#because its not as if you turn 18 and you magically have adult brain | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

penajavier · 4 years ago

Text

though you are no god - Frankie Morales x f!reader

This idea had been brewing for a while and hanging out in my drafts for a longer while, but I’ve finally found the inspiration to clean it up and share it! I am clearly a beginner at this and feedback/critique is always welcome.

Title: though you are no god (credit)

Pairing: Francisco Morales x f!reader. One use of the word “girl”.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3.3k

Content/warnings: brief mentions of nightmares and trauma recovery, angst, smut, still somehow the sappiest shit I’ve ever written. frankie likes to be praised. strictly 18+

ao3

••••••••

The first time you get to witness Francisco Morales fall to his knees in front of you, you almost don't remember it happening.

His mouth presses hot and wet and urgent against your skin where he is bunching up your shirt to expose it. You are nearly as drunk as him, blindly pulling it off and throwing it somewhere behind him. The wall behind you is cool but does absolutely fuck-all to clear your head because oh god his hands are big and warm and his tongue is incessant and oh god this is Frankie, your goofy, kind, awkward, hot as fuck friend-of-a-friend. He pulls you forward a fraction just to tug on your pants and underwear, letting them gather around your feet without giving you the leg room to step out of them. He lifts your left leg over his shoulder with ease, and then his hands are bracing him against you and his tongue is working as if it has a mind of its own, circling your clit and sliding up your lips and you don't remember his fingers being that thick but somehow they are and you are close to going insane.

Maybe tomorrow you'll wonder how you ended up here, in a hallway in his apartment where he barely bothered to turn the lights on before pressing himself into you, effectively shutting off any sane connection you might have still retained to the world after however-many drinks you two had got in you. The night was supposed to be about Santi, you vaguely recall, but right now you honest to god cannot even remember what promotion he got that you were supposed to be celebrating. You might have made a mental note to apologize to him for leaving his party early, but Frankie adds another finger to your wet cunt and moans like it's pleasuring him more than you, and it's a real effort not to kick him in the chest or collapse on him then and there.

The fucker laughs as if he knows exactly what he's doing to you, and somehow increases his efforts to a degree you hadn't thought possible. It doesn't take much after that for you to feel that knot tightening in your belly, the electricity of it making your limbs shake. Only when he’s satisfied making you cum thoroughly on his tongue and his hand does he stand up, and for the first time since you got here, he speaks. "Hi," he says, the loopiest grin on his face, before leaning forward to kiss you without waiting for you to answer.

Your last remaining brain cell thinks to itself, this is going to be one hell of a night.

••••

The second time Frankie Morales falls to his knees in front of you, you can barely bring yourself to look at him.

It's been weeks (months?) since he practically fell off the grid, following your childhood best friend and designated bad-idea-haver Santiago Garcia into the guts of South America. You had reached the point where a part of you was bracing itself for the worst kind of news, of never getting to see your boys again or hell, not even knowing what the fuck happened to them down there. The rest of you was still holding on to your anger in a misplaced effort to stay hopeful, refusing to let you feel anything other than the need to wring their necks as soon as one of them walked back in the door. And that was it, the majority of your days spent getting on edge every time your phone rang or you felt you saw a familiar set of messy curls pass you by on the street, until you walked home one day to find him standing outside your door, hand poised to knock but hesitant.

"What the fuck?" the words escape you before you can help it, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. When he turns to look at you coming up behind him, you almost stop in shock at how absolutely shit he looks. "What the fuck?" you say again, seeming to have lost all your vocabulary at the sight of this stupid infuriating beautiful man finally standing in front of you in one piece, messy curls and all.

An eternity passes with the two of you simply staring at each other, your grocery bags forgotten in your hands and his fingers twitching in an effort to keep them to himself. The smell of fresh bread wafting from your grocery bag does little to alleviate any tension, and the silence is almost painful. You want to do something, say something of all the rage and hurt you've nursed in you at being left alone. How dare you, you want to bark at him, want to hold him by the collar and smack him or kiss his face raw.

You must take too long in your own head because he carefully extends a hand toward you, but you are so over-stimulated at the mere sight of him that you flinch.

That's what breaks him, you realize later when the storms have passed and the proverbial rivers have calmed. Not the pain and loss and grief of the mission - things he'll whisper into your chest when you let him - and not the physical battering he must have taken through it all. What breaks him is you flinching away from him, as if you'd forgotten who he was. It’s only me, it's your Frankie, he wants to scream; wants to gather you in his arms and breathe into your ribs. But all he can do is fall to the ground and plead with his eyes.

I'm sorry, mi alma he seems to be saying, and the sight of this glorious man breaking down in front of your doorstep makes you ache in the depths of your bones. You rush forward, all your anger evaporating away from you in the instant it takes to wrap your arms around him and let him rest his head on your stomach. The position is awkward at best. His touch feels almost alien and his hair doesn't smell like you're used to, but you let him cry, let him ruin the clothes you hadn’t given much thought to anyway, and it doesn't occur to either of you that the shirt is one of his that he'd left at your place.

You choke back the ocean rising in your throat, not knowing how to navigate everything you're feeling at the same time. Will we ever be okay? you wonder, your entire body feeling numb as he holds you just the tiniest bit more tightly.

You don't know then if you'll ever forgive him, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be the same man again, but right there in that moment none of it matters. What matters is that he is here, and you are holding him like you'd wished and prayed for in all those lonely nights. Maybe you'll never be okay like you used to be, but you have him for now, and you're too exhausted to think beyond that.

••••

The third time, it's fucking magical.

You and your Frankie have finally settled into a somewhat stable routine. After he left you with the promise to get his shit together, he made good on his word. It seemed as if the mission that must not be named put things into perspective for him - and for you, for that matter - and the two of you decided to give up on the delicate dance you kept orchestrating around each other. You had realized that you needed him much more than you could ever resent him for leaving, and he had realized he never wanted to feel the paralysing fear of thinking he'd never make it back to you again. You two had decided to sit down like adults and talk about it, and Frankie’s regular visits to his therapist had certainly helped.

Now, in the early morning light in your shared bedroom, he looks the very picture of calm. The birds chirp softly outside the window, blending in with the music of the traffic that you two have begrudgingly come to love. The nightmares haven't left him completely, but they're less frequent and far less incapacitating for him. You feel a rush of pride for how far he's come, how much effort he put into building himself back up piece by piece after being shattered to his bare bones. You’ve seen him curl into you out of fear and into himself during the moments of self loathing when he feels he doesn't deserve your kindness, but now he sleeps with his head tilted slightly upward, exposing the beautiful planes of his neck to you. He is beautiful, you've known it for as long as you've known him, but something about the soft sunlight turning his curls golden and the way you can tell he's truly at peace in this moment, brings tears to your eyes and makes your throat clench.

You lean up on your elbow and touch his face. His skin is soft, and he smells faintly of your body wash. Thief, you think fondly, brushing his unruly hair away from his forehead. he had stopped cutting it as frequently as he used to because he noticed you liked running your hands through it, and you realize with a jolt that that had been years ago, long before you two had any conversation about the future, even before he had his world turned upside down in the depths of an unnamed jungle. That is when you realize that Francisco Morales told you he loved you long before you had the sense to understand it, and this time you do cry.

He stirs in his sleep. You briefly worry that you woke him, but he simply turns his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply at your shoulder before falling back asleep. The feeling of his soft breaths against your skin makes you smile, and you feel yourself falling more in love with every one of them.

He wakes you up hours later with gentle kisses and the promise of pancakes, making you giggle with the way his moustache tickles your chin. When you find him in the kitchen later he seems more chipper than usual, smelling like a bakery and humming softly while setting the table for two. He greets you with a sweet kiss and pulls out your chair for you before sitting down in his own.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” you ask playfully, and he smiles wide behind his glasses that you’d finally convinced him he needed. Beautiful man, you can't help but think.

"Just wanted to do something nice for my girl," he answers with his mouth full and you flick a berry at him, which he expertly catches. "Oh so that's how it's gonna be," he puts down his fork and you start to run away, but he is far too quick. He catches you by your waist and pulls you into his chest, licking your cheek obscenely.

"Frankie, you dog!" you giggle, still fighting his grip.

"Dogs are cute," he shrugs, seemingly unfazed against you using all your force. He is gentle as anything with you, but he sure likes to show off his strength every once in a while. He lifts you effortlessly off the floor and sets you on the counter. "You think I'm cute?" he wiggles his eyebrows.

You almost playfully call him insufferable on autopilot, the way you've always bantered since you've known him. But you're aware now how he relies on verbal affirmations, and you've been making a conscious effort of supplying them whenever you can. So instead you hold his face in your palms and tell him that you think he's the most wonderful man in the world, and that you love him more than anything.

"Baby," he drops his head to your shoulder and sighs. You do this to him, making his heart swell and threaten to burst out of his ribs. He doesn't have the words, doesn't know how to tell you he feels like the luckiest man in the world every morning when he wakes up next to you, every time he hears your voice or feels your palm in his. He doesn't know how to tell you you've been his anchor and his best friend, or how he can't believe he gets to have this kind of domestic bliss at all. "Baby," he repeats, "I love you."

You try to deepen the kiss he initiates, but he pulls back and tells you he has plans for the day, telling you to get dressed for something outdoors. You feel a rush of happiness at the thought of him feeling more and more like himself with every day that passes, picking up old habits and finding joy in them. You kiss his cheek and run off to get dressed, beyond excited to see what he had planned.

The ride to the field is longer than you expected. Frankie has turned the radio on and it plays softly in the background as you two talk occasionally. It’s a calm morning, with the perfect weather that's neither too cold nor too warm. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it softly once he's parked, and then he hops out and opens your door for you.

"Such a gentleman," you tease.

"Yeah," is all he says before he's kissing you breathless against the truck. It takes you by surprise, but it's far from unwelcome.

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, and you can tell it takes a special amount of effort for him to pull away from you, his hands still holding you close as he pulls on yours and leads you deeper into the field. The grass is high enough to tickle your ankles, and the whisper of it against your skin feels wonderful. He slows down, the pace leisurely enough for you to appreciate the wildflowers growing around you. He’s careful not to step on any, and you're struck once again by the multitudes that exist within this one man. The same man who has confessed to sins you could never have thought him capable of, now so careful with a thing as gentle as a dandelion. You think about his hand that is so gentle in yours, and the memory of it firmly wrapping around your throat as he does unspeakable things to you makes you blush, and you will yourself to come back to the present.

Frankie has led you to a tree, and you notice a tree house resting on the sturdier branches. It’s new, you realize, and look at him quizzically.

"Remember how I was supposed to pick up new hobbies?" he says sheepishly, gently leading you around to the other side where you see wooden footrests leading up. He urges you to climb up, and you are still so surprised that you can only obey.

"I thought you'd like this," he's saying. "It can be our secret place, we come here whenever we want. Not that we don't already have a home and privacy but I thought this could be nice to have. Like a little getaway close to home." He's rambling now, as you notice all the fine details he has paid attention to in the construction of it.

"Honey? Do you like it?" he asks when you've been too quiet.

"Do I like it?" you ask incredulously. "Francisco Morales, this is amazing!"

He immediately breaks into a wide grin, and you can see that he is proud of himself. He looks almost like an eager child, and you love the way his eyes shine in that moment.

"There's one more thing," he leads you to a small opening in the wall that serves as a window. You can see the clear sky and the field stretching out under you, and the cool breeze feels like a gentle caress. It's a beautiful view, and you lose yourself in the sights and smells for a moment.

"So am I looking at something specific?" you ask, wondering what it was he wanted to show you.

He doesn't answer, though, and you turn around to repeat the question. The sight that meets you nearly knocks you off your feet, and you cover your gasp with your hand.

Frankie is on one knee, hat resting by his feet and hand extended, holding the most gorgeous ring you have ever laid eyes on. You might be biased, but you couldn't care less.

"Darling, I-" he starts, but you don't have the self control that he apparently does, and you throw your arms around him.

He wraps tightly around you, only letting you have enough room to look up and kiss him. And god do you kiss him. You kiss him like he has never been kissed before, like you could pour every ounce of affection you have for him into that one moment, needing him as close to you as possible.

You don't realise you're crying until he kisses the tears off your cheeks, and then he lifts your hand and slides the ring on.

••••

The fourth time comes that night, after you've spent your day in the field, holding on to each other and bursting with mutual joy.

He sits you down on the bed, and kneels in front of you, kissing your shoulders gently. "Hey, Mrs. Morales," he smiles as he says it, even as he's biting the soft skin at your clavicle.

You laugh, telling him that’s not how engagement rings work. He only grins against your skin and bites harder.

You scratch his head and he purrs, lifting his head briefly to give you a sweet kiss before he's pushing you to lie down. Let me take care of you, honey, he whispers. Then his hands are on your waist and his mouth is on your chest, making you writhe in place. He kisses and sucks and bites, making sure to give every part of you equal attention. So beautiful, he's talking almost to himself as he leaves a wet trail of kisses down to your tummy.

His hands meanwhile touch and grab and smooth over any part they can reach, moving as if of their own volition. He knows your body so well that he can map it with his eyes closed, can recognize it with his last breaths. He reaches your cunt and pulls you closer, closer, inhaling deeply and groaning like he's hardly staying in control.

With the same patience he had displayed earlier in the day he teases you mercilessly, kissing around where you need him most. You pull on his hair and he tuts and bites your thigh. What did I say, baby - a flick of his tongue against you - let me take care of you. You whine petulantly, and he tells you to be a good girl for him. He even says please, the asshole.

The first lick against your clit comes at the same time as his finger pushes into you, and it takes everything you have not to lift off the bed. So wet for me, he moans against you, the vibration making your pleasure amplify. You fist the sheets around you, telling him how fucking good he's making you feel, how good he always makes you feel. The praise fuels him on and he pushes two more fingers into you at the same time.

You are so full and so stimulated with his tongue incessant against your clit, and he has no plans of letting up. You feel your orgasm hit you quick and hard, and you can barely warn him before you're gushing, soaking his face and trying to pull away from the overstimulation.

He looks up at you, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He licks you clean until you're begging him to stop, and then he patiently kisses his way back up your body.

"That was... that was amazing," you're out of breath as you say it, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in to taste yourself.

"Oh honey," he coos. "I've barely started."

•••

fin.

Tagging some lovely mutuals whom I love and who are amazing writers: @disgruntledspacedad @pedropascaldice @frannyzooey. Please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged in the future (if there is a future) ❤️

#triple frontier fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #not rpf #yes im on hiatus yes i wrote a fic #we exist #and did i mention i've never seen the movie 🙂

145 notes · View notes

embrassemoi · 3 years ago

Text

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb!

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

��━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

70 notes · View notes

tossawary · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 26 “ What You Want” of “pride is not the word I’m looking for” quotes and commentary. Not a full list of favorite quotes or full commentary.

Oh, this got so long, though. I was like, “An opportunity to wax poetic about Moshang dynamics and characterization? An opportunity to talk about why my interpretations of Mobei-Jun and Shang Qinghua are Like That? SIGN ME UP.”

【Beginning next mission stage.】

【Death of the Author - Part 2: The Secret Basement of Shang Qinghua.】

【Mission objective: place the Weeper’s Eye on the pedestal.】

Shang Qinghua slowly sits up on his sofa. He stares at the pop-up window for however long it takes his brain to roll over completely.

“I don’t have a fucking basement?” he says finally.

AN: I have been waiting to use “I don’t have a fucking basement?” for months. Also, it’s been years for him, so Shang Qinghua is a little oblivious, BUT I would like to point readers all the way back to some paragraphs from Chapter 2.

Excerpt from Chapter 2: “A Horseshoe Nail”:

Shang Qinghua considers the point loss. What are his excuses character motivations here? Why is his unmerciful System not completely skewering him for this?

He is the servant of a demon lord, Mobei-Jun, the future Northern King, so he has a greater investment than most cultivators in the future of the Demon Realm, so it’s not unreasonable for him to seek out any bastards of Tianlang-Jun without handing the demon baby over to a righteous sect. He’s also a Peak Lord of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, so it’s not unreasonable for him to be interested in any rumors of the whereabouts of Su Xiyan or what happened to her, for political leverage or whatever. The character of Shang Qinghua originally was and still is a spy - on top of being a shameless coward willing to cling to anyone’s thighs and then stab them in the back, in order to stay alive or advance himself.

There are plenty of magical artifacts in this world that might give a power-grubbing weakling like Shang Qinghua an insight into the future. As Peak Lord of An Ding, Shang Qinghua is, in fact, in a pretty good place to get his greedy hands on one of these magical artifacts. Isn’t that what a good spy and overall ambitious snake would do?

Especially a spy serving a demon lord extremely likely to get fed up with him and kill him at some point? While also serving a righteous cultivation sect extremely likely to execute him for eventually betraying them? Of course Shang Qinghua would obviously want to know how to save his own ass from these ticking time-bombs! And how better to save his own ass than shamelessly clinging to the golden thighs of the protagonist, who will one day conquer every other demon lord and all righteous sects?

Following Luo Binghe means being on the endgame winning team!

Shang Qinghua looks over the pop-up window’s numbers over again, in regards to the loss of points. True, how exactly he tracked down Su Xiyan’s half-demon baby when the Huan Hua Palace Master failed is a bit of a plot-hole, but the rest can be easily explained away with a bit of creativity!

Oh, the rest of the cultivation world didn’t know Su Xiyan was pregnant? Well, Shang Qinghua is a slimy, sneaky spy, who would of course guess that a female cultivator might suddenly disappear like that for months-on-end due to a secret pregnancy! And given that Su Xiyan’s reputation had been linked to a passionately self-destructive Tianlang-Jun… Okay, he can feel the anti-fan rage at that mildly sexist line of thinking, but it stands! It stands!

Now, Shang Qinghua just has to… actually decide… whether or not he wants to take the point loss, in order to save the life of his protagonist son’s adoptive mother, Luo Jiahui.

Shang Qinghua, my darling fool of an Author God, your System is listening to the things you say and think.

I have been WORKING here to foreshadow where I’m going with this story. I’m pretty sure that every single endgame plot point has shown up and is now in play in PINTWILF. Shang Qinghua, due to situational awareness, is dealing with too much in-world shit to narrow things down easily, but it’s all there! It will hopefully not seem as though I’m pulling things out of nowhere in the next and final part (Part 4) of this fic.

“This makes me look crazy, bro,” Shang Qinghua complains to the System. “It really does. I already have to be careful about talking to the secret, world-controlling system that lives in my head and this? This is not making me look any more stable! Where did this come from? Where the fuck did I even get it?! ”

Oh, things are coming together in Shang Qinghua’s head and he doesn’t know if he really likes the picture. On one hand, it’s always nice to actually have someone or something to blame for things beyond the fucking System. On the other hand, he really doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to sleep at night with a full-length, polished silver mirror with an ornate golden frame under his house.

AN: Shang Qinghua, have you noticed that you’ve stopped losing points for continuity errors and plot holes? Shang Qinghua, you know that the people in your life have noticed that you know too much. They’ve just decided not to question you about it because you always look like you’re going to faint when they do, then you laugh and change the subject.

But now Shen Qingqiu is on to you and he’s not so easy to shake.

(Plus Shen Yuan! They’re terriers, SQH!)

He turns away from the mirror, only for a second System window to pop up in front of him. Only… the design of this one is different. Familiar, though! It takes Shang Qinghua a second to place it as Peerless Cucumber- as Shen Yuan’s Transmigration System.

【 Users cannot be injured, killed, or trapped inside the looking-glass! The user will not be able to touch or be touched by anything inside the looking-glass! The user will be returned from the looking-glass within thirty minutes, unharmed! A substantial point reward is attached to this bonus mission. 】

“Right,” Shang Qinghua says.

This second pop-up window then shifts colors and is ruthlessly closed before his eyes. Ah, wow, Shang Qinghua kind of feels like he just saw someone get murdered here.

“...How many points?” he asks finally, reluctantly curious.

AN: Having the Systems fight is so much fun. My setup here in PINTWILF has it so that there’s a main Worldbuilding System that does its best to maintain the world, then each transmigrator has their own personal Transmigration System managing their case.

This is so the Worldbuilding System can maintain the world without the presence of transmigrators, and so the personal Systems can potentially follow their transmigrators into another world. All the Systems interact with each other in order to try to manage things and there are... issues.

Look, the thing about simulated (or managed) realities for me is... someone coded the thing (or did some equivalent of coding the thing), and whether or not this thing in question is the world or just the System, if there are multiple entities trying to manage things, there’s going to be fuck-ups. You can’t have two cooks in the kitchen without points where the two cooks get in each other’s way at least a little bit. If there are multiple Systems, then you’re going to have friction, and that friction can be funny.

Inspired by me trying to run two heavy art programs on my computer at once and being like, “Oh, boy, please don’t burst into flames while duking it out in there. Oh, man, you two were NOT made to operate together, huh?”

He knows he’s right when he walks away from some kind of important-looking procession, stepping into the next room at the same time as someone else, who looks directly at him and doesn’t look away. Shang Qinghua freezes in the doorway and doesn’t let himself stare so much as he can’t stop himself.

“Oh, no,” Shang Qinghua thinks.

There’s a man standing in front of him, tall and broad-shouldered, with an ageless youth, but a sharp gaze and no youthful roundness to his features. His curly black hair has been cursorily held back from his face by a golden ornament, but is otherwise loose, and he wears his ornate red and black robes well and correctly, but like a man with a hundred more.

The man flicks a strong hand at the doors behind Shang Qinghua, which slam shut with a bang, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

He smiles unkindly. “Shang-Shishu,” he says, like he’s tasting the title, considering tearing it apart with his teeth. “So it's true. How curious.”

There’s no way for Shang Qinghua to count how many times he’s seen this face before, but he’s never seen it like this. The man looks like an emperor. He looks like a god. The red mark of the Heavenly Demons burns like a crown in the middle of his forehead.

Shang Qinghua takes an unwilling step back.

“What are you afraid of?” the original Luo Binghe says, still smiling. “We’re only talking.”

AN: I tried to make this meeting mirror Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe’s first scene in Part 3 of the fic, in which we finally meet the Luo Binghe (Shang Qinghua’s nephew) who is going to interact with the PIDW plot.

Excerpt from Chapter 18: “The Inevitable Plot”:

The restaurant is closed when Shang Qinghua lets himself in. The tables in the dining room are still packed up, lit by dim light through shuttered windows, and the only sign of another person are the chopping sounds coming from the brightness of the kitchen. Shang Qinghua stops in the doorway and lets himself stare.

There’s a young teenage boy standing at the counter, thirteen going on fourteen, still not yet near his adult height (taller than Shang Qinghua, a fact he's still not prepared to face), still carrying a youthful roundness to his features. Shang Qinghua has seen him like this a hundred times before: curly black hair tied back, a kerchief covering his head to keep it out of his eyes, a slightly yellowed matching apron neatly tied just the way his mother taught him, and intent on the work in front of him. His hands are quick, the knife sharp and sure, and the movements of food preparation work slide right into each other like he’s done this a thousand times before.

When did the boy get so big? It didn’t happen all at once; it snuck up on them, hiding dastardly in plain sight! Shang Qinghua remembers when his nephew barely came up to his waist. Fuck, Shang Qinghua remembers when his nephew couldn’t walk. What is this? Who allowed time to pass like this?

Luo Binghe scrapes the chopped vegetables off the board and into the basket beside him, before putting down the knife and turning around. He smiles.

There’s no way for Shang Qinghua to count how many times he’s seen that before.

“Uncle,” the protagonist says fondly. “You’re here.”

“Let’s talk,” Luo Binghe calls out, cajoling now. “Stop running and speak to me and perhaps old hurts can be forgiven. All that condonation and betrayal is so far in the past now. This lord can be merciful, Shang Qinghua. Just speak: how many things have you been hiding...?”

AN: This is PIDW Luo Binghe, by the way.

Once I realized I was going to have a room full of fortune-telling devices, I was like... “Ooh! Bing-Ge scene! I should have a Bing-Ge scene!” Because, like, that’s the curse of SVSSS transmigrator protagonists who trip into caring about Luo Binghe, baby!

Shang Qinghua takes some deep breaths to calm his poor, weak heart, and nearly falls to the floor anyway! But he catches himself!

And then a large, cold hand wraps around his arm to steady him. It’s the cold that keeps him from lashing out and probably breaking his own hand. Instead, he looks up, heart still pounding in his ears, into the frowning face of Mobei-Jun.

“Oh, you have the worst timing,” Shang Qinghua breathes.

Mobei-Jun’s expression twitches and he lets go.

“No!” Shang Qinghua chases the hand with his own, catching it before the man can get too far. “My king, I’m so glad to see you! Thank you for finally coming! I have so much to say,” he says quickly. “I-”

Before he realizes that he’s essentially holding Mobei-Jun’s hand for no reason now - ah, now that’s something he never would have dared to do like twenty years ago - and carefully drops it. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the panic still racing through his veins. And then promptly realizes that Mobei-Jun is here. The demon lord is here in this secret basement.

AN: Moshang in this fic is... hmmm... a little weird sometimes, because a lot of it has been happening in the background. A lot of it has been unspoken until Shang Qinghua’s breakdown and until now.

Shang Qinghua isn’t actually as scared of Mobei-Jun in this fic as he is in SVSSS, and I hope that comes across. When he had his breakdown, part of it was fear, but a large part of it was also actually anger. Shang Qinghua was afraid of how the System had changed his life, but he was also angry about this loss of control. Yes, he was terrified of Mobei-Jun because he didn’t know if it was still his Mobei-Jun, which brought lots of old memories and old anger to the surface, in which Shang Qinghua was kind of like, “How dare you think you get to freely touch me after the things you did and never apologized for?”

BUT the status quo in this world, before the World Update, is one in which Mobei-Jun touches Shang Qinghua’s hip without SQH flinching. It’s one in which SQH and MBJ drink and relax together. It’s one in which SQH isn’t afraid to reach out and grab MBJ’s hand, because he misses MBJ.

They’re so close, they just need to actually talk it out.

Shang Qinghua glances at the ladder and the open hole in the floor. “Ah, my king, did you… climb down here looking for me?”

“Yes,” Mobei-Jun answers, looking around with sharp eyes. He doesn’t seem to be very impressed with what he’s seeing. “...What is this place?”

“My, ah, my basement,” Shang Qinghua answers, leaving out the part where he didn’t even know he had one until about an hour ago. The System is determined to make him look like a bit of a madman, huh? “It’s just… just some artifacts and tools. I don’t… I don’t really come down here a lot…”

Mobei-Jun finishes studying the room, then stares at him again, his gaze more piercing than ever.

“The future concerns you this much?” he says.

Shang Qinghua is totally prepared to deny everything, but the phrasing of that cuts off every story he might try to tell. He glances around the room, full of these broken, desperate, stolen things. It’s… reflecting.

“...Yes,” he admits, hoarsely. Then coughs. “I… my king, we should… talk.”

“Yes,” Mobei-Jun agrees.

“But, ah, not here? I don’t… like it here.”

“Yes.”

AN: Mobei-Jun is one of the people who has noticed that Shang Qinghua knows more than he should. And now, thanks to this secret basement, Mobei-Jun has an explanation for why Shang Qinghua knows more than he should!

If you don’t know about the System element, then this basement is actually pretty in-character for the new Shang Qinghua of PINTWILF.

He is so scared of the future. He’s invested in the story now.

Shang Qinghua isn’t surprised at all when the special item speaks again as soon as it’s back in his hand.

Why would it shut up now, after all?

“He has no name but the position he has been promised to, which he may not live to see,” the Weeper’s Eye says, which pulls Shang Qinghua’s gaze back to the demon lord waiting for him. “His father uses him as a tool. His mother is long departed. His uncle wants him dead. He has long known that these broken promises cannot be undone… but he knows new promises may yet be made.”

Mobei-Jun is frowning at the crystal eye in Shang Qinghua’s hand, looking between it and Shang Qinghua’s own eyes.

He’s not dressed-up the same way he was the last time Shang Qinghua saw him - no especially fancy robes or ornaments or jewelry. He looks like himself this time.

“If these ones are not kept, there will be nothing for the nameless man who will be king.”

Shang Qinghua doesn’t move.

AN: I mentioned exploring Mobei-Jun not having a name in the commentary on the previous chapter. I guess that’s my take on PIDW Mobei-Jun... that the man doesn’t really have anything outside of his position. He’s a king, in service to a tyrant, and he’s never going to let anyone in. He’s just... cold... the whole way through. PIDW Mobei-Jun has an icy throne and nothing else.

PINTWILF (and SVSSS) Mobei-Jun has the Airplane version of Shang Qinghua. When Airplane saved MBJ’s life, the System wasn’t making him do it, he made that choice for himself. The System was willing to let MBJ die (and, in my headcanon, be replaced by some ice demon cousin or LGJ). So, MBJ turns around and chooses Shang Qinghua for himself.

Shang Qinghua was like, “No! This character can’t be replaced! You can’t just dress someone else up as Mobei-Jun! You can’t just let the character die! It has to be this man in that role! No one else!”

When Mobei-Jun is coming to talk to Shang Qinghua in this fic, in this moment, he is making this choice for himself, the nameless man who has been promised a position he might not live to see. That’s what the Weeper’s Eye is getting at. If Shang Qinghua doesn’t want to hear the promises Mobei-Jun is will to make him, there might as well not be anything in Mobei-Jun’s future to make him an individual, more than a cold figure acting out a part.

“...Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-Jun says finally. “I will not hurt you.”

Shang Qinghua’s gaze snaps from the crystal eye in his hand, back to the demon lord standing by the exit to this secret basement.

“We will speak,” Mobei-Jun says solemnly, slowly, like someone repeating the lines of a script. “I wish to be understood by you. I have not known how. Yet I must try now… in my own words… and you must listen.”

Shang Qinghua swallows.

The anger - the frustration - breaking through at the end there sounds more like the man he knows. He’s pretty sure that’s meant to be a request, but it sounds like an order.

AN: After their last conversation, Mobei-Jun had a lot of soul-searching to do, and one of the conclusions he came to is that he can’t take anything for granted. He has to made explicitly clear, using words, which is apparently what matters with humans and with this human in particular, everything he feels. He can’t take the risk of continuing to hurt Shang Qinghua by letting the man think that he doesn’t regret hurting him or may hurt him again someday.

He puts the Weeper’s Eye down.

He’s really sick of this thing. He doesn't want to carry it around all the time.

It only tells him things he knows, anyway.

AN: We’ll get into the Weeper’s Eye in future chapters, but it’s... it’s not really a mind-reading device. It kind of is. It is a little bit. But part of the reason it’s so informative here is that Shang Qinghua is holding it and Shang Qinghua actually knows a lot about his characters and the people in his life.

Even the original characters, like Fanli, he knows well. She’s his family. He’s privy to Fanli’s problems through Jiahui and Liu Qingge if nothing else.

With Shen Yuan, he doesn’t know the kid well yet, but his fellow transmigrator isn’t that difficult to read and he’s been where Shen Yuan is.

Shang Qinghua putting the Weeper’s Eye down here is a show of trust of sorts. It’s a way of telling himself to get out of his own head, away from character roles and exaggerated panic, and put himself in the moment with someone he knows and... well... trusts and wants to trust even more.

Shang Qinghua follows Mobei-Jun out of the basement, removing the spiritual seal from the wall, which makes the creepy basement entrance disappear, then replacing the flower that covered it. He hesitantly follows the demon lord back to the main room of his Leisure House. He has no idea how to stand, suddenly, or where to stand.

Mobei-Jun looks very determined.

“So, ah, should we… sit?”

“No,” Mobei-Jun replies, then abruptly says, “Shang Qinghua, you do not have to fear me. I do not wish to cause you any pain. Now or in the future.”

Shang Qinghua stares, wide-eyed.

That’s not… something he ever expected to hear explicitly.

Good! It's good, though! Very good.

It's great, really.

“...Thank you,” he says, stunned. “I don’t want to cause you pain either?”

“You have shown as much. Many times.”

This is probably not the time for an “Yes, I did tell you so” in any form!

Instead, trying to remember all the speeches he prepared while waiting, Shang Qinghua says, “You have too! In your own way! I just… my king, last time you visited was a… it was a very bad day for me. I apologize for my behavior! I was speaking from a place of-”

“Fear,” Mobei-Jun interrupts darkly. “Well-deserved.”

“Ah, well…”

“You believed that I would hurt you, in your state,” Mobei-Jun says.

“I was… it was very a bad and confused state, my king.”

“...You do not trust me.”

Shang Qinghua’s voice dries up on him. He wouldn’t put it that way, exactly! That sounds pretty terrible when said in such a blunt way. They’ve moved past that, haven’t they? It’s more that he trusts different people with different things! He trusts Luo Jiahui to be Luo Jiahui, and Liu Qingge to be Liu Qingge, and Mobei-Jun… to be Mobei-Jun.

AN: Shang Qinghua and Mobei-Jun got really far without explicitly talking about things, but at some point that stopped cutting it.

“I have hurt you before,” Mobei-Jun says, looking at him directly. “From a place of fear… of anger… of… misunderstanding. I am… sorry for this. I will not do so again. I was wrong to treat you in such a way.”

Shang Qinghua takes in a deep breath… and out again.

Fuck, it feels like his eyes are burning.

“You have my respect,” Mobei-Jun says quietly, urgently, not letting up on getting all of these words out into the open. “You have my regard. You have my trust. Yet I have not shown this in a way that you have understood, so you could not share this. I have demanded your loyalty without being deserving of it.”

“My king,” Shang Qinghua protests, taking a step forward. “I was- I should have said-”

“You did. Many times. In many ways. I did not understand.”

“I wasn’t very clear either-”

“It was my responsibility to be clear. I must be clear now.”

“You’re being very clear now,” Shang Qinghua agrees quickly. If things get any clearer here, if any more of the things they’ve left unspoken get said, his heart won’t be able to take it. “Thank you, my king. It means- thank you."

Mobei-Jun nods. He looks relieved.

AN: I wanted to write a version of Moshang that felt... a little more mature? Shang Qinghua has developed a lot in this fic. He has grown as a person. And Mobei-Jun has seen this growth over the years.

Mobei-Jun has also been able to see into this Shang Qinghua in a way that wasn’t available in SVSSS canon. I think that SVSSS Shang Qinghua was locked the fuck down. I think he was almost completely inaccessible and offered very, very few openings for connection.

But in this universe, Mobei-Jun actually knows a lot more about Shang Qinghua. He knows what motivates Shang Qinghua. He knows that Shang Qinghua is a doting uncle and a doting older brother. He knows that Shang Qinghua has come to care for his sect. He knows that Shang Qinghua is intelligent and resourceful and funny. They drink together and talk politics! Mobei-Jun knows that Shang Qinghua is loyal and tired and trustworthy.

So... there was an opening here that didn’t exist in SVSSS canon.

And Mobei-Jun took it.

Shang Qinghua knows that cultural differences are a hell of a thing here, but everything being understandable in hindsight didn't make it not fucking hurt. It still hurts, even finally having the apology he never thought he'd get.

"...We’ve been pretty bad at understanding each other, huh?”

“It has often seemed as though we were not meant to meet,” the demon lord says softly.

Shang Qinghua, who can't imagine getting through his transmigration experience without meeting this man, thinks over all the unknowing irony in that statement.

"...Maybe."

“The differences are… significant.”

Shang Qinghua laughs, almost disbelieving. “That’s a word for it!”

"But not impassable."

"Ah… I… hope not."

AN: I’ll probably make a separate post for this, but I love Moshang transmigrator reveals. Bingqiu transmigrator reveals are mostly about the Abyss, which is great, because that needs clearing up. MOSHANG transmigrator reveals are like, “My weak human husband is a god???”

Also love it when MBJ is like, “Yes, this makes sense.”

“I have never known what you have wanted from me,” Mobei-Jun says next, like a confession. “Your life, you have said, time and time again. Though I am only alive by your grace. You demand none of what you deserve of me.”

“...I don’t think ‘deserve’ is a good word for this,” Shang Qinghua says, which probably isn’t the right thing to say, but he’s really too stunned to come up with anything better. He really didn’t prepare for the right conversation here. “Aha, sorry, my king. It’s just… I don’t think I like to think about it in terms of ‘owing’ anymore. Between us. At least… not like some sort of strict balance? I do something nice for you, you owe me. You do something bad to me, I get to hurt you. Not… not like that.”

Mobei-Jun thinks about it.

“Sorry, I don’t really know what I’m saying-”

“You are deserving of better than what I have given you,” Mobei-Jun insists, determinedly. “I do not understand you. I have never understood you.”

Shang Qinghua feels the same way.

“But I would like to,” Mobei-Jun says next. “I would if you would allow it.”

AN: Mobei-Jun is only alive because Shang Qinghua saved him and he knows it! And Shang Qinghua has never made the demands he should have made, having that kind of leverage over Mobei-Jun!

I’ve always wondered if this is deeply romantic by demon standards. Like, not inherently romantic. But I would bet that Mobei-Jun really likes the idea of a relationship where no one is keeping score... no one is granting favors to use like a leash of obligation... no one owes the other things they don’t want to give. I would bet that Mobei-Jun really, really likes the idea of a relationship where affection is freely given because the people in it want to give it.

He does feel as though he owes Shang Qinghua, but I think Mobei-Jun likes the idea that his favor is his to give just because he wants to give it.

Mobei-Jun lifts a hand, slowly, and holds it out.

Shang Qinghua thinks about it.

He thinks about it again.

He reaches back and puts his hand in Mobei-Jun’s own, which is as cool to the touch as always, and moves over his skin carefully. His hold is so light that Shang Qinghua could break it without any issue at all.

They stay there, like that, looking at each other.

Looking at their hands, holding without hurting, after everything. It's such a small gesture.

It feels kind of like a miracle.

AN: I am... a huge fucking sucker for Mobei-Jun holding Shang Qinghua waaaaay too lightly because he won’t risk hurting Shang Qinghua again. Like, this man is going to take it from the top. No more assumptions.

“What do you want, Shang Qinghua?” Mobei-Jun says, voice turning up at the end, in the closest thing that the man might ever come to helplessness. “What do you want from this?”

“I…” Shang Qinghua wipes at his burning eyes with his free hand. This is kind of pitiful. “Fuck.”

Mobei-Jun lifts his free hand and uses his own sleeve to wipe at Shang Qinghua’s tears, like his robes aren’t important to him at all. “Ask,” the man says, in the tone of a promise. “You do not have to fear the future. Anything I have to give is yours.”

Shang Qinghua gives up on trying to speak and just moves forward to bury his face in Mobei-Jun’s chest. Fuck it. The demon lord who was supposed to kill his character lets him do it. Mobei-Jun holds on to him, arms heavy but still so careful, the man’s chest moving in a sigh that sounds like relief.

This really was too many unspoken things to finally say aloud all at once.

AN: So, yeah! That’s what I’m been building up to with the Jiahui/Qingge marriage and the Qijiu fights and makeup, getting Shang Qinghua to think about what he wants from his relationship with Mobei-Jun. Luo Jiahui and Shen Qingqiu have basically been throwing the question at him repeatedly: “What do you want from this life, Shang Qinghua?”

Because it can’t all be plot! You’ve taken your family for yourself, but you can have more than that! You’ve made so many choices already... you can take this last step and make this choice too. Let Mobei-Jun in.

A lot of Moshang plots end up being “Shang Qinghua’s inability to communicate versus Mobei-Jun’s inability to communicate”. Which is great! That’s Moshang! And some external issue (a rival demon lord, Linguang-Jun, etc.) will end up being the secondary plot which acts as a scenario pusher for the primary plot of the Moshang relationship. Again, great stuff!

But since the romance isn’t the focus of this fic, I decided it would be fun to have a more “Shang Qinghua and Mobei-Jun versus the problem” take. (Which also shows up in lots of Moshang fics! Definitely not exclusive to this fic at all!) I’m looking forward to having Shang Qinghua and Mobei-Jun actually try and tackle problems together, as a couple, inside the main “Family of Choice” plot.

Which isn’t to say that Moshang have totally worked out their relationship here. They have only just gotten together. Mobei-Jun still has issues. Shang Qinghua still has many issues. They’ve got a lot to work out together. They’ve never been in a relationship like this before and there’s a lot of people out there who would object to their relationship! Their relationship is going to continue to grow as the fic continues. They’re going to have a few bumps in the road.

But I really like the idea of Mobei-Jun being Shang Qinghua’s rock in this fic. This man has been so stressed. He needs a hug from his ice demon boyfriend who can soothe headaches with a hand.

When Shang Qinghua feels like he has himself more under control, he draws back just far enough to say, “My king, will you kiss me?”

Mobei-Jun’s expression is already soft, at least by his standards. His gaze turns hooded before he leans down as Shang Qinghua leans up. Shang Qinghua takes the man’s face between his hands to kiss him. It feels nice, if uncertain, with the hunger of something a long time coming at the end of it. There's years worth of wanting in this.

It has been so fucking long since Shang Qinghua kissed anyone.

He breaks the kiss and has to stifle laughter, clinging to the front of Mobei-Jun’s robes, which the man never closes properly, so now Shang Qinghua is never going to be able to not thinking about touching it. It’s a very nice chest to touch. He knew it would be.

Mobei-Jun’s brow furrows slightly, his hands staying on Shang Qinghua’s hips.

“What?”

Ah, sorry! Sorry, my king! It’s just- this is such a ridiculous detail to get stuck on, but your lips are kind of cold? I’ve, ah, I’ve always kind of wondered,” Shang Qinghua confesses quietly, without really meaning to actually say it. Holy shit, he’s going to blame saying something like this after that on the fact that he’s had a very long and very weird day. “Sorry. I'm really tired. It's fine. It's good.”

Mobei-Jun snorts and kisses him again, as if to say, “Deal with it.”

AN: Cute! Mobei-Jun likes it when Shang Qinghua laughs. I stand by this.

#tossawary svsss #tossawary commentary #pride is not the word #moshang #mobei jun #shang qinghua

109 notes · View notes

theworldbrewery · 4 years ago

Text

what does it mean to play with a high (or low) stat?

fun fact: “commoners” (i.e., your average unskilled random) have a 10 in every ability score.

they are the average of the average. the most middle-of-the-road we can achieve. and they will never reflect your Player Character’s reality.

but they are a great baseline for determining where your characters are outstanding, and where they will struggle.

An average person can lift 50 lbs comfortably, has enough hand-eye coordination to play a decent game of ping-pong against an equally-matched opponent, can fight off most communicable diseases, knows how to read, can tell when they need more information to be able to act, and is able to handle basic social contact when there is no reason for conflict.

***note--I’m using these “averages” to talk about what a non-disabled and neurotypical person will be generally capable of without training or honing a particular skill. Being within 2-3 ability score points of the average doesn’t necessarily require justification, but it might still be fun to explore***

so your barbarian with an 18 in strength isn’t just an outlier, it’s a major difference from what Jane Ordinary can manage on a typical day, and the sweet-talking powers of your 20-charisma sorcerer are going to feel supernatural compared with what the traveling horse salesman is used to. When you’re creating a character, whether that’s an NPC with class levels or a player character, consider why a character’s stats are the way they are.

If they were naturally gifted, is that why they felt called to the class they chose? Did they work hard to be where they are today, and let other abilities fall by the wayside? Did a higher power imbue them with strength, charisma, or wisdom to make a perfect vessel for their plans? Reimagining the reasons behind your statistics can help develop your backstory and even factor into your character arc down the line.

***Another note: be especially self-aware if you’re going to play a neuroatypical, mentally ill, or disabled character and you aren’t yourself a member of the group you’re representing. I love representation but don’t be insensitive---and if anything I mention here comes off as insensitive, let me know and I’ll adjust accordingly!***

STRENGTH:

At first level, a higher-than-average STR score is going to reflect a lot of training, whether intentional or not. The character may have grown up chopping wood and hauling logs around a woodland village, spent their young adulthood in a mine, or studied with bodybuilders in a remote bodybuilder monastery.

In contrast, a lower-than-average STR score might correspond to a pampered lifestyle, one where the character never needed physical labor to get by; or perhaps they have a disability, such as a bad back, or a chronic illness that leaves their muscles weaker than usual.

DEXTERITY:

A character with a high DEX is flexible and fast. They might have been an acrobat in a circus, flipping around on the trapeze. An urchin whose two options are move fast or get arrested is also likely to be dextrous, as much as a noble who, as a child, often crept around and hid in their family estate to avoid lessons or spy on the adults. They might be from a tree-dwelling community where leaping across platforms is commonplace, or use their dexterity on the rigging of the ship they made their home. A very dextrous person might even have EDS or another condition that makes them hyper-flexible.

A low DEX might, like low STR, match with a disability like arthritis or an old leg injury that never healed properly, or it could align with pressure to behave properly in polite company--never running, climbing, or skulking around. Low DEX could also translate to clumsiness, a fear of taking physical risks, or a tremor that makes Sleight of Hand difficult.

CONSTITUTION:

High CON is a matter of resistance to illness, poison/drugs/alcohol, and general hardiness or stamina. A high CON character might take vitamins and supplements to keep their peak physical condition, do exercises to increase lung capacity or practice running to build endurance. They may take small doses of poison to build up immunity, or maybe they’ve been a low-grade alcoholic for so long their liver is adept at filtering out toxins. They might have done charity marathons to raise money for good causes back home.

Low CON might therefore translate to an arrhythmia or other chronic illnesses such as asthma, POTS, or even severe allergies. The low CON character could have been trapped in a sheltered upbringing that never exposed them to disease or required them to stand and move for hours. Maybe they have never been exposed to drink or drugs and are an incurable lightweight.

INTELLIGENCE:

A high-INT character may have spent years under the tutelage of scholars, worked hard to get into an educational institution, or learned history and magic from the elders of their community with the intent to carry the knowledge into the next generation. They may have autism that helps with information recall, ADHD that leads to hyperfocus on a few specific topics, or another form of neurodiversity.

A low-INT character may have never had the chance to learn from their uneducated family, or be so without a community that no one bothered to teach them. They might have a learning disability, memory problems, or chronic fatigue that causes brain fog.

WISDOM:

A high-WIS character is generally observant, able to assess the intentions of others, clear-headed, and pragmatic--or at least practical. High Wisdom may come from being taught from a young age to pay attention to one’s surroundings, be a part of a community’s religious or ethical worldview, or be a necessary skill developed for survival in a world full of hazards or underhanded strangers. High WIS scores can also derive from anxiety or trauma that make characters more sensitive to information and more likely to observe patterns that otherwise go unnoticed.

Low WIS characters might have very little life experience, or be naive because of the way they’ve been taught to view the world. They might have issues with visual or auditory processing that affect their perception, have low empathy that makes insight a struggle, or experience depression, psychosis, or paranoia that leads to difficulty assessing what is real.

CHARISMA:

High CHA characters may spend months or years mastering the performing arts, honing their ability to lie or stretch the truth, or practicing their most intimidating posture. Or their Charisma may stem from being completely genuine and trustworthy, without any apparent artifice. Characters with sociopathy may know how to turn any social encounter to their advantage, and those with high empathy may be simply likeable. A high-CHA character could be funny, attractive, talented, or have a magnetic personality for any number of reasons, including trying to impress a particular social group or person, a career goal as a comedian or performer, or being raised with rustic hospitality.

A low-CHA character may have trouble with eye contact or even be compulsively unable to lie (or a compulsive liar that’s simply unconvincing); they might have sensory issues that make them sensitive to music or certain vocal timbres, or they might be brusque and businesslike. Low Charisma can stem from a roughshod upbringing, a cultural emphasis on stark honesty even when unsolicited, or a lack of awareness for someone else’s perspective. Even a speech impediment or a trauma that leads to skittishness can read as low-Charisma if you want to play it that way (though it doesn’t have to be).

Sometimes, a character is in the middle-of-the-road but you still want to include one of the options mentioned above. In that case, they could have multiple “conflicting” influences in their background. A character with ADHD might be very good with a specific subject but the ADHD also manifests as memory issues, reflecting a 12 Intelligence score and its ambiguity (and proficiency in specific skills will reflect the specificity of hyperfocus, for instance).

None of these are hard-and-fast rules. If you want to play a character with chronic pain that doesn’t have a matching low score, that’s also amazing! But if you’re starting from the stats and want to figure out the “in-game justification” for why someone’s abilities are where they are, I hope this little outline helps.

If you like our posts, consider donating to our Ko-Fi @ theworldbrewery. We are saving up for Volo’s Guide to Monsters (and I’m kinda looking forward to trashing Volo’s opinions)

#dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #rpgs #character creation

333 notes · View notes

prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

Text

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 1 [NSFW/18+]

Chapter 2 ->

Summary: You can’t stand Frederick Chilton, but after he’s tortured and left scarred by a former patient, you are afflicted by an irrepressible desire to get him in bed.

This has been posted on AO3 for awhile, but I thought I’d post the chapters here! (Took the liberty of fleshing out the short smut a wee bit.)

2,380 words

Dr. Frederick Chilton was arrogant and unpleasant.

Everyone thought so, but most would dance around their hostility toward him with subtle digs couched in polite conversation. Not you. You weren’t shy about saying it to his face.

As he exited the courtroom doors, Dr. Chilton saw you waiting in the hall to ambush him, and braced himself for another soapbox diatribe.

Such a shame, he thought. He recalled how he had tried to make a good impression when you first met, but all his charm kept backfiring, and now you patently despised him. His failure to curry favor was nothing out of the ordinary, but unfortunately, he still had to deal with you. You were one of Crawford’s lackeys, and had made yourself inescapable since Will Graham’s arrest.

“You conniving, idiotic, condescending weasel!” you exploded upon the man with an expensive suit and gaudy cane. “How could you get on the stand and make that bullshit testimony? You don’t know anything about Will!” You withheld the fuck-you’s that time, out of professional courtesy.

He brushed you off and continued walking briskly down the hall, cane tapping on the polished floor, but you followed and walked alongside him.

“Do I need a restraining order against you?” Dr. Chilton said, bored.

You crossed your arms. “Oh, hah-hah.”

“What is it, then?” he sighed, slowing down. Trying to outpace you was more trouble than it was worth, thanks to the pinching of scar tissue in every stride. “I am extremely busy.”

“‘The confused man Will Graham presents to the world could not commit those crimes, because that man is a fiction,’” you quoted his testimony.

“Correct. Is that all?”

“Did you ever consider it’s because he didn’t commit those crimes? You know, being the only one who thinks Will is a psychopath doesn’t make you a genius, it makes you an idiot. Or do you know that, but you’ve just been pining have him locked up so you can study him?”

“Incredible. Mr. Graham has found a truly gullible fool to place under his thumb. I have never met anyone so susceptible to his manipulations. Have you ever been tested for personality disorders?” He regarded you like you were a lab rat with a lot of audacity to be squeaking at him (though to be fair, that was how he looked at almost everybody).

You burned to keep arguing, but he walked down the courthouse steps and got into an obtrusively fancy classic car. Your heart was racing. You weren’t finished with him.

*****

You seemed to be the only sane person aware that the sweet, empathetic, dog-loving Will Graham was obviously being framed, and did your best to visit him as often as possible at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Unfortunately, that meant dealing with its chief of staff.

Every time you visited Will, you ended up clashing with that pompous buffoon and his perfectly coiffed hair. He was notorious for his unethical practices, but since rich white assholes were incapable of being fired, it was your self-appointed job to protect Will from him.

Though, recently, you had to admit two things.

One: you may have been the tiniest bit biased by your fondness for Will, and two: your feelings toward Dr. Chilton had been softening.

Not long ago, Chilton had barely survived being tortured by a former patient, Abel Gideon. The sight of him on a medical gurney cradling his own internal organs in his arms was a horror that would be burned into your brain for life. He may have been an incompetent jerk whom Gideon had every right to want revenge on, but he didn’t deserve that.

You didn’t think he would survive, but in a few weeks, like magic, he was back to play Will’s jailer, a cane in hand but no other sign of the trauma he endured.

Too little sign of the trauma he endured, honestly. After all, he was only hurt because of his own meddling—using psychic driving to convince Gideon he was the Chesapeake Ripper in order to achieve the fame and glory of having treated the Chesapeake Ripper.

But no, he was still bursting full of egotistical remarks and ambition, if a little short on organs.

“I see the experience hasn’t humbled you one bit,” you commented upon his return, when he gloated about the accolades he would receive after writing a book about Will Graham.

“Funny, it almost sounds like you wanted me to be gutted,” he retorted in a pleasantly upbeat voice with a sharp undercurrent.

His rich-boy superiority complex did make it tempting to punch him in the face… but disembowelment was going too far.

Something changed after that. It used to be that you couldn’t wait to get away from him, but now you found yourself wanting to stay and fight longer, your cheeks burning with indignation. Days you weren’t visiting Will, you went to the mental hospital to crusade against Dr. Chilton over ethics and his lack thereof, just for the excuse to see him.

The two of you exchanged cutting banter the same as always, but you found yourself being more civil... or, at least, your heated arguments felt more playful. Sure, you still called him a dirty slimeball, but now it was a friendly roast and not because you hated his (slightly damaged) guts.

It was strange. Every time you argued your heart would pound against your chest in anticipation, but you couldn’t figure out why.

Your breaking point came when you barged into his office and discovered him spying on patients’ private conversations with visitors—headphones on, feet up on his desk, holding a Montblanc fountain pen in his mouth and swirling it with his tongue.

He didn’t startle at your unexpected entrance, as a person who feels shame might do when caught in the middle of something so sleazy. He was completely unrepentant about it. Sliding a headphone off one ear and picking up a glass of top-shelf scotch from his desk, he took a slow sip, and smugly asked, “Can I help you?”

What could you say to that? You felt your face heating up, so you turned on your heel without a word, and left. You finally understood what you had been feeling.

You always took him for a coward—the type who runs crying to mommy the moment his knee gets scraped. But he’d been tortured, brutally, and still wasn’t running away. He got more than what was coming to him, but he didn’t change his manipulative psychiatric practices or grating personality at all.

As infuriating as it was… his resilience was sexy.

Like a switch was flipped, every time you sniped insults at each other, instead of picturing strangling him with his tie, you imagined blindfolding him with it, tying him to a bed and spanking him with his cane. He had the cutest way of shimmying his shoulders when he was trying to be coy about a secret, and that smarmy little crooked smile he made when he thought he was winning used to infuriate you, but now it caused an aching between your thighs.

After weeks of this, he cornered you in an empty hallway. “Do not think I haven’t noticed you are here far more often than you need to be. You didn’t even talk to Will Graham the last two occasions you paid a visit. What is it, then? What’s your angle? Keeping an eye on me for Crawford?”

“Isn’t it obvious?,” you scoffed. “I want to fuck you.”

“Huh,” he vocalized with detachment.

You’d expected him to be flustered by the bold declaration, or to jump on you immediately. Not to coldly look you up and down like you’d handed him a strange puzzle piece to analyze.

It must have been a long time since he’d been intimate, considering his reputation as a Grade A piece of shit. But apparently he wasn’t that desperate.

To be honest, you weren’t even sure what his orientation was. You may have been completely off base.

“Fascinating, really. For someone who called me… what was it? A ‘morally corrupt assclown,’ you must be in a dire state to consider propositioning me. You know, as a respected psychiatrist, I can recommend some literature on sexual dysfunctions.”

A cold, satisfied smile spread over his thin lips and you realized if your attraction was one-sided, he held all the cards. You made the mistake of delivering him a massive advantage over you, and you were going to make a fool of yourself. He was relishing the power.

There was still time to backtrack on the vulnerability you’d accidentally exposed while he was still trying to figure out if you were joking. But you were around profilers, psychiatrists, and investigators with hidden agendas all day, and you grew weary of conversations having ten layers of meaning and obfuscation.

The honest truth was, it would be nice to get laid.

“Well? Are you interested or not?” You dropped your voice and stepped closer to him, inches from his face. He smelled so clean, like hospital antiseptic and spicy aftershave. His breath hitched as your leg brushed the inside of his thigh—that’s it, that was the reaction you wanted. “Do you want to fuck me, Dr. Chilton?”

Oh, he did.

A barely audible whine rose from the back of his throat, and his hands were around your waist. “I suppose so,” he said, still a little too clinically, though a hard bob of his Adam’s apple betrayed him. His eyes met yours. They were the color of an ocean wave crashing on the beach; an honest, North Atlantic wave that you might find at Chesapeake Bay—not some perfect crystal-blue wave from a tropical paradise. “It couldn’t hurt to let off some steam.”

“Precisely,” you nodded. Just two adults doing the logical thing. That’s right. No squishy vulnerable feelings that could be used against you. Just relieving tension.

He grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you hastily into the nearest unoccupied space. The door to the cramped supply closet clicked shut, and he leered at you with eyes that seemed to glow with hunger in the dark. You felt pleasantly like a small animal trapped with a wolf about to be devoured. A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine and sent heat rushing between your thighs. Before you knew it you were flipped standing with him pressed against your back, pumping into you with muffled moans—as frenzied with desperation as you’d fantasized he would be—as you braced against a metal shelf crammed with pens and packs of post-it notes.

He was strong. You had expected his suit to hide the flaccid body of a sedentary academic, fragranced of old books, but when he pulled your hips into his your body moved.

After finishing inside you with a ragged, tortured breath (barely choking back a too-vulnerable moan), he hastily zipped himself back into his pants and left you to clean yourself up on your own, without so much as a nod to ceremony or pleasantries. That was the end of that, you figured—exactly what you asked for, no more no less. Little did you know, Dr. Chilton had no intention of leaving things off at one quickie in a closet.

Before you left, he pulled you into his office and provoked you with lewd remarks about fucking you on his desk—so you knocked the clutter off it onto the floor to make room. He shrieked like a toddler as his very important papers and very expensive office décor went flying, having neither thought through the actual consequences of desk-sex nor expected you to call his bluff. His beautiful seawater eyes went wide as you pushed him back on the broad mahogany surface and climbed on top of him. Then you were riding him, chasing your climax with his well-manicured hands kneading your ass cheeks, pulling you deeper and deeper with each stroke of your hips. And still you wanted more. You wanted to fuck him into next week.

And then you were in his unreasonably lavish home, in his unreasonably, decadently oversized bed, his mouth feverishly working your heat, and you repaying him by making him come over and over until it was torture, until he could no longer hold back the whimpering sobs of pleasure as he fell apart, and he passed out from fatigue. You collapsed next to him on the bed, panting, sweating, and shaking with over-stimulation.

For a moment you considered the snoring body of an unsavory man you had exhausted into submission, lying naked and leaking fluids onto two-thousand-thread-count sheets, and briefly considered calling a cab. Then you went to the bathroom for a towel to wipe him off before curling yourself around him under the covers.

*****

Morning found you nestling in his soft light brown chest hair, tracing your fingers along the raised red scar that divided a third of his torso like an autopsied cadaver. He flinched a little when you touched it, but remained impassive. A reservoir of sympathy swelled up within you.

“You pity me. That is why you wanted to sleep with me all of a sudden,” he said, deciphering the meaning of your look. “I’m not complaining. Apparently, to be fortunate in bed requires only that one be tragically disfigured. You are drawn to wounded birds.”

The corner of your lip screwed up like you swallowed something bitter. It’s… probably not healthy to desire someone purely out of pity, but he was right. You never felt anything for him until you felt sorry for him. But that wasn’t all there was to your relationship… was it?

“The instinct to nurture and the instinct to hurt are both strong human emotions. They’re primal,” you speculated.

“Trying your hand at psychoanalysis? I would leave it to the professionals, darling.”

“Would you?” You tilted your head innocently. “Then how come you’re still practicing?”

He clutched his chest and feigned being wounded.

Grinning, you buried your face back into his hair. “Arguing with you was always exciting… trying to land a stinging blow. Now I see you hurt, and I feel the need to protect you, too. You tickle my instincts, I suppose. Like cold ice cream on hot pie. What can I say?”

“Hmm, a plausible hypothesis,” he nodded idly at the ceiling, one brow lifted. “I’m not sure that that is any better, but as previously mentioned, your motivations are not of particular interest to me.”

“Charming. Let me phrase it another way, then: You have a very punchable face, but since you’ve already been eviscerated, it takes the fun out of it.”

“Well, and I was going to offer you breakfast…”

#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #Raúl Esparza #Hannibal #my writing #very excited to start the sequel sooooon!

162 notes · View notes

thetorturerwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Sleep: A Sackler One-Shot

Summary: You’re not sleeping. Adam wants to help. The only way he knows how.

A/N: 18+ only. It’s Adam Sackler – that’s the warning. Ha! (Smut. I’m saying its smut.)

Word Count: 4500+

Days. It had been days since you had slept. Everything was starting to blur together because your mind just wouldn’t shut off.

It started, of course, with the slightly manic, sugar-coated Saturday that was your group of friends. None of you were the clubbing kind. So, you would routinely be found in someone’s living room, basement, bedroom drinking together, eating together, creating together. When you all came together like that, it was magic. And Saturday night had been magic. The gathering had been at your place this time. It was you, all of your friends, and Adam. Tall, dark, sex on a stick Adam.

Adam had moved in about three months ago. The place he lived in before was bought out and all the residents purged so the building could be torn down. He said that he’d used it as an excuse to get a bit away from the heart of the city, and he’d moved in with you after Ray mentioned he knew you and you were looking for a roommate. When asked about why he was looking for a new place, you’d gotten the watered-down gist. Something something Hannah. Something something Jessa. Something something drama. You’d damn near said no because of the something something drama, but he looked earnest when he said he was done with it and wanted to find a calm space. You had calm space to offer; and so, in he moved.

You caught him watching you a lot that night as you flitted from friend to friend in your shared home. He brought you a drink once or twice when you’d been carrying around an empty glass without noticing, but you were too high on the vibe, the magic, to notice the way his honey-brown eyes always followed you wherever you went or the way he made sure he knew where you were.

Once, he caught you in a quiet moment in the kitchen and moved to stand opposite you, filling your glass with water this time just to take a break from the booze. You smiled your thanks at him, happy for the moment of silence and stillness, but pushed off the counter when you heard your name again. But he wasn’t going to let the moment go by and moved to cage you there, arms on either side of you, large body bent slightly to look you in the eye. His eyes dipped to your lips where he could smell the whiskey and then up to your colored cheeks.

“You’re a pretty drunk, you know that?”

You were about to say something, you were certain of it. You were willing your brain to fire up and get ready to hit him with something witty and sexy and adult. But your name was shouted again, and the bubble burst. That was Saturday.

And so, it wasn’t surprising to you that Sunday was an up day, a productive day, a great, shining day because you were still flying so fucking high. But you fully expected to crash Sunday night after the house was clean, the laundry done, lunch with your best girl, dinner with your parents, two dog walks, and a flurry of this, that, and the other in between. Your body should have been done. And yet, Monday came with maybe an hour of sleep under your belt.

It was now Friday.

The first day, you’d been annoyed, but this wasn’t your first rodeo, and you knew it was only a matter of time. The second day, annoyance turned to irritation; and the third day, you were fucking angry. What the fuck was happening. Thursday was a blur of exhaustion and emotion because you always got emotional when you were tired and it had been DAYS at this point. Never more than two hours of sleep at a time and just fucking awake for no reason. So, you’d begun going through your insomnia arsenal.

Friday found you called off from work, wrapped in too many blankets on the couch, and the heels of your hands pressed as far into your eye sockets as they could go to stop the tears that were forming. You sat going over the list of things you’d tried to get to sleep AGAIN to try to figure out the right configuration that would work. You’d tried (in no particular order)…

-Hot shower -Tea -Tylenol PM -Masturbation -Hot shower + tea -Tea + Tylenol PM x 4 (nobody fucking takes only one) -Hot shower + masturbation -All of the above in one night

None of it had worked, and here you were practically weeping on your couch because you were so utterly exhausted when Adam crashed through the door, loud and cursing like he usually was. You curled in on yourself just a little bit more hoping he wouldn’t notice you and would just go away.

“What’s up, kid?” He greeted while dumping himself onto the couch by you. When you didn’t reply immediately, he reached over and nudged you. “Hey… ” he said, nudging you again. Two more pokes to your shoulder had you snarling and unbundling your head from the mini fort.

“WHAT ADAM. WHAT DO YOU WANT.”

Your outburst didn’t seem to rattle him, and he gave your shoulder one more nudge with an up tilt of his mouth.

“Y'ok there? You look like death.”

Heaving what probably liked like a dramatic sigh, but was actually just Herculean effort to not burst into tears again, you dropped your head in your hands once more and muttered…

“I haven’t slept all week, I’m exhausted, and I can’t banter with you today, ok?” Because normally, the banter was fun. He made you think with his quips and humor. And you loved making him laugh because it seemed like he didn’t do it enough. But today was a leave-me-the-fuck-alone day. Adam, however, did not get the memo.

“Have you tried…”

“NO,” you nearly shouted, “DO NOT ASK ME if I tried tea or a shower or what the fuck ever. Because I did. More than once and I sincerely doubt that you’ve got any new ideas to cure insomnia.”

He smirked at you but didn’t say anything else. You watched as he leaned forward to unlace his boots. Canting your head slightly, you let your gaze trail to the strong arms, biceps working, and the black t-shirt that sat tight across his chest. But for you, it was two things in particular - his height and his hands. You always had a thing for hands because a good-sized hand could do so many things – Lift, hold, squeeze, choke. All yummy and delectable things. You also had a thing for tall people because on one hand, it made you feel safe; and on the other, being able to reach literally anything in the world was attractive. You weren’t extremely short, but tall came with bonus points in your book. So, there you were daydreaming about Adam and his tallness and hands when he finally spoke and shook you from your reverie.

“You know…they say sex is good for insomnia.” He was the one watching you now having shucked shoes and socks and leant back into the couch. His gaze roamed you over, and you shrank further into your fort because, though you did shower and brush your teeth, you were certain that you did not paint a pretty picture.

“I’m not having sex with you, Adam. Besides…” You could not have helped the snort that came from your face for all the money in the world, and it came with a side of snarky eye roll, too. “I’ve already tried it.”

His brow quirked, but he didn’t look away. Rather, he let his gaze rove down the bare shoulder, the only bit of you he could see, for a moment before speaking again.

“You haven’t had anybody here in weeks. And you’ve been wearing that same sweater since Tuesday.” Fuck. It was true, but you didn’t think he paid much attention to your comings and goings. AND ALSO, you definitely didn’t think he paid attention to what you wore. Apparently, he did.

“No, but I did try to get off, and it’s the same thing. And it didn’t work and so here I am being badgered by you about the state of my sex life.” With the grumpiest face you could muster, you flopped against the side of the couch and pulled the blanket over your head.

“Just go away, Adam. Leave me to my insomnia and insanity in peace. I promise I will bequeath the apartment to you when I expire.” And the Oscar for best actress goes to….

But your dramatics were cut short when you felt your entire fort being lifted from the couch, and the squeak that broke from your throat was decidedly less than composed, and you bristled at the noise. Who the fuck squeaks.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Just as quickly, you were deposited on the end of your bed and shot to your feet with a glower.

“Come on, kid. I don’t like seeing you like this because its literally fucking pathetic. So, let me help you. I swear I will keep all of my clothes on, and I will not fuck you. Well…" he paused and let his gaze trail from your head to your toes and back again before finishing, “mostly.”

“You…,” granted, your brain was sleep deprived and fuzzy, but this was something out of a porn movie, wasn’t it? “You…want to help me sleep…by sort of fucking me?” What. What was even happening. Was this real life? And then, he laughed. He fucking laughed. Hand on the stomach, head tilted back laughed. That was it. Murdering him was your only option now.

“I want to help you sleep by helping you get off. Orgasms you have to give yourself are still work. Just let me give this to you.”

Apparently, you’d already begun this bizarre experiment because he reached up to pull the clip from your hair and toss it over his shoulder to be lost somewhere in the room. Your mouth opened to chastise him, but he plowed forward before you could formulate the words.

“I told you. I’m gonna stay just like this, and you’re gonna feel better.” You were still contemplating - because sleepless brain = slow as fuck - when he pulled the heavy white sweater over your head and off your arms.

“I’m going to burn this sweater, by the way.”

He balled it into a rumpled mess and threw it clean out of the door and into the hallway. He was serious about that sweater. Again, you opened your mouth to object, but he was now working on your leggings. He nudged your feet to get you to lift one and then the other, and they, too, were tossed over his shoulder. In the span of minutes, you had been rooted from your fort, undressed, and were now standing in front of your dangerously handsome roommate in nothing but your favorite blue tank top and black boy-short panties.

“I’ve been wondering what you kept under those ugly, baggy sweaters,” he murmured while not being shy at all about the way his gaze traveled you over.

“Look. Adam.” Reaching up again, you pressed your fingers into your eyes and just took a breath because this was stupid, right? Adam was manipulating you by weaponizing your exhaustion, and you weren’t going to stand for it. You were hardly going to stand for standing.

“This is a bad idea, ok? This isn’t going to work, and I think you sh–” Christ on a cracker what was that? He had cut off your objections by sliding all ten digits into your hair and against your scalp. The large fingers attached to those very large, very strong hands splayed out all around your head. And THEN, he started to rub and scratch at your scalp.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” The curse-groan that came from you was definitely unladylike but sweet Jesus did that feel good. Your head dropped forward against his chest, and you felt the reverberation of his soft chuckle against your forehead. Instinctively, both of your hands came up to rest on his hips because he was messing with your equilibrium but god did you hope he wasn’t going to stop.

“Better?“, he asked with his voice a bit softer than before, and you nodded against his chest again without saying anything just in case your voice would break the spell. Your pity party began to puddle away – no, that was YOU turning into a puddle under that heavenly scalp massage. He was looking down at you now, where you rested your head against him, and he cleared his throat as quietly as he could.

You tried to lift your head to retort, but he shushed you and just kept right on going with those magic fingers. Each drag of his nails against your scalp elicited a happy groan or moan that made his fingers tighten or flex momentarily, every noise provoking a physical response. His hands moved down from your scalp to wrap around your shoulders and start kneading, and you moaned. Loud. No fucks given.

“Jesus Christ, Adam, please do not stop doing that.”

Adam’s large, wonderful, dexterous hands massaged your shoulders first, then deltoids, then upper back, then rib cage, and you wobbled and teetered depending on where his hands were. You were pliant under his ministrations, and you swore you could hear him muttering something under his breath. Finally, you tipped your head back from his chest and unscrewed one shut eye to look at him.

“Hi,” you said. That was it. That was the best your brain could do. He smirked down at you, tilting his head back in amusement.

“Hey, kid. Get up on the bed before you fall over.” He laughed. He was laughing at you. Again.

You contemplated it for a moment while staring up at him and his long eyelashes. Was he always this attractive, you wondered. Yes, yes he was. But now what? So far, he’d been true to his word, but you couldn’t be sure that he would in the long run. Maybe you were relaxed enough now. Maybe the massage was enough. Maybe you didn’t have to potentially wreck your roommate relationship by whatever it was he was planning to do. But he could, apparently, read it on your face that your brain had started whirring again because he lifted you once more and unceremoniously threw you on the bed. You hadn’t even finished yelping from the surprise of it when he was crawling up in the bed beside you and arranging you on your back. He slid your now very-relaxed arms upwards so they crooked on either side of your head.

“Trust me, ok? Try.”

You didn’t trust him. It hadn’t been long enough, but you were so, so tired. Your brow furrowed again, and you bit into the plump of your bottom lip. He nudged the side of your chin with his nose, and you knew the anxiety crossing your face was clear, you just knew it. Your brain was kicking up again. Fast, fast, too fast. Sliding up beside you, Adam nudged one of his knees in between your legs, and you jumped.

“Adam, I…”

He hushed you yet again, but still gently, and dropped a hand on your stomach, fingers sliding to the side and down until it curled over your hip. His face found the space between ear and shoulder, and those full lips found purchase there. He murmured something against your flushing skin, but you had no clue what it was because that spot, right there, was fantastic. His lips trailed up to the lobe of your ear and then back down again, raising goose flesh in their wake. You sighed against him, a satisfied, almost eager sigh. You tilted your head slightly to the side to give him more room to explore that valley, and he took the invitation raining kisses on the skin that soon gave way to his tongue and finally teeth. You hiccuped at the feel of teeth on skin. You knew he was a fan of marking and bruising - his calling card to the world. “Adam was here.” It almost made you laugh.

Finally, Jesus Christ, finally, you began to relax against him. The stiffness from your aching arms and legs began to recede, and tears sprang to your eyes at how fucking amazing it felt to not have that tightness in your shoulders, your back. Both hands dropped down from where he’d set them to fall on Adam’s shoulders, hips shifted against him and tilted - a decidedly languid undulation matched with a contented sound through parted lips. He glanced up at you then, eyes raking over your flushing skin, watching your lashes flutter open at his pause. The slight dig of your nails into his shoulders drew a thrust from his stuttering hips before he could reign it in. He could not, however, stop the things coming out of his mouth.

“You’re doing so fucking good, kid. Doesn’t that feel better? Told you I was going to take care of you.” All you could do was nod. Yes, it does feel better. Yes, he was taking care of you. But your brow furrowed again because the ache was shifting from arms and legs into your center. The core of you began to throb in time with your heartbeat, and that ache was torturous.

“Adam…” You breathed it out, something of a plea, and he lifted his head to look at you, groaning softly at the look of wanting found there.

“I know. Just let me…” His voice trailed off, and he began to scoot around you – propping himself up on this side, coming up to his knees for balance, both legs caging one of yours to keep it apart from the other. When he had you just the way he wanted, he leaned forward - the bulk of his weight up on the arm so he could look down at you, your face, the length of your body. And look he did. You watched him, through your lashes, as he stared down at you. Canting his head to one side so he could look all the way to your toes.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmured - more to himself but loud enough for you to hear. And then, he began to move again, heaving a satisfied hum that you could feel vibrate through his chest.

“Ah sshhhit!” The surprised cry broke from you as two large fingers slid up and down against your labia, the friction from your panties just enough to drag. Instinctively, your uncaged knee drew up slightly, the ball of your foot finding ground in the blanket to give you a bit of leverage to lift your hip - granting more access to the lower parts of you and eliciting an appreciative sound from the looming figure above you. A few passes in, that enticingly long middle finger slipped between the two labia to rub from the tight bundle of nerves hidden there to the slick entrance of your core. When you began to lift your hips to meet his strokes, he cursed.

“These need to go right fucking now,” he muttered and sat up on his knees to peel away the offending panties and toss them away. He turned back to you and just stared. In another life, you’d have shied away from his gaze because there you were naked under him, your breasts swollen high and tight from arousal with pebbled nipples straining the fabric of your shirt, bare legs parted, swelling cunt all on display, and all of you heaving with breath coming in short bursts. In this life, however, you were too lust-rattled and tired to think about how you might look. With no shame whatsoever, he reached into his pants to adjust himself, and you held your breath. He smirked that asshole smirk of his holding your gaze steady as he did it. Adam Sackler was a devious beast, you decided, but you couldn’t help yourself from licking your lips at the thought of it.

In a second, Adam dropped back down over you and buried his face into the crook of your neck again hiding whatever tortured faces he might be making. You didn’t have time to dwell on that notion, however, when you felt the pads of his fingers find the fount of your slick again. Your own self control wavered. With a gasp, your hips jolted forward against him again, and you began to rock upwards and down with each press and pass of his fingers. The sounds spilling out of you were uncontrolled, frenzied - particularly when he abandoned the long passes for short, tight circles on your clitoris. Your fingers curled into fists in his shirt, clutching the fabric as though it would help. When your hips began to buck and your head pressed back into the pillow, he lifted his head from the valley of your throat to watch you.

“Come on, kid. Quick and dirty this time. Cum for me.”

You nodded your head blindly, agreeing with him that fucking yes, you wanted to. It was right there and he was charging towards it for you. Bless this dirty, dirty man. Every part of you was clenched tightly, terribly tightly - eyes, fingers, toes, knees, hips, core. And then fucking yes, there it was. As the tightness in you exploded outwards, you came with a series of shouts that had him planting his free hand on your chest so he could feel them. He started to talk to you again, punctuated with his own arousal now, riding you through the orgasm the only way he could in this arrangement - with that filthy mouth.

“Look how fucking good you look.” He huffed, heaving a breath against you. “Bet you taste like candy.” You felt the vibration of his low, hungry groan. “Shit, you’re gonna fucking kill me.” He pressed his hand down into your chest just a bit more until your eyes opened and looked up at him. “Time for take two, yeah? Wanna make sure you sleep. Let me taste you.”

The delirium in your head made you question if he was saying those things out loud, and you certainly weren’t sure if that was you nodding your head, but his weight was gone from you so fast there was little doubt that it was definitely you who had agreed, and it was definitely him pushing your thighs apart wider.

Laying himself along the end of your bed, he traced the outline of your labia again with his finger. You looked down to see him gazing into your pussy, pearlescent from your arousal and orgasm. He treated himself first to the taste of your thighs, licking away the sweat and slick that was spotting the flesh and applying a trail of hungry bites to your center. When he finally - FUCKING FINALLY - lowered his mouth to your taste, he groaned loud. The reverberation of it against your already sensitive sex sent a shudder up your spine. Hungrily, he tasted all of you - labia, clit, slit outside and in - and you were never so grateful for a debauched man. His tongue circled and he sucked on your clit until you squirmed. He scooped up all of the slick collecting at your entrance and sucked it down like ice cream with a lascivious moan.

But then you moved, and that drew his eyes open and up along all of the curves of your body. He watched you as you shifted a bit, scooting your hips down closer to him. Both of your hands came down to thread into his hair, and you began to move his mouth against you, and Adam lost his fucking mind. He growled and moaned, digging fingertips into the flesh of your thigh as you brazenly showed him what you liked. You moved him, then, up and down, side to side, and he hummed hungrily with each thrust of your hips as you worked yourself on his mouth.

You were almost there. It was right fucking there, but your brow knit with frustration because you were chasing something that seemed elusive. A pained whimper broke loose from your chest, and you threw your head back against the pillow. Watching Adam devour your pussy should have been enough because, good god, he was beautiful between your thighs. And the hungry look he gave you when you began to manipulate him made your insides pool that much hotter. But still you chased, frustrated, until finally, one of those large hands came to push one leg higher up. On the heels of that came two long fingers sliding into your heat, and your chest shot up off of the bed like you had been electrocuted. A shouted curse broke loose from you as those fingers began to move, pumping in and out, curling to drag against the spongy spot inside. Your trembling fingers curled harder into his hair, and your hips began to dance against him again. Rocking, rocking, rocking…

“Fuck, Adam!” Your chest arched upwards until the only parts of you touching the bed were head, shoulders, and hips – your pelvis punched down low and open for his thrusting fingers. That coil began to tighten again, and you trembled right at the edge of it. Teetering. Keening. Still chasing.

“Goddammit! Say something!”

And oh, thankfuckinggod, he moaned into your cunt, and the vibration of it ricocheted through you and shot you like a slingshot. The force of your orgasm shook your legs, your hips rolled and bucked, and you cried out hoarsely. The new surge of hot and wet that met his lips had Adam reeling a series of hungry, sloppy moans alongside yours. He chased every drop, every taste of it until you’d rode him through the high and had begun to collapse against the bed.

Happy, contented sounds rumbled through your body and you patted his head affectionately - that was the only thing you were capable of currently.

With a chuckle, he crawled up the bed beside you and settled himself gingerly by your side. You watched him move, and your brow furrowed slightly. Did he hurt himself? Was it that bad? What the fuck, man! But before you could think of too many more scenarios, he captured your chin in his fingers and kissed you once, light but enough to impart his enjoyment of you. The tang of you now on your lips had you smacking them blissfully. Man wasn’t wrong. Tasted like candy.

“Don’t think. You’ve got me hard, painfully. Sleep.”

As he talked, he wrapped an arm around your middle and pulled you close, settling your back against his chest so that he could bury his face in your hair. Pulling up the blanket around you both, he wrapped himself all around you and whispered into the back of your neck.

“Sweet dreams, kid.”

Because it had worked. And here you were – sweaty, sticky, sated. And fast, fast asleep.

#adam sackler #adam sackler x reader #adam driver #here we go #adam sackler x you #adam sackler/reader #adam sackler/you #adam sackler smut #girls fanfiction #adam driver fanfiction

819 notes · View notes

ladyfawkes · 4 years ago

Text

FINALLY UPDATED after approximately 100000 years. xD

Tangled Just Before Ever After

Words: 4730

Chapters: 2/?

Overall Summary:

Have you ever wondered what happened to Rapunzel and Eugene immediately following their first kiss in the Tower?

How they explained to one another the ways they discovered the depth of Gothel's evilness and duplicity?

How they managed to convince the Captain of the Guard that Flynn Rider was suddenly no longer a threat?

“Look at this!” Rapunzel exclaimed, surprised, as she traced out an invisible line across his palm. “There’s some of those magicky healing sparks left on your hand.” The young woman pulled back her own hand so he could see and sure enough, Eugene spied some faint twinkling beneath the very top layer of his skin. “Whaddyaknow?” he shrugged. “Huh.” A thought occurred to him and Eugene wondered if the glittery effect was now permanent. He surmised that it shouldn’t be and that it’d wear off soon enough...hopefully.

Chapter Two: The Lock-Picking Frog

Eugene and Rapunzel sat down together on one of the lower steps of the Tower’s inner staircase. She took his left hand in her lap, turned it palm upwards, and said, “Wait a minute….” brought up the same hand closer to her face and peered at it quizzically.

“I wonder…..” Rapunzel quickly let go his hand and reached across Eugene’s waist, her own left hand now hovering over the rips in his doublet and shirt where Gothel’s dagger had pierced him. And although she blushed a very lovely shade of pink upon asking him, the princess asked, “May I?” while pointing to his right flank.

And Eugene couldn’t mask his curiosity; his eyebrows arose right along with his elbows as he gave Rapunzel better access to his midsection. Far be it from him to stop the beautifullest young woman of his dreams from unfastening his doublet untucking his shirt for him. And although Eugene politely looked elsewhere partly for her sake, and partly for fear he might lose his gallant resolve…. He still very much wanted to say something cheeky or pithy or romantic or --

“Looks like my theory is correct,” reported Rapunzel. “Hmm?” Eugene was bewildered and his brow furrowed. “Theory?” he echoed, not entirely able to hide his disappointment at the aloofness of her reply. This wasn’t what he’d expected from this interaction at all. Eugene supposed he should’ve known better.

“Uhmmm,” said Rapunzel, suddenly shy again, “Well, I had guessed that the places on your body where you’ve been wounded the worst and most recently would therefore most likely possess some residual magic.” She sat back up and pointed toward his torso, “Looks like I was correct.”

And Eugene raised his shirt to look down at the place where the mortal wound once was, glimpsing for himself the same shimmering phenom of which Rapunzel spoke. That particular sparkling penetrated far deeper into his flank than what appeared near the surface of his palm, however.

Rapunzel kissed the inside of her hand and gently caressed the healed area on Eugene's side with those same fingertips. It was a gesture so pure and tender that again he found his heart melting with just how gentle she was with him -- the hardened criminal. Because this particular sensation…..what he felt now, what he’d felt when Rapunzel was tracing and kissing every inch of his face, and especially when Rapunzel had initially and carefully healed the palm of his hand two days before….it was so fantastic and new. And what Eugene could not have known then is that he was positively starving for it. He soaked up every drop of her kindness as if she were the sole oasis in his desert of loneliness. It’s why the young man knew he couldn’t let her walk away from him even after their special night of lanterns had concluded.

For Rapunzel hadn’t merely healed his largest mortal wound with her tears or the slicing through his palm with her hair. Without disdain or mockery or any form of guile, this unassuming young woman was healing parts of Eugene that he hadn’t even realized were chronically aching and long ago flayed raw in the first place. He had become numb and oblivious to all of it. Yet this impossibly kind and loving young soul was offering unconditional acceptance to Flynn Rider, the misunderstood career criminal whom everyone in all the seven kingdoms (and beyond) had come to loathe. Since the moment he met her, Rapunzel’s mere presence had become like sweet salve for his bruised soul. Even if it took Eugene the rest of his life, he vowed to himself that he would strive to be worthy of his dearest Rapunzel.

Eugene carefully gathered up Rapunzel under his arm and she leaned into him as they embraced again. Rapunzel was….almost impossibly genuine. Is this what real love has always felt like??, he mused. There’d been times Eugene had experienced such deep sadness and devastation in his life that it felt like his heart would certainly break. In fact, he had experienced that exact emotion as recently as that very morning during his imprisonment….. And it wasn’t because he feared dying…..it’s because he was all but certain he’d never see Rapunzel again. Never get to rescue her from wherever the Stabbingtons had gone off with her.

Prior to meeting Rapunzel, Eugene hadn’t ever experienced so much love and peace and contentment, it seemed as if his heart might burst from inability to contain itself. Once again, he appeared to have dozed off with Rapunzel squished up against him. Eugene yawned tiredly, internally berating himself and wondering why on earth he was so exhausted…. Until realization finally dawned that it had been over 24 hours since either he or Rapunzel had been able to get any sleep or rest whatsoever. It appeared to have finally caught up to them now that the worst of the danger had passed.

“So...how did you figure it all out?” Rapunzel asked softly, still holding him close with her head nestled against his chest. “It had to be pretty early on. Especially considering our entire first discussion regarding ‘backstory’....” And Eugene chuckled.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he replied. “I had definitely begun to suspect something was up by the time we were running through that underground escape system. There were just too many coincidences. A few being that: a.) it was the 18th year of Corona’s lantern festival and you just happened to be turning 18; b.) magicalness notwithstanding nobody else in the whole world had hair like yours -- its length and tensile strength belied its beaming gossamer beauty; c.) I’ve seen children -- even young adults -- utterly terrified of their parents, and for good reason; while I originally thought it was just a figure of speech when you said you “never left the tower”, I came to know you were being quite literal...therefore d.) you had further cemented my belief that you are Corona’s princess when you shared with me the ways in which your magical hair worked.

Suddenly, some insistent squeaking noises in front of them on the floor broke into the conversation. Eugene’s head whipped toward his right and looked down.

“Well, hullo there, Li’l Froggy,” he greeted Pascal warmly. This caused Pascal to glance over at Rapunzel with a wry look as he sighed long-sufferingly. “Yup. I think you’re stuck with it now, Pascal,” Rapunzel agreed. Pascal held out his claws heavenward, shrugged, and then hopped up on Eugene’s free wrist and scaled up toward his left shoulder, around his neck, finally perching on Eugene’s right shoulder. He squeaked something lengthy to Eugene. And Eugene, who wasn’t yet fully versed in Pascallese, had to ask Rapunzel to interpret.

“First of all,” Rapunzel began, “he says that ‘Frog’ is a rather insulting nickname but he’ll cut you some slack, being that you died, came back, and fainted all in the past 30 minutes.”

“Whoa-ho! Well, thanks for that vote of confidence,” a smirking Eugene sarcastically replied to the cheeky lizard on his shoulder.

“Second of all, while you and I were...talking,” continued Rapunzel, “Pascal scared up that hairpin and sewing needle you’d mentioned needing for picking locks. He says if you hold up your wrist with the shackle and instruct him right now in real time, he’s willing to help pick that lock with you,” and Rapunzel grinned.

“A lock-picking frog, eh?” Eugene marvelled, in spite of himself. He couldn’t help it -- the still-too-loud-Flynn Rider half of his brain was going wild considering that potential. “That is definitely gonna come in handy someday, ” he said with a faint smile on his face.

Eugene grabbed in his left hand the hairpin that Pascal had brought. The young man made sure it was bent crookedly in a certain way at one end and handed it back to Pascal. Next Eugene held up his shackled wrist and proceeded to coach the little chameleon in how to use the tricks of a thief’s trade. Twice more, Eugene modified the end of the hairpin, always handing it back to Pascal. Within about 90 seconds, the rusted manacle had popped open and slid off Eugene’s wrist onto the floor…..where he couldn’t help but notice a blood stain on the nearby tile below.

To divert Rapunzel’s attention (and his own), Eugene hastily put his boot over the top of the stain and made a big show of finally being free of the manacle. “Ahhh!!” he massaged his right wrist, “that’s more like it! Tiny high-fives, Froggy!” Eugene reached out his index finger toward Pascal who was still perched upon his right shoulder. The chameleon then “fived” Eugene’s fingertip with his bitzy claw.

Rapunzel helped Eugene all the way to his feet and with great relief, he stretched his long legs and even longer back all the way up to his full considerable height. As he was stretching over backward, allowing his spine some satisfying cracks, Eugene surprisingly felt someone touching his bare skin and stole a downward glance at Rapunzel, who was once again examining the former wound in his side.

The young woman noticed a bit too late that she’d already been seen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Eugene had stopped stretching and was now peering down at her. Rapunzel instantly withdrew her hands as that now familiar delightful shade of pink blossomed under her freckles and she mumbled an apology. She instinctively backed away a step, looked up, and said, "You're even taller than I remembered."

#Tangled fanfiction #my fanfiction #Rapunzel + Eugene #TJBEA #rta #Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure #Pascal chameleon #Frog #Tangled the series #TTS #eugene fitzherbert #eugene

19 notes · View notes

nightcoremoon · 4 years ago

Text

it's evident people haven't watched enough kids media to adequately understand just what constitutes a kids show as opposed to a show that kids can watch and be entertained by

when I was a kid I watched king of the hill and blues clues (among other things). king of the hill is NOT a kids show by any stretch of the imagination; it is an adult animation, replete with fairly heavy subject matter, sexual themes, political humor, cultural references that kids won't understand, discussion of religion in the modern day, depression and suicidal thoughts, adultery, puberty and sexual awakenings, body image, propane, propane accessories, and ultimately above all else what it means to be family. and blues clues is a show about a man who plays with a shovel & pail, talks to his condiments and mailbox, and sometimes he teleports into the felt dimension, all while playing Sherlock Holmes hercule poirot with his dog, and teaching kids how to count and draw and recognize colors and learn their ABCs. do you see the fucking difference? no? then I'll make it more clear.

dora the explorer & go diego go, mickey mouse clubhouse, handy manny, octonauts, bob the builder, super why, wild kratts, zoboomafoo, jojo's circus, wow wow wubbzy, stanley, doc mcstuffins, max & ruby, wonder pets, bubble guppies, ni hao khai lan, backyardigans, little einsteins, caillou (ugh) and p*w p*trol (double ugh), these are all undeniably kids shows. their audience is children (and the occasional adult by age with severe intellectual disabilities) and maybe the parents whose brains are too fried to care what's on the tv. these shows main purpose is to educate while entertaining on subjects one would encounter in preschool and kindergarten. counting 1-10, ABCs, basic color, basic language, basic intrapersonal skills, basic emotional literacy, problem solving, using your imagination, what sounds do animals make, breaking the fourth wall to ask the audience to answer what's 2+2 or tell them a lesson they learned today like I LEARNED TO NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER or some simple message like that. it's always light, there's no edgelord grimdark "what if they were dead the whole time" bullshit. it's just good clean simple wholesome [except for paw patrol] programs for kids to be distracted for a little bit of time, while also letting them walk away having said they learned something. at least half of the time dedicated to every single one of these shows is devoted to the same shit over and over again. I'm the map I'm the map I'm the map I'm the map I'm the map I'm the map WE FUCKING GET IT YOURE THE MAP! backpack backpack I'm the backpack loaded up with things and knickknacks too, anything that you might need I've got inside for you. we did it we did it we did it HOORAY! come on vamanos everybody let's go, come on let's get to it, I know that we can do it,

WHERE ARE WE GOING

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

THESE SONGS ARE BURNED INTO MY BRAIN AND THEYLL BE STUCK IN MY HEAD UNTIL I DIE

say click take a pic, the hot dog dance, CAN HE FIX IT???, pizza! spaghetti!, THE DOC IS IN AND SHELL FIX YOU UP, max & ruby ruby & max max & ruby ruby & max MAX & RUBY RUBY & MAX MAX & RUBY RUBY & MAX, wonder pets wonder pets we're on our way to help the friend and save the day, we're not too big and we're not too tough but when we work together we've got the right stuff, goooOOO WONDER PETS YAAAAY~, yoooour backyard friends the backyardigans (weve got the whole wide world in our yard to explore, thATS WHY EVERY DAY WEEEEERE BACK FOR MOOOORE), were going on a trip in our little rocket ship SOARING THROOOOOUGH THE SKY!!! little einsteins!

I swear to god I've been forced to watch so much children's television in my life it's no wonder there's no room left for serotonin executive function or the ability to speak to morons

point is I know my way around kids shows. my sisters were born in 98, 02, 05, 06, 10, and 18, I think, I don't even know because they're all a blur, I'm literally closer in age to my parents than to my youngest sibling, I never stopped being exposed to kids shows. I know what is and is not a kids show.

adventure time? not a kids show even though kids watch it. it's a "for everyone" show. it's got a target audience of 100% of the planet. steven universe? not a kids show even though kids watch it. miraculous ladybug? not a kids show even though kids watch it. scooby doo? not a kids show even though kids watch it. I'm not discussing the history of adult acceptance of animation, adult animation, or anime, so don't ask. dexter's laboratory. the grim adventures of billy & mandy. codename kids next door. teen titans. fairly oddparents. kim possible. invader zim. AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER. totally spies. courage the cowardly dog. the proud family. SPONGEBOB F*ING SQUAREPANTS. powerpuff girls. foster's home for imaginary friends. oh yeah you know what's coming next. my little goddamn pony friendship is mother fucking magic is not. a. kids. show. even though kids can watch it. it is a cartoon. it is an everyone show. that's why it's disingenuous and fucking stupid to decry any fan over the age of 7 as a pedophile and a weirdo creep; it participates in the infantilization of femininity. why is it ok for 20somethings to keep watching aang and squidward and finn & jake and zim and "return the slab" and everyone's totally fine wth that but when it's twilight sparkle suddenly everyone's like whoa you're a huge fucking loser for watching this girly wussy baby show for girly wussy babies. oh some bronies are sex crazed perverts? I'm sorry have you seen just how much porn there is for spongebob? oh some bronies are cringe? I'm sorry have you met half the steven universe fandom? oh some bronies are fascist rick sanchez kinnies with fedoras and katanas? BREAKING BAD FANS, HELLO!?!?!?

this is such a stupid tiring boring argument. maybe magic talking horses being friends and turning their friendship into magic rainbow nuclear fucking arms and blasting the evil out of a demon and turning her into the coolest fucking half-unicorn biker lesbian in the world is something that brings me, and adult, pure wholesome joy, in between bojack horseman and dark souls and breaking bad and deftones and fallout new vegas and jojo and cannibal corpse and other bleak depressing edgy shit that also brings me comfort. and MAYBE me at 16 starting to watch MLP:FIM becoming finally comfortable with the outward public expression of "traditionally feminine" interests is the main reason why I realized I was a girl when I did, and MAYBE I just like how pretty the colorful ponies look, AND MAYBE I KIN WITH ONE OR TWO OR EIGHT CHARACTERS, WHAT OF IT?

AND MAYBE ITS LITERALLY THE BEST LONG RUNNING FANTASY TV SERIES ON THE MARKET RIGHT NOW* SINCE GAME OF THRONES FUCKING SUCKS

but whatever, kids watch it sometimes so it's illegal for anyone who's not a kid to enjoy it, but only if it's something girly because liking girly things is bad because girliness is inherently bad, and the only things that are good have predominantly male casts*. right? right??? wrong, fucker. g4mlp has so much more in common with adventure time & atla than with blues clues or dora the fucking explora...r.

but keep in mind I'm saying this while hugging a blues clues plushie my grandma gave me for valentine's day because it reminds her of when I was a baby because I may not watch blues clues but it still means a lot to me for nostalgia and is 50% of the reason why I love ray charles. kids media isn't necessarily bad. I still do enjoy watching it with my little sisters. all this is is me being anal about categorization because I'm autistic and I LIVE for categorizing everything.

*besides atla obviously

35 notes · View notes

silverlightqueen · 4 years ago

Text

Cursed

silverlightqueen’s SKZ Scarefest

wizard!Seungmin x human!reader - crack comedy, y/n’s a bit of a spoilt brat and Seungmin is not down for it lol

Word Count: 3k+

Summary - Seungmin is the best wizard in town. Poisoned by a pixie? Battered by a troll? Bitten by a were? Whatever the magical injury, Seungmin can fix it in the bat of an eyelid. So when y/n is cursed by a witch and needs his help, she expects to leave his lair curseless only a few minutes later. But her plan… doesn’t quite go to plan.

Warnings: y/n is a total judgemental bitch lmao and Seungmin wants to teach her a lesson, brief mention of blood and vomit, I think that’s it but please let me know if I missed else!

a/n: and here is the seventh instalment of my SKZ Scarefest! I really hope you guys enjoy this, and thank you @silverlightprincess for being the best (she didn’t proofread this either but she’s about to read it after I post it and check for mistakes which I will go back and edit lmao). please be sure to check out the previous parts and keep an eye out for the next parts too x

taglist: @kodzu-ken @cloudsgathering @silverlightprincess

silverlightqueen navigation

‘Hi, how can I help?’ the receptionist says, looking up from her computer to give me a friendly smile. ‘Hi, I’ve got an appointment with Dr Kim at 1.30,’ I say, and she blinks at me in surprise before looking at her computer, clicking away. ‘Ah, y/n y/l/n, is it? You booked yesterday?’ ‘Yes, that’s me.’ ‘You’re lucky to get an appointment with Dr Kim so late. And during his lunch break, too! Do you know him?’ she asks, and I hesitate before replying, ‘I used to. We… went to school together.’ ‘Oh, that’s nice! Well, take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here,’ she says cheerily, and I give her a weak smile before turning to take a seat.

The District 9 Doctors’ Surgery is unlike any Doctors’ Surgery I’ve ever seen before; the reception is relatively normal, with its cold lighting, linoleum flooring and hard backed chairs, but the patients are quite… abnormal. A man is sat two seats away from me, his body covered in hair and long sharp claws protruding from his fingers – I hear him telling the fairy beside him, whose wings are wilted and colourless, that he hasn’t been able to fully turn into his wolf form or his human form for weeks. Opposite them, a vampire sits with a bucket in his lap, vomiting blood into it every few moments, and the centaur stood beside his seat with his tail wrapped in a bloody bandage rubs his back soothingly. I think I’m the only human in here.

Normally, I’d have driven out to the Doctors’ Surgery in the next district – everyone knows that The District 9 Doctors’ Surgery caters specifically to magical injuries – but I somehow don’t think my problem can be solved by a human doctor. When I phoned the surgery yesterday, I asked for the next possible appointment. I was told by the receptionist that that wouldn’t be until mid-November, which never would’ve worked. So I did what I swore I wouldn’t do, and asked the receptionist to ask Dr Kim if he had any availability for y/n y/l/n. The receptionist sounded sceptical, but he put me on hold anyway, and came back to tell me that Dr Kim said he could just about fit me in.

‘Miss y/l/n? Dr Kim is ready to see you in Room 13,’ the receptionist calls out, and I rise from my chair, passing the vomiting vampire with a wince. I head down the clinical corridor, white bar lights flickering overhead, and when I reach Room 13, I take a deep breath and raise my hand to the door. I knock once, twice, and then wait to be told to come in. I hear nothing. I roll my eyes, knocking again a few moments later, and then I hear him call out, ‘Come in!’

I turn the handle, tentatively opening the door and slipping into the room. Whilst the reception may have looked like any old Doctors’ Surgery, Room 13 certainly does not. The walls are black and purple, flickering yellow lamps casting an eerie glow and providing the brightness that the room needs due to having no windows. The floor is an ugly brown and red patterned carpet, the kind you find in a decades old manor house, and wooden shelves and chests of drawers are dotted around the room, covered with various suspicious looking bottles and jars. Old tapestries hang on the walls, and mismatched armchairs and beanbags sit around the rickety table in the middle of the room – I suppose it’s more of a kitchen island type thing than a table – which has a crystal ball, magic wands and various mystical objects sitting atop it. The only things in the room that don’t look otherworldly or ancient are the laptop on the table, and the man stood in front of it, typing away.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in, so I just shut the door behind me, throwing myself down onto the comfiest looking armchair, practically sinking into it. I busy myself with filing my freshly done nails – I love my nail lady, but she can somehow never get them all even – whilst I wait for him to be done. ‘I just cleaned the room and you’re getting nail filings everywhere,’ he says after a few minutes, and I roll my eyes at him. ‘Are you sure you cleaned it? It looks a state,’ I say dryly, and he lets out a little laugh as I pull a flask out of my bag. I get up from my seat and hand him the flask, ignoring his raised eyebrow. ‘Wait, is this-’ ‘Iced americano. The way you like it,’ I say, and he grins, taking it from me with badly hidden excitement. ‘Look at you. Sweetening me up,’ he observes amusedly, and I roll my eyes again. ‘I was making it for myself but now I feel a little sick, so you can have it,’ I lie, and he just gives me a suspicious side-eye before sipping from the flask and letting out a blissful sigh.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks after a few seconds, and I sigh, dragging one of the higher chairs over to the table and sitting on it, not wanting to be a few feet shorter than him in the armchair. ‘I need your help with something,’ I say, and he looks surprised. ‘Wait, you’re actually here to be treated?’ ‘Um… yes. Why else would I be here?’ I ask confusedly, and he hesitates. ‘Thought you might be here to… see me,’ he says quietly, and I feel a little awkward. ‘I… Seungmin, you have to understand w-’ ‘I understand, y/n, I completely understand, and I don’t blame you. It’s just that I’ve… missed you. And I don’t mean I’ve missed our relationship. I’ve missed you in my life. You don’t even show up to family events anymore, and my mum keeps asking why she hasn’t seen you. I don’t have the heart to tell her what happened,’ he murmurs, my heart twisting with guilt. I’m not quite sure what to say, desperately wracking my brains, but there isn’t anything to say, so we’re both silent.

Seungmin and I grew up living in houses opposite each other. Our parents were best friends, so we were best friends. We remained that way through nursery, all of school, and into our adult lives too. I was quite proud of having a wizard best friend who could solve nearly any problem I ever had. He made sure I never failed any tests, hurt myself, got into trouble, and he fixed anything I ever broke, found everything I ever lost, made sure nothing bad ever happened to me. And then we did the worst thing we could’ve done, and we fell in love with each other. Two years later, I had aged two years, and Seungmin had not – wizards are immortal, and so he stopped aging from the age of 18. 22-year-old me was dating 18-year-old Seungmin. It doesn’t seem like much of an issue, but I started thinking about the future. What about when I turned 30, and Seungmin still hadn’t aged a day into adulthood? When we’d had a child together, and he looked more like the kid’s sibling than the father?

‘Anyway… what’s wrong? Why’d you need my help?’ he asks, and I sigh deeply. ‘Basically… I was at the club with Chaeryeong the other night, and we were in the toilets, and I was putting on lipgloss. This girl next to me asked if she could use it, and I was like, ‘um, no’, because who shares lipgloss with a stranger in a club, and she got angry and started saying, ‘you think you’re so gorgeous, and you think you’re better than me,’ and basically went off on one, so I may have retaliated slightly, and turns out she was a witch, so she put a curse on me,’ I explain all in one breath, and Seungmin raises a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You wanna tell me what really happened?’ he asks, and I blink once, twice, before sighing.

‘She asked to borrow my lipgloss and I was kinda drunk and I may have been a bit of a bitch and told her she needed more than just lipgloss to fix her face,’ I admit ashamedly, and Seungmin’s mouth falls open. ‘y/n!’ ‘What? It’s not like I lied! Her makeup was terrible! It was the completely wrong colour for her skin, she hadn’t blended it, her eyelashes weren’t the right shape for her eyes and she hadn’t glued them on properly so they were hanging off, her eyeshadow clashed with her lipstick, it was all terrible! I wasn’t about to let her put my expensive ass lipgloss on top of that god-awful lipstick. So I tried to give her some girl-to-girl advice, but I was drunk so it came out the wrong way!’ I say defensively, Seungmin shaking his head at me in disbelief.

‘Did you tell her all those things? ‘…I may have, yes.’ ‘You’re such a bitch, y/n. Maybe she did her makeup like that on purpose. Maybe no one’s ever taught her how to do makeup. You didn’t need to come for her like that. God,’ he says, voice laced with shock and disappointment, and I feel like a little kid being told off by their teacher. ‘I apologised when she started crying b-’ ‘You made her cry?’ he demands, voice going up a few octaves, and I pout. ‘I didn’t mean to! I apologised, but she was already angry, so she cursed me,’ I say in a small voice, Seungmin’s unimpressed gaze making me feel quite ashamed. Not that I didn’t already! He’s just making me feel worse.

‘What was the curse she put on you?’ he asks, and I let out an angry noise just at the thought of it. ‘That I’ll age to look quadruple how old I actually am,’ I spit, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. ‘I’ve never heard that before. She probably just said it to scare you.’ ‘That’s what I thought. Until this happened,’ I say, turning my head away and lifting up my hair to reveal the base of my neck. I hear him suck in a breath, knowing he’s seeing the lock of hair at the back of my head, the one that’s now a powdery grey colour, wiry and ratty amongst the perfectly healthy hair that I put so much effort into looking after.

‘My body’s getting achy and I’ve got all these pains everywhere that I didn’t have a couple days ago. So I think the curse is real, Seungmin,’ I say seriously, and he nods, looking thoughtful. ‘So you want me to lift the curse off you?’ he asks, and I nod, giving him my best wide innocent eyes. ‘Can you do it?’ I ask, and he’s silent for a moment before replying, ‘I can. But I won’t.’ My heart drops, my mouth falling open slightly, and I blink at him a few times before I say, ‘what do you mean, you won’t?’ ‘I won’t lift the curse off you. You were rude and bitchy to that girl and not once have you shown me that you feel guilty about it. Instead, you’re sat here defending yourself and complaining about her like a little brat, so I think this should teach you a lesson,’ he says simply, and I stare at him in shock.

‘You’re joking, right? I demand, anger flaring through me at the way his eyes sparkle with mirth. ‘No, I’m being serious, actually. You judged that girl based on how she looked – I’m sure if she was conventionally pretty, with flawless makeup, you’d have lent her your lipgloss without a second thought, and probably becomes best friends with her too. That girl might have been the nicest person you’d ever come across. But you wouldn’t know, because you were mean to her. Now, the shoe will be on the other foot. You’ve coasted through life getting what you want because you’re pretty, and now that you’ll look all wrinkly and saggy, we’ll see how you like being on the receiving end of people’s judgement,’ he says cheerfully, my mouth falling open more and more as he speaks.

‘Seungmin, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I really am, and I do regret it. But surely that slightly bitchy behaviour doesn’t warrant this. Me looking like an ancient pensioner! I’ve learnt my lesson. Please don’t do this,’ I say desperately, starting to actually worry that he might not lift the curse. ‘Hmm, I don’t know if you have learnt your lesson, y/n. It’s not like I can take your word for it, because if I didn’t know you any better, you’d have gotten away with telling me a twisted version of what really happened. You’re a compulsive liar. So, I apologise, but I won’t be lifting the curse,’ he says seriously, but his lips are quirked up at the corners, making me realise he’s actually amused by this situation.

‘Seungmin, this isn’t a joke! You cannot let this happen to me!’ I shriek, panic making my hands shake, and he raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Shouting won’t make me change my mind,’ he says dryly, the two of us staring at each other, very different emotions in our gazes, and he sighs a few moments later. ‘How about this? When you show a true act of selflessness and generosity without any kind of judgement, the curse will break,’ he says, taking my hands into his as he speaks, and when I register his words, I snatch them away angrily. ‘No! I don’t want any stupid conditions or things I have to do! Just take the fucking curse off me, Min!’ I scream, fury making my voice waver, and he just laughs.

‘You took your hands away too late – it’s done now. This will teach you your lesson,’ he grins, and I want to literally throw myself across the table and teach him a lesson instead. ‘Seungie, please,’ I pout, stooping lower than I ever thought I would, and he hesitates for a moment before shaking his head, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘No, y/n. It’s done. Try not to judge someone based on their appearance for once, and you’ll be rewarded for it,’ he says mildly, and I just stare at him in disbelief for a few moments. ‘Are you doing this because I dumped you?’ I ask, unable to believe he simply wants to teach me a lesson, and he bursts out into laughter. ‘Flattering yourself a little there, aren’t you? No, y/n, that’s not why. Stop trying to find reasons to play this down. There are no other factors for this punishment other than your nasty behaviour.’ ‘Punishment? What are you, my dad? You don’t get to punish me!’ ‘I know you better than your dad does, better than anyone else does, and I know you’re better than this. I’m trying to help you.’ ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it!’ I exclaim, silence falling between us.

‘If that’s all, y/n-’ ‘If that’s all? If that’s all?’ ‘Yes. If that’s all, you can leave. I only have ten minutes left of my lunch break, and then I’ve got another appointment. So you can go,’ he says with a small grin, effectively dismissing me like a parent sends a child to their room, and I let out an angry huff. ‘I can’t believe this. Some shitty doctor you are,’ I say childishly, bitter about this lesson he’s trying to teach me, and he just rolls his eyes amusedly. ‘My thousands of satisfied patients say otherwise. But that’s okay – you can’t please everyone. Especially not judgemental little brats,’ he grins, and I let out a shrill noise of rage, pushing myself up off the seat and grabbing my bag from the armchair.

‘And I’ll take this!’ I exclaim pettily, snatching the half-empty flask from the table, and he just laughs at me, making me feel even more murderous than I already do. ‘You’ll thank me eventually, y/n,’ he says gently, and I let out another angry huff. ‘I doubt it,’ I hiss, stomping towards the door and, just as I think I can’t be any more immature, I kick the shelves nearest me, watching as it wobbles and falls over to the side before stopping mid-air. ‘Really? How childish of you,’ Seungmin says amusedly, one hand outstretched in the direction of the shelves, his magic holding them up, and I let out an angry scream, sounding a lot like Regina George when she was putting herself in the Burn Book to get back at Cady. Is this really what I’ve become? How embarrassing,

‘I’ll see you at Jackson’s for Halloween,’ he calls out behind me as I reach the door. ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ I hiss venomously, ‘my brittle bones may have already given way by then. God knows if I’ll even be able to walk, thanks to you!’ ‘No, y/n, you only have yourself to blame for this,’ he says, as he shakes his head with a sad smile. ‘Oh, cut out all the philosophical teaching-moment shit,’ I spit, wrenching open the door. As I do so, one of my nails flies off my finger. Not just the fake nail my technician put on this morning. The entire nail.

I hold back a gag, hearing Seungmin stifling laughter behind me, and I look away from it, feeling quite sick. My eyes meet Seungmin’s, and he must take pity on me when he sees how they’re full of angry and helpless tears, and he waves a hand in my direction. When I look down at my hand again, the nail is back in place, good as new. I look back at him in surprise, and he looks a little embarrassed. ‘No more of your nails will fall out. But I’m not fixing anything else for you. Now go, before your stupid pretty face convinces me to lift the curse,’ he says, and I feel a little hope spark in my chest. ‘Seungie, p-’ ‘Nuh-uh. Get outta here. Now.’ ‘But S-‘ ‘y/n, I will call security!’

82 notes · View notes

gray-morality · 3 years ago

Text

THINGS I LIKE RP PARTNERS TO KNOW:

I like to be called:

I kind of took Kuro's nickname as my own many years ago so... call me Kuro :p

One thing you should know about me:

I'm an adult and a responsible one at that xD That means I'm not available in the day (neither on social media in the day) and I do my chores on weekends so that eats my free time even more (but I tend to do them in the morning to keep my evenings free). And my job is rather demanding brain wise so sometimes I get home braindead and transform into a vegetable. It's magic!

One thing you should know about RPing with my character(s):

Katsuro is my main and he's morally gray (most of my characters are :p). He's not evil, nor actually all that bad (but he does work for the Yakuza, so...), and most can empathies with him. He probably won't empathize with you in turn though, not until he consider you a friend (you better be patient). He has very low tolerance of certain types of people (the lazy, the stupid, the arrogant, the macho, the... okay a lot of people). He's not very talkative unless directly addressed, but he will be painfully direct if he finds someone annoying or if a 'hard truth' needs to be said. He doesn't do 'white lies'. This all makes him very hard to approach, until they see the man behind the many "masks". Oh and he's a single father with a three years old boy. Apparently he's good at being a father.

Yuu is easy going, good living, loves to laugh and not afraid of the ridicule. He's divorced, has custody of his twelve years old daughter and deals with all the ups and down of being a single father with a teenager. He managed to make his childhood dream come true many years ago by becoming a master horishi (tattoo master) and that's what he's been doing for nearly three decades.

Fakhri Man'tik is a new character of mine that will be introduced when Endwalker arrives in November. One of those once elusive male Viera, except Fakhri is far from honorable or even mysterious. Hella old (307), done with humanity and all its stupidity, but having himself fallen under the weight of many vices; drinking, smoking, gambling, stealing, con artist... and he's a lazy ass on top of that.

First language:

French (Canadian). And English as second.

Age range:

under 13 | 14–17 | 18–22 | 23–25 | 26–29 | 30+ | 70+

Okay but why 30 and then 70??!! It's like after 30 you're not supposed to RP anymore? I'm in 40+ sheesh XD

Am I okay with NSFW?:

yes | no | some nsfw

Though I don't do random ERP, thank you very much. But I do tackle mature topics (Mature language, alcohol, drugs, crime, torture etc.) that all fall under the NSFW banner.

My favorite/most common thing to rp is:

I have very few limits, as long as there's good OOC communication for certain topics. Yes even smut, but I didn't select it because it certainly doesn't make it into the "common" things I rp. And I have no idea what crack is... xD

Canon Character RP Friendly?:

yes | no | depends

Sorry, I don't rp in the same bar as the WoL, nor any canon characters. My toons are nothing 'next bard song' worthy. They are either normal people, or they are part of the ugly side of life, the wrong side of the law.

RP blog:

does contain ooc posts | doesn’t contain ooc posts | occasionally contains ooc |

My RP blogs are mostly

Aesthetics, screenshots and short stories I write. And some meme and ask, like this one, that I enjoy filling in. Once in a blue moon you get either a drawing I did or a commission from talented artists.

#ask meme

2 notes · View notes

black-streak · 5 years ago

Text

Waiting for the Worms - The Trial

Part 18

I've just been staring at this completed chapter for thirty minutes. I've been working up to this moment for so long and to see it finally written is just. Insane. (No this is not the last chapter. There is much more to come)

By the way!!!! This chapter was not suppose to end this way! Y'all influenced this shit! Goading me into it, I swear.

CLOSED List of Beggarts I regularly feed (I'm running out of names to call you): @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @emjrabbitwolf @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

He'll be after Jason seeing as the new Robin described him and he definitely knows about Joker's death.

They watched as the shadow took off across the rooftops, occasionally tossing out a grapple or swan diving off a ledge. Four blocks off, another figure, much brighter and attention grabbing, took a similar route, small body taking to the sky seemingly not taking notice of the eyes on him. Or perhaps used to it.

You'll watch the bird, keep him distracted. Nothing extreme enough to catch the other's attention. Just hold off any interference.

A dozen mice ran along the sides of gutters and along the alleyways below, awaiting their signal. They kept the brighter figure in their sights, drawing his attention with slight rustles and squeaks from unexpected places. Just loud and weird enough to avoid interest in any other movement in the area, drawing out a natural curiosity and investigative need in their target.

You'll play as backup. As soon as we instigate our target, I expect you to help keep the Replacement within ear range but incapable of assisting.

A fox dashed across the streets, keeping a close eye on the game between the bright figure and the mice scattered about. Any time the bird snuck up on where one hid, she hid the mouse in illusions, sometimes a real rat, other times a startled, hissing cat.

Tail swishing in a twitchy dance behind her, she awaited the main event from her perch.

You two will take to the sidelines, backup if it should come to blows. Otherwise, keep everyone updated on the others' positions and monitor the situation.

A cat slinking around corners kept an eye on all of the players, including the two unseen by the rest, coordinating positions and ensuring no one moved off course, uncomfortable in knowing a double agent held eyes in the sky and taking precautions to avoid cameras as she whispered soft directions into a comm, made by their miraculouses and impossible to hack due to the ancient magic encasing it.

By her side, a dragon crossed with a horse hovered in a tense side to side sway, awaiting her command. The other kept on tiptoe, knowing the call to assist could come at any point and from any direction. In the end, their disappearance back into the night at the end of all of this relied on her. Waiting too long differentiated between success and potential capture.

We'll take on the Bat. After all, I think it's high time he met my soulmate.

With baited breath, they watched as a shrouded man dropped in front of the Bat, making the figure twist at the last second to avoid a headlong collision. Batman turned back on the spot, dropping into a crouch and launching towards the man. The man dropped onto his back, kicking upward into a stomach and using the momentum to launch Batman across the roof while rolling back to a stand. He stayed facing away, though they saw his head tilt, listening to the almost silence behind him. As a flash of silver flung towards his back, he easily spun off to the side, dodging a barrage of batarangs as Batman methodically tossed them while placing himself closer and closer to the other before moving in to initiate hand to hand combat. The man seemed to take this in stride, shifting into the new pattern.

Across the rooftops, Robin took note of the fight and moved to aid. He made it three blocks before a fox dropped in front of him, growling. Taken aback, but knowing not to allow the distraction, he attempted to grapple upwards, only to find the grapple gone, in the teeth of a mouse like figure, taking off away from him, other mice figures crawling about his feet, holding him in place as the fox watched on, teeth bared in a silent warning. Keeping an eye on the strange creatures about him, he looked back to Batman, startling at the realization that he recognized his attacker. Jason. Suddenly he remembered the strange abilities of the lady from the night before and realized the creatures holding him captive where meant to keep him from interfering. As he made to move anyways, a voice in his ear on a private channel spoke up, asking him to stay still. Agent A.

"What's going on, A?"

"You'll see."

The figures continued on until the Bat begin to advance harder, looking to restrain his opponent, calling out to him, having deducted whom the figure is by this point.

"Jason stop!" Right as a fist went too fast to block, aimed straight to the man's nose, a cord wrapped around his fist, yanking in back. As Batman began to turn towards the source, a punch came to his face, bringing him back front and center. A possible second cord wrapped around his other wrist and the backs of his knees were kicked out from under him.

The others watched as a Ladybug held a yoyo taut, strings in a Y formation, the focal point centered between the Bat's shoulder blades to evenly distribute the tension. The Ladybug looped the yoyo over a pipe and pulled up until his arm bent back and upwards without tipping his torso down. If he tried anything, the bug could simply yank him airborne. The Bat choose to focus onto the man in front of him for the moment.

"Jason-"

"I'm not Jason."

We should switch. I have more experience with the Pit Madness than you. If I'm in your body, I can hold the entirety of it while you get a reprieve to focus on the mission. To have a clear mind while confronting him.

"What?" He demanded.

A sharp, feminine voice spoke up behind him, loud enough for the others to hear.

"I am."

Batman froze in his spot on his knees as the figure that looked like Jason sat down in front of him.

"Hello Bruce. It's good to meet you officially. Though I suppose I've known you much longer than you've known me." The lower, masculine voice was offset by its' soft lilting tone.

Despite his brain whirling with the information, he shoved it aside, firmly refusing to put it together himself.

"You're lying."

"She's not," the voice from behind moved closer, the yoyo secured on their hip to prevent his movement but free up the hands and gripped his shoulders in a crushing grip, "You see, Bruce, I hadn't been with you long enough to trust you with the secret of my having a soulmate. And you never knew me well enough to tell when we switched. Some detective you are, hmm?"

"So what, that makes this okay?" He growled.

"Patience," the figure in front of him smirked softly.

"Getting caught by the Joker at that moment, that was my own dumbass fault. You not arriving on time isn't your fault. I could live with that, but that isn't the end. I want you to look into the eyes in front of you, feel how small the presence behind you is. How tiny and young, despite being seventeen. I want you to look her in the eyes and know that she was only fourteen when she was launched into my body where she was beaten to a pulp by the Joker. Blown up. The connection broke. Then because it wasn't her body, she sat in my corpse for months before the resurrection. Had to crawl her way out of a grave and to a hospital."

The team tensed in the distance, having not heard the full story before now. Robin's eyes blew wide behind the mask, the tension in his body going slack in horror.

"Do you see that swirl of green in my blue eyes? How they look almost teal? That's from when the League threw her into the Lazarus Pits. She's combating insanity as we speak. And yet even with the healing effect it had, you can see the scars all over. There's an autopsy mark as well."

The shoulders in Jason's hands shook with his words and he looked up at Mari who seemed calm, letting the man stare at her and take in her reality.

"And none of that is truly your fault. But you know what is?" Marinette spoke up now, "That a fifteen and fourteen year old were ever put into that kind of danger to begin with. What's the likelihood of either of us ever falling onto Joker's radar without your placing us in the costume? Without making us Robin? Do you think Jason would've become a target had you not decided it was perfectly acceptable to allow children to fight criminals?"

"Jason was troubled, he needed someplace to put that anger. Something to let out-"

"Many children are troubled or angry. Do you know what other parents don't do? Allow that teen angst to turn into taking on the adult underworld. But sure, we'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Explain then why you couldn't care enough for Jason, for any potential child's life enough to create a permanent solution to our murderer? How many people, how many innocent kids is the Joker's life worth to you?"

"You obviously care more for the clown than us," Jason added.

"That's not true!"

"Then why? Why was my grave barely marked?"

"Two sentences in the Tuesday local obituaries."

"Swept under the rug to be forgotten."

"While you hunt us down for killing the clown. We deserve to be hunted down for avenging our own death."

"Meanwhile you do no such thing to the one who killed your supposed precious Robin. Did we mean so little to you? I wonder if the newest Robin means anymore than we did."

"So you're angry you were replaced?" Batman barked out, overwhelmed by their constant barrage of accusations.

Mari reached forward, forcing the man to look into the teal of those eyes swirling in front of him, watching him flinch away at knowing who she was, "You misunderstand us purposefully. It's not that we were replaced. It's that you know a child died for your cause and you still insist on placing another in harm's way. You take broken children desperate for guidance, for connection, for anything and abuse that position over them. You as their guardian are meant to keep them from harm's way. To protect them from the horrors of the world until they're old enough to face it in their own way. Not throw them in a costume, train them into weapons and then let them fight the most dangerous criminals the city could offer. Yes, we made some stupid choices of our own, but you set us up to even have those choices presented to us. Does it even occur to you that had we not shown up to save the little bird, another child would have died under your care? Does that mean nothing to you?"

The Bat growled, trying to break free of his binds. The two hid grins, knowing him unaware of the young eyes listening desperately for his answer.

"You certainly haven't thanked us for keeping him alive. Does it mean less to you that he is alive then it does that Joker is dead."

"You know the rules! We don't kill!"

He fell for it. He might as well have told the new Robin his life was forfeit to his cause. The mice scurried off Robin's feet from where he stayed, a rooftop over as the fox curved around his calves in an almost apologetic movement.

"Jason swore to abide by your rules. I never did. I was fourteen when I died due to your negligence. I was innocent. I was a happy little girl with dreams of becoming a fashion designer. Now I can't even keep the voices in my head from screaming in my ears at all hours of the day. But the only thing you truly care about in the end is yourself. I fear for any child that gets dragged into your mess. And I will do whatever it takes to protect them from the inevitability of your cruelty."

With that, she stood from her spot and took off into the shadows, a cat, dragon and mice following out of sight. The fox looked at the boy who stood broken on the rooftop and nudged him, dropping the illusion of an animal and holding her hand out in offerance. He looked back at the thrashing Bat.

Jason, taking hold of the yoyo once more and tightening his grip, leant closer, "I don't blame the Joker for our death. I blame you."

With that, he used the yoyo to fling Batman in the opposite direction, taking off in an off kilter path towards the others. Looking back at the patient fox figure, hand still waiting for his choice, he hesitated.

"The choice is yours, Timothy. I'll support you no matter what," A's voice spoke softly through the comms.

Exhaling slowly, he took her hand.

She lead him to their rendezvous point where he saw the mice form into one person, the two from the roof and two other unknown figures. As he looked at them, each gave a soft nod in turn before the one opened up a blue portal before them, the fox letting go of his hand to follow the others through. Eventually only him and the ladybug themed one remained. Jason.

"Come on, replacement. You can stay with us however long you like."

With the smallest smile of gratitude and the encouraging words of Alfred in mind, he followed the other through, the portal closing behind them.

#maribat #jasonette #ml x dc #WFTW #part 18 #kidnapping children the humane way

346 notes · View notes

lorei-writes · 4 years ago

Text

The Dragon of Yss: Extra!

Bloopers, Outtakes, some HC

Masamune x MC (Mizusaki Mai)

Fantasy AU

Summary: He wanted Mai to remain herself - and for that very reason, he promised to protect her, at any cost. Little did he know, he may need somebody to save him as well.

All parts: Part 1 - Sands of Estarra , Part 2 - Findings , Part 3 - “ I knew you’d come.” , Part 4 - Reborn , Part 5 - Eevi , Part 6 - Closer , Part 7 - Way to Varshka , Part 8 - The Gods We Trust , Part 9 - Flowers that Bloom in Adversity , Part 10 - Singing Bird , Part 11 - Vibrant Smoke , Part 12 - Hidden in Plain Sight , Part 13 - Heritage , Part 14 - Isger , Part 15 - Mad Possibility , Part 16 - Unraveling , Part 17 - Promises Sealed in Snow , Part 18 - Never Unfamiliar, Part 19 - White Noise , Epilogue: Threads

So, the main part of the story may be over... But it did not stop my brain from coming up with few little things here and there. As such, allow me to share those here as well.

// Dialogue shortly following the ending of the series; between Iroha and Masamune

// General post-chapter 19 notes/HC + explanations

“What do you mean you were turned into a dragon?! I thought you said you’ve lied to me only once in my life and that this was the lie!”

“Of course not. It was when you were seven and refused to go to sleep without having cake, so I told you that the neighbours’ dog was hungry and ate it.”

(Pause)

“Are you for real?”

“Dire situations call for appropriate measures.”

“I swear to skies, dad...”

The Plague of Yss

Iroha - the heiress of the Date clan

I feel it may be somewhat unclear, yet I decided against repeating it in the story itself. As was stated, Mitsunari had some hypothesis to test and needed at least a single person who survived long enough into the plague OR recovered from it.

The plague of Yss was in fact more of a double-edged sword, perhaps it could be even called a ritual performed by Isgerians. Yssians are their descendants and, as you probably already know, Masamune turned into the dragon as the result of this plague.

Long story short: Masamune is the survivor of the plague, the one thing Mitsunari needed. This is also why they came to live in Varshka, the place being one of two major cities presented in the story. (Why Varshka and not Vyrminia? University in Vyrminia would still be partially destroyed. As was stated by Mila, despite being almost the same in most regards, the atmosphere is the major thing setting those two apart. +Take note that Ieyasu did work there shortly before being forced to move to Vyrminia and recorded a rapid increase of cases of said plague there).

As was implied several times in the story, magical abilities or lack thereof may influence one’s life to a great extent - from their social status to rendering them a desirable product on the black market.

Allow me to write a short list (least to most desirable) of abilities.

Giftless.

Healer.

Connector (either of two types).

Transmuter.

(As for why this order is like so: talk between Oxa and Masamune in regards to giftless and healers; fact that the only transmuter in the story is Alleyah/Manya and it’s specifically mentioned that this ability is extremely rare and desirable to the point of people being bred to acquire it in the offspring. Yes - yikes; the only remaining and most common class are, of course, connectors, hence its placement).

Lastly, before I move to the point, please let me remind you: abilities are inherited. It is not completely random.

How does it all tie up into Iroha’s situation?

The history repeats itself. Iroha is hence more desirable heir than any of her cousins. If she so chooses - she will become the heiress of the Date clan. However, as it was already implied in the story: it is a choice. Masamune tells her he will handle any business with his family if she wishes to take a different path.

Masamune is giftless, which, aside from having only one eye, makes him a very poor candidate for a heir. As such, it was his younger brother who was granted the role - whichever type of magic he possessed, it was better than no magic and the risk of passing this “affliction” onto the next head of the family.

However, just as magic is passed, so is lack of it. Even if it did not activate in his generation, Kojirou’s children are born giftless. (Given the context, despite the other parent possessing some sort of ability).

Meanwhile, Masamune’s daughter, Iroha, was born a connector, having inherited the ability from her mother.

Her trip to Mitsuhide’s estate is related to that - there are little other reliable ways for her to be taught about diplomacy.

On warlords and their relationships

This may cause a question to appear: how did the warlords even end up being connected? Well... Simply as that, they were all sons from rather prominent households and had most likely met each other during diplomacy trips of their parents. Them either becoming heads of said families or not - that comes into play later on in their life. Their relationships survived.

It also means that the reason why Ieyasu was able to become a physician is because he was a healer and hence, not the best candidate. Also - Masamune could travel the world in search of Mai because... He didn’t have any political duties to attend to.

As for Mitsunari and Hideyoshi - it’s not explained nor implied how they got where they are. However, it’s possible to adapt canon for the sake of that.

Portal magic and its many faces

As it was stated in the story, the main thing setting Arynthian people from other connectors is that - if one of them is born a connector - their magic manifests somewhat differently. It’s ruled by different limitations.

As such, Mai’s portal magic is different from that of Kyubei. (As it was shown, she can see colorful lines and can follow them basically anywhere. Kyubei, meanwhile, has to be able to see the place he is supposed to open the portal to - or to be able to visualise it well, as was pointed out when Mai passed through a portal point).

Why am I bringing it up? Because Iroha’s magic is a bit different too. It has less limitations that Kyubei’s ability, yet it isn’t as powerful as Mai’s.

This also explains why “Arynthinas” are so rare - the ability degenerates fast. It’s more of an error than actual ability, so to say.

Kenshin & the timeskip

What was he even doing then? How long was it?

Well. Kenshin has a very fuzzy memory of last 20-ish years of his life in the form of the dragon. As was previously mentioned, it happens so when the primal desires take over human mind - when smelling blood or... Well, or what? It was mentioned he was hungry.

Yes. He was starving himself for the entire duration of the timeskip. Why? Because then the flammable substance in his stomach self-ignited and caused him to combust. In a way, he committed an act of self-burning...

And flames of the dragon were the only thing which could turn him back. So they did.

// Bullet-points (not written in the story, may not be written, but overall, you can assume those are canon)

Iroha was born 12 months after her parents reunited. When Mai got pregnant, it was a surprise for all parties involved. However, they chose to continue the pregnancy.

Mai became proficient in portal magic mostly because Iroha’s powers would activate at random when she was still little. A toddler stuck between the worlds doesn’t make for a happy toddler.

On that note, Masamune could be hardly left home alone with her. Hardly, as he eventually developed fast enough reflexes to pull her out of a portal right as she was starting to pass through it. It later became a joke that they needed to keep her on a leash for few months - which is not completely incorrect.

Developing the cure involved taking plenty of samples. In other words: RiP Masamune’s veins, he would curse like a sailor whenever he had to have his blood drawn.

To follow down this path: the preventive medicine involved having your skin cut and then it being injected. Iroha was very young when it happened and so, she has a scar on her arm from that.

Shortly after that, they moved back to Yss. Masamune might have not been the heir, but family standing did make some matters easier to achieve for him. As such, he’s a bit of a local leader in his community, I would say, dealing mostly with local politics and management.

They were relieved when it turned out their son, Tadamune, was giftless.

Iroha will never live down what happened at the apple tree.

During winter, the frostbite on Mai’s hands makes itself known again. Her skin cracks and scabs start to form - and each year, Masamune takes it onto himself to tend to them. He is more than aware that she got it while he was still turned into the dragon.

Manya continued to serve under Mitsuhide. However, she hardly uses her power anymore. She grew particularly close with Kyubei, although they’re still working on the terminology. Or perhpas there is no reason for it?They’re not sure themselves; Call them very close friends.

Mitsuhide does not have a chid or a partner. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, his “niece” having always been a handful to manage. He made sure to tell everybody about the apple tree. All of his stories contradict each other.

Time almost stopped for Kenshin when he was still a dragon. In other words, he’s the oldest in actual years of life, but in terms of physical form? He’s younger than Masamune or any other warlord. This lands him in a rather peculiar spot of... Well, an adult face, although in his case, it’s just another variety of VERY severe baby face.

// outtakes

-- this was a very early attempt at writing the smut scene. Written several months prior to actually getting to this point in the story.

The room was cozy and simple, the inventory of it consisting of warm chimney stretching from below the floor and up through the ceiling, a small table, with a bronze basin on top of it, and a bed, just barely big enough to fit two people comfortably. They stepped inside, the white sheets seemingly calling them, inviting them to come closer. Mai sank onto the mattress first, her legs still remaining on the floor. She kicked her boots off and, this time, lay down properly.

„ We're switching today,” she said, opening her arms for Masamune. He obliged, soon nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Resting in silent contentment, he slung his arm over her waist, pulling her even closer. She stroked his hair tenderly, basking in the warmth exchanged between their bodies. Ever since she was kidnapped, she wanted to just hold him, knowing he'd push himself with no regard for his own well-being.

„ You shouldn't have done that, you know...” she hummed. „ What were you even thinking, it was so risky...”

„ I screwed up in the market, didn't I?” he sighed. „ I'm sorry I didn't keep my word then.”

„ You idiot, you missed the point entirely. I can... If... If that's what I have to do to survive, I will accept it. But I don't want to lose you,” her voice hitched. Masamune propped himself on his elbow, cupping her cheeks with his free hand.

„ I'm sorry. But I couldn't stand having you whisked away again too.”

As if guided by pure instinct, she pulled him into a kiss. His lips pressed against hers more delicately than usually. She opened her mouth, needing to taste him, over and over again. His familiar scent enveloped her, his fingers tracing the outline of her jaw – and for a moment she could have sworn that the time stopped, that the entire universe was reduced just to that single small room. Yet, they had to part eventually, their lungs begging for air. To her surprise, Masamune returned to his previous spot, his hair tickling her chin.

„ I missed you so much, Mai,” he murmured against her skin. His lips brushed her neck once, twice, and so many more, each and every time descending slightly, until he reached the very tip of her collarbone. His hand waited at the hemline of her shirt.

„ But you should rest...” she trailed off.

„ I'm fine. You know the question was whether you want it or not.”

Hadn't she known the answer already? Yet, the reason still fought within her, reminding her of both her and his fatigue... But... Maybe? Maybe just a little... Maybe just a little more.

„ I do,” she uttered finally.

-- At first I considered Mitsuhide and Manya becoming and endgame ship. I ended up deciding against it. However, a line of dialogue stayed. I debated using it for another pair, but it didn’t happen either.

A chilly gust of wind slipped through the tiny creaks around the window. His teeth pulled lightly on the cord keeping her neckline closed, the knot soon unraveling. His hand snuck under her shirt, travelling up so very slowly, as if he wanted to renew the map of her body in his mind. She shivered under his touch, anticipation growing deep within her. His lips returned to her neck, as he cupped her breast from below, massaging it lightly. Switching between the left one and the right one, his fingers caressed them unhurriedly. Masamune pulled onto the top of her shirt, the fabric dispersing over the cord just slightly, exposing her shoulders. Cold air inviting itself into the room again, he kissed the newly freed skin. He propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her, her nipples peaking through her clothing.

„ Masamune...” she whined a bit, as if to rush him. He chuckled in response, the garment soon flying to the floor.

„ Aren’t you impatient, kitten?” he hummed against her breast, his breath warming up her skin. Mai shivered.

“ You’re..!” her voice hitched, as he took her nipple between his teeth and bit on it just lightly, flicking it with his tongue and sucking it a moment later.

“ Have you said anything just now?” he laughed, looking up at her. Mischief played in his eye, as he returned to caressing her, his fingers sliding down her side.

“ That I missed you too,” she gasped as he grabbed her rear, his hand sneaking beneath the fabric of her pants. As if to make up to her for all the missed time, his lips trailed a path down her abdomen – until she couldn’t take it anymore, pulling him up by his shoulders, needing to taste his lips. She pushed Masamune against the pillows and straddled him. Seeing the surprised look he gave her, Mai laughed a little.

“ I still think you should rest,” she stated firmly, her fingers tracing his jawline. She cupped his face and leaned forward, her hair tickling his cheeks as he kissed her again, his tongue entering her mouth eagerly. Wordlessly, she

-- Another dialogue exchanged between Mitsuhide and Manya. It made it into the final story, although slightly altered.

“I love you.”

“What--”

“With every fiber of my being. I love you.”

“He will not love you, no matter how much you change.”

“How can you know that?!”

“The filthiest scums on earth are unable to feel anything lest it’s twisted - and love, my dear little one, can never withstand that sort of deformation.”

Tag list: @datenoriko, @nad-zeta, @tsubaki3192, @jiyuu-chan, @missjudge-me, @ikemencrossedmyth, @encrytpta, @nuttytani, @thesirenwashere, @milas-imaginarium, @kisara-16, @yukas-clover, @alerialumina , @cheese-ception , @iamryxx, @cottonfluffballofdoom, @ozziegrl71, @in-words-of-what-maybe

If you want to be tagged under my future works, let me know (any way works)! ^^ Also, if you have some preferences (for example: you’d rather not be tagged under some series, etc.), please, tell me.

If you don’t want to be tagged anymore - please, do not feel bad about it, just say so :)

#masamune date #ikesen masamune #ikemen sengoku masamune #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #my ff #my writing

9 notes · View notes

isoisolated · 4 years ago

Text

I have ADHD and it's not fun

29/12 edit: coming back to this post, I just wanted to add that at the time of writing, my adhd was unmedicated. Thought this might be good thing to note.

My friend Ondrej kept sending me articles and texts posts written by other adhd people (mostly adult males) that it finally pushed me to write my own, because even though I could relate to some minor and major parts, something always felt a bit of and also because ADHD is a condition that's been heavily ignored by medical professionals not only in adults, but especially in adult women, which is a group I sort of represent myself.

I could talk about this for ages, my therapist frequently tells me that I have this gift of intense self-analysis and immense passion to get it all sorted out once for all. I guess it's another way of saying I'm so hyperaware of my own existence and my brain simply latches onto it and constantly tries to solve its own problems.

If you do not care about my own personal history, just skip to second headline.

I was clueless for the first 20 years of my existence

Now, ADHD isn't the only thing that's been making me feel almost alien, I dare to say that my puberty years were mostly about developing and internalising bit of trauma and processes that do no good in later life.

I love music. And I mean I truly endlessly unconditionally love music. Being a daughter of music composer, I was 6 when I first asked my dad to show me where to press record in Logic Pro and told him to leave me alone while I recorded my first song. It was called Autumn is here and it sounded like something made by 6 years old.

I remember we were attending castings for TV shows or commercials and later I was told that it was me who initiated such trips and that I always wanted to be a part of such things. I don't remember initiating such things but I remember for sure that I was very shy and uncomfortable when I was supposed to show off.

I remember I was supposed to take piano lessons. And I was so baffled that I had to follow the book and play what's in the book, instead of playing thing I wanted. I think I told my parents after few lessons that I do not like it and was dropped outta it. This became a pattern, if I recall correctly.

But that's nothing out of ordinary, kids are harder to get focused and entertained. I remember two moments from elementary school where I was told by my classmates that I'm acting like I have ADHD and it got me real mad every time, because in my head ADHD looked like not paying attention in class, being body hyper and overall just annoying.

I could find a proof that I made myself first to-do list when I was 14. Since 14 I felt like I need more self control and self regulation, that I need to fit myself more into ambitions I had and have and in order to do that, I started making to-do lists with ambiguous tasks such as “work more on music” and “work-out”. It was also in during my great isolation era, I had no real life friends but one that I was seeing occasionally, I wasn't going out, I came from school on Friday afternoon and left my room on Monday morning. I was making friends online since I was 11 and lived mostly online.

At that time I also started figuring out what was wrong with me. Since ever I always felt a bit “off” compared to my peers, I always felt weird (and was told that thousand of times in my life), I always felt like I was thinking about things a bit differently and my humour was different and my hobbies were seen obscure by my classmates (even though they weren't obscure at all). I felt alone for most of my growing up and feelings of complete loneliness and detachment haunt me to this day, making me spiral.

I thought I might suffer from bipolar disorder, because I had high energy episodes and my emotions were so intense. I was crying almost everyday for both external and internal reasons, my head sometimes felt like too much and I found temporary peace in self-help books and esotericism.

I was around 17-18 when I realised all of this is bullshit and that no book can make me do things that I wanna do. I'd spent hours, days and months thinking about doing things, being crippled by this weird force that hold my body down, unable to do anything, no matter how much I wanted it. I'd beat myself up for it, thinking I was just so damn lazy and stupid and pretentious. I wanna be a popstar, a successful musician, I have to do all these things and if not, I'm gonna fail so much and my life will lose its meaning.

When I was 17, I released my first EP and for some reason, it found some attention and success, if we might call it that. Suddenly I felt on the right path, I was seen as a musician and also very young one. Even though I still was sad almost every day or had intense sadness episodes that could last for a week, it felt right and I couldn't wait to finish high school and become a full time musician.

I'd produce music in unplanned episodes of total focus, where I would sit and do things for hours straight, without eating. My most favorite songs were made during 6-8 hour sessions and it felt amazing. I couldn't bring myself to produce music if I hadn't the right vibe or idea for it.

It was around that time this woman texted me, saying she wants to be my manager and that she really likes my music. It felt so unreal but here I am, with my own professional manager, on my way to be the most amazing music person.

I'd crush on people (and mostly boys and men) constantly, it was also very episodic, could last for days to month where I'd had nothing on my mind but them, drowned in daydreaming and just imagining things and also letting them know all of that. It was magical but it was fleeting. It still is. But it is the greatest inspiration, where I feel so much emotions it makes me see things and then I can transform them into music.

But there was still something wrong with me, I was very emotional, still struggling with making my routines work, I'd come up with new plans and schedules every week just to fail them the day after. It was exhausting and I saw nothing alike in my world too, I was alone and my experience was just not enough will power.

I could get mad so easily, I'd clench my fists and was so close to punching someone and when I hated someone I hated them with immense passion and spent hours just imagining myself confronting them. I was so mad all the time on background too and even slightest thing would put me in classic rage mode.

I have problems remembering dates and names, I'm bad at remembering people's faces, I'm bad at learning things by myself even though I have interest in them. I'm bad at making routine for myself and actually following it.

I finished high school and planned to go study abroad but it turned out it isn't what I want so I came back and started looking for a job. Around that time I met my now best friend and thanks to him I actually started thinking even harder what might be wrong with me, so I looked up ADHD. And didn't believe that at all. I wasn't like this, was I?

Then, the summer came and I met my friend (and also a fan) while being out for a beer. We chatted, had a great time and then told me I kinda am like a person with ADD. I was confused because I didn't recall what that does mean, later I remembered it's another (and outdated) term for ADHD, but it's the “quiet type”, where the hype happens mostly inside and doesn't manifest outside that much. So I started researching once again, because I trusted him and it was that one push I needed.

It's been year since that moment and it took me months to accept that I might suffer from ADHD and to this day I still have feelings of impostor syndrome, making it all harder for myself just like that, to be more interesting for myself. I still yet have to accept this.

I was transitioning into adulthood and yet had actual emotional breakdowns, I was crying and my heart was aching and I couldn't bring myself to do things I want, to learn more about music production, to learn how to sing better, to learn my favorite k-pop choreos, to work-out, to embody my own vision of who I want to be. With music, I am my own boss and it's the worst.

Covid-19 hit our country and here came the first lockdown. It pushed me over the edge and I felt like I was losing all of my friends, I felt those feelings of loneliness and weirdness again, I felt like nobody knows what's wrong because I don't have it as bad as others, I was hurting so much my body was shaking and twisting. I decided to try medication, even though I told my psychiatrist I don't want to, I just felt like I cannot be like this anymore, it's too much pain and no matter how much I try, I can't make it better, I can't make it work.

I started taking Strattera and after month or two, I saw it working. A bit, I could focus better and bring myself to do things more and more frequently, and if I had these weird emotional meltdowns, they weren't as intense as before. This serves me as ultimate proof that I am not making this up, because if I were, the medication wouldn't work and make me feel better, right?

So, what am I doing now?

I'm still a huge mess and I cannot see myself in a better light. Even though I have job that I perform at at stable rate, even though I have just a little problem cooking for myself, even though I have no troubles falling asleep, even though I can enjoy things greatly when those high energy waves hit me.

I'm tired of myself, I'm tired of myself not being able to do anything again. I ignore my manager because I already know I have nothing else to say than “I cannot bring myself to do things and you know that, I'm sorry for being a constant failure.” When people compliment me, I thank them but deep inside I don't accept it.

I have unreleased and WIP songs I can see never being released, ever. When I listen to music from my favorite artists, I can also feel the pain from the fact that I'm not like them and that I probably won't ever be, because my brain sabotages me every damn time.

From the very moment I wake up to the very moment I fall asleep, there's music playing in my head. I don't choose what's playing, sometimes it's song I don't even like and yet it's stuck on loop. I talk with my therapist in my head, I'm having weird flashbacks in my head to my memories, I'm having “you should do X right now” and “why aren't you doing Y” stuck on loop too. This all is happening at once, every moment I'm awake, even when I'm talking with people. It's exhausting.

I'm bored most of the time, I have interesting books in my bookshelf and still cannot read them because I have to reread paragraphs in order to actually understand them. And even then, I find my mind wandering again. I have problems with long texts and long tutorials.

I get frustrated easily, my head is overflowing with ideas I can't act on. I'm living in weird worlds I made up for myself, and then reality hits me.

I had my first depressive episode few months ago. I felt like nothing matters, that I don't matter, I felt nothing and emptiness, I crawled up in bed and was mindlessly watching youtube videos. I didn't want to eat or drink, I wanted to not exist at all. That episode passed but it was my first encounter with actual depressive state and I know I can slip into it more easily now, it simply developed along the way, after 21 years without acknowledging that I have problems and I struggle.

People don't understand the struggle, when talking to them about my problems, it's like talking to an automated assistant, coming up with phrases like “Did you try yoga?” “everyone struggles sometime” “you cannot accomplish everything”. They say they wanna listen and help until they don't.

I have a mental graveyard for ideas I won't ever finish, no matter how good they are, because my brain won't let me. Proper medication would help, therapy also helps but I can't talk myself out of actual executive dysfunction.

ADHD is a neurodevelopmental disorder, our brains are literally underdeveloped in some areas and wired differently. Our emotions lack regulation normal people have and our motivation is fragile. This can't be changed with yoga, this cannot be solved by trying more. Not to even mention, capitalist society is especially damaging to neurodivergent people (and not only them, of course).

While on this journey, I am still meeting more and more people having same struggles like me, finding people who understand you is the best thing to battle impostor syndrome. Sometimes I can't help them and sometimes they can't help me, but it's okay, because we know we understand each other and if I wanna complain and vent, we can do so without having to explain this condition over and over.

And I hope that someone finds this relatable too, because as a woman I know my group isn't represented enough. We are not children, nor adult males, we need more attention and more support, from both healthcare system and each other.

While doing this, I hope to get myself proper medication and continue doing what I love the most - music. I don't love anything else more than that. I hope to get rid of “all or nothing” mindset, I hope to be more consistent, I hope my music will reach its listeners and fans. I still have enough time, I think, even though my sense of time is neurologically altered.

#adhd #actually adhd

10 notes · View notes