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shootybangbang · 3 years

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Can i request an Arthur/sadistic female reader please？i really want to see him all messed up because of...you know🥺

(btw, pls check out the requester's art. her arthur content is 😩👌)

[Oneshot]: In which you still don't know how to tie an overhand knot

[Rating]: Explicit

[Note]: this is so fucking horny that i feel i have to apologize in advance. unedited and a little rough around the edges, feel free to point out errors or give criticism

———

“Huh,” you muse aloud. “Looks like the gallery’s putting up a new exhibition this weekend.”

With one hand, you spread the newspaper across the bed and skip to page three. With the other, you continue to stroke Arthur’s cock, twisting your wrist a little to smooth your palm against its dripping tip. The man himself groans as you touch him, and the frame of his body trembles beneath where you’ve straddled yourself over his thighs.

His breaths are quickening again. “Please,” Arthur rasps, his voice hoarse with exertion and desperation alike. You indulge him with another slow, teasing pump of your fist as you continue to pick through the St Denis Tribune, humming thoughtfully as you peruse the newspaper’s Arts and Entertainment section.

“I’m beggin’ you, girl.” He sounds as though he’s teetering on the very edge of agony and ecstasy, and venturing perilously close to the latter. “C’mon. Please.”

“Looks like it’s mostly Impressionists this time. Let’s see here… a selection of Seurats and Monets… a couple Renoirs… oh, some Degas too?” With a mild expression that belies the depth of torture you’ve been putting him through, you slow your hand to a stop. He makes a choked, unhappy noise in the back of his throat that you heartily ignore. “That’s pretty bold of them, considering the reception they gave that Chatenay fellow you told me about.”

Growling, Arthur starts fumbling with the (admittedly badly tied) restraints securing his arms behind his back, twisting his wrists in an attempt to find a loose end.

“Easy there.” You run the pad of your thumb along the ridge delineating the head of his cock, slicking against the precum beaded at its tip. “I’ll give you what you want soon enough.”

“Been hearin’ you say that for almost half an hour now,” he replies, glaring. “You enjoyin’ yourself?”

“Immensely.”

“Better savor it while you can, because I promise you — I’m gonna remember this the next time I get you beneath me.”

You laugh. “Oh yeah? What‘re you gonna do then?”

“Untie me and I’ll show you,” he says.

“No,” you reply with a beatific smile.

He narrows his eyes and lowers his voice to something smooth and dangerous: the sort of tone you’ve known him to use for threats he actually intends to follow through on. “When it’s my turn,” he says. “I ain’t gonna tie you up. Won’t need to. Because with you, all I need is my hands.”

A shiver runs down your spine. The man’s wrists may be bound, but you’re still very much at his mercy. In all actuality, your authority here amounts to only a length of rope and his own good humor.

You let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the very thought of it.

“Gonna pin you down when I fuck you,” he continues. He’s smirking now, clearly enjoying the demonstrable effect his words have on you. “Lay you down on your stomach and keep you under me, where you belong.”

You’re half-tempted to loose the rope and let him do just that. Instead, you grab the hem of your shift with both hands and pull the garment over your head in a single fluid motion. It’s 1899, after all. High time for a woman to take charge of her own pleasure.

The dim glow of the oil lamp bathes your bare skin in a wash of gold and amber as you settle yourself against him, pressing the wet line of your slit along the length of his cock. “Go on,” you tell him. “What else?”

Arthur swallows hard and licks his lips, then draws in a sharp intake of breath as you roll your hips forward — just a brief stir of movement, but more than enough to make him twitch beneath you. “Drive you to the brink the same way you’re doin’ to me now,” he says weakly. “Take my time with you, nice and slow. Make you really beg for it.”

“Mm-hmm.” Another roll of your hips, this time with just enough pressure to grant him a touch of warmth.

Finally, he breaks. And it’s truly a sight to behold: Arthur Morgan, a man who you’d thought would break your spine like a toothpick the first time you’d met, openly begging for the simple privilege of being allowed between your thighs.

“God, please,” he groans. “You can’t do this to me. Can’t let me feel how wet you are and just leave me like this.”

“Of course I can.” You relent. “But I won’t. So be a good boy and stay still for me, alright?”

His cock weighs heavy in your hand as you guide him between your thighs. Arthur lets out a harsh gasp and instinctively thrusts upwards — but you immediately withdraw, and he finds nothing but the cruel emptiness of absence waiting to receive him.

“Thought I told you to stay still,” you repeat sternly.

He nods with the frantic desperation of a badly-trained dog begging for a meal. Hungry and eager, but standing to attention with as much obedience he can muster. Which isn’t much, even on the best of days, but he is trying. And for that, he deserves something in return.

You take him in slowly, both out of principle and necessity. Just a taste of him first, then the gradual descent, a long and drawn out consumption that he has barely the means to endure.

His gaze still hasn’t left you. There is an intensity in it that once might have frightened you, an azure bright as broken glass and twice as sharp. The purity of emotion in them strikes you to the bone, makes your throat tighten and your dominance waver — there is a depth of devotion there that borders on the absolute.

When you move against him, he squeezes his eyes shut against the sheer force of sensation that floods through. Arthur makes a low, pained noise in the back of his throat and confesses, “I ain’t gonna last long.”

You lean forward and kiss him, then start a slow, rocking motion with your hips that spurs him to whimper your name against your lips, a small cry of warning before you feel the first twitches of his cock. Arthur bucks up once, twice, then shudders beneath you as his seed pulses deep, blooms hot and slick inside your core.

“Goddammit,” he hisses. “Didn’t think I’d— ah, fuck…”

You ride on, grinding through the last, weakening throbs of his orgasm and until he lets out a final, heavy sigh. Arthur regards you with loose-limbed exhaustion, lolling his head against your pillows as he flashes you a drained, weary grin. “Alright,” he says. “Untie me and get up here so I can—”

“No need,” you say brightly, then lift your hips in a brief mockery of release before sheathing him again and sending him reeling into oversensitivity.

Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps, wincing. “What’re you—”

“Too much?”

“Didn’t say that,” he says. His jaw is clenched tight and his voice is faint, but the look on his face is one of stubborn determination.

You test him with another slow, sinuous slide of your hips. This time, he meets you with a shallow thrust of his own. He’s breathing hard, each exhale shivery with exertion. “Keep goin’,” he urges. “I can take it.”

The added lubrication of his come eases the friction of him, soothes the inevitable ache of penetration. You settle for an unhurried, leisurely rhythm that allows you to fully appreciate the slickness of each stroke, the accompanying warmth of his seed still spread through your core.

Arthur’s gaze darts downwards to the base of his shaft, where the drip of his come has begun to pool. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just beautiful.”

He snakes his right arm free from his bonds and abruptly flips you onto your back with a well-timed shove.

“What— how did you…?”

“Sweetheart,” Arthur says, his voice warm and affectionately condescending. “You still can’t tie an overhand knot for shit.”

“But I double-checked this time!”

“Not very well, apparently.” He hitches your thighs around his waist and cages you in beneath him, then lowers his mouth to the slope of your neck. A brief, gentle nip — not hard enough to hurt, but more than enough to convey his renewed authority. “God, but you’re a greedy little thing, ain’t you?” he growls against your skin. “Just one load of my spend ain’t enough?”

“Thought you’d appreciate the challenge, since you’re always so— oh, shit,” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders when he drives himself downwards with a sharp, savage thrust.

“Go on.” Arthur says. He’s panting now, his dark blond hair slicked against his forehead with sweat. “Weren’t you sayin’ somethin’ about me?”

You let out an indecipherable whine that bears only a passing resemblance to human language.

“My poor girl,” he murmurs, low and tender. Arthur cups the side of your face against his palm and traces his thumb over your cheekbone, then presses a chaste kiss to your brow. “Can’t even talk right when I’m fucking her proper.”

He’ll no doubt be insufferably smug about this later, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care, distracted as you are by the view of him rutting against you, his shaft still streaked with his previous release. He’s fucking his own come back into me, you think to yourself, and that thought alone blinds out all else and leaves you blank with pleasure.

Arthur takes you hard and fast. Far rougher than his usual handling, which can sometimes be almost excruciatingly cautious. He kisses you clumsily, then lowers his mouth to the junction of your neck and shoulder, sucking and biting until the first, faint traces of tomorrow’s bruises begin to darken.

And with this, it’s not long before the first delirious ripples of your own orgasm begin to crest.

Every muscle drawn and tensed, dissolving into an inward ache of arousal that spurs you to grip him tight and whimper, eyelids fluttering as you struggle to keep his face in view. With a fierce satisfaction, you savor the sudden weakness in his expression when he feels you contract against him, then his harsh groan and the stutter of his hips as he follows, spilling what seed he has left.

Arthur keeps himself hilted until the very last shivers of exhilaration fade, then pulls away with a reluctance usually reserved for long farewells. The overflow of his come is thick and heavy as it drips from between your thighs, and the look on his face as he beholds it is one of tired appreciation.

Then he flops onto his side, totally spent. “You’re a real demon,” he sighs. “You know that?”

“A real demon would go for round three,” you reply faintly, staring dreamy-eyed up at the ceiling.

Arthur groans at the mere suggestion of it. “I think that’d actually kill me.”

When you curl up against him, he automatically throws an arm over your side, the action at this point an instinct secondary only to breathing, and brushes his mouth over the back of your neck.

As you ebb towards sleep, you murmur as an afterthought, “Didn’t you say you were gonna make me beg?”

He lets out a weary chuckle. “Well,” he says, “There’s always tomorrow.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #rdr2 #red dead redemption #fic #smut #my work #this makes my kinks so apparent that i want to crawl into a hole and die #sorry for being gross :’^)

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n-miri · 3 years

Text

More Tommy-Purpled friendship content!! CW for: brief mentions of corpses and death (via being struck by lightning)

Word count: 1610

On rainy days, Purpled polishes his sword. It’s a good weapon: netherite, with Sharpening V, Unbreaking III— the usual overpowered enchantments. He isn’t complaining though; the stronger he is, the better. He goes through a collection of blades, from the one he knows best to the oldest one he owns, on the verge of being grinded into dust. Wipe, sharpen, steer clear of rust. Keep the blade clean and dry. It’s easy to get lost in the repetitive motions.

Dogchamp lies by his side, close to the fire, hind leg poking at his thigh through the soft material. Their ears perk up, and their tail begins to wag. Back, forth, thumping on the floorboards.

A door slams open, followed by a myriad of curses. It’s the usual rainy day, after all.

“Don’t let my floor get wet,” Purpled says immediately. His voice rebounds within the house, a meagre two rooms decorated with torches. A temporary base, if you will. One that he’s planning to blow up soon.

His UFO was…

It just isn’t the same.

“Fuck you,” the trespasser immediately responds. The house is unbearably empty despite its miniscule nature. “I’ll do whatever I want.”

A beat. He probably found the towel Purpled placed on the counter earlier, specifically for this scenario. Footsteps, sharp against the falling of rain—white hair peeks out from the door. Tommy sneers at the other derisively, before crossing the room in five long steps and dropping down on Purpled’s other side.

This has become a ritual of sorts, with the two blondes (or, in Tommy’s case, ex-blonde) seeking refuge from bad days. Sometimes it’s sunny out, or the middle of the night; most of the time, it’s raining.

The day they met, it was raining too. Wide eyes meet each other in the solace of darkness. The past is unforgivingly cruel, and whispers mockeries into their ears. Tommy looked so small, in the Church Prime’s pew; Purpled was sure he looked equally as haggard, hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.

So, Purpled invited Tommy to his base. It’s warm despite being unfamiliar, and Dogchamp is amicable towards traumatised teenagers who need way more therapy than life is willing to give. They talked a bit about the stupidity of other members. Rarely, there was a glimpse into their lives, what they missed and have lost. Neither of them actively asked and, in a sense, it was comforting.

Then it happens again. And again. Tommy pulls out his sewing kit on the third visit and demands to patch up his hoodie. Purpled teaches Tommy how to shear sheep, wool coming off in lines of blue. Just like this, they help each other. There’s too much left unspoken and no expectations to be had. There is no debt to be repaid, or a favour to be granted, or a profitable exchange.

It’s just that. It’s just them, crossing each other’s path sometimes. Seeing how the other has changed from their previous meeting.

“It’s stupid,” Tommy says suddenly. His shrill voice pierces through the haze of thoughts. Pale eyes flicker around the room, with shadows from corners pulling faces. “This is what you do in your spare time? Fight, prepare to fight, fight some more?” He scoffs, not even sparing Purpled a glance. “Idiot.”

Much to the mercenary’s bemusement, Tommy proceeds to pull a cake out of his inventory. As in, a full-blown, home-baked dessert.

“.... Huh?”

An embarrassed scowl creeps onto his face. “Don’t be like that.” He drops the plate loudly onto the space between the two. “It’s edible, if that’s what you were wondering. I know how to cook shit. Niki…” Tommy’s eyes grow distant, fingers twitching, as if moving to punch the treat into oblivion. “She used to bake. A lot. Back in- y’know, back in L’manberg. I learned a bit from her,” he finishes lamely. All the bravado has left him.

“That’s cool, dude,” Purpled replies. “It looks good.”

“Wh- of course it does! I’m poggers at everything I do. That’s why the women love me.” Carefully, the boy flicks strands of white hair away from his eyes. “I’m astonishingly charming.”

There was a time where Tommy’s hair imitated the sunlight, gold and yellow and bursting with happiness. He smiled more. Laughed more, too. Was more brash and insolent; was so willing to see the good in everyone he met.

Now his hair is completely white. His dull eyes flicker around the room and his hands are always, always trembling. Tommy is different from who he was before.

The Tommy and Purpled of before would never have become friends.

“Hold up, let me cut it.” Saying that, the mercenary raises his newly polished sword. Tommy sputters, holding a hand out to stop him.

“Why can’t you use a knife like a normal person!”

Purpled shrugs. “Technically, a sword is a very big knife. It’s… stabby and shit.”

Exasperated, Tommy gets up from his spot in a tangle of long limbs and half-hearted glares. “I’m going to slice this cake like a normal person. It deserves to be treated with respect.”

“We’re going to eat it anyway,” Purpled points out.

The other sniffs indignantly, turning heel to find cutleries. Dogchamp lifts their head in his direction, turning to Purpled, then back again. Slowly, the wolf raises from their sitting position and trots out of the room. Traitor.

From the closed window, lightning streaks through the sky, followed closely by a clap of thunder. It’s loud, Purpled winces. He had expected it but- the sound still makes him jumpy. Rainy days in general are terrible.

The patter of rain against the dirt and harsh concrete pulls out a vivid scene from his memory. Soldiers, rising out of graves, burdened by shiftless armour, heaving up weapons twice their arm span. Thunder imitates piercing shrieks, the blast of an explosion. Raindrops sound like corpses hitting the ground.

Everytime it rains, he recalls that scene with bitter reminiscence; greets it like an old friend who came back to haunt him as an afterthought. It’s not the best way to spend his day.

“You know,” Tommy says, having entered the room when he wasn’t aware, “I got struck by lightning once.”

Distantly, Purpled thinks of raindrops rolling through hair and a shock so bright it electrifies the body. The event he construes in his mind, like always, paints his own death in a morbid way. He wonders if he died, would anyone come visit him? Would there even be a grave?

“That sucks,” the blonde replies.

Tommy gives a non-committal hum, shifting the objects in his arms. In one hand the boy carries a kitchen knife and in the other, a blanket. It’s the one with a UFO print on it—too childish for the purple boy’s tastes, yet too precious to be thrown away.

Once again, the two -three, counting Dogchamp- are back in their original positions. The blanket is draped over Purpled’s lap and he watches, warily, as Tommy’s shaking hands raise the knife. At this point, Purpled would have offered to do it. He nearly does, too, but-

Ten minutes have passed. Eyebrows scrunched, a bead of sweat against his forehead, Tommy tries to steady his grip and cut the cake in equal slices. It doesn’t work. It’s uneven at best, falling apart at worst, but-

None of that matters. He did it.

A ‘good job’ or ‘gg’ sticks on Purpled’s tongue, sincere yet worried of coming off as patronising. Instead, he gives a silent thumbs-up and hopes that conveys all the things he wishes he could say.

Tommy grins. “Eat up before it gets cold, purple boy.” Neither of them mention that it’s definitely not warm anymore, with how long it’s been and how cold the weather is. Obediently, the teenager picks up the tiniest chunk of cake and pops it into his mouth.

Sweet is the first thing that touches his tongue. Honestly, it shouldn’t come as a surprise— Tommy started over-seasoning his food after the prison visit, the same time he came back with a head full of white hair. That, paired with the fact Awesamdude said he had died, creates a sinking feeling in Purpled’s guts. It doesn’t take an idiot to connect the dots.

“Yummy,” he comments. “Delicious. Uhh, what other synonyms are there? Delectable, tasteful-” A choking laugh cuts him off, too loud and too worryingly breathless all at once. “I’ll give this a… hm. Maybe an eight out of ten.”

“I should have gotten full marks,” Tommy says sarcastically. “Glad you like it, though.” Underneath the amusement is the barest form of sincerity, and that’s enough for the both of them.

“Uh-huh! I do.”

Once the rain lets up, the two will part again. Purpled will wash sugar off his fingers, keep the polishing kit in a chest and carry on with his life. That’s how this has always been.

But for now, light from the fireplace casts a glow across their faces, painting a sunset upon Tommy’s self. It’s reminiscent of older days, better days; ones that have long since passed. They’ll never get any of it back—family, homes, the people they once were. All they can do is yearn for what has been lost and move on.

So for now, Purpled stops focusing on the what-ifs and could-have-beens. For now, he relishes in the warmth in his sides as he laughs himself silly. Dogchamp dozes off contentedly. A blanket is shared, covering his and Tommy’s laps, barely offering heat. The half-eaten cake lies between them and his friend is threatening to smash it into his face.

Outside, rain drums against the earth. Neither of them pay it mind.

#minecraft #dreamsmp #tommyinnit #purpled #dogchamp #purpled-centric #back at it again with boys being boys #tired writer moment #marie antoinette! tommy

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internalsealpanic · 4 years

Text

The Dog and Duck

summary: Dick Grayson is a terrible flirt (in more ways than one).

a/n: Special thanks to @jd-loves-everyone, @littleredwing89, @glorified-red, and @multifandomgirl-us for proofreading! This fic is based on a headcanon by @pricetagofficial (I think) that Dick Grayson is actually terrible at flirting which is just the cutest thing.

warnings: Potential cringe and terrible flirting advice

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The sound of voices and clinking of glasses mingle around you like a bustling symphony: discordant, rhythmic, clashing but endlessly vibrant. The scent of alcohol hung thick in the air, enough to taste and intoxicate. The amount of people in such a small space made something under your skin hum, whether it was simply an irritable Yasiri or the buzzing energy stored in your bones or maybe even a genuine discomfort, you weren’t entirely sure.

You sip lightly at the scotch in your glass, letting it burn through your throat, but it wasn’t enough to make the itch in it go away completely.

You watch Dick’s eyes intently as they slide past you, just over your shoulder. His sentences coalesce clumsily, syllables squishing and clipping at odd ends as his plush bottom lip catches between his teeth. His eyes are glossy with interest even in the dim lights of the pub. His pupils are blown and dark. You fight everything in you to stamp down the urge to huff or roll your eyes. Not that he would have noticed. You’re pretty sure you could stab someone in the eye and Dick wouldn’t even blink, not when he is so enraptured by whatever the hell is behind you. You feel a gross sticky sort of jealousy pool in the pit of your stomach. You swallow it down not really knowing of any other way to deal with it.

You arch a brow, the tips of your nails tapping loudly against the lacquered wood of the table as Dick once again stumbles absentmindedly over his story about Wally West being living proof of the need for warning labels (for people). You click your teeth irritably while Yasiri’s tail rattles against your collarbone before you take another sip, eyes following his only for them to land on a vivacious redhead at the bar. The irritation bubbling in your veins dwindles into mild amusement. Your best friend is a hilariously predictable moron.

“She is either a suspect or you’re being a creep.” You tease, the cruel curve of your lips barely obscured by the glass pressed against them. The mockery in your eyes shining amber like the drink in your glass. Dick’s cheeks flush as the playful lilt in your voice lances through the fog in his mind. He looks at you, dopey and red-cheeked as if he didn’t know what you were talking about. You roll your eyes, nostrils flaring letting out a breath caught between a huff and a laugh. “Stalker.” You hiss, trying to smother the warmth in your voice with sheer, unadulterated pettiness.

Dick levels you a look, cutting and vicious if he wasn’t flushed. “Am not.” He whines halfheartedly, eyes flicking once again to the woman at the bar. Some part of you is sure you really ought to be mad at him. After all, you haven’t seen each other for almost half a year. This is thanks in part to work and in part to work getting royally fucked up. Thankfully, not because of Gotham’s resident furry and his new little bird boy. Really, you should be furious at being sidelined considering this outing was his idea but here you were smirking into your malt whiskey, tickled.

“Then stop staring.” You challenge, unfolding and relaxing into the moldy cushioning of the bar. Dick glares at you, the pout on his lips obscured by his hand as he rests his chin on his palm but you know it’s there. You’ve memorized the plains of his face and how they shaped themselves, a product of spending far too much time staring at the details. Hey, if he was gonna third wheel you the least you could do was tease him about it. “Or do you want me to wingman for you~”

“HELL NO”

You can’t stop the cackle that spills from your lips. “Why not?!”

“I’m not letting you cockblock me. AGAIN.”

“That was one tiiime, Joystick.”

“Once was enough!"

"’Fiiiine but to be fair, you still ended up dating her, didn’t you?” You defended weakly, running your fingers through your hair, jostling the already wind whipped strands. Dick was red-faced. The liquor was definitely working through his system. The color in his cheeks was lively and cute, making him look boyish despite how much he’d grown. You had, in fact, cockblocked him due to an extreme bout of jealousy, childishness, and hormones. Back then you hadn’t yet learned the art of burying your feelings 6 feet under.

“Fine, fine, fine. Just shoot your shot, Dickie bird.” This does not appease him. He, in fact, crosses his arms over his chest. You set your glass down and raise your brow. “If you fail, I’ll buy you a round.” You add placatingly. Dick’s eyes slide over your shoulder, the lump in his throat bobbing.“Make that two.”

Your eyes shine, cat-like the dim lighting of the lamp overhead. You smile at him all cocksure, placing your chin on your intertwined fingers.“Deal.”

Dick gives you a withering look as he pushes off the table. You take a sip of your daiquiri as he moves through the crowd, gracefully slicing through the sea of bodies. No, maybe they were parting just for him. Dick does have that air about him. A pull that made it so painfully obvious that he was so much more. Dick also had this way of talking that made you unsure of whether you’re being flirted with or if it’s just the way he talks to people. Either way, he had this way of making you feel special and you had no doubt he would sweep this one off her feet.

The redhead at the bar tipped her head finally sensing his gaze on her and as per your expectation, she seemed to reciprocate the interest. Not that you can blame her. Dick was a 10 on his worst day. Now that you thought about it, you’ve never actually seen Dick flirt. You’ve seen him banter but flirt? You can’t seem to think of an instance of it. This’ll be fun.

You watch him closely and your brows climb higher than you thought they could. Something was off, something very un-Dick-like. There’s an unsteadiness in his step that makes your stomach sink. Dick wouldn’t. Even Dick wasn’t stupid enough to blow his shot just to get a few shots, would he?

And then it happened.

“Did it hurt when you hit your face?” Dick asks, winking stiffly. A ripple of pain lances through you followed by an unbearable wave of second-hand embarrassment. “Excuse me?!” Her face morphs into something terrifying before Dick’s brain can catch up. You watch in mute horror as Dick’s face slowly matches the sinking feeling in your gut as embarrassment suffused his entire body.

“Wait, shit. I- I meant- Shit. I didn’t mean to say you look like you banged your face. I mean, of course, you don’t-” You watch in fascination as Dick stumbles through apology after apology after apology. Until finally, he gives up. “Actually, I’ll just leave.” Dick shambles gracelessly back to your table while your brain tries to process what just happened.

You wheeze against the table, pounding your fist against the table. “Dickie, yanno you did have a shot before you opened your mouth, right?” Your hand is clamped over your mouth trying to stop the shrill cackle bubbling in your throat.

“Y/n...”

“Jeez, Dicktopus, was gin really worth getting blue balled?”

“You better have your money,” he sneers, cutting you a scathing look as he slides into the booth.

“I-” The smug look on your face vanishes when you reach into your wallet. “If I apologize for you, will you cut me some slack?” you try, brandishing your nearly empty wallet.

“I’ll buy you a shot if she doesn’t tell you to fuck off.”

“Hmm, if I get her number for you, will you get me two?”

“Sure, why not?” Dick whines petulantly. His head sinks into his arms desperately trying very hard to implode. You cough into your sleeve trying not to laugh and hope he doesn’t notice. A blush creeps up the tanned skin of his neck. He tries to hide it by placing his hand on his neck but the color’s already made its way to his ears. Feeling a little bad for him, you squeeze Dick’s shoulder once, then twice, then twice once more. You swing your legs dramatically out of the booth. You hear Dick groan and you chuckle.

You flick your eyes to him one last time before moving forward. You roll your shoulders, realigning your form into something more suave and less goofy. The rhythm of your feet goes from a clumsy shuffle to a confident saunter. The woman looks at you skeptically, her lashes fluttering mockingly. You move, easy and casual. With a playful grin, you apologize and make up some bullshit excuse about Dick being extremely shy. She eases. You continue on your little sales pitch as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You draw a laugh out of her. You can hear her heart pick up. She smiles at you telling you that you and your shy friend are fine. You chuckle and promise to tell your long-suffering friend that, tilting your chin towards Dick who is still trying to melt into the table. She scribbles her number onto a napkin and hands it to you with a flirtatious wink. You smile lopsided, cute and sheepish, as you wave her goodbye.

Dick stares at you with slack-jawed awe. This time you feel genuinely bashful but you shrug it away with a sharklike grin spreading across your face.

“Pay up, pretty bird,” you say slamming the number on the table, teeth gleaming in the low light of the room. The petty satisfaction oozing off of you is almost palpable. Dick looks up at you, his pretty mouth twisting. “What are you? Seven?”

“If by seven you mean lucky, then yeah,” you sneer, nudging your empty shot glass against Dick’s shoulder. “Pay up, Dickenson~” you sing. Dick’s face twists even more and he waves you off, pushing off the table.

“Let’s just go,” Dick bites out, cheeks burning. You bite your lips trying to resist the urge to tease him more but it’s hard. Not when he’s all pouty and cute.

“I mean you did just wine and dine me,” you laugh musically. You promised yourself you would stop teasing him but you never said you would stop making jokes. There’s a complicated expression on Dick’s face before it shifts back to exasperation.

“You. Are. Awful.”

You shake your head not even denying it as you follow him out of the old Dog and Duck into the fresh Bludhaven air.

“How are you good at this?” Dick whines into one of your throw pillows. The poorly counterfeit superman one he had gotten you a few years ago from a trip to the Philippines. He's pouting at you like a kid. To be fair, you did laugh at him in the club (and the whole way back to your safehouse which was not a short walk).

You chuckle, tapping a cool can of beer against his forehead.“Sadly some of us need to work at being charming, Dimples McGee.” He accepts the can, scowling at you. Your grin doesn’t waver which only serves to deepen his scowl. It was an irritating feedback loop. Well, irritating for Dick. You’re having the time of your life. You settle on the other side of the couch rolling your beer can in your hand. “ Plus, you’ve seen pops talk right? The man sweet talks like his life depends on it.”

“Right, I’ll remember to ask him for flirting advice next time he tries to kill me,” Dick says, rolling his eyes at you. You perk up at the awful idea before you snicker and press a hand to your lips in a barely held back smile. It’s Dick’s turn to perk up. His blue eyes shine with interest at your expression like he’s trying to capture it. You turn to him with a serious expression. “Please, please ask him that. I will pay you to record his reaction. Please. Please. Dickle, please,” you beg, moving on your knees to his side, your hands clasped in prayer. Dick shifts sticking his tongue out at you childishly.

“Noooooo!”

“Pleeeeeeaaaaaseee”

“No!”

With an ‘oof’, you plop yourself between Dick’s legs, your chest against his. You stare up at him with eyes mimicking the wide-eyed innocent look he uses on you when he asks for a favor. Dick gives you a sorry look asking you to please drop it. You don’t. You double down trying to look as cute as possible.

Dick looks down at you, glaring then grimacing then smiling. “Ok, fine,” he huffs stiffly, wrapping his arms around you. You snuggle up against him, smug in your victory. Your nose brushes against Dick’s pulse which makes his breath hitch. He squirms under you but you just find yourself laughing. “You. Are. Evil. ”

“I promise to make your Granny’s goulash,” you say in a halfhearted attempt to appease him. Dick’s face softens “Now, that’s just bribery.”

“You’re gonna be a cop here in Bludhaven. You gotta learn how to take bribes.”

His brows crease as you shake your head. Dick huffs, planting his chin against the crown of your head before pressing his lips to your hair. You feel one of his arms pulling you closer, his hand threading through the tangle of your hair. You smile against his skin, breath tickling him which just makes him squirm. He’s breathless under your touch and you don’t even know it. You two sit basking in the close proximity and the soft intimacy you two shared. Your limbs tangle and twine around each other carelessly.

Out of context, you two could have been lovers.

You sigh, feeling a bit drowsy from the ‘tussle’. You blink, mind reaching for something. “Wait…. Brucie flirts like his life depends on it too! What’s your excuse?” you grin, jabbing a finger into his chest. Dick scowls at you, clearly flustered again. He stammers, babbling out answers. “Hey, I- I could probably do it...” Dick mutters, finally finding a semblance of coherence.

“After that performance?” You challenge, sitting up, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. A sharp laugh spills from your lips. It’s louder than you intended, your entire chest moving along with every exhalation of air.

Dick looks at you like a kicked puppy which has you roaring with laughter. “You don’t have to laugh that hard”

“Admit it, Grayson, you are an actual bonafide dork”

“I’ll bonafide you,” he growls and you’re bent into the couch cushions, clutching your stomach. Dick looks like your house plant like he’s about to disintegrate. You sit up again and cross your legs. Your lungs expand as you draw in another calming breath before you give him a softer, lopsided smile, placing a hand on his knee and shaking him gently. “Come on, practice on me I’m probably one of the few people you don’t have a stick up your ass around.” Dick, not getting up, puts his hands in his face looking positively mortified by the idea. You make a little affronted noise in the back of your throat and thanks to whatever god is up there that you don’t seem to know how much he doesn’t wanna fuck up flirting with you.

“I don’t know how to!” The cry is muffled but the mortification still bleeds through. The admission startles something out of you. “Holy shit, Nightwing can’t flirt his way out of a paper bag. Oh my god, this is great!” you cackle, falling into the cushions.

“I’m trying damn it!”

“Ok. Ok. Ok.” You breathe. You’re still clutching your still aching stomach. You wish you recorded that confession. “Ok. Phew. Ok, I need a minute,” you say folding over into the cushions again, another bubble of laughter rising in your throat. This is the best ab workout you’ve had in months.

“Take your time,” Dick deadpans, rolling his eyes, color rising in his tanned cheeks.

“Ooook, I think I’m good. First, we need to work on your wink.”

“The hell is wrong with my wink?” A wry smile tugs at the corner of your lips. You make vague hand gestures, hoping somehow you could physically pluck the correct words from the air. “Just try winking, Ric.” Dick raises his brow but gives in. He winks at you in his usual devilishly charming way. You shake your head. “Wink at me like you’re trying to get my number.”

He stiffens and gives you the most artificial wink you’ve seen outside of a bad 50s flick. You drag your hand over your face. “How come you can wink so naturally while fighting and look like you work at in car sales when you flirt”

Dick tries again. He ends up closing both his eyes and scrunching his nose- looking like a disgruntled puppy. You squeal and Dick’s eyes fly open. Your mouth works to flatten itself but your mind is still picturing the expression. “What?” he growls. You wave him off. “Sorry. Sorry. Just- just try again. Please.”

Dick gives you another stiff wink and you’re surprised to find yourself cringing at your best friend for the first time in your life. You drag your hand over your face. “You look like you’re trying to ask me to prom.”

“You’ve never even been to a prom!”

“Who do you think scares off Joey’s dates? Pops?” you snort picking up your beer can and taking a sip. “Did you miss the absentee father part?”

You both silently agree to move on.

“How the flying fuck did you date both Babs and Kory with your atrocious flirting skills?”

“I have good pick up lines.”

“Uh, sure, buddy.”

“It worked on both of them!”

“Well, hit me.”

“Call me Fred Flintstone,” you wait patiently, “cause I’ll make your bedrock.” Another artificial wink.

You blink at him, mind still trying to catch up. “Dick you are the epitome of ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’,” you groan, palm flat against your forehead.

“I’m not cute! I’m handsome!” Dick protests, mouth twisting into a pout. A shrill squeal is dying in the back of your throat as you draw a breath. You pinch his cheeks, “you pouting just furthers my point.”

“Are you just trying to destroy my confidence?” Dick whines, lightly shoving you away.

“Oh no, the girl back at the club did that. I am just dancing on your grave.”

“Give me another wink.”

Dick fails at winking, again. You cringe openly at him and he scowls at you halfheartedly, more defeated than angry. Dick’s used to being good at things, you supposed. You tap your finger against your chin, trying to unspool a thought and rethread it into words. “Ok, figured out one of your problems.”

“Aside from my terminal dorkiness?”

“You’re too nervous-”

“You would be too,” Dick cuts in.

You snicker, teeth bared in a mocking grin. ”Did you miss the part where I got her number?” Dick refuses to answer. You sigh but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “Let’s start with body language because for a guy with so much muscle control you are shit at this.”

“You’re just gonna keep being mean,” he moans.

“I’ll stop being mean when you sweep me off my feet,” you jab.

“Ok, fine, maestro. What do you need me to do?”

“You’ve got to lean into me and smile coyly,” you say vaguely. Dick leans in close, your noses touching, his lips ghosting over yours. You can feel his breath hot against your lips. It sends bolts of electricity careening through your nerves. Your brain takes its sweet time catching up, giving your body ample time to soak up the proximity of the almost kiss. You gasp then reign yourself in. “Dickle, that’s- that’s a teensy bit too close,” you laugh awkwardly, hands playfully shoving at his chest.

Dick shakes out of his haze. “You said to lean in!” he says leaning into your space again. “Yeah, I did but I never said lean in close enough to eat my face. I can smell the gin in your breath,” you snort airly, pushing at his chest again.

Dick sits back, embarrassment creeping into his features. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth as if he’s thinking carefully about his next few words. “I’m just-” Dick puts his head in his hands. “Like you said, I’m too nervous.”

You raise a brow. The sound that comes out of you is too sharp and disbelieving to be a laugh. “Pfffft, it’s just me, you dork.”

That’s the problem, Dick thinks. It’s you. The exasperation bleeds into his features. Dick fidgets, shifting and shaking in his seat like a wet chihuahua. Don’t you know how much he wants to get this right for you?.

“Stop twitching! You look like you’re having a seizure.”

“I’m nervous!!” he says. “Don’t you ever get nervous about a person you like?”

You side eye him. “I do,” you admit, rubbing your thumb over your tattoo out of habit. Dick’s eyes widen, then narrow. You see the word ‘who’ forming on his lips but his train of thought is cut off by the sound of Yasiri’s tail rattling against your skin as she emerges. Your poor danger noodle is likely frustrated with the lack of progress. You quietly thank her by scratching her chin. “Whatever made this world just decided that you had to have at least one very obvious flaw,” you say, insincerely patting him on the back.

“You're enjoying this.”

“Way more than you think,” you say grinning at him. Dick simply grimaces at you. “You’re not helping me.”

“Were you really expecting me to help?” You shrug. “Why would I do that?”

“I’d help you!”

You level him with a flat look. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d laugh just as hard as I did.” Dick opens his mouth then closes it. He opens it again. You raise your brow at him. “ I- ok yeah. No, I would laugh harder,” he says, giving you a cheeky, lopsided smile. Vindication and something warmer tug your features into a smile.

“Just… relax and be yourself,” you mock sagely. Dick rests his head on yours. “ I hate you,” he groans, pressing his shoulder into yours.

“You’re just thinking about it too much,” you say, pressing back, “just do what’s natural. The more you over try the funnier it is.”

“Goes back to my problem of being nervous,” he huffs into your hair. You boop his nose. “Goes back to my point about you overthinking things.”

“I’m not!”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” you say, reaching back and presenting your danger noodle in your palm, "practice on Yazzy.”

“You’re not serious?”

You hold up the clearly unamused snake eye level with Dick. “Go on." Dick gives you a withering look. He exasperates, then looks deep into Yasiri’s black eyes. He opens his mouth and Yasiri flicks her tongue at him. The next few things happen in quick succession. Dick’s body relaxes. His face breaks into a smile that makes your heart flutter. He lets out a bubble of laughter that has you jumping and reaching for your own breath. "I can't!" he gasps. You both dissolve into laughter.

“Suit yourself - but prepare to have blue balls," you grin, punching his shoulder, "at least, they'll match your new suit!" you cackle. Dick flushes red.“I - I - you are legally the worst and most unhelpful human being in modern history!”

Your cackle rises higher even as Dick shoves a pillow in your face. You push it away and wipe the tears away from your eyes. “Just practice on me, go on,” you say, reaching out, “once more." He frowns at you. "Please?”

Dick closes his eyes. His movements become leisurely the way you've seen him when he's about to do a routine on the trapeze. “Do you have a map?” he says, pushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. The oxygen in your lungs evaporates. Heat spreads from the line of skin Dick’s finger grazed to the rest of your body. You swallow trying not to collapse under the weight of his gaze. You realize he's expecting an answer. "No, why?” you stammer out stupidly.

“Because I keep getting lost in your eyes,” he says, eyes glittering in the dim lights of your apartment. Some part of your brain short circuits, fizzing out in sparks and fire, then the rest of your brain follows. The entire structure goes out in a puff of smoke. You're completely frozen. Dick watches you with a furrowed brow, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Apprehension rolls off of him in waves and you can feel your lungs work again. "Exactly! Exactly that!" You squeal in delight. Dick smiles relieved. "I knew you could do it, you magnificent dork. I could kiss you right now!" you say squishing his cheeks and pressing your forehead against his. Dick’s breath catches. There's a hopeful look in his eyes. "Would you?"

Something clogs your throat as you pull away. You're pretty sure it's your heart. You force the nervous laughter in your throat into something else. "Need practice with that too, Dickens?"

"Dunno," he hedges, eyes holding yours, "you tell me." His hand cups the side of your face. You ease into his touch like a marshmallow dissolving into hot cocoa. "Can I?" he whispers, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. He's being careful with you you realize. Your eyes flutter closed. You can feel your nerves disentangling. They cross and recross so that you're fully aware of your lips. The gap between the two of you is small but it feels so impossibly big. Anticipation, anxiety, and excitement all thicken the spaces between you. You want him. You want this. Is it so wrong?

"Yes."

Tag list: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-inkage, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson #merc!reader #my writing

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sixteenthshen · 3 years

Text

i need help

I read a post on Zhihu last night - “How to evaluate the finale of Word of Honor?” The top commenter’s writing just killed me.

Heavy spoilers for episode 33/34. There’re no spoilers for the episodes after that, but I can’t guarantee this if there are replies.

The rest hidden behind a cut.

I don’t need help explaining the finale or the happy ending, bad ending whatever it is, I’ve found my own way to come to terms with it. But I can’t accept what happened in 33/34 and the lack of follow up on the core of the issue, and that’s blocking me from enjoying the “HE”. To be fair, I think I may be a bit hormonal? Because this is really making me feel like crap.

-----

This is a comment made by a Chinese user on Zhihu:

I only want to say; the show might as well have ended when A-Xu jumped down the cliff after WKX. Even though it's a bit lame, at least the soulmate feelings were still there.

The grand finale basically destroyed the soulmate bond built up over 20+ episodes. The essence of it is gone; all of the "candy" and "knives" feel like they've been stripped away.

I've written so much about WKX & ZZS and how they were both falling for each other, saving each other. And now it all looks like a big joke.

It turns out ZZS's soulmate is ZZH, not WKX. The mountains and rivers in the world can't compare to meeting my soulmate. Since my soulmate is gone, I might as well die. (Play on the quote from the drama, instead of why should I live, it becomes I should just die)

(The poster starts talking to ZZS directly - referring to him as you) You're really a mistreated (tortured?) concubine, aren't you? Once you decide to give your whole heart, whole person away, you somehow always end up meeting some fake evil bastard (reference to Farewell my Concubine, basically that ZZS always ends up being suckered)

When you first fell into Prince Jin's trap, it's because you were young and not yet wise to the ways of the world, and believed in the grand words of your cousin and got conned into the world of politics. Sinking into the dirtiest, muddiest of marshes.

You plotted tirelessly for 18 months, suffered through 18 months of pain from the 7 nails, and finally exchanged it for 3 years of freedom. But when you met WKX, you fell right back in again.

Heraclitus said, "You cannot step into the same river twice" <<(I think this person mixed up the meaning of this quote, cause it doesn't fit, but basically intends to say people shouldn't make the same mistake twice)

The first time you stepped into the river, you got away with only half your life. The next time you stepped into the river, you nearly lost your life 4x (under YBY's sword, when you jumped off the cliff to your death for love, pulling out your nails, exploding the mountain to cause an avalanche + suicide), in the end you became a living dead person on Changming mountain.

I don't know if I should call you a living dead man, anyway, in my heart, once you pulled out the nails from your body, cutting off any other alternative you had just to help WKX take revenge… while WKX came back from the dead, and worked with everyone present at the scene to give the performance of a lifetime, you were already dead.

What a mockery, a farce.

You gave up everything but in the end, you were nothing more than a spectator.

He wanted you to give him face, to let him go home to explain things. You quietly stepped aside and gave him the stage. He wanted your baiyi sword to demonstrate his family's sword technique, to prove his identity. You gave it to him without a second word. He cut Zhao Jing's arms and legs tendons, crippled his martial arts, finally took revenge. You were happy for him despite everything.

When Mo Huaiyang accused him of being the Ghost Valley Master, he openly admitted to it and said the entire first part was just an act. You stood in front of him, to protect him. Said he is your shidi, and stood with him without any reservations.

But he had secretly already reached an agreement with Ye Baiyi. He knew YBY wouldn't hurt him, but you didn't know and yet you still shielded him. So terribly afraid that YBY would hurt him because of his identity.

Everyone knew this was part of the scheme he laid out, everyone participated in his scheme. Only you didn't know. Only you foolishly believed that he wouldn't be alright without you, that he needed you to help him take revenge. That he had his difficulties so he couldn't confess the truth to you, as long as he did, then you would be the first to know everything. That he was your soulmate. This word "soulmate", if said enough times, it would even be real. In this life, right up until the end, we can't even fully understand ourselves, how do we talk about others?

-----

the source is the top voted answer here. I like this poster a lot, she shared some great things throughout the course of the drama, 3 of which were the base of poems-related posts I’ve made here. I was doing fine before, but in the course of translating this answer for a friend, I made myself feel worse.

She later forced herself to look at it from WKX’s perspective and wrote a piece on it as well, but it... was very forced and I’m not too sure she even believed it herself. She ended that part with - “this made her feel very keenly that no matter how similar two souls may be, in the end, they are still two souls. He isn’t you and he will never be you. You can work endlessly and tirelessly to be closer, but your souls can never meet.”

I... I’m too sad to translate the WKX part in order to be fair to WKX in this post (if I feel better about it, i will later? but it didn’t make me feel better at all tbh)

Can someone who can articulate well and believe that what WKX did was right, please help to make me understand episodes 32-34 from his perspective?

My main issues are:

We never got a proper 1-to-1 discussion between WKX and ZZS over the issue. At first, they were celebrating as a group, I can accept it. There wasn’t a time or place.

But when ZZS went back to his room early and sober, when everyone else was still drinking and having fun, I felt so bad for him.

When WKX came into his room, looking for ZZS when drunk, I know it isn’t supposed to be like this - but I can’t help but feel he didn’t dare to talk to A-Xu 1-to-1. Instead he went when he was drunk to spill his heart. It can be thought of as sweet, because the first person he thinks of when he’s drunk is A-Xu... but I can’t help but find it very selfish, because it leaves A-Xu with no way to talk about things. If you’ve ever talked to a drunk while sober, you would understand what I mean, it’s a one-way conversation, you can’t get anything through.

But that conversation left A-Xu with enough guilt that he can’t come clean to WKX about what he did. How can he tell WKX that he pulled out his nails, and is about to die. To take away WKX’s happiness, when Lao Wen just told him about how happy he was to have him in his life?

Lao Wen had 0 intention to be cruel, but it ended up being more cruel. And this lack of a proper discussion between the two of them, makes me call into question the whole thing about soulmates. I believe Lao Wen loves A-Xu the best he can (with his somewhat emotionally stunted self), but he’s not putting himself in the other person’s shoes to care for them.

Love =/= care. And by not caring enough in this matter, I feel it’s thrown him into OOC. Where is the WKX who cared so much for ZZS at the start? Where is the tenderness?

The drama never properly addressed why WKX faked his death and not tell A-Xu. The only reason they gave was that A-Xu was heavily injured (through Wu Xi). WKX just admitted he was wrong (and should drink). That’s all.

Thankssss.

Please don’t preach to me about the happy ending or talk about the finale. I personally can’t resolve 32-34, I have found a way to accept the ending as long as I can accept these 3 episodes.

I may not be able to immediately accept your POV but I will force myself to try to find something that fits. I want to keep shipping wenzhou :(

#i'm not even checking my own grammar cause this is making me too emo #WKX fans and stans #please help #i added a sad gif of a-xu #because he's sad

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trustsn01 · 4 years

Text

Avatrice Short 41

“Ava, this is your soulmate Beatrice. Beatrice, this is your soulmate, Ava.”

Ava didn’t think twice about the place. Sure, she did wonder what they were talking about when they listed all these supposedly “good deeds” she’d done when she was alive. As far as Ava knew, she’d been dealt with one bad luck after another and this was her due. The good life from the good place.

A soulmate though?

She didn’t think that was remotely real. To be fair, her soulmate looked easy on the eyes at least. Her morals though? Ugh. Beatrice looked like she hasn’t had much fun in her life. Ava could show her.

Or maybe she could focus first on ensuring she didn’t lose her spot in this place.

Oh. Beatrice could help, right?

Right. Her soulmate. Surely she was obligated to help Ava out lest they get separated—and wouldn’t that go against the whole point of having soulmates?

Don’t fall in love with her.

That was her first thought when Ava was introduced to her. She was in the good place precisely because she kept true to her faith and avoided all temptations. She knows she did well. Heaven surely wouldn’t lord someone like Ava over her secret while she was alive. Would they?

You can’t fall in love with her.

A fraud. How fitting, Beatrice thought.

Ava wasn’t who she was supposed to be and yet despite all her bad habits and tendency to leave chaos in her wake...

Maybe they do deserve each other, Beatrice mused. A fraud for a fraud.

Because as hard as she thought she couldn’t and wouldn’t—Beatrice was falling.

This IS the Bad Place!

Maybe this was the whole point of the Bad Place. It is meant to punish, was it not?

“I don’t want to forget you.” Beatrice held tight on to Ava’s hand.

Ava shook her head. “I don’t want to forget you either.”

“I wonder how many times have we been here. In this moment. About to lose each other and about to be introduced to another life we’re supposed to live for eternity with someone else.”

“Ava this is your soulmate, Lilith.”

“Hell, no!”

“What do you mean ‘no’? Ava, that is rude. You’ve yet to get to know Lilith.” Adriel smiled at Ava. But Ava knew something wasn’t right. And by the look on Lilith’s face, she knew it too.

“Beatrice, this is your soulmate, Teresa.”

“Hi.” Teresa held out her hand while her other hand consciously ran through her hair.

“There must be a mistake.” Beatrice whispered.

Adriel cocked an eyebrow in her direction, letting her know her words were audible.

“I’m sorry. I think...I just don’t think she’s...mine.” Beatrice faltered at first, but grew stronger especially with the last word.

“I refuse to believe this is where we’re meant to be. God or whatever can’t be this cruel.” Ava held on just as tightly. She looked at the woman beside her as they looked at the setting sun. In awhile, Adriel would surely catch on to them once more.

“When I was alive, I tried so hard to be everything my parents wanted me to be. I did everything right. When I thought I’d found the love of my life, I rejected her because I thought it was wrong. That what I felt was wrong.”

“Do you still believe that?” Ava asked, heart in her throat as she waited for an answer.

“Yes.” Ava felt her heart break right as Beatrice looked into her eyes. She meant to pull away but Beatrice pulled her closer. “Only because what I feel for you eclipses anything I ever thought I felt for her. And THAT can’t be wrong. We aren’t a mistake. I refuse to believe that.”

“There you two lovebirds are.”

The voice surprised them both. Caught unaware, Ava nearly stumbled but Beatrice caught her with both arms and that was how they faced off the despicable man in their midst.

Ava in Beatrice’s arms.

“Wow, I must admit it took a little bit longer to find you two this time around.” Adriel chuckled.

“You can’t keep doing this.” Ava hissed.

“I beg to differ, Ava. I can actually keep doing this. I mean...what’s it been? If we’re going on your petty human measurements, I dare say we’ve been at this for 25 years.”

Both women’s eyes widen in a mix of horror and fear.

“I can keep doing this. Forever if need be. I mean, you two make it even more interesting to be honest. Best assignment ever!” Adriel laughed out loud.

“You’re punishing us for what? For loving each other? Is that it?” Beatrice felt the tears but struggled to hold on to them. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of her pain.

Adriel stopped laughing and looked at them curiously. He tilted his head slightly to the side and stared at them.

“It doesn’t matter.” He said. “In awhile, you both wouldn’t even remember any of these.” He raised his hand, ready to snap his fingers for the nth time.

“You can’t keep us apart.” Ava warned, her eyes seeking the other woman’s as she spoke the words.

Beatrice nodded solemnly. “No one can.”

Adriel paused.

“Are you saying the big man himself can’t keep you two apart?”

The question took them aback. Ava looked at Adriel and saw his focus completely on Beatrice.

Beatrice froze.

Could she? Does she dare doubt?

She felt her fingers being squeezed and her eyes returned to focus on the woman in her arms.

“I...” Beatrice started. “If He is in fact everything I’ve been taught He is to be...He wouldn’t keep us apart. He would love me—us—exactly as we are.”

Adriel switched his focus to Ava. “You think you deserve the likes of Beatrice? You were hardly worth ANYTHING when you ended up here.” He casually pointed at Beatrice with his thumb. “At least her biggest sin was being an idiot.”

“Hey!” Ava tensed and struggled to disengage from Beatrice’s hold. “You can keep on talking shit about me for the rest of fucking eternity but you WILL NOT call Beatrice names!”

“Ava, no!” Beatrice moved to stand in front of Ava as she glared at Adriel.

“Ava may not have been the kindest when she was living. But she was HONEST. Life dealt her pain and suffering and she knew no better. No one gave taught her how. No one gave her a chance. And she’s done so much since she’s been here. She tried to do better and she’s done just that! It’s just you and the likes of you who seem hellbent on continuing to punish her even now.”

Adriel took a seat on a nearby tree stump, crossed his arms, and offered them a smirk.

“This is new.”

Beatrice frowned at him in confusion, though still wary to let her guard down around him.

He waved his hand about in a way that belied his interest as he spoke. “All this time, the two of you ended up here. Again and again and again. Different ways, but ultimately the same.”

He yawned, placed his hands above him as if stretching out his limbs.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I could do this forever, but you two were seriously beginning to depress me.”

“What?” Ava was the first to give in to the confusion.

“You,” he pointed at the slightly taller woman, causing both to tense in preparation for some sort of attack. “kept on lying to yourself. Pretending to be something and someone you’re not. Let’s not even touch upon the things you know about your parents but turned a blind eye and kept on believe otherwise because it’s what was comfortable. It’s what hurt less.”

In a split second, memories flashed through Beatrice’s head about meetings in the middle of the night, her parents’ guests and the subtly armed men that followed, the money she knew they shouldn’t have but they do.

“You know about the lives that were ruined because of your family. But you didn’t do anything, did you? And the woman who thought you loved her...oh, she paid the ultimate price.” Adriel wagged a finger in Beatrice’s direction.

“You knew about her being an undercover agent because she trusted you. Trusted you to do the right thing.”

“Bea?” Ava’s voice rang through the tension-filled air but Beatrice barely heard her.

“You rejected her. And yet, despite her feelings of pain, she did her job because it’s what was right. Hell, she even tried to save you.”

The memories of how she did finally began to make sense.

“You called her a liar. In the middle of it all you dared to call her a liar. I mean, not to make fun of my man Peter at the gate but damn. He had nothing on you the way you denied her findings in front of her coworkers, but also denied even knowing her and testimony she was counting on you to disclose about your folks.” Adriel slowly clapped in obvious mockery.

“Tell me, do you think you still deserve anything at this point? Let alone a chance with this girl? Or anyone, really.” This time, he gestured towards Ava with a jut of his chin.

#avatrice #the good place #avatrice AU

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scalpel-mom-mori · 4 years

Text

Ragnarok

It was the end of the world.

Or, the Khaenri’ah Trio goes on a killing spree. Content warning for gore/murder and spoilers.

The Wind died quietly, pitifully. A foreign stranger wearing the ghost of a smile. “The others wouldn’t have been able to do it themselves. You’ve given them more than anyone ever thought you would, and for that I must give you my thanks.”

Bright, blue eyes fluttered their girlish lashes. “Ah, I see.”

Funny, that Morax would fall in the ruins of the Guili Assembly. “I can’t even be angry,” he said. “That you would betray a contract for an older one.” The Alchemist frowned, but said nothing as the old god sighed. “Perhaps you would like Memories of Dust. A mind like yours is wasted on killing.”

Justice never stood a chance. Ice, racing through her veins, and the Fallen Prince stood with his sword at his side, dripping red. “So the rumors are true,” she sighed. “They are in danger.”

“Indeed they are,” he agreed.

Wisdom was much the same, leaning broken, beaten against a wall. “This city would have adored you, Head Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius,” he said, breathing labored. “You could have studied here in peace.”

“Perhaps in another life, I could have,” the Alchemist agreed.

Murata raged, straining against the cold, creeping fingers of death, screaming curses with her final breath. “Your Highness-”

The Prince silenced his companion with a look. “I’m quite used to fighting fire by now.”

“Raiden Shogun…” The stranger, the foreigner frowned. “We’re poorly matched. Inazuma is beautiful.” She scowled, struggling, failing to stand, to raise her sword. “Now then. It’s nothing personal.” And the flat of a greatsword ended her life.

“Your Majesty!” Tartaglia staggered in, holding his side. “Your Majesty, run!”

“Tartaglia-”

He pulled her to her feet by one arm. “I hate to order you around, Your Majesty, but please,” he gritted. “You have all the gnoses, now run. They’re coming. They’ve already killed Signora.” Harshly, he pushed her toward the hidden mechanism that revealed a secret exit. “It has been my honor,” he told her, turning his back, twin daggers forming.

“Come with me,” she pleaded. “I can’t lose any more of you. I don’t want to be alone again.”

He didn’t turn to face her. “I… cannot accompany you, Your Majesty. The best I can do is let you escape. Now go.”

“Tartaglia, come,” she tried again. “We’ll take them…” She trailed off when he turned and lowered his weapons.

“One of them strangled Murata in her bed,” he said, “do you think we could hide from them? Go. Defeat them with all the gods of Teyvat, and remember me fondly.”

But they were out of time. The snap of a glider echoed through the throne room. “Ah, so you did manage to get to her.” The Fallen Prince descended slowly, spiraling with all the grace and experience of a Mondstadt native. It was cruel to watch. He landed lightly, almost silently, save for the splash of one boot in a puddle of Tartaglia’s blood. Frost, stained red, raced across the floor, reaching for the warmth of a living body.

The Prince, however, took his time, trailing bloodied footprints across the carpet.

The Tsaritsa cowered behind the throne, only knowing better than to get in Tartaglia’s way. Kaeya took no apparent notice of her. “Round two, then? It’s just the two of us this time.”

“That Alchemist is a tricky one, for someone with such a sweet face,” Tartaglia said.

“We have to be if we want to survive.” Kaeya agreed, unsheathing his sword, assumed the traditional defensive stance of a Knight.

“Show me your native sword style,” Tartaglia said, fixing his stance. “I’ve fought plenty from Mondstadt.”

Kaeya’s mouth pulled into a smile. “If you insist.” A second, shorter blade formed out of ice in his left hand, white and pristine.

“Ah, I almost want to scold you for using that Vision to kill Her Majesty,” Tartaglia said, unable to deny the way his blood began to burn.

Kaeya spread his hands and shrugged, both weapons swinging carelessly aside. “That’s the irony of it, isn’t it? You have a hydro Vision.”

Tartaglia frowned. “Our circumstances are different.”

“Teyvat’s cryo Archon is the goddess of love. They’re functionally the same.”

Tartaglia realized what Kaeya was doing a moment too soon. “You-” He tugged at the ice restraints but they didn’t move, digging tighter into his legs.

Kaeya shrugged again, his off-blade dissipating into a handful of snow, drifting serenely to the ground. “You’ve lost your edge. I would have thought you’d expect something like that after working with Signora.”

Tartaglia sputtered as his restraints began creeping up his thighs. Kaeya walked past, unconcerned. With one hand, he overturned Her Majesty’s throne, revealing the Tsaritsa with an ice dagger in her hand. He thought nothing of it, and kicked aside her pathetic attempt at a struggle.

“Cute,” Kaeya said, smiling. “Your boy over there likes talking too much. I kind of want him to watch this, just for making this take so long.” His pale blue Vision flared in painful mockery of Tartaglia, not so long ago, when he’d failed to steal Morax’s gnosis. Kaeya’s hand sank up to the wrist into the Tsaritsa’s stomach. When he withdrew, the Tsaritsa’s curved, pale blue gnosis glittered between his long fingers.

“So that’s what these feel like,” he murmured, turning it this way and that. “It’s beautiful,” he told her, flashing a smile down at her. He flipped it once, twice through the air, caught it in a fist. It was a mindless, careless motion. He was standing in the presence of a Harbinger and a god and he couldn’t care less.

Two sets of heavy footsteps marked the arrival of his companions. “What took you two so long?” he sighed.

“Dainsleif took a wrong turn,” Albedo grumbled. “I told him I had the route memorized, but he didn’t believe me.”

Kaeya sighed. “Dain, this place reeks of the Abyss. You can’t just trust your nose like you usually do.”

Dainsleif bowed his head, contrite, but not without a dirty look shot at Albedo.

“Never mind that. You two take care of Her Majesty over there by the chair. I have business to settle with Tartaglia here.”

A small frown knit Albedo’s forehead. “You’re impossible.”

Kaeya laughed. “Sure.”

A deep crackle, and a chair rose from the floor, just outside Tartaglia’s reach. Kaeya sat down and inspected him. The ice had made its way up to his waist by now.

“What do you want?” Tartaglia gritted.

Kaeya shrugged with one shoulder. “We need the gnoses to restore Khaenri’ah.”

Tartaglia scoffed. “You were left behind in the Archon war.”

“We were,” Kaeya agreed. “Or else we wouldn’t have needed to do this.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Kaeya smiled at him. “Her Majesty there might not be able to handle it,” he replied. “The Fatui were instrumental for this, and for that we really owe you our thanks.”

“You…” Tartaglia couldn’t even find anger through the shock. “You used us.”

“Naturally. No one in their right mind would hand the Crown Prince of Khaenri’ah their gnosis. So, we had Teyvat tear itself apart first, and we’d come in and pick up the pieces.”

The Tsaritsa let out a pained squeak, despairing.

“Don’t you worry that pretty head of yours, Your Majesty,” Kaeya called. “It’ll be over in a moment.” He stood up. “Anyway. Till next time.”

“Your Highness,” Albedo sighed, annoyed, giving Tartaglia a wide radius as he moved to join Kaeya on the way out. Dainsleif gave Tartaglia a dirty look, but said nothing.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Kaeya said. With the wet, cruel sound of puncturing flesh, and a strangled cry from Tartaglia, they finished their mission. “Time to go home.”

#peaches writes #genshin bullshit #Kaeya #Albedo #Dainsleif #genshin impact #did i actually post this to the wrong blog no #i just put it here cause people here actually read my shit

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avauntus · 4 years

Text

2020 favs: (short) fic recs

I am stealing this idea from @macgyver-sheriff, who has no clue who I am, but whose post I saw go across my dash. Thank you! 👋

Would you like some recs for the holiday season? - I too would like to share love for my favorite things I read that were written this year! <3

I’m going to do this in two parts - the short fics (10k or less, generally one-shot), and another post for the long or series fics I loved this year (it’s 2020, I figure we can use too much of a good thing?)

( @staidwaters - I’m ‘disqualifying’ your works because I’m biased, sorry! Look away! Unless you want recs!)

"Congratulations, Get Rich" (9,238 words) by Attila (The Untamed - modern AU)

Tomorrow is Chinese New Year, which means Wei Wuxian has to get all of his bad decisions out of the way tonight.

Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Jiang Cheng, Mianmian are all so screamingly perfect as modern versions of themselves in this, and it is KNOCK DOWN HILLARIOUS. Wei Wuxian is just a screaming queer disaster (affectionate) - as he should be.

Excerpt:

After a long beat, Lan Xichen sinks gracelessly into the chair Lan Wangji had been sitting in earlier. “I just want to be absolutely clear,” he says delicately, “that you are currently under the impression that my brother has no romantic feelings for you. That is what you’re saying to me right now, yes?”

“Yes?” Wei Wuxian says, feeling desperately confused. “Obviously? Why?”

“Because at least one of you is very stupid, and I’m trying to figure out who,” Lan Xichen tells him, sounding distracted. It’s the rudest thing Wei Wuxian has ever heard him say, and his mouth drops open slightly.

“caved to the careless” (6,708 words) by ilgaksu (The Untamed/MDZS - Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen)

Love is a choice you make - like this, and this, and this.

Have you ever read a writer whose work is so distinctly itself that you can feel yourself slipping in time even as you keep going? That’s not very articulate, but it’s the best way I can describe everything of ilgaksu’s I’ve read. Their fics are the same emotional register as having the breath knocked out of you after a fall. This was the first one I read, and I think it ends well-- with what Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen find along the path-- but it’s still heavy. Discussions of canon-compliant character death and grief/mourning here.

Excerpt:

He pauses. Until this very moment, he was unsure who to ask for. He has heard the rumours of the Yiling Patriarch’s ongoing residence here, about Zewu-jun’s seclusion: he’s dead, but even the dead are not free from gossip. But he remembers a courtyard, nearly two decades ago, and the weight of eyes some might have called angry in their intensity. He remembers those same eyes, and how for the wear of the intervening years, they had kept the same essence: longing, yearning, a kind of small unspoken grief.

Song Lan had a dream once. A dream of a sect, bound not by blood, but by a shared belief in the right path. So many things are only an inheritance: shame is one of them.

Love is a choice. Love is a choice, and you choose until you can’t.

“I am here,” he decides, carving the words into the dirt, every stroke of every character resolute, “To meet with Hanguang-jun. Please show this one the way to go.”

“Green River Running” (8,169 words) by @rain-hat (Love in the Moonlight - post-canon AU)

5+1: Kim Byeong-yeon returns to the land of the living.

I skimmed through Love in the Moonlight during my quarantine summer (distinguishable from my “quarantine spring” or “quarantine fall” only by fireworks), and immediately upon finishing, thought: “Psht, they killed off their best character.” And then, something happened that never happens -- I went on ao3 and found the exact thing I was looking for, written far better than I could have imagined. Kim Byeong-yeon is such a quiet yet powerfully subversive presence and the progression here is so masterfully done. This is true of all of rainhat’s work’s I’ve read, but this is a fine example-- I really treasure the warm humanism of them.

Excerpt:

People needed helping hands even more than they needed sympathetic ears, though. Over the last year, Hong Gyeong-rae and Byeong-yeon had built houses and planted crops side by side; negotiating with moneylenders here, helping small-folk secure their stores against bandits there. There was nothing courtly about Byeong-yeon’s capacity for labour, or his expectation of reward. Wherever he went, he worked from dawn to dusk, ate the food he was given, and slept under a roof if he was offered one.

It suited him, Hong Gyeong-rae thought, even though there was something outlandish about his gentle speech and palace manners in the midst of it all. But to behave in any other way would be untrue to his upbringing; nor was he the sort of man to whom it would occur to try. And after all, most people liked to be treated with courtesy; it did not come across as mockery from this solemn, severely dressed young man, who seemed to find no task too big or too small. Hong Gyeong-rae had seen him argue tax law with local councillors and stand up to highwaymen armed with nothing but a knife and staff. But he watched cooking pots for women who had to run to the fields to tide over the day’s labour, too; he wrote letters for them, and tolerated their fractious children and spoon-fed their bedridden elders, if that was what was called for.

“The Veritable Records of King Taejo: Year 2, Entry 208“ (9,857 words) by @sadviper (My Country: the New Age - Nam Seon-ho & Hwang Sung-rok slice-of-life)

Hwang Sung-rok eats his way to the bottom of a real estate scam, and Seon-ho and Yeon help (a little).

No one is out here doing it like SadViper. This is technically part of a series, but they can all be read separately. I did not realize I needed to see more of Nam Seon-ho in all his “type-A government official glory” until Viper started sketching him out for us, and as a bonus, we get to see Yeon, and Sung-rok as the world’s surliest caretaker (but don’t call him that). I have an authorial fallacy where I always think stories have to have some grand “plot” -- a “Maltese Falcon” to pull the reader along-- the genius of Viper’s work is she shows us exactly how interesting and important the day-by-day tiny choices and connections we make are, with an impeccable background of historical research to ground you in the setting.

Excerpt:

Nam Seon-ho was his master now. He was a strange one. He was a traitor, for helping the escaped Liaodong soldiers, but not, because he managed to wiggle his way back into Yi Seong-gye’s favor and was now a sixth-ranked inspector with the privilege of having personal audiences with the King. He was temperamental and belligerent from being the son of a slave mother and a lifetime subject of Lord Nam’s fantastic parenting philosophy. He was afflicted with perpetual guilt. And he was also one of the hardest working and most desperate people Sung-rok had ever known.

It was a terrible combination. He was not merely a disaster waiting to happen, but a disaster perambulating on two legs at the edge of a chasm. If Sung-rok intended to stay in service for long, he needed to find a way to cool down some of Seon-ho’s intensity, even though admittedly, it was what drew him to Seon-ho in the first place.

Thoughts like these plagued Sung-rok for a while. It was one thing to know a person; it was quite another thing to try to change them.

“Orison” (4,975 words) by @gravelghosts (aeli_kindara) (Supernatural 15x18 coda)

Cas says, I love you.

So! This rips my heart out, every time. All the times Dean imagines himself together with Cas...and then he imagines himself, if not happy, then thriving.

Jack: “What is the point...if everyone I care about is going to leave?”

Castiel: “The point is that they were here at all and you got to know them, you... When they're gone, it will hurt, but that hurt will remind you of how much you loved them.”

Excerpt:

The thing Dean tries to do is: listen.

Happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just — being. It’s in just saying it, Cas tells him, and Dean’s whole heart is screaming, No, but he shuts his mouth. He listens. He listens like his life fucking depends on it, which it does, in more ways than one.

“Sky Full of Song” (6,632 words) by @drivingsideways (Supernatural, finale 15x20 fix-it, Dean/Cas)

Or: The One in which Cas ghosted Dean.

Look. Look. If Cas(tiel) can yank Dean Winchester out of Hell, celestial-scream at him not once but twice, burn out a woman’s eyes like an utter clown before thinking “Huh, an Earthly vessel, guess that’s not just bullshit, then,” and when they finally work it out, Dean greets them with a knife to the chest and THEN they’ll spend twelve years misunderstanding each other and bickering, you had better believe these two are going to be disasters even in Heaven. Drivingsideways gives us all of that dynamic, with the found family of Jack and Mary as facilitators, and the happy resolution, which of course includes a true form “roughly the size of your Chrysler Building.” <3

Excerpt:

The thing is, Castiel doesn’t want Dean to feel obligated.

Dean has a streak of self-sacrifice that's as wide as the Caspian Sea, and Castiel doesn't want to be any more of a chore or obligation than they have been to Dean for all the long years of their—brotherhood.

Castiel had shocked Dean, to the core of him, with their confession, and Castiel had seen the swirling confusion, the fear, the panic, the shit what do I say, what do I do—how do I stop him—

So, no, Castiel would not be paying a visit anytime soon.

Of course, if Dean evinced an interest in meeting them, then Castiel would not stay away.

Castiel isn't that cruel.

(They have, on occasion, been exactly that cruel, but they are trying to outgrow it.)

Dean is still their friend.

Dean knows how to reach them, if he wants to.

(see? disasters. haha)

“The Rough” (3,267 words) by anactoria (Supernatural, finale -15x20- ‘fix-it’)

Heaven can absolutely fucking wait.

Rec’ed for the concept more than the style (this is dialogue-heavy, as a lot of 15x20 fix-its tend towards), but I *love* this course-correction: After kicking around Heaven, Dean and Cas return to Earth to take their place as urban legends among the hunter community. Just for a while.

Excerpt:

But it isn’t life. That’s the thing. It’s awesome, but it isn’t life; life’s a hard, painful, infuriating mess, and Dean only got halfway through his own, and he feels cheated. For all he held it together for Sammy at the end, for all he tried to take Cas’s big moment-of-happiness speech on board, he feels cheated.

There’s supposed to be peace at the end. When you’re done.

Dean wasn’t done.

#other's fic #fic recs #2020: a year!#spn #my country: new age #the untamed #love in the moonlight

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the-cookie-of-doom · 4 years

Text

Soulbound

Mitch lay back and felt the cleansing water rise along the sides of his face, envelop his body. The shimmering blue water tingled against his skin. It drew out the tension in his body like poison from a wound, and something else, as well. Every emotion he kept bottle up within himself: frustration, doubt, uncertainty. And an old, simmering anger deep in the core of him, that could never truly fade, no matter how many times the cool water soothed its heat.

Black tendrils wrapped around Mitch’s middle and restrains his limbs and dragged him beneath the water’s glimmering surface. He thrashed against his bindings, fought the nascent emotions given physical form, and lurched back up for air. He gasped sweet, precious lungfuls, clutching his chest. Somewhere beneath his hand he could still feel his soulbind. A thin wisp of a connection, but it was enough.

The memories of his soulbind are what haunted him now. Pervading his mind, reminding him of his greatest failure. The one soul he could never save.

Why won’t you give me peace? Mitch thought. He could feel a strain on the living bond, an ever-present ache in his chest, but no answer came.

***

One of Mitch’s charges since his Fall was to train the new recruits. He’d lost his wings but he still had centuries of skill to impart. He wasn’t supposed to play favorites with his students—and if anyone asked, he would claim he didn’t—but there was one he couldn’t help but be drawn to.

“You’re getting stronger every day,” Mitch praised his newest student, as they wrapped up a sparring session. It was a meditative practice; the only time Mitch found some kind of peace.

“Thank you.” Stiles clapped his right fist to his left shoulder twice before dropping his arm, bracing himself against his knees to catch his breath. Mitch grinned. Few could go against someone of his status and not come away gasping for life. “It’s coming time—fuck.”

“Take you time,” Mitch said, earning himself a hateful glare. He pat Stiles’ back comfortingly and waited for him to straighten back up, before speaking again. Stiles cleared his throat.

“It’s almost time for me to choose my soulbind. The others already have, almost everyone. Not that I’m surprised…” Mitch smiled wryly. Stiles came to them late, and alone, when the others had already split themselves into potential pairs. Those initial selections had morphed and changed as the students reached a better understanding of their needs and compatibility, but Stiles still hasn’t found his place amongst his peers.

“Have you chosen someone yet?”

“I don’t know. I think so. It’s… a lot to commit to. I’m not sure I’m ready yet.” A soulbind was a lifetime bond. For those living in the realm of death, it would last into time immemorial. It was not a decision to make lightly.

“You don’t have to decide, yet. Many go centuries before finding the right match.”

“That’s the thing, though. I know who I want to ask, I just…”

“Don’t know if they’ll accept?” Stiles nodded miserably.

“I don’t know how much I have to offer someone like them.”

“You have plenty to offer,” Mitch assured, and he meant it. Stiles wasn’t the fiercest warrior of his students, but Stiles’ skills lie elsewhere. “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Really?”

Stiles looked up at him, so vulnerable and open, and Mitch realized what he was looking for: approval. So, Mitch nodded and said, “Whoever it is, you should ask them. They may surprise you.”

“I hope so,” Stiles said with a reedy laugh. He steadied himself with a deep, calming sigh, like he was bracing for a fight.

Or a confession.

Maybe Mitch should have anticipated what was to come next. The signs had been there the entire time—when he looked back on this moment later, he would realize, Stiles had always worn his heart on his sleeve. But his breathe still caught in his lungs when Stiles looked up at him and said, “I would be honored to bind myself to you, if you’ll have me.”

Mitch flinched. Stiles face was so open and genuine, Mitch could see right into his soul. A welcoming, warm amber light, reflective of the young man that stood before him now. Mitch’s soul ached with sympathy.

“Stiles…”

“Oh. Oh, no.” Stiles went wide with horror as he realized. He backed away and stumped against a weapon’s rack, and would have fallen if Mitch weren’t there to catch him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, I—”

“Stiles.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“Stiles.” Mitch caught Stiles’ wrist as they lashed through the air with nervous moments, and held Stiles’ hands against his chest. He needed to make Stiles understand. With a heavy sigh, Mitch closed his eyes against the painful memories he could never rid himself of, and said, “I’m already bound.”

“You are?” Stiles asked, shocked by the revelation. “I thought…”

“That I never chose someone,” Mitch said, and he couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. I wish I’d never chosen. He released Stiles with a wry grin. “Very few people know, anymore. It was a very long time ago. And those that remember… well. It’s not spoken of.”

“What happened?” Stiles touched Mitch’s arm lightly, gently asking, “Did they die?”

“No. That would’ve been easier. My soulbind betrayed us.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Stiles said, but it ended like a question.

“I would have. If it were possible, I would have. But there was no way to kill him without destroying myself.” Mitch had been young and full of so much rage at the betrayal, he’d been more than willing to make that sacrifice. His people weren’t. And so they locked Ronnie away, encased him in an arcane prison, wrapped his cell in wards to dampen their connection, but they could never sever it entirely.

Mitch could still feel that tenuous thread, Ronnie as much a part of him as he was of the other man. Their souls, once perfectly entwined, now messily tangled. A mockery of a once sacred connection. Ronnie had tried to convince Mitch to join him, so certain of his cause that he couldn’t see a world where Mitch wasn’t at his side. When Mitch refused, Ronnie twisted their soulbind into something cruel and corrupt, tried to bend Mitch to his will by force. Mitch could never forget—or forgive—that betrayal. Not even the calming waters at the Temple of Purity could draw that hateful memory from him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said softly, his golden eyes downcast.

Mitch cupped the back of Stiles’ neck and drew him close, pressing their foreheads together. In a rare moment of vulnerability, Mitch whispered, “I would have you as my soulbind if I could.”

It’s been millennia since Mitch made the mistake of binding himself to Ronnie. Some part of him thought, I should have waited.

#cookie writes #so... Bastion #stitch #stiles stilinski #mitch rapp #plz excuse the completely bastardized Kyrian lore lmao #the idea of a soulbind was making me FEEL THINGS

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kakyoinryoko · 4 years

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i usually would not ask, but: is polnareff actually a canonical trans ally? it's not every day you see something twice, and on my tiktok (cringe) where i gave my opinions on whether or not the sdc would say homophobic slurs (all of them except abdul) someone commented "but isnt polnareff a trans ally?" and i dismissed it as a headcanon rather than fact. but now here you are on your blog, stating that he is in fact a trans ally. so i just need to know, because forcing me to go back and reread any particular part of jojo is cruel, did i miss some vital trans rights supporting scene with polnareff? or is this just the worlds weirdest coincidence. sorry to bother you this is just, i need to know this

i should preface this by saying araki is absolutely a transphobe and absolutely did not mean for it to be like. serious allyship. it was definitely supposed to be a shitty joke.

but in part 5, when buccellati is injured and mistakes doppio for trish, he introduces him as such to polnareff, and polnareff says something like “but the person with you is a man.” then, at diavolo’s instruction, doppio responds with “do you have a problem with me being a girl?” to which polnareff immediately apologizes, corrects himself, and refers to doppio with the proper name and pronouns.

i don’t really know how to succinctly describe why the scene still feels off and like a mockery of trans people but i think it’s mostly that diavolo telling doppio to say that feels distinctly and intentionally like a “trans people are so pushy and force you to call them girls or boys when they obviously aren’t” sort of thing. it still does kinda technically establish that polnareff is a “trans ally” or whatever but. pretty meaningless in the face of the big picture message

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ghostlycreatoruniverse · 4 years

Text

A PEEK INTO DABI’S MIND PART 7

The final inconsistency: hypocrisy lies or else?

Now we get to speak about inconsistencies i already mentioned some of the, but here a list of many of his contradictions:

Dabi hates Enji and wants him dead. But Dabi is sure Enji loves him, and thus he will be hurt by the cruel truth

Dabi said he cried on Natsuo’s shoulder, the only one therefor him; then he treated Natsuo like a mean to an end : having Endeavor suffering. There’s no suffering involved in Dabi’s side

Dabi said Endeavor cared only about his masterpiece; however he was sure Natsuo’s eventual death would have saddens him

Dabi said he wanted to kill Shoto, cause he was Enji’s little puppet; however he said Enji beat up Shoto as well expressing empathy.

Dabi said he was glad about killing Shoto, but later called himself his “nii-chan”. This can be a mockery, but it’s an overly childish term. He could have said “nii-san” as well. Being super informal he felt natural thinking Shoto would feel much close to him

He said Hawks his life and death is something he doesn’t care about... but he cares! Hawks is a key point of his plan , and shaming him is essential for his great reveal! Thus Dabi should care about him living as much as he can watch him fall

He said he never cared about the League. However he stucked to the league for many montbz even if he disliked Shigaraki. He took part in Deika’s raid risking his life and covered for others against Geten. And even he sticked to the League even when they were broke despite being a lone wolf

He said Shoto he couldn’t feel anything anymore, but he admitted that if he thought about family he could have gone crazy, crying blood in the meanwhile. This means that he doesn’t consider himself crazy, while later saying so to his little brother.

Now we could believe that Dabi is always lying. Or that he’s an hypocrite.

But one thing is clear through all the manga: Dabi never lied. He conceals, hides, let other infer things he never said and omits. But he doesn’t lie openly. That must lead to a sort of moral code of his merged with a certain conception of reality.

The only lied he seemingly told is about him killing 30 innocents. We know this can’t be because Dabi was LOV’s recruiter. Of course the many people who he met must have been villains who wanted to join the league and that Dabi considered unworthy.

And this is revealed by Toga! In fact in My Villain Academia she teases him about the fact that each time he goes out and recruit people he in the end doesn’t like them and burn them.

This means that those weren’t innocents. Those were villains who wanted to join the league. The only one might be Snatch, but again : he was an hero, and hero are the worst.

So why he said he killed 30 innocents ? Those weren’t literally innocents. Those were people who has nothing to do with the hate he has for his father. That’s why they had no blame. And this perfectly align with his flawed moral code in which everything is justified if Enji suffers or if society is destroyed.

That’s means his reality’s perception is highly biased.

One of the main results of complex ptsd are dissociative disorder.

Dissociation is another defense mechanism that helps people to (badly) adapting to their life and its very common after a trauma. Basically this is a process that divide and categorised differently or severe some aspects from the overall life of the person. Those events aren’t lived as cohesive.

Dissociation is the cause of distortion, limitation or the total loss of associative nexus between one idea or another which normally should be related. This could happened even between ideas and emotions, thinking and behaviour.

Moreover an total arbitrary and forced link between two different aspect of the psychics life that should makes sense with one another can happen.

Which means that dissociation can totally destroy cause effect relationship and correlation relationship.

This is exactly why Dabi can makes sense without being an hypocrite.

Normally loving Natsuo would mean being saddened by his death. However Dabi can keep on loving Natsuo and being sad about him while being joyful about his eventual death since that would bring sufferance to Enji... which should happens because Enji left him and never saved him, thus his sin is not caring about his kids.

This reasoning is completely flawed and illogical but it can work because Dabi is living in a constant dissociative states in which his narrative his rearrange constantly to avoid he ever feels pain or any kind of dissonance.

Let’s dive in this example again, underlining of the missing and forced logical nexus.

His positive feelings about Natsuo dying are unrelated to the sadness of his brother’s death (severed logic link) but it makes sense with Enji’s sufferance (forced nexus) which never cared about his kids (forced nexus again) because he never cared about his firstborn’s death (logic association) but actually he cares so he must be in pain knowing who Dabi is (another force nexus coming from repressed positive memories and feeling of love vs negative memories of abuse and internal narrative rupture).

This is the same that happens during Twice’s death.

He cares about his friend and colleague (logic link) and wants him to go on rampage (logic link ) so he comes and take over and try to defend him. If you read my post about why Dabi hadn’t sacrificed Twice now you must know I think he yelled Hawks’ true name in a desperate last attempt to save the villain.

So Dabi cares about the league just enough to wanting them alive (logic association) to defend them and risking his life in Deika (logic association) and he cares to the extent of ruining his plan to have Twice escape (logic association). Later he says he never cared for the league (illogic link, still love/ hate conflict) but he was sad about Twice’s death (logic with liking the LoV, illogic with “I never cared). Now we know his plan : he said he was sad but Twice dying is much more effective than unravelling Hawks as a son of a murderer (Logic with “I don’t care”, illogic about the sadness).

And even his emotion doesn’t suit his face display, while his thinking doesn’t match the behaviour : instead of being sad he’s smiling , instead of mourning his burning Hawks like nothing happened.

As you can see all of his reasoning are deeply flawed and they must be kept together and consistent in his mind just though mere dissociative state that build and rebuilt his narrative to avoid him getting hurt by his own feelings.

The most of all: Dabi said he doesn’t feel anything anymore. But this isn’t true : he feels a great love and even greater hate for his father. He considered who he killed innocents , this is a sign of morality. And lastly he said he needed to stop thinking about family while crying blood otherwise he would have gone crazy.

The only emotions Dabi feels are negative, thus his brain shut them off sometimes, and this leads to his inability of feeling.

His brain is in a high state of sufferance and to avoid it it enters in a dissociative state in which opposite realities can coexist without having him succumb to pain.

#a peek into Dabi’s mind #part 7 #Dabi #dabi my hero academia #dabi character study #psychological analysis #bnh #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero acadamy

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moprocrastinates · 4 years

Text

and sung me moon-struck; kissed me quite insane (I think I made you up inside my head)

Pairing: Jude x Cardan

Words: 2,080

Summary: It’s not like she intended to lose them. That would be cruel, and as much as Jude regarded as a ruthless, cunning, royal bitch, she wasn’t cruel. No, no, that title belonged solely to her beloved husband, who, if she couldn’t find her gift in the next day, wouldn’t be getting much of anything for their first anniversary.

Jude wrote Cardan letters during her time in exile.

Warnings/Rating: T. Some kissing, and some angst.

Notes: I FINALLY WROTE SOMETHING AFTER, LIKE, FOUR YEARS AND SO MANY OTHER FANDOMS. (Please take pity on me if it’s not good. I’m tired, and I promise I’ll get better.)

AO3

Jude would like it somewhere on the record that she tried.

Really. She did.

It’s not like she intended to lose them. That would be cruel, and as much as Jude regarded herself as a ruthless, cunning, royal bitch, she wasn’t cruel.

No, no, that title belonged solely to her beloved husband, who, if she couldn’t find her gift in the next day, wouldn’t be getting much of anything for their first anniversary.

Not that it mattered, really. Cardan had said he didn’t want anything, in the same stupid way he had confessed, “Of course it was a trick!” when she returned to Elfhame to save Taryn’s ass.

“Sure, Cardan,” Jude huffed, blowing a tress of curly hair out of her face with a heavy breath. All heart and steel, she moved with a ferocious grace as she tore through the castle. Windows bright with moonlight cast ghostly shadows across the floor, and a soft breeze, warm as the summer outside, did nothing to ease Jude’s anxiety. Thankfully the hallway was empty; she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t explode in an odd faerie’s face should they bump into her.

“I don't want anything, dear Jude, because why would I desire possibly anything when I have you?” Her tongue tripped over the delicacy of Cardan’s tone, and she sighed. A year later, and still her mockery of Cardan wasn’t nearly as good as it should be, but she figured she could blame that on her nerves.

Once she found the damn letters, she’d do a better impression. In front of him, no less. Her husband caused her so much grief. (She wouldn’t have it any other way.)

“Focus, Jude,” she told herself, deep brown eyes moving straight in front of her, brows beginning to furrow. “Don’t let Cardan distract you.”

Over the year since her successful return to Elfhame, Jude found herself utterly besotted (Cardan loved the word, and so she’d begun using it-- damn him) with her husband. Not that she hadn’t been before, but living beside Cardan and experiencing all that he is in a brand new light was something entirely new. Every day, it seemed, brought something new from Cardan to Jude: cups of tea with milk and teaspoons of hot honey right as she woke up, hot baths, sprinkled with lavender and mint, drawn when she came in from sword practice, and gentle kisses and massages whenever her ire felt strong enough to control all the roots buried deep within their land and force them to ruin Elfhame itself. Cardan’s words, always soft, sometimes sharp, remained her constant. HE remained her constant, and it was now, marching through the hallway, that Jude reminded herself that she needed to show him the same feeling he gave her.

She needed her letters. But they were nowhere to be found.

The mortal world, and Vivi, had been absolutely no help. “What kind of place do you think I’m living in?” Vivi had asked her as Jude flipped up cushions, emptied cupboards, and pried up ceiling tiles in their formerly-shared apartment. “I’m not a vault! I’m not just storing stuff for you for a rainy day! You live in a castle, Jude! You have over a hundred rooms!”

“I had hoped you would at least keep some things of mine!” Jude jerked her old mattress away from the wall and peered behind it. Nothing. Fuck. “You know, sister sentimentality and all that!”

She didn’t have to turn around to see the half-smirk on Vivi’s face. “That’s exactly why I’ve kept as little as I have.”

Ugh. Sisters could be the worst.

Now, her steps were loud in the empty, elegant hallway, slim, glittery boots clomping down onto the marble floor as she strode to her rooms. Her-- their-- rooms, right. She still wasn’t used to that.

If she was honest, she still wasn’t used to this life. Or love.

She tried. Really, she did. Jude gave him kisses and hugs and curled her body around his in the evenings, strategy plans in hand. But she wasn’t as good at words as Cardan. Now, even a year later, despite having said them before, those three words escaped her, forced her mouth dry, and floated off with the wind. Madoc had taught her to keep her feelings close as a method of control, of power, never letting an enemy know one’s weaknesses. She’d done that her entire life, and even with Cardan, it was difficult. So she showed it differently than he did. Was that her problem? Her love shaped itself physically, her hand crawling into his, her face buried into his shoulder.

Did he know how much she cared if she didn’t use the words?

“I know you love me, my villainous girl,” Cardan had told her just last week when she’d shyly asked about their upcoming celebration, and the look on her face -- frustration, probably-- made him smirk. “I don’t need anything, I promise you.”

“Sure, Cardan,” she snorted again. His voice had become somewhat of a nuisance in her mind, a conscious that, if she ever let it slip, he would lord over her until they vanished into dust.

They had to be in their rooms. Right. It was the only logical place.

Cocking her head, Jude looked around her half of the room. Everything seemed to be where it was when she left this morning, so maybe Cardan hadn’t been poking around, the way he often did when she was this scatterbrained. He probably knew something was up, and if he had any brains (which he did-- she wasn’t fooling herself), Cardan would absolutely know, and then he would win.

Damn him if he knew something she didn’t want him to know just yet. Damn him if he won the game of feelings.

“Stupid, Jude!” She cried out, brows furrowed as her fingers reached for the most coveted of her hiding spots under the nearest floorboard to her bedside table. “He’s going to know, and you’re going to get caught, and he’s going to outdo you on this.”

“Outdo you on what?”

Jude immediately dropped the floorboard, and tried not to look like she’d been caught with her hand in a sweets jar. At the entryway stood Cardan, her beloved, beautiful husband, a thick eyebrow arched in her direction. His black eyes shone with something akin to sunlight. “Uh, nothing. Nothing.” She stood up, brushing her hands against her dress’s skirt. “I’m just looking for something. It doesn’t concern you.”

“Ahh,” Cardan said, and stepped toward her slowly, black eyes glinting as he traced the black dress she wore. He licked his lips, and oh, mercy, he was going to kill her, and he’d still win. “You’re such a terrible liar, Jude.”

“No, I’m not!” She snapped, but even before she said the words, she knew she was caught.

Cardan merely laughed, a soft sound. “Defensive to the end, are we?”

Jude raised her chin. “As always, my king.”

She refused to break eye contact, which was probably why she didn’t feel his hands until they touched hers, circled them like they were telling hers a secret. “Not with me, Jude,” Cardan whispered, eyes leaving hers to watch his own fingers trace a pattern on her palm, “Never with me.”

Well, shit. Swallowing a breath, she whispered, “I can’t find your gift.”

Black eyes flashed back to hers. “What gift?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Cardan.”

“I know nothing, darling,” he purred, and Jude felt his tail curl around her right ankle as he stepped close. Pale hands came to clutch at her upper arms. “I promise.”

“Uh huh,” she eyed him skeptically. Cardan merely blinked slowly and sweetly back at her, and damn if he didn’t know how to play her like a faerie fiddle.

She hated that she loved him so much.

“Care to share, Jude?” He said, and stepped away, choosing to sit on the bed although his eyes never left hers.

Letting out a sigh, Jude plopped herself down beside him. Her sigh was a long one. “I lost your letters, Cardan.”

Cardan raised a brow, looking confused. “My letters? I thought you never received them. I thought my mother burnt them before they reached you.”

“Yeah, I never got those.” Jude sighed again, this time tucking her hands under her thighs. She shifted, looking down at them, and knew Cardan tracked the motion. It was a nervous habit of hers. “I’m talking about my letters to you. I wrote them when I was in exile, and they contain some, uh, of my feelings.” She gulped. “My feelings then, about you. The things I can’t say. Even now. I was going to give them to you tomorrow as an anniversary present.” She swallowed, and felt that it was suddenly thick and harder to do than before. Be vulnerable, Jude thought. “I wasn’t sure you knew how I felt about you, so I decided I’d give them over, because I know I don’t always say how I feel. And it’s been a year, and you’ve been so loving and beautiful and sarcastic and verbose about your love for me. I wanted to repay that kindness to you. But I can’t find them.”

When Cardan didn’t respond, she looked up. Her husband had frozen, eyes locked on her hands in her lap. “Cardan?”

“You wrote me letters?” His voice was soft. “You cared enough to write letters?”

“Cared probably isn’t the right word. Felt strongly, maybe.” Jude tried, wincing as her words stumbled through the air. “I just didn’t want to admit what I felt, even to myself. So I wrote letters. I read somewhere that it was a way to let someone go.” Cardan lifted his head to look at her.

“You loved me then,” he murmured, and Jude saw in his eyes that he knew he was right. “You loved me even when I exiled you.” Cardan’s tail lashed once, twice, and she saw that the monster she had once thought he was had awoken under the surface. “I thought this was one-sided, that you didn’t love me back despite all we’d been through together. I thought that was why you didn’t come back right away. I thought I’d finally scared you away.”

She swallowed. “Of course I did,” Jude said quietly. “I’ve never been as good with words as you, but I wrote letters because I didn’t know how else to tell you I felt so much for you, not when I thought you were happy you had finally gotten rid of me, tricked me, humiliated me, that you were celebrating over how you’d finally triumphed over your stupid mortal seneschal.” Softly, she reached out and curled her hand around his. Immediately, his thumb found the ruby ring on her finger and twisted it around gently. “I just didn’t know you felt the same. I didn’t know that you longed for me the same way I pined for you. I thought I would burn the letters and let you go.”

Cardan’s eyes found hers, soft and smoldering and stoked embers all at once. “I love you, Jude. If I had the choice, I’d find you in every life-- so we’d never have to let each other go.”

Jude blinked, light tears falling down her face. “I’m so sorry, Cardan,” she murmured, and huffed a small laugh as a fresh wave of tears streaked down her face. “You deserve to know, and I can’t-- I can’t-- I love--”

“Jude, my darling, my goddess,” Cardan’s hands were all over her body, pressing into her cheeks as she cried. She felt his fingers stroke her there, and it was a new sensation, having him know everything and still clinging to him. “I know, dear Jude, I know.” Before she knew it, she was being pulled into him, gentle hands pressing her face into his shoulder. “You don’t need to say it. I know how much you love me.”

She didn’t know how, but she found his lips, pushing hers into his as desperately as she could. Jude wove her fingers through his hair and pulled, sharp and sweet, and his answering groan was loud enough that she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. “Please, please, please know.” She whispered, breaking the kiss. “Please, Cardan. Please hear me.”

“I do, Jude.” He said, nudging his forehead into hers, eyes closed. “I do. I love you.”

And so she kissed him, breathing him in, and he whispered it again.

#jurdan #jurdan fic #jude x cardan #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #tfota #the folk of the air #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #moprocrastinates #mckenna writes

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talltales · 4 years

Photo

—EVIL, I'VE COME TO TELL YOU THAT SHE'S EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY EVIL, ORNERY, SCANDALOUS AND EVIL, MOST DEFINITELY THE TENSION, IT'S GETTING HOTTER. I'D LIKE TO HOLD HER HEAD UNDERWATER anonymous request!!

the slip of paper is worth its weight in gold.

“make sure to come out of there alive, alright?”

she turns it over in her hand, reading the scrawled address on one side for what feels like the thousandth time. on the other, a bolded warning is underlined twice—for extra emphasis, she supposes.

come alone.

“i will,” she affirms and jackson, torn between tired and a little drunk, cuffs her on the shoulder before tilting dangerously toward the edge of the couch. absently, she pats the thick cast covering the majority of his left leg before she rises to her feet, “worry about yourself. i don’t want to find you laying in a pool of your own vomit.”

unruffled, jackson shifts onto his back and throws his leg over the arm of the couch. any other time, she might’ve welcomed this sight: the perilously cocky man getting his just desserts for baiting the wrong idiot, left hobbling on a broken leg for his troubles. but any humor to be found in the situation comes more sour than sweet.

your timing is horrible, she almost says. but if she gives him a taste of guilt, jackson will drown himself in it.

“o ye,” his voice is low, exhausted in a way that she tries not to let herself feel. he rests his temple against a half-fluffed pillow and closes his eyes, “of little faith.”

her tongue flicks over her teeth before she huffs; a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh any other day. instead, it is a wispy and hollow thing that sinks into the walls.

though her back is turned when he breaks the soft, uncertain silence, she can hear his fear—caught in his throat, “we’ll find him, alright? just be careful.”

she nods, makes her way to the door and slips her boots on—pretends she doesn’t hear him say anything more.

i can’t lose you, too.

the paper disappears into her pocket as she closes the door behind her.

—

“so what brings a pretty lady like you to a place like this, hmm?” her latest tail—burly, heavily tattooed and smelling of gunpowder—whispers somewhere over her shoulder, bending at the waist until she feels his breath fan across her nape. too warm, too close, too loud even over the cacophony of curses and laughter. “surely you’re not here for a drink.”

he isn’t wrong. most people didn’t make a habit of walking into a bar notorious for housing the most dangerous gang in the country for a cocktail. the man laughs, as if enjoying his own private joke and the sound is punctuated with a distant wolf-whistle.

fresh meat in the lion’s den.

“i’m not, really.” she calls back to him, her voice soft but steady. the slip of paper is cradled between her fingertips, folded in half twice over in her unease. the crowd, to their credit, shifts to grant her movement through to the half-cracked door in the back of the building, “i’m here to meet someone.”

“and who would that be?”

“your boss, i’m guessing.” casting a significant look at the marking stamped to the inside of his wrist, she remains all-too-aware of the odd assortment of criminals and outcasts circling the perimeter. they’ve made a home of the bar. most laze about on leather armchairs, shouting at the tv. the more suspicious ones follow her with their eyes.

out of place doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. it is more and less than a physical sensation; than the belief that she is, in many ways, descending to the underworld to make a deal with hades himself.

“can’t say that’s a wise move, lass.” the pressure of his hand settles on her shoulder—sweaty palms and fat fingertips—and she bites back a soft curse. for the love of god.

and like a talisman, she presents the scrawled note to him, poised for him to inspect until his grip lightens and his hand falls away.

“well, you could’ve just said so.”

only an unnerving awareness of her surroundings keeps her from rolling her eyes, “now i have.”

“let’s go.”

before her, the crowd parts like the red sea.

—

youngjae goes missing on a wednesday.

her first thought it is that of course, he would choose the night right before her latest deadline to skip town. the anger gets caught beneath her collarbones any time she tries to talk, so jackson alternates between balancing on his crutches and giving the bored officer all of the necessary information.

it isn’t until the gambling holes in the neighboring towns come up empty that she starts to worry.

his rap sheet, they find, reads like a checklist for every petty crime a person can be arrested for. and that’s that. the police stop looking after a day—the sun is barely over the horizon when they turn in; squad cars making wide turns back onto the highway and disappearing out of sight.

from the passenger seat, jackson swears.

they comb the streets until dawn, though she isn’t sure what they’re looking for—

doesn’t want to think about what they might find.

by friday, she’s spending her evenings thumbing through old cases with retired journalists; old fogies she’d dreamed of working with, once upon a time. when they stop laughing at her—what advice columnist goes sniffing around for underground contacts—they provide mountains of paperwork and few promises.

saturday morning, she has a name and a number.

an address, when she bargains with the woman that picks up the phone.

a slip of paper worth its weight in gold.

—

the first thing she notices is him—a quiet figure clad in nothing but jeans and a t-shirt; young, with shoulder-length hair tied back into a loose ponytail. he’s as unassuming as the average college student, but the glint in his eyes holds nothing but vicious intelligence.

i can’t lose you, too.

“a guest?” he intonates, more statement than question. the way that the room settles around him speaks volumes; the tension held in the stillness says even more as the remaining men in the room either line the walls or make for the exit. it feels like a movie scene, but the dread settling low in her stomach serves as a brutal reminder of how real it is.

“sir. she was poking around out front, had an invitation.” says the gruff fellow, with none of the casual mockery she’d endured from the front door onward. it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t terrifying, “i can take her out.“

before she can argue, the stranger clears his throat—exhales—and focuses his attention on her as he addresses the man behind her, “i’ve told you not to call me sir. you’re not speaking to my uncle, you’re speaking to me. leave her here and go.”

“right, jaebeom.”

he stumbles over the name, hesitates from the first syllable to the last before he backs out of the room and closes the door behind him. her fingers curl ever-tighter around the paper, dig deeper into her pocket to ease her own nerves. because jaebeom, the man she’s looking to ask a favor of, takes perverse pleasure in making his men trip over their own feet.

the humored tilt of his lips is a cruel thing, emphasized only by the idle tapping of his fingers against the table top, “so to what do i owe this pleasure?”

when she opens her mouth, she finds all of her carefully-chosen words gone, “i—“

fuck.

“money? men?” jaebeom turns to wave away the stragglers; men who look all too eager to remove themselves from the room, “women? i don’t judge.” his head tilts then, hair falling in pieces to cover his eyes. he sweeps the stray strands aside and folds his hands together in front of his chin, steepled—“or do you have a problem you want to get rid of?”

the amused gleam in his eyes never quite fades, but he is patient.

she crumples the paper in her fist and bites back the urge to retreat under the intensity of his attention. no matter how harmless he appears to be—im jaebeom has a reputation for brutality that he simultaneously confirms and contradicts.

her tongue feels heavy; weighted by dread, “i heard that you were good at finding people.”

we’ll find him, alright?

“my friend is missing.”

there’s a long moment of silence; she watches as jaebeom leans back in his seat, regarding her with a raised brow and reignited interest. he clicks his tongue, tone wry when he finally speaks, “so call the police.”

“they won’t look. he has history.”

desperation creeps into her words before she can check herself—this, she thinks, is why jackson was supposed to be here. to handle the messy parts and keep her from spilling her fury like lava down a mountain side.

jaebeom is unaffected; unmoving as she swallows her fear and closes the distance between herself and the opposite edge of the table. her palms press into the wood, hard enough to obscure the way her hands shake, “if you can put a hit out on a man, surely you can find one.”

“i’m not search and rescue.”

it’s a true enough sentence, though the way that he says it leaves room for question. an opening. by now, it’s clear that a trap is being laid at her feet—that she can either leave empty-handed, or be ensnared by a vicious man with a penchant for psychological warfare. he isn’t smiling, but he is positively thrumming. pleased.

knowing she won’t get another chance, she takes it, “what do you want?”

somewhere in the back of her mind, she imagines the sound of a shackle snapping shut.

jaebeom merely hums, rising from his seat in a smooth motion. any retreat she can make is halted by the pressure of his thumb and forefinger cradling her jaw. she remains still as he leans in, inspecting her changing expressions with bemusement and something unnamed.

something darker.

“we’ll worry about that later. what’s your friend’s name?”

—

when they find youngjae the next wednesday, outrunning loan sharks on the west coast, she barely refrains from drowning him in the tub he’s washing his clothes in.

#member + prompt #request #got7 au #jaebeom au

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Ice Dragon’s Lament

or: Jane is put in her fucking place

Prompt: “Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

———————

Joan wasn’t sure why she woke up with such a festering feeling of paranoia, but she couldn’t shake it off all day. First, she felt like someone was in her closet, despite it being morning- the sun was supposed to keep away all the evil things, and yet she was fearfully peeking inside the small space to check for an intruder or crazy person hiding inside. Then, she was too anxious to ride in a car, fearing an accident, so she walked to the theater...but that alternative didn’t help either. She kept thinking that a truck would careen onto the sidewalk and plow through her or a car would speed down the road when she’s crossing the street and run her over or construction beams would collapse from their places and impale her. Finally, upon arriving at work for rehearsals, she found that her paranoia moved from her own safety to her queen’s safety.

Like that, Joan was following Anne, Jane, and Kitty around- more than she usually did. She wasn’t at a distance, opting to rather stick close by their sides and scan whatever room they were in several times for any possible danger. Anne found it quite funny, cracking jokes with Kitty, who thought it was weird, and Jane just got annoyed after awhile. She hated having the music director hovering over her, and it was going to be a hellish seven hours of work and rehearsal if she didn’t put a stop to it soon.

Two hours in is when Jane finally snapped.

They just finished up running through Don’t Lose Ur Head and Joan was checking up on her again. For what was probably the fiftieth time that day.

“Joan, for the love of—” Jane took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I’m fine, alright? Look, I’m fine. Will you leave me be now?”

Joan blinked, slightly startled by the queen snapping at her. She backed away a little, but didn’t completely stand down, much to Jane’s dismay.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” She said meekly.

“I know.” Jane sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “What has gotten into you? You’re never this clingy.”

Joan winced. She knew she was a tad codependent (read as: “extremely codependent”), but, up until that moment, everyone had the good grace to not point it out. She didn’t like it being said out loud- it made it real. It made her pathetic attachment real. It let it be known to everyone because the other queens and ladies in waiting were gawking from the sidelines, listening in as she’s berated for her separation anxiety.

“I-I just...” Joan looked down at her feet.

“Joan...” Jane sighed again. She really hadn’t meant to make the poor girl embarrassed, but she was going to be pulling her hair out by the end of the work day if something wasn’t said or done about all the pestering. “Look-” Another sigh. She’s trying to find a way out of this without shattering the emotional music director in front of her. “I get it, okay? You’re protective of us because we’re your queens. But you need to move on. You’re stronger than this anxiety, Joan.”

Joan stiffened. Her head was still lowered, but her fists clench at her sides.

“Move on?”

She raised her head and her eyes are lit up in a way Jane has never seen before. Joan’s lamb-like features bristle into the face of a raging ram- like the ones the devil could become or the ones that demons disguised themselves as. Like Baphomet. Sharp horns curl dangerously around her head.

“Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

“Joan—”

“No.” Joan dared to cut her queen off. She riled herself up to her full size, which wasn’t much, and her scrawny limbs didn’t help, but it was enough. Her smoldering eyes and horrifyingly neutral did all the work for her. “Hold your tongue for just a moment. I can’t bear to hear your excuses.”

She was speaking to Jane as if she were the queen and the older woman was a mere servant. If they were back in their first life, Jane would have honestly been impressed and might have made a comment about Joan being a wonderful monarch, but, right now, she was too stunned to say anything.

“Do you know the full extent of what I saw?” Joan asked. She’s dumbing the question down for Jane. “Do you understand what it was like for me? Hmm?”

Jane says nothing.

“ANSWER ME, LADY JANE!”

Like a bullwhip, Joan has her fist smashed down onto the table they’re standing next to, causing it to shudder treacherously. If such a violent action hurt her hand, she doesn’t show it. She just continues to stare at Jane, eyes like fragments of ice, and she knew the woman could feel the cold, congealing weight of her resentment.

“I don’t know.” Jane grits.

She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like being put on a soapbox and made a mockery of by a lady in waiting, and that’s what Joan liked so much about the situation. She felt so empowered, and she wasn’t going to let that go just yet.

“Of course you don’t,” Joan snorted. She slowly raised her clenched fist from its spot on the table and a dark bruise was already forming in her pale skin, but she could hardly care. “I expect nothing less from someone so callous and cruel.”

She pressed her hands together, sliding the fingers in between one another, and her gaze grew startling patient. Perhaps it wasn’t patience, though- the emotion in her eyes was unreadable.

“You don’t know what I went through because you never stopped to care for just a moment.” She said, each word oozing with icy venom that chilled Jane to the bone. “And to think you call yourself the mother of the group...”

“Who do you think I am?” Jane growled.

“Who— Who do you think I AM?” Joan exclaimed, breathless. “You don’t know what I had to endure for you. Or for Anne. Or for Katherine.”

“Don’t bring them into this.” Jane warned.

“They’re in this just as much as you are, Jane.” Joan said lowly. “I watched you die. Do you know what that does to someone?”

She waited, but Jane offered no answer.

“It sticks with you.” Joan went on, “Dying is one thing. Watching it happen is a completely different horror, and it’s something all of you forget.”

Once again, she waited for Jane to say something, but the queen continued to just stand there with her jaw clenched and fingers tight fists at her side.

“I got to watch you slowly rot away, Jane.” Joan explained. “I got to watch you cry and scream and piss all over yourself because you were too weak to even control your own bladder.”

Something on Jane’s face twitched at that and she could see an embarrassed blush creeping up on her cheeks. It was about time. She deserved to have a taste of her own medicine she’s been indirectly force feeding Joan for months.

“I got to watch you drool and froth at the mouth like you had fucking rabies. I got to sit by your bedside and hold your freezing cold hand while you stared blankly with your face covered in spit and snot and tears and sweat. I got to listen to you howl and beg for your son for hours and you would onto get louder when you were turned down. I got to hear about how the nurses whispered about your oncoming death and I got to smell the infection setting into the tear from your vagina down to your rectum.”

Suddenly, Joan is starting to look a lot less like a ram and a lot more like a livid ice dragon. Her skin is plated with chilled silver scales, as tough and freezing cold as a hissing, fanged glacier. She has teeth like razor sharp icicles and eyes as frigid and uncaring as a winter wind. Her voice was thunderous enough to crack an entire iceberg in half.

The lamb she used to be was gone, gored beneath the serrated talons of the ice dragon.

“I was nineteen years old, Jane.” Joan said lowly. “You don’t recover from that.”

Then, she spun around and faced the beheaded cousins, who had been standing meekly with the others, none of them daring to get caught in the crossfire.

“But that’s not all,” She said. “I got to watch you both die, too. I watched a decapitation twice! And nobody fucking remembers or cares! Nobody even THINKS to ask if I was okay after having to carry your headless body because Maggie was crying too hard to do it herself,” She drilled icicles into Anne’s gut with her stare. “Or if I was recovering from watching you be put on display before your head came off.” She froze Kitty in place with her chilled tone. “Nobody ever cares! And I’m sick of it!”

She swung back around to Jane. The queen stares fearfully at her and she wonders if she really was slowly mutating into a monstrous ice creature before her.

“I’m sorry,”

The words came from behind Joan’s back and she couldn’t really pick out who exactly said it, but it wasn’t from anyone she wanted to hear it from.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” She said, not turning away from Jane. “Trust me on that.” She paused for just a moment, licked her lips (her tongue almost looked forked and dark blue), then said again, “I don’t want to hear it from you.”

Jane’s left leg twitched slightly. She sniffed, trying to gather up she dignity, but Joan was smashing it to the ground by just looking at her. And she hated it. She hated how powerless she felt under a fucking ex-lady in waiting.

“I’m sorry.” She finally said.

A ghost of a pleased smile appears on Joan’s pale lips.

“It’s good to hear, but I’m afraid you’re too late. The damage is done, Lady Jane.”

“Stop acting like this!” Jane suddenly snapped, raising her voice. “I get it- you’re upset! You’re mad! But this is not how to—”

“Acting?” Joan chortled cruelly. “You think this is some sort of act?! You really are as dumb as the historians say!”

Jane’s eyes resemble a bug’s for a moment- large, bulging, oh so very inferior and helpless. The ice dragon wants to crush her beneath its talons, feel her slimy guts oozing out the way a beetle’s would.

“It’s sad, I know, to be humiliated...” Joan hummed. “...to lose all feeling in the shame, but...I have not felt anything for a very long time.” Her eyes narrowed and her tone flicks stinging irritation into Jane’s face. “I’ll do anything necessary to be noticed and to have people become aware of me. I’ve been alone for too long.”

Jane doesn’t say anything. Her jaw is clenched tightly again. Joan tilts her head.

“It’s funny how you say I need to move on.” She said. “Because you wouldn’t say that to your precious Kitty, would you? About her getting her head chopped off? You wouldn’t tell her to move on from the trauma of that.”

Something new sparks in her cold, winter eyes- through all the hatred and anger and annoyance comes misery and pain.

“You wouldn’t tell Aragon to move on from her miscarriages. You wouldn’t tell Anne to move on from mourning Elizabeth or for Anna to move on from her survivor guilt. You would tell Cathy to move on from missing Mae. You would tell Maria to move on from the trauma of holding her queen in her arms as she died or Bessie to move on from the affair or Maggie to move on from losing her best friend.” Tears start to brim in Joan’s lower lashes. The emotions are welling up too high, even for her. “Nobody would tell you to move on from Edward. So why do you tell it to me?”

Nothing. Nobody answers.

Joan shakes her head with an anguished smile and the tears spill free. She laughed shakily, wiping a sluggish hand under one of her eyes.

“Shit!” She laughed. “I guess I really don’t mean anything, huh? Is this how little I mean to all of you?!”

She shakes her head again, the laughter dying off into weak, miserable noises.

“You know, Lady Jane, I always wondered what kind of person you really were. Well, now I got my answer: A selfish, cold hearted BITCH who never gave a shit about me!” Joan roared, and she anger just continued to build up until she was drowning herself in it. The ice dragon rears, half-frozen tears on its face, a dangerous freezing death breath streaming from its jaws as she cried, “Are you happy now? Huh? DOES THIS MAKE YOU HAPPY?!”

It’s only then that Jane realizes what she has done to the girl in front of her. The neglect, the lack of understanding, the blindness to the pain, the way she overlooked her and traded her out for Kitty- it’s been festering inside of Joan for so long.

All because of her.

“Joan,” Jane whispered. She takes a small step forward. She can’t see the ice dragon raise its icicle-like horns in a warning and growl lowly, staring down its long, pale, hooked snout at her cautiously. “Oh, Joan... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

This time, she means it.

Joan froze, like she was finally affected by her own black ice. She held perfectly still as Jane reached out and cupped her tear stained cheeks with her soft, warm hands. The touch of those hands was something Joan craved for so long.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Jane murmured, feeling tears well up in her own eyes. “I should have realized, Joan. I’m sorry I didn’t realize. I didn’t see how much pain you were in.”

Of course she didn’t.

Jane felt Joan’s jaw grit beneath her hands and she tried to tighten her own grasp. She didn’t want her to pull away. She wanted to hold her.

“Joan-”

“No—”

“Joan, please-”

“No—!”

“Please, I—”

Wild fear fights through the snowstorm raging in Joan’s eyes. Joan grabs one of Jane’s hands and squeezes it, then raises her other one, but the movement was hardly a warning.

The force of the blow was so strong and so sudden it sent Jane careening backwards, tripping over her own feet until she unceremoniously fell onto her back in a way that would have made everyone laugh if it weren’t for the fact that she had just been slashed across the face. She sat up dazedly, pressing a hand to the four, fresh stinging marks in her flesh, which stretched from her temple, across her eye, and stopped just above her top lip, getting the side of her nose and part of her cheek damaged in the process. They are already practically glowing neon red and lazily oozing blood in several different areas. When she looks up, she finally sees the arctic beast staring at her from Joan’s tear-filled eyes.

“I gave you your chance,” Hissed the dragon. “And now I’m taking it back.”

It— they— she— the beast strides past Jane and towards the door, spiked tail swinging dangerously towards the queen’s already-wounded face. Its shuddering moon silver wings give off waves of terrible chills as it grasps the doorknob with trembling claws that are flecked with blood and skin.

“You can find someone else to lead rehearsals today.” It— they— the beast- dragon— she said. “I’m done.”

The door yanks open. The mane of icicle horns bristle and ears flatten backwards. Talons scrape against the floor and leave marks in the tile. Hints of frostbreath hiss from in between razor teeth.

“Oh, and thanks for nothing.”

It slams shut.

The dragon is gone.

#six fanfic #six fic #six fanfiction #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical #joan on the keys #jane seymour #anne boleyn #katherine howard

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sopxhiea · 5 years

Text

Salvation

Alfie Solomons X Reader

Part 1 | Part 2

“The walls came down as she watched, almost a little too loudly as he felt her breath against his face, the feeling of vulnerability and tenderness grasping his heart as she stared..”

The carriages moved one by one, soundly as they made their way downtown. There was much chatter and the sound of glass breaking around the concrete walls as men filled the space in. Workers from all around the place had come in to take part of the business after hearing about the pay and the bosses. The fading colours of black and grey all resided somewhere in their uniforms as they walked around, waiting patiently.

She was shaking her leg while reading the paper in her hand. She seemed a little restless, not because she had no time to rest but because her mind wouldn’t leave her alone. She was simply an overthinker. Her hair was down with two pins on either side, keeping her shorter hair in place as she made no movement to fix her coat. She was wearing a black dress today, it was the most comfortable one she owned but it was still work appropriate.

Alfie watched her movement as he waited for her to be done evaluating. He was worried about the tiresome attitude she seemed to carry today but didn’t ponder much on it as he walked around the place. He was wearing a white shirt as usual, a long black coat and his large hat to go with it. His jewels weren’t missing either. She sighed before putting down the papers and looking at Joe, her assistant.

There were four people in the room, two bosses and two assistants. Alfie didn’t like to call Ollie his assistant, he was his wing man for the most part. Joe, on the other hand, had been with Y/N for a long time and he’d known her through thick and thin so they were more likely to be acquaintances. Alfie looked at her patiently, waiting for her to talk.

He had visited her twice this week: one was about business and the other was about personal things. They had a drink or two before they started talking again and Alfie wanted the topic to come to a more personal one so that he could at least offer taking her out but there never seemed to a perfect time and the day was over like that, he had nerves around her.

“The man are outside?” she asked, fixing her coat and scarf, getting ready to talk to them as Alfie also got up.

Ollie nodded, murmuring a small yes before they proceeded with the next part of their deal. She was not worried about doing business with Alfie, she liked him far more than any other business partner she had and he was a sharp one. He also said whatever was on his mind which made Y/N’s job a lot more easier. She didn’t tell him how handsome she thought he was, although the thought had threatened to slip her tongue every now and then when he visited.

He had brought her flowers and some treats each time he visited. She made the decision to press the flowers so that they’d always be around, the treats were already eaten. The more she saw him, the more confused she became due to the feeling of her heart beating around him a little too fast. She wasn’t the one with all the experience and she’d never liked anyone, let alone have actual feelings for them so she kept pushing the feelings aside while waiting for them to fade away.

“You wanna talk, yeah?” Alfie spoke to her, in a tone only she could hear as they walked to talk to the new workers. “To the men..” he corrected when a look of panic and confusion took her face over.

“No, I don’t mind...really.” she said, wanting him to speak.

They had to gather men to work at Alfie’s place, to carry things out in between the business as there were many things to be taken care of in between the businesses. She had heard Alfie shouting before so she knew how loud and cruel he could be to them. She knew he wouldn’t speak to her like that, ever but there were times when she got more curious about the life he had, when he was in the army and even before.

The minute they saw Alfie, the men straightened up and fixed themselves on their feet, looking at the pretty lady with a confused face. She sat on a barrel around the place as Alfie started shouting, getting louder each time. She started paying attention after a couple minutes later, rescuing herself from her own thoughts.

“.....you lot, yeah, fucking listen to your superior officers!”he was getting louder but it didn’t bother her as he shouted about not touching any of the rum or they’d get their faces cut.

“Now, the lady, right..” he said, dropping his tone as he explained about Y/N, how she was also the boss and carried on. “..no fucking looking at her. You, right, only fucking talk to her if she speaks first..” he kept shouting but she was confused as to why the men weren’t allowed to speak to her. She managed a business with over 300 men under her palm, she could handle 50 more. She waited until he was finished.

“You have anything to add, doll?” he spoke, only in a volume that she could hear and she nodded. She didn’t get up from the barrel as they could see Y/N clearly, she spoke loud and clear.

“Do no touch the piles of cotton in the corners, it’ll most likely explode.” she said as Alfie carefully watched her. She exhaled confidence now. “If you go out of orders, the protection promised for the families is off.” she said, getting up and taking a breath in before she got ready to speak again.

“Do not fuck it up.” she said with a soft smile, filled with mockery as she walked to his office again. Alfie told them to fuck off and followed her like a puppy as she walked alongside Joe.

The first time Alfie had seen her, there was a confusion cast in his eyes about how she was able to run that business on her own. Now, he understood. She was smart, probably smarter than any man in the business at the moment. She also had an extreme control over the room, wherever she walked except when she was with Alfie, she dropped her guard at those times. The industry had shaped her to be quick-witted as well as practical and she was young so there was an energy around her that only made Alfie more interested.

More than a businesswoman, she was a lady. The blush on her cheeks due to how young she was never went away sometimes. She wanted things to be done quick and right, even more so than Alfie and she was also aware of the fact that if she wanted something to be done perfectly, she had to do it herself.

But there was also this side of her that was darker in Alfie’s eyes. She could be calm at times, maybe too calm for Alfie’s liking. The distant look in her eyes made him stop at his tracks when they spoke, there was so much emotion in her eyes that Alfie was almost scared to open that door but he tried, because it was her and she took it easy with Alfie, spared details and only talked to him about things scarcely when she was asked about them.

“Doll, mind if I speak to you alone, yeah?” he asked, watching Joe and Ollie leave. They had become quite close over the weeks due to how similar their lives were.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, letting herself drop on his sofa she laid on sometimes. Instead of sitting on his chair, he sat on the sofa right in front of her. He needed to see her clearly.

“No, things are fine, right..” he said, looking at her eyes as she sat up properly this time, realising it was something important. “...but, there is this fucking thing, right, that’s been bugging me..” he said, finally. She stared at him, waiting for him to go on while he didn’t dare to look at her face.

“Alright.”she said, thinking about so many infinite possibilities of what he could say.

They waited for a while, Alfie was playing with the rings on his finger as she gave him the time he needed. Sometimes, Alfie could become very still. It was usually when he was thinking about something important or when he hadn’t gotten sleep last night but there was no sign of tiredness on his face so she waited for him to articulate the sentences before speaking.

“Alfie..” she said, sitting on the same sofa this time as she leaned in close. He could feel her warmth oozing from her body as she sat close, closer than they’d been most of the time. “..you can tell me..” she said, playing with the end of his sleeves, fixing them abruptly as he stared at her.

But how could he tell her?

How could he tell her that he’d been dreaming about her, a grown man who was an infamous gangster was dreaming about a business associate. How could he tell her that he always wanted her to be around and he didn’t care about the many little things she despised about herself? How could he tell her that he wanted her near, all the time and never apart from him, not even for one second? So he swallowed and spoke.

“Dove, we know each other, yeah?” he said, she was still playing with his sleeve, happy about the new pet name as she nodded.

“I happen to think, right, a great deal about you..” he said, his words were breathier, he wasn’t calm anymore as she stopped playing with his sleeve and instead just stared at him, waiting for him to be finished.

There were things that didn’t go unnoticed and she knew. She knew that when she touched his thigh, he would get red. She also knew how gentle he was with her, sometimes taking her hand when she was lost around his business place and he would show her the right way. She loved the pet names and a few times where Alfie had come so close to kissing her actually happened in her dreams.

But she said nothing.

There wasn’t a way in which she knew how to deal with the emotions inside. They were new, exciting and frankly, scary. She hadn’t known love, not like this. Family was different, there was love but it didn’t make her wonder how his lips would feel against her. She wanted to be with him but was afraid, afraid that he’d be too hesitant of professional and simply not make a move but there he was, trying to communicate his feelings.

There was this distant feeling in her heart, that if things were to go right, he would most definitely disappear. He would leave like all the others did. She had been alone most of her life. Sure, there was her mum but she was mentally gone almost all her life. She thought that maybe, she was incapable of being loved. She was to be looked at, not touched.

“I also think, yeah, you’re the sweetest fucking thing to have around..” he said, he was sure she could hear his loud heartbeat under all that flesh. “So I was thinking..” she looked up at him for the first time as he struggled to finish his sentence.

“What if you’d be around all the time?” he whispered and he could swear, there were stars in her orbs as she looked at his face.

She didn’t say anything for a while, too excited to speak as her fingers shook. She wasn’t expecting him to be this sweet and frankly, neither did he but there they were, sitting next to each other as all they could see was the warm atmosphere around. He started playing with her hair while waiting for her to speak, it was killing him.

She was looking even more prettier than all the times he’d seen her up close now. Her hair framed her small face, she seemed to have an extra dash of pink along her cheeks now that he had spoken his mind. She looked around the room for a second, trying to savour the moment while it lasted. She could tell the man was starting to grow impatient.

She smiled softly, her face close to his more than it had ever been until that moment as her eyes sparkled, he held his breath as she spoke.

“Pick me up at 7.” she softly murmured, she knew he heard her by the way his features lit up. She got up quick, wearing her coat while leaving a confused yet excited Alfie behind. She walked back to where he stood and planted a kiss on his cheek, enjoying the way he blushed so aggressively under her delicate touch. One last glance was given by her and she was out.

And Alfie was the happiest man alive.

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This has been sitting in my drafts FOR THE LONGEST TIME, I wanted to get it done. I’m in the middle of my finals now and I had a little bit of time so i wanted to send this out to you. I will get back on here after about 2 weeks.

Remember to be kind to yourself and let me know what you think, please.

#ezra writes #alfie #Alfie Solomons #alfie solomons imagine #alfie x reader #alfie solomons x reader #alfie peaky blinders #Tom Hardy #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy imagine #tom hardy fluff #Peaky Blinders #alfie solomons peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic

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