#I try to talk refined for fear that you might find out how I’m imagining you | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovenona · 3 years ago

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ON THE SACRED BONDS OF BROTHERHOOD.

synopsis; choso may be their beloved frat brother, but he’ll always be your brother first. (for the frat au collab.)

pairing; frat boy! choso x f! reader

contains; stepcest, dubcon (reader is under the influence but having a good time), extensive descriptions of knife play and blood play, marking (choso carves his name into you), oral (f! receiving), borderline yandere/possessive choso (he loves you A Lot), choso goes from mean to Soft, consumption and romanticization of drugs and alcohol, (1) use of ‘angel’, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns, this is essentially all foreplay and ends before the fucking because i got tired, minors do not interact or perish

word count; 6.5k

the yard outside is clean, well-kept. there’s talk that the house’s landlord is a retired gardener who receives great joy from keeping up the hydrangeas and peonies along the sidewalk. it’s certainly award-winning, that front yard, with its colorful blossoms and plush bees circling the mailbox.

they’re so lucky, students bemoan on their way to and from class. i can’t believe the frat boys get to live there. i bet they don’t even know how lucky they are.

it’s a seemingly kind house from the outside – recently renovated with navy blue paint and white trimming, a large front porch and a few inviting windows. the place that omega lambda now calls home is, simply put, a dream. it sits just a few minutes from campus and it tells the street proudly, fondly, that there is no better place to be than here.

it’s true, in some respects, that omega lambda likes to see themselves as above the sweat and grime of their fellow frat brothers. they don’t spend their weekends “fucking and drinking” and tracking dirt across the carpet like animals. their fun is calm, refined: to be invited to a night with omega lambda means a night of smoke curling into the air, of gossip over olive-colored couches, of pills under tongues, of ease and relaxation.

it’s slower than the others, they say in the back of monday morning lectures, but no less extreme, no matter what those boys try and tell you.

i think i was tripping for days, the girl from psychology 101 boasted. whatever the fuck yuuji gets is strong.

such stories amaze you: and even as you stand on the sidewalk outside the perfect blue house, petunias curling inward with the evening breeze, you cannot believe they are real. it’s hard to imagine the face of your beloved stepbrother tied to these antics. it’s hard to imagine that the boy who used to come home every winter and summer with bloodshot eyes and a beat-up skateboard also swore a loyal, unbreakable oath of brotherhood to a band of boys you’ve never met.

it’s hard to imagine that your own stepbrother, choso, the one who taught you how to ride a bike and how to apply eyeliner and how to kiss without teeth, quite literally runs what has been dubbed the chillest fraternity on campus.

but yet, here you are, new to university, fresh-faced and eager, cowering outside the door of the omega lambda residence. your favorite skirt hovers around your thighs and you tug at the collar of your shirt, fiddle with the charm of the necklace choso gave you for your birthday a few years ago.

he’d invited you here almost immediately after learning that you and your roommate had tried your hand at partying with beta pi epsilon. naoya is trash, choso’s fervent texts read the next morning. absolute dick – don’t trust him. come hang out with us instead. he’d attached the address of the blue house along with a reminder to have a snack and take some medicine for your godforsaken hangover.

the message had taken you a little by surprise. choso’s always been sweet to you – doting, even, if you wanted a better word for it – but you hadn’t been sure how he’d handle attending the same university. your other friends all complain that they’d rather die than see their families; twins separate after orientation, brothers and sisters look the other way if they pass each other in the quad. you feared choso would be the same, that the omnipotent attention he gave you at home would completely dissipate the moment you moved into your dorm.

but his text reaffirms you, if anything. and although your roommate had opted to be wined and dined by the boy from calculus this evening, you don’t mind attending alone. her absence from your side only means you will be able to see your stepbrother without a distraction.

the music buzzes through the door as you knock and wring your fingers on the doorstep. should you just walk in? should you text choso and wait for him to fetch you? the ins-and-outs of frat etiquette cloud your mind until the door swings open and you’re met, face-to-face, with a young pink-haired man dangling a blunt from one hand and his phone, opened to his spotify playlist, from the other.

“hi,” you say, words foreign in your throat. “choso invited me?”

“oh, cool,” itadori yuuji says, shrugging his shoulders like he never would have questioned it. “come on in. you can put your shoes over there.”

while omega lambda is not packed from wall to wall as your night at beta pi epsilon had been, the various couches propped against the walls and surrounding the living room coffee table are nearly packed to the brim with the frat brothers and their guests. the air, hazy with smoke and desire and drinking, shifts and swirls as it curls around purple LED lights before fogging up the windows and disappearing up the stairs. it is warm here, easy, like dropping into the depths of a pleasurable dream.

“there’s drinks in the kitchen,” yuuji is saying, voice thick with his high, “and we’ve got some other stuff on the table, although you’ll have to pay yuuta for those–”

yuuji’s narration is cut off as a familiar figure crashes into yours, sweeping you into a hug so tight you fear your bones will snap from the pressure. choso smells like the cologne you bought him for his birthday, like fresh laundry and comfort; you breathe him in, deeply, and let yourself relax into the soft cotton of his black t-shirt.

“glad you could make it,” choso mumbles into your skin. he draws back slightly, drinks you in, your little skirt and your dainty socks that he’s always been partial to. he looks from you to yuuji, still vibing to the side with his playlist, and his eyes crinkle in what must be mirth.

“it’s good to see you,” you say.

“you saw me at lunch with mom last week.” choso smiles, the black line across his nose crinkling when his eyes light up.

“you get what i mean.” you tap his shoulder, lightly, as emphasis. the anxiety dissolves; it’s you, and him, like it’s always been. it’s your stepbrother choso who watches your shadow and wraps you up to keep the rest of the world at bay.

but the tender moment is broken when someone, a tall blonde girl with the aura of a lioness, calls out to choso to ask him for assistance. he looks at you, a bit forlorn, before telling yuuji to help you get settled in and making his way to the other end of the living room.

“yes, this way!” yuuji grabs your arm and drags you across the floor like you’ve known each other forever. “i make some fucking good drinks if i do say so myself.”

which, consequently enough, is how you find yourself losing your mind within the walls of omega lambda.

it’s not that you’re a virgin to the world of cocktails and lime and pills: it’s that you’re too sweet to know when to stop. it’s hard to tell yuuji no more, thanks when his face is so bright, when he and the strange, blue-haired frat brother mahito are asking you to try this and try that and to let us know what you think.

so you let yourself sway through the house, from couch to couch, listening to this mahito boy tell you about his latest philosophy courses as he dances cold fingers across your shoulders, listening to yuuji explain the very serious business of pulling an all-nighter without coffee, watching the LED lights shift from purple to blue and back again.

(you’re not sure where choso is. perhaps, in your altered state, he’s sitting just across from you and you don’t even know it. but you don’t mind, because his brothers get along with you just as well. you don’t mind, because you’re too drunk or too high to know any better.)

“and how are you doing?” a dark-haired man slides into the empty couch space next to you. arms littered with various tattoos and dark hair pulled back into a casual half-bun, he could have been your beloved choso had he not exuded such finesse, such arrogance, which choso could never be capable of doing.

“i’m alright,” you say, but you’re more than alright. the room is so warm and your brain is so fuzzy that you might melt into the couch if someone looked away for even a minute. “i don’t think we’ve met before? i’m choso’s stepsister.”

he simpers, a humid thing, one that coils around your eyelids and sets your insides alight. “ah! i’ve heard a lot about you. it’s nice to meet you.” he holds out a manicured hand; black nail polish glimmers in the dim light. “geto. i’m one of choso’s frat brothers.”

his handshake might take your soul with it. his hands are smooth, refined. you swear he can feel your quickening pulse as you introduce yourself. he watches you like you might be the only person in the room, like you might be the sweetest thing to have ever crossed the threshold. and filled with rum and liqueur and confidence you take it, gladly, because you’re young and the thought of university still puts stars in your eyes.

“so what are you studying?” geto is saying, prying you apart, picking through your history. he’s in his final year and you’re in your first and he knows all there is to know while you still have nothing. you latch onto him because he gets it, because he’s handsome, because you’re silly and desperate and drunk. somewhere along the way your thighs touch and his hand greets your shoulder and you think that you finally made it into his lap because mahito complained that the couch was too full.

geto smells like expensive cologne. you smell vaguely of lemons and shampoo. yuuji jokes with you from across the table and you like it, the way these brothers’ eyes fall on you.

so you spiral, further and further, into a daze you cannot escape from. you barely react to geto’s firm hand snaking up your bare thigh because you are too busy trying yuuji’s latest creation and asking mahito for more of whatever he gave you. it’s fun, it’s weightless; you feel beautiful, supreme, like the kind of college girl you’re supposed to be. you’re desirable, cute. you’re the girl to be in love with, the one who sets the scene.

those rumors were right. the party is certainly slower than the other frats you’ve visited, with more emphasis on sitting and vibing than on dancing and drinking games, but no less extreme. you’re so far out of your brain that you wonder briefly if it will ever be possible to come back down. maybe you’ll be her, on monday morning, the girl who’s still tripping.

“you know,” geto is saying, his breath eerily close to your pulse, a moment away from pressing a kiss to your cheek, your neck, “you should stop by more often.”

“yeah?” you hope you sound sexier than you are. “i’d love to–”

“excuse me,” choso’s voice cuts through your lazy fantasy like the sharp fall of a guillotine. “i’d prefer if you didn’t hit on my sister, geto.”

geto’s laugh reverberates against your back, your ears. his grip on you lightens immediately, and whatever words he’d saved for you die away. “i’m not,” he says, but his voice is too easy to be honest. “just keeping her company. right, sweetheart?”

you’re finding it hard to see straight. caught in this game of cat and mouse you find you can do nothing but sit lamely in geto’s lap and watch choso’s favorite necklace reflect the purple light. it’s only after a revolution around the sun you realize you haven’t spoken, that you’ve done nothing but hover, a lot of drunk and a little high and a little nervous, between one man and the other. you mumble a yes in affirmation but it’s clear from the tension that choso doesn’t believe it.

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” choso sighs. “come on, then. you’ve had enough for one night.” familiar arms lift you off the couch and you stumble, much like a baby gazelle, into the safety of choso’s chest. the room spins with the sudden change; you cling to him like a lifeline as you abandon the party to head upstairs.

of course, bedazzled out of your mind, you do not question when choso leads you to the end of the hallway and over the threshold of his bedroom. it feels expected in a way, safe, as if the party had always been meaning to end here. as if there was no other place you should be.

“so?” choso asks, casually, shutting the door behind him with a damning click. “did you enjoy being a little whore with my brothers?”

his words take a long moment to settle in your ears. you’re caught in the swirl of euphoria in your brain, the black t-shirts scattered across the floor, the small houseplant you once bought him seated on the windowsill. it warms your heart to see it there, after all this time.

“well?” choso demands your attention. he takes your jaw in his hand and lifts your eyes to meet his gaze. his silver rings, imposing and cool on slender fingers, burn into your heated flesh like embers. his eyes swim with distaste and you know it’s your fault, somehow, but when the walls tilt and your rationality fogs over, you can’t quite pinpoint why.

“i–” your words catch in your throat. it’s clear, from the darkness in his eyes, from the way his nails dig into the soft flesh of your jawline, that anything you say to defend yourself will be futile. it’s choso’s world, you’ve always known, and even now, you’re merely living in it.

“i invite my sister to see me, because i miss her,” choso’s words nestle themselves deep into your bloodstream, settling amongst the brandy and wine, “and she chooses to spend the night bending over for my brothers. how do you think that makes me feel?”

it’s a look you know: a look that has haunted you for hours and days, a look that you know better than any other. it’s the look that guides the hand between your legs at night and the look you recreate in your mind’s eye when your vibrator just isn’t enough. you’re crumbling already, like sand beneath his touch.

“i’m sorry,” you say to him, but the words are soft and whispered things, shy beneath the weight of your own guilt and disappointment. “i didn’t mean to–”

“no,” choso admonishes. he steps closer, guiding you backwards until his bedsheets brush the backs of your knees. “of course you didn’t. you’re still too dumb to know what you’re doing.” his voice, evenly condescending, hardly matches the gentle brush of his fingers as he moves to cup your cheeks. you close your eyes against it, savoring the shivers he sends across you body with every heartbeat, every movement. “still need your big brother to keep you in check.”

you do not respond: he does not intend for you too. instead choso presses you back until you fall onto his bed, crawling over you to cage your body beneath him like a predator and its prey. your brain falters with the sudden movement, with the lateness of the hour and the depravity of your position, but you can do nothing but look at him with your helpless doe-eyes while something saccharine pools in your belly.

“look at you,” choso says. “high out of your damn mind. good thing i caught you when i did. who knows what would have happened.”

you believe him, you do, especially when choso dips his head to kiss you and demands your subservience. his tongue licks the aftermath of your cocktails from your lips and claims the expanse of your mouth, your teeth, your sanity. you let him take you, body and soul, even when you’re clamoring for air and freedom. there is no safety but choso’s lips, flavored with his cinnamon chapstick, no sacred home but the warmth of his mouth.

“there’s my girl,” choso breathes, nose brushing against yours as he pulls back for air. “going to be good for me now? going to make it up to your big brother?”

he doesn’t wait for a response; fingers dance along the silk of your blouse as he undoes each button, one by one, letting his fingers dip slyly against the newly exposed expanse of your collarbone and your chest and your stomach. you make no move to stop him, caught somewhere between choso’s aura and reality and time.

(and maybe in another life you would have stopped him. maybe in another life you would have been ashamed. but it’s choso, your sworn protector and god among men, and you would be a fool to try and stop the one who knows best. he is safety, protection. who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t taken you away when he did.)

“is this new?” choso asks, studying the curve of your bra as he rests against your hips. “who are you trying to impress?”

it’s thin lavender lace, choso’s favorite. your face warms at the observation and you turn your head away, nestling among the sheets, as if you could escape choso’s eyes: but his fingers still trace the material and you can still hear him breathing and you know he will never look away.

“i just got it,” you answer, humbled and mildly humiliated and certainly a little fucked up. the words are slow and imprecise as you stumble over your own tongue. “i wanted to…treat myself.”

choso’s exploratory hands move from your bra to the waistband of your skirt. “could’ve just asked me,” he says earnestly, intently. “i would’ve gotten it for you.”

your affirmative hum is lost when choso mindfully pulls your skirt down your legs and discards it somewhere in the shadows of the room. he says nothing of it, of the thin fabric or the way it flattered you just right. perhaps he is jealous of it. perhaps he does not want to remember the way his brothers looked at you when you wore it, the way geto’s hands caressed the places no other man should go.

“they match, i see,” choso gestures towards your underwear. terrified and knowing and aware that you’re growing damper with each passing minute, you press your thighs together. “they’re cute.”

“t-thank you,” you whisper. “i… i got them for you. your favorite color.”

he smiles, a precious and glorious thing, a smile that causes flowers to grow and birds to sing. you electrify at the sight of it, blissful only when he is.

“i’d hope so,” choso says, “because i don’t think i could take it if this was meant for someone else.”

he reaches over to the nightstand while his words claw through you. choso smells like cinnamon and safety and pleasure; your heartbeat quickens as his t-shirt brushes against you, as your world collapses into nothing but choso’s profile, his butterfly hair-clips and his glowing skin and his power.

when choso settles back over you, resting against your thighs until you think you might die of it, something silver and shiny rests in his palm. you’d recognize it even if your eyes were closed, if the room were so dark that you couldn’t see if you tried. a searing and insatiable sensation lodges itself in your veins; it is fear personified, it is anticipation of a behavior you cannot even name.

choso twirls his beloved switchblade deftly between his well-manicured fingertips. it reflects the low-light of the room. it calls out to you, the beautiful and dangerous thing, a siren’s song that promises both your misery and your fortune. choso’s face is relaxed, serene, as the envy and the fury seemingly melts away from him and leaves only a disinterested vessel behind.

he lets you study it, lets you study him, and you know he’s pleased when he can feel your thighs tense, when you try so damn hard not to let choso know just how affected you really are. he shifts, grinding gently against your pelvis as he moves, causing you to bite your lip in a desperate attempt to surpress the gentlest of moans.

“well,” choso says, disregarding the state he’s slowly working you into. he shifts down your body and runs a lackluster hand across the lacy expanse of your underwear. shivers pierce your navel, silver rings poison your skin. it’s all you can do to watch him, his heartless eyes and his casual form, as his thumb prods at the place where you underwear crosses your hip. “let’s get these off. i’d hate to have anyone else see you in them.”

you feel the blade before you see it. cold, unfriendly, it rests against the gentle skin of your hip, a killer ready to take a life. a humiliatingly choked whine is out of your mouth before you can swallow it; your gasp reverberates throughout the room, the sound of one who knows they’ve lost a fight.

“choso–” you breathe, but you don’t know quite what it is you’re asking him for.

he doesn’t answer immediately, opting instead to tease you further with the blade as he presses it against you until goosebumps rise in chorus. your fingers curl in on themselves, desperate for purchase, while fear and longing hum everywhere in your being.

“don’t worry,” choso says. “i’ll buy you more. now be good and stay still.”

you want to writhe, to lash out and squirm beneath the intensity of the moment, but you fear choso’s disappointment more than you crave such release. your big brother choso has never been afraid to hurt you: to pierce the skin where it hurts, to draw blood where he means it. if you move, the blade will move with you. you know this as you know every scar choso has left behind.

it’s agonizing, this pace. choso’s tongue peeks out from between his teeth as he works with the ease of a great master. it’s like watching paint dry, like waiting for grass to grow or continents to shift. he cuts away at the expensive lingerie you bought just last weekend like he has all the time in the world, like he does not care if the sun rises and you are still crying beneath him.

(and he does it, you know, because you’ve never been one to be patient.)

“choso,” you whine, drawing his name out, long and frustrated, as if in song. “go faster.” your legs twitch in protest and the blade comes ever closer.

“no.” choso does not even spare the kindness to look at you, his beloved little sister. “stop whining.”

the rest of your complaints lodge in your throat. you fear disobeying him, so you grip the comforter like a lifeline, exasperated tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the blade cuts through your clothes and ghosts across the bare skin beneath. it’s embarrassing, really, the way you can feel yourself becoming more and more desperate the further choso drifts away from you, the more he refuses to indulge.

you wonder if he can sense the arousal on you, feel it, smell it, even, like you’re nothing but his own little plaything in heat.

after an eternity, the blade finally cuts through your panties with a satisfying rip. the torn fabric sits pitifully against your hips, a reminder of your own subservience, until choso peels it away from you with enough condescension to move you to tears. the cool air of the room hits your thighs, your cunt, like a ghost who’s taken up residence beside you.

blissfully unaware of your feelings, choso studies the remains of your ruined underwear, the thin fabric and the obvious stain of your arousal. locking eyes with you, he bring it to his nose for a brief and pleasurable inhale before he discards it somewhere on the other side of the room.

“there we are,” he says, as if he hadn’t just smelled yourself in front of you. “now no one will ever know about it but me.”

“choso,” you whimper, hot. it’s a gift and a humiliation to be beneath him like this, to shake with need and yet to be denied it, to ask for something, for anything, in a voice so unabashedly loud that anyone who passes by the door might hear it.

he ignores you, again, and turns his attention to your bra as it flutters against your fervent chest. you watch with wide eyes as the blade comes closer, closer, dancing against your ribcage and sending ice into your lungs until it slices through the front of your bra, down the center of your chest, like the thin fabric was made of nothing but water.

“get rid of this,” he says; you listen. with quick and quivering fingertips you shimmy your way out of the delicate material and toss it over the side of the bed faster than the speed of sound. choso, pleased with your obedience, intently traces the curve of your breasts, thumbing your nipples until you find yourself arching into his touch.

(choso, you mumble, eyes falling shut at the feeling. still, as always, he does not listen. he draws his hands away.)

it kills you, the way choso’s eyes possess you, own you, dictate the movement in your bloodstream. it’s akin to being pulled along on marionette strings, a puppet of choso’s own design, made to dance for him and him alone.

it’s the prize he deserves, your big brother, to own you and protect you, body and soul.

it’s that very intensity which moves you to misty tears, which causes your hands to fly out to meet him against your better judgement. choso lets you pleasure yourself for a moment with the texture of his t-shirt and the outline of his shoulders before brushing your hands away like unnecessary flies.

“did you whore yourself out like this when you went to naoya’s?” choso prods. the patronization lies beneath feigned and genuine curiosity. there are no inflections, no signs of anger. this is how your big brother gets you, every time: it’s the neglect, the disinterest, that breeds your guilt. “are you really so easy for every boy that comes your way?”

you shake your head and wish you could bury yourself further into the bedsheets. no, never. try as you might the first-year college boys here just haven’t been enough, the older ones too preoccupied with better cunts to look your way.

“just because those guys are my brothers,” choso continues, shifting further and further down your body, spreading your legs until he can fit himself comfortably between them, “doesn’t mean i have to share everything with them.”

“i’m sorry, choso,” you try again, “i’m sorry. i don’t want anyone else–”

“that’s right,” choso interrupts. “you don’t need anyone else. no one is ever going to love you the way i do.”

the way your big brother does, his eyes say, but he doesn’t have to voice it. you already know. it’s true that no one knows you better than choso does. no one understands your limits and your desires the way your brother has for as long as you’ve known him. no one knows how to caress you when you cry, how to run their tongue across your lips to silence you when you’re too eager. it’s always choso. it’s always been choso; but sometimes you’re just too much of a fool to see it.

the blade, cool and demanding, presses against the soft flesh of your thigh, just below the hip. you twitch in surprise at the sensation and curl your toes to quell the ache in your cunt. it’s slick, weeping; you can feel it, the arousal, as it pools and pools and drips quietly onto the comforter.

“choso, what are you–” you ask, breathily, pitifully, but choso’s quick glare reduces you into obedient silence.

he licks the cinnamon chapstick on his lips. a stray hair falls across his eyes and kisses the dark line across his nose. he is love and danger, a cocktail of possession and surrender. “i think,” choso says, the words slow and thoughtful, “you need a reminder of who loves you the most.”

a strangled cry escapes your lips when the blade pierces your skin just enough to draw blood. the sting travels up through your spine and fogs up your senses, causes your cunt to weep in horrible anticipation. it hurts, it does, the first cut, but still you find yourself waiting for more of it, more, in terror and lust and love.

“choso–” you cry, a misty tear escaping out of the corner of your eye, but the call is met by another stroke, longer this time, drawn out, until your knuckles clutch the bedsheets so tensely they might as well turn to stone.

“stay still,” choso admonishes amidst the burn of it. “you’ll hurt yourself.”

as if you were the one in control. but you listen, obediently as always, and the alcohol from earlier combined with the need in your chest mixes together until your body is as taut as a desperate wire, until you no longer have control of yourself or your limbs. the knife cuts easily, choso’s hands as steady and precise as ever. you can feel the blood dripping onto his sheets like a series of hot tears.

it’s too much, all at once. it is a fire which destroys you, which renders every coherent thought into ash and causes you to sob nothing but drawn-out cries and pleads of choso’s name into the dark bedroom. he has you just where he wants you: pliant, dumb, obedient. if he asked you to fetch him a star, you would have asked him which one he needed.

choso’s tongue darts between his teeth as a steady hand continues its masterpiece. you sob unabashedly in reply with every stroke, with every flex of his fingers as he works his blade against your tender skin. and yet, as the pain grows, so does your need for something, for anything, for release; with every aching minute your cunt grows hotter and lonelier and emptier between your thighs.

you crave something, anything, choso, perhaps even more than you wish for air.

“there you go,” choso says, just as you release another cry so piercing there’s no way even yuuji wouldn’t have heard it. “all done.”

you sit up on your elbows to peer down at the masterpiece below your hip. smeared with blood, aching and raw from the blade, the word CHOSO spreads across your upper thigh in an uneven but heartfelt script. it makes you dizzy, this marking, this sign that no one owns you better than your sacred brother does. you wonder if it will leave a scar, if it will heal; and even more so, you wonder if choso will merely rewrite it, again and again, until every cell in your body knows that you are nothing without him.

you say nothing; a whine escapes your lips as your eyes flit from the mark to choso’s eyes, dark and possessive, as he looks back at you.

“you like it?” he asks, once again the sweet thing, the doting one.

“yes,” you whisper back, never one to lie to your perfect big brother.

but you cannot hide the insatiability. choso notices the way your thighs twitch from the intensity, the way your cunt drools and your eyebrows furrow because you cannot relieve this ache on your own. you’re helpless, entirely at his mercy. choso tilts his head with a soft and unreadable simper at the sight.

“you’re really worked up, huh?” he pretends your distress is not blatantly obvious. he twirls the bloodstained knife between his fingertips for a moment before bringing the flat edge of the blade against his lips in a somber kiss. “this little thing’s got you down bad, i see.” he flashes the switchblade at you like a diamond. you watch, entranced, as choso slides his tongue across the metal until any traces of your blood disappear into his mouth.

your belly’s on fire. the switchblade shines with choso’s spit and he smiles, your blood on his tongue, while he prods your legs apart, further, until you’re entirely open for him with nothing to hide. you whine lowly as choso’s eyes flicker between your eyes, dazed and helpless, and the slick on the bedsheets.

“choso,” you repeat. “please, help me.” your eyes are wide and your voice is small and you crumble beneath the weight of your own needing, of your own body working of its own volition, of the high that collapses all over you.

perhaps it’s the way you call for him, your big brother, in your time of need. perhaps it’s the way choso can never really deny you, even when he feigns disappointment or rage or neglect. he’s bound to you, your protector, and you can see in the way his eyes soften ever so slightly that choso will not deny you this request.

“sure thing, angel. let me clean this up for you.” choso’s voice is generous as he bows his face towards your hips with the reverence of one before the altar. he leaves no room for your answer. an eager tongue swipes across your thigh and laps at the blood which pools there. his movements are indulgent, refined, as he holds your legs open with intimidating palms and drinks you in like medicine.

“choso–” you gasp, unable to look away. his eyes flit back to meet yours in reply but he continues his ministrations, slow, teasing, as he ignores your cunt entirely and licks at the fresh wound until it’s finally, sacredly, clean. your newly beloved CHOSO glimmers with his spit when he pulls away. he smiles at you then, praying over your hips, lips stained red with your blood, with your being.

“i may be their brother,” choso gestures towards the door, to the party which must still rage below, “but i’m your brother first, and now you’ll never forget it.”

the words are followed by his tongue on your inner thigh, fervent this time, as he travels downwards, downwards from his name on your leg until his nose is a breath away from your clit. you thrust your hips towards him impatiently and he accepts it, gratefully, burying his face deep into your cunt like he’s searching for gold. choso lavishes your clit with plump lips and an eager tongue, drawing the bud into his mouth and kissing it until you cry, until your legs tremble as they ensnare him in your garden.

“choso–” you’re crying, voice transcendent throughout the frat house, his favorite song. there’s a tongue prodding against your hole and a silver ring on your clit and you lose yourself within it, within choso’s breath on your folds and the fire which erupts into chaos.

when it comes to pleasing you, choso does not require air. he refuses to resurface as his tongue explores every inch, as he laps away at you with the passionate abandon only an older brother can provide. what you need, he needs, and what you desire most, choso is always willing to provide. he holds you steady as he works so you cannot escape him. he forces you into stillness as he abuses every sacred inch of your cunt, as he works you into a frenzy with his fingers and his tongue until you can think of nothing but wanting to cum.

and then, then, at the precipice of pleasure, choso pulls away. you pause as you catch your breath, heartbeat like an earthquake, and recollect your shock. why has he stopped? where has he gone? you’re about to sit up, to feign sobriety, to demand what the matter is, when something cool and smooth presses against your clit.

choso’s cheek rests against your inner thigh as he presses the flat edge of the switchblade against your cunt. it’s cold and dangerous and sublime and you cannot help but think of the way it could ruin you, that if you shifted or choso wanted it everything could end here, now, forever. and it is this fear, coupled with the coolness of the blade suffocating your clit, with the alcohol in your bloodstream, that sends you into a place from which you may never return.

the orgasm is as violent as a hurricane. the moment you tense and begin to quake with a strangled sob choso replaces the blade with his tongue and rides you through it, coating his lips with your cum and swallowing the vibrations and heightening the sensation until you are tortured by it, by the sting of pleasure and overstimulation and want.

(“that’s it,” you think he says into your skin, but your ears ring too loudly to know. “cum for me, just like that.”)

it takes some time for the waves to recede and for your body to become still again. with a head comprised of of jelly and limbs made of water you lie still, panting, as choso nonchalantly licks your slick from the switchblade with a hum and gingerly sets it back down on his dresser. you watch as he slides the belt out of his jeans and tosses it into the dark room, as he hovers above you like an angel and its lover.

“better now?” he asks against your parted lips. you nod. he kisses you, deeply, a kiss made of iron and cum and blood, tongue swiping across your teeth before he draws the air from your lungs. your vision swims when he plants a kiss on the tip of your nose, your cheeks, your forehead, between your eyebrows. he plants his love until there is nowhere left untouched, until you are buzzing with the security only your brother choso can give you.

“yeah,” you mumble back to him, content, satisfied. even the sting of his name on your body is a pleasantry now.

“good.” choso wipes the perspiration from your brow. his jeans scratch against your pelvis, and it is only then that you finally register his cock, hard and eager, waiting patiently for its turn. it is only then that you realize choso’s lesson is not yet over, that your brother’s desperate need has only begun.

“now,” he purrs, gently, lovingly, “can you show me how much you love me?”

(as always, forever, you do. you show him your love, endlessly, even when the party ends and the house falls eerily silent. you show choso everything, all of it, loyally, just as he asks, with an only you, choso, and a no one else loves me like you.

because although choso offers his love to the brothers downstairs, he will always, forever, be your brother first, til death do you part.)

#tw incest #tw dubcon #tw knife play #tw blood play #tw marking #tw yandere #choso smut #choso.#it's dark in here #it's hot in here

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lesbianjunimo · 4 years ago

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Hi If it’s not a bother could you write a hc for the new dateables as hozier songs?? Loved the one you wrote for the brothers

(´∀｀)♡ I'm so very happy to hear you liked those. Sure thing, anon!! I'd love to do the dateables!! Fair warning though that I've never written anything for them before soooo let's hope this goes well LMAO

Diavolo - From Eden

Diavolo is far more tragic a figure than anyone in the Devildom knows. The second his mother died giving birth to him, his innocence died screaming while his father held his small body in his arms. All he knew from that point was harshness from the king, who wanted a son that would grow to a strong ruler. He never knew the joys of childish idealism, of discovering his own passions. He was too busy sitting on his father's throne.

But then you came along and yanked him right off the pedestal his father had erected. He expected a rough landing, but instead it was smooth. Your arms were waiting.

When Diavolo looks at you, he sees something familiar, like his mirror years ago, reflecting back a part of himself he thought his father had defeated. His mischievous streak had definitely returned after his father fell into slumber, after all the exchange program is something his father would never have agreed to. But he still didn't quite feel like all of himself was within reach until you were at his side.

Sometimes he, the future king of the Devildom, looks at you and wonders what he did to deserve you. He is a beast that slithered from the depths of Hell, what right does he have to be at your side? At the side of someone who carries such a light with them wherever they go? At the side of someone who makes him feel that maybe his birthright isn't a curse...not if you're there to carry the burden with him.

The lyrics I think resonate with him the most:

Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door Babe, there's something wretched about this Something so precious about this Where to begin Babe, there's something broken about this But I might be hoping about this. Oh, what a sin

Barbatos - Wasteland, Baby!

In his visions, Barbatos has seen just about everything yet to come, seen a fire ending the world, the death of the sun, and yet he still did not anticipate the impact you would have on him. He couldn't have, he believes in retrospect. Not when the first smile you directed at him looked so much better than it had when he foresaw it previously.

After that smile, for the first time in his life, Barbatos did not want to see the future. He did not want to see the outcome to your story. He didn't want to have to witness your shattered body bleeding out onto the cobblestone streets of the Devildom, is what he told himself. But, in truth, he did not want to see you falling in love with someone else. And, even more than that, he did not want to see himself falling in love with you. Because then he would have to admit it. Have to admit that he was already in love with you.

Inevitably, he gave in to his curiosity and looked. He already had a feeling before it was confirmed, but it still made him smile bitterly to know; in every timeline you met, he would inevitably fall for you. But you wouldn't always fall for him, and that was okay. He just hoped you would in this one.

The lyrics I think resonate with him the most:

All the things yet to come are the things that have passed Like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass Like the bonfire that burns That all words in the fight fell to Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you And I love too, that love soon might end Be known in its aching Shown in the shaking Lately of my wasteland, baby Be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking Though quaking, though crazy That's just wasteland, baby And that day that we'll watch the death of the sun To the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on And you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs Wasteland, baby I'm in love, I'm in love with you

Simeon - Talk

Loving someone isn't a sin. No, loving someone isn't a sin. It never has been. But, Simeon is fairly sure that wanting someone the way he wants you is one. Wanting someone as unceasingly, as irrevocably, as he wants you, must be one.

Simeon is an angel; he is supposed to be the embodiment of immediate forgiveness, of hope, of purity...and yet he finds himself breaking all his rules when it comes to you. He cannot forgive Belphegor for almost taking you from him. He came to the Devildom hoping to help the exchange program go smoothly, but now all he can focus on is his dreadful need for you. And he may talk refined, but there is no purity in the way he imagines you.

You once told him that true love was a lost myth to humans; a fairy tale. But he knows it isn't when he looks at you. His every glance, every brush of the fingertips, every kiss to your eyelids is his attempt to show you that. He knows what you have is true love. The human world myths all had to have a basis somewhere; he doesn't mind being relegated to a fairy tale if it means he gets to have you.

The lyrics I think resonate with him the most:

I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee That made him turn around Hey yeah And I'd be the immediate forgiveness In Eurydice Imagine being loved by me I won't deny I've got in my mind now All the things I would do So I try to talk refined For fear that you find out How I'm imagining you I'd be the last shred of truth In the lost myth of true love

Solomon - Work Song

It took a long time for Solomon to begin to fall for you. You were both off having your own adventures in the Devildom, after all. But it seems after you wrangled all the brothers in that you managed to ensnare him as well, and now he understands just why they all adore you.

He used to worry that you wouldn't, couldn't, want him. He was an immortal sorcerer; he'd given up his humanity a long time ago. Wasn't that disgusting to other humans? Wouldn't that disgust you? But he learned very quickly that you would never fret none about what his hands and his body had done before you met. You never once asked him about the wrong he had done in him life previously. Not unless he deigned to tell you on a dark night of his regrets. Even when he admitted atrocities to you, you kissed him so soft and sweet.

Solomon knows now that even the grave will not separate you from each other. You may not be immortal, but he is; no grave could hold his body. No grave could keep him from you. And, should you allow it, he intends to give you the option to stay with him endlessly.

#ahhh thank you for indulging my hozier love more anon LOL #posts #my writing #requests #obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me x reader #diavolo #barbatos #simeon #solomon

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perpetual-stories · 4 years ago

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How To Fight Writers Block

hello, hello. hope everyone is doing well. as you can all tell, this post will be about how to fight writers block.

it’s really annoying to me when I hear people say “oh you don’t have writers block, you’re just lazy.”

first of all, yes, I am naturally lazy. second of all, how dare you. writing isn’t as easy as many think. granted, all you have to do is write down words on paper, but it’s not always easy to find the right words to express what you are feeling, or what you wish to say.

I have had terrible writer’s block for the last few days and it’s horrible! as a business owner or a small writing store, I have to be ready to write and fulfill my clients’ ideas and orders.

it’s not easy. It takes a heavy toll on my imagination, and digs me a deep pit of blockage, drowning in the lack of originality because of the constant writing and repetition or certain phrases and sentences in different projects.

i am making this post in the hopes to remind myself about over coming the dreaded and sometimes skeptically believed writer’s block.

What is writer’s block?

Yeah, I know. We all know what that is, but let me define it.

is the state of being unable to proceed with writing, and/or the inability to start writing something new

some people believe it to be a real problem, others believe it's “all in your head”

What Causes Writer’s Block?

in the 1970s, clinical psychologists Jerome Singer and Michael Barrios decided to find out

they concluded that there are four broad causes of writer's block:

Excessively harsh self-criticism

Fear of comparison to other writers

Lack of external motivation, like attention and praise

Lack of internal motivation, like the desire to tell one's story

How to overcome writer's block: 20 tips

1. Develop a writing routine:

Author and artist Twyla Tharp once wrote: “Creativity is a habit, and the best creativity is a result of good work habits.”

it might seem counterintuitive

if you only write when you “feel creative,” you're bound to get stuck in a tar pit of writer's block

The only way to push through is by disciplining yourself to write on a regular schedule. It might be every day, every other day, or just on weekends — but whatever it is, stick to it!

2. Use "imperfect" words:

A writer can spend hours looking for the perfect word or phrase to illustrate a concept

You can avoid this fruitless endeavor by putting, “In other words…” and simply writing what you’re thinking, whether it’s eloquent or not

You can then come back and refine it later by doing a CTRL+F search for “in other words.”

3. Do non-writing activities:

one of the best ways to climb out of a writing funk is to take yourself out of your own work and into someone else’s

Go to an exhibition, to the cinema, to a play, a gig, eat a delicious meal

immerse yourself in great STUFF and get your synapses crackling in a different way

Snippets of conversations, sounds, colors, sensations will creep into the space that once felt empty

4. Freewrite through it:

free-writing involves writing for a pre-set amount of time without pause — and without regard for grammar, spelling, or topic. You just write.

The goal of freewriting is to write without second-guessing yourself — free from doubt, apathy, or self-consciousness, all of which contribute to writer's block. Here’s how:

Find the right surroundings. Go somewhere you won't be disturbed.

Pick your writing utensils. Will you type at your computer, or write with pen and paper? (Tip: if you're prone to hitting the backspace button, you should freewrite the old-fashioned way!)

Settle on a time-limit. Your first time around, set your timer for just 10 minutes to get the feel for it. You can gradually increase this interval as you grow more comfortable with freewriting.

5. Relax on your first draft:

Many writers suffer form perfectionism, which is especially debilitating during a first draft

“Blocks often occur because writers put a lot of pressure on themselves to sound ‘right’ the first time. A good way to loosen up and have fun again in a draft is to give yourself permission to write imperfectly.” — editor Lauren Hughes

perfect is the enemy of good,” so don't agonize about getting it exactly right! You can always go back and edit, maybe even get a second pair of eyes on the manuscript

6. Don’t start at the beginning:

the most intimidating part of writing is the start, when you have a whole empty book to fill with coherent words

instead of starting with the chronological beginning of whatever it is you’re trying to write, dive into middle, or wherever you feel confident

7. Take a shower:

Have you ever noticed that the best ideas tend to arrive while in the shower, or while doing other “mindless” tasks?

research shows that when you’re doing something monotonous (such as showering, walking, or cleaning), your brain goes on autopilot, leaving your unconscious free to wander without logic-driven restrictions

showering is my favourite thing to do if I may add

8. Balance your inner critic:

successful writers have in common is the ability to hear their inner critic, respectfully acknowledge its points, and move forward

You don't need to completely ignore that critical voice, nor should you cower before it

you must establish a respectful, balanced relationship, so you can address what's necessary and skip over what's insecure and irrelevant

9. Switch up your tool:

a change of scenery can really help with writer's block. However, that scenery doesn't have to be your physical location — changing up your writing tool can be just as big a help!

if you’ve been typing on your word processor of choice, try switching to pen and paper. Or if you're just sick of Google Docs, consider using specialized novel writing software.

10. Change your POV:

great advice from editor Lauren Hughes: “When blocked, try to see your story from another perspective ‘in the room’ to help yourself move beyond the block. How might a minor character narrate the scene if they were witnessing it? A ‘fly on the wall’ or another inanimate object?

11. Exercise your creative muscles:

Any skill requires practice if you want to improve, and writing is no different! So if you’re feeling stuck, perhaps it’s time for a strengthening scribble-session to bolster your abilities

12. Map out your story:

If your story has stopped chugging along, help it pick up steam by taking a more structured approach — specifically, by writing an outline

13. Write something else:

Though it's important to try and push through writer's block with what you're actually working on, sometimes it's simply impossible

feel free to push your current piece to the side for now and write something new

14. Work on your characters:

It follows that if your characters are not clearly defined, you’re more likely to run into writer’s block

15. Stop writing for readers:

write for yourself, not your potential readers

this will help you reclaim the joy of being creative and get you back in touch with what matters: the story.

this is something I really need to do. because of my etsy business i don't write for fun anymore, but instead as a business and a deadline. i'm going to have to pull out my old crappy wattled fanfics or write some new ones.

16. Try a more visual process:

when words fail you, forget them and get visual. Create mind maps, drawings, Lego structures — ideally related to your story, but whatever unblocks your mind!

17. Look for the root of it:

writer’s block often comes from a problem deeper than simple “lack of inspiration.” So let's dig deep: why are you really blocked? Ask yourself the following questions:

Do I feel pressure to succeed and/or competition with other writers?

Have I lost sight of what my story is about, or interest in where it's going?

Do I lack confidence in my own abilities, even if I've written plenty before?

Have I not written for so long that I feel intimidated by the mere act?

Am I simply feeling tired and run-down?

once you identify what's wrong, it'll be so much easier to fix.

18. Quit the Internet:

If willpower isn’t your strong suit and your biggest challenge is staying focused, try a site blocker like Freedom or an app like Cold Turkey

19. Let the words find you:

meditate, go for a walk, take that shower

Word Palette is a great app that features a keyboard of random words, allowing you to simply click your way to your next masterpiece.

You can also try AI auto-completers like Talk to Transformer, where you can enter a phrase and let the app “guess what comes next.”

even though they often produce nonsense, it's a great way to help that writer's block.

20. Write like Hemingway:

And if your biggest block is your own self-doubt about your prose, Hemingway offers suggestions to improve your writing as you go

it's a pretty cool app if you ask me.

it highlights your sentences (if need be) and makes suggestions on how to improve them!

well, there you have it! a lengthy post on how to fight writer's block. now i just hope i can combat my own soon.

like, comment and reblog if you find this useful! feel free to reblog in instagram and tag me perpetualstories

Follow me on instagram and tumblr for more writing and grammar tips and more!

#writing #writing advice #writing tips #original writing #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writersconnection #writersofig #writersofinstagram #writings

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heavenunderthemoon · 4 years ago

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Olly, Olly, Oxen Free {Hotch x daughter!reader}

Warnings: PLEASE, be advised of the SEVERE mentions of gun violence, murder, death, etc. This is a heavy piece, so please, please, please, do not put yourself at risk to read this, if you would like to know the plot without reading let me know and I will accommodate as best as I can!

This is set in “100″, so, daughter!reader is currently trapped with foyet in her childhood home. Alright, enjoy.

"Y/N."

You sprung from your place on the floor, watching your brother retreat past the living room, his feet happily climbing the old route he used to take in the childhood home he was raised in. You doubted he forgot it so soon, even with his young age. This was the house they had made home. Over the last year, you would've done anything to be back in this house, surrounded by the memories of your past life. The life in which you weren't forced into the witness protection program, abandoning all of your friends due to a serial killer hellbent on destroying your father's life.

Your hand reached out, gently grabbing the cellphone extending from the hands of your mother's.

"Dad."

You forced herself to sound calm, composed. Sitting only ten feet from you was a man who had previously shoved a blade into your father's abdomen just to prove a point. You figured seeming weak wasn't particularly a good idea.

There was the hum of an engine, one that you knew well. When you was younger- much younger- you used to wait up for you father to come home from cases. Most nights you fell asleep before he came back, but on the rare occasion you actually made it past midnight, you could hear that very same hum of his government issued SUV pulling into the driveway, subsequently causing you to dart out of bed to jump into his waiting arms. It never mattered to you that you would receive a scolding from your mother for not going to bed at a proper time, not when you would see the smile that grew on her father's face when you accomplished your goal.

That smile, so rare and so blinding, hardly even captured in pictures. Your father was a tired man, a hardworking man, a dedicated father, but all of his good qualities had hardened into stone from the heat of his job and sometimes you feared that eventually, even you might not be able to crack that tough exterior. It seemed silly, sure, but your mother used to be able to find the chinks in his armor, used to make him laugh and smile and love and then one day she couldn't and who was to say that it wouldn't happen to you too?

"Y/N/N, I love you, you know that?" He used the nickname Jack had accidentally given you. When he was just learning to talk, the boy was unable to fully pronounce your name and you had been stuck with it ever since. You used to hate it- or, at least pretend to, but you could never yell at Jack. The boy was too good at absolutely melting you.

Your father's voice, which was typically strong and gruff, came out a bit cracked. It filled you with a sinking feeling. If your father wasn't composed then how the hell were you supposed to be?

The man who hoisted you on his shoulders every Fourth of July to see the fireworks better, or grabbed every spider that made you scream for your life. The man who taught you how to swing a baseball bat and then immediately yelled because you whacked him right in the knee. A fearless, strong, admittedly taciturn man that was making abundantly clear the ambiguity of your future.

You swallowed down that fear, you couldn't afford to be afraid right now. Y/E/C eyes looked up to your mother. She was still beside you, looking at her daughter as if trying to engrain every single facet of your face in her mind, burning the image of her daughter into her memory.

"I know, I love you too." You didn't know how you managed to keep your voice so even but to anyone listening it sounded like a normal conversation. She could almost imagine they were sitting at a dinner table (something they hadn't done in a year because of the Witness Protection Program).

Pass the salt. She would've said.

"I need you to listen to me carefully, Bug." If you hadn't been so worried that you might die soon you might've found yourself scolding the man not to use that nickname anymore. After your friends had slept over in seventh grade and heard your father use it you were teased relentlessly, but now you didn't mind it. You didn't mind your father using a nickname you hated. You didn't mind a lot of things now that you were facing death, serial killer breathing the same air as you and your mother, standing in your living room, staring at you with cold, calculating eyes.

It's funny how little things matter when death enters the picture.

"Remember when I taught you to drive?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you glanced to your mother, trying to keep your face void of emotion.

You hadn't learned to drive. You had begged your father, of course, but he had said no. You remembered the fight that had ensued, his words loud just to overpower your teenaged protests. "There's no use learning to drive when your mother's here, sometimes me, and the metro, it's useless. It would do you better to learn something more useful, like shooting a gun."

Oh.

The sinking feeling returned in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe it just never left. Your eyes hardened with resolve over what you knew her father was asking you to do, and you nodded.

"Yeah."

A tiny breath of air left your parted lips, and even with the confusion laced on her mother's features and the amusement playing on Foyet's, your mind cleared a bit.

Frontside. Trigger press. Follow through.

"I'm a terrible driver." You murmured to her father. Your hand began to sweat at what he was asking of you. You recalled the shooting lessons. It had been a year or so ago, the man wanting you to be prepared for anything and then he had been shot and you hadn't seen him since. Even with the little practice, you hadn't been too bad, but this was nothing like the shooting range. This was pointing a gun at a killer and hoping to anything that was good and holy that you didn't miss. Even so, who said you could get to the gun before Foyet got to you?

"You're good enough."

Good enough. You wanted to scream.

Foyet rose from his spot on the floor, and Haley stiffened in her place.

"I think that's good enough, right, Y/N?" The way he moved, eyes trained onto you, alight with a kind of...mischief? Yes, mischief. Like an adolescent boy who just found his father's stash of fireworks. His body moved like a predator. Refined, sophisticated, and calculated.

And, as he moved closer, you could smell him. He didn't smell like you thought a killer would smell. Though, to be fair, you hadn't ever given much thought to the scent of a killer. Maybe you thought that someone capable of such dirty, heinous crimes would smell as such. Like the rotten core would seep through their pores and become a putrid scent recognizable to those surrounding him. Instead, he smelt clean. Like laundry detergent and freshly washed hair. The hand that didn't hold the gun reached up, taking a strand of your hair into his fingers and running it through them deftly.

"Don't touch me." You pushed him back on instinct and, not seeming to expect such force, the man was shoved back two steps. Rather than cocking the gun right then and there, Foyet looked at you with interest and then, he did something you didn't expect. He smiled.

A laugh fell through his lips. It bubbled and boiled and hit your ears like nails on a chalkboard.

"Wow, you've got a feisty one, Aaron. I think she gets that from you, the old ball and chain over here is a bit of a whiner." He chuckled to himself like he said the world's funniest joke, and you glared.

"Leave them alone." Your father may as well have been on mute because the killer paid no mind to his orders.

He breathed in a deep sigh, looking at you with those same bright, calculated eyes. Then, as if coming to a consensus, tilted his head. "How about this, how about you go hide, I'll give you a head start, and then I'll come find you."

You could feel her mother bristle from beside you, quiet whimpers coming from her mouth. The hum of the engine played in the background, and the wind chimes on the front porch sang a tune with the breeze. "No." You said firmly.

Foyet pouted, going to stand closer to the two. With each step he took closer to the two of you, it felt like a nail going into her coffin. You could see the twitch in his hands, as if itching to plunge a blade into your mother's flesh, yet, you couldn't just leave your mother. You couldn't leave her to die.

"Ah, come on. You're a teenager- a teenage girl, no less, aren't you guys supposed to be fun?" His tone was teasing and coupled with his non-imposing figure, he shouldn't have been able to chill you with his words but the way his eyes bored into yours they did.

You felt a hand on your elbow, a nudge and you glanced back to your mother. Haley was smaller than you, it had been that way for about a year or so now. You had hit a growth spurt once you entered high school, inheriting your father's height, and it caused you to be a couple inches taller than your mother. Her eyes were filled with tears that were streaming down her face without care. You had seen her mother cry more than most daughters should.

Haley liked to cry at night, after putting her children to bed. She didn't think about how often you stayed up, listening to the sobbing on the other side of the wall.

A hand cupped your face, and you leaned into the warmth. How many fights had you two gotten in over the past year? You had always been a daddy's girl. He was never home, and it left your mother to be the 'bad guy' in most situations. And then, you all had been forced to pack up your lives and vanish. That year had been filled with nights of yelling at each other. Fights about small things. Like, your music playing too loud, or drinking too much coffee. And big stuff too. Like, you confronting your mother about having an affair.

Your relationship had been rocky. But, she was still your mother. She still reminded you to wear a coat when it was cold out, or washed your sheets when you felt sick. She made your favorite meals when you were sad, and bought nail polish that she thought you would like. She was your mother, and you didn't think you would ever be able to ignore that.

"Y/N, go." Her words were stern, and it reminded you of a scolding. But your mother's lips were tugging at the corners, and she was caressing your cheek so softly that you thought you would collapse right there. Your heart clenched at the sight of your mother.

Would this be the last time you saw her? The thought made you want to scream, cry, and punch something all at once.

For the first time that afternoon, you let your mask slip. Your eyes welled with tears, lip trembling. "Mom, no." it came out shaky, and you didn't have to turn around to see Foyet smiling at the way he could make an entire family fear for their lives in a mere couple of minutes. You could simply feel it.

Haley nodded, both her hands cupping your face now, scanning it over and over again. Your eyes, a fierceness to them that mimicked her own. A button nose that sat above rosy pink lips. On your chin, a small scar. You were an adventurous child. You hadn't been afraid to climb the monkey bars despite being far too small for them and when you had fallen off, you had busted the skin open. Haley remembered being panicked, seeing you covered in blood, rushing you to the hospital, to find that you were calmer than she was. That's how you always were. You were never scared. You were brave and fearless and kind and even if you played awful, punk alternative music that made Haley's ears want to bleed, you were such a sweet girl with a big heart. The mother stood on her tiptoes, kissing your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, trying to burn the memory of her mother's lips on your forehead in your mind. And when you opened them again, you tried to burn the image of your mother as well. Even now, red eyed and sniffling, your mother was beautiful. Everyone always told you, you looked just like your mother. Haley used to have blonde hair. It had passed her shoulders and you used to beg her to play hair salon because of it. She had cut it after the divorce and you had a suspicion that it was because she craved change. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, just like yours. It made her skin pull taut when she smiled. Her nose was soft and dainty- something you had always been jealous of.

What if you never saw your mother smile again?

Haley was nodding, nodding and patting the girl's cheek and it took you a moment to realize she was speaking once more. "Go, baby. I'll be okay."

No, you won't. You wanted to say. You wanted to let your body fall into your mother's arms and have the woman hold you like she did when you were a child. You wanted to feel your mother's hands run through your hair and hear the woman sing you to sleep. You didn't care how childish it seemed, you just wanted your mother.

Your shoulders shook and you fought to keep your emotions from consuming you.

"I- I love you." It was a desperate attempt at closure but it did nothing to make you feel better. It only made your mother smile.

"I love you too." Haley gave one final pat before a light shove and you felt numb. You couldn't feel yourself hand the phone to your mother, nor could you feel your feet move in the desired direction. Everything in you felt like it was simultaneously being doused in cold water and burned in hot flames. Your mind kept screaming at you to go back. Turn around, grab your mother and hope for the best but you could hear Foyet talking with your mother now and she knew that your father had told you what to do next.

It was weird.

All the nights you had spent in that stupid witness protection program, closing your eyes imagining you were back in your childhood home. You would pretend you were back in your room, waiting for your father to come home. You would pretend your mother was putting Jack to sleep and you would pretend that everything was normal. Now you were back and everything was wrong.

Focus.

After teaching you how to properly use a gun, Aaron had told you where one could be found in cases of dire emergencies. Your feet stepped lightly, moving as swiftly as you could. The laces on your converse slapped against the sides of the shoes and you silently pulled open your father's nightstand. It hadn't been touched since you all had moved out. It was normal upon first glance. A couple of papers, reading glasses, sleeping pills. You knew better.

You pulled at the string on the bottom, the false top giving in immediately and revealing the silver .38. You grabbed for it, cocking it as quietly as you could. The weapon was heavy, yet, familiar in your hand. You thought that in a time like this you would be more shaky, but all you could focus on was your mother's quiet sobs from the living room a whole story down.

The sound gave you hope. If she could cry, then she was alive. You pushed on with that thought in mind, rounding the corner. Just before you could head back downstairs and possibly take down Foyet, you heard it.

Gunshots.

Your mother cried out the first time, but it was completely silent after the second two. Just the light thud of a body hitting the floor.

You bit down on your cheek to keep herself from screaming. The taste of blood followed soon after. Your hand rose to your mouth, attempting to muffle the cries that attempted to escape.

"Y/N!" A sing song-y voice called out. There was a thumping sound on the stairs and after a sickening moment, you realized it was the sound of your mother's body hitting the wood. He was dragging her up the stairs, wanting to display her just how he liked. Your eyes burned and you let the tears fall down your cheeks without care. They dripped off your chin, falling onto your shirt. It was a band t-shirt. Your mother hated it, said that the swords were too violent, but she allowed you to wear it anyways.

You darted into the closest door- Jack's old room- eye's scanning your surroundings for a plan. Whatever Foyet was doing, you knew you didn't have much time until he was coming after you.

"I just wanna play, Y/N. Come out, come out wherever you are." He sang out. He must've taken your mother- your mother's body, you corrected yourself bitterly- to your parents bedroom. With a chilling realization, you remembered you had been there only moments before. He was close to you.

Your eyes landed on the closet, overflowing with toys, even months after not being in use. Jack tended to get whatever he asked for- not that he was spoiled, he was just hard to say no to. It wasn't difficult to squeeze into it, leaving the door open a crack. The gun sat in your hands ready and waiting.

You steadied the sound of your breathing.

How was you going to tell Jack about mom? Well that was a bit optimistic, now, wasn't it? Presumptuous of you to think you would live through the next five minutes to be able to tell your little brother that our mother was dead, You thought bitterly.

"I think I'll lay your body right next to your Mom. You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can be together?" He was in the hallway, and even with the barrier of Jack's door and the closet door, the sound of his voice made you shiver. It was smooth, charming, even. If you hadn't known he was a complete psychopath you wouldn't have given the man much thought. You wouldn't have thought him capable of doing the heinous acts he had done.

There was a creak, the door opening to the room and your arms rose slightly. Your eyes were peaking through the crack, your heart racing. You could see the man moving into the room, searching for his next prey- and that's what he thought you were. Prey. He thought you were an easy target. Everyone did.

Everyone thought you were just some stupid kid. Some people said it outright and others just assumed. You could tell when you first met your father's team, some of them had stereotyped you as well. They had asked her about school and about boys and gossip, because they assumed that was all you were capable of speaking about and then you had surprised them by mentioning books and Neo-noir films. You were accustomed to being underestimated. And you were betting your life that George Foyet was doing the same.

As soon as you saw the man move into the middle of the room, you sprung. The door flew open and before you could hesitate, you pulled the trigger. Pure shock could've been the reason, you were able to get out of the room. Or perhaps you had managed to shoot him in the head and end your family's suffering once and for all. You weren't sure because you were moving purely on instinct. Your feet carried you through the house, jumping over toys and broken chairs and bloodstains that weren't there before.

"You bitch!"

Okay, so he was alive. He was chasing after you but you didn't look back. You jumped into the linen closet, out of breath but not allowing yourself to pant as you wanted to. You could hear the slight groans of the man as he made his way through the house, though it was farther, as if he was walking in the wrong direction. You had slowed him down, that's for sure. The gun in your hand felt warm, like a pat on the back, but the thought of your mother's dead body lying somewhere in the house sat in the back of your mind.

Where was Jack? You thought briefly. You had to trust that he was safe. Trust and pray that whatever their dad had said to him had made sense. You hoped he couldn't hear anything that was going on. That he didn't hear the sound of your mother being murdered and you shooting the killer.

You felt the towel shelf press into your back, but you didn't dare move anymore. You were sure Foyet hadn't died now. If anything, you might've made him more angry.

It smelled like fresh laundry in the small space and it reminded you of Sunday nights. Your father was usually home, cases typically being taken during the week and coming home Saturday nights. That's why you liked Sundays so much. You liked waking up to the smell of pancakes while your father played a Beatles album. He would sing into a spatula and twirl your mother around the kitchen. And Haley would laugh and tell him to stop, but she never actually meant it. And, when he noticed you coming down the stairs, he would take you in his arms- no matter how big and tall you had gotten, he never stopped doing it. He would spin you around as well and when you was little you would dance on his feet, but when you were older, your bare feet would touch the cold hardwood floor.

Your mother would do crossword and pretend not to notice that your father was giving not-so-subtle hints every so often. Your father would have you catch him up on what you had been up to that week, and you would have to help Jack read through the comics because he didn't really understand the jokes. Sundays were your favorite days because instead of being a separate family like they were every other day, they were all together and it felt normal.

You closed her eyes, trying to imagine it was Sunday.

A large clatter rang out, effectively snapping you from your thoughts. You could hear footsteps, fighting, yelling. It was hard to tell how long you waited in the closet, gun pressed to your chest. You could hear someone outside the door, light footsteps against hardwood.

The light on the bottom was obscured from a large shadow and you tried to prepare yourself. What would death feel like? Maybe you was selfish, or maybe you were a coward, but you didn't want to know. You wanted to stomp your foot and say that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that your mother was dead. It wasn't fair that you were about to die. The door was ripped open and you extended your arms, about to shoot blindly, when you saw who was before you.

"Woah, hey, Y/N. Y/N, look at me."

You had stopped crying long ago, but your entire body was shaking. There was so much tension in your shoulders, it felt like somebody had tied you up entirely, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of you. You hadn't realized it before, much too focused in getting as far away from the serial killer in your house as possible, but when you had shot Foyet, some of his blood had splattered onto you. You could see it now that the light was on it. It sat on your hands, partially dried and partially wet. And you could feel some of it on your cheeks.

You wondered what you looked like.

Derek stared at you. Your eyes were wild, darting between the gun in your hands and the gun in Derek's. Your cheeks, flushed as they were, were painted lightly with splattered blood. The only evidence of previous tears were puffy eyes, but you hardly seemed weak right now. You seemed...feral.

"Y'N, it's me. You're safe. it's me, it's Derek. Put that gun down." It was strange. It was like you could see his lips moving, you could see that he was speaking but you couldn't hear the words. All you could hear was the sound of your mother's body hitting the stairs one at a time.

Thump.

"He's dead. Y/N, he's dead." The sound came back all at once. Everything came back all at once.

You could see people behind Derek. There were cops and medical examiners, flooding in and out of your childhood home. They all seemed to be moving toward the same place, all in the direction where you had fled. They were heading toward the body, you realized. The body of your dead mother. There was the faint sound of sirens, and there was chatter. You wanted to yell at them, scream for them to be quiet. And then you saw someone else.

Your father was coming toward you. He was covered in blood. Who's blood was that? Was that your mother's? Was that Foyet's? Movement caught your eye.

JJ was holding someone in her arms, he looked confused, pointing at his sister, eyes alarmed at the weapon in her hands and the Jaraeu woman seemed to be trying to turn him away. He was asking for you.

'Y/N/N?' He said.

Your shoulders dropped, the weapon falling into the Morgan man's waiting hands. You stepped forward. Despite your sudden awareness, everything felt like it was in slow motion. The world was moving with resistance, and you opened her arms, almost crumpling in relief when Jack squirmed away from the blonde agent and ran into your waiting arms. You scooped him into your arms, sitting him on your hip.

"Y/N!" Despite all the chaos around you two, you let yourself focus on your brother. He seemed fine. Confused, surely. He had looped his arms around your neck but his eyes squinted at the blood on your cheeks that hadn't been there before. His little eyebrows furrowed, and he reached one hand to poke your cheek. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

Jack loved you. Before you two were put into witness protection program, he didn't see you all too much. You were so busy with school and hanging out with your friends, that you hadn't even been home very often. Then, you didn't have much of a choice.

You liked showing Jack your music- the clean versions, of course. He would scrunch his nose at certain metal heavy bands, but you assumed he liked most of them just because you did. He liked to play cards with you, and have your draw him funny sketches. And when he would have bad dreams, you never hesitated to let him sleep with you.

You felt multiple sets of eyes on you, your father pulling you into a hug. They all pretended not to notice you flinch. You kept your eyes on Jack.

"I'm fine." You took a hand, running it through the boy's ruffled hair from hiding god knows where. He giggled at the action, and you let your hand rest on his cheek for a moment. Your mother was dead somewhere in this house, her body laid across the floor, slaughtered. You swallowed down the rising bile in your throat.

"Let's get you checked out, yeah?"

#aaron hotchner x reader #Aaron Hotchner x daughter!reader #criminal minds x reader #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #Criminal Minds

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stina-is-a-punk-rocker · 4 years ago

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jacqueline wilson’s ‘love lessons’

tw: abuse, pedophilia, characters making Bad Decisions, long unnecessary spiel about my childhood like I’m running a recipe blog

It’s funny how loads of the authors who helped shaped me into the vaguely humanoid being I am today have names beginning with the letter ‘J’; Judy Blume, Jeff Kinney, John Green, J.K. Rowling (yikes, I know) … and Jacqueline Wilson.

I’ve never owned a Jacqueline Wilson book of my own; they were always borrowed from a friend, or from a friend of a friend, or from a friend of a cousin- you get the gist. Her books, for me, come with an entire aesthetic: something reminiscent of yard sales, and reading under the covers with a flashlight, and being lulled into a false sense of security by the deceptively innocent Nick Sharratt illustration on the cover until someone’s best friend gets mowed over.

So I knew what I was getting into when I picked up Love Lessons. I knew this was going to be Fucked Up; and boy, was I right.

(Here’s the part where I warn you about spoilers.)

From an abusive dad to creepy child predator teachers to slut-shaming and victim blaming, this book has it all.

The main character is Prudence ‘Prue’ King, who is homeschooled at the beginning of the book, along with her sister, Grace. Their parents remain rooted in the early twentieth century, and are very strict about- well, everything. No TV, no computers, not a single mobile phone in the house; their clothing worse than the orphans’ from Annie; and their father remains distinctly distrustful of modern institutions like the school and the hospital; and so on, and so forth.

Daddy King suffers a stroke, and has to be taken to the hospital. Meanwhile, Mrs. King (a floppy, spineless woman who lives in fear and awe of her, frankly horrid, husband) sends the girls to school, behind the then invalid Mr. King’s back. Cue Prue and Grace being the freakshows of the school, with their strange clothing and overbearing mother.

Grace manages to make friends, but Prue remains alone. The kids are dicks, the teachers are dicks… well, all of them but one. And that’s the art teacher, Mr. Raxberry (I just couldn’t get over that name; it seems like something you’d name a mythical plant from Pixie Hollow or some shit. I’m assuming it isn’t an actual name, since the spelling & grammar check on my computer doesn’t seem to recognize it), or Rax, as he’s called.

Oh, yeah; Prudence’s favorite subject in school is art, and she’s a whiz at it. This is relevant, because reasons.

And here’s where stuff gets murky. Prue develops a crush on Rax- which is perfectly normal. I’m definitely no stranger to it; I’ve had crushes on my teachers, my mum admitted she used to think one of her professors was cute. And yeah, as I grew older, I grew out of those crushes and now have a markedly more refined taste in men (unless he’s 5’ 7’’, born in ’97 and named Bang Chan, I don’t want him); and my mum married my dad, so I’m assuming she did, too. Admittedly, now that my dad teaches at a university, it’s icky to think that there might be students who have crushes on him- but I digress.

My point is, loads of us have liked our teachers. But I doubt the majority of us have acted on it.

And Prue actively showing her interest in Rax isn’t the worst part. That’s a spot reserved for Rax reciprocating her feelings.

Guess Ezra Fitz and Ms. Grundy (yes, I watched Riverdale; please don’t cancel me) have a new addition to the Creep Club.

The age of consent in the UK is 16, if I’m not mistaken. Prue is 14. She’s just barely become a teenager, and she’s being preyed upon.

Because that is what Rax is. He’s a predator; he preys upon this vulnerable girl who’s never been in a relationship before- hell, she’s never even had friends- her father’s abusive, so she obviously doesn’t have the best experience when it comes to men- she’s unpopular at school, with the students and staff alike- and he lures her in. I don’t care how bloody nice he is to Sarah, or what a good dad he is (well, he’s really not, seeing as he cheated on the mother of his children WITH A BLOODY FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD CHILD)- the guy’s a fucking pedophile.

I was staunchly stuck at a yellow light with him; like, sure, maybe Prue thinks he’s flirting with her- maybe she’s looking at this all wrong, she doesn’t know how relationships work- see, he drew a picture of Sarah, too, in his secret notebook- Prue’s just reading into this too much- up until he says he loves her.

Dude. Humbert fucking Humbert. She’s fourteen, for Christ’s sake, and you’re married. You have two children. She’s a child. She’s probably closer to your son’s age than she is to yours.

(This is the part where I bury my head in my pillow. And scream. Extensively, and with passion.)

The book does make some genuinely good commentary on slut-shaming and victim blaming and abusive parenting. And on one hand, I can see why so many people find issue with the romanticization of the when I kissed the teacher trope- but I can defend it, too.

The book is in Prue’s perspective. She thinks she’s in love with Rax, so obviously, she’s not going to throw in some valuable moral at the end- because she’s too young and inexperienced to think otherwise. And sadly, there are loads of instances of child abuse that go unreported because the victims just don’t know better.

What I have issue with is how the school dealt with it, ultimately. Prudence, a child, has to deal with the consequences of the actions of a literal child predator. Sure, Rax ‘clears his name’ by cooking up some bullshit story about how it was only a crush and he didn’t encourage it, but you’d think other adults would know better and, oh, I dunno- dig deeper into it, instead of blaming it on a child?

“She says you told Mr. Raxberry you loved him and he held you in his arms and fondled you.”

Which Prudence denies, because, again, she doesn’t know better. She then goes on to say that they did nothing wrong. To which the adult speaking to her, in this case, the principal, Miss Wilmott, goes on to say:

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true… I feel that there are some aspects of your friendship that could be considered inappropriate.”

FYI, lady, he kissed her- multiple times (not that kissing her once makes him any more redeemable), and told her he loved her, and admitted to fantasizing about running away with her and leaving his family behind. Fun fact: do you know Prudence is underage?

You’d think that Miss Wilmott would maybe give this whole fiasco a favorable ending, but it turns out she listens to school gossip;

“I haven’t been at all happy with your attitude. You don’t seem to understand how to behave in school. I’ve heard tales of unsuitable underwear and then a silly romance with one of the boys in your class. I feel that in the space of a few short weeks you’ve made rather a bad name for yourself… I don’t know whether you intend to be deliberately insolent but you certainly come across as an unpleasantly opinionated and arrogant girl… I can’t help feeling that you’ll be much better off elsewhere. I shall try hard to engineer a suitable transfer to another school.”

And then she comes out with this gem:

“If you won’t leave, then I shall have to ensure that Mr. Raxberry finds another position.”

“No, you can’t do that! He’s a brilliant teacher.”

“You should have thought of that before you started acting in this ridiculous and precocious manner. If I were another kind of headteacher, I would have Mr. Raxberry instantly suspended. There could even be a court case. He would not only lose his job, he could find himself in very serious trouble. Did you ever stop to think about that?”

Girlboss, gaslight and gatekeep. The fucking trifecta.

Also, by ‘another kind of headteacher’, does she mean the kind of headteacher WHO DOESN’T LET CHILD PREDATORS ROAM FREELY WITHIN THEIR HALLS?

This bitch is out here blaming a child, a literal child, for the crimes of an adult man.

The only time Prue seems aware of the fact that Mr. Raxberry is actually a very shit person is her immediate thoughts that follow after she tells Miss Wilmott she’ll take the fall;

I so wanted to save darling Rax- and yet why hadn’t he wanted to save me? Had he told Miss Wilmott it was all my fault, that I’d got a ridiculous crush on him, that I’d made ludicrous advances to him? … I wanted to tell this horrible, patronizing woman how hungrily he’d kissed me, but I couldn’t do it. I loved him. I had to help him.

NO, SWEETHEART; YOU MOST DEFINITELY DO NOT.

And maybe I’m going overboard with all these excerpts, but here’s what Rax has to tell Prue, after school, following her expulsion:

“I let her think the worst of you, the best of me, just to save my skin. I said it was ridiculous talking about a love affair between us. I said you simply had a crush on me, and that I was just trying to be kind… You were brave enough to stand up to me and force me to acknowledge the truth… I love you… That’s why I had to take a risk and see you this one last time. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care… Every night when I close my eyes, I’ll think of us together in this car and how badly I wanted to drive off with you. I’ll imagine us walking hand in hand at the water’s edge… I wish I wasn’t such a coward.”

(I burrow into the pillow further. I’m trying to suffocate myself.)

And that’s where I think Wilson went wrong. Sure, Prudence getting expelled for something that was completely out of her hands is unfair, and horrible, but it’s real. That shit can happen.

What’s bad is showing Rax in a positive light after all that. If only Wilson had written Rax to not be the Romeo he thinks he is. Make him ignore Prudence, throw her under the bus in front of her face, instead of this star-crossed lovers bullshit it’s made out to be. Show your younger audience that Rax is not a good man. I’ve got a little over two weeks left for my twentieth; I can see why this is unacceptable. But I was a little younger than Prue when I watched Pretty Little Liars, and my only gripe with Aria dating Ezra was that Noel Kahn was so much cuter.

It shows when you scroll down the Goodreads reviews; you’ve got adults giving it one or two stars, and teenagers giving it four or five, with their biggest complaints being, “but Toby was cuter!!!”

Other non-pedophilia related complaints regarding the book include: Prudence being unlikable- which I didn’t really notice, considering she reacted to some people way better than I would’ve, even at 19 (which probably says a lot more about me than it does about Prue, but oh well). Still, Prudence obviously isn’t the most prudent of people- and again, she’s fourteen. Look me in eye and tell me you weren’t an arsehole at that age (unless you’re fourteen now, in which case, I assure you that you’ll look back on yourself someday and go ‘wtf was I thinking’). Bringing up Toby’s dyslexia in an argument was low, though.

There were people who thought the Kings’ almost-Amish lifestyle was exaggerated and unrealistic, but I assure you, it may very well be real. There are 8 billion people on the world- it’s fair to assume that several of them are complete weirdos.

Grace was a sweet character, and I adored her with every fiber of my being. As were her friends Iggy and Figgy. Honestly, I would’ve loved a book about Iggy, Figgy and Piggy’s (mis)adventures too.

#love lessons #jacqueline wilson #teacher #teacher crush #teacher x student #anti ezria #ezria #pretty little liars #aria montgomery #ezra fitz #when i kissed the teacher #book review #books

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gremlinp0lice · 4 years ago

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Night Lovin’ Thing

Prompt: Draco reacting to finding the reader dancing to muggle music. Specifically Dirty Diana by Michael Jackson. Specifically this choreography. https://youtu.be/JavMJziiLjE

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Female Reader

Word Count: 3253

Rating: Explicit

CW: Smut, language, voyeurism

Draco Malfoy was an enigma. Spoiled, rich, handsome, rude, and smart as a whip—he could even give Granger a run for her money if he applied himself. All that put into one young man (plus a little ‘bad-boy’ reputation) should make him the fantasy of any teenage witch or wizard, and you were no exception. But you knew better than to chase after him because that’s all it was—a fantasy, a crush, a fixation. With half of the castle out to get him, and the rest out to snog him, there was no way you ever stood a fighting chance. You knew that, and you had made your peace with that. You were much more realistic.

Which made it all the more painful that you found yourself lost in a daydream while staring at the back of his head in Potions class.

“Eyes to yourself,” your desk mate (and roommate), Pansy bloody Parkinson, swats at your arm and gives you a nasty look, “or they might just fall out of your head.”

Rolling your eyes, you go back to your notes, muttering, “I don’t even know what you see in him, Pans, he’s actually a bit of a prat.” Your words seem to light a fire in her, and her eyes burn with rage for a fleeting moment, and she opens her mouth as if to bite back before closing it just as quickly.

You smirk to yourself; Pansy was all talk after all, but she could still be bloody scary when the mood suited her (and it usually did).

You steal another look at Draco, a fleeting glance, really, and see his eyes looking back. He looks almost wounded, as if he had heard what you had said. You turn away, baffled. It must have been a trick of the light, or the fumes from your cauldron—Draco Malfoy would barely give you the time of day, much less be upset over something that you had said.

The lesson, blessedly, concludes soon after, and you practically skip out of the classroom and head for the dormitories, hoping to get there before Pansy does. All the while, all you can think about is the look on his face.

You have about twelve seconds alone in your room before Pansy bursts in, wand drawn. You know she won’t use it (probably), but you pull your own wand close to you just in case.

“That was extremely rude, you know. He heard you. Didn’t your filthy muggle father teach you any manners?” She’s been angry with you before, but never so mad that she has attacked your family. After all, both Tracey and Millicent were half-bloods as well, and she should know better than to bring blood status into whatever squabble you were having.

“First of all, do not speak about my family like that if you value yours, Parkinson,” you snap, drawing yourself to your full heigh (which wasn’t very tall, but you worked with what you had) “and second, I don’t care. Did I upset your boyfriend? What a pity. What are you going to do about it?”

“You don’t even know him, so piss off, and besides,” her wand drops to her side and she wilts, “We’re not together. Neither of us want to be tied down at the moment. It’s called being mature, have you heard of it?”

Clearly, Pansy had not. You also suspect that their arrangement was less than mutual, but you knew how badly Pansy pined over the boy, so you pulled back. You knew how to pick your battles.

“Listen, I may have been out of line in class, and if I see him later, I will apologize, alright?” you offer, and she sniffs, but nods in approval, “But if you ever speak about my father like that again, it’s you who I will have to apologize to, and believe me I will make it count.”

A look of fear passes across Pansy’s face, but she keeps a stiff upper lip, glowering at you. Whatever, you didn’t need this. It was a nice afternoon, and a Friday to boot, and the castle would soon be empty.

Taking a deep breath, you collect your thoughts, ignoring Pansy as she leaves the room in a huff. You change into something more comfortable, something with more movement, and pack your bag with the essentials; the old radio that your mother had charmed for you years ago, and a pair of sturdy, strappy black heels… ready for some release.

Dropping your bag gently on the floor of the dusty room, you take a moment to examine the room. It was a tiny old Muggle Studies classroom, more of a large closet really, on the third floor that you had convinced Professor McGonagall to let you use as a dance space in your fourth year. As long as no one needed the room, you didn’t make too much noise, and you kept it clean, you could do whatever you wanted in here. You had put a lot of work into it, managing to craft a barre (with the help of Professor Sprout) and you even got ahold of some old, floor-length mirrors left behind by Lockhart. With plenty of natural light streaming in from the windows, it made for a pretty good studio. It wasn’t much, but it served its purpose well.

You plop gracelessly to the floor and begin to stretch, feeling that pleasant burning sensation in your hamstring when you lean down so far that your nose touches your knee. As the feeling fades, you feel the stress of your day go along with it; as your body loosens up, so does your mind, until there’s only one thought still stuck in your mind. You roll your shoulders and stand; he’ll go away soon enough when you start to actually move.

With a wave of your wand, the radio crackles to life, it’s not terribly loud, but it suits your needs. It was tuned in to a muggle station playing Michael Jackson’s greatest hits— perfect. You listened to the King of Pop with your father often enough when you were home, laughing whenever he would try to moonwalk across the kitchen floor. There was something about the singer, though, something in his voice that moved you to move as well, something that made you feel powerful, strong, even a bit seductive (not that you would admit that thought to anyone). This was the perfect thing to get you out of your head and into your body.

With another wave of your wand, the door slams shut, and it’s just you and the music, and that’s just the way you like it.

She says that’s okay, hey baby do what you want... I’ll be your night-lovin’ thing, I’ll be the freak you can taunt…

You had found your inspiration, a beat that moved you deeper than any magic spell could and had begun refining the movements that your body had come up with. With a wave of your wand, the song starts over and you return to your first position, you just had to get this right. Not that you would ever show anyone this dance, it wasn’t for anyone else to see.

This was for you.

Though, you couldn’t deny the raw and enticing confidence that this dance was instilling within you, and that maybe, one day, you would dance like this for someone…

With a flip of your hair and a shrug of your shoulder, you were completely focused.

She likes the boys in the band, she knows when they come to town…

Sometimes it made you nervous, the way you could channel the lyrics, written about people you were nothing like, and turn them into a dance that was, inexplicably, them.

This one was all about the legs—kicking, bending over, dropping to the ground in a deep split that made you feel so alluring that when you got to your feet you almost expected to be followed by a herd of salivating admirers. You would look over your shoulder, give them a smirk and a wave before moving on… This isn’t about them anyway.

It wasn’t about him anyway.

You still couldn’t get him out of your head. When you dropped to the floor, you imagined him landing on top of you. When you ran your hands down your chest in time with the rhythm, you imagined they were his hands, pulling you close. And that scared you.

And I don’t care what you say, I want to go too far, I’ll be your everything…

You had never felt like this about him before, never thought about him like this- so obsessively.

Just keep dancing… Out of your head and into your body… You would forget if you just kept moving…

Blimey, it’s so hot in here you can barely breath.

She looked me deep in the eyes, she's touchin' me so to start… She says there's no turnin' back, she trapped me in her heart…

Raising one arm above your head, you pull your loose tank top off with a flourish as you strike a pose. Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you look… good. The black bralette you’re wearing (the one with the lace, not the flower print) accentuates your modest curves nicely, and you feel good, sexy almost. How could you not, with the music playing like that, and those lyrics—this is not a song you ever listened to with your father.

Forgoing the choreography that you had been practicing, you decide to let yourself feel the music again, finding a new rhythm for your new confidence.

You had never danced like this before, caressing your body like this, moving your hips like that, shaking your hair out so wildly, so unabashed.

And it felt good.

Until the song ends.

Until you hear heavy breathing from the door.

Bollocks.

You whip around, crossing your arms over your chest, to catch a glimpse of your voyeur, frozen in the corridor. Of course.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway; eyes wide, breathless. He’s not moving, he’s not speaking, he doesn’t even have that silly little smirk that seemed to be permanently stuck on his face, he’s just… watching you. Somehow that was worse.

“Malfoy,” you say quietly, voice scantly above a whisper, “what are you doing here?”

Your voice seems to jolt him out of whatever trance he’s in, and he steps forward into the room, which you realize now is extremely small, and closes the door behind him. You instinctively cross your arms over your chest.

“I- I, uh, I just came to talk to you, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he stumbles over his words, eyes bouncing all around the room before landing back on you, “but I’m glad that I did.” His composure returned, he steps forward, eyes dark, one eyebrow cocked and…

There’s that bloody smirk.

“How did you even know where to find me?” you ask, shivering under his gaze, contemplating whether to hear him out or throw him out.

“I hear that you can be found here most afternoons,” he says, chuckling softly, running one long finger along the barre.

“Yes well, you’ve found me,” you start, but you’re not quite sure how to stop. This exact scenario had played out in your head countless times, and you had to take a deep breath to recenter yourself, and not let your imagination run away with you.

“I have, haven’t I?” he looks down at your shoes, dragging his eyes back up your body. Merlin, was he just going to stand here toying with you or do something? “You know, it’s funny. I seem to have completely forgotten what I was going to say. The way you move is a bit hypnotic, I think.”

He’s so close to you, Merlin he’s close. You had never realized how much bigger he was than you—taller, broader, he could throw you over his shoulder as if you weighed no more than a bowtruckle if he wanted to.

This is your chance, you realize. You can apologize to him for what you said in class, just like you told Pansy you would do.

Or you could…

“Did you like what you saw?” you ask, voice low, almost husky. You can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye yet, you just can’t.

Draco is quiet for what feels like an eternity, the only sound the crackling or the radio and your breathing.

“Yeah, I really, really did.”

Merlin’s beard, this boy was going to kill you.

“Would you like me to show you some of my moves?” You can hardly believe the words are coming out of your mouth—this is insane, you feel insane! It’s taking everything in you to keep your composure, and you allow yourself to glance up at him.

His grey eyes are dark, cloudy, a few strands of that platinum blond hair falling in his face, and you barely recognize him.

“Actually,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “I was hoping I could show you some of mine.”

That’s all it took for you to take him in your arms and kiss him, which was just as well because he was kissing you back. With both hands tangling in his hair, his loop around your waist and pull you even closer. The feeling of his body pressed against yours is intoxicating, and you have to pull away for a moment to breathe.

“You have no idea,” he mutters between fervent nips at your ear and neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You let your head fall back as he lavished you with his lips and tongue, world spinning, as he begins to guide you backwards until your thighs hit the edge of a desk pushed up against the wall.

Shaking fingers working the buttons of his shirt, you do your best to return his kisses, though it’s hard to maneuver, let along think, when his mouth is doing such beautiful things to your skin.

You can’t explain the magnetism between you two, it’s almost frightening, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It was as if you had known he was watching, as if your dancing was foreplay for whatever was unfolding between you now. You weren’t scared at the thought of him watching you, you liked it, and that scared you more. Or maybe it just turned you on.

“Fuck!” you keened as he sucked hard at your neck, his hands and mouth roaming all over your body, grabbing onto any piece of flesh that they could.

His fingers tease at your nipples through the lace of your bralette, which was so thin and flimsy you may as well not have been wearing anything. You arch into him at the contact, eyes wide as you realize that his other hand is travelling further down your body.

“Is this what you want?” he whispers in your ear, rubbing you through your athletic shorts.

Is this what you wanted, to be fucked by Draco Malfoy in an empty classroom? You never did this sort of thing, not this quickly at least, but there was something about him, about what you felt. Maybe it was the dancing, the music that made you feel like this, maybe it was the fact that he was watching you, or maybe you just really needed a good shag. Whatever the reason, you knew your answer.

“Yes Draco, please,” you choke out, helping him to take off your tiny shorts. You reach down to unlace the heels your wearing, but he grasps your wrist and pulls it away.

“Those stay on,” he says, well, commands, and fuck if you couldn’t come from just his voice alone. You nod and loop your arms around his neck, allowing yourself to be picked up and placed on the desk behind you.

Draco wastes no time, reaching between your legs and thumbing at your clit in a way that makes you quiver beneath him. You breathe hard against his neck as he works two fingers into your cunt, pressing sloppy kisses to the skin there while wrapping your legs around his waist. Merlin did his fingers feel like heaven, drawing in and out of you, curling against your walls so that your vision went fuzzy. If his fingers felt this good, you mused, his cock has to be divine.

On the cusp of orgasm, you bat his hands away, reaching for the button of his pants. As much as you wanted to come, you wanted it to be on his cock.

Pushing his slacks and underwear down to his knees, his length bobs free, red and glistening under your touch.

“Ready?” he pumps his cock once, twice, pressing in close to you. Your head is swimming and you can hardly string together a coherent thought, but you are certain of one thing.

“Fuck me.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, his inside you. You yelp—his cock is much bigger than his fingers, but nothing that you can’t handle. You feel full, grinding your hips against his to get more of that delicious friction.

He mutters a curse under his breath, “You,” he breathes, “are so bloody gorgeous,” he maintains a steady rhythm that is starting to drive you a bit mad, adding to the heat building deep within you, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted you, and to see you like this now,” he pants, “about to come on my cock… it’s fucking breathtaking.”

It doesn’t take much longer for you, until you’ve wrapped yourself around him, moaning in his ear, and coming, hard. He holds you close, crushing your body into his, fucking you through the aftershocks as you finally come down.

But then something’s not right.

The door opens and you both freeze, panting.

“Sorry for interrupting your ‘you-time,’ but I wanted to say��”

Pansy. Bloody. Parkinson.

You shut your eyes tight as you see the look of complete rage you see spreading across your face, and Draco cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of her.

And he starts thrusting into you again.

“We’re a bit busy,” he says breathlessly, hips still rocking against you, “would you mind shutting the door?”

You hear Pansy sputtering for a moment, before the slam of the door, and you open your eyes.

Draco is gazing intently at you, and bears down harder than before, making your heart race yet again.

You come again, just before he does, his hips stuttering to a halt as you hold each other, pressed together so tightly you wonder if you will ever separate.

You do, of course, but not without some effort. In a breathless heap, the two of you slide to the floor, where you find your wand and cast a cleansing charm. Draco has his back against the desk, and you lean against his chest, trying to catch your breath.

It was nice, holding each other like this. He ran his hands up and down your arms, a soothing motion that tempted you to fall asleep right then and there, but there was much to discuss before that.

“Did… did that—”

“Yeah.”

“Merlin’s saggy left—”

“I know.”

The two of you burst into a fit of laughter for a brief moment, cruelly reveling in Pansy’s subsequent misery.

“Bloody hell,” you groan, an unfortunate realization striking you, “I have to share a room with her.”

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #hp ff #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fanfiction #michael jackson #dirty diana #cw: smut #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy tiktok #pansy parkinson #gremlinpolice #cw: voyeurism

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thefanficmonster · 4 years ago

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Never Satisfied [Chapter 4]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: Language

A collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

“there’ll be a next time...right?“

Corpse and Cora have found a nice secluded picnic table outside the restaurant, out in the sun rays’ path enough for the warmth of the day to be caressing their skin while simultaneously being a safe distance away from the other people enjoying their lunch. Their meal has just arrived, bringing a large grin to Cora’s face.

“So?” She asks as she chews the bite she took without waiting even thirty seconds. Her feet are on the bench, legs crossed, elbows rested on her knees as she chomps down, happily perched in front of him.

Corpse is enraptured by her. He’s staring a little, desperately trying to keep it subtle, hands still holding the small bag of food as he peers at her, a hood over his dark curls. Even in this quiet little part of town, he still doesn’t feel safe showing his whole face - no mask, no eyepatch, no privacy and sense of security. But as his eyes take in his lunch partner, her calm aura and leisure attitude, he can’t help but admit that his heart quickens a little. The girl moves with the grace of someone not afraid to kick ass and he is simply awestruck by her beauty and outward powerful aura. He’s never before been so captivated by a person - someone so different and so similar to him simultaneously.

Swallowing nervously, he reminds himself that she has taken on the role of his checkpoint, something like a friend, a hand to hold if he starts feeling anxious. Even if it’s just for today, he appreciates it wholeheartedly. It’s more than he’s ever been offered by others. That type of comfort is something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Surprising himself when his hand reaches out to touch her free one, he’s surprised yet again when he finds the touch so familiar and welcoming, so natural. Despite it being just a brief movement, his knuckles softly brushing against her wrist before withdrawing and returning his focus to his meal, it is so meaningful and soothing, he’s afraid he might get used to it. Addicted to it.

Half expecting a comment or a look, he is taken aback when she doesn’t give any sort of reaction. No movement, no expression change, just curiously watching him while she eats, waiting for his response to her previous dubious question.

“So?” He rumbles softly, fishing out his lunch from the confines of the little paper bag. He isn’t sure what type of answer he should be expecting but he’s sure he won’t be disappointed regardless.

“Tell me about yourself! You’re not all rumbles, fear and BONES, right? You’ve gotta have a personality under that black hoodie.” She says enthusiastically, her eyes glimmering as though she’ll dig the answers out of him with her gaze alone. He’s not sure whether he’d prefer that or not. He doesn’t like talking about himself but he has an even stronger distaste for the idea of her seeing some information he’d rather keep hidden. Good thing she doesn’t seem to be capable of telepathy, but even that wouldn’t be too odd for her.

His cheeks flush faintly and he looks down for a moment to take the first bite of his food, buying himself some time to think and formulate a proper sentence. He racks his brain, looking for what would be the most vague yet satisfactory answer.

What am I? I mean, all she stated is true, I definitely am all that...but I have a hard time coming up with what else I am? What else makes me me? Youtube? Anxiety? Suicidal ideations hidden underneath liquor?

“I um...dropped out of school at, like, thirteen.” He finally speaks, mumbling around the small bite he worked on swallowing.

Cora’s eyes widen and her brows shoot up. Now he is nervous, his anxiety slowly starting to creep in as he’s worrying if he has said something wrong. Or something that she could be disgusted by.

Who would want to talk to some grown ass man who couldn’t even make it to highschool? How fucking sad is that? She has all right to judge me for it.

However, unlike everybody else in his life who’s given him a frown of pity while internally thinking of how absolutely fucked up he had to be to drop out so young, Cora spared him from the pitiful glance he has grown to hate so much. Instead, he sees something alike amazement on her face as she sips her drink before saying:

“Damn dude, that’s intense. I mean, it sucks cause I can’t imagine you had a normal childhood if you’re bailing from school that young but, nowadays, who among us actually had a real childhood? Very few, I’d say.” She grins, putting down the soda can, her eyes leaving his for only the briefest of moments instead of the familiar awkward eye-contact avoidance he’d face when this topic would be nudged during a conversation. Still, the relief and skepticism in Corpse can never end their war so easily - there’s still that shred of doubt that she’s just good at hiding her pity or judgement. Nevertheless, she continues, “You’re doing well for yourself, you’re in an ok place right now, right? Isn’t that what matters?.” She concludes, touching his fingers as a form of yet another subtle reassurance.

He looks down and finds himself ever so carefully curling one of his fingers around hers, just briefly before he draws back fearfully. “Yeah...guess having an apartment in a shitty part of town, and a car that seems to attract criminals could be considered ‘doing okay’.” He smiles faintly under his hood and she laughs, that bubbly little noise that he is slowly realizing he wants to hear more of.

“You got a car, that’s more than I have.” Cora pokes her tongue out with a little growl before leaning down to take another bite of her lunch. “So, you like music and aren’t a narc. What else you got up your sleeve?”

Corpse smiles a bit and takes a sip of his drink before clearing his throat. “Yeah, I like video games too.”

That seems innocent enough, right? Everyone likes video games...or people tend to be okay with them, at least. Video games are fun.

Another bright, sun-like smile. “Yeah? Well in that case I’ll have to kick your ass in Mario Kart some time.” She threatens playfully.

So she might want to hang out, he thinks to himself, the thought causing his heart to do a little flip and he smiles an almost shy and timid smirk. “Challenge accepted.”

“What do you do for work?”

That question catches him off-guard, causing his eyes to widen a bit. He doesn’t know if it would be better to lie or just tell the truth. He narrates stories on the internet and makes and puts out music people have constantly been telling him wouldn’t be enjoyed. He doesn’t see how that would leave a bad taste in her mouth exactly but because of his inability to stop himself from overthinking he doesn’t want to run the risk of repulsing her. Then again, he doesn’t want to lie either, he’s been so honest with her thus far, why would he derail now and because of such a simple question. That’s why he chooses to answer truthfully but keep his answer relatively vague: “I do online work and make music I haven’t released yet. I honestly dunno if I ever will.” That last part felt like a harsh hit of reality coming on too suddenly, forcing him to look away from her to gather his composure and put it back together.

“I bet it’s good. You’ll have to let me hear it when you get something done. I’ve got a clearly refined taste in music, but I bet you already figured that out.” She exaggerates a wink, reaching over to wiggle the straw in her drink.

Feeling a bit less tense now, he clears his throat and picks up the conversation once again. “What about you? You keep asking me all these questions, but all I know about you is that you’re a klepto with no car.”

That signature bright and bubbly laughter leaves Cora’s chest, sending Corpse a millisecond away from swooning over her completely. “I’m actually a starving artist. I’m a pet photographer and I'm going back to school for advertising graphic design. When I’m not off goofing around with people getting their dogs birthday documented, I’m working at ye good ol’ Starbucks, serving all the...” Her voice lifts to a higher pitch and is now coming more from the back of her throat as she takes on the most preppy tone she could muster, “Beckys their venti mocha caramel frappuccino with TWO extra pumps of caramel, but with SOY because they’re all on a diet. Funny how that works, no? All those women with the exact same order and exact same attributes - I almost laugh whenever one of them walks in. You can smell them from a block away.”

Corpse chokes out a laugh as he covers his mouth, hiding his half chewed bite from view. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. Then again, he can’t help but acknowledge the warmth that has spread across his cheeks at how she giggles along with him. “And to be fair,” Cora quickly interrupts herself, “I am not a klepto, I just really liked the belt I found and thought forty five dollars was a rip off.” She smirks, finding herself absentmindedly looping her pinky with his. Corpse doesn’t look down, doesn’t comment, doesn’t want her to know he noticed, because maybe she’d put an end to their so small yet so meaningful contact. Instead, he smiles a little and swallows the last bite of his lunch, his heart beating rapidly in his chest and he briefly entertains the idea that he maybe wasn’t the only one awestruck.

Anyhow, that thought gets pushed down real quick when he considers how absolutely out of his league she is, and how...well, how he’s in absolutely no league whatsoever. The world has done plenty to prove that to him real fast. Corpse sees himself as a nobody; he believes he doesn’t matter and everybody likes to remind him of it. But, as Cora’s pinky curls a little and one of her thumbs brushes against the arch of his wrist, all that bitter venom in his cold soul starts to slowly ease up, loosening its typically firm hold of his mind. Maybe, just maybe, one day, he would matter to someone. Someday.

@fockingwhore @vixenl @annshit @wineandionysus @wiseflamingoqueen

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officialleotolstoy · 4 years ago

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Oh Anatole Brainrot* We’re Really In It Now, aka Anatole playlist annotations!

*I only have brainrot about him in terms of his relationships with Hélène and Dolokhov idc about him on his own 🤢

This playlist is infuriating because it has so many good songs on it and he does NOT deserve to have a playlist that slaps so hard :/

My Type - Saint Motel

“You’re just my type; you’ve got a pulse and you are breathing”

The lyrics are literally just I Will Have Sex With Anything That Breathes which is Anatole’s only personality trait. It just is.

Fool For Love - Lord Huron

“I’m asking her to be my bride, I know there’s another man but he ain’t gonna delay my plans”

This song is about eloping with a girl who already has a boyfriend, it is THE Comet section Anatole song. Which angers me because it’s such a good song, it doesn’t deserve to be associated with him in my head.

The Cult of Dionysus - The Orion Experience

“Wine and women and wonderful vices”

HEDONISM BABEY!!! Also the phrase “wine and women” with “he spends his money on women and wine” in Comet...makes ya think.

Everybody Loves Me - OneRepublic

“Look so good I might die, all I know is everybody loves me”

You know that quote that’s like “[Anatole] cultivated an air of superiority blah blah blah whatever” (paraphrased)? This is that in song form.

Bedroom Hymns - Florence + The Machine

“The wine and the women and the bedroom hymns”

Thottery AND the phrase “wine and women”? Anatolecore.

Talk - Hozier

“I’ll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I’m imagining you”

I think if he needs to, Anatole can sugarcoat carnal desire with pretty words. It kind of comes down to “I’m pretending to be eloquently and romantically interested in you but I really just want to have s*x with you”. He might not have that much self-control, but the bottom line is that this song is horny and so is he.

Someone New - Hozier

“I wake at the first cringe of morning and my heart’s already sinned”

All my notes say is “commitment issues thot anthem” which is fair. I think it’s physically impossible for him not to fall in love with someone new every week, which is the entire point of this song. Also “you knew who I was with every step that I ran to you” tracks, Anatole doesn’t really try to hide it.

Paradise City - Guns N’ Roses

“Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty”

I won’t lie, I’m not sure if this is what the song is actually about but that bit at least has hedonism energy. Also this came up on genius lyrics and it feels like something Anatole would do:

Hallelujah - Panic! At The Disco

“I got caught under the covers with secondhand lovers”

Ok whore. But also the vibes of knowing you’re a sinner and reveling in it feels like Anatole. It’s the complete lack of shame for me.

Why Should I Worry - Billy Joel

“Why should I worry? Why should I care?”

Has he ever actually cared about anything other than his own personal wellbeing? Jury’s still out. This song implies he has street smarts which may not be true but not every lyric is gonna work 😔✌🏻

Only The Good Die Young - Billy Joel

“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun”

The entire song is just seducing a devoutly Catholic girl, and it doesnt exactly work but I always assign this in my head to that time he tried to marry Marya B. But just in general, the reckless seduction vibes work.

Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega

“To me flirting is just like a sport”

Unironically this is such an Anatole song. Listing off all his different lovers and their attributes is absolutely something he’s done. This is just a carefree thot song which is his vibe.

Ex’s and Oh’s - Elle King

“Ex’s and oh’s they haunt me like ghosts”

This is also on the Hélène playlist but this time the ex messing things up is his wife (not that any of that was her fault). I also think the general vibes of “I’m gonna make you want me so much and then leave you” are Anatoleish

Rasputin - Boney M.

“Russia’s greatest love machine”

LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME THIS DOESN’T WORK. It’s about the seduction of upper-class Russian women come ON

I’m Born To Run - American Authors

“I’m gonna live my life like I’m gonna die young”

This is almost a more wholesome version of his careless hedonism, more skewed toward seeing the world rather than just having drunken fun but the energy is still there

Don’t Stop Me Now - Queen

“Tonight I’m gonna have myself a real good time”

It’s the “having fun is the only thing that matters” mindset. He doesn’t deserve this song 😔

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy - Queen

I don’t have a lyric for this one, it’s just like. Yes I am a professional flirter! He is not this into commitment but i imagine he tells a new person this every week.

Oops!...I Did It Again - Britney Spears

“But to lose all my senses, that is just so typically me”

The lack of commitment and not treating relationships seriously is very Anatole, and so is the refusal to take responsibility for the heartbreak you directly caused.

How Bad Can I Be? - The Lorax

“How bad can I be? I’m just doing what comes naturally”

I KNOW I KNOW. HEAR ME OUT. This is pretty much Tolstoy’s “defense” of him verbatim. It’s the idea that he’s just so naturally like this it has never occurred to him to be any other way or to think about other people’s wellbeing. Anatole is the Onceler and Natasha is a straight girl on tumblr circa 2012.

Runaway Baby - Bruno Mars

“When I play, I never stay”

He would never be this self-aware, but otherwise it fits. The whole thing is about an inability to commit and a propensity for causing heartbreak. Also, I’ve had a grudge against this song for years and the blind rage it fills me with is reminiscent of the blind rage Anatole fills me with.

California Girls - The Beach Boys

“I’ve been all around this great big world and I’ve seen all kinds of girls”

This song is like, “What if we objectified every woman ever but made it a bop?” which is massive Anatole energy I think.

Girls, Girls, Girls - Motley Crüe

“I just need a new toy”

Literally the exact same justification as California Girls

It’s Raining Men - The Weather Girls

If I’m gonna add songs about objectifying women, I’m gonna add songs about objectifying men too. Equal opportunity whorery.

Parental Guidance - Judas Priest

“You say I waste my life away but I live it to the full”

This is just him to Vassily. Refusing to be controlled by your parents’ expectations and just going off to have fun is Vassily’s whole gripe with him and also the point of this song.

How To Be A Heartbreaker - MARINA

“You gotta have fun, but baby when you’re done you gotta be the first to run”

The bits about not getting close to anyone because you’re afraid of getting hurt don’t really apply but the “here’s how to make people like you and also we are for sure not staying together this is just for fun” definitely fit.

The STD Song - Top Memes

“Sinning with your naked bod is evil and atrocious”

I uh. I forgot this was on here but I was RIGHT when I added it. This is the lecture Vassily gives him after his Polish wife debacle-

Do It All The Time - I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

“I’m only doing anything I want to do because I do it all the time”

He literally just does whatever he wants without thinking about the consequences. It’s just got huge entitled kid thot energy which is Anatole’s whole character. And the line “I’m taking your girl and I’m making her mine” is deeply Anatoleish.

Until The Night Turns - Lord Huron

“I got a helluva view for the end of the world, I've got a bottle of booze and a beautiful girl”

This doesn’t fit into any particular situation but I do think if the world was ending and Anatole was drunk with a pretty lady he would have this exact reaction. Also the repetition of the word sunrise (which is what the name Anatole means) is just a fun little extra bit.

Girls - The 1975

“What’s the fun in doing what you’re told?”

Rebellious kid energy! Also “she can’t be what you need if she’s 17” is everyone with morals @ him about Natasha (I know she was 19 at the time shh it’s about the energy).

Pretty Fly (For A White Guy) - The Offspring

“In his own mind he’s the dopest trip”

This man is The Worst but he really thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips huh! Literally everyone can tell he’s not the brightest bulb in the bunch EXCEPT HIM. Smh.

#anatole kuragin #war and peace #my post #w&p playlists #unfair of this playlist to slap so hard when it’s for the worst character #im gonna post the ship ones a bit later bc im a narcissist and i want more attention xo

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 4 years ago

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The Critique of Manners: Part III

~Or~

A Somewhat Indecisive Review of “Emma” (Miramax, 1996)

I have a feeling this review is gonna be a little harder for me to write. Everyone knows that recaps and reviews are most entertaining when the writer has an intense dislike (or intense feeling of any kind) for the drama they’re reviewing. It falls to other writers to pan or praise this film as they will, but I simply don’t have many particularly strong feelings about it at all. I have neither that repulsed dislike for this movie such as I did for Emma 1997, nor that disappointed frustration as for certain aspects of Emma. 2020, but neither do I have a deep, profound love and appreciation for it as I do for Emma 2009.

Written and Directed by American Screenwriter, director and actor, Douglas McGrath, Emma (1996) is rather what one expects it to be: a 90’s romance film. Perhaps it’s because I had expectations due to the era in which it was made, but I think I have a tendency to excuse some of the problems with this film. There are many unnecessary additions (for comedy’s sake usually and often quite cringe-y) and one definitely can’t claim that the dialogue hasn’t been tampered with. I don’t normally side with the “I do so miss Austen’s biting wit” crowd but, by ‘eck I felt it this time. That’s because Austen’s Biting Wit™ just doesn’t suit a fluffy 90’s chick flick (which this film is in a way that other big screen Austen adaptations of the time just aren’t – and I think approaching this film from the 90’s chick flick perspective is probably the best way to digest it.) This version, more than any other (except perhaps 2009) brings the concept of Emma-as-Matchmaker to the fore with a particular emphasis precisely because it’s a concept that fits well with the rom-com style of filmmaking used here.

The bones of this review, like my review for the ITV version, were written six years ago following my initial viewing only a select number of portions survive from that review (which is still on IMDb).

As with all my reviews I'll be comparing the script, characterizations and plot to the book and commenting on the authenticity and attractiveness of the costumes, and suitability of the houses and sets.

Let’s dive in.

Cast & Characterization

Emma is arguably the easiest of Austen’s works to read because of Emma’s generally good (if condescending and overly self-confident) character, and Mr. Knightley’s sober, mature but exceedingly pleasant manner. I had my doubts about Gwyneth Paltrow playing an Austen heroine, but I at least had faith in Jeremy Northam’s ability to portray the mature Mr. Knightly. My expectations were not entirely disappointed in either case.

My prevailing feeling about this film is that it’s not so much set in Jane Austen’s Regency England, but in an American fantasy of what Regency England was like. Perhaps the biggest factor that reinforces this impression is (of course) the casting choice for our leading lady, Gwyneth Paltrow.

Freckled, ruddy and thin as a twig, Gwyenth didn’t quite, to my mind, fit the physical description of Emma, who is supposed to be “The picture of health” according to Mrs. Weston. Add to this the Regency beauty ideal of a soft and shapely figure with regular features. Fair hair was generally preferred (and I have always imagined Emma as blond, although I’m given to understand that Austen’s idea of pretty generally favored dark hair), so I can’t fault Gwynnie there. What I can fault though is her so-so British accent.

I recently learned that the reason McGrath thought Paltrow would be a good choice was because she’s the only Texan he’d ever met who’d managed to entirely throw off her native accent; I guess he decided that if she could do that she could do any accent work? I guess? Seems questionable to me.

You know Joely Richardson was considered for this part? Gorgeous, refined (British) GODDESS Joely Richardson was passed over because Gwyenth managed to shake an embarrassing accent.

I hate American directors.

I’m not sure if it’s just part of the accent, or her attempt to sound upper class, but on this most recent re-watch it hit me for the first time how very nasal many of her line deliveries are. She also has this problem with looking (and sounding) sort of vapid and… just what is happening here?

Is she having a stroke at the end there?

A bigger problem than Emma’s casting, however, is her characterization.

Part of the above mentioned script tampering is in lockstep with some of the issues with Emma’s characterization here. Her very teenager-esque swings from vowing to never make another match again to immediately trying to think of another guy to set Harriet up with, and her getting carried away in potential scenarios “But if he seems sad I shall know that John has advised him not to marry Harriet! I love John! Or he may seem sad because he fears telling me he will marry my friend. How could John let him do that? I hate John!” (Especially when you never even really get to meet John Knightley in this version? Ugh, pass me with this shit) is so bizarrely childish it’s a little hard to stomach. She spends the movie going back and forth between mature and manipulative to childish and naïve and it just… doesn’t work for me. Emma can be all of these things but the transition from one extreme to another here seems a bit disjointed to me.

Knightley was a bit of a disappointment to me in this version. That’s not Jeremy Northam’s fault because I can’t think of a better choice they could have made. McGrath showed much better judgment with his choice for Mr. Knightley than he did with Emma.

My biggest problem with this interpretation was how laid back he was when he was supposed to chastising Emma. Their quarrels became more like mere disagreements so the proposal line of lecturing her and her bearing it as no other woman would have isn’t entirely earned. Even in the big scene at Box Hill where Knightley is really supposed to lay into Emma, he starts off pretty solidly, but by the end so doe-eyed and apologetic it fails to deliver the sting of rebuke that is Emma’s biggest learning moment in the story. Perhaps they were trying to go for a more disappointed feel (the kind that makes you feel worse than being shouted at because you really respect the person you let down) but it just didn’t come through for me.

Also of note is the fact that, (I assume) because John Knightley isn’t really allowed time to be a character in this film, McGrath took some of John’s introverted tendencies and transplanted them into his more convivial older brother (“I just want to stay home, where it’s cozy.” – I mean I feel that, but this isn’t something George Knightley would say.)

Onto the less central characters

I question also the choice of Toni Colette for Harriet Smith. I mean I actually liked her performance more on this watch than previously but I just don’t think she’s pretty enough for Harriet, and she looks a bit clumsy (though that might have more to do with her costumes.)

I also noted that McGrath bumps Harriet’s comprehension skills up just a scooch. Emma never has to explain the “Courtship” riddle to her, Harriet figures it out on her own after a while, while she never manages to in the book.

Now we come to the crux of Jane Fairfax, played by Polly Walker. I don’t care for this choice. My issue is the simple fact that she just isn’t believable to me as a demure, wronged character like Jane Fairfax. Seriously she looks like she would sooner throw Frank across the room than take his cruel teasing, and not in the subtle way that Olivia Williams managed to. They never even utilized her by including some of Jane’s more pointed returns to Frank’s jabs, which they even managed to squeeze into the massively cut down TV movie.

Speaking of Frank; Ewan McGregor, though generally delightful, was so under-used. Frank and Jane’s plotline always kind of gets shafted in Theatrical release adaptations of this story. It’s not as bad here as it is in say, the 2020 adaptation (they were in that version so little I actually forgot what their actors looked like), but it’s still pretty stunted.

I find it interesting that Ewan McGregor himself thinks his performance in this movie isn’t good; and I’ll agree it’s not his best (certainly it’s no Obi-wan Kenobi) but I thought he did a pretty good job with obviously unfamiliar material

Also if the Davies screenplay of ’97 made Frank’s character too caddish, I think this version didn’t make him caddish enough. I mean he’s hardly around enough to really develop his flirtation with Emma, and they merged Strawberry Picking and Box Hill into one sequence so we never see Frank’s ill humors. I can perhaps excuse this, since it seems like a nuanced story really wasn’t what McGrath was going for here, I think. This is a lite version of the story; schmaltzy fluff for teenage girls’ movie nights. Frank’s ill humors wouldn’t really have fit the tone of this version at all.

Interestingly enough, though it’s taken me a long time to make this decision, I think Alan Cumming might be the definitive Elton? He’s the only one who doesn’t immediately read as a slime ball from the get go. I mean he’s got all the warning signs that Austen wrote into him, but no more than that. He’s not slinking about greasily or obviously pandering (at first), so Emma’s uneasy realization of what’s really happening here isn’t a hundred miles behind the viewer’s (maybe just fifty).

There are as many Mrs. Eltons out there as there are adaptations of this story, and they’re all pretty great (funky accents aside), but other than the 1997 take, this one might be the least great to me. She’s not nearly pushy enough, because Mrs. Elton would never let Emma prompt the conversation when she could do it herself.

Also, I think McGrath misunderstands Mrs. Elton’s brand of New Money vulgarity. He has her talking with her mouthful, clanking her utensils on her plate as she eats, putting biscuits which she’s bitten into back onto communal plates, which I think even Mrs. Elton would know not to do. Table manners are pretty basic; the couth that Mrs. Elton lacks is of a more nuanced social kind – for instance, what is and isn’t considered gauche to talk about (like how big one’s brother in law’s house is or how many horses he keeps.)

(A sudden thought has just occurred to me: is Mrs. Elton just a more mean-spirited Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances? “It’s meh sister, Mrs. Suckling! That’s right, the one with an estate in Warwickshire and the two barouche landaus!”)

Sophie Thompson’s Miss Bates is chatty and one of better takes on the character, but lack of necessary background hinders her impact on Emma’s story. The comedy in her scenes is some of the best and actually made me laugh, although I think she was just way too giggly.

Miss Bates’s mother, Mrs. Bates, is played by Sophie Thompson’s real-life mother Phyllida Law in a completely coincidental quirk of casting. (I noted in this film how very much Emma Thompson, Sophie’s older sister looks like their mother.)

My only other serious issue with characterization in this adaptation is the representation of Mr. Woodhouse. He is somehow simultaneously more cheery and more disagreeable than he is in the book. His chiding about the cake at the Weston’s wedding seems more like a scolding rather than an anxious admonishment. In one of the first scenes, during Mr. Woodhouse’s “Poor Miss Taylor” speech, he says he cannot understand why she would want to give up her comfortable life with himself and Emma, to have “mewling children who bring the threat of disease every time they enter or leave the house,” and he says this IN FRONT OF ONE OF HIS TWO DAUGHTERS.

Of course in the book, Mr. Woodhouse does lament Miss Taylor marrying, leaving and even having children – but this is all in the context of the danger childbirth presents to Miss Taylor (And the fact that he can’t stand losing a companion). These are his complaints – not the children themselves. In addition, his elder daughter has quite a fine number of children, all of them very young, of whom Mr. Woodhouse is very fond. He’s a character that needs to be carefully handled because, much like his daughter, it’s very easy for him to become unlikeable.

For the rest of the time, though, he just sort of cheerily laughs and is very at ease, when Mr. Woodhouse, as a chronic hypochondriac should be made anxious by just about everything.

Sets & Surroundings

One thing I find interesting about this adaptation is that the houses they chose to use are all of a very neo-classical Palladian style, which I believe (given her disdain for the contemporary trend of knocking down England’s great houses just to rebuild them in a more fashionable style) Austen may have disliked to some degree.

One such house is Came House in Dorset, which was used as the Woodhouse’s estate, Hartfield. Now Hartfield is, I think, described as a well-built modern house so this could be pretty accurate (although Modern could refer to the red bring, boxy style of Georgian architecture, such as the houses used in the 1997, 2009 and 1972 versions.)

Another, Claydon House in Buckinghamshire played the role of Donwell Abbey. I think this might be the worst exterior ever used for Donwell, from a book accuracy perspective. Utterly Georgian, with its’ square façade, Claydon house sort of directly contradicts Austen description of being “Larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular…” not only is the architecture totally wrong, so is its’ situation, in Georgian fashion, perched on a hill, when Donwell (a very old building) is supposed to be “Low and sheltered”.

Mapperton House is maybe the grandest house yet used for Mr. Weston’s Randalls (I’ve already covered in my review of Emma (2020) why this is a problem – although in this version, as in the 1997 adaptation, there’s no full panic over the snow, so this is less of a problem, but a house like this is still too grand for the reasonably sized Randalls of the book), but it fits the usual 15th-16th century house type that always seems to be used for Randalls.

A myriad of other great houses were used for interiors, however other than Crichel House (Dorset), which was used for Donwell’s interiors, I can’t find information on which ones where used for what. They include Breakspear House (Harefield), Coker Court (Somerset), Stafford House (Staffordshire) and Syon House & Park (Middlesex).

I really appreciate the interiors which were all very colorful and even included doors and molding painted the same color as the walls which is a very Georgian decorating convention, although it looks odd to the modern viewer.

Costumes & Hair

As a rule, the costumes (Created by Ruth Myers) in this movie are pretty damn good, composition wise, but the arrangement leaves a lot to be desired. Myers talked extensively of wanting the costumes to be colorful and bright like the water colors of the time, which she achieved brilliantly. What I find funny is that she talked about using color as if it would be controversial from a historical accuracy point of view, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

The evening wear is generally excellent

My only question around evening wear here is… what’s up with the waistline on Harriet’s ball gown? Why is it going up in the middle? Toni Collette (who actually gained weight for the role, since Harriet was described as “Reubenesque”) verged on looking a little dumpy throughout the film and awkwardly bumping up her waistline in the middle really didn’t help.

I’m pleased to report that is is the one version where Miss Bates’s evening-wear is allowed to look like evening wear. Even Maiden Aunts wore shorter sleeves and lower necklines at dinner or balls. They fussed her up with some lace gloves and frilly fichus but it follows the conventions of the time. I appreciate that immensely, though I have the sneaking suspicion that it’s because of Sophie Thompson’s age.

At 37 Thompson was an unconventionally young choice for Miss Bates, a character who previously had only been cast as older than 50 (Prunella Scales, who would play the role later in 1996, was 64). Indeed, Douglas McGrath almost passed Thompson over for the role on account of her age, but reconsidered after seeing her in spectacles. It seems possible to me that since Thompson was considered young they dressed her “young” as well.

The daywear is where the costumes start to really fall apart. There are a lot of looks here worn in the day that are VERY not day/outerwear appropriate, especially on Emma, most especially the yellow dress she’s wearing while driving that carriage (which, btw is inappropriate on a whole OTHER level). Can we just talk aboutt he cognative dissonance of bothering to put a bonnet on her when her arms and boobs are just hanging out like that? Like, it would almost have been less egregious to just leave the bonnet where it was.

But then there are a lot of Emma’s day-wear looks that are perfectly suitable and appropriate. What I find ironic about that is that most of the short-sleeved, low-necked “Evening-gowns as day-wear” looks are worn OUTSIDE in the sun and most of the long-sleeved, sun protecting, day-wear appropriate looks are worn INSIDE. She’s also got a profusion of dangling curls in day-time settings that are also more evening-wear appropriate (to match the dresses, perhaps?)

I’m also pleased to report that even in day-wear Miss Bates gets a break from brown in this version. Her clothes are nice, but not fancy like Miranda Hart’s in Emma. 2020, and I like to think that nice thick shawl with lace overlay is the one mentioned in the book that Jane’s friend Mrs. Dixon sent along home with her for her aunt.

My only problem with Mrs. Elton’s kit is that it’s all perfectly nice, but none of it is overly-nice. There’s no extra trim, no unnecessary lace, not even any bold colors. I hope Myers and McGrath didn’t take Mrs. Elton’s line in the book about her fear of being over-trimmed seriously.

Let’s talk outerwear. There’s a lot of going into town with JUST a shawl on in this movie (usually over short sleeves), and I’m sorry but I don’t think that’s how outer-wear worked in this time period. A shawl is good enough when you’re taking a turn in the garden but not for going out in public into town, unless maybe you’re wearing long sleeves, or perhaps paired with a SPENCER.

Never mind Mrs. Elton’s line about a shocking lack of satin at the end of the movie, I’m more concerned about the shocking lack of spencers. There are precisely three in this film. I counted (and the sleeves on Emma’s look like maybe they’re too long for her?) Mrs. Elton sports the only redingote in the film.

Jane Fairfax is, as always, in her classic Jane Fairfax Blue™,

although she has some nice white gowns at some points too.

Now, onto

Definitely a bit more colorful than the 97 adaptation. Mr. Knightley benefits most from the addition of colors other than green. He’s even got some smashing waistcoats and a very nice blue evening coat (I couldn’t get very good shots of them though). The problem is; those trousers? NOT. TIGHT. ENOUGH.

Also… you all see it, right? I circled it in red so you should. Yeah. Knightley is dancing in boots. WTF RUTH? Please! You’re better than this! Who dances in Prussians like that? I ask you! (Frank also wears boots to the Cole’s dinner party so that’s two strikes.)

I’m not sold on Frank’s looks. His day-wear is a bit sedate for such a confirmed dandy (I believe he’s called a “coxcombe” in the book?) and his evening wear… well he apparently only has the one look.

And speaking of Frank’s look in this film, I’d like to know at whose doorstep I should lay the blame for what Ewan McGregor himself has called “The Worst Wig Ever”; and why the hair designer in charge decided to model Frank’s aesthetic on a theme of “Chucky meets the Mad Hatter”.

This hairstyle not only looks dreadful, it’s not at all fashionable or authentic to this time period! Fashionable mens’ hair styles at this point were all relatively short. A Beau Brummel coiffeur, or a short Roman style, or a fashionable head of curls like Mr. Elton’s! Not this farmer chic. Robert Martin’s hair is more fashionable than Frank’s!

The tune they chose for Emma and Knightley’s dance is a baroque melody (so a hundred or so years out of fashion) called “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” and as is pointed out in the video linked above, and is the same tune and dance used for Lizzie and Darcy’s big dance in Pride and Prejudice (1995).

I get why it was used in P&P because, slow, stately baroque tunes are often used as on-screen short hand for snobbish character like Mr. Darcy. It’s not super intense either, like the baroque tune used in P&P 05, which was chosen for more romantic effect. So why use this kind of “stuck up” tune for what should be a romantic dance? Maybe because it was used in the 95 P&P which became, almost instantly, one of the most popular Austen adaptations?

Quick note on the dancing and music in this movie. I’m not an expert on English Country dance (I’ll outsource that by giving you the usual link to Tea with Cassiane’s analysis on YouTube) but I’ll add my two cents - I know Cassiane gave this a pretty favorable three full dance slippers but I think the way all of the actors and dancers move looks very poorly rehearsed and kind of sloppy. I think everyone just spread out way too much.

Douglas McGrath’s Script

I have to say one of the things this film did very well and brought to the forefront is how insular Emma’s life is. The opening credit sequence brings this to our attention right away by showing a spinning globe which, once it slows down is shown to be, literally, Emma’s whole tiny world. Hartfield, Donwell, Randalls and Highbury. That’s it. It’s perhaps not a very subtle device, but it does get the job done and very succinctly too.

I would now like to talk about my issues with the script of this movie; I have some problems with it. Very different problems than it’s 1996 counterpart though.

First let’s go over the comedic device that jumped out to me most in this movie: the awkward pause.

I think it’s only used twice but they both bothered me.

First there’s the pauses while Emma and Mrs. Weston grill Knightley on whether he considers Jane Fairfax romantically. It’s all written as very “OoOoOooo” with Knightley answering their interrogations and then sitting between them awkwardly as they stare him down as, none of his answers giving either Emma or Mrs. Weston satisfaction. This is one of the most teen rom-com moments of the film to me.

Next there’s all the quiet stretches while Emma and Mrs. Elton have tea at Hartfield. I don’t like the use of awkward pauses in this case because (as I mentioned in Mrs. Elton’s characterization section) it’s so ludicrous to me that there are pauses in this conversation at all. Surely the point of Mrs. Elton is that she loves to hear herself talk and her conceited obsession with the idea that everyone around her must only benefit from hearing her opinions. There should be no conceivable reason why Emma should have to prompt conversation like she does in McGrath’s version of this scene, except to derail Mrs. Elton’s constant self-important yammering.

Watching it this time around I found myself wondering exactly what McGrath wanted to do with this film. I mean I’ve been attempting to decipher exactly whether the changes made were conscious and based on artistic vision, or whether they were changed because the source material just flew over McGrath’s Hollywood Director head.

I mean he gets the important plot points across, but there were other scenes that I had issues with: namely, the Archery scene. This is a pretty intense part of the book because Mr. Knightly goes from astonished, to indignant, to truly vexed with Emma in a short period of time. But this scene in the movie is very casual. The part where Emma’s arrow goes wide and into the general direction of Knightley’s dogs, and he takes an opportunity to make a quip and says “try not to kill my dogs” particularly annoyed me. My issue is that this totally ruins the tension of the scene; and why are Knightley’s dogs sitting BEHIND THE TARGETS ANYWAY? Knightley is a sensible man, and one who knows better than to let his dogs rest in a place where stray arrows could hit them!

The dialouge is very jarring because it flips back and forth beetween being alright, and period appropriate and then it will just spring a very modern turn of phrase and pull you completely out of the setting. I know this is something that’s been brought up with the 2009 version as well but maybe it’s because the actors in that version have (in my opinion) better chemistry that it simply doesn't stick out to me as much.

The comedy in general in this movie just makes me cringe a lot of the time (Sophie Thompson’s “oh sorry, napkin” bit notwithstanding). Like the soup thing when Emma and Harriet meet Mr. Elton after visiting the poor, and the random kid that gets tossed into this scene with Emma… just doesn’t work for me.

Wikipedia describes McGrath’s tweaks on Emma and Knightley’s banter (which really weren’t changed that much, textually) as “Enlivened” to make the basis of their attraction more apparent, which… I’m sorry but nothing about the exisiting banter isn’t lively if delivered in a lively manner. And I wouldn’t exactly call Gywneth’s performance lively, because she has to concentrate to keep that accent up.

I mentioned already that what McGrath essentially did with Emma was take Austen’s story, and remove the nuance (Such as lightening Frank’s infractions in his relationship with Jane and, while not totally contradicting, but also not highlighting the economic commentary of the story that is thematic in Austen’s novel) in order to make a straight up 90’s comedic romance film (Which, if you doubt this, look no further than Rachel Portman’s Oscar Winning but very dated score).

My Question is why? Why bother when the SAME STORY had been adapted into a HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL, modernized rom-com THE PREVIOUS YEAR, which actually, even while being set in the 90’s, did the story greater justice, with far more insight and quality?

Emma (1996) was always going to be over-shadowed by Clueless. At the end of the day this whole movie was kind of a futile effort because despite excellent production quality, the actual contents are watered down and, in my own opinion, pretty roundly mediocre.

Final Thoughts

When I first watched both of these versions I came at it from a very one-or-the-other perspective. I forgave McGrath’s film because it was light and colorful and I’d heard Davies’ version praised so highly at that time as the only faithful, definitive version (only to be let down by it in almost every possible way). But coming right down to it now, it’s hard for me to really excuse McGrath’s effort because a version of Emma that doesn’t take itself seriously enough is almost as bad as a version that takes itself too seriously.

It never fails to jump out at me how diametrically opposed these interpretations are, from the characterization right down to the tone and lighting.

McGrath’s Emma is light in every sense of the word, where Davies’ is dark and ponderous. McGrath’s Knightley is laid back where Davies’ is aggressive and ferocious. Frank, in McGrath’s version, is let off easy by the narrative playing down his moodiness, while in Davies there’s an overshadowing dark-cloud of off-putting caddishness.

Ribbon Rating: Tolerable (58 Ribbons)

The more I watch the 1996 adaptations of Emma (invariably back-to-back) the more firmly I am convinced that Andrew Davies’ made for TV film was (in some ways) a direct response to McGrath’s motion picture.

Tone: 7

Casting: 7

Acting: 5

Scripting: 5

Pacing: 4

Cinematography: 4

Setting: 5

Costumes: 6

Music: 5

Book Accuracy: 6

#jane austen #jane austen emma #regency #period drama #costume drama #classic literature #emma 1996

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i-did-not-mean-to · 5 months ago

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Silm September 2024

September is a busy month for me, and I'll be on holiday...

BUT, for what it's worth, I'll try to get a few of these in!

Fire - Silvergifting - Drabble

I want you cause we’re both insane - Finrod x Maglor - 115

Chains - Maedhros x Sauron - Drabble

Open me up - Finarfin x Eärwen - Drabble

Power Dynamics - Haleth x Caranthir - 105

Now come and fuck me, baby - Melkor x Mairon - Drabble

Stars - Varda x Nienna - Double Drabble

The innocence is gone - Melian x Thingol - Drabble

Butt plugs - Erestor x Glorfindel - Drabble

In the most biblical sense, I am beyond repentance - Maedhros x Fingon - Double Drabble

Mutual Masturbation - Aredhel x Celegorm - Drabble

I want your leather studded kiss - Oromë x Celegorm - Drabble

Scars - Nerdanel & Anairë & Eärwen - Drabble

I drink the honey inside your hive - Aulë x Yavanna - Double Drabble

Outdoor sex - Nerdanel x Anairë - Triple Drabble

And I don't care what you say, I want to go too far - Finrod x Turgon - Drabble

Hidden Identity - Maglor x Daeron - Drabble

I try to talk refined for fear that you might find out how I’m imagining you - Fëanor x Nerdanel - Double Drabble

Seed - Curufin x fem!OC - Drabble

Darling, you're so pretty it hurts. - Finrod x Celegorm - Double Drabble

Ritual Sex - Galadriel x Celeborn - Drabble

Canine teeth in the side of my neck - Thranduil x Finrod - Drabble

Feathers - Gothmog x Eönwë - Drabble

And I run for miles just to get a taste - Aredhel x Thuringwethil - Drabble

Worship - Fëanor x Fingolfin - Double Drabble

Young lovers with their legs tied up in knots - Irmo x Estë - Drabble

Harem - Fingon x Sons of Fëanor - Drabble

My hands are shaking from holding back from you - Idril x Maeglin - Drabble

Biting/Bitemarks - Finwë x Thingol - Drabble

I burst into flames so brilliantly - Maedhros x Fingon - Drabble

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #NSFT #the silm #silm fic #silmarillion #requests open #Masterlist #Silm September

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bbnibini · 4 years ago

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PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA – sixty-five🔖

A foreboding feeling won’t disappear from your heart all throughout class. The seat beside you was empty (Satan was still busy with his investigations with Lucifer), Levi was preoccupied with too many things to be confided anything with—apparently, Asmodeus was too, as he had taken it upon himself to “salvage” Levi’s “disaster of a party”, not knowing that it was not even a real person’s birthday in the first place. Simeon seemed amused at the contrasting personalities’ exchanges, and only intervened when voices were raised and Luke started crying when a binder hit him on the head from the heat of their arguments. Mammon was with Solomon, arguing over some magic formulae that he hadn’t quite mastered yet. Beel had been sweet and thoughtful, but you had a feeling that he wasn’t acting like himself lately. In contrast, his twin didn’t seem to have any worry in the world as he slept through most of his classes.

It was…too normal? No, that’s not quite the right word for it. Rather, it felt like they’re (sans Mammon) pretending that everything was fine, and whatever they were hiding, they’d rather not tell you. Disconcerting perhaps? You did know that now wasn’t the right time to ask anything. Despite your wariness however, nothing can ever prepare you for what happened once you went back in Lamentation.

…and by you, of course it meant everyone else, including the Purgatory Hall residents and Royal Castle residents. What were they all doing here? What's with the tense atmosphere?

"Over here." Satan called your name and patted the seat beside him on the large dining table. One would mistake the gathering as something more ceremonious, but there were no food displays nor feasts or speeches to toast to—only a forlorn Beelzebub who voiced out similar concerns to his drowsy twin on the other side of the table.

It was Lord Diavolo's voice that commanded silence in the dining hall. Whatever veneer of normalcy was now shed, and you began to feel the familiar uneasiness again.

"It'll be fine." Or so had Satan told you while Lord Diavolo made opening introductions about the issue at hand. Words such as brainwashing and poisonous herb came to light, supplemented by Lucifer, Barbatos and Solomon's observations. All three admitted to being part of a secret investigation team and caused arguments from the uninformed for a while, until the Demon Prince quelled their unrest by the finality of his words…or rather, his warnings.

"This is a serious matter. Their life is in danger, and so are their family's and friends'. For the sake of their safety, if you are ever involved in the concerned incidents, I implore you to present yourself and explain your reasons."

Belphegor didn't seem amused by the implications of the Demon Prince's words, and made such dissatisfactions clear with his retort: "Are you saying one of us tried to kill them? Do you have any evidence for your baseless accusations?"

"Woah, what the fuck? Why would we ever do that?! Why would we ever harm our human?” Mammon echoed Belphegor’s offense and retorted in the same fashion.

"That's how I reacted like at first, so I did a little research of my own." Satan replied.

Lucifer sighed deeply and looked at you as if telling you not to ask any details about your lover's findings, or how he went about obtaining them. You felt your heart tighten. Just what was Satan up to while he was gone?

"A generous (read: relented to his little brother's whims) source gave me a sample of the same poison used on the tin: a banned item. Needless to say, this person knows exactly what they're doing. I'd even go far as to say that they know about their birth origins and their connection to us seven."

"Why so?"

"I'm glad you asked, Your Highness. Every one of you must have a copy of my findings on your leftmost side. If you would turn to the seventh page—"

"...?!"

A delicious herb hides endless possibilities to an imaginative spellcaster. The potency of its effects when refined properly can serve as a catalyst for the most powerful spells. However, human mages wishing to seek its power must proceed with caution, as in certain doses…

Satan held your hand very tightly as he noticed you rest your back against the seat.

You heard him say "You can do this," as you read aloud, and even repeated those comforting words as you strained your ears to listen to everyone's feedback. However much you tried to listen in though, you can only think grim thoughts.

How can you…exactly make sense of this? That what?

1. Someone is absolutely trying to kill you. They even went so far as to use brainwashing to erase your existence to your important people in the human world.

2. They are aware that you're Lilith's descendant. Which makes sense why Lord Diavolo suspected everyone in the very room you're in right now(as it is a well-guarded secret).

3. The killer used an herb lethal to humans in certain doses, but an effective enough of a spell catalyst so that they can finish off the job in case you didn't consume enough.

4. The killer used a charm spell to brainwash his victims.

5. The killer is aware that demons are resistant to certain spells.

6. Your fallen angel blood will resist succumbing to the charm spell, but it cannot counter the herb's effects. Meaning, either you succumb to the poison or you will be in so much pain as your angel blood rejects the spell casted with the herb.|

7. The killer really really wants you dead.

"Wait a moment." In your cacophony of thoughts, an unexpected voice silenced the clamorous room. However, his gold and silver eyes didn't meet with yours. Instead, his attention was on the Demon Prince.

"What is the connection of the remaining two items to this, Diavolo? I only heard about the cookie tin being poisoned."

"It makes sense since I only asked Barbatos to commission you to make the antidote. No, these two gifts aren't connected at all. Ah.

I'm sorry!" Diavolo looked at you in concern as he called your name. "I didn't mean to make you distraught!”

Diavolo's apology caused everyone else to be calmer. A wave of apologies soon followed.

"Sorry we got carried away." you heard from Belphegor's side of the table, followed by Asmo's and Beel's concerned inquiries that you reassured with hopeful (albeit forced) smiles.

You felt Satan’s hand squeeze yours, only realising how cold and sweaty your palms were when you met eyes briefly. You turned to the next person who called your name.

"I apologise for my oversight. Have you calmed down a bit?" Lucifer followed, along with Simeon's and Barbatos' own inquiries which you reassured yet again with smiles. Your other hand squeezed Luke's own, feeling it trembling like yours. Knowing you're not the only one scared with all the revelations was reassuring in an unsettling way.

The little angel’s, “I’m okay! I have to be strong for the both of us!” wasn’t very convincing with how he stumbled upon his own words, but his intent and his meaning reached you and you were thankful just for that.

"I overestimated you. I'm sorry." Said Satan who kissed your threaded hands and you shook your head.

"You're right though. I need to hear this. I have all of you, I'm not afraid."

Regret registered in his features. You heard him sigh.

"You can be afraid." He apologised again. "You have the luxury to, with everyone here worrying about you."

He did make you feel better. You find yourself laughing a bit at how obvious his words were to you now. Everyone cared for you, you couldn’t help but think. You wanted to return their kindness in some way or another, even if it meant lying to your own feelings and twisting the truth for their own peace of mind.

"This is just…a lot of things to take in. Even the thought that one of you--"

"Do you really think it's one of us?"

You shook your head.

"Because it's not. You'll see. Everything will be fine."

Was it? Will it? Everyone seems to be trying to make it seem that way, so you'd like to at least believe it for their sake.

Your name was called again, this time by the Demon Prince who was leading the flow of the conversation. The apologetic look on his face stayed even with your assurances, and he seemed hell-bent (pun not intended) to make amends with you.

“This is my own oversight, I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful.”

You smiled and shook your head. “I’m fine, Lord Diavolo.”

He pondered on your words for a bit, letting out an almost inaudible hum. “This wouldn’t do at all. I have offended not only you, but Belphegor and Mammon with my own baseless assumptions. I did not mean to accuse anyone, but it was clear that my words have caused both fear and offense.”

Belphegor looked like he had something to say, but Lucifer stopped him from talking prematurely. Lucifer exchanged looks with Barbatos, and the demon butler started to speak upon exchanging nods with him.

“It is most gracious of you, milord to acknowledge your lack of delicacy. There is a time and place for candour, as well as amelioration.”

“Barbatos…”

The demon butler noticed your stares and smiled gently at you. “Might I suggest an open forum? An opportunity for everyone in this very room to tell the truth for the sake of their safety? I would expect our precious human exchange student to also be truthful of their feelings, if possible.”

“Truthfulness? What a splendid suggestion.” Solomon said from the other side of the room. “Perhaps an elaboration on this truthfulness would be helpful on leading this suggestion into fruition.”

“Hm? Wouldn’t that just be similar to interrogations in mystery novels?” (Satan)

“That’s a fun way of doing it, I suppose.” (Solomon)

“Like D*tective C*nan?”

“Levi…” You shook your head repeatedly at your best friend as you noticed Lucifer’s deathly glares directed at him. Thankfully, he noticed immediately and was able to keep his fanboying in check.

“I agree.” Simeon added. “If it means it would maintain peace in this room and clear everyone’s doubts with each other, I do think it’s the best solution.”

“What do you think, Lucifer?” Solomon consulted his other “coworker”, and the eldest sibling sighed in relent. “It’s not like we have much of a choice. Leaving this room while still doubting each other wouldn’t be good for all of us, especially them.”

The first few minutes of the “open forum” had a lot of dead airs and awkward starts. Simeon encouraged a couple of unenthused demons to sit on the floor, all huddled up to each other to “promote intimacy and trust”, but all it earned him were overgrown groans and griping fitting to that of rebellious teens going through their middle school phase. A little problem with the whole huddling situation also surfaced when two unmistakably…large adult demons by the names of Beelzebub and Diavolo had exhibited visible discomfort on trying to conform with their peer’s original, cross-legged positions. Thankfully, a compromise was met and they were now seated more comfortably with their knees bundled up.

Each person who had to explain their side were made to go to the centre of the circle to “tell their own truth”, while the rest followed up with questions once they were done saying their piece.

The first to go forward was Barbatos, the original suggester. He seated calmly at the centre and started speaking once he was prompted.

“As all of you are already aware, Lucifer, Solomon and I are working closely with each other in secret to protect them. We have kept this from all of you in fear that it will only make everyone worry. I apologise for not considering all of your feelings.”

“Did you write the letter?” Satan asked and Barbatos shook his head. “No. I did not send the bouquet either. However, I confess. I was the one who sent the tin of cookies.”

!!!

Barbatos understood everyone’s apprehension and calmly continued his sentence. “Lucifer can attest for me that the cookies were not poisoned when I made it for them. He was with me when I have been baking the sweets for them and a few of our guests in the Castle.”

Lucifer confirmed Barbatos’ statements at his own turn. “They had expressed interest on the cookies before, so Barbatos included their share on the batch he had made for Diavolo’s guests that day. If he had poisoned Diavolo’s equally human guests, they would have all been dead by now.”

That makes sense. Besides, the real killer wouldn’t suggest such a disadvantageous method such as an open forum to put them on the spot.

“As for my own accounts, I was not aware of any letters or bouquets until the investigation team began our operations. I did put a note on their locker to summon them in my office. Judging from their absence, however…it must have remained to be seen.”

“Was it a blue sticky note with their name on it?”

Lucifer’s eyes widened as he turned to the Demon Prince. “How—”

“Oh, it was at my own batch of cookies for some reason.”

Lucifer sighed, realisation finally dawning on him. “Mrs. DeVille must have misunderstood my orders.”

“She’s a well-meaning woman, however misguided. I apologise on her behalf.” Barbatos bowed his head. “It is my own incompetence as her superior to have overlooked her capabilities.”

“Mrs. DeVille?”

Barbatos nodded at you. “Yes. She had been a servant at the Castle dating back to Young Master’s great grandfather. She’s one of our most loyal retainers.” There had been an apologetic look on his face as he continued to explain. “Her seniority precedes most of us in the Castle.”

“So she’s really old?”

“Belphie! You shouldn’t call a woman old!” Asmo scolded.

“But that’s what she is. OLD. Senile even. Isn’t that kind of servant just a burden to keep?”

“Belphegor.” Lucifer warned, causing the youngest to roll his eyes and mutter out a whatever under his breath in irreverence.

“The fault lies with me, and not with Mrs. DeVille. In any way, that matter has already passed. Whose turn is it in the hot seat this time?”

Asmo raised his hand, letting out a cheery “Me!” as he sat cross-legged in the centre. Contrary to the dreary atmosphere, the Avatar of Lust’s laid-back cheer offered comfort in the tense atmosphere. You briefly wondered if Asmo intended for that to happen, as the demon was rather perceptive if he wasn’t so hung up with himself.

“I mean, I didn’t write anything nor send anything, but don’t you think those sorts of romantic gestures suit me? I almost wish I were the one who sent both!”

…or so he says. Lucifer had been an effective buffer on Asmo’s foreboding tirades about love and beauty. Soon, Levi’s, Beel’s, Simeon’s and Luke’s turns came, all reiterations of the same tune of “It wasn’t me”, which freed them of any suspicions:

“You had a locker?” Was Beel’s innocent inquiry; his cluelessness a testament to your apprehension with his twin after…that. Of course, the situation has changed now, but it was too late for you to tell them—rather, it had completely slipped your mind.

Once Levi’s turn came, you both exchanged a conspiratory nod. "If I would give you any gift, I would just send it to you, not your locker." Levi shrugged. "Besides, we were always together. Sneak attacks like that aren't my thing." That was true. Any energy he'd have for scheming was better spent on his beloved strategy games.

“I didn’t send it. I was busy helping Luke out with his homework around that time, I think?” Simeon’s alibi was confirmed by the younger angel who had not only matching alibis with the angel, but also with their human companion.

“Solomon also helped us out a bit before meeting up with Asmodeus that morning.”

Solomon had a vague smile on his face as he looked over at you, noticing your stares.

“We weren’t aware of the cookies being poisoned at that point. However, Lucifer had suspicions that something wasn’t right when Barbatos made his usual reports to the human world.” He explained.

Lucifer nodded. “Right. When I saw you sharing them with everyone in Lamentation, the cookies were already compromised. It didn’t look the same as what they had been before Barbatos sent them to you.”

“So that’s why you wanted my advice on the charm spell…Mhm. I did meet with Solomon that morning after my spa appointment.” Asmo said. “Well, anyway! That’s that. Solomon, dear~ It’s your turn!”

Solomon sat himself on the centre in the same manner as everyone else and nodded. “What Luke and Asmo said were true. I was with both of them around that time. They have pretty much explained everything for me.”

“Even so, I would imagine hearing your innocence from your own lips is more reassuring than second opinions.” Barbatos said. The sorcerer smiled back. “Ah, but of course. Around that time, I was already working on the antidote for the poison your men have traced on their friends and family.”

“Ahh, I can confirm that as well. We have personally requested for his assistance.” Lucifer reassured. “Whose turn is it next?”

Satan raised his hand. Wordlessly, he sat in the centre and stated his alibi. “I did not send the bouquet, but I did give them a single carnation to cheer them up. I have noticed a tin of cookies in the locker then, but paid it no mind. I thought it was there to begin with.”

“So the cookies were sent first, then the flower? You mean to say there was no bouquet nor love letter yet when you placed your gift on their locker?”

“None to my knowledge.” Satan answered the curious Demon Prince. “Seeing as it seems like not everyone knows where the locker is located, is it correct to assume that the letter and bouquet sender is someone close to them?”

Levi vehemently shook his head once heads turned to him... “W-why would I send anything that embarrassing?!”

…then at Mammon, who jolted from his seat.

“Come to think of it, Mammon had been reaaaalllllyyyy quiet all this time. Suspicious.” Satan frowned.

The colour started leaving Mammon’s face as everyone turned their eyes at him.

His saviour, however bitter and resentful for Satan’s revelation interrupted the accusing party’s inquiries to him by speaking out of his turn. “Did you not tell Beel and I about where it was on purpose?”

You turned to Belphegor, interrupted before you can even speak.

“No. This isn’t about Beel at all. It’s about me, isn’t it? After all, deep down…you resent me, don’t you?”

“Belphie, I—”

"Me? Send anything in your locker? You didn't even tell me where it is!" The hurt in Belphie's tone made you realise how you had inadvertently hurt someone again due to your negligence. You wondered if your flustered apologies were ever heard. Then again, you'd rather for them not to. He doesn’t deserve a half-assed one at all.

The door slammed shut as the youngest left the room, and as you attempted to chase after him, Beelzebub held a hand above your shoulder and shook his head.

“He needs some time alone. He left because he didn’t have anything nice to say right now.” As he saw you shook your head, he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“But—”

“Belphie’s not mad at you,” Beel reassured you. “He’s mad at himself.”

“It completely slipped my mind. So much has happened and…”

“Ahh. He understands that deep down, but he needs some time. I’ll talk to him if you want.”

“Thanks, Beel.” You tilted your head at the taller demon as you caught him holding back on his words. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Beel seemed really deep in thought so you assumed he was thinking carefully on his words. However, he said no.

“It isn’t my truth to tell.” He spoke cryptically as he shook his head. “No, please forget I said anything.”

You didn’t forget. But you felt like it wasn’t the time to ask him right now so you went back to your spot. Your eyes wandered to the shut door a few times with only Satan’s reassuring gaze quelling your anxieties and doubts.

By the time you came back, it was already Lord Diavolo’s turn. You can tell that he was more cheerful than usual; perhaps to ease the sour mood that filled the room with Belphegor walking out.

"No letter or bouquet could be enough to show you how important you are to Devildom! To me! I'd like to host a parade in your honour if I could!"

...You saw a pained smile from his competent butler and close friend and you could only offer your silent condolences. Satan had to be placated with sneaky kisses to his lips when no one was looking to quell his pouting. You thought Levi had noticed, for he rolled his eyes at both of you in disgust.

After a few more discussions, your mysterious letter sender finally revealed himself…you just didn't expect the person who sent it. Mammon's face looked like he had been through hell and back as he realised the gravity of the situation as well as the weight of his actions. With a face paler than usual, he approached you and bowed his head.

"I'm sorry!"

Along with his apologies was a clumsy explanation of his reasons. You felt like it was not the time to pry any further, so you told him to come closer so you could share some whispered words for him in embrace. "Let's talk later." Everyone else seemed puzzled at your brief exchange, but after assuring everyone that you're fine, they were able to move on to the other issue at hand: the bouquet sender.

Mammon was very adamant on his insistence that he was not the original sender. Even with the investigation team's confirmations of its harmlessness, no one came forward.

"It could be any demon in RAD, couldn't it? They're quite popular among some circles…of the non-gourmet variety, mind you!" Asmo then mentioned some names that Satan helpfully collated in his notebook. Close-eyed smiles and all, he insisted to be given a detailed list of all of them for investigative purposes. Thankfully, you were able to stop him before any more names on the list were ever written.

Beelzebub approached you again after the open forum concluded. The meeting hadn’t ended yet, however. Lucifer was giving some closing remarks, explaining how the human world investigations were progressing in more detail and answering inquiries (mostly Satan’s) about its progress.

“I lied. There is something I want to tell you earlier. I’m sorry.”

Okay? You were really confused now. “What is it?”

He looked intently at you as he spoke, carrying finality in his words. “The letter may be harmless but, I feel like no one else should see it.”

“Beel, you’re starting to scare me.”

Beel didn’t seem like his usual self. It felt like something was burdening him. When he realised how he was making you feel, he seemed genuinely apologetic and even awkwardly patted your head. “I didn’t mean to do that. I…just have a really bad feeling.”

Feeling?

“A gut feeling,” he explained. “Like something bad is going to happen if someone else gets their hands on your letter. Even Mammon.”

“Why would something bad happen to the original sender? Aren’t the letter and flowers harmless?” You remembered Barbatos and the others saying so.

“Yeah. Maybe I’m just overthinking this. Sorry for worrying you,”

Beel’s instincts to these sorts of things are razor sharp. You recalled Belphie telling you that his intuition had saved him countless of times, especially when he was still working as a soldier in heaven. The very fact that it bothered him enough to tell you about it must mean that it was really bad. So despite his words, you decided to listen to him. You decided to give Barbatos the letter after the meeting: it’s better safe than sorry.

When you went back to your seat, you saw that it was currently occupied by a teasing Asmo who was poking your more-than-friends demon on his cheek. “Cheer him up, won’t you? His whole thought process is absurd! And that’s coming from ME!”

“Absurd? What’s this about, Satan?”

You saw him cover Asmo’s smirking mouth as he explained himself. “He says I’m being overdramatic.”

“About what?” Satan’s cheeks dusted a lovely pink upon your inquiry, and Asmo had this expression on his face that BEGGED you to ask. And you being an enabler, humoured him. You couldn’t help it! Satan WAS adorable right now!

“…” Satan hesitated at first, until the whisper of his words grew louder as you repeated your questions.

“I was wondering if the bouquet sender would be able to sway your heart if he ever comes forward…

S-stop laughing! This is a genuine concern, all right?!”

Pfft!

“That’s a Mammon thing to say, Satan. I didn’t expect that.”

“Oh god, you JUST had to open your mouth, didn’t you Asmo?” You saw Satan cover his red-stained face with his hands in embarrassment. Unfortunately, his red ears couldn’t be hidden so easily.

This adorable, adorable man! You wrapped your arms around him and hugged the hell out of him. He’s so cute! (A complete contrast to the profanities coming out of his mouth right now, that’s for sure.)

“Solooooomoooon~ Satan is being meannnnn~!” And the instigator of all of this had now fled the scene, able to be caught by the human he was in a pact with as he pretended to faint.

“What’s this all about?”

You laughed nervously as you saw your fellow human was stuck in the same awkward position as you. “Asmo was teasing Satan about the flower sender stealing me away from him.”

“Hahaha! That’s cute. So the Avatar of Wrath is also an Avatar of Envy?”

You saw Satan glare at the sorcerer as you were in embrace. He was like a temperamental cat—but since he was in a grumpy mood right now, you decided to hold back on the teasing. Solomon seemed to read the mood too, and aimed to placate rather than go about his usual wise cracks.

“I don’t see the problem though?” Solomon asked, unfazed.

“What do you mean by that?” Asked Satan who had now exacted his “revenge” on his brother by a pinch on his cheek. A small yelp let out from Asmo as he attempted to do the same.

His smile never wavered as he held Asmo in his arms. “Well if you think about it, didn’t you find the real flower sender already? Satan is the only flower sender that matters to you. So, I don’t see why or how a mere reveal would change your feelings for each other if that were ever to happen.”

Satan seemed surprised at Solomon’s sensible answer. “I never thought of it that way.”

The sorcerer laughed a little as he continued speaking. “Sometimes, obvious little things like that slip our minds because the person we love is so close to us. Your feelings for each other is your own truth—a truth that only the two of you can know on your own. No matter how you arrive to that truth, whether it all started with lies or misunderstandings, the love that blossomed from those lies will never be lies.”

“Is that speaking from experience, oh wise one?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination~” Wait. What does he mean by that? You couldn’t really tell with this man, sadly. And you didn’t get to ask anymore as he had been called by Lucifer to wrap up. Your attention immediately focused on the more important things.

“More important things”= A cute, pouting Satan♡

“So you’re worried I’ll fall in love with someone else?”

“Shut up…”

“I’m happy you’re worried though. I love you, Satan♡” You sneaked a kiss on his lips, which your temperamental cat boy shyly accepted.

The investigations continued to take place in your remaining days in RAD. However, the mysterious bouquet sender never came forward. Perhaps Solomon was right. It didn’t really matter anymore if the real sender would be found. Even if he would come forward and confess his feelings to you one day, you were sure that your heart would only ever be with Satan. That realisation however, would definitely cause heartaches to anyone else. You trusted Beel’s gut and gave Barbatos the letter immediately, so when Mammon finally talked to you about his letter, he wasn’t able to see it anymore. You weren’t stupid. You knew why he sent it, but you weren’t smart enough to know how to properly reject someone. Perhaps both of you knew what was going to happen as you remained silent in your room and never initiated conversation with each other once he entered the room. It was…awkward. And suffocating. Which was weird because it was just Mammon. He was one of the demons closest to you, yet he felt so far away now. Even his gaze was equally far away. Mammon’s fingers were fumbling with a thimble he found next to your bed—a failed attempt at cross stitching that you were too stubborn to give up on. You saw him marvelling over your botchy needlework, his thumbs feeling the rough and uneven bumps of thread. “This is one ugly cat,” His half-hearted insult was welcome in the unsettling silence, rising a laugh out of you as you agreed with his opinion. “I really wanted to do something for Satan. Maybe I should have thought of something else.”

“You really like my brother, don’t you?” There was no accusation in his tone, just mere curiosity. You nodded immediately and it caused him to laugh a little. “Can’t help but notice since you’re all over each other.”

“Sorry…”

“What are ye sorry for?” He playfully ruffled your head as he smiled. “I should be the one saying sorry.

No matter my excuse, I shouldn’t have tried to steal what’s important to ya.”

“But you didn’t know—“

“Are you kidding me right now? Why the heck are you defending me, idiot human!” Despite his words, he spoke in a fond tone. When you gave him permission to embrace you, he wrapped his arms around you and sighed in relief. “It’s easy to like you if you act like this, you know? But…you don’t have to like everyone who likes you, idiiiiot.”

“Mammon…”

“Listen, the Great Me was never rejected! You simply blew your chance! I’m such a catch, you know that?”

“Yeah…”

“You’re gonna regret ever letting me go.”

“Oh, I will!”

“It’d be more convincing if you aren’t laughing!”

Well, he was laughing too. So, who really is clowning himself right now?

“You’re thinking about something realllyyyy rude right now, aren’t you?”

Gasp. “You can tell?”

“Seriously?” He sighed and pinched your cheek. “Well whatever. Listen...I think you deserve to know the truth.”

His tone had changed now; from playful to solemn. The kindness in his touch remained. “Remember that little girl in the human world I was taking care of?”

“Yeah.” So it was true? Asmo said he was joking, but…could his brothers really know what’s going on in Mammon’s private life? There was an absence of mirth in his tone, as if he was exhausted and sad—you never saw that look on Mammon before so you didn’t know how to react. You could only listen in silence.

“…that little girl is really sick right now. She needs a huge operation soon if she…” He bit his lip and continued. “...she’s too young to die. And I can’t let her…not if I can do anything about it.”

“Aren’t the witches taking care of her?”

“Yeah. But…I shoulder her financially. Can’t really do all that when I’m dead broke.” He looked almost ashamed to admit it. “So I resorted to stealin’, even if I know I shouldn’t, especially to you. I thought you would understand if I tell ya. But…a part of me still thinks this ain’t right.”

“Mammon…”

“I can’t tell the others. They’d think I’m full of shit. Haha. Well, I am.”

“Only most of the time.”

“Shaddup! Hahhh…what do you think I should do?”

What should you say? You weren’t expecting he had such profound reasons. It certainly explained his desperation. However, you weren’t financially capable enough to say in confidence that you can help. You gave him permission to sell your bouquet, but even he admitted that it would only be enough to sustain the little girl for a short amount of time. Should you tell Lucifer? Would Mammon be okay with that?

“Not really the best time to ask advice from you, huh? Not when someone’s trying to kill you and all.”

You smiled a little in his clumsy attempts to comfort you. Shaking your head, you returned his hug with a squeeze. “I’ll help you figure something out at least.”

“You would?”

“Yeah! But there’s a catch!”

Mammon laughed and pinched your cheek at your attempts for negotiation. “Okay, fine. What’s the catch?”

With a closed-eyed smile, you placed a finger on your lips as you stated your conditions. “Ruri-chan’s birthday party would be livelier with you around. Won’t you reconsider attending, oh Great One?”

[ You have unlocked new chatrooms in MEMORIA 7. ]

💌Read Part 1

💌Read Part 2

💌continue to next scenario

💌 tag request: @krussyfed, @lilliansstuff , @cupsof-tea

#psisly #hamartia series #obey me #shall we date obey me #obey me fic #interactive fiction #obey me x reader #cyoa #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x reader #obey me satan #obey me satan x reader #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x reader #love letter #secret admirer

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icancorruptyou · 4 years ago

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AU/Ship anthems PART ONE

I’m obsessed with music and making playlists for our muses so I thought I would share them. Let me know what you think.

@sigynthevictorious and Myth Loki - Hozier - Be

Love, when the sea rises to meet us Oh, when there's nothing left for you and I to do Oh, when there is nobody upstairs to receive us When I have no kind words left, love, for you

Be as you've always been, Lover be good to me

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@minaharkerdailymirror and Loki Elbow - My Trouble

I miss you My trouble is I miss you, my trouble Just this morning alone with you Worth a lifetime alone on this Earth

Come get me Guide and check me Sail and wreck me Soak me to my skin

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Link to artist

@sorceress-queen Morgana and Demon Genie Loki Depeche Mode - You should be higher

Of the touch of your hand I lose who I am If I want to

I try to resist but Succumb to the bliss Of your kiss

You should be higher I'll take you higher Well don't be afraid You'll just have to pray

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@your-dark-thor Thor and Loki London Grammar - Trials

And if you want me, so don't leave them on their own You should stand by them, build them a throne And if you want me, then have me maybe I will build you the happiest home When I'm with you I'm not alone I still believe I might not be enough Hey, yeah, hey, trials they make you what you are

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@thxwxlf Keki and Loki Hozier - Talk

Imagine being loved by me!

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I'd be the last shred of truth In the lost myth of true love I'd be the sweet feeling of release Mankind now dreams of

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@thoratricalloki Thor and Loki JACK SAVORETTI - When we were lovers

We'd sail through love and war We'd fight for everything and more To save the night, the night was all we saw That's what the darkness is for

Look at the time and the time that it's taken Is this love like the love we were making When we were lovers

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@dont-do-anything-i-would-do Mer Tony and Loki Tom Odell - Somehow

Sometimes I go running in the dark When I don't know how to read the stars But where I run, it don't matter how far

Somehow, somehow I always end up in your arms Somehow, somehow I always end up in your arms, oh

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credit to artist

@dont-do-anything-i-would-do Teacher Tony and Loki - Jack White - Love Interruption

I want love to, walk right up and bite me Grab a hold of me and fight me leave me dying on the ground.

And I want love to, split my mouth wide open and Cover up my ears and never let me hear a sound.

I want love to, forget that you offended me Or how you have defended me when everybody tore me down.

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credit to artist

@venom-inside-you Eddie Venom and Loki ALT-J Every Other Freckle

I want to be every button you press And all the baths that surround you Yes I'm gonna roll around you Like a cat rolls around saw dusted patios I'm gonna kiss you Like the sun browns you

Devour me Devour me If you really think that you can stomach me

I want every other freckle

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witchcraft-in-wonderland · 4 years ago

Text

Sweet Dreams (Pt.1)

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Living in a country constantly on the verge of war with dead people and magic users wasnt exactly fun. Especially if you happened to be able to use magic.

So of course, Logan had never been outside before. It wasnt safe for a boy who could make things behave in ways they shouldn't. So he stayed home while his family went out.

But such a sheltered life was never meant to last. Logan woke up late one night to the smell of something rancid, only to notice two figures dragging something away from the house. He rushed down the stairs, staying close to the walls to make as little noise as possible.

"Check the house for anymore survivors, leave nothing, burn it to the ground if you have to," Logan froze at the sound of raspy voices.

"Why this house? No one here seems to be of importance," said another voice, this one sounding more feminine than the first.

"The general says theres something hiding here, we need to find it," the first voice spoke up again. It took the words a moment to register in Logan's head, but by the time they had, footsteps were already coming up the stairs.

Logan rushed to the nearest window, tearing the mesh out as quickly as he could manage and fleeing through it. His legs stung from the impact of the ground, but he didnt stop running.

He'd been going for what felt like hours before he finally collapsed. His breathing was heavy, had he been wearing his binder at the time he was sure he wouldve broken a rib.

"Nonono get up-" Logan whispered to himself, trying desperately to push himself back upright. It felt like someone had tried to tranquilize him, everything felt numb.

He tried again.

And again.

And then the world went pitch black.

Logan woke up a long while later, laying on a bed somewhere he didnt recognize. He tried to sit up, but even the thought of movement made his limbs feel exhausted.

"You were out for a very long time, I was beginning to think you weren't going to wake up," said a voice. Logan's eyes darted around for the source of the voice.

There was a man sitting at a table across from him, with yellow eyes, and scales that ran down the left side of his face.

"Who are y-" the man shoved something into Logan's mouth as he opened it. It tasted sweet, like honey and fruit.

"My name is Janus, this is the house of myself and my husband Virgil, for now that is all you need to know," Janus said calmly.

"Why am I here." Logan said, eyes darting around the room like a cats in search of something he could use as a weapon.

"Because you were passed out in the middle of the woods with an undead scout party heading straight for you, would you rather I'd left you there?" Janus said, raising an eyebrow.

Logan lay there for a moment before finally shaking his head.

"How long has it been?" Logan said, trying to sit up again before being held back down by Janus.

"Nearly two weeks, I cant imagine what you were doing that couldve caused such an issue but you're certainly not going out any time soon," Janus said, finally letting go of Logan's shoulders.

"There was a fire, I heard them mentioning a fire, and there was-" Logan stopped, the memory of the undead scouts dragging what looked to be two bodies away from the house.

"They took your parents, didnt they," Janus said. Logan only nodded in response.

"Jaaaaaaannnnn, dinners readyyyy, are you gonna eat or stare at a dead kid for another hour!" A voice called from another room.

"Hes not dead!" Janus called.

"I'll help you up, and you're not to out pressure on those legs for as long as you can help it. If I didnt know any better I'd say you broke both of them," Janus said, holding his arms out for Logan to grab ahold of. Now that Logan was also standing it was much clearer how much taller he was.

As Logan allowed himself to be guided to the next room he 2as struck with an odd realization of his surroundings. The walls, rather than be made of stone or refined wood, were simply made of uncut bark, almost as if they'd been inside of a tree. Upon closer inspection there were things crawling in and out of holes in the walls such as mice, bugs, and a few reptiles.

"Surprising hm? It's the perfect disguise in my opinion, does wonders for Virgil's mental state to, I'd never seen him happier than the day we set it all up," Janus said, smiling as he crossed the threshold into what looked to be the kitchen.

"You better not be talking about me behind my back darling," a man a little shorter than Logan turned from a stove and brandished a wooden spoon in Janus and Logan's direction. He was wearing a lilac colored hood and a black skirt, and, most notably, his eyes were covered by what looked to be white bandages.

"How do you-" Logan was about to ask about his eyes, but swallowed the question a few seconds in.

"Oh it's not that difficult," Virgil said, just then, a spectral cat leapt onto the table. Its fur seemed to be made of stars, and it was almost completely transparent, save for the purple and blue hue that allowed its shape to be seen.

"Ah ah ah! Off the table Priscilla." Janus said, the cat swishes its tail and leapt off and trotted over to Virgil again, rubbing her face along his legs. Janus helped Logan into his seat as Virgil set a few plates of food on the table.

"And I'm assuming you wear a binder, yes?" Virgil said, looking up at Logan. Logan nodded, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"Your chest movements, I breathe slower in mine to, makes me feel less nervous about my ribs," Virgil said, laughing slightly.

"And dont worry about going into town for one, I'm nearly finished stitching up a replacement," Janus said, already cutting in to the chicken on his plate.

"So can I get a real explanation as to why I'm here? If I've been unconscious for two weeks why didnt you just bury me," Logan said, crossing his arms and staring down at the plate in front of him.

"We knew you werent really dead, and being unconscious in the woods certainly wasnt going to keep it that way- not with him running around," Virgil said, a note of disdain punctuating the sentence.

"Who?" Logan said, now to busy with the conversation to remember that he didnt want to eat anymore of the food being offered to him.

Janus let out a sigh as he began to speak. "There is. . . A prince. . . Who wonders about the woods, the undead and mortal realms both fear his power, no ones ever seen his eyes, those that have can rarely describe them-" Virgil gave a noticable shudder "-and rarely does anyone without magic live to give warning, Virgil and I barely escaped him with our lives," Janus finished. Priscilla, no doubt in an attempt to reach the food again under the guise of comfort, had situated herself in Virgil's lap.

"You mean theres something worse than the undead out here?" Logan said, now chewing on the neckline of his shirt out of distress.

"He doesnt sound scary at first, he gave himself a mortal name, so he could pretend he was harmless," Virgil said, running a hand through Priscilla's fur.

"He calls himself Remy, it might sound like an ordinary common name to you, but to people like us, it's a death sentence," Janus said.

"Well how do I avoid him then?" Logan said.

Janus shook his head "I can tell you how to identify him, but you'd have to be the luckiest mortal on earth if you wanted to get away from him," Janus said.

He cleared his throat before continuing "he hides his eyes behind sunglasses, and he's got silver claws on his fingers, one scratch from those and you'll be dead in a matter of seconds," he said, Logan tried sketching this all out in his head.

"And he wears a leather jacket, he stole it from his first victim, it's like you humans wearing aminal skins, you can still smell the blood," Janus said.

"Well- that. . . Doesnt sound pleasing. . ." Logan said, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt now. Whoever Remy was, Logan pleaded desperately that he'd never have to meet him.

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Tag list:

@nerosdayinhell

@meowthefluffy

@willowaudreykeyes

@cemmy

@thecolorfulolive

@melodiread

@frawkeye

@frog-candy-bee

@thefivecalls

@teamplutoforlife

@pricklyfish777

#cori writes #long post #sweet dreams au #ts virgil #ts sides #ts logan #ts janus #ts remy #losleep #anxceit #romantic anxceit #tw death mention #tw cats #tw implied death #tw fire #tw murder #tw blood

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shadoedseptmbr · 4 years ago

Note

K O R?

HI! Thank you! <3

K -Say something nice about someone in any of your fandoms

You are a constant delight and I’m so glad everytime I see you pop up on my dash. I love your writing and Val Shepard and the amazing Sewers to the Stars crossover that I’d never have considered but adore <3 you’re one of those people that reminds me why i’m so glad i’ve stayed on tumblr.

O - Choose a song at random, which ship or character does it remind you of

ooh, randomness. Hmm. Okay, the first song that came up from Pandora’s shuffle was Talk by Hozier.

Imagine being loved by me! I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you I'd be the last shred of truth In the lost myth of true love I'd be the sweet feeling of release Mankind now dreams of That's found in the last witness

Oh, well. That’s entirely an Aeryn/Sebastian song, don’t you think? ;D

R - A pairing you ship that you don’t think anyone else ships

Gosh...before I joined the ME discord I’m on, I’d have said Kaidan/Zaeed (though I was thinking pre-war and still very much ship that) But I’m also thinking Kaidan might have run across a pilot turned shady bastard, back during his break between BaAT and joining the Alliance, so Kaidan/Reyes.

I just really want Kaidan to have a little fun, ya know. <3

#sept memes #servantofclio

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ekaterinakostrova · 5 years ago

Text

“She wanted to be able to talk to him in his own language, and that desire was a terrible pain”.

Her lips formed words, fingers touched old pages. So many unfamiliar words, but already familiar letters. It became a ritual for her. Sometimes she read historical chronicles about cruel and desperate generals, about the greatest warriors, conquerors of the wind; she read stories of formidable battles and vile creatures that fell by the swords of the brave rulers of mountains, read legends about star-crossed lovers... Among all of these books, she could find slim volumes of poetry. Words enchanted her, phrases intoxicated her.

And then she heard his speech. She had already heard the Illyrian language among native speakers, but when he spoke, something inside her began to tremble. It was like a bolt of lightning, a burning cold sliding over her spine. Such a melodic language and his soft tone, a deep and low voice. He spoke, and they listened to him, valued his every word. Words that sounded so naturally on his lips.

Emerie helped her find some books that she could read after mastering the alphabet, sometimes trying to explain the structure of sentences, but she still lacked written sources.

“No one on the continent studies Illyrian intentionally, so you won’t be able to find a single well-written textbook in a common language,” Emerie once said, cutting the dark fabric into pieces with a sharp pair of silver scissors.

“Why?” Nesta asked with interest, looking up at the girl.

Emery blew out a long sigh.

“Why would anyone mess with the most brutal warriors on the continent? Everyone is terrified of my people, and the elders are too stubborn to let strangers into our lands”.

Nesta frowned.

“Women of the clans sew real works of art. I am sure that many noble families among all Courts on the continent would like to buy clothes with Illyrian’s national embroidery. In some clans, large gems are mined. They could develop market, and so many people could finally find a job.

Emerie grinned bitterly.

“Tell the old man about it, and I'll see, what he will do with you after that.”

And Nesta wanted to. But more than that, she wanted to fill the oppressive silence in the house. Sometimes Cassian would come back in the middle of the night, when she was already in her room. She peered at the hazy shifty visage night after night. She knew that he had done it deliberately, so that he would not accidentally meet with her in the house. He was trying to avoid her. Their last fight was not just a simple quarrel, they both allowed themselves to hurt each other with words, deeply.

Sometimes she listened to the fierce melody of the wandering storm outside, waiting for the sound of heavy wings, the echoes from the creaking floorboards, and his tired sigh. Sometimes she fell asleep on the sofa by the fire, waiting for him to return. And while she was sleeping, she imagined him flying in the black sky, a cascade of snow coming down, hiding the horizon behind it.

She rarely stayed in the living room, still feeling like an intruder in his house, but this night the storm was particularly strong, and there was nothing she could do about her restless heart. She listened to the menacing swirls of the strong wind beating against the glass.

She looked down at the books on the massive wooden table, peered at the fascinating patterns of letters, ran her fingers along the handwritten pages, as if she could feel the hands that had painted the once clean, light pages. The Illyrian language was surprisingly refined, like fine art. Nesta saw the notes that Cassian left on papers, and was amazed that his strong hands, which easily broke other people's bones, could write out neat curls of letters that formed words.

She looked down at her pages with writing and grimaced. Her letters were crooked, and the handwriting was sloppy, rushed and untidy.

She took a deep breath and started again. She wrote until her fingers ached and her palms were covered with dark streaks of ink. Then she tried to read the first few stanzas in the book, trying to remember how Emerie used to say the words of greeting that Illyrians exchange with each other.

“I salute you, may your path be easy and your heart be serene.”

She took a deep breath and tried again.

“Eine kaste corte, de la vonte lineus, sum meri altus”.

Nesta frowned, trying to remember the correct intonation with which Emerie had read the sentence.

“Eine kaste corte…de la vonte lineus…”.

And it sounded so wrong on her lips. But… she was patient.

Nesta was trying to finish the sentence, when suddenly she heard fluent Illyrian speech, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Eine vileus corte ir woste famus”.

She met deep, dark brown eyes that turned almost black in the shadows. Dark, curly locks of wet hair fell over his handsome face, and his piercing gaze met with her pale gray eyes. Her lips parted slightly. They lived under the same roof, but the feeling of tension did not subside after their last argument, and they both avoided each other.

Nesta blinked, breaking eye contact and looking down at her soiled hands.

“I don't know what your words mean,” she admitted, feeling a warm blush creep over her cheekbones.

“I welcome you to my home.” This is what they say when they invite guests to their home.

For a long moment, a deafening silence enveloped them. She wanted to be with him, she was happy that he came back. She wanted to breathe in his scent that she longed for, wanted to look at him and memorize his features until her eyes ached. But she stared at her hands, refusing to obey her instinct. The desire she wanted to get rid of.

“Never knew you were learning Illyrian. Why would you do that? A large number of Illyrians know the common language too.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Not all of them. People close to noble families can speak the common language, and many women and children do not understand me. If I'm going to live here, I need to know the language that people speak, don't I? Otherwise, I will remain a foreign witch.

She felt the air crackle with his anger; his eyes had gone molten with a suppressed rage that seems to suck all the air out of the atmosphere.

“What did they tell you?”

She looked up at him because she couldn't stop herself. And Nesta was surprised to see faint echoes of fear in the depths of the hazel eyes.

“Nothing,” she whispered faintly, hiding behind the pages of her books. No one would take her words seriously; no one of elders would give her the word to stand up for the rights of children and women.

But there was another reason, entirely selfish reason. She wanted to be able to talk to him in his own language, and that desire was a terrible pain.

She kept her gaze glued to the table because if she looked at him she might be lost.

“I'll make some tea,” Nesta said sharply, rising from the table, not daring to endure the oppressive silence of the room any longer. She had to get away from him, from his soft voice.

She put the kettle on the stove, lighting the burner. So much time has passed, and many things have become familiar, almost native. She was used to the smell of black coffee and toast in the morning, used to the smell of Jasmine tea that Cassian brewed in the morning. She was used to seeing him at work, and it seemed that he could not afford a moment of peace to himself. Sometimes she saw him oiling and polishing heavy swords, but never in the house, as if the house he had built with his own hands was his fortress. His hiding place from the rest of the world.

This house felt different with him in it. She felt different. It was the way he looked at her, as if he could devour her any minute.

When she returned to the living room with a wooden tray containing two mugs of hot tea, Cassian was sitting at the table, looking at her notes.

“Your handwriting is beautiful,” he said.

She made a face as she put the tray on the table.

“I'm telling the truth,” he said, grinning widely. “I also brought you something,” he said, nodding toward a stack of leather-bound volumes.

“What is it?” she asked, picking up one of the books and flipping through the pages, the handwriting was familiar.

“These are my notebooks when I was learning the common language. I thought you might need them. I started with the alphabet, too, and my notes weren't as neat and consistent as yours,” he said, keeping his gaze on her. He knew. He knew what he did to her when she looked into his eyes.

“When did you start learning a common language?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I think I was a little older than you”.

“Why?”

He chuckled.

“I wanted to get out of here. I wanted to see the world, wanted to become someone”.

She remembered the little boy who had snatched the bread from the counter at the market. She remembered how fiercely and hopelessly he had pressed his fingers into a loaf of bread.

Hunger.

Coldness.

She was familiar with these feelings. He was just a little child. The top of his head barely reaching her knees. In the reflection of his eyes, she saw a grown man who had known too much pain.

She shuddered, remembering that day.

She could not imagine what Cassian’s life was like in these mountains, among these cruel warriors.

“Who taught you?”

“Firstly, I learned it by myself. Books were a luxury. In my time, I could buy a warm jacket or boots, a hearty dinner and find a safe place for a night for one of such books”.

He picked up one of her notebooks, looking at her notes with interest.

“Later, Rhysand’s mother gave me lessons”.

Nesta fixed her gaze on the map he had drawn in his notebook, running her fingers over the letters, with the names of seas, oceans, and distant continents. Did he dream of traveling around the world as much as she did?

It was more than she could ask for.

“Thank you”.

He grinned again, a slow, beautiful smile that sent her heart clenching hard.

“I could help you, if that's what you want.”

She clutched a leather-bound book.

“It would be my pleasure.”

#nessian #nesta archeron #nesta #cassian #postacofas #acotar

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