#(he's the only one who has ever heard my lamenting life and being alive and told me i didn't have to do it anymore. that i had a choice) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

riewritten · 2 years ago

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YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT A THING

HEAP OF SOLACE: EPISODIC SERIES

LEVI X F!READER, LEVI X YOU, NO Y/N

SUMMARY: Because there he is, giving you refuge as easily as he breathes. The way he does it so smoothly enthralls you, just as if he was born to be the greatest companion ever alive. | AO3

WORDS: 3.7k

TAGS AND WARNINGS: explicit sexual content. read at your own risk. modern AU, fluff & smut, slice of life, masturbation, oral sex, vaginal fingering & penetration, orgasm delay/denial, multiple orgasms & sex positions, squirting, creampie, nipple licking, dirty talk (there was an attempt)

Tired. You were really tired. One of those moments you yearn for nothing but to escape. Life has been either bleak or downright exhausting for you. All the strain you put on your body finally caught up with you too. You couldn't even get up and drink water, let alone reach for your phone and order food delivery, perhaps even medicine.

Just before you could lament how sticky you feel with the hot sweat all over your body, you heard someone knock at your door.

Levi.

Oh god.

Your phone started to ring too. That was when you struggled to reach for it.

"I've been calling you for hours," Levi muttered, flat but stern, obvious worry laced in his tone.

"Sorry, I don't feel well today."

"Are you home?"

"I am," you groaned as you sat up. "Hold on a second."

Every step gets your body heavier. You had to cling to the knob to not let yourself fall.

Levi wasn't impressed with that.

"Please don't berate me again," you tiredly sighed.

"Uh-huh," he scorned, made his way to the living room first to drop his things, then walked towards you to help you walk, “says the one who keeps on getting into a situation she deserves to get berated with." Upon feeling how limped your body was, he added, "How long have you been like this?"

Perhaps it was just you being sensitive or mentally crippled by the physical decline, but the alarm in his voice sank your disposition further. "Levi, I told you to not reprimand me on—"

"Answer my question," but this time it wasn’t stern anymore. He knew better than to keep scolding you when you’re practically begging him to tone it down.

However, the gesture just peaked your emotions further. It was until you huffed a stifled sob that he realized it might've been too long already. Swiftly, he had your head buried in his neck. With lips nuzzled on your hair, he said defeatedly, “What am I going to do with you, really?”

"I'm not crying because I'm sad," you clarified, "I’m crying because my head hurts so bad."

“I’m not saying anything.”

“And I won’t let you.”

“Channel your audacity to argue once you’re better.”

Your weeping went on for a while as you remembered that no, your life was never on the absolute scale of bleakness or exhaustion; not when he’s here, willing to shower you with the solace that you very much need. You yearn for this too aside from escape.

Feeling much better afterward, you whispered a small thanks and insisted on gaining your own balance but Levi was still reluctant. He’s not quite a clingy one but he gets quickly concerned if you fail to contact him immediately. You thought of kidding around then, “Do you remember the time you said I could slouch on your couch?” He raised his brows at you, urging you to say more hence you added, “slouch on your couch as you kiss me?”

He was taken aback, to say the least but the flush on your face quickly replaced his with amusement. Levi figured the fluster might be due to sickness but still, “Elaborate.”

“You know, I have a couch too.”

He hoped you’d be decent enough to spare him your adorability when it’s clear you’re the one who needed to be taken care of.

“If you get well in less than a day,”

“Only if I get well?” you frowned. “Like, not even in the cheeks?”

He shot you a flat yet knowing look. He surely knew what you were on, tiptoeing towards having him pamper you with his touches. His annoyance with your health neglect subsided as he figured out how to push your buttons thereafter.

He languidly moved his hand to cup your cheek and the other one to stroke your hair. His fingers teasingly slide over your lips but not all the way. He walked until you were pinned to the wall. With his forehead bumping yours, he asked, "You want it?"

Despite the tired demeanor, you managed to demand with a glare, "Give it, Levi."

He hummed in disapproval as his mouth went to your ear, "Do you think you deserve it, though?" His low tone tickled your skin; your already mushy mind weakened.

"I don't but you'll give it to me anyway." Your taunt was quickly replaced by a shriek as he tugged on your earlobe. He knew how it titillated you because when you tried to get away from his grasp to stop his lips, his strong build only pinned you further. He trapped your wrists above your head. He also raised a thigh between your legs to add more of the warming sensations. Heat prickled under your skin as if you weren’t already feeling hot to begin with.

"Levi," you whispered.

"Do you think you deserve it?" he repeated, more taunting.

"I don't, but oh—" your breath hitched when he sucked on your neck.

"You think you deserve it, hm?" he hummed mockingly.

You tried to grasp away again but your weak muscles didn’t cooperate. Admitting temporary defeat then, "I don't."

"Good girl," he continued nibbling, though. He even went to the other side of your neck as he added, "I could pamper you all you want but not when you're acting too spoiled." His spare hand played around your waist up to your chest.

You wanted to say, "Deal with it. You chose to be in this relationship." but then realized that Levi is too amused to not let his point be established. It's easy to get back at him if he's annoyed, but certainly not if he's amused.

"Sorry," you murmured. He still didn't stop his wet kisses. You tried to wiggle your hand away again, but you only felt him sneer. “Sorry, Levi,” you repeated. When you breathed a sigh, he huffed another one, "Baby, please." You nuzzled your lips weakly on his hair.

He let go of your neck with a pop, one that will surely mark, "Go to your bed and sleep." Then he finally unpinned you to the wall.

Your insides are roaring to sleep. "You'll still give it to me, won't you?" you weakly pleaded. You can't even mess around anymore. He knows how to touch you in a way that'd leave you begging for more.

"If you get well in less than four hours."

"You said less than a day! Why did it decrease to four hours?" you exclaimed but instead of answering, he just raised his eyebrows at you, challenging you to repeat that. "Okay, then. I'll get well in less than four hours," you mumbled then walked lamentably towards your bed.

This time, Levi is settling in the kitchen with your apron, about to start cooking. "Take all the rest that you need. I won't give you that later on."

And oh, how you'd love that to happen. You finally perked up; never in your life did you feel the resolution to get away from a simple disease.

That's why when you finally woke up with a relatively better temperature, you rushed to the living room and jumped at him on the couch. You clung to his lap, wrapped an arm around him, and landed kisses all over his face, "I did so well. Reward me."

"You slept for an entire day," he retorted. Your mouth gaped open. You thought only two hours had passed. "Not so well if you'd ask me."

"Seriously?"

"As serious as I can be."

You frowned then leaned your forehead on his, "You must be so worried. I'm sorry." then sadly played on the buttons of his shirt.

"I've been telling you so many times."

You landed a wet kiss on his lips, "Sorry."

"And you didn't even answer my calls."

You slowly worked towards unbuttoning his whole shirt, "Sorry."

"You should've called me as soon as you started feeling unwell."

He didn't move his hand to remove the garment completely so you just splayed your hands all over his toned chest. As languid as ever, your lips rolled over each other. He let you in when your tongue asked for entrance. You muttered soft apologies in between kisses. Not that Levi will ever try to resist. Unlike you, he was never stubborn. He missed you and was worried. You jumping at him like this first thing upon feeling well is the least that you could do to ease it.

"You still hate relying on me, don't you?" he said after the intimate exchange.

“I admit I still have to get used to it but," you smiled at him resolutely, "you're doing so well for me. I'll rely on you more. I'm sorry." It wasn't supposed to be a heavy question; you knew it too. Levi just wanted to confirm it.

He gently raked his nails through your hair as both of you stayed silent. When he cupped your cheek, you swiftly leaned on his palm. "Have I done well?" he asked a bit teasingly.

"What's with that question?"

"Have I?"

"Always, always the best for me."

"Very well," he said as he slowly hiked your shirt up, fingers playing around your back. "Reward me then."

You will, god, you will. You wrapped an arm around his neck as you went for another kiss. It's much messier this time, overjoyed at his approval. Without wasting any moment, you worked on removing his pants. You thought the reward he could have was to use your mouth however he wanted, but he appears to have other plans.

"Lie down," he dragged you onto the couch, landed another harsh kiss, and when he finally withdrew, you were panting. Just as he likes. You must feel what you're doing to him.

He tapped on your clothes, "Off. All of it." and you followed suit quickly. He's not in the mood to play around anymore. When your wet heat flashed before him, you almost saw him smile. "Touch yourself as I watch."

"I thought you wanted to be rewarded?" you inquired as you obeyed.

"Well, your pleasure is my reward."

He scooted towards you and played on your chest. Not long after, he latched his tongue on one of them. He didn’t dare break eye contact when he pushed two fingers inside, going faster and faster upon feeling how wet it was. "Don't stop playing at your clit," he breathed before sucking on the other tit.

"Oh god, Levi." His actions were so precise, intended only to exude more pleasure. Curling two fingers inside, tongue rolling around your mound, eyes burning around your face; every pleasure etched in his memory. "Let me love you too, please—"

"You do," his mouth went to shower your face with wet kisses next, "you love me so much that you can't even help but jump on me as soon as you wake up." He punctuated his amusement by pounding his fingers harder, "You'll let me taste you too, right?"

"Yes, oh god, yes—"

As he swiftly scooted down and lapped you open, you were urged to keep your fingers moving. You moaned unabashedly. He hummed in approval, very much pleased at the way you tasted and the way your back arched.

"Hands on your chest," he added in between, "play on your tits, just like that."

The overwhelming sensations teetered under your skin. The actions persisted for a while, and not long after you felt the spark jolting inside your body.

"Levi, close. Please. I'm close."

As if that was the cue, he abruptly halted.

"Shit," you hissed at the barred tension in your lower stomach.

He worked on removing his pants while watching your hole clench on nothing, "Your frustration is my reward too."

"Savor it, you bastard."

“I surely will.”

Levi figured he wasn't patient enough to settle on the couch's limited space, so he carried you to the bed after discarding his garments. You wrapped your legs around his waist and arms around his neck.

When he threw you on the sheets he commanded, "On all fours."

You pushed your face down the pillows and wiggled your hips up. He stroked himself up and down your wetness, exuding a frustrated whimper from you. "Angry now? Thinking about how your boyfriend fails to spoil you rotten, huh?"

"I told you it's a reward," you murmured in your pillows, grudgingly swallowing your pent-up rage to serve the man who never fails to do the same. "You can use me all you want right now. If you don't want me to cum then I won't."

"Oh?" Levi hummed, impressed. "Even if I don't touch you for days after? Even if I forbid you to even touch yourself?"

No way. He must have gotten really angry at you at some point.

"Answer me," he grunted, pressing the tip of his cock onto you but not going all the way.

Well, all you have to do is to seduce him until he can't help himself. But you doubt that now because he's actually a sucker for your desperation. The torment would surely go on for a while.

"Yes," you bit your lip to restrain yourself, "all that you want. You can do what you want with me."

"Such a good girl," said Levi. Amidst the mocking, he actually took time to gauge whether you were wet enough to take him. He slammed in without warning upon realizing so. "Don't worry, I'm not that bad," he grabbed your head and thrust it down the pillows.

The tempo is completely unrelenting and lurches are always followed by a grunt. Levi's own teasing must've riled him up too. When you pushed your hips in tandem with his thrusts, he went even faster. You can hear how loud the slapping sounds are. It's ringing in your ears, utter pleasure wavering inside. "S-so good, 's too good. Please don't stop. Please–"

"I wouldn't dare." He drew your shoulders towards him, claiming every skin his lips could reach all over your back.

When his palm pressed on your lower stomach you finally snapped in pleasure, "Yes. Don't you dare—god—don't you fucking dare. You're gonna let me cum, spoil me rotten, fuck me good—"

You couldn't see his face but you’re sure he was sneering, "Yeah? Then why don't you just live with me as you said? Settling like a pretty little flower, waiting all day to be watered like this."

“And I’ll do so—I’ll do so like a good girl,” every inch of you is trembling in pleasure at his words. You never saw yourself completely opening up to someone like this—to have his pledge to take care of you for all he could, to rely on him, to have him transcend the voices inside your head saying you're all alone.

"Live with me. I'll do everything for you. You don't have to worry about a thing. You can work all you want and no damn fever would last on your body—shit, you're clenching hard,” he exclaimed sharply. “You like that, hm? Is the thought of me doting on you that appealing?”

"Yes," you murmured from behind, "I'll take care of—I’ll—"

You can't even come up with a coherent response anymore. He turned you into a babbling mess. Both his words and the way his hips snap send your brain towards further haziness.

"Can I do it inside?" You could feel him twitching as he added, "Can I? Take all of me as well. Come on."

You’ll be the one to do the begging if he didn’t ask. Too debauched to say a word, you concurred by clenching on him harder and meeting his thrusts more ardently. When he felt your approval, he quickly pulled out and flipped you on your back. He opened your legs wide and thrust again.

If you don't know him well, you'd think that he's completely unaffected by this; but his face is flushed, his toned body is drenched in sweat, the wetness where the two of you meet is a bit too slick and noisy to ignore, and oh, the reverence he keeps showering you with. You don't want this to end.

Levi grasped your chin and tilted it so you'd look at him straight while being ravaged. Both your mouths were partly open, drawn to each other's burning gazes.

"I'm cumming," you said, wrapping your legs around his waist so he wouldn't let go. "Come on, inside, please. I'll take it—oh fuck yes—" his frantic bucks paid off when you spasmed on his cock.

He gave you all of him then, emptied himself with a loud grunt. You tried to utter something, perhaps another series of begging. Shockwaves blurred your vision as his warm essence engulfed your insides. He was whispering silly nothings, too: how good you are, how sweet for him, how both of you will go on with this endlessly for tonight—

"Wait, what?"

"Did I stutter?" said Levi as he finally pulled out, though he scooted his dick towards your mouth and instructed, "Clean it." He didn't even give you the chance to talk more, he just plunged it in and let you lick your mixed essence altogether. "Good. Fuck, so fucking good."

Upon finishing, he gripped your hair and delved his mouth into you—delighted to taste the sinful mess that both of you had made as well.

“Do what I want, you said. What if I want to pump you full of my cum tonight? Who am I to deny if you want me to ruin you so bad?" And there you felt him again. He's stroking himself to your wetness, moaning lowly at the slick of fluids.

But he did it the other way this time. He waited until you weren't stimulated anymore before pushing through. He'd swirl his tongue on your tit while languidly plunging inside. Then he'd go faster, then faster, then stop upon feeling you clench. He stops whenever you're about to cum, countless times. Even your pleas went unheard. He's too pleased to see you desperate to cum.

"Empty," you inaudibly said as you flipped the position. You hovered on top. Levi was taken aback. "My insides are empty without you. Please." Levi realized you were completely out of it this time—lidded eyes, lips partly open, too light-headed to register how taken aback he was. "Fill me up—oh, yeah. Oh fuck." You swallowed his dick with your warmth then engulfed his lips with a warm kiss.

Pleasure crippled Levi's body. He doesn't even have to snap his hips anymore. You swirl yours on him too well without a single care. Levi realized he had overdone his teasing as you’re completely dumbed out now. But god, it felt so good. You really deserve to be pampered to death after this.

"Ravage me. Use me all you want. Pump me with your cum." you muffled with open-mouthed kisses on his neck, "Please, so good, Levi." Then he felt you clench on him. You came without warning, squirted all over, not giving a damn about the sheets.

He huffed a tsk then called your name, "You're just doing as you please now." He continued plunging himself in nonetheless, not giving a care that you just came.

At some point, you feel him twitching inside you too but he stops even before he could cum. He’s intentionally delaying himself to feel more of you inside. Every time he edges, he changes the position—he'll have you ride him, take you against the wall, take you on your knees, slot himself inside while pressing on your abdomen.

As he pushed and pulled on his orgasm, his grunts became louder. He's calling your name repeatedly, every syllable running music to your ears.

You were being ravaged. The longer it takes, the more you can't feel anything but him sinking inside; you’re so delightfully filled. Levi was handling your body as if you wouldn't be able to move without his help.

"Why are you trying to slip away from me?" he grunted sardonically as he felt your limbs shake.

"I—I'll die, hah, I'll die!"

"You would never," he heaved a chuckle—the first time he did for tonight. "I plan on keeping you alive and—oh fuck I'm cumming this time—give you the world, everything I have."

You're certain you're going to squirt again so you tapped on him, "The sheets will get wet—"

“It is already wet,” he knew what you meant so he hyped you further, "go on—fuck I can feel it—let it out, yeah, that’s it."

And both of you did it at the same time. Your limbs shook for a while and you were too shocked to even mind the mess. Levi’s release lasted for quite a moment too, holding onto your thighs hard to keep you from moving as he emptied himself, staring at you endearingly for letting him do so.

When nerves from the intense orgasm calmed, you whispered with a chuckle, "Can't anymore. I can't feel anything."

"I'm sorry," he pulled out gently this time but slotted his fingers inside to keep his seed from dripping, "There you go, lovely thing. You did so well for me."

You nuzzled on his neck with a moan, savoring his scent that would most certainly be the last thing needed for a best night's sleep. Levi ran his fingers through your hair, encouraging you so.

"Let me rest for a minute. I'll help you clean after—"

"Told you, I'll do everything.” He cut you off while soothing your sore muscles, pretty fingers tingling around your skin. “You don't have to worry about a thing."

You chuckled, "I'll do that too. Both of us must."

"You just did, though." Then his palm pressed slightly on your lower stomach—plump with his cum, "You took care of me so well. Feel it?"

"You bastard," you mumbled, finally zoning out, trusting the cleaning task to Levi this time. "What are we going to do now?"

"Be stuck with each other for good. That's what we're going to do."

← FLUFF | SMUT →

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kiridarling · 4 years ago

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[a/n: is this a week late? yes. happy belated-valentine's day angels <3]

—ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀɴ 𝟷𝟾+ ʙʟᴏɢ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅɴɪ

𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮; 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥

→ Definitely went to work that day

→ Not a huge romantic but wake up to find a hot breakfast with a note left on the counter.

Happy Valentines Day, dumbass. Love you.

— k.b

→ When he returns from work, Katsuki buys you roses and shoves them into your chest with an eye roll. You thank him and he responds with a grunt before insisting you put on something nice because he’s taking you out on a dinner date whether you like it or not.

→ Katsuki takes you to the fanciest restaurant—so fancy you feel a little bad that he has to pay, even despite his Pro Hero status. But you’re his, and spoiling you might as well be his love language.

→ Halfway through dinner, Katsuki starts getting a little frisky. Sliding the rough leather of his oxfords up the inside of your thigh, winking and biting his lip. You tell him to stop but you only half-mean it, and the knowing grin on his face lets you know he knows.

"Careful, baby. You don't want the waitress to know how much of a dirty slut you are, do you?”

→ He’s condescending as fuck but you’re totally here for it, and the second he pays for the meal you two are speeding down the highway to a love hotel (per Katsuki’s plan, apparently). You barely make it to the bedroom before you’re all over each other, and if it weren’t for that family of four in the elevator, you definitely wouldn’t have.

→ He tells you to get on the bed and strip, and who are you to deny him of such a luxury? He pulls a plastic black bag out of a different bag—it’s clearly full. With what, you may ask?

→ Sex toys!

→ Katsuki’s endgame is simple—make you cum until you can’t anymore. Not that he’s told you explicitly, but he’s got a Hitachi pressed to your sex and two fingers slamming into you just the way you like it. With your wrists comfortably tied above your head, it doesn’t take him long to bring you to your climax, cheeks burning and thighs shaking.

→ Peering at you under the sweaty mess of ash-blond hair, the fire in Katsuki's eyes only adds fuel to the burning of your gut as the vibrator continues whirr. The realization settles in with a shiver. Oh. Oh fuck, he's not stopping.

“Again.”

→ So, you cum again. And again, and again, and by the time you’re on the fifth it gets a bit hard to feel your toes and you’re so sensitive your thighs burn. All you want is his cock, but for some reason, it’s fucking impossible for him to give it to you.

→ Upon voicing your concerns, Katsuki’s devilish smile only grows wider.

“You want this cock that bad, slut? Yeah? Fine then, fuckin’ choke on it.”

→ It’s basically cannon that one of Katsuki’s favorite things to do is watch you struggle to take all of him, but in this position, all you can do is lay back with bound hands as he fucks your face. It’s sloppy and your eyes and throat burn, but it's totally worth it to hear Katsuki fall apart in your mouth.

“S-So good—fuck—such a good whore, taking all of me, aren’t you?”

→ Katsuki pulls out before he cums in your throat in favor of flipping your limp body into downward dog and stuffing you full of cock in one swift move, the bastard.

→ Katsuki’s never been one to take things slow in bed—to him, it’s all hard and fast and now. You’re scrambling for purchase in the sheets as he pounds into that sweet spot he knows you love, and you feel your fully spent sex twitching back to life anyway. Fuck, fuck. Are you going to cum again?

→ Katsuki seems to catch onto this as well, sweaty chest dropping against your back and the cool of his dog tag tickling your neck as his hand rubs between your legs, muttering dirty nothings in your ear.

“You gonna cum for me, baby? Yeah? Gonna make a fuckin’ mess all over yourself like the slut you are? Fuckin’ do it. Fuckin—fuck—”

→ You two cum at the same time, toes curling and ribcage shuddering, and then—

→ Darkness.

→ You wake up in a few hours, properly clean in fresh sheets. Turns out baby boy fucked you so hard you passed out, but it's okay because he’s found reruns of your favorite show on and is fully prepared with water and snacks.

→ (And he’ll never tell you, but he fully panicked and called Eijirou. Obviously, he knew you were alive, but…what if you passed out because of a problem? A concussion? Internal bleeding, maybe?)

→ (Eijirou ensures him that though this should NOT happen every time, it can happen from exhaustion. To say Katsuki relaxes after that is an understatement.)

(Stay safe angels <3)

And speaking of Eijirou...

𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚; 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐞

→ Definitely did not go to work that day.

→ Today, Eijirou plans to treat you like the princess you are. Cooks you breakfast in bed (after almost burning down the kitchen trying to make bacon but shhh we don’t talk about that) books you a full day spa and has Mina take you shopping for a new outfit for your "fancy date" that night.

→ The location? A surprise.

→ It’s dark by the time you and Mina pull up, but the moment you hop out the car she speeds away. Um. She could’ve at least said bye.

"[Y/N?]"

→ Looks like Eijirou brought you to a lake. You wonder who helped him bundle the fairy lights in the trees and set up the picnic because knowing your man and his coordination, it would’ve taken a forever for him to set this up.

→ But all those thoughts shatter the second you see that he’s on his knees, clutching a velvet box with a gorgeous diamond ring sat in the center. Not too flashy, but not too dull.

“U-Uh.”

→ Eijirou swallows then blinks, the only sign that he’s the least bit nervous for this.

“See…I swear I had planned something to say, but you look…holy shit, um—stunning, you look stunning.”

→ His compliment goes over your head though. Of course it does, he’s holding an engagement ring. He chuckles, averting his eyes to the ground.

“Listen, um, you can say no...B-But uh, I love you a lot—obviously—and I’ve been thinking about this a lot, kind of, because you’re like…the love of my life, ya know? I mean, I know everyone says that and everything but like, I really mean it? But if I’m going too fast o-or you just don’t wanna get married or something, I totally get it because obviously this is outta the blue and everything b-but um…yeah.”

→ You let him stutter through the whole thing because, well. It’s cute.

→ ...And then you tackle Eijirou to the ground with renewed passion and slam your lips onto his. His “babe! The ring!” is muffled but you snort anyway, blindly groping for it through the grass. The moment you find it, you shove it into his palm and stick your hand in his face, and with a (very sexy) chuckle, the redhead slides it onto your ring finger.

“I’ll take that as a yes then?”

→ No shit, Sherlock.

→ Either way, the picnic in the dark is abandoned in favor of yanking Eijirou's pants off and giving him the best head of his life. Because goddammit, you love this man so much and he needs to feel it.

→ Afterward, he insists on returning the favor. A wild Gentle Dom Kiri appears and as he eats you out, he mutters a deadly combination of the sweetest and dirtiest things you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, you feel so good. So tight and wet. And it’s all for me, isn’t it, baby?"

“You’re gonna cum, angel? Do it. Cum all over Daddy’s face.”

→ Once you semi-recover from your orgasm, he flips you on your hands and knees and slowly pushes inside of you (though not without putting on a condom because safety first, angels). You tell him to speed up, but he denies your request. This time around, Eijirou's going to take the time to love you.

→ As he slowly fucks you under the stars, he dips his chin into your neck as his bigger hands encompass your own. As he starts to play with the ring on your finger, you watch something wet hit the picnic blanket, followed by a sniffle.

“Gosh, fuck—I love you so much. A-And I’m really happy you said yes. I…”

→ You cum first and Eijirou isn’t far behind, shuddering against your spine. Your fiancé unceremoniously rolls onto the picnic blanket next to you, his temple kissing the crest of your skull as the two of you use the comfortable silence to cool down, half-naked under the milky way.

→ In your comfortable silence, you lift your left hand to the stars, fingers splayed to reveal the twinkling diamond solidifying the bond between the two of you. Eijirou hums, hooking his chin on your shoulder.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

𝐃𝐞��𝐤𝐢 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢; 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲

→ Both of you are painfully single and most importantly, strangers. Strangers who think alike and had the glorious forethought to drown your sorrows at a nightclub with a lot of alcohol.

→ Denki, as he does, accidentally knocks over his liquor-filled cup, completely drenching your bottoms. He apologizes and insists on helping you clean up though getting awfully close to your crotch, but both of you are too tipsy to notice.

→ After the liquor spill, you swap embarrassing love stories and lament over the “hardships of being single.” (Denki’s words.)

→ A few hours pass. You’re tired and ready to go home and Denki requests to walk you home to make sure you get back safely. Not that you live far, maybe ten minutes, but by the time you reach your door, you feel like you've known the electric blond your whole life. After saying goodbye and almost closing the door, Denki blurts out a half-drunken confession...or something like that:

“I—uh, y-you are—uhm, no…this is—“

→ You give him a look, a half-smile at best, and it seems to churn the gears in his brain again.

“This was uhm, really fun and uh, I think you’re really cool.”

→ So naturally, when you invite him inside, he squeals.

→ After a few more drinks and a few more spillages (Denki’s never been a deft drunk), you two finally get over your inner thoughts and start kissing on the couch. It’s hot and messy, and the alcohol in your veins makes it oh, so hot.

→ Denki doesn’t expect you to offer head but when you do he nearly cries, scrambling to pull his pants off while you make space for yourself between his thighs. Due to the fact that there’s alcohol pumping in Denki’s veins and he hasn't been touched by someone else in at least a year, he’s extra-sensitive. And vocal.

"F-Fuck gorgeous, you're so good at this...o-oh shit, do that again—yeah, yeah just like that."

→ His hips quiver, and he bucks into your mouth on accident. It earns him a glare and a light slap on the thigh, and you make a mental note to unpack the broken moan that interrupts his apology later.

→ It doesn't take Denki a long time to cum—five minutes max. He plans to give you a warning but his orgasm runs up on the electric blond so quickly he doesn't even get a warning. When Denki orgasms in your mouth with a choked moan, it's only natural that you pull away in alarm, ribbons of semi-translucent cum flying just about everywhere.

→ To say you're pissed is an understatement (because your poor, poor carpet), but Denki feels terrible and is already reaching for the roll of paper towels you left on the coffee table from your cleaning spree this morning, apologies flying out of his mouth like an auctioneer.

→ Obviously, he's going to make it up to you. Not only for making an absolute mess in your living room (seriously, Denki doesn't know if he's ever come that much in his life) but for the bomb head, and he wants to make you feel just as good as you made him feel.

→ Both of you stumble to your room, the mood miraculously rekindled, and you're not sure what to make of Denki's desperation as he claws at your bottoms, pupils blown to the size of dinner plates. And though it's cheesy, you can't help but shiver when he finally gets eyes on your sex, wetting his bottom lip and the grip around your thigh tightening as he catcalls the apex between your thighs before diving in.

"Hello pretty~"

→ Like any pervert with a vivid imagination, Denki's got a mental warehouse of sex tips and tricks and burns to watch you squirm from his touch. He wants you red-faced and breathless and isn’t shy about it, actively paying attention to your reactions when he curls his fingers or uses his tongue just right.

"Oh, you taste so good sweet thing. So pretty and wet...did I do all this, gorgeous?”

→ Also, electro-stimulation? Yes please.

→ Denki's tentative about it at first because he’s not sure how you’ll react, but once you give him that pretty little moan you've been holding back all evening, you two are going nowhere but hell.

→ His dick hurts from being hard for so long and the second you cum, he’s practically begging to fuck you.

“Please? Please gorgeous? Shit, you felt so good in my mouth I just wanna—I need to—please?”

→ Like you needed any convincing in the first place.

→ You ride him per his request—and will definitely make you repeat things back to him, just because he likes how embarrassed and blushy you get. If you refuse? He’ll be an absolute tease about it. (But only for a bit, because we all know his patience isn’t that great.)

"Yeah? You like this cock? Tell me. Tell me how good my cock makes you feel, gorgeous."

→ There's no way Denki lasts very long (again)—definitely with you in his lap. When he cums, it’s cute and breathless, and his nose scrunches into his eyes. But if he came twice, you should too right?

→ The next morning, Denki's gone. But in his place, there’s a note with his number and an explanation:

had to go to work! lol i have the fattest hangover kill me now ty. either way, you should text me. i wasn't kidding when i said i thought you were cool lol.

(xxx)-xxx-xxxx

— kaminari

[a/n: gah XD my brain melted from writing that um-

also don’t worry about the family of four at the love hotel...they were...um...forced to stay there due to an emergency...lol :) see you soon, angels <3]

#— 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈 #— 𝐄𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐔 #— 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐊𝐈 #bnha headcanons #bakugou headcanons #denki headcanons #kirishima headcanon #bnha fanfiction #bakugou smut #denki smut #kirishima smut #bakugou x reader #denki x reader #kirishima x reader #bnha smut

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fanimesenseiwrites · 4 years ago

Note

For Lucifer and Mammon and Beel how about: 1 moment that they assist MC when it comes to adjusting to Devildom or understanding something about it and 1 moment where MC does the same for them when they are in the human realm

Oh my god, this is such a great ask! Thank you for gracing my inbox with this! Unfortunately I could only think of stuff for in the Devildom so that's what I'm going to post, otherwise this will just sit in my drafts forever lol. If I ever come up with ideas for the human realm I'll write and post those too.

The brothers help MC out in the Devildom:

Lucifer:

"So... Diavolo's the only actual royalty, right?" MC asked, curiously.

"It's Lord Diavolo" Lucifer corrected them. "But yes. He is the only heir to the throne."

"Right, right, my bad. So where's the king?"

"He's asleep."

"Where?"

Lucifer sighed. "Why do you need to know?" He was already tired of all the questions, and he had a sneaking suspicion that MC had plenty more lined up.

"I'm just curious. Everything is new and strange to me."

"Well must you ask me all these questions?"

"I mean, I guess I don't have to ask you... I just thought you were the smartest out of all your brothers."

Lucifer allowed himself a small smirk at that stroke of his ego. "... what else do you want to know?"

MC grinned at him. "So I've heard you and your brothers be referred to as "rulers of hell" and sometimes "princes of hell" but if you aren't royalty...?"

Lucifer hummed as he thought about the best way to explain it. "Think of us as... nobility. Just as the British Monarchy up in the mortal realm gives noble titles to their heirs who would not take the throne, we have been awarded such titles by the king based on our strength."

MC nodded. "I see... I think I get it now. Thanks for answering my questions."

"You're welcome. Just be sure that your curiosity doesn't get you into trouble. You know what they say, "curiosity killed the cat," Lucifer's voice was just a little more threatening than it had previously been.

"But satisfaction brought it back," MC finished the quote, either not hearing the change in his tone or not caring.

Lucifer watched MC as they left his presence, and he just knew they were going to be a thorn in his side for the remainder of their stay.

Mammon:

MC was walking back to the House of Lamentation after extra study hours. They hadn't done so well on their last history test and they really needed to study so they could do better on the next one.

As MC walked home, they noticed a crow watching them and following them, but cautiously keeping their distance too.

MC smiled at the crow, then stopped and rummaged around in their backpack for something.

The crow watched them curiously.

MC pulled out a pack of crackers from their bag and broke a couple of them up and laid them on the ground before looking back at the crow.

"Those are for you."

The crow watched them cautiously as it slowly made its way to the crackers.

MC crouched down and watched the crow with a grin.

The crow ate some of the cracker and chittered happily.

"You're so cute," MC told the crow.

"Look at the loser human talking to a crow!" A passerby demon told his friend.

The crow squawked and flew away when the two new demons appeared.

MC sighed and stood up. "You didn't have to scare it."

"I wasn't trying to scare the crow."

The emphasis the demon put on crow scared MC, but they tried not to show it.

"Right... well, you two have a good night." MC started walking toward the house again.

The two demons jogged to catch up with MC and walked along either side of them.

"So where are you going all by yourself?" The demon who had scared the crow asked.

"I'm going to meet a friend, they're waiting for me a couple blocks up," MC lied, hoping their words would deter the pair of demons from doing anything to them.

The demon clucked their tongue. "You know, demons can tell when you're lying. I just heard your heart rate increase when you lied just now."

"And you absolutely reek of fear," the second demon spoke.

MC glanced between the two demons, now truly afraid for their life.

MC tried to run but the demons were far too quick for them.

They each grabbed one of MC's arms and the first one covered MC's mouth with his hand before they could scream. They dragged MC away from the road and into a secluded alley, before pinning them against a wall.

"Ya know, human flesh is a fun treat but the soul is where its at," the first demon spoke to the second.

"I agree, I guess we'll just have to share it," the second replied while grinning deviously at MC.

MC was so scared that they were shaking and tears were streaming from their eyes.

Suddenly, MC's attackers were pulled away from them and slammed into the wall opposite of them.

MC felt immediate relief at seeing that their rescuer had white hair.

Mammon growled harshly at the two demons, making sure they were well intimidated before asking, "What'dya think you're doing? Did ya really think the human exchange student was just walking around with no protection?"

"W-what are you going to do to us?" One of the demons asked.

Mammon hummed before tossing them to the ground. "Not shit."

"Really?" One of them asked as they got back to their feet.

"Yeah, I'ma just report ya to Lucifer and Lord Diavolo. They'll get more of a kick out of punishing ya than I will," Mammon told them as he rest his hands on his hips.

The pair of demons stared at him in horror.

Mammon fake lunged at them just to scare them. "Get outta here!"

The demons quickly ran away.

Mammon rolled his eyes and looked at MC. "Hey, are ya o-"

MC practically threw themself at Mammon, wrapping their arms around him in the process. "Thank you so much! I was so scared!" They sobbed.

"'Kay..." Mammon rubbed their back. "Calm down, everything's fine."

MC looked up at him. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

Mammon grinned before putting two fingers in his mouth and whistling loudly.

A crow flew down and landed on Mammon's shoulder.

"The crow!" MC cried happily.

Mammon reached up to pet its neck. "Yeah, they're my familiars. So that means I've always got an eye on ya!"

MC chuckled. "Well I guess that's a good thing."

"Yeah, but that don't mean you can be out walkin' around by yourself! Don't ever do that again! You call me to come get you next time, got it?!"

MC nodded.

"Good." Mammon grabbed their bookbag and threw it over his shoulder, the crow flew off when he did that. "C'mon, let's go home."

MC smiled slightly. "Okay."

They headed back to the House of Lamentation together, walking as close together as was comfortable.

Beelzebub:

MC sat in the cafeteria at RAD, and despite feeling hungry, they couldn't find the appetite they needed to eat the food in front of them.

Beel walked over and sat down next to them with his own tray of food.

MC looked up at him. "Hey Beel, do you want my lunch?"

Beel instantly perked up at the prospect of more food but frowned when they looked at MC's tray. "But you didn't even touch your food."

"Yeah, I'm not really hungry."

"... are you sick?" Beel tried to fathom the possibility of not being hungry.

"No... I just... I don't feel like I can eat this food. It's all so weird."

"Is it weird or just different?" Beel challenged.

"No, it's weird," MC told him flatly. "I mean half of the food has poison in the name and cheeses are aged for longer than I'll be alive and the scorpions are as big as lobsters! Also, who would eat a scorpion?!"

Beel frowned and almost pouted.

MC looked at him. "Oh shit, that was rude. I'm sorry..."

"... have you even tried a scorpion yet?" Beel asked tentatively.

"... no," MC admitted sheepishly.

"Well why don't you try it?"

"Can I eat it? Or will it kill me?"

Beel shook his head with a small grin. "Lord Diavolo adjusted the menu so nothing served here will kill humans."

MC nodded. "Well that's one less thing to worry about... but how do you eat the scorpion?"

"Some people like to eat exoskeleton, like me, but for those who don't they eat it like this." He snapped the tail off and sucked the meat out of it.

"Oh... that reminds me of eating a crawfish."

Beel nodded then cracked open the abdomen and pulled out the meat inside using a fork.

"Ya know, that actually makes a lot of sense."

"Now you try," Beel coaxed.

MC nodded and looked down at the scorpion on their plate, still feeling a little intimidated.

"You don't have to like it, just try it," Beel told them.

MC nodded and took a deep breath before snapping the tail off and sucking out the meat. "Hm... this is actually good."

Beel grinned. "I'm glad you think so."

With some encouragement and explanation from Beel, MC finished eating their lunch for the first time since they had arrived in the Devildom.

"Hey Beel?" MC asked as they walked to class after lunch was over.

"Hm?" Beel looked down at them.

"Could we go out after school today? I want to try more Devildom food with you."

Beel smiled at them. "I'd like that."

MC smiled back at him. "It's a date!"

#A WHAT???#Mammon somewhere in the background #I enjoyed this prompt #I wish I could've thought of more #but I think this was good #obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me scenarios #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me Mammon #obey me Beelzebub #obey me beel #obey me fanfic #fanimesensei answers

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fakeikemen · 4 years ago

Text

Katara's Grief

(This is my first attempt at a meta post and I know that this has probably been already done but I just needed to get it off my chest and go on a little rant and it kinda got long so bear with me.)

A lot of the hate on Katara stems from the fact that she keeps on mentioning her mother's death at every chance she gets and invalidates other people's pain to assert that her suffering is the worst of the lot.

And even though everybody is entitled to their own opinions, I'm gonna point out why I think the aforesaid claims are not exactly correct.

First we'll take a look at; Katara's Backstory:

We know that Kya is killed in a fire nation raid and that Katara had been the last person to see her alive before she leaves the tent on her mother's insistence. Only to come back a few moments later and find her dead body. This, in itself is a traumatising event.

So yes, her mother died. Other people in the story go through far worse. You're not wrong when you say that.

But what is more important in Katara's story is the aftermath of her mother's death.

As Sokka says while talking to Toph in "The Runaway" in B3 Ep7:

Sokka: When our mom died, that was the hardest time in my life. Our family was a mess, but Katara? She had so much strength. She stepped up and took on so much responsibility. She helped fill the void that was left by our mom.

As an eight year old, she had to force herself to grow up to step into her mother's shoes and raise herself and her elder brother and simultaneously look after the entire village after her father left to fight in the war. She had to do all of it by herself.

In face of all her responsibilities, she never really had the chance to simply be a grieving child lamenting the loss of her mother. She habituated herself to caring more about others than herself (We see this trait in the entire series as she acts as the stand-in mom friend for the entire Gaang with an exception of Suki and Zuko). She ended up bottling her feelings of grief, resentment, guilt and rage deep within herself.

She had to give up an extensive part of her childhood where most children focus on figuring themselves out, to become a mature and responsible person who was working as the immovable pillar holding up the family and even the whole village not much later.

She put up a strong front to help others and pretended to be fine even though she was hurting inside the whole time.

She could never find any closure from the situation. She never got over it.

Moving on to the criticisms:

1. Katara keeps on mentioning her mother like a broken record:

Here are the number of times Katara mentions her mother's death (not sure if that's all of it, lmk if there are any others):

1. In her first scene with Sokka

Katara: Ever since mom died, I've been doing all the work around camp while you've been off playing soldier!

2. A short while after she meets Aang

Katara: Well, I just want you to be prepared for what you might see. The Fire Nation is ruthless. They killed my mother, and they could have done the same to your people.

3. A short while after she meets Haru

Katara: I lost my mother in a Fire Nation raid. This necklace is all I have left of her.

4. A short while after she meets Jet

Katara: Sokka and I lost our mother to the Fire Nation.

5. In the swamp after she sees a vision of her mother

Katara: I thought I saw Mom.

6. In the Crystal Catacombs with Zuko

Katara: I don't? How dare you! You have no idea what this war has put me through! Me personally! The Fire Nation took my mother away from me.

7. A short while after she meets Hama

Katara: We completely understand. We lost our mother in a raid.

8. Repeated mentions in The Southern Raiders episode

(Most of the episode basically)

The first mention with Sokka is in the middle of a siblings' spat where she tells off Sokka for trying to act as if he were superior when it was obvious that in the face of the gaping hole that was left by Kya's sudden death, Katara had shouldered much more responsibility.

When she tells it to Aang, she uses it as a proof that the Fire Nation is capable of immense cruelty and destruction.

The Gaang travel all around the world and meet different people affected by the war in different ways. So when Haru, Jet and Hama narrate their own stories, Katara sympathises with them and talks about Kya's death in lieu of "I understand, the Fire Nation hurt me too."

After they got separated, Aang, Sokka and Katara each had their visions and after they get back together, they all mention their visions and so does Katara.

When left alone in catacombs with Zuko, whom she considered as the face of the Fire Nation— the same Fire Nation that had her mother killed and forced her father to leave to fight in the war, she has a meltdown where she rightfully accuses him of all the bad things he's done and then breaks down while talking about how the war has cost her i.e., by causing her mother's death.

The Southern Raiders is the episode where Katara hunts down the man responsible for her mother's death. If you think mentioning Kya repeatedly in this episode is uncalled for, then I don't know what to tell you.

In all the incidents mentioned above, Katara mentioning her mother's death is a very natural occurrence is the respective conversations. She mostly talks about Kya's death to either extend her sympathy or to use it as an example of the ruthlessness of the Fire Nation.

Another fact to be noted is that 70% of the Gaang's storyline is followed via Katara from a narrative point of view. Plus, being the mom-friend, she acts as the spokesperson. Considering that Kya's death is a major event that played a huge role in shaping Katara's life and is also the source of her severe, unresolved trauma, which acts as the driving force of her story, it is only natural that she brings up this topic whenever she is engaging in a deeper conversation.

It is us as the viewers who have seen her from the start and already know about her mother's death and we see her talking to multiple people about it. Which is why it might come across as repetitive to some people.

While, Kya's death is not necessary information that everyone needs to know, Katara talking about it never comes across as a forced or unnatural.

2. Katara invalidates others' pain because she thinks she has suffered the most:

First of all, if anything, Katara is the most empathetic person of them all. As the mom-friend of the group, not only is she their constant moral support, she also helps them untangle and sort out their own feelings. She is also able to tap into issues that aren't said out loud.

Instances of Katara helping and supporting Aang, emotionally are uncountable.

She is the first one to notice Sokka's sour mood in B3 Ep4 "Sokka's Master". And even though his insecurities seem baseless, she validates him (by saying "I'm sorry you're feeling so down" instead of something like "That's a dumb thing to say") and knows exactly what to do to cheer him up.

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway" she has the insight to understand that Toph's unruly behaviour is caused by the mixed feelings she has about her parents even though Toph's herself never talked about it.

She even reaches out to Zuko in B2 Ep19 "Crossroads of Destiny" even though she used to think of him as the face of the enemy.

But then there's The Southern Raiders.

Ah yes, that episode where Katara is extremely OOC and a total b*tch.

Agreed that she said some things that she definitely shouldn't have said. But like, she's just 14?? And has been hurting on the inside since she was 8?? And pretended to be fine just for the sake of other people?? Like, there's a limit to how much she can have her shit under control?? And she did a real good job of Sokka's upbringing and taking care of the village and taking care of Gaang on her own?? Some people out there are really willing to forget everything she has ever done just because she was mean for 5 minutes?? A traumatised 14 yo shouldn't be villianised and called toxic because she got mad and lashed out at people that one time??

But here's my take on the scene anyway:

When Aang gets to know that she's going to go face her mother's killer:

Aang: Um ... and what exactly do you think this will accomplish?

Katara: I knew you wouldn't understand.

Aang is a non-confrontational person who prefers running away from difficult situations as opposed to Katara who firmly stands her ground and is never afraid of confrontations. Katara had approached Aang only hoping that he would understand. But going by his dismissal, he obviously doesn't understand the burning need that she has to confront the man who had single-handedly destroyed her childhood. (Most people infer that what Katara means is that she thinks that Aang doesn't understand the pain of losing people. And so does Aang, I guess)

But things start getting even more tricky when:

Aang: Katara, you sound like Jet.

In all honesty, this is probably the most insensitive thing that she could've heard from anyone right then, let alone one of her closest friends. Hearing herself being compared to a homicidal maniac just because she wants to avenge her mother's killer. (No, I'm not justifying murder but there's a clear difference between homicide and avenging someone's death. And Aang may not be my favourite character but I do love him but this wasn't really a good thing to say either. And he wasn't even mentally distressed in the very least to be completely lacking tact or a filter.)

And then the situation escalates:

Sokka: Katara, she was my mother, too, but I think Aang might be right.

Katara: Then you didn't love her the way I did!

After 6 long years of Katara bottling in her dark feelings and letting them fester inside herself, she is finally letting them out and the first things she faces in a span of few minutes are outright rejection, invalidation of her feelings, comparison to a homicidal maniac and nothing akin to the unconditional support that she has provided to everybody. Her own brother tells her that he is siding with the boy who just compared her to a homicidal maniac.

Yes, accusing your own brother of not loving your mother enough is a very cruel thing to do. But both Sokka and Katara know that she doesn't entirely mean it.

But also, there is one very important factor in here:

In B3 Ep7 "The Runaway", Sokka says to Toph:

Sokka: I'm gonna tell you something crazy. I never told anyone this before, but honestly? I'm not sure I can remember what my mother looked like. It really seems like my whole life, Katara's been the one looking out for me. She's always been the one that's there. And now, when I try to remember my mom, Katara's is the only face I can picture.

Katara overhears this conversation just as Sokka had meant her to.

This dialogue lets us know that Sokka's coping mechanism has made him suppress all memories of Kya and replace them with memories of Katara in order to attain a semblance of normalcy.

Both Katara and Sokka had very different ways of coping with Kya's death. Katara pressed down her feelings and tried her best to pretend to ignore them while Sokka partially succeeded in forgetting her.

When Katara first hears these words she is shown to be crying. But if she were to remember these very words while she was justifying herself infront of her own brother and a close friend for wanting to avenge her mother, it would've had a negative impact on her.

In her rage, she would've thought: "Of course he doesn't want to avenge mom. Because he doesn't think it's worth it and that's because he doesn't even remember enough of her to be mad about her death."

And for someone who has spent each day of the last 6 years trying to fill in the shoes of her mother and experiencing her absence everyday, the idea of forgetting her mother is a ridiculous concept to her.

Her thoughts would have quickly derailed to: "He didn't love her enough to remember her."

In light of these thoughts, saying "Then you didn't love her the way I did" doesn't feel out of the blue.

No, I am definitely not justifying what she said, I'm just laying out a possible explanation to why she said what she said.

Yes, she should've apologized to Sokka for this and I think that they definitely should've had a long conversation about their mother's death and how it affected them. Between Katara supressing her feelings and Sokka supressing his memories, i don't think they ever had this conversation.

But sadly we are given neither of these scenes.

Tl;dr: Everytime Katara mentions her mother, it's with good reason and I don't think it's fair to call a character toxic when they lack a mind to mouth filter for 5 minutes and say some mean things. And considering all that Katara has done for everybody, it isn't fair at all.

Peace out!

#antis really be out there ignoring everything she does to hate on her because of two lines she said #nvm katara is one strong badass girl stan her for good grades and clear skin #katara #atla #atla meta #meta analysis #avatar the last airbender #water tribe #kya #sokka #hakoda #gaang #atla gaang #avatar gaang #zuko #aang #toph #ira's posts

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dialux · 4 years ago

Note

I’ve been going on a reading binge of all your Tolkien Women fics, and I cannot stop thinking about Indis. As a consequence I’ve created a headcanon that hurts my heart and I am going to inflict it upon you because this is clearly your fault.

Indis is one of those people just meant to be a parent, it fits her so well everyone knew it was just a matter of time before she became one. And once she gets married she tries so hard to be there for Feanor despite her own grief, but he won’t let her in. She has her kids and everyone congratulates her on having four (four!!) wonderful children, but in her heart she has five. Because Feanor might not have let her into his heart, but she certainly let him into hers, and she will always think of him as her eldest son.

It will haunt her to the end of all days and beyond, that he was always her son but she could never truly be his mother, and on her bad days she thinks that every catastrophe and death of the first age can be laid at her feet for not succeeding in the one thing everyone said was her speciality.

Okay, so a) fuck you, b) fuck you, c) fuck you. This story is basically just saying that, only in more euphemistic terms, anon.

...

Once, there were three: a woman with fair hair, a man with fair eyes, a woman with fair skin.

...

The woman with fair skin is captured and taken by the Dark One to his fortress, where she languishes for long weeks in grief and agony. She is not turned, even as those captured alongside her become evil beings, twisted and gruesome and cruel. Melkor wonders why this woman- this limpid-eyed, weeping girl- can withstand what no other has managed.

He does not get the chance to find out.

The woman with fair hair storms Utumno. She drags her sister out alongside whoever is left of their people. But the fair-skinned woman collapses only a few days’ from the chill of Utumno, and she shows her sister the secret she expended all her fea upon: a child, a fair-haired, fair-eyed, fair-skinned girl.

Intyale the Fair-Haired buries her sister Indis in a cave of glittering light. Then she takes the child down to her people, and she bids her brother, fair-eyed Ingwe, to watch their niece. Indis he names her, for the mother she will never know, and he raises her as his own daughter, this girl who bears the brightest things of all his family.

...

She is the daughter of all three of them. Of Indis the Slain, and Intyale the Bright-Speared, and Ingwe the Grand. Indis bears one woman’s name and another woman’s steadiness and a man’s strength. She is the princess of the Vanyar. She will always be that.

She will always remember how desperately her mother fought to keep her alive. Hidden in Utumno, chanting song after song of hiding and cleaving and darkness, straining for one more moment- one more moment- to keep the little babe at her breast alive- defying Melkor himself-

The Vanyar suffer the greatest of the losses to the Dark One before ever Orome comes to them. They- none of them, not from the eldest down to the youngest child- will ever trust Melkor ever again.

She was born in grief.

The Doom that Namo places- it is shocking, it is pitiless, it is cruel. But then Alqualonde still rings with the laments of the Teleri. But then, Finwe is dead. Melkor has taken not just one from Indis’ life.

She was born in grief, and, as one by one her children too learn that taste, she wonders: Perhaps the doom is my own.

...

When she is very young, she asks Intyale: What did I get from my mother?

And Intyale- this, Indis remembers very, very well- had paused, and considered, and then said, Her silence.

...

From Indis her mother, she receives silence. From Ingwe, she receives the knowledge of ruling and leadership. From Intyale-

-from Intyale, she receives the strength of will to remain unbowed.

...

Indis loves Miriel with the kind of love of a calf for its mother: overwhelmingly, adoringly, all-consumingly. She spends hours with Miriel, learning to weave those tapestries, hands tangled in thread of silk and cotton and wool, eyes affixed to the wall just as often as she watches the silver spirals of Miriel’s hair.

The Noldor tend to craft to show their passion for the world, but Indis has nothing of that: she is a fair dancer, a well-versed scholar, a singer of surpassing talent. None of them call to her more than the rest.

She aids Miriel often, now that the building of Tirion is almost complete. Indis enjoys sitting with her and with Finwe, sipping a salty-hot tea as the light changes from gold to silver; she often falls asleep there, slumped over in her chair, and returns only at the second Mingling to Ingwe’s abode.

...

This is what they all forget about Miriel’s death: it was slow.

Slow and lingering and painless. She had dignity unto the end. Finwe clutched her hand until it could not be held. Little Feanaro is the only person in all of Aman, they say, who has lost his mother.

Indis bites her tongue until it bleeds, and does not speak.

...

Intyale dies upon the hills of the Ered Luin. Indis is still young in those days, not quite an adult and not quite a child. Three children are gamboling near the water, and there is- something. Not quite something, but not quite nothing either. Intyale realizes before anyone else, and flings herself forwards, bare-handed.

Bare-chested.

The water boar is driven backwards into the river. Indis grabs the children. Two maiar run, grasp the situation, calm the boar down with songs. Intyale emerges from the river dripping.

She collapses upon the sand, and Indis is there in heartbeats: Intyale is the only mother she remembers, distant and proud though she may be. When she dares to let her eyes drift to Intyale’s chest, everything tightens up inside of her. Her mother is rent open, from breast to belly.

“No,” says Intyale, and reaches up, and grips Indis’ chin tighter than she ought to be able to, so close to death’s door. “Look at me, little one. We are more than our flesh.”

“You are dying,” whispers Indis, trembling.

“Yes,” says Intyale bluntly. “Call for Ingwe.”

Not for the maiar, who might save her. And not for the Valar either. Intyale has given up: Indis doesn’t realize this until later, but her mother- her aunt- would not have called for Ingwe had she not been determined to join the sister she watched fall.

Intyale forces Ingwe to swear to care for Indis as he would his own daughters. Then she asks for her spear, and to be burned until even her bones show no ash. She tells everyone who her sparse belongings must go to. And then, fingers clutching the bone-spear, she dies.

...

(Feanor, too, burns. Half her family burns to death, Feanor and Fingolfin and Fingon and Turgon and Maedhros and- and- and-

That fire is not of Finwe alone. Fire can be taught to catch, and Feanor never burned quite so brightly to anyone else as he did for Indis and her usurpation of his sainted mother. No: the fire is Indis’ inheritance, and Indis’ gift.)

...

Intyale does not tell anyone who her bone-spear should be given to. Indis finds herself holding onto it, and somehow never lets go.

...

This is what they forget: Miriel was the first to die in the peace of Valinor.

The second is Finwe.

...

Feanaro has lost his mother, but Indis will become that mother if he will allow it. She would wish for nothing more. Of course she wishes for nothing more.

But he does not.

Indis watches him when he does not realize. She can see it- the grief, the loneliness. He is a little boy, and Finwe is not half the father he would wish to be, and there are impossible things in this world that Indis wants- her mother, her Miriel, her peace- but most of all she just wants little Feanaro to be happy, to know happiness and joy and trust in it instead of fearing the joy will turn cold and dead in his arms.

...

Miriel had been- quickly angered.

So had Finwe. So do most of the Noldor. Indis is patient enough not to pay much attention to it.

Well. She is patient.

...

Miriel had been easily provoked into greatness. A few insults, a carefree comment- Miriel would sit at her loom and weave, something ever-greater and ever-better. Even now, the finest gown in Indis’ keep is one that she received from Miriel the day after she spent hours insulting Miriel’s taste in fabric.

Indis would have done that to her in those awful weeks after Feanaro’s death. She would’ve gone in and insulted Miriel to within an inch of her life, made her so breathless with rage that Miriel would have levitated out of her bed to strike Indis about the face.

But Este’s healers- called in when the labor lasted for more than two days- refused to hear of it, and Indis could only watch as Finwe’s face went whiter by the hour and all they heard from the sickroom were little Feanaro’s wails and the healers’ murmurs. She obeys the Valar: she watches Miriel fade into Lorien, and never return.

Little Feanaro is all that’s left of Miriel.

She is certain that he’s very much like her, too.

...

Feanaro thinks that his dislike of Indis comes from her marriage to his father. Perhaps the dislike deepened into hatred then; Indis does not know. What she does know- for she’s ensured it- is that Feanaro hated her well before her marriage.

...

(“I expected better of you,” says Indis, once.

Feanaro is three years old. His eyes are Miriel’s in shape and size and beauty. Indis, determinedly, does not flinch.

“I’m just doing with Rumil taught me!” he exclaims.

“In Valmar,” says Indis, “children learn their letters by the time they turn a year old.”

Feanaro flushes red. “I don’t like these letters. They don’t make sense.”

“Then make your own,” says Indis, careful not to let sympathy seep into her voice.

She does not smile when the news percolates through Valinor of Feanor’s Tengwar. She does not smile, but oh, oh: how she wants to!)

...

This is what they do not see: Feanaro is young, and while fire is forever dangerous, while fire is forever alluring, it is too easy, far too easy, to stamp it out. Especially when it is young. Especially when it is small.

Indis would have been the shelter to that little flame if he would have allowed it. But he will not, so all she can do is throw fuel onto the fire. Chaff and dross and dried straw: insults and backhanded compliments and petty slights. If Feanaro will not let her protect him, then she will build him so high that none will ever be able to strike him down.

(Letting him die was never an option.)

...

Finwe dies, and they leave, and then Feanaro dies, and then Findis disappears, and then Nolofinwe dies, and then Arafinwe comes to her, for the first time since his father’s body burned in Tirion’s courtyard.

“We have been given leave to go to Beleriand,” says Arafinwe quietly, solemnly. “Morgoth shall be defeated and thrown into the Void. The Vanyar shall all come, by King Ingwe’s decree.”

“Is there something you wish to ask me, then?” asks Indis gently.

Arafinwe swallows, one reflexive jump of his throat. “Will you join me?”

Indis rises. Steps away. Goes to her bedroom and plucks it from the wall, and returns in time to see her darling son’s shoulder slump with frustration.

“I will not,” she says. Arafinwe jumps, startled. Indis steps closer to him and presses the bone-spear into his palms. “I will not return, Arafinwe, to that land. Already it has taken much from me. I will not offer it more.”

“But-”

“Take this,” says Indis. “It is your grandmother’s.”

Surprise glitters in his pale eyes. “I have a sword.”

“This has already held off Morgoth once,” says Indis. “There are tales that will never be told, of the courage of the elves that never saw the Blessed Isles. Intyale Bright-Speared was your grandmother named, and well-named was she! This spear held Morgoth back long enough to release prisoners in the depths of Utumno before ever Orome saw us, long enough to let Intyale’s sister flee. Long enough for Intyale’s sister to hand the child in her arms over to Intyale.

“The sister’s name is Indis,” says Indis. “I was that child. I was named for her.”

Arafinwe stares at her. “You speak so rarely of them.”

“I’ve no desire to relive tragedy for the rest of my life,” says Indis flatly. “Now come. You’ll need to learn how to use that, if you wish to hold Morgoth hostage!”

...

Perhaps she began this, when she chose this path.

Perhaps she could have averted this.

But Indis is the daughter of Intyale, and it will be her bone-spear held to Morgoth’s throat at the end of this awful, deathful road, and if nothing else- if nothing else- she has the will to remain unbowed, this girl born in the shadow of Utumno, this woman who watched all those around her fall as wheat before a scythe, this mother who would rather her children loathe her than die, this daughter who has lost both mothers and knows, bitterly, the whole of that unfathomable loss.

...

That is what she tells Feanor, finally, when he returns to life.

There is something thoughtful in his gaze. He nods, and returns, a week later, and when she blithely tells him that his sons have inherited his monotonous fashion sense, Feanor flushes, and then pauses, and then says, carefully, “I’d rather it be monotonous than Finarfin’s gaudiness,” and Indis drinks her tea- salty-hot, just as she likes it- and she says, smiling, “I am glad you can be taught.”

#indis #feanor #miriel #silmarillion #my writing #dialux answers questions #i cannot believe i wrote a story abt indis and gave finwe literally no speaking lines but it's FINE it's all FINE i promise it's FINE #anon i would like to formally challenge you to a DUEL what the H E L L #Anonymous

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kit-herondale-carstairs · 4 years ago

Text

TDA Characters on TikTok

Julian: doesn’t post very often because he is a father but when he does it is always him painting or drawing something with lofi music or him sharing a tidbit about one of the children or other family members (Kieran, Cristina, Diana, Emma and Aline included and always with their explicit permission).

- He’s very popular without even trying and most assume he is a young single father (which isn’t wrong).

- Mostly finds himself on cottagecore or parent side of tiktok.

- doesn’t understand all the thirsty comments he gets because “I don’t even show my face, Emma, why would they think I’m attractive?” but always shares them with Emma because they make her laugh.

Emma: Does it for the girls and the gays, that’s it. Posts nearly every day and page is generally a mixture of self defense videos, vintage makeup/dress tutorials, and videos slamming the patriarchy but also always does the latest dancing videos and other trends.

- always tries to get others to join in on her trend videos, mostly joined by Mark and Cristina when she can rope her in.

- Nearly broke tiktok when she got Julian to do the “You could have been nicer to me” trend because NO ONE KNEW THEY WERE DATING AND EVEN THOUGH THEY COULDN’T SEE HIS FACE EVERYONE RECOGNIZED HIS VOICE AND HE WAS SO SWEET WHEN HE OFFERED TO TAKE HER TO HER FAVORITE THRIFT STORE AND BUY HER SOME DRESSES AFTER HE PUT THE “BABY” DOWN FOR HIS NAP.

- - everyone knows the “baby” is actually at least seven but no one ever said his name because he’s too young so everyone collectively knows him as “the baby”

- solidly on gay tiktok even though she’s straight.

Mark: Daily blogs. Everyone thinks he’s shit posting because it’s all wild things like standing in a middle of a circle of flowers and talking about “this pixie named Aelia lives here and she’s a BITCH”. Often shows videos of him cooking or baking wild concoctions that range from “Okay, I’d try that” to “this is why God has abandoned us”.

- Does dancing videos with Emma all the time and often acts as the “creeper” in her self defense videos.

- Caused a meltdown on tiktok when he casually mentioned his “partners” and started creating videos to raise awareness for polyamory.

- Revealed Julian was his brother when he posted a video of Julian yelling at him for a solid minute because “the baby is covered in honey, why is the baby covered in honey, Mark? We don’t let the baby bathe in honey even if he really wants to Mark -”

- solidly on cooking and gay tiktok, often takes a sharp left into “crackhead” tiktok

Kieran: Posts videos of cats he finds and rates them. The lowest ever was a 9.5/10 because “she bit me fairly hard but I scared her and I deserved it for trying to pet her without permission”.

- does not do any trends or reveal much personal information.

- Was always considered wholesome until he (on a dare from Dru) posted a video joking about choking a bossy sub that rounded up on kinktok.

-- everyone went through a brief freak out trying to figure out if he had a partner but it was never solved.

--- No one noticed that Mark posted a video joking about how “one of his partners was absolutely in the doghouse” accompanied by someone sitting in a cardboard ‘doghouse’ around the exact same time.

- solidly on animal tiktok but occasionally veers into kinktok with more (less explicit) dom/sub humor.

Cristina: Does not have her own tiktok but often appears in videos with Emma and occasionally shows up in Mark’s.

- Absolute sweetheart always, even when she is demonstrating a self defense move with Emma, and is always commended for trying Mark’s foods.

-- especially commended when trying the foods while, offscreen, their other partner yells about “Hell food”

- is flattered with all the comments begging her to start her own tiktok but doesn’t feel like she has the time to fully commit to one properly.

Livvy: (She’s alive, don’t @ me) Does absolutely all the new trends and also does various acting POVs

- her soulmate POVs are most popular but she also is known for dueting act-along POVS with other popular creators

- also occasionally posts videos rating the best male actors/superheroes and once got into a long drawn out back to back war with someone on whether or not Captain America really had “America’s ass”

- had a very popular multiple-part series about being a girl in the MCU dating the various Avengers but ended it abruptly after Endgame because “Natasha Romanoff deserved better and it hurts too much”

-she used to post occasional videos where she laments on being the “only single person in the family” but she started getting some very creepy duets and comments from actual adults so she told Julian and they both agreed it would be better for her to stop them

-- Julian did take the time to duet the people being inappropriate and explained very clearly that their actions were wrong and directed towards a LITERAL CHILD and shamed multiple accounts into flat out deleting

Ty: Posts literally whatever interests him. Has two animal series - one where he shares facts about his favorite kinds of animals and one where he showcases various animals he’s found in the tidepools or around the house.

- has done several video series of rescuing animals and has at least one where Julian could be heard lecturing him on trying to raise wild animals in his bedroom again

-- tiktok freaked out because this happened right around the same time as Julian calling out all the creeps on Livvy’s tiktok and no one knew that the twins he talked about were them

- also does videos about his favorite literary works - notably Sherlock Holmes - and true crime/mystery videos

-- he always makes sure to carefully put in warnings for anything remotely violent or triggering and has never had a single video taken down for violating the rules even when he did a multiple part series on the Black Dahlia and how her crime was ‘absolutely solved but because the man who did it was rich and white, he got away with it and probably also killed at least two other women, one of whom was killed in the Philippines”

- sometimes does twin videos with Livvy because she likes them and it makes her happy.

Dru: Queen of witch/horror/true crime tiktok.

- got in trouble with Julian for showing actual runes in videos but everyone just thought they were for the aesthetic so it was fine

- most popular videos is a series where she rates horror movies on how they do on the bechdel test

- sometimes duets Ty’s or Livvy’s videos just to drag them (with love)

- Has a very popular series on “women who snapped” and is known for almost rarely during part 2s (and therefore having to speak very very fast)

- also complains constantly because her videos will get taken down even if they aren’t that violent and includes clips from far worse videos from male creators to point out the double standard

- occasionally dives into tiktok drama just to dabble and then sits on the sidelines and watches it happen

-- 100% built a balloon arch to flex on That Balloon Girl

- solidly on witchtok and horrortok

Kit: King of petty/messy tiktok who also posts random videos about crime and occasional blogs

- switches from either sharing no information to borderline oversharing childhood trauma

- shares videos on borderline illegal ways to get back at exfriends/expartners/exfamily members/general enemies

-- putting fish in people’s vents, subscribing them to magazines under various similar names, sending them glitter in the mail, opening their oreos and taking out the middle of all of them, putting baby locks on their cabinets and in the outlets they can’t see (like under the bed so they can’t get plug in their cellphone charger at night), etc.

- is always eating some sort of snack, no matter what he is doing

- also posts videos about personal safety like what locks will actually keep people out and what ones are easy to break into

--caused several minor freakouts when he casually mentioned his father taught him how to do it

- occasionally posts videos with an adorable toddler and a young couple who he refers to as “mom and dad” even though they look at MOST five years older than him and he often makes parental abandonment jokes/comments

- no idea where he lives because he speaks in an American accent and talks constantly about American/California life but everything around him looks very British

- absolutely dives head first into every tiktok drama and will go for the throat for anyone who makes ableist/sexist/racist/homophobic comments without hesitation

-- his drags are legendarily savage and he has caused numerous problematic accounts to just straight up disappear

- duets videos from Livvy, Dru, Mark, Emma and Julian ( with lots of savage drags) but no one knows how he knows them because he is absolutely somewhere in the UK and all of them are based in California/US

-- he also notably NEVER duets Ty

--- the mystery is finally solved when Kit does a livestream and reveals that he met all of them because he was briefly living with them before getting placed with his family, the young couple who actually are his mom and dad

---- he is very vague about the living situation but everyone assumes he was a foster child

- he once caused a mass freakout on Tiktok (that actually spilled over to twitter and buzzfeed) when he announced he was going back to the US to visit friends and then posted a video with the caption “when you see your boyfriend in person for the first time in MONTHS but he’s too distracted by some wet 🐱”

-- the video panned out from Kit’s unamused face to Ty gently rubbing a tiny wet kitten with a soft cotton towel

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meikuree · 3 years ago

Text

the centre cannot hold

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hitch Dreyse & Annie Leonhart Characters: Annie Leonhart, Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert (mentioned) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Mild Psychological Horror

ao3 link

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

(Or: a look at Annie's time in the crystal.)

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

She can't place what time it is, inside. Time is meaningless. The interrogators who enter complain about the cold drafts puffing through the bricks; she can't feel any of it. Only the blunt sensation of the crystal’s cover, cool as iron is cool, running over her arms and torso and head, her entire body.

Hitch visits, many times. She comes to know her by the telltale skip of her boots on the floor. The way she always leaves the door ajar, as though she hadn’t intended to stay long. Her own eyes are closed now, all the time. It means her other senses become sharper. She hears mutters even through the thick slab of wood that passes for a door, and learns the smell of autumn filtering through the bars of her cell’s sole window, carried into the space in dead leaves stuck to the soles of soldiers' boots.

Those signs are what she begins to rely on to mark the passage of time. In the initial months, it’s an inexact science. Mere guesswork, in which she misestimates, on a few occasions, the correspondence between the oil-stench of polished boots and badges and the exact military festival being celebrated outside.

She listens to the chatter of the scouts who return daily to work out the mysteries surrounding her. How she breathes, what is keeping her alive. She knows the answers herself, of course. In this state she is tapped into the Paths realm; feeding on the otherworldly largesse of Ymir Fritz somehow, her lungs sustained by oxygen piped into her chest by means metaphysical and invisible. How long do you think she’ll last in there, they ask, and she wants to bark a laugh, say: I can stay here for the rest of my life. She starts a betting pool with herself about when they will meander towards or away from the answers, and also memorises some of their names—Anya, Nicolas, Louis—as a matter of personal amusement. Hange is the one who gets closest to piecing together anything about the truth, including the concept of an afterlife and/or higher realm.

Eventually they give up on her. With the Shiganshina basement breached, Hange’s purview as commander shifts to other horizons. The room hollows out as they clear the furniture, the echo that bounces off its walls widening into a sound vast enough to fill graveyards. A looming silence. Still as death. Only Hitch continues to come by, and Annie begins to yearn mentally for the stimulation of her conversations, like a plant straining towards the sun. Towards necessary sustenance.

She reminisces about her history lessons back in the Survey Corps, sometimes. It had been fascinating to see what counted for fact and narrative in a different land. She now wonders if she's become an artefact of history herself. Dead for all intents and purposes, preserved only in textbooks. Pragmatism brings her back to earth, when she remembers that nobody has ever been memorialised for lying in a coma.

Her sensory awareness only extends so far, after all that. It is deep, but not very broad. In the first year she keeps track of worldly happenings by the generosity and latitude of Hitch’s reports. Her passionate spiels, often preceded by a long indrawn breath and groans of despair that could have rivalled Eren’s, span an impressive set of topics ranging from Eren’s whereabouts, the Survey Corps’ movements, and military gossip, to more quotidian ills that ail her: a nail chipped while filing paperwork, her anguish over a sold-out bakery on the way home. The twenty letter-long saga she has going on with a romantic rival-turned-interest-turned-rival-again. Annie becomes the unwitting beneficiary of her ability to transform all ordinary occurrences into effusive theatre.

There are a few signs. The stunning perseverance with which Hitch comes. The verve and enthusiasm Hitch puts on full display before her, as though she is performing—and hoping that somewhere, she might be watching. The fond wonder and melancholy with which she speaks of their short-lived time in the Military Police. Hitch, Annie suspects, comes because she is nursing the remnants of a badly timed crush on her.

In this place, it’s a happy accident. It relieves the slight irritation she feels when Hitch confesses a touch too much detail about the minutiae of her morning routines and new interests. She’s grateful, in some deep unacknowledged part of herself, for the contact with another person from her old life, even if it’s one-sided and not very conversational on her end.

Every now and then she gets glimpses of the activities her erstwhile associates—Eren, Armin, Mikasa—are getting up to, in updates from Hitch spaced months apart. It is amusing, at first, to hear Hitch discuss them with distant respect and reverence as if at a remove, when she has firsthand knowledge of their individual quirks and neuroses, and can fill in the blanks within her iron silence much better than Hitch can. She saw long ago how they were some of the greatest breathing idiots to walk the earth; she briefly wishes she could tell it to Hitch too, puncture the aura of myth that has surrounded them like a bubble.

Eventually enough time passes that she has to recontextualise what she knows of them against the secondhand knowledge Hitch relays to her each time, adjusting her mental picture of who they are, the distance between memory and fact asserting itself. It grows apparent in those moments that they are becoming foreign to her too, changing while she remains fixed here, with outdated fragments of people, an insect trapped in scintillating amber.

Armin drops in to see her about four times in the first year. When he speaks he reaches a hand out to touch her crystal, and probably gazes at her the whole time; she can tell by the soft thud of his fingers upon her looking-glass cage. He tells her about Paradis’s defenselessness, their discoveries over the ocean. Pleads with her for a sign, any sign, that she is listening, and then sits with his knees drawn up, the stone floor vibrating imperceptibly with his motion. After his second call he begins to express his sympathy for her. The belief that he now understands why she had to betray them.

She wonders, idly, if he’s kept his nervous habit of biting at his cuticles. He has a grim edge to his voice now, a flute and gravel ruthlessness she hadn't recalled belonging to him before. Unlike Hitch, he doesn't say much. With him, she gets treated to dense silences interspersed with outbursts of conviction, or emotion. As though he speaks only when he has no choice, no other outlet.

She supposes his approach is one of delicacy, in opposition to Hitch’s: there is no evidence she is conscious, although she is alive, so talking is more or less a fanciful gamble; there’s no guarantee his words will reach a living being. She can’t fault him, on a technicality. She only laments that his idealism has given way to unimaginative realism too. Officially, he is devising a plan to establish contact with underground allies in Marley; unofficially, she wants to ask him if reaching the sea had truly made him happy, or only brought a new wave of troubles.

But her opportunities to have anything to think all these against are privileged and few. The visits are sparse, on the whole, so that she learns to conserve her responses and, most importantly, ration her thoughts—like a precious, corked wine, fit to be let through into her conscious refrain only in drips, a resource not to be exhausted too quickly. She has to remain here until there is certain guarantee she can complete her mission. In layman terms: she has to last through years of boredom.

She repeats it to herself, like an idle song or a blinkered reminder: she can endure it. She has to endure it.

After that she slows down her pace of thinking by necessity. Draws every internal argument that would have taken minutes out over the span of weeks. This dissolution makes her feel not so much like a primordial titan, moving according to vast, immense timespans, but a piece of rubber stretched to its limits, shrivelled and ready to burst.

Dreaming is the most direct analogue for her existence in this crystal shell. But it’s an incomplete description. It’s not like being asleep. She hasn’t relinquished consciousness, simply adopted a fickle and yet compulsory relationship with it. Some days, her mind is sharp and lucid like clear water. Others, she wakes up sluggish and nauseated, with the slow pressure of an anvil headache at her temples, a feverish chill bathing her bones. Like she’s slept far, far too much. Like she hasn’t woken up at all, but passed into a worse, second slumber. The effect is that of being drugged, of being sunk into an unnatural fatigue.

In these moments her choices are confined to the binary of staying awake and suffering, or returning to sleep and worsening it. Her muscles ache and scream for movement or stimulation; but she cannot move, and so has no recourse to relief. Only the sickening ache, the awareness of the uncomfortable fog, her arms trapped by her sides, always, like dumb logs.

Consciousness becomes the centrepoint her life revolves around. Sometimes, its presence is like a bullet aimed at her that she can’t catch: fleeting, painful, inescapable.

Back in the trainee bunkers she’d moved slowly. Pulled off the act of a sullen, indolent girl, better inclined towards a long nap than proper sparring. It’d shocked people that she was in fact a first-class prodigy in hand-to-hand combat. More than once she’d heard herself described by her peers as a concealed knife: inconspicuous at first, lethal once unleashed and in motion.

Those days are behind her now. A trite touch of fate, perhaps, that her languorousness now looks like it had been a rehearsal for this longer, extended sojourn in stillness. She can no longer summon movement; she has no defense against any assumptions people might concoct about her. She can only hope that people will remember the shadow her outsized figure cast as the Female Titan, even in the absence of continued proof.

As it turns out, what is most difficult is not the boredom, or time, or the trappings of her mind. Solitude suits her. She is not afraid of her thoughts. The symptoms of wakefulness frustrate her, but her mind has long been a well-controlled thing, smooth and cunning. She’d perfected the skill of disciplining it through the gruelling, unending hours of training with her father in her youth. Learning great focus, concentrating on the exercises that determined if she got to sleep, or eat, or drink. Disregarding all other excess, like the russet burn of sunset or sundown behind her in the courtyards. Your mind could not be suggestible, in this situation. Not even as an eight-year old.

No; what truly grates is the loss of sensation. Her capacity to interact with the world. Heading inside has severed her from her repertoire of fighting stances, uppercuts, movements. No longer can she understand her environment by the rhythms of her body attuned to it: the sunspots in her vision, the wind whipping her shins, the recoil of her fists against an enemy. She once knew the world by the blows and kicks it directed back at her; they were signals, an entire language of their own. She's been reduced to a lonely speck, disconnected from her single means of communication, her vernacular for parsing the world around her. The lonely, obsessive cycle of thoughts she can stand—but this? The dark, empty corridor of her body where she once had access to momentum, eruption, injury and the lightning burst of revelation in knowing her enemies by their punches, the scrapes and bruises left on them? It’s unbearable.

She resigns herself, but never quite crosses the hurdle. Many times she registers the itch of her limbs desiring to move, a furious bristle skittering upon her skin or on the edge of her brain. There is no outlet for them. Even the smallest movements are off-limits to her. She can’t flex her fingers, or tense her toes. The boundaries of her prison are absolute. These impulses, blossoming and then dead-ended, coil up and accumulate inside her like poison. Like a stricken scream with no release.

After a period of time she tentatively defines as three years, she hears Hitch entering and turning the key in the lock in her usual smooth motion. The tiny clink a struck bell in the gloom of mental oblivion. She perks up. Prepares to listen for any news.

“I know it’s been a while,” Hitch starts, “but we’ve been busy preparing for the Queen’s inauguration— like, god, how many ceremonies do these nobles need?— and I was detained by gift duty, can you believe, which meant I had to shop for the second-tier nincompoops over at the chambers—“

Annie’s blood, a gentle throbbing before, suddenly runs cold. Inauguration? But surely— Historia’s coronation, according to the silver measure of her careful timeline, had passed a long time ago. They should have moved far beyond by now.

“Anyway,” she hears Hitch saying now, a little morosely, “hard to believe it’ll be one-and-a-half years soon with you here. That you’re still in there.“

Annie chokes, a gutted sound in her head. She must have lost touch with her sense of time in the previous few weeks. It’s the one possible explanation.

If it’s only been one and a half years, she can only imagine what the next two, or three, or five, or seven years until her death will be like.

She feels the rug being pulled out beneath her feet. There’s panic now, a stab in her throat, the realisation she has to move back to the drawing board. Reassess everything she knows. She’d kept track well enough in the later half of the first year—what had changed?

Hitch leaves. She doesn’t register it.

Her sanity has so far hinged upon the single, fantastic, incredulous constant of Hitch’s visits to her. It’s a fragile coincidence—Hitch might one day get tired of her, reality outpacing her idealisation of her, and stop coming, too. She is beginning to feel the hours and days like an acrid trap, her thoughts a rapid torrent that her body—inverted in frozen stasis—will never keep up with. Suddenly every second is too slow, too long.

She wants to yell. Wants to rattle the bars of her mind-cage. But the only thing that answers her is drifting somnolence, like a hand passing sluggishly over her head, and then disappearing. The same smiling silence of her unresponsive body, indifferent to her will.

What life will this be, she thinks, what life will I be left with, and tries to plan, to consider the contingencies—but just as suddenly, nothing comes to mind, except the hollow echo of her voice referring across her insensate headscape, the strain of her thoughts thinned into pieces from disuse.

#i'm rusty with writing but! here's a thing #this is mostly about the horror of being stuck in a crystal for four years with your thoughts as your (almost) sole company #featuring very light and one-sided hitchani #i actually love the ship; annie just can't reciprocate because she's. y'know #snk #annie leonhart #hitch dreyse #hitchani #hitchannie #annie leonhardt #my fic #aot #armin arlert

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xbunnybunz · 3 years ago

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Weak Hero University (2/?) [Reader x Weak Hero]

Summary: I know you assholes are crying now that the first season of Weak Hero is over. But you’ve got other things to focus on, like where the fuck you’re going to live after getting kicked out of your old dorm. Luckily, you’ve found one last open room on the other side of Weak Hero University. What could possibly go wrong?

Genre: Romance, Humor, Slice of Life

Date: 6/1/2021

A brief introduction of everyone later, you haul a suitcase into the room while Ben noisily and clumsily pulls on his shorts, after much persuading from his friends.

“You’re living… Here? In the boys dorms?” Eugene asks, tagging beside carrying your schoolbag. “Isn’t that against the campus policy?”

You park the suitcase beside by your room and sigh, popping your back briefly.

“I’m just as confused as you guys are, but the keys here seem to be for this room here.” You allow a single gold-hued key to dangle from your fingers on a cheap polyester lanyard, Eugene’s eyes follow the menacing stare of the school mascot printed on the side until you pull it out of his sight.

“Let’s see just how fucked up this school is when it comes to money extortion.” You put the key in the door and hear a tell-tale metallic ‘click.’

“Wow.” A voice says from the couches. “Pretty fucked up.”

You sigh, shoulder slumping forward. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

Most of the items go into your room without much hassle at all. A suitcase full of cute PJs you and your nonexistent best gal roommates could rave over, a plastic box full of face masks you’d probably never be able to use without being made fun of, and a waterlogged ziplock baggie half-full with notes (and corn chips) from last semester.

What? A folder? What the fuck is a folder?

A boy with silver hair passes by and begins to say something to you, but seems to debate better options when he sees the plastic baggie on the floor.

Feeling slighted somehow, you ask Eugene who he is once he’s out of earshot.

Eugene laughs and begins to speak but an arm looping around his neck cuts him off.

A pair of shimmering emerald eyes meet your own, but it’s clouded with a shadow of mischief. “You haven’t heard? That’s the white mamba of E-quad. He’s fearlessly beaten bastards so bloody with belts that we have metal detectors installed at the dining hall entrances now!”

“Stop exaggerating, Alex.” Eugene chokes out, sounding mildly discontented while desperately trying to pry the arm from around his neck.

“Wait, that was because of him?”

Eugene and Alex both freeze, brows furrowed. “Wait, you weren’t kidding?” Eugene asked.

“I was.” Alex says.

They both fix their gazes on you, and you’re suddenly struck with the memories of needing to surrender your lockpicking kit in front of several dozen freshmen behind you, and the hot desire to bury that memory consumes you.

“Haha, me too.”

They don’t seem convinced.

Before the conversation about buckle-assisted homicide can continue, a large shadow descends upon your form and a great arm reaches out from the heavens above. “Here, I grabbed this from the kitchen in case you needed a snack.”

You look up and see Gerard, the tallest and blindest of the group. You accept his gift of a single (1) lunchables capri-sun with much adoration in your heart.

“Thanks Gerard.”

He gives you a smile to remind the audience that he is, simply put, cool as fuck.

“No problem.”

Well, one problem. You eye the last bit of your luggage sitting at the doorway like a heaping pile of hot flaming garbage. It’s an amalgamation of the extraneous bits of your personality you’ve collected over the course of the past semester at Weak Hero University and maybe a forgotten bagel. Despite your previous roommate’s pleads for you to throw some of it out, you’d be damned if you weren’t a treacherous little hoarder. Simply put, it was a huge box of insignificant trinkets that made for a very significant problem. You had gotten lucky to cross paths with a cute but gullible junior earlier, who you immediately marked as prey and flirted with before unceremoniously dumping your crap on him to carry across campus. But now you’d have to pick up the box of crap yourself, which would prove to be a challenge with how little you actually wanted to be responsible for your own items.

The three boys see you eying the box and you perk up immediately, eyes glimmering with the possibility of wooing the fine gentlemen into helping a oh-so-meek lass like yourself.

You twirl a piece of hair between your fingers and bat your eyelashes at nothing at all, pouting your lips and hoping they weren’t too crusty. “Oh, I’m so tired. How am I ever going to move that big and heavy box?”

You stare dismally into an off-corner and attempt to look forlorn, grimacing when you see a weird construction of a human-sized dorito-chip statue made of empty dorito bags beside the television. This was the moment your main love interest would swoop in and offer his servitude to you, dewey roses blossoming on convenient parts of the screen. Here it was, your very own shoujo moment!

But there’s no offer. In fact, you stare so long at the doritos statue that you begin to get spots in your vision.

When you turn back, the boys are by the box in question, though they are not attempting to move it at all. Instead, they lament over the problem with you as opposed to offering a solution.

“Ah, that thing looks so heavy. Sucks to be you.” Alex laughs.

Euguene shakes his head. “Right? I wouldn’t even be able to get a corner off the ground.”

Gerard places a thoughtful hand on the back of his neck. “You should probably save the capri-sun for after moving everything.”

Ugh.

Just when all hope seemed lost, Ben meanders out of his room. This time, all his articles of clothing are intact.

“Hey, what are you guys staring at?”

Yes! This was your movie-moment after all!

“Oh Ben! Thank god you’re here.” You resume your maiden in distress pose. “I was just so tired from the trip, my feeble heart and body can’t bear to-“

Alex pokes his head up when he hears Ben approaching, waving him over. “Look at all this shit she has. She’s like those people on My Strange Addiction!”

Irritated that he’s cut you off, you try to continue. “I won’t ever be able to lift all that on my own-!”

“Aren’t you talking about Hoarding, Buried Alive?” Gerard asks, clearly already losing interest in the luggage.

“Actually, I think that would be Hoarders, the reality television show that aired a little before My Strange Addiction took flight! It’s actually really interesting how that all started out, if you want to hear about it.”

You scowl at the back of Eugene’s head and stop quickly when Ben shoots a grin at you.

He puffs out his chest in a stupid himbo way and thrusts his thumb into his chest. “I can move this for you! No sweat! Just tell me where you want it!”

Sweet! You were about to resort to desperate begging, but those plans are cancelled!

You clasp your hands together and sigh, envisioning a world where men with muticolored hair fall in love with you.

“Oh, anywhere in here is fine, thank you so much Ben!”

As he goes in to lift it, you can see his muscles straining against the well-fitting fabric of his shirt.

Oh yes, this is definitely worth the dorming fee.

“Ben, you’re so sweet for helping me with this!” He ambles past you while struggling to hold the lid of the box closed. A strained voice comes from beyond the green rim of the bin. “Yep, no problem at all.”

You follow him into your room, tailing him while rambling about how grateful you were.

“You know, there was a junior who I met by the campus square on my way here. He helped me move everything to this building, but he struggled with that box a lot longer than you! I’m actually not sure how you’re even getting it off the ground without a wedge and trolley, but boy am I glad!”

Ben stops at the foot of your bed, barely able to peek over the edge of the bin. “Erm. Is here okay?”

“Hey I mean, as strong as that guy was, you’re definitely cuter than him. I was almost sad to see him go, but that’s the life of a busy woman!”

“Pleasemyarmsareshaking-”

“As great as all this is, I’m actually really excited to make friends with everyone! Given these strange circumstances that usually only happen to indulge borderline psychotic fans, we should take advantage and-”

Ben drops the box on the floor and you screech, a pain shooting up your leg and pumping adrenaline into your veins.

“-FUCK! Shit!”

Ben freezes and realizes the absolutely fuckery he has just caused, but before he can react, you grab the corner of the box and throw it off your foot in a show of brute gorilla strength, crumpling to the floor in agony.

The boys have their heads poked into the doorway, curious after hearing two cuss words successively. They blanche when they realize the situation.

“Oh fuck. My bad?” Ben wants to comfort you but is frankly quite scared to after seeing your display of power.

“Did she just throw that thing with one hand?” Gerard asks.

Alex stares at the scene before him. “What the hell happened to her foot?”

Eugene titters about nervously, playing with his fingers “Do we have first aid?”

From the kitchen, a deadpan voice is heard. “Where’s my capri sun?”

#weak hero #webtoon weak hero #weak hero x reader #weak hero university

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justforbooks · 4 years ago

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The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

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wonderlandleighleigh · 4 years ago

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This one is a winding one, that spans the entire show. But hang with me on this.

Dean’s journey of self can be mapped out in musical performance.

Let me explain.

It’s not until later in the series that we learn that he wanted to be a rock star (Rock Never Dies and Bad Boys being the big ones here), but it’s not hard to spot from the beginning. .

So let’s look!

In season 1, we have Dean singing for the first time. He belts out “Fire of Unknown Origin” by Blue Oyster Cult while pranking Sam with the spoon. This is a happy-go-lucky Dean. He’s having a lighthearted moment and his performance is on-key, with good tone. A little behind on rhythm, but whatever, he’s not paying much attention. He even plays drums on the wheel. That’s pure Dean. He and Sam are still getting used to each other here. He probably sang a ton on the road when it was just him.

In season 2, Dean, while Sam is in the car, sings “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by REO Speedwagon after a somewhat flirty encounter with Jo Harvelle. He’s on key, but breathy, possibly because it’s a little above his singing range. It’s warbly but not bad. And he gets a deep, deep side-eye from Sam along with a “You’re kidding, right?”

And you can literally see the light just leave Dean’s eyes here as he shuts it down. “I heard the song somewhere and I can’t get it out of my head, I don’t know man.” Because Dean isn’t just reading Sam’s judgement as a bratty little brother judgement. It hits Dean hard that singing, and singing that song in particular is not masculine enough, and so he clamps down on it. Dean is still grieving John here, and still in a point in his life where he feels he has to be like John.

John would not sing REO.

In season 3, we get three musical moments from Dean. The first one being in A Very Supernatural Christmas where they both sing a very bad, shaky, nonsensical version of Silent Night. It’s played for laughs with the dirty santa, so it doesn’t quite count, but it is a performance so there you go.

Later in season 3, we have the first instance we see of Dean exuberantly lip synching. His singing has been silenced from the REO incident, but he loves music and performing so much, that he can’t help bopping his head along and lip syncing to Heat of the Moment. But it’s manly you see, because he’s not really singing, and “Dude. Asia.”

The last season 3 musical moment we get is Sam and Dean singing Wanted Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi. He sings loud, and he sings off-key here. A small part of me thinks he’s flat because the song isn’t in his range...but a bigger part of me thinks his flatness here is performative. “I love to sing, but it’s socially unacceptable for me to love to sing because I’m a DUDE and singing is for people with feelings, and I don’t show those ever.”

Season 4 gave us the infamous Eye of the Tiger scene. Obviously the outtake goes WAY harder than what’s in the episode, but it’s another instance of Dean lip syncing with some added air drums. When Dean performs he goes all in. Even in small moments like this, there’s such feeling and joy in it. This is the real Dean - the Dean he wants to be, shining through.

The next time Dean performs something musical is in season 7, where he lip syncs “I’m All out of Love” by Air Supply. Again, the outtake actually has him singing, but he emotionally mouths the words in the actual episode, much to Sam’s annoyance (NOT because it’s not masculine, But because Dean is lamenting not driving the Impala, and Sam’s just acutely aware that his brother is deeply strange). We’re getting closer though, in terms of Dean’s comfort with himself. His facial expressions alone are indicative that he does not give a damn what Sam thinks in this moment, and that’s really new for him.

In season 9...we get Bad Boys. Fifteen-year-old Dean in Bad Boys is such an emotional topic. He was learning to play guitar, being given support for the first time since Mary’s death, and was really allowed to be himself. He explicitly wanted to be a musician - a rock star, and at the very least he was on his way to being a proficient musician. This, of course, is all left behind once John shows back up to get him, and Dean decides to leave the boys’ home. We assume that his performative behavior starts here, as chronologically, the next time we see flashback younger Dean is in After School Special (season 5), where he is seventeen and playing a literal, stereotypical bad boy.

And then…

And then we get season 10, and Demon Dean.

Oh, Demon Dean.

Not only does Demon Dean have sexual adventures with Crowley, but Demon Dean sings karaoke. He fiddles around on a piano. While Demon Dean is crippled by his very human depression in his episodes with Crowley, he also can’t be bothered at all with the performative stoic masculinity he normally tries so hard to exude. So he sings, because he wants to. But he sings badly, and he sings songs that human Dean - not even a Dean who’s not being performative - would sing.

It’s almost a mockery of his old self’s dreams of musicianship and rock stardom. “Fuck the old me. Fuck his weaksauce insecurities and fuck his stupid fucking dreams,” is what those song choices and sour notes seem to say.

And then...we have season 11, and with season 11, we have “Baby.” It makes sense that Bob Seager is a favorite of Dean’s. It’s really simple, straightforward music, that’s surprisingly emotional, and easy to sing (unless you’re trying to emulate Bob’s rasp. I can feel my throat getting scratchy just thinking about it). It’s often about loss, heartache and what it means to have a lonely existence. It’s also been used on the show before (Beautiful Loser plays over the montage of Dean living an apple pie life in the season 6 opener to great effect).

So in “Baby,” not only does Dean talk about the wisdom of “Night Moves,” but he and Sam sing it, happily, after a night of sexual adventures...or misadventures. “MIstakes were made,” Dean says after a wild night.

Hm. Mistakes.

But in any case, a relaxed and non-performative Dean comfortably sings Night Moves, and sings it well.

In Season Twelve’s Rock Never Dies, we see Dean playing the role of a rock star and doing it badly. It’s an incredibly confused disguise because he’s trying to keep up his performative masculinity while also being excited to be a rock star. It’s a failed disguise to say the least. The little boy in Dean trying to play out a fantasy while trying to be who he thinks he has to be.

And finally, in season 15, Dean sings Good Ol’ Boys with his old friend Lee, who coaxes him on stage, teasing him about lip syncing to Eye of the Tiger in his car, which means two things:

1. Dean’s penchant for lip syncing is well-known by friends and family alike. We only ever see Sam’s reaction previous to this, but it’s implied that other people have caught him in the act.

2. There is someone in Dean’s life who knows he can sing well and encourages him to do so.

And then...the lighting. This has been pointed out many, many times, but the light in Lee’s bar is uh…

Well, it’s the bi flag, isn’t it? It’s important to note that I don’t know whether this was on purpose or not. But it certainly exists.

We have this scene where Dean is being coaxed into setting aside his performative behavior and be his true, honest self, for the first time we’ve seen in fifteen years of musical performance, either vocal or mimed.

I wish we’d gotten more of these moments of musicality from him, but the ones we do get a damn gift.

#dean winchester #spn #supernatural #musical performance #POLOL

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lag1995-fics · 4 years ago

Note

Hey can I request a fanfic for Evan's character kit walker and song a turning page from twilight?

I hope you like it thank you for requesting. ❤️

Turning Page

Song:Turning Page by Sleeping at Last

Pairing: Kit Walker X Reader

Warnings: some cussing

Words: 2010

Summary:Kit’s highschool sweetheart waits for him

Song Fic Masterlist

////::::////

You and Kit Walker had been high school sweethearts, he was your first love; and if you were being honest he was your only love. You guys had mutually broken things off after highschool when you had gotten into an out of state college.

When you came back the first time after getting your degree, you found out that Kit had moved on and married a woman called Alma. You weren’t jealous, a little disappointed maybe, but you were genuinely happy for them. Kit was a good man and you had always known he would make a good husband. You couldn’t put yourself through watching them though, you had never given up on your relationship with Kit. He had ruined you for other men. You had other boyfriends during school but the longest relationship had only lasted a month.

You decided to move back to Boston leaving your small town life behind. You loved a relatively happy life in the city, distracting yourself from the life you wished you had. You had gotten a degree in education, so you threw yourself into teaching children.

You had been happy to hear that they had apparently apprehended the serial killer, who went by the bloody face moniker. Well you had until they said it was Kit Walker, you reasoned with yourself that it had to be someone else named Kit Walker. Your Kit would never be able to do something as heinous as what they claimed Bloodyface did. Your Kit was a gentle soul, who would do his best to bring happiness and peace to anyone he might meet.

When you saw his face flash on the evening news that night you had broken down and sobbed. Kit was being framed for a murder he hadn’t committed. He wouldn’t even kill a spider much less the woman he married. You had started making calls trying to get on as a character witness. That whole town was racist and this stunk of a town coverup.

They wouldn’t let you be his witness though, they claimed you hadn’t spoken to him for over six years. You had screamed and cried even harder when they rejected you. You had never stopped loving Kit even if it had to be one sided from afar. You wrote him letters trying to convey to him that people still believed in him. That you would always love and believe him.

He never wrote you back. The guards at the prison who checked his mail had scoffed thinking of you as some loon and had trashed them. When he was committed to Briarcliff Asylum they too disposed of the many letters.

When you hear of Kit’s death you fall into a dark depression. You’re barely hanging on, when you happen to skim a blip in a newspaper. You almost choke when you see his face. He’s a bit older, but it is unmistakably Kit Walker. The article however was not a happy one: the man’s wife Alma had murdered a woman that lived with them in a fit of apparent hysteria.

Without preamble you packed a suitcase and began the trip back home. Kit would need you, not as a lover, that ship had sailed but he would need you as a friend. He was almost entirely alone now and with two toddlers to boot. You couldn’t help but feel the joythat he was alive even though it was steeped in sadness at his tragic loss.

Alma had been a sweet girl from what she could tell. She had never met her in person but if Kit married her it was apparent that she was a good person. She had been missing for so long though, she had been traumatized and snapped. It wasn’t her fault that bad things had happened and lord knows that the country's mental health system left a lot to be desired.

It had taken you almost all day to find the farmhouse that Kit lived in. It was dusk and the sun was starting to set. You took a steadying breath hoping that you weren’t overstepping any boundaries. You had flown out of the house with barely any thought, relying mostly on instinct. You hadn’t been able to help Kit when he was accused of being Bloodyface but you could certainly help now without the government involved.

You eased yourself out of the old Buick you were driving and shut the door. You began to make your way to the door but it opened before you got the chance to knock. There he was, he was still handsome as ever, but he had lost that carefree air he had when they were young. You supposed you had probably lost that too.

“I already told you I’m not doing an interview, leave my family in peace!” His voice was angry and you were now unsure if you had made the right decision. Then as if he hadn’t really been looking at you before, his eyes widened.

“Y/n?” He asked questioningly the anger had drained from his voice.

“Oh Kit I heard what happened I needed to make sure you were okay,” you explained trying not to cringe. You probably seemed like a crazy person showing up at your highschool sweetheart’s home after his wife had murdered someone.

“I thought you lived in Boston?” He questioned, still surprised at your arrival.

“I do, I hopped in my car as soon as I heard, I thought you might need some help. If I’m imposing I apologize… I can leave,” you were rambling, it was something you were prone to when nervous.

“No! Uh I mean no, you could never be an imposition doll. Come inside, I didn’t think anyone cared about me anymore,” he lamented, meeting her halfway on her way to the house. You got a better look at him up close. He still had beautiful brown eyes but there were dark bruise like bags underneath them. You could tell he hadn’t been sleeping well, and really who would after something like this happened.

You followed Kit inside his home, it still smelt of the bleach they used to get up the blood, but it was warm and cozy. You looked over and could see the two toddlers playing together on a rug with some blocks.

“This is Julia and Thomas,” he said, gesturing to the kids who barely spared them a glance.

“They’re precious,” you commented.

“Yeah they are pretty great, must take after their old man,” he bragged teasingly but it was half hearted.

“Kit,Are you okay?” You asked, laying a hand on.

“I will be,” there was a determination in his voice this time looking at the children playing happily unaware.

“If you need anything at all just tell me” you begged, hoping he would take the help. This trip wasn’t entirely unselfish, you had missed Kit the moment you left for college and the feeling had never left. It hadn’t faded with time like these things are meant to do, you had never stopped loving Kit and you would wait a thousand years if that’s what it took. You didn’t expect any romance, you knew that ship had sailed, but you would be there for your dearest and oldest friend.

“Don’t you have a life or a lover in Boston, surely you don’t want to spend time with someone as pathetic as me.” His self deprecating comment made you jerk him by the arm so he was facing you.

“You listen to me Kit Walker, you are one of the most gentle humans I’ve ever met. You are an incredibly good man and you deserve all the love and help in the world. Let someone help you, you don’t have to go through this alone,” You declared, staring directly into his brown eyes with your own y/e/c ones.

He only nodded before taking you into a friendly hug holding you close to his chest, his head buried into your shoulder. You felt a shuddering sob wrack through him. You only held him, you didn’t know how much time had passed as you held him close letting him sob. When he finally pulled away you could see the gratitude in his eyes.

****

Days bled into weeks and weeks bled into months as you stayed with Kit. Things for the most part remained platonic apart from a few lingering glances from each other. You didn’t want to put any pressure on the relationship. You had meant what you said when you told him you were here to help him. You would love Kit however you could get him be it romantic or platonic. You would always wait on him.

When he had come home one day in tears you had just held him. Alma had died that day and Kit had lost his wife for a third time and the children had lost their mother’s.

More time would pass and things became increasingly comfortable between you two. You had taken a teaching position at the elementary school the next town over and Kit continued to work as a mechanic.

It had been a day like many others when it happened. Kit had come home covered in a layer of oil and grease and you had been making dinner. After he had showered, he came into the kitchen to watch you cook and help Julia and Thomas with their homework. It was really quite domestic.

After dinner you had wrestled the children into bed and retired to the living room to watch television. You had felt the burning of Kit’s eyes on you and you turned to look at him pulling a face.

“Why did you stay?” He asked with a puzzled look on his face, “Your help has been indispensable, but it’s a year now and your still here. Aren’t you tired of me yet?”

“Oh, I can start looking for an apartment. I never wanted to overstay my welcome. I guess I just got comfortable being around you and the twins, is like breathing air” You rambled hiding your burning cheeks. He wouldn’t take that though and he grabbed you by your shoulders making you look at him.

“Doll I’m not kicking you out, you can stay forever if you want. I just don’t understand why you would want to stay with me,” he said and you gulped looking into his eyes.

“Oh Kit you’re the best person I know. Did you not get that with the hundreds of letters I sent to you in prison and while you were at Briarcliff” you joked trying to lessen the tension. You had never brought up the letters before you were honestly pretty embarrassed by them.

“What letters!?” He pulled back looking hard at you.

“I wrote to you everyday up until they announced your death” you explained cheeks filled with liquid fire.

“Fuck! He cursed getting up and pacing.

“I never got a single letter, y/n” he said and you not knowing what to do approached him opening your arms. He fell into your embrace burying his face in your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you croaked unsure of what to say.

“Don’t be sorry doll, but it still doesn’t explain why you want to be around me” He started in again and you couldn't help the anger that spilled forward. You took your fist and hit his chest.

“Because I love you dummy, I never stopped,” his eyes went wide at your declaration.

“What?” He asked dumbly, his limbs going numb.

“I love you Kit and I’ll always be there for you if you need me. If it’s only as a friend I can live with that, at least I get to be with you,” Your cheeks burned for the third time in what seemed like an hour.

Kit not knowing what to say decided to act on instinct. He gathered you in his arms and pressed his lips against your own in a searing kiss. You clutched at each other desperately the tension finally snapped.

“I love you too Doll.”

Requests are open drop a song or a prompt in my ask box ❤️

#kit walker x reader #kit walker #kitten #Kit walker is a babe #ahs asylum fanfiction #fluffy #evan peters #peter maximoff fanfiction #fem reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #ahs fanfiction #fanfiction

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years ago

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 31

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 31

"Stop staring. It's not like I can run away." Lin Yan couldn't help muttering.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He grabbed Xiao Yu's wrist. Hadn't they buried the hatchet?

"I said I wouldn't drive you away."

Xiao Yu turned his head and looked out the window like he couldn't hear him. For some reason, Lin Yan felt that his demeanour made him look sad, like the shadow standing alone under a street lamp on a rainy night, waiting for him quietly outside the car window for the day that he opened the door.

However, there had been some strange developments during this period. Lin Yan found that when he was concentrating, he could close his eyes and perceive a greenish-black shadow in Xiao Yu's direction. The butterfly orchid on the windowsill had a warm, pale yellow glow floating around it, but it was much fainter than the one he had seen around the little Daoist priest on the mountain. Lin Yan found an explanation for this in a journal devoted to Daoism. All living creatures in the world have yang energy. When ghosts pretend to be human, looking at their aura of yin-yang energy can usually break the illusion.

In ancient times, this ability was called "Opening the Third Eye." It usually took a long time to practice and it was extremely rare to acquire it accidentally like Lin Yan had. He sighed as he stared at the dream-repellent talisman on the paper and thought that this was a good thing. The next time he came across a strange person, he'd be able to tell whether they were alive or dead, meaning he wouldn't get tricked by the little girl again.

Since the little girl had shown up Lin Yan and Xiao Yu were basically inseparable, which really made him feel embarrassed. He wasn't sure why but Xiao Yu’s presence seemed to have completely aroused his hidden desires. Lin Yan couldn't remember ever having these kinds of urges before. Now, he was taunted by the slender figure in front of him, and he had to rush to the washroom for the third time to relieve his uncomfortable situation.

After a steamy dream, the habits he had abandoned during his adolescence suddenly made a resurgence. Lin Yan locked the bathroom door, pressing himself against the door and wrapped his fingers around his shaft. He slowly reached moved to the tip, pressing it, rubbing it; the whole thing feeling like it was on fire. Lin Yan bit his fist and muffled a groan, impatiently adding more pressure. When he stroked the underside, the top pulsed painfully. When he stroked the topside, the emptiness underneath him made it so uncomfortable he could cry. Nothing he did was enough to satisfy him. He held onto the sink to catch his breath and roughly splashed his face with cold water to extinguish the heat in his belly. "You pervert," Lin Yan scolded himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Fortunately, Xiao Yu didn't stick to him like he did before. He even took the initiative to stay by his side a few times and he never moved to avoid him. Lin Yan wiped his hands with a towel and suddenly remembered what time it was, making him slightly aggravated.

Professor File Folder's secretary had called him a few days later than planned while Lin Yan was in the middle of being constantly tortured. When he heard the sweet female voice on the phone, a shock of fear ran through him. Since the girl in red had appeared, he was instinctively wary of any female stranger. The female secretary said somewhat apologetically that the team had just returned from a business trip with the feng shui master, and was finishing the roster of the Ming tomb archaeology artifacts.

"It's a bit late today. Are you free tomorrow or the day after tomorrow? You can come directly to the institute to see the materials you need."

"Let's do it tomorrow." Lin Yan casually drew a talisman on the paper, a charm meant for deception. "I can come at 10 o'clock if that works for you."

"That works." The female secretary paused: "Umm. . . can you not tell the professor that I'm just calling you now? I've only been here for a short while, it'd be embarrassing if he found out."

Lin Yan hung up the phone and saved the secretary's number on his phone. When he looked up again, Xiao Yu was still sitting in the same posture, as if he didn't care about that discussion at all. He threw the pen into the sofa and rubbed his forehead against Xiao Yu's shoulder. He murmured: "I found something that might explain your situation. Come with me tomorrow?"

Xiao Yu's eyes went cold. Lin Yan guessed that he would react that way. He sighed and said: "I know you don't like it, but I think this whole thing started when I entered your tomb. The two of us are connected, and now even Second Immortal Gu's spirit is being dragged into it. As the saying goes, it is better to take the initiative than wait around for death to show up. Maybe the person who brought me to your tomb will know something."

"It's dangerous." Xiao Yu frowned.

"I know." Lin Yan dragged his pillow into his arms. He thought for a second: "I still have you. Really, you make me feel much safer."

Xiao Yu didn't deny it. He gently touched Lin Yan's hair, with something he couldn't read hidden in his deep eyes. Lin Yan grew anxious and subconsciously grabbed Xiao Yu's wrist. He asked: "You'll come with me, right?"

Xiao Yu remained silent for a while and then nodded.

---------

When he brought A-Yan some dinner, Lin Yan mentioned how he was being forced by Xiao Yu to learn Daoism at home. The little Daoist priest was so excited that he didn't even touch his dinner, instead pestering him to share more details. The books made Daoism out to be much simpler than it truly was. Each spell required a focused mindset in order for it to work. The most talented people only tracing out the symbol might get a measly tenth of the intended effect, but most would only get a scrap of useless paper.

"I-I'll teach you when I get out of the hospital." The little Daoist's pale face flushed with excitement and his eyes were gleamed brightly: "It won't be as good as my master's lessons, but it should be fine for a beginner."

Lin Yan didn't know how to react. He lay down on the next hospital bed with his head resting on his arms, staring at the ceiling of the room in a daze. He said that he was unlucky enough. Not long ago, he was sitting in his classroom and talking about his archaeological experience with the shy girls in the class, freaking them out whenever he mentioned the corpse. The youngest man in the dormitory pointed to the little Daoist sitting in the corner and told Lin Yan to glance over at him and that he should be careful. There were rumours that people who offended him in their freshman year said they saw ghosts. He squinted his eyes and made faces, making everyone laugh.

But now he was being targeted by a ghost. He was worried about things that he didn't know how to fix. He had even bought a can of cinnabar to learn how to exorcise ghosts from the little Daoist priest. Lin Yan sighed and lamented: "I want to learn, but I don't want to be forced to do it."

"He's been weird recently. He has a lot on his mind, but he won't tell me what he's thinking." Lin Yan rubbed his face. "A-Yan, what do you think ghosts think about all day long?"

The little Daoist was silent for a while, and answered the wrong question: "You care about him very much."

Lin Yan turned to face A-Yan, subconsciously playing with the sheets with his fingers. He helplessly said: "Obviously I care. We're stuck together 24/7. Even my girlfriend wouldn't get this kind of treatment." He glanced at the phone and frowned, pushing himself up on the bed: "I have to go. It's Weiwei's birthday. I promised I'd be there and I shouldn't be late."

"Weiwei?"

"The one who upgraded our tickets for us during the lecture." Lin Yan glanced sheepishly at Xiao Yu.

A-Yan tore off a loose thread from the blanket. The little Daoist priest twisted the cotton thread around his fingers loosely. He gestured his sharp chin towards Xiao Yu, and inquired: "He's letting you go?"

Lin Yan was going to just nod his head but suddenly clued into what the Daoist had said. He threw the pillow towards the little Daoist priest, and said happily, "There's nothing to let go of. Even people being stalked by ghosts have basic human rights, don't they?"

The little Daoist put his chin on the pillow. He shook his head: "I-I can see that he likes you."

Lin Yan stiffened. His tone was somewhat unnatural: "Stop talking nonsense. What does it matter who he likes." Lin Yan packed the dinner containers and hurriedly changed the subject: "What do you want to eat tomorrow? I have ribs at home. I could make soup for you?"

A-Yan stared at him for a long time. His skin was very pale but his eyes were very dark. His pupils were more dilated than usual. In addition, he was covered with a sheen of sweat. At first glance, he looked a bit like a reptile. After staring at Lin Yan, his whole body was covered in a cold sweat. A-Yan's mouth twitched. A trace of coldness flashed in his eyes and he said softly: "Ghosts are very possessive about what they want. Don't mess with them."

Lin Yan's hands stopped moving. After A-Yan spoke, he suddenly felt that the room had grown too quiet and he panicked. His eyes fell from Xiao Yu's back and moved all the way down to his black boots standing on a small section of floor tile. Lin Yan barely squeezed out a smile: "Don't worry, I know. We're just strangers, really. I want to live a normal life again."

Lin Yan had always tried to avoid going to the same events as Weiwei, but he couldn't really avoid it this time. On one hand, he promised he'd go. On the other hand, he was getting sick of staying looked up in his apartment recently and was bored. Just looking at the talismans and spells plastered all over his house, the thread-bound books on the table, sofa, and his bed, Lin Yan felt like he had become an old witch in a fairy tale. All he was missing was a broomstick to fly out of his twelfth-floor apartment. He just wanted to hear another human voice. Lin Yan sighed. Any human voice other than Xiao Yu, A-Yan or Yin Zhou.

But, in the end, once Lin Yan showed up at the address, he was regretting it. Weiwei always loved to have a good time. He didn't make it in time for dinner and was dragged directly to Houhai for the second stop of the night when he showed up at the restaurant he was supposed to meet them at. The summer night was warm and humid, with bars lining the lake's shoreline. The evening breeze was filled with the light scent of lotus flowers. The atmosphere reminded Lin Yan about the old days. After dinner, he and Weiwei would walk along the lake with a street lamp casting their shadows on the ground. When the jazz musician took off his hat and whistled at the two of them, Weiwei unceremoniously blew kisses back, and Lin Yan smiled warmly at her side.

In all fairness, his past with Weiwei was pretty good. It wasn't perfect, but it was simple and heartfelt.

At that time, he also seriously thought about proposing to Weiwei. He had thought out a future that he could see her being a part of.

So what happened?

The background music of the bar was wild, the strong drum beats hitting his eardrums, and even his heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the music. Lin Yan was bored out of his mind. He sat in the corner with a cup of Chivas whiskey infused with black tea. Men and women embraced in the dark, twisting their bodies between the small gaps between the tables, like a frenzy of madness. The amount of tea in his cup was slowly going down and the whiskey burned his throat. When he drank it all, Lin Yan felt that the world was spinning. He dizzily lay across the table, whispering a name over and over again.

. . . Xiao Yu, Xiao Yu.

His brain was muddled from the alcohol and it didn't have a filter anymore. It took Lin Yan a long time to understand what he was saying. "You're a fucking pervert." He smacked himself.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #dig a grave to dig out a ghost #english translation #chinese bl #chinese novel #bl novel #yaoi novel #yaoi #danmei novel #danmei

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schnitzelbutterfingers · 4 years ago

Text

The Forgotten One (Ethan Ramsey x F!MC)- CHAPTER 3

a/n: first, i wanna wish everyone a happy thanksgiving from my family to yours! please take the time to thank everyone you are so grateful to have in your life, especially god, for letting us live and for all the blessings he gives us. do not take anyone for granted.

next, so sorry for the holdup!! finally, chapter 3 is here! we’ll see what abby feels about the attack, her and ethan conversing, and a surprise ending. read, like, and let me know your reviews! forgive me if there are any spelling mistakes or grammar errors. let me know if you wanna be added to my taglist and as always, enjoy (ɔ◔‿◔)ɔ ♥

summary: Louise Ramsey, the mother of the famous, brilliant diagnostician Ethan Ramsey, is back into his life. However, Louise holds many secrets, dangerous secrets, that could harm him, Dr. Abigail ‘Abby’ Chacko (my MC), and the very few lives he actually cares about. It is up to Ethan, Abby, and their friends to save each other from what is about to come.

pairing(s): dr. ethan ramsey x f!mc (dr. abigail ‘abby’ chacko) || dr. sebastian chacko x dolores hudson (YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT)

warning(s): angst, and then it’s pure fluff, and then a surprise ending (you’re gonna die die dieeee :)))

word count: 4289

catch up here :)

______________________________________________________________

Abby’s POV

When she wakes up it is with a headache, a throat ache and side pain. When she looks more closely at her nose, she sees an oxygen tube through them. When she looks more closely at her surroundings, she realizes she is in a hospital bed.

Lying down. Wearing a sky blue hospital gown. With an IV through her accessory cephalic vein.

Jumping Jehoshaphat, what happened this time?

Abby spent many times in the hospital during her childhood. Most of them were due to the number of cuts and bruises she got from her father, in which some of them were very serious injuries. One time she was admitted to the hospital because...

No, Abby. Don’t relive through that phase. It’ll wound you more.

There are many types of pain. Many of her pains were physical, but some of her pains were emotional. By far, she can tell the emotional pain is the hardest to get over with.

Sure, she has been cut with a knife, raped by many of her father’s friends, and whipped with a belt. To her it was normal, and she had gotten used to it. To others, the pain is insufferable.

Heartbreak hurts. Too much. It can rip people from the inside out, and change them. For better or worse.

Her father caused her many heartbreaks. In return, she studies, skipped five grades, graduated from high school when she was 13, and graduated from Hopkins when she was 21. Some might say she took it too far, but she knows it was just what she needed.

What she needed to prove to her father that pain doesn’t break her.

What she needed to prove to her horrid patients that she is not dumb.

What she needed to prove to the whole world that she is not as young and innocent as everyone thinks she is.

Death, betrayal, and pain were her three companions, with some delectation in between. She cherished those jocund moments.

And she thanked God. Seb. Jazmin. Ethan. Herself. For all the hard work.

But what happened right now? Why is she in this bed?

It feels as if she has fallen into a cactus, her heart being punctured by tiny pins and needles. It’s starting at the bottom of her stomach, and it’s slowly growing.

The anxiety.

The depression.

It feels like some kind of vaccination, where the shot doesn’t really hurt but the aftermath feels disastrous, cataclysmic. It’s leaving her breathless, as if she is running away from a ghost from her past. It is leaving a certain kind of exhaustion on her.

It’s heartbreak. But why? Why does she feel heartbreak? What could have possibly gone wrong-

Everything. Everything is going wrong. Bingo. She knows what is happening. But she can’t even speak the name out loud. It’s petrifying her. Really well.

Louise Ramsey.

Ethan’s mother who claimed to come for him and Alan.

Louise Ramsey.

The one who tricked them, including her.

Louise Ramsey.

The one who stabbed her. The one who she trusted.

The one who she believed had a change of heart didn’t have a change of heart at all.

She fooled everyone. She’s a liar. She is manipulative. She is every dark sin written across this universe. She is the next generation of Sat-

Wait. Wait a long moment.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

How is Abby supposed to tell this to Ethan of all people? How is she supposed to let him know his own mother tried to harm her?

But she had to.

Moisture is falling from the tip of her index finger, even if the bed sheets feel cool. Sweat is dripping from her forehead, even if the hospital room is air conditioned. An imaginary shock travels through her body. The sharpness of the pain is unequivocal and indisputable that it sends shockwaves through her bloodstream. If it wasn’t for the bed, she would have crumpled to the floor.

She is currently holding the bed frame with a white-knuckled grip.

The young doctor scratched her arm nervously, mindful of the IV, as she let that horrifying memory fly through her.

Louise stabs her in the side, blood spilling to Abby’s legs and on the floor. She couldn’t say anything, words failing to come our of her mouth, every second making it harder to breather. She starts to lose consciousness, hearing the sounds of the patients in the room screaming for security.

Louise whispers into her ear, “The game has begun.”

The last thing she sees is Louise running towards the exit and nurses coming towards Abby, before her world evades into darkness.

That’s what happened. That’s why she’s in the hospital bed, feeling like crap.

That’s why she feels heartbreak, of all the emotions she can feel. She has heard of brother cheating on brother and father cheating on his wife. But a mother disowning her own husband and son, but then comes back only for her to clown them?

That goes all the way back to Rebekah and Jacob in the Old Testament of the Bible, if you ask me.

She is back to the question on how she is supposed to tell Ethan.

Does he know? If he knows, how does he feel? Does he feel depressed?

She sure hopes not.

When something happens to Abby, he always blamed on himself. Whether it was his fault or not. She reminisces on when Ethan apologized and was filled guilt when he found out about the trial.

Or when he came back from the Amazon. He didn’t really apologize for that, but the regret and remorse lurking beneath his eyes was the only thing she needed to know. To know that he was feeling guilt. Dismay. Lamentation.

Or when he opened up his bottled-up feelings concerning his mother. He said that he wasn’t planning on ‘dragging’ her into his mess.

Or when she was in that decontamination room. She remembers his words clearly, words that were etched into her heart.

I wished I hadn’t asked you to stay away.

Or now.

If he knows.

She knows what will happen if Ethan blames himself for this. He will be a different person. He will start becoming cold-hearted to people he cares about. He will push her away. Again.

Because he tends to believe that it is all his fault that accidents happen to the people he cherishes the most. He thinks that he is a curse. A malediction. An imprecation. She remembers the night when they connected for the first time. What he said.

This is The Ethan Ramsey. The man who can save anyone except the people he gives a damn about. Not Dolores. Not Naveen. And not you.

She was torn by what he said. Not because he said he couldn’t save her, but because he couldn’t love himself.

The young doctor hopes he already knows what happened. Who stabbed her. She couldn’t even bear the thought of seeing his face crumble. The man who was stoic. The man who every one recognized as an imbecile. The man who every single doctor is head-over-heels in love with.

Ethan told her to tell him everything. Everything that makes her angry. Everything that makes her sad. Everything that makes her happy.

If he doesn’t know what happened, she will tell him. She promised him that.

*Flashback*

It's normal for Abby to have a panic attack. Keeping her inhaler with her was vital for her to go through the day. Especially this week.

It’s been one week after the incident. That incident. That incident that took two innocent lives. Danny and Bobby. It’s all her fault.

If Danny was alive, him and Sienna would’ve been a couple, loving each other. Now, she sees a Sienna whose eyes are haunted. Grave. Not filled with any giddy or joy. She doesn’t see her smile anymore, the once blushed cheeks with her beautiful grin that shows off her dimples, gone. Lost. Thrown away.

If Bobby was alive, he could’ve bought his daughter the new car. It was what he always wanted to do. Instead of enjoying his time with his daughter in her brand new car, he’s under the cold earth.

Rafael is now going under therapy, but he also feels less confident from Rafael the paramedic. She misses the way he smiles. He does smile now, but there is no joy beneath his eyes.

And for Abby, she is not okay. She wishes she died. But she knows she couldn’t. There are people rooting for her. Her brother. Her mother. Her friends. Ethan. Ethan.

When she was informed that the gas in her body was maitotoxin and there was no cure, she accepted her fate and was ready to die. She glanced at Ethan, and his expression wasn’t betraying anything. But the eyes held more feelings than ever. They were pleading. They said, “Please don’t give up.”

She then realized that if they can find a cure within one day, she’ll try and survive. If not for me, then for Ethan and all the people I love, she thought.

Abby starts passing through that hallway. That one hallway. That one hallway that changed her life. No, that one room. And then, she passes through that room.

It’s clean, all the seals, the beds inside with new blankets and pillows. But she can’t see any of that. She can only see her, Rafael, Danny, and Bobby in that room. She sees Bobby dying. She sees Danny being taken away. She sees Rafael and herself being unable to breathe.

Suddenly she runs away. She can’t take it anymore. You stupid, why would you even come back to the hospital when you’re not ready yet? she scolds herself. Because of Farley. Damn it.

Abby is flooded by her own thoughts when she accidentally runs into someone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I-”

Only to know that someone is the one.

She hears his baritone voice calling out to her, finding comfort and solace in it.

“Abby? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Ethan wipes something off her cheeks, and she realized that she was crying the whole time. She was so lost in her emotions that she didn’t a single drop falling down to her right cheek.

“I-” The young doctor tries to speak but couldn’t. She can’t breathe.

“Rookie!” Ethan quickly drags her to the nearest supply closet. He asks her where her inhaler is.

“Left... pocket...”

He hastily grabs and places it into her mouth.

“Deep breaths, rookie. Deep breaths.”

She does as she is asked and takes deep breaths. After a few long moments, her breathing level starts to go normal.

“Rookie, you weren’t ready for your first day back, were you?”

Abby starts to argue. “Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you panic attack right now seems to prove otherwise.”

She sighs. He’s right. She wasn’t even ready to set foot into the hospital. The only reason she did was because of Farley’s rash, and she thought it was life threatening.

Ethan sighs, breaking her from her thoughts.

“Go home, Abby, you’ve had a long day.”

Abby is about to snipe back when he stops her by raising his hand.

“On second thought, I’ll take you to my house. We’re gonna take a day off.”

“But Ethan, we both have patients-”

“Who will be taken care of by the other doctors in this hospital. If you think I’ll be leaving you anytime soon, you’re wrong.”

Hearing his words makes Abby feel lighthearted. She is stubborn just like him, but he’ll always be there for her.

After getting a confirmation and a wink from Naveen, they are in the car. It’s 1:00 P.M., and Abby sees couples sitting on the chairs in the outside booths of a restaurant, smiling, one couple holding hands. She dreams of these moments with Ethan, but their relationship is still uncertain.

The car stops at a red light, and she turns around to look at Ethan, who is lost in thought.

“Ethan, are you alright?” she asks him, concerned.

The mature doctor cracks a dry smile towards her. “I should be asking you that.”

“Ethan...”

“Abby... are you having suicidal thoughts?”

Abby was astounded by his question.

“Ethan! Why would you think that?”

“I’m just asking. If you ever feel that, come talk to me immediately. I can’t...”

It hit her on what Ethan was thinking about. He doesn’t want her to leave. As much as the question made her a little frustrated, she couldn’t help but think about what he was feeling throughout the whole ordeal n the decontamination room.

Abby takes a deep breath. “Ethan, I’m not suicidal. I never have been. I was just uncomfortable, that’s all.”

Ethan looks at her deeply into her eyes. She can literally feel him searching for any lies at her statement, his body relaxing when he didn’t find any.

When he stops the car, she realizes that they’re here. Before Abby can take off her seatbelt, Ethan’s hand on hers stops her from doing anything. She looks up with a questioning expression.

Ethan speaks in a very stern but concerned way. “If you ever have anything irritating or frustrating you-” he kisses her on the forehead.

“Anything that brings you pain-” He kisses her on the nose, making her scrunch it.

“Anything at all, that makes you want to cry out-” He kisses her on both cheeks.

“You come and tell me. Promise me” He finally kisses her on the lips.

As the final words come out from Ethan’s lips, she wonders about how she is so lucky to have him. Tears were burning in the back of her eyes, but this time, they were tears of gratefulness. To Ethan. For being her best friend. She cracks a smile.

“I promise.”

*Back to present*

“Hello? Ma’am? Doctor?” she is interrupted from her thoughts by a male nurse. When she checks his tag, his name is Caspian Chapman, and he has a light British accent. She hasn’t seen him before. Abby suddenly feels embarrassed. Who knows how many times, he called her like that.

“Hi, I am so sorry,” she says shyly. “I was lost in thought. Were you speaking to me this whole time?”

Caspian gives her a wide smile. “Nope! I just came in! My name is Caspian, and I will be your nurse! I am new here so...” he trails off.

The young resident laughs, despite the pain on her left side. “Haha, don’t worry! I’m not one of those Karens! Now tell me, how long will I be staying here?”

“From the stab wound you received, you will probably be admitted here for a week.”

Abby inwardly groans, wanting to just go home. Of course this would happen. Even if she’s disappointed by the news, she knows that it is vital for her to recover.

“So, did the stab wound affect my liver or...” she winces at her left side.

Caspian sighs. “You are correct. They brought you to surgery quickly, or who knows what would have happened.”

“Wait, how did you know I’m a doctor?”

Caspian smiles again. “Are you kidding me? You are Dr. Ethan Ramsey’s protege and in the diagnostics team! Not only that, you helped him save Dr. Naveen Banerji! You are also popular on Instagram. Anyone would kill to be in a spot and reputation like you.”

Her cheeks grow red.

“I suppose so...” she trails off.

The new male nurse speaks. “Anyways, I should let Dr. Ramsey, Dr. Banerji, and your family know that you are awake! They will be at relief.”

Wait, what? Ethan is here? Naveen is here? My family is here? They must’ve found out the harsh truth.

As Caspian turns to leave, Abby stops him. The nurse turns around.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“I just wanted to know if they knew who stabbed me.”

Caspian grimaces. “Yes, they are well aware. Do you not wish to speak to them?”

Oh no. Ethan knows. What will she do? Should she call in her family first? No Abby, he'll think that I’m mad at him! She inwardly slaps herself.

Okay, Abby, deep breaths. She took a deep breath, held it for three seconds, and exhaled.

“Can you do me a favor and call in Eth- Dr. Ramsey first?”

“I will,” he replies back.

______________________________________________________________

Ethan’s POV

He is terrified. Terrified to go and see her. Terrified to talk to her. But he has to. He has to let her know he loves her. He has to let her know that he can’t live without her. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Seb.

“Ethan, buddy, remember what I said. Tell her you love her. Make yourself happy. Make her happy. And she will never blame you for anything that happened. She’s a very reasonable girl.”

He looks into Seb’s eyes, and sees that there is something he didn’t tell him. Some kind of sadness, but there is happiness mixed in. He will find out later.

The older doctor turns around and sees the support written in their faces. Seb. Jazmin. Naveen. They are smiling broadly.

Naveen claps him on his back. “Now go get your woman, Ethan.”

Ethan smiles back. “Thank you, guys.”

He took a deep breath and opened the doors.

There she is. Abby. At once, she turned her head around, and at once, dusky brown met ocean blue. She looks tired, her body a little weak, but she still gives him a wide smile that sends his heart swooping forward. Oh, he has it bad.

“Ethan. Hey.” Abby welcomes him and pats at a seat on her bed. He, however, was hesitant to do so.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you...”

She rolls her eyes. “Ethan, I was stabbed, not hit by a truck. Now, be a good boy and sit on the bed.”

He does as he is asked, sitting on the edge, eyes never leaving hers. “How do you feel?”

“My side’s kinda sore, but I’ll survive... How are you?” she asks hesitantly.

“W-What do you mean?” he stutters. Ethan Ramsey never stutters.

“...I know who the perpetrator is, Ethan.” So she does know.

Before Ethan can say anything, Abby replies. “I know you are blaming yourself for what your mother did. But I will say it again and again until it gets through that smart head of yours. It’s not your fault, do you hear me?”

His eyes are shining with tears, his heart all the way up to his throat.

“Abby... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He blinks, and a droplet fails to stay in his eyes, escaping from the confinement.

The young resident suddenly sits up, wincing a little at the abrupt movement. Her eyes are full of alarm. “Ethan, c'mere.”

And he does. He hugs her tight, mindful of her side, his nose nuzzling his neck. Abby wraps her arms around him and strokes his hair. The motion gives him a sense of peace. His eyes drop a few more tears. I will tell her.

“Abby, I love you.” She tenses. Before she says anything, he cuts her off.

“No, Abby, please listen to me. I’ve loved you since the first day you’ve stepped foot into this hospital. I love how you’re always a colossal pain in my ass. I love how your eyes sparkle every time you hear good news. I love how your dimples pop up when you smile. I love how you bite your lip when you think about something. I love everything about you. Your courage. Your admiration. Your passion. I love you body. I love you face. And i now know, that I never want to let you go again.”

When Ethan pulls back and cups her face, he can see the tears glistening, failing to hold still and dropping down onto her cheeks. She half-sobs and half-laughs.

“Ethan, I love you, too.” And that is all he needs to hear.

He kisses her cold lips gently and pulls back, finding his sense of relief. She, in return, kisses his forehead. He promises to himself one thing: he’ll never let her go again.

______________________________________________________________

Seb’s POV

Seeing them crying of happiness makes him smile, his heart feeling elevated with joy. They deserve this joy. They both’ve been through a lot lately, and confessing their love for each other was their first step towards recovery.

“Psst! Seb!” Amma. Behind her is Naveen.

“How is it going there?”

The surgeon smiles triumphantly. “Our plan worked.”

Quiet cheers came out of their mouths.

“Finally!” Naveen sighs. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for months. Ethan’s too damn stubborn for his own good.”

Seb laughs quietly. “That he is.”

Amma scratches his wool sweater. He just realized the feeling of itch on his skin because of the wool. And he can’t wait to take it off. But they won’t be leaving Abby’s room for the next two days. Not him, at least.

“Will it be alright if we go in and interrupt them?” Amma asks hesitantly. “I have an urge to hug my daughter after the incident.’

“I am sure that will be alright.”

Amma knocks the door. After hearing an acknowledgment, all three of them walked in.

“Hi Ethan, is it alright if I hug my daughter? I do not mean to waste any of your-”

Ethan looks at her incredulously. “Why would you ask me if you want to hug your own daughter? I don’t mind at all.”

The famous doctor looks at Seb with a questioning look, who shrugs.

Mother rushes forward and hugs Abby carefully, sobbing as she kisses al of her face. The resident sighs.

“Amma, look at me.” Abby forces Jazmin’s face to her. “I. Am. Fine.”

“Sorry, Ladoo, your mother was just very worried when we got the call. I won’t try to cry, alright?”

The Chacko smiles easily. “now that’s what I wanted to hear from you. My Amma is strong.”

Abby sighs and looks at Seb and Naveen, smiling cheerily. “Who’s next in line for cuddles?”

Seb comes forward, finally at ease when he kisses her forehead gently. He hugs her as tight as he can, the injury preventing him for hugging her more.

“Please, for the love of Pete, please never scare us like that again.”

She laughs lightly and cuddles closer to him. “I’ll try not to.”

Seb looks up and sees Ethan with a light smile on his face. He finally feels light, free.

He then hears Jazmin’s stomach grumble lightly. Abby laughs hearing this. “Why did you guys not eat? All of you need to get food. Now.”

“I’m not gonna leave you this time around,” he replies.

Seb’s sister groans. “I knew you would say that.”

The surgeon has an idea. “How about I get all of us some burgers from a nearby restaurant? Since I doubt Ethan’s gonna like what he gets from the cafeteria.”

The famous attending shrugs and then grins easily. “You know me so well.”

“Only for you.”

Abby is on a strict water diet for two days, so he considers buying a cup of chocolate pudding for her. As he leaves the room, he sees Naveen hugging Abby, which brought some emotions to the Chacko. Naveen is like the father he never had before.

Seb is really joyous and filled with triumph at the love confessions between Abby and Ethan. He only wishes it could happen to him.

But it can’t. Because he lost the love of his life last year. Due to a seizure. While she was giving birth. All of their promises. All of their hopes and dreams. Gone. Forever

I miss her... I miss her a lot.

Suddenly, he hears a whistle. A familiar whistle. It sounds like her.

When she was alive, they used to whistle a lot. it was a form of their communication. The whistle that heard now was a way of saying, “Turn around.”

No, Seb, he thinks. You’re just letting yourself get too emotional. Stop hallucinating.

But then he hears it again. And it’s behind him. A little far away from him.

He’s afraid to turn around. He can’t move.

He forces himself to turn around, like the whistle had told him to.

And then he sees her. He sees her. He actually sees her.

No way, it can’t be... Suddenly, Seb speaks.

“...Dolores? Is that really you?”

She smiles. That smile. He missed that damn smile. Her face and hands are covered with small bruises.

And she talks. “Yeah, Seb. It’s me. Dolores Hudson. I’m alive. I really am.”

______________________________________________________________

Mystery Man’s POV

I give Louise some cash that she was looking forward to.

“Great, thanks!” she says with a smile.

“Anything for my wife,” I reply, with an emphasis on the word ‘wife’.

She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, don’t call me that. I married you to destroy them, not to love you. Now where’s that manicure you promised?”

Louise is annoying as hell. Sometimes I wonder how her former husband Alan dealt with her. What a man, I think.

She gives me a mischievous grin. “Now give me a kiss.”

I groan, and I quickly give her a kiss, not wanting it to last for long.

Then, I feel a vibration in my pocket. It’s my phone. I pick it up.

It’s one of my guards. And I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I bark him an order. Blood rushes through my veins, and for the first time in a long time, I feel fear.

I hang up the phone and look at Louise, whose eyes held confusion. I decide to answer her questioning glance.

“Missing captive alert. Dolores Hudson has escaped.”

______________________________________________________________

a/n 2: hope you liked that ending!

a/n 3: i know dolores died of a seizure while under an emergency c-section, but in this au, i refuse to believe so :)

tags:@missmiimiie @aylamwrites @starrystarrytrouble @udishaman @caseyvalentineramsey @queencarb @choicesstan1 @newcolonies @arcticrivers @angela8756 @takemyopenheart @rookie-ramsey @ohchoices @ohvamsey @ohramsey @natureblooms24 @drariellevalentine @maurine07 @lucy-268 @thanialis

@openheartfanfics

@choicesficwriterscreations

#pixelberry choices #choices stories you play #open heart #open heart choices #pixelberry #pixelberry open heart #ethan ramsey #playchoices #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey fanfiction

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genesisinferno · 3 years ago

Text

This was meant to be a future chapter for "Follow His Footsteps" but the scene wouldn't leave my brain so now you guys can have it and I can finally get it out of my head. I'll probably have to something a little differently for this planned scene, rip.

////

"Just this once," Cross said. He wouldn't do this again. He wouldn't let his guard down again - he couldn't. If only for himself, he couldn't afford to let his guard down more than once. He had to stay on track, he had to stay focused, he had to be cold and distant at all times...

But just this once. Just this one time, he could afford to let his guard down, right?

"Just this once," Killer agreed with a nod, something almost sly in his empty gaze. They both knew he didn't truly believe that and was just going along with it - he had every intention to get Cross to drop his guard again, regardless if Cross wanted to or not. Cross should care, he should withdraw or be annoyed. He should keep his guard up. But he was tired. So, so very tired. So, this time, only this time, he would let it go. But he would never do it again, no matter how much it hurt or how much it killed him inside. Just this once.

Cross stares at Killer for a moment, cautiously. A part of him still didn't want to let go - he had built this mask up for so long and he'd forgotten what he was like underneath. It almost scared him, not knowing who he was anymore. He'd been a different person in X-Tales and had worn a mask ever since he'd destroyed his home. To let go now, even if only for a short while, was terrifying. It was a vulnerability he hadn't allowed himself in so long. He could still put his mask back on after this, right? He could still pretend, right? Killer wouldn't... try to draw him out again, right? (He knows he would.)

Something in Cross snaps, strained and tired from the pressure of holding himself together for so long now, and that's all it takes. He ducks his skull, wrapping his arms around Killer in a loose hug. Cross drops his skull onto Killer's chest, his arms tightening until he's almost crushing Killer in his grasp. Killer, for once in his life, is silent as he wraps his own arms around Cross, returning the hug. Unlike Cross, Killer doesn't hesitate in holding him tightly, as if he's afraid that if he doesn't, Cross will run from him again. Something about the action, something about the unspoken intentions and feelings that lay underneath causes Cross to shake. He has to physically restrain himself from crying. He knows what he is and he knows what he does. Not just to Killer, but to the Dust and Horror too. Even to Nightmare and Error. He knows how he worries them, how he brushes off their concern so easily that it makes them frustrated to the point they feel angry and helpless. How they look out for him all the time and just want him to let them in - something Cross can't afford to do. Something Cross is too scared to allow, in his current situation. Because letting them in means getting more attached, means putting them in even more pain when he leaves. It means it'll hurt them further.

Just like Killer is hurt now, because of him. Cross hates the feeling of helplessness he feels, the frustration at not being able to help further, the guilt and the pain, and the worry and fear of losing Killer. He hates how he knows that they feel like this about him on a daily basis. But like he's done for so long, he doesn't allow himself to lament on his own mistakes or shortcomings - instead lashing out at the one before him.

"Dammit, Killer! You almost died, you idiot!" Cross snaps, glaring at the injured skeleton with unshed tears in his sockets. For a second, Killer seems almost surprised but then his signature grin stretches over his skull.

"Yeh, but I didn't," Killer states it like it's some obvious fact he's proud of, when he should be more concerned with the fact that he nearly died and still isn't completely in the clear yet. Until they find a way back to the castle, Killer's still very much at risk. Especially since Cross' makeshift first aid wouldn't do much more than support Killer's injuries until they could get proper help.

"That doesn't make it any better," Cross whines, almost childishly. Oddly enough, Killer's casualness helps to keep the tears at bay. If he can still do that much, then it's possible it's not affecting him as much as Cross had originally feared. It's something he has to chance to bounce back from like usual.

"Sure it does," Killer chirps and looks at him teasingly. "Ya worried anyway?" The question takes Cross aback, because of course he is. It had been his fault Killer was injured to begin with. He got hurt protecting Cross while he was stupidly distracted by something or the other. Despite how much Cross tried to deny it, tried to refuse the feelings, he cared about Killer - about all of the bad Sanses, even though he couldn't afford to. He's discovered he's absolutely terrible at remaining detached when put in front of skeletons hellbent on caring for him - even though he didn't need the care or the worry.

"I... of course I am. You... you're hurt and it's my fault. You could have died and it would have been my fault," Cross mumbled sadly, the tears finally spilling out of his sockets. They dropped down onto Killer's shirt, soaked up by the fabric.

"Hey. Hey. Don't say shit like that, makes you seem like you really care underneath all that bravado," Killer chuckled. Cross gripped him tighter for a second, remembering himself. Killer was right. Even if Cross decided to let his guard down for a bit, he still shouldn't say stuff like that. He couldn't take it back. Killer seemed to notice the change, quickly speaking up again.

"In all seriousness... don't worry 'bout it. I ain't going anywhere. Think you can get rid of me that easily?" Killer seemed amused by the thought that anyone could even consider the thought of it. As if he were immortal. He wasn't. He was strong but even he could die. Not to say that it was easy to kill him - Killer was like a parasite with a grudge, hellbent on taking everyone down with him.

"No..." Cross sighed and Killer's smug grin sharpened. Cross just sighed, burying his skull in Killer's chest and simply soaking in the fact that Killer was alive and allowing himself to be relieved at the fact instead of pushing it away. He'd gotten him out in time. He'd been there. They've avoided the worst case scenario. Killer was alive and they still had a chance out of this.

"...do you want me gone?" Killer's voice is quiet, far quieter he's ever heard it, and Cross can just barely pick up on the insecurity hidden within it. His skull snaps up, more from the tone than the actual question itself. Killer is supposed to be annoyingly confident, not sad or insecure.

"No!" Cross denies immediately, surprised and more than willing to fight Killer on this if he has to. There's the slightest shift to Killer's expression and a tenseness to his body that Cross isn't familiar with. To his surprise, at his words, Killer's expression returns to normal and he relaxes slightly, pulling Cross closer to him minutely.

"Then it's all good, yeh? Besides, I'm getting a voluntary hug from the solitary soldier himself, so it wasn't all for nothing. Heh," Killer chuckles, and Cross glares at him for it. He has half a mind to ignore Killer entirely. His inability to shut up ruins everything.

But then the smile drops off Killer's face again and Cross finds himself unable to keep the glare up, instead watching Killer in concern.

"Just this once... tell me something, Criss-Cross," Killer's voice is quiet and soft that it doesn't even sound like his voice anymore. Cross isn't used to this vulnerability and it's beginning to send him into a panic. He doesn't know how to deal with stuff like this anymore. He hasn't dealt with stuff like this - even for himself, that he doesn't know what to do. "Do ya care at all? Would you... be better off without me?"

Everything about that question was wrong, especially coming from Killer. From secure, overconfident, stupid Killer. And it hurt. Crap, it hurts and this is exactly what Cross was trying to avoid. He didn't want to hurt and he certainly didn't want any of the Bad Sans to hurt because of him. Apparently, he'd failed both points, because Cross cared so damn much that it hurts. He didn't want to lose Killer. He couldn't stand the thought of it, let alone bear the pain that would come from it. He'd lose whatever sanity he had left if he lost one of them, he just didn't want to admit it. That is, he didn't want to admit until Killer asked. Because now Cross was willing to, if it meant that Killer would just stay.

"I don't wanna lose you. So don't go, Killer," The tears spilled out of his sockets, as he whispered, "You've gotta... You've gotta stay with me, okay? D-don't leave me." Killer held him tighter, as if afraid to let him go and Cross clutched onto him for dear life, afraid to ever leave this moment.

///

I don't own any characters. This is meant purely platonically but I guess you can see it as Kross if you want to. But yeah, this is meant to be brotherly, with Cross being super afraid to open up and finally taking one of the first steps to. I wrote this instead of writing the next chapter but since this isn't a major delay, I think I can get away with it.

#killertale sans #cross sans #X tales #bad sanses #if you squint you can view it as cross #future chapter rip me #platonic #brotherly love here #hi if you're reading tags #are tumbler tags like ao3 tags?#because I have every intention to have fun with it if so #cross #killer #bonding #if you squint you can view it as Kross #xtale sans

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