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wholoveseggs · 1 year ago

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since I heard you were taking requests 🫣 maybe an elijah fic where him and the reader had just gotten married and are off on their honeymoon somewhere, participating in some very smutty lovemaking, please? 🤭

Je t'aime, Je t'adore

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

You and Elijah are enjoying your honeymoon in the south of France, doing what newlyweds do best.

~Thanks for the request anon ♡♡ ~ I hope this is smutty enough -xo-

3k words - Warnings: smut, absolutely no plot, oral sex, blow jobs, public sex, sand, french.

You stepped out onto the balcony of the villa, breathing in the ocean air, and letting your eyes roam the coast, taking it all in. You could get used to this, you thought, as you felt two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back into a strong chest. You leaned into the embrace and turned your face up for a kiss.

"Hey you," Elijah whispered against your lips, "I was wondering where you'd gone. How's the view?"

"Amazing," you sighed, leaning further in and relaxing into his arms, "I can't believe we're actually here. And we have the whole place to ourselves, it's like a dream."

Elijah's hands stroked down your sides, coming to rest on your hips. "It's all real, my love," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck.

It had only been a few hours since you had married Elijah in a small private ceremony. And now here you are, on your honeymoon in the south of France. He had been planning it for weeks and hadn't given you much information at all. All you knew was that you were leaving town and to pack light, everything else would be provided for.

All that was left for you to do was enjoy your stay and the company of your new husband.

"Veux-tu aller nager? (Do you want to take a swim?)" Elijah asked, his breath warm against your skin.

You smiled and nodded, since you arrived in France he had been randomly dropping French phrases into conversations and you loved the way it sounded coming from his lips.

You walked down the stairs of the villa to the private beach, holding Elijah's hand and listening to him tell you more about the area. He was so cute when he was talking about his favorite things, and it made you love him even more, if that was possible.

The sand was hot under your feet as you stepped off the bottom step. It was still warm from the sun which was setting in the distance, casting beautiful shades of pinks, reds, and oranges across the sky.

"This is beautiful," you breathed, watching the way the light played across the water, reflecting in the ripples of the waves.

"Just like you," Elijah said, looking at you with adoration.

You felt your cheeks flush under his gaze, as you smiled bashfully at him. His eyes were intense and dark and you wondered how it was possible for one person to have such a profound effect on you.

Elijah took your hand again, leading you closer to the water, where you both stripped down to your underwear, leaving your clothes on the sand, before wading in. The water was refreshing, cooling down your overheated skin, and it was amazing to feel so connected to the natural world like this.

As the temperature continued to drop, you waded a little closer to your husband, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Elijah turned his head to capture your lips in his, holding you close as the water lapped at your skin, and you both knew where this would inevitably end up. His lips kissed a trail down to your neck, nibbling your soft skin and leaving wet kisses as he went.

"Do you want to go inside?" you whispered breathlessly, knowing that you couldn't wait much longer to touch and taste him.

"Why bother?" Elijah murmured, moving down to your chest, his hands gliding up your back to unclasp your bra. He dipped his head down to tease your breast with his teeth and tongue, while his hands pulled the scrap of material from your body, and flung it carelessly towards the sand.

"Someone could see us," you giggled, glancing around at the shoreline, thankful it was completely empty.

Elijah smirked, leading you backwards into shallower water. "Eh bien, chérie, donnons-leur un spectacle (Well then, darling, let's give them a show)," he teased, lifting you up in his arms, and walking a few strides to the beach.

You squealed as you felt the chill of the air wash over your skin as you exited the water, feeling better when he placed you on the sun-warmed sand. Elijah admired your body and took in every detail from your flushed cheeks, to your stiff nipples, to the heat radiating from your core.

He looked so good, with just a pair of soaking wet briefs on, his muscles glistening in the last rays of light from the sun. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead, he looked downright sinful and you couldn't wait another second, biting your lip as you looked up at him.

Elijah leaned over you and you watched in admiration as he gripped the waistband of your panties and dragged them down, his eyes never leaving yours as his gaze burned with desire.

He placed a searing kiss to your lips as he pressed his body against yours then pulled your leg up and wrapped it around his hips. Your back arched off the sand as he brought you closer to him, feeling his erection straining against his briefs.

He grinned and began trailing kisses down your jaw and neck, sucking the skin gently. Your breath hitched as he nipped down your chest, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin around your breasts. He continued moving his mouth down your body, kissing along your stomach, going lower, and lower, licking the water droplets from your skin. His hands followed, caressing you everywhere. It felt like electricity was shooting through your veins, making your stomach flutter.

The sand beneath you shifted, as he licked your inner thigh and spread your legs wider. Finally, you felt his warm breath against your clit, and then his mouth on your pussy, his tongue licking you slowly, taking his time. Elijah hummed as his nose nudged against you, his tongue teasing you, tasting every part of you.

Your hands then tangled in his wet hair and gripped the dark locks as he began circling your clit, licking it rhythmically. He knew your body so well, every move he made was calculated and perfectly executed. You loved this, the way he devoured you until you couldn't remember your own name.

Your panting breaths were sharp and quick and as he began flicking his tongue in a faster rhythm, you were close to losing your mind with how good it felt. Your mind was a blur, all you could focus on was the intense desire to release the pressure building inside you. His grip around your legs tightened as he pulled you closer, his hot mouth finally coaxing you to release. Your eyes fluttered closed as your orgasm hit you, harder than you expected, legs shaking as you let out a low moan.

Elijah chuckled, obviously loving how quickly he was able to make you come undone. He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth as he returned to his feet.

"Let's go inside, my love," he whispered, lifting you gently.

You smiled as you got to your feet and playfully began running towards the house, leaving him behind. He quickly caught up with you, pinning you against the wall of the villa and kissing you passionately.

He lifted you up, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him and running your hands through his dark hair. He carried you into the shower, pressing your back against the cold tiles as he deepened the kiss. His hands were hot on your skin, gripping your hips hard enough to leave a bruise as he ground his erection against you, his soaking briefs the only layer separating you.

You pushed on his chest slightly and he let you down. Before slowly descending onto your knees, pressing kisses to his hot skin as you traveled down his torso, taking care to appreciate all of him. When you reached the waistband of his briefs, you dragged your nails down his stomach, teasing him and drawing a low growl from his throat.

You peeled the dripping wet material off and his cock sprung free. You looked up at him, his wet hair now sticking out in multiple directions, his breath ragged, pupils blown as he watched you take him into your hand and gently lick the tip. You stroked him a few times before swirling your tongue around his head.

"Est-ce que mon mari aime ça? (Does my husband like that?)" you asked in an innocent voice, stroking him even more.

Elijah grunted an agreement, threading his fingers through your hair and applying some gentle pressure to the back of your head, encouraging you to take more of him. You could tell he was close already, his abdominal muscles tense as you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, feeling him twitch in your hand.

You took him all the way down your throat, bracing your hands on his hips as you pressed your face into his pelvis, letting out a low hum. This immediately sent him over the edge, his hands in your hair and releasing his hot cum down your throat.

You did this several times, sliding your tongue along his cock and tasting his release. You swallowed and licked your lips, glancing up at him, he looked so beautiful with the warm water cascading down his toned body.

He turned off the shower and in an instant you found yourself lifted in his arms, as he vamp-sped the both of you to the bed. He pinned you to the mattress, pressing his body against yours, kissing down your neck to your collarbone. He leaned back and spread your legs apart, pressing his hands into the back of your thighs, pushing them up next to your waist.

He slowly pushed just the tip of his cock inside you, before pulling out and tapping his cock against your clit, cum leaking out of the tip as he teased you. He repeated his actions, almost driving you mad with want. He let out a soft groan as he did so, watching your reactions with great interest. He began to graze your clit with his thumb, watching his cock slowly slide into you, the wet sound of your cunt filling the air.

"Hmmm," Elijah moaned, as he sank deeper inside of you. He was always careful, taking his time, stretching you slowly.

After several minutes of slow fucking, his thrusts began to quicken. He looked beautiful and serene, his hair framing his face, lips parted and his eyes boring into yours. He brushed your hair back from your face and stared into your eyes, "Ma belle épouse (My beautiful wife)"

He felt amazing, and you could feel yourself getting closer to another orgasm. Your toes curled, and your body relaxed into the bed, letting Elijah do all the work. You couldn't believe you would get to enjoy him, like this for the rest of your life.

Elijah withdrew his cock and began rubbing it along your opening. He stroked himself, cum spilling from his tip and running down his length before he sunk back into you. The sound of his cock sliding in and out was so erotic. The wet slapping of skin on skin, the slow steady rocking of Elijah's hips as his cum leaked out, dripping onto the sheets.

"Jouis sur ma bite, douce fille (Cum on my cock, sweet girl)" Elijah said, his voice low and gravelly.

You weren't far from exploding. The combination of his slow deliberate movements and the constant, but gentle stimulation of your clit, had you tumbling over the edge. Elijah pressed his lips to yours as you climaxed, moaning into his mouth as you tightened around him. He smiled, kissing along your neck, nipping at your ear as he increased his pace.

"I can't believe you are my wife," Elijah hummed in wonder, and the softness in his voice had you melting, sinking into him as your eyes locked with his and you gave a dreamy smile. He was the love of your life, there would never be anyone else and he held your entire heart and soul.

"Je veux que tu sois enveloppé de soie, recouvert de miel, alors je pourrai prendre mon temps, explorer chaque centimètre de cette belle peau. Qu'en pensez-vous, Mme Mikaelson? (I want you wrapped in silks, covered in honey, then I can take my time, exploring every inch of this beautiful skin. What do you think of that, Mrs. Mikaelson?)" He drawled, lowering himself to drag his lips down your jaw, sucking marks onto your neck as he went. You closed your eyes, sighing in delight as you turned your head, giving him even more access.

"Je pense que ça a l'air divin, M. Mikaelson (I think it sounds divine, Mr. Mikaelson)” you hummed, feeling the butterflies in your stomach at the thought.

Elijah brought his lips to yours in a kiss that left you breathless and dizzy. Rolling you so you were lying side by side, your legs intertwined. He reached down, taking your leg, lifting it to rest it over his hip. You moaned as the tip of his cock grazed over your clit, then sank deeper inside you. Your hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His mouth trailed from your shoulder to your neck and he littered kisses and gentle love bites along your heated skin as his body ground against yours, the room quiet other than the soft sighs and quiet murmurs. It was blissful, and you never wanted this to end.

You began panting as you grew closer, Elijah's hand moved to your lower back, pushing you into him as you both chased your highs. It wasn't long before your pussy began to tighten around his cock, he held you in his arms as you let yourself fall over the edge.

He gently pushed you back so you were underneath him once more, lips locking together in an embrace so heated, so raw, it sent an electrifying current coursing through your veins. This profound feeling, a burning love like never before, could never be quenched. You were both totally consumed by the passion you had for each other.

Elijah pressed slow, passionate kisses to your lips as he slowed his movements, pressing so deep inside of you, his body flush with yours. A stray strand of dark hair fell into his eyes and you tucked it gently back, drinking him in.

He took your hands and wove your fingers together, pinning them to the bed. Every moment was bliss as the heat continued to rise, your breathing accelerating as your movements intensified.

But even this wasn't enough, his whole body needed to be wrapped around yours, to touch every part of you that he could. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent that lingered on your skin. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he whispered against your ear, your breathy sighs falling over each other.

"Je t'aime, je t'adore, à jamais ma chère (I love you, I adore you, forever my dear)."

He captured your mouth again, unable to get enough of you, swallowing your moans as his thrusts got harder. His hands ran down your thighs, lifting them up and encouraging you to wrap them tightly around his waist. His fingers were in your hair, gripping softly, guiding your head into position so he could kiss you deeply.

The tension in the pit of your belly was tight, ready to spring at any moment, but you could never tire of how he touched you. How you moved as one, sharing your feelings through the physical.

Elijah smiled down at you, his forehead pressed against yours as he pounded you into the bed. Your lips barely inches apart. His stomach began to clench and his thrusts became frantic, sloppy. He was so close, and it would only take a few more strokes for him to tumble over the edge.

His cock was slick, sliding in and out of your tight, wet cunt. And you looked absolutely divine. The way his name had fallen off your tongue, how you had pleaded with him to finish inside you, never to stop. There was no sound sexier in the world to him.

He pressed his lips to yours as he let go, letting out a low groan as he spilled his cum inside you. You moaned softly as you milked his cock, and ground against him, your breathing heavy and your hair sticking to your sweaty skin. You smiled and kissed him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he relaxed on top of you, his cock still buried deep. He nipped at your breasts, his hands roaming your body, enjoying the last few moments of euphoria.

Afterwards you lay sprawled together, arms and legs draped over each other, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your side. The sheets were a rumpled mess and you wanted nothing more than to never move again and instead bask in the afterglow.

"Do we have to leave here? I could stay like this with you forever," you sighed, snuggling further into him.

Elijah chuckled and placed a gentle kiss to your forehead, “Non mon amour. Il y a tellement d’autres endroits dans le monde que je souhaite visiter avec vous.. (No, my love. There are so many more places in the world I wish to visit with you.)

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #tvdu #vampire diaries #elijah mikaelson smut #honeymoon #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikealson smut #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine

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usergreenpixel · 1 year ago

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MALMAISON MEDIA SALON SOIRÉE 19: LA MÁSCARA NEGRA(1982)

1. The Introduction

Greetings, Neighbors. I missed you and hopefully you missed me too!

Anyway, you already know that I kept rescheduling because a lot of stuff has happened, so let’s not waste time on explanations and talk about this obscure swashbuckling TV series made in Spain in 1982.

I found it on IMDb a while ago, under the category of Napoleonic movies and series. Since I have a soft spot for swashbuckling stories and hadn’t seen anything of the genre set during Peninsular War, you can imagine how curious I got.

Luckily, the entire 11 episodes can be found on YouTube, but only in Spanish so yeah… it’s a bit of a bummer, unfortunately.

Either way, I do speak Spanish fairly well, so at the very least I can make a review out of the series! Let’s see if it’s actually an interesting subject. Also, this review is dedicated to @josefavomjaaga , @that-enragee and @koda-friedrich .

2. The Summary

Obviously, the classic swashbuckling formula with a masked hero definitely applies here. Our protagonist is one Don Carlos de Zaráte, an adventurer who returns to Madrid right before the beginning of the Peninsular War.

Although reluctantly, Don Carlos eventually assumes the identity of The Black Mask, a folk hero fighting the French and their collaborators, all while pretending to be a collaborator himself by day.

3. The Story

The swashbuckling genre in its classic form isn’t exactly known for that much originality, but, as someone who grew up on such stories, I don’t actually mind the classic formula, as long as the story and characters still appeal to me.

Luckily, here the story has a twist: Don Carlos is not the original Black Mask, but rather he assumes the mantle of the hero at the beginning of the story, succeeding the person who had the alter ego beforehand.

And at first Don Carlos is reluctant to do it until he decides to fight the French invaders, which makes room for some nuance in the story and the character arc. The show could have benefited from having nuance in the French characters too, but usually swashbuckling stories don’t have the most complex villains so there’s that.

I did like the pacing, the semi-episodic story structure and a bit of an ambiguous ending that still neatly wrapped up the plot.

Also, I find it refreshing that many historical events are a backdrop for the actual plot, unlike all the stories I’ve seen where characters help shape history (nothing wrong with either btw).

4. The Characters

Don Carlos is actually a pretty complex character. Instead of merely pretending to be a foppish aristocrat, he actually used to be one before the story and only during the series it becomes merely a facade to ward off suspicions. He grows and matures a lot over the course of the story while still remaining the same person at his core, so the change feels realistic.

He’s also very cunning and ingenious, using various tricks to aid him in his escapades. Not above seduction or gambling, but, again, often uses it to maintain cover and gather information.

Then there’s Elodia, a young hat maker who Don Carlos takes under his wing. While she is too young to help The Black Mask, sometimes she does have an important role in the adventures and she also has a found family kind of dynamic with Don Carlos, which is sweet! She is very mature, but still a realistically written child.

Don Diego, younger brother of Don Carlos, is a much more hotheaded and idealistic youth than his brother and his role, while quite small, still sets the main events in motion.

Francisco Goya, who is basically a minor recurring character, stays neutral (at least publicly) but in reality is appalled by the war and isn’t afraid to speak through his art, even though it’s still very dangerous. He even plays a prominent role in one of the episodes.

Joachim Murat, who makes a few appearances, surprisingly isn’t made stupid! Sure, he is very ruthless, but at the very least he’s smart.

Joseph Bonaparte is name dropped and at least one character calls him a drunkard, but not Pepe Botellas.

Soult is mentioned as well but doesn’t appear in the series.

5. The Setting

Actually I like the setting. Not very high budget but still quite nice and seems accurate enough, at least to me.

I especially liked all the landscapes like hills, the shores, etc.

6. The Acting

Amazing job all around, especially when it comes to Sancho Gracia, who plays Don Carlos. This particular actor actually appeared in a lot of media set during peninsular war. A few actors are a bit too old though, like the one who played Murat.

7. The Conclusion

Honestly, I did enjoy the series! Flaws aside, it’s a pretty solid adventure story with an interesting twist on the usual masked avenger formula so, if you do know Spanish and are looking for a fun series to kill time, I recommend it!

Anyway, that would be all for today’s soirée. Thank you for coming and stay tuned for more reviews!

Love,

Citizen Green Pixel

#malmaison media salon #la mascara negra #peninsular war #joachim murat #napoleon bonaparte #joseph bonaparte #francisco goya #jean de dieu soult

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link4eva · 2 years ago

Audio

Hi! This comes before Kiro’s My Heart Jumps for Joy Mind’s Quest (which I’ll try to have uploaded in the coming week) My bunhead self is stoked for this date!! 😍

*Spoilers for future content below!*

Savin: Kiro, the flight to Bern has been booked for tomorrow at noon. I have arranged for someone to pick you up.

Kiro: Thank you, Savin. When I come back, I will bring you delicious Swiss chocolate.

Savin: OK, just make sure you don’t eat them all by the time you come back. *Changed some wording*

Kiro: Savin, you are underestimating my perseverance!

Kiro: Although I am “tortured” by food every day, I still lost eight pounds.

Savin: I know, I already saw it a few days ago when your production crew released the behind-the-scenes photos.

Savin: But when it comes to this, I want to ask something; Are you on an inadequate diet?

Savin: Do you follow the dietician’s instructions and eat on time?

Kiro: Don’t worry, Savin–

Kiro: Although I have lost a lot of weight, I still feel good and refreshed every day…

Kiro: Merci. *I live for Kiro speaking French 😩*

Savin: Huh? Kiro? Are you outside now?

Kiro: Yes, I’m shopping for some presents for Mark.

Savin: Mark? Oh…the ballet teacher hired by the director in France?

Kiro: Well, even though the class is only for a week, I still need to thank him in person for his care and teaching during this time.

Savin: That’s good, I actually talked to the director about this matter for a while.

Savin: Both he and Mark are very supportive of your decision, so there is no need to bear so much burden.

Kiro: Rather than a burden, this is more of a positive “pressure” for me.

Kiro: So I’m going to work hard to make this decision the right one~

Savin: Kiro, I’ve always believed in you in terms of professionalism.

Savin: But…have you stayed up late playing games happily these past few days?

Savin: Don’t forget, I’m friends with you in-game, so I know exactly when you’re online and offline.

Kiro: Hello? Savin, what are you talking about? The signal here is not good…

Savin: …don’t play dumb.

Kiro: Oh… I should probably hang up and go see Mark.

Kiro: Remember to feed Apple Box canned food today. I dreamed it was drooling and being so greedy.

Kiro: That’s it. Until next time we talk, bye~

#mlqc kiro #mr love kiro #mr love queens choice #mlqc spoilers #mr love #mr love game #周棋洛

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they-them-that · 11 months ago

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A ramble about my problems with Scott Pilgrim Takes Off (And Scott Pilgrim overall)

I know this will come off as nitpicky because it semi-is but I also had a hard time getting into the series with how much tired and sexist tropes were compacted into it. Although some of my complaints may seem to go against the entire antithesis of Scott Pilgrim (the "it's supposed to be that way!" argument), I also think that just means the entire comic and it's extended projects has always had a sexism problem. That doesn't mean you're wrong for enjoying it though! I fully understand the appeal and I'm not actually against the playful concept of gender dynamics in romantic relationships. But Scott Pilgrim Takes Off is the latest works of the franchise that reimagines the comic's story thus, potentially being a better, more educated version of itself and is in some ways it is, but is still ignorant in many others.

Good Changes:

-Todd's bisexual awakening

-Knives gets to be mostly happy

-Scott isn't there most of the time lol

Ok now the problems.

Wallace was a treat the whole series and I enjoyed Todd's bisexuality arc but Stephen's romance and coming out was shafted. As someone who didn't read the comics, I had no idea he was a gay character and it felt like we were trading one m/m development for another.

Kim makes out with Roxie instead of Knives in the anime (thank god) and I found the close up of them french kissing to be... Off putting, especially when Todd and Wallace's makeout, even with tongue involved, did not get the same voyeuristic treatment. This lends itself to an issue that's also in the comics which is the fetishization of w/w relationships for the pleasure of men. Even if we argue it's also for queer women, women are usually above just watching two girls frenching each other and no matter what, it's still a fetishistic scene.

Julie is written to be stuck up in the comic with misogynistic undertones. She's quite literally called a "bitch" and throughout the comics, she is constantly defined by the sexist term.

(source: wiki. Even if this plot summary could mostly be a fan's interjection on Julie, it still shows how her personality is antagonized in a uniquely misogynistic way by the comic)

In the anime, Julie gets together with Gordon Goose, formerly known as Gideon Graves (also retconning his ten year age gap with the main cast for some reason). He quickly crashes at her place and their relationship reflects an incredibly exhausted trope of the pessimistic woman and freeloader man. I found their relationship more interesting when they were both being evil together because it didn't feel parasitic but for the most part, their relationship was playing on a patriarchal and toxic dynamic that's nothing refreshing or cute.

Knives whole situation throughout the Scott Pilgrim franchise is deeply upsetting, especially because it never gets properly confronted in order to withhold accountability from Scott. Scott sees her when she's a minor and although it's pointed out throughout the series, it never actually gets addressed by Scott or Knives. Despite her being taken advantage of and then cheated on, Knives is portrayed as a crazy obsessed girlfriend and soon after, a bitter obsessed ex.

Although the comic and anime lampshades about the age gap problem, it also tries to minimize the situation through excuses like how Scott never made it official, he hasn't gone further than holding her hand, he had no real interest in Knives to begin with, and so on. This doesn't negate what he's doing and in the comic, he even asks for sex from Knives when she becomes of age which is blueprint grooming.

I find it suspicious that the protagonist we're meant to root for is the character who dates a 17 year old and hardly faces consequences for it. In the anime, we don't get to ruminate on the problem at all.

Scott disappears quickly and Ramona, despite hardly knowing him and frankly leaving little to be impressed by, searches for him throughout the anime where Scott gets painted with this unearned endearment of being a "good guy". When Scott returns, he gives a weak apology to Knives, saying "Apparently, a 23 year old dating a 17 year old is frowned upon by society" that actually fails to acknowledge why. It ends up coming off as down playing Scott's action and I can't help but feel that in a way, Bryan Lee O'Malley is also justifying dating minors as just some reckless mistake a guy can make.

Kim also makes out with Knives in the comic and it even seems to hint at those two being an item in the game which entirely negates the age gap issue the comic pretends to recognize with Scott.

Ramona's relationship with Scott is frankly NOT CUTE. Although it may have a more compelling narrative in the comics, I just find it difficult to support the relationship when Scott has such cishet energy. He fetishizes Ramona's bisexuality but then becomes jealous and insecure when he learns that Ramona actually dates women and doesn't just have sex with them. He's shown to groom and cheat and in the anime, it's pretty much one of the first things Ramona learns about him which should instantly be a red flag. Despite it, Ramona is head over heels for Scott, even when she learns how future her leaves him and he becomes a hellbent bitter ex himself with no sense of responsibility for how his actions drove Ramona away.

There is quite literally nothing about this guy that makes him appealing to me yet the series romanticizes their gendered dynamic, the movie being used as one of the biggest examples of a stale white wonderbread boy and a manic pixie dream girl by media analytics.

When we meet older and even-older Scott, we get told his age as well as see him visibly aging. With Ramona, there is essentially no visible aging even when she's in her 50's and we get the sexist gag of "don't ask" when it comes to how old she is, leaning into the harmful shame in being a woman above 25.

Although I understand that the entire concept of Scott Pilgrim is confronting Ramona's exes, knowing the anime was an opportunity to finally flesh out many underdeveloped characters, it was disappointing to see Ramona still really only exist in proximity to her romantic relationships, including Scott. I hardly learned anything about Ramona as an individual and I didn't get any sense of character progression. She started off as this mysterious woman and ended that way too.

In the end, the series just felt very cliche and heteronormative to me, even with its abundance of queer characters. Although it's not terrible by any means, it definitely still has issues I can't look past.

#scott pilgrim #scott pilgram takes off #knives chau #ramona flowers

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quiet-girl-short-stories · 2 years ago

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Study Group

"Even though I have a damn headache, I'm still gonna keep going with this!"

Cassie was nearly bouncing off the walls and thankfully her neighbors weren't in their apartments to complain about it. Cassie played her music as loud as she wanted as the noise that would normally travel through to her downstairs and side neighbor didn't matter at the moment.

Cassie sang loudly to the lyrics she was likely pronouncing wrong, she threw herself into the sound and would adlib whenever she wanted to. As the song was fading into the next song, she heard her phone going off.

"Aw, who the fuck is it?" She jumped onto her couch and took her phone before hanging and leaning from the back of the couch. She answered it. "Hello?" She said with a small singing voice.

"Cassie?"

Oh shit! She calmed down and sat on her knees on the couch. She turned down the next song in her playlist and spoke to Brayleigh.

"Yes?"

"Oh, sorry did I bother you?"

Yeah, you did. She was smiling at the thought, but calmly responded with; "no, I was just listening to music."

"Oh, I'd love to ask you what song, but Jess was telling me she wanted to talk to you, but you weren't picking up the phone or answering your door."

"Oh, I thought I heard someone at my door before... tell her I'm sorry, but I'll call her later tonight."

"Alright, that's all I called for."

Then hang the phone up. "Then Au Revoir!"

She heard him chuckle. "That's right, you did take French in highschool didn't you?"

"Yep!" She said.

"Well, how about I teach you a little something?"

She beamed and bounced on her couch. "You would? I totally forgot everything I learned and I am trying to be trilingual."

"You're cool with me teaching you some French?"

"Yeah! You pick the day and text me about it, okay?"

"Alright then, I'll text you in the morning."

"Alright, but bye then!"

"Yeah, see you."

Once she was off the phone with him, she then went to text Jessica.

"Sorry, I'm not calling you tonight, you'll have to wait until the morning."

Cassie sent that before shutting off her phone and returning to her music and resuming playing and jumping around.

...

The day after her sugar rush ended, Cassie found herself wondering, why did I agree to this again? Cassie pondered this while she stared at the papers on her desk, it was full of the notes she had taken from her highschool French class, I know I'm not gonna learn so why did I even say anything? Before she could think to answer that, Brayleigh's voice came from her entryway. He then found himself in Cassie's living room.

"Bonjour Cassie!" She gave him a small smile. "Are you ready to study?" Not really but- "you seem less excited about this than you were last night."

Yeah because I was PG-13 blackout drunk. "It's just 'cause I really don't remember anything about French. I think it'll be better if we just went back to the basics."

Brayleigh removed his bag and sat down on the couch where she was sitting. Brayleigh looked to the papers and seemed as if he were trying to focus for a second, he then smiled.

"So you know like 'hello', 'goodbye', 'my name is', and you can likely form a basic sentence right?"

"That is if I even remember that much."

Brayleigh shook his head. "You're super smart, so I'm sure it'll come back easily to you." Says the person who's actually French. "But I guess for today I could just refresh you and see if you can say something to me without my help. How's that sound?"

She was fine with that. Brayleigh smiled and began his lesson.

...

Cassie would have liked to think she learned something in the last two hours Brayleigh was speaking perfect French to her, but her mind was mostly on the fact that French really was a romantic language.

Then again, she'd think that of anyone with as pretty of a voice as Brayleigh's. She was listening well enough to parrot whatever he wanted back to him, but she knew she wouldn't remember a single bit of this after today.

Just like highschool.

"Okay, I think the last thing I'll teach you is some informal stuff, things you would say to people like me." Like I couldn't understand that much. "You would say Salut if you're saying hello to a friend and 'yes' is kind of tricky because if you're a friend saying Si would be fine too, but I've known business partners who were fine with me saying that to them, at the end of the day I guess it is just yes." Cassie understood. "Other than that, I can't really think of much else. That app you have is good, your pronunciation is really good too."

"I was told that by my teacher before too; but do I really sound good? Because I think I sound like I'm saying stuff with too much of an accent."

Brayleigh chuckled softly. "No it's perfect. My mom would likely think you're a natural!" Cassie smiled at that. "Oh, now that I'm thinking about it, you remember that nouns have genders right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then can you tell me how you would say beautiful or pretty between males and females?"

What's with this question? I guess I'll answer it.

"For females it would be Belle, for males it's Beau." Cassie recalled.

Brayleigh seemed too happy at that. "That is easy, but I just wanted to be sure you remembered to think about that."

While Cassie couldn't get why he asked her that, she nodded nonetheless. "Can I ask a question though?"

"Sure?" Brayleigh started to put his stuff away.

"This is a lot to waste time teaching me French, so why'd you accept when I told you about it?"

"It's not a waste of time, Cassie, and mainly it was because this is my native language. Of course I would want someone else to speak it." He paused. Jess speaks French, just talk to her. "And, you know, maybe one day you might wanna visit France and if you do I'm going with you no matter what you say. I don't believe that any foreigner should stay in a local hotel when they're in a different country. So you would be staying with us."

Cassie stared at him. So that's why. You want me to make a good impression on your parents if I ever met them. I shouldn't have asked.

"I'll have to take up that offer, but expect me to be nervous." Cassie forced herself to say.

"Don't worry, it's adorable anyways."

Fuck you, this shit isn't adorable! You wouldn't be saying that if you were the person who had to deal with this. Cassie just gave him a smile.

"But before I go I was thinking of getting something to eat, do you wanna go with me?" He offered.

For free food... "Of course."

#a collection #short stories #short story #writerblr #writing community #a collection of short stories: quiet girl #creative writing #writing #writing side of tumblr #my writing #french #french lessons #speaking french #french men

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greenorangevioletgrass · 4 years ago

Text

picture perfect (h.o.)

Masterlist | Buy me a ko-fi?

summary: Bored and lonely while filming out town, Harrison starts sexting with a mysterious girl he met on social media. As their relationship grows, will they grow along as they go?

word count: 11.2k (!)

warnings: shameless flirting, mutual pining, fluff, idiots to lovers, dumb pop culture references, cameo from our gang, smut!, dirty talk, sexting, phone sex, light d/s dynamics, oral, spit play, unprotected sex, spanking, choking, all the good stuff

notes: FINALLY! it's been a long time coming, and big ups to @tommysparker for being so patient and providing bomb-ass second opinions. i hope you enjoy it! happy reading!

***

Snap, snap, snap.

The clicks of the camera are drowning in Purple Rain droning on the vinyl. In her black bustier top and blue lace thong, she strikes suggestive poses in her bed, the lavender beddings and warm string lights a soft background to an otherwise striking focus. She arches her back and angles her torso just right, sitting on her knees with her thighs spread. Bit by bit, she pushes the straps off of her shoulders and fondles her breasts, yanking down her bra until they spill out. Selfie button in hand, putting on a show for no one.

It’s Y/N’s new favorite pastime, taking smoking hot pictures of herself to put up on her naughty little blog. Completely anonymous, of course, with her face always conveniently cropped out. It started out as a self love project, an appreciation for her curvy form. But as time went on, her posts began to gain more traction, and honestly, who is she to deny free compliments and ego boost from complete strangers?

The likes and the comments start filing in, from the harmless ones like 'goddess! beautiful!' to the more aggressive ones describing what they want to do to her in graphic detail. One comment in particular catches her eye.

blue--moon commented: pardon my french, but WOW 😳

It's definitely someone new. She gets a like, comment, and a follow in that exact order. Naturally, she pulls up the profile to see what this person's about.

He/him. 24. Just looking.

His display picture is a pair of hands. Strong, veiny, beautiful hands with a metal ring on his middle finger holding the phone up for a selfie. And with a cropped selfie of lean, muscular, eight-pack abs (and yes, she counted), captioned ‘im hungry and dehydrated af in this pic but the things we do for validation amirite’, Y/N couldn’t resist shooting him a DM.

She's bored and lonely and a little shameless flirting with some random self-aware hottie sounds like fun.

Little does she know, the boy on the other end is just as bored and lonely and jerking off to some pretty girl’s tasteful nudes sounds like a nice way to end the evening. Purplish red lips caught between her teeth, tits bursting out of bra, wet patch visible on her practically sheer panties… how could he resist?

Harrison was just about to sneak his hand down his sweatpants when a DM notification pops up on top of his screen.

violetformyfurs: that’s a pretty proper comment for such an improper pic

He nearly drops his phone onto his face. He’d grown very familiar with that username in the last 5 minutes-- or rather what that username presented as her online persona. Witty, alluring, a little mischievous. It’s easy to let his imaginations run wild, but when she’s actually there to talk to, Harrison’s not quite sure what to do.

blue--moon: was that too prudish? i didn’t wanna be rude 🙈

Y/N smiles at his reply, his earnestness somewhat refreshing although she can't help wonder how genuine he is. There's plenty of fake nice guys online, after all. So she settles against her headboard and braces herself to test the waters.

violetformyfurs: I think it's cute. I like a good boy every now and then :)

Harrison's heart skips a beat. He's never really been called that before --never even thought about whether he likes it. But there's something about this girl that captures his curiosity...

blue--moon: oh? what makes you think im a good boy?

violetformyfurs: Idk just a guess lol

violetformyfurs: Could be wrong tho. You could be a bad boy, for all I know...

Harrison is freaking the fuck out. He's pretty new to this side of social media and he's never sexted with anyone on here. A part of him wants to go the suave route and be super charming, but he's not sure he can pull it off. What if he makes a complete fool of himself? In his panic, he goes for the more evasive response. Maybe a little emoji to make him sound less aloof.

blue--moon: and what if I am? 😈

violetformyfurs: Then you would be a different kind of fun, that’s all.

No hesitation, no pause. She replies within mere seconds of his message being sent. With that, his cock stirs awake faster than his brain can muster a vivid image of this girl claiming him as her dirty plaything. Toying with his release as she teases his cock in her mouth, between her tits, in her pussy…

blue--moon: shittt

blue--moon: i mean, pardon my french but

blue--moon: that does sound like fun

The devilish smirk on Y/N’s face grows wider. She loves sending boys into a flustered, incoherent mess. She can’t quite picture a face, but she can definitely imagine the quickening of his heartbeat, the red flush on his chest, the rising heat under his skin… it makes her quite hot and bothered.

violetformyfurs: What are you up to now?

It’s the oldest line in the art of sexting, and she is almost disappointed in herself for pulling such a fuckboyish move.

(Almost. She's still trying to read this guy, and she's not about to bring out the big guns for nothing.)

blue--moon: do you want the savoury or unsavoury answer?

violetformyfurs: Try me.

blue--moon: im looking at your pics

blue--moon: which are

blue--moon: wow, as I said so eloquently in french 😜

violetformyfurs: Lol thank you

violetformyfurs: I take it that's the savoury answer?

blue--moon: yep

violetformyfurs: So what’s the unsavoury answer?

Harrison pauses. He thinks long and hard, before he ultimately decides to not overthink it. He's no Casanova and the pretense will only bite him in the ass, so his best bet is to just... say what’s on his mind.

blue--moon: my unsavoury answer is that im looking at your pics

blue--moon: hand down my pants

blue--moon: thinkin abt all the ways i’d let you ruin me

And that’s when the pin drops. It feels like an out-of-body experience for him. It seems like the sensation on his cock goes straight to his fingers and he didn’t realize what he wrote until he’d already sent it. For a hot second, he thinks he’s royally fucked it up. She would tell him to go fuck himself or straight up block him.

Harrison puts his phone screen on lock, resting it on his forehead like a dumbass that he is.

And then his screen lights up again.

To be quite frank, she’s every bit as surprised and curious as he is. Most guys either maintain their bravado by saying shit that makes them sound manly and cool, or be too thirsty for her own liking. Either way, it turns her off.

But every once in a blue moon, someone would say it just right that it would pique her genuine interest. She’s not sure if it’s his words, his pictures, or just her, but she finds herself typing back three words to him. And those three words are more than enough to fuel him on.

violetformyfurs: tell me more.

blue--moon: i keep picturing you as a huge tease

blue--moon: playing with my cock and sitting on it and cumming on it

blue--moon: but you won't let me cum

violetformyfurs: bold of you to assume I'd touch your cock at all before you earn it ;)

Harrison swallows. Somehow the idea excites him more than any fantasy he'd had of her before. He loves a girl who gives him a hard time, and right now, he's having a hard time alright.

He reaches for his hard-on and starts absently stroking it, eager for her next message.

blue--moon: oh? tell me more

violetformyfurs: Well first, I gotta leave my marks all over your pretty neck

violetformyfurs: Little lipstick stains and love bites

violetformyfurs: Trail down your chest to your hip bone

violetformyfurs: And then come right back up and ride your face so you can show me how you earn it :)

He picks up his pace, letting his pre-cum slick his motion. But he pictures her in her bed, anticipating his response, and he doesn’t wanna let her down and finish so early. He wanted to show her he's worth her time.

blue--moon: fuck yes

blue--moon: i wanna taste you through your panties

blue--moon: pull it aside and eat you out real sloppy

blue--moon: let you ride my fingers too

violetformyfurs: Mm fuck yeah, you have nice hands too

blue--moon: they’re all yours

Y/N couldn't resist going back to his profile picture. All veiny forearms and slender fingers. And that ring… She slides two fingers inside her and pretends it's his, working her open, stroking for her pleasure. She likes to think he gets off on it, too.

violetformyfurs: Fuck yeah. Want you to make me cum all over you

violetformyfurs: And maybe if you're good, I'll put my mouth on your cock.

violetformyfurs: Lick the precum off of the tip of your cock, and then taking you deep down my throat

violetformyfurs: And I can go pretty deep too ;)

Harrison curses out loud. Oh, if she could only see him, pumping his hand around his dick faster, wishing it was her sweet mouth bringing him closer to the edge. And who knows, maybe she's out there, touching herself with the thought of him, too…

(She totally is. Panties hooked on an ankle and hips bucking up from her bed, she indulges herself with the idea of choking on this pretty boy’s cock.)

blue--moon: fuckin hell

blue--moon: please please please suck my cock

blue--moon: wanna cum in your mouth while im smothered in your wet pussy

violetformyfurs: Greedy 😏

blue--moon: can you blame me

violetformyfurs: Haha fair

blue--moon: god i bet you taste good

blue--moon: bet you feel so fucking good too

violetformyfurs: Mm, maybe I oughta ride your big hard cock too

violetformyfurs: Bounce on it hard and fast

violetformyfurs: Or maybe I should just.. sit there and play with my clit and clench around you?

blue--moon: ffffuuuuck

violetformyfurs: Which one will it be, baby?

blue--moon: whichever way you'll have me goddd

blue--moon: just wanna cum inside you

violetformyfurs: Beg for it.

She slows down her motions and her breaths, fingertips barely ghosting over her wet and swollen nub. Gosh, she's so fucking close; she just need a little more nudge.

blue--moon: please

blue--moon: wanna feel your little pussy squeeze the cum outta my cock

blue--moon: grippin me so tight

violetformyfurs: You close?

blue--moon: very

violetformyfurs: You wanna fill my pussy with your cum, watch it run down my thighs?

blue--moon: fuuuck yes please

violetformyfurs: Go on, then. Cum for me, baby

blue--moon: fckkkk

Harrison could barely send that last message before he falls apart all over his stomach, pent-up release painted on strong muscles contracting in waves of ecstasy. Chest rising and falling in exertion.

And she pictures the most beautiful sight under her, coming undone as she lets go, clenching around nothing although it feels like one of her best orgasms in a while.

blue--moon: holy shit

blue--moon: made a whole mess outta me

violetformyfurs: Can I see?

blue--moon: you sure?

violetformyfurs: Yeah.

Y/N bites her lower lip in anticipation. She's not usually one for boys' nudes (a lot of them don't know how to take good pictures), but orgasm has been had and either way, she has nothing to lose.

To her surprise, though, he doesn't send her a crude dick pic with horrible lighting. Instead, she gets a picture of his cock, thick and veiny like his arms, resting on toned abs bathed in soft golden light, splattered in his own cum, and she finds her pussy throbbing at the sight.

violetformyfurs: Wow 😳

violetformyfurs: I mean, pardon my French

blue--moon: lol thank you 🙈

violetformyfurs: That was fun haha

blue--moon: it really was… deffo wasn't expecting my evening to go this way lol

violetformyfurs: What, having a wank sesh with some random girl online?

blue--moon: or thinking abt a wank sesh while looking at this girl's pics and then suddenly she dms you out of the blue

violetformyfurs: 😂😂 call me psychic

blue--moon: imma call you magic

violetformyfurs: Haha, call me Violet.

Harrison taps his screen, typing up his response and deleting it again. He ponders whether he should give her his real name-- part of him really wants to. But then again, thirsty social media is a fickle thing and he would hate to get into trouble for lurking about in this lewd little corner. So instead, he decides up with something equally witty.

blue--moon: nice to meet you violet. im blue 😉

***

Morning shoots are the worst, and the only saving grace for Harrison is the coffee in his right hand. He occasionally joins the conversation with his co-stars Thaddea and Jojo on either side, but mostly he just scrolls through his Instagram mindlessly.

Well.

Until a notification pops up on the top of his screen.

violetformyfurs posted a new picture: Rise and shine 🌻💙

He immediately puts his phone down on his lap, trying to discreetly open it, even though his friends are not even two feet away from him.

And there she is. Her arm holding up the breasts he so wants to mark and devour. Her skin adorned with the morning dew of the shower, glowing from the sun streaming in from the window on her right.

He notices the blue heart emoji on the caption, and he can't help thinking this is her subtle way of calling out to him, hoping to get his attention.

(And of course, Harrison's only a man. His attention was caught very easily this way.)

Y/N’s phone buzzes in her jacket pocket as she walks to her morning class. And when she sees his username on her notification bubble, she picks it up immediately, thinking, hook, line, and sinker, despite the genuine butterflies in her stomach.

blue--moon: good morning indeed 👀

violetformyfurs: Never pegged you for an early riser.

blue--moon: im really not, but you're a sight for sore sleepy eyes

violetformyfurs: I would say the same about you, but...

blue--moon: im sorry darling, im already dressed for work 🙁

violetformyfurs: And what are you wearing?

She wants to kick herself for being so forward, but at the same time, she can’t help it. She can see him getting flustered wherever he is, knowing where this conversation is going. And God, she loves it.

blue--moon: a full victorian era suit

violetformyfurs: Ooh, tres sexy

He's not sure what gave it away; the quiet laugh or the goofy grin on his face, but his friends both turn to him at the same time. Curious and mischievous at the same time.

"What is it?" Darci pries, craning her neck to look at Harrison's phone.

He quickly closes the app and locks it. "It's nothing."

"I think the question should be who is it." Thaddea shoots him a knowing look, and he knows there's no escaping this girl's sharp eyes.

So he just answers dubiously, “Some girl.” he playfully shoves Darci’s arm away so he can get back to his message.

blue--moon: haha sure 🙄

violetformyfurs: Well, the more layers to peel off, the more fun, right?

blue--moon: idk your little bday suit looks pretty fun too

violetformyfurs: How so, my lord?

Harrison loves how sharp-witted she is. He pictures her, curious, head tilted to the side, calling him ‘my lord’ with a smirk. Eyeing him up and down, undressing him with her eyes. He somehow feels more naked in his suit and big blue coat than she is in absolutely nothing.

blue--moon: so i can kiss you and taste you and fuck you whenever and wherever

It’s short and simple and straightforward, and it sends Y/N clenching her thighs in anticipation. She likes the idea of this boy pulling her in and pleasuring her all hours of the day --bent over the desk, against the sink, laid out on the couch, in the shower…

“We’re ready on set for you guys,” a PA comes over to inform them, and Harrison fights the urge to groan like a child as he follows his friends out.

blue--moon: ah shit, duty calls

blue--moon: talk to you in a bit?

violetformyfurs: Try not to think of me in my birthday suit too much, Blue ;)

blue--moon: impossible 😜

He means it. It’s cold and muddy where he is, and all he could think of is this girl wearing his blue coat costume, nothing else underneath. God, what he wouldn’t give to dive under the material and get on his knees before her…

And unbeknownst to him, it is just as impossible for her to not daydream any further about this boy. She’s not sure whether his line about a Victorian suit is true or not. If it isn’t, that means he has a sense of humor. Y/N appreciates that-- maybe more than the nudes and the sexting.

If it is, well… she likes the idea of his muscular chest clad in one of those puffy white shirts, a la Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.

He finally texts back late in the afternoon during her presentation for her Emotional and Conflict Resolution class, and she couldn’t rush through her conclusion fast enough. For a miraculous second, her priority for a perfect score takes a backseat to the possibility of a text from some random dude she met online last night.

Christ, what a simp.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Y/L/N, for a very insightful presentation. Next week, we will be delving into children’s literature…” she tunes out the voice of Professor Getty as she packs up her laptop and gets the hell out of the lecture hall.

She pulls out her phone out of her pocket and bites back a smile at the notification on top of her screen. At least her fumbling earlier wasn’t all for naught.

blue--moon posted a new picture: hope you’re having a wonderful day 💜

But it’s not the well wish that makes her heart skip a beat. Or the little purple heart to signify that the message is intended for ‘Violet.’ It’s the picture attached to it; the frilly low-collared white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows…

A signet ring on his finger, gold glistening against his onyx phone case and marble skin.

violetformyfurs: I was gonna say something about your choice of wardrobe

violetformyfurs: But I’m just a tiny bit distracted by your hand.

blue--moon: like what you see? 😏

violetformyfurs: It’s alright...

blue--moon: i seem to recall you wanting to ride my fingers last night 👀

violetformyfurs: I did.

violetformyfurs: I do

violetformyfurs: That signet ring hits different, just saying

blue--moon: really?

violetformyfurs: Yep. Wonder how much better it looks, drenched in my juices

blue--moon: funny bc i was deffo thinking abt fingering you with it all day

violetformyfurs: It would be my pleasure, my lord.

blue--moon: and mine, milady.

“Harrison Jarrison Osterfield!” Jojo all but screeches into his right ear from the backseat of the car.

Harrison, of course, not realizing he'd been snooping, drops his phone in surprise and squawks, “For fuck’s sake, man!”

“You randy little fucker!” Jojo cackles almost maniacally, pulling McKell into it. “Bro, he’s getting steamy with a girl over text!”

“For real? Wahey!” McKell exclaims as he slaps Harrison playfully on the arm. “Let’s see her, then. Is she hot?”

“Oh, my God. Fucking hell, shut up!” Harrison groans, covering his beet red face in his hands. “I can’t fucking believe this…”

“Who knew, eh?”

“Our golden boy turns out to be a nasty little fella after all!”

The golden boy in question picks up his phone off of the car floor mat, and groans once more when he sees what he’d sent her accidentally. And her response that follows.

blue--moon: sldkf[;

violetformyfurs: ...What’s that supposed to mean?

blue--moon: shit! sorry

blue--moon: dropped my phone. my asshole friends being nosy.

violetformyfurs: 😂

violetformyfurs: I’m about to get on the tube anyway. talk to you when i get home?

blue--moon: sure. wouldn’t want some rando read our naughty texts over your shoulder, right? lol

violetformyfurs: Please. We both know You’re the naughty one between us, darling ;)

The blood rushes right down his cock as the memories of her come flooding in. Hell yes, he's willing to be the naughty one for her. So he endures all the teasing and takes all the piss his friends are giving throughout the car ride to their complex. He ignores the shit-eating grins they throw each other when he turns down their offer to hang out and play FIFA at McKell’s.

“I love you guys,” Harrison starts as he walks up to his door, “But you’re massive dicks. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He enters his building with his two friends egging him on and humping a flagpole, mimicking the bass line of some sexy club music. For a moment carried away with the amusement and excitement of falling for someone new. For a second forgetting the fact that they’re just personas, tiny glimpses of themselves through the filter of social media.

There’s no new messages from her, and Harrison eventually decides to put down his phone to go shower. He notes the tent he’s pitching underneath his trousers, but decides not to do anything about it. Why jerk off to her, when he can jerk off with her at the same time? He knows his imagination is nothing compared to her and her unbelievable way with words.

And as time proves it, her message awaits him when he gets out of the shower, a gleaming little ray of light among bleak system updates and ad alerts. Bold and witty and somehow quite… romantic.

violetformyfurs: Honey, I’m home!

blue--moon: hey! feel like talking on the phone?

Harrison might as well just shoots himself in the foot. This is way too intimate at this stage. They just met last night, for God's sake, and not even in person! What was he thinking? If she hadn't ghosted him then, she sure will now--

violetformyfurs is inviting you to a voice call.

He freaks out all the same, although for a completely different reason now. He won’t have time to edit what he’s gonna say before he says it. What if he says the wrong thing? What if he sounds weird? What if she sounds weird? Oh God--

"Hi,” he greets her, friendly and even, trying his best to hide his nerves.

"Hey, stranger." There's a smile in her voice. Quiet, but warm nonetheless, and Harrison relaxes a bit.

"Hi," he replies, kicking himself over how stupid he sounds for saying hello twice, sitting himself down on the couch. Just go with the flow, he reminds himself. "Whatcha up to?"

"Eh, just lazing around in the bath, getting wine tipsy..." she sighs, water gently flowing in the background. "Treating myself."

His eyebrows rise, intrigued. "What's the occasion?"

"Psychology presentation well done, which-- you, sir, nearly cost me my grade."

"What did I do?!"

"You sent me that fucking text in the middle of my talk! Distracted me. Made me trip over my words,” she grumbles.

“Aw, I’m sorry…” he grins, not at all sorry that he makes her just as flustered as he is. “What was the presentation about?”

“The Horror of Grief in The Haunting of Hill House.”

“You did a study on Hill House?” Harrison feels the butterflies and fireflies in his stomach. There’s something very attractive about a hot girl who’s also a nerd. “Oh, I love that show!”

“It’s amazing, right?” she gushes back.

“I’m pretty sure I binged it all in one go,” he laughs, quiet and warm. “So what’s your, uh… hypothesis? Is that what it’s called? I don’t know, I’m not really an academic person.”

Y/N finds herself giggling-- thanking God she’s not the only one nervous. “Horror shows aren’t only a safe space to experience horror or thrill anymore. Hill House explores the reasons behind these horrors, the grief and the trauma, which makes it very… reflective for us as the audience.”

“So, no matter how scary the ghosts or the monsters are, it’s still a very human experience,” Harrison concludes thoughtfully.

“Exactly.”

There’s a brief lull between them, but they don’t mind it much. For a moment, it feels like a mundane conversation they’ve had a million times before-- going about their day, their favorite show, the little things they nerd about… I could get used to this, Y/N briefly muses.

“I’m actually doing something that has to do with horror and grief, too,” he pipes up, and Y/N secretly wishes she could curl up into his chest as they chat.

“Really?”

“It’s a… series, too…” he toys with the tassel of a throw pillow, “Hence the Victorian suit.”

“Are you an actor, then?”

He sighs. Being an actor is always awkward, people would ask if they’ve seen him in anything or ask whether he’s famous-- because he’s really not, he’s just starting out. It’s even more awkward when the whole relationship relies on anonymity.

“Kind of. All I do is wear these stupid costumes and fuck around with my friends, really.”

She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t call that costume stupid…”

“Yeah, you liked that, didn’t you?”

“Hell yeah. The shirt? The ring?” Y/N throws her head back and moans for dramatic effect.

And with that, Harrison is gone and Little Harrison stirs in attention. “Don’t-- don’t do that.”

“What did I do?!” she parrots what he said earlier.

“Make those… obscene sounds.”

She scoffs playfully. “I’m sorry, is doing a period drama turning you into a prude?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs, fighting the blush creeping up his cheeks even though she can’t see it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Check and fucking mate. She’s so much smarter than him and it turns him on more than he ever knows. “Well, yeah,” he bashfully admits.

She hums, light and airy, bringing the conversation to another lull. But the silence feels heavy this time. The silence of two people who are wildly attracted to each other, hearing each other’s voice for the first time.

Wanting oh so much to be together that they don’t know where to begin.

“What are you up to?” he asks again. But his voice is deeper, lower this time, and she knows exactly where he’s going.

“Told you, I’m treating myself. Bath, wine…” she purrs, playing it cool, “Orgasms.”

He swallows. “Are you touching yourself?”

She slides her hand between her legs, indulging in the shock of her fingertip meeting her clit. She’d been denying herself on any touch, and now she can let out a breathy sigh of relief. “What do you think?”

“Fuck--” he palms himself through his sweatpants, relishing in the sound of her voice. “Are you... thinking of me touching you?”

Y/N’s finger drags lower, running back and forth along her nether lips. “Mm-hm. Thinking of your nice, long fingers teasing me and stretching me open…”

“Do it then.” the words fall out of his mouth all too easily. “Tease yourself ‘til you’re nice and slippery, and slide a finger in for me.”

He hears labored breaths on the other end, and he honestly thought she’s gonna cave. And what a stupid assumption he made.

“Just one?”

Two words. That’s all it takes to get his cock straining underneath his boxers.

"One," he starts out, "...and then another."

Two fingers. She is truly an impatient thing, and so buries them inside at once and curls them in a way that makes her squirm. Y/N's breath hitches as her fingers thrust in, smaller than the one she wanted, but gives her the pleasant ache nevertheless. She lets out a low moan as she caresses that spot inside her.

"That's it, baby. Just like that…"

She doesn’t usually like pet names, but the way he calls her in his sweet, boyish voice drives her mad. She wouldn’t mind having it whispered in her ear as he holds her against his chest and fingers her.

"I don't think my hand can compare to yours, but--" Her moans echo in the bathroom tiles, and it sounds more angelic than any choir Harrison has ever heard in any grand cathedral.

“You sound so good, fuck…” Harrison shifts as he frees his stubborn cock. The irony of allowing himself some release by tightening his fist around his length is completely lost on him.

The corner of Y/N’s mouth pulls up into a half-smile as she hears a low, strained moan on the other end. “Are you touching yourself?”

“...Yeah?” the answer is painfully obvious, and yet Harrison blushes anyway.

She chuckles, low and lazy, and lets it die down into a sigh. “Wish you were here. I could use you to stretch me open and fuck me hard.”

Harrison groans at the sound of her sweet whine. “Fuck yes use me,” he rambles on, drunk from desire.

“Want you to pound into me while I kiss and bite your neck, you wanna know why?”

“Hm?”

Y/N shuts her eyes to regain some composure. She doesn’t wanna waver in the face of her subject after all. “So you’d remember how good you are to me.”

“Fuck, 'm so close...” he breathes, clenching his fist like he imagines her pussy would. His strokes grow more erratic, as if moving in syncopation with her moans and her movement.

It takes her everything to hold out and say, "Come with me, baby,” before the familiar warm tingle rushes through her veins and desperate moans crash through the line.

For a moment, there’s only light rustles of fabric and quiet sloshes of water on the line. Little noises that bring these strangers closer with every heartbeat, every breath taken in harmony. Somehow, somewhere in different corners of the world, two strangers find themselves tied a little closer together. Intimately close and safely distant at the same time.

Y/N eventually caves in breaking the silence. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I could say the same about you," he retorts. "God, I feel like I need to take another… cold shower."

"Maybe you should," she giggles. "We'll catch up later."

"Right." He tries to hide the sliver of disappointment, but reminds himself that this may not be their last conversation. "Talk to you... soon?"

She bids him farewell and it's like the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. The soft ding of his notification sounds so crass compared to her. The content, however, brings a smile to his face.

A new post from his mystery girl, covered in bubbles, wine glass wrapped around her fingers. The picture is cut just above her smirking mouth.

violetformyfurs: Happy Friday from your favorite fancy bitch 🥂💦💙

***

Over the next six weeks, Y/N finds a fast companion in this mysterious guy called ‘Blue.’ The witty banters and flirty messages become a regular interaction. It’s an awfully convenient arrangement-- she is attracted to him enough to get off, but she doesn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of sleeping with someone new or face the possibility that he might be a bad lay in real life.

“I mean, I like to think I’m alright…” he said defensively about two weeks into their ‘acquaintance.’ “I’ve had zero complaints so far.”

“Show me the receipts then!” she challenged him jokingly.

He didn’t show her his Yelp page, of course. He did, however, control her Lush vibrator from his phone and teased the hell out of her until she lost count of her edges. It wasn’t until she threatened him through her teeth, “Let me fucking come or else,” that he finally relented and let her come three times over.

“Still think I’m bad in bed?”

She could hear the cocky smirk in his voice and she wants to wipe it off of him so badly. “Jury’s still out.”

“Wh-- How is that even-- that is ridiculous! Come on!” He all but squawked incredulously.

“I’m sorry! I still can’t objectively determine the proficiency of your mouth, fingers, and/or dick based on how you operate my Lush. That’s just not how this research should be conducted.” Y/N very consciously uses her ‘serious’ voice, although a light laughter trails behind.

“Alright, you nerd,” he chuckled. “I’ll let you pass, but only because it’s so fucking hot when you talk nerdy like that.”

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

“Mm yeah, talk nerdy to me,” he moans in humor, although there’s a truth to it, too.

(In the end, they stayed on the line and made each other come one more time before calling it a night.)

What’s better-- or worse- is that Y/N enjoys his company, too. His blazing thirst traps and quippy jokes all at once. It pops up at random points of her days-- over breakfast, in the middle of class, on her tube ride home.

Like that time he sent her a very tasteful black-and-white dick pic-- one of the very few he sent her. His uncut cock stands erect, his fingers wrapped around the base of his thick girth. The veins on his wrist and the ones along his curving length make her salivate…

And before she could respond accordingly, he sent another version of that image, this time framed that infamous Nickelback meme, captioned ‘been wanting to expand on more artsy formats wdyt’

violetformyfurs: Thank you for canceling my thirst with the unsexiest reference ever.

blue--moon: how dare you, nickelback is sexy af

violetformyfurs: ...Seriously?

blue--moon: they just get a bad rep, ok?? their music is actually pretty good

blue--moon: heard it's a good aphrodisiac too 😏

violetformyfurs: Lmao says who?

blue--moon: says me??

violetformyfurs: Alright, Nickelstan 👀

blue--moon: ugh so judgy 🙄 imma prove you wrong

(He made her a sex playlist that night. She stubbornly skipped the damn song when she touched herself to it. Out of principle.)

Some nights they didn't even have anything to do with sex. Some nights he would talk her ear off about his day while she prepares herself dinner. Other nights, Y/N would be buzzed from double espresso, ranting about her assignment or the undergrads’ papers she’s grading while he tidied up his flat. And when neither of them could sleep, they would just lie around in their own beds and talk about nothing.

“Oh God, We're young and beautiful; we should be out celebrating life!" he groans as he stretches, head hanging upside down from the edge of the bed. “Instead we’re talking about how homemade Nando’s will never taste the same as real Nando’s.”

“I think you’re just a bad cook,” she pokes fun at him.

“Why don’t you be the judge of that?”

“Ha, right.” the laugh comes out easy until she notices the meaningful silence on the other end. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Maybe... we can, I don’t know, hang out once I’m back in London.”

And then there’s that. Little abstract plans with indefinite dates. Subtle reminders that that’s all they are-- strangers. They might know all the minute details about each other’s body and mind... And none of who they actually are.

Not even their face.

It’s an unspoken agreement between them: he’s an actor, she’s on track to be a university lecturer. Both of them would be in big trouble if this naughty little secret gets out. So they settle on picking up little tidbits about each other. Just to give the illusion that they know each other. That they’re less lonely than they actually are.

Until they don’t have to be.

“Wow. Huh...” she thinks hard to collect her thoughts. Granted, he’s never done anything to cause her distrust, but she still needs to be cautious… right? “Sure. I mean, we’ll see. You probably won’t be back in a while, right?”

“I’ll be done in about a week, give or take,” he replies nonchalantly --or so he tries to be.

One week of their acquaintance felt like forever. They went from strangers to sharing childhood trauma in less time. But one week until they meet each other face-to-face… it’s too brash, too soon. She’s not ready. Her stomach twists and the palm of her hand sweats and --

“We don’t have to meet, of course,” he quickly adds. “I was just throwing it out there.”

But her heart drops. The possibility of not meeting now hurts more now that they’ve been presented the opportunity to do so, and she realizes just how much she wants to.

Y/N scratches her head, frustrated with herself. “I would love to, I just-- I don’t know what to feel about it yet. Can we put a rain check on this?”

“Absolutely. Take your time. Ball’s in your park.”

***

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking idiot!

Harrison internally kicked himself as he felt Violet withdrawing from him in that conversation. She’s completely fair not to trust him; he has access to her nudes and for all she knows, he could be a weirdo. He would retract his statement altogether if he could, if only it weren’t too late.

She assured him she’s fine, but he purposely avoided any talks of meeting up since then. Consciously stopped himself from saying shit like ‘someday’ on things they would do together. He didn’t even tell her when he got back to London. He’s simply grateful that things are slowly going back to normal between them.

Conversation is easy that snowy morning. Fresh off his run, Harrison finds amusement in her grumpy, sleep-deprived texts as he waits in line at his local coffee shop.

violetformyfurs: Is it not enough to snow on the last day of the term?

violetformyfurs: Do I really have to wait in a long line for coffee, too?? God????

blue--moon: just got off my morning run. hello you ;)

violetformyfurs: How do people live like this

blue--moon: out of sheer willpower?

violetformyfurs: Oh go fuck yourself.

blue--moon: 😂 in your defense, some of us don’t have to burn through a million papers til 3am last night

violetformyfurs: Wow, I told you to go fuck yourself and you jumped to MY defense?

violetformyfurs: Guess chivalry isn’t dead after all

blue--moon: call me your knight in shining Nikes lol

“May I take your order, please?” a bored-looking guy behind the counter snaps him out of his reverie.

“Sorry! Uh, can I have a medium hot Americano, please?” he smiles apologetically to him.

“Sure. Name?”

“Harrison,” he answers and pays quickly, sauntering over to the pickup counter to avoid any further embarrassment.

He stands there gingerly, next to the girl who queued in front of him earlier. Pretty cute, all bundled up in a knitted scarf and glasses perched on her nose. Their eyes meet for a moment, and she briefly smiles at him-- well, as much a stranger would out of courtesy. Harrison barely smiles back when she looks back down on her phone, which he takes as a sign to return his attention to his.

violetformyfurs: Haha. You’re hilarious. I’m dying.

blue--moon: you’re mean, thats what you are 🙄

violetformyfurs: I will stop being mean once I get

violetformyfurs: My

violetformyfurs: Coffee!!! 😤

“Hot Americano, medium?” the barista announces.

Both Harrison and the girl reach for the paper cup at the same time. The latter stops just before their fingertips brush against each other and takes a double glance at his hand-- or where the labels are on the cup.

There’s a split second pause before she asks the barista, “Double shot espresso for Y/N?”

Harrison’s eyes go wide. He knows that voice. He’s familiar with its rambles and laughs and whines and moans. He looks at the girl, then at her phone, then at his, barely aware of the exchange happening before him. He hears her speak and he hears her name, and his mind just clicks.

“Ah yes, sorry. Here you go.” the man behind the counter huffs, handing to her and turning to get another cup. “Oh! Another hot Americano. Medium, single shot for… Harrison?”

“I believe that’s yours,” she pipes up, her eyes following him curiously.

“Right. Um. Thanks,” Harrison absently says to the barista. He doesn’t walk away, either. Instead, he turns to the girl, “I’m really sorry, are you--”

“I think you’re--”

“Wait.” she holds a finger up, takes a swig of her coffee like she’s bracing herself, presses a few buttons on her phone, and looks at him expectantly.

Harrison’s phone lights up in his hand and he shows her the screen: violetformyfurs is inviting you for a voice call.

“Fuck,” they both say in perfect unison.

The barista stares at them confused and unamused. He quickly moves onto the next customer, and they swiftly move away from the counter. Both of them feel like they’re floating just above the floor.

“Is this really happening? This isn’t just my sleepy-ass mind playing tricks, right?” she thinks out loud, eyes wide and blinking slowly in disbelief.

Harrison shakes his head, still dazed from it all.

“Wow-- it’s-- I--” her phone lights up in her hand and she barely glances at it before putting it on lock. “Shit, I have to go. My class.”

“Wait! Can I see you again?” he asks immediately, worrying he’s gonna lose his chance. Although now that he’s said it out loud, he’s also worried that she might get scared off. “Maybe after your classes or when you’re not--”

“Meet you back here at 3?” she cuts in, her voice quiet.

Harrison loses all words and just nods.

“Okay. It’s good to finally meet you… Harrison.” her eyes crinkle as she says his real name for the very first time, as if figuring out the taste in her mouth.

He repeats her name over and over as she walks away, heading out into the cold. Loudly in his head, soundlessly on the tip of his tongue. Matches the name to the rest of her that he pieced out, bit by little bit in the past six weeks. What little he noticed of her in their surprise encounter earlier.

It suits her.

***

Y/N keeps opening and closing the message thread between herself and her mystery guy. And when she’s not, the thought doesn’t leave her the whole day. All she wants to do is to say, “Can you believe that we ran into each other totally by accident?” to the very person she ran into.

Harrison.

Whom she recognized by his hand when he reached for her coffee. She knows the line on the back of his hand like the back of her hand. And when she looks at the owner of that hand, it clicks.

Her last class of the day couldn’t go fast enough. She’s only there to monitor the final exams, so she spends most of her 2 hours sitting there, waiting, thinking. The stack of her previous class' exams are ungraded and untouched. And before she leaves campus, she barely makes a beeline to the bathroom to apply some mascara and lipstick.

She arrives at the coffee shop early, hoping she'd get a few minutes to prepare herself for this meeting. Maybe she can even dip if she gets cold feet.

How stupid of her to think she'd get any more time than she'd already had the whole day.

Harrison conveniently sits on a corner table by the window, typing away on his laptop with his AirPods on. He looks so cozy in his knit turtleneck, glasses perched atop his nose. He spots her right away-- sitting facing the door, there's no way he would have missed her.

(He wouldn't have missed her with his back to her, he thinks. Not this time.)

Y/N awkwardly motions at the counter, and they exchange an awkward non-verbal exchange of 'I'll be there in a bit, I'm just gonna order some hot tea to calm the fuck down.' She tries to very discreetly fix her hair, which probably looks a mess from the wind and the tube ride.

"Hey!" Harrison beams, AirPods and laptop cleared and tucked away from the table.

Neither of them are sure where they're going. She goes in with one hand and he's already leaning forward, and they end up in a funny half hug/half handshake situation. As much as it embarrassed the hell out of them, it also gives them reason to laugh at themselves.

"This is… so strange.” Y/N grimaces as she takes her seat opposite him.

"I know, I've never really done this before." he chuckles, warmth rising on his cheeks as he settles back into his seat.

She’s trying to find something to say, but she gets caught off-guard by his eyes. She was much too distracted by the shock and the overall physical presence of him. But his clear-framed Wayfarers frame his handsome face, emphasizing his dazzling eyes.

Blue. Like his namesake.

“You have very pretty eyes,” he breaks the silence with a quiet observation.

She bites the inside of her cheek, chucks it right back at him. “I could say the same about you.”

“That was a cheap line, wasn’t it?” the pink tinge returns to his cheek, although it doesn’t feel like it ever went away. He laughs and she laughs along, but he means it. Her dark eyes are warm and comforting on this grey, icy day.

“Ah, well, I’ll give it a pass,” Y/N coolly looks out the window. Then she flashes a cheeky smile at him, “This time.”

And with her bright personality, it lights a fire deep within his stomach. God, he likes this girl.

“So how’s your last day of class?” he smoothly switches back to casual small talk. “Did Sleepy Joe come through?”

“Right, yeah!” she beams this time. “He came into class just in the nick of time, and I’m... pretty sure he answered most of the questions?”

“Wahey, well done!”

“I haven't graded it, but it looks okay! Like, it’s coherent so far."

"So far." he reminds her. "Who knows, man, maybe he fell asleep halfway through a sentence and started... doodling Shrek or something."

"You're a man with peculiar taste, you know that? Shrek and Nickelback and all that…” she muses, purposely leaving the part where she thinks it’s cute as fuck.

“Come on, you like ‘em, too,” he goads her through his coffee cup. “We both know you’re not always into--”

“Into what?” Her eyebrows shoot up challengingly.

“The deep, important stuff that reflects… you know, the society in the past or present. Or future.”

“You sound like Sleepy Joe trying to bullshit his way through my class.”

The little inside jokes seem to flow easily then, as if they’ve had this conversation numerous times. And in retrospect, they have. Spread over many afternoons, over copious cups of tea. Just always with hundreds of miles between each other. Never separated by a mere foot length of a coffee shop table. Elbows nearly bumping.

Hands well within reach as they catch up like old friends.

Or old lovers. They haven’t decided on that yet. If their knees touch under the table, or their hands accidentally brush as they grab their cups, they say nothing.

And before they know it, they talk and talk until the barista quietly (but pointedly) comes up to them to say the cafe’s closing up. Y/N eyes glints at the sheer amusement of this innocent bystander, and Harrison struggles to keep his laughter in.

“He’s not really a big fan, is he?” Harrison snickers as the guy returns to the back of the counter.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s ecstatic. He just witnessed a meet-cute that held up a long line in the morning and now these assholes are back, holding him up at the end of his shift.” she rolls her eyes playfully. “I’m sure he thinks we’re adorable.”

Truth be told, they are.

And truth be told, Harrison is not quite ready to go back to being by his singular self just yet. So as they walk out of the coffee shop and reach the curb, he musters up the courage to ask,

“So what’s the rest of your night look like?”

“Probably just make myself some dinner, have a drink…” Y/N gingerly scratches the back of her ear. “Join me?”

And there it goes. A simple, two-word question, and a look on her face-- so subtle yet so beyond words- that tells him maybe she enjoys his company, too.

"Lead the way," he offers his arm.

She takes his arm and huddles up closer as she shivers from the cold gust of wind. The layers of clothing a stark contrast to their usual state of undress in their pictures, the surprisingly wholesome conversation at the cafe, the quiet walk back to her flat… they’re not exactly what she expected.

But maybe it’s just what she needed.

"So I gotta ask," she starts, and he knows where this is going. "And I don’t mean this in a nosy, possessive kind of way, but-- why didn't you tell me you were back in town?”

Harrison contemplates an excuse. He could tell her he’d just arrived, or he’d come back early on a whim, or he was planning to visit his mother first anyway. But he doesn’t. “Well… I didn’t wanna make it weird between us. Didn’t wanna make you feel like-- I don’t know. Like I’m pressuring you to meet me, you know?”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she notes, and then coolly adds, “But honestly, I'm fine. If I feel like you’re pressuring me into anything, I’ll let you know, alright?”

“Of course.” he quietly smiles to himself, although he doubts it would ever come to that. He’d happily wrap himself around her little finger. So bold, so beautiful, so sure of herself.

Y/N catches his smile and finds herself doing the same, too. He looks at her like he’s perpetually in awe of her, and it makes her so fucking weak.

“And for what it’s worth… I’m glad we decided to meet up.” she puts a reassuring hand on his arm.

“I don’t think we had a choice the first time, technically.”

“Man, get out of here with your technicalities!” she jokingly shoves him away with her over-the-top John Mulaney impression, sending him laughing and stumbling on the slippery ground.

She leads him up to the second floor of her building, welcoming him into her humble one-bedroom flat. She half wishes she’d tidied up before she left this morning--she has empty mugs serving as paperweight for assignments she’s grading and her knit blanket balled up on one end of the couch because she couldn’t be bothered to fold it before heading to bed last night.

Not that it matters.

To him, the mess is as much a part of charm as the rest. He likes how her shelves have books stacked and lined up in no particular order that he recognizes, documents sticking out like white tongues and all. He likes how she uses a succulent as a bookend. He likes the Polaroid pictures and bills and reminders on the fridge, held up by colorful enamel magnets. It’s an extension of her that no amount of pictures or conversations can capture.

“So,” she pipes up as he studies the framed pictures and diplomas on the wall, making him slightly jump. “You gonna help me cook or what?”

***

Harrison makes himself useful by picking the music (No Nickelback, Y/N warns, and they settle on a more mutually liked Childish Gambino) and playing sous chef. And he’s a pretty good sous chef, too; sets up the ‘stations’ all neat and organized, chops up the vegetables without so much a chunk out of place, even though he’s rather careful about the amount of seasoning he puts in. He navigates the narrow space of Y/N’s kitchen well enough, hand instinctively landing on her lower back every time he slides past her and vice versa. Chattering away like it doesn't make their hearts skip a beat at that little touch. When the conversation dies down, they let the music fill the companionable silence.

Come dinner-time, they casually play footsie over flirty banters. He compliments her on her scrumptious cooking ("I'm simply using the spices your people colonized my people for," she side-eyes him in good nature.) He takes it as a challenge for when he cooks for her next time. And they go about it as if they're certain that there will be a next time.

And by the time they finish the bottle of wine, they're fully cuddling on the sofa, mildly tipsy and incredibly cozy. Shoes off and sock-clad feet up on the couch, Y/N folds her legs and leans them over Harrison's lap as she curls up on his chest, cheek smushed against his soft grey turtleneck. They're watching The Hobbit although the volume is low and they spend most of the time talking about something else.

"Isn't it funny how we basically put several dates together all in the span of one evening?" he chuckles. "We had coffee, dinner, drinks, Netflix…"

"Man, I don't even know where we're at anymore. I mean, you saw my tits before you even talked to me."

He hums lightly. "And what nice tits they are, too --pardon my French.”

She brushes him off, “Oh, please. Talk French to me any damn day, Harrison.”

He laughs, but says nothing else. When she looks up at him, she catches him deep in thought.

“What is it?”

“It’s just… funny to hear you say my real name.”

“Would you prefer me to call you ‘baby’ like we used to on the phone?”

Her words are playful, but the air swells around them in an instant. Suddenly the weeks and weeks worth of tension is very palpable. They instantly become very aware of how close their bodies are pressed together. His clear blue eyes darken, darting between her eyes, black as night and ridden with mischief. “Do I have to choose?”

She doesn’t miss his quick glance at her wine-kissed lips, and she quirks up a winning smirk. “Harrison, baby… You can have whatever you want.”

And just like that, they close the gap between their lips, neither knowing or caring who goes in first. Not a day goes by without them secretly picturing what kissing the other would feel like, and now that they’re there, as close as they can be, it’s like a sigh of relief. Talking to Harrison has always felt like a thrill, but in that moment, their words cease, fingers weaving into his brown curls, breaths syncing in, and Y/N feels… calm.

Well.

As calm as they can be, all enshrouded in warmth until the growing heat overwhelms them.

He wants more, more, more of her. The red wine is ten times sweeter on her tongue, and the faint smell of her clothes and her shampoo and her perfume just intoxicates him. And when she giggles at how he chases her kiss… God.

He murmurs something Y/N doesn’t quite hear.

“Hm?” she pulls away.

Harrison is quick to bury his pretty face in her neck, leaving a trail of soft little kisses to the back of her ear. Then, “However you want me, Y/N. I want it all.”

“Fuck…” she breathes out, pushing him back. Before he even computes, she pulls him up to his feet and leads him to her bedroom door.

Somehow the six-feet distance between her door and her bed feels like miles, and they’re tangled in the endless layers and layers of clothing to peel off. Harrison trips on his sweater and lands just at the edge of the bed. Y/N laughs at him until her own sweater gets stuck and he has to unceremoniously help her out of it. It's not perfect, but somehow it just makes it so.

The giggles turn into sighs as he undoes her shirt button one by one and replaces it with a trail of kisses down her chest. And the sighs turn into moans as his tongue and teeth get involved, marking and soothing her soft mounds. Leaving a wet patch on the sleek surface of the fabric, and a slick sheen on her smooth skin.

He gazes up at her in permission when his hand ventures up her back, right where the hooks are. She bucks up into him to let him do the honors. He undoes her bra in one swift movement of one hand, but then fumbles for a word at the sight of her bare-chested, spread-eagle like some obscene statue and he’s right there kneeling before her at the altar.

“Jesus fuck me,” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth, and he remembers the telling off he would get back in boarding school.

But far be it for Y/N to reprimand him for that. It’s ridiculous and nonsensical and completely honest. So she bites her lower lip in a discreet smile and remarks, “You like?”

“I love,” he sighs as he puts a pebbled bud in his mouth, one after the other, ingraining the feel of it on his tongue, on the pad of his thumb. The sound of her moans as he sucks and nips at it.

Y/N is completely shameless about reaching underneath her panties as she clenches for who knows how many times. The cotton is completely soaked through, but before she can indulge herself, his hand stops hers.

“No, let me,” Harrison all but whines, like a little boy threatened to get his toy taken away. His fingers hook onto the waistband possessively.

She lifts her hips, but slides slightly off of the bed anyway. He doesn’t seem to mind; his face is only closer to that spot between her legs after all. His hand trails a path from her ankle, along her calf, behind the back of her knee, up her inner thigh… over her glistening pussy.

He can’t believe she’s real.

He licks up her nether lips, slowly sinking into the folds. His tongue ebbs and flows on her clit and fuck if it doesn’t make her shiver. First gently, as if gauging her reaction, then sloppily. As if he can’t help himself. He’s ravenous and she’s allowed him to feast on her.

She is selfish in the indulgence of her pleasure. The moans that come out of her mouth shamelessly fill the room, probably seeping through the walls. Her nail-polished fingers tangled in his brown curls, keeping his head right where she wants her. She chases his mouth with her hips, curves arching and aching to be devoured. He takes and takes and takes, and she wants more, more, more.

"Harrison…" Y/N tugs at his hair a bit. "Your fingers."

And Harrison has heard this request a million times. Only this marks the first time he can actually give her what she wants.

He pulls away to see his middle finger trace the outline of her cunt, watching her clench around nothing at the slightest of the touch. He reaches her clit and rubs circles around it, pressing it gently to let out the beautiful breathy moans from her lips.

"Is there where you want me?" he teases her, a shit-eating grin hidden behind a bite on her thigh.

She groans in response. "You know exactly where I want you."

"I really don't," he replies matter-of-factly, puppy dog eyes staring up at her. "Maybe I need you to tell me."

She's so close to her orgasm, and yet she's inching further and further by the second. "Inside me, god-fucking-dammit!” she urges through her teeth, her grip on his hair sending him enough surge of delicious pain down his spine.

And sends him in line, too.

“You like that, baby?” Y/N pulls his hair back and watches his eyes shut closed in pleasure. “You gonna be good and fingerfuck me like I told you to?”

“Fuck yeah.” he breathes, licking up at her one more time, and in a split second of eye contact, he spits right on her sopping cunt before he sinks his middle finger into her.

Caressing her. One finger and then another.

And she swears she might just come right then and there. No toy, no fantasy could ever amount to this.

To him.

“Harrison…” she whimpers, not knowing whether to grind into his hand or grab a fistful of his hair to steady herself. In the end, she does both.

His motion picks up to an incredible pace, fingers switch rapidly between fucking her and rubbing her, moving so fast he's practically slapping her clit. It sets her body on fire, and she gladly goes down trembling and thrashing in her burn for him.

In her haze of orgasm, she barely registers Harrison crawling up over her, pressing light comforting kisses on her chest. But she needs air, and she seeks it in his kiss. Her own arousal on his mouth brings her back to life, and she laps at the remaining juices on his chin, before kissing him deeply, properly.

"Holy fuck," Y/N says between labored breaths. "You eat pussy like a porn star."

"Still think I'm a bad lay?" he smugly pokes fun at her.

"I never said you were! I'm just saying, statistically, there's a chance that you might be…" she pouts in protest.

"Sure. 'Statistically.'" he rolls his eyes sarcastically, prompting her to turn them both over so she's on top.

And God, what a sight he is, sprawled out in her bed like this. No amount of good angles and quality photographs can ever capture this moment so… authentically. The streetlight illuminates the gentle rise and fall of his chest through the window. In this close proximity, she can closely admire the slope of his nose and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His kiss-swollen lips turn upward in a smile, and Y/N doesn't even try to resist the urge to bring her own lips to his again.

There's no pretense in their kiss. The walls of courtesy are knocked down, and they bear no shame in their want anymore. She's been dying to explore him, and he's more than ready to give all of himself to her.

Y/N guides his arms over his head, drawing lines over the bumps and ridges of his lean muscles. She gently squeezes his wrists, and he's all too happy to oblige in keeping them in place.

"Excited, are we?" Her thigh brushes over the tent he's pitching, and she can't help but tease him.

He only blushes when she peels off his boxer briefs. She doesn't touch him there yet, of course-- she laves at his hip bone and inner thighs, avoiding his glorious hard-on. His lexicon seems to have left him when she makes her way down his abs. The only words that stay with him are praises in her name and curses to the beautiful agony.

"Y/N!" Harrison whines.

"Alright, alright…" she relents with a light laugh as she finally swallows his cock whole, all at once.

He feels his soul getting yanked out of his body as he hits the back of her throat the first time. Y/N takes a moment to even out her breath, but soon bobs her head up and down along his thick length.

Suddenly keeping himself in place isn't such a small feat anymore. He fists at the bedsheets to stop himself from grabbing her hair. But his hips buck up into her as if without his own accord, making her gag.

"Sorry! Sorry--"

"Eager, are we?" She smirks, glancing down at the precum leaking out of his purplish tip.

"I need to be inside you before I bust, I swear to God…" he sits and pulls her back up with him, her thighs straddling his.

"Can't help it. You taste so fucking good." Y/N chuckles, nuzzling his nose.

"Yeah? Show me."

Her stomach flips as she cups her face. It's a strangely tender moment in this otherwise obscene activity. He tilts back, letting the warm light wash over his features, and she briefly wonders if he's carved by the gods. Her thumb traces his lower lip, flesh instead of marble, and kisses him languidly. His cum and hers melding into one, tasting like absolute heaven. And before long, the thought of his cum and hers melding inside her takes over her mind until there’s absolutely nothing else.

She doesn’t even tease him. No. She lines his cock onto her entrance and bottoms out in one go. All words go out the window. Only breaths spelled out on each other’s mouth. Limbs tangled up as close as can be. Bodies overwhelmed with the delicious pain of being stretched out by his thick girth and blinding grip of her inner walls.

Almost all words.

Harrison whispers her name, kissing her wherever he can reach her. He doesn’t say it, but the words he said earlier echoes back in her head. However you want me, Y/N. I want it all.

And God, she wants it all.

She rides him hard and fast, and he meets her halfway on every thrust. They somehow find their pace in an off-beat rhythm, peppered with lips and hips colliding in the dirtiest fashion. His hand wanders down to her clit, sending the rest of her body in another wave of pleasure until her pace falters.

Y/N clings onto him like she’s gonna get washed away otherwise. And he holds onto her, like he’s afraid she’s gonna disappear as she logs off every night for the past six weeks.

But she’s here, and so is he. And that’s all that matters.

“Fuck me…” she sighs, burying her face in his neck.

“Are you saying or are you asking?”

She giggles, and he can’t imagine ever being tired of her voice. “Both.”

“Say no more, baby.” Harrison squarely kisses her hair and lays her down on the crumpled-up bedsheets.

He kneels before her, his beauty only rivaled by Michelangelo’s David, and slides into her once again. He takes a sharp breath and the Greek statue comes to life. She likes that she has that effect on him. She wraps her legs around his tiny waist, silent claiming him mine, mine, mine.

“You feel so fucking good, what the fuck?” Harrison feverishly rambles, pounding into her in tight, shallow strokes.

“Yeah?” she gives him a sharp smack on his ass. “Get to it, then.”

“Do that again and I just might.”

Smack! It sends shivers down his spine, and he can’t get enough. He quickens his thrusts with every time her palm lands on his ass, and the idea of her handprint on his skin turns him on beyond belief. And when her delicate hand finds her way to his neck, squeezing him into a new height of ecstasy… he’s done for.

“Harrison.”

He spills out her name and his release at the same time. And in the warm spray of his release, she finds hers. Clenching and contracting until they’re both left sweaty and breathless in their own mess. Piling on top of each other in comfortable silence.

“Hey, stranger.” he leaves a peck on the tip of her perfect nose. “Whatcha thinking?”

She ponders over the word he used. Stranger. She ponders over how strange it is that he’s never felt like one to her. And even stranger that they have forever and a night to get to know each other. So she simply shakes her head and says,

“Nice to meet you.”

#haz sexting fic #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield smut #harrison osterfield oneshot #harrison osterfield fic #harrison osterfield fanfic #harrison osterfield fluff #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x woc!reader #ava writes #prince leopold #the irregulars #harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield x you

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whatgaviiformes · 3 years ago

Text

Fic: Fixated Epilogue (7/7)

*****

“Why is my email in German?”

At least he thinks it’s German based on the dases and ders intermixed. Scott took French during his education, but don’t ask him to recall any of it. He clicks the button that he thinks is where it used to say “settings,” but selecting it brings up a blank screen he can’t get past, and he huffs his frustration.

“Because you can’t read German,” answers the figure sitting at his work desk, at his computers.

“But I can’t respond if everything’s in German….” Refreshing the screen seemed to work, and so Scott squints at the strange combination of letters. He turns his phone to the side as if that’s going to help rearrange the characters, then looks over at his younger brother in exasperation. “John?”

The redhead has his arms crossed over his chest, and meets his gaze sharply, pointedly.

“Scott?” Only John could sound both overwhelmingly patient and irritated at the same time; honed from many years of being just a few steps faster than his peers. Within the timbre of Scott’s name on his lips was the apparent message that he was waiting for his older brother to catch on, and still didn’t plan on backing down.

“Ich spreche perfekt Deutsch,” John says after a moment as he gets back to work. “And Alan’s downloaded a few games on the personal side of your phone if you need something to do. There’s Solitaire, and Candy Crush, and some hotel builder game – and don’t you dare cheat with in-game purchases. Better yet, go play roulette with your hobby basket and find someone who isn’t me.” His eyes soften, his fingers still typing away while he speaks. “Get yourself out of the lounge and away from all this, Scotty.”

Resigned, Scott swipes away from the open email and the umlauts firing over his small phone screen while it’s still linked to the main computers. He manages to find the new game applications on his phone and chooses minesweeper, but after a few selections he realizes he’s not actually using the numbers to figure out where the mines are and instead clicking around the screen thoughtlessly – his mind back with John.

Guessing what he would be working on.

If it was something he’d left pending.

If he could help. If John would let him.

The screen flashes as he accidentally detonates the minefield only after a few clicks, not even through one game. Scott sighs, glancing over again at his brother working for him. John hasn’t stopped what he’s doing, but Scott can tell there’s a part of John listening, tuned into what Scott is up to despite his apparent focus on the other tasks.

If he had half of John’s multi-tasking skills for his own productivity…

He went there again. Back to the to-do list he had piling up before he was laid up in the infirmary.

Frustrated at himself, he slams his phone on the soft arm of the couch, and quickly pivots towards the steps to the lower floor. He pauses a moment, the anxiety in his brain already firing and his fingers itching to go back and grab the phone that is supposed to keep him connected to everything at all times.

He feels John’s eyes on his back as he continues to step away from the temptations of the lounge.

~*~

Scott realizes he has a problem. He’s stubborn and dedicated, and proud of those characteristics in himself, goddamit. But he’s not so oblivious to the issue or obstinate about it when it’s so obviously affected his health. And worse he’s let it affect his relationship with his family.

As happy as he was to be back to a semblance of normal, at least in that he was “allowed to move about the cabin freely,” he was still not cleared for duty or his work. That left him with an influx of time he didn’t know what to do with. His siblings were not grounded with him – life moved on, and rescues didn’t pause just because he felt his life was.

That was another thing his siblings were trying to show him wasn’t the case. His work did not equal his life.

It’s easy enough to say, to acknowledge. Harder still to make a change and do something about it.

In any case, with clearer eyes, and a rested body, and a nourished belly, he absolutely sees the problem at hand, even if he doesn’t really know how he got there or the exact situations that caused the strain on his family.

Realizing it was May, he asked Alan if his grades came in, and the boy had gone completely silent. He eventually found the report card in his personal email, dated long prior, and only then did it jog the memory of Alan coming into the lounge. But Scott for the life of him can’t remember what happened after that.

John had come down. When was the last time John was down?

And Virgil. He was usually so tuned into whatever latest inspirational spark had taken hold of his brother. But he was afraid to admit that he didn’t recognize the piece that had been sitting in the lounge set up on the easel, nor did he want to think about the brief glance he’d gotten of the drying rack and the number of pieces still being stored there.

On his first morning after being allowed back to his own room, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he went running to meet up with Gordon in the morning. He’d gotten up moderately early, only starting to get back into a schedule, and sitting waiting for him was his AM shake, made special and free from the acidic fruit and dairy that risked making his stomach feel worse.

The thought makes his gut ache anyway.

He hasn’t been there for his siblings much, if at all, lately. And hell had they been there for him.

They still are, even between rescues and the business of their own day to day lives.

Not at the moment though – it’s just himself and Grandma in the kitchen, the large hobby basket placed in front of them on the counter, while Scott sits slouched on one of the stools and Grandma comes up beside him, leaning casually on the counter.

“Why so glum, kid?” Blue eyes like his own, but with worlds more wisdom, inquire and wait for him to find the words.

He needs to say it. He knows it sounds stupid as it comes barreling out of his mouth faster than Thunderbird 1.

“I feel so useless.” He can’t look at her while he says it, but he can just feel her watching him. “And I know. I know what you’re going to say, but every part of me feels jittery. I need to do something. I need to be productive, and every time I reach for something fun,” it comes out a curse under his breath as he gestures towards the basket, “I feel guilty.”

He swallows. “And I feel guilty when I’m not doing anything fun and just sitting here. Because maybe one of these things could make me still feel productive. And I just feel so useless and restless all the time.”

Finally she moves when its apparent his feelings are done gushing out of him, wrapping her arms around him and tucking her head into his bony shoulder.

“I’m not sure what you think I was going to say, bluebird.” She squeezes him tight. “That’s a lot of pent-up frustration to deal with, and I am sorry you are going through this.” She releases him, lifts his chin with a delicate hand to encourage him to look at her. “Did you want my advice, or do you want me to listen?”

“What do I do, Grandma?” He says instead, the spark of blue as wide as the open skies.

“Your brothers love you, kiddo,” she says, clasping his shoulders. “They’ve put all this together not with the intent to overwhelm you, but to give you a place to start.” And because it seemed like he needed to hear it, “no one expects you to be instantly better. You must be kind to yourself. Just start somewhere.”

Grandma reaches for the cupcake pan. The boys used to help their mom bake, back when they were so young their smiles revealed gaps where their adult teeth were to come in. She smiles at the memory and says, “be my shoe chef?”

~*~

He takes both John and Grandma’s advice by starting somewhere, anywhere, selecting at random the first thing he grabs from the hobby basket. And when Alan, Gordon, and Virgil return from their rescue, their voices carry over the lounge and down towards the kitchen where Scott has himself engaged in his first set of instructions.

He smiles at them as they join him at the table, and eventually John too makes his way down, right on time for dinner. He gives Scott a wink as he slides in beside him.

The cupcakes, as per usual, look a disaster, but they taste much better than they appear. Though that likely has something to do with the additional layers of icing the boys added after dinner.

And though it wasn’t perfect, it was a good day. It was a start, and that’s all any of them could ask for. The End

#Fic: Fixated #Gavii Scribit #Grandma Tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy

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redorich · 4 years ago

Note

*slams table* TOMMY BRAIDING TECHNO’S HAIR, (WHICH GOES DOWN TO LIKE, HIS KNEES), RIGHT NOW! *slides love and affection and likes but not actual likes bc I have to keep my secret identity, but lots of affection for your AU across the table in a briefcase*

ᵒᵏᵃʸ ᵗʰᵉⁿ

---

It takes place shortly after Tubbo starts coming around. This time, Tubbo’s not here, but Technoblade is. Most of the hermits are still wary of Technoblade (save for False, but she and Technoblade have an Understanding that Tommy is a bit afraid to ask about.)

False invites the two brothers to her base, atop the floating hexagons, so that Techno can see how False and Tommy like to spar. Before they start, False gets behind Tommy not to ambush him and win a match by cheating, but to tug out the elastic keeping Tommy’s hair in a short, messy ponytail. The two exchange no words while False combs through the teen’s hair with her fingers and re-ties it in a neater, sturdier tail.

This must be something they do before every practice, Technoblade thinks, because it seems almost ritualistic in the way neither of them have to say anything. They just nudge each other into different positions, and Tommy hums under his breath as False turns around to allow Tommy access to her long hair.

She hasn’t only been teaching him to fight, obviously. Tommy’s fingers are deft with the woman’s blonde locks in the same way that Wilbur’s hands are at home when they’re holding a guitar. Starting at False’s right temple, Tommy creates a French braid which winds itself around her head like a snake. Pulling the leftover hair into a tie on the left side of her nape rather than braiding it, he French braids the hair on the left side of her head.

Tommy removes the elastic from False’s hair, pulling all of the unbraided length into his palm. He combines the two braids into one, curling the plait around itself just behind False’s left ear. As he goes, pinning the braid into place, he tugs gently on the outer edge of the plait, then wraps the elastic around the braid and tucks the ends behind what Technoblade now recognizes is a braided bun, except it’s been made to look like a flower.

It hits Technoblade all of the sudden how different he and Tommy are. When Techno braids his long hair, he pulls it over his shoulder and wrangles the strands into submission. When he tosses the finished plait back over his shoulder, it is not a work of art to be admired; it’s just a convenience to be forgotten. He doesn’t take care to make sure that it’s not crooked. He doesn’t put pretty beads in his hair, or even brush it unless he absolutely must.

Tommy catches him watching. “Want me to do your hair too?” he offers like it’s nothing, like Technoblade’s ever let him before. “If you’re going to be sparring too, it might be a good idea.”

False is looking at him from behind Tommy like she’s going to personally disembowel him if he disappoints his brother by saying no. Technoblade could totally take False in a fight-- totally! But the whole point of his being here is to learn how people are supposed to fight, without murder and The Pit and far too much blood. He has to learn to turn his back on people without expecting them to put a knife in his skull.

Silently, he shrugs off his cloak and sits himself down on a nearby crafting table to make it easier for Tommy to reach his hair. He yanks the black elastic, which is nearly falling apart from exactly this motion, out of his hair. Tense, still, he sits unmoving.

Tommy clicks his tongue disdainfully and mutters very rude words under his breath about the state of his brother’s hair. He pulls a brush out of his inventory and takes to the tangles as gently as he can, which is something Techno should have expected but didn’t. Tommy starts from the ends of the thick pink hair and works his way up, careful to avoid sensitive pig ears when he gets to them.

It’s unexpectedly nice, to have someone he’s able to trust run a brush through his hair. He’s never understood why people enjoy this until now. His eyelids droop, not sleepy but relaxed, while Tommy does his magic. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees False handing his brother items every now and then. It’s refreshing to know that they’re not weapons.

“Here you go,” Tommy finally breaks the silence, handing Techno a small mirror. He points to the much larger mirror that False must have acquired from one of her smaller towers while Techno wasn’t paying attention. Hesitantly (why the hell is he nervous?!) Techno stands up with his back to the large mirror, holding up the small one so he can see Tommy’s work.

It’s... pretty. The bits which usually frame his face because they hate to obey him have been compromised with, coerced into playing along in the way that they’ve been intertwined with small wildflowers and pulled into the top of a fishtail braid. Once the fishtail reaches his nape, it transforms into a sensible yet fancy four-strand braid with more flowers tucked in, as well as a few thin three-strand braids running along the smooth expanse of his new plait. Instead of his nearly-snapped black elastic, the end of the braid has been tied off with plain beige twine.

He’s been staring at his reflection for too long.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, and sits down again to let the two blonds spar in peace. They invite him to join, after a while of waiting for him to intercede on his own behalf. He makes flimsy excuses. Techno has no clue why he’s so reluctant to ruin this piece of art that his brother’s turned him into.

(That’s a lie. He likes this art, because it makes him feel like he’s a complex person with value that doesn’t only lie in his ability to commit atrocities more efficiently than anyone else. If he ruins this art by fighting, he’ll have nightmares about it for the next week, he’s sure.)

When Techno inevitably has to leave Hermitcraft, because as much as he’d like to stay sometimes he can’t allow his brother to be found out as not dead, he keeps the braid in. He knows he shouldn’t; people will ask questions, will wonder what brave soul dared to put flowers in a warrior’s hair.

Let them wonder. For today, he’s more than just a weapon.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit!tommy au #sleepy bois inc #technoblade #tommyinnit #falsesymmetry #wilbur soot #me.cpp

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junhuiste · 3 years ago

Text

next level (ex-wip)

pairing: wonwoo x gn reader

word count: 2200

tags/warnings: fluff, angst, slightly suggestive, cursing, friends to enemies to lovers, college au

a/n: so i said i’d publish my other ex wips and here’s another one! i planned on making this a 3 parter where y/n asks wonwoo for help on a computer game even though they were enemies but before that they were friends …does that make any sense i didn’t think so! also this is an ex wip so sorry for the asterisks everywhere! those words were the ones i was gonna replace later on lmfao!!!! also i wrote this 2 years ago when i was 17 so my apologies if its utter bullshit 😭

as wonwoo help you leveled up, you wondered if you should do the same regarding your friendship…errr…enemyship….

It’d been an hour or so of Wonwoo verbally guiding you through the various moves and strategies but once he stood up your breath suddenly hitched, for whatever reason.

Breathing seemingly became somewhat harder as you saw from the corner of your eye that wonwoo was coming to stand behind you.

“it’s gonna get harder,” he said softly, his hand finding yours, “let me help you.”

as much as you appreciated his help, you didn’t need wonwoo to baby you; you were perfectly capable of taking verbal directions without needing guidance like a rookie. “i can do it; i swear!”

though it was hard to train your eyes on both wonwoo and the computer monitor simultaneously, you managed to do it anyway. “that’s not what you said last week when i offered you my help.”

it wasn’t that you didn’t need wonwoo’s help, and it wasn’t certainly that you didn’t want it, but there was something mischievous yet somehow alluring and amusing pushing him away. it was honestly quite ***horrible ** for you to admit it, but playing cat and mouse was refreshing, though it was a game hard to keep up with.

eventually you gave in and you took deep breaths slowly and surely as wonwoo’s hand rest atop yours. it was warm, but not sweaty; relaxed, but not ***heavy***. his head was most definitely closer to yours than last time, even though you tried to focus solely on the computer monitor, he was within an ear’s whisper from you. as he guided your hand, your thoughts glided slowly away from the game entirely and onto the boy behind you. it was hard, really, to ****focus*** on the 146th level of the game when the boy you liked a while back had his shoulder barely leaning into yours, with his warmth radiating onto you so so comfortably.

it hadn’t even been 10 minutes since wonwoo had stood up behind you that his arm was now resting ***comfortably***on yours. the weight of his top half ***barely*** on yours wasn’t even what went into consideration, for the most part. it what you could feel was ***slowly*** developing in the room, moment by moment, and it was excruciatingly painful how much time it took to build up. palms clammy, fingers ready to give out, and breathing ***most definitely*** not under control, you were ready to tap out and give into your instincts.

a mosh pit of psychedelic colors reflected onto both of your faces as the round ended. with the blinds only half drawn and how bright the screen was turned up, you winced at what seemed like a light source that envied the sun glared at you. the heat from the screen wasn’t the only **warmth**** prevalent, however. you certainly hadn’t forgotten about wonwoo’s shoulder ***leaning** onto yours.

avoiding all what you’d learned in high/secondary school about what freud said about the ego calming the id, you surpassed straying from your normal actions. you’d leaped from them, and it couldn’t be fathomed by anyone, by you or soonyoung, or especially jeon wonwoo, what lead you to remove your headphones and turn around in the computer chair and then kiss jeon wonwoo. what was most surprising was that he leaned in too, so much didn’t have to be done on your part.

as he leaned in closer, you pulled wonwoo closer, as if it were instinct and you’d kissed him a thousand times before. knowing him for quite some time, it was evident that he didn’t link up with anyone, whether that be for a single night of pleasure or months of commitment, so it was ***most definitely*** more than alike to a jack-in-the-box when he knew what he was doing, and so well too. his hand **softly*** stroking your cheek with your thumb and your hand ***softly **rubbing*** his neck were a pair you never would’ve expected in light years would be together. the whole ***thing** was just unbelievable…and undoubtedly **breathtaking***, as such as you would ***hate*** to ever tell him.

flashes of blue and red glossed wonwoo’s face again as you looked up at him. “would you look at that,” a slight tinge of satisfaction laced his tone and captured his expression, as you heard a faint “level 147 unlocked” behind you.

the exact reason you were at the dorm for you had completely abandoned; your endeavor was ***seemingly** cut short by your id, too strong for it to be tamed by your superego. in fact, all goals for the game were temporarily thrusted into the iceberg of your unconscious thoughts as you looked up at wonwoo again while tugging his shirt.

it was a precarious game of truth or dare you were playing with yourself, and you were losing to nothing none other than your current desires? mere attractions? repressed feelings? whatever it was, it didn’t really matter as wonwoo leaned into you again, this time more ***forcefully/intensely**, with both of you managing to slip a tongue in here and there. french kissing wonwoo? not exactly on your bucket list but something you were glad to have checked off, be it for lust, regret, or simply nostalgia of how you once felt for the boy who’s sweater you were tugging at to bring him closer and closer and closer.

it had **certainly** been more than a few good minutes of locking lips with jeon wonwoo, and what resulted was both of you panting heavily and looking each other in the eyes a little too intensely for your liking—not necessarily a look of sin but rather of repressed longing and ***regret**. the tension swore to engulf you and spit you out but what was sprinting through your mind instead was that wonwoo kissed you back.

had the naive, freshman you known that making out with jeon wonwoo would become a reality, you would’ve jumped at the thought. was he cute or irritating? bold or brazen? or was he simply just there that you immediately caved in and let your libido think for itself? it was just like that class where he palpated you; did feelings resurface because of a craving for affection? or was wonwoo a person you genuinely wanted to pursue something with. restating what he’d said earlier, that’s not what you’d thought a few months ago.

confusion. that’s what it was at most, at best, with the clearest label. wonwoo was there, yes, but he was also ***caring** (yet competitive), offering (yet **pretentious**), and someone you’d cared for back. the way he carried himself around you was *annoying** at times, sure, but he was never malicious. wonwoo had not one bad bone in his body, and you were willing to stand by that statement. his competitiveness and bold nature that peeked in once in a while were far outweighed by his humility.

no matter how many times he corrected you as naive and curious freshmen, you’d always find yourself falling back to feelings. just like now. but what was it really? did bubbles reappear just because of his hand on yours? because of his somewhat secret smiles when he knew you enjoyed his company? maybe. but it certainly wasn’t because he was just there.

even if bubbles popped and didn’t reappear, it would be better to get feelings out, right? it would lessen the blow, for both you and wonwoo. would you come to terms with what you once harbored for jeon wonwoo? maybe not.

sitting on the bed, wonwoo perked his head up at the sight of you in the chair finally facing him. “this…this isn't a heat of a moment thing…” you began, taking as much of your precious time as possible. if you were going to confront how you felt and didn't feel simultaneously, it might as well have taken some thought at the very least, especially for wonwoo’s sake.

the raven-haired** boy hunched over with a quirked eyebrow to continue to hear you out.

“i like you—i’m sorry, i mean i used to like you. like a lot. sometimes a lot for my own good. back in freshman year.” it was a struggle to get it all out in one breath. confrontation should be something you’d never have to do again. wonwoo stayed silent, his eyes no longer **trained* on yours, but shifted **somewhat** nervously to the floor. the way your heart pulsated mercilessly at the brutal sound of silence forced the temperature to shoot up suddenly.

it didn’t work; you didn’t feel clean, worse actually, and from what it looked like at the moment, wonwoo probably did as well. he usually did well when it all boiled down to fear, feelings, and *rationality* mixing, because he pushed it away. everyone knew that, and you especially. he didn’t take any hard hits when he was third-wheeling soonyoung or roaming mindlessly at one of **NCT’s** notorious frat parties.

maybe it was time to leave. perhaps those moments of silence where you had to recollect yourself, your dignity, and your feelings were a pure waste.

“i’m sorry, i don’t know why i just threw that at you. i’ll leave now—and uh, thanks for the help.” sometimes feelings weren’t merely felt, other times they were ruthless and just sprung up at the worst of times. maybe that’s why your body was unforgiving and threatening to prick your eyes with water. hurriedly, you grabbed your headphones and clenched them tightly in your fist before taking a step to leave.

however, a pang of something hit. it was unidentifiable, that thing that was keeping you from taking any more steps to leave wonwoo’s room. it was agonizing at the same intensity as it was delirious, and wild and tantalizing even. whatever it was, it was piercing you, forcing you to stay in place.

once again, the air around you was impassioned and the evident thumping and thrashing and thrusting in your chest occurred as wonwoo stood up in front of you. his tall stature didn’t threaten you, only how you felt did.

“how long?” he pried with a *cold** kind of warmth before sitting down in the computer chair. his knees were almost touching yours, and he leaned back with burning curiosity.

“i…don’t know. it was a while back…and for a long time; that’s all i remember.”

the unspoken miracle had graced you as river that almost formed around your eyes earlier had finally dried up.

wonwoo had that same look on his face he always had when no answers or solutions came to mind right away. it wasn’t expressionless, far from it. you didn't know if it was inquiry or discontent, or even a thrill; the latter you’d wished but was far from being a reality.

the way wonwoo struggled to get out what he wanted took you aback. he always knew what to say, whether witty, spiteful, or helpful, and to plain sight of him also choking on his words threw you for a numbing, yet throbbing** loop.

“do you still like me?” wonwoo finally made eye contact with you, the kind of eye contact someone makes when they itch for the answer to so badly be yes.

it was at that moment that he locked you in again. but you spent the last year convincing yourself you hated him. indeed, hate was too strong of a word for it. something else. and just as you’d told him, it was absolutely not the kiss that stirred you to confess in a half-assed manner. it was just so bothersome to not know what those feelings were.

it almost choked to say it, because you *genuinely* felt it, but didn’t know what exactly to do about it.

“i-i don’t know.” you couldn’t keep up with eye contact. it was much too biting.

wonwoo captured your eyes again, but this time it wasn’t the same confused gleam they held, but rather one of clouded elation. you couldn’t exactly tell, but you knew it was just electricity in there somewhere.

“do you want to kiss me again?” was the million dollar question that was lurking. wonwoo asked it with such subtle amusement. instead of taking advantage of your feelings and vulnerability in this situation, which he would never think to do, he decided to act upon his own.

there was an evident yearning in his tone, his body language, his eyes, everything. you knew the difference between when wonwoo was simply waiting for an answer and when he was aching for it immediately. this moment called for the latter.

his inclination provoked a smile out of you. whatever it was, you didn’t know how you felt; you just knew you needed to kiss him again.

you dropped everything you had been clenching so tightly in your hands and and bent down to hold his face in your hand as you leaned in. his soft lips finally met yours again, and unlike the first couple of kisses you shared, this time it was *softer***, slower, driven by an avid and throbbing want to be as close to the other person as possible. this time it had meaning. and you couldn’t find yourself pulling away as wonwoo’s hand came behind your thigh to pull you closer to him.

he was never one to make the first move, for most things, and it surprised you when he popped the question and pulled you to him. practically falling on him in the chair, you whispered out a faint “sorry”, as he rushed to hold you. he *giggled softly** before he continued to kiss you. eventually you repositioned yourself to straddle him in the chair and oh my god you were making out with jeon wonwoo.

videogames, huh?

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #wonwoo scenario #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagine #seventeen #wonwoo

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marimopeace · 4 years ago

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there's a limit on how much you can be an isekai intellectual...

a bunch of analyses have been popping up before me all day so i wanted to throw my hat into the ring. all love to ppl who are exercising their creative minds + ppl like geoff here who just talk about these things because of fan interest but i feel like there reaches a point where exploring the "types" of isekai is pointless? i've seen ppl list out the different types of villainess revenge isekai or fantasy mmorpg isekai but eh why fit them all into separate boxes like that?

i think it's easier to think of isekai as a "type" (genre) of itself with only two categories: 1) a focus on isekai (lit. another world) 2) tensei (lit. to be reborn). this allows for a variety of applications and thus tropes that ppl see so many trends of!

with isekai - in another world

you see everything from:

pure fantasy (inuyasha, digimon wait maybe not the best example but in my childhood mind i count digimon as pure fantasy, fushigi yugi)

mmorpg inspired fantasy/adventure (.hack//legend of twilight, sao ugh, log horizon, overlord (LOVE OVERLORD!)

otome game-esque worlds >>> this is where it gets complicated with "villainess routes" since i admit there are multiple villainess tropes but this is why it's nice to not think of this as a "sub-type/genre" bc it frees you from those complications! (the saint's magic power is omnipotent, the white cat's revenge as plotted from the dragon king's lap soso cute!, the savior's book cafe in another world, i'm a villainous daughter so i'm going to keep the last boss wait i can't remember if she's reborn in this one lmaooo see this is why rules make everything hard)

with tensei storylines - being reincarnated/reborn in another world as *insert character/role*

you see...

the same tropes!!

pure fantasy (a returner's magic should be special, reminiscence adonis, the lady and the beast, light and shadow, i can't think of a manga off the top of my head for this ah)

mmorpg inspired fantasy/adventure (so i'm a spider so what i stan kumoko so hard, her majesty's swarm, can't name another off the top of my head ah i hate lists shorter than two things...)

self-insert based games/novels (fiance's observation log of a self-proclaimed villainess, who made me a princess, death is the only ending for the villainess, the villainess wants to marry a commoner, honestly games vs novels are different applications but i'm not in the headspace to try to remember a bunch of both lol)

*insert line break to give random ppl a break from scrolling but tl; dr just enjoy things for what they are no need to micro analyze*

similar variations occur in both genres (if ppl want to be super technical i guess i'm arguing that isekai itself is a massive genre that has the "another world" subgenre and "reincarnation" subgenre tl; dr) so i think it's honestly a huge pain to try to separate all these trends into so many different types of stories. for me personally it's easier to not get overwhelmed by this gigantic umbrella of "isekai" that spans light novels, manhwa, manga, and mobile games by just stripping each story down into its trademark tropes (aka character archetypes, story structures) and slapping "oh this is a person going to a world that's not ours" and "this person gets reborn as blank in another world". none of this "omg this power fantasy is such a this kind of isekai moment" or "there are 14 different types of villainess revenge stories and this series fits into this" bc AH labels! limitations! circle-jerks via ppl trying to compartmentalize everything and sound smart for leaving a comment on story analysis instead of ooh-ahhing over a character's face! dividing things into light novel manga vs manga vs korean manhwa ft. female characters!

the last bit is mainly why i feel frustrated by ppl's insistence to group everything?

the video linked at the beginning of the post (honestly good video essay, i enjoyed it, i just kept thinking in my head the whole time "marimo these are tropes do not take the genre talk literally") has a baby comment thread talking about "korean isekai manhwas" as a genre featuring nothing but reincarnated villainess' and i can't.

like i cannot acknowledge that as a genre of any sort. the energy i felt reading through some of those insights takes me back to 2012 when all yt americans discovered k-pop and deemed all korean music k-pop from then on! (ppl still do this now, yes you are seen and don't talk to me pls i don't like you. k-pop is korean pop music and nothing less and nothing more. take a few seconds and try to parse apart aspects of korean culture instead of slamming everything into a monolithic label that has the letter k and a hyphen.) it feels so odd to see a bunch of young ppl on ig and tiktok acknowledge korean media that happens to be in the form of a webtoon as "oh stories all about young girls becoming villains in stories they made/played" bc it feels so reductive u.u

(positionality disclaimer that i'm praying isn't actually necessary: i am a 3rd-generation korean of japanese descent do not fite me i am exhausted irl of ppl asking for validation/verification bc massive shove off.)

breaking news! korean manhwa...is just as multifaceted as japanese manga...bc how can comics as an art-form not have multiple genres...huh such a shocker?!?! same likely applies to media in other parts of the world like chinese manhwa and french comics--not my place to explain either of those i just know those industries exist bc of wakfu and donghua shows by Tencent.

at the end of the day it's not like analyzing any kind of isekai is wrong--absolutely not!! i think it can be super fun to think about how isekai elements complicate a story (MCs trying to go back home, ppl from the og world, reincarnation plot-twists) or maybe even bash a series for including some kind of other world element when they could have just written a super fun fantasy.

insert marimo's brief ramble that hey you can get sick of truck-kun's hitting disillusioned guys who happen to be super duper smart or girls who happen to be master chefs/craftsmen but transporting a fully-grown being into a fantasy setting is the ultimate cheat code for making mundane modern technology seem cool and overpowered, and being reincarnated as a fully grown person in a world with a pre-made story/game set-up completely bypasses the need for an author to slowly flesh out world-building in a natural progression so isekai is actually a really smart writing tool it's just that there are some series where the author didn't use it well at all and it's cheesy or clearly isekai was misused as a vehicle for character/story development and it was pointless *DEEP BREATH OUT*

in this essay i will argue...lol i am such a culture studies major!! if i were an english major i would be talking all about writing but here i am having a side-tangent about world-building via someone being reborn wow i love this for me (don't get me started on when an author has someone reincarnate as a baby and the story is mostly them having warm fluffy moments with their family--typically father figures--and getting lots of powers i could and would and probably will rant about east asian toxicity)

but anyway am i crazy????? like yes for being passionate about the technical use of a word like genre (i am a scorpio rising let me be fussy pls) but i don't think it's a lot to ask for ppl to not unironically see "villainess revenge isekai" as the definition of korean manhwa.

idk as someone who resonates with why japanese isekai is so popular domestically + why a lot of korean manhwa feat. the same tropes (it's not for great reasons lads it's actually depressing tbh) i'm just starting to feel kind of pained by the generalization and need to separate "cute japanese girl in an otome game"/"japanese boy finds a harem in another world" from "korean girl dies and comes back as a villainess" bc they are just! applications to the same story device!!

recommendations for any who makes it this far down below <3

// also gladly recommend any of the examples i've listed in the above rant as i've read/watched all of them and adore them v much! //

save me princess

super refreshing fantasy manhwa ft. a princess and her ex-boyfriend having to save the world!

the beginning after the end

an AMERICAN web novel turned into a comic (but see it being not korean/japanese doesn't really matter when you just consider isekai as a genre...isn't it nice to not overthink it?) ft. a super-powerful wizard king reincarnated into another world and starting from scratch--gives mushoku tensei vibes but huge twists!

the reason why raeliana ended up at the duke's mansion

love love LOVE this story--read the title and you'll learn how this girl reincarnated as the character raeliana in a book gets married to a duke!

trash of the count's family

such a good novel!! a guy gets reborn as a lazy oaf and he takes the hero of the story under his wing...plot twists come up later on!

this time i will definitely be happy!

v good and refreshing for a shorter series! she's been reborn 3 times and remembers every time the hero's stabbed her in the back, and now she just wants to break up with him!

silver diamond

older manga but v good adventure w intrigue! a boy who loves plants get sucked into a desert world with demonic lizards and a mysterious bodyguard by his side. shonen-ai not BL but wonderful vibes nonetheless + great side characters!

the princess imprints a traitor

adore everything in this from the world (not in that way this society makes me so angry) to the machinations at play and the dynamic between the fl and ml

#isekai #mother's basement #inuyasha #digimon #fushigi yugi #.hack//legend of the twilight #log horizon #overlord #the saint's magic power is omnipotent #the white cat's revenge as plotted from the dragon king's lap #a returner's magic should be special #adonis #the lady and the beast #light and shadow #kumo desu ga nani ka #her majesty's swarm #fiance's observation log of a self-proclaimed villainess #death is the only ending for a villainess #the villainess wants to marry a commoner #save me princess #the beginning after the end #the reason why raeliana ended up at the duke's mansion #trash of the count's family #this time i will definitely be happy!#silver diamond #see i normally put the raw titles for everything but the tiny korean/japanese part of my brain is so tired bc my english brain went off #the princess imprints a traitor #manga #manhwa #donghua

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usergreenpixel · 3 years ago

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JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 7: SCARAMOUCHE (1921)

Hello, Citizens, and welcome to the seventh meeting of our lovely Convention!

I deeply appreciate your wishes for my speedy recovery and I assure you that I’m right as rain.

So, with that out of the way, let us begin.

1. Introduction

“Scaramouche” is a historical fiction novel written by Rafael Sabatini, who might be familiar to some of you via works like “Captain Blood”, which was among my favorite novel series when I was growing up as I’ve always loved (and still love) me a good swashbuckling story and I never quite grew out of these tastes in literature.

In the case of this novel, it never was a blip on my radar when I was a kid but my renewed interest in the French Revolution and my research of topics for future reviews led me to this story. Apparently there’s a sequel and I might review it in the future.

I found the ebook readily available in English on Project Gutenberg so it’s pretty much in public domain now.

I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that there’s a swashbuckling novel set in Frev - the setting is like a perfect fertile soil for external and internal conflicts, adventures and drama, so it was only a matter of time before someone came up with an adventure novel in this setting.

That being said, at first I had quite a few fears that this book would be just another propaganda piece, especially since the author was technically Anglophone.

Did my fears come true? Let’s find out.

2. The Summary

The story’s protagonist is one André-Louis Moreau - a ward and godson to a Breton nobleman and a lawyer by education who swears revenge on a Marquis who kills his friend in a duel.

To escape the gallows after landing himself in hot water for igniting the fire of revolution in Rennes and Nantes, André-Louis joins a troupe of traveling actors and performs as a character called Scaramouche, hence the title.

3. The Story

Like I said, I have a soft spot for swashbuckling novels so I actually quite enjoyed reading the book. And, on a pleasantly surprising note, the revolution is NOT demonized. If anything, the protagonist actually becomes an idealistic republican by the end, which is a really uncommon narrative choice in Frev media.

The narrative clearly portrays the nobility as too privileged and corrupt and the people are in the right - at least, this is what the protagonist understands during his arc.

There’s also not that much Thermidorian bullshit, at least no popular stereotypes, which I really appreciate.

That being said, I do have three main issues with the story.

Firstly, sometimes there’s too much filler and it feels like the narrative is barely dragging along, which got tiresome at times.

Secondly, I didn’t like the romantic subplot between André and the niece of his godfather, Aline. For context, the two were childhood playmates and grew up referring to each other as cousins, only to fall in love as adults.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find romance between family members (no matter how honorary) gross even if there are no shared genes involved. I know cousin marriages were more common in the past but personally I think the novel would’ve benefited from Aline and André only sharing a platonic bond and familial love.

(Spoiler alert!)

Thirdly, I highly doubt the “I’m your father” twist was necessary here as I usually dislike such plot points because they’re hard to do right.

Here there was no proper building up to the revelation, at least in my opinion, and the twist itself can (and most likely will) seem predictable to modern audiences.

However, it was resolved in a fairly realistic way. Marquis de la Tour and André don’t immediately reconcile just because they’re father and son but André calls off his revenge quest, grants the Marquis a safe passage out of the country and doesn’t want to see him again, which is understandable considering their prior enmity.

On that note, let’s take a closer look at the characters.

4. The Characters

Right off the bat, the biggest issue the modern readers might have is that the characters are too “black and white”. In the era of “grey morality” and complex characters, these archetypes might come off as done to death and boring but, other than that, the characters were mostly easy to empathize with.

Personally, I didn’t like André himself in the beginning but he grew on me.

He starts off as a stoic almost to the point of coldness, a cynic and a borderline nihilist who believes fighting against the noble class is futile and there’s no point in trying to improve the country.

But when his idealistic best friend is killed, André vows to take the Marquis down by using the volatile revolutionary climate to his advantage. Slowly, André too becomes a revolutionary and an idealist, which is admittedly rare as usually people in stories become cynical by the end.

Seeing this character ark but played in reverse felt quite refreshing to me so even though at times André’s sarcasm and stoic attitude made him insufferable, I think he is pretty well-written and fleshed out as a protagonist.

Next is Aline, and unfortunately she is underdeveloped in the novel, more so than a female lead should be. She is ambitious, which makes her consider marrying the Marquis, prejudiced against actors due to her upbringing and in general is a typical noble ingenue.

Her and André are playfully witty at times and verbally cruel to each other at others and, unfortunately, they suffer from the “misunderstanding” trope which makes them unable to talk things out. I always find this trope annoying and, coupled with prejudice and not being fleshed out enough, it played into my apathy for Aline as a character.

Then there’s Marquis de la Tour, the typical privileged corrupt noble. He loves women, is a master of fencing and has no heart. André even calls him the embodiment of sin various times.

I know despicable people can and do exist, but here it seemed like he was made a bit too evil, to the point of being simply cartoonish and hard to perceive as a threat or, for that matter, take seriously.

At least he wasn’t threatening for me personally as a character and was more amusing than anything else.

Interestingly enough, historical figures don’t feature much in the story but we do get cameos of Marat, Danton, Robespierre and Desmoulins, as well as Mirabeau.

Mirabeau is called a hypocrite by the author but the other four, surprisingly, aren’t portrayed as evil villains. Marat is even called a philanthropist and his pamphlets inspire André! How rare is that, Citizens?!

Anyway, let’s continue.

5. The Setting

Although at times the text is overloaded with descriptions, all of them were vivid enough for me to imagine myself in the story with the characters.

Sabatini sure knows how to convey the images of villages, cities, nature, inns, etc in an exciting and engaging manner. I just wish that the descriptions were a bit shorter.

6. The Writing Style

Seeing as the novel was published in 1921 and I’m pretty good at English, I didn’t have many problems with reading but there were some outdated grammatical structures and vocabulary so be prepared.

Besides, in the version I read didn’t have translations of French and Latin phrases that occasionally pop up in the text, which was a bit annoying but not that much as I could understand the context of the phrases and therefore figure out what they mean more or less.

In general though, despite occasional overload of descriptions and the aforementioned grievances I have with the text, the writing style is engaging, very easy to understand and not too complex.

7. The Conclusion

In short, I can definitely recommend this novel to anyone who loves good swashbuckling stories and hates propaganda. Not the most original story but enjoyable and a good read regardless.

With that, I announce the end of the meeting. Stay tuned for updates and stay safe, Citizens!

Love,

- Citizen Green Pixel

#french revolution #frev #history #maximilien robespierre #jacobin fiction convention #robespierre #frev art #frev propaganda #frev literature #camille desmoulins #georges danton #scaramouche #rafael sabatini #jean paul marat

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years ago

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Deja Vu pt 7

Hey guys. Been a hot minute. If it makes you feel any better this was supposed to be a short chapter and it ended up being 25 pages long. :) If you’re new to the story, you can check out the first chapter [here] or if you need a refresher check out the previous chapter [here]!

Summary: Dee takes on The Prince in a fight, and Remus takes on the Prince’s sidekick.

Word Count: 12029

TW: temporary character death, blood, teargas, guns,

Read on Ao3 || Hero Worship Series || My General Writing Masterlist

Remus is twenty-one and he doesn’t think he’s ever been as terrified before in his life as he is the second he sees Dee launch across the stage.

He’s been scared before though: scared from the moment he saw Roman hit the asphalt at eight years old and there was so much blood outside his body and Mom wouldn’t stop cradling the body even when the EMTs were trying to help; scared from the moment he stood in the gas station bathroom miles and miles from what he’d thought had been his home and trying to tell himself that that was going to be the last time he chose to look at a future where he tossed himself into the jaws of death; scared from the moment when he was laying in Dee’s lap with a million lies stuffed in his throat and still was choosing to tell him the truth about this stupid ability of his that only ever ended with him alone and forgotten and not missed at all.

Remus has been scared out of his mind, scared in his mind, scared far beyond the way that he thinks that any other living person could understand. He’s been walking with one foot in the grave since he was eight years old and eleven minutes younger than Roman and people still-- since that was still-- since the first time it started mattering to him at all.

He’s been scared.

It’s still nothing compared to the horror that grips his heart in an icy fist as Dee throws himself mindlessly into a fight Remus can’t see the end of.

It’s stupid and Remus doesn’t quite know how it got to this point even though he had been listening so hard to what Dee was saying. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s the type of kid that grew up excelling in everything he touched and he liked touching everything. He does math in his head like the numbers work for him, he speaks French like his tongue had never known another language, he lies and steals and uses people without them ever knowing they were puppets in his show.

Dee is a genius among idiots.

And somehow Remus is still watching him pitch himself into a physical fight with The Prince despite how he spent the previous three days saying that physical fights weren’t his forte and that their best bet was to humiliate and discredit the man on stage instead.

The Prince is smart and fast and most likely expecting the attack, but even he doesn’t have a chance to dodge against the agility of Dee aided by a surplus of invisible animal speed traits. Dee is moving for less than a second and--

--his claws are morphing right there in front of Remus’s eyes, too slow to make out, too fast to miss and Remus is beyond time and space as he stands there feeling more stuck than he’s ever been before. Dee’s nails are sharp with hatred, with protectiveness, with a selfish defense that Remus had only ever seen in spurts before. The Prince’s throat is soft and fleshy and weak.

One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

Dee lunges for The Princes throat, but at the last second he dips down and aims for an upsweep of his claws, cutting clean through that sash, shallow, painful, but not deadly because Janus is not a murderer.--

--One hit would take him out, permanently. One hit could have him covered in his own red blood, one hit could remove him forever and Remus would be in love with a murderer.

--shallow, painful, but not deadly because Dee is not a murderer.--

--Dee is moving for less than a second, but The Prince is expecting an attack and raises his arm in a flash of green light, and rolls to the side. Dee’s fist misses his face by inches, but it’s enough for the superhero to stumble off the stage which is not right, which is not what Remus saw, not what is supposed to be happening.

His head is screaming so loudly he can’t piece together a single thought. His stomach lurches up his esophagus, leaving him choking on something that might or might nor be real while Dee fights up on that stage.

The police bodyguards nearest to the shapeshifter swing into action, with guns or tasers or whatever-- it doesn’t matter because Dee’s body turns to a golden jelly like substance and absorbs the bullets and negates the electrical charge with a near maniac grin.

((And god, is it alluring to see Dee go absolutely feral even when Remus thinks that his own body is trying to kill him. He’s always so posh, so sophisticated, so in control. This is the side of Dee that he hides under a pleasant smile, the part that matches the scales and the fangs and the claws, the part that is half animal and doesn’t care about empty words.))

The crowd screams, chaotic and messy and dangerous and it turns the atmosphere into a thick soup of confusion and desperation. Remus feels one of those stupid fucking signs crash into his shoulder blade as someone gets shoved or hit or slammed or run over-- Remus isn’t sure because his focus is only on Dee, only on The Prince, only on the absolute anarchy that is playing out on stage like a theater production.

Remus remembers suddenly that he’s never made it through the intermission of a theater show, never made it to the second act and never made it to see the lead actors take their bows. Remus always left early.

He can’t leave early now.

He doesn’t even want to, not really, not in any way that matters. Remus’s lungs are burning and his heart is slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out and taste the world for itself. He grips the crowd control fence, so hard he’s not sure anything short of a nuclear bomb can get him off of it-- there’s a cold feeling stroking his spine, a voice in his head that tells him he needs to go and go now or he’s going to end up in one of those futures he promised his seventeen year old self that he’d never go through with.

He can’t move.

Call him a captive audience but Remus is on the edge of his seat, off his seat, one breath away from joining the actors on stage and ruining everything.

Dee lunges forward at the police line while The Prince crawls back up to his feet in a stupid daze, too slow, too dumb, too much like someone who couldn’t actually believe this was happening and too thick-headed to keep up with the actions.

Dee never told Remus that he was an acrobat, that he was as flexible as an Olympic Gymnast, that he could twist in the air and remove his own bones and make use of every breath between him and his enemy. Remus thinks of every time he’d counted the feet, inches, centimeters, between the two of them and for the first time he thinks that Dee might have been counting them too, thinking of every way in which he might be able to use that space as leverage to pin Remus up against the wall--

Dee said he wasn’t good at fighting. But Remus watches him grow claws that slice right through bullet proof armor and then flip in the turbulent air and drive his heel into the soft of someone’s neck. A bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth and Remus catches sight of his fangs dripping with blood or venom or something as he hisses at the unfortunate soul who shot at him, missed, and lost a bullet to the dissonant crowd.

The techie with the bright purple hair stumbles back to the van pressing his hands to his headphones and squeezing his eyes closed like he can make all the bad things go away if he pretends hard enough. Remus wants to laugh at him; can’t he see this is too real to be fake?

Someone barrels into the side of him, knocking Remus nearly through the crowd barrier. His head rings at the collision, sending sparks of stars shattering over his vision that he thinks match the pattern of tire treads on an eighteen wheeler that once ran him over.

Someone with another ability lets it loose and there’s an explosion from down the street, sending more people running towards the stage and the battle up there. The winds twist unnaturally, ripping the confetti papers into the air again and throwing them straight up into the air along with any loose accessories not pinned down.

A girl screams right in his ear, an arm jostles into her throat to make her stop and Remus isn’t entirely sure it’s not his arm. Her face is gone in the shifting crowd before Remus can even figure out what she looked like. People shove and jostle and move and tear apart so quickly that Remus can’t keep track of it.

There’s so much noise Remus can’t think. Gunshots, screams, the screech of metal and whirl of the wind-- it’s so much and Remus is so small against it. He feels the world moving around him, feels the time breathing through his skin, detaching him from reality and yanking him into something else, somewhere else, somewhen else. He’s not breathing, his heart isn’t beating, he’s not moving and his vision is flickering, flashing, fleeting: there and then it’s not and he can’t stop any of it. He can’t figure out what to do, what he needs to do, what’s supposed to be--

There’s a coin in Remus’s hand, pressed in his palm cutting into this numbed skin and he clings to it like a lifeline. There’s a Barney in his hand, the Barney from the night he met Dee, the Barney that means nothing to Dee and everything to Remus, the Barney that represents a decision Remus made when he caught it in the air three days ago.

Who gives a fuck about what’s suppposed to happen? Remus stopped Roman from dying thirteen years ago and the universe is going to have to live with it because Remus is not going to get Dee die, either.

He’s somewhere in the crowd, coming into his body, unsure when he left it, and there’s something thick in his throat he swallows away before he figures out what it tastes like. An arm is in his gut, a body slams into his shoulder. The force of the crowd is tearing him back from the fight, and Remus can’t go against it.

The sky is tinged with a low hanging cloud; something grey green and the screams are largest near it, the people shoving vigorously forward and away as it sweeps over--

Remus opens his mouth and it’s a mistake, a mistake, a mistake. It smells like vinegar, sharp and pungent and it fights its way down Remus’s throat when he breathes it in. His skin burns and itches and smolders where the smoke touches, where it seeps into his clothes, where it floods over his eyes. He screams as his lungs warp and twist in on themselves, tight, tight, tight and he can’t breathe through it.

He’s dying, he’s dying again, he’s dying and he doesn’t know what he did--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. The gas is everywhere and Remus can’t see where he’s going and if he stops whoever is behind him will run him over.

He shoves forward burying his mouth and nose in his sleeve, but it's not enough. His heart is exploding in his chest splattering across, bursting so hard it shatters his ribs but not enough to break his skin. He claws at his chest certain there’s blood there even though he can’t see it. He dead and dying and he can’t even gasp an apology to Dee he’s sorry Dee please he’s sorrysorrysorry--

--them like a wispy wave. Remus feels it pass over him too, a force that he’s barely aware of for a second because it's so quick and then nothing happens at all. It's hard to see anything, hard to hear, hard to focus. He’s trapped, caught in a gaseous net of tear gas that lives up to its name because he’s sobbing at the burn that he’s sure is the worst death to have survived. He doubles over, and he’s gone and done and dead because he can’t do it a third time.

He doesn’t have enough sense to brace himself before there’s someone else’s panicked foot on the small of his back. Remus curls on himself covering his head in the chaos to protect himself, but the agony over his body is shredding his insides like razor blades that could pass through anything.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His eyes flicker trying to catch an understanding of anything around him, but his tears make it hard to make out anything up close and the smoke obscures the world he knows is past that.

Someone is screaming something, but Remus can’t make out the words.

This is the exact thing Dee did not want to happen, he thinks as his body convulses, as a guy with horns trips over him and several more people without powers descend on him with signs and fists and whatever else they have. Remus’s tears are streaking down his face and he weakly raises an arm towards them like he can help anyone when his own body feels like it’s dying. This is the exact thing they were trying to avoid.

It doesn’t make sense, Remus curses as someone steps on his ankle and he feels the bone do something it probably shouldn’t and his throat cremates the air in his lungs. It doesn’t make sense. Dee is smart. He’s brilliant. He’s clever and witty and always seven steps ahead.

Dee was the one who said a fight would cause a riot in the crowd and it would make everything bad. A fight was the opposite of what they wanted. Dee had even said that if he couldn’t get The Prince to agree with him, he’d back off and find another way.

“It’s not so much for The Prince,” Dee had said. “It’s about getting the message to the people.”

And Remus is twenty one years old and can’t think of what Dee was expecting to happen when he launched across the stage like that when his own head just got kicked again and his lungs are a birthday candle away from engulfing him in flames.

What The Prince was saying was stupid, but it wasn’t something that Dee would have let get on his nerves. Dee was better than that-- Remus had seen him be better than that. Remus had said things that were more annoying, more irksome, more cutthroat than The Pitiful Prince could have thought to say. Dee had been shot half a million times in futures that didn’t happen and Remus had plucked him from the jaws of death every time.

Dee trusted Remus to keep him safe and informed. Even against The Prince.

Dee shouldn’t have been attacking at that point.

Someone kicks his stomach again, and Remus tastes the dregs of Dee’s latte wander back into his mouth with a burn that reminds him of his worst nights except this is worse than all that. He feels like he’s one open flame away from igniting which doesn’t make sense because fire needs oxygen and he’s not getting any. Something happened to Dee, something wasn’t right-- Dee wouldn’t have attacked unless The Prince did something to him.

Remus thinks that if he gets up he’s going to put The Prince in the ground, permanently. His earpiece sings with noises from the fight: Dee’s grunts, his huffs, his ha’s. Remus latches on to the sound of them, of Dee being alive, of Dee being completely in the moment rather than his usual twenty steps ahead of it. He’s not sure if the terror is from the shoe that slams into his spine at that moment, the ache of being unable to help, the fear that the teargas is going to kill him, or the idea that whatever The Prince did to Dee is still happening.

He tries to sit up, but someone jumps over him just poorly enough to kick him in the side of the head as they go. Remus feels the sting of wet concrete at 3 AM shock through his body again, stupidly. His brain screams something about windshields and rain and Remus tells it to shut up because Dee was in trouble and Remus had made him a promise to stick around all those lifetimes ago in that Casino where they’d met, on the balcony when he’d been stuck rather than gone, when he was laying in Dee’s lap in their hotel room saying all the words he’d never told anyone else ever before.

There’s wind. Remus blinks hard, choking on a sob that claws through his esophagus far more effectively than glass from a windshield ever did. There’s wind and it’s moving like a storm front, a physical force, direct, and purposefully. The wind is twisting through the crowd and catching the greenish tear gas in its invisible hands; Remus watches in delirious disbelief as it funnels upwards with the remains of confetti and signs, hats and papers, trash and abandoned items, upwards and out of his lungs, upwards and saving his life.

He breathes in a breath that feels like his ribs are going straight through his lungs, and desperately scrubs the memories of things that he swore weren’t going to happen from his mind. Another foot slams down inches from his face, and loose gravel sprays up into this face.

“HEY!” a voice yells. There are hands on him, Remus realizes in the next second, someone helping move him out from under the current of people that are in too much of a panic to help him. “HEY!--

-- “Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out against the tears in his eyes. At first glance Remus thinks he looks like someone important, someone familiar: a teacher he had once, a youth pastor from a church that his family only went to on holidays, someone in the community that all the other kids flocked too, except that they had to be the same age, so Remus’s marks that as his brain spewing nonsense again. He’s got glasses with smudges on the lenses, freckles that dance across his cheeks like a dot-to-dot for adults, and a smile that looks increasingly stupid compared to the background setting.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps right as another round of gunshots go off to their left as the armed guard fires one someone in the crowd and the winds shrivel up and die in response. “We’re going to be okay!”--

--“Are you okay?” the person says, and Remus has to squint to make him out as his eyes ache and burn and he can’t scrub them. At second glance Remus thinks he looks like someone inconsequential, someone familiar: a college student who came here to follow the rules and trust his government, a guy who is in over his head, a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Remus hasn’t seen any sign of a power at all. He’s got a blue polo on speckled with dust, and bruises and scratches up his arms, a solid footprint on his abdomen that Remus doesn’t need two guesses to figure out where he got it from.

“You’re going to be okay, sir!” the man chirps, but Remus is busy spinning around just in time to see the armed guard fire at a civilian in the crowd and the winds overhead shrivel up and die because they lose whoever was telling them to move in the first place. “We’re going to be okay!”--

-- “Are you--OOP!” the person says as Remus throws himself up and bonelessly tackles that guard before he can fire his weapon. His throat is ragged and strangled and the noise that comes out of his is not even remotely human. His eyes are flashing with the futures he doesn’t want to see and he thinks for a moment if he stops moving he’ll forget which future is the present.

Dee should not have attacked. But he did, and every death that happens now is going to be pinned on him, on them, on anyone who isn’t the government and every plan Dee made will settle into ashes and fall through his fingertips.

Remus is twenty one and knows all too well that he can’t change the past. But he’s going to save the future, their future. His and Dee’s future.

The gun goes skidding across the ground and under the crowd barrier out of reach and out of touch and Remus’s head spins trying to orientate himself. Blood drips down his chin and spatters on the visor shield of the man under him, the would-be murderer, the all-to-willing homicidal maniac. Remus’s heart pounds in his throat, making its way to his mouth, until he’s not sure if he’s biting down on his tongue or the pulsating mass that keeps him alive and the tang of vinegar won’t leave him alone.

People stumble around the both of them, tripping over Remus’s legs, and someone stomps on his captive police guard's wrist so hard Remus feels it snap more than he hears it. The man lets out a yowl, as his eyes roll back and he gives in to the pain of it.

The guy who does not look familiar in any way that Remus cares about is just a step behind them, grabbing Remus’s armpit as if to pick him up, but his focus is on the person in the crowd controlling the winds. Confetti screws through the air, a sign slams into the face of someone who gets too close to them and the two kids crouching behind them. They’re making a barrier. It’s for protection. They saved everyone who hadn’t been able to to get away from the teargas.

((They’re beautiful, Remus thinks, almost deliriously. The power and control and the fierceness. It’s like watching dancing, like watching pure strength, like seeing a miracle in first person. Remus never thought about other people with powers before, never thought about powers being a good thing when his ruined his life, but now he’s staring at this stranger with burning eyes and one foot in the grave, this stranger who is half wind and all power, this stranger who makes him think he might understand why Dee is so passionate about mutants like them.))

Remus is twenty one years old when he sees out of the corner of his eye, the man in the blue polo’s face screws up in concentration as he throws an arm out at the person controlling the winds and pale white light flickers from his fingers right next to Remus’s face.

There’s a moment between Remus’s heartbeats where the sound disappears and Remus doesn’t need to breathe and time doesn’t pass at all. There’s a moment where Remus is frozen in place, half standing, half on the ground with his blood making him want to vomit. There’s a moment where he’s staring at the man right next to him and he thinks don’t you fucking dare--

But then the moment is over and Remus is watching the winds drop everything they’re carrying: the accessories, confetti, all of it that had been between them and the armed guard, falls to the ground and Remus watches the surrounding crowd descend on them like a pack of wild animals. His head rings with words that don’t make sense and he thinks that the smile the man gives him has a cold edge to it when he turns back to Remus like he’s expecting a thank you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Remus jerks the man’s hand down, rasping where the words grate on his sandpaper throat and shoving him away. “What is wrong with you?”

He blinks and tilts his head at Remus like he’s not sure where the question is coming from, why Remus is asking, like he didn’t see what just happened right there at all. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay? I think you might have hit your head a little hard.” He says, “Wait… Do I know you fr--?”

Something soars overhead, and Remus rolls to the side and hunkers down as Dee’s draconic form sweeps over the crowd and nearly decapitates everyone still standing. Piercing screams echo in the crowd so loud Remus doesn’t hear whatever else the man says.

The man who helped him up, the man who looks like no one to remember, the man who just did something to that other person that made them not use their power, that man shoves both his hands into the air toward where--

--Dee is and Remus watches in horror as Dee’s fierce expression flips to a confused one. His glorious golden wings flap, once, twice, and then they vanish without a trace.

He’s been confused before, he’s been terrified before, he’s been scared. He’s seen Dee get shot, get run over, get hit until he bleeds. He’s seen Dee laugh at broken bones, seen him choke on his own body fluids, seen his eyes good dark and empty and lifeless. Remus has been scared, but that’s nothing compared to his feelings when he watches Dee drop like a stone through the air.

Remus knows what that fall feels like, he knows how his stomach swoops at the sudden empty air, how the air feels like daggers, how dreadterrorregret fills his lungs until he can’t even take that last breath. He doesn’t want Dee to know. Please, he can’t know, please Remus needs to stop this, fix it, please pleasepleaseplease--

--Dee is and Remus moves before he even knows what he’s doing. His blood is pumping so hard he thinks it's amazing that all his blood vessels don’t pop on him. He swings his elbow back with everything that he has in him, everything he can spare and then the stuff he can’t, because that was Dee and Remus would do anything for him. The man’s glasses shatter under Remus’s attack and he stumbles backwards several steps in shock. Remus follows him with a kick to his stomach that throws the stranger who can take away the only thing protecting Dee at the moment to the ground.

“DEE!” Remus shouts, glancing up because he has to make sure that he’s still in the air.

“You!” The man chokes on his own breath, looking up at Remus with something that might have been betrayal. “You’re with him!”

And then--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches there touching his skin. Remus inhales just as he realizes what it could be and then there’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus feels every joint he has lock up, feels pain wrack through his body and ricochet around his bones like the worst game of pingpong, feels the tortured scream carve out of his lungs as he falls forward and his skin bubbles and melts around the prongs of the taser that does not have a safety setting engaged.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Janus is screaming his name in the worst way possible--

--from behind him something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and pinches, hooking on his skin, and Remus lunges away, but he’s not fast enough. There’s white hot electricity coursing through his flesh. Remus hears the crackling of violent arcs break through his skin, hears the way that his scream terrorizes the air far worse than that time he dropped a toaster into the bathtub with himself, hears the way that Dee screams his name and lands on the ground next to them.

He head hits the asphalt and his vision fades and Dee wrapping his arms around him in the last embrace he’s going to get--

--from behind him and Remus twists to the side before something sticks into his back, barbed enough to go right into his jacket and stick there. He wants to vomit, but he’s more focused on throwing his body forward and tackling the police officer who just killed him twice and will not get the satisfaction of doing it again. Remus snarls as the man tries to bat him away.

Remus might not have any intensive training, but he spent four years homeless, learning about the world from the streets of it. He spent more than his fair share of nights sleeping in alleys before he realized that he could use his power to find an empty hotel room for the night, a sucker that would give him money, an odd job that would get him off the street.

He’s been in fights. This is nothing compared to those fights.

He feels woozy, flighty: like his bones were replaced with helium and lead at the same time. He doesn’t dare let that stop him. He survived a 3 AM that never ended and he’ll survive this too. He didn’t need to see the future for that.

His knuckles hit the bullet proof padding, hard enough to send jolts through both of them. The officer swings an arm out, but Remus ducks under it and kicks his foot around the man’s ankle. There’s blood on his chin, screaming in his ears, the scent of burning flesh in his nose, and Remus grins as he shoves his palm into the officer’s face. Before the guy knows what is happening he’s on the ground again and Remus is slamming his heel into that visor so hard it shatters.

He thinks he might be laughing, wheezing, as the blood welds up over the man’s nose and his eyes roll back. Remus brings a shaking palm up to his mouth and smears away his blood as much as he can, because it feels like he’s choking on it again. His eyes are searing and he’s almost surprised he’s not bleeding from them too.

Dee uses a brick wall of a building as a launch board to throw himself back at The Prince in the middle of the blocked off area. He flips mid flight, and whips his tail out of nowhere to land a blow that Remus can’t see if it hits or not.

“Motherfuck--” Dee’s shouts through that earpiece Remus forgot he’d been wearing. He hisses, with a stinging edge that matches pitch to the ringing in Remus’s head. “Do you know what this suit cost, you ingrate!”

Remus can’t breathe and is breathing too fast at the same time. He spins around searching through the chaos for something, someone, he doesn’t know-- what does Dee need from him? What is he supposed to do here? The man in the blue polo is gone and Remus can’t find him which means that he can’t see, not that he can see regularly, not that people aren’t still running around, screaming, the water pipes in a building didn’t burst and the metal of a few lamp posts isn’t warping, there aren’t trampled bodies everywhere he looks.

“Dee,” Remus coughs, choking on ragged words. “Hold on a moment. Let me get somewhere…. where I can... fucking see. Fuck!”

“That would be lovely dear,” Dee says although it sounds like he just ate asphalt and didn’t really hear what Remus said. “The Prince is being disagreeable.”

“I can’t...imagine why,” Remus says. “Personally, I love getting my... throat torn out.”

“We’re going to have a lovely conversation about your masochism, darling,” Dee says, and spits out whatever else is in his mouth and then grunts and swears again. There’s the startling sound of metal on asphalt and Remus’s brain tries and fails to configure the scene playing out where they are.

“It might be a pain kink at this point,” Remus says as he dodges between unfamiliar and panicking strangers he can barely see. He’s afraid if he wipes the tears from his eyes he’ll get whatever of the gas that’s in his jacket in them again. He can’t let that happen, not now, not when Dee needs him, and he knows that he can’t stifle the panic if he does. He sends a kick to the back of another armed policeman in the middle of aiming a taser at someone else.

Dee growls something at The Prince. Distantly, Remus hears what sounds like someone or something slamming into a car, and he thinks he sees the roof of the news van jostle along with the new round of screaming.

“I would love to know all your kinks,” Dee manages after another second. “Fuck-- how is he doing this?”

Remus ducks out of the way of a blue post office mail box sailing through the air, missing him by inches, but taking out a police officer he hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t get to see who threw it, but he thanks them, whoever they are.

He needs to be closer to the fight again, closer to that eye of the hurricane that’s blocked off with crowd controlling barriers, closer than he is now so that he can do something. He jumps over a body, nearly tripping on an abandoned purse. A large shadow sweeps the area again, and Remus catches sight of Dee in the air, with his arm at a terrible unnatural angle. Remus thinks he feels his blood catch in his body freezing all at once despite the rapid pace of his throat bound heart.

Dee doesn’t seem to see him at all, his gaze is stuck solely on where Remus assumes The Perfect Punchable Prince is. There’s a shattering sound of gunshots from somewhere that echoes off of the walls of the surrounding buildings, but Dee remains in the air alright and fine and holding his shattered arm carefully.

His expression is contorted into something awful, something bad enough that even from the ground Remus can make it out perfectly and hates the sight of it-- the amount of pain he must be in, the pain that he never should have felt, the pain that Remus would take on wholeheartedly without a hesitation if he had the ability to sap it away from Dee. But before he can say anything Dee’s arm warps, twists, snaps back into place, and Dee snarls as he rolls his neck and flexes his fingers again.

“Did you just heal yourself?” Remus asks breathlessly, almost certain that his itching eyes are playing a trick on him.

“Surely this came up in one of your futures before, darling,” Dee says without taking his gaze off his opponent.

Remus doesn’t say that in all of his futures Dee is too dead to show off, dead before Remus can get to him, dead before there’s even a hope for him to think about healing himself, dead, dead, dead. He doesn’t think it matters. There’s a feeling in his chest that blossoms and blooms and fills him like helium in a balloon threatening to take off with him. Dee’s wings flap powerfully to keep him in the air and Remus wonders how they would feel under his fingertips. Leathery, maybe? Somewhere between vinyl and bare skin maybe-- Remus doesn’t know enough about birds, bats, wings in general to know the answer.

“Serpent!” The Prince shouts from somewhere on the ground. Remus thinks for a moment he can see the man through the crowd, but it's too much of a blur. There’s smoke in the air now, a fire from a nearby building, and Remus feels it burn acridly in his throat, heavy flumes of it sweeping through the crowd and obscuring the ground around them. Remus can almost hear the sirens in the background.

“I hope you aren’t referring to me, Prince,” Dee says with a bit of a hiss.

“Don’t you see what your actions have caused?” The Prince yells and Remus thinks the sound of his voice is grating. His knuckles crave to jam themselves down the superhero’s throat and rip out his voice box, just to make sure he stops talking forever.

“Me?” Dee says. “You are the one who wanted a crowd and a ceremony and a fight. I shouldn’t be surprised. One can’t pretend to be a hero without making someone else the villain!”

“You started this fight, Wyvern,” The Prince shouts back. “Crashing onto the stage and then attempting to kill me.”

“If you’re going to call names like a child, use my actual name,” Dee says, “Basilisk.”

The name sends shivers down Remus’s spine, and he isn’t sure if it's the good kind or the bad kind. His blood is pumping so heavily he thinks it should have drowned out all the other noise.

Basilisk. Like the Casino where they had met. Like the mythical animal that could kill with a glance. Like a warning and a threat and a challenge. Remus swells with an emotion that’s so bright he’s not sure he can put a name to it, he just knows that he’s never felt it before: so proud, so happy, so thrilled. Dee chose his name and the rest of the world will know it.

((Part of Remus wonders how long he’s had it picked out, how long had he whispered it under his breath when Remus wasn’t there to hear it, how long Dee had thought about having his name up there in the lights outshining The Prince’s.))

“Basilisk,” The Prince snarls. “What type of person answers to the call of a monster’s name?!”

“The King of Serpents,” Dee shoots back. “The killer of foolish knights, and even stupider princes.”

“Now who’s name-calling like a child?!” The Prince yells.

It would have been comedic really, if it weren’t for the smoke and the screams and the gunfire. If it weren’t for Remus’s heart beating out of his chest and his mouth tasting like vinegarcopperasphalt and his ankle crying in a pain he can’t afford to actually think about. He thinks about leaving, about running away, about escaping alone but Dee’s life is on the line and Remus needs to make sure he makes it through this because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dee dies.

((That’s a lie. Remus does know what he’ll do if Dee dies because he’s seen it a million times before, in a million other places, with a million other feelings and still no one there to mourn whoever he was and whatever he could have been. Remus is twenty one and he knows that if Dee dies there will be no more reasons not to break that promise to his seventeen year old self. He knows, he knows, he knows.))

He’s closer to the fight now, back to where he had been before the riot chaos. Most of the crowd is gone, leaving smokey forms that Remus only semi recognizes from his nightmares. The crowd barriers have been shoved, there are bodies on the ground, the news van is jostled and the crew abandoned it in favor of maybe not ending up with their blood all over the place.

All of them except that techie in purple with the headphones and the face mask.

“Hey,” Remus says, slamming against the van next to him. The techie stares at him like he’s lost his mind-- and to be honest, that’s fair. He’s got more blood outside of him than inside, and he’s pretty sure the imprint of him is plastered on the side of the car now: a red silhouette to go with the station logo. His eyes are red rimmed, his smile twisted and pained, and it’s only his own inertia that was holding him up. “Don’t mind me.”

The guy is holding a phone peaking, around the corner of the van, dutifully filming Dee barely dodging getting shish kabobbed by The Prince’s rapier and he looks very much like he minds Remus’s presence within 10,000 feet of him, but is too terrified to move.

Remus doesn’t blame him; where would he go anyway? Into the disassembled crowd where the horror movie screams come with real blood and tear gas was just used on hoards of innocent people for no reason with no warning? Into the arena where The Prince and Dee were taking turns causing massive destruction to public property without a care in the world? Remus doesn’t blame him from hunkering down behind the cover of his news van and praying for this hell to end.

He is a bit curious as to who’s watching this video he’s taking, though.

Dee twists in the air dodging The Prince’s attacks on his wings, by a hair's breadth. Remus swears for a second that the silver shining rapier slices through Dee entirely, but Dee’s back in the air the next moment, fluttering back out of reach and catching his breath for both of them.

“You fight like a coward!” The Prince yells from the ground, swiping his sword in a motion that is illegal in Fencing. His red mask gleams like blood, but Remus can’t see a speck of it anywhere else on him, not even a scuff from where he fell off the stage moments ago.

((Was it moments? Remus’s head rings with the question. Was it moments? An hour? Days? Lifetimes? He died, Dee died, the strangers in the street died-- how long ago was it that none of that ever happened?))

Dee looks scratched and scarred to high hell by comparison: his suit is in tatters, slices through his left side and his right shoulder, tears in both sleeves where he gave up human hands for scaled claws and sharpened talons, and he was missing a pant leg at the knee, as well as both his shoes that he loved so dearly. Despite his apparent healing abilities blood was trailing from scratches not fully closed up around his elbow, his shoulder, one cheek.

The two of them had to have been fighting this whole time but Remus gets the sinking, sickening, drowning feeling that Dee hasn’t landed a single blow at all.

Which considering the bodies of unconscious police officers piled around them all like lifeless dolls, seems incredibly unreal. Remus saw Dee fight. There’s no way. It’s not possible.

“It’s not fighting like a coward to use your own advantages over your enemies,” Dee says, to The Prince. He steadies himself in the air, his wings and scales glowing gold. “Surely you’re familiar with that idea? You have all the marks of her other training.”

The Prince steadies his stance, shifting his weight around on the toes of his feet like he’s considering the pros and cons of launching himself into the air. Remus hopes he does it just to see Dee catch him by the throat and send him hurling back to the ground hard enough to create a crater he can’t dig his mortal bones out of.

“If you are trying to suggest something,” The Prince says, “your cryptic theatrics are getting in the way, villain.”

“You think you’re the first Hero she ever trained?” Dee asks. “Think your something special? Going to make all the difference in the world? She’s playing you like a fiddle!”

“You’re one to talk, Janus,” a voice says and Remus swears it comes from everywhere around him. His lungs seize so hard he chokes on the air, the shearing pain in his throat tearing at his vocal chords. The voice sounds like thunder, like a foghorn, like a car alarm at 3AM waking everyone who was previously enjoying their evening.

But Dee doesn’t shift like he heard it at all, and the The Prince doesn’t even look around. Remus’s heart hammers in his chest, stretching his skin, his muscles, his insides as far as they’ll go and the only thing he gets from it is the techie twisting glance at him with a semi raised eyebrow, before he turns back to the standoff in front of them.

Janus. Remus knows that name, doesn’t he? It’s on the tip of his tongue, the edges of his mind, the fog of futures he’s seen and hasn’t seen. He knows that name, he knows who that is, he knows--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he had blinked he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next his heel is slamming into The Prince’s sword arm shoulder, and from the way that the superhero’s body crumples Remus can bet that his whole foot had shifted into something that was probably lethal.

The Prince hits the ground with a satisfying smack, letting Dee bounce off him and land another five feet away with a self satisfied, deeply relieved smirk. The Prince cradles his arm, his white outfit soaking with red, his face gnarled with painangerfear as Dee turns around methodically. The hero fruitlessly claws the ground for his rapier but Dee snaps his tail and knocks it out of reach.

“Give up, Prince,” Dee tells him. “Unlike you, I don’t want a fight. That shoulder needs medical attention and there are people other there that need you.”

“A hero never gives up!” The Prince says and Remus swears that he’s heard that voice before, that tone before, those words before in a way that’s beyond time. They ring in his head, hollow and cold and empty: ghosts made of memories that Remus hated and couldn’t get rid of and that taste like a brother whom Remus once killed.

“She is using you,” Dee says stepping forward until he’s towering over the hero. “Don’t you see that, my prince? You’re worth more than being her puppet.”

“She saved me when I was at my lowest,” The Prince spits back.

“She probably put you there, too,” Dee says, clinically. “Dragana Witchall is not your friend. She’s not a savoir. She’s not a good person, no matter what she’s told you. She doesn’t want what's best for anyone other than herself and the moment you realize that she will do everything in her power to silence you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

There’s a twisted look on The Prince’s face, and Remus’s heart thumps in his chest, near to bursting, his tongue tastes like blood, and his eyes burn with the need to close them and never open them again, but he doesn’t want to miss a second of this.

“She…”

Dee shakes his head. “Come with us, my Prince,” Dee says oh-so-softly, offering a hand to the Prince. “Shake off her lies and let us save the world before anyone gets hurt anymore. We can do it… together.”

The Prince stares at the hand and Remus, for all that he wants to punch the guy in his teeth, wants to rip out his vocal chords, wants to bury him alive, exhales giddily with Dee when the superhero takes Dee’s hand.--

--but he doesn’t have a chance to figure it out because Dee is lunging downwards at The Prince, so fast that Remus thinks if he hadn’t known it would happen he might have missed the movement entirely. One moment Dee is in the air, the next there’s a flicker of green light and Dee’s fist is--

What the fuck.

Remus hits the side of the news van, choking on blood that’s pouring from his nose and puddling in his throat where oxygen should be. His vision dances with static, buzzing in and out of focus, but he knows what’s going on: Dee’s fist came down on The Prince swinging with a velocity that might have killed a lesser man, but there was a flash of green, a slight side step, and suddenly Dee was on the ground grunting through the pain of a broken hand.

The Prince raises his rapier to Dee’s neck, millimeters from his skin, and Remus’s breathing shallows so sharply it gets clotted up with the blood as well. The Techie inches forward, his hands shaking as he tries to catch every moment of this nightmare.

“Surrender, villain,” He says. “You cannot continue to heal yourself at this rate.”

Remus feels the scream trapped in his lungs, crushing against his ribs until he’s certain it will shatter outwards. He doesn’t… this isn’t… He didn’t see this. Why didn’t he see this? Why did Dee attack with his fist? How did the Prince know to side step?

He can’t… It doesn’t make any sense. His palms tingle with the memories of futures that didn’t happen four years ago: shoving a body down the stairs, shattering a snowglobe against a temple, wrapping around a neck and squeezing for so long that his hand print follows Roman to the afterlife. Futures that didn’t happen based on a conversation that had but shouldn’t have.

Remus’s head pounds, shooting pain from right behind his eyes, that mixes in with the ache from the tear gas. What happened? Why did it… why didn’t it...

“She is using you,” Dee spits up at the hero. “Don’t you see that?”

“You are blinded by your hatred and jealousy--”

“Oh please,” Dee hisses out. “As if I would deign myself to a motivation so cliché.”

“Snake,” The Prince says, but whatever else is drowned out by a strangled yelp when Dee shoves his injured hand up and catches the blade of the sword with enough force to knock it away from his neck. There’s a clattering of scales against metal that Remus thinks he heard once in a movie about slaying a dragon and Dee hisses out in pain as he vaults away to put distance between the two of them again, getting rid of his wings in favor of sharper claws.

“Darling,” Dee says, and it takes Remus a moment to realize he’s the one being addressed. “Enjoying the show?”

“If you aren’t careful... MARVEL is going to be stealing rights for this action sequence from under us,” Remus says, bringing a hand up to clutch at his chest and wondering for a second if it would make sense to tear open his ribcage so that his lungs would have better access to oxygen.

“Disney is a greed based cooperation that’s next on my list to take down, right after the FBE,” Dee says.

The Prince inhales sharply, angrily, offendly. “You would destroy Disney, you monster? I was going to have mercy on you but that’s too far!”

Dee spreads a hand towards the streets around them. “There are people in trouble, possibly dying out there and the thing that makes you upset is Disney?”

The Prince, at least, looks uncomfortable about that.

“Re,” Dee says, “Lead me.”

The Prince steadies his blade, “I don’t know who you’re talking to but--”

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and, god, does Remus never get tired of that. Of Dee trusting him, of Dee not hesitating, of Dee believing in Remus. Dee soars across the road, taking The Prince in a razor sharp slice: Dee’s left arm laid out and sweeping under The Prince’s sword to take out his feet.

The Prince slams forward and hits the ground so hard that Remus thinks his face imprints on the asphalt.

Dee picks up the rapier and lowers it at the hero’s neck just as he rolls over bleeding from every orifice on his face. “It’s over, my Prince. Give up.”--

--Remus doesn’t wait for him to finish. “Rush him while he’s talking, go low, and strong arm his legs from under him.”

Dee is moving almost before the words are out of Remus’s mouth and Remus is so caught up in the jubilee of being heard that he almost misses the flash of green that flickers around The Prince.

“WAIT--!” Remus yells, but The Prince is jumping in the air doing a perfect flip over Dee’s attack that he shouldn’t have ever seen coming and definitely shouldn’t have been able to dodge.

Dee lands with a roll that brings him back to his feet. “Re, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Remus says, spitting blood from his mouth. “Shit.”

The techie swivels to look at him again, at the blood trailing down Remus’s chin, at the unsteadiness of Remus’s stance. If it weren’t for the headphones the guy would have been able to hear everything already, and Remus isn’t sure if he’d run away screaming, or drop into a dead faint. He wasn’t even thinking about what the guy’s recording was picking up.

That’s a problem for another day. Assuming they make it through this one.

Dee lunges backwards out of the way of The Prince’s next attack, avoiding it without Remus’s help, and part of Remus is grateful for that. He can’t tell which is the terror of Dee being in a fight with The Prince still or the panic of not being able to see what’s happening anymore but he knows he’s drowning in both in a way that’s unhelpful.

Dee rolls under--

--The Prince’s swipe, millimeters away from an unwanted haircut. Remus can hear the heavy huffing of his breath, of the ache of Dee’s bones, the shake in his limbs from exertion. He kicks a foot to force the hero back, but the reprieve is short. The Prince’s charismatic stupid smile is gone replaced with a determination that makes Remus’s teeth grind together.

The Prince lunges forward, blocking Dee from escaping with a motion that swings upwards and across and reminds Remus of how he drew 7’s before his kindergarten teacher verbally humiliated it out of him. Dee’s face snaps to the side glistening with a new cut that digs through his scales and leaves him hissing in pain.--

--The Prince’s swipe and Remus’s mouth is moving as fast as he can: “He’s leaving his right side wide open. If you duck you can get the back of his calf and decrease his range of motion.”

Dee makes a noise that Remus thinks is grateful, hopes is grateful, prays-to-gods-he-doesn’t-believe-in is grateful. Dee is slower than Remus would have wanted him to be, but when The Prince drags his rapier through the air, it sails over Dee’s head and Dee’s claws slice through his calf muscle as Dee slips away.

“Mother of Pearls!” The Prince shouts, stumbling. “How did you…?”

Dee heaves several breaths, flexing his claws dripping with patches of scarlet. “Finally.”

“Villain!” The Prince snarls.

“We’ve been over this, honey. It’s Basilisk,” Dee shows off his fangs. Remus thinks the relief is hysterical, a gulp of fresh air after he’s been underwater for so long.

The Prince snarls, something animalistic and Remus wishes he could show the whole world it: this is your Prince, this is your fake hero, this is the idiot in charge of everything and look how angry he is over a little cut. Remus has had worse than him and he’s never complained about it!

“ZEAL!” The Prince yells to the open air, “A hand, please!”

“Just one?” A voice responds from across the area, and Remus feels his blood go cold, his knees go weak, his mind go silent in a way it’s definitely not supposed to.

Remus doesn’t know how the man in the blue cardigan who looks like no one at all got all the way over there, but there he is crouching next to a fallen police guard checking for a pulse. He stands up at the call, looking vastly out of place in the scenery.

“Well, if my prince requests it!” He says with his voice drifting like a dream in the chaos. “I’ll give you both of them!”

“Dee, move. Move, NOW!” Remus yells just as the character raises their hands and white lights begin to flicker on the fingertips. They look like stars, like spheres of sunlight, like little harmless rays that probably would feel nice, but Remus can still hear the sound of Dee’s body hitting the ground in a future that he stopped, a future he prevented, a future he does not ever want to see happen again.

Dee throws himself into a back handspring and twists himself over the beams of light, and Remus can’t catch his breath anyway.

“Do I want to know what those did, dearest?” Dee puffs out.

“Bad,” Remus says.

“Delightful,” Dee says, taking another step back, except that he’s sandwiched between the Prince and that guy-- god the partner. Remus can’t believe they forgot about them, the mysterious person only alluded to, and never seen, except that now Remus is seeing him and can’t look away. Of course it would be someone who can take away powers. Of course it would.

Remus is going to vomit.

If Dee turns his back to the Prince he won’t see the sword, if he turns his back to the partner, he won’t see the angle of the rays; Remus has a sinking feeling in his… everything all of a sudden.

“I’m running out of patience, Dragon,” The Prince says.

“How hard is it to remember the term Basilisk?” Dee prods.

The Prince sets himself for another attack. “You’re trapped. There’s no way out. Come quietly and we can get you medical attention and discuss whatever it is that you deemed necessary to harm hundreds for.”

“Will that be before or after Dragana Witchall has my head removed from my body?” Dee asks.

“If you just talk to her--”

“Heh.”

Remus feels the inside of his ears pop from pressure he didn’t know he was experiencing. That voice-- coming from everywhere and nowhere and why doesn’t anyone else hear it?

“--most of my life actually,” Janus is… no that’s Dee. Remus knows that’s Dee talking. Who is Janus? The pain in his head is sharp, like a nail driving directly into his cranium, like brain surgery without putting him under, like dying but without the death part. He doesn’t know Janus.

Does he?

“She’s not who she says she is,” Dee finishes. “She’s--”

“I’m growing tired of your stubbornness,” The Prince says in an astounding moment of pure irony that twists Remus’s intestines into knots and loops them around his neck like a noose. “Surrender with dignity, snake.”

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the partner, Zeal, adds.

Dee doesn’t say anything to them. Remus focuses on the sound of his breaths, on the movement of his chest, on the phantom feel of Dee’s lips on his own from so long ago. Remus’s brain whispers about rain on a balcony, about fire in a mall, about gunshots in a casino, but he reaches past that, past everything, past the past itself.

His domain is the future.

“Are you at your limit?” Dee asks him. “I can do this by myself if I must.”

“What’s a limit?” Remus says. “How much blood is a human supposed to have again?”

“More than that, dumbass,” that voice says, and Remus blinks because Dee’s head tilts and he looks like he heard it too.

“Virgil,” Dee says in a tone Remus can’t describe. “Come to play?”

Remus is vaguely aware of the techie in purple shifting forward, leaning towards the fight, still shaking from every limb. For a moment, he thinks that maybe this mysterious voice is coming from him, but it’s too clear, too loud, too calm to be from someone wearing a face mask and shaking the way this guy is so far away from where Dee is having his standoff.

“You made a friend,” Virgil, whoever he is, from wherever he is, says.

“I got lonely,” Dee says. “And bored.”

“Bored enough to become public enemy number one?”

“Enough, Basilisk!” The Prince yells, “Give yourself up! You’re surrounded and you have all of this carnage to take responsibility for! Your partner may continue to hide in the shadows, but you can tell him we will find him and bring him to justice as well!”

“Or her! Or them!” Zeal tacks on. “Or xem-- we’re all inclusive here.”

“Right!” The Prince says, self righteously. He looks a lot like he does on TV and Remus’s fists itch to punch the screen all over again. “Surrender and end this.”

“You know what will happen if you do,” Virgil’s voice says.

“If the peanut gallery could please keep out of this,” Dee hisses. “That would be nice. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking just like you were when you leapt across that stage?” Remus asks. “Or actually thinking this time?”

Dee makes a face that’s vaguely affronted, a dusting of pink over his ears that Remus might have thought was from exertion if he didn’t know better.

“Do you want an apology?” He asks and Remus is only semi thinking about saying yes you motherfucker, when we get out of this I’m going to strangle you myself because somehow you don’t know what you mean to me at all and you just keep dying and cannot handle watching that again, how did I ever do it the first several billion times?

“I think an apology is a good start,” The Prince says.

“I was not talking to you,” Dee snaps.

“I’m giving you fifteen more seconds, snake,” The Prince says, anyway. “Put your hands up and get on the ground or I will put you on the ground myself.”--

-- Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it. The hero shifts as the seconds tick, inaudible and yet unmissable. Then The Prince sighs in disappointment and levels his rapier.

“You leave me no choice,” he says. “Zeal.”

The man in the blue polo grins again at the call and flicks his hands towards Dee, with balls of white light dancing on his fingertips. Dee launches into the air with his wings flicking out, but the Prince is behind him in the next instant jumping and plunging his blade through the thin skin layers between the bones.

Dee lets out a scream as the blade tears down and out of the wing, like a knife through a sail, like scissors through fabric, like an earring being ripped out of an ear. He flings downwards and hits the ground again and before he can think of moving a soft beam of white light hits him.

Dee convulses, he yelps, he tries to get up, but the Prince’s boot is on his chest pinning him down again and Dee’s out of tricks.--

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and everything that comes with it.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing.” Remus says.

Dee nods, and then without giving anyone any warning he launches towards Zeal, who doesn’t loose his stupid smile at all. He raises a hand like he’s going to high five Dee, and those white lights come out and suck away Dee’s transformation immediately. He lands on the ground at Zeal’s feet, with the asphalt tearing through his human flesh like it’s butter. --

--Dee doesn’t answer, still mulling one of his brilliant plans, or maybe waiting for stage directions from Remus who still hates the theater and thinks he hates it even more now. If he ever has to see another theater he’s going to set it on fire.

“Zeal is going to shoot a beam, if you take the sky the Prince gets your wing. Don’t fucking get near Zeal, dumbass.”

Dee nods and then without any sort of warning he lunges at The Prince, who parries him with his blade. The scales meet metal again and Dee hisses like he might spit venom, but the superhero grunts and forces him back with brute strength and not even Remus screaming give him enough time to prevent The Prince from shifting them around so that Zeal’s white beams of light hit Dee’s back.--

-- Dee doesn’t answer the hero.

“Can’t you turn into a beetle or something? Fly out of this,” Remus says. “Please.”

“That hopeless?” Dee asks him. “Okay.” And then he takes a deep breath and his form ripples and waves and pulls in on himself, like the reverse magic trick of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

“ZEAL!” The Prince shouts, and the white lights are flying towards him, even as Dee turns into a beetle and takes to the air. Remus screams as Dee is hit, even in such a small form, even at such a far distance, even against those impossible odds.--

--Dee doesn’t answer and Remus feels like throwing up. They need to win this, they need to get out of this, they need to escape, but Dee can’t and Remus can’t make him and… and...

And there’s a glint of metal in the corner of his vision.

“You leave me no choice,” The Prince says, and Remus barely hears him because he’s staring at a glock of some police guard long lost and long forgotten and long waiting with the safety off already.

This is a bad idea. Remus knows this is a bad idea. Its a bad idea, bad idea, bad ide--

-- Dee doesn’t answer and Remus is twenty-one years old with nothing to lose if Dee dies.

“Take The Prince, he’ll parry, but you’re stronger.” Remus says lunging for the gun on the ground because he’s insane and courting Death as much as he’s courting Dee. He's never held a gun before. It feels bad in his hands, feels weird, and strange and not at all like what he thought it was going to feel like.

Dee nods and lunges towards The Prince and Remus points his new glock at Zeal. The trigger practically pulls itself. Isn't that crazy?

The kickback is a shockwave that flies through Remus’s arm making it numb and the sound explodes just like his heart does in his chest. The shot goes wide, but it’s close enough to Zeal that he lets out a scream and his little rays of white light sail over both Dee and the Prince. Remus slams back into the side of the van out of sight of the heroes while his body shakes and his face pulls into a grin for a reason he can't explain. The techie is on the ground, covering the muffs of his headphones to press them tighter to his head.

“PAT!” The Prince shouts.

“Was that you?” Dee asks. “What the fuck, Re!”

Remus shoves his hands over his nose, stifling the blood flow as much as he can, teargas be damned. His head is thrumping with pain, and Remus wants to scream. His vision is blotchy and patchy like the world’s worst video game. He can barely breathe between the metallic taste in his mouth and the liquid flowing out his nostrils . It’s like throwing himself at a brick wall and expecting a different outcome; he’s at his limit, that limit that Dee told him not to cross, that limit that he’ll gladly ignore if it means that Dee will get out of this safe and sound and--

And he can see a flicker of green light and Dee gasps right before The Prince manages to get under his distracted guard and haul him up in the air. Then there’s green light flickering, dancing, flashing and fading and Dee’s body hits the ground so hard it forms a crater around him and--

-- The Prince steps forward gracefully, gallantly. He walks like he’s standing on the air, filled with an energy that Remus thought only came from drinking five Five Hour Energies and besting Death at hand to hand combat even with that torn up leg. His rapier sways through the air pointing down at Dee’s body.

“Tell your partner to surrender,” the hero commands. “Now.”

“I didn’t... expect him to do it either!” Dee says and it’s funny, Remus almost thinks that Dee is mad at him. That can’t be right!

“Give up, Basilisk.” The Prince says again, “Before someone gets hurt.”

Dee spits a mouthful of blood on the hero’s shoes. “People are already hurt! You are leading them to be hurt more, Prince! The FBE won’t help anyone!”

The Prince hesitates, maybe even uses that rusty brain in his head. “I…You truly believe that? Why can't you just trust me at my word?”

“What is the worth of your word?” Dee shoots back, scales glittering on the side of his face. “Anyone can go back on their words!”

Remus clings to the side of the van with white knuckles, tasting blood on his tongue and in the back of his mouth and on his lips. The hero is thinking, he’s thinking, and Remus thinks that maybe he can cross the distance quick enough to tackle the hero away from Dee and he’ll have a chance to escape.

“That is true,” the hero says. “Perhaps a sign of trust is then in order, then.”

Remus freezes.

The Prince reaches up slowly, plucking at the mask.

He should look away. Remus can’t look away.

Because he knows…he knows that face. He recognizes it. He’s seen that face a hundred million times before. He knows those lips, those brown eyes, that crinkle between his eyebrows and those unruly curls. He knows those cheekbones, and that jawline and the way that head tilts back when he laughs, and curls forward when he cries. Remus knows that face because he’s seen it every time he’s looked in a mirror, he’s been haunted by it for years now, been terrorized in the nights by that face. He’d seen that face covered in blood, that face gasping for air, that face crying and begging and anything to get him to stop, that face staring at him with a hateful vengeful ugly expression and saying “You can’t see the fut--”--

Remus leaves a bloody handprint on the hood of the news van as he vaults it and the techie in purple. His lungs scream in agony, but Remus can’t hear it at all. His heartbeat is thunderous, yet even that is nothing compared to the bloodlust washing over his mind.

Dee’s head whips up, his mouth moving in some type of exclamation, but it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters other than the rage in his head, in his body, in his veins that floods his limbs with the need to move.

The Prince hears him coming and his rapier comes up in an offensive attack, that Remus blocks with his left forearm. The blade sinks into his flesh and blood pours down Remus’s elbow and on the asphalt and the only thing he can think is that falling off the balcony, that getting run over on highways, that falling asleep in a motel bathtub with bloody keys in his hands, all hurt a hundred times worse than this itty, bitty little scratch.

He laughs.

"Hey Roman!" Remus says in a parody of a delighted tone, and The Prince stumbles back. "It’s been a while!"

[Chapter Eight]

#deja vu au #good god what happened here #Janus? Who's Janus?#the author asks thinking she's funny af #sanders sides #remus sanders #janus sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #We have the full cast now guys!#:)#I gave Remus a gun because its what he deserves #i'm so sorry #I hope you like that cliff hanger #I've been waiting to write it for a long time #god so much happened in this one

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