#but this is exhibit A of why this bastard is my favourite out of all of them

[incorrect-koh-posts]

William of Tyre on Raymond III of Tripoli:

"He was lean and slender of body and fairly tall. He had a handsome face and slightly large nose; brown hair that hung down straight; beautiful eyes and fairly broad shoulders. He was moderate in all things, as much in drinking and eating as in his speech, which was very reasoned. He was wise and showed foresight in time of need, without arrogance. He was more generous to strangers than to his own. In the Saracen prison, he learned a little of letters. When he wanted to find the answer to something, he would freely consult the written word. In the year that he was called to be regent of the kingdom, he married a lady named Eschiva, who had been wife of Gautier, Prince of Galilee. This lady was very wealthy; she had had several children by her first lord, but by the Count she had none. Nevertheless he loved her as tenderly as if all these children had been his own."

- from the Historia rerum in partibus transmarinis gestarum by William of Tyre

[brotherdusk]

it's time again for my favourite genre of post: tumblr user bee brotherdusk theorises wildly during the Foundation midseason!

on the menu this time is Poly and Constant's Imperial Vacation From Hell, or "oh god, I just wanted to make sure one of my favourite guys was going to be okay, but somehow I ended up sending over two dozen increasingly frantic messages to the discord while everyone else was asleep, pepe silvia-style"

(today I learned that grandpa joe shows up when you type "pepe silvia" into the gif search. deserved)

I'm gonna stick this under a readmore as it gets pretty long and image heavy, and potentially contains big spoilers for upcoming episodes, and I know some people want to watch the show completely unspoiled. all theories are based on official promotional videos already released by apple. no leaks or insider book knowledge here!

so I sort of stumbled into this theory in three stages, and I'm going to stick to that template as I talk through my analysis here, starting with:

Part 1 - I'm Genre Aware Now And Everything Hurts

let's be real, nobody saw Hari's (apparent) death coming in the last episode. death is far less of a concern in this show than in others, as the narrative all but guarantees the long-term survival of its core characters. Hari (apparently) dying so quickly after having his body restored was a massive shock, and jolted us out of the complacency that the show had lulled us into.

when the title and description of next week's episode dropped, fan concern quickly turned to Poly, who @gaal-dornick and @aquitainequeen noted has started to exhibit the classic symptoms of Tragic Mentor Figure Disease:

also, there's, y'know, The Guillotine Situation as shown in Trailer 1:

Poly's death seemed so likely that I was beginning to dread the coming episodes, but something was nagging at me; I had a vague memory of seeing a trailer where he was on Terminus and in a situation that we haven't yet seen him in. maybe he does survive his brush with Brother Day, then? I started rewatching all of the trailers, teasers, and character spotlight videos that Apple released in the run-up to season two, and came across something way wilder than I'd expected:

Part 2 - Star Bridge 2: Council Boogaloo

I found another camera shot of Poly and Constant's apparent execution in the Brother Dawn character spotlight video - note the pillars in front of the crowd, the flags in the back, and Dawn, Sareth, Demerzel, Dusk, and Rue standing on the platform behind Day and the prisoners.

note also the onlookers in the maroon robes, who are also visible in the guillotine closeup I posted above...

...hey, it's the Galactic Council as seen in 2.06, with their GILF-y leader at the front in both scenes!

remember how terrified Cleon XII was of their judgement in the season one finale? we still don't know what their exact deal is, but they're clearly big cheeses politically if XII of all people is afraid of them:

here's yet another angle of the execution from Trailer 2 - same setup, same arrangement of Empire on the podium:

let's see what happens in that shot, will we? ..... oh

... did an explosion just go off in the heart of Trantor and potentially take out the entire galaxy's government in one go???? (I mean, Empire are probably fine with their auras and nanobots and backups, but I'm not feeling too good about the Council's chances right now...)

wait - the pulse and shape that appear on the horizon bear a striking resemblance to the new Foundation whisper ships - especially Poly and Constant's ship, Spirit Rising, which is currently in the hands of Hober Mallow...

why did he take their ship, again?

holy fucking shit Hari Seldon you insane rat bastard (admiring, horrified, impressed). what have you DONE. a blade in case the religious hand of friendship doesn't work out, you say??

(sidenote: this was literally the Anacreon plan for the Invictus in the first season - the scale of the destruction would have been magnitudes worse due to the Invictus' size, but same concept)

honestly, I kind of hope the entire Council perishes in the Mallowpocalypse, if only because it would make this exchange in 2.06 deliciously ironic:

the worst detectives in the world finally found their shared braincell and made a deduction! I'm proud of them!

also, Glawen literally saw this coming in 2.04 and Bel brushed him off. ¯_(ツ)_/¯ sad!

regarding casualties - I think this shot from Trailer 1 is the aftermath of the blast. Day was standing much closer to the explosion than the rest of Empire and Dominion, and so would have taken more damage, aura or not. I also see Sareth, Rue (?), and Dawn - jury's out on whether being dead is the latest item added to Dusk's rapidly expanding list of problems?

a direct attack on Trantor would also explain why Day goes on a personal tour of the Outer Reach and ends up on Terminus, screaming for an audience with Hari Seldon (Trailer 1 again):

and hey, Poly's right behind him! he's Empire's best chance of getting a personal audience with the Prophet, after all. Poly also pops up in Day's character spotlight video, in what I'm guessing is the execution scene again, judging from the collar and the guard restraining him. it might even be the aftermath of the blast, since the shot is pretty chaotic and dusty looking. what's got him so upset?

... and it was at this moment that I realised that while Poly is present in the later Terminus scenes with Day, Brother Constant is not, and I started to worry that I'd been focusing on the wrong person the whole time, leading to...

Part 3 - What About Constant?

oh no. the question of Constant's safety has been hanging over both Poly and the viewer since 2.02. oh no

I thought I might have caught a glimpse of her in the Teaser 1 video - being restrained in the background as Day does his infamously-giffed-to-hell Big Steppy on Hober's throat - but I still wanted more concrete proof of her wellbeing.

and finally I found her in the Pillars of Foundation video, alive and well, but -

HER NECK!! HER NECK!!!

if Constant's life is just barely saved by Hober showing up in the nick of time to prevent her decapitation by an insane tyrant I will literally never be normal again. romance. that's romance. (also incredibly shitty of Vault!Hari to take her blind faith and turn her into a pawn for the Empire to slaughter, but I guess that's expected behaviour from him by now.)

... I was literally about to hit post on this theory, but I just realised; that scene in Teaser 1 where Day is facing down a bishop's claw... we all assumed he was being attacked by a wild beast in the Outer Reach - but what if he's lying in the ruins of the podium on Trantor, and the bishop's claw is a freed Beki going on a rampage? god I hope this happens. imagine being Emperor of the Galaxy, about to perform some casual executions before dinner, and suddenly you're flat on your ass with a Hell Dinosaur about to bite your face off. incredible scenes

and that's all I've got! TLDR; Hari knew that the emperors and Galactic Council would become increasingly paranoid and aggressive as the Empire contracted, and would jump at the chance to publicly end an attempted religious takeover by the "barbarian" Outer Reach. That mass gathering at the execution would be the perfect time to strike with a whisper ship, a technology which the Empire has no idea even exists. This enrages Day into visiting Terminus to deal with the Foundation in person, and potentially destabilises the Empire further if the Council have been wiped out. Empire's structure and dignity are decimated without a single shot being fired - and if there is going to be an eventual, physical war, the Foundation is now in a much better position to fight it.

again, this is just me making a theory and connecting everything together with red string etc etc. I haven't attempted to explain everything, such as the Spacers' or Riose's involvement, and have doubtless got some details wrong - but I'm really excited by how things are connecting and can't wait for next week's episode :}

[cangrellesteponme]

Hmm…maybe #7-12 for a fic of your choosing? 📚

i'm going to be answering these for Howl :)

7: Which character gave you the hardest time writing correctly?

I think no one's surprised to hear that it was, of course, Vanitas. Part of the process of writing Howl was about figuring out what major character flaw could/would/does negatively impact their desired/future/current relationships, so writing Vanitas was hard because I could very easily name over ten, each one as terrible as the next. I kind of had that problem with Domi too, but it all comes back to her being too giving (and her characteristic absence of self), so I easily focused on that aspect (and of course the fic was initially only her part, so i already had a lot of inspiration for her). With Vanitas though... the multifaceted bastard man doesn't ever show the same flaw twice. It was so hard I almost gave up on his part, but ended up just taking a break from it, writing Jeanne's part, and coming back to it. In the end I just went for the "bitter bitch who observes the misery of others and refuses to look at how to get his own shit together" angle, which is something I consider to be a major character trait and flaw Vanitas regularly exhibits, but you can disagree with me on that one.

12: What are some aesthetics/images you often associate with your fic?

Okay, I think anyone who has ever read anything I've written might notice the severe lack of background descriptions. The thing is I write about feelings a lot but I'm not actually fond of the Romanticism movement (think of me as Flaubert, if you will- I know how to do it but I'd rather make fun of it), so I see no point in talking about the environment unless I want to paint a very clear image for the reader- which I don't do a lot, as it would actually undermine my work because I write a lot about confusion, and hazes, and identity crises, and uncertainty... So no full backgrounds in text.

BUT I'm an artist still, of COURSE i have TONS of imagery in my head as I write. And the ones for Howl... delightful.

(This is going to be very long.)

Chapter one, aka dominoé and the bedroom of infinite sexual tension

I didn't take a look at Dominique's actual bedroom while I was writing, so I really just imagined Noé, with his monochrome look (though at this point he's barely dressed), on a red bed, in a red room, plunged in the obvious representation of Domi's feelings yet unaware and unaffected, which would be represented by the lighting which obviously clashes with the intended colour of the room. Basic symbolism aside, I often imagine dominoé interactions with warm, domestic, indoors aesthetics (and a whole lot of red for obvious reasons) so I really just want to give them all the soft beds in the world.

Chapter two, aka Vanitas trying real hard to out-stupid Dominique

The aesthetic is just that one "Mal D'Amour" episode (don't ask me why i remember that name, i don't even know. isn't the english name the incurable disease or something??). It's one of my favourites, of course it haunts me.

Imagine grumpy, frowning, bitchy Vanitas on a double date in the beautiful streets of Paris, just staring at Domi while Noé and Jeanne desperately try to get his attention. All of this with that episode's vibe. Peak comedy, and Vanitas is a whole clown.

(no pics because i cannot be bothered to get screenshots of this one. you've seen the episodes.)

Chapter three, aka Jeanne, haunted by love (and homophobia tbh)

So yeah the general vibe was "no thoughts only Jeanne".

No, seriously, since the whole point of that chapter was Jeanne going "if i think hard enough about how embarrassing vanitas's whole existence is, i can forget how i'm also hopelessly in love with dominique", the whole vision was Jeanne turning and tossing around in her bed in the middle of the night, red in the face, absolutely haunted by the horrors of love. There could've been more of an aesthetic, but I'm gay, and all I had was blushing maiden Jeanne.

Isn't she so pretty though?

Chapter four, aka Noé being very lovely and a little silly

Noé and Jeanne are having a coffee frienddate but by the end of the date the friend part is questionable ngl. Need I say more?

and yeah, that's it for my silly rambling, have a nice day

[happy-whumper]

Meet Nathan Phoenix

Look who finally did some writing again! Not gonna lie, I did feel very much inspired to write my favourite creepy bastard Man again by @painsandconfusion's Whumping the Whumpers series-- 👀 (i hope it's alright I tagged you ajsh)

CW: not a lot of whump tbh?, teeny bit of noncon touching (non sexual), swearing, creepy/intimate(?) whumper, mild reference to torture, female whumpee (i think that's all, if I forgot anything please let me know!)

Someone was watching her.

She could feel their eyes fixated on her.

Observing. Analyzing. Watching.

Every move she made they took notice of, like a hunter watching its prey, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

She knew what it felt like to have people look at her. Curious eyes grazing over her, sometimes hovering a bit too long, a certain curiosity in them before they decided to either move along or stay and stare for a while.

Their expressions ranged from disgust over boredom to sadistic amusement.

They always made her feel like an exhibition, something like a zoo animal, caged and displayed to be stared at for someone else's entertainment.

In her case the comparison was almost morbidly accurate.

The thought almost made Olivia laugh, it would have been an icy sound, trying to find amusement in the bitter irony of her situation.

To be fair, she wasn’t in a literal cage, this time at least.

Out of habit she tugged her hands forward, causing the chains attached to them to rattle faintly, making a quiet hollow sound of metal hitting against metal, the sharp edges of the cuffs rubbing against the already irritated skin on her wrists.

It made her feel nauseous.

Trapped, exposed and helpless.

She hated it.

The handler standing a few feet away from her gave her an irritated look, narrowing his eyes.

He was trying to be intimidating though she could sense that he was on edge. But why?

Generally she could think of a few possible explanations, maybe he was new at the job and nervous because of that, worried about her acting up and not knowing how to deal with that. Maybe there was something in his private life bothering him and he was just waiting for his work day to end to go home.

At that she scoffed, a sudden resentment washing over her, making her clench her jaw tightly.

The idea of someone, who sold other human beings being able to just go home at the end of the day, to a normal life, maybe even a loved one or family, caused a hot wave of anger to course through her.

She and so many others like her had exactly that ripped away from them. Stripped of any sense of normality, safety, dignity.

In an attempt to take away their humanity.

And yet, the people who were doing exactly that to them, they got to live their lives. Be happy and careless. Be bothered by trivial problems like what to make for dinner. If they had forgotten an anniversary. What to wear to a date night or a business meeting.

The more Olivia thought about it, the angrier she got. Almost making her forget the watcher for a moment.

“What’s got you so on edge, hm?” Her voice was quiet, barely containing her anger but with a daring undertone, as she kept her eyes locked on the handler.

At first he didn’t react though she could see his shoulders tensing. Interesting…

“Aw, c’mon, I’m not even getting any reaction? Well that’s quite rude, don’t you think? At least an angry glare or something would have been nice.”

“Shut it, Mutt.”

He still didn’t look at her as he almost hissed the words out, making her chuckle to herself.

“Well someone’s a little sensitive, huh?” No response.

“Alright, if you won’t tell me then I’ll just have to guess. Hm…”, she hummed softly, tilting her head to the side as if in thought, “You don’t seem like a newbie, so that’s not it. Is it me? Do you just not like me?”, no reaction again, prompting Olivia to keep going, “Or...are you trying to impress someone?” At that he tensed again, making her smirk triumphantly.

Ah, there it is.

“I said, shut it.” Although he still wasn’t looking at her, his voice had changed ever so slightly. There was a sense of uneasy anticipation to it. As if he was waiting for something.

Or someone. The question is just who…

“Come on, you can tell me. Is there some big surprise show happening that no one told me about? Oh, is a celebrity coming here to take some nice promo pics or something? #Nofilter or-”

As he abruptly turned towards her, she almost flinched. Almost.

Now he was glaring at her, his jaw tense and his fists clenched beside him. Seems like I struck a nerve there huh…

“I said, be quiet. Trust me, you won’t like the consequences, stupid bitch..” Despite the seriousness in his voice, Olivia couldn’t help but let out a sudden laugh.

“Oh shit, trying to scare me now are you? Well that’s just cute really.” She took a step towards him, leaning forward a bit, causing the previous metallic sound to ring out again. “Let me make something very clear though. You don’t scare me. Not even a little bit, quite frankly, if anything you’re boring at most really.”

A daring grin was now sitting on her lips as she arched a brow.

For just a moment she didn’t feel so powerless anymore. She wasn’t scared of him.

Maybe it wasn’t a lot. But it was a small victory. A part of herself she held onto, no matter what happened, she wasn’t going to lose this defiance. Her own act of rebellion.

But as usual, her triumph wouldn’t last long.

The handler had just taken a step towards her, still angrily glowering at her and for a moment she was sure he might actually hit her.

But then he stopped. Looking at something behind her. His eyes got slightly wider, a look of recognition.

Looks like someone found what he’s been looking for…

Suddenly she could feel it again.

Whoever was approaching now was focused fully on her, she could almost feel their gaze burning into the back of her head.

Everything inside her was screaming at her to just turn around and face whoever was moving towards her. But she didn’t. Instead she resisted the urge, staying still. Not wanting to give in.

Something told her, hidden under the increasing unease that just wanted to see what she was dealing with, that she needed to keep her guard up more now than ever. Despite not being fully certain where it came from, she listened to that intuition. Staying still, almost frozen in place as the confident steps came closer and closer.

Almost absently she registered the handler taking a step back, standing up straighter and putting on a more serious, collected and professional facade. But why now?

“Mr. Phoenix, what a pleasure to see you here!” The handler was smiling at the Man that was still just out of Olivia’s view which didn’t help with easing her nerves. Maybe that was exactly the point, some sort of sick mind or power play. Wouldn’t exactly surprise her.

“Ah, the pleasure’s all mine, really. Hm, it’s been quite a while since I have had the opportunity to come to such an event and I have to say, I missed it.” The man’s voice was smooth, entrancing, almost captivating if you weren’t careful.

He seemed calm, relaxed, as if he had no reason to be tense in any way. In contrast to that she noticed the reaction of the handler, he seemed careful almost, it was clear that whoever this “Mr. Phoenix” was, was someone powerful, someone you wanted to impress and have on your side.

A deep and heavy unease settled over her. Olivia knew that those kinds of people never meant anything good.

They knew about the effect they had on people, how to use their power and influence in their interests, what they could easily get away with.

“Well, we are always quite happy to see you here, considering you're one of our fondest customers.” Kiss ass.

The other man chuckled lightly, seemingly amused though it wasn’t quite clear if he was mocking the handler trying to flatter him. “I do appreciate that. And I am hoping to find something today here indeed…”. Something in his tone changed. It was subtle, almost not noticeable… Interest.

Now it seemed genuine, he wasn’t lying or just making small talk now, he was interested in something or--

Oh.

The moment the realisation hit, Olivia’s whole body tensed. Now that he was closer, it suddenly seemed very likely that it had been him who had been watching her.

The thought made her skin crawl and she barely managed to contain a cold shiver running down her spine.

The urge to somehow try to hide herself was almost overwhelming for a moment, wanting to be nowhere near this new stranger.

But despite the growing nervousness, she pushed it down, instead focusing on her always present anger and hatred.

Who even was this guy, thinking he could just watch her like some sort of sick stalker? Fucking gross… It didn’t matter that he seemed to be some sort of influential or powerful person among those people. He didn’t have any power over her and she would keep it that way. The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became.

That’s what he was doing, trying to gain power over others, with the way he spoke and acted.

The realisation gave her a brief moment of calmness. That was something she could hold onto, fighting back the lingering uncertainty that had been feeding into her anxiety.

Well. Let’s see what you got, asshole.

While she had been lost in her own thoughts, the conversation between the two men had continued on, she only managed to catch the last part of the handlers sentence.

“-what you’re looking for.”

“Oh yes, I have no doubts there..Actually, I was quite interested in this one right here.”

As the man stepped in her view, Olivia had to once again resist the urge to step backwards. Her first impression was also reflected in what she was seeing now. He had his hands in the pockets of his pants, they were a mix of casual and more elaborated, which seemed to match up with the way most of the other people in the room were dressed as well. His dark blonde hair looked almost effortlessly styled, as if he wanted people to see that he didn’t need to bother with such things but still wanted to look good, playing into a more relaxed appearance.

But none of those things was what really caught her attention.

The thing that immediately stood out was his eyes. It wasn’t the blue, almost grey-ish colour, although it did have something almost alluring about it.

No, it was what she could see behind them that made her skin crawl. There was a sort of sadistic hunger that reminded her of a predator that was about to strike its prey.

The way he was looking at her, towering over her...for just a moment it made her feel utterly helpless. Small. Completely at his mercy.

But the moment passed and she collected herself again, looking the man in front of her up and down. Clicking her tongue lightly in a more unimpressed way, she shook her head. “Hm...That’s what you were so jumpy about? I gotta say, I am a little disappointed now, I expected something a bit more..impressive.”

The handler was glaring at her again but the man standing in front of her just...laughed. That wasn’t what she had expected, the sudden sound causing the hair on her arms to stand up.

“Ah, we got a feisty one here, huh? Intriguing.”

Olivia just scoffed at that, rolling her eyes at him. “Pff, looks to me like I got a prime example of a rich, disgusting asshole here.”

The man next to her seemed even more pissed off now, seemingly barely keeping back from hitting her or worse but just as he was about to step towards her, the man introduced as Mr. Phoenix put up his hand, immediately stopping the other.

He was still smiling, not a hint of annoyance or irritation. For some reason that only pissed Olivia off even more.

As he took a step closer, she automatically felt her body tense, once again fighting the urge to back up, trying to ignore her quickening heartbeat. Geez that guy is obnoxious...

When he suddenly leaned forward, firmly taking her chin between his fingers, she couldn’t stop herself from flinching away.

Immediately registering the smug and satisfied grin on the man’s face.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” The words were hissed through clenched teeth as Olivia tried to pull away from him in an attempt to free herself from his grip. Of course with no success. Typical.

If anything the man looked just more amused by her struggle as he tightened his grip, causing a painful pressure on her jaw to set in.

“Such a pretty little thing…”, he cooed at her, making a deep feeling of disgust settle in her stomach, “You know...that’s always my favourite, pretty but with a little fire in them. Those are always the most fun. Always so stubborn at first, so sure you won’t give in...” He smiled. It was cruel and dark, matching the sadistic glim in his eyes. “I’m sure you would look so pretty bleeding for me. Crying and begging for me to finally make the pain stop…”

His words caused an icy chill to run down her spin, her mouth feeling completely dried out. She wanted to look away but she felt completely paralyzed, unable to pull herself away from his gaze, his words cutting in her consciousness and getting stuck there, infecting everything with a deep, cold fear.

And he knew that. Very well.

Olivia could see it in the way he was still watching her. Looking for any type of weakness, fear, taking it all in for his own, sick amusement. She had seen people like him before. Knew that look all too well.

But this time it was different. She couldn’t quite place it. There was something in his eyes, almost bloodthirsty, not even the smallest hint of compassion or mercy.

But he was just messing with her. As soon as he was done having his fun he would just move on and find someone else to demonstrate his power on.

It made her feel almost relieved for a moment but that was quickly crushed by a sharp guilt.

How could she be relieved at the thought of him doing that to anyone else?

She pushed the thoughts down, she couldn’t afford them right now.

After another moment he finally dropped his hand, taking a step back with a pleased smirk, tilting his head to the side.

He was going to move on and just leave her alone, he had to.

Right?

“You done starring yet?!” The words were out faster than Olivia could even fully think them through, her voice pressed with anger though she noticed the slight unease still sticking to it.

The man just laughed at that again. “Actually...No, not quite.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean now?”

“Oh don’t worry your pretty little head about it princess, you’ll see soon enough.”

She cringed at the name, narrowing her eyes while still glaring at him. “If you call me that ever again-”

“Then what? Hm? What are you going to do about it, princess?”, he let out an amused chuckle, “You know what, I can’t wait to find out actually.”

What the hell is he talking about?

After a moment he turned to the handler again, Olivia had almost completely forgotten about him until that point.

For just a second she allowed herself to take a breath. Let herself calm down. Brace herself for whatever would come next.

She had no idea how grateful she would be for that in just another moment.

“Well, what’s your price?”

“What?”

No. No, he can’t..he can’t actually be fucking serious right now!

“I assume she’s still for sale, is she not..? But in that case, I’m sure I can make a better offer anyway.” He smirked, glancing over at her, clearly enjoying her reaction.

“Oh no, uh she, she is! Just uhm...Well to be honest I wasn’t really expecting you to take an interest in such a bratty thing is all…”

Nathan chuckled darkly, tilting his head to the side a bit with a cruel smile spreading over his face. “Let me assure you, I honestly prefer it when they have a bit of fire left in them, makes it so much more enjoyable when they do eventually break.” He was talking to the handler but his eyes were fixated on Olivia, making it very clear who the message was for.

“And they all do, no matter how stubborn or ‘strong’, they all break down sooner or later. Everyone has their weak spots, their breaking point. And honestly...I can’t wait to see how beautiful she’ll be when she breaks for me.” Taglist: @starnight-whump @jordanstrophe @froggywhumpy@whumpasaurus101 @as-a-matter-of-whump @jojothepanwithoutaplan @myst-in-the-mirror @whumpsweetwhump @darklyria @screechingqueenmentality (let me know if you want to be added or removed)

[cornacopicimagines]

after hours│t.h

pairing: professor!tom holland x reader 

words: 6.9k (hehe nice)

warnings: swearing, PURE FILTH, sir kink, rough sex, masturbation (male & female), exhibition kink if you squint, spanking & sort of public sex.

summary:  It's wrong, y/n tells herself. She can't help it though. She can't help fantasising about him. At the other end of the class, Tom tells himself to stop staring at her. It's creepy, he thinks. Neither one knows of the mutual pining that is until tension bubbles over. 

a/n: I’m back bitches! I'm still a fucking sinner and this is such a cliche, I'm so so sorry

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n sat at the desk. Her eyes never left Mr. Holland. Her attention never left the way the veins in his arms bulged when he picked up the massive textbook, never left his perfectly gelled hair and how it sat atop his head like it was crafted to from the day he was born. Perhaps I should start typing the notes that were on the board, she scowled to herself.

She feels dirty, almost ashamed of her crush on him. She hates herself for falling into a stupid cliché that had been so easy to avoid all these tireless years. y/n doesn't know why she has gone back to a love-sick teenage girl fantasising about a boy who she'll never even get to touch. A boy that so out of her league, he wouldn't even had the faintest idea that she exists. That doesn't stop them though. y/n still finger fucks herself to an orgasm that no boy has been able to give her in her 24 years of life, all the while wishing it was his cock instead of her fingers. If Mr. Holland knew what she did to herself under the influence of him and his stupidly handsome face, he would be disgusted. This she knows for a fact.

This isn't what she thought she would be doing, in all honesty. She is a semester away from graduating and she never wanted to be stuck in a perpetual state of wanting someone so unattainable it's not uneasy, it's borderline unethical. She truly believed she would have ancient married professor that sound like their legs deep in their coffin. Instead she got a literal Greek God as her Psych professor.

She knows that she's not the only one of course. y/n has met 10 other girls in her class that probably write god awful poetry about Mr. Holland's liquid bronze eyes. She can't blame them, if she could write shitty poetry about him, she 100% would. y/n not angry either, she knows out of the 120 students (110 of whom are girls), are probably all in the same predicament. She sometimes gets dirty looks from them when Mr. Holland address her by her first name.

Perhaps that's something she should consider; he calls her y/n not Miss y/l/n or just simply Miss. It's different, it's endearing and when he has a raspy voice, it's so fucking hot.

"y/n," a voice called out, she shook herself out of her haze, "are you still with us?" Mr. Holland was no standing over her. His cologne surrounding her, intoxicating her. y/n gulped softly before turning her eyes to his.

"Yes, sorry sir," y/n replied quickly, trying her hardest not to stumble over her own words or even let the blush run to her cheeks.

Mr. Holland smiled warmly, "that's good, I need at least one of you listening," the class erupting in laughter, "I would prefer it to be one of the brightest." That though got them quiet. y/n sunk into her chair in embarrassment. The blush she had been fighting rose to the surface, making her even more adamant not to look up at him but alas she couldn't.

In that small fleeting moment, she caught something in his eyes. She couldn't define exactly what it was. Whatever it truly was, y/n knew teachers should not be looking at their students in such a way. It made her even more lightheaded with admiration.

The lesson continued on as normal for another hour. Mr. Holland described the outline for the next assignment, it seemed short and sweet. Write a 2-thousand-word essay on the effects of unintentional recreational drugs during early childhood. y/n had to laugh at the way Mr. Holland phrased it. It was as if he had never touch pot in his entire life, to be fair, y/n wouldn't be too surprised if he didn't. Most of the girls in his class groaned at the mere mention of actual work and not an hour and a half session of pure toe-curling orgasm material. Now that she thinks about it, that would be a wonderful way to spend her Wednesday mornings and Thursday afternoons.

Of course, y/n was in another word during the last minutes of the lesson. Unable to focus on anything other than the hint of a tattoo peeking through the underlining of his shirt. She was working so hard to distinguish what it was that she had completely missed the end of the lesson and the dozens of people walking out.

"y/n, what exactly are you doing?" Mr. Holland's voice asked above her. y/n almost jumped in her seat, but she stayed completely still. "This is the second time today, should I be worried?"

This though made her jump out of her seat. "No of course not sir!" She defended as she rushed to place her things away. "I was just off in wonderland today."

"Are you sure there is nothing distracting you?" He asked.

Yes.

"No," she replied hurriedly.

"You know you can tell me if something is," he reassured her.

Yes, of course. Let me just tell you about how you are distracting me by always wearing the hottest casual suits every lesson and giving me the wonderful fantasy of tearing it off you.

"I know that, it's just been my busy schedule," y/n lied through her teeth. She's a broke college student with hardly any friends or real other assignments. "I am just working really hard, you know?"

Yeah, working really hard to imagine you pounding me into next week!

With that last thought, y/n knew she needed to leave before she exploded with embarrassment and arousal right there in front of him.

"I just wanted to let you know that you are totally allowed to change the topic of the assignment if you feel like there is something that strikes a chord with you," Mr. Holland smiled brightly.

Fuck! Did he have to look so gorgeous even when he's trying to be dorky and supportive.

Mr. Holland noticed the shocked look upon y/n's face and immediately retracted his statement, "I promise I won't fail you, if that's what your thinking." He explained. "I really enjoy your work, you're a gifted woman with a real talent and I don't want to see it go to waste with my shitty assignment."

y/n turned her attitude around. He was stumbling over his words. It was kind of cute and endearing, like everything he does. She smiled warmly at his compliment.

"Sir," she spoke softly. It came out a lot mouseyer and somehow sexual than she would have liked but she refused to back out of her statement. "I can't wait."

She didn't say another word but simply slung her back over her shoulder and made her way out of the class. Tom followed her figure in complete and utter shock. He praised whatever god watched over him for the small mercy that was having y/n's back turned to him to witness his immediate blush cover his entire freckled face.

Tom never let his eyes leave her. He just watched her waltz right out of his classroom, he bit his lip at the sight of her perfectly cupped ass in her jeans. Through-out the entire lesson, all he could think about is how her tits would bounce as his dick thrusted up into her little cunt. Just the thought made his cock spring to life.

He stared up at the clock. He had to be in another lecture in 10 minutes, he had to teach another round of student without her pretty face in it in 10 bloody minutes. Sadly, it wasn't enough time to imagine cumming over her said face. He fidgeted until his painful erection was safely hidden.

God, you are such a fucking creep, Holland. He thought to himself.

━━★✼☆｡

y/n really didn't want to be doing this.

She really didn't want to have to walk to the library in a mini skirt she had when she went through her cringy hoe phase and a low-cut tank top she only really wore to bed at 8 at night. Luckily before she left, her roommate gave her a full can of pepper spray and a pocketknife. A handle tool for when you looked like a prostitute.

She had no choice. It was laundry night and she had to get her assignment out of the way, or she would never finish it in time. She wanted to kick herself for letting laundry night fall on the only night the library stayed open until midnight. It was a perk for sure but not when you had nothing to wear but pink neon rags.

y/n pushed open the library door and relieved herself of the anxiety of being abducted by the greeting of Harry. He looked familiar but she couldn't pinpoint where she had seen his face before.

"What cha doing here?" he shouted. Quite contradictory for a librarian. y/n grinned when she saw his dorky face at the counter. That is until he caught wind of her outfit, or lack thereof. "Got a late shift at the strip-club after this?" Her face fell.

"I hate you," she played along, her arms slumping on the cold desk. y/n looked around the library. It was basically empty, with the exception of the middle-aged teacher grading a stack full of papers. Poor bastard, y/n thought. "Got one for me?"

"You're going to get me fired if I do this again," Harry huffed, he banged his head against the keyboard in frustration.

"This is the last time," y/n explained, "I pinkie promise." She lifted her hand over the counter and waved her pinkie finger in Harry's face. He stared up her than move his eyeline to her finger now just touching the tip of his nose. He groaned loudly as he took her finger in his.

"There is a ton of empty booths, choose one and don't make a sound," Harry told her angrily, y/n simply clapped her hands in celebration and skipped off. She chooses the booth in range of Harry, in hopes that maybe he will distracted her and she won't have to do her work because she's too busy goofing off.

y/n dropped her stuff in a huff. Her back slumped into the curve of the chair and the desk covered her body happily. She placed her earphones in and played her favourite study music. She was in absolute heaven.

The assignment was kicking her ass, but she was determined to do it. Mr. Holland seemed genuinely excited for what she would write about if she did decide to change the topic. Now though she's regretting not letting Mr. Holland's hopes down.

She could find hardly anything online and even if she did it was by some random SJW on Tumblr. That's what lead her here tonight. In hopes that maybe some privileged white asshole with a degree would have some sources sighted to help her. Unfortunately, she was having trouble with that too.

It was now 11:30pm. She had been at this god forsaken table for two and a half hours now in an endless pursuit of bullshit. y/n had half a mind to give up and just suck his dick for the grade like other girls would in this situation. y/n had to remind herself though, she is a gifted woman with a real talent that should not be wasted on something shitty to please the masses. Did she just quote Mr. Holland?

She caught eyes with Harry in her block, who had two pencils stuck up his nose in an attempt to cheer her up. It did for the most part. y/n wanted to play along but it had seemed someone else had walked through the door at that very moment and Harry threw the pencils out. Harry's face lit up with red upon the arrival of this mystery person. y/n was interested in who this mystery person was. That is until she saw his face.

Mr. Holland walked up to the library desk in a fit of laughter. His hands smacking the counter and his face contorted in a wide smile. y/n instantly ducked under the table. She could faintly hear their conversation. It just sounded like muffled words until her name popped up.

Jesus Christ. Not now. Not tonight. Why of all night to run into his must it have to be tonight. Maybe I should make a run for it now, bust out of the wind-

"I know you're under there y/n," Mr. Holland's voice sung above her. It was too late now. Any escape plan that her mind frantically tried to rationalise was long gone by this point. Slowly, y/n retreated from her hiding spot to face him. He had his normal outfit of a tight t-shirt paired with a decorative tie and slightly lose pants. This time though he had a long burgundy coat draped over his shoulders. He looked like a painting. y/n smiled sheepishly.

"Hi," she said simply. Regaining her seat from before and fully appearing in front of him. "I had no idea you would be here this late," she tried with conversation.

"Harry's my brother, I have to drive him home before leaving myself and he just wanted to work the late shift tonight," Tom laughed to himself and he turned around and waved at Harry. His brother waved back guiltily. "You know, I could say this same to you," he smirked at her.

"I am working on your assignment, sir," y/n responded quietly. Tom's eyes lit up at that and he rushed to snatch the papers off her desk and into his hands. Much to the disapproval of y/n.

"Oh good, you've decided to change it," Tom sounded almost relieved as if he trusted her judgement more than his own. Worse of it all, he decided to sit down next to her. Even taking off his coat, making his biceps bulge through his shirt. His eyes flicked through what she currently has. His eyebrows raised in shock, "I have to say, I was not expected you to decide to do something about the female orgasm and its effect on the psyche," his voice was an octave deeper than usual. y/n could feel her arousal building.

y/n couldn't decide if he was just being friendly or if he was trying to send a deeper message. Either way, she decided to take action. "Well, with the number of women being unsatisfied I thought it was an appropriate topic," she snatched the papers out of his hands, "but you wouldn't know anything about women being unsatisfied would you sir?"

Tom sat there in astonishment. His cock stiffened against the restraints of his jeans, he has only been in her vicinity for 5 minutes and already she has him hard as a rock. It was times like these that he wished he could just leave all his determination to fuck her over this very desk at the door. Regrettably, he couldn't.

"Well, that just ruins the surprise," y/n sighed delicately. Her fingers flicking through the pages of her useless book. "Either way, the resources are complete shit," this time her sadness was real, and Tom snapped out of his lust-ridden haze.

"Did you really expect a man to know mostly everything of something that is so cardinally female?" Tom smirked as he closed the book on her and pointed to the photo of a wrinkled old man. He was the author of a stupid book and to be fair, he looked like he would write this type of book as well.

"Damn, I knew I was doing something wrong," y/n hissed. She had been spending her entire night trying to piece together information from a man who can only give her half the story.

"The book on the top shelf is one on the chemical effects of orgasming in females by a female," Tom leaned in and whispered in her ear. His hot breath wafted of her skin; it was enough to send goose bumps over her entire body. y/n turned her head to face him, their lips inches away from each other. If they didn't have Harry watching them like a hawk, they probably would be out of breath from lip-locking. Instead, y/n nodded and got up out of her seat, making sure to give him a stunning view of her tits through her tank top. He wanted to audibly gasp but kept in inside. It didn't help with his situation downstairs any more than the last few minutes have.

Slowly, she walked over to the bookcase. Her eyes scanning the endless rows and she made sure Tom had enough time to enjoy the deep red thong underneath her skirt. Finally, her fingers coiled around the book and brought it down to her. Tom couldn't believe his own eyes. He was so under her spell. The way her top hugged her curved and let his eyes completely drink in her breasts. How her skirt was pulled up to her waist, allowing the flushed skin of her ass to be visible to him. He wonders how a woman like her even exists and yet she takes a seat next to him, absolutely unaware of his throbbing manhood. Begging to be touched by her, to be taken by her, by anything to do with her.

"Thank you, sir," she almost purrs to him, Tom's struggling to keep it together. He afraid the next thing to slip out of her flawless mouth, he'll cum straight into his pants when he would rather cum into her.

"Anytime," he responds just a dark before getting up. Hiding his clearly hard cock behind his briefcase. "I'll see you in class?" He already knows the answer, but he just wants the last bit of assurance from her.

"Of course," she smiled warmly. With that Tom basically books it, he's frantically making sure he's well-hidden as he quickly bends over the counter.

"I'll come back to pick you up in 30, I forgot some paper work back in my office," it's so fast, Harry almost doesn't have time to translate it before Tom's out the door and rushing down the hall.

At one point, he basically running to get to his office. Feet tapping against the concrete as he continues to see nothing but flashing images of y/n. It blurs his vision and he's so desperate. He considers using a spare supply closet but know he will only get complete privacy in his own office.

He finally gets there, after what seems like an eternity of running. He checks the hallways before entering. He drops all of his things at the foot of the door. He even has the decency to hang his coat upon the rack. Tom slowly walks over to his chair. It's a rough leather material and usually he would refuse to do what he's about to do in here, it will be stained with the memory but at this point. He got no fucks left to give.

He crashes down. His back hitting the material he hates so much. He doesn't think he's got time, but he still does it slowly. His belt drops next to his and he undoes the zip slowly and the cold air hits his dick. He hisses at the feeling but proceeds anyways. Tom pulls the rest of his jeans and boxers down his legs and kicks them across the room. His hand takes his dick, slowly rubbing the head. Imaging y/n's fingers dancing over it, spreading the precum over. He uses his palm to envision her own stroking up and down in an even motion. He can't help but moan. He can't help but softly call out her name.

He so entranced that he doesn't recognize the following light footsteps approaching. He's so into her non-existent touch that he doesn't hear the door peacefully squeak open. He's so in love with the feeling he doesn't feel y/n walk around the room to get on her knees in front of him.

She's in glory of his movements. Watching him stroke his much bigger cock than her masturbation version has her in a hurry to get her own panties off her body and across the floor. She's sure she's dripping onto the wood below but she does have single care in the world. Tom has his head thrown back in ecstasy as his hand starts to speed up, that's when y/n decides to go for the kill. She licks a long strip up his shaft. Her hands stabilizing him by placing them atop his bare thighs.

Tom almost jumps out of his chair. He had no idea she caught him in the middle of something so vile and wrong. Better yet, she had caught him with the tip of his dick around her perfectly glossed lips. He doesn't get to say another word before y/n's hands begin massaging the bottom of his manhood. It's slow to begin with, it's almost if she's easing him into it. Her cheeks hollow out to allow his length into her warm mouth. It's incredible. Tom can't help but buck his hips up into her throat causing her to gag slightly. It's a sound he wants more of.

His hands ball her hair into his fist. With the faster her movements become, the harder he fucks into her mouth. They sync up almost instantly. One of y/n's hands leave his cock to fuck herself. Tom's mesmerised by the way her fingers act as a replacement for his dick. He's certain he's not going to last much longer.

"I should be d-doing that," he whispers through grunts. y/n lifts her head to smile at him, still letting her free hand jerk and pull bringing him closer the edge.

"I know," she responds, just as quiet. Her mouth reconnects but Tom quickly snaps his hips up into her. Her muffled moaning vibrated against his cock as he fucks her mouth. It's the hottest thing he's ever done. He tugs and pulls at her hair, y/n's edging him on. She's exquisite, it's like she's mastered this and has allowed him to chance to feel how fucking beautiful her little mouth can be.

Like it's effortless, he comes. Without any warning, he is shooting hot stream of cum into her mouth, filling it up. Tom swears he's seeing stars but can't bring him to call out her name but instead bites down on his hand so hard he's afraid he's drawn blood.

y/n releases him from her mouth and is from an actual porn Tom spent his teenage years watching, his cum leaks from her lips and falls down on the curves of her tits. It's a sight he was to remember forever. He wants to grab his phone and click so he will get to look at her covered in his cum for the rest of his life but alas, he's still regaining his bearings.

"Tastes better than I would have expected," y/n giggles as she brings the liquid back up to her lips and swallows. There is no way this woman gets better; he thinks to himself.

"Sweetheart-," he begins but she beats him to it, her gets back on her feet and plants a sweet kiss upon his lips. He can taste himself on her lips, it's addictive.

"I wanted this," it's almost as if she read his mind. He doesn't respond but he simply looks at her, his hand coming up to twirl a strand of hair that has fallen in front of her face.

y/n pulls away from him, walking over the pile of discarded clothes and bend to pick up her soaked underwear. She gives Tom a look, he's so close he can smell her juices from his seat. Her pussy look like a paradise waiting to be exploded by him, but he keeps his hands to himself. y/n paced herself over to the coat hanger, her folded panties in hand. She places them in the left pocket with a devilish smile upon her face. Tom had now place their rest of his clothes back on and had joined her.

"I'll get them back next lesson," y/n grins. Tom nods quickly, their feet fumbling under her back hits his office door. She's trapped in between him, he smells of pure sex but she's committed to her idea. He bends down to capture her lips in his with a forceful kiss. It's hungry and needy. She wants it so badly to give but she pulls away. "My roommate is waiting for me outside."

"We'll finish this," Tom whispers as he opens the door for her. It sends shivers down y/n's spine. It's not a promise, it's an order.

She grabs the rest of her things and heads off. Almost in a sick turn of events, Tom watches her bare ass strut away from him. Just like the last lesson, except this time all he can do is imagine him face fucking her. It's a beautiful sight.

━━★✼☆｡

The three days leading up to class where probably the slowest 72 hours both of them had ever experienced. A constant detail of pleasure from the night before. So when the fated day arrived, both parties didn't know what to do. Tom debated just staying home, though he couldn't deny he so desperately want just another taste. He thought, if he didn't show up, all his guilty conscience of a student giving him the best head he's ever had in his life would simply disappear and he would go back to being a normal teacher. y/n, too, thought of skipping this class for a completely different reason. Perhaps she had got a surge of confidence after hearing her professor call out her name while he touched himself or it could just be the pure scandalous nature of it all. Either way, she wanted to stay cooped up with a blanket while she watched him unravelled. No matter the psyche from the both of them, they went.

y/n stood outside the classroom for a good 20 minutes, unsure of what she should do. Should she go in now and fuck him in the small window or wait and play with his emotions? She hadn't realised how fast the time had went until she saw other student's start entering. It was now or never and unfortunately it was going to be now.

The room was smaller than y/n remember when she stepped in. It seemed more wide the last time she came in here. Of course, the last time she came in her, she hadn't sucked Mr. Holland's cock.

Her eyes landed on him in a matter of seconds. His back was turned to her as he wrote on the massive blackboard in front of him. y/n could see his muscles flex as he tried to reach for the duster above the board. She bit her lip as she thought of her nails digging into his back as he fucked her. It was a fantasy she had to push to the side.

Tom could practically smell her once she walked in. It was her normal perfume that had been intensified 10 fold. He refuses to turn around, afraid that if he did all his good heart nature would go out the window. Tom could hear the faint clinking of the heels of her shoes walk up the stairs. He so desperately wanted them to come right back down.

"Okay, as you know, you're assignment is due in 2 weeks and this is going to be the only time I will answer your questions," Tom's voice boomed. He hadn't got a lot of sleep since that night and he didn't particularly want to do this but he considered himself a kind professor, so he had too.

He turned around and saw the entire class' hands go straight up in the air. Including y/n, though hers was a little lower. Her eyebrow raised and a small smirk painted on her lips. There was no way in hell he was answer whatever question came out of those pretty lips. She looked even more exquisite than when he last saw her. A tight t-shit that had a stained 50's logo on it and a pair of tight black jeans, he knew as soon as he spoke to her, he would loose all control on himself.

So he never did, constantly dodging her. Answering every single question, even if half of them were if he was married or worse if he was free Friday night. He will admit, seeing y/n get frustrated every time he passed her to talk to another young female student made him just that tad bit excited.

It was an hour and a half of pure tension. Sure, no one else in the class could feel it but they 100% could. She never felt more out of control and for some reason, she despised it. He kept ignoring her, kept refusing her, kept defying her. It was infuriating, that she wanted to take fate by the hair.

She waited, until every single soul had walked out of the door. She waited until the last gaggle of girls had finished their blabbering to Tom before she starting to strut down the stairs. Tom refused to meet her eyes even when he knew that's all she did. Glare at him as she stomped past him desk to the classroom door. He heard it lock.

"I wanted to ask you a question," she almost spat, "sir."

Tom straightened himself before swivelled around to meet her. She was so livid with him but he knew deep down that all she wanted from him was to have the white chalk from the board rubbed up her back from him pinning her down.

"Fire away," he responded exactly the same. She stared at him for a moment before strolling towards him. She made sure to swing her hips every other time. She noticed his eyes on her, finally she was getting somewhere.

y/n pressed her chest upon his heaving one. Her face lifting to meet his. They stayed like that for a good minute, just pondering. They listened to each other's heats thumping against their rib cages. They both desperately needed this.

Never taking her eyes off him, y/n snaked her hand around the side of pocket of her coat, smiling once she found what she left. Her soaked red thong, it was a sight for sore eyes.

"I wanted to ask if I was every going to get payback?" she giggled softly. Tom knew she was playing a game but he had no idea which one it was.

"I don't think I understand," he stammered, she strutted away from him until she met the edge of his stainless desk. Her fingers gliding over the wood ever so slightly. She turned her head to look at him. She had a rawness in her eyes; lustful, a sinner's stare. It would be a look Tom was never forget for the rest of his life.

y/n suddenly jumped on the desk. Her ass moving the papers to the side as she slowly started to unbutton her tight jeans. "I think you do," it was almost a hiss but he only heard the desperation in her voice. "I want you to make me feel all the things you did that night."

Tom almost fainted just with that until she dropped her jeans the floor. She had come to class without any underwear on and her wetness was dripping onto the desk. Tom was sure was in heaven but he didn't want to believe it.

He got on his knees. His hands palming at her soft thighs. Tom didn't need another incentive, he didn't need another spur-on. Tom licked a single strip up her folds, y/n bit a moan back. It was like tasting ambrosia or doing cocaine for the first time. He needed more, so he went back in again, this time it was rougher. His fingers gripping at her ass, pulling her closer to his mouth as he devoured as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. Her hands tangle themselves in his floppy curls, she tugs harshly on his scalp as he adds a finger into her warm entrance.

Tom's never felt like this before but he doesn't care. He's sure people can hear her soft but frantic moaning from outside, but he doesn't care. He'll never look at his desk the same way but like everything else, he doesn't fucking care. Tom curls his fingers in the perfect spot inside of her.

"Just like that," y/n calls out, her hair now sprawled out on the desk. "I'm going to cum sir."

Tom feels her walls contract around his fingers as he pulsing faster, her back arches and she trying so hard to force her cries back into her throat. It's a sight he wants to from above, it's a feeling he wants to feel inside of her. So, at the last minute, he retracts everything. His tongue leaves her throbbing clit and his finger, which are glistening with her slick, slid out of her.

y/n can't hold back to whine that leaves her left from the loss of his god-like tongue and fingers. "What the fuck Tom?!" she's angry with him, she wants to tell him off but before she can do it. One of his hands captures her wrist and slams them against the desk below her, pinning her to it. She whimpers at the sting of pain.

He's right above her but she can't see a single thing below her. "Look at me," he tells her sternly, she does what's she is told instantly. "You can't talk to me like that sweetness," y/n knows there is a venom behind his words even if she speaks in a melody. "I'm not your fucking boyfriend, you don't call me that."

Without any warning at all, he pounds right up into her. y/n almost spasms out of Tom's grip from the wave of pleasure. Tom doesn't move at all, he stays nuzzled inside her. It's agonising, almost painful for y/n. Having his perfect cock not jamming into her tight cunt. It's torture.

"You understand that?" he peppers kissed against the nape of her neck, she's about to cry out, she'll do anything. She nods her head frantically, hoping it's enough. It isn't. He keeps his hips locked tightly against hers. "Words, sweetness."

"Yes," she responds. She can feel him frown against her skin. He pulls right out of her and rams right back in, causing y/n to scream out in pleasure. "Y-yes sir," she corrects herself and with that, Tom starts a pace. It's slow and tantalising, he watches amazed at how her pretty folds swallow him up with every thrust. It's magnificent.

He wants to savour this moment forever. He wants to fuck her brains out for every waking moment of his existence.

"Sir, go harder," she moans below him. Her wrists bruised from his gripped, but the pain just only contributes in her overwhelming amount of pleasure. His thick cock is so much better than her fingers, no matter how many she adds.

Tom obliges and starts to really pound into her cunt. It's raw and ruthless, he's calling out her name now. "Fuck sweetness, you so bloody tight," he purrs, y/n can't respond through her chant of curses. "You're little cunt was made for me, it was made for me to stretch it out."

The dirty talk elevates her, y/n's not sure how much longer she'll last. His filling ever last inch of her. She can feel her tits bounce every time their skin collides. Her wrists are finally let free as he begins to clutch at her naked hips. It's an experience she's never felt. The sound of skin slapping and their combined gasping and cursing are the only thing she can perceive to hear. If there was a knock at the door, y/n knows she would have no idea about it.

Perhaps, it's the pure excitement and morality of this whole situation that makes them both feel like they're on cloud nine. Her arms snake around his waist, her hands move with every rough thrust into her. She's gripping onto his back through the material of his tight shirt. Her nails clasping on the contracting muscles. She would have left his back red and sore if he didn't have the damned t-shirt on to protect him.

"Fuck," she curses as he started to hit an area inside of her, she never knew existed. "Just like that sir, I am going to cum," she moans, her forehead against his. They lock eyes again, this time though there is no linger feeling of want or romance. It's just sex. Dirty, hot, intense fucking.

She's the first to come undone. The fire now transformed into a raging wildfire spreading across her entire abdomen. y/n throws her head back in ecstasy, her whole vision goes black and she has to bit down against her hand to stop and inevitable pornographic scream to jump out of her mouth. Her other hand clutches his neck, pulling him closer to her.

Tom follows shortly after, his thrusts become sloppy and erratic but never easing up. His cock twitches inside of her before he shots the hot white liquid all inside of her cunt. He pressed his lips against her as his attempt to stop his moan as well but he continues to call out her angelic name against her lips. Once, Tom pulls out of her, he watches in awe. The mixture leaks out of her hole and then pools on his desk. He's so in love with this woman it hurts.

"I have never cum that hard in my entire fucking life," she giggles, pulling her top down her flushed tits. As he too, starts to redress himself, he simply stares at her. Watches her retrieve her jeans from the floor and slip them up her bare ass. He spots her shove her panties back into his back pocket, not before she scribbles something down on a torn piece of paper.

"What are you doing?" he asked gently, wrapping his arms around her waist. She nuzzles her face in the crook of her.

"I'm giving you a reason to come make me dinner and then fuck me again," she explains, "I put my address in there, so hopefully you can't get lost."

"You sure about this," Tom asked hesitantly, y/n now swivelled around to face him. Her warm palm caressed his face.

"I wouldn't have just done that if I wasn't," she places a soft, tender kiss to his cheek. "Make it a Thursday though, my roommate will be out on those nights," she told him as he grabbed the last of her things and unlocked the door. Tom grins warmly as she makes herself presentable for the last time. "I would clean that up if I were you," y/n laughed, pointing at the obvious mess all over his desk before quickly exiting.

As she wobbled back to her dorm, she wondered what article of clothing she should leave out on their next escapade.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: this is gonna flop, i just fuckin know it 🥴 anways i hope you enjoyed my fic that has ended my hiatus. see you (hopefully) soon 🥺

[wildlyglittering]

Love in an Elevator

Happy Sunday everyone!

Thank you to those who have liked, commented and re-blogged my pieces so far - you are *chef’s kiss* awesome. 

How’s the ACOSF discourse coming? I’m watching it all whilst slurping my tea but very much staying out of it. I’m cracking on with my fanfiction though, am feeling weirdly inspired lately which is rare but I’ll take it! 

In a few weeks I’ll probably ask if anyone has any requests as I’m feeling up for the challenge. I’m slow but I’ll get there in the end. 

In the meantime I hope you enjoy this one!

***

There was no getting out of the predicament she’d found herself in, no matter how much she begged - and she had begged.

She’d thrown in some negotiations and when those offerings failed, she’d feigned a nonchalance that was as transparent as water. The very last weapon in her arsenal had been to fling mean spirited insults but those spurred him on more.

Then again, she grinned to herself, didn’t she know they would?

Nesta’s arms were stretched upwards above her head, the backs of her hands pressed against the cool wall of the elevator. Two large hands held them in place with a grip that refused to relent, the skin of her captor so hot he must have been burning.

At some point his mouth had moved from hers to her throat, his head dipping down while she strained hers back, her neck arching to give him better access. She always provided an initial protest. I don’t want your filthy mouth on me. The waiter from the restaurant looked like he was able to provide more satisfaction than you and he could hardly stand. I think I should go home now before my evening ends in disappointment.

It was a game they played and they played it well.

That hot mouth travelled to a sensitive spot, lips skimming her skin to the point where they scarcely touched her. A whine escaped her, short and shrill enough that she’d hoped he hadn’t heard but from the quirk of his lips on her throat that she did feel, she knew he had.

“Patience is a virtue,” he trilled at her and her own lips turned into a sneer.

“I’m just trying not to die of boredom.”

Nesta’s voice was far too breathless for the barb to land and he chuckled.

“Sure,” he murmured, “and that’s why you sound like you’re a filly in a stable right now.”

“Shut up, Cassian.”

“Mmm. Make me.”

His mouth was on hers again, lips hot and greedy, tongue gliding against hers. He tasted faintly of the scotch he’d been drinking at dinner and he would be tasting red wine.

Cassian was somehow lazy and energetic with his kisses.

He kissed like his goal was to steal every breath she might ever make but he did it so leisurely, so languidly, like he’d managed to switch the passage of time off to allow for it. He pulled back his mouth to suck her bottom lip between his before soothing it over with his tongue.

One day he’d probably make someone combust from kissing them. Not her though, she’d built up an immunity.

Nesta squirmed; her muscles straining in her back. Thankfully yoga had made her limber over the years so that any discomfort was minimal but still, she needed to exhibit some form of protest.

Cassian slid his mouth from hers and glanced at her, it was a brief check in to make sure he wasn’t hurting her, his eyes quick to turn gentle even with his pupils dilated into blackness. She could tell all this from one look. Cassian had such expressive eyes.

Nesta mentally chased the endearment away and pouted. Cassian’s faced slipped from worry to amused, his lips tipping into an arrogant smirk. He chuckled and dipped his head down to suck on the skin of her collarbone.

“Nice try sweetheart, but it’s not going to happen.”

She let out a sigh, half irritation and half bliss, which turned into a moan when he doubled his efforts and sucked harder.

If Nesta had any decency, she wouldn’t be letting him doing this to her in the elevator of his apartment building. If Nesta had any decency, she would pull her body away instead of rubbing it against his.

If Nesta had any decency, she wouldn’t have been the one to make the first move as soon as the doors had closed.

Nesta’s eyes fluttered shut. Her heart pounded its rhythm in her chest and her blood rushed in her ears. Her pulse thrummed everywhere, everywhere, including the place Cassian hadn’t yet reached for.

Still, it was as though he read her thoughts, and he elevated some of the ache by pressing his pelvis against hers, his crisp dress pants rustling as he stepped further between Nesta’s legs.

He lazily flexed his hips against hers and she rocked back, her dress slipping further up her thighs, expanses of bare skin showing to an empty cube. His tongue pressed against the pulse point at the join between her neck and shoulder and she gasped, eyes flying open.

Every. Time.

Once Cassian had figured out what made Nesta’s body hum he’d seemingly made it his personal mission to turn a tune into an orchestral delight.

Her eyes refocused past the swimming haze that Cassian drowned her in and what she saw must have reached some part of her brain that hadn’t vacated her head.

The numbers on the elevator display kept increasing. Five, Fifteen, Fifty.

There was no danger of anyone calling the elevator, the apartment building was in an area of the city that was considered ‘up and coming’ which meant over three quarters of the complex were still up for sale. Cassian had been one of the first buyers and snagged the penthouse at a decent introductory rate.

Nesta’s eyes managed to sharpen into focus when they alighted on the black polished and exceptionally shiny tiles lining the ceiling, which, for all intents and purposes, acted like a mirror.

The tableau playing out did absolutely nothing to quell her thundering heartbeat.

Earlier Nesta’s hair had been preened into a slick French knot, teased into place by her hairstylist who implied Nesta had big plans for the evening. Nesta had dismissed those remarks with a wave of her hand and a scowl that could curdle milk.

Now, hours later, all was in disarray. Gold-brown strands fell onto her shoulders loosened by two firm hands that had buried themselves in her hair at the first available opportunity.

One of those shoulders was bare, the strap of her dress slid down when Cassian had made a beeline for the curve that contained the most freckles. His favourite shoulder, he’d once told her. She’d rolled her eyes at him on hearing that but made a point of wearing one-stap tops at family summer barbecues where he couldn’t reach for her.

At this vantage point Nesta was able to catch glimpses of herself from their mirror-twins but mostly what she saw was him.

Cassian’s hair was still in its low bun, which, unlike Nesta’s was messy by design. The expanse of his back covered her, his snow-white shirt stretched across solid back muscles. His jacket was discarded on the floor along with her bag and one of her shoes.

She’d managed to tug his shirt loose before he’d pinned her, the bottom of it now crumpled and ridden up at the back and in the shimmering, slightly distorted surface of the black tiles she saw his smooth, deep olive skin.

Her fingers twitched. She couldn’t wait to get into his apartment, to grab at the buttons and pull the fabric from him. Nesta had ruined, two, maybe three shirts of his now, not that he cared. With any luck she’d have him naked halfway across the lower floor of his open planned mezzanine. Maybe this time they’d make it up the stairs to his bed. Maybe they wouldn’t.

Cassian must have felt her fingers twitch because he shifted his hands upwards, from her wrists across her palms, to entwine his own between hers. They clung, entangled with each other, their knuckles surely turning bone white with the grip.

It wasn’t enough that she wanted to see his skin, she needed to feel it, smooth and warm underneath her fingertips. She envisaged her fingertips rounding over the muscles of his chest and abdomen and then drifting her palm over hard muscle to harder muscle still.

Every time they did this was like Nesta was receiving a present from the universe and it was a sobering thought that ultimately, they would have to decide the gift tree needed to stop gifting.

“Cassian,” she groaned and he lifted his head.

It always seemed to Nesta that she was more undone than him in these situations. Her clothes and hair were always mussed, her skin flushing red and her breath huffing from her mouth in harsh pants. Cassian always looked like he’d run a marathon without breaking a sweat.

There was lust in the way she’d said his name, of course there was. A man this decadent couldn’t hold his body against hers like this, couldn’t flex his hardness against her pelvis like this, for Nesta not to sound like she was about to unravel into a spool of thread.

But something else had crept in, something that sounded disturbingly like longing, like she wanted their ribs pressed as close as they could get so their hearts almost touched.

His eyes, half-lidded and hazy were staring into hers. Desire lived in them when he looked at her, but she also knew how he counted the freckles on her nose while he thought she was asleep and how he played with her hair when she dozed. Now his desire had a permanent room-mate who’d crept in uninvited.

These were things that would go unsaid. They hated each other, of course. They even had friends who encouraged the level of vitriol they could spew.

Cassian slipped back into arrogance as easy as he could breathe.

“That’s right, Nes,” he murmured, “say my name.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. If she could move her legs, she’d be tempted to give him a kick. “Bastard.”

The smile never left his face. “Oh, and don’t you know it.”

He kissed her again, shifting his pelvis away only to position one strong muscled thigh between her legs instead. She moaned against his mouth, feeling the determined throb of his erection through the fabric of his pants against her thigh. She ground down onto his leg, her hips rocking as she tried to quell her building ache.

Cassian moved both her wrists into one of his hands, freeing the other. His grip was looser now with just one fist holding her and if Nesta wanted, she could pull both her hands down and out with ease. She didn’t of course, despite her earlier protests. This game had well established rules.

Cassian’s free right hand slipped down to her bare knee, hooking behind it to draw it upwards towards his hip. They’d played this part of the game before too, Nesta instantly wrapping her leg around his waist, her dress indecently bunched around her hips.

There were many things to be thankful for in this world. The fact that Cassian’s apartment complex was semi-deserted. The fact that his frame shielded hers from any view if the elevator happened to stop and the fact that Cassian knew where the button was to turn off the security camera.

They’d learnt their lesson from experience.

Stern words had been directed to them both from the old security guard. “Please,” he’d pleaded, “no more sex in the elevator. I’m over 70, my heart isn’t so good. Make love to your girlfriend in your apartment.”

Nesta had been extremely quick to point out she wasn’t Cassian’s girlfriend which just made the old man raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

Perhaps Nesta was the only woman that Cassian invited over, perhaps she’d brought over an overnight bag once or twice and perhaps they’d hooked up after the cinema and a couple of dinners and even after a Sunday farmer’s market but it didn’t mean a thing.

“Ah,” Cassian sighed, pulling his mouth away from hers. “I know this pair – the red silk?”

His fingers trailed up her bare thigh and further until he reached the edge of her panties. The man had an unusual gift for accurately guessing her underwear.

The dress she’d chosen to wear out was a new one; sleeveless black lace with thick cut straps scooping into a scalloped neckline. Demure and elegant. Hints of cleavage and slight bare shoulders only.

The lower half was significantly shorter than what she would normally wear but pairing them with her highest heels had been worth it to see Cassian’s face when she entered the restaurant, his eyes skimming up her naked legs with an expression like he wanted to devour her.

This underwear was a particular favourite of his so she thought that tonight they should make an appearance.

His fingers, a maddeningly delicate touch, skimmed across the front of the fabric, pressing firmly with his thumb in just the right place for the briefest of seconds before pulling away.

Nesta’s body jolted and his eyes shone.

“Prick.”

“Hmmm pretty sure that’s Feyre’s pet name for Rhys.”

Well there was a mood killer.

“Ugh please,” she said, “please don’t mention my baby sister and that asshole while your hand is up my dress. I already spend enough money on therapy as it is.”

Cassian laughed, a sound that was rich and warm and thrummed through her. When Cassian laughed, he laughed with his whole body. “Oh, not finding Feyre and Rhys’ terms of endearment a turn on?”

She scrunched her nose.

“Well, that’s cute.”

“Shut. Up.”

Cassian grinned and kissed her again.

At first, when all this began, they didn’t talk about real life; Cassian’s job, Nesta’s job, weekend plans, friends or family. It was strictly skin on skin contact only. Those were the rules.

As time trickled past like sand in an hourglass, the rules warped until a significant portion had changed completely.

They ended up asking how the other was.

At first it was small talk, trying to be polite as they walked through shared the lobby of Cassian or Nesta’s apartment buildings but then Nesta had a bad day and Cassian seemed genuine in his question.

She told him about a potential client who no longer wanted her as their literary agent and how that rejection had stung. She’d believed in that book she told him, it was about sisters and redemption, and she explained how she’d cried when she first read the manuscript.

After that point they talked about their work. Nesta would glance at the architect plans Cassian had scattered about his drafting table and asked questions about how his projects were progressing and check her emails while he cooked dinner. There were times they sat opposite each other, Cassian while he drafted and Nesta while she read.

That was the other thing. There were dinners. Lunches. Weekend plans involving brunches and early morning Saturday jog’s around the park.

The one thing that did seem to be beyond their new rules was discussing friends and family.

Cassian and Nesta rarely spoke about their mutual acquaintances, often refusing to acknowledge they even had any. It was strange for Cassian to bring Rhys into conversation but he was obviously on Cassian’s mind from the phone call earlier.

They were done with their starters and waiting for the main’s when Rhys rang, Cassian answering because if he hadn’t, ‘shit would look suspicious.’

Nesta could hear the conversation from both parties even as Cassian twisted in his chair, phone pressed to his ear hunched away as much as possible to try and limit the sound.

It was confirmation from Rhys that him, Cassian and Azriel were still on for their tomorrow plans; a morning of manly activities followed by ‘lunch with the ladies’ to celebrate Cassian’s thirtieth birthday as Cassian had told them he wasn’t able to celebrate tonight, on his actual birthday.

Of course, Nesta hadn’t been invited to the group festivities. As far as all were concerned, Cassian and Nesta loathed each other and so Nesta let it slide. Cassian had essentially fobbed off the ones he loved the most with a work-based lie to have dinner with her. She thought it was a poor and unexpected exchange on his part.

Still, she had promised him a lovely birthday treat to make up for it.

Nesta gently pulled back from his kiss and watched Cassian pout.

“Now, who’s looking cute.”

“It’s my birthday. I want kisses.”

She looked up at him as coyly as she could, flexing her hips forward into his, gasping as the action moved his fingers across the front of her underwear. “Well as you’re now such a big boy perhaps tonight we can do that thing you’ve always wanted to do. It being a special occasion and all.”

Cassian’s pout dissipated and his eyes grew five shades darker.

“You mean...”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Nesta. What the hell floor are we on? Why aren’t we top floor yet, c’mon!”

Nesta laughed. They were in the world’s slowest elevator which wouldn’t be an issue but they definitely wouldn’t be doing the thing in here.

The birthday gods or whoever Cassian just offered a sacrifice to in his mind were in an obliging mood as the ‘ding’ told Nesta they’d finally reached Cassian’s floor.

Somehow, with super human speed, he’d removed his hands from her body, scooped up the jacket, bag and shoe from the floor and turned to her, hoisting her up so she clung to him like a bear climbing a tree.

Nesta laughed again combined with a shriek of surprise, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hands buried in his hair. With a fumbling grace, his face pushed between her breasts, one hand full of their belongings and the other on her ass, Cassian moved them from the elevator into the hallway.

Her back thumped against the wall by his front door as Cassian dug around for his keys. Nesta tangled her hands further into his hair, making his bun as messy as hers.

“You know,” she said, “you should really consider getting a mirror installed above your bed. I think it would add a certain post-modern aesthetic.”

He momentarily paused his search to look up at her, his eyes hazy. “Yeah, you think?” he rasped. “If you want, sweetheart.”

“Not for me,” she replied with an air of indifference, moving her fingers to skim along the muscles corded in his neck. “Some woman you try and pick up might go for it.”

Cassian gave her a smirk and kissed the skin of her exposed cleavage before getting back to find his keys.

“Hurry,” she pleaded to hear Cassian mumble back, trying.

The click of the lock turning was the best sound she’d ever heard and they were barely through the threshold and into his darkened apartment before everything in Cassian’s hands, aside her, fell to a clatter on his solid floorboards.

Cassian simultaneously slammed the door and her back against the wall, his mouth stretching up to claim hers while she grabbed the back of his shirt, tugging it higher. She needed to get to his skin, needed to peel off his layers and throw off hers. If they made it to the bed for the first round of this evening it would be nothing short of a miracle.

It was only seconds before the apartment flooded with light where it had been pitch black before. The realisation that neither of them had turned on the lights came a second too late.

There was a chorus of loud and happy voices to accompany the lights.

“SURPRISE!”

It petered out to stunned silence and gasps. Cassian pulled back from Nesta his eyes filling with horror. Nesta didn’t want to look, but she was facing them, she couldn’t not.

Balloons and streamers dotted the apartment, a huge banner stretched overhead to say ‘happy birthday,’ tables full of food and alcohol primed and ready to go. There they were in front, the collective loved ones they didn’t talk about with a few extra of Cassian’s friends thrown in for good measure.

They just stared, eyes wide and mouths open. Silence.

There was a throaty chuckle followed by Amren’s voice. “Surprise? Well, I’d say it is.”

[woodchoc-magnum]

Lone Star 2x11 Hate Watch

I nearly forgot about it this week, whoops

Disclaimer: Don’t read this if you like the show, simply go about your business and have a great day

oh no owen is being arrested oh nooo

is it for being a crime to this show

is he going to hit on Dr Jacobs now?

"is there a complication?" tk asks in a monotone

Oh no he's off work for a month? What will the other firefighters do at an emergency if rob lowe is not there to do it all for them?

"it's like two fortnights?" yeah… that's exactly what it is dude

A fortnight is two weeks

So two of them is… a month.

Captain Judd!

Yessss captain judd

No masks

Not a single mask on anyone

"the Serena Williams of firefighters?" fucking seriously

What if she was on camera like that and then they lose this car? She's gonna look like an asshole

Yo 100% the husband dies I'm calling it now

He's definitely dying

I FUCKING CALLED IT

Yo that's HUBRIS

That's why you don't brag to the cameras y'all

Damn that poor bastard what a way to go

This reminds me of when Bobby was under investigation in season 2 of the OG and they all kept coming around to his house and annoying the shit out of him while he was trying to plan his wedding

BILLY? BILLY BURKE?

BILLY BURKE!!!!!!!!

Yo he was in this show called Revolution that I watched because a) Billy Burke and b) Elizabeth Mitchell and I fuck I shipped him with Liz Mitch SO HARD

It's weird to me that everyone thinks of him as the dad from Twilight because I have legit seen him in everything but that

What happened to his lightning strike scars? That was my favourite part of Season 1

So I'm calling it early and saying that Billy Burke is the arsonist because why else would they bring him back, and he doesn't like Rob Lowe

Oh the gays are hosting a dinner party

You know what shits me? Lone Star has these scenes of the team playing board games and in the OG we waste a whole episode about Josh and Sue – yes I'm still dirty but they can make it up to me with this week’s episode

I suppose in Lone Star they're all single? And young? I really shouldn't complain, I don't want the OG to be more like Lone Star let's face it

Yeah she's going viral for acting like a moron in front of the cameras at the scene, that's why you don't do that fucking shit

Look I like Marjan but come on

Interesting choice of Rolling Stones song

Wow this Rob Lowe montage is so great

Am I the only one who thinks Airpods look dumb

God this Rob Lowe montage has been going for hours

Wow he's potting a plant, and painting, and putting a puzzle together, this is so fucking interesting, thank god they've dedicated this portion of the episode to it. How else would I know what Rob Lowe was doing while he was stuck at home by himself?

The chick who works at the juice bar is a better actor than Ronen

Oh no this looks like the work of the arsonist (Billy Burke)

Thank god Rob Lowe was there right

YOU'RE NOT THE CAPTAIN RIGHT NOW

God what a fuckhead

"126! Give 'em hell!" ugh what a douchebag

How am I only 23 minutes in

I feel like I've been watching for ten hours

Yeah how did you arrive five minutes before everyone huh? I feel like that app he's been listening to is probably illegal

Owen is doing nothing to help his case here

This guy 100% thinks Owen did it and you know what I think he's onto something and I think they should arrest Owen and put him in jail

Also I'm going to say that rob lowe dyes his hair and has had some cosmetic surgery just saying

Honestly I don't have a whole lot of sympathy for Marjan here

It’s just kind of in bad taste for a firefighter to be bragging about how awesome they are. I know social media is her whole deal but… it's pretty uncool

Is it just me or is Judd looking extra handsome in this episode?

Oh great and now we're at a nice dinner and they're talking about Rob fucking Lowe again? WHO CARES

THE ROB LOWE PLOTLIONES ARE ALWAYS THE WORST FUCKING PLOTLINES

He even looks like a creep in that grey hoodie

Oh my god he's been off work for a fucking week? Like I don't get this?

I would love to have a week off work to just stay in my house and be chill

He's talking to Billy Burke about the arson and Billy Burke is in fact the arsonist

Yo doesn't Carlos' house burn down at some point? DOES BILLY BURKE BURN DOWN CARLOS' HOUSE?

I really love Billy Burke and I'm glad they brought him back to play the bad guy; he was the bad guy in The Closer and it was great

He's explaining all this to Billy Burke, who in fact already knows this, because in fact he is IN FACT the arsonist

Also the fact that Rob Lowe has gone out and bought all this stuff just makes him look guiltier

I ship it though, Billy & Owen? Ship name Billwen or Owlly – no we're definitely going with Owlly

Stage 3 cancer, lost his job, got struck by lightning, didn't get the captaincy at the 126 – the man has nothing left to lose. He's the arsonist

Marjan IS a showboat and most of the time it's fine but before a rescue it does exhibit a lot of hubris and that's not a good thing

And that video didn't make her look great

And she needs to go to McKenna and apologise for being a dick

GO AND APOLOGISE

Fucking APOLOGISE

YES YOU SHOULD

Oh good she listened to me

Paul's a babe just saying

She posted a suicide note and no friends or family went to help her? That's pretty fucking depressing

Jesus this is a bit graphic

Wow this is very graphic

"This was clutch" COME ON FUCKING REALLY?

Oh yeah it's so fucking cool being a badass

Ugh this show is so stupid

How does this still have three minutes to go?

"Oh my god I FORGOT THE LIMES" it is the END OF THE WORLD

Why is he in his goddamn fucking arson hoodie again?

He is without a doubt the dumbest mother fucker who has ever dumbed in the history of BEING DUMB

I mean say what you want about Bobby jumping into a dumpster but I have to think that Bobby Nash would know better than to act like a suspicious fucking SUSPECT IN THE MIDDLE OF AN ARSON INVESTIGATION WHEN THEY ALREADY SUSPECT YOU OF BEING THE ARSONIST, OWEN!

You dumbfuck

0/10 shittiest episode ever, everyone except Judd, Grace and Tommy are stupid

AND OH MY GOD TK WE FORGOT THE LIMESSSSS OH MY GOD END OF THE WORLLLLDDDD

three miserable fucking episodes to go

Diaz to cleanse:

[gondorosi]

The gradual separation of show!Jon from book!Jon - Part II

Magic

The showrunners deciding that magic is an unimportant part of the saga and to be relegated to the background is utter horseshit. There’s a bloody REASON direwolves and dragons reappeared in the world when they did, more or less at the same time. There’s a fucking reason why in Martin’s version Dany’s fireproof nature was a one-time thing, the dormant magic in her reawakening as needed BECAUSE dragons needed to be brought back into the world. Dany, Jon and Bran are the three most magic-sensitive characters in the whole story - and only one of them have anything to do with it in a significant manner (though significant might be stretching it). With Dany, her magical nature is only sporadically referred to (the dragons are the be all and end all) and Jon has nothing.

Show!Jon is a mortal man on every level, without a drop of magic in him. Book!Jon is no Bran, but there are three fundamental factors which show how deeply he is connected to the land.

Ghost: Removing Ghost's importance to Jon is akin to removing part of his soul. He isn't just 'big, white fluffy doggo'. Ghost is part of him, his familiar. Ghost is the physical personification of the magic running in Jon's blood, the proof of the Old Gods awareness running through Stark children's veins. Direwolves have a deeper, subtler and less apparent magic than dragons, but no less potent, and no less essential to Jon than her dragons are to Dany. Out of all the Stark siblings, Jon’s connection with Ghost and Bran’s connection with Summer seem to be the most symbiotic. All the siblings have strong bonds with their direwolves, molded to their own personality - Arya’s connection with Nymeria persists even across the sea in Essos, all legends of Robb in battle are accompanied by legends of Grey Wind and poor Rickon becomes so enmeshed in Shaggydog’s mind that there’s little to distinguish between boy and beast. However, perhaps due to the nature of their POVs and story arcs, none of the Starks save Bran and Jon have their journeys so closely aligned to their wolves. Which is why it’s nigh impossible to even consider Jon’s story moving forward without Ghost, especially post resurrection. The show omitted the obvious implication that Jon warged into Ghost before he died, had no role for him in the BoB, completely erased him in S7 and relegated him to a damn stray in S8. On the other hand, the show AMPED up the Dragon Queen part of Dany to the detriment of all other aspects of her character.

Warging: In a universe where Martin has tried his best to weave in strong magic with actual medieval politics, concentrating all Northern magic into one single character (whose surface they barely scratched) is utterly lazy storytelling. Jon's warging abilities are mighty and second perhaps only to Bran, though I hold the belief Arya is as powerful a warg. But unlike both of them, Jon seems to actively resist exploring his warging possibilities. Some of the resistance may be explained by his environment - with both the NW and the Freefolk considering warging to be something of a ‘black’ art or dark magic. Sure, the Free Folk are more open about it, with Varamyr envying Jon’s gift with Ghost in his thoughts:

“He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.”

The show makes NO mention of it. Jon being considered a warg is a major reason behind half the NW hating and fearing him. I don’t remember the show ever bringing up the fact that Jon was feared - they seemed to make Thorne and Slynt’s animosity out of sheer spite and disgust at his bastardy. 

The Lord Commander's Raven: This is a favourite obsession of mine. Old Mormont’s raven pops out at Jon at seemingly random moments, but for the reader bursting with conspiracy theories, the raven is just another nod to the fact that Jon has a far greater role to play in the story than is visible to the eye. There's a popular theory that Bloodraven wargs him from time to time, since Jon is the secondary piece on his chessboard. The raven has come to Jon’s aid atleast twice that I can remember:

When Mormont is attacked by the wight:

Jon tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he kicked the arm away and snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. "Burn!" the raven cawed. "Burn, burn, burn!"

Spinning, Jon saw the drapes he'd ripped from the window. He flung the lamp into the puddled cloth with both hands.

During the election for Lord Commander when Mormont’s raven flying to his shoulder is used as a sign by Sam to argue for Mormont’s approval of Jon as the choice.

Bastardy

Jon's entire sense of self is centered around two things:

Ned Stark is his father

He's a bastard

His entire character arc is trying live up to one of those and distance himself from the connotations of the other. His bastardy is the formative lodestone of his character and moral compass but in the EXACT opposite of how Catelyn and Westerosi society as a whole expect it to be.

However, there's a twist to that. Jon's inner desire is EXACTLY what Catelyn feared. He DOES want to be Lord of Winterfell. He DOES harbour resentment that Robb (seemingly) has everything handed to him while the best Jon can hope for is to die at his post, unknown and unsung. He DOES want glory and power and to exact some kind of revenge on a society which deemed him vile and detestable for no fault of his. All the elements for him to become the Starks' own Daemon Blackfyre is already present.

But there's one difference - Ned Stark is no Aegon the Unworthy. Even more than all of the above heart's desires, Jon wants to be like his father. He wants to do what is right. He wants his father to be proud of him. He wants to be nothing like the greedy, vengeful and lusty creature he's always been told he is. He wants to help people and stand up for the weak because that's who he is. At the very heart of it, he just wants to be loved by Ned as much as his trueborn sons. And thus he takes Tyrion's words to heart and wears his bastardy like impenetrable armour.

In show!Jon, ALL of this inner struggle is lost. Jon's bastardy is rarely affixed other than as a side. Show!Jon is a 'good' man. Yes, undoubtedly. But what makes book!Jon a great man is that he masters his baser desires to focus on what's more important. THAT'S what Jeor, Mance and Stannis all saw in him. That's why the Free Folk follow him. That's why half the NW will die for him (yes I know the other half will kill him).

When you have spent most of the show without anywhere referencing how vital the armour of bastardy, and being Ned Stark’s son is to Jon's psyche and sense of self, even the best directors will not be able to depict WHY the news of his parentage will have ripped out the ground from under him. Dany's quest for the throne is out there glaring at us thus atleast on paper making sense that having her undeniable right threatened will rattle her (I personally hate hate HATE the creative decision that Dany's immediate reaction to find out Jon's a Targaryen will be paranoia and concern for HER throne but I digress).

Intelligence, ability and cunning

Up until S4 and most of S5, show!Jon and book!Jon exhibited similar levels of intelligence and cunning. One of my favourite scenes is Sam trying to stop Jon from marching into Mance's camp to try and assassinate him. Jon gets in his face with his frustration and despair boiling and asks if he has any better ideas. At this point he's done a superb job commanding the defence of Castle Black but has also just lost Ygritte, Pyp and Grenn all in one night, a significant portion of the meagre Castle Black forces and is fully aware that they cannot survive another charge. He's beyond desperate and aware that his efforts are likely suicidal but he can't just retreat, lick his wounds and do nothing. 

The show labours under the popular delusion that truly good guys can't be really smart, as being smart means preserving yourself and truly good guys will always jump into danger first to protect other people. Politics is bad so if you're a good strategist then you can't be a good person. 

Both book and show characterizations of Jon have been criticized for being examples of the ‘Chosen One’ the ‘reluctant hero’ who turns out to be the right man for the job, and for painting ambition and the quest for power as negative pursuits. In the book however, Jon’s ambitions never really had a chance to form. He’s prideful enough in his abilities to believe he would be an immediate select into the elite Ranger ranks and is devastated when that doesn’t work out. By the time he’s come to terms with the fact that being Mormont’s steward means being groomed for command, the truth of the White Walkers is in front of him and that becomes his sole consideration.

To many readers, Jon’s election to Lord Commander was ‘contrived’ though I do believe Sam played the long political game as he believed his friend being in a position of power would lead to an easier path for him. However, Jon doesn’t crumple under the weight of the responsibility - his actions as Lord Commander are revolutionary enough to completely destabilize his support. The show entirely omits all the strategic parts of his negotiations with both Stannis and the Freefolk. Unlike show!Jon, book!Jon does not allow the Freefolk through the Wall only on the account of goodwill and the fear of a common enemy. He takes their children hostage to ensure compliance. He negotiates with the Iron Bank for a loan to stave off starvation come winter. He repopulates the Gift with Free Folk. He shelters, counsels and aids Stannis. He addresses almost every logistical and material issue he can think except for the most fundamental - his people. 

On the other hand, there’s no strategic and political angle to Show!Jon in S6 and S7, instead being posited only as warrior extraordinaire.

'The greatest swordsman in the North' - but too naive to not keep the sister who tricked him almost to his death at arm's length. Brave, loyal and courageous beyond belief - but completely befuddled by politicking. Immediately trusting a sister he’s never been close to and who has been Littlefinger’s pupil for a considerable time. 

Book!Jon's abilities as a leader are sorely underappreciated, especially considering that his tenure as Lord Commander saw the status quo of almost every aspect of NW life upended. The previous LC is killed in a mutiny. The Wildling army launch an attack. The Others finally rise. A King/King Claimant FINALLY takes the NW's warnings seriously. The Wildlings are brought south of the Wall.

Despite being a new beginning for all recruits, the Night's Watch is the one order in Westeros whose traditions and rules have not changed in millennia. Understaffed, under-resourced and facing a threat the likes of which people would struggle to comprehend, Jon does the best he can. His major mistake is one most young leaders make, and that is assume all of those under automatically understand his reasons for doing what he does. 

Relationships

Brother:

If there's one role Jon takes more seriously than 'Ned Stark's son, it's that of brother. Book!Jon is pretty much the pinnacle of brotherly love - Robb's right hand, Arya's champion and dutiful protector to both Bran and Rickon. There's a subtle tragedy in this too - despite how much his siblings love him, all of them, including Arya, have othered him. He's brother, but only half. Snow, not a Stark. The last in the list. 'The last brother left to me' - as felt by both Robb and Sansa.

Book!Jon and Show!Jon are both shown to be loving, dutiful brothers but once again the show is incapable of portraying more than one character at a time in a certain way. Thus all of Jon's brotherly love is concentrated on Sansa, the sibling he was least close to. Show!Jon never mentions Robb after his death mentions Arya not at all when book!Jon never stops thinking about the two of them.

Maybe, maybe if the show had bothered to flesh out Jon Snow's emotional attachment to his home and siblings, his dilemma between his family and Dany wouldn't have been so shoddy.

Friend:

Book!Jon, despite his aloof demeanour attracts fast friends. His staunchest supporters in the NW are those who he befriended when he first stepped within the gates. He's the only one to ever have stood up for many of them. And it's his NW friends who do become truly brothers, as they see and stand beside him during his rise to leadership.

Show!Jon is no different - he's got his loyal friends but there was no apparent discord after him being elected LC. Which is surprising considering that this is the moment that Jon effectively decides to ‘Kill the boy.’ The Gilly baby switch storyline is completely done away with, probably because it is the one decision that very clearly paints Jon as grey. The book Sam struggles to understand this decision - in his mind his best friend would never have done that. Maester Aemon is the one who sets him straight - Jon is no longer just a brother of the Watch, he’s the Lord Commander now. He can no longer be taking decisions just as Sam’s friend.

The show never really dwelt on the chasm Jon’s position as a leader would have created with his brothers who till them were his equals. Book!Jon knowingly starts distancing himself and this is a flaw that comes back to stab him in the chest - again a misstep in one raised to leadership at a young age.

Lover:

This part will be a bit of a cop-out since at this point the only common love interest between the books and the show is Ygritte. The show axed Val, who’s one of my favourite secondary characters and my main preference for a Jon pairing pre-Dany. And of course, there’s far too much plot to cover before Jon and Dany even meet in the book (if they’re ever finished).

There are factions of the fandom who don’t think the Jon and Dany romance in S7 was set up convincingly. Admittedly that’s going to be hard for me to judge fairly as I’ve been in the Jonerys camp ever since ADWD made it clear how Jon was growing as a leader and as a magical touchstone in direct parallels to Dany. It definitely helped that Kit’s portrayal of Jon had FINALLY started to appeal to me once The Watchers of the Wall aired. I’d been one of the many fans who had been waiting for these two to meet on the show - and though I personally found the Jon-Dany relationship progression to be one of the few good things about S7, I can perhaps get why many neutral fans (i.e not commited to any rival ships for either Jon or Dany) think its out of character for them to be so involved so soon.

There are plenty of popular assumptions perpetuated by the show which have no backup in the original material - one of them is ‘dumb, lovable idiot’ Jon paired with the ‘awkward and oblivious as fuck with women’ Jon. Now, I’ll not deny that the latter portrayal works QUITE well with show!Jon (Kit’s face is the perfect cast for this characterization) but I just don’t see it working with book!Jon. The boy isn’t seeking out women but its not like he’s not around them. Alys Karstark was quite obviously taken with him, and I doubt Jon missed it, but there were far greater things of import to consider for both of them - I saw no awkwardness in the text. Jon dislikes Selyse and manages to be both cordial and deferential as required. Melisandre makes no secret of her fascination with him - there’s no bumbling awkwardness there either. And Val - he’s quite smitten and there’s some awkwardness there, sure but its hardly the bumbling variety.

As for Dany - considering that at this point the 7 seasons of the show is all we will ever have, I somehow think the softer show!Jon makes a much better pairing with the more hardened show!Dany. Its as if certain aspects of their personalities were flipped in the show - book!Dany is definitely much softer and gentle without her power and strength being diminished, whereas book!Jon is far more calculated and ruthless without compromising on his honour and integrity. 

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind pt.3

We are back to lockdown where I live so I had plenty of time to kill and this is the result, this is my excuse. There was plot, but I kinda got lost in a messy plan I don’t know what to do with it. 

In short, Lambert is still very messed up and figures out a plan to settle for a while, there’s the usual flashback but I’ve never written smut (under the cut)  in my entire life so I hope it’s not too horrible, an attempt was made. A failed attempt probably, but still an attempt nonetheless. Let me now what I can do to get better? 

Did I say English is not my first language? Well, it’s not, and I always feel like I don’t know enough words to put down what I have in my head. Still not canon, still not anywhere close a valid characterization, still trash. 

***

<<There you go, 300 crowns.>> The captain doesn't leave him waiting too long, thank fuck for that.  The werewolf proved almost too easy to kill and Lambert is eager to go back to the inn and wash away ever thought of his dead lover with ridiculous amounts of alcohol. Spending the rest of his day drunk out of his mind sounds like a great plan, not one that Aiden would approve of, but he's not here to convince him otherwise. <<I'll find my way out.>> Something moves at the corner of his eyes, and his senses immediately pick up the weird rustling of leaves, preparing himself in case of unexpected danger. A black and orange cat jumps out of the bushes, the small beast is probably chasing something or doing whatever cat business cats usually do, but Lambert could swear he knows those green eyes darting around, he's seen them before millions of times. The animal is gone in a heartbeat and he shakes his head. If he could, he'd kick his own ass, cause he needs to stop thinking about Aiden, it's clearly muddling with his head. <<...still missing.>> He stopped paying attention to the captain's words a long time ago, he had no sympathy left in himself to share with the man. Lambert is only good at dealing with physical pain: the pain of the beatings his father used to give him, the pain of the trials, the pain of a monster tearing at his flesh, he learned to face it cause he knew that it would go away eventually. It was just a matter of time, broken bones and split lips mend, claw marks and cuts fade rather quickly being a Witcher and simply leave one more scar to his collection. Other things, he’s not good at coping with them, especially emotions, cause he's not even supposed to have them. They don't go away like bruised ribs. <<Not much I can do about that.>> <<But you've seen something? We hoped he managed to escape but...we didn't...Is he...dead?>> The missing soldier, Lambert remembers now. The werewolf took twelve men but only eleven bodies were found. <<I saw something alright. Did he have a family?>> He sees the old man's eyes widen at the thought, he sees the flicker of hope and he hates to kill it. <<A wife.>> <<You don't want his wife to see what I saw, trust me on that.>> Lambert leaves without another word.

The sole fact that a cat with green eyes is messing up with his head should be alarming, there must be something wrong with him. There were thousands of cats with green eyes all around the Continent, so why was he making such a big deal out of it? It's not like he'd never seen one before. Though in a way, a Cat with green eyes messed up with more than just his head already, that's what got him in this whole situation he’s not very good at handling.  The only thing he's good at is killing things, and this is what he has to keep doing. He isn’t even that great at eliminating monsters actually, his brothers are much better, but that's all he knows how to do. Maybe he should look for them, track Eskel somewhere and explain what happened, explain that everything went to hell and now there are days when nothing makes sense anymore, he can’t even seem to care enough to find another contract, another village, another monster. He's not going to tell him that he saw a cat with Aiden's eyes and there's not enough to drink in this tavern to chase away that thought, cause patient as he may be, Eskel is not going to put up with crazy.

Looking for his brothers is a terrible idea, now that he thinks about it. He just needs to go somewhere with enough monsters for him to stop moving around all the time, cause he can't travel on the bad days. He can barely leave the room, on bad days. That's why Lambert comes up with a plan: he'll go to the only place where he doesn't have to find work, cause work will find him anyway. That is, as soon as he feels like existing again, because today the shadows crowding the corners of his vision don't leave him alone and there are green eyes haunting him every time he blinks.

Lambert wishes more than anything that he could feel Aiden again, the real one, not the ghost he sees in his dreams, just lay entangled in bed without any words being spoken aloud, their hands, their lips, their touches already said everything that needed to be told. Words have a habit of lingering just below his line of reach, they were there, but just a little too far for him to grasp at them and put them into thoughts he could say out loud. There were so many words between Aiden and him, words unspoken and words he'd like to take back, and why the fuck words are so complicated anyway?

It takes him another day before he's able to travel, but at least now he has a plan. Lambert tolerates Toussaint because people are filthy rich and always willing to pay a little extra to prove just how wealthy they are. He's been there before, spent three full weeks in a castle with Aiden, hunting a striga. The problem is, memories haunt him anyway, he can't get rid of them. At least they don't want to stone him there.

<<Lambert?>> He lingers on the doorstep for a moment before entering and closing the door behind his back. The light of the moon is enough for him to make out Aiden's form slowly sitting up on the bed, rumpled sheets pooling at his waist, and a faint trace of lavender soap invades the air. <<Why, were you waiting for someone else?>> Lambert is still holding an empty cup he brought up from the ballroom he just managed to leave, the only good part of the night was the wine. Empty social meetings and royal occasions are just an excuse for nameless Lords and Ladies to brag about the huge pile of bullshit they were sitting on. It bored him to death. And it all proved rather useless cause he didn't get much information about the striga that was supposedly haunting the castle. Lord Launfal kept passing him and Aiden around, showing them off like hunting trophies for the court to gawk at and bragging about having two Witchers at his services. What a fucking idiot, he hates royals with all of himself. But Aiden didn't even seem to mind! He had princes and ladies eyeing him as if he was an expensive cake they couldn't wait to get their dirty fingers on, and Lambert was upset. He didn't like people looking at his lover as if they were about to eat him. The worst part was that he saw the Cat talking to all those rich idiots, playing along as if he wanted nothing more than meeting another Lady Nobody from Nowhere, as if he was enjoying all the attention. Lambert was already fuming after the first part of the evening was over, and somehow it all seemed to go downhill when people started to discretely slip Aiden invitations for more.

Everybody hated and despised Witchers, in all corners of the Continent they were treated no better than the beasts they were hired to kill, chased out of villages and stoned, with one single exception. In Toussaint, they were some kind of luxury to exhibit, like exotic animals from distant lands, nothing more than the latest attraction among the richest assholes of the province. And Aiden, beautiful green-eyed Aiden, apparently was a favourite. Lambert kept hearing people offering his lover to finish the night in a more interesting manner, and it made his blood boil. He wanted to finish their night in a way more interesting manner, as in slitting some throats or throwing a bastard, or six, out of the window. Aiden pretended to accept the offers with a kind word, fully aware of his position here and what was required of him, saying he was still bound to his job but perhaps he could find time later. Maybe he wasn't pretending, that's what the voice in Lambert's head keeps saying. Maybe he'll take one of those invites. Maybe that's why he's so surprised to see Lambert now.

<<Possibly. I was terribly bored here by myself.>> Next thing Aiden knows, something is flying in his direction and he thanks his Witcher senses or the mug would have hit him fair and square. He ducks out of the way cursing, the loose black shirt covering him slips from his shoulder and his hair is a little tousled. When he speaks again his voice sounds on the good side of rough. <<What the fuck pup? I was just kidding!>> He stares at the cup on the floor more than a little surprised, things thrown at him were not part of his plan for the rest of the night. <<Didn't sound like it to me.>> Aiden smiles, the bastard has the courage to look smug and stare at him while Lambert busies himself with the buckles of his armor. He can tell by the way his Wolf was moving that something made him angry, and considering the night they had, the list of things that could have caused it was unsurprisingly long. <<Are you, by any chance, jealous, my dear wolf?>> <<What? No! Of course not! Do whatever and whoever the fuck you want.>> He tries to sound as careless and uninterested as possible, as if the idea of Aiden with someone else doesn't disturb him at all. He fails miserably.

Lambert finishes removing all his gear, leaving it in a pile on the floor and trying his best to ignore Aiden's pleased expression. He moves towards the screen door hiding the bathroom to retrieve a damp rag, but Aiden is up in a second, facing him. <<You're jealous.>> <<And you're still here? Thought you were waiting for someone, weren't you? Don't keep them waiting.>> He casually points at the door behind them. Of course he's jealous, he is jealous of everyone that ever caught Aiden's attention, constantly afraid of not being enough for the other man, but he isn't about to suddenly admit he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions, cause he doesn't have emotions. He doesn't. The Witcher, heartless, cold, the song didn't say the Witcher a soft sappy guy, it doesn't even rhyme. <<You're kicking me out?>> Aiden raises an eyebrow at him, casually leaning against the stone wall of the bathroom. <<Oh please, I'm sure there's more than one rich Lord or Lady in this house that would welcome you in a soft bed and with spread legs.>> Lambert moves past the Cat, fumbling with his clothes as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands before stripping down to his trousers. He picks up a washcloth from the side of the bathtub, mindlessly scrubbing down his arms and chest, frowning at the water in front of him as if it held the solutions to all his problems. Aiden's scent follows him around the room, and he's so used to it that it's always weird for him to be in a room that doesn't smell like Aiden when they go their separate ways for a couple of days. <<Sorry, when did I turn into a high-class whore in this ridiculous story of yours? All this because you refuse to admit you're jealous?>> <<I don't know what you're talking about. Just...leave me alone, I'm sure someone will keep you busy.>> 

Aiden knows well enough that none of them is after a fight, too strung high after their evening. And he also knows that confronting Lambert is simply not working. He softens his voice and steals the washcloth from his hands, dipping it in the warm water again and beginning to gently swipe it across tense shoulder blades. <<Do you think that if I had my eyes on someone I'd bring them to our room? The very same room where I know you will come back? I decide to cheat on you and I do it in our bed, wearing your shirt? That's not a very smart move. Also, you were with me the entire night, who do you think I was waiting for?>> Lambert doesn't move, taken aback by Aiden's unexpected gesture. He knows the touch of the warm palm on his side he knows the motion of the hand that brings the rug down his back, and he's grateful for the familiarity of it. He can get lost in the sensation. Aiden is being nice to him, even after he practically called him a whore. Damn his stupid big mouth. 

<<Plenty of options. I heard about all the invites you got.>> He mumbles under his breath, all the demanding voices of the evening just spent still echoing in his ears. Aiden lets the washcloth fall back into the water, placing a small kiss just under the nape of his neck as he was used to do every time they were cleaning up after a contract, it was his way to tell him it was all done, they could relax now that it was over. It's one of the little things Aiden does to keep him grounded, like leaving something of his in plain sight in the rooms they shared, so if Lambert woke up alone he would always know that he hadn't left for good, he was just at the blacksmith or getting them breakfast and he was coming back soon, or the fingers ghosting at the inside of Lambert's wrist when he was getting mad and he wanted to be on his own, so Aiden remained just close enough to trail his fingers on the back of his clenched fists or his wrists from time to time. Small things, habits picked up in many days and nights together, learning each other quirks without ever pointing them out, without ever judging but simply accepting them and learning what to do with them, cause they know fully well that sometimes fighting and fucking until they were out of energy was not enough, cause they were on edge and everything threatened to set their nerves off, so their best chance was trying to smooth out the razor-sharp corners of their frustration with soft touches and whispered words in the quiet. <<I refused all of them. You were there. Every single time I turned them down.>> <<Then why did you sound so surprised when I walked in?>> Aiden laughs at his sudden outburst, moving his arms around Lambert's waist and pressing himself against his back. <<Cause I was sleeping you stupid pup! You said you wanted to stay a while longer but I was this close to snap someone's neck. I had to go.>> <<Oh. So you were not....waiting for someone else?>> Lambert feels his lover placing another soft kiss at the back of his neck before resting his chin on his shoulder. He tentatively lays one of his hands on Aiden's arm still around his waist, fingering the black fabric there as if he wasn't sure he was still allowed to touch him after the things he said. <<You're so stupid, you're lucky I love you. I couldn't bear being shown off among those bastards as if I was for sale, that's why I came back here. I cleaned up and I wanted to wait for you to return but I must have fallen asleep. >> <<You love me?>> Aiden hears him whispering, his voice so low he can only make it out because of his sharpened senses. He lays another kiss on his shoulder, tracking an errant drop of water with his lips. <<Very much. Now tell me why were you so angry?>> <<I thought...nevermind, it's stupid.>> Lambert sighs loudly and moves away from his embrace, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious than usual. Aiden was not cheating, of course, why did he even say that? This was him being an asshole as always, taking out his anger on the first person who tries to put up with him. <<No, come on, tell me. What did you think was going on here?>> Lambert sits heavily on the edge of the bed, eyes trained on the green carpet covering a good part of the floor. He wants to make things right, but words are dirty treacherous things slipping out of his reach, and he doesn't know how to explain why there's always a nasty voice in his head whispering cruel things. 

<<I see you. And I see people around you. They look at you. Want you. And you're...you, you flirt with them. They always reek of lust and desire, I could practically catch pretty maids getting wet between their legs when you talked to them. You could be spending the night with a fucking Princess or a Lord, but you're here in the servants' wing for no good reason.>> He lets out the breath he didn't realize he held, it always seems to require him a huge effort to say out loud his thoughts. Cats were supposed to be unbalanced and all that but fuck balance, sad lot of good balance and control did to him.  

<<Lambert, look at me.>>  His vision is fully occupied by Aiden's form standing directly in front of him, he didn't realize he moved but now an extended hand reaches out to his chin, thumb tracing the dark stubble there and he can't avoid his green eyes. Aiden is always moving with feline grace, when he's fighting, fucking, walking through a crowded room, or killing a beast, smooth as if everything he does is the easiest thing in the world. When he places a hand on the side of his face, Lambert nuzzles into the touch, feeling all his rage melting away in the palm of that hand. <<I am exactly where I choose to be. With you. I could never choose anything in life since I was brought to Stygga, and I don't remember anything before it, but this thing between you and me, I chose it. I want this.>> Aiden slowly straddles him, his knees resting on the mattress below them and Lambert can't resist putting his hands around his waist, hitching the shirt up a little, yearning for the warm skin underneath,  for a touch to prove that this perfect man above him is areally here.

Lambert feels so stupid for even thinking those ridiculous words he said out loud. He never knows what to say cause he never had to try to fix things with someone, people were not this patient with him, they just walked out of his life when it all got too hard to handle. But Aiden is here, and all he can do is look at him and kiss him eagerly, the soft lips open to leave him full access to his lover's mouth. He wants to pour all these nameless things he feels in their kiss, seeking forgiveness on the tip of Aiden's tongue moving against his own.   <<'m sorry.>> He tries to say when they break apart, leaning his forehead on Aiden's. Aiden kisses him again, letting his hands roam free on the exposed planes of Lambert's back, sending shivers down his lover's spine and silencing his excuses in a languid kiss. Lambert trails his hands down to Aiden's hips, too much fabric getting in the way of his exploration. <<Are you really...wearing my shirt?>> <<It smells like you, and I was lonely. I felt bad after being ogled like I was dessert by a bunch of old royal assholes.>> <<I...Shit, I thought you...you enjoyed the...attention.>>   <<Why would I like a crowd of perverted nobles staring at me? I put up with it cause this contract is good money, not because I wanted to be noticed.>> Lambert is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to touch, to feel his skin under his palms, and have him closer. <<Fuck, Aiden, I'm... I hate them even more now.>> Lambert tightens his hold around his lover, relishing the feeling of Aiden's body on top of his own, of holding him, of those hands caressing his skin, and of his scent enveloping him. He knows he hardly deserves any of that. <<Me too pup, trust me, me too. Why did you stay if you despised it so much though? >> Aiden traces the scar on the right side of his face, fingers gently brushing on his forehead down to his cheek, exploring the different texture. It's his favourite one. Lambert didn't even want Aiden to touch it at first when they began to get more intimate, finding the ugly mark particularly horrible to look at, but the Cat was set to show the other man he didn't mind one bit, and he clearly succeeded in his mission. <<Tried to get more details on the striga. I caught three servants gossiping about how Lady Launfal was willing to do anything to make sure the castle stayed in her family even after her death.>> <<Ugh, they can't let go of their stupid stuff even when they're rotting six feet under.>> The contempt in Aiden's voice is crystal clear, and he chases it away kissing Lambert again, taking his time in exploring his mouth, nipping at the full bottom lip before suckling the sting away. Aiden slips his tongue between parted lips, licking into the inviting mouth, his lover's beard tickling his skin as he deepened the kiss. It's never enough for Lambert, he's addicted to this body, to this taste, he could hold him forever and he'd still want more. He feels Aiden moaning in the kiss, desire pooling inside him at the sweet sounds escaping his lover's mouth. <<Missed you.>> Aiden says while Lambert outlines with his thumb the edge of the pink scar under Aiden's ribs, this one is special cause it was the first he patched up himself, stitching his best friend in a dark cave by the fire, terrified to lose him. 

<<I should have come back sooner, it was a huge waste of time anyway.>> Lambert stares at the wet, shiny lips he just tasted and slips his hands lower, cupping his lover's ass and squeezing it roughly, drawing him impossibly closer. Aiden starts to slowly roll his hips, eliciting a barely muffled groan from Lambert and smirking like the cat that got the fucking cream when he feels Lambert's cock twitch beneath him. <<Oh you're such a good boy, aren't you pup? But work hours are over, you're mine now.>> Aiden purrs in his ear before moving lower to place small kisses on his throat, nibbling on his collarbone and running his fingers over Lambert's chest, nails catching on his nipples and stopping his journey to squeeze one hardening nub. <<You could have...fuck yes, that's nice...you could have helped.>> Aiden bites a little too harshly on the soft spot where neck and shoulder meet. He loves the way Lambert grips at him harder, fingertips digging into the supple flesh of his ass, keeping him right where he wants him. <<I'm helping! I was half-naked in your room, wearing your shirt, all warm and ready for you, not my fault you had better things to do than join me.>> Aiden licks a few times over the reddening spot at the base of his lover's throat, the taste of his skin invading his mouth. <<Looks better on you.>> Aiden hides his grin in Lambert's neck as he deliberately starts to move his hips again, slowly rocking back and forward to create delicious friction between their clothed erections and drawing sharp groans from both of them. Aiden presses down on his shoulders, pushing Lambert to lay flat on the bed and working his trousers open before slipping a hand inside to slowly palm his cock, staring at his Wolf with hungry eyes, burning with lust. <<I want you. I've been wanting you the whole night. The one time we get to go to a party, and you get all jealous of me. And it looks so fucking hot on you. You thought I wanted a prince, but I kept dreaming of fucking with the scary, mean Witcher in every dark corner.>> The way Lambert shamelessly moans into his touch is sinful, and it's one of the best sounds Aiden ever heard. <<Oh fuck, Aiden...>> He leans on his Wolf just enough to whisper against his lips, sharing the same breath for a heartbeat. <<Yes love, that's the plan.>> Those inviting lips are gone just like that, and Lambert almost whines at the loss. Aiden pulls down his smallclothes, effectively shoving them out of the way before finally moving back to sit on his thighs, stroking his cock again. He loves feeling Lambert getting hard under his attention, feeling his erection growing when he licks his nipples or bites down on the sweet spot on his neck that makes his lover shiver. He begins to trace his fingers over all those places that make Lambert moan, teasing the head of his length with a thumb before wrapping his hand around it, enjoying the sounds he can get out of him.

<<Need you naked right now.>> Lambert groans while he moves to work the buttons on Aiden's shirt, his shirt, and he can't get the offending material off of his shoulders soon enough. Aiden laughs while standing up to quickly remove the last of his clothes. He gets a small vial of oil from the bedside table before wrapping his legs around Lambert's hips again. No matter how many times they've been here, the first skin on skin touch always feels like fire to Aiden, burning hot in his groin and making him crave more. Lambert digs his fingers into the dimples on Aiden's back, pushing their hips together as his lover begins to move in the most taunting rhythm. Sparks of pleasure flood his brain when he feels Aiden's cock rubbing against his own, smooth and velvety, the slow movements are enough to drive him crazy with need. <<Fuck me. Need you....need you now.>> Lambert knows this is not going to be one of the nights when they'll take their time, teasing each other over and over until they're both losing control, he can sense the same urgency he feels deep inside him in Aiden's voice.

Aiden sits up a little to get the vial of oil he left well in his grasp and pours it on his fingertips, eyes fixed on his lover beneath him as he reaches behind himself. Lambert watches entranced as Aiden starts to slowly stretch himself open, the sweet scent of the oil mixing with their arousal. <<You look so fucking hot Aiden.>> He moves his hands to grip Aiden's spread thighs, feeling the muscles quivering under the grasp of his fingers, harsh enough to leave little red dots scattered on the skin. Lambert nudges Aiden back a little, fingers moving on the inside of his thigh, stopping just to thumb at the slit on his lover's wet cock, losing himself in the keening sound that leaves Aiden's lips. <<So damn beautiful, can't believe you're all mine.>> He shifts enough to sit up and start mouthing Aiden's neck, tasting his skin and causing him to moan out loud. <<Need you...oh fuck, Lambert, need you inside...>> Lambert moves his hand back to grip the other's hips, steadying him as he kisses and bites his throat, and is so hard to resist the need to claim what's his. <<Let me. I want to feel you.>> Aiden shivers at his words, sneaking his free arm around Lambert's neck. Lambert brushes his hand on his spine in a soft caress, feeling the sweat already running down his back. He reaches the place where his lover is spreading himself open, two fingers already pushing inside his hole. Aiden slowly removes his hand, a small cry leaves his parted lips when he feels his lover teasing his entrance and when Lambert starts to press one finger there it's enough to make him writhe in his lap. <<Want you...Inside me...>>  He rests his head on Lambert's shoulder, panting against the side of his neck as he feels a second finger entering him with no resistance. Aiden starts to roll his hips again, trying to grind their cocks together every time he nudges his hips forward, feeling the fingers inside him slip in even deeper. <<I am inside you, Aiden.>> Lambert easily works his fingers in and out, searching for the bundle of nerves that will make Aiden scream and savoring the sight of his lover coming apart before his eyes when he finds it. Aiden moans in the most sinful way when he pushes a third finger in, rocking forward a little faster, enough for their erections trapped between their bodies to rub against the other just right. <<I'm...I'll come if you keep it up.>> Lambert feels the body in his arms shaking and quivering, and knowing he's the one that put him in that state always gets to his head. <<That's the idea. You make the most beautiful sound. I just want to make you come over and over again so I can hear it.>> He knows how to play with his lover's body, twisting his fingers just right to stroke his sweet spot, causing Aiden to cry out loud. <<Fucking....fuck, don't say that, I'm so close already.>> Aiden presses their bodies together, and Lambert can't help but wrap his hand around both their erections, pumping them with a sudden urgency.   <<I know, I can feel it.>> Lambert smirks at him, brushing his fingers against the tip of their cocks, spreading the wetness already gathering there. <<Not like this...I want to come with your cock deep inside me, I want to feel you everywhere.>> <<Gods, that mouth of yours.>> Lambert lets his fingers slip free from his lover's body, and he doesn't miss how Aiden whines at the loss. He tries to catch the green eyes he loves so much, hesitating for a brief second before asking <<You sure?>>

Aiden raises his head and looks dead serious while he shifts his hips enough to settle himself on his lover's thighs, feeling the hard cock twitching beneath him. <<You have to fuck me right now or I swear I'll find someone who will.>> Lambert grabs his ass possessively, squeezing hard enough to bruise and meeting Aiden's lips in a burning kiss. <<Like Hell you will!>> Aiden grins before taking his cock in his hand and guiding it inside himself, slowly sinking down as they both hiss in pleasure. For a moment Aiden remains still, very much enjoying the feeling of Lambert so deep and hot inside his body. Lambert tries as best as he can to stay still and let his lover adjust, losing himself in the vision before him. <<Aiden... Fuck, can you...Fuck, tell me you're good.>> Right now, stretched around him, with his eyes closed, hands braced on his chest and his tongue occasionally sneaking out to wet his lips, right now Aiden looks obscenely divine. He looks like everything Lambert ever wanted. <<My wolf, all mine...you feel so fucking good inside me.>>Aiden moans in his hear before settling a lazy pace, lifting himself up and slowly sinking back onto Lambert's cock. <<Tell me>> Lambert's voice is too rough and needy, and he can feel his control slipping away when Aiden sinuously arches his back, baring his throat for him to sink his teeth into the tender flesh. <<Feel so full, so deep inside me...I've been wanting you all night, wanted to ride you like this for so long...Oh fuck, you're gonna mark me? Cause I want you to.>> Lambert growls, hiding his face in the slope of Aiden's shoulder, biting down at the base of his neck, grateful for the fact that he doesn't have to hold back anymore, and Aiden tangles his hand in his hair to keep him close, crying out at the feeling of being claimed. <<Oh fuck, fuck, you feel so hot inside me.>> Aiden starts working his hips faster as Lambert meets him halfway, thrusting up in the welcoming heat and feeling the coils of his pleasure tightening inside him. Lambert licks the red mark decorating Aiden's throat, whispering <<Mine.>> against the heated flesh. He knows he won't last, they both heal quickly, but he knows it will be there in the morning. <<Yours. I need you to fuck me so hard I'll still feel you inside me tomorrow. >> Lambert moves his hands to grip Aiden's hips, holding him on his lap as he fucks into him, need burning inside him like flames. <<Godsdamn Aiden! >> A beautiful string of moans leave his lover's lips, Aiden was always loud, but right now he's sure every other person in this wing is probably hearing them. <<Oh, oh fuck, harder, please, just....fuck, you feel so good! I can take it, you know I can...>> Lambert knows he's not going to last long this time, Witcher's mutagens and all be damned, how can he resist with Aiden's tight ass around him, fully fucking himself on his cock. <<You're so tight, do you know how good you feel around me?>>  Lambert feels how Aiden's whole body tenses up in his arms, and adjusts his angle to hit the right spot again and again, as he savors the way his lover clenches tighter around him, pleasure coursing through their bodies like sparks, bringing both of them closer to the edge. <<Show me...I need to feel you coming inside me, show me how good...>> Lambert watches Aiden quickly unraveling, relishing the loud moans and cries that keep falling from Aiden's lips every time he takes his whole length inside, tremors shaking the strong figure on top of his own. <<Fuck, keep moving like that and I will. Can you come on my cock like this?>> Lambert takes his lips in a bruising kiss, craving to feel his taste again before moving lower to lick at his neck, and Aiden's words go straight to his cock. <<Yes, yes, Gods yes, keep...keeping fucking me like this, fuck this is perfect...>> Aiden's fingers dig into his lover's back, nails leaving moon-shaped marks just above Lambert's shoulder blades as his hips desperately rock down to meet the hard thrusts claiming his body. <<Mine, only mine, my Aiden, fuck, come for me, I wanna see you.>> Aiden's whole body is tensing and twitching as a loud cry leaves his open lips, finally letting go, spilling his release between their bodies in pearly white lines pooling on Lambert's stomach. It takes Lambert only a few more thrusts into his hot clenching hole before his orgasm washes over him, filling his lover's body and gasping against the reddened skin of Aiden's neck.

He falls back on the bed, Aiden slumped forward on his chest with a silly smile on his face, and laying there contented is all they can do for now. It's a while before they can string thoughts, let alone words, together, both still coming down from their height. <<Lambert? I'll let you fuck me again if you admit that you were jealous.>> Aiden says it in the most innocent voice ever, and it shouldn't be possible coming from someone that looks so thoroughly fucked. Lambert just growls at him, his brain still refusing to work properly. <<Oh you little shit, can't you just drop it?>> Aiden curls up next to him, fingers drawing imaginary patterns connecting the scars on his chest. <<Careful love, I was under the impression you liked this ass.>> Aiden pretends to miss the words his Wolf just said, only because he knows he can and he will get away with it. <<What was that, pup? Was somebody jealous?>> Aiden smiles before scratching his nails over the sensitive skin on the inside of Lambert's thigh. <<Fine, fine, I was jealous, happy now kitty?>> <<Depends. Are you up for another round?>> Lambert rolls them over, giving a silent thank for the only one blessing brought by the mutagens in their blood. <<With you, always. I mean, have you seen you?>> Aiden spreads his legs open invitingly before arching under him. <<Then I'm very happy.>>

[aconstellationofmemories]

The Secrets We Keep: Prologue

Pairing: Laxus Dreyar & Mirajane Strauss (Miraxus) Rating: M for violence and language. Genre: Angst, mafia AU. Chapter Word Count: 1437. Link(s): AO3  Summary:

Laxus Revenge. It fuelled him through his depraved life. His entire being, dedicated to one single cause. For years, he acted patiently in the shadows, bidding his time to claim his prey. Now the time had finally arrived. Approach her, make her utterly in love with him, then shatter her – that was his plan. Until her hypnotising blue eyes drew him in, and he began to question his knowledge of her. Because those bittersweet depths were hiding something. And in his world, only two things were guaranteed. Either you kill your secrets, or they kill you.   Mira Death, lies, manipulation. They lurked around every corner of her life, even flowed in the very blood coursing through her veins. Merely the mention of her last name was enough to cause eyes to widen and people to scurry. Naïve, pretentious, entitled. Those were just some of the names people called her for choosing to be different. But life was short. And in the dangerous world she lived in, everyone was a player racing to oust the other before the opponent terminated their life. Her own game had just commenced. Only this time, she wasn’t sure she could outwit them. Not anymore. Tick tock.

Author's Notes: The newly-crowned Queen of Foreshadowing is back! I bring with me my favourite ever FT ship after a long spell in my first ever ambitious multi-chapter fanfic! I'm also excited for this one as it revolves around a couple favourite themes of mine: angst, mafia and revenge. I binge romance novels on the second, but never actually wrote it. Please look kindly upon me in my first attempt at this project. (Or like signing for my death, currently being piled with exams and all that.)

Also that summary?? The best I've ever written.

As always, I appreciate every like and review!

Thank you @be-dazzled for nudging me to pursue this and @sweetmemories2606 for supporting me every step of the way. 💛

Tagging @sassyglassesbunny @adramaticbeauty - my original Miraxus gang. 😏

Slow but steady update. Spoilers will be released on the Miraxus Discord Server (find link on my tumblr profile) when available. Otherwise, feel free to message me!

___________________________________

Laxus

Fake.

The adjective sneered from the forefront of his mind as he watched the models strutting down the white platform. Heavy makeup accentuated the elegant features of the slender women of all colours, making their cheekbones more defined and their eyes sharper than their original form. Eyeshadows of glittery monochrome shades further decorated their eyes to match their black and white designer clothes.

A smug, seductive look adorned their otherwise beautiful face, tugging an end of their luscious lips upward in a smirk. With their chins held high, they strode down the runaway, every single movement of their limbs expertly coordinated for nothing less than the best catwalk.

Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could see that those women were gorgeous. His own roamed over the alternating models with slight interest, toying with the idea of tangling limbs with one of them in bed.

The thought didn’t last long.

That beauty of theirs which sent men to their knees and the women to turn green with envy? Most of it were carefully altered with the help of a needle or a knife in their futile quest for an image of perfection.

An image which had never existed anywhere in the universe except in the recesses of their insecurities.

In other words: fake.

Add in the charming attitude of a heaven-sent goddess who was too lofty for mere mortals, and any spark of lust his body felt toward them fizzled out.

Soft cheers erupted from the audience at the entrance of the next model, pulling him from his thoughts. His gaze travelled up the length of the woman’s black gown, appreciating how the sleeveless garment hugged her body and highlighted her curves. A strip of white cloth ran up her left side before its unblemished trail stopped below her armpit. Light blonde tendrils stood out against the black material at her torso, and led him up to the only medically untouched face in the line-up.

With delicate eyebrows of a darker shade of blonde, sparkling cerulean eyes and a button nose, her looks easily exceeded that of her colleagues. And those luscious, scarlet-covered lips...all they had to do was utter a word, and any men would bend a knee and do her bidding.

Mirajane Strauss.

Niece of the notorious Roman Strauss. Next in line to the throne with his only son, Marcus.

The beauty she radiated was unrivalled. Along with her good looks, the charisma she carried set a standard the other women could only aspire to possess.

She was a sight to behold.

But just like all things good and beautiful, inevitably, they wither and die.

Her attractive appearance, too, hid secrets – hers more twisted than her fellow co-workers. He found it unfortunate that underneath that stunning façade, ran the dark and dirty blood of the Strauss family.

Specifically, that of her father’s and her uncle.

Giovanni Strauss, her father, was infamous for being a merciless boss with more than a few screws loose and a twisted obsession with prostitutes. He didn’t hold any personal grudge towards her father; the tyrant was just another in a long list of evil and perverted bosses, his own father among them.

Though he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some satisfaction to have stolen the last breath from the great Giovanni... His demise, after all, did propel the women one step closer to freedom.

But her uncle, Roman... He clenched his fists at the thought of the middle-aged man. Roman assumed the position as the boss of the Strauss family after his brother’s death and severed their ties with prostitution. Very little goodness existed in this world of theirs – if it even existed anymore at all – but Laxus personally preferred to keep innocent women out of it. Her uncle’s decision was unconventional, to say the least, and he could almost respect him for it.

Except.

Roman Strauss killed his mother.

The only good thing in his life – gone.

The bastard could die a thousand deaths and it still wouldn’t be enough to placate the monster inside who craved revenge.

Because he could torture him until he wished he was dead, kill him in the most gruesome way possible, and one thing would never change.

His mother would never return to him.

Mirajane might had been born innocent – at least, until life forced her hand in a world she never asked to be a part of. But by being a bloodline of Giovanni and Roman Strauss, she was cursed to a life burdened with the sins and debts of her predecessors. The good princess act she played was merely a means to disguise the impurities hiding below the surface.

A demon wearing the clothes of an angel – that was what she was.

She strode with her head held high, but balanced down with enough humility to glance at the audience in a friendly yet alluring manner. When she reached the end of the stage, the corners of her lips lifted up in a rehearsed small smile which somehow managed to appear sincere. Immediately, the dimly-lit attendees reacted to the visual – the men with smitten looks on their faces, the women a varied display of envy, adoration, and awe.

One could easily see why she was crowned the title ‘The Princess of Hearts’ by the media.

She pivoted on her heels, returning to the entrance, and he sucked in a breath when his gaze landed below her hips. Her smooth, creamy leg peaked out at him from the slit of her gown. The fleeting sight of her flesh involuntarily stirred up desires he despised to have for her.

Fucking hell.

In a rebellious act which broke traditional modelling, she glanced back as she walked and smirked. Flashes of light fired in rapid succession, each competing with the other for the best shot of the expression.

Oh yeah, the little demon definitely knew what she was doing. Not only that, she enjoyed every second of it.

He didn’t need to look at their camera’s memory card to know there had been over ten photos taken in those few seconds before she disappeared backstage. Neither did he need to possess supernatural powers to predict that she would grace the front covers of almost every – if not all – of the fashion magazines tomorrow.

The models gathered in a horizontal line at the entrance with the acclaimed fashion designer in the centre once the show was over. Grinning widely, he spoke into the microphone.

“I’d like to thank everyone who kindly graced my humble exhibition with your presence. The theme of this fashion show is ‘Darkness and Light’. People are of the opinion that these two can never exist together – one which I strongly disagree. By incorporating monochrome colours in my clothes, I hope people are able to see that they can co-exist without one extinguishing the beauty of the other.” He winked. “Because we all have a little darkness and light inside us, do we not?”

Thunderous rounds of applause rose from the audience at the end of his speech. His gaze swung from the ecstatic designer back to Mirajane, who seemed to be happy to be standing at the corner of the line.

His eyebrow quirked up. Odd. For someone of her status, he had expected her to dominate the centre.

She beamed a bright smile and waved to someone in the front row – a few people, actually. Roman returned her grin with a fatherly smile as he clapped his meaty hands along with the other attendees. His eyes instinctively sharpened at the sight of his mother’s murderer. Beside him, Marcus smiled proudly while applauding the success of the event.

Many would kill to be the receiving end of that brilliant and genuine smile of hers. Its effects were so widespread that it not only lit up her face, but the entire being of the receiver.

But he wasn’t a man in search for salvation.

He was the man people sought to be salvaged from.

Nobody saw his face knowing his identity unless they were about to meet their end. Never in his long years as a made man did he fail to escort them there personally.

He would see to it himself that the same plea to be spared would fall from her lips.

Make her weep – that’s what he’d do.

After all, what better way to inflict revenge on Roman other than first breaking his beloved niece’s heart?

His lips tilted up in a smirk, his eyes gleaming with a predatory look.

Let the show begin.

[mst3kproject]

She Freak

Oh, boy, this is going to be a fucking delight.  If the 1932 movie Freaks were Invasion of the Saucer Men, She Freak would be Attack of the The Eye Creatures.  Freaks is a very troubling movie, but it does go to great effort to present the denizens of the sideshow as human beings who can be loving, greedy, heartbroken, or naïve as much as anyone else, and who find family in each other when the rest of the world rejects them – and must be very careful who they let into that club.  The horror of the story is derived as much from their predicament as from the fate of Cleopatra.  She Freak is… not like that.

A woman named Jade Cochrane works at a little diner somewhere in the south, quietly (and sometimes not-so-quietly) enduring sexual harassment from both the customers and her married boss.  Wanting more out of life, she quits her job and goes looking for work at a passing carnival, which she figures will at least allow her to travel.  From there she sets her sights on marrying Steve St. John, the owner of the freak show and the richest man connected with this community. Unfortunately for everybody around her, even this very moderate form of power corrupts Jade to the core, and after too much of her mistreatment, the sideshow stars take a horrible revenge!

The opening sequence is a bunch of carnival footage in which everybody looks bored, worryingly reminiscent of both Carnival Magic and MUZ.  Even worse, quite a bit of it is shot by somebody sitting on a moving ferris wheel or other midway ride.  I’ve never been able to enjoy midway rides because I get motion sickness (I can’t see J. J. Abrams movies in theatres for the same reason), so this was not a fun experience for me, even on my tiny laptop screen.  It goes on way too long, and most of it doesn’t even have any credits over it.  Crow would have fled to go throw up in a corner.

The moment I knew She Freak belonged on MST3K, however, is this shot:

What the hell does that sign say?  YHJCY A+ FTJB?  What does it mean?  Is it an acronym?  A secret code?  An in-joke? A message to or from aliens?  That would have fascinated Mike and the ‘bots.  They’d have built a whole host sketch around that sign.

She Freak is tooth-rattlingly bad in many different ways.  I don’t know what any of the people in it think they’re doing but it sure isn’t acting.  It’s relentlessly padded, full of pointless footage of putting the midway up, taking the midway down, putting the midway back up again, and carnival-goers wandering around looking dazed.  At one point we have to watch a stripper do her act, to a chorus of background hooting and applause that sure isn’t coming from the bored-to-shit audience we see.  Most of the film feels like nothing is happening, and then what ought to have been the entire plot is crammed into the last fifteen minutes.

The one place where there is a glimmer of competence is in a couple of quite nice directing choices.  There’s a scene where Jade leaves her new husband with his buddies and sneaks off to bang the guy who runs the ferris wheel, Blackie (don’t worry, he’s white. She Freak has a little person called ‘Shorty’, but to my relief it wasn’t tasteless enough to cast a character named ‘Blackie’ as an African American) that makes a very good use of shadows to tell us what’s going on in two places at once.  Pity the film stock is so crappy it almost ruins it.  I also liked how Jade’s scenes with Blackie have proper dialogue, while Steve woos her in a series of montages.  Jade wants to spend time with Blackie, while her marriage to Steve is something she goes through the motions of and gets out of the way.

She Freak really has no right to tout itself as a remake of Freaks, for the simple reason that it isn’t even about the sideshow.  The older movie had characters like Hans the dwarf and Daisy and Violet the conjoined twins, who were people with relationships and roles in the plot.  In She Freak we never even see the sideshow that so upsets Jade in an early scene.  There’s Shorty, the little guy in a cowboy hat who works for the carnival, but when we see him he’s acting like he’s Steve’s friend and assistant rather than one of the exhibits.  An armless woman and a few people in funny makeup appear at the climax, but we’ve never seen them before and we have no idea who they are.  Where the hell is the ‘Alligator Girl’ the banners promised?

It’s probably all for the best.  If there had been any ‘unusual people’ with major roles in the movie it would doubtless have treated them in a disgusting and exploitative manner.  But what’s on screen shouldn’t even pretend to be a remake of Freaks.

As the owner of the sideshow, Steve insists that he cares about his employees and considers them ‘human beings, just like you and me’. He tells Jade that many of them came from abusive homes, and that in his show they’re able to earn a living and be around others who won’t judge them.  This is a reasonably noble sentiment, but what we are subsequently shown is somewhat at odds with it.  Steve says his employees are also his friends, but he hangs out and plays cards with the other carnies, not with them.  When Shorty tells him that Jade is cheating on him, Steve slaps him like he would a misbehaving child.  This is not how people treat friends and equals.

You may have guessed where this is heading: in one of my favourite running complaints, yep, we have nobody to root for in this movie.  We’re probably supposed to like Steve, but he’s bland and his actions don’t agree with his words insisting he’s a nice, compassionate guy. The character from whose point of view we see the events is of course Jade, but Jade is the villain of the movie and we’re watching it to see her hubris destroy her.  That means the protagonists ought to be the sideshow people themselves, but since we never actually meet them, their revenge is meaningless. In this context they are not human beings, they are not characters, they are merely what Jade has been calling them all along: monsters.

(Shorty, by the way, is played by Felix Silla, who is the closest thing this movie has to a star. He was Cousin Itt on the Addams Family TV show.)

She Freak presents us with several reasons why we ought to dislike Jade.  She’s introduced working at the greasy little diner, where she turns down a date first with a customer and then with her boss.  The customer accepts this gracefully but the boss does not.  The scene tries to show us Jade as an uppity bitch who thinks she’s too good for other people, but her boss is such a slimy toad that we have to take her side.  She tells us how her mother married too young and lost any chance at her own dreams, and while Claire Brennan is a terrible actress, the story is one that inspires sympathy.  When Jade seizes on the carnival as her chance for escape she becomes downright pathetic.  I mean, how awful is your life if a travelling midway and sideshow seems like a step up in the world?

Of course, as the movie continues we find that Jade really is just a snotty bitch whose idea of ‘getting more out of life’ is having a rich husband to carry her bags when she goes shopping. She sees others only as what they can provide to her – Steve for money, Blackie for sex.  This attitude blinds her to others’ true intentions.  She is entirely oblivious to the fact that Blackie is an abusive bastard or that Steve honestly loves her.  The lesson of the movie seems to be ‘beware of women who want more out of life.’  She should have known her place!

This is a pretty nasty attitude towards women but there are other female characters who are treated a bit better.  Pat the stripper tried marriage and domesticity and didn’t like it.  She seems to enjoy working at the carnival and is gregarious and kind-hearted.  We’re invited to leer at her performance but she’s presented as much less trashy than Jade, who considers herself above such things. Pat continues to try to be a friend to Jade for as long as she can, and keeps giving her second chances long after it should be obvious that Jade isn’t interested in reciprocating her kindness. There’s also Olga the fortune-teller, who needed to support herself after her husband died.  The three of them even manage to have conversations that pass the Bechdel test.  In a movie called She-Freak that’s almost impressive.

The ending of She Freak is the only place where it really even seems inspired by Freaks.  The sideshow employees take their revenge on Jade, and we see her on display in the sideshow, licking a snake and wearing some unconvincing Harvey Dent makeup.  This is supposed to feel like justice, in that she has become what she most hated, but it’s been so watered down by the movie’s refusal to humanize the sideshow, or even to show us Jade interacting with them at all, that it has no power to horrify.  It’s a big letdown after the opening scene that promised us a horrible freak that was once a human being.  Why does her burned side have an elf ear?

Invasion of the Saucer Men was not a good movie, at all, but it still deserved better than Attack of the The Eye Creatures.  It’s up for debate whether Freaks was technically ‘good’ but it was an ambitious film with much to say about how human beings treat one another and about the eugenics movement of the 1930s.  In fact, the US National Film Registry considers Freaks one of the most significant films ever made, and it currently boasts a 94% on Rotten Tomatoes.  The fact that writer David Friedman claimed She Freak was a remake of Freaks just proves that, like the audiences who booed that film in 1932, he never bothered to understand it.

[monchikyun]

22. god knows I’m trying

(this will have a prequel :)

Gavin has made a promise. Not to anyone special, not one that holds great meaning, only a silly vow to his old self. He has decided to become a person who’s just a little bit better, a little more deserving. It’s all Connor’s doing, he can’t go about denying that. But there’s something more behind it, something he can’t yet put his finger on. Maybe he has gone a smidge crazy over the past week. But it’s all been worthy because the pain in his chest has been replaced with something soft, something he’s too afraid to call hope.

When he came to work this morning, he received a greeting from a few people who usually don’t even bother looking at him, including Connor. It still feels surreal to him, being able to talk to the android without the need for antagonism. They are yet to have a proper conversation with each other, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s grateful for the small victory he’s earned. He could make this work. Perhaps soon he won’t have to fake those smiles anymore.

It has been easy to fall into a routine of burying himself in work and not acting like an asshole whenever the opportunity arises. All it takes is a hefty dose of effort a day and he’s good to go. He would never put himself so far out of his element if it wasn’t for the reward of having a nice chat with his favourite android almost on a daily basis. These small talks help him to learn things he’s never realised he wants to know about Connor. Like that he is staying at Hank’s because he fell in love with the old St Bernard and because the lieutenant feels like he owes Connor something, or that he really enjoys people-watching, creating a story in his mind for those who stand out to him.

“What about me?” he asks him once when he feels comfortable enough to hear the answer.

“I always thought that you’re more than what you allow others to see… or I wanted to believe that, for some reason.” Connor’s lips curl up and he swears that a swarm of butterflies invites his stomach. He doesn’t admit it to himself yet, but it seems that being friends with the android is never going to be enough for him.

“So… is there something in me worth digging for?” It’s ridiculous how nervous he gets every time they’re this close.

“The probability is high, or that’s what my calculations are saying.” And he fucking winks at Gavin, like he wants him to get a heart attack.

He has been fighting with his emotions from that point on, every new word they exchange, every accidental touch, every kindness he receives from that plastic menace is making it more and more difficult to hold himself back. And he is not sure what he should do about it. If only there was a way to find out whether Connor feels the same or not. His courage is just not that advanced, yet. 

Gavin looks at the little succulent on Connor’s desk that he gave him one day as a thank you for helping with the endless heap of paperwork he almost drowned in if it wasn’t for Connor. It’s not only that, though. He’s grateful for basically being forced to reduce his vileness, for everything good that has been born because of it.

It has cut away from him a lot, and there are days when he can’t bear it and slips up, puts the ugly back on display. But even then, he still tries. He tries so that Connor will like him, he tries for the sake of the little scrawny boys who had his world destroyed by an evil man pretending to be his father. It’s still there, the light, the shining star, deep inside of him, hidden behind the countless layers of dirt meant to protect. He feels pathetic for letting it settle all those years, for not meeting someone who would nudge him in the right direction earlier. That’s why he won’t waste this chance, no matter how it might end up.

Today is one of the days he finds himself in a good mood, carefree enough to hum if he wouldn’t combust from humiliation for so much as exhibiting positive spirit. He bites down the smile forming on his lips and grabs for the steaming cup of coffee that is bound to properly wake him up. If he’s lucky. He puts it to his mouth when a hand on his shoulder interrupts his morning ritual. There wasn’t anyone in the break room when he entered, and he’s still not the most sought-after company, so it means it must be the mechanical dork since his only other friend is most likely at home sleeping. He turns around, expecting a familiar face, but instead he’s being greeted by the last person he ever wants speak with. Or see. Ever.

“I hear someone is getting a bit soft.”  Detective Gardner, the man who broke his wrist once because he didn’t like something Gavin said or the way he looked at him is standing right in front of him, like an apparition from his nightmares. It was more than ten years ago, but he remembers it as if it happened just yesterday. He thought that bastard would get fired back then, but when is anything fair in this world.

“What the phck are you doing here?” On one hand, he’s so angry that he should stop talking to him, but on the other one his curiosity demands answers and he’s too restless to ignore it.

“One of my boys fucks around with the guy your lieutenant and his pet robot so desperately want to catch, so you know how it goes.”

He can’t believe he’s about to defend the android, how the tables have turned.

“Connor is not his phcking pet… or anyone’s”

Of course this maniac still has a job, that’s just how things are in his life. He’s just glad he isn’t the one in charge of that case.

“Oh I see how it is, you’d like a piece of that twink ass for yourself. That’s why you act like a little bitch lately.”

“That’s not-“

Fortunately, Gavin doesn’t have a chance to finish that sentence.

“I think your presence isn’t needed here, detective Gardner. I advise you to leave if you value your bone structure.”

He’s never wished to find himself in a situation where he had to be saved by Connor, but he isn’t about to complain about it too.

“Who do you think you are you piece of-“

“I am the man who can break both of your legs without batting an eye.”

The android leans to the rude detective and squeezes his shoulder a little bit too hard, making the man flinch with pain and fear, Gavin hopes. Was Connor always this hot or is the tension messing with his perception? He’ll have to look into that later. 

After a few seconds of silent glaring, they are finally left alone.

The tension dissipates, but his chest is still heavy. 

“You can stop now if you want, you know.”

Connor pierces him with a gaze so sincere it makes his heart hurt.

“Stop what?”

“Trying.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He’s got so used to it over the past weeks he can’t imagine ever returning to his old, callous ways.

“It’s not only him, Gavin. Sometimes I overhear people gossiping about you, saying awful things that you don’t deserve.”

Yeah, like that’s new.

“So what, if their favourite past-time is shit-talking about me I’m not gonna go and ruin it for them. Sides, I have a super-strong terminator to protect me from all harm, so...”

He tries to give him a wink like Connor has done before. Obviously, he hasn’t been gifted with such charm, so he just blinks at him instead.

And Connor laughs.

He’s truly about to lose it.

“That was nothing.”

Somehow they’re standing really close to each other now, and there are is only so much restraint Gavin has in him.

“It was everything.”

Maybe he will try to make their relationship into something more beautiful too. And a little kiss doesn’t seem like a bad way to start.

@convinseptember in promise I’m trying to try :D

[dilfbatman]

What's your favourite thing(s) about Perseus?

AHH i love so many things about him!!

—

- i love how he is someone who values the importance of friendship, family, found family, and how loyal he is to these people - there are no pretenses with percy when it comes to friendship and he wants everyone to be safe, joyful, and to feel included - he has a sense of wanting to protect people (his mother, his friends, tyson etc...) and genuinely always wants the best for them

- he also is someone that says what’s on his mind! he never plays into the guessing game and if he doesn’t get something or doesn’t agree - you won’t have to beg him to tell you - he’s gonna tell you out right how he feels & that’s SUCH an admirable quality! again there’s no false pretenses, and what you get is what you get and i find that truly amazing

- i also very much appreciate his moral compass/emotional intelligence and he has an aptitude for these things! he is driven and has his morals and he likes to stick to them, he may bend them in times of great need/dire situations yet he will always try to make it right & he’s mature too, a lot of it due to necessity and that becoming part of his character! yes he loves to joke around & is dorky/witty/sarcastic but he’s EXTREMELY intelligent/sharp/perceptive

- also i love characters that have multitudes to their personality! we often see how funny yet insecure his internal dialogue is, how sarcastic & also how irreverent he can be to certain people yet also maintain that seriousness & depth when necessary, we know often what he thinks and he’ll say it outright too and we know why he does the things he does and his reasoning and often times we see his internal struggle & also his internal strength - something again i deeply admire

- also just for fun! i absolutely love his humor i always love sarcastic/dry/witty characters, i love when they can be empathetic/warm/kind while also maintaining their badassery/strength/intimidation - i love a character like that! i also love his wisdom & intelligence a lot and he’s very street smart, i find qualms when the only intelligence worth noting is book smarts when there’s plenty of other intelligence (emotional, bodily-kinesthetics, and intra/inter-personal!) all which i think he exhibits and/or tries to exhibit!

- i also love his chaotic energy. i love a bastard, i love a clown, i love a bad bitch and he is all three and so much more rolled into one and i love him for it & i ALSO love someone who loves his mother and friends and is overall someone, who if i saw in the street, would be intimidated by/fall in love with due to their amazing personality/looks!

- basically, i love & adore perseus & everything he stands for! that’s my MF mans! <3

thank you for sending this in friend! hope you enjoy & this reminded me about how much i love perseus :’)

[softlyblues]

30th April 1876, Paris

Very little from the exhibition actually sells, because this is before they are very much in vogue, and Manet is still young with a spring in his step, and Renoir still follows Monet with hope in his eyes and a brush behind his ear. It is 1876, the second Impressionist exhibit in Nadar’s studio, and they are all young and full of vigour, skin so thick as to shrug off criticism because what would they know?

L’homme Distrait is a painting in the corner of the room, below a collection of Renoir’s studies of water. People’s eyes pass over it, oddly put off, although there isn’t much wrong with it. At first, anyway.

It is by a young man named Alfred Sisley, and it is odd because Sisley is known (already) for his landscapes. It is a very small canvas, all light and the spill of shadow,  the press of a hand against a pillow, the fall of hair along bare shoulders, a shirt slipped down to cup the upper arm, to reveal a smattering of intimate freckles along the back of the neck, trailing ever-downwards. Morning sun spills through the window the figure looks out of, and his face is hidden by the picture, captured from behind. His fingertips press into the pillow, clutching a little of the fabric, and what little the viewer can see below him shows bare feet tucked underneath bare legs, a tantalising peek at whatever else might lie beneath. It is tender.

Three paintings are sold, at the second Impressionist exhibit, although the publicity is a lot greater than that of the second. Two are sold to an art collector from Normandy, who has felt the way the wind is blowing -

And the third is sold to the strange man in the old-fashioned suits, who came every day of the exhibition to stare at the Sisley painting in the corner, an odd look of yearning in his eyes, his hands neatly tucked behind his back as though he doesn’t trust himself not to touch. He pays in cash and vanishes.

☼

2nd September 1889, London

Aziraphale does not have many houseguests, but he makes an exception for a few of his favourite people. It is just before the decade turns, and Oscar cuts a pompous figure lying on his chaise-longue with a wine glass hanging from his hand, but he’s a lonely soul and his young man - his Alfred, an undergraduate at Oxford just turned twenty - is chasing him. Oscar comes to Aziraphale to complain, wryly, that young men will chase without any of the idea the hurt they can cause, and Aziraphale is there with wine and an ear to lend.

“That painting,” Wilde says, waving a hand at the corner, “Often I’ve wondered about it. My tongue is too loose, but my friend - yours is too tight.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have to turn to know which painting Wilde refers to; over the years, he’s wondered if he should discard it, but every time he tries to his hand stills. “I found it in the Impressionists,” he says lightly. “A trifling thing.”

“An odd choice of subject matter for the air-silly men, surely,” Wilde says. He can be astute when he wants to be, damn the bastard.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I thought it was unique, and Sisley was only too glad to sell.”

“Do you know who the sitter is?”

“No,” Aziraphale says.

Oscar’s eyes, mostly full of self-pity, swell with gentle laughter. “My friend - you never did learn how to lie.”

“I don’t know him,” Aziraphale says, “I - I know his name.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale fills his glass, and then Oscar’s when he holds it out. “His name is Anthony,” he says steadily, and wills his voice not to tremble overmuch, “But we have - that is to say, I do not see him anymore. I haven’t in a long time. I saw the painting at the exhibition and it seemed like I ought to buy it, although I never told Sisley my name and I cannot imagine Anthony would be too happy to know I bought it.”

Wilde laughs. It isn’t a very happy laugh. “You and I,” he says, and tips the edge of his glass against Aziraphale’s, “Must be the most miserable men in all of England. Our lovers run away.”

Aziraphale doesn’t disagree.

☼

And On The Seventh Day, He Rested

That is not even close to how it begins, but it is a view of things from the other side of the mirror.

Crowley doesn’t remember his life before the Fall, only that he must have had one, and that he must have had a good reason for leaving Above and going Below. He remembers the pain of it, of everything burning and the feathers on his wings scorching black with the heat, a God angry at the rejection of one of Its children. Crowley remembers screaming, and then blackness, and then Hell.

He hadn’t liked Hell at all. When they asked for volunteers to tempt on this new experiment God was creating, Crowley had jumped at the chance, back when he was still just Crawly and nothing much separated him from all the rest of the poor bastards down there who had just wanted to know why.

And he got up there and found out that the world was open and airy and beautiful, and things smelled of peaches, and Eve was nice to him, stroking a finger along his scaly back. “You’re pretty,” she tells him now.

This is how it begins.

“I will call you a snake,” Eve tells him, and Crawly rears up all proud of himself, because he has a name someone else has given him and it seems to fit him as though it always has. Like a glove. “You are a snake because of the hiss you make.”

To make her happy, Crawly does it.

Her laugh is beautiful, and he is proud of himself for making it - that is something he has done himself, created all on his own, and it feels so good to create joy in the air, especially for Eve. Crawly likes her ever so much more than he likes Adam, who is a bullyish man, stomping about the garden and forcing names on things that don’t suit them at all. A part of Crawly wonders if Adam will be happy about snake.

“Hello.”

It is a few days later, and Crawly is testing out his other form, sitting on the wall of the garden and swinging his legs over the side. He’s eating an apple. It’s green, juicy, running down his chin, full of good flavour and a sharp bite, and this is why he volunteered - because there are no apples in Hell.

“Hello,” something says again, and a vision all in white settles beside Crawly.

Crawly scrunches up his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a Principality,” says the angel, almost apologetically. “I think I’m meant to be guarding Eden from temptation and things like that? It’s all quite exciting. I’ve been speaking to Adam, a lot.”

“Good,” Crawly tosses his apple over the wall, where it rolls into the barren sand.

(And why is Eden the only place of life? What has made it special?)

(Something takes root.)

“You’re the temptation, then, I gather,” says the angel. He is quite pretty, objectively, a spray of short white hair over an amicable face, a sharp little nose and bow-shaped lips. His robes fall to his ankles, suitably demure, and his hands are folded in his lap as though he’s awaiting a lecture from God Itself.

Crawly shrugs, and feels very sinful. “I’m the temptation.”

(Later he thinks this is part of the Holy Punishment. It must be. To love, and to never be loved in return - a black hole, a void in reverse, giving and giving and never receiving. This is the last and first joke, by a God cruel enough to laugh at it, placing the one thing Crowley wants in front of him and saying: this is not for you.)

“You look very benign,” the angel says, like an apology. “I - oh! I’m very sorry. I’m Aziraphale, Principality. Your name can’t just be temptation.”

“Crawly,” Crawly says, going scarlet at the saying of it aloud. “Although I’m thinking of changing it.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” says Aziraphale politely, and Crawly thinks oh so this is what it’s like to see the sun rising.

He doesn’t mean to tempt.

Truly, he doesn’t.

“Oh, snake,” whispers Eve one golden night when the sun is hanging over the sky, a guest that refuses to leave, “I am so sad, and I don’t know why. I wish you could speak to me, snake - sometimes it feels like you’re my only friend.”

Her and Adam sleep at opposite ends of the Garden. Eve curls beneath a bush, her hair bouncing over one breast, and shivers in the cold; she has nothing to clothe herself in, and even in the desert the nights are freezing. Crawly can’t imagine surviving with warm blood in his veins, instead.

You are my dearesssst friend, Crawly hisses, his tongue flickering out to brush against her cheek. He can’t help it - and anyway, Hell would tell him if he was doing anything truly wrong. Right.

“He hurts me so,” Eve says. Water pools underneath her pupils, and spills over her cheeks, and when Crawly bumps his nose against it he tastes warm salt. “I wish he didn’t, snake, but he does, and he expects me to forget and be his wife. Loving. I love him, and he says he loves me!”

Love is cruel, Crawly says to ears that cannot hear him. As though he knows anything.

“But if he loved me he would be kind.”

Crawly is silent, but his eyes are drawn to the tree in the centre of the garden, and he wonders… all he wants to do is help.

“I wish I knew! For good or ill, I wish I knew!”

And Crawly wraps around her shoulders, and whispers in her ear, and Eve hears.

They leave soon after that.

But Aziraphale gives them the flaming sword, and surely that must count for something? Something meant for good will turn out badly, but something meant for good might still work the way it was intended.

Crawly leaves, belly flat in the sand, and behind him an apple tree takes root, and a single Principality takes flight, dove’s wings in the burning blue of a sky too new to be clouded.

☼

Summer 1194 BC, Troy

The funeral is solemn. The sight of the pyre, hot and sticky in the air of summer, makes bile rise in the back of Crowley’s throat, although he hides under the wraps of a mourning widow in the crowd, unseen to most everyone - he doesn’t want to be bothered, doesn’t want to be talked to.

What a fucking waste.

He is present at the council, too.

“The boy asked for his ashes to be mixed with-”

“But that’s it. He is just a boy, and a war hero, and that other-”

Crowley adds his voice to the chorus. “Achilles is a hero,” he says roughly, dressed now as a war general and not a widow, “And a hero deserves to have his last wishes honoured, does he not? Come to your senses! Would any of you, any of you, wish to be buried in a way not of your choosing?”

For a brief second he holds the sway of these powerful men, men who have grown powerful by getting rid of the caring. He can see them considering. But -

“Achilles was a war hero,” says someone roughly, in a voice much stronger and less stricken than Crowley’s, “And Patroclus was nothing but a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was Achilles’ one blind spot, and we can forgive the man, but we cannot let this continue past his death. Patroclus was a murderer.”

“Let them be,” Crowley says, one last attempt, “Let them be.”

He is shouted down.

“Hello,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley is sitting by the seashore, already deep into his cups with no sign and no intention of slowing down yet. “Hello, angel,” he says gloomily. “Come to gloat?”

To his surprise, Aziraphale sits down beside him, rather heavily. The two of them tend to avoid each other, still, even with all the awkward camaraderie of the ark and the garden and the following the Israelites around their sorry mission - Crowley just can’t get past it, somehow, the way Aziraphale looks. The way he moves. The way it strikes a yearning in his heart.

“Gloat?” Aziraphale sounds injured at the very thought of it. “I thought - I thought they would let them rest. They were so young.”

Wordlessly, Crowley passes the wine over. “It was Pyrrhus, in the end, who swayed them. I think he was embarrassed by it all. Patroclus-”

“They were in love,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley looks across, although he tries not to.

(When he meets Aziraphale, he tries always to look away, because the sight of the angel brings him such unbearable pain, deep down in his heart where he can’t heal it away. Aziraphale is always ringed in a peculiar light that doesn’t glow, as though Crowley’s eyes can see what Crowley often forgets; that Aziraphale is a heavenly body, and Crowley is not.)

Aziraphale is dressed like a foot soldier resting, half in uniform and half out, his undertunic white, a little smeared with sand. His hair is the same as it always was, because he doesn’t seem inclined to change as much as Crowley does, and the straps of his sandals are done a little messy. He is crying big, fat, ugly blobs down his cheeks, two streams meeting at his chin and dripping off to plop on his hands. “They were in love,” he says again, “They didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He tries to say something else, and then stops.

Aziraphale passes back the wine. “They didn’t deserve it.”

“Deserving has nothing to do with anything,” Crowley says before he can stop himself, “Nobody deserves what they’re given. You should know that by now.”

Oh, and does he feel like a heel when Aziraphale turns blue-stained eyes on him. “How can you say that!”

“All those people who drowned to make a new world. Those children, those babies,” and Crowley is only letting himself say this because he’s drunk and bitter, “All those people who died for Its purpose - did they deserve to drown? Did Noah deserve to live? Does Pyrrhus deserve to continue when Achilles is gone? Did Patroclus deserve to die? None of it has to do with who deserves anything. It’s all a game, angel, and all we are is another pair of playing dice.”

“You don’t believe that,” Aziraphale says. He sounds hurt, beyond hurt.

Crowley digs his fingers into the sand. “I have to believe that,” he says. “Because if Achilles deserved to die, if Patroclus deserved to die, for nothing - just for being in love - then nobody deserves to live at all.”

“Crowley-”

He’s done talking. He doesn’t want to talk about love with Aziraphale, on a beach, the smell of burning body drifting down the wind, Patroclus trapped and Achilles sent to the heavens, Troy falling and soldiers revelling. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and perhaps he sounds so small that Aziraphale listens.

Although they only have one jar, the wine never runs empty, not until the sun rises and Crowley turns beside him and sees only marks in the sand where an angel should be.

☼

Autumn 570 BC, the Leucadian Cliffs

The woman on the cliff is a small, white-haired, bent-over lady, who holds herself with the poise of a woman who knows she was once beautiful beyond compare. She does not cry.

Crowley is here, but Aziraphale he hasn’t seen in almost a century.

“My love,” she says to him. “I miss you ever more by the day.”

Crowley reaches out, grabs her by the shoulder; in this body, a young woman from Lesbos itself, the strongest thing about him is the red of his hair. His translucent hand goes right through her. “Please, my love,” he says, in a voice high and flute-like. “Don’t do this.”

Sappho smiles at him sadly. “You are but a ghost,” she tells him. “The ghost of my one love. Claudia - Claudia. When I die I will see her in Hades, and that will be more gift than this - this existence on a rock.”

“Please,” Crowley says again.

(He has been discorporated for the last five years, the female body he liked so much, killed by a lingering disease, but he hasn’t yet had the courage to go Below to ask for a new body. And so here he is, hanging around the woman who fell in love with him, avoiding the angel he’s fallen in love with by a haunting. He wishes he couldn’t. He wishes she wouldn’t.)

“My Claudia didn’t love me, truly,” Sappho says. She’s still beautiful now, and Crowley sees her as the small, vibrant woman she was and is - black hair wrapping around her waist, blue eyes strong and seeking. “My Claudia loved another, but she never would tell me who. Would you tell me, spirit? Before I die?”

“I’ve given my heart to an angel,” Crowley confesses. The sea hits the rocks below, and almost drowns him out. “Please-”

“And the angel is well deserving of it,” Sappho says.

She doesn’t scream, on the way down. She only smiles.

Is this what Crowley deserves?

☼

21st April 33AD, Golgotha

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Crowley replies, and it should be a joke but John is sobbing on the grassless ground and Aziraphale’s bottom lip is wobbling and all he can hear is Mary wailing for her son. Her son. Not anybody else’s. What’s the point in a father that never shows up?

Aziraphale’s hand touches his arm, and Crowley tries not to startle; instead, he turns his palm up, and Aziraphale’s falling fingers touch Crowley’s, and then their hands are linked without either of them quite knowing why.

Crowley doesn’t let go. Neither does Aziraphale.

“I tried, you know,” Aziraphale says dazedly. “I think it was the wrong thing for me to do - but I met him in the desert, just before he came here, and I told him he could have all his Father’s love if he just - if he didn’t-”

“Ineffable,” Crowley says, voice dull. “I met him in the garden. I told him not to do it. I told him he could have the world, he could have John if he wanted, and he said he couldn’t. I tried.”

Three years ago, and Crowley is in the crowd, when Jesus meets John, and just as the clouds part for the dove he sees Aziraphale on the other side of the river. Aziraphale smiles at him, a look altogether too fond although they have been working more together these days, less likely to fall apart, and John touches Jesus very gently, as though he might break.

“My lord,” he says.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, on the other side of the river now as though he’d always been there, and if he speaks in the same tone as John he prays (hah) that nobody notices.

Aziraphale is smiling. “They’ve found each other, Crowley! I always knew they would. Oh - oh, it can’t go wrong. He’s the one, you see?”

John follows Jesus through Israel, and Crowley and Aziraphale follow in turn, part of the faceless crowd that grows every time Jesus goes to speak. He preaches on mountains, on boats, in towns, in villages, by wells, in the countryside, by grass that no longer grows, and John supports him and helps helps baptise the converted and Crowley watches him fall in love. It is beautiful to watch.

They collect the forgotten, on the way. Peter, skinny and young and growling in displeasure; James and the other John, fishing boys who drop their nets, Phillip, Thomas, Matthew, the other James… Thaddeus, Simon, Bartholomew. All too small, all too young, all full of fervent faith. He and Aziraphale meet often, in this time.

It feels like the end of the world is coming.

“John loves him,” Crowley says. They’re sitting on the top of an inn where Jesus is preaching, on the roof where nobody will disturb them.

Aziraphale is eating olives very daintily, his lips wrapped around each one. He looks divine. “Jesus loves him too, I’m sure,” he says like he’s never had cause to doubt it, “They pair of them are - well. Made to be together. I was speaking to John in the last house they were at, and I’m glad for him. I think Jesus feels the strain.”

Crowley relaxes, looks into the starry sky. John loves Jesus. Jesus, the Christ Child. John, the man. “They seem very happy. That can’t last.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sounds so disapproving, “I do wish you weren’t such a cynic about love.”

I’m not, Crowley thinks. “I’m not,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs and pats Crowley’s knee, a single spot of burning warmth. “You always have been, my dear, ever since I’ve known you.”

I’m trying to convince myself, not the rest of the world.

Crowley doesn’t say that bit out loud.

And Judas comes later, the youngest of them all, sixteen and wary, round brown eyes under curly hair, robes that don’t reach his ankles and feet dusty with dirt that isn’t ever properly washed. Crowley sees him and thinks you poor child, and he sees in the way Judas looks at Jesus that there is love, too, with no hope of ever being returned.

John the Baptist kisses the Emmanuel under a fig tree by moonlight, with Aziraphale and Crowley the sole watchers, strolling along the gardens. “Oh,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley wonders what it is like to do that - to do as John does. Cup his lover by the cheek, a thumb under the jaw, tip the face up so lips can meet, eyes brushing shut and eyelashes tangling, hair mussed, robes slipping from their fastenings, the sounds of two young people in love drifting over the air.

He looks at Aziraphale, and wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

Judas finds nobody, in all their three years of wandering. Crowley wills him to, most desperately. Love is not what you think it is, he tries to say without saying, but Judas doesn’t want to hear.

Which brings them to this hilltop, this place, John beating his fists against the ground and weeping apologies to a God who planned this all along.

“We both tried to do the same thing,” Aziraphale says, as though in a daze. “I wonder - does that make me good, or you evil? Is this the good outcome?”

“You cannot look at this and tell me this is good,” Crowley snaps.

On the cross, Jesus has long since stopped making noise, and the sight of his body makes Crowley feel a little sick. Surely one human shouldn’t have that much blood in them; surely one human shouldn’t look so twisted, so wrong. The thorns have torn the skin on his scalp, and the blood has run down his face, down his cheeks, like some sort of awful parody of tears. John is screaming. It is the only sound in the world.

“I can’t believe God would ever,” Aziraphale says, and stops, and his face is twisted in anguish, “I mean - this is so awful. There must be a good purpose behind it. There must.”

Otherwise what is there?

“He truly loved him,” Crowley says softly. “And now he’s dead. What will John do now?”

He can’t wait to hear Aziraphale’s answer - he doesn’t think he can bear it. It’s the work of a second to slip into the skin of a snake, the animal Eve loved the most, and to slither away under the scrubby apple tree clinging to sand to survive.

☼

14th February 1212, Cologne

“This is foolish,” says Crowley. He doesn’t have to look to know Aziraphale is beside him.

“Crowley-”

“They are children, Aziraphale!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds broken. He’s dressed like a German shepherding man, this time, and it oddly fits with Crowley, dressed as he is like a minor noblewoman from the Rhineland. They blend into the crowd here, listening to the child Nicholas speak, shaking his tiny fist in the air. Encouraging his crowd to war.

The cheers are high-pitched, because not a single voice among them has broken. The crowd must be thousands strong, tens of thousands, all whipped up into holy fervour by the dreams of one child, and now they’re going to march to war.

“They are children,” Crowley hisses. “You can’t talk to me about the ineffable plan. Not now. Don’t have the gall to speak to me about that.”

“Come with me,” Aziraphale says. His hand wraps around Crowley’s, like they did at Golgotha, and holds him tight. “I can’t do anything, and I can’t watch any longer.”

Aziraphale miracles them away to a quiet mountain in the southern part of the world, somewhere that will be found by Columbus in a little bit, somewhere that the native people call only home. This mountain is remote, tall, and huge trees spread their branches over the top of it, casting shadows that protect the pair of them from the watchful eyes of the sun.

As soon as Crowley balances himself from the miracle performed, Aziraphale is letting go of him and pressing his hands to his eyes. “They’re all so young,” he’s shouting, and he sounds angry. “So young! What do they know of the Holy Land!”

It almost frightens Crowley - he’s used to Aziraphale explaining it all away, calling it ineffable, saying it’s part of the Plan, and to have this -

This uncertain Aziraphale -

Crowley’s heart aches for something he’ll never deserve.

“Angel,” he says, and catches Aziraphale by the wrists, prying his hands away from his eyes, “Aziraphale - oh, don’t. Please don’t.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are rimmed in red. “They’re all going to die,” he whispers. “What are we going to do?”

Crowley doesn’t say there’s nothing they can do, because Aziraphale surely knows that, and it would hurt too much to say. He just keeps holding Aziraphale, underneath a wide and spreading tree, and curses Above and Below until he’s sure to be blue in the face, until he can curse no more.

He doesn’t know when they sink to the ground, only that they do, and Crowley can do nothing but sit as Aziraphale wipes wet eyes on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he sniffs. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Crowley says, and he says it as though it’s fact.

(Although in truth, he’s had very little to do with Aziraphale this past decade; he just assumes, and knows he’s right to do so, that Aziraphale would never do anything that would lead to something like this.)

“But he’s doing it in the name of God,” Aziraphale’s voice sounds wet.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and cynicism makes a home in his heart even though he doesn’t mean it to, “You know as well as I do that God has nothing to do with what happens down here.”

He sits, and lets the angel wring himself dry of the tears. All the same - it is a long time before they go back to Europe.

☼

in between, always, everywhere

Crowley learns from humanity, the lessons he’s been taught himself since before time began. Love is patient, love is kind… love is cruel, love is blind. He and Aziraphale meet and tangle, and hold hands, and once Aziraphale holds him by the cheeks and kisses him drunkenly on the forehead. They are wrapped together, and the world seems far too small to hold the both of them.

Crowley loves him. Nothing more, nothing less.

Aziraphale is beautiful, and in his laugh and his smile and the crinkle of his eyes Crowley finds a very particular peace. He can live without having the love returned, so long as he gets to exist around him.

He tells jokes, and he likes fine wine, and he reads poetry, and he never stumbles on quotations when he’s drunk. He goes very fast and very slow, all the time, flitting from country to country and then staying in one village for a hundred years. He does good deeds and bad deeds, and when he sees Crowley after a long absence, his eyes soften and his mouth opens and he says oh my dear, i’m so glad to see you! and something inside Crowley’s chest grabs him tight. Holds him. Vice-like, it says You Love Him and stubbornly Crowley refuses to listen.

Love is patient, love is kind. Crowley watches Aziraphale eat, watches him flirt, watches him be as cruel and dismissive as the harsh sting of a winter morning, watches him pour blessings like water to a flame, and watches all the while.

Nothing more, nothing less.

☼

5th October 1589, Cornwall

The wedding isn’t a very happy one. Crowley hovers in the crowd, wrapped in his shawls, and watches the bride walk down the gravel path to the church, her face stormy, the bruise on her cheek stroking the skin there like the kiss of a mother. The groom is inside, and walking with a limp.

This far South, the Romans and the Christians after them were pretty successful in wiping clean the slate of Celtic spirit, which Crowley finds quite a shame. He always enjoyed the spirituality of the druids, the manic chanting, the fun behind the myths - but he can’t quite complain, either, because the Celts haven’t quite as much fear of demons as the Christians. The Celts would have befriended him.

Still, in Cornwall the old ways cling on a little, and the wedding is between two peasants without a single bean to their name, and no need to care about the Christian path. The couple are Bakerson, Robert and Millie, and they are marrying through an arrangement with their parents, so somebody can inherit the small village bakery and the farm that goes with it. The Bakersons are a wealthy family.

“Poor girl,” says a voice in Crowley’s ear, and before Crowley can jump Aziraphale’s hand grabs his wrist. “It’s only me, dear.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley manages. “I-”

“She was in love with the tinker,” Aziraphale says sadly. He’s wearing the clothes of a travelling gentleman, and looks quite out of place in a crowd of peasants and their cousins; all the same, nobody looks at him twice. A simple miracle.

“I know.”

“He was in love with the bootboy.”

“I know,” Crowley says again. An odd bitterness fills him. “I’ve been here for almost ten years, angel - I know these people. I was trying to let her run away with the thrice-damned tinker, much good it did them, and the bootboy was never meant to get cold feet.”

“Temptation,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly.

“I tempted them to nothing,” Crowley says. The church bells ring. “I only tempted them to forget the wills of their parents and do what their hearts told them, and look what that got me.”

“Honour thy father and mother,” Aziraphale quotes. In his mouth the commandment sounds soft and gentle, like something to encourage.

Crowley feels ill. He is gone before Robert and his new bride emerge, glowering in the light of a new day, although Mr Fell stays in the village a while longer, and for a long time their little community is blessed with incredible good fortune - the travelling tinker man stays several months, next time he visits. Miss Crow, though, is never seen in the place again, and rumour has it she was herself a spurned lover, and something happened between her and the fine gentleman. Mr Fell will never confirm nor deny, but he looks awfully sad when she’s brought up.

☼

1st December 1801, London

They are drinking in Aziraphale’s bookshop - drinking rather expensive wine - and Crowley is so, so tired.

He gets like this sometimes. Tired of existing maybe, without a break since the world first began, tired of loving Aziraphale for so long and knowing this is all he’ll ever get in return, tired of living in a world that was never designed for him to exist in. This is why sleep is the only real human indulgence he goes in for. He needs to rest.

“You need to drink,” Aziraphale hiccups, and splashes more wine into the cup in Crowley’s hand. “You look so cold, my dear, you need to drink!”

“I don’t really think I do,” Crowley says, but he does as he’s told. Does what Aziraphale wants.

(Hah!)

They’re drinking a very fine whisky; Crowley’s spent a lot of time in Scotland, and has developed quite the taste for it, orange fire down his throat. It burns. Aziraphale doesn’t like it as much, says he prefers the wine and port and drink of southerly places, but Crowley likes alcohol made only to keep you warm at night. Either freeze, or drink fire. Either way you end up dead.

Aziraphale winces when he next takes a drink, but he doesn’t say anything. Crowley watches him out of the corner of his eye, as he always does, otherwise he’d miss it.

The bookshop is a new addition, one that has arrived since the last time Crowley saw Aziraphale - although that was a very long time ago, almost half a century. Seventeen-sixty-three, when Aziraphale had been sent by heaven across the water to one of those continents untouched by human hands yet, when Crowley decided to wander over to Ireland on sabbatical. Fat lot of good that had done him. United Irishmen? Hah.

But the bookshop suits Aziraphale down to the ground, it does. He’s always been a lot more rooted to places than Crowley, who prefers to be on the move, through the change… Aziraphale likes to pick a place and settle into it like  a mother hen ruffling into a dirt bath. Cooing. Content. And this way, Aziraphale has his collection to hand without anyone trying to burn him for witchcraft, which is always a plus - considering.

A drunk finger lands on Crowley’s knee. “Stop thinking,” says Aziraphale with the gusto of the happily tipsy. “You think too much. Stop it.”

“I can’t help but think,” Crowley says, even as he takes another deep slug of the whisky.

“Ridiculous. Should be against the law.”

“Thinking?”

Aziraphale nods. “Precisely.”

But none of this helps the fact that Crowley is still so very tired, and all he wants to do is sleep for a hundred years. He wants to stop loving Aziraphale. It hurts too much, and even more because he knows there is no reward - there is no breaking point, no place he can hit that makes everything alright. He just loves and sinks and keeps loving and sinking, and Aziraphale shines with all the brilliance of a thousand suns and that’s all Crowley will ever be, right up until the end of the world.

“Angel,” he says, and then stops, shocked at how cracked and broken his voice sounds. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looks briefly alarmed. “My dear boy-”

“I’m very tired,” Crowley says, a little lamely. “Do you mind if I skip out on the after-drinks?”

“No, no, but-”

“I’m tired,” Crowley says again.

None of this helps that, even in the breaking point, he knows he’ll never stop loving Aziraphale. This is as low as he’ll ever go, and even then -

And even then -

It never ends.

☼

the first day of the rest of the world, London

“Where did you get that painting?”

Aziraphale had spent the night after the apocalypse in Crowley’s flat, where they’d shared the bed and stayed up all night, each convinced the other was asleep, wondering how on earth to proceed without making the other feel uncomfortable. Now, though, they’re in the bookshop with some tea and buns, because nothing feels more solid than a scone with butter and jam on the top.

(Crowley refuses to mention which way round. He doesn’t want to anger the Cornish.)

“What painting?” Aziraphale stops with his cup halfway to his mouth, looking a bit confused.

“That one,” Crowley nods towards it. In truth, he recognises it well enough, even though it’s been over a hundred years since it was painted; Alfred was such a lovely man, so accommodating, and Paris in the 70s (no, not those ones) had been such a friendly place. Full of so much - newness.

He’d only woken up to refresh himself, really, because sleeping for almost a hundred years does take it out of you, and by chance he’d wandered onto the streets of Paris and found himself in a bundle of men in black hats, all talking very excitedly about colour and light and how absolutely mad it was that nobody would let them in. It had all been rather fun.

“Anthony,” Alfred had said, a little breathless, “Won’t you let me paint you? I have excellent studio light, and you beg a painting. I can see it. Please?”

“Oh, if you must,” Crowley had said, as though it meant nothing.

It had been nice, the kisses. Very soft. Alfred loved him and didn’t seem to mind that his Anthony was detached, because it was Paris in the 1870s and you took what you could get and you didn’t care about the secrets everyone was hiding. It had been nice.

So  -

“Where did you get it,” Crowley asks again, in the now, after everything.

Aziraphale looks a little flustered. “I - it was in Paris, you see, and it was almost going to be seventy-five years after I’d seen you… you remember that sleep you took, all of the nineteenth century, and I - well, one of my friends, a sort of… he was a confidant, you see, Oscar and everything, and he mentioned this delightfully odd art movement in Paris, and so I went. Sisley was very… delicate. And that awful art critic was there. And-”

“Did you ever learn who the sitter was?”

If possible, Aziraphale looks even redder. “Um. Sisley never said-”

“But you know,” Crowley says. “You recognised it.”

“I hadn’t seen you in almost a century!”

Crowley shrugs. “I told you I was tired.”

“And then I saw you in that painting, so of course I was going to buy it,” Aziraphale looks almost angry at him now. “Alfred Sisley! And of course, when I asked where you’d gone he said he’d had his heart broken by you and he had no idea. I spent all that time looking for you, and then-”

“I was asleep.”

“You could have told me!”

“I did,” Crowley says, watching Aziraphale get more and more frantic with a sort of wild confusion, “I said I was tired, and that I was going to bed, and I’d see you in a bit. I thought… I didn’t think you’d mind at all, really.”

“Mind!”

“Uh.”

“Of course I would mind!” Aziraphale doesn’t often raise his voice, never mind making the sort of shrieking yell he is now, so when he does it makes Crowley shut up and listen. “Crowley - you idiot! Of course I would mind, you frustrating, ridiculous, stupid-”

“I did it because I was in love with you,” Crowley says.

Silence.

“I was in love with you and I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I went to sleep. For a long time. I thought when I woke up I would be over it.”

Silence. There’s a blob of strawberry jam on Aziraphale’s nose, where the scone he was eating had obviously proven a bit too unwieldy.

Crowley finishes his cup of tea and sets it on the table, very deliberate, and quite loud. “And that’s the end of it,” he says, “And I hope there’ll be no more. Any scones left, or did you eat them all- mmf-”

Aziraphale is not a good kisser, and neither is Crowley, because until very recently both their Head Offices looked down on immortal beings going in for sins of the flesh. That doesn’t matter. That doesn’t matter at all, because they’ve both waited for far too long for it to be anything other than a good kiss.

“L’homme distrait,” Aziraphale says breathlessly, a little while later. “I always wondered - the man, distracted by what?”

“You shouldn’t need to ask,” Crowley says. And kisses him again, because he can.

[miliyaread]

My Hero Academia: School Briefs, Vol. 1: Parents' Day by Yoshi Anri

Genre: Light Novel

Summary from Goodreads.com:

The U.A. High School Hero Course teaches young hopefuls everything they need to become heroes. Between killer events like the Sports Festival and internships, there’s even Parents’ Day! That’s when all the kids get the chance to show their parents what they’re made of!

My view on this book:

This is the first time I read My Hero Academia novel. I expected the level of cheesiness is the same as the manga. And I am right. It is cute. I read this only in two seating and in one day. The novel was written by a different author, but he manages to capture all the characters perfectly. However, the ending of the story is predictable, but I still enjoy it.

The story is about the parents’ day in U.A., which is the usual things in Japan. In my country, we have this similar day, but instead of parents watching how their kids in school, the teacher will meet the parents and discuss about their child(ren). So, basically, the student need to write the letter of appreciation to their parents and read it in front of everyone. Well, to the teens who currently reach their puberty, this will be embarrassing. Well, most of them. They found about this after their training of evacuation.

The story continued with the main character, Ida, Midoriya and Todoroki. Since the incident with their internship with Stain, they become closer than before. As Ida got four ticket to Zoo Dreamland as a thanks form a hero name Native, the one they save, he intends to bring Midoriya and Todoroki. However, Midoriya already has a plan to go to Hero Exhibit and Todoroki has a plan to visit his mother. After they separated, Todoroki go to visit his mother. He knew his mother is not possible to go to the Parents’ Day and there is no way he is going to invited Endeavor, or ‘bastard’, as the name he calls his father. So, his sister, Fuyumi volunteer to go to the Parents’ Day.

The novel continued with the situation in the staff room. The teachers discussed about the ‘what if’ situation as ‘what if they were a villain’ and discuss about their greatest wrong doing, while Aizawa making call for all the parents. This scene is really funny. My favourite part is when Present Mic tell a story about his pranks to his friend during high school, and turn out the friend was Aizawa. Aizawa has to interrupt their talk to tell them. And there is a part when All Might call Endeavor, and turn out he calling the voice mail. So, Aizawa has no other way but fax him.

And the next Sunday come. While Midoriya and surprisingly Bakugo walked together, Ida went to the Zoo Dreamland with Mineta, Kaminari and Tokoyami. Mineta and Kaminari has their own evil plan, while Ida just want to enjoy all the attraction by the end of the day. The reason why Tokoyami agree to join them is because the time-limit apple pie that sell only at Zoo Dreamland. At that moment, all of them found a lost girl who insist she is not lost while Kaminari and Mineta hitting the women. The girl, Yuka was afraid to Tokoyomi because he looks like a bird, until she encounters another incident after reunite with her mother. All of them vow to help to find Yuka, and Tokoyomi take the lead. It is adorable when Yuka claimed Tokoyomi as her Prince Charming,

The next part is about the girls. Ochako went for shopping for her and her father. Her father went all way from Osaka just to go to U.A. Parents’ Day. When Ochaka having a hard time to buy extra mochi, she found Yaorozu and Asui. Both of them agree to help Ochako to buy extra mochi for her. At the same time, all of them encounter the underware’s shoplifter. They engaged with the shoplifter, and chased him all the way to the park. It is turn out the man stole the underware because he wet himself while waiting for a date with his crush. Talking about dating in the new level.

Finally, the Parents’ day arrived. It is weird why the teacher was missing and the parents were none to seen. Turn out, the parents were capture in a hostage situation. So, the students need to safe them. After that over, it is just a practice, again but involving the parents. Only Midoriya realized that fact All Might as a villain. Talking to All Might, Midoriya promise he will be change one day and save everyone with smile like All Might. This plot is predictable, but typical for this kind of genre.

Another funny part is on epilogue. Endeavor intended to come to Parents’ Day after received the fax from Aizawa, however the fax was buried on the bottom of the documents. So, he was late and the Parents’ Day was over. Recovery Girl caught him in act while he plays safe and tell her that he just wants to visit his alma mater. Talking about ego here.

Well, I have no problem with the story but I have problem with Mineta and Kaminari. Kaminari is a good looking guy but going to the wrong direction. With friend like Mineta, he could become worst if he cannot control himself. My favourite character is obviously Tokoyomi. He is a gentle soul and I like him for that. He is also a person of word and man with a word. He and his quirk is the best thing happen in this novel!

How good this book?: 4.5/5

It is worth to read/buy?: Yes, if you enjoy the manga.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40944443-my-hero-academia

Disclaimer: All the opinion about this book is based on my personal view!

[another-blog-bites-the-dust]

Not her type.

Summary: While hanging around on the set of the BoRhap movie, the four boys compete to try and get your attention...not knowing they aren't exactly your type.

Warnings: A few swears nothing major

A/N: MAN THIS IS FOR ALL THE GIRLS WHO LIKE GIRLS BECAUSE IM ONE OF THOSE GIRLS AND DAMN I DO LOVE LUCY SHE IS BEAUTFUL AND SO TALENTED AND THE LACK OF LUCY X READER FICS HURT MY LITTLE BI HEART SO I HAD TO WRITE A LITTLE SOMETHING. Enjoy 💖

"Y/N! I picked you up a coffee!" Gwilym grinned and handed you the takeaway cup before being pushed out the way by Rami.

"Yeah, well, I got you a triple chocolate muffin, Y/N," he smugly smirked and he handed you the little brown paper bag.

You smiled, a little overwhelmed "Oh wow! Thanks! You really didn't have to do that."

"Hey Y/N!" Gwilym and Rami lowly growled hearing Joe's voice. "Oh!" He paused with a hand behind his back and pulled out some flowers like he was performing a magic trick. "What's this?" He handed them to you and you suddenly realised how full your hands were so held them close to you with your arm.

"Joe! They're gorgeous! Thank you!" You grinned. "I need to go and find my dad, 'scuse me!" You lightly bowed your head to and headed off.

The three boys watched you walk away before glaring at each other. "What do you think you're doing?" Gwilym snapped at the both of them. They were currently on set, about six months into filming Bohemian Rhapsody and the four boys were all competing for your attention and affection. They all had developed a crush on you.

"I'm just being the kind and generous self I am," Joe replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "I mean...flowers beats coffee and muffins any day," he smugly smirked, giving Rami the side eye.

Rami gasped "I think you'll find that flowers only bring short term delight- oh wait," he placed his finger on his chin in feigned thought "It makes so much sense now why you bought them." He teased and Joe huffed, crossing his arms. "Whereas a muffin satisfies lots of cravings."

"You're really weird, Malek..." Gwilym uttered.

"Coming from the guy that's trying to get with her while dressing like her dad?" Joe retorted. Gwilym rolled his eyes- flirting with you dressed as Brian probably wasn't the best idea he had.

"She prefers blondes," the three groaned hearing a cocky voice come out of nowhere. Ben tapped Joe's shoulder while joining the group. "Watch and learn boys- there isn't many that can resist my charm."

You arrived back on set after putting the stuff the boys got you in your dressing room and began chatting with your dad, he was discussing how much he was enjoying the whole experience. You grinned and gave him a side hug. "I'm happy you're happy, dad. I'm sure uncle Fred would have loved this too."

Brian shook his head with a small smirk "He'd be up there on that podium showing everyone up," he chuckled and then sadly smiled "I wish he could have been here to see it."

You tightly smiled and squeezed his arm "I'm sure he is," you softly whispered. "Anyway, I'll let you see the producer and catch up with you in a bit!" He nodded and you both went your separate ways. You felt someone tap you arm and you turned seeing Ben there. "Ben! Hey!"

He opened his arms and you have him a hug and a peck on the cheek, Ben stuck his tongue out at the three boys who flipped him off behind your back. "How are you?" Ben asked as he pulled back, still holding your arms with his hands.

"Good! How are you?" You asked with a grin. All the boys were so friendly and kind to you, hugging and pecking them all on the cheeks was a normal thing to do.

"I'm great," he licked his lips slightly- he knew it would be hard to resist that. "I was wondering...are you busy tonight? We could get some drinks after filming?" He suggested.

"Ah! I can't!" Ben's small, flirty smile fell. "Dad's invited me over to his for dinner!" He nodded understandingly "Hey! Why don't you come along?" His face instantly lit up. He was back in the game. "Dad won't mind!" You turned around "You all want to come around at say...seven?" Ben's smile dropped- that was not the way it was supposed to go.

Ben awkwardly chuckled "Uh...Y/N-"

"Sounds perfect!" Joe cut him off with a tight grin, pissing Ben off at how smug he was being.

"Great! See you boys then!" You chirped and left them to get organised for their scene.

Ben loudly groaned and took the boys teasing laughter on the chin. "I was so close! I'm telling you- it's me she likes the most!" He told them, full of confidence.

"In your dreams, Ben," Rami chortled. "Let's see what happens at dinner tonight, shall we?" The four boys were called to the makeup trailer while you spent most of the day hovering beside your dad.

"I invited the boys to dinner tonight- is that alright?" You asked him.

Brian blinked from behind his glasses "Course! Did you invite Lucy too?"

You laughed "Yes! That's the whole reason why we where having dinner in the first place!" You nudged his arm "Don't embarrass me in front of them all tonight."

"Hmm..." he pretended to think about it.

"No!" You laughed. "Don't!"

"I'm a dad- it's my job to embarrass you!" Brian chuckled.

You loudly groaned "Uncle Roger!" You whined, knowing he'd stick up for you. "Dad's going to embarrass me...again!"

Roger placed his arm around your shoulder "It's not too late for me to adopt you and become a Taylor!" He laughed and Brian rolled his eyes at the pair of you. "Don't you embarrass the poor girl, Bri." You smirked, victorious. "I'll come to dinner and help you out."

The two men loudly laughed as you groaned "You're both doing it right now! God! I'm going to get another coffee!" You couldn't help but smile. You spotted the four boys and sent them a small wave- they all waved back and then debated between themselves.

"She was waving at me." Gwilym said.

Rami shook his head "Nope- she waved at me!"

Joe blew a raspberry "Oh please, she was looking at me and waved."

Ben rolled his eyes "Sure thing- keep telling yourselves that. You all know she was waving at me."

•••

Gwilym knocked on the door, he was a bit early but he wanted to get to Brian's house for dinner before the rest of the boys. He had a bunch of flowers and wine in his hand and just about managed to hit his knuckles off the door, disregarding the bell. You opened it and Gwilym's face was taken over by a huge smile. "Hi, Y/N!"

"Hey, Gwil!" He bent down slightly and kissed your cheeks "Come on through!" He handed you the flowers and wine "Thank you! They're gorgeous! I'll put these with Rami's!"

Gwilym blinked "H-He-Rami is here? Already?" He asked, wondering if he had picked that up right.

"Yeah! Only arrived about ten minutes before you- Ben has been here for about twenty." 'Bastards' Gwilym thought to himself but didn't let his smile falter.

"Oh that's great," it was a good job he was an actor- he would have received an Oscar for that fake enthusiastic line alone. Gwilym walked through to the sitting room where Rami and Ben were already there chatting with Brian- they were trying to avoid eye contact with Gwil when he walked in. "Hello, boys..." he gritted out before genuinely smiling at Brian. "Hey, Brian," they shook hands before Gwil sat down.

"Gwil, darling," you placed a hand on his shoulder and looked up to you with a smile "Can I get you a drink? Beer? Wine?"

"Wine is great thanks," he tapped your hand before you went to the kitchen. Gwilym looked to the other two who were glaring at him. That didn't happen to them.

The doorbell rang just as you handed Gwilym his glass "I'll get it!" You grinned and answered it. "Hey Joe! Love the flowers!" The three boys sighed and subtly rolled their eyes. Of course he'd being you more. "I'll put them with everyone else's." Joe walked through to sitting room and just as you fetched him a drink, the door went again. The boys all furrowed their brows, they didn't know anyone else was coming.

"Hi!" They could hear Lucy's distinctive voice float into the sitting room and they all let out a collective sigh of relief- she wasn't a threat to them. "How's things?"

"Good! I love your dress! I'm so glad you could make it!" You grinned and hugged her before she took off her jacket and scarf. "I'll fix you up your favourite!" You winked "Go on through- dad's in the sitting room with the boys." You squeezed her arm and she walked into where everyone was while you went to the kitchen to make her a gin and tonic and check on dinner.

"Hi Lucy!" The five of them all greeted at the same time when she walked in.

"Hi everyone! So good to see you all!" She didn't get the chance to sit down as you called everyone to the table. The four boys pushed and nudged each other as they tried to get a seat either side of you. Brian was at the top of the table and Lucy, Joe and Gwil sat on one side while you sat on the other with Ben and Rami. You and Lucy were in the middle of the two boys which also meant that you were directly across from her. You bumped your foot against hers and she sent you a shy smile across the table. It was reassuring to her knowing you were right there if she needed you.

"So Y/N," Joe shifted in his seat "I've gotta get you to the bar for karaoke sometime!"

You laughed and so did your dad. "There's a reason why she's a writer and not a singer, Joe." Brian chortled and you shot your dad a small glare. "Nails down a chalkboard sound better than she sings..."

"Thanks, dad..." you shook your head with a small smile on your face. "But he has a point, Joey." Joe shot the boys a cocky grin as if to say 'She gave me a nickname- ha ha!' "I'm an awful singer!"

Ben cleared his throat a little "We should check out that exhibition at the," he clicked his fingers trying to think on the spot "The Shard!" He said a little too loud when he remembered. "It's really great! Gets smashing reviews and I hear the restaurant is fantastic- views over London, apparently very romantic!" The three boys rolled their eyes at Ben's blatant attempt at trying to flirt.

You grinned and nodded before turning back to Lucy and softly smiling finding her already looking at you with rosy cheeks. Her fingers were playing with the stem of her glass and her lips parted ever so slightly and then shut before she spoke- you loved watching her think about what she was trying to say. It was like watching a renowned artist paint something in front of your eyes it was such a masterpiece. All her little quirks were. "I was thinking we could see that play you've been talking about? What do you think, Y/N?"

"Sounds amazing! We should go this weekend!" You suggested and she nodded, taking a sip of her drink.

"If you want to see a show, I have a friend that's in a sold out run of 'Hamlet', Y/N. I can ask them for tickets and we could go together next week?" He felt Joe's, Rami's and Ben's eyes burn into him.

"Sure! Sounds good, I'd love to see it." You took a sip of your wine, lightly choking on it when you felt Lucy's leg brush against yours. She sent you a playful smirk from behind her glass and you couldn't help but blush- of course one of the four boys thought they had done that to you. After dinner they all had to head home, filming was starting early tomorrow and they needed their rest. You brushed your fingers up Lucy's arms giving her goosebumps- no one thought anything of it. It was a small sign of affection but it meant so much more to her. "Still up for the cinema tomorrow night?" You asked.

"Course! Wouldn't miss it for the world!" She looked over and found the boys staring at you. "They're looking again...I told you! This is the billionth time I've caught them doing it."

Your heart skipped a beat at her jealous tone, it made you slyly grin. "You have nothing to worry about." You whispered so only she heard you. "You're cute when you're jealous."

"Oh be quiet you!" She giggled and nudged you. "Can I see that top you were telling me about before we leave?" She suggestively raised her brows a little to try and make you understand what she was trying to say. She wanted a moment alone with you.

You nodded, catching on and grabbed her hand "Just showing Lucy something! She won't be a minute!" You smiled and dragged her up the stairs.

Brian quirked a brow at the four boys when they all turned to him after following you with their eyes as you hurried upstairs. "Can you be honest with us, Brian?" Rami asked and Brian gingerly nodded. "What one of us has a better chance with Y/N? I'd personally say me but-"

"Course you would," Ben cut him off "Brian, sir, I would take such good care of your daughter she were to date me."

Gwilym scoffed "Sure thing, drummer boy..."

"You all don't have a chance- we all know she likes me best. Even gave me a nickname..." Joe proudly grinned.

They all groaned "I knew you were going to bring that up!" Ben uttered.

The boys then got into a bit of a spat and it was up to Brian to break it up. "In all fairness boys...I don't think any of you are her type." They all stopped bickering and furrowed their eyebrows at the guitarist.

"Wait!" You softly giggled and pulled Lucy back towards you again by the wrist. "Lipstick..." you wiped some of your lipstick off her bottom lip with your thumb. "You suit that shade..." you grinned and stroked her face with your fingertips.

Lucy kissed your palm "Give me more then," she purred and pressed her lips to yours before slowly pulling back and then winking "I'm glad I saw that top..." she cheekily grinned and squeezed your hip slightly, you began blushing furiously. "See you tomorrow," she pecked your lips again "I'll text you when I get home." You nodded and then headed back downstairs. "You boys ready to go?"

They all hummed and flung on their coats, still wondering what Brian meant. You and your dad bid your goodbyes and you shut the door over behind them. "Oh no!" You gasped "Lucy left her scarf!"

"If you're quick you might catch them before they leave the street," Brian motioned for you to go and you hurried out the door and down the front steps.

"Guys!" You yelled out and jogged to catch up with them. They all turned around with hopeful smiles on their faces thinking one of them was in luck. "Lucy- your scarf!" Her hands went up to her bare neck and she gasped suddenly feeling the cold biting away at it. "Good job I caught you!" You smiled and wrapped it around her "Wouldn't want you getting a cold!"

"Thank you!" She sweetly smiled, lovingly gazing into your eyes. You were so taken aback by her beauty and facial features in the fluorescent orange streetlights that you forgot the boys were there. Her eyes were twinkling just as much- if not more than- the stars above. Her lips were curved just enough that her smile reached those sparkling eyes of hers. You used her scarf to pull those lips to yours- she gasped feeling the sudden contact of your warm lips on her cold ones.

She wasn't the only one that gasped. The four boys stared at the pair of you with eyes as wide as saucers and gaping mouths. "Get home safe, I love you." You murmured and then pulled back. "Bye guys! Take care! Tell me when you get home!"

You gave Lucy another peck and she hummed in delight "Bye, I love you too." She kept her eyes on you- making sure you were safely in the house before she turned and made her journey home with the four boys who were still frozen on the spot with shock. When she was a few yards ahead she turned around and raised a brow with a sly smirk on her face. "Are you guys coming or what?" They dumbly nodded and managed to utter out a 'yes' each.

Joe was then suddenly hit with a wave of realisation after they walked Lucy back home. "'Not her type'," he hit his head "I get it now!" The three others shared a glance and then laughed between themselves.

"I was right though," Ben spoke up and the three looked at him with a raised brow. "She prefers blondes."

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