. I don’t feel that I’m someone with the authority to speak on a very complex issue, one which primarily does not impact my own experiences and life. RWBY like many other franchises has stumbled in to wanting to discuss a very complicated and emotional topic, while struggling with how to do so and as CRWBY themselves have admitted, the problem of it being told by a couple of White dudes and an Asian dude.

Social issues in general are tricky to handle in fiction, and that is even before we wade into the issues of Fandom.

#rwby #fandom discourse #rwby v8 spoilers

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kriscme · 3 years

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One Life to Live

Hi, sorry for the delay if you’re following this story on Tumblr. The chapters that have been put on AO3 have at last caught up with the chapters here. New chapters will go up weekly from hence on. You might find it easier to read on AO3 though. I’d link if I knew how. I’m Kris22 over there.

As always thanks to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn‘t Take” available on AO3 and FanFiction. Chapter 30 “Marcus presents well on TV, doesn’t he? You wouldn’t guess how much he hates it.” My hand stills as I focus on the screen and Buttercup nudges his head beneath my palm in protest. I absently go back to scratching him behind the ears and his chest rumbles in contentment. “Yeah, well, you soon learn to fake it,” replies Johanna from the other end of the sofa. “You should know that better than anyone.” “Yeah,” I say. Fake or not fake, real or not real, on television who can tell the difference? “That’s where Gale and I used to meet to go hunting,” I tell her. Cressida had Marcus stand with his back to the valley, using the mountains in the distance as backdrop. The sun was directly behind him and it shone through his golden-brown hair and set it aflame as if it were a halo. Man-on-fire, I can almost hear Cinna say. He’s the darling of the media now. I don’t envy him. I nervously wait for the moment Cressida interrupted the interview to ask me how I feel about a national park but it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s been edited so seamlessly that no one would guess there’d been a break in the dialogue between Marcus and herself. True to her word, there’s not even the slightest glimpse or mention of me anywhere. And nothing either in the separate feature she did on District 12 that had aired immediately before.

I let out my breath in a long exhale and feel the tension ebb from my muscles. I imagine Marcus in District 13 having the same reaction. We felt sure that if there were any compromising footage it would come out either before the interview was broadcast or during. And apart from that . . . um . . . incident in the woods, what else could they have on us? Only that Marcus was a guest in my house but that was a very reasonable arrangement given the circumstances. Otherwise, it was all very circumspect. No public displays of affection, no chaining naked to trees, no fights with logging companies. Only Johanna knew the extent of our relationship, and I doubt she’d have told anyone. Peeta’s engagement to Lace would have made a juicy story, but thankfully he’s protected, having done nothing to attract publicity to himself – either through his own actions or through association with another. “Looks like you’ve dodged a bullet,” says Johanna. She reaches for the remote to switch off the television and then settles back onto the sofa. A plate of Peeta-made cookies is on the coffee table delicately iced in Peeta’s signature style. She takes one and scrapes off the icing with her teeth. Johanna likes the icing best. If you let her, you’d end up with a plate of cookies that look as if mice had been at them. “It would seem so,” I reply. I wish I could feel more certain, but if I’ve learned anything from my experiences is that life seldom is. In fact, feeling safe almost guarantees that you’re not. I forget to stroke Buttercup again, and tired of my erratic attention, he decides it’s time to move on. He drops to the floor and ambles over to his favorite lounge chair, tail swishing. He leaves behind a layer of cat hair on my dark green trousers. “I told you nothing would happen,” says Johanna. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fantasy they’d put so much effort into perpetuating, would they? I stand naked against a tree for a good cause and the media goes berserk. You get caught shagging against a tree with the current golden boy and then nothing.” “You know that’s not true,” I say, exasperated that she still thinks like this. “Maybe at one time, when it would have made the Capitol look stupid if the truth came out, but not now. They’ve had no compunction giving Marcus bad publicity in the past so I can’t see why it would be different just because I’m involved. We were mistaken about what we heard that’s all, and then we let paranoia take over.”

I’d agonized over whether I should tell Marcus about Remus and the knowing look he gave me when I returned to camp. In the end, I decided that he should have all the information just in case he needed to be prepared. That was a mistake. Between Cressida’s return to the Capitol the following day and Marcus’s for District 13 a week later, our waking hours were spent alternating between optimism that we had nothing to worry about and then dread that we had everything to worry about. Marcus was petrified that another scandal would put his mission in jeopardy. As there’s no official mandate from the central government to establish national parks, he depends on the goodwill and co-operation of individual districts and a negative association with me – any association with me, actually – could have that support withdrawn. Especially in 13 where my name is anathema. For me, it was the terror of a media onslaught, that what had happened before could happen again – my private life no longer private but entertainment to be analyzed and exploited. That the careful re-building of my life as plain Katniss Everdeen would all come to naught. That it might impact on Peeta, who’s only just now finding himself after what Snow did to him. We had our first ever real argument. I told him it was his fault for breaking his own rule and luring me into a clandestine meeting with him for sex. And he said it was my fault for . . . he couldn’t quite articulate why it was my fault but it had something to do with being Katniss Everdeen. It seems if I’d been a nobody we could have fucked in the main street (his words) and while it would likely have had us arrested in 12 it wouldn’t have merited even the smallest mention in the Capitol. Because, you know, we’re just ignorant hayseeds and they are so much more sophisticated than we are and they have no morals (my words). Oh, and he wasn’t exactly a nobody either. In fact, that was the problem. We did calm down and apologize to each other and had make-up sex, which was nice, but it wasn’t how I imagined we’d be spending our final days together – tense, fearful, with each blaming the other for our predicament. It wasn’t until the night before he departed for 13 that we came to a mutual understanding. Neither of us were at fault. We were victims of our celebrity – a celebrity that neither of us had sought. Mine was thrust upon me, and his was a regrettable consequence of his life’s work. But I did tell him he was partly to blame. If he had been fifty, pot-bellied and bald instead of young, handsome and with eyes the color of maple-syrup that could melt any women’s heart, he wouldn’t attract a fraction of the media attention that he does. And then he told me that if I had been a scraggy, wrinkled old bat instead of young and nubile with eyes like silver moons and hair evocative of midnight, all the Games prowess in the world couldn’t have made me the cultural icon I’d become. We were just too good looking for own good. And then we laughed and had sex – playful, affectionate, I-want-to-remember-this-forever sex.

But the worry was still there when we lay in each other’s arms that night, and the next morning when we said our goodbyes. It was a bitter-sweet ending to what had been an unforgettable interlude but as I watched him pass through the Village gates for the last time, rucksack piled high, long legs in hiking boots striding purposely towards the next wilderness to be saved, I was struck by the rightness of it. It was how it was always going to end; how it always should have ended. Johanna tosses a denuded cookie back onto the plate and picks up a fresh one. She ignores the pained look I send her way. “Would you have gone with him?” she asks. “If you could?” I brush cat hairs from my trousers to give me a few seconds to think about it. I’d honestly never considered it since I can’t leave 12. But there was a time when I could have happily left everything behind and followed him around the country, hiking mountain trails and making love at every opportunity. It was at the concrete house by the lake, the morning after we’d made love for the first time and there weren’t enough superlatives in the world to describe how wonderful I thought he was, although now I find it hard to determine exactly what I did feel for him.

“No,” I say eventually. “Even if didn’t mean being in the public eye again, I still wouldn’t. We don’t want the same things.” I hesitate, wondering if I should say anything, but then blurt it out. “I don’t think I’m normal.” I brace for the sarcastic response I’m sure to get, but to my relief it doesn’t come. “None of us are,” she says grimly. “You don’t go through what we have and come out normal at the end of it.” She’s silent for a moment, but then rouses herself. “But if you want me to comment further, you’ll have to be more specific,” she adds. I sigh. I don’t know to explain it to myself, let alone to someone else. “Well, it’s about how I felt about Marcus. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago when I would have done almost anything for him. He made me feel so . . . so . . . “ “Turned on?” she smirks. I feel my face grow hot. I should have known the real Johanna couldn’t be too far from the surface. “Yes, but more than that. Wanted. Desirable. And we had so much in common too. But when he left, I didn’t feel much of anything. I should have been devastated, shouldn’t I?” “Rebound.”

“What?” “It was a rebound. It’s when you haven’t got over one relationship and you dive straight into another. Marcus gave you the validation that Peeta didn’t. It’s not so complicated. Pretty simple, in fact. Happens all the time.” “It does?” “Yep. It goes like this. You feel like shit because you’re still hung-up on your ex so you’re looking for a distraction – something or someone to make you feel better. So along comes Marcus who is clearly attracted and you transfer the feelings you don’t think Peeta wants on to him. Only it doesn’t last because it’s not based on anything real.” But some things were real. I really did like him, felt a connection with him, even. And I liked the sex, but maybe that’s just a physical thing. I haven’t been with enough men to know if it’s different when it’s with someone you truly love. “A rebound is bad then?” I ask. “Depends,” she says. She takes another cookie from the plate. “Has it made you feel better or worse? And then there’s the person on the other end of it. It’s generally considered not fair to them. But, if you had to pick the ideal man to have a rebound with, you couldn’t have done better than Marcus. I told you at the beginning– one track mind. Nothing competes with saving the forests for him.” Gale. He was like that. The cause is more important than any relationship. As soon as Gale heard about the uprisings in the Districts, he no longer wanted to escape with me into the woods when just minutes before, he’d been so keen. But Peeta, he would have gone with me, even though he knew it was a bad idea. “He told me he doesn’t keep girlfriends for very long. I guess that’s why,” I say. He’d also have figured out what a liability I’d be to him. And I certainly wouldn’t want the kind of life a relationship with him would entail. That final week had been an eyeopener for us both. But at least it ended well, all things considered. I put out my hand for a cookie but change my mind when I can’t find one that hasn’t had the icing scraped off.

“You’re disgusting,” I tell her. But I can’t keep from laughing. It’s part amusement, part relief. No repercussions from that lapse of judgement in the woods and an explanation that makes sense to me about my feelings for Marcus. I feel a sudden rush of affection for the woman who’s helped me through this – and more besides. Once I compared her to an older sister who really hates you. I guess I have to revise it to an older sister who sometimes seems to hate you but really doesn’t, and you can always depend on to have your back. “I’m going to miss you,” I say. “Yeah, I know,” Johanna replies casually as if she were picking lint off a sweater. “But my reason for coming here in the first place was to help Marcus out and he’s gone. Peeta doesn’t need me anymore either. So even if I hadn’t been asked to, it still would have been time for me to go home.” “You’re going to be great mayor.” “Thanks, but I’m not mayor quite yet. I have to be elected first. It’s the way it’s done now.” Before the war, District mayors were appointed by the Capitol but now all governing roles are decided by vote. It’s the republic Plutarch had talked about, just like in the history books. The people elect their own representatives. “You’ll get it,” I say confidently. “They love you in 7. They wouldn’t have asked you to run, otherwise.” Who’d have guessed that Johanna would be destined to be Mayor of District 7, but when you think about it, it’s the perfect fit. She’ll bring passion, commitment and integrity to the role. And essential for a career in politics, a thick skin. “So, have you thought about what you’d like to do on your last night here and to celebrate your candidacy?” I ask. “How about drinks first at the pub and then dinner at that restaurant you like or maybe see a movie. Or we could do all three. Anything you like. “ “Anything I like?” she asks ominously. Images of pub crawls, strippers and naked sprints through the streets flash through my mind. “What I’d like is dinner with just the four of us. You, me, Peeta and Haymitch.” I groan. This is far, far worse. “You more than anyone know the circumstances – “ “I don’t care,” she says flatly. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been stuck between the two of you. Haymitch has too. Why don’t you think of other people for a change and how it affects them? You and Peeta are Haymitch’s family! What do you think it’s been like for him?” “He hasn’t said anything,” I say, on the defensive. “How can I know if – “

“It should be fucking obvious! How brainless can you get?” She gives me a look filled with contempt. I guess she’s back to being the older sister who hates you. I hadn’t considered it from Haymitch’s perspective. He’d have missed the dinners, I suppose, but it’s not as if they could continue forever. They were only intended to help us establish a routine. And besides, it was Peeta who showed the first signs of breaking from them. “It’s not like I started it.” As I say it, I realize how false that is. I was the one who put a complete stop to the dinners and made things awkward between Peeta and me. All because I couldn’t handle him being with Lace. “I don’t care who started it,” she says, but less angrily than before. “It’s time for it to stop. Is this how you’re going to live the rest of your lives? Forever trying to avoid being in the same place at the same time? You’re neighbors, for fuck’s sake. You’ve been in two Games and a war together. You don’t throw away a bond like that because he fucked another woman when his brain was mush. And now that you’ve fucked another man, you’re even. There’s nothing standing in your way now. So, what’s stopping you? It can’t be Lace. She’s gone.” Gone, but not forgotten. Not by me, and not by Peeta either. But Johanna does have a point. If Haymitch is a kind of father figure to us both, then that makes us his children. And having two children who don’t get along and won’t join in any family activities if the other is there too, can’t have been easy. For my own part, it has been a strain avoiding Peeta when we live so close, work similar hours, and have Haymitch in common. But it hasn’t been just me. Peeta stopped seeking me out like he used to when he found out that I’m in love him. Nothing about our situation has changed, Lace or no Lace. He stays away from me because he knows that I’m in love him and he feels bad that he can’t love me back. And I stay away from him because I know that he knows, and feel humiliated that he does. But if . . . “You’re right,” I say. “It is ridiculous. You make the arrangements and I’ll be there.” “And now that Marcus is out of the picture – “

She stops suddenly, confused. “You will?” “Yes. In fact, I can hardly wait. It’ll be fun.” I rise from the sofa to gather the cups and the plate of ruined cookies to signal that the visit is over. Johanna looks stunned as if she can’t believe how easy that victory was. She was probably all primed to go into battle and then it failed to materialize. How disappointing that must be.

“Oh, Johanna!” I call out cheerily just as she’s about to walk out the door. I’ve just remembered something Haymitch told me. “Maybe we should let Peeta do the cooking. He likes to do it. He’d always take over when we had our dinners.” If I have to do this thing, I at least want the food to be good. “Sure,” she says, still dazed. And then she’s gone. I wonder if Peeta has already agreed to it, or that she still has the job of guilting him into it too. I decide that it doesn’t matter either way. Peeta will be motivated by the same reasoning as me. The present situation can’t continue. It’s funny, in the way that’s weird rather than amusing, that mine and Peeta’s situation is now reversed. In the days following the Games and before we embarked on the Victory Tour, he avoided me for pretty much the same reasons I avoid him now. And, in turn, I avoided him for the same reason he avoids me. It’s the discomfort of being around someone whose feelings you don’t return. But there’s one crucial difference. Peeta had hope. I know that now from what Haymitch told Peeta before the prep teams arrived. He could afford to wear his heart on his sleeve knowing that there was a good chance that if I was given the space I needed, it was only a matter of time before I felt the same way. I have no hope. Therefore, my strategy will have to be different. This is about survival, not about capturing Peeta’s heart.

Peeta will have to believe that whatever I felt for him, I no longer do. That’s the only way we can be at ease with each other. I may never stop loving him, but I know how to bury my feelings so that they don’t show. I’ve had plenty of practice at it. After my father died. When I was reaped. When he started going out with Lace. I can do this. I can put on a show. I don’t even have to be good at it. In the Games, Peeta was convinced I was in love him because he wanted to believe it. So now I do the opposite and he’ll believe because he wants to believe. And if he can’t do that, he’ll pretend. We’re both very good at pretending. Chapter 31 Venia purses her lips at the state of my nails. “There’s not much I can do with these apart from a polish. If you want artificial nails, you’ll have to come back when Octavia’s here.” “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I mostly just wanted my hair trimmed.” The shape Flavius had cut into my hair has nearly all grown out. Working at the school during the week, and out in the woods with Marcus on the weekends hadn’t left much time for trips to the beauty salon. I ask, “Where’s Octavia? Not sick, I hope.”

It’s unusual not to see Octavia at her station, her auburn head bent over her task. Since Venia re-united with her coworkers, each has settled into their former specialties as beauty therapists. Flavius is hair and makeup. Octavia is the nail expert. And Venia is skin treatments and waxing. “She left work early,” smirks Flavius. “She has a date.” Venia collects a few tools from the nail station and returns to my side. While Flavius cuts, Venia smooths and buffs. It reminds me of my days as a tribute when all three of them would be working on various body parts at the same time. “We weren’t busy, anyway,” says Venia. “You’re the last customer for the day.” I know. That’s the reason I chose to come at this time. I didn’t want to take the chance of running into Lace when she’s having her roots done. “Anyone I know?” I ask. “Possibly,” replies Venia. “He’s from 12. Thom something. Bick? Hick?” “Hickory?” “That’s it. Hickory. Octavia’s had crushes before but she’s got it really bad this time. I caught her looking through wedding catalogues.” Venia pauses mid-buff. “I’m worried for her.” “How come?” Thom is a nice guy. He was a friend of Gale’s who helped with the clean-up of 12 and gave me a ride home in his cart when I was too weak to walk home. That was the day Peeta came back. “Because of . . . you know, of what we did before the war.” I don’t miss Venia’s use of “we”. If Octavia is accused of being a facilitator of the Games, they all are.

“But doesn’t Thom already know? He was in 13 at the same time as you.” All the survivors from District 12 actually. But Venia shakes her head. “Octavia didn’t know Thom then. We didn’t mix very much with the people there. We thought it safer to keep to ourselves. Especially after the bread.” I suppose being shackled to a wall and beaten for simply taking an extra portion of bread wouldn’t exactly endear the populace to you.

I try to reassure them. “You do know that I’d vouch for you if it ever came out? And tell them how you helped prepare me for the rebellion propos and Snow’s execution?” “I know you would. And maybe we’re worrying over nothing. But we risked a lot coming here and 12’s our home now. Flavius has met someone too – he’s from the Capitol, so that’s not a concern but if we had to leave . . . And Lucia is settled in school and has made friends and Cicero has a good job at the medicine factory . . .” And so Venia goes on. Flavius chimes in too. He tells me they’re set to take on two apprentices and once the tailor has moved out, they want to expand the salon –

“What? Arthur’s leaving?” This is the first I’ve heard of it. But maybe that’s not so surprising. I haven’t seen much of Arthur lately. It’s been only been Max, Johanna and me at pub nights. Arthur is obviously spending his Saturday nights elsewhere. “Oh, he’s not going far,” says Venia. “Just to another store on the main street. He says it’s better situated for passing trade and with the dressmaking shop next door it will likely bring more business to them both.” “I don’t think more business is the only thing those two want from each other,” says Flavius with a suggestive wink. “Flavius!” chides Venia, but she can’t conceal a smile. “It’s true, though. We misplaced the stone we use for sharpening scissors and Octavia went to ask Arthur if we could borrow his. But no one was there even though the door was open. So, she went through to the back, thinking that’s where he’d be, and she caught them red-handed, kissing, and his hand was up her skirt. Octavia forgot all about the stone.” The two of them collapse into giggles. “We didn’t think he had it in him,” says Venia, when she’s able to speak. Neither did I. I can’t laugh about it though. Peeta will be devastated when he hears that Lace has moved on. And so soon after their break-up too. But as badly as I feel for Peeta, I also can’t help feeling happy for Arthur. If there was ever a man who deserves reward for long devotion, it’s him. I only hope that Lace proves worthy of it. One thing I do know is that Peeta isn’t going to hear of it from me. I’m done being involved in his love life. It’s brought me nothing but trouble ever since he made that confession to Caesar Flickerman years before. My only objective is to get over him if I can and make sure that he thinks I have. And that makes this dinner tonight so important. It will set the stage for our relationship going forward. We’ll be friends. Not necessarily close friends. But at least friends who can enjoy social occasions together and feel comfortable in each other’s company. Johanna wants us to dress up so I guess that means I’ll have to wear a cocktail dress. I have one already in my closet. It’s the emerald green dress I wore to the party in 8. But it’s long sleeved and in a heavy fabric and that makes it too hot for this time of the year. I’ll have to go down to the basement where most of the Cinna clothes are stored. There’s a whole rack of cocktail dresses to choose from. But what do you wear when you want to show that you’ve made an effort, but don’t want to appear as if you’ve set out attract anyone in particular – and by anyone, I mean Peeta.

I begin by eliminating colours that are evocative of sunsets or flames. That takes care of anything orange, red or yellow. And then anything that Lace might choose. If Lace is Peeta’s idea of feminine allure then I should make sure to do the opposite. Therefore, no pastels, ruffles and especially any kind of lace. No. No. No, I think as I reject one dress after another. And then I find it. The perfect dress. And so different from the girlish or jeweled frocks that Cinna usually dressed me in that it’s almost as if he knew that one day, I might have a need for a dress such as this. It’s in unrelieved black. Simple and unadorned in slinky silk jersey. I really like it, but Peeta, who loves colour, probably won’t and it’s sure to send a message that I didn’t dress to please him. I accessorize it with black high-heeled sandals and silver and jet earrings. The dress comes to just above the knee with a deep halter neck. It’s impossible to wear a bra without it showing, so I leave it off. I turn around to check how it looks in the mirror from the rear. The clinging fabric does set off my best asset, but since it’s a dinner and I’ll be sitting on it, no one will see it. The burn scars, although much improved from the skin treatments, are still noticeable on my back. I decide to draw attention to it by putting my hair up in a kind of messy bun. This will contrast with Lace’s unblemished skin and immaculate hair and will surely show Peeta that I don’t care at all about being attractive to him. I arrive at Peeta’s door at the same time as Haymitch. He’s wearing a dinner suit, but his white shirt has already untucked from the waistband and his tie isn’t around his neck but dangling from his breast pocket. His eyebrows rise as he takes in my appearance and his lips curve in a sardonic smile. If I needed any confirmation of how incongruous I look in this get-up, I just got it. Johanna answers the door, elegant in a wine-red fitted dress with matching shoes. She appears to have paid a visit to the salon too, because her hair is now a uniform color and has been restyled to lie flat against her skull and frame her face instead of the usual red-tipped spikes sticking up all over her head. “I like your new look,” I tell her. “Yeah, it’s more conservative than I usually go for but I figure I have to start looking the part of mayor sooner or later. But what about you? What have you done with Katniss Everdeen?” I smile and shrug. I’m unsure if not looking like myself is a compliment or not. Peeta stops short when he sees me, his mouth gaping, but he collects himself quickly. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks,” I murmur. He sounds sincere but I know how easily Peeta can fake it. “You look good too.” And he does, in a cream suit designed by Portia. We move into the dining room. Johanna’s gone to a lot of trouble. I can almost imagine we’re at one of those fancy restaurants in the Capitol. Fresh flowers, dim lighting, the furniture polished to a high sheen. The table is resplendently laid out with the finest dinnerware and gold cutlery. These came with the house. I have them too but I’ve yet to use them. I wonder if Peeta recognizes the pattern on the plates as the same as those that accompanied our feast in the cave. Johanna and Haymitch take seats at opposite ends of the table. That leaves Peeta and me to sit across from each other.

White wine is poured into cut-crystal glasses and starched linen napkins are laid across laps. I wait for either Johanna or Peeta to start bringing in the food but they stay seated. How are we to eat if the food never leaves the kitchen? I eye the woven gold basket filled with soft rolls in the center of the table. Is that all we get? Just then, Cass enters the room carrying a large silver tray. “Good evening,” he says, as places a bowl of soup in front of each of us. “I hope you brought your appetites with you. Don’t forget to save room for dessert.” And then he’s gone. Presumably back to the kitchen. “What was that?” I say to no one in particular. “Cass is doing all the cooking tonight. He’s a qualified chef. He can cook all sorts of things - not just pastries and desserts,” says Johanna. “Yes, I know that. But what’s he doing here?” Peeta answers. “Johanna thought it would be nice to have a professional do the cooking so we could relax and enjoy ourselves.” Right. I just wish Johanna’s idea of relaxation was drinks at the pub, or a barbeque in the backyard. Any place where I didn’t risk locking eyes with Peeta at any minute. We can scarcely look at each other. Every time his eyes chance to meet mine, they flit away. It’s like being back at school. We’re doing a very poor job of acting at ease with each other so far. I’m a lousy actress at the best of times but I expected better of Peeta. Clearly the knowledge that I’m in love with him freaks him out to the extent that he’s forgotten all his acting skills. The food is a welcome diversion and I tuck in. The soup is creamy pumpkin sprinkled with slivered nuts and little black seeds. Sublime. I recognize it as one of the soups at the Capitol feast. It’s followed by those delicious little roasted birds filled with orange sauce. Then fish swimming in a green sauce flecked with herbs. And then, oh, I don’t believe it! Lamb stew with dried plums! On a bed of wild rice!

That makes me think of our feast in the cave, of course. It’s even served on the same patterned plates. My eyes instinctively search out Peeta’s. Do you remember it? You must, surely. How excited we were when that parachute arrived. How careful we were to eat only small portions so we wouldn’t be sick after so many days of hunger. And then how we whiled away the time until we could eat again – snuggled together in the sleeping bag, my head on your shoulder, your arms wrapped around me, imagining our life together if we survived the Games. You, me and Haymitch, you said. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales. You must remember it!

But Peeta doesn’t look my way. His gaze flickers between Johanna and Haymitch without it ever landing on me even though we’re sitting directly across from each other. And he laughs just a little too loudly at Johanna’s poor taste joke about prunes and how we’ll all shit well tomorrow. He remembers our feast in the cave, all right! I’m certain of it. He just doesn’t want me to know that he does. To spare me the humiliation, probably. I want to kick myself. Gawping at him like a love-sick idiot – practically begging him to remember one of our most intimate moments together. At least Peeta has his wits about him, not letting on that the stew holds any particular significance.

I quietly return to my stew. It’s not as good as I remember it and I can only manage a few mouthfuls. Saving room for dessert, I tell Johanna, when she comments. Unfortunately, there’s a long break between this course and the next. I suppose Cass wants our stomachs to have a rest before he brings out the dessert which is sure to be spectacular. But it makes the pressure to appear congenial and unaffected by Peeta’s presence that much harder when I don’t have the food to distract me.

Since I got here, Peeta hadn’t spoken a great deal, and me even less. The conversation has been carried mostly by Johanna and Haymitch. She’s been picking his brain about the challenges of town planning and the provision of services such as garbage collection and road maintenance. Johanna had better get this job for mayor. She already acts as if it’s hers. That’s why it’s a surprise when the focus of attention turns to me. I’d been occupied twisting my crystal glass around by the stem watching the colours change across its facets. Anything to keep my mind off the person sitting opposite me. “You’ll step in, won’t you, Katniss?” Johanna asks. My head jerks up. “Hmm? What – “ “She doesn’t have to,” says Peeta quickly. “Step in for what?” I ask, directing my question to Johanna. “To watch the tapes with Peeta.” says Johanna. Before I can respond Peeta interjects again. “There’s no need to bother Katniss. I’ll be fine with Haymitch.” “You won’t,” says Haymitch. “The tapes labeled ‘to be watched with Katniss’ are all that’s left. It’s probably why the content has become repetitive lately. Aurelius has obviously run out of material I can help you with.” “You need to watch all the tapes,” Johanna adds. “You don’t know what memories are missing until you do.” “Katniss has already done her share. I’ll be fine watching on my own,” says Peeta. Johanna shakes her head. “You know that’s not how it works. You need someone to put it into context. Besides, the tapes were her idea to begin with. She should see it through.” Peeta turns to me for the first time. “There’s really no need.” He’s almost pleading with me. I really want to accept his offer to not watch the tapes with him. I know he’s giving me an escape but if I go along with it, it gives the impression that I’m afraid and that’s not good either. It has to appear as if I have nothing to hide. Which I don’t. Except the part that I’m still in love with him, of course. I can see where he’s coming from. After my slip-up with the stew, he’s worried that if I’m compelled to watch the tapes with him, I’m sure to give myself away. He’s protecting me from myself. I look coolly into the blue eyes of the person who is now my greatest opponent and I promise myself I will defeat his plan. Johanna is right. I should finish what I started. Remember that my primary objective was for Peeta to find himself. And if those tapes hold the final pieces, then I’m determined that he shall have them. I will watch those tapes, no matter how bad they are, and he will never guess from my reaction that I still carry a torch for him. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to act normally around each other. “I’m happy to help,” I say. “Same time and place?” All eyes are on him. He’s trapped and he knows it. Peeta’s nod is almost imperceptible. What a timely moment for Cass to bring out the dessert. It’s a tower of pastries filled with different flavored custards, welded together with chocolate and studded with raspberries and sugared violets surrounded by an immense web of delicate spun sugar. There’s enough for at least a dozen or more people. But the best thing about it is that its position in the center of the table effectively blocks out my view of Peeta. So, Dr Aurelius has sent tapes that he wants Peeta to specifically watch with me. I wonder if I was ever going to be told about them. Probably not if it had been left up to Peeta. He’s obviously anxious about what’s on them. That makes me think that he has most, if not all, of his memories back. Enough, at least, to guess at how I feel about him. It seems that the tapes have progressed from those which showed me either indifferent or acting a part to when I began to return his feelings. And the irony is that it’s made not a scrap of difference. I’m glad now that Dr Aurelius sent the compromising tapes first. I had never stood a chance with him, even without Lace.

Cass comes out to clear away the dessert plates and the remains of that pastry thing. He frowns at how little impact we made on it. But it really was huge. To make him feel better, I ask if he can wrap it up for me to share around the staff room tomorrow. Max will probably make some joke about chocolate covered balls and phallic symbols. We finish with tea for Peeta and me and coffee for Johanna and Haymitch. Haymitch takes from his pocket a silver flask and pours a generous slug of whatever’s in it into his cup.

The dinner finally comes to an end. I pull Johanna aside before I go, ostensibly to say goodbye to her. I won’t see her tomorrow. The train for 7 leaves very early and Peeta has offered to walk her to the train station.

“The whole night was a setup, wasn’t it? To get me to watch the tapes with Peeta again?”

She doesn’t bother denying it. “Yep. Someone had to give the two of you a nudge in the right direction.” She gives me one of her stern big sister looks. “Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” I say. She doesn’t have to know that I have something completely different in mind to her.

I hug her goodbye and wish her luck. I don’t know when we’ll meet again. Not with me stuck in 12 and Johanna busy being mayor but maybe she’ll find time in her schedule to visit at some point.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she calls out as I leave. Where have I heard that expression before? Ah yes, Plutarch. They were the last words he spoke to me before he left the hovercraft that brought me back to 12. Thankfully, even after that scare with Marcus, that’s exactly how it’s stayed.

“Never,” I call back. No one could ever be the little sister that Prim was. But maybe I’ve gained a pretty good substitute for an older one.

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kuriboo · 4 years

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YuGiOh GX Month 2020

Day 22: Stop Blowing Holes in my Ship!!

This is the rarepair day, and I, predictably, have chosen to write about Jesse Anderson/Chazz Princeton. I think about these two more than anyone really should, by this point. Decided to write some season 1 content; I like to think Jesse was enrolled in North Academy while Chazz was, and there was some reason he just wasn’t at the school at that time. This is just one possibility... But, well, this is canon divergent territory so whatever I say goes anyway, I guess.

This is obviously very late... I have lots of opportunity to write these days, but not a ton of time to put it up anywhere, and I honestly only decided to write this a week ago, or maybe two, after looking at the prompt list again in my Bastion Erasure messages. I also plan to write one more, for the Arc V day, but it’a not gonna be done in September, sorry about that. I’ll probably have it up on October. I’ll put the ao3 link for this one in the notes!

⁂

"What a week it's been, huh?" Jessed asking the bug on his shoulder

The past week had been intense. Normally, Jesse would be in class right now at North Academy. After building his deck for the entrance exam, he had risen high up in the ranks, even though he was just a freshman. Maybe it was because he had bonded with his new bug deck so quickly and so well, rather than pure dueling ability, but it still had caught someone's attention. A few weeks ago, that fella in charge of Industrial Illusions, Maximillion Pegasus, invited Jesse and his bugs to this big tournament with all these duelists he ain't met before. Today had been his second duel in the tournament, and these duels were at least as hard as the duels at North Academy were, those duels being the hardest Jesse had ever faced. He'd managed to win the duel, but it wasn't easy.

For whatever reason, though, whenever Jesse looked out to the audience, he always saw Pegasus looking at him. Pegasus always looked like he was mulling something over in his mind, but he was always looking at Jesse when Jesse saw him. It was a little strange, but Jesse wasn't going to let it throw him off. He was going to give this tournament his best shot and try to leave without regrets.

He couldn’t let himself get distracted now, anyway. He was already thinking about his next opponent in the tournament, and how to face whatever strategies they might use. He was back in the room he’d been assigned to stay in for the duration of the tournament. It was fairly simple room; there were a few chairs, a bed, a closet, and a TV. It sure was comfortable, though.

When the door to his room opened, Jesse nearly jumped out of his chair. “Whoa, that sure spooked me,” Jesse said quietly to himself as a staff member entered the room.

”My apologies.”

”It’s fine, I definitely ain’t upset or nothing. It’s not time for my next duel already, is it?” Jesse asked. He knew he would be dueling more often as the tournament progressed, but this was sooner than he’d figured it would be. His previous duel ended not long ago. Yet, it was strange for someone from the tournament staff to be here otherwise.

”It’s not time for you to duel just yet. We received this today. It’s for you.” They gave Jesse an envelope with his name written on the front.

Jesse smiled. “Thanks!”

As the staff member left, Jesse opened the envelope, his bug friends crowding around to all try to read it at the same time. It was from Chancellor Foster, from North Academy; the date the letter was sent was written in the top right. It’d been sent out not long after Jesse left North Academy. He’d set off for the tournament almost as soon as he got the invitation, since the trip itself took over a week. It wasn’t a surprise to see the mail travelled slower. Even so soon after he left, it was a letter updating Jesse on how much had happened in North Academy between Jesse’s departure and when the letter was written.

Apparently, a lot happened in a short time. A freshman from the main branch of Duel Academy had transferred to North Academy just before Jesse left for the tournament. Why the transfer occurred wasn’t clear, but it wasn’t any of Jesse’s business. As it turned out, that freshman had reached the top rank of North Academy after putting their new deck together, as part of North Academy’s entrance exam. Jesse rose his eyebrows as that. This duelist must be really good, ranking as the top duelist with a deck full of cards they’d never used.

It sounded like this duelist was going to represent North Academy in the upcoming duel against the main branch, too. Jesse wouldn’t be able to see it in person since he wouldn’t be back to the academy yet, but he couldn’t wait to hear the results.

”Chazz Princeton, huh? I’ll have to remember that you.”

As good as this Chazz Princeton was, Jesse still hadn’t dueled them yet. As soon as Jesse returned to North Academy, it would be time to change that.

A duel later, not long after dinner, Jesse was practically vibrating with excitement.

The next duel, just 36 hours away, would be part of the semi-finals. He was so excited to be in the tournament, to have made it this far, that he couldn’t think strategy right now. He didn’t know what to do with himself, but if he couldn’t get himself to prepare on the upcoming duel, maybe watching a duel on TV would help him think of new ideas? Seeing other duelists’ decks and strategies and all? Jesse turned on the TV and began flipping through channels to find a duel to watch.

He stopped when he found a duel that immediately captured his attention. It looked like the duelists were around his age? That was odd, since students usually didn’t weren’t broadcasted, especially on a live broadcast like this one.

A few minutes later and Jesse found out that this was apparently the big duel between North Academy and the main branch. He blinked. Did he forget this duel would be televised? He didn’t remember hearing that it would, but...

It looked like the main branch had chosen a duelist, too, which made it hard to figure which duelist represented which school, but after a couple of moments he was able to figure it out. The duelist in the black jacket was Chazz Princeton, dueling for North Academy. Duel Academy’s duelist had a red jacket on; it sounded like his name was Jaden. Both students had interesting cards. Jaden had these cool looking hero monsters, they seemed like fun friends to have. Chazz looked like he was using North Academy’s legendary Armed Dragon deck. The deck could appear weak at the beginning of the duel, but Jesse knew better to judge it by that. The biggest lesson any student at North Academy learned was that there were no truly bad cards. All cards could be good, as long as you knew how to use them.

Chazz had just summoned Armed Dragon LV 7. Soon anyone who was unaware of the deck’s power would no longer underestimate it. Beyond it’s powerful stats, it also had the ability to destroy all its opponents monsters, making it a force to be reckoned with. This deck was legendary for a reason. Soon, Jaden was able to defend himself from the direct attack without losing life points, but it was close. He’d barely been able to keep himself in the duel.

This was a close duel. Jesse was on the edge of his seat. Even if the situation looked bad for Jaden, Jesse knew he couldn’t count out Duel Academy’s rep just yet either.

A few turns later Jaden was able to destroy Armed Dragon LV 7 with a card effect, proving Jesse to be right. Jaden had less life points, but he now had the upper hand.

”I hope Chazz can pull through still,” Jesse muttered to himself. “It’d be nice to see North Academy win this year...” Of course, this was Jesse’s first year, so he hadn’t been present for last year’s duel. But as the school had prepared for this year’s duel, he’d quickly learned North Academy lost last year. It wasn’t a close match, either. The school’s moral, especially the chancellor’s, had been hit hard after that.

Plus, it was clear by now that Chazz’s status in North Academy had been no fluke. He was a good duelist and definitely deserved to win. Not that Jaden didn’t deserve the win either, Jaden was fairly good himself, but... Besides just wanting his school to win, Jesse wouldn’t deny that Chazz was kind of cute. That fact definitely had him leaning even more for Chazz’s victory.

After Chazz’s next turn, however, something changed.

All the sudden Jaden was telling Chazz about how dueling for fun, not for the win itself. Jesse knew Jaden was absolutely right. Jesse hadn’t even questioned whether they were both having fun. Yet, looking now at Chazz, it was clear he was stressed. Jesse frowned. He knew Chancellor Foster and the other students wouldn’t put this much pressure on Chazz to win this duel, so who was? Someone else?

Was Chazz putting some of that pressure on himself?

Many people experienced test anxiety, even people who excelled in what they were tested on. Jesse had seen it before, and experienced it himself in the past; slap the word ‘test’ on anything and people get nervous. Suddenly, people forget the answers to questions they otherwise knew. Maybe this duel could be considered something like a test. Maybe this was a bad case of test anxiety.

No matter what, Jesse hoped Chazz would be able to relax and pull through. Duels weren’t made for stressin’.

Chazz told Jaden to surrender while he still could, but Jaden was having too much fun to even think about it. Jaden hoped that during his next duel with Chazz, Chazz would be able to have fun, and Jesse found himself hoping that, too. Chazz didn’t deserve the pressure he was under.

Jaden’s next turn came, and the broadcast lost its signal as Jaden attacked. That attack would’ve left Chazz with no life points, and there was definitely no was for Chazz to avoid it. It was weird that it cut right then, but Jesse didn’t need to see anymore anyway. He already knew how the duel ended.

Both duelists were only in their first year of school, but it was clear they both were skilled duelists. Bringing out Armed Dragon 7 and devastating Jaden’s life points with a direct attack was not an easy task, especially someone using Armed Dragon for the first time. Destroying Armed Dragon was no easy task, either. Jaden, as the winner, was very obviously a good duelist.

Chazz, though? No one should think any less of him because he lost; Jesse sure didn’t. That’s just the way the cards played out sometimes. No one could win all the time.

Jesse had already been interested when he heard Chazz was the top duelist in North Academy right after transferring. Now that he’d watch Chazz duel, he really wanted to duel against Chazz. He couldn’t wait to meet him.

Though Jesse had a feeling he would want more, all he could hope was that he and Chazz could at least be friends some day. Not today, not with this tournament still to finish, but some day.

Chazz at the very least was not going to get out of a duel with him.

#gxmonth2020 #gx month 2020 #tater writes #yugioh gx #tater.txt #thanks for hosting this cool event!! Wish i hadn’t been too busy for it!

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xyzdnwi · 4 years

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❛ 𝕻𝖆𝖕𝖆𝖟 𝕾𝖔𝖓𝖌

“ꜱᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ "ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ” ꜱʜɪᴛ. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʙᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏʟʟᴀʀꜱ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ɪ'ʟʟ ʙᴜʀʏ ᴍᴏᴍꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴍᴇ: ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ, ɢ. ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇ.“

They say a bad parent is a traumatized child, caught in the fires of their own suffering, their thoughts more hurricane than poetry or soul. Andreko knew that to be true. His life purpose was empty of all but murder, greed, domination, and lust, leaving barely enough room for fatherhood. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for his children, whether the only form of love he knew how to express was materialistic wise. The sun had settled into the sky by the time Dreko made it back home where he’d abandoned Pharaoh and Kairi with Ms. Lady after tucking them in bed the previous night. He expected a harsh salutation from his godmother, but an intricate scene greeted him instead. Ms. Lady swept around the kitchen area while his kids tee-heed at the television with his father sandwiched between them. A burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison as he used the back of his boot to shut the door, catching everyone’s attention. "Daddy!” Roh and Kai gleefully sang. They rushed towards him, clueless to the anger paralyzing Andreko where he stood. He welcomed their embrace, but his menacing glower was stuck on his father. Ms. Lady could sense how the air was so brittle it could snap, and if it didn’t, Andreko would. “Roh, I need you to take your sister upstairs. Y'all can finish that racing game up before y'all father takes y’all to school.” That’s all it took to get Pharaoh’s feet moving as Kairi shuffled behind.

“Why the fuck you got this nigga near my kids?” Andreko growled once his children were out of earshot. Ms. Lady heard the vexation and hurt in his voice, generating a sigh from her lips, but before she was able to plead her case, his father cut her off. “I stopped by to check on you since I caught wind that you were out of the big house. Apparently, you left my grandkids with Ms. Lady while you went and partied it up at that raggedy-ass strip club, so I stuck around to give her a hand. You don’t have any business tricking on them hoes at the PYNK, Dreko. Your number one priorities right now needs to be Pharaoh, Kairi, and getting the fuck outta these streets ‘cause next time you in court ya might be hit with the death penalty.” If red hot fury wasn’t nurturing Andreko like a newborn baby, he would guffaw at Antonio’s self-contradicting statement. Andreko hadn’t met his father until he was pushing thirteen years old. Antonio was too busy playing Iceberg Slim throughout the Mason-Dixie line that his presence in most of his children’s lives remained inconsistent. Really, the only memory Dreko had of his father was the times they would bump into each other when they were hustling on the same block. “Must I remind you that three of them’ ‘hoes’ working down there came from ya nutsack? You’re the last person that needs to be acting holy than thou and giving out parental advice. Matter ah fact, I ain’t even gon’ argue witcha. Bounce up out my crib fo’ I beat you like ah nigga that owes me some funds.” Andreko ridiculed, causing Antonio’s muscles to stiffen as his head cocked to the side.

Dreko had inherited his father’s callous spirit, which became evident as the male closed in on his son. “Watch how you talkin’ to me, motherfucka. "He darkly chuckled, continuing to instigate the suffocating tension. "I’m not dem jits you got pissing on themselves outchea. Your ass will join ya mama up yonder sooner than you thought disrespectin’ me like I’m bitch made.” Ms. Lady gasped as Dreko threw his body weight behind the fist that edged closer to Antonio’s face, hitting his jaw with such force blood pooled into his mouth. Andreko’s wrath had swallowed him whole and engulf his moralities when Antonio mentioned his deceased mother. There was a moment of stillness on both sides. If hatred was visible, the air would have been scarlet. Then suddenly movement, so much vigor in every punch. Antonio rained blows onto Andreko as if he meant to smash him into the very earth, and Andreko did the same. Both fought like they didn’t just want the other dead; they wanted them crushed, obliterated, nothing left to bury. Ms. Lady tried to separate the father and son, but only the screams of horror coming from the staircase could end the vicious battle for dominance. Breathing heavily, Dreko hovered over Antonio, gazing down at his father with abhorrence diluting his irises. "The only thing keeping me from putting a hallow point between ya eyes right now is my shorties. If Dior, Rue, and Zara wanna be on some kumbaya shit witcha, bless they fuckin’ heart, but you dead to me, Ton.” With that, Andreko stood to his feet. He hoicked a wad of blood onto Antonio’s expensive gators before retreating towards his distressed kids.

#𝕬𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖐𝖔 ┊ ⌜ ᴘᴀʀᴀꜱ ⌝#𝕬𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖐𝖔 ┊ ⌜ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘᴍᴇɴᴛ ⌝

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keeroo92 · 4 years

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Be My Nightmare Ch16

Fight and Flight

Warnings for gore, in depth description of invasive surgical procedures and murder.

Word count - 4,290

~~~Previous Chapter~~~

---------

Your hand trembled around the slim handle of the knife. This was a choice you could not reverse, an action that had no path back. You had to be certain there was no other way, that this was what you really wanted.

What do I want?

“Where’d you find that loser, anyway?”

Your kin scratched his ass and wandered back to the living area, plopping onto your couch and reaching for the remote. As if he lived here, as if he weren’t an invader. As if he was welcome in your life. What you wouldn’t give to have him disappear...

...I could make that happen.

You caught your breath. It would be so easy, to just sink the blade deep into his gut and twist. Tear his body open and watch the light fade from his eyes. Even thinking about it gave you goosebumps.

But you weren’t a murderer. What was wrong with you, having such dark thoughts? Not to mention enjoying the visuals. No, killing your father wasn’t the answer. There had to be another way.

Maybe I can incapacitate him somehow?

“Whasamatter, cat got your tongue?”

You pursed your lips and forced your hand to relax, releasing the blade from your iron grip. There was one alternative, though it was extremely risky. It might even end up killing him anyway, but there was a chance he’d survive. Manslaughter, not murder.

You couldn’t think of anything else and you didn’t have time to waste. Every second that passed was one more that V could’ve been caught, could’ve started spilling all your secrets. The knife wouldn’t do. A more precise tool was required.

“Something like that,” you replied at last, opening a nearby drawer that held your prize. Voices on the television faded in the wake of the dull roar resounding in your ears.

No more hiding.

A grunt of acknowledgement was your only response. Your fingertips closed on cool metal and you shuddered, knowing the dark history of the procedure you had to perform. So much could go wrong, but what else could you do?

Sliding the drawer closed, you took a moment to prepare. The rage and pain of V’s sudden departure, the fury and resentment you held for your father, the itching desire to break free… All your distorted emotions spread out like a buffet of misery. They would only distract you. Unacceptable - focus was imperative.

One by one, you visualized them in your grasp. Tufts of pain and threads of mirth, strings of shame and rebellion all went inside an imaginary steel box, the lid too heavy for the pesky things to break free. The storm inside calmed with each addition to the box, and as you mentally clicked a padlock in place, a sense of calm descended upon you.

It’s time.

Steady feet carried you to stand behind your father. The patch of baldness on the crown of his reclined head was barely disguised by greasy strands of brown and the light of the screen added a blueish pallor to his skin, as if he were a corpse.

In a few moments, he very well might be.

“Breaking news - an escaped killer believed to be responsible for the recent killings downtown has been spotted near the financial district. The police are in pursuit and shots have been fired. Law enforcement is advising residents to stay indoors and call immediately if you see the suspect.”

Your stomach sank as an image of V popped up on the screen, green eyes sparkling over a twisted smirk. Shots fired. Police in pursuit. Could this possibly get any worse?

“Holy shit… holy shit, your boyfriend’s a murderer?!”

You just had to ask.

The incredulous eyes of your father met yours, his lips spreading into a sly grin. No doubt the bastard was already imagining ways to use this to his advantage, force you to do whatever he wanted. Harness your mind for nothing more than gambling, all the while treating you like a pile of dog shit he had to scrape from his shoes. It almost made you laugh.

Not this time, dad.

“Yes, he is,” you replied.

And then you slammed the handle of your tool into his temple as hard as you could.

His expression went slack, a thin trickle of blood trailing from where you split the skin. A quick check of his pulse revealed a thready but stable heartbeat. Perfect.

You angled his head and lined up the slim metal stick. Last chance to change your mind. It was a longshot that you could pull this off properly; you’d never done it before and research only helped so much. The slightest mistake may lead to patricide. Not to mention the risk of infection; your apartment wasn’t exactly a sterile operating room. The best case scenario meant the obliteration of his personality.

Courts could only charge me with manslaughter, not murder. I’m not a murderer.

You took a deep breath and steadied your hands. There was no time, he could wake at any moment and the longer V had to run, the more likely he’d be captured. The moral ramifications could wait. Consequences be damned.

The metal chopstick slid past your father’s right eye with ease to tap at the frontal bone hiding behind it. Tiny blood vessels surrounding his eye socket burst from the pressure, lines of red that would turn black by the end. With the heel of your unoccupied palm, you struck the chopstick, over and over until the bone gave way with a sickening crack. It didn’t take much - the bone was thin.

You felt the slightest resistance before his brain tissue gave way. It was softer than you would’ve expected, easy to tear through. Like a tender piece of steak, the meat falling off the bone. The chopstick slid forward as if it had always been there, embedded in your father’s eye socket.

“Here goes nothing…” you whispered.

With a gentle twist, you rotated the utensil forty degrees and wiggled it, severing neurons with every motion as you approached the midline. Trickling blood leaked from the entry point, but not much. It truly was an extraordinary technique, somehow both invasive and not. Simple, yet effective. Grotesque, yet elegant.

The perfect punishment for the misdeeds of your blood.

You spent several minutes ripping away the connections between the frontal lobe and the thalamus. It didn’t have to be perfect, nor did you expect it to be. All you could hope for was that it was enough to prevent him from reporting you to the cops.

But you wouldn’t know for sure until he woke up.

Which could happen at any time. I’d better hurry.

The left eye went much more quickly, your wrist already learning the motions needed to do the job. You paused to check his pulse, finding it racing but steady. About what you would’ve expected for someone undergoing brain surgery.

One last wiggle of the metal instrument and you sighed. Surely that would be enough? How long was this supposed to take? How did you know when you were done?

Doesn’t matter. I have to get moving.

You withdrew the chopstick at the same angle as the initial entry, cringing at the quiet slurp when it came loose. Blood coated the metal, and a few greyish particles you’d rather not think about. A scent similar to egg whites and copper tinted the air. How long should you wait before leaving him to his fate? Whatever the result of your procedure, there wasn’t much you could do for him now.

Five minutes, then I go. Just to see if he stops bleeding from his eyes.

You set a timer on your watch and spent the scant seconds gathering the essentials, papers and clothing, food and water. The items you were sure to need if you followed through with the barely cognizant plan still forming in your mind. How had it come to this?

It didn’t matter. The reality was that your old life was gone, and there was no turning back now. You were past the point of no return, had been for days. The second you decided to help the murderous artist at the museum instead of turn him in, you had made your choice.

Your watch chimed; time to go. You had everything you truly needed, the essentials snugly arranged in your old university backpack. The worn out straps slid home across your shoulders as you approached your father for what was most likely the last time.

“Dad? Can you hear me?”

His eyes were still closed, drying lines of blood lining his cheeks. Purple bruises marked where you’d done your work, dark shadows not unlike a black eye. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest seemed almost normal. At the very least, you hadn’t killed him outright.

You pursed your lips and shook his shoulder. It would be best if you knew how coherent he was before leaving.

“Hnnn… what happened…?” he murmured.

Language center intact; a good sign. Hopefully.

“You okay, dad? You passed out,” you replied.

He blinked owlishly, the bruises a stark contrast against the whites of his eyes. His gaze was clear, but something was gone from his expression. “I think so, just got a headache.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

A wrinkled hand rose to pinch his nose, smearing the blood still wetting his face. He paused and stared at the red streaks, perplexed but not alarmed. “You were behind me, and the news was on… saying something about that guy of yours?”

Memory and basic motor function intact; that could be good or bad. You took a seat beside him and feigned nonchalance, forcing yourself to portray calmness. If he still planned to take advantage of the situation, what were you going to do? If a damned lobotomy didn’t do the trick, how far were you ready to go?

“He’s in trouble, yeah? Huh… did he hurt someone? But he seemed nice enough...”

The confusion would fade in time. If you’d done the procedure right, the inability to make decisions would not. Only time would tell, and you’d wasted enough. He was alive and able to speak, you’d have to take your chances on the rest.

“Yeah, something like that. Listen, I gotta go for a while but make yourself at home.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, but if he left… no doubt he’d cause trouble. The man had a knack for it. Even just a few minutes of his oddly calm demeanor was a shocking contrast to his normal attitude. Had he ever gone this long without insulting you or implying your lack of worth? You didn’t think so. That had to be a good sign, right? That his emotions were no longer able to influence his decisions?

Whatever. Good enough.

“Okay, hon. See ya later,” he replied. “Love you.”

You forgot how to breathe for a moment. Words you’d never heard him speak until now, uttered so casually as if they meant nothing. You should have lobotomized him years ago. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so broken, wouldn’t have ended up chasing after a serial killer.

Doesn’t matter. Time to go.

With a final nod at the man you called father, you stood and headed for the door, swiping V’s beanie from the coffee table almost as an afterthought. What came next, you weren’t entirely sure. All you knew was that your career was dead and your friendships (if you could even call them that) were built on lies, and the only person who spoke truth to you was out there, running for his life and being shot at.

~~~V~~~

The soles of his shoes slapped against pavement as V ran, pumping his legs as fast as possible. Both Griffon and Vergil howled at him to turn around, go back to where he was safe and hidden, but he ignored them. Besides, the police wouldn’t catch him unless he allowed it. They were fools and he, a genius.

He didn’t bother trying to hide as he darted past the vehicle, instead focusing on speed. His options were limited, damn he should've held onto that knife, but he could manage.

Mere seconds passed before the blaring siren erupted behind him. He didn’t look back; it would only slow him down. With his eyes trained forward he’d be better able to spot a way to elude the idiots in blue.

“This is the police! Stop and put your hands up!”

Not likely.

He vaulted over a picket fence, landing on his feet and dashing off again. How foolish he’d been to hide in the first place, playing house with you as if he could ignore his calling. Idiocy, he should’ve known better than to believe there might be someone who could share his dreams. A companion would be nice, but it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need you.

He simply wanted you.

Faster, Van Gogh! We gotta book it!

The artist didn’t respond, too busy panting as he slid under a decorative banner. Apparently, the fishing festival was coming to town.

“I said stop!”

He almost rolled his eyes. If the fools didn't wield guns, he’d already have them by the throat. However, without a weapon of his own a direct confrontation was suicide. Running was his best option, until he could arm himself. Even a length of pipe would do, he didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

A soft grunt slipped from his lips as he shoved aside a passing civilian, trying to throw the confused imbecile into the police officers’ path as he fled. Perhaps he ought to shatter a window and use the glass to rip them apart? No, it would take too long.

If only he’d had more time, spent his energy on learning the area and all its hidden secrets instead of on luring you to his side. A city this size always had shortcuts and navigational oddities, things he could’ve exploited to hasten his escape. Instead, he had to improvise. Street traffic wouldn’t be enough to lose his pursuers.

Can’t risk taking an alley; I don’t know which are dead ends. The roofs, perhaps? No, nowhere to hide…

He palmed a sign pole, spinning to change direction and sprinting off once again, his breath a staccato rhythm matching his steps. The police siren blared behind him, blue and red lighting the brickwork to his left as the vehicle’s tires squealed through the sharp turn, straight through a red light. Ordinary folk stared at the spectacle, wide eyed and sheeplike in their foolishness. Soon enough, they would learn the truth.

“Stop or we will open fire!”

The artist dared to glance over his shoulder, gauging the likelihood of the threat coming to pass. The police cruiser was less than two car lengths behind him, and the officer in the passenger seat had his weapon drawn, muzzle pointed to the sky but clearly at the ready. He’d have less than an instant to dodge. Far from ideal…

He growled and wove his way between passerby, doing what he could to shelter in their wake. If this was to be his technique, he needed to find a more populated area. The wrong choice spelled his doom. Which way, which way?

A crack of thunder split the sky, yelps of alarm echoing a beat behind. The idiotic onlookers crouched and covered their heads, fear twisting their features as they tried not to get in the way. A harsh chill danced up V’s spine.

He’d seen faces like this before.

Don’t think about it, this isn’t the time. Just keep moving.

Sweat prickled his brow, goosebumps breaking out across his bare forearms. Images of blood and terror filled his mind. The past was not so easily ignored.

“V, what the hell?! Get down!”

He gritted his teeth and ran on. Dwelling on Nero was the opposite of helpful now, he needed to focus. Every step he took could be his last taste of freedom, if he wasn’t careful. Isolating the officers would be the first step, but how?

Jade eyes continuously scanned the street as the artist ran on, forcing himself not to stop despite the growing fatigue tugging at his limbs. A dead sprint was not easy to maintain, but he had no choice. Just a little longer, an opportunity would present itself soon. It had to.

“Take care of her…”

He shook off the memory. Someone screamed as another crack of thunder echoed through the air. V forced his legs to keep going, keep running until he found a way to fight, but he couldn’t go much longer. Soon, he would have no choice. The human body had its limits, he knew that better than most.

Salvation took the form of a subway entrance, graffitied and smelling of human piss and sweat. He didn’t hesitate, taking the stairs three at a time and vaulting over the turnstile without looking back. Every second counted.

The telltale rumble of an approaching train fanned the flames of hope in his heart. Almost free, just a few heartbeats more and he could pause, catch his breath. The only disappointment would be the lack of blood left in the wake of his flight, but perhaps it wasn’t too late for that. Being stuck in a metal tube full of idiotic commuters might be just what he needed to forget the sting of leaving you behind.

He followed a group of nearby civilians, letting them lead him to the tracks as shouts echoed down the stairwell. A young woman smiled at him as he passed, her hair a pale reflection of your auburn and slate locks. He should slit her throat for daring to look him in the eye, but there was no time.

There - a voice, announcing the impending arrival of his freedom.

“710 to North Riverside, now arriving on track A.”

He paused and scanned the signs above, clever eyes finding his target quickly. Left, then right and down. Almost there. The subway would carry him to safety, set him free to pursue his work once more. It may even serve as a backdrop, get his mind back where it needed to be.

Focused on his masterpiece.

The horde of lambs surrounding him thickened as he neared the platform, the cries of his pursuers fading away in the chatter of the masses. They discussed meaningless drivel, the actions of famous fools and the latest news about fashion. As if there were nothing of higher importance; the artist curled his lip in disgust. Hopefully, a few of them would board his train and be his latest canvases. Their bleached hair and perfectly made up faces held such potential, how delightful they would be twisted into agony. Their painted lips frozen in grimaces, their eyes forever wide with fear…

Focus! We are not yet safe.

V grunted and shoved past men in suits carrying briefcases and slipped between distracted students, their textbooks heavy on their backs. He wove his way closer until at last, his feet moved from the stone platform to the metal tube that would save him. Still, even aboard the subway he didn’t dare relax. There may yet be those nearby who could capture him, or those who would do him harm. No, not until his work was complete could he afford to be lax.

As the subway screeched into motion, he made his way forward to the next cabin. Few of his fellow travelers paid him any mind, but all it took was one. His eyes swept across every face as he moved, ever watchful for his next canvas or a sign of recognition. Another cabin, then two, until he could go no further and only eight souls shared his air. Still too many for his liking, but he grasped a pole and held tight for balance anyway.

“Next stop, 21st Avenue Station.”

A pair of youthful faces on his left shifted, their bodies not far behind as they prepared to disembark. Two down, how many to go? Six? Depending on their temperament he may be able to slaughter them all.

The artist bent his knees as the momentum shifted, the cabin slowing to a stop. A soft chime sounded from the overhead speakers a moment before the doors opened, releasing passengers and inviting new ones aboard.

“Nobody move! This is the police!”

Oh, no…

Adrenaline once again flooded his blood as V watched two figures in blue board, holding out badges as they scanned the cabin. Of course they’d followed him; it can’t have been hard to determine which line he took. There were only so many, after all.

“What’s happening?” asked a spectacled passenger in a fancy business suit. “You’re going to make me late for my board meeting!”

The officers barely glanced at him. V lowered his face and feigned disinterest, yet his entire body was coiled and ready to spring. If they came close enough, there would be no escape. All he had to do was wait; his prey would do the hard part for him, then he could make his escape.

“We have reason to believe a fugitive is on board. Has anyone seen this man?”

Just a little closer…

Freshly polished black shoes entered his field of view, their every step echoing like war drums in the artist’s skull. His fingers tingled in anticipation, visions of crimson dancing behind his half-closed lids. Goosebumps erupted across his body and he drew in a shaky breath, his need almost too powerful to bear. Only the knowledge of impending satisfaction kept him from losing his composure and striking too soon.

“Are you people serious? Clearly I’m not a fugitive, why can’t I leave?” the irate businessman crowed.

A thin smirk twisted the artist’s lips. If the man continued, he may become a useful distraction.

“Sir, please calm down. We’ll have you out of here as soon as we can,” replied one of the officers, a young man by the sound of his voice.

“But ‘soon’ isn’t now. You see the issue?”

The shiny black shoes turned; the officer now faced the foolish man. Perfect.

Ebony hair fluttered as V bolted forward, snarling as he slammed the closer officer’s skull against the pole he’d moments ago held for balance. A sickening crunch rewarded his efforts and the blue-clad man crumpled to the ground bonelessly as blood leaked from the fresh indent in his head.

The passengers cursed and screamed, horrified expressions only serving to feed V’s bloodlust. He spun, making a circle in the growing bloodstain with his toes as he faced his next adversary, a blond officer not much older than himself. A fool, seeking justice in a world that granted none. If only he knew the truth.

No matter - soon enough, they would all see.

The officer’s shaking hands struggled to release his firearm, panic clear in the dilation of his widened grey eyes. Still, the weapon cracked as the lad squeezed the trigger, spewing death to any who were unfortunate enough to be in its haphazard path.

The artist ducked, moving faster than he should've been able to as he avoided lethal hits. A single bullet pierced his thigh but he ignored it - he’d seen worse and the victims had kept fighting. It would dishonor their memory if he faltered now.

Instead, he bolted closer to his assailant, wrapping his long fingers around the poor young man’s neck to slam his delicate skull against the thick glass behind him. A smear of red marked the point of impact, the only remnant of his final breath.

With the immediate threat resolved, V smirked at the crowd and waited, content to revel in their horror. It mattered not whether his remaining foes chased him down or wandered into his path unaware, the end result would be the same. Crimson, a massive swatch of life blood decorating the walls and floors of the subway. Reminding those who used it that the transport was built on the spines of slaves. Nothing to be proud of.

“Run,” he growled.

The terrified group gaped at him, eight souls too shocked to realize they were free. Eight new voices to spread his message, to tell the tale of an unarmed man taking down two police officers bare handed. The thought brought a wicked grin to his face and he licked his lips, catching the taste of scarlet on his tongue. Delicious.

He raised an eyebrow at the nearest passenger, a young woman on a seat whose pants featured a wet stain between her legs. Terrified tears streaked her perfectly applied blush, dark with her runny mascara. “Now, little lamb.”

She trembled but managed to rise, her shaky legs carrying her to the platform and to the relative safety it offered. The other seven witnesses weren’t far behind her, all of them staring at him as they fled the scene. Alone at last, V surveyed his handiwork. Two dead police officers, not much of a mess but enough to whet his appetite.

If only he had the time to properly utilize their corpses. He’d yet to create a public display, and it excited him to imagine the far-flung reach such a bold act would elicit. They would whisper his name to their children, tell tales of his deeds and fear the dark as they always should have, these people. These sheep.

But he couldn't afford to linger, and there would be other chances. It was beyond time to refocus on his goal, his masterpiece. Enough tomfoolery.

V smirked as he stepped to the still open door, pausing to pick up a discarded or forgotten cell phone. No doubt it would prove useful in his exploits. He couldn’t wait to get started.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#Be My Nightmare #fanfic #my writing #v x reader #v x oc #reader insert #tw: gore #tw: mental health #tw: blood #dmc #dmc v #darkfic

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infiniteshawn · 5 years

Text

Since We’re Alone | 3

a/n: 3.5k words. the calm before the storm. and a whole lot of fluff.

Andrew had hoped to have Phoebe on a flight to Los Angeles within twenty-four hours. This was not the case.

Ideally, Phoebe would have had her Handmaid’s Tale-induced epiphany and replied to Shawn with a simple “I’m in.” Instead, she agreed to continue thinking about it, and if all went well, there was a chance for a possible meeting.

Which she never intended on following through with.

“Yes, I know he’s hot, mom, but it’s just n-“

Phoebe sighed and chewed her lip, interrupted once again by her mother on the other end of the line. She felt as if her own self was the only one with actual morals, as everyone in her life insisted that she bite the bullet and take part in a completely dishonest and misleading attention-cry.

Her boss pointed out that he’s famous.

Her mother pointed out that he’s attractive.

Sophie pointed out that it would make for a fantastic article.

And Shawn himself was on television talking about it. Oh, my god, Phoebe thought to herself.

“I’ll call you back,” she muttered to her mother, unmuting her practically-Jurassic Sony Wega to tune into the interview.

“I’m just really happy right now,” he flashed those damn pearly whites, causing the interviewer to erupt in a giddy blush-fest. Phoebe scoffed.

“With the success of the album and tour coming up, everything seems to be coming together.”

Phoebe cursed herself for leaving the TV on. She forgot Entertainment Tonight—an even worse version of what she did for a living--existed.

“That’s great, Shawn,” the young woman grinned, uncrossing her legs to cross them again, “and I understand that love is in the air for you, too?” she asked, and Phoebe wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a question or a statement. The world seemed to be in this unsure state of limbo about Shawn Mendes’ relationship status, and she felt relieved that she wasn’t completely subjected to this so soon. No one really knew what was going on. Not even Phoebe.

Shawn tossed his head back with a chuckle, “Caught the Grammys, eh? Yeah, my girlfriend’s great.”

Fuck. There goes that, Phoebe thought. He so easily admitted it. A public confession in full confidence was her biggest nightmare. Even though she’d barely scratched the surface, she knew she was in deep.

_________________________

What the fuck she messaged, still refusing Shawn’s offer to just text him. Giving him her number would give him complete access to her any time, and she didn’t need his management on her tail. She hadn’t agreed to anything.

Phoebe hoped she hadn’t worried Shawn with her DM, reminding herself that it was his team forcing him into this mess. As far as she knew, Shawn was pretty innocent.

Sorry she added, and then, ET interview caught me off guard

Shawn was already typing.

@shawnmendes: Can we talk about it?

Phoebe huffed. If she was being honest, she didn’t want to talk about it. But he’d seen the message, and the seconds were ticking, and Phoebe’s stomach dipped when she saw he was typing again.

@shawnmendes: Andrew says you live in Toronto?

Phoebe groaned. She’d read the message, she did live in Toronto, and there was no way she could lie because he was definitely going to find out anyway.

I can call you she sent, willing to surrender her ten digits of freedom in order to avoid what was to come. But Shawn was hot on her heels.

@shawnmendes: No, can’t talk about it over the phone

Phoebe wondered if this was more serious than people were leading on. Maybe his phone was tapped, monitored by the people in charge of him. The thought made her mouth dry.

And then an address popped up. An address that was two blocks away.

@shawnmendes: Red or white?

_________________________

Phoebe chewed her lip in the mirrored elevator, questioning if she was underdressed. An oversized long-sleeve shirt and bottoms that couldn’t be described as anything other than airport pants hung off of her. She looked down at her socked feet inside of her Birkenstocks—definitely underdressed, she concluded.

“10” lit up the LED display and the doors opened, and rather than being greeted by a carpeted beige hallway, the last man she’d locked lips with stood before her. With a massive grin on his face.

“So good to see you!” he smiled, pulling her in for a hug.

Phoebe blinked, regaining feeling in her arms and bringing them up to wrap around his firm torso. Before she could get much of a grip, Shawn was releasing her and walking down the long hallway.

“Thanks for agreeing to come over,” he spoke, looking over his shoulder, “I just figured,” he paused, looking forward again, “we probably shouldn’t be seen until,” another pause. Shawn cursed himself for talking too much, especially before whatever this was had been established.

“Don’t worry,” Phoebe interjected, slowing her short legs as Shawn twisted the doorknob, “I don’t want to be seen either.”

Shawn pushed the door open and motioned for Phoebe to go inside, where she stepped out of the way and waited for him to tell her what to do or where to go. Shawn took note of her manners.

Phoebe was hesitant to look around, feeling as if it wasn’t her space. Afraid to get too close but too curious to hold back, she obliged when Shawn poured her a glass of sauvignon blanc and began showing her around.

“I signed the lease when I was nineteen,” he spoke, pausing to sip his drink. She’d seen the kitchen, admiring the dark cabinets and chocolate marble countertops. It looked nothing like the late-80’s vibe her appliances radiated.

“And since then I’ve just kept renewing it,” he added, stopping where the tile transitioned to hardwood and the kitchen became the living room, “I always thought I’d buy it out, but, I don’t know,” he chewed his lip, twinkling the rightmost keys of the upright piano as he passed, “it’s just never been home. I’m twenty-three. Who knows where I’ll be in five years.”

“Surprised you’re still here at all,” Phoebe spoke, taken aback as Shawn looked down at her with a surprised expression.

“Are you crazy?” he giggled, “I love my job, but you wouldn’t catch me dead living in LA.”

Phoebe nodded. All signs were pointing her to the realization that Shawn didn’t want this either, and the whole thing was being orchestrated by the people managing him. He didn’t want to leave Toronto. Fuck, he hadn’t even looked like he wanted to be at the Grammys.

“And then through there’s just a spare bedroom—the other one’s back there,” he said, pointing back to the kitchen, “and then my room. Bathroom attached, just so you know.”

Phoebe nodded, swirling her wine around in its glass. Shawn had a beautiful home, but she was having a hard time understanding why she was in it. Her hair fell from behind her ear.

“I’m sorry, can we,” Shawn spoke nervously, almost in broken English. He was bouncing around on the balls of his feet, but not in an excited way, “Can we talk about this? Here,” he motioned back toward the living room, adjusting one of the cushions of his stark-white couch for Phoebe to have a seat.

“I know this must be so weird for you,” he started, finding her gaze. She took the opportunity to give him a one-over, too nervous to so obviously check him out before. He was in black jeans and a Henley. She once again felt underdressed. At least he’d forgotten socks.

“We’re already in this mess, though,” he continued, and her gaze fell to his lips, and then his chin, where she noticed that he had a bit of scruff that she’d never seen before, “it’s just, they’re really pushing me to do this,” he spoke lowly, as if he was worried someone would hear him. Phoebe half-expected him to look over his shoulder, “that was a really close call, at the Grammys, and if we just swept it under the rug, they feel like there would be a lot of loose ends.”

Phoebe nodded, still not having added to the conversation.

“Plus, you’ll get some time off work. This is probably good experience for your job. You might see the world or whatever. Who knows? It could be fun,” he grinned, and she smiled back. But it wasn’t convincing.

“Look,” Shawn spoke, voice low again, “my best friend got married last year. He’s got a kid on the way. I just feel like everyone’s, you know, living, and I’m at this standstill where I’m doing the same thing I was doing when I was seventeen,” Phoebe frowned. He avoided eye contact, “it would just be nice having someone around that’s,” he paused, “normal. Not so-LA-it-hurts.”

It broke her heart.

Phoebe sighed, and Shawn looked at her once again. His eyes looked sunken in. Dark circles accented the paleness of the rest of his face, “Okay, I’m in.”

Shawn’s lips parted as he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly, “You’re in?”

“For now, yes,” she nodded, stretching her legs out in front of her and wiggling her socked toes, “on the terms that the contract is nice to me.”

Shawn grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The tone was still heavy.

“Play me something,” Phoebe blurted, and Shawn’s eyes widened in response.

“What?”

“Come on, Rockstar,” she grinned, figuring the glass of wine was reaching her brain, “I’m supposed to be dating you, but I’ve never heard you play?”

Shawn grinned and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Phoebe relaxed her shoulders and leaned a couple inches in his direction, “Please?”

Shawn sighed, but it wasn’t a disappointed one, “Alright.”

He placed his glass on the coffee table and stood from the sofa, retrieving an acoustic guitar from its stand in the corner of the living room, “Do you,” he paused in disbelief that she was making him do this, “have a preference?”

“I was actually a big fan of yours back in second year.”

“Really?” Shawn laughed with his eyebrows raised and a sly grin gracing his lips.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “SM-three days.”

“What’s your favourite?” Shawn asked with the excitement of a puppy.

Phoebe took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe she was admitting this, “Mutual, but it’s kind of upbeat, you can play something els-“ she spoke, but Shawn was smiling and already plucking the strings, and she knew she didn’t need to keep going because of how quickly he interrupted.

“I can do Mutual.”

_________________________

The next morning, Phoebe danced in her kitchen to the sounds of sizzling bacon and “Mutual” by Shawn Mendes.

For the very first time, she was excited about this.

“So you’re really gonna do it?” asked Sophie on their morning commute, navigating through the herds of Toronto-banker-sheep. People moved even more frantically in the winter months.

“No,” Phoebe answered, “I’m going to LA to scope it out. Then,” she emphasized, looking up a few inches to meet Sophie’s denying gaze, “I’ll decide.”

“That you’re gonna do it,” Sophie concluded flatly, sticking her hand out and motioning to an Uber that was driving far too fast.

“If I’m gonna do it,” Phoebe corrected.

They began crossing the street, Phoebe struggling to keep up with the swift movements of Sophie’s long legs.

“You won’t have any issues convincing Margaret,” Sophie sighed as they made a right, forcing Phoebe behind her for a few strides.

Phoebe wondered if what she was sensing was jealousy. She figured she’d worry about that later.

“As much as I wish it were me,” Sophie spoke, and then stopped abruptly upon reaching their building, “I think you should do it.”

Sophie smiled as she swung the door open for Phoebe, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

_________________________

It was a small plane. Andrew had been nice and placed her in business class—probably some sort of a bribe, Phoebe figured—but she wasn’t complaining. There was plenty of room for her not-very-long legs, and the drinks were complementary.

She sat on the aisle, although it didn’t make much difference because there was only one aisle and two seats on each side. The spot beside her remained vacated, and she was hoping to sneakily scoot over once the seatbelt lights went out and the plane was in the air.

Ten minutes to takeoff. Phoebe put her tattered copy of American Gods in her fraying Longchamp and closed her eyes, pressing “play” on a podcast she was sure she wasn’t going to pay attention to.

David Dobrik’s laugh was loud in her headphones when she felt a tap on her shoulder, causing her to quickly tug her earbuds out and clutch her bag a little tighter.

Of course.

The tree of limbs that was Shawn Mendes was stowing his backpack--with his sweatpants-clad thighs in front of her face.

“Make some room,” he spoke with a smile as Phoebe tucked her legs in, allowing him to crawl across her. She hadn’t been expecting this.

Her cheeks were red hot as Shawn made the most noise possible getting settled in, stopping abruptly to ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “just didn’t know we were travelling together. I guess you’ve gotta get to LA too,” she gave a tired, tight-lipped smile.

Shawn looked a little discouraged.

“Sorry,” he paused, breathing in, “I guess I should’ve asked you if this was okay, I wasn’t think-“

“We could’ve carpooled,” Phoebe grinned, and Shawn looked as if she’d taken the weight of a train off his shoulders. Shawn smiled with a slight tilt of his head.

“So,” Phoebe spoke, “what are we watchin’?”

“What?”

“Five and a half hours, Mendes,” she replied, “that’s a whole lot of Pheebs.”

They both giggled and began looking for a movie, determined to press “play” at the same time.

_________________________

Phoebe looked around. The lights were out and they were halfway through some alien film that neither of them cared for but were both too polite to object. Her screen had been paused for a while, allowing her to observe the white interior of the aircraft as her mind ran wild.

Shawn’s movie was a few minutes ahead, but he seemed to have caught on because his headphones were out and his right cheek was pressed against the headrest.

“What’s up,” he spoke, and it wasn’t really a question. The awkwardness of not knowing each other unfortunately called on small talk to fill silences.

Phoebe tugged the plastic from her ears, though nothing had been playing. She released a little laugh and spoke, “What am I doing?”

Shawn sighed and straightened his back a little, but kept his head tilted in her direction as he responded, “I don’t want to say anything because I don’t want to push you.”

Phoebe shook her head, “I did it to myself when I kissed you.”

Shawn turned a darker shade of pink and hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“Phoebe,” Shawn spoke, and she woke up a little. That was the first time she’d heard her name escape his lips. She liked it. “Come on, let’s start small. Tell me about yourself.”

“You want the whole life story?”

“No, I want to discover that stuff on my own. How about,” he paused, searching her dark blue eyes, “what’s your biggest weakness?”

Phoebe squinted a bit in his direction as she wondered if he was taking note of her weak spots for future reference.

But his curious chocolate eyes and boyish grin suggested otherwise.

“I think my greatest weakness is myself,” Phoebe started, “I expect too much because I expect everyone to think like me. I go above and beyond and they don’t, and I wind up disappointed. Every time.

“But it always results in my being used because I’d rather be taken advantage of than abandoned, I guess,” she admitted, and it was merely a whisper.

It didn’t stay so grim for long, though, because Shawn said something and then Phoebe said something, and they were both laughing louder than intended.

It took the gentleman behind them popping his head up and asking, “Do you mind?” to shut them up.

They laughed.

_________________________

Shawn must have drifted off at some point, because Phoebe noticed he was lightly snoring with his head resting between the seat and the wall of the plane.

“Attention passengers,” the pilot came on the PA, “we will be landing in ten minutes. Thank you for flying with Air Canada.”

She smoothed her ponytail, sitting up with determination. Phoebe knew what she wanted. She just had to be stealth.

She leaned toward Shawn’s limp frame, right arm outstretched, trying her best not to disturb him but desperate to see LA illuminated in the pitch black.

Shawn snapped awake, catching Phoebe off guard.

She stumbled, redirecting her hand to his thigh to catch herself, landing with her face just inches from his own. Shawn gulped.

Her gaze fell to his lips.

“Hey there,” they spoke.

“Sorry,” she apologized, pushing off his leg to get herself back into her seat, “I just really wanted to see out the window.”

“Oh!” Shawn quietly exclaimed, seemingly putting the pieces together. Effortlessly, he reached over and slid up the window cover.

It was gorgeous. Clusters of lights winked hello to Phoebe Rose for as far as she could see. If she squinted hard enough, she could just make out where they ended and the Pacific began.

“Don’t fly often?” Shawn asked, eyes on her as she admired her view.

“Rarely,” Phoebe spoke, and Shawn leaned back so she could get a better look. She instinctively responded, leaning forward.

But Shawn could feel her breath on his neck and her hand on his knee and he wasn’t sure if all of this was a blessing or a curse.

He wanted to find out.

The seatbelt light came on. The wheels came out. The plane touched down.

Phoebe grabbed Shawn’s hand.

A few minutes later, Shawn crawled across their seats to retrieve his bag. Phoebe regretted bringing a luggage big enough to check because she didn’t want to be an inconvenience, but then she quickly remembered that without her, Shawn would likely be in deep shit right about now.

Coming back to reality, she watched as he reached above his head, causing his hoodie to ride up and bring his cotton t-shirt with it. He’d developed more fuzz below his belly button since she’d last seen him shirtless—in 2019, on a larger-than-life billboard in Yonge-Dundas Square.

She wanted to touch it.

Then, she wondered what was wrong with her.

And before she knew it, Shawn was pulling her out of her seat and off of the plane toward baggage claim.

“Flight AC753” flashed on the screen above the metal conveyor belt, and Phoebe switched out of Airplane Mode as bags began emerging.

She watched the cell phone provider texts roll in before switching off roaming, and Shawn had located her bag and pulled it from the contraption before she could even tell him which one it was.

The platform for car pickup services looked busy, but before they could fully round the corner, Shawn came to a halt.

“You might want these,” he spoke, retrieving his black Ray Bans from his carry-on. Phoebe looked at him, confused, but listened as he talked, “out the doors is our Uber. I think it’s just a black Malibu. Ask if it’s for “Shawn” and he’ll let you in. I’ll be there in ten.”

Phoebe mentally questioned his methods but did what he said, and once she saw the crowd of fifty-some teenage girls with their iPhones out, she understood.

She had no idea what she had gotten herself into.

______________________________

taglist: @enchantingbrowneyedgirl @its-the-unknownspidey @everytigerisakity @harold-hugs @ccidk @particularshawnn @ssweet-empowerment @tamegray @loveat2 @heyits-claire @martinimendes @shxwnmxndess@sunriseshawn @jollybonkpatroldonkey @jesuscheistkaren@casuallycoolcloud @sinplisticshawn@deafeningdeanhoagieturtle @rosieblondie @hannahlouiseee @change-perspective13 @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @calthesensation @livsalzy @illumelilac

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes smut #imagine shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes angst #shawn #mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fanfic #infiniteshawn #roommates #since were alone

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beautcous · 4 years

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Thread 01 (Halloween)

Halloween was a day Sydney absolutely enjoyed, not just because she had more clients demanding her services for their costumes but also because she loved the festivities that came with it. When she heard that this festival would be this year’s Stonehill celebration it was safe to say her excitement grew tenfold. She had just finished carving her pumpkin and was about to go search for her friends who were all scattered around the beach when she heard a group of girls let out such piercing screams which she was sure effectively shattered her ear drums. Sydney looked around to see what the commotion was all about but she didn’t see much only seeing a rather large crowd gather around a tall figure. A figure she was too far to recognize until she began walking closer in the direction of where the crowd was gathered.

By now she was about a few feet away when she realized the cause of the commotion, or rather who. Out of all the people she would have expected, she did not expect Ezra Meyer to make himself known at the event. The brunette could feel her heart rate pick up just a bit at the sight of him in the flesh, she’d only ever seen him on screens and magazines. She really wanted to go over to where he was and seeing him up close but the crowd surround him discouraged her. Any other time, she would have approached him but given what he had happened two weeks when her tweet going viral and then it being discovered and read aloud by the actor on television stopped her from going anywhere near him. Of course, there was chance he didn’t even remember it or her, after all the man probably got millions of thirst tweets from women all around. Or at least she had hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Before she could make up her mind, she felt a figure ram right into causing a gasp to leave her lips. It was when she looked up did she see a drunken male stumbling and Sydney caught him before he fell over her.

The man snapped out of his daze a moment later when his eyes landed on Sydney and a rather creepy smile appeared on his face. His eyes raking over her small frame in what best could be described as a leer. Sydney rolled her eyes, stepping back when the man finally stood up right and she was about to walk away when the man took a hold of her arm. “Where you going honey? Stay and keep me company, it’s not everyday I bump into a pretty face like yours.” Her brows rose but she shot the man a annoyed look as she attempted to free her arm. Did he honestly think that would work? “Not interested.” She told him flatly, who did not know how to take a hint. “Come on, don’t be like that. I can show you a good time.” The man then stepped closer, his hand around her tightening a bit that had her wince at the grip. “Didn’t you hear me, I’m no interested, let me go or you’ll have a pissed off boyfriend to deal with. Pointedly looking at her male friend who was not too far but had not seen her yet, but that did nothing to deter this asshole.

It was a rather normal activity for Ezra; signing autographs for his adoring fans. He didn’t see the point in whining about it, not when the fans was the reason why he had such a successful career. They made him rich, and he couldn’t be happier to be in this situation. One thing he wished he didn’t have to deal with was the screaming. He never understood why some people would get so excited over another human being. That had never been him. He liked the band Red Hot Chill Peppers, and yet, would anyone ever see him screaming for them like a deranged lunatic? Hell no. That was just lame and he had too much pride to do something so ridiculous. Did he think he was above others in this aspect, no. Only because he believed that people should be free to express themselves. He wasn’t going to be a part of the pack though. Then again, that might be why he was who he was.

Ezra didn’t just stumble into wealth and fame. He’d been doing this ever since he was an infant. He started with baby commercials. You know, like in Gerber. Except he did it for a very popular brand of Formula. Then, as he aged, he started in on acting. The parts kept rolling in, and for the longest time he was being casted as a teenager, staring and co-staring in a bunch of teen rom-coms. He could blame that on his baby face. It was both a blessing and a curse. Once he reached the age of twenty-eight however, he pressed his manager into giving him more adult roles. That was when he was given the staring role in a Sci-Fi Trilogy. After just one movie, his popularity soared. Not that he wasn’t known before, he just got way more popular now. He would admit that his popularity came with a lot of clauses however. For example; it seemed like he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized now. Everywhere he went, people knew him. It got so bad that he had to start wearing baseball caps and hoodies if he didn’t want the attention.

After what felt like hours of signing autographs and smiling while the fans took photos with him, he was finally done. His cheeks hurt–from all that smiling–and he was beyond exhausted. As he stepped down from the makeshift stage, intending to make his way back to his car with the two bodyguards that were in charge of his care; he heard a commotion, or rather a woman’s voice trying to ward someone away. Feeling the draw to see what was going on, he made his way over there–security pushing the throngs of adoring fans out of his way. What he saw, had him reacting before anyone could stop him. Grabbing the clearly drunken male by the collar, he moved him aside and said, “She said, she’s not interested, or are you hard of hearing?” His brows furrowed as he glared at the intoxicated man;–judging by the stench of alcohol permeating from his pore–after which the bodyguards took him away. Ezra then put his attention on the lithe brunette, who’s face seemed all too familiar. Where had he seen her before? He wondered, yet instead of dwelling on the matter, he chose to focus on whether or not she had been hurt. “Are you okay, Miss? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” He spoke to her gently, not wanting to scare her even further.

Sydney recalled the very first time she’d see him on television and she had no idea what it was but she could feel this pull towards him. Why such was the case, she had no clue. Since then on, the brunette had followed all of his work tuning in each time his show was on and then to the various other projects he had accomplished in his career. Perhaps her most favorite thing to watch was his on screen interviews, and she had to admit the man definitely had a good sense of humor. Sydney had no clue what it was about Ezra that was so riveting but she couldn’t deny her curiously or her intrigue towards the actor. Of course, there was also the fact that he was perhaps the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Unfortunately, any nerve she may have gathered to approach him now went right out the window thanks to the embarrassing tweet she had posted. There was absolutely no way she’d risk him knowing who she was, she supposed it didn’t matter since she had decided against meeting him anyway. Disappointment pooling in her stomach but she quickly squashed it as she began hunting down her friends.

She had only taken a few steps when a drunken idiot stopped her path and came onto her quite aggressively and for a moment a spike of fear washed through her. Normally, she knew how to handle men who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. This bastard was about twice her size and had her arm in an iron grip that each she attempted to tug it loose, his hand only tightened in response causing her to wince at the pressure. Her empty threat that her boyfriend was around had done nothing to deter the man who leered down at her. Sydney then attempted to shove him with her free arm but he barely budged and just as his arm was about to snake around her waist, she saw a hand grab the bastard off her and freeing her arm. She hoped she didn’t look as scared as she had felt in those brief moments but her racing heart didn’t slow because it was then she finally caught the face of her savior. Ezra Meyer. She had to fight to keep the shock off her features but she supposed her fear was doing an excellent job of masking her shock. It took her a few seconds to finally get her brain to work as she realized she was just staring at him while he inquired about her well-being.

Thanks to the incident moments before, it seemed to place her fear of being recognized behind her more so when he stared at her only with concern. Hearing the gentleness in his voice did ease her earlier fear a bit, and she nodded. “I’m fine. A little bruise but nothing that won’t heal.” She said her hand covering the red finger prints the man’s grip had left. Sydney then cleared her throat and gave the actor a small grateful smile, “I can’t thank you enough for showing up when you did. I owe you one, can I buy you a drink or something?” She paused then, realizing how that sounded, “I’m not hitting on you by the way..” Feeling need to add that bit in case he got the wrong idea.

Ezra had never done this; went out of his way to help someone in distress. Not that he was a selfish individual. It just never happened to him before. Now that he was standing before the lithe woman, who’s face still looked all too familiar, he couldn’t help but feel a draw to her. He couldn’t pinpoint where he’d met her before, yet he knew that he’d seen that beautiful face. Her features were distinctive; from those full ruby red lips, cute nose, eyelashes that went on forever, right down to her dark thick brows; he swore he’d seen all of that before. She couldn’t be someone who was loose of morals, the types who would sleep with celebrities, could she? Again, not that he did that often, though he did have his weak moments. What man in their right mind could resist a beautiful woman anyway? No one. Unless they were not into women, which he totally was. He plundered into the recesses of his mind, trying his best to find out if he could remember her face, but it was no use. He had nothing. Just as well. He obviously didn’t need the answer that badly. Otherwise he would have recognized her by now.

He’d just about to forget about it when she spoke. She was saying that she was fine, but judging by how fast she made the remark, he doubted that she truly was. “You sure?” He asked, needing for some reason that was unknown to him to make sure that she was indeed truly alright. “No need to thank me,” he shook his head, a friendly smile appearing on his features for her, “I would’ve done this for anyone.” Really? Nah, he didn’t think so. She just so happened to be lucky that he was around–with a security team. He didn’t regret it however. There was also the added bonus that she was beautiful. Okay, when he initially helped her, he wasn’t checking her out. He was doing what he should be doing, which was be a good Samaritan. Her beauty was simply an added bonus. “You don’t have to buy me a drink.” He added. It was her next statement that made him realize who he was talking to. “You’re her! That girl on twitter…” The words trailed off as he thought about the tweet of him that had gone viral. He didn’t remember what she said word for word, but it definitely had a lot to do with her undying love for him. “–So you have a crush on me, huh?” He queried, his hues dancing with mirth. “I don’t blame you. I’d have a crush on me too, if I were you…” And just because he was feeling playful, he shot the brunette a wink.

Out of all the people she could have imagined coming to her rescue, never did she think it would be Ezra. But then again she supposed she never imagined she’d even run into actor so maybe today was just a strange a day. If Sydney thought Ezra was beautiful on the screen then he was even more breathtaking in real life. As she stood watching him get rid of the creep who had grabbed her, her green hues studied his sharp features, her heart pounding from her incident withe the drunk man and now because she stood just about a feet or so away from the man she admired so much. Perhaps that was putting it too lightly, no, she was a devoted follower of the actor because it was not a big leap to assume that Sydney was absolutely bewitched by him. She realized just how pathetic her thoughts were regarding this man considering she barely knew him, but it still didn’t stop the thoughts that formed in her mind towards Ezra. There was something so compelling about the man that did nothing to ease her affection for the man.

So, despite her reassurance she still heard him confirm if indeed she was fine, Sydney dropped her hand and nodded. “Yes, really, thanks to you.” She told him sincerely just as she heard his next remark which had a smile curve her ruby red lips, her eyes alight and she didn’t know why but that comment pleased her quite a lot. “My hero.” She remarked jokingly, of course, hoping she wouldn’t say something so stupid in her nervousness. The make-up artist was really good with poker face which is why she hoped her nervousness at his mere presence wasn’t so evident on her features. Her relief of him not knowing was short-lived. It was his next words that shocked her a bit, green eyes widening slightly when Ezra had indeed recognized her from her tweet. It was perhaps that moment that Sydney wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. Or a massive wave would come over to the shore and take her with it, anything was better than standing here with a shocked look on her face as Ezra called her out on her embarrassing tweet she’d done on impulse. Her lips parted but no words came out as she tried to compose her features which she did a minute or so later, but she found herself looking away not quite finding the nerve to answer him. Sydney wasn’t sure how this would go because she never expected to him to find her tweet let alone run into him. However, what she hadn’t been expecting was the remark that followed after, the cocky tone in which he had delivered them and she wondered if he was mocking her until she met his gaze and saw the mirth gleaming in his eyes and then the wink. The brunette didn’t know what it was but that cocky remark irked her a bit, dare she say also disappointed her. Brow raised at him she spoke, “I’m still in shock that you read it and remembered exactly who tweeted it. And I wouldn’t say a crush, it was just a silly little thing..” Sydney told him neutrally, “Cocky aren’t you though?” She supposed it’s not so surprising, he was an celebrity after all. “And here I thought you were a bit more humble than that.” Her words a bit blunt, “I’m sure you get millions of tweets like those everyday.”

Perhaps teasing the brunette about her tweet wasn’t the classiest thing Ezra could’ve done. He should’ve been more of a gentleman, and yet, he was still human and things like subtly and being decent sometimes just slip past him. It wasn’t his intention to hurt her or be an ass, it was more of his way to lighten the mood a little. It might’ve rubbed her the wrong way though. Not that he could blame her for her reaction. He was being a total dick. He deserved nothing less. Her response had a smile stretching upon his features. Lithe in frame she might be, but there was something else that made her stand out; the woman had gumption. He actually admired that in her. Her question had him smirking, the memory of the very unfortunate tweet coming to the forefront of his mind. He could still remember it clearly, not word for word, but the icon of the person who’d made the tweet. Ezra remembered being mesmerized for a moment, feeling that it was too good to be true. Someone as beautiful as she was couldn’t possibly have a crush on him. He should be the one who should be holding those feelings, and not her.

One thing he would admit as he stood here, gazing down on her mesmerizing hazel hues, she looked even more beautiful in person than she did on that photo. Especially with ire burning within her irises, he swore he could stand here and just stare at her. Her remark had him blinking his eyes and focusing on her words instead of her pretty face. “I didn’t remember,” he admitted, his head shaking, the cocky smirk still holding its place, “what I do remember is your face. Those eyebrows of yours. How could anyone miss it?” Did that sound like a compliment or an insult? He meant well by it, yet he did have the tendency to stick his foot in his mouth, especially when it came to being around someone he might like. Not that he liked her or anything. Of course not… That would be ridiculous. “Cocky? I wouldn’t say that I was. I’d call it excessive confidence.” He stated this while shooting her a wink. Okay, this was getting weird. Why was he acting like this? “Hey, if I wasn’t humble, I wouldn’t have rescued you just now.” The words sprang forward rather quickly much to his surprise. And technically, he didn’t do much, he simply grabbed the guy by his collar and pulled him away. The rest was done by his security team. He didn’t miss the sharpness of her tongue. Clearly, she wasn’t amused by his behavior, and to be honest, neither was he. He didn’t even understand why he felt the need to act this way. This wasn’t like him at all. “Not from someone as beautiful as you.” He told her, this time he was being earnest. Never had he seen anyone so breathtaking, and he was in the entertainment industry…

It wasn’t that his approach had been horrible but a part of her surprise came from the fact that she hadn’t expected the man to make such an arrogant remark. Nor had she expected him to hit on her right after rescuing her, she just wasn’t used to such attention from a man of his stature. Men like him didn’t hit on women like her which is not to say that Sydney believed herself to be unattractive, she was aware of how attractive she was and was told so by both genders. It was just that she didn’t deem herself to be someone that would be hit on by a man who had no doubt been with stunning models and actresses in the entertainment industry. However, she wasn’t a complete twat to deny that she was flattered that Ezra seemed to notice her, whether he was sincere or not, that remained to be seen. Perhaps the silver lining in this was that Ezra while incredibly cocky, didn’t seem like the rude and snobby types that she had dealt with on set who looked down upon others that weren’t to their social standing. Her initial hesitance to approach him just minutes before he rescued her was because she was a bit afraid that he’d be exactly the rude type.

Ezra’s constant stare did unnerve her mostly because her body reacted very strongly to his piercing gaze. She almost guilty for the way she responding to his gaze because she was dating Lucia, a woman whom Sydney was incredibly attracted to and genuinely liked that she felt as she was doing something wrong by being attracted to this man. Well, it didn’t matter because as much as she admired him she had no intentions of dating him or anything. She’d met Ezra by chance and perhaps this would be the last time she’d ever see him and that might explain her body’s reaction. She simply was not used to being in the presence of an attractive man let alone being hit on by one. “Oh god, not you too..” She muttered under her breath, but of course he’d notice her eyebrows the one thing she despised about herself as a young girl because of the attention it drew, attention she also did not care for. “See, I can’t tell if your insulting me or complimenting.” She remarked pulling his leg for embarrassing her for a moment. However, that didn’t stop the brief amusement that flickered across her hazel hues nor did it stop the reluctant soft laughter that bubbled from within. She was amused by the words but she still wasn’t impressed, but then again Sydney wasn’t easily impressed by a pretty face and a few charming words. “You have a slick answer for everything don’t you?” Before shaking her head softly, and meeting his gaze, “Well, I would say rescuing me would make you a good Samaritan but I’m grateful nonetheless also thank your bodyguards for me.” His latter words however had her freeze for a moment, her gaze snapping over to him and dare she say he looked a bit nervous? Much to her dismay, butterflies swan at the pit of her stomach but she shook of the feeling of flattery and something else that rushed through her briefly. “Well….thank you.” Sydney then cleared her throat, tearing her gaze away to look over his shoulder, “Though I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true. I’ll be honest I’m not sure what you’re trying to gain by all the compliments. I do feel like I should clear up something, I don’t have a crush on you. That tweet was just a mindless thought, with that said, I do however think you’re extremely talented in your work.” Now that bit was the truth, she enjoyed watching Ezra on screen no one could deny that.

Ezra would never dare insult a woman, especially not one that was as bewitching as she was. It wasn’t just her beauty either, it was everything about her. From the bold tweet that he read right down to the way she wasn’t afraid to talk back to him. Most ordinary people, women especially, would gawk at him, and react as though he walked on water. Not this one. She knew exactly how to put him in his place, and maybe it sounded weird to others, but he admired that about her. The urge to get to know the spunky beauty was almost overwhelming, and normally he would be a little smoother in his delivery, yet with her, everything that came out sounded wrong, as though he was trying too hard, or worse yet, as if he’d never been around a beautiful woman before. He had. Of course, he did. However, none of them made him feel this need; the pull to want a little more, to get to know how her mind ticked. He’d been drawn to her even before he ever laid eyes on her personally–thanks to her mishap on Twitter. Now that she was here, there was no way he was going to allow her to slip through his grasp. One way or another, he would see her again; preferably on a date setting. For some, he might be too sure of himself, or even cocky, but that was just how Ezra’s mind worked. He didn’t give up, especially when he wanted something. He would chase after it until what he sought after was finally his.

A sheepish smile formed across his features, and he let out a chuckle at her remark. Despite knowing that he shouldn’t have noticed, he did. Perhaps she was a little self conscious about her eyebrows, which she honestly shouldn’t. They were beautiful, just like the owner. Her eyes were what drew him in to begin with. He almost felt as though her irises were trying to tell him something. What. He didn’t know, but he knew that he wasn’t going to stop until he unearth the reason behind the draw he felt for the woman. “Yes, me too.” He told her, the gentle smile still displayed for her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it as an insult. You have very beautiful brows, and eyes.” He finally explained, not wanting her to think that he was teasing her, because he truly meant to compliment her. Though he felt like an idiot for his faux pas earlier, at least he’d tried to make amends, therefore, he wasn’t that big of a tool. Well, at least he didn’t think so. When she called him slick, he had to laugh it off–nervously. God, what was this woman doing to him? He was Ezra Meyer, he didn’t get nervous… “I don’t have a slick answer. Sometimes, my tongue gets away with itself.” He tried to reason, though he didn’t know why he even felt the need to do so, he simply felt that he had to. Odd. “No, I was here so I helped. I’ll let my guys know that you’re grateful for their help.” He smiled at her as he spoke those words, his head tilting a little as he saw her reaction changing. Ezra might not have been an expert, but he could’ve sworn he saw her blush. She looked radiant like that, and he wanted to see a little more of that blush. “Really? So are you telling me that you do this to other actors as well, tweet that you have a crush on them even though you don’t?” He clicked his tongue afterwards, and then continued, “It doesn’t sound that you’re telling me the truth here, but thank you for the compliment. I’m proud of my work, and it’s good to know that others enjoy my acting as well.” He was mostly joking around, trying to make fun of the situation, and he hoped that she caught that by the way he was smiling down at her.

This entire exchange she was having with Ezra seemed so surreal because celebrities weren’t supposed to be like this. Especially not handsome men like Ezra, they were not supposed to stand around and give this much attention to a normal person they just happen to run into by accident. This was perhaps what threw her off for a bit, more so when he outright complimented her and then point the one thing he liked but she was very self-conscious of. Perhaps what puzzled her more was the way he kept gazing at her, as if he were waiting for something but what she didn’t know. She would never vocalize her attraction to him but she wouldn’t so dense as to deny it to herself. Then a smile curved his lips and Sydney found herself watching the brief action with utter fascination before she realized what she was doing and snapped out of it. Her heart still running ahead of her as she tried to calm it, keeping her features composed she spoke, but she was sure her cheeks definitely gave her blush. “Thank you, but why I do have a feeling you say this to a lot of girls?” Referring to eyes compliment he bestowed upon her. “If you are tying to hit on me, I can tell you right now I’m not interested.” Her words weren’t harsh, rather they were a matter-of-factly. An amused smile curved her own lips when he admitted to letting his mouth get the best of him, the sheepish look on his features made him look…normal. “Hmm, you could have fooled me. Especially with the crush comment you delivered oh so cockily a few moments go. But I suppose with a face like yours, you’re used to a different response from women.”

Ezra had caught her there, and she wished the group would open and swallow her whole once more because the man made an excellent point. Sydney didn’t go around sending tweets to other male celebrities she admired, at least two the kind she had sent to this actor. The brunette could feel her face heat up once more and she cursed at herself for being so affected by this man whom she barely knew and had no interest in pursuing. But as she stood and continued to indulge him, Sydney felt that familiar pull towards him as she did every time she saw him on screen. “I guess you’ll never know, won’t you?” She paused giving him an easy shrug, “Maybe I do, would you be offended?” She asked madly curious and raising a brow at him but of course she didn’t except an answer more than she was trying to take the spotlight off her. “Even if i’m not being truthful, it doesn’t matter, now does it?” She didn’t give him time to reflect on that before giving him a small smile, “You should be proud, I think I speak for a lot of people when I say we enjoying watching you.” She could see the humor in his eyes as she stared back at him, “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you by here among us?” Gesturing towards the festivals.

It was rather astonishing to hear her conclusion of him. Of course Ezra wasn’t at all surprised that she would think of him as nothing but a player; he did came onto to her strongly. He wasn’t at all however. Although, he was friendly, he mostly liked keeping his personal life private; and it wasn’t because he had a hoard of women waiting in the wings to date him either. He just liked to keep certain things private. Hence the reason why there had been no sightings of him out on dates. He preferred it that way. Plus, if he was being honest, he never did understand why people would believe that he had a reputation of being a player; that was far from the truth. In the past year, he’d only been on one date and even then, it was more of a friendly get together. He didn’t see the point in dating anyone when he should be waiting to meet his soulmate. Besides, work kept him busy enough, he didn’t need to be in a relationship to fill a void that he never felt. Although now that he was standing before this beauty, he wondered that maybe she could be his other half. It might be possible seeing as he was so drawn to her. “I don’t say it to all the girls. Only you.” Which wasn’t a lie. He didn’t make a habit of hitting on women, he was just drawn to her. Seeing her sweetly smiling at him, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to get to know her even more. The need was intense; the pull too strong for him to deny. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to sound cocky. If I may be so bold…” He paused then, stepping an inch closer, eyes locking with hers. “–I find you refreshing.”

There was a change to her demeanor, and he could’ve sworn that she’d blushed. A part of him felt bad for possibly embarrassing her, but a bigger part of him was rather glad to see that he could silence her. It was only an added bonus to be able to gaze upon her while she thought of her next retort. His brows rose then, a half a smile forming on his lips for her sassy response. “I could investigate, you know. It’s not that hard.” He returned, though he kept his tone light to make sure she knew that he was joking. “It matters to me. I like feeling special.” There was no way she couldn’t tell that he was freely flirting with her now, even someone who was daft could tell by how he was smiling at her. If that wasn’t enough, he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her either. His gaze was stuck on her beautiful face the whole time; mesmerized that someone so gorgeous was in his presence, bantering back and forth with him. “Thanks. That’s why I do what I do.” This part made him feel a little awkward, though he loved his job, he didn’t do it for the fans, he did it for himself, because he enjoyed it. It boggles his mind still that people actually enjoyed his craft. “I was signing autographs. It makes it easier to do it in Stonehill seeing as I live here.” He answered her question without hesitation. “What about you? Are you here for the festivities or did you come to see me?” The last question made him chuckle, it also spoke of his intent; that he was simply joking around with her.

Sydney knew she making far too many assumptions considering she barely ever spotted Ezra with many women. If he was with them, he was one the few who was skilled at keeping his life private in that sense. Sydney almost hated how curious she was to know what sort of history he had with women but she also quickly chided herself because she had no business or the right to even wonder such a thing. Yes, she had a bit of a ridiculous crush on him but that hardly translated into feelings for interest not when she was dating a lovely woman herself. So when she had somewhat accused him of saying the same words to other women, her green hues had no missed his slight look of surprise. Still, despite her best efforts that compliment coming from Ezra who’d seen his fair share of gorgers women made her smile nonetheless. “You don’t, hmm, is that right?” She asked quirking a brow as her eyes gleamed and why she was standing around and flirting? with him, the brunette had no idea. Her eyes were still trained on him, mostly in a curious manner as if he were a puzzle she was trying to piece together. It was then noticed him taking a step closer whilst he spoke, and she felt her breath catch when their eyes locked. She was stunned to see that intense look in his piercing eyes that almost left her breathless. Partly hating herself for reacting the way she was just because he happened to flirt with her a bit. But his words had sent her heart into yet another frenzy that she couldn’t think of one witty remark to make that was her usual response to this sort of thing when she was flustered. “You’ve been bold since the moment you approached me.” She managed to slip out, her lips twitching a bit, “And you don’t strike me as the type to be…uncertain.” His voice softer than he had been just minutes ago.

Sydney could stand there and continue to deny it to herself but whether she liked it or not, she felt completely drawn to him. She only wished she knew why she was, she’d met dozens of celebrities she was fond of but none of them had her reacting this way as she was towards Ezra. However, for once she was stunned into silence by his words and a part of her wondered if this was all a figment of her imagination. But the way her body was responding and her heart was pounding, she knew this was very much real, that Ezra was in fact hitting on her. Worse of it, Sydney was liking it much to her dismay. If she had any doubts of his intention, well, they were all clear now as she felt the weight of his gaze on her and he refused to look away with let her more flustered. Her lips curved into an amused smile at his quick response, “You could but that would be very ungentlemanly of you, unless you aren’t a gentlemen?” She trailed off forgetting for a moment she wasn’t supposed to be flirting back with him. She knew he was jesting from his tone, before she laughed at his next words. “Ezra, you’re a hot shot actor with billions of fan. How much more special could you want to feel? I’m just one fan among throngs of them and one you barely know and came across by accident.” She explained with a slight shrug, “I’m sure your fans make you feel special every day. Ignoring how conceited you sound right there.”She let him see her amused smile so he’d see she was also pulling his leg in return. She nodded, “I’m sure thats not the only reason why you do it. You love it, don’t you? Acting, stepping into different roles that challenge you. You look like sometimes you forget there are cameras surrounding you.” She murmured mostly to herself that she wasn’t sure if he’d heard that. “That it does, you sure seemed to make the kids happy.” Gesturing to the several kids that walked by and stared at Ezra which had Sydney smiling before she heard his latter words and shook her head. Her nose pinching up a bit, “As I thought, you are far too arrogant for your own good. I should tell you, I didn’t know you’d be here so you can imagine my surprise and then my embarrassment when you recognized me.” But Sydney laughed along with him. “It’s been….interesting chatting with you….”

Ezra had never allowed himself to let go like this. Although he’d dated in the past, his affections were not freely given. It was as though there was something pulling him back and telling him that the women in his past were nothing but people he could have fun with. There was no bigger plans written in the horizon for them. Sydney was different however. The draw he felt for her was so strong, he was nearly rendered speechless by it. It made him wonder then, if maybe she was his destiny; his other half. He wasn’t a cynic, and believed in soulmates; even if he wasn’t actively searching for his, he knew that he would someday cross paths with the person who was born to complete him. He simply had faith that it would happen. “No, I don’t. You’re just special.” He reiterated, his hues still lingering with hers, hoping that she could sense his sincerity. Perhaps the bold way he came on to her was a tell. It might be his own subconscious telling him that he might’ve found his match, because he honestly had never been this way with anyone. “I know I have been, and I should apologize, but at the same time, I don’t think I should be.” He returned, his voice clear and concise, not allowing room for Sydney to mistake his intention. His body language, the way he spoke, everything screamed that he liked her. “A human being is allowed to be unsure of things. On the other hand, I’m very sure of how I feel.” Feeling bold for some odd reason, he reached out and tucked back the hair that was flowing in the wind.

Ezra’s fingers lightly grazed Sydney’s skin as he pulled his hand back, and even with such a slight action, he could feel her softness marking him, daring him to touch her once more. It was as if she was a Siren, leading him to his doom, even though he didn’t feel the least bit worried that she would be his downfall. If anything, she could probably make him shine even brighter. “Lucky for you, I am a gentleman, otherwise I might just snoop around to find out more about you.” He could still do that, hire a private investigator to unearth the mysteries about her life that he wanted answers to. But he wasn’t going to go down that route. If he was going to find out about her, he would have to do it the old fashioned way, by asking her. “Do I actually have billions of fans? I don’t think so. I guess I must be greedy when it comes to you.–Just so you know, I don’t believe in accidents. Destiny, now that I believe in. Perhaps this is just Destiny’s way to tell me something…us something.” He tilted his head down a little, allowing his face to inch even closer to the beauty. God, he was definitely smitten by her. If only he could convince her to go out with him, that would make him even happier. “I don’t pay attention to them all that much. You however, I could pay attention to for a long time.” He returned with a shrug, now biting on his bottom lip a little as he continued to gaze upon her beautiful features. “I do what I can. Signing autographs is part of the job, right? Without them,” he nodded at the hoards of children and people in general, “I wouldn’t have a job.”He wasn’t delusional enough to believe that he could do this without help, and made sure to always show his appreciation in any way he could. “I do love it. I wouldn’t be doing it for so long if I didn’t love acting. It’s like you said, I get to act out different characters. It’s really interesting.” He agreed with her assessment wholeheartedly. Acting might be mere entertainment for some, but for him, it was art, a way to express his creativity, and he was glad that Sydney understood that. “What? Me arrogant?” He gasped, feigning surprise, “I could never behave that way. I always want to be charming with you.–It’s been interesting to meet me? Is that your way of saying that you want me to get out of your face?” The thought of having to leave her so soon left a hole in his heart. He didn’t want to have to do that, but if he must, he might as well ask the question that has been itching to come out. “Would it be bold of me to ask for your phone number?” He sounded unsure as he posed the question, afraid that she might tell him no.

It had been such a long time since someone had complimented her so well, whether Ezra was serious or not was another thing it didn’t change the fact that she liked what she heard from him. Which made her feel a bit naive because his attentions were fleeting right now she might have caught his eye but she was nothing more than a passing fancy. Maybe he was curious but how long would she be able to hold his interest? Not for very long, not when there was a sea of fascinating people right in the entertainment industry. It was what made it easy for her to humor him while he flirted, sure she flirted back but not to the extent that he seemed to be. So, then why in the world was her heart racing? She chalked it up to being star-struck but this man certainly had an uncanny ability to make a woman feel so special. She tried not to focus on the way his eyes lingered on her, oh, he was really good at this. “No, I don’t think you’d be sorry neither should you be. Nothing wrong with being bold.” She told him sincerely, there was no rule against it. It was his next words that caused her to move her gaze to him, silently watching as he stepped closer and brushed her hair back. “How you feel. How do you feel anything? You just met me.” She countered, wanting to move back from his rather intriguing touch but somehow her body would not move.

His touch had been light but god she had felt the sparks of it across her entire cheek, causing it to tingle. God, she had to resist the urge to shut her eyes and lean into his touch but her embarrassment stopped her from doing anything. Sydney cleared her throat but still her feet would not move to step away from him and she felt the heat of his body slowly transfer over to her. Tucking her own hair back she met his gaze once more, ensuring her features remained neutral lest he see her flurry of emotions. Her eyes widened slightly at his confession, lips parting once more but no sound came. It took her a split second to realize he was jesting but her heart hammered once more against her chest. “Lucky for me indeed.” she murmured not quite sure what to say to that before she heard him continue and remained silent because for once her witty remarks were failing her. She’d never been in situation like this nor was she used so such attentions from anyone, let alone Ezra. “I didn’t know you believed in all of that. Its charming though, and it a bit strange hearing it from you just as strange hearing you say you want my attention.” She would be lying if she said she did, because when it came down she believed in no such thing. She believed their encounter to be nothing more than a coincidence. She wasn’t a cynic per say but she was not a romantic either but somehow she sensed Ezra was which made her admire him even more for some inexplicable reason. Why that little appealed to her, she did not know. “I don’t know what its trying to tell us, other than coincidences happen on occasion. As for paying attention to me, I really wish you don’t.” She told matter of factly, meeting her gaze to show him just how serious she was of her words. She felt like a bitch for sure, but Sydney wanted no such attention for this man mostly because she hated how she was responding to it. How drawn she was to him and it scared her beyond belief. It scared her because if he wanted to, he could easily make her do as he asked. She could not allow that.

Sydney nodded when he began speaking about how much he loved his work, she could see that passion in his eyes for what he did and it make her like him even more. Whereas people went into the business for fame, Ezra didn’t and she had so much respect for people like him. She respected people who respected that art of acting that it was so much more than looking pretty on a camera and the fame that came with it. it was why it was such a pleasure watching on screen, because Ezra put his soul into his characters. “Your cocky but your also very humble, I guess I was a bit wrong about you.” She admitted, “It really is, and I can tell how you love it. I wish other actors had the same sort of passion as you do for your work.” She blurted out without really thinking it threw, “I mean, if only people looked at acting the way you did.” She quickly amended. A laugh left her lips at his innocent look and she gave him a amused look in return, “Arrogant but yes your charming, Ezra. I bet you make ladies fall in love with you left and right.” She teased before a chuckle left her yet again. She smiled at him secretly, not giving anything away, “Interesting, amongst other things.” Letting him make of that what he would. “I don’t mean to be rude but my friends will be looking for me” She then showed him her phone that was blown with text messages form said friends. “I can’t keep them waiting.” Then he asked her for her number and Sydney stared at him a bit confused, but this man was determined if not anything. “Yes, it would be but you don’t shy away from bold. I’m not sure thats a good idea, you seem to want something from me. I don’t know what exactly but I’m sure I can’t give it to you regardless….”

When Ezra woke up this morning, he didn’t know what the day was going to be like. He went about his daily routine; working out at his home gym, having breakfast, going about the day as if it was any other Halloween. His life consisted of work and more work. He hadn’t had a day off since forever, and he was fine with it; happy even. What he didn’t expect was for all of this to happen. Everyday, he would think about some crazy occurrence that had come to pass and today of all days, he remembered the tweet that Sydney had made; the one that made him take notice of her. He could still feel the regret bearing down on him for not having contact her back then. He had wanted to, but didn’t dare go against the advice of his manager. After all, he had an image to protect; at least that was the argument his manager made. He’d decided then that he needed to put the incident in the past and not think about the brunette with the striking eyes. That’s what he remembered calling her when he gazed upon her profile photo. Little did he know that their destinies was about to intertwine. Some call it coincidence, but Ezra knew better. Their meeting was Faith’s way of saying that she was supposed to be in his life; though he didn’t know in what capacity… Still, the idea of her being his other half lingered within the depths of his conscience. He couldn’t be sure of it until he kissed her–and he would kiss her someday, he was sure of it. His gaze drifted down to her full lips, his desire to kiss her was so strong, it took his breath away. Before he could allow himself to foolishly pull her in for a kiss, her forced himself to focus on the conversation or at least try to.

“I didn’t think so either. I think you might like me better because I’m bold.” Ezra responded, a cheeky grin feature upon his face. Her question didn’t even phase him, he’d never been so sure of anything in his life. There was just something about being around Sydney that felt right. “Sometimes, when you know, you just know…” He remarked rather cryptically; he didn’t have to know her to feel the way he felt. His feelings were just there. Could this be love at first sight? He wasn’t so sure if he believed that notion. Lust at first sight, sure… Everyone has experienced that, but this wasn’t like that. He didn’t want her physically, or at least not just her body–he wasn’t a eunuch, he had sexual needs too. This went beyond anything physical. He needed to know her, every fiber of his being was yelling at him not to let her go. His hues took her in once again, taking in her lithe figure and the way she’d cleared her throat. Could it be that he wasn’t the only one feeling this pull? Did she feel the sizzle of the slight touch he’d accidentally bestowed upon her? He wasn’t bold enough to believe in such a thing, and yet, once again, his mind wondered if maybe he’d been right all along, that she truly was his intended other half. “Come on, you can’t really call this a coincidence. What is the likelihood of you getting saved by the actor you so publicly say you have a crush on?” A brow arched as the question left him, though he really didn’t need the answer. “As for paying attention to you… I can’t help myself. It’s only fair after you’ve declared your undying love for me.” God, he sounded like such a jackass here, he knew that, but instead of apologizing, he shot her a wink and smiled. She’d already thought he was cocky, so why not just continue with the role, right?

Ezra’s grin turned into a full on genuine smile when he heard her complimenting him. It felt right to hear those words coming from her, as if her appreciation meant the world to him. And the funny part about all this was, he never needed anyone’s approval before this. He’d gone into acting because he simply love it, not because he needed people to love him. That wasn’t important, and yet, hearing Sydney’s compliment sounded like the sweetest of symphonies. It was an odd feeling, one he wanted to feel over and over if given the chance. “Thanks. I like to surprise people every once in a while. I suppose it’s not always bad to be cocky as long as there’s a humble side to a person.” He added on to her remark, still smiling brightly for her. “Some people get into acting for the wrong reasons. Those are the ones that get into trouble.” It was true, the ones that only wanted fame tended to get into drugs or whatever shit that would bring them to a downward spiral. It was rather sad really. “I don’t know about women falling in love with me. Most of them just care about me because I’m an actor or because they think I’m hot or whatever.” He waved a hand around to dismiss the topic; he didn’t want women to lust after him or fall for him for the wrong reasons, he would rather not have the attention. Again, he felt discomfort creeping into his heart when she made an excuse to leave, he wanted her to give him her phone number, but Sydney was resisting his request. He knew then not to push it, even if it pained him to walk away from her not knowing if he would ever see her again. “I’m not going to push for it. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He was more than certain of that, he didn’t want to sound cocky, but there was no way they would’ve met like this if he wasn’t fated to be in her life in some way. “You should go meet up your friends before they really blow up your phone with their text messages.” He encouraged, smiling down at the lithe framed woman.When one of his bodyguards gestured that it was time for him to leave, he let out a sigh and addressed Sydney once more. “That’s my queue to leave. You take care of yourself, Sydney. I’ll see you again soon.” Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he took her hand and pressed a kiss on the back of it. “Till next time.” He hummed, gently released said hand and backed away from her. With a smile on his face, he headed back to his car with security surrounding him, already looking forward to his next meeting with the brunette with the striking eyes.

#sezra01 #ezra x sydney

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bluewatsons · 4 years

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Laura Miller, Sleazy, bloody and surprisingly smart: In defense of true crime, Salon (May 30, 2014)

This stigmatized genre has much to teach us about the way crime and justice really work

Give me a book that begins with a time and a date and a boring address, something along the lines of "At 9:36 on March 24, 1982, Dep. Frank McGruff of the Huntington County Sheriff's Department was dispatched to 234 Maple Street in Pleasantville, North Carolina, a quiet, suburb 10 miles west of Raleigh, to follow up on reports of gunshots and screams."

There is nothing more generic than this sort of sentence -- which is why I was easily able to make one up on the fly -- and yet there's nothing more seductive, either. In it is promised: the regular-guy lawman (who always seems to have a new baby at home), the horrific crime scene (there is always more blood than anyone expects), the enigmatic object found lying in the foyer (marked with an X in the helpfully provided floor plan), the minute-by-minute timeline of that fatal half-hour, the witness reports that don't add up, the fractal-like multiplication of scenarios and theories and complications.

I've always felt somewhat sheepish about my appetite for true crime narratives, associated as they are with fat, flimsy paperbacks scavenged from the 25-cent box at garage sales, their battered covers branded with screaming two-word titles stamped in silver foil, blood dripping luridly from the last letter. The most famous practitioners of this louche genre -- Joe McGinniss, Ann Rule, Vincent Bugliosi -- come coated with a thin, greasy film of dubious repute and poor taste. (Can there ever be a valid reason to title a book "A Rose for Her Grave"?) True crime is also the mother's milk of risible tabloid journalism, of endless trashy news cycles in which the same photo of a wide-eyed innocent bride (where is she?); a gap-toothed kindergarten student (who killed him?); a bleary-eyed, stubbled suspect (why did he do it?) appear over and over and over again.

Occasionally, true crime is where literary writers go to slum and, not coincidentally, make some real money: Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood," Norman Mailer's "The Executioner's Song." It's not the Great American Novel, yet somehow such books have a tendency to end up the most admired works of a celebrated author's career. Is it because better writers tease something out of the genre that pulp peddlers can't, or is it just that their blue-chip names give readers a free pass to indulge a guilty pleasure?

By contrast, crime fiction has a better rep. It is the most respectable form of genre fiction, the one that even the snootiest literary critics will admit to enjoying now and then. They justly praise the innovative prose styles of Raymond Chandler or Elmore Leonard as vehicles for a distinctively American voice. And crime -- transgression of the social and moral order -- is one of literature's central themes, after all. Isn't one of the greatest novels of all time called "Crime and Punishment"? Plus, from Cormac McCarthy's "No Country for Old Men" to Toni Morrison's "Beloved," many novels by literary titans are crime fiction by another name.

True crime, however, labors always under the stigma of voyeurism, or worse. It's not just unseemly to linger over the bloodied bodies of the dead and the hideous sufferings inflicted upon them in their final hours, it's also kind of sick. Gillian Flynn's second novel, "Dark Places," describes the wincing interactions between its narrator -- survivor of a notorious multiple murder like the Clutter killings of "In Cold Blood" -- and a creepy subculture of murder "fans" and collectors; when she's hard up for cash, she's forced to auction off family memorabilia at their conventions. Yuck.

The very thing that makes true crime compelling -- this really happened -- also makes it distasteful: the use of human agony for the purposes of entertainment. Of course, what is the novel if not a voyeuristic enterprise, an attempt to glimpse inside the minds and hearts of other people? But with fiction, no actual people are exploited in the making.

I love crime fiction, too, but lately I've come to appreciate true crime more, specifically for its lack of certain features that crime fiction nearly always supplies: solutions, explanations, answers. Even if the culprit isn't always caught and brought to justice in a detective novel, we expect to find out whodunit, and that expectation had better be satisfied. A novelist who dares to build her narrative around a murder and then refuses to collar the perp by the last chapter -- as Donna Tartt did in her sumptuous, underappreciated second novel, "The Little Friend" -- will never hear the end of it. Readers of books and viewers of television and film demand not only to know who did it but why, preferably with a tidy little back story about a molesting uncle, bullying schoolmates or a mom who tricked with sailors in the next room. We believe in evil, but we also want pop psychology to explain it away.

Crime fiction reassures us that for every murder there is a sleuth as obsessed as we are with getting to the bottom of the puzzle. There are the formulaic clashes between the committed police detective and the self-serving brass, the feds who interfere with the locals (or vice versa) for purely territorial reasons, the nagging spouse and the occasional sloppy, time-serving colleague who just wants to wrap this thing up before he's set to retire with a full pension. But there's also always someone, the hero -- whether public officer or private dick -- who really, really wants to find out the truth and has the brains (and sometimes the brawn) required to do it.

Because most of us have a lot more experience with crime fiction -- TV and movies, but also books -- than we do with actual crime, our sense of how law enforcement works has been distorted by the imperatives of entertainment. Forensic scientists often complain that the public expects them to possess and deploy the wizardly high-tech tools they see every week on "CSI." Because the "CSI" team's gear is presented as omniscient and infallible, legal professionals must contend with jurors' overinflated confidence in forensic evidence. Even the most appalling news stories of incompetent or corrupt lab workers will never register as deeply as watching Gil Grissom and his earnest sidekicks stay up all night and ruin their marriages for the sake of seeing justice done.

For all their lingering shots of mangled bodies and gooey, maggot-ridden corpses, these TV procedurals paint a too-pretty picture. If Jack Nicholson were a true-crime author, he'd be telling the audience for such pseudo-gritty shows that they can't handle the truth. Finding myself seated next to a criminal prosecutor-turned-defense attorney at a wedding several years ago, I asked him what pop culture gets the most wrong about crime and punishment in America. After a long pause, he said, "I'm torn between two answers: How much police care about getting it right and how competent they are to do it."

True crime is not above trafficking in misleading clichés -- because, let's face it, there's not much that true crime is above. The majority of the genre is cheap sensationalism, deploying the most shopworn clichés: tragic maidens; idyllic small towns; smiling devils; winsome, doomed tots. Much true crime has achieved its goals if it gives its readers something to shiver over late at night or to whisper about at school. (Most of my early knowledge of true crime classics like "Helter Skelter" came from other girls who got ahold of the books while baby sitting and recounted the most horrific details to a breathless audience on the playground the next day.) Plenty of it offers a comforting message similar to that of crime fiction: that, for all the bewildering and seemingly random violence of this world, it is usually possible for us to know what really happened and who's responsible.

But we also live in a golden age when it comes to a more challenging vein of true crime. These books include Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls," about 14 unsolved murders in Long Island; Raymond Bonner's "Anatomy of Injustice," about the wrongful capital conviction of a black handyman for the rape and murder of an elderly white widow in South Carolina; Janet Malcolm's "Iphigenia in Forest Hills," about the celebrated journalist's inability to accept the guilty verdict against a young mother accused of hiring a man to murder her ex-husband; and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error," which is in part a challenge to another milestone in the genre, Joe McGinniss' "Fatal Vision." Coming up next month is another landmark, "The Wrong Carlos," by James Liebman and the Columbia DeLuna Project, an exhaustively researched consideration of a 1980s case in which the state of Texas most likely executed the wrong man.

Even true crime books in which the identity of the killer is uncontested can open up welcome vistas of uncertainty. Recently, Anand Giridharadas' "The True American" examines the lives of two men: the sole survivor of a hate-crime spree, who forgave and tried to save his would-be killer, and the killer himself, who seems to have become a different man before his 2011 execution; who was he, really? Dave Cullen's masterful "Columbine," published in 2009, offers the most definitive account of the infamous school shooting and clears up many misperceptions, but still leaves the reader with a sense that the reasons for such acts may be fundamentally unknowable. Several years ago, when I was interviewing Margaret Atwood about "Alias Grace," her novel about a maid convicted of killing her master in 19th-century Canada, she remarked that murderers themselves often don't seem to understand their own crimes. They describe the acts as something that "just happened" or as if they were committed by someone else even as they acknowledge they did it. The true crime accounts I've read confirm what Atwood said.

Most important of all, true crime reminds its readers over and over again that most detectives aren't fantastically clever, that most investigations make dozens of significant mistakes and that even the most seemingly hard evidence can become as indeterminate as a quantum particle under sustained study. Sometimes the confusion is understandable. Jeff Guinn's "Manson," a biography of the murderous cult leader published last year, recounts how long the LAPD spent pursuing a bogus scenario in investigating the massacre at Sharon Tate's home.

Investigators assumed that because drugs were found on the premises, the motive was probably a drug deal or connection gone bad. Manson had his followers plant "clues," in the form of weird words written on the wall in blood, with the bizarre idea that the police would instantly link these words to the Black Panthers. (They instead assumed it was just crazy druggie writing, which of course it was.) Much time was lost before the cops were put on the right track by an informant. This, incidentally, is how most real-life whodunits, such as the Unabomber attacks, seem to be solved. There's nothing like true crime to dispel the notion that criminals get caught because of a detective's brilliant reading of the clues. Rather, they get caught because someone rats them out.

Nowhere is the danger of investigators' tendency to settle too early on a theory of the crime more evident than in stories of wrongful conviction. As "Anatomy of Injustice" tells it, police decided that Edward Lee Elmore, the simple-minded African-American man who had mowed neighborhood lawns for years, suddenly turned violent. Under the influence of a suspiciously meddlesome neighbor, a local city councilman, they ignored significant evidence contradicting this theory, and eventually resorted to falsifying evidence, while Elmore's own lawyers barely bothered to defend him at all. Finally, thanks to the efforts of an attorney working for South Carolina's Center for Capital Litigation, the conviction was overturned. The actual murderer has never been identified, but at least an innocent man has escaped death row.

Investigations aren't always led astray by deliberate manipulation, however. In "The Wrong Carlos," confused and inept handling of the crime scene, witnesses and hunt for the man who stabbed a convenience store clerk in Corpus Christi combined with coincidence and bad luck to lead to the unjust execution of Carlos DeLuna. He was the spitting image of the likely culprit to the degree that even people who knew either of the men quite well couldn't tell photos of them apart. Under the aegis of Liebman, 12 Columbia Law School students pored over the records of the case, producing a meticulous and highly detailed report on the crime investigation and trial -- which, while sobering, is also catnip for the amateur detective. It strongly suggests DeLuna was innocent and it's so convincing that even the victim's brother agrees.

Robert Kolker's "Lost Girls" and Errol Morris' "A Wilderness of Error" may be the most accomplished true crime narratives I've read in recent years. The killer or killers responsible for dumping bodies along a lonely Long Island road have yet to be identified. The investigation appears to be stalled for a variety of reasons having to do with the personalities and ambitions of local officials. So Kolker's "Lost Girls" focuses instead on the lives and families of the dead, young women who drifted into the world of prostitution and could not succeed at pulling themselves out again. It's a portrait of underclass life, frayed by substance abuse, domestic violence, crime and fecklessness, and it asks not what circumstances create a monster but which ones forge his victims.

"A Wilderness of Error" is remarkable not just for questioning a murder investigation and conviction but also for condemning the famous true-crime narrative written about them. Morris is a master of the genre, albeit in a different medium (documentary film) and can even claim to have gotten an innocent man out of jail by making "The Thin Blue Line" in 1988. Above all, he is preoccupied with how we establish what's true. His first book, "Believing Is Seeing: Observations on the Mysteries of Photography," dismantles our faith in the facticity of photographed images. "A Wilderness of Error," his second, concerns the case of Jeffrey MacDonald, convicted of murdering his wife and two small children in 1970. The crimes were the center of a bestselling book, "Fatal Vision" by Joe McGinniss, later made into a TV movie, that pressed home McGinniss' theory that MacDonald was a psychopath.

The writing of "Fatal Vision" was the subject of yet another book, Janet Malcolm's "The Journalist and the Murderer," devoted to probing the moral soft spots in all journalists' relationships to their subjects, but Morris believes these murders were insufficiently investigated and that MacDonald did not get a fair trial. Many aficionados of the trial find Morris' arguments unconvincing, but that is partly Morris' point. Just like the cops, outside observers settle on a story about what happened and become invested in it. They then ignore or dismiss any evidence that undermines that story, often with a vehemence that increases as the counter-evidence mounts. Certainty, an emotional state all too common today, is less a testament to the merits of a belief than a measure of how much we want to go on believing it.

At the very least, Morris presents a convincing case that an uncertain McGinniss was pushed into endorsing MacDonald's guilt by his publisher because offering a conclusion would make for a more satisfying book. Later, of course, the author had no choice but to double down on that conclusion, and whether or not he believed it before his editor urged him to declare the case solved in his own mind, he seems to have fully believed it in the end. All this would be meat for an interesting consideration of the nature of truth and whether it can ever be meaningfully detached from desire, but as Morris keeps pointing out, when it comes to true crime, real lives and real justice are at stake. Crime fiction can afford to go on telling us what we want to hear, but at its best true crime insists on telling us what we can't afford to forget.

#media #true crime #ethics #errol morris #crime fiction #crime #society #detective fiction #television procedurals #Joe McGinniss

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callboxkat · 5 years

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Roman Isn’t Okay

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Author’s note: I impulsively wrote this today in wake of the new video. It might be a garbage fire, but that’s okay.

Summary: Roman isn’t as okay after “Dealing with Intrusive Thoughts” as he pretends to be.

Warnings: Remus is mentioned multiple times and briefly appears. Head injuries (not at all accurate obviously). Sympathetic or morally gray Deceit. The other sides are villified just a bit because I’m salty on my dramatic boy’s behalf.

Word count: 2037

Writing Masterpost!

...

As soon as Remus was gone, it was like a weight lifted off of Roman. He groaned, finally pushing himself to his feet. The world tilted dangerously, his head pounding,

“Ugh,” he heard himself groan. Looking around at everyone as best as he could, Roman felt bitterness rise in his chest—the others could have just warned him and prevented all of this! Roman would have been on guard, and he could have stopped Remus from causing a lot of pain. To him and to Thomas. “I can see now why everyone was reluctant to tell me what was going on,” he grumbled.

“Romaaaan!” a very familiar voice called.

“You’re alive!” Patton cried.

Roman did his best not to wince at the fresh stab of pain in his head. He remembered the past uncertain amount of time, lying on the floor with everyone talking like nothing was wrong. You thought I was dead and that was how much you cared?

Thomas came into focus in front of him. He looked happy to see him back on his feet. “I love you!” he was saying.

…Okay. That helped a little bit.

Virgil looked briefly concerned. “Are you… good?” he asked.

Roman only allowed himself to hold his head for a moment before he quickly assumed his usual proper princely presence. His vision was still swimming, and he felt like he might be sick if he stayed vertical for more than a few minutes, but Roman was a good actor.

He lowered his hand to his side with a quickly banished grimace. “I don’t know,” he said. Which was honest, but… not actually what he’d meant to say. Whoops.

“Aww, are you hurt at all?” Patton asked, in that sweet, slightly patronizing voice of his.

What kind of question was that? Did the others really think that, of course, Roman should be perfectly fine after being smacked up the head with his brother’s morning star? Roman felt bitter, but the feeling only egged on his nausea. He wasn’t Logan. He couldn’t logic his way out of injuries like he could. Roman was creativity, and right now his imagination was running wild with concussion side effects.

He sighed in exasperation, and he decided to lie. He did his best to act the part.

“My head’s fine,” he said, the body language alone involved in doing so enough to make his head spin. He couldn’t just not talk with his hands, though—the others expected it. And it was clear that they didn’t care that he was hurt, so why concern Thomas?

He was sure that the only reason Thomas hadn’t checked in on him before was because he was so overwhelmed by the other part of the imagination, and because he had been too tired to focus. (Right?)

“More than anything,” Roman continued, “I feel like I was struck by a realization. Like… Einstein with the apple.”

“You mean Newton?” Logan asked.

“Oh, shut up, nerdy Wolverine," Roman retorted on impulse, anger flashing through him at Logan's words. Pardon him for his head being a little scrambled!

Then he stopped.

“No!” Roman cried out in frustration and regret, for he was not and refused to be like his brother. However judgmental Logan had been acting.

That hadn’t Roman talking, not completely. Stupid Remus, still affecting him. Their split back in the beginning hadn’t been quite perfect—they hadn’t originally been meant to be separate, after all—so they sometimes influenced each other, whether purposefully or not.

“Oh, I mean—.” He sighed, taking a second to collect himself. “I’m sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean that.”

After that, some of the conversation kind of slipped away from him. He was having a hard time focusing. He just stood there with a smile and hoped it was an appropriate reaction.

“Smelly bums!”

Roman snapped back into the present, feeling almost like he’d gotten whacked on the head a second time.

Oh, great. Remus was back. Roman scoffed.

They argued briefly, but thankfully, this time Remus disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

“Don’t like him,” Roman commented, annoyed. He desperately wanted to leave too, to just lie down in the dark somewhere, but now he had Thomas’s attention.

“So…” he was saying. “You have a brother?”

Roman sighed, stepping back to take his rightful spot directly in front of the television. He could do this for just a little longer. He did probably owe Thomas an explanation. “…Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s a little like looking into a fun house mirror. But instead of a giant head or, like, long legs and a tiny torso,” You can do this, just a few more seconds, “it shows you everything you don’t want to be.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very fun house.”

“Yeah,” Roman said. Then, quickly, as the darkness started to creep in on his vision again, he added, “But—ah, wha-whatever, you know? He’s gone now and he’s never coming back!” Obviously, that wasn’t true, but Roman sorely wished it was.

Thomas didn’t seem to want to let him have his fantasy. “Oh—I don’t think that that’s—”

“BYE!” Roman said loudly, sinking out fast, but still with his usual dramatic flair.

…

As soon as he was out of there, Roman let the façade drop. He rose up in his room and the action caused him to sway dangerously, everything going wonky for a few seconds. He caught himself and maneuvered himself over to the bed, one hand pressed to the lump on his head. He sat down hard on the mattress. He wanted to lay down more than anything, but he wasn’t quite sure that he wasn’t about to throw up. Roman wasn’t feeling very princely right now. Right now, he felt like garbage—usually a certain someone else’s territory. He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his insides where they were meant to be.

He couldn’t deny that he was hurt, emotionally as well as physically. Nobody had helped him. Nobody had even tried to warn him what was going on! He knew that Thomas was the priority, but no one had even seemed to care that he was injured. He had probably missed most of the conversation, but he knew. He’d vaguely heard his name a few times, but there hadn’t been worry in the words from what he could tell. They had just stood around and talked over him. Sure, the most important thing had been making sure Thomas was okay and figuring out how to get rid of the intrusive thoughts—or to better deal with them, at least. Roman had even tried to help, once he’d recovered enough to get out the words, even if his contribution had only amounted to telling his brother to shut up. But it was still hurtful.

In any case, no one really cared that he was hurt. So, he would pretend not to be. The others had enough to deal with already. There was no need to make them feel obligated to help him.

Still, sitting there on the bed, mulling over what had happened, Roman felt like crying. But when the tears began to prick at his eyes, it only made his headache all the worse. He quickly willed them back. He just wanted to lie down and pretend that none of this had happened. More than that, though, he wanted someone here to rub his back and tuck him in and tell him he’d be okay.

Roman may be the prince, usually the one doing the rescuing, but sometimes it would be nice to have someone rescue him.

...

There was no sound when it happened, no change in atmosphere; and Roman’s eyes were still shut; so he didn’t actually see the other side appear in his room; but he knew the moment it happened. He reluctantly opened his eyes, watching the reptilian figure in front of him with a sluggishly annoyed glare.

“Begone, Deceit, I’m in no mood to deal with your tricks.”

Deceit raised his hands in surrender. “No tricks this time.”

Roman gave him another tired but skeptical look, as best he could with his head feeling like… well, like someone had recently smacked it with a morning star.

“No tricks,” Deceit repeated. His gaze looked almost soft—as soft as the dark side’s gaze ever looked.

Roman looked down in surrender, and Deceit lowered his hands. He swept the bowler hat from his head and pulled out a few items, like he was performing a magic trick: an ice pack, a juice box, and a couple of pills.

“Take these,” he said quietly, approaching. “They’ll help.”

Roman gave him one more suspicious look before he scooped up the pills. He regarded the juice box for a moment, wondering if he’d be able to keep it down, but Deceit was staring expectantly at him, so he just swallowed the pills with a sip of the juice. Thankfully, they stayed down.

“Now lie down,” Deceit continued, vanishing the half-empty juice box. He kept the ice pack. “On your stomach.”

Roman obeyed, laying down among the pillows. He felt Deceit carefully place the ice pack against his sore head but couldn’t see him from this position. The deceitful side came back into view as he walked around to the side of the bed and crouched beside him.

“Are you alright, Roman?” he asked.

“Whadda you care,” Roman mumbled, his voice further muffled by the pillow his head was smushed into. His head ached too much for him to figure out Deceit’s angle. The nausea, however, had started to abate mere seconds after taking the pills, and the room was spinning a bit less. Mind palace physics were useful sometimes.

Deceit scoffed, putting a hand to his chest. “I’m not heartless. I just like to bend the truth a little. Is that so wrong?”

“Hm,” was all Roman offered in response.

“I care about Thomas’s self-preservation, and you are an important part of Thomas’s self. Therefore, doesn’t it carry that I would care about you? Besides, I don’t see any of the others here, helping you,” Deceit observed, inspecting the tips of his gloved fingers. “Clearly, you mean a lot to them.”

Roman sucked in a small breath, feeling like a shard of glass had pierced his heart.

Deceit dropped his hand, taking Roman in, then sighed. “Apologies, Roman. Old habits. I’m sure the others don’t care—I mean, care about you. They just get a bit… selfish.”

“They were helping Thomas,” Roman said into his pillow.

“Exactly. And that is a very worthy cause.” Deceit got up from his crouched position and pulled up a chair, settling himself in it with the air of a rich woman at a cocktail party. “But I am sure that it still hurts that they abandoned you in your time of need.”

Well, yes. It did. Of course, it did. “Why are you here, anyway?” Roman asked, lifting his head just slightly off the pillow this time, to be better heard. The pounding in his head was starting to fade now, thanks to the pills and the ice pack.

“You lied,” Deceit said simply. “When you told the others that your head was okay. You didn’t really think I wouldn’t know about that, did you?”

Roman sighed.

“Anyway.” Deceit shook out a magazine as it appeared in his hands. “I’m definitely leaving if you want me here. So don’t ask me to stay.”

Roman watched him for a few seconds. Deceit’s eyes flicked in his direction, then back to the magazine. He licked the tip of a gloved finger (ew) and turned a page.

Roman was suddenly profoundly tired. He let his eyes slowly close, deciding that it would be nice to just sleep off the pain in his head. Deceit certainly wasn’t the ideal companion: as nice as he acted towards Roman, flattering him with platitudes, Roman was aware that most of the time, almost none of them were completely sincere. But right now, even if it was just the bump on his head talking, Deceit didn’t seem to be trying to manipulate him. Roman would trust him, just this once.

Perhaps none of the light sides had come to check on him after what had happened, but at least he wasn’t completely alone.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #ts spoilers #roman sanders #deceit sanders #dealing with intrusive thoughts #remus sanders #sanders sides fan fiction #fanfiction #ts fanfic #roman isn't okay fic #roman isnt okay fic

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