#definitely made me question my life choices when I printed it out

[cultivating-wildflowers]

avoiding working on a complex crochet project by picking up a slightly-less-complex crochet project

[untoldstar]

rich! yandere x fem reader pt.1

warning: yandere themes, obsessive behavior, stalking, harassment, slight nsfw mentions

You let out an exasperated sigh as another gift lands on your desk from the hands of your coworker, you already know who it’s from, they have been coming non stop, they achieved the purpose of charming you the first few times but when you expressed disinterest in him and they kept on coming that’s when the charm was lost, like clockwork you phone rang, you stared at the name on you screen the conversation that’s about to play out printed like a script in your mind, each time you receive a present from him he makes sure to call you to check in, though your convinced it’s nothing more than his method of boasting for his own egos sake, you sighed and picked up raising the phone to you ear “did you get my gift, lovely?” is his immediate question as soon as you pick up, you stay silent, he very well knows the answer to his own question, it’s quite easy to get a delivery through to workers in your company and even if it wasn’t he’d go to lengths to make it easy for himself “hm why aren’t you answering me?” he asked after your lengthy silence, you rolled your eyes at his second useless question “because you know the answer, what’s the point of calling if you already know i received your gift?” you heard him chuckled and that only made you more annoyed with the situation “ah you’re right..well, love, do you like it? is it to your taste? I have faith in my choices when it comes to you so if trust my gift is to your liking” your desk had a variety of bags, smaller ones with rich perfumes that your sample because they were way too expensive to purchase, bigger bags with pieces of clothing that you didn’t even see in the store but instead liked pictures of models wearing them, even bags with the logo of a makeup brand you like were there, they were all things you’ve always wanted but not this way, not when the knowledge that all this is in fact what you like would paint a smug smile on his face, so you spoke in the most flat tone of of voice you could master “nope, your faith is flawed I actually hate it all” you ignored the judging look from a coworker that overheard you and listened in to his reply “ah really?..seems i’ve made the wrong choice then. No matter, life is filled with material goods I’ll make sure to find exactly what you like, what you’ll admit you like, that is.” you grit your teeth, he was being insufferable you didn’t bother with this anymore and hung up leaning back in your chair sighing, you had convinced yourself he’d stop eventually but each time you were becoming less sure of it.

It was the end of the week, finally you could rest, this week had really worn you out.

You reached for the keys in your pocket while walking up the steps to your house before stopping as you glanced up and saw a bag in front of your door, your shoulders sank ‘he’s sending them to my house now?’ you looked behind you, scanning the street, seeing nothing you walked towards the bag pausing for a moment before taking a hold of it and unlocking the door, you stepped in closing the door behind you and leaving the bag at the door, you were too exhausted you’d deal with that later.

You carried on with your night but every once in a while your thoughts would drift back to him, why did he sound it to your home this time instead of your office? why hasn’t he called like he usually does? it made you nervous, it was unusual, there had to be something different about the present for the entire setting to change, you had enough of the nagging curiosity so here you were standing in front the foot of your bed, staring at the thin black box in front of you, whatever was inside it it was definitely expensive that much isn’t different or new.

You reached for it and removed the top part of the books and your hands stilled as your eyes widened slightly ‘what the fuck?’ inside the box was a neatly placed navy blue lingerie set, you took it out and held it up in front of you to take a better look at it and your cheeks heated it up at the thought of you wearing it and how you’d look, it was a pretty set, the color complemented your skin tone, you loved it but that vanished when you remembered the source and it all clicked, why he didn’t send it to your office, why he didn’t call, he knew your reaction too well, a card was left on the box with elegant handwriting on it

“I hope this meets your taste, if it does we ought to make good use of it the next time we meet.”

[radarchives]

IM SAYING LIKE they served so much cunt with the 2021 halloween fits and we went mostly downhill from there, could we perhaps get your thoughts on the rest of the set too, maybe which were your fav and least fav ones? 🥺👉👈 i could write a whole essay on them tbh i swear im normal about them

the halloween fits truly were everything. with the bunny fits one of the only events where looking at the bottom parts only made me break out in sweats half the time.

i'm not necessarily gonna rate them, but i'll give my thoughts.

so let's start

lucifer

solid outfit. the hat i'm okay with since it doesn't look like it's got a life of its own (hat that shall not be named). the zipper shoes however need to go, the white is not giving and certainly a choice for an almost all black outfit. even in white they'd look way better as dress boots with laces.

also love how they somehow managed to give lucifer even more pieces of clothing than usual, unquestionably a skill.

anyway i can't really complain about the outfit bc the card was drawn by the dilf hair lucifer artist. i forgive all mistakes for that.

mammon

it's giving shady vendor it's giving Dr.Facilier with the colour scheme. maybe a bit questionable that he isn't wearing any socks but. it's the horror outfit so maybe that checks out. i personally would've replaced the tie with a bunch of necklaces and have given the man some damn socks. i'd always give mammon at least 60% more jewelry in general that man should be dripping in it.

for me this one is the least exciting one out of the bunch, but i still like it.

leviathan

the jason mask??? the boots?? hands down this is one of the only times i am in love with obey me brand shoes bc these look GOOD (maybe it's just the obey me church stompers trauma talking). love love love the coat and i am also weirdly okay with the brown pants since they match the dried blood on the coat. the gloves are a bit unnecessary though.

satan

i both love and have my beef with this outfit. when i saw the dress i almost flipped my phone because finally!! the devs let a charcter aside from asmo be a bit more feminine looking! then i saw the bottom and went. hmmmm. i think i just don't like that he's wearing both a dress and dress pants (that have buttons on the side. ew) combined? i genuinely think the outfit would've been more cohesive if they either leaned more into the feminine side (dress closed a bit further down, tights, boots with a higher heel) or the more androgynous side (corset with lacing in the center, dress as more of a blouse, high waisted pants, bottom of the dress if kept more like an overskirt?)

asmo

he's perfect, he's beautiful, he looks like linda evangelista, he's a model

no questions asked. perfection. the spider theme/black widow theme is so fucking perfect for him. also the placement of the blood on his hands and sleeves? casually going insane over him they did him so well. definitely my favourite out of them all.

belphie

alright. i am conflicted about this one. because it's camp. no idea what made the devs give belphie a sexy nurse theme but i'm here for it. maybe not necessarily the executiion but still. the skeleton print is my arch nemesis. what in the hot topic fingerless emo gloves is going on here. love the little belt on his thigh but also. safety. hazard babes. he'd be getting poked by needles every step he takes. i don't even wanna look at the little bo peep ass looking shoes.

i would've loved the outfit even more if they'd given him a skirt instead of his little short shorts. maybe not a visually appealing one but definitely an amusing one.? like yeah it's ugly but yeah i also like it because it's silly.

beel

for a beel outfit? god tier. man always has to suffer from boring outfit syndrome, but this one is good as long as you keep your eyes trained on the upper part. the devs shortly released him from the yas girl give us nothing basement. we do not talk about the ginormous clown stompers on his feet though. it looks less camp than belphie's nurse outfit and i'm here for it.

[agentsquirrelsgotrobots]

My beta reader told me to repost this from my ao3. My handle on there is agentsquirrel.

Road Bombs and Beer make the Burns Question Their Life Choices

Heatwave knew that their odds were doomed when Optimus brought the kids, and the engex.

Megatron had found Griffin Rock, and they had less than 48 hours to prepare. So, they were doing battle prep college all nighter style.

There were three kids, and a nurse, who immediately took a look at them and announced to the firehouse.

"Well, you won't kill them faster than their guardians, so I am going to take a nap."

She then curled up on the couch and fell asleep.

The youngest, a twelve year old boy dressed in orange, took out a laptop from a bag taken from Optimus's subspace marked "hide from Bryce".

Jack also took out parts of an alien looking shotgun from the bag too, putting it together and following Arcee to set up a shooting range.

"Chief, I want the townspeople evacuated. Fowler has already called in the coast guard to take them to the mainland." Optimus said, checking his hand blades for any last-minute rust spots. He didn't find any.

"Got it. Cody and I will go door to door. Be honest. We need everyone safe and contained in defensible positions."

They left in Chase. The coast guard, with help from the military, rounded up all of the townspeople and brought them to the mainland. They couldn't risk a single life on Optimus's mistake.

Ratchet took Raf into Heatwave's office, where he took over every screen. Heatwave was shocked to see Raf open up a diagram of human and Cybertron anatomy, a quick translation guide he made for both ancient and modern cybertronian, and four amateur road bomb designs for killing cons.

He printed out two of the designs, and downstairs, Miko took the blueprints off the printer and waved down Kade. She showed him the blueprints.

"Kade, in order for this to work, we need beer cans with alcohol residue in them, they make good shrapnel. Do any of you guys drink, or am I using your ID?"

"Uhhhh, let me flag down Bulkhead." Kade realized he didn't remember the last time he had alcohol. Whelp, time to commit a federal crime.

Optimus stopped him on the way out and gave him a credit card. "This little fiasco is on my dime. Go get fuel for everyone."

"Me, Wheeljack, and Bulkhead are going to make road bombs in the park. Don't worry, I have the apex armor. If something explodes, I will be fine." Miko said, running for Bulkhead.

Bulkhead picks up Miko and transforms around her. Kade climbed into him too. Wheeljack, who was definitely drunk off of Optimus's engex, followed them on foot.

The clerk was not paid enough for this.

There were two giant robots in the parking lot, sitting on the curb. One was obviously drunk, his buddy keeping an eye on him. The clerk assumed they were both men, by the sound of their booming voices.

The adult that came out of the robots was obviously buying two six packs of beer, the only size the store stocked, for the teenage girl, who was currently picking out every flavor of red bull and boxes of Kool-aid with red dye 40 in it, but again, the giant robots. She dumped them all on the tiny counter, then pulled out two packs of combos. The man sighed and took out his credit card. "Miko, really?"

"We have five nerds to feed to maximum efficiency. We will let them sleep when I get to have my fun. Besides, Ratchet gives Raf a combo for each word he translates correctly."

The man gave the clerk a look of pure pain. "Miko, get me another case of bud light and a five gallon bottle of water for the Kool-aid."

"On it!" She rolled the five gallon bottle, then stacked the case of beer on top.

The total came out to more than three hundred dollars.

The man paid with a military issued credit card, and it took several trips to load it all into the bigger robot's backseat, even with the drunken robot's "help".

Kade, Miko, Bulkhead and Wheeljack came back to Doc Greene, dropping off Frankie. He was going to weaponize some of his prototypes for the wreckers, so he wanted Frankie out of the lab. Unfortunately, the wreckers were going to be testing road bombs on the front lawn, so he might have been better served keeping Frankie home.

Dani showed Blades how to make Kool-aid in the water cabinet. He made the mistake of looking up red dye 40 in his visor after setting everything up.

"Dani, the ingredients of this drink scare me."

"Blades, it's a childhood classic. It's been around for several generations now. My dad grew up drinking this stuff, and so did me and my brothers."

"That explains so much about why you guys are like that."

"Like what?"

"Absolutely crazy. You drink things that turn your mouth unnatural colors."

Dani laughed. "You shouldn't look up what we use as natural red dyes in makeup then."

Blades looked it up and gasped. "Dead bugs? Dani, why?"

"I told you not to look it up. We use berries in more natural foods, by the way."

They heard an explosion outside, and Bulkhead ducked his head in. "Optimus, do you have the apex armor?"

Optimus pinched his nose. "Bulkhead, why didn't you ask that before breaking out the c4?" He took out the apex armor and handed it to him.

Bulkhead grabbed Miko by the back of her tank top and stuck the armor to her back. It formed around her, and she raced to join Wheeljack on the front lawn, a safe distance from the firehouse.

It took twenty minutes before Miko was launched into the firehouse by a poorly timed explosion.

Graham stole a beer from one of the open containers, along with taking the red bulls and combos upstairs to his desk in Heatwave's office.

Raf was, for the time being, perched on Ratchet's shoulder, being fed combos and Kool-aid from a water bottle.

He sent Graham an email with the textbook he and Ratchet wrote on translating cybertronian dialects into English.

Frankie came upstairs to ask Raf a question. "Hey Raf, why can't we go outside?"

"Miko, Wheeljack, and Bulkhead are messing around with c4 ratios while we get enough beer cans prepped."

"Why her?"

Raf popped another combo into his mouth and washed it down with Kool-aid. His hands were shaking almost as bad as Graham's. "Frankie, me, Miko, and Jack have been working for the war effort since I was ten. We know how to duck and cover. You do not."

"Frankie, bring these cans downstairs for my dad to prime." Graham said, handing her a few red bull cans. Frankie decided that questions were a bad idea. She took the cans and went back downstairs to hang out with Cody.

Meanwhile, at Arcee's makeshift shooting range, Arcee was teaching the Rescue Bots how to make a vehicon spin out using the foam cannons.

Jack was punctuating each of Arcee's points with his shotgun, shredding the totaled cars Salvage brought from the mainland to use for target practice with modified ammunition that had the effect of bird shot on a vehicon's plating, leaving dozens of holes in a single shot. A shot to the face was fatal, as they were made to destroy their visors and shred their processors. Jack explained all of this in a matter of fact way when Heatwave asked why Wheeljack made him a shotgun instead of a machine gun.

"Hey Jack!" Blurr yelled.

Jack put the gun down and took out his earplugs.

"What do you want, Blurr?" He said. He knew Blurr for all of twenty minutes but already had mentally given him the award for the most annoying bot he had ever met.

"What's your most badass moment fighting alongside Arcee?"

"Fine, I'll tell you something good. One time I got stranded from Arcee with a con on my tail during a battle. Optimus had knocked off one of Starscream's arms, so I used his missile launcher to shred the con to pieces. Happy?"

Blurr finally got it through his head that Jack and Arcee were not the kind of people to turn all their traumatic moments into fun stories.

Back at the firehouse, Chief primed Graham's empty red bull cans with a can of beer. He saw Cody and Frankie by the Kool-aid machine, and decided that it was time for a right of passage in the Burns family.

"Optimus, could you video the kids? Rite of passage, want to send to Doc later."

"Of course. What are you going to do?"

"Give them their first sip of alcohol. Not enough to have any sort of effect, just enough to make a point."

"And you do this?"

"Because it's hilarious to watch, and proves a point." Chief took out a pair of plastic shot glasses out of a cabinet in the garage. "Frankie, Cody, want to try a sip of beer?"

The faces they made when they tried the beer were priceless. Even Optimus chuckled at their sour faces.

"Point made?" Chief asked, taking a few soda cans out of the recycling.

"I am going to stick with Kool-aid." Frankie said.

"Kool-aid? Kool-aid is great. I'm not gonna try that again." Cody said.

At five, Dani went out with Bumblebee to get Burger King for everyone. Raf and Cody both decorated Optimus and Ratchet's head fins with Burger King crowns.

At around midnight, long after the bomb experiments had been perfected, June went upstairs and dragged Raf off the computer and into Cody's room for some sleep. He slept for all of four hours before Blades caught him sneaking back into Heatwave's office.

"Raf, it's bedtime." Blades said.

June sighed. "Blades, don't bother. Raf, it's 4 am. No more Kool-Aid, and if you fall asleep, you fall asleep."

Raf nodded and climbed the stairs up to join Graham in making timers for said road bombs.

Kade was sleeping on the couch, having a few beers to ignore the sheer amount of crazy going on. Between the dread of the coming invasion, the beer being available, a desire to get rid of said beer, he would rather not be entirely sober. Cody had drawn a mustache on him after he fell asleep at eight.

Cody and Frankie had crashed at eleven, the sheer amount of Kool-aid they drank catching up to them.

The cons came early.

The afternoon of the second day, Bumblebee killed and brought back two vehicon scouts.

"Whelp, that was nice while it lasted." Wheeljack said.

"Jack, Miko, be ready to roll in twenty." Arcee yelled.

Miko slipped on the apex armor, and Jack slung the shotgun over his shoulder.

The Nemesis dropped its soldiers, and the Rescue Bots watched first hand how a simple beer can road bomb can turn a vehicon into a tower of blue flames.

Jack rode Arcee and shot vehicons in the same way you would do archery on the back of a horse.

The battle went quickly, as that was not the point of the fic, and Optimus managed to stab Megatron in the gut before he sounded a retreat, so that was great.

The townspeople were returned to their homes. Luckily, the vehicons didn't burn the place, and everything was contained to the roads. The blaster stains on bricks might need some painting, though.

The Burns were left with their house absolutely littered with scrap metal and wrappers. The very hungover Kade sitting in the corner was a nice touch, and Heatwave will have to clear his browser history.

But hey, no one was dead except twenty five vehicons.

[tryst-art-archive]

Nov. 2012: "ThirdEssayD1_ScrapForParts.doc"

An unfinished start of an essay for my nonfiction class.

--------Essay------>

            I have a poor memory where my own life is concerned. My mind tends to be overactive, busily poring over every moment, every word, of my present and past, constantly revising and editing them down to their barest parts, turning them into legendary events instead of actual moments of time. The end result is that, when asked about my life and its formative events, I provide not so much an accurate account but a ritualized and carefully formulated myth that, while wholly based in fact and actual happenings, cannot be definitively confirmed, much less by me. This same process watches everything I do and say, commenting upon my actions and then commenting again upon the thought about the actions and so forth and so on down the line; the space in my head is a babble of thoughts, and I am at my most functional when they are a rumbling background noise from which only an occasional impression emerges. Conversely, when my mental rumble solidifies into a single, articulate stream of thought, into actual words, I become utterly dysfunctional, suddenly clumsily failing to accurate complete tasks that were second nature a moment ago, whether that means printing a flyer to fit an letter-sized sheet of paper or simply breathing in a normal fashion. (I forget how to breathe three to five times a day, usually when I’m on the train, and often because I can’t hear my breathing over my headphones and some other passenger looked at me askance like I’ve committed a social faux pas at which point my mind erupts into tangible thought to ask, “Oh god am I breathing loudly?!” causing me to think about how breathing works.) About two to three times per week, walking eludes me, usually when I remember previous compliments from past sexual partners on either my rump or my consistent and daily ability to walk in high heels, and I spend the rest of the day chanting “Heel toe! Heel toe!” in my mind, occasionally skipping a couple of feet because my rhythm might be off, visually. I sometimes forget how my facial muscles work as well, smiling longer than I’m used to—which admittedly isn’t very long; years of cultivating invisibility have provided me with a default facial expression that is at best morose and at worst downright unfriendly—and then, suddenly strained by the fatigue of holding my cheeks and mouth and eyebrows in an upright position, I have to roll my features around in an effort to relocate normal.

            Verbal thinking decimates me, emotionally as well, ultimately destroying my ability to feign normalcy until, through chance, I sink back into my comfortable state of floating buzz. I often don’t remember the things I write, especially if I or others wind up liking the results, and back in the days when I was visually artistically inclined, the same was true of my sketches and digital drawings. In the summer before my senior year of college I took on a graphic design internship at a magazine company which began with a panicked me constantly thinking verbally about every little design decision and whether or not my new, temporary coworkers would approve. The results were atrocious, worse than work I’d made for classes the semester before that had landed me this internship in the first place, worse than poorly Photoshopped posters I’d made for my high school’s literary magazine or indeed the pathetic attempts at InDesign use I’d managed for that very magazine. It wasn’t until despair at every being able to feel even remotely comfortable or accepted at the internship in question set in that I relaxed at all and my verbal monologue moved away from my design choices and to how ridiculous it was that my current coworkers were handcrafting Caesar salads for lunch while I hid behind my uncomfortable Mac eating Lunchables that I began to turn out any designs that were worthwhile at all. Of course, by then I’d managed to quietly break and then repair the computer I’d been loaned by first unintentionally loading over thirty thousand fonts onto its hard drive and then hand-deleting them until I could open InDesign without the computer crashing; the quality of my free advertisements and newsletters were the least of my worries. In fact, as the internship went on and I became less and less interested and invested in it and more and more certain that I was utterly useless and had damned myself forever in the eyes of my coworkers simply by existing, the better my work became, eventually becoming portfolio-worthy. I’d seen the same effect in my photography as well; a shot carefully constructed and planned out inevitably had a car passing by at the worst moment or an obvious light stand at the edge of the frame or my thumb in the corner, but if I sketched a quick thumbnail of an idea for a shot, gathered up a model or a prop and vaguely threw myself at taking that photograph and simply seeing what rolled off of it otherwise, I wound up with solid images that I could feel a little proud of. And why? Because my mind was barely involved, or at least I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing; I was merely doing it.

            When I write well, if I write well, I typically start out consciously aware of my words, selecting them and putting them down, for any number of pages, until eventually I stop knowing. I enter what I can only call a trance state in which words fall onto the page via my fingers and keyboard, and I do not know that they are happening. I effectively black out, and when I come up out of writing I breathe like a surfacing swimmer—to abuse a simile—and do not remember what I have written. I generally know the gist of it, have some sense for what occurred, but I absolutely never remember the actual words. Most of them are familiar, but when I have done well, I find a gem or two, a sentence here or a word choice there that strikes home and that I simply cannot remember having ever put down, as if someone else put it there. Yet I am the only one here, and so I must have done it.

            It is the same phenomenon that allows me to breathe properly one moment but not the next; my mind’s involvement, or rather my mind’s lack of involvement, is directly tied to my level of success in any matter. Writing is merely the most extreme form of that phenomenon. I suppose I could be experiencing a sampling bias in this matter—I am one of those infuriating people who has never had to try to succeed, and while that’s mighty convenient in most academic settings, it turns out it’s a violently debilitating factor in the real world in much the same way that growing up without any hardship whatsoever tends to generate entitled brats instead of well-adjusted, useful citizens, to put what is probably going to be an unpopular opinion out there—but it is at least what I perceive to be true.

            For most of my life I’ve had a hard time distinguishing between reality and fantasy. This isn’t to say that I have spent many years in a state of delusion or that I ran around believing dragons were real long past their expiration date; it’s much more subtle than that. I typically have very bizarre dreams that, usually, either mimic video game logic or actually feature a stereotypical video game user interface with health bars and ammo trackers and mini-maps and scores overlaid onto the dream proper. On the occasions when I have realistic or, at least, believable dreams, I spend anywhere from three days to three months believing that they have happened. The illusion is only ever broken—if it’s ever broken—by something missing. For example, I once dreamt that my high school drama club director gave me an important role in an upcoming play and that she had given me a certificate to prove it. Perhaps the certificate and the inclusion of a tub of goo in the dream should have tipped me off to the unreal nature of the dream, but the school’s auditorium looked exactly like the school’s auditorium and the drama director was entirely herself, physically and mentally, and so I missed the obvious. It wasn’t until we were a month into rehearsals for the play that it dawned on me that I had a bit part—one that I had been rehearsing and practicing for a month—and that the dream-memory had never, in fact, happened. Within my memories and on an emotional level, the dream’s truth trumped a month’s worth of factual actuality.

            That was probably the last time, that I can recall anyway, that I had such an extreme reality break. My disassociation from reality was worse back then; I’ve become more and more fixated in the actual moment as I’ve aged and begun to manage my own affairs and therefore my own survival. The disassociation has hardly disappeared entirely, however. Typically, I simply don’t feel myself, the things around me whether people, places, or things, or events occurring in my life to be real. It’s all just a hazy, unending fog. I can distinctly recall one occasion on which the fog lifted.

            The moment occurred in high school as well, on a weekday afternoon like any other. I was home alone, my parents being at work, and I was at the familial computer, my home and my refuge since the tender age of thirteen, when all at once I felt the facts of my existence. It manifested as a crushing weight which I visualized as a series of tombstones stacking up on my back, ascending past the ceiling as a morbid skyscraper. I felt the absolute certainty of my impending and, relative to the universe, quickly approaching death; I had the complete knowledge that in a blink of an eye I would be wholly responsible for myself and that, really, I already was, that everything I existed as and everything I had ever done and everything I had ever felt was, one way or another, directly my fault, and that my unending and overwhelming unhappiness was entirely my own construction and mine to dismantle. I knew that life as it existed at that moment would disappear, that my cats and family and friends would all die and that all of those things were impermanent even without the threat of death, and I froze, stymied by the sudden knowledge that everything that was happening was real. That thought echoed in my mind, leaving my paralyzed and horrified, completely at a loss.

            All of this occurred within a second, and the moment passed as immediately and inexplicably as it had come, and my dreamlike fog settled on me again, though thinner than before, and it was some days before the afterimage of the grave on my spine fully dissipated.

            When I was five or seven—pardon my fallible memory—I spent most of my nights trying to imagine death. I was raised a Roman Catholic and attended CCD and church, but the idea of heaven was, even then, completely implausible to me. They told me there was a benevolent and loving God, but if that was true then everyone should be happy, but they weren’t. They told me that God always listened but on the one or two occasions I prayed to him to ask for something—on both occasions it was for No School Tomorrow—the prayers went unanswered which seemed unfair because it wasn’t like I asked for things all that often, and all things considered I was a pretty good kid. These things contributed to my skepticism, but the clincher on my early aethieism was the day they told me that animals didn’t go to heaven. I never voiced my doubts, but they went something like this: Heaven is paradise, i.e., the place where everything is happy all the time forever. In order for me to be happy, my cats must be with me. Animals don’t go to heaven which means cats don’t go to heaven which means that when I go to heaven, I will be unhappy. Which means it isn’t heaven because I’d be stuck there without my cats forever. From there I got to wondering about what happened to the families of “bad people”? When the Bad People got sent to hell, didn’t that mean their families were miserable in heaven, like I would inevitably be? Or was it that the Bad People went up to heaven so that their Good People families would be happy? But then wouldn’t that mean that everybody was in heaven? So then hell was pointless? I couldn’t reconcile the ideas and, in the end, was forced to conclude that the whole Catholicism thing was a sham. (Over the years I went from aethiest to agnostic to aethiest to agnostic and now finally I just don’t give any kind of damn at all, though I still abhor organized religion as a concept.)

            Well, if heaven and hell didn’t exist, then that meant there was no afterlife, and that, of course, meant simply not existing after death. It made the most sense, and I still hold to that opinion: Just Dead. So, as a child, recently convinced within her own mind of the fallacy of the after life, I spent most of my bed time, before I fell asleep, trying to imagine being dead.

            I would lie very still, like a plank, and close my eyes, and try to breathe as little as possible, holding stillness within myself. I would then will my entire personality away and try to embody someone who does not exist. This is very hard to do, and I’d frequently get caught up in thinking of how dark or cold it was, being dead and not existing, and then I’d realize that dead, nonexistent people don’t think or feel so I wouldn’t notice the dark or the cold and I wouldn’t be thinking about it so stop doing that. And I’d try to still everything within me again, and eventually thoughts would bubble up again, and I’d quell them again, and so on until I fell asleep.

            Later, when puberty set in and brought with it a pile of depression, I repeated this same exercise as an effort to will myself to death. Willing oneself to death, it turns out, is also very tricky.

            My first memory is of a dream. In the dream, there is a baby that I instinctively know is me. I am not in her perspective; I am floating outside of her, looking at her glare at her surroundings and wave her piggy arms and legs that I loathe, quietly. She’s in a car seat—it’s white with primary colored polka dots gathered together like the Wonderbread logo—that is set on a long, folding table of plastic and fake wood paneling. I have confirmed with my parents that they owned this car seat, and I did, in fact, sit in it as a child. I know the table existed because I saw it many times throughout my childhood and adolescence; the table both in dream and in reality were in a dim marbled function hall of linoleum tiling, ugly striped wallpaper with white wood paneling, and fake, electric candle sconces. This was the function hall at the Knights of Columbus in [...] (which recently declared bankruptcy, a relic of my childhood gone), a place my dad bartended at for many years and which I spent many post-elementary school afternoons roaming about.

            In the dream, I remain focused on baby me, somewhat elevated above her, aware of the table and the car seat and the speckled linoleum floor and the dim wall sconces. There are shadows all around her, falling onto her curled fists, and there is the hubbub of laughing and talking relatives—my relatives. The shadows belong to my maternal grandmother and my great-aunts. They are laughing and chatting and drinking wine, and this is some kind of party for me, about me, to do with this baby on the table who is me but who I am outside of, staring down, disliking. I do not know if this party happened in actuality, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it did.

            I wake up from the dream at age five, in a room painted Strawberry Fields pink with an ugly salmon carpet and fake wooden door. I do not know who I am. My mind is utterly blank. There is nothing but absence within it, a feeling that I should know this place, should know myself, should remember something, but I do not and I stare at the far wall, bolt upright in my tiny twin bed with its glow-in-the-dark dinosaur sheets and Barbie princess pillowcase, clutching those fossils in two upraised fists.

            It seems a long time that I sit like this, but it must have been only a few seconds. Facts begin to pour back into me. My name: R[...] R[...] M[...], just like that, as you’d write it at the top of a test on handwriting; then my phone number and my address, just as you’d recite them to a police officer if you were lost. My spreadsheet filtered back into me, and as it did so I got out of bed and walked slowly, stunned, to the door. It opened out into the kitchen, and that felt familiar and new at the same time, and at the wooden kitchen table there was a woman with dark brown hair like mine and a sad mouth like mine and deeper, blacker eyes than mine, and she was reading a small novel, and she looked up at me as I walked out, and almost smiled, but seemed to see something wrong so that the smile became concern and she asked something or said something with a question mark—something like “Good morning, honey...?”—and still dazed I did not answer but sat in the chair next to her and curled up and I thought to myself in the clear, slow language of one in a haze who tries to define what is inexplicable before them, “This Is MOM.”

            I don’t remember anything after that, but I know she was younger then.

            I want desperately to live the world through someone else’s mind. I crave knowledge of experience besides my own. I want to know what it’s like to be a man and have a penis—my friends and I have joked for a long time that I have worse penis envy than my transgendered roommate who is currently preparing for surgery to remove his breasts—and I want to know what it’s like to be a social person who goes out and has fun and parties and knows so many people and does drugs and all of the rest of that lifestyle. (Logically I know I could do these things, but it isn’t in me; that isn’t who I am and the prospect of half of them is a terror. It took me until I was twenty to even accept the idea of alcohol and people drinking it; before that, I conceived of non-adults who drank as Bad People.) I want to understand the world through the eyes of the certifiably mentally diseased and through the certifiably healthy so that I can determine both where I fall on that spectrum and whether or not there’s as much difference as there appears to be. I want to live life as a cat and a fox and then a deer or a bird and a jellyfish and a shark or maybe an amoebae or a virus and thus understand the world and whether animals and humans are all that different because logically, biologically, we shouldn’t be. I want to be a plant and learn if they feel. I want to be a rock and then I want to be a cloud and then I want to go back to humans, complex as they are, and be a baby but remember this time and be an old geezer and not lose all the rest of these memories and I’d like to be President for a little while and a garbage man for a little while and a heroin addict for a little while and every single person I know or have ever met and I want to understand everything. I have always felt trapped inside here—not in my body, in my mind. It’s like a cage; there’s so much world out there, and I can only perceive a tiny sliver, and I am physically or, in some cases, emotionally incapable of exploring it fully, and I so want to know it, and I’m endlessly frustrated by my inability to step out of my head and simply be someone or something else.

            But, you know, more often than that, I fantasize about not existing. Not dying, per se, just disappearing out of the world like a ghost fading with the dawn, and when I indulge in these fantasies I lie rigid in my bed with my eyes closed, trying to be still, right down to the breathing I don’t always remember how to do, and I find some way to disappear, like a character exiting a novel, and the perspective shifts and suddenly I am my friends, and I watch them live out their lives, and I know it all, and that is contentment.

[tom-holland-parker]

Drafted

Summary: Bucky has to tell you that he leaves tomorrow but not without leaving you with plans for when he gets back

Pairing: 40s!bucky x reader

Word count: 1344

Notes: Broke my heart while writing this because we all knows what happens after he leaves and Jesus Christ it just hurts to think about how y/n is gonna feel when she realizes he not coming back...ughhhh

Masterlist

Bucky had made a lot of choices in his life, but deciding to keep this a secret was the hardest one. The letter remained in his sock drawer for weeks as he contemplated ways to tell you, his guilt eating him alive as the days drew closer

“I got drafted”

He’d practiced those words over and over again trying to find any way to make them sound different. Trying to make them sound better. Maybe a larger part of him was hoping it would all go away if he avoided it but he knew it wouldn’t, not with the way the war was going.

So now here he was with 1 day left to tell you the truth

Bucky took a deep breath as he knocked on your door, smiling when your mother opened it, “Good Evening Ma’am”

“Hello James, Y/N is just getting her shoes on, please come in” She said as she opened the door wider. Bucky stepped in, enjoying the familiar smell of your mother's apple pie coming from the kitchen, “So where will you two be going tonight?”

“We’re going to the Stark expo tonight” You replied as you came down the stairs. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the sight of you, wearing the pink dress he loved on you and the necklace he gave you for your birthday last year. “Well look at you all dolled up for me” He said as he kissed your cheek. 

“Not too bad yourself handsome” You chuckled, “We should get going, Mom I’ll be home by curfew love ya”

///

The night was amazing, filled with fun as you and Bucky looked at all the new inventions. As the night went on Bucky glanced at his watch nervously, “Doll we gotta go” You chuckled grabbing his hand, “My curfew isn’t for another two hours”

Bucky shrugged his shoulders as you both quickly jumped into the car he borrowed from a friend, “We’re actually making a quick stop before I drop you off” He said as he began to drive. Your brows furrowed, “Where exactly are you taking me Mr. Barnes?”

He chuckled, “if I tell you it’d ruin the surprise”

You jokingly huffed in disappointment as you looked out the window, watching as the apartment building quickly turned into houses, you were definitely far from home, “Bucky where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry you’ll like it.” He stopped driving after a few more minutes, parking outside of a small white house with a match white picket fence boarding the lawn. You glanced at him, your face filled with confusion, “A house?”

He chuckled pointing towards the house, “One day I’m gonna buy you that house” You smiled, moving closer to rest your head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around you. “And we’ll have two kids,” he continued, “and a dog”

“And fireworks every fourth of July” You chimed in, picturing your picture perfect life with Bucky. He’d come home after a long day of work, greeting you with a kiss. You guys would throw a huge barbeque every fourth of July, ending the night with fireworks and s’mores. You watch from the back door as Bucky plays catch with your son while you cradle the sleeping baby girl in your arms.

So many scenarios played out in your head as you rested in his arms, it wasn’t until he placed a small kiss on your temple that you were pulled out of your imagination. You looked up at him, his lips meeting your for a quick kissed before he pulled away from you, “I have to tell you something”

“What's wrong?” You questioned, noticing the look of nervousness and worry on his face. He took a deep breath, here goes nothing, he thought to himself, “I got drafted. I leave tomorrow”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, you see the countless of boys being drafted and every night you prayed that Bucky would never be added to that list of boys, but as luck would have it here you were. You stood silent, utterly speechless as your eyes filled with tears. Trying but failing to blink them away as you shook your head in disbelief, “No you’re lying. That’s not something to joke about”

Bucky’s heart broke as he watched you process the words he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you”

“How could you keep this from me?” You wiped your tears, it was useless though, the tears just kept falling. Bucky sighed pulling you into a hug before gently holding your face with his large hands, “I’m sorry, If I could change it I would but don’t worry I’m going to come back to you no matter what it takes”

You swallowed the lump growing in your throat, “Promise?” 

He smiled, kissing your forehead, “I promise”

///

The next day you got up extra early, catching Bucky at the bus stop surrounded by the other drafted men who were saying goodbye to the people they loved, “what are you doing here?” he said as he pulled you into a tight hug, spinning you around before letting you go.

You chuckled, “Did you really think I’d let you leave without saying goodbye?”

“No, I figured you’d find some way to see me before I left.” He said with a smile, “So what do you think” he took a step back so you could see him fully. It hurt to see him in his uniform but you couldn’t ignore how good he looked. 

“Well aren’t you a dreamboat” You joked, “I need a picture before you leave”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but smiled for the camera as you took the picture, you smiled as the polaroid printed, “Gotta show our future kids just how handsome you are” 

“Well it’s only fair that they get to see what a catch their mother is” he grabbed the camera, pulling you closer to him as he took a picture of the both of you. “Keep it” you chuckled, putting it in his pocket, “that way all the pretty nurses will know your mine”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “You know I only have eyes for you doll”

“Alright boys, on the bus” the tall man shouted. You watched as everyone said their final goodbyes. You looked at him, not having the guts to say goodbye, “two kids and a dog” You said quietly as tears slowly trailed down your face. It was an unusual way to say goodbye but it was good enough for you.

Bucky nodded, kissing your forehead before pulling you in for a final hug, “and fireworks every fourth of July”

Present day

It took a long time for Bucky to gain the courage to actually go to the museum, every time he thought about going he would chicken out. Too nervous to think about that time in his life. It took Sam weeks to finally convince him to go and now here he was, staring at the exhibit dedicated to people that died in the war.

He rolled his eyes as he saw his face on the screen, “James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes, died during an ambush. His remains were not found, his only belonging found was a picture many say he kept in his pocket at all times. This picture can be found at the end of the exhibit on the photography wall” He heard the guide tell the group of people nearby. 

He sighed making his way to the end of the exhibit, searching the wall for the picture. It took a few minutes but there it was. There was obvious damage, wear and tear from years of being tossed around but he could still see you. He could still make out all the lines on your face, the shape of your lips, the shape of your eyes. He smiled, taking out his phone to take a picture of it. He took one last look at it before deciding he’d had enough for today. He’d come back another day to see you again

[nopefun]

Interview #494: Ryan Frigillana

Ryan Frigillana is a Philippine-born lens-based artist living and working in New York. His work focuses on the fluidity of memory, intimacy, family identity, and visual culture, largely filtered through the lens of race and immigration. Embracing its plasticity, Frigillana explores photography’s relationship to context as a catalyst for thematic dialogue.

His first monograph, Visions of Eden, was published as two editions in 2020, and is held in the library collections of the MoMA, Getty Research Institute, and Smithsonian among others.

We spoke to find out more about Visions of Eden, his love for photobooks, and photography as a medium for introspection.

Lee Chang Ming Ryan Frigillana

Thanks for agreeing to do this! As we’ve just arrived into the new year, I want to start by asking: how did you arrive at photography and how has your practice evolved so far? Your earlier work was anything from still life to street photography, but your recent work seems to deal with more personal themes.

It’s my pleasure; thank you for having this conversation with me! Wow, looking back at how I’ve arrived at this point makes me feel so grateful for this medium, and excited to think of where it will lead me from here. I came to photography somewhat late. I was initially studying to become a nurse and was set to start a career in that field, but I found myself unhappy with where I was going. My mother was a nurse and I know what goes into being one; it’s not an easy job, and I respect those who do it, but my heart wasn’t in it. I found photography as a creative outlet during that stage of my life, and I’ve clung onto it ever since.

My first exposure to photography (no pun intended) came in the form of street and photojournalism. I would borrow books from the library a lot, consuming works by Magnum and other photographers working in that tradition. At the time, it was all I knew so that’s what I tried to emulate. Even early on in my undergrad career, these modes of creation were reinforced by curriculum and by what I saw from my own peers. My still-life work branches off of that same sentiment: the only names that were ever thrown around by professors were Penn and Mapplethorpe, so that’s who I studied. Thankfully over the years, I’ve been able to broaden that perspective through my own research. Though I don’t necessarily pursue street or constructed still-lifes anymore for my personal work, I’d like to think my technical skills (in regard to timing, composition, light) owe a debt to those past experiences.

I suppose now I’m starting to explore how photography can be used as language, to communicate ideas and internal conflicts. I’m thinking more about the power of imagery, its authorship, its implications, and how photographs have shaped, and continue to shape, our reality. That’s where my work is headed at the moment.

I liked how you mentioned photography as a language, which calls into question who we are speaking to when we make images and what kind of narrative we construct by putting photographs together.

In your work “Visions of Eden”, you trace your family’s journey as first-generation Filipino immigrants in America. I was quite struck by how you managed to link together original photography, archived materials and video stills. To me, with the original photography there was a sense of calm and clarity, perhaps in the composition. But with the archived material it was like peering through tinted glass, and the video stills felt like an unsteady memory. What was the editing process like for you and how did you decide what to include or exclude?

For me, editing is the hardest part about photography. Shooting is the enjoyable part of course because it can feel so cathartic. Sometimes when I shoot it feels almost like muscle memory in the sense that you see the world and you just react to it in a trained way. But with editing, it’s more of a cerebral exercise. More thought is involved when you have to deal with visual relationships, sequence, rhythm, and spacing, etc. The real creation of my work takes place in the editing process. That’s where the ingredients come together to form an identity.

When creating this identity, I not only have to think about what I want to say, but also how I want to say it. It’s like speaking; there are numerous ways you can communicate a single sentence. How are images placed in relation to one another? How large are they printed, or how much white space surrounds it? Are the images repeated? What’s on the following page? The preceding page? Is there text? How are they positioned on the spread? All of these little choices impact the tone of your work. And that’s not even mentioning tactile factors like paper stock or cover material. I think that’s why I have such a deep love for photobooks because 1) they’re physical objects and 2) someone has obsessed over every aspect of that object.

I’m aware that my photographs lately have a quiet, detached, somewhat stripped-down quality to them. I think that’s just a subconscious rejection of my earlier days shooting a lot of street where I was constantly seeking crowded frames and complexity in my compositions. As I’ve grown older, I realize less is more and if I can do more by saying less, that’s even better. Now, the complexity I seek lies in the work as a whole and how all these little parts can form something fluid and layered, and not easily definable.

For Visions of Eden, I wanted the work to feel somewhat syncopated and wandering in thought. That meant finding a balance between my quiet static photographs and the movement and energy of the video stills, or balancing the coldness of the illustrations with the warmth of the family snapshots. The work needed to be cohesive but have enough ambiguity for it to take life in someone else’s imagination. Peoples’ lived experiences in regard to immigration and religion are so complex that they can’t be narrated in any one definitive way. Visions of Eden, hopefully, is a rejection of that singularity.

Yes, there’s definitely something special and intimate about flipping through a photobook! For your monograph, you recently released a second edition which is different from your first (redesigned, added images, etc.). Why did you decide to make it different? Was the editing mainly a solitary process?

The first edition was a partially hand-made object. Illustrations were printed on translucent vellum paper and then tipped into the gutter of the book. When you flip through the pages, those vellum sheets would overlap over certain images, creating a collage-like effect. That was my original concept for this book. Doing this, however, was so laborious and time consuming, and not to mention expensive! Regretfully, I wound up making only twenty copies of that first edition. I wanted the work shared with a wider audience so that’s why I decided to publish a second run.

The latest edition is more of a straight-forward production without the vellum paper. With this change in design, I had to reconfigure the layout. I took liberties in swapping out some images or adding new ones altogether. Also, a beautiful afterword was contributed by my friend, artist, writer, and curator Efrem Zelony-Mindell. I still feel so fortunate and grateful to have had my work seen and elevated by their words in my book.

For the most part, yes editing is quite a solitary process for me. But there does come a point when I feel it’s ready, where I share the work with a few trusted people. It’s always nice to have that outer support system. Much of Visions of Eden was created during my time in undergrad school so I had all sorts of feedback from peers and professors which I’m grateful for. But in the end, as the author, you ultimately have the final say in your work.

Given that Eden is a starting point and metaphor in the work, I was thinking about ideas of gardens, (forbidden) fruit, and movement of people.

How do you view yourself in relation to your place of birth? In your series, I see the most direct links in the letters, old photos where tropical foliage is present in the background, and the photo of the jackfruit (perhaps the only tropical fruit in this series).

I came to America when I was very young, about five years old. For my family and for many other families still living in the Philippines, America is seen as a sort of ideological Eden: a land of milk and honey, of wealth and excess. We all know that’s far from the truth. Every Eden has a caveat, a forbidden tree. Which leads me to ask: as an immigrant living in this country, what fruits were never intended for me?

I honestly don’t remember much about my childhood in the Philippines aside from fleeting memories of my relatives, the sounds of animals, the smell of rain and earth, the taste of my grandmother’s cooking. The identity that I carry with me now as a Filipino is not so much tied to the physical geography of a place but rather it is derived from a way of life, from shared stories, in the values we hold dear, passed on from generation to generation. This is a warm flame that lives on in me to this day as I write these words thousands of miles away from where I came.

Photographs have a way of shaping our memory and our relationship to the past, which in turn affects how we engage with the present. The family photographs and letters used in my book act as anchors in a meandering journey. They serve as landmarks that I can return to whenever I feel lost or need assurance so far away from “home”. They give me the comfort and affirmation that I need to navigate a space where I never really felt I belonged. The spread in my book­­ that you mentioned—the jackfruit on one side, and the Saran-wrapped apple on the preceding page—was a reference to my duality as both Filipino and American. It’s a reminder and an acknowledgment that I am a sum of many things, of many people who have shaped me. If I flourish in life, it’s because my roots were nourished by love.

I like how you mentioned photos as anchors or landmarks. Isn’t that why we create and photograph? To mark certain points in our lives and to envision possible futures, like a cartographer mapping an inner journey. Do you feel like you and your relationships with those you photographed changed through the process of making your works?

When my parents took pictures of our family, it wasn’t done solely in the name of remembrance; it also served as an affirmation of ourselves and our journey—a celebration. Every birthday, vacation, school ceremony, or even the seemingly insignificant events of daily life were all photographed or video-taped as a way of saying to ourselves, “Here we are. Look how far we’ve come. Look at the life we’ve made. And here’s the proof”.

Now, holding a camera and photographing my family through my own lens still carries all of that celebratory joy, but with so much more possibility. Before I really took photography seriously, I never realized its potential as a medium for introspection, but that’s ultimately what it has become for me. In taking pictures of my family, I not only clarify my own feelings about them, but the act of photography itself informs and builds on my relationship with each person. The camera is not a mere recording device, but a tool for understanding, processing, and even expressing love...or resentment. Though I may not be visible in my pictures, my presence is there: in my proximity, my gaze, my focus.

Does all of this impact my relationships? Absolutely. Photographing another person willingly always demands some degree of trust and vulnerability from both sides. There’s a silent dialogue that occurs which feels like an exchange of secrets. I think that’s why I often don’t feel comfortable photographing other people unless we’re very close. Usually my family is open enough to reveal themselves to me, other times what they give can feel quite guarded. That’s a constant negotiation. After the photograph is made though, nobody ever emerges the same person because each of us has relinquished something, no matter how small.

Being self-reflexive in photography is so important. I agree it should be a constant negotiation, but it’s something that bothers me these days – the power dynamic between the photographer and photograph, particularly for personal and documentary projects. More significantly, after the photograph has been made, who is really benefiting. But I guess if we are sensitive to that then perhaps we can navigate that tricky path and find a balance. 

Right, finding that balance is key and sometimes there are no clear-cut answers. That power dynamic is something I always have to be mindful of. As the photographer, you are exercising a certain role and position. At the end of the day, you’re the one essentially “taking” what you need and walking away. There’s an inherent violence or aggression in the act of taking someone’s picture, no matter how well-intended it may be. This aggression carries even greater weight when working, as you say, in a genre like documentary where representation is everything.

I remember an undergrad professor of mine, Nadia Sablin, introducing me to the work of Shelby Lee Adams—particularly his Appalachian Legacy series. Adams spent twenty-five years documenting the disadvantaged Appalachian communities in his home state of Kentucky, visiting the same families over a long period of time. Though the photographs are beautifully crafted, they pose many questions in regard to exploitation, representation, and the aestheticization of suffering. He is or was, after all, an artist thriving and profiting off of these photographs. Salgado is another that comes to mind. This was the first time I really stopped to think about the ethics of image-making. Who is benefitting from it all?

I think the search for this balance is something each photographer has to reckon with personally. Though each situation may vary with different factors that have to be weighed, and context that must be applied, you can always ask yourself these same ever-pertinent questions: am I representing people in a dignified way, and what are my intentions with these images? Communication (listening), building relationships, acknowledging your power, and respecting the people you photograph are all foundational things to consider when exercising your privilege with the camera.

Well said! The process of making photographs can be tricky to navigate yet rewarding. Any upcoming projects or ideas? What’s keeping you busy these days?

Oh, let’s just say I’m constantly juggling 3-4 ideas in my head at any given time, but ninety percent of the time they don’t ever lead to anything finished haha. This past year has been tough on everyone I’m sure. I’ve been dealing a lot with personal loss and grief and the compounded isolation brought on by the pandemic, so for months I’ve been making photographs organically as a subconscious response to these internal struggles. It’s more of an exploration of grief itself as a natural phenomenon and force—like time or gravity. Grief is something everyone will experience in life and each of us deals with it differently, but in the end we have to let it run its course. I see these photographs as a potential body of work that could materialize as a zine or book one day, so we’ll see where that goes.

Other than that, I’ve been working on an upcoming collaboration project with Cumulus Photo. Speaking of which, I saw your photograph featured in their latest zine, running to the edge of the world. Congrats on that! It’s beautiful. But yeah, just trying my best to keep busy and sane, and improving myself any way I can.

Thanks! Looking forward to your upcoming projects! Last question: any music to recommend?

I feel like my answer to this question can vary by the week. I go through phases where I exhaust whole albums on repeat until I get tired of them. So I’ll leave you with the two currently on my rotation: Angles by The Strokes, and Screamadelica by Primal Scream.

Thank you for your time!

Thank you for a lovely discourse. I had a lot of fun!

his website and Instagram.

Get more updates on our Facebook page and Instagram.

[multi--kpop--fanfics]

(Not) Such A Good Boy

sub!bf!Juyeon x dom!fem!reader (ft. Eric, Kevin and Hyunjae)

genre: smut, slight crack, a bit of fluff towards the end

contains: dom/sub themes, degradation, oral sex (f receiving), marking, biting, spanking, Juyeon is a brat on a choker and a leash, unprotected sex (be safe y’all)

Author’s note: This man right there has been wrecking my existence lately (I blame Kingdom) and this GIF screams sub!Juyeon so yeah, enjoy this filth

“Lee Juyeon, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you scoff under your breath. You have been waiting for the past twenty minutes in the living room, outfit and makeup on point, since you were about to go clubbing with your group of friends. But apparently, your dear boyfriend had lost all sense of time, trying to get ready.

Visibly irritated, you storm to your shared bedroom, your heels angrily clicking on the wooden floor. “Juyeon, I swear to God-” you mutter and stop mid-sentence, only to see your boyfriend leaning on the door, fully dressed and a lop-sided smirk plastered on his handsome face. 

“You called, babe?”, he asks teasingly and before rolling your eyes, you give him an once-over, processing his choice of clothes - a pair of tight black leather pants that were hugging his muscular thighs deliciously, a pair of black combat boots, a cropped black sweater with holes around his clavicles and a black belt-like choker around his neck. He was the epitome of the emo bad boy that all parents hated and all girls craved. 

“Um, what is this?”, you question him with a pointing finger. "That, is my outfit for tonight", Juyeon states, the previous smirk still on his face, "What, you don't like it?". "Isn't it a bit unfair for me to wear not so revealing clothes all while you're dressed as an emo himbo?", you complain and he laughs, "An emo himbo? Wow, you're getting more creative with your descriptions, Y/N. You're right though, it's a sort of questionable outfit". You perk up at his response, hoping he'll change into something more colorful and less hole-adorned, only to be utterly disappointed, as Juyeon reached into the closet only to drape a black leather jacket on top of his broad shoulders. "Now we're good to go", he turns to you and winks with audacity. Brat, you scoff mentally and pick up the keys to unlock the door and finally leave your shared apartment.

"Finally! What the fuck took you so long?!", your friend Eric yells at you, trying to overcome the loud bass of the club speakers. "Your complaints to your friend over there, he was the one who took twenty minutes to get ready", you roll your eyes pointing to Juyeon, who was greeting Hyunjae and Kevin, your other friends. "Yooo, Juyeon, what's up with the collar, bro?", Eric amusingly points out. "It's a choker, you tasteless twat. But what would you know of fashion, since you only know how to wear t-shirts and ripped jeans?", Kevin comments and Juyeon mouths a 'thank you' to him. "Simple is the best, my dear friend. Besides, I've been getting all the girls, unlike you and your snake print jacket", Eric retaliates. "Excuse you, this jacket is a fashion statement!", Kevin bites back, feeling insulted. "Not gonna lie though, it does look like a collar. Will you put him on a leash too, Y/N?", Hyunjae comments in a snarky way, making Eric cringe in disgust. "Hyunjae, please go get some drinks, for God's sake", you reply with a dismissive manner. "Yes ma'am", he rolls his eyes and goes to the bartender.

You turn to Juyeon, who was extremely stiff after Hyunjae's comment. "You okay, baby?", you nudge him softly and he's brought back to reality. "Y-yeah, I'm fine, no worries", Juyeon replies, praying that the loud bass could cover his shaky voice. "Don't listen to Eric and Hyunjae, they have zero fashion sense, bro. I would wear that choker too, looks hella good on you", Kevin adds while pointing to the choker and Juyeon's smile is back on his face, "Thanks, bro, I really appreciate it", he replies with a chirpy tone.

The music suddenly changes into a slower jam and Juyeon smirks devilishly, as he winks at you and walks towards the dance floor. You watched as he starts swaying his hips and shoulders in the most smooth way possible, his half-lidded eyes never leaving yours. Eric and Kevin were whistling and cheering on Juyeon, all while Hyunjae was snorting at their antiques. You were simply lost in the image of your boyfriend dancing like there was no tomorrow. He wasn't just following the rhythm, he was riding it - and boy, was he good at doing so.

In fact, he was so good that he gained the attention of many people in the club. And you were lowkey proud, because that man was yours. However, a certain girl wasn't aware of that - hence why she approached Juyeon and started dancing with him. You were a bit jealous, not gonna lie, but the next moment made your blood fucking boil.

He had the fucking audacity to put his hands on her waist and dance with her - all while looking to you over her shoulder with the most smug expression on his face. That fucker, you mentally curse. This was definitely payback for everything you said before you left the house. You just knew it. You weren't even the jealous or possessive type of girlfriend to begin with.

But you'd be damned if you were to let a random bitch run her hands over your boyfriend.

Hyunjae catches up to your motions and he grabs you by your wrist. "Hyunjae, what the f-" "Shut up and listen to me. Going there and creating a scene will not end up well for you and you will give Juyeon exactly what he wants", he states and his words hit home faster that you expected. "Since when did you become so perceptive?", you raise an eyebrow and he chuckles, "I have my moments too, Y/N". "So, since your brain decided to actually function tonight, do you have any idea?" you ask in defeat and Hyunjae starts pulling you to the dance floor by your hand, leaving Eric and Kevin completely baffled. He then pulls you into his chest and leans in your ear to whisper

"Just dance, Y/N".

A Cheshire cat-like grin spreads on your lips, as you catch up to his ulterior motive and you start dancing with Hyunjae, hoping that Juyeon will notice the two of you. "Don't think too much about it, it will happen naturally", he adds, "You're too stiff, Y/N, just relax and enjoy dancing".

His words actually succeed in making you relax and you sway your hips more comfortably, actually enjoying the slow jams echoing through the club speakers. Under the dim lights, you lock eyes momentarily with Juyeon, who was licking his lips and his gaze was a mix of lust and death glares, the last one directed to Hyunjae. "Told you it would work", he comments, "You owe me this one". "Shut the fuck up, Hyunjae", you spit back and he laughs.

However, his laughter is cut short by a very jealous Juyeon, who has grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "Next time I see you dance with Y/N, I'll break your fucking kneecaps", he growls and Hyunjae takes a step back, "She's all yours, bro", he raises his hands in defense and returns to the table. Juyeon then turns to you, his blood still boiling with jealousy, as you watch him with a proud smirk.

"You find this funny, huh? Dancing shamelessly with my friend?", he clenches his jaw. You then thread a finger through his choker and pull him close to your face, making Juyeon gasp. "Funny? No honey, I'm fucking fuming right now, because you decided to act like a brat and put your hands on the first bitch that threw herself on you", you retaliate, your chill facade slipping away. A sickly sweet smile adorns Juyeon's face as he watches every single movement of yours. He lowers his head, his lips hanging mere centimeters over yours and he slyly pokes out his tongue to lick your lips, hissing at the wet feeling.

"You're so fucking hot when you're mad, baby".

That was the last straw.

"Get your stuff, we're going home", you announce and he flashes a toothy grin. "Yes ma'am", he replies almost immediately and you return to your friends' table. "Guys, we'll be leaving now, hope you enjoy the rest of the night!" you announce and Eric looks between Juyeon and you. "Do I want to know what's going on?", he questions and Kevin pats him on the back while shaking his head as in 'no'. You both bid farewell to your friends and you walk out of the club, jogging towards your car. Juyeon whips out the cars keys and he opens the door for you, his gentleman-like gesture a complete contrast to his previous bratty behaviour.

The ride back home feels like it lasted for hours, when in reality, it lasted only ten minutes - maybe it's your sheer desire to fuck your handsome boyfriend to oblivion. By the time you entered your shared apartment, your lips were on Juyeon's neck, your hands roaming his toned body and his arms wrapped around your waist.

"You love acting like a bratty slut, don't you?", you sneer at him and he releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, and so do you", he whispers and he trails kisses upon your neck and behind your ear, nibbling your earlobe. "Are you going to punish me for being a bratty slut?".

You thought you came right there and then, 'cause fuck, he is so hot like this.

"Is that what you want? Fine then, you'll get the punishment you deserve, slut", you hiss while gripping Juyeon's jaw, your manicured nails raking his porcelain skin, "Don't say I didn't warn you", you whisper into his ear and he releases one of the lewdest sounds you've ever heard in your life. "God, you're a desperate little bitch, aren't you, Lee Juyeon?", you ask while removing the detachable strap of your bag and clasp it on his choker, creating a make-shift leash. "Only for you, baby", he replies with a sultry voice and half-lidded eyes.

You pull him by the make-shift leash, and you push him onto the couch, where you settle yourself on his lap, his hard cock straining his already tight pants. You remove his shirt, exposing his chiseled body. Wasting no time, you attack his collarbones with your lips, trailing red and purple blotches on his soft skin. You bite the juncture of his neck teasingly and he releases breathy moans, making you chuckle. You grind your clothed core on his bulge, and the sweet friction makes Juyeon mewl again. He tries to reach for your crotch with his hand, but you stop him by pulling the leash, making him gasp.

"No sweetheart, no touching tonight", you chastise him, as you pull back to remove your clothes and his pants, leaving the both of you only in your underwear. Juyeon's bulge is even more evident now, the thin material of his boxers having a wet spot, due to his cock leaking pre-cum. The sight in front of you makes your own wetness pool in your panties - your boyfriend on a leash, his perfectly styled hair now disheveled, his upper torso covered in love bites, his muscular thighs fully spread and his cock straining against his boxers.

"Baby, fuck, please do something", he pleads with bleary eyes. "Lie down for me", you order and he's laid flat on his back with one swift motion, his desperation showing. You remove your underwear and place your naked pussy right in front of his face. He reaches for your thighs with his arms, but you slap them away. "I said, no touching", you say sternly, "But-", "You should have thought twice before touching that bitch with your hands. Now, be a good boy and use your pretty mouth", you demand.

Juyeon pushes his wet tongue into your heat without second thought and he's lapping up your juices like a starved man. You can't help but moan with satisfaction, having him under your control like that gave you a huge adrenaline rush. You raked your nails from his torso to the hem of his boxers, the sensation making him moan and momentarily halt his actions. You slap his left thigh to alert him and his cock twitches, the vibrations of his moans coursing through your body as well. Juyeon now flattens his tongue against your folds with a faster tempo.

"You like it when I spank you, huh? Naughty boy", you smirk and land another slap, this time on his right thigh. Juyeon retaliates by sucking on your clit harshly, making you yelp from pleasure and you feel him smirk against your pussy. You find the leash and tug it, pulling Juyeon's face even closer to your core. "Behave, or you'll sleep without cumming tonight", you warn him and he whines, but resumes his efforts nonetheless. "Good boy, k-keep it u-up", you stutter as you feel your high approach with each passing second. His tongue is alternating between circling your clit and pumping in and out of your hole, the squelching sounds creating a pornographic scene.

You scream as you cum on Juyeon's face, your whole body shaking, as he helps you ride out your orgasm with kitten licks. You pull yourself together and turn around to face him, as he nastily licks his lips to taste your essence. "Sweet like fucking candy", he comments, "Want a taste, baby?". You pull him by the leash and crash your lips on his, tasting yourself, as your tongues dance crazily in a battle of dominance. "You're still acting like a brat, but since you did as I said, maybe you deserve to cum after all", you state and bend down to remove his boxers and free his painfully hard erection.

"Y/N, stop fucking teasing already!", Juyeon whines again and you slap his thigh again, "Where did your manners go, baby?".

"Please, Y/N..."

"Please what?"

"Please use my cock to cum"

"Fuck, such a good boy", you moan and spear yourself onto his hard cock, the sudden stretch tipping between pain and pleasure. You give yourself almost no time to adjust and you start riding Juyeon like a mad woman. He pistons his hips in unison, pounding into you with a speed neither of your brains are able to register. You put your hands on his broad chest for support and he holds your hips with his hands so tight you might get bruises the next day. Neither of you are able to contain your obscene moans nor form coherent sentences, way too lost in pleasure and lust.

"Fuck, Juyeon, you're such a good boy, so good for me", "Only for you Y/N, shit- only yours", he groans and his hips start to falter, signaling his upcoming orgasm. "I-I'm close again, nngh..", you mewl as you feel your insides clench around his cock like a vice. "M-Me too, Y/N please let me cum, let me f-fill you up baby", "Oh God, yes, fill me with your cum, babe", you moan loudly.

Juyeon moans with you as he stills himself, his cock twitching uncontrollably and flooding your cunt with his hot cum, painting your insides white. You collapse on top of him, panting heavily, the both of you sweating and spent, laughing breathlessly. You muster all the strength you have left in you to remove the choker from Juyeon's neck.

"Oof, thank you baby", he nods, rubbing his neck softly. You swipe a few dark strands of his forehead. You notice the marks on his neck the choker left and you can't help but feel a little regretful. "Did I hurt you?", you ask sheepishly and Juyeon smiles softly and presses a kiss on your nose. "No baby, you were perfect. We should do this more often, actually. You look hella sexy when you take control", he teases and you playfully smack his chest.

"So you intend to dance with random girls in clubs?", you ask and Juyeon smirks,

"No, but I intend to be not such a good boy for you".

[martieshub]

That got a chuckle out of her and sighed. ❛You'll find that people on the islands especially if you go to the other surrounding ones, they'll have a different definition for colors. ❜ She stated with a smile, this was home to her since birth but still found oddities in her beloved state. She had to think about it since it had been a while since she'd been asked that question. ❛I do like patterns maybe not as much as my brothers. They're always way into plaid, but I don't hate patterns. I won't do vertical stripes and animal print. Stripes just make me look like I have a big head and a tiny waist. Not flattering. As for favorite color, mine has to be coral. It reminds me of the ocean waves and the reefs that I see when we sea dive. ❜ She giggled and shook her head. ❛Welcome to my life twenty four seven. Double the wash but still worth it. Have you gotten Gael's handprint on any of your clothes yet? ❜

She playfully rolled her eyes as she fanned herself.❛We are entering another month of hot during the morning and hot during the night. I call it the no clothes months. ❜ There was a few shorts she saw that were in multiple sizes and thought why not grab them. ❛I'm so going to adopt that mindset. When we go home I'll tell my wife that. ❜ Lena smiled and nodded her head as her eyes scanned the ranks. Liz was fun to talk to, like she had always been there. ❛Not to be that person but I'm glad you're here. ❜ The question she wanted to ask lingered on the tip of her tongue and finally asked, ❛Do you miss when it was just you?❜

The romper idea had her nod and asked, ❛What are your thoughts on matching? That sounds like you're already having your outfit. Little purses? No. They have baggies that they carry but more often just think peoples pockets are where they can stash the gummy worms because none of the other kids can get to them. All the kids are oddballs.❜ The way her cheeks looked didn't get overlooked. ❛Then I think I'll steal you away and you can come with me. I call dibs before Wally does. He'll get to spend time with you every other time. It's my turn. ❜

❛I want to thank you for taking care of Anna the last few times. Work has been crazy and meli's schedule has been screwy lately so that puts Anna's schedule on a wonky one. So, and I know Wally never minds babysitting when when he has to work, he also has no choice, ❜ The day her own kid was sick and just wanted her uncle came to mind. That was still gonna be made up to him. ❛But with you, I'm very grateful that you take on that responsibility when you don't have to. ❜ In reality she knew Liz didn't need to be bothered by all the kids but the way she put in effort in getting to know them and play with them didn't go unnoticed. Lena knew all too well that a lot of people didn't like kids especially kids that weren't related so to see and hear her own daughters rave about Liz was a good feeling. ❛I just want to say we appreciate it. ❜

Lena's smile widened as she went over to pull the item up to envision her in it. ❛I love it. It's such a pretty color and not too much.❜ She genuinely grinned at her and bubbled with a subtle excitement over her choice. Yellow was such a pretty color that made features on most people shine. ❛ My only question is how do you feel in it? ❜

❝ Uh, too colorful. I like single-colored things or at most two-colored things. Yeah, maroon and, this really light color, it's both blue and green. I saw someone call it seafoam which is weird since whatever beach I go to anywhere on this planet, sea foam is usually white and brown, full of sand. ❞ She shrugged before turning the question back at Lena. ❝ How about you? Do you like patterns? Have a favorite color? ❞ A smile came to her face at the mention of Gael, the boy who had charmed her all those months ago at Easter. ❝ I started keeping doubles of the things I find comfortable. One to wear when the kids are around and the other once they're not and I wash the other. I mean, i do have to do twice the laundry I used to do before, but at least I have comfy clothes, I guess. ❞

The smile that came to her face at the thought of Lena wanting her around was involuntary. She was still nervous about wanting to be liked by Wally's family and hearing Lena say she'd like to have her around more often just made her feel better about it all. She knew all too well the feeling Lena described. ❝ I think you just have to put yourself in a bit of a bubble. Just sort of block out everything else and everyone else. Remind yourself that you're a badass bitch and your beautiful wife chose you over everyone else.❞ Having spent most of her life pretending to be other people, it was hard to not compare what she was supposed to be, wanted to be, and was. Just differently now.

A groan came from her at the information. ❝ Another one? ❞ That was the motivation she needed to update her wardrobe finally. ❝ Oh, what about a romper? I have one, Mai gifted it to me. it's flowy and they have ones that are like pants and others that are shorts and both have pockets. I'll probably get some of those and some sundresses. Gummy worms? Maybe we should get them some little purses to put them in. Do they have any? ❞ She was already thinking about some purses she saw once, they were small, kid sized but looked like the big ones. She felt her cheeks begin to warm at how Lena described it. ❝ Yeah.Thanks.❞ The words were small and shy but very appreciative of the woman's words.

❝ Steal away. ❞ The words were said with a giggle as she began to look through the racks for something she'd want to wear more than once. ❝ Oh, that makes total sense. I guess I'm good with wherever I'm wanted. ❞ She shrugged. ❝ I'd like to think that I have a slight grasp of each kid's likes and how to handle them best, so I'm okay being in any car.❞

Grabbing a couple of things, some for every day and one for the festival. ❝ What do you think of this? ❞ She held up a yellow rumper with ruffles so it made the shorts part look more like a flowy skirt rather than shorts, it had a deep v cut but that was something she could remedy with a tank top. ❝ Too much? ❞ Asking for Lena's honest opinion.

[sassyduckqueen]

Screw Destiny- For LBSC Lukanette Sprint Challenge

Soul-mark/mate AU with a twist.

Prompt: 'We are written in the stars' 'Yeah, well, the stars are stupid' and 'We're not soul mates but we still love each other'

Warning!!! Self Harm is shown and mentioned in this story. While it isn't too graphic, please be aware that it might act as a trigger.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Luka sighed as he looked in the mirror as he thought about his plan. It might not have been the best thing to do but he didn't know what else he was suppose to do. The last week had been awful and now he was faced with a choice that he thought he would never have to make. Either been unhappy or become a no mark. He traced his finger over the small bumble bee that rested on the inside of his wrist. It was his 'soul mate' mark. He didn't know why they existed, only that everyone had them. Some people loved the idea of been made for someone who was considered their other half. Of always been in love and together no matter what. His sister and her girlfriend Rose were those type of people but they had good soul mates. Rose was the sweetest girl he had met and Juleka was kind and gentle. Sure, she was shy but she was good. Their songs were as sweet as a bird's morning song and they balanced each other out. Rose brought Juleka out of her shell and Juleka calmed Rose down. They loved the whole soulmate thing. However, he was not that type of person. He didn't think it was romantic. He thought it was controlling and creepy. He didn't like the idea that he would be forced to be with one person for the rest of his life. It wasn’t that he was against marriage or been faithful to one person. He just hated the idea of that he couldn’t pick who that person was. It went against everything he was and all he believed in. He was what one might call a free spirit and believed in complete free will. As far as he was concerned, Fate could take it's plans and shove them where the sun didn't shine. He was the master of his life, destiny and will and no one in the universe could control him. However, he had hoped that his soul mate would be someone who was creative and kind. If he didn't get a choice in who they were then he hoped was like him. Unfortunately, his soul mate was Chloe Bourgeois. The very girl who bullied his sister, Rose and their friends. He felt sick the moment he realized. He had rushed to the bathroom and threw up after meeting her. Her song was awful and she was nothing more than a brat. However, she had been pretty pleased about him been her soul mate. She stated that he was attractive but commented that he would need to stop 'dressing like trash'. He didn't like how she saw his clothes as trash but due to the magic that binded their souls together, he had to agree with her. It felt forced and wrong when he nodded. After spending a day with her, he felt drained and there was no way he could do this for the rest of his life. Whomever had decided that she was his perfect match must have been high that day because they were completely wrong for each other. He always been taught that soul mates were meant to complete each other but he felt like she was a triangle and he was a circle. They didn't match and there would never been a true connection between them. Their songs would not sing in harmony and Luka would feel trapped like some beast in a cage. He would only ever be a piece of eye candy on her arm for all to see but he would never truly be loved by her nor would he ever truly love her. He couldn't do it. He was a free and creative soul and Chloe wasn’t. She was everything he hated. That had what lead him to where he was. He looked at his reflection again as he thought his choice over one last time. He was deciding if he wanted to become a no mark or a mark destroyer as they were sometimes known. A No Mark was a person who had destroyed their soul mark, breaking the magic and connection to their soulmate. His mother had done it with his father but she was the only one he knew of. The problem was that the only way to destroy a soul mark was to physically remove it and then there were the rumors. Some say that once you removed your soul mark, you lost the ability to ever love again. His mother had cut it out of her arm and had never bothered been with someone after that. Luka wasn't sure if it was because she couldn't love or because of choice but she was happy and free. He looked at his mark again before looking up at his reflection. He narrowed his eyes and picked up the lighter he planned to use to get rid of it.

 "I am the master of my own life and destiny," He stated, holding his arm out and lighting it. He held it to his arm, causing it to burn. He cried out as the fire burnt his skin but he kept going. His eyes widened as he felt the connection shatter as his skin burnt. Soon, the bee was gone and all was left was a burn and blood where it had been. Luka shakily dropped the lighter and ran the cold tap before carefully placing his injured wrist under it, cleaning. He hissed as it hurt before he took out an antiseptic liquid and cotton wool pads. He used it to clear the wound before wrapping it up in a bandage. Once that was done, he ran water again and splashed his face before looking up at his reflection. He was afraid that it would feel bad and he knew he would be considered a freak but he honestly felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and that he was truly free. With a certain and determined look, he glanced back at his reflection and repeated the words that had become his mantra. "I am the master of my own life and destiny,"

 ~A Few Years Later~

 "I am not in love with you anymore," Marinette gasped as she pulled away from Adrien. He had been her soul mate but she realized it had been come a burden that was slowly ebbing away at her and breaking her down.Firstly there were the people who wanted to have him as their soul mate. Some hadn’t been too bad but one girl had made it her life’s mission to harm Marinette because of it. Then there was the issue with Adrien himself. He was what you might call sunshine personified but not in the way she thought he was. He was burning her and destroying her. She thought he had been a dream come true but now he was a wish she wished she had never made. It was one of the reasons why she had decided to become a no mark. Another reason was because of how controlling his father had been. He understood that she was Adrien's soul mate but she had to meet his expectations. He had tried to mould her into someone she was not. She had learnt very quickly that the Agreste men had decided she should basically be a doll. She would need to look her best all the time, she would never speak out of term and she would never work. She was expected to provide an heir and act as the perfect wife but that wasn't who Marinette was. She was chaotic and smart. She loved getting involved and wanted to be a designer. She hoped to run her own fashion house one day under the name MCD but Mr Agreste had told her she would be a designer under his label and not her own. It was part of what would be expected about her if she married into that family. All of that plus the girl out to destroy had been enough to push her into thinking about becoming a No Mark but the final straw had been when he had insulted her family. Adrien hadn’t even tried to defend them and she was expected to accept what Mr Agreste had said. Well, no sir, she would not. That night she left with the intention of becoming a no mark and she did. It had hurt but she sliced across the paw print that was her soul mark to Adrien and severed their connection. Within minutes of tending to the wound, she had phoned him and broke up with him. Boy did it felt amazing. She felt truly free to become whoever she wanted. She had even met a lovely musician who she had started a budding romance with. However, even months later, Adrien still hadn't gotten the message. He stood there, looking at her as she tried to get into the cafe where she was suppose to be meeting her date. "Adrien, move,"

 "No, I'm not moving!" He gasped as she stepped around him and inside. However, he followed her. "Marinette, please! Hear me out!"

 "I'm not interested," She declared in an emotionless manner before seeing Luka by the counter. He was speaking to the barrister and dressed in a blue shirt and black pants. Her heart fluttered as she looked at him. He might not be her soul mate but she was definitely finding herself falling for him. The best part is she knew this was real. He was a no mark like her. Adrien, however, blocked her sight as he stepped into her vision, making her groan in annoyance. "Adrien, seriously. Go away,"

 "I can't, mi'lady!" He gasped, actually getting down on his knee. She felt sick from the nickname he gave her. "We're meant to be! We're soul mates!"

 "Not anymore!"

 "Mari, you can't be serious!" He gasped as she walked away from him. He looked shocked as she did. He jumped up and grabbed her arm, making her roll her eyes. "But we're written in the stars!"

 "Yeah, well, the stars are stupid!" She declared, shocking him again. This was not his Marinette. She torn her arm from him and rolled up her sleeve, revealing her damaged mark. He winced as he saw it. He had felt it when she had done it. "Did you forget that I became a no mark?!"

 "Our love is stronger then a mark,"

 "No, Adrien, our love doesn't exist and it never did! It wasn't even real!" She gasped, making him look back at her with hurt. If she still had her soul mark, she would have felt guilty and been compelled to say sorry and make it up to him but since she was a no mark, she wasn't bound to the same rules anymore. She was free. "You wanted a wife who wouldn't question you or your father. Well, news break, Adrien! I'm not that girl! Now get out of my face! I'm already late as it is!"

 "Mari-" He started but a hand landed on his shoulder, making him look behind him as he came face to face with a young man with blue and black hair. He had a harsh look in his eyes as he started at Adrien before he looked over at Marinette. A soft expression took over his eyes. It made Adrien feel sick as he looked at her.

 "Is this man bothering you, Miss?" He asked, making him blink.

 "I'm not bothering her!" He gasped, yanking his arm from him. He frowned as he saw the scar on his inner wrist. Great, another no mark. "I'm her soulmate,"

 "Hmm... soul mates are overrated," He stated as the harsh look returned in his eyes. "Now kindly leave my cafe and this young lady alone before I make you. She is obviously not interested in you,"

 Adrien blanched in shock before looking back at Marinette. She turned her nose up before he let his shoulder sink and walked away, leaving the cafe. As soon as he left, the tension lifted and Marinette broke into a smile before gently kissing the young man's cheek. He smiled back at her as she blushed.

 "I'm sorry that I'm late, Luka," She smiled shyly, pushing her hair behind her ear. His expression turned to one of ease and happiness as he held out his arm to her.

 "Don't worry about it, Mari," He smiled, making her giggle as she took his arm. "I made your favorite today,"

 "You're the best," She grinned, walking over to a table with him. They sat down as Marinette played with her hands. Luka reached out and gently took hers in his. She glanced at the scar on the inside of his wrist before looking at the cuts over hers. "That... that was my soul mate... Adrien..."

 "He seemed delightful," Luka grinned sarcastically, making her giggle. "Mine use to be Chloe Bourgeois,"

 "Oh no wonder you decided to be a no mark," She gasped before covering her mouth. "I mean-"

 "Oh, it was exactly like that," He grinned, making her feel better. "Maybe it's because I am no mark but I don't get it. It seems so wrong and forced to have a soul mate already prepared for you,"

 "Right?" Marinette gasped before looking at Luka. "But I like spending time with you, Luka. It feels real and genuine,"

 "That's because it is, my melody," He smiled, making her blush at the nickname. She knew they weren't soul mates but she also knew she was falling in love with him and judging by the gentle look in his eyes, he felt the same.

[carnationworld-writings]

Being pregnant with Greg ‘Mouse’ Gerwitz’s baby

MASTERLIST

Paring: Greg “Mouse” Gerwitz x Reader

Universe: One Chicago

Word Count: 2759

Warnings: mention of PTSD, pregnancy, child birth, pain, therapy, overprotectivness, fem!reader

If I forgot about anything feel free to write to me. Your wellbeing is important to me!

Summary: How your pregnancy could be when being in a relationship with Mouse and as a member of the Intelligence Unit?

You met at work. You were a detective in the Intelligence Unit and an old friend of Jay Halstead when Mouse started working there. You immediately found him very sweet, and very often, you couldn't stop smiling when he couldn't stop talking or did his tech magic. 

You spent a lot of time talking. It was common to find both of you together. When you needed a moment to calm down after a case, you hid downstairs with him. When you all talked about new evidence in the case, he would lean against your desk. When you came back from the call, he ALWAYS came to check on you. 

You became closer after Nadia's death. Being a female cop was hard. You offered to help her, and that allowed you to spend a lot of time together. Her death hit you hard. (Not so hard like Lindsay, but still.) He had seen how different cases affected you. However, he had never seen you crying so hard, like in the moment when news about finding Nadia's body reached you. You collapsed in his arms, and he held you for hours. 

You started dating sometime after that. You both knew Voight's rule about no dating in the unit. Because of that, at your request, when you were sure about this relationship, you told him about this. You were sincere about everything, showing him that your relationship didn't affect your work. 

Everybody said that you are a perfect couple. Of course, you argued, but you always tried to understand the other person. Sometimes he was a little overprotective. Sometimes you were pissed off when he shut you down. But at the end of the day, you always tried to make up. Life was too short, especially when you were a cop. 

Pregnancy definitely wasn't planned. You realized that you were late on your period, and you told Mouse about this, even if at the beginning you thought that it was because of stress. He offered to go for a pregnancy test. When you waited for results, you saw how anxious he was, so you just held his hand. The test came positive, and you watched how he freaked out. He was afraid that he can't be a good father, that because of his PTSD, he could hurt the baby. 

"Greg… I know this is hard, and I'm not ready either. But I can't… I can't abort it." her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. "I know that you will be an amazing father. I know it because you already took good care of me. You are so caring and generous. And I know that you would never hurt them. It will be hard, but I'm sure that together we can do it, like we did with so many things. But if you don't want it… I won't force you to stick with us. And I won't be mad if you walk away. Maybe I'll be a little hurt, but I will understand, Greg." She felt tears in her eyes when she looked at him. She could tell that he was thinking about her words. And then he came closer to her and took her in his arms. He held her tight, and she let her tears run on her cheeks. 

"I could never walk away from you. And you're right. We can do it. I'll go for a therapy or support group to keep my demons under control."

She didn't know what to say, how to show him how grateful and happy she was, so she just took his face in her hands and kissed him.

You made an appointment as soon as possible. That day, Mouse called Voight that you felt unwell and he'd stay with you. You went to the doctor's office together. When they did an ultrasound, he held your hand so tight and couldn't stop bouncing his leg. You both couldn't tear your eyes from the picture of your baby on the monitor. When your doctor asked if you wanted her to print it and how many copies you want, he just said: "As many as you could give us." 

You told Voight about your pregnancy as soon as it was confirmed. Actually you called him after you left the doctor’s office to meet him. You didn't want to risk the baby's life because of your work. When you told him, he really surprised you. He was so happy for both of you and hugged you. Immediately he put you on desk work for the unit - you worked for him so long that he knew that there is no power in the universe to stop you from working. 

You tried to hide it for the rest of the team as long as you could. You wanted to wait for the end of the first trimester, and you used an old wound as an excuse. 

After you found out about the baby, Mouse called Doctor Charles and started therapy again. He really wanted to be the best version of him for both of you. You always assured him that you are very proud of him and that you see everything he'd done.  

After your first appointment, Mouse became a little overprotective. He checked if you were not hungry and drank enough water. He made sure you didn't drink too much coffee and tried to get you to give it up. 

When the possibility of miscarriage went lower, you decided to announce pregnancy to your team. It was so hard to hide your pregnancy, especially when Ruzek and Atwater's lunch choices made you sick. You also were sure that Serge Platt knew about the baby or at least suspected something. This woman always knew everything, but she never said anything. 

Y/N and Mouse came to work a little earlier that day. She was glad that only Voight was in the bullpen. Mouse put your enlarged ultrasound on board and you wrote next to it: "Backup is on the way! Baby Gerwitz coming *due date*" and then turned the board to hide it, waiting for the rest of the team. She sat behind her desk, patiently waiting for everybody to come to work and slowly starting paperwork. When everybody came, Mouse went for Trudy, telling her that they needed her help with a case. When they all were on their spots, Voight went out of his office. A few days before, they asked him for help with the announcement, and even if he acted tough cop, he was honoured. He looked at Y/N, and when she nodded, feeling Mouse's hand on arm, he got the unit's attention. 

"Listen up, we got a case." He turned the board, and three of them watched the rest of this chosen family. Trudy was the first who gasped, looking at the young detective and then quickly came to her, taking Y/N in her arms. Y/N couldn't stop her tears at the amount of love from this family. She happily accepted every congratulations and hug. When she leaned on Mouse slightly, answering Erin and Antonio's questions, she missed the proud smile that Voight, Trudy and Al exchanged.

Since that day, Halstead, Ruzek and Atwater went overprotective of you. You often found on your desk some healthy snack, they brought you something to drink before you could stand up from your chair. If you only mention food that you craved, often one of them found a way to bring it to you. If you frown because of a cramp or because the position you were sitting in was not comfortable, they immediately asked if you were alright or needed to see a doctor. If they only could, they would put you on bed rest - much to Mouse happiness. And when they were too much, and your threats to kick their asses didn't work, only one look at Olinsky or Lindsay was enough to put them in line by one of them. Trudy welcomed you every day with a big smile, asking how you and "Baby Mouse" were feeling. She always made sure that you didn't carry anything looking heavy and made one of the patrol officers bring it upstairs. She loved hearing news about the baby, and when she found out that they started kicking, she was more than happy to feel it on her hand. 

You and Mouse spent a lot of time at home. He loved holding you in his arms, caressing your belly. One of his best memories from pregnancy was when you both felt them kicking for the first time. He bent on his knees to place a kiss on your stomach, and then he felt it against his lips. He gasped with wide-open eyes, and with chuckles, he kissed it again, whispering how much he loves them.

Mouse didn't let you do anything in the nursery. Of course, you could choose everything and decide what you want it to look like, but you couldn't even wash off the dust. With help from Jay, he made everything there, and you could go inside only when everything was ready. The effect exceeded your expectations.

Pregnancy also affected your sex life, especially in the second trimester. Your hormones made you so horny, and after calming Mouse that sex is safe in your condition, you tried new positions and other ways to reach the pleasure. 

Mouse made sure to be at every doctor appointment. He loved seeing your child on ultrasound and hearing their heartbeat. He also went with you to childbirth classes. Actually, it was him who asked to go there. He just wanted to know what he should be prepared for. 

He didn't complain about helping you when you couldn't sleep at night. He would go to the grocery if you had some weird cravings. He would rub your belly, talking to the baby, when they were moving too much. He would do everything to make you comfortable. He would rub your leg when you woke up because of contraction or massage your back. He tried to be patient with you, and your moods swung. He would calm you down with a smile after you started crying at Ruzek's comment about how big your belly became. He always assured you how beautiful you were in his eyes and how much he loved you and your changing body. 

You didn't make it to maternity leave when your waters broke in the middle of the bullpen. Everybody knew that you wanted to stay as long as you could at work. It was your first child, and you were a little afraid to be alone too long, and your sight also calmed down Mouse. You were alone upstairs when it started. Very calm you came to your desk and called Trudy, who were downstairs at the front desk. When she packed you to the car, you texted Mouse to meet in the hospital.

You were already changed in a hospital gown and slowly walking through the hospital corridors, leaning on Trudy's arm. She held your hand and slowly rubbed your backs whenever you stopped because of contraction. You both talked with Maggie from ED when you saw him running in look at you. You smiled at him and leaned against him when he hugged you. 

"You alright, babe? You scared me…" he whispered in your hair.

"I'm okay. The baby just decided to come earlier. I think they couldn't wait to meet you." He chuckled, and then he looked at Trudy. 

"Sarge, thank you for keeping them safe." 

"Everything for that baby." She smiled at you and squeezed your hand. She stepped back to go to the district, where she could wait there for any news about the baby, but you held her hand. 

"Sarge. Could you... Stay here?" If it didn't feel the wave of pain that moment, you could see tears in her eyes when she happily agreed. 

He saw pain on your face and how you dealt with it. He felt so helpless, hearing your moans and grunts full of pain. He tried to do everything to ease it at least a little, but there was a moment when he felt so overwhelmed by this.

You watched Mouse, trying to breathe in the way they taught you in childbirth classes. You saw how his eyes became foggy, and he couldn't stop them at anything for more than a few seconds. You slowly touched his hand and squeezed it slightly. 

"Greg, love... Maybe you should take a walk? Go check if the unit is here or go buy yourself something to drink." 

He didn't say anything but nodded his head and then walked out to the corridor. He didn't know how he walked out in front of the hospital. Not long after this, Jay found him sitting there with his head in his arms. With a frown, he touched his shoulder. He quickly guessed that his PTSD was making itself felt.

"Mouse, something happened? Something with the baby?" 

"She's in so much pain..." 

"And she needs you right now. Y/N is giving birth to your baby. And both of them need you, man." 

"What if I lose her? I can't..."

"And you won't. Y/N is the toughest cop I know, and she will survive this just like your baby. But she needs to know right now that you are with her in this. She needs all the moral support she can get, and you are the best person for this." Mouse nodded and took a few deep breaths. 

"You're right. Y/N needs me." Mouse looked at his friend and quickly got up. He ran to your room again to hold your hand through all this. 

Since that moment, he was by your side all the time, doing everything you asked him. When you started pushing, he held your hand and kept kissing your head. He whispered encouraging words in your ear, trying to be helpful for you. He couldn't count how many times he wished to take all your pain on him. 

He started crying when he heard your baby crying. When they rested them on your chest, he watched them, carefully touching their backs. He laced a fond kiss on their head and then kissed your lips. You watched this little person snuggling to your body with an amused face expression. 

After they checked if everything was okay with the baby and with you, they put you in a room. You sent Mouse to tell your friends that the baby is already in the world, and he did it with a proud smile. He asked them to give you some time, and then they could meet the youngest Gerwitz. He came back to you and then held your child against his chest when you rested a little. 

After some time, full of watching your baby and daydreaming about their future, Mouse went for your unit family. You held the baby in your arms with a big smile when they came in. Erin, Kim and Trudy started cooing at the baby when the older of them took the baby in her arms. You watched them with a tired smile, couldn't help giggling when Mouse acted as an overprotective father. You looked up, feeling how someone squeezed your shoulder slightly, and you met Voight's eyes, who smiled at you and whispered: "Good work, kid. And don't worry. This will be the safest kid in the whole city." It just made you believe that the whole unit will have this child’s back no matter what. And for most of the afternoon, you sat surrounded by people who you choose for your family. You listened to how they promised your child what they would do together and how great it will be. You were moved how they already cared for this baby and you. You happily accepted every hug, especially the one from Trudy and Al, which were like parental for you. 

When you were left alone, Mouse couldn't tear his eyes from your baby and didn't want to put them on that cold, plastic crib. He kissed your forehead with eyes full of love and let you finally sleep. In this room was everything that he ever wanted but didn't have enough courage to dream about this. So he watched the both of you, vigilant that no one disturbs you in your sleep. It was his life now, and he swore to himself that he would do everything to keep you both safe and happy. 

***

Author’s note: 

Thank you for reading! Please, let me know what are you thinking about this one! Your comment means a world for me and motivates me to work! Also, taglist is open! If you want to be added just let me know!

In advance, I am sorry about every grammar mistake and misspellings. English is not my first language.

Klaudia xx

***

One chicago taglist: @teti-menchon0604

Let me know if you want to be added/removed.

[writing-for-life]

@bobbole Yes, I think we’ll never know how it might go for Daniel, so definitely head-canon territory.

What you write here is super interesting to me: “The final tragedy (whatever form it decides to take) would then be the conditio sine qua non Dream could not conclude his 'life cycle', and thus be reborn each time. Dream would therefore belong to that peculiar category of deities who must die in order to continue living.”

I personally see it potentially going like that, only that it’s not entirely tragic to me, simply because I can never get away from seeing them as concepts. And conceptually, dreams are transient and changing—they wouldn’t be dreams otherwise. I definitely think there will come a time for Daniel when he will think about that transition/change, but of course it would be possible in a million ways and doesn’t have to be death. I just personally wouldn’t want to assume what he stands for doesn’t weigh heavily on him, simply because it’s so established in canon that all siblings are struggling with the burden of their function. I personally don’t think that’ll magically change just because he’s Daniel. To the contrary, I think it would do his characterisation a disservice if he didn’t grapple with some of the problems related to his function just like Morpheus did (not all of them, because obviously he symbolises a different point of view). That shit is heavy! To me, Orpheus was always just the straw that broke the camel’s back—I think Morpheus wanted out much, much longer than that, and for completely different reasons (he knew something was going to change since Overture, he learned lessons since Dream Hunters [which is quite far back in the timeline] and he’s been subconsciously setting things in motion for basically hundreds of years).

I personally find it unlikely to think that Daniel wouldn’t feel a similar pain related to his function as Morpheus. It’s just that he might find a different way. What that way will be, we can’t know. There’s a back-and-forth between him and Destruction that is very open in that way, as is his talking about the Emerald in Exiles. Truly so interesting and open to so many interpretations. And I think that’s the beauty of storytelling—we’re all looking at the same thing, and yet, we all find our own meaning in it. That’s the most beautiful thing to me.

The starting out in white, especially the hair, is definitely a thing though, so it’s not a conscious choice by Daniel to set himself apart (whether he will also turn black is a different question of course, so that’s much more head-canon territory than a hard, unchangeable truth).

This is the panel in “Sound and Fury” that hints at it:

Neil himself somewhat bemoaned this particular panel turned out not quite as strong as intended (I’d have loved to see one of the ones more to the point), but the intention here is for Morpheus!Dream to be all white as the creates the ruby.

From the Sandman Companion:

“By the way, panel 4 on page 4 was meant to be a clue to help readers begin understanding the whole Sandman package; it was supposed to show how the Sandman looked long ago when he was creating the ruby. My script described the Sandman's skin, hair, and clothing as all white, the implication being that that's how a manifestation of Dream starts out. But none of that information really made it to the printed page.”

From the Annotated Sandman:

Note that Morpheus is white here, evidently an early stage of his development (just as Daniel/Dream is at 69.22.6). The NG script describes: "Flashback. Takes up the rest of the tier. On the left, the Sandman as he was at the dawn of time; naked and clothed in white light, his hair a mass of white. He's wrenching the ruby out of his chest, as if he's pulling his heart out; his face contorted in a sort of beatific agony. The background is a sort of swirling."

So that’s pretty much canon—all Dreams start out white, and Morpheus was as white as Daniel. Whether Daniel stays white, we’ll never know, and it’s really down to personal interpretation—or Gaiman writing it (come on Neil, you know you want to 😈).

Tagging along without any pressure (ignore my brain farts at will 🤣) for the biggest tapeworm-thread @tickldpnk8 @windsweptinred and @marlowe-zara as well (just because I can).

Dream—Miguelanxo Prado

The white streaks of youth (in both hair and clothing). The ruby was created by a Dream who looked pretty much like Daniel. Which is both incredibly heartbreaking (in many, many ways) but also beautiful…

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Post-Finale Fanfiction (Angst, Rated Teen) Part 1 of 2

SPOILER ALERT.

It's probably just the alcohol, but the beats of the music are starting to sound a little bit like a marching drum that's announcing war. She can feel herself dancing along to it, but her whole body is on alert, ready to switch to fight and flight any second.

"So, cool place huh?" The bloke in the leather jacket asks.

She tries to remember his name. Jeff something. Or maybe Jed. No, not Jed, she's thinking of Star Wars again. That's what happens when you binge watch a multiverse of movies in a single day.

Oh, yeah, that's right. She broke the multiverse.

Another shot of tequila, and she takes not-Jed's hand in hers. It doesn't feel right, at least not the way-

No.

She realises he asked her a question, but she can't remember what, and she just laughs, because that always works.

Encouraged, he leans in close and whispers into her ears. "How about we get out of here?"

"And go where, exactly?" She asks, but she's not sure he understands, not with how slurred the words come out.

She laughs again, and this time, it's bitter. This time, she's laughing at how this is so him, this getting drunk in the face of imminent danger and making a mess of things.

(But I'm not you.)

---

She's frozen in her place the second the glowing yellow door appears. But it's not for her, at least not this time.

She hasn't been on the run for a while. Doesn't need to be. Because even though she is the one who unleashed the chaos, it's the chaos that needs to be contained immediately. She's low on the list of priorities.

The TVA will come for her. But not right now.

---

It's extremely easy pretending to be a psychic. All she has to do is take her client's hands and enchant him, find a memory, describe it back to him.

Sometimes she does it just for fun, just to see the look of amazement on their faces.

Other times, she does it for the money she needs to survive.

"And I see a blonde woman. Very beautiful."

"That's my wife."

The way he smiles, loving and proud, makes her heart drop.

"What do you see in her future? Is she happy? Does she get the job at the magazine?"

There is definitely at least one timeline where she does get the job, but The Enchantress cannot exactly tell if it's this one. She can't actually see the future, after all.

She sees the colors drain from his face as her silence swallows the room. "She's going to be okay, right? I just want her to be okay."

(I just want you to be okay.)

There's that bitter laugh again, because-

No. She can't do this right now.

"She loves you very much", she whispers, to the man in front of her, and to the man who is not there to hear those words.

---

Mobius finds her in the middle of a concert by a Nirvana where Kurt Cobain never died. She can easily slip away, disappear into the screaming, writhing crowd if she wants.

Or she can just take him some place quiet and hear him out.

"Help us", Mobius pleads. He sounds exhausted, and not just physically. "We're outnumbered and outwitted. Our world is in danger."

"This isn't my world", she reminds him.

"Yet, you're here", he retorts.

Her smile is pained. "Where else will I go?"

He is sympathetic, like he always has been. And he offers her a new glorious purpose. "Come with me. We need you. He needs you."

She feels the air find its way out of her lungs the same way she pushed him out of her life- painfully, forcefully. "H-how is he?"

"He's okay... all things considered."

Now there's a cocktail of relief and disappointment that will give her months of sleepless nights.

"Tell him I'm-" she starts, but she doesn't know how to finish that sentence. What can she tell him? That she's sorry for not trusting him when she should have? That she's sorry for making the universes collide?

That she's sorry for betraying him and breaking his heart?

(How will I know you won't betray me at the end?)

"Nevermind."

---

It's been really hard facing the consequences of her actions, watching the timelines bleed into each other and destroy people's lives- families torn, achievements gone, every little anomaly delving into death and destruction. Every headline on the newspaper is her fault, and she has to live with that.

But that seems so easy compared to this moment where she has to face him.

The plan was to send him away, kill He Who Remains, give people their free will back, save the world, then come back to him. Yeah, he'd be mad at her at first, sure, but he'd forgive her eventually, she was confident.

Then the timelines started to branch the minute she stuck the dagger in that terrifying man's chest, and she knew she had screwed up.

She had sunk to the ground in defeat as the realisation of the repercussions hit her, and she did what she has always done- run.

She didn't even realise she had sent him to the wrong universe until she teleported herself into another universe as well. The journey back was long and lonely, but she dreamt of him in colors while the world was bleeding red, and that was enough to keep her going.

She doesn't really know what she'll do when she sees him again. Neither does she know what reaction she expects from him. Nothing he can say to her can be worse than what she thinks of herself.

A part of her hopes he would be overwhelmingly happy, he would come running to her, just like he did at The Void, greet her with the smile that has won a hundred hearts- including hers, and tell her everything will be alright. Another part of her fears that he would be furious, and he would confront her with accusations of unleashing havoc on all worlds- especially his.

What she never expected is this eerie calm that makes her feel like she is standing in the storm center.

His walls are up.

And it causes her to redirect the anger she feels at herself towards him. There's venom in her voice. "So you do get to rule, after all."

"I don't feel much like a king." He shrugs. "I'm more of a multiversal janitor. Mopping up multiversal messes."

"My messes."

"Our messes." He corrects, his features softening around the edges. "We made a mistake." He has been saying that ever since he found himself in the alternate TVA, and that hasn't changed even after getting back to his own version of the bureau. Always "we", never "she". He simply cannot bring himself to blame her without taking accountability for his part in the mess.

"Don't patronize me." Her hands are shaking, just like her voice, a sharp contrast to his steady silhouette, and can he just hold her, please? "I don't need you to take the fall for me."

His eyes go cold, like they were forged in the heart of Jotunheim. "Of course not", he says, fully composed. "You don't need me for anything. It's not like we're in this together."

(Maybe we can figure it out-together.)

---

She now knows her walls don't- can't- keep the hurt out- it just keeps her locked inside this cage of distrust and insecurities. And the price she has to pay for it is too high.

They could have been lying on a beach somewhere, sipping mimosas right now. Instead, they're here, in the vast, silent library of the TVA, sitting on separate tables, reading files on variants.

The only thing worse than bearing the weight of his gaze is having him stare at his files without looking in her direction even once. She can't take it anymore.

"I'm sorry." She suddenly blurts out.

He looks up, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry for what I did." She repeats. It's difficult to start an apology, but once she finds the strength to begin, the rest of it flows automatically. "I'm sorry I messed up everything. I'm sorry I broke the timelines. I'm sorry the world is in danger." She takes in a deep breath. "And I'm sorry I betrayed you."

His smile is the saddest kind. "A Loki betraying a Loki. That's the least surprising thing in the world. What's shocking is how I didn't see it coming. You really had me going with that kiss. Very nice distraction. Very Loki."

Free will comes with the fine-print of living with the consequences of your choices. And she has to live with hers every day. The tears finally spill out of her eyes. She hasn't let herself cry for a long, long time. But now she's breaking down worse than the multiverse. "I didn't do it to distract you. I did it to say goodbye."

He gets up, and she panics that he's leaving. Instead, he sits down in front of her, reaches for her hand, but changes his mind mid-way and lets them fall to his side. "You didn't have to say goodbye."

"It's all I've ever known." She feels like that scared little girl, far from home, running from minute men, with nobody to turn to but herself. "I told you, I don't have anyone."

"You had me."

That's the saddest part of it all, isn't it? Everything else in her life is the TVA's fault. She's torn from Asgard? Hasn't seen her parents in years? Can't remember her brother Thor? Spent her whole childhood running and hiding? All TVA.

But this? This is all her own doing. This is the one time she had something real, something worth holding onto, someone worth fighting against the world for. Instead, she questioned his intentions, didn't hold on, fought him and ruined everything.

"I didn't want to rule, Sylvie", he finally tells her. "I wanted you."

She has dreamed of this moment when he tells her how he feels. They have come so close to it so many times, the words dangling off the edge of his tongue but never quite finding their way out. She has always known- every word, every action pointed to it. But it was so hard to imagine someone could love her.

It's so hard to imagine someone can love her again. The past tense in his wording terrifies her worse than any danger ever could. "Is it too late to fix things?"

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We are fixing things. That's why we are here. Saving the universe."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know how to trust you again, Sylvie." He tells her point blank- no deception, no lies, no Loki-ism. "And you never trusted me to begin with."

That's not entirely true. She trusts him more than she has trusted anyone. "I really thought I was doing the right thing."

"I know."

(Not to be dramatic, but yeah, we're saving the universe.)

---

The Avengers are much nicer than Loki described them, considering they don't kill her for what she has done, instead tell her about their own journeys towards redemption. Wanda tells her about the man she has loved and lost, and the pain she has caused to an entire town. Barnes talks about his past as a brainwashed assassin. Clint tells her the story of Natasha and how she took charge and changed her life.

Thor is the kindest of them all. He talks about how far Loki himself has come. He tells her stories of his version of Asgard, the nine realms, the glorious battles, the beauty of earth.

She still dreams of death, but sometimes she doesn't.

Sometimes, she hopes.

---

(To be continued)

[apprentice-maliya]

the things you don’t say, i’ll make them mine

pairing: asra/mali’ya cw: none, just some pre-plague, light angst and fluff because i am self-indulgent and i missed them. also stargazing (kinda). enjoy ! word count: 2.2k song(s): lover and the archer by taylor swift

With a snap of Asra’s fingers, the candles in the shop lit up all at once. The sudden light was almost blinding in their eyes, still used to the dark shades of the storm hovering above the city that merged into the soft, pink and orange hues of sundown. Behind him, Mali’ya sealed the door with a spell so that the rain wouldn’t get in, leaving at least the shop alone and dry.

The golden mark was still glowing on the wooden surface when she turned to her friend, pleased to see that he had already put the bags in a corner where they wouldn’t bother them. In the meantime, Faust had slowly emerged from the worn-out scarf he was wearing, and was now taking a careful peek at her surroundings.

Asra laughed, shaking his head to let the raindrops fall away from his white curls. “That was close.”

“Please don’t do that,” Mali’ya said, though she was soon betrayed by her own amusement when a small smile appeared on her lips. She gladly accepted Asra’s hands holding hers, shivering when the heat coming from his warming spell dried out any trace of damp in her clothes and her hair as well. Once he was done, Mali’ya sighed in relief.

“We should clean up,” she suggested, taking off her shoes since, in the hurry of getting inside and taking refuge from the storm, she’d forgotten to. “I’m sure we left some mud when we walked in.”

Asra waved a hand as to dismiss the option. “Or we could get away with it with little to no effort,” he suggested before the stains disappeared from the blue-coloured tiles with another snap of fingers, as if they’d never been there in the first place.

He rubbed his hands one against the other, giving her a satisfied look. “Easy peasy, right?” Asra grinned. “Now, let’s set up camp for the night.”

Mali’ya stared at the floor—she still wasn’t that accustomed to using magic to solve even the smallest inconvenience, and it showed—but upon hearing that, she glanced at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Rummaging in their bags as he was probably searching for their blankets, Asra shrugged. “Seems like a waste of a lovely night to me, don’t you think?”

She could tell he was smiling while saying that, still Mali’ya hesitated. It wasn’t like she didn’t appreciate the idea; on the contrary, she was eager to see what Asra had in store for her with that change of plans. After all, aside from the couple of nights she’d slept in the wild, on the run to Vesuvia with her aunt and her girlfriend, Mali’ya had no idea what camping really implied: Asra had told her about gathering your own food, sharing stories around the fireplace and stargazing as though it was nothing out of the ordinary for him, and, in hindsight, Mali’ya now realised that wasn’t but his everyday life. The life of someone who had nothing else in the world but himself.

In comparison, the years she’d spent in Venterre were a walk in the park.

Would you like to come live with me?

Her lips parted without her thinking. Once, almost a year back from that moment―a lifetime, really―her aunt had asked her that same, exact question. For the first time someone had brought up the possibility for her to dream, provided the instruments for her to make her own choices, and there she was, months later, living her happiest days in a place she’d learnt to call home.

All of that because at some point, someone cared.

It was truly that simple.

I could ask him now.

“Besides,” Asra added, silently commanding one end of a jute string to tie itself around the knob of the backroom door, before he pointed his digits towards the entrance handle for the other end to do the same, “I wanted to show you some cool tricks.”

Mali’ya watched as he tossed a sheet over the tensed thread, thinking that they definitely needed something heavy to secure the cloth on the floor if they wanted something close to a tent-shaped, homemade fort, or even one of her bedsheets so it would be easier to make it wider and more comfortable for the two of them.

All things considered, there was enough space in her room for another bed.

Finally, she spoke. “We should ask aunt—”

A voice coming down from the stairs interrupted her mid-sentence, before the thin silhouette of her tutor, neatly wrapped up in her frilly pink housecoat, appeared on the landing. “Ask me what?” She inquired, throwing them an inquisitive though sleepy glance.

“Sorry for waking you.” Mali’ya immediately apologised, bending down the string to approach her. “We were on the way to the clearing you showed us last time when the storm hit, and then we...”

In that moment, as to prove the truth in her words, a thunder echoed above them, followed by the even more violent sloshing of rainpour against the rooftop. Heralia looked up with a sigh, not at all impressed with the tantrums of summer, then noticed the blanket hanging sideways on the jute thread. “And I get that you don’t intend to give up on your stargazing, is that right?”

“That was my idea,” Asra stepped in, kneeling down to place one of the doorstops on the hem of the blanket. “You suggested that we studied the constellations in detail since the sky is clearer and it’s meteor shower season. Shall we perhaps postpone our lesson?” he challenged her, staring at his mentor with an innocent smile and a cunning glint in the eyes.

Heralia scoffed. “Do as you please, I don’t care.” A yawn ran past her lips, so she turned around with a shrug to climb up the stairs and go back to the comfort of her bed. “Just make sure you fall asleep at a reasonable hour and put everything back in place before opening, tomorrow.”

“We will, I promise.” Mali’ya nodded, surprised at how easily her aunt had given in this time. “Thank you, and goodnight.” Heralia hummed something in return that she didn’t quite catch, but since her mentor didn’t repeat herself Mali’ya supposed it was nothing important.

Clasping her hands together, she looked down at Faust, who was slithering around freely on the floor now that her aunt was gone. “Wait,” she told Asra, “Let’s use my bedsheets for the tent.”

- - -

Half an hour later, sitting comfortably amongst soft pillows and a couple of warm blankets, Mali’ya traced carefully each word printed on the astronomy book that lied open on her lap.

“What is…” she started, squinting in the dim glow of the small ball of light floating just above Asra’s hand. “What is an ‘Equinox’?”

“That’s when day and night have more or less the same duration,” he explained, stretching his limbs by her side like a cat that just woke up after a long nap. He couldn’t help a yawn. “Equinoxes mark the start of spring and autumn, so they happen twice a year.”

At that, something in Mali’ya’s chest fluttered with triumph. “Oh! I think I got it.”

With half-lidded eyes, Asra followed the movements of the quill in her personal journal as she wrote down the definition. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes, please.” Her voice was nothing but a bashful whisper.

A hand ran up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she nodded again, jade eyes steady on every letter in fear of messing them up. He couldn't really see it, but a hint of blush painted her cheeks with something akin to shame; there was still so much she had to learn after all, and since Asra was way ahead of her in terms of magic knowledge, she always felt like she was only slowing him down.

“How do you say that in Venterrean?”

She didn’t even lift her eyes from the page. “Rivnodennya.”

Her handwriting was still unsure, he noticed from where he was lying, almost childlike and adorned with ink stains and spelling mistakes; but despite that, a pleased little smile had come to grace her lips, together with a quiet satisfaction that danced in her eyes every time she made some progress. Shyly, a pair of small dimples also appeared on her freckled cheeks, matching his own.

Pretty.

“And Solstice?”

Mali’ya still wasn’t looking at him, and a moment passed before she was done writing. Finally, she closed her handwritten dictionary with a soft thud. “Sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

Asra smiled, shaking his head with a light huff, before eventually giving up on lying on the blanket so he could sit up and borrow the astronomy book from her.

“I told you, you don’t have to apologise for every word you don’t know.” He flipped a couple of pages like he meant to find a specific chapter or image; peeking at him, Mali’ya couldn’t help but notice how the words slid under his eyes without him even noticing them. Just how much did he know on the matter? And who taught him all that, given that he was only a year and a half older than her?

Asra was such a mystery, she thought. He possessed extraordinary talent and a unique predisposition for magic, was resourceful and clever, but nobody seemed to have acknowledged that yet. In her modest opinion, his shine would only have gone to waste, had him kept busying himself with their lessons.

In the end, Mali’ya saw him settle for a star chart.

If only I wasn’t such a slow learner. Mother always said I―

To her surprise, Asra set the book aside and reached for one of their bags. “Solstice marks the first day of winter and summer, by the way.”

She was still lost in thought when she answered, “That’s sontsestoyannya.”

“Oh,” was all he managed to say as he handed her a smaller bag, the one filled with the berries they’d picked on their way to the woods just the other day. “Sounds complicated. Vesuvian is pretty different from Venterrean, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mali’ya agreed, taking out a single blueberry from the sack. It was soft and full between her digits and the rind was just the perfect nuance of indigo any ripe fruit should be. It would’ve taken a single, light squeeze to smash it.

“So is Zadithi.”

It was a statement so soft, a whisper so nostalgic, she almost didn’t catch it.

Asra had his eyes fixed before him, though he didn’t seem to be actually seeing whichever thing he was looking at. Faust, who’d been napping among the creases in the blankets, had probably sensed his discomfort since immediately, though ever so gently, she slithered up around his arm as to console him.

Arms around his knees to make himself smaller, a stare that spoke to none―he looked much older than his fifteen years of age, but also somewhat younger, the way when a self-made teen grows up too fast; an inner child whose heart, she was sure, ached for something he would hardly get back.

In the silence of the night, Mali’ya began to understand. Why she’d been drawn to him since that morning at the market. Why she always felt so at ease around him, even though she’d only known him for a few months. She had never been able to notice that before, because both of them were just dancing around the other; trying to see if they could really let their guards down.

They really weren’t that different, then.

Wait.

All of sudden, a realisation―raw hope―pushed anything else aside.

Silence?

“Asra,” she called, her tone urgent and bright all the same. Hurriedly, but as not to startle him, her hand ghosted on his forearm. “The rain. It stopped.”

Not minding the sheets rustling under her knees after her eagerness, Mali’ya crawled out of their makeshift tent but stopped half-way, turning to Asra with an outstretched hand.

“Come,” she smiled, in a way she hoped it said I see you. You don’t have to be alone. “Let’s go see the stars!”

The cold, humid air that followed storms was pleasing on her skin as she unlocked the seal, letting the breeze in while Asra handed her one end of the blanket. Still on the doorstep, Mali’ya watched as her breath formed uneven clouds of steam.

“The sky’s clearing up,” Asra whispered beside her.

The holiness of it all, of the dead of a midsummer’s night, was enough to keep their voices low.  Everything was painted in delicate shades of black and blue, and as they huddled close to one another, Mali’ya and Asra waited for the stars to show up.

Little by little, on the dark, empty canvas around the moon, a faint white dot appeared. Alone at first, it was soon followed by another, and another again, while the wind gently pushed the clouds aside to offer the city, and the few bystanders still wandering around―or standing on a threshold with their hands so close they almost touched―a sky so wide and mighty.

ao3 link

[kuroopaisen]

cause & effect || chapter 4

➵ your work friend, kuroo, has a tiny favour to ask. to say you’re surprised is an understatement. but, for some stupid reason, you agreed to it. 

warnings: f!reader, alcohol

wc: 2.1k

m.list | ch. 3 ↞ ch. 4 ↠ ch. 5

You sip the hot sake with a grimace. It’s not bad per se, just… different.

For a restaurant whose whole gimmick was hot sake, you’re surprised it clashes so much with your meal. But at least it brought you a little warmth.

Kuroo’s having as strange a time as you are. Each sip of his sake is accommodated with a grimace. Somehow, it makes him look a couple years younger.

Your legs are tucked under the futon attached to your table, but admittedly there’s not much room. Kuroo’s legs are far too long and the kotatsu much too cramped.

“Give me some room, would you?” You grin, nudging him with your knee.

“Oh, sorry,” Kuroo chuckles, adjusting himself.

This isn’t the first fake date you’ve been on with Kuroo. Well, they weren’t dates – not technically. The purpose of them was to get to know each other better; something you’d both agreed was important if you were going to pull this whole thing off.

You’d never really thought about it before, but there’s a lot of mundane information shared in relationships. Things you might not think to mention to other people, or even things you haven’t told anyone else. Not that you were saying any of that to each other – you just need to be convincingly close.

You are going to meet his family, after all.

“So,” you sigh, setting your cup on the kotatsu, “you lived with your dad, your grandmother, and your grandfather?”

“Mhm,” he nods.

“And I need to stay on my toes around them?”

“Oh yeah,” Kuroo grins. “Chances are they’ll tease the hell out of you if they get comfortable enough.”

“Great,” you chuckle.

“You’ll be fine,” he smiles. “I’m sure they’ll love you.”

“You sure?”

“Chances are they’ll tell you you’re too good for me.”

“Maybe I am,” you smirk, taking another sip of sake.

Kuroo scoffs. “Brutal!”

You’re not sure if he can tell you’re lying. He’s handsome, clever, and witty enough to be entertaining. You’d feel lucky to have a guy like him look your way.

Oh well, you think as you place your hands in your lap. You’re quite happy to keep that thought to yourself. There’s no good reason to feed a man’s ego.

He stretches his arms above his head, groaning. You swear you can hear his bones cracking.

“You sound like an old man,” you grin.

“Look, it’s not my fault the human body is badly designed.”

“Ah, so it’s not your fault for not looking after it properly, hm?” Perhaps he has a point. But you have to make your own fun these days.

“I’ll have you know I take very good care of my body, thank you very much.”

You’re not sure if he intended it to sound so flirtatious, but you blush anyway.

“Your bones say otherwise,” you muse.

“I won’t stand for this abuse,” he grins, standing up. “You ready?”

You follow suit, scampering after him as he approaches the cashier.

As always, he pays. No matter how hard you try to protest, he just smiles and says he feels bad for taking up your evenings.

You don’t know a casual way to say that you actually enjoy these outings.

Your solution is just buy him fancier coffees in the morning.

Kuroo deals with the transaction in the same smooth and charming way he always does, and you’re sure he’s definitely made an imprint on the dear cashier’s memory.

It’s only late afternoon, but the sky is already darkening. The trees that line the street are speckled with fairy lights, already glowing like candles in the dim twilight.

You gaze at them with a tiny sense of wonder. You’ve heard the theory that people made winter a time of celebration to give them something to pull through the dark and the cold for. Maybe that’s true – but there’s always such beauty to be find during wintertime, even if it feels like the tip of your nose is about to fall out.

Fairy lights in a tree are so small, so inconsequential, and yet so human.

You shake your head. That’s the sake talking.

You turn to Kuroo to say something.

He’s peering at you intently, eyes roaming your face.

You blush, unsure what to make of that look. Is there something on your face? “Everything okay?”

“The lighting’s good here.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

Kuroo fishes his phone out of his pocket, taking a step towards you and hovering an arm above your shoulders.

“You all good to take a photo?” He asks, and it clicks.

“Oh! Right!” You nod, almost a little too fervently. “Sure.”

He smiles, slinging his arm across your shoulders. You lean into him, tilting your face to what you believe to be your best angle.

Sure, these photos are technically ‘fake’, but that doesn’t mean you can’t look your best.

He snaps a couple of photos of the two of you before opening his gallery. The two of you take a moment to observe the handful of images.

The two of you may not really in a relationship, but you’re sure these photos could fool you.

You point at one of them, nodding. “That one looks good.”

Kuroo chuckles, adding it to his favourites. “Thanks.”

He smiles and slips his phone into his pocket as he steps away from you. You miss his warmth more than you should.

“Have they liked the photos?” You ask.

“Loved them,” he grins.

You know Kuroo’s been sending them to his family – with your permission, of course. It’s partly to satiate their desire to intrude on his love life, and also to make it more believable when you finally meet them. You have half a mind to save them to your own phone with how cute they are.

“Oba-chan’s been joking about putting them on the wall.”

You snort. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

“She’s desperate,” he grins.

“She must be, if she’s considering omiai.”

Kuroo shrugs. “Ah, she’s just worried about me. She doesn’t want me to be ‘married to my work.’”

“Are you?” You ask, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, God no.”

You laugh as you dig your hands in your pockets.

“I’ve just got a lot going on,” he explains. “I don’t have the time to date.”

“Really?” You tilt your head at him. “You kind of strike me as the kind of guy who’s content to just go home and play dating sims all night.”

Kuroo reels back, a hand on his chest. “You’re joking.”

“I thought you were single because you had some digital waifu or something.”

Kuroo stares at you with an expression of absolute horror. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“I’m just teasing,” you giggle, hopping down the street. “Okay, so if you’re not cuddling up against a body pillow of a scantily clad anime women during those lonely nights, then what do you do with your spare time?”

Kuroo scoffs, shaking his head as he jogs to catch up with you. “Well, I catch up with my friends a fair bit. Oh, and I’m part of a hobby volleyball club.”

“You play?” You look him up and down. Now that he’s said it, it makes perfect sense.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I take good care of my body,” he grins.

Another glance and you realise – yes, actually, he appears to be taking very good care of his body. Those shoulders look a little broader than you’d first thought.

“Is that why you applied for your job?” You ask. “Personal interest?”

“Mhm,” he nods.

Interesting. “Have you always played?”

“I’ve played for as long as I can remember,” he grins. “Believe it or not, but my high school team actually made it to Nationals. With me as their captain.”

“Wait, really?” You look up at him with wide eyes. Now that was certainly unexpected.

“Sure did.”

“How far did you get?”

Kuroo furrows his brow for a moment. “I think it was something like the top 16?”

“That’s… pretty impressive,” you admit. Your knowledge of sports is perhaps a little lower than might be expected of someone in your position, but you digress. Top 16 in the entire nation is definitely something to be proud of.

“Glad you think so,” he grins.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why didn’t you pursue it professionally?” From your perspective he certainly has the build for it. And if there’s one thing you’re sure of after working next to him for a while now, it’s that he’s clever. A trait that seems to be surprisingly useful on the court.

“There were some real monsters on the teams we faced,” he says, voice languid as ever. “You know about Hinata Shouyou and Kageyama Tobio, right?”

You nod. Even if your understanding of the sport itself wasn’t particularly advanced, you were well-aware of the top players. That, at least, you’d made an effort to stay up to date with. Also, a lot of them were unfairly attractive – making that task a bit easier to stick to than some of your others.

“We faced them at Nationals,” he glances at you, a new glint in his eye. Maybe it’s nostalgia.

You shiver.

“That genuinely sounds terrifying.”

Kuroo grins. “It was. Oh, and you know Bokuto Koutarou, right?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Well, we were friends in high school,” Kuroo says, as if it’s the most mundane piece of information you could receive. “Our teams often practiced against one another.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “No way.”

“I have several embarrassing photos of him to prove it,” Kuroo chuckles.

He’s so confident about it that you have no choice but to believe him.

“You have to introduce me to him,” you say, voice a little more desperate than you’d like.

“Why?” Kuroo flashes you a wicked grin. “Got a crush?”

“No,” you roll your eyes, praying your cheeks aren’t turning too red. “He just seems… nice.”

“Nice and… attractive?”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying, he’s technically single—”

“Aren’t I supposed to be your fake girlfriend?” You knock him with one of his shoulders to little avail. You stumble back a bit from the impact. He stays completely still.

Kuroo cackles a little louder than usual. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Who knew you were so annoying?” You scoff.

“That’s on you,” he smirks. “You’re the one agreed to this.”

“It’s a hell of my own creation,” you mumble.

“Should’ve read the fine print,” Kuroo teases.

You have half a mind to glare at him to keep this going, but a question pushes itself to the forefront of your mind.

“Wait, so…” You press your lips together, frowning. “You didn’t pursue professional volleyball because of people like Bokuto?”

Kuroo tilts his head to the side with a pensive expression. “Sort of,” he shrugs. “I guess I just felt like I didn’t have the same passion for the court that guys like him did.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I just realised my talents would be better applied elsewhere.”

“So… in marketing?”

He grins, glancing at you. “I just think that volleyball has the power to really connect people.”

You tilt your head at him.

“When I first moved to Tokyo, I wasn’t great at talking to people,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But, because of volleyball, I found a way to… feel more comfortable opening up to people.”

The thought of Kuroo Tetsurou of all people being shy strikes you for a second. It’s hard to picture – but only for a moment.

“So,” he continues, “I want to make it easier for kids to get into this sort of thing. You never know who it might help.”

You smile to yourself. Once again, he’s being cute. And he doesn’t seem to have any clue.

“What about you?” Kuroo asks. “How’d you end up there?”

“Oh, it was just the first place that took me in,” you shrug.

He snorts. “Really?”

“Yeah. I just sent out my resume to a bunch of places and they got back to me first.”

“Oh, wow,” Kuroo grins.

“Sorry it’s not very romantic,” you blush, glancing at him.

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “It sounds very reasonable.”

“Thanks,” you chuckle.

In all honesty, part of you had expected this whole ‘fake dating’ thing to be a bit of a burden. The thought of pretending to like someone a lot more than you actually do sounds draining.

But it’s not hard to like Kuroo Tetsurou. In fact, you think he’s quite pleasant company. This whole charade shouldn’t be much trouble at all.

You dutifully ignore the thought that, if this were a real date, you’d absolutely ask him if he’d like to go on another.

[fandomdancer]

The Dance

In the year 2169, you are a senior in high school. You've been best friends with the same two young men since grade school. One of them is your date to the senior dance. The other is the class loner: Eobard Thawne. When your date make a suddenly unexpected move, you find yourself feeling like the perfect night is ruined. But then Eobard shows up...

Word Count: 3,754 words

Rating: T, but may be M

Pairings: OC/Reader, Eobard/Reader

A/N: First attempt at a reader-insert fic. Special thanks to @darlingpetao3 @yetanotherwells @wellsaddict and @hawk-lee for listening to me freak out about this, inspiring me, and giving me the courage to actually post it. I hope it's interesting and fun for you to read.

This is Mattobard's version of Thawne, since it takes place during his teenage years.

This fic was inspired by this song (which is the featured waltz in the story). 'Pride and Penance', from World of Warcraft: Shadowlands.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZtBflZHIcQ

_________________________________________________________

The moment you step into the darkened dance hall, you feel as though you have been transported back in time. In fact, you can’t help but wonder if the organizers of this year’s spring formal are utilizing some of Rip Hunter’s famous Time Couriers to literally open a door to the past. Everything around is, at minimum, dated back a hundred years ago, from the DJ setting up digital playlists to the black-light-illuminated chairs seated around tables littered with drinks, plates of food, and what looks like games. The music right now is from the early 2000s, but you expect the songs to range through decades, possibly even centuries over the course of the night. Multicolored lights hang from the ceiling, giving the place an overall ‘club’ look, accentuated by the powerful underlighting at the bar.

The temperature increases as you enter on your date’s arm, the exertion from the dancing and milling bodies heating up the air in the room. The dance started only thirty minutes ago, but the excitement in the room is palpable, and kids are wasting no time yelling ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ as they toss back nonalcoholic drinks. One table is already full of kids engaged in what looks like an intense card game with multicolored discs sprayed across the table in front of them.

Catching the fever of the room, you cast a huge grin up at your date, a handsome young man you’ve known since grade school. The two of you are dressed perhaps a little fancy for the event, with him in a fine, high-collared suit befitting a 20th century aristocrat and you in a deep red 1940s princess ballgown. Overdressing is okay: the two of you were expecting a slightly more ‘ballroom’ shindig, not this ‘21st century club’ event, and upon looking around you can see that other members of your class had similar ideas, wearing everything from 1800s Victorian gowns to military uniforms.

“They did a good job,” your date says. “Though one would think they could have come up with a more original theme name than ‘Blast to the Past’.”

“Don’t cheesy titles comprise part of the charm of last century?” you ask as the two of you move towards the obligatory picture arena. “Wasn’t stating the obvious considered not only funny, but…what was the word…a meemee?”

“Meme. One word, one syllable. And yes. Memes were a rather popular form of communication in the early 21st century, though I guess they started well before that.” Your date eyes the line and the picture-taking arena before them. “Is that….a phone booth?”

You are both intrigued as you watch a couple go into the booth, pulling a curtain shut and separating them from the outside world. Their feet are obvious as they scrabble into various positions, each one punctuated by a bright flash ands lots of giggling. The couple emerges, looking flushed and full of smiles, and watch as two thin strips of plastic emerged from the wall of the booth. The two grab the plastic strips and look at them, giggling as they walk away.

“It’s a photo booth.”

The voice right beside you and your date startles you, and you quickly look over to see one of the chaperones for the event, Ms. Steinway, a few feet away. The young teacher looks stunning in a green floor-length gown, her blonde hair floating ethereally around her shoulders. She gestures. “You go in, and you have five pictures taken of you in quick succession. There’s usually only three to four seconds between each photo so people often planned ahead what they would do ahead of time. You can make faces, or be serious…whatever you would like!”

“Thank you, Ms. Steinway,” you say before looking back to your date. “Well. I guess we have about a minute to come up with five different poses.”

“Why don’t we improvise? We’re both good thinkers on our feet.”

The tension and pressure of racing to beat a timed photo session is appealing to you, probably a side effect of all the time you've been spending lately with your other friend, Eobard Thawne. He has a strong taste for competition and it’s been rubbing off on you in the years you’ve known him.

The sudden thought of Thawne makes you skim the room, wondering if the class loner has actually shown up to tonight’s dance. You’re pretty sure he’s not here; this isn’t his type of thing at all. It’s certainly why you didn’t ask him to be your date. It’s also the only reason why you didn’t ask him to be your date. Eobard Thawne’s proud, handsome figure and strikingly keen intellect has drawn many a girl’s attention over the years, including yours, and you’ve made a concentrated effort to ignore it. But lately, you’ve noticed that he seems to be hovering near you much more often. And he got into a fistfight with your date a few weeks ago…you never did quite figure out what had caused that argument…

Seeing him here tonight would definitely open a lot of doors, however. Perhaps you would be brave enough to ask him for a single dance. He can be a truly arrogant ass but he has always been at least civil to you…probably because the two of you have also known each other since grade school.

Your date pushes you forward and you realize that, as usual, thoughts of Eobard have distracted you for several seconds. It is your turn in the photo booth.

The booth is small and simple, with a little touch screen that simply says ‘go’. A quick glance over the screen shows that presets are in place, with no way to change them. It is a little aggravating to not be able to customize the photos but you suppose that’s to get the line of kids moving quickly. With a quick glance at your date, the two of you reach out and tap the ‘go’ button together.

The very first thing he does is kiss you. It’s so fast and so intense that you don’t even have time to react. Suddenly his mouth is open and wet and moving on yours and his hand is in your carefully-crafted hairstyle and you are shocked beyond words because of all the poses you had considered in this run of pictures, your longtime friend kissing you was not one of them. You’ve suspected he felt this way about you and there was no doubt in your mind that he would be an excellent romantic partner, but you hadn’t really…thought about him like that. In fact, the only person you really thought about like that was…Eobard.

He finally pulls back and looks quickly at the camera, grinning widely. Your brain is fuzzed and rolling with several unfinished sentences and questions, but some little part of you keeps control and turns to smile bright and beautiful at the screen. The two of you make silly faces next, and as you are setting up for what you think is the next picture, the screen goes dark. You realize in shock that he used three of the five pictures to kiss you. Feeling frustrated and cheated, you get out of the booth, pasting a smile on your face so as not to appear angry to the line of kids waiting outside. You’ll have plenty of time to discuss his choices later.

The pictures print out and they’re definitely difficult to look at. The first one shows your obvious surprise, but the second two are worse, showcasing your desperate attempt to keep control of what is happening by grabbing at his face and responding to his kiss. It was not your best decision, but you feel like it was your only choice at the moment – and that realization makes you furious.

The two of you head to an unoccupied table, and the moment you set down the photos you whirl on your date, your insides twisted in knots and your throat almost sealed shut from the force of your anger. “What the hell?”

“What?”

It’s even hotter in this room with your anger charging you up. You are pretty sure your face is the color of your dress. “You kissed me.”

He smiles. “Of course I did. What did you think we were going to do in there?”

Your mouth drops open. “Make faces and smile! When did kissing appear on the list of things to do tonight?”

His brow furrows. “When you agreed to be my date. Come now, you can’t possibly miss all the signs I’ve given you. You know me better than that.”

His self-entitled arrogance sets your teeth on edge and you clutch the table so hard you’re amazed it doesn’t bend. “I’ve known you for almost all of my life and you have never been so rude as to just kiss someone without making sure it’s all right with them! You wait for that kind of invitation! You don’t blindside her during a timed picture taking session!”

“Spontaneity has never been your thing, and I respect that,” he begins to say.

You cut him off. “Clearly not or these wouldn’t exist!” You wave the pictures at him before slamming them down onto the table. You don’t know what you’re angrier about now; being forced into this situation before you felt ready, his seeming blindness to how the whole situation played out, or the fact that you feel like what should have been a beautiful moment is ruined and you are never going to get it back.

A waltz begins to play, the very song the two of you were hoping would be the focus of the evening, and he reaches a hand out to you. “You’re right. I made a terrible mistake. I thought it would be fun and I assumed you would be all right with it. I am sorry. I truly am. We will go have the pictures retaken. But will you dance with me? This sounds like a beautiful waltz and I don’t want to have ruined the night by making a terrible decision right at the beginning.”

He sounds sincere but you don’t answer him at first. Your mind is still awash with anger and betrayal and a sudden desire to be anywhere but in this room right now. You don’t want to just forgive him for doing this to you. But you also don’t want the night to be ruined, and right now the song playing sounds like it could be a wonderful dance and you aren’t sure how many more will be played with the selection of music likely being offered. Reluctantly, you slip your hand into his.

“We aren’t done with this conversation,” you state firmly.

“Of course not.” He twirls you gently. “But this song fits you and I want to see you dancing to it.”

You don’t know the name of the song, but it has a haunting melody to it, almost ghostlike with sliding violins. Waltzes always have a kind of built-in grace to them, a slippery seduction meant to make it easy to move to. But this piece has an additionally dramatic vocalist that elevates the rhythm to something royal and aristocratic. You can almost imagine the two of you (and the couples that are joining you on the floor) dancing in the hall of an ancient, grand mansion while a dark storm swirls outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and the dry fingers of tree branches curl menacingly in shadows on the floor, trapping the dancers’ feet in their grip.

“Pardon me.”

The familiar voice snaps you out of the daydream you are drifting into, and you rock slowly back and forth in your date’s arms as you realize Eobard is standing in front of you two. Your breath catches and your heart rate picks up instantly as you look at him. He looks as though he has stepped straight out of your daydream: a young lord trapped in a dying manor, cloaked in high-collared black and red with the light shimmering blindingly on his short blond hair. Even more shocking is the dramatic flair he has added to the outfit: a full-length black cape fastened at his neck with a ruby. He is too beautiful to touch and yet your hands…and other, sweeter, deeper parts of you…ache as you stare at him.

His eyes sweep over you and you think you see his jaw clench slightly before he speaks again. “May I cut in?”

“You’re in our way, Bardo,” your date growls, all softness and politeness gone from his voice.

“I wasn’t addressing you,” Eobard responds to him but doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your throat is growing dry from the simple intensity of his gaze. “I was addressing your partner." He nods to you. "May I cut in?”

You finally register what he is asking, and the thrill that races through you makes you shiver. You had thought you might have the courage to ask him to dance if you had seen him here, but him asking you is completely unexpected. Saying no to him might prevent him from asking again, but saying yes would probably send the wrong message to your date.

Then again, your date certainly sent you the wrong message when he forced you to kiss him in the photo booth.

It’s a very simple question with a very simple answer.

“I would be honored,” you reply, trying to sound as cool and proper as possible. As you pull away from your date, you feel his hands clench briefly on you. You quickly look up at him, seeing the betrayal in his eyes. At first you feel smug, but then you remind yourself that he did apologize. You give him your best comforting smile. “We’ll continue this later,” you say to him, making his expression soften just a little. But the look he gives Eobard is poisonous.

Eobard’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he unfastens the cape from around his neck and whips it dramatically off, draping it unceremoniously on your date’s still-outstretched arms. “Would you be so kind as to place this on a nearby chair?”

Redness floods your date’s face, and you start to open your mouth to scold Eobard for his rudeness, but his hands grip you firmly and he spins you away into the dancing crowd before you can say a word. Your feet scrabble as you try to keep up, and you have a feeling he’s trying to get you as far away from your date as fast as possible. Focusing on your movements, you catch his rhythm and begin to move in time with him, gaining control over yourself while still permitting him to lead. You’re angry enough now that you’re tempted to just walk out the door after this dance. When did your two best friends turn into such boys? They’re acting like you’re a prize in a competition and while that might be flattering, it’s making you feel a bit like an object and not like the lady you want to be tonight.

“You dance well,” Eobard compliments.

You roll your eyes. “You dragged me out here and I just got my balance back. Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he answers. “I mean what I say. I saw you trying to dance with your date over there. He was trying. You were succeeding.”

You snort and sigh. “I wish the two of you would tell me why you both seem to have lost your minds lately.”

Eobard tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Your heart pounds and you know what you hope the answer is, but coming right out and saying it feels like a such a terrible risk. Eobard’s emotional difficulties make him dangerous sometimes, the wrong word or look pushing him away for days at a time. You are not going to ruin this night, this dance, this moment that has been playing in your dreams.

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have brought it up,” you say, trying to put an innocent look on your face. You aren’t sure if it works or not, but the hard look in Eobard’s eyes softens somewhat, and he guides you around the floor. Looking up at him, you surrender your mind to the daydream, milking this moment for all it is worth. The seductive waltz paints the image of a great hall, decadent in its decay, the memory of opulence just as romantic as the opulence itself. And Eobard, cold and proud and throat-achingly beautiful, spins you around it, commanding your body with his touch, and commanding your mind with his eyes.

“Your friend and I,” he says in a low voice, “are both seeking your approval.”

Dear God, he actually said it. You’re almost dizzy with excitement as you frantically think of how to navigate the next few sentences. Honesty is going to be key. “You have a funny way of showing it. First that fistfight a few weeks ago and now tonight he just kisses me out of the blue and then you drag me off like I belong to you or something…”

“He did what?” Eobard stops the two of you cold, and you blink, looking up at his grey eyes, watching in surprise as they turn stormy and dark. His pale face begins to flush as he gazes down at you. You can’t tell if what you’re seeing is anger or not, but as his eyebrows draw together you feel your insides flutter. It’s more than just anger. It’s jealousy.

Eobard is jealous.

The realization makes your throat close and you swallow several times as adrenaline floods your veins. The possibilities open up in your mind, and you suddenly realize that while both men are, in fact, treating you like a prize, you are still the one in control.

“He kissed me for our photo,” you say carefully, letting the frustration and hurt show on your face. “I didn’t know he was going to.”

Eobard looks at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and his face continuing to grow red. His hands tighten on your waist and hand, and a strange excitement blooms in your chest. Eobard Thawne, so aloof and elitist, suffering from the simple emotion of jealousy. And jealousy related to you, because he’s seeking your approval. Despite the heat of the moment, you find yourself fighting a smile.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks tightly.

You know the truth and you know what saying it will mean. But right now, you are unable to lie to him, captivated by the thrill of his reaction and the intoxicating crescendo building around you.

“No.”

Eobard’s chin lifts and a smug satisfaction fills his eyes as the music crescendos loudly. With a climactic crash of drums, he decisively pushes you out into a firm spin, and then brings you back in, his hand slipping to the small of your back and holding you flush against his body. And for one fiery, fierce moment, you realize that you can feel him, dear God, all of him, pressed possessively against you, and a weakness makes your knees wobble and your mouth go dry as you stare into his eyes, only inches away, and realize what he is silently saying to you.

Then the two of you are moving again as he takes everything up another notch, whirling you both within the crowd as though you have all the space in the world. The music pounds with your steps, pulsing inside of you, the melody a full-throated cry from the whole orchestra, igniting adrenaline and fire within you. Your mouth falls open to gasp for air as your eyes drift closed. You don’t need to see, only to feel the clutch of his hands and the heat of his body and the light pressure on your waist as he leads you.

And then, in one powerful beat, the music stops. Eobard pushes you backwards into a dramatic dip, holding you up while your hands claw at him. You can’t see the ecstasy on your face but a few gasps from the people around you suggest that the two of you may be in a very compromising position. You don’t care. Your body is shaking and tingling. You feel sweat dampening your skin, and the heat…you’re drowning in it. But you don’t want to move. You don’t want it to be over. Most of all, you don’t want his hands leaving you. Ever.

Your breath comes in heavy gasps as he draws you up to your feet. He steadies you, and your eyes finally drift open. The sight before you makes you shiver again. Eobard is breathing just as hard as you are, and has the same slightly dazed expression on his face that you are feeling. You vaguely realize that while you were trying to keep your balance you gripped his hair and shirt because both of them are bunched and mussed. But neither of you can look away from the other for several seconds.

Finally, he is the first one to move. He gently straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. He brings his heels together and reaches for your hand. He bows, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a chaste kiss on the back of it.

“Thank you,” he says, “for the lovely dance. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I need some air.”

You nod slowly. “I…think I do too.”

Something sparks in his eyes, and he offers you his arm. You consider taking it, but the sensation that sweeps through you as you realize what the implications are stop you. You are awash in powerful emotions now, enough to know that if you go with him, you’re going to do something you want…

….oh do you want….

….but on impulse, caught up in the moment.

You know you need to gather yourself. The night has only just begun.

“I will see you back in here,” you reply, offering a polite curtsey. It isn’t a blatant rejection, just more of a ‘not now’. Eobard seems to understand and his withdraws his hand before turning and striding for the door.

You head for a different exit, catching a glimpse of your date just as you leave the room. His face is a thunderstorm, and you feel a slight chill that cuts through the hazy fog of your mind.

The night has only just begun, and you have a feeling it’s going to be a long one.